Episode tag to You Don't Hear The One That Gets You. And therefore major spoilers for that episode.
Disclaimer: This story is written as an homage to the excellent writers and producers of a show which I love in the hope that the copyright owners will not mind.
Warnings:- In later chapters I will be stepping up Melissa's sexual harassment of Mark but there will be nothing graphic.
You Do Hear The One That Gets Away
Judge Milton C. Hardcastle stood at the window and watched despairingly. He kept in the shadows, because he didn't think letting McCormick see how worried he was would help at the moment. It might just make the young man shut down even more than he had been already, and that was already too much, way too much. Not that the judge didn't understand, that was part of the problem, the judge understood all too well what the kid was going through, but nothing he could do or say could make a damn bit of difference to it.
The kid didn't seem to be able to catch a break in life, and even when he did the baseball boot of fate always seemed to be around to kick him in the teeth, and take it all away from him, and yet he always bounced back, with a resilience that was refreshing, showing an underlying optimism that was infectious. Even when life was nailing him to the floor, he seemed to be able to pick himself up, dust himself off and get on with it. The Judge realised now that that was why this whole crazy scheme of his was working, the reason why McCormick had been the perfect choice, probably the only man that could have made his mission truly work, because he never quit, always believed that there was something better, and that it was worth fighting for. It was that spirit that had drawn him to the young man and he'd never regretted it, didn't regret it now, but he did know that he had a problem, a serious problem, because McCormick wasn't bouncing back this time, hell he was barely functioning, and he was sick. Physically there was a problem as well as mentally, and the worse thing about the whole situation was that the Judge knew exactly what was wrong but had no clue how to help him, although it was becoming increasingly clear that one of the things he was going to have to do was call a doctor, no matter how much the kid protested.
The problems had started with one of the best things that had happened to McCormick in his life, he'd won a race, more than that he'd won twenty thousand dollars, a kings ransom as far as McCormick was concerned and certainly more money than he'd ever expected to have in one place at one time, but he'd deserved it. He was good- damned good, and, but for the bad breaks life, and his own decisions, had dealt him, there was no doubt in Hardcastle's mind that he could have been a professional driver, a very successful one, but he'd never been lucky, at least not usually in a good sense, and he was prone to following his heart rather than his head.
Nonetheless his bad luck this time had nothing to do with his actions, he'd been targeted by two small time crooks who'd stolen his money, his car and his dreams, and then they'd tried to kill him, shooting him in the shoulder before leaving them stranded in the middle of the Arizona desert. They'd been lucky not to get killed, but it was the only piece of good luck they'd had. McCormick had insisted on going after them without proper rest or medication, not giving his shoulder a chance to heal, probably part of the problem now. Eventually the people responsible had been stopped, two killed and one taken into custody, but they hadn't recovered the money. McCormick had had to stand there and watch his money, and his dreams go up in smoke, and Hardcastle had had to stand there and watch the kid watch, and if McCormick felt half as bad as he had. . .
He shook his head again, somehow they had to get through this, but the kid wasn't helping himself. For the past five days, since they'd got back he hadn't been eating properly, and the dark circles under his eyes attested to the fact that he sure as hell hadn't been sleeping properly either. Finally there was his shoulder, that wasn't healing like it should. Not that surprising given the lack of food and sleep, but there was more than that, if anything it seemed to be a little worse now. It had looked a little inflamed last night when the Judge had changed the dressing, and he'd wanted to call the doctor there and then, but McCormick had balked, pleading that he was too tired, and that wasn't a hard sell, at the moment he looked permanently tired.
This morning he'd been avoiding Hardcastle, something he was reasonably adept at when he wanted to be, especially since the Judge was trying not to make his concern too obvious. When he'd finally pinned him down he'd claimed to be feeling better, and to prove it he was now out by the pool struggling to skim it virtually one handed, struggling to hide the grimaces when he was forced to use his other arm to steady something, because despite the Judge's care not to be seen hovering, McCormick was putting on an act, just in case.
