Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's Note: The morning after Time Out. And that story followed on events which began in This Far and No Further. Matt's eight.

Thanks Cheri and Owl for the midnight betas.

Gone Fishin'

By L. M. Lewis

It took a surprising amount of gear, Mark had long ago concluded, to catch a fish. Then they'd decided that only an overnight camp could justify the distance they were going to travel, and that the batch of trout they intended to catch deserved the proper cooking equipment. The result was an impressive amount of stuff in the back of Hardcastle's pick-up.

McCormick deposited the nearly last item, stepped back, and dusted his hands off on his pants. There'd only been enough daylight to properly see what he was doing for the last twenty minutes or so. He checked his watch and peered around the edge of the garage, up the steps to the kitchen door.

"You guys almost ready?"

The door opened. Hardcastle backed out, lugging his end of the cooler. Matt had the other, looking intently serious about hauling his part of the load. Mark watched the whole operation with a certain amount of trepidation. He didn't want to start the trip with a visit to the ER, but he was danged if he'd interfere with all that teamwork. For a while, the evening before, he'd wondered if things could ever be normal between those two again.

"That's the last of it?" he asked as the judge hefted the cooler onto the tailgate and shoved it into place.

A nod, and then the older man jangled through some change in his pocket and handed over the keys with a slightly breathless, "You drive."

Matt had already climbed into the middle of the seat, maybe slightly quieter than normal, but otherwise his usual eager self. The judge had pronounced him 'old enough to learn how to do a proper cast'. Mark thought that was probably true as long as no one was standing within twenty-five feet of him when he did it. He'd packed the first aid kit and a wire-cutter, just in case.

So, finally, they were all aboard and on their way, with the sun shining across the rim of the Pacific, and the kind of clear, bright sky that can only be seen after a storm.

00000

Bets had been made the night before, and there was a twenty riding on the outcome. Still, Mark thought it only fair that he should putter around, setting up camp, giving the judge a head start. It was one of life's cruel injustices that the man who thought fishing was kind of overrated, could routinely pull more trout out of a river than the one who practically made a religion of it.

But so far, he observed, things were still in the preparation phase. The judge had gotten Matt into an only slightly too-large pair of rubber waders. Mark had run across them once, years ago, stowed in the basement, obviously outgrown and abandoned years earlier still. And you never know when you'll need something again. Though even Hardcastle would have had to agree it was against all odds.

He'd gotten used to it back then, finding little reminders of the Hardcastle family—the unacknowledged past. He'd worked around them, let them be. There was enough room at the estate to bury a lifetime of memories and never leave so much as a trace.

Now he'd noticed in the past few years—really, since Matt had arrived—things bobbing back up to the surface: the toy train a few Christmases back, set up around the tree, a child-sized catcher's mitt, the warm smell of neat's-foot oil and leather when Hardcastle had fetched the box down from the attic and opened it a month ago.

Mark watched Matt, holding a rod and reel, following attentively as Hardcastle demonstrated the motions of the cast. It's a good thing someone has a past to give him.

McCormick smiled a little regretfully. He'd long-ago vowed that certain of his own early life skills were never going to see the light of day again. Some were illegal, the rest were just too dangerous. And none of them were necessary—not anymore, and never for his son.

Matt plopped the fly back behind him, snaring the hook in a bush. Hardcastle patiently untangled it. Mark heard him say, "Don't worry, your dad had trouble with the timing, too." Never mind that I was thirty before someone taught me how to cast. He pushed the regret down and strolled over, still staying a safe distance to the side.

"Is it gonna be hot dogs for lunch or are we feeling lucky?"

00000

It was very nearly hot dogs, mostly because they'd hit the road so early, and it wasn't even eleven yet before they were all taking turns casting interested glances back at the cooler. They hadn't yet called it quits for the morning, though, when Matt's line got a definite tug—something with enough heft to make him step forward in surprise and almost lose his footing.

Hardcastle grabbed him by the suspenders. Mark intercepted the rod the judge had dropped. Matt managed to hold onto his own rod and reel, and the fish as well, at least as long as it took his father to snatch up the net and rescue their lunch—nearly three pounds of glistening brook trout.

