A/N: Since it's time to start passing thanks around, here's some to the whole crowd of Hardcastle and McCormick fans.

CELEBRATION

by

Owlcroft

"I gotta have a beer!" McCormick stretched his back from leaning over the sink and looked at the older man currently stomping the trash in the can a little lower. "I'll take that out in the morning. Leave it all for now, okay?" He headed for the fridge. "You want one, too?"

Hardcastle removed his foot from the container and nodded. "Sure, that sounds good. Maybe just a coupla pieces of that cheese with it?" He paused and thought. "Nah, I'm stuffed."

Mark nodded, opening the beers. "Me, too. I can't get over how much food . . . and champagne . . . there was. I've never drunk so much champagne in my life." He looked around the kitchen, then pushed open the door to the hallway and proceeded through. "I think everybody brought enough stuff for twenty people."

"Hey, don't look at me," said the judge, following him to the den. "I just told 'em it'd be nice if they brought a snack or something. You know, a box of crackers or maybe a bag of pretzels."

Plopping down in his chair at the corner of the desk, Mark smiled in reminiscence. "Those little sandwiches were great. And I had three people ask for the aunts' cookie recipe. Remind me to call them tomorrow, willya?"

"Sure." Hardcastle snorted. "Did ya like Gerry's 'floral offering'? A horseshoe-shaped wreath. Who else," he shook his head ruefully.

"It was very nice," replied McCormick firmly. "But whoever brought the cheese tray was a genius!"

Hardcastle sipped at his beer, rubbed his chin. "That mighta been Mattie. She always did know how to feed a crowd."

Mark sat quietly for a few moments, nursing the bottle in his hands. "It was really nice of all of them, to stop by, to bring stuff, to be here and say congratulations."

"You got a lotta friends, sport." The judge reached for his beer and took a swig. "They all wanted to bring something, to celebrate with you. 'Course they wanted to be here. Passing the bar's not a small deal, ya know. It's a real accomplishment, and, um . . . Listen, I want to say something--"

McCormick held up a hand. "Don't do it. We've gotten through the whole day so far without getting sappy, so don't start on me now, Hardcase."

"You know I don't do sappy," was the growled response.

Mark smiled down at his beer, and they sat for a short time in silence.

"Who brought that enormous cake?" Mark asked suddenly. "That was amazing, with all the little decorations on it."

"That was Mary Evans, remember her from the Neighborhood Watch Committee, all refreshments and weapons?" The judge shook his head, smiling. "Nice lady, but a little . . . you know . . . scatty."

McCormick grinned at him. "Yeah, I remember. She is a nice lady. But," he paused for another beer break, "that whole deal was a little 'scatty'. All of us running around with an undercover F.B.I. guy pulling our strings." He shook his head in turn. "That was a weird one."

Hardcastle nodded in agreement. "We've had our share of weird." He thought for a moment, then offered up, "How about the one where that cross-dresser was blackmailing a certain 'anonymous'--", he made air-quotes, "politician, and then his wife found the notes and started running those ads in the paper and things really got crazy?"

"Yeah, that was kinda nuts." Mark thought, then snickered. "One of my favorites was the super-short horse."

"Hey, there was nothing wrong with that horse--"

"That a pair of stilts wouldn't've fixed." McCormick leaned forward and patted the air about two feet from the floor. "Good Whistler. Sit up and beg."

"Listen," the judge leaned forward himself, glaring, "that horse won a race, ya know."

Mark settled back in his chair. "Yeah, and I still haven't figured out how you did it, but I think bribery was involved somewhere."

"Hah! You want weird, how about those so-called leprechauns of yours. Now there's weird," Hardcastle smirked. "You had strange circus people, bizarre Russians --"

"More cross-dressers," murmured the younger man.

"Yeah, and the contest judges were a little on the kooky side, too." The judge rested his case.

McCormick considered briefly, then offered, "The Traficant file! The guy who ended up hiding in a garbage can and one of the city's trucks picked him up. I thought Frank was gonna have a heart attack laughing so hard when Traficant's head poked up with a coffee filter on it."

Hardcastle nodded. "What was really strange about that was the way he conned the military into leasing him the airfield."

"Well, that colonel was about as smart as your average bedbug and twice as crazy. Dance training for soldiers, what a maroon!" Mark snorted and finished his beer.

"We've dealt with a lotta soldiers, haven't we?" The judge looked into the distance. "Not just ours, but the ones in San Rio, the Mounties up in Manitoba --"

"Nazis," added Mark, holding his bottle up to make sure it was drained.

Hardcastle sat quietly, examining his own bottle. "Yeah. That was . . ." He sighed.

McCormick held up a hand. "I got one! Remember the beauty pageant? All those kids prancing around in their skimpies, packing suitcases and making pie dough. You talk about weird."

The judge set down his empty bottle and agreed. "Yeah, that was. And that reminds me of something. Something you said while we were out there near the border waiting for the bad guys to show up." He looked at his bottle again, picked it up, shook it hopefully, then set it down again. Raising his brows, he looked at the man across from him. "You remember that?"

"Yeah," answered Mark slowly. "I think so. We were . . . we were talking about how tough it must be to make a living if somebody's willing to take the risk of dealing with people smugglers to get out. I said something about prison, how nobody does anything but talk about jumping the wall. Right?" He raised his own brows, seeking confirmation of his memory.

"You thanked me." Hardcastle studiously examined the surface of his desk. "And, being a little slow on the uptake, I said something brilliant like 'huh?' or 'what?' and you changed the subject."

McCormick thought back, brow wrinkled. "I . . . think I remember that. Yeah, I do."

"Well, I did finally get it. And I just wanted to finally --"

"Hold it! Sap alert! I know what you're doing and you already did it!" Mark grinned at him. "Here's a memory for you: Canary Creek Motel. Ring a bell with you, Judge? We watched a little news program, finished packing and got outta there. Remember that? And you said you were 'much obliged'. So," McCormick finished triumphantly, "no need to say it again; we're all square."

Hardcastle frowned a bit at that. "Hmm. Does either of us ever say 'you're welcome' or 'don't mention it' or 'think nothing of it, my good man'?" He waved a supercilious hand in the air.

Mark shook his head, still smiling, but impishly. "Nah. We say stuff like," he paused to add significance to what he said, "'for you, any time'." Before that could get a reaction, he stood up and shook down his pant legs, reaching to snare both beer bottles in one hand. "I'm gonna have another, with just a little of that cheese. Want some?"

The judge tried to hold down a smile of his own and said with an air of extreme nonchalance, "Yeah. Thanks."

"Think nothing of it, my good man."

finis