When it happened it was almost like slow motion. McCormick bent into a half kneel to pick something out of the water and, as he leaned forward for it, he just didn't stop, falling forward and into the pool with a gentle splash. The judge froze in his position for just a moment as his brain processed the implications, and then, with no real conscious thought to guide the actions, he was running for the doors, telling himself that it was OK, the kid could swim well, he was just going to be wet and as embarrassed as Hell when the Judge got out there, but there was no splashing, no sounds of someone swimming or climbing out of the pool, no sound at all.
The sight of McCormick floating face down in the water almost made Hardcastle's heart stop. It certainly seemed to skip a beat before it thundered on at twice the speed and his gut twisted with painful alacrity. He barely had time to acknowledge the physical sensations, however, before he was jumping into the water and scrambling to grab the floating form. Turning him over, as he pulled him to the shallow end. "Come on McCormick wake up," he spluttered desperately as his brain tried to process just how long he'd been under for, a few seconds, thirty at most, that was survivable, as long as he got him out, as long as he got him breathing.
Every scrambling move seemed to take forever as he fought to get himself and the inert form onto the side of the pool, counting the seconds in his head, looking desperately at the slack features of his friend for any sign that he was still with him. There were none.
He can't die not like this, not like this. He just can't die, the mantra repeated in his head a continuous background to his other thoughts.
It was so quick, so senseless, so utterly avoidable, if only he hadn't been sidestepping around the kid's feelings, giving him the space he thought he needed. If only he'd trusted his instincts and called the doctor last night, or even this morning.
Dammit, he was not going to die.
They were on the side now and Hardcastle was breathing heavily from the physical exertion but he didn't have time to recover. He drew in a deep breath and blew into McCormick's mouth, checking for a pulse as he straightened up, nothing, he tried a few chest compressions, counting as he did so then blew in another breath. It took two more repeats of the process before McCormick, coughed weakly and Hardcastle lifted and turned him as he coughed a stream of water from his lungs. Thank God! "That's it McCormick, cough it up," He encouraged, rubbing the younger man's back as he supported him, eventually the coughing fit seemed to be over and Hardcastle turned him back gently, looking carefully at his face for some form of awareness.
Mark struggled to process anything, he couldn't process how he was feeling beyond awful. He was weak, just opening his eyes, or sucking in a rattling breath of air physically hurt, and his shoulder was on fire. He was vaguely aware that he was lying down and that he was wet, fully clothed but wet, why would I be. . . ? The thought didn't get beyond that, as the fuzzy noise that had been buzzing for the last few seconds finally resolved into words.
"McCormick?" The edge of concern was clear even in the Judge's breathless tones. "McCormick are you back with me?"
Mark forced his eyes fully open and blinked as the fuzzy image of a dripping wet Hardcastle finally resolved into view. The older man was red faced, and concern was etched into every line of his features. "I. ." He tried to speak, tried to answer but the effort brought on another coughing fit and then worse. Hands gripped him firmly and helped to lift and turn him once again as he vomited what little was in his stomach, with painful heaves. Eventually the sensations settled and he felt himself being gently lowered again. He took in a couple of cautious breaths before he looked up again. "Thanks," he said, then added a "sorry," because he was sure he had something to apologise for, although at the moment he still wasn't sure what; he was a little fuzzy on the details of how he'd ended up in this position. "What happened?"
"You decided to take a swim without the aid of consciousness," the Judge stated, not fully able to hide the fear behind the statement.
"Oh," was all Mark could manage in reply. He tried to form his memories into some sort of coherent sequence. "Oh," he stated again, because that's all the confused jumble would allow him.
Hardcastle studied the still semi-confused expression on the younger man's face, the slight glassy look in his eyes, and he suppressed the boiling anger borne of frustration. Of all the stupid, idiotic, sometimes premeditated things McCormick had done in the last two years, nearly getting himself killed because he was too stubborn to admit that he was sick had to be the stupidest. He could feel the accompanying lecture building, but with effort he dismissed it. The kid wasn't thinking straight at the moment, and he had enough reason, but dammit he needed to snap out of it. They needed to get back to normal and. . .and that was exactly what McCormick was trying to do, skimming the pool, a normal everyday task, and stuff like that just shouldn't nearly get you killed.