Matt was sitting down by then. It was only a foot or so of water, but he was thoroughly soaked and his waders were dangerously river-logged. He grinned proudly as the other two dragged him out of the drink.

"Okay," Mark panted, "that's one." Then he paused for a moment in thought and said, "Hey, whose team are you on, anyway?"

"Grandpa's," Matt replied with no more hesitation that it took to get a breath.

"Uh-oh," McCormick inspected the catch, "I'm in trouble now."

Matt's expression clouded a bit as Mark held up the net, holding the still-thrashing prize. The hook had torn free in the struggle.

"It's a beaut," Hardcastle said admiringly. Then he seemed to pick up on the boy's change of mood. He held out a hand for the net, saying "Gotta finish it . . . and you better get into some dry clothes."

00000

The fish was dispatched, cleaned, filleted, and put in the pan. The smell as it cooked seemed to nearly banish Matt's temporary misgivings. He even put up, without too much protest, with his father's announcement that he'd be fishing from the shore the rest of the afternoon. Hardcastle decided they all would—if only to make it fair.

By the end of the day Mark was behind by three and had thrown in the towel. The spare cooler was nearly filled—alternating layers of fillets and ice, and they were well-supplied for a couple weeks of fish dinners.

"You'll be begging for a hotdog before we've eaten our way through these," Mark said to his son, with a dubious nod into the container as he closed the lid on the last batch. Then he reached for his wallet and riffled through it, pulling out two fives and a ten. "Okay, what's the split? You doing this by the fish, or is it fifty-fifty?"

"Even-steven," Hardcastle said magnanimously. "Besides, I think he caught one more than I did."

It wasn't exactly so, but Matt was grinning again.

Mark smiled, then cocked his head at the older man. "You know this is the road to perdition. Next thing you know, he'll be giving you odds on the Lakers."

"Improves the math skills," the judge said stoutly.

"That's not what you said when I did it."

The judge waved that away and announced, "We need sticks."

Mark cast a quick look down at the plate of fillets they'd set aside for dinner. "You put yours on a stick; I'll cook mine in a pan."

"Nope," Hardcastle grinned. "The sticks are for after supper. You don't wanna roast your marshmallows in a pan, do ya? And it'll be too dark to look for them then. We need some nice green ones. Skinny."

Matt was already on his feet, and the expeditionary force set off, leaving Mark to deal with the main course.

00000

And, as predicted, twilight gave way to night before the last biscuit had been consumed. It was fall, and this was the mountains. Jackets and a blanket were fetched from the tent. Hardcastle added two more logs to the fire and poked a bit, creating a momentary swirl of embers. They set to work on the marshmallows, burning the first few to a flaming crisp, and then settling into a more steady, patient process.

When even this had lost its charm, and no one could even consider eating another, Hardcastle sat back and said, "Ghost stories?"

Mark gave him a sharp glance and a quick shake of the head. Matt looked intrigued and said, "Yeah."

"Hah, you say that now, and then he'll tell you the one about the guy who turned inside out, and three hours from now you'll be staring up at the ceiling of the tent, wide awake—"

"Tents don't have ceilings," Hardcastle protested.

"Minor detail."

"A Batman and Robin story," Matt said suddenly. He was smiling into the firelight.

The two men exchanged a quick glance over his head. They both knew that for Matt those stories weren't set in Gotham City. Hardcastle had heard a few of them, funny anecdotes detached from anything resembling real violence or peril. He hadn't heard Mark telling any lately. Maybe he thought the time had come when the G-rated versions would no longer be enough.

But now Matt wanted to know more. We should've stuck with ghost stories.

There was only a moment of hesitation, and then, "One time your grandpa inherited a racehorse," Mark settled into the cadence of a storyteller, "only it was a really short racehorse, and it ate a lot . . ."

00000

That one had served, appropriately trimmed and embellished, until Matt was nodding tired, his head drifting down onto his father's arm. They'd been up early that morning, but no one wanted to abandon the fire and retreat to the cold, dark tent—even without the aftermath of the inside-out guy to deal with.

Matt finally sank one last time, breathing quiet and steady. Mark said, "He's out. I'm gonna have to carry him in there, otherwise he'll trip over his own feet."