Hardcastle steadied his breathing and shifted his position slightly. "I'm going to have to move you again, get you away from the edge of the pool," he stated, "It'll probably hurt," he added softly.
Mark nodded without a hint of protest, he knew that he was still to weak to move himself. He braced himself as the Judge lifted him from under the arms and dragged him away from the pool edge. His shoulder exploded in pain again and he tried hard to stifle the cry that finally escaped as a strangled grunt.
Hardcastle settled Mark against the wall in a sitting position to help ease his breathing, watching him carefully as the screwed up tension in his features finally eased, the pain levels clearly settling to something he could control. Hardcastle swore softly again. He was fairly sure that the shoulder shouldn't still have been hurting him this much, but he'd known that long before Mark had nose-dived into the pool.
Mark opened his eyes, still slightly glassy and gave a shiver.
"I'm going to get a blanket and call an ambulance," there was the slightest of movements from Mark indicating that he was going to protest the latter. "And don't you dare even think of commenting. You are going to the hospital. You damn well near just died." The judge managed to just catch the hitched breath, but he still couldn't hide the fear even through the angry bluster. "If you'd let me call the doctor last night like I wanted to, none of this would be happening."
Mark looked at the older man, getting him clearly into focus for the first time, the fear wasn't just in his voice it was in his eyes too. 'Nearly died' the truth of the statement penetrated the confusion of memories. The dripping wet judge, the coughing, the water; you nearly drowned and he had to pull you out, probably give you CPR too, and it was all your own damned fault. What the hell is wrong with you? "Sorry," he stated again, quietly.
The Judge's expression softened. "Yeah, well, just don't move I'll be back in a minute."
Mark watched him depart before resting his head back and closing his eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling quite this bad, physically at least, emotionally he just couldn't seem to feel anything at all, not for himself, although he hated the effect his problems were having on the Judge. He desperately wanted to get back to normal, trouble was he was having a difficult time remembering what normal was any more.
The judge sat in silent vigil waiting for the ambulance to arrive. He had tucked a blanket around the young man's shoulders, which had been barely acknowledged as McCormick seemed to drift in and out of a state of semi-consciousness. At first he tried to wake him up again, but it quickly became clear that that was not really an option. So he contented himself with monitoring his breathing and occasionally checking his pulse until he heard the welcome wail of the ambulance siren.
Dammit you nearly lost him, again.
H&MH&M
Hardcastle sat in the Emergency Room waiting area, still wrapped in the blanket that one of the paramedics had put around his shoulders. His clothes were still a little damp and he occasionally gave a slight shiver. He'd managed to hold it together long enough to explain to the ambulance crew exactly what happened, his memories were a little shaky after that, a dazed swirl of movement as they prepped and loaded Mark into the ambulance. He must have rode in with them because he was here and he sure hadn't driven, but beyond Mark's oxygen mask covered pale features he didn't really remember much.
"Is someone here for Mark McCormick?"
The judge stood up and moved across, barely catching the edge of the blanket as it slipped off his shoulders. He didn't bother repositioning it, just pulled it after him. "Judge Milton Hardcastle," he introduced himself.
"Relative?" the doctor asked.
"Friend," the Judge replied, not really wanting to go into the whole parole situation if he didn't need to, "but I'm the closest he's got to family," he stated with conviction.
The doctor gave a slight nod. "You pulled him out of the pool?"
The flash of fear that accompanied the memory of dragging McCormick's lifeless form from the pool, stole his focus for just a split second. "Yeah," he breathed.
"And he passed out before he went in?" the doctor asked, this much had been apparent from the account the paramedics had made but he just wanted the facts confirmed.
"Yes," Hardcastle stated quietly. "What's wrong with him?"
"Well, aside from the near drowning, his blood sugar level was very low and he was fairly dehydrated. He's also suffering from a mild fever, the bullet wound in his shoulder is showing signs of infection and he's exhausted. Any one of those, and certainly the combination could account for him passing out. I'm surprised he was up and around let alone trying to clean a pool. He clearly hasn't been taking care of himself."