"Well, then, wait a little while," the judge said practically. "You're warm enough?"

"Yeah, we're fine." Mark stared into the fire for a few minutes, then at the boy. "It's weird," he finally said. "It's like yesterday never happened." He lifted his gaze from the figure slumped against him. "I thought we'd talk about it or something."

"We did, I think, a couple of times."

Mark looked at him, puzzled. "When?"

"Oh," Hardcastle shrugged, "not in so many words." He glanced quickly up. "When is it ever about the words?"

McCormick grinned. "Well . . . yeah, I suppose you've got a point there." The grin slipped quickly into something more pensive. "I told him about Flip last night—about him being murdered. I thought I had to. It was kind of the reason why."

The judge was frowning now, too. The time was coming when vague anecdotes wouldn't suffice, but some of the details would be difficult.

"A little at a time," he said. "I think you'll know when he's ready. The San Quentin part . . . it's not all that important, really, not in the bigger scheme of things." He hesitated, hoping that hadn't come out sounding wrong, calloused even. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean," Mark said quietly. "It's okay. We'll figure it all out. He'll figure it out. The important thing is to have people around to help."

There was silence, except for the crackling of the fire, and the distant sound of the stream.

Minutes passed, more than a few. Mark watched the infinite variety of the flames, quietly contemplating the odd turns that had gotten him to this place. He heard the judge clear his throat, almost as though to announce a change of subject. He looked up and sideward.

"You know . . ." the older man hesitated, then started forward again, "You know that time a few years back, when I asked you if you'd think about it—a judgeship, I mean?"

Mark nodded.

"You said you thought somebody'd bring all that old stuff up, and Matt would hear about it from other people, and you wouldn't have any control over it."

Another nod, this time with a frown.

"Well," Hardcastle sounded practical, and only a little hesitant, "kinda looks like it happened anyway, and you handled it, so maybe—"

"No." The slightly rising tone of hope was cut off. Then, just a little more gently, but still plenty firm, "Not yet, anyway. I'm not ready. Can't you see that?"

"No," Hardcastle shook his head, "I don't. Maybe it's harder for you to see—"

"There," Mark said in quiet triumph. "You admit it; I'm not the best judge of things."

He watched the older man's expression, a surprising amount of disappointment in his defeat.

"Just not yet," Mark repeated. "Ask me again in a few years."

There was a moment of silence; then Hardcastle said, very evenly, "What if I can't?"

The implication hung there, unaddressed for a few seconds. The Mark said quietly, "I've got that gavel on a shelf in my office at home. I see it every day. I think about it a lot, really I do. But I'm not ready—not ready to leave what I am, and not ready to be that instead. And if you think the only way I can do it is by you cashing in every favor anybody's ever owed you and getting them to sit on the guys over in the DA's office who hate me, then it's not going to happen, because I won't go in the back door. Never."

His voice had risen a little at the end, and now he felt Matt at his side, rousing slightly before he snuggled in deeper.

"Stand for election then," Hardcastle protested quietly, "but you know, hardly anybody does it that way the first time in."

"You did, didn't you?"

"Anyway," Mark dropped his voice back down and continued on, after a pause in which there'd been no denial, "I've got everything I ever wanted—hell, things I didn't even know I wanted."

"Okay," the judge said wearily, "I understand."

"No you don't. You don't get it at all; you think I'm crazy not to want it . . . the problem is, I'm not you."

"I never thought that." Hardcastle frowned and sat there for a moment, as though he was trying to figure out how to say the next bit. He finally just said it, straight out. "Nobody ever really expects their kids to be as good as them; what they want is for them to be better."

McCormick simply stared into the fire. He lifted his gaze after a moment, still saying nothing in return. The judge was looking at him firmly, as though he was willing to wait out any amount of silence for an answer, though it wasn't exactly clear what question had been asked.

"I'll try," Mark finally said. "I always said I would." His grin was a little forced, but warmed slowly into something more natural. "I'll do my best. I don't think that's going to be better than yours. Look, you yanked more fish out of that river than I did today."

"Hah," the judge was grinning now, too, "I had help."