The judge felt a flash of guilt. You knew that but you didn't do anything about it. Not that he hadn't tried, every meal had been one of Mark's favourites, but the most the kid had done was taken a few mouthfuls and pushed the rest around the plate for a while trying to make it look like he'd eaten more than he had, and he couldn't make him rest, couldn't help him sleep. Yeah but you could have made him see a doctor. "He's stubborn," Hardcastle stated, fully aware that the term could easily be applied to him. "Doesn't like to admit that he's sick."
The doctor nodded again and gave a slight sigh. "Well, he's having to admit it now. Good job you were around to pull him out of the water."
Yeah, but he should never have been near it in the first place. You should have been looking after him. Hardcastle pulled his focus back to the doctor who had continued speaking.
"I've got him on fluids and antibiotics and we'll be keeping him in for at least twenty four hours to monitor him for any complications from the drowning." He paused, looked down at the floor. "Do you know what happened when he was shot?"
"We were ambushed, robbed, taken into the dessert to be killed," Hardcastle stated, "but we managed to get away."
"They were going to kill you both?"
"Yeah," Hardcastle stated as his gut tightened at yet another painful and altogether too raw memory.
"Have you spoken to anyone about it?" the doctor asked.
"Beyond each other," and there had been precious little of that. "No."
The doctor gave a thoughtful frown. "Well I think he should, maybe you too. I could sort out a referral."
"A shrink?" Hardcastle asked.
The doctor gave a slight smile. "A psychiatrist, yes I think it would do you both some good."
Hardcastle thought for a moment. He was pretty sure Mark's perception of needing psychiatric help was similar to his. Only as a last resort. And nearly drowning doesn't warrant a last resort? No, not with the frame of mind the kid was in at the moment. He'd take it completely the wrong way, be convinced that everyone thought he was crazy, and he was a long way off that. On the other hand he did need something. . Yeah he needs you to stop being so stubborn and talk about it yourself, at least just a little. He needs you. . . . and if that doesn't work? Then you take the doctor up on his kind offer.
"No," Hardcastle stated, keeping his tone level, reasonable, "at least not yet. I think he just needs a little time."
"And if that's not all he needs?" the doctor asked.
"Then I'll bring him back myself and you can refer away."
The doctor studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Think about it for yourself as well."
"I will," Hardcastle agreed. "Can I see him?"
"Yes," the doctor looked at his watch, "They're just moving him to a regular room, I'll get the nurse to come and tell you when he's settled."
"Thanks."
H&MH&M
Mark lay in the hospital bed, it had been raised to a slight angle so that he was staring at the far wall rather than the ceiling, not that it mattered much, his gaze penetrated beyond it into the middle distance.
What was wrong with him? He asked himself for the millionth time in the past few days. He was fully aware of how his behaviour was affecting the Judge and his own health. He'd been sullen and moody, not eating, not sleeping, not really doing anything. Not that he could do much. His shoulder prevented him from working on the house, the garden, the Coyote, even driving, but he hadn't even been doing the things that he could do, walking on the beach, reading, watching TV, things he enjoyed, because he didn't seem to be able to enjoy anything.
Each day he'd told himself to snap out of it, to just do something, but he hadn't managed it yet, and his lethargy seemed to be getting worse. Today he'd tried real hard to pull himself out of it. If not for his own sake then at least for the Judge who was clearly getting more worried about him as time went on, and who was equally being very patient in not calling him on any of his strange behaviour, at least not most of it. Trouble was he couldn't do it, couldn't shake the cloud of negative emotion that sat like a shroud around his shoulders. The terror of almost dying, the impotence of his injury, the anger at having lost his money, his chance to start again, his chance to pay the Judge back a little for all that he had done for him. He'd had it, and then it was gone. Forlorn melancholy dug a deep pit in his stomach, and then there was the hatred.
Hate was a powerful emotion and Mark had never felt it on quite this scale before, not even for the people who'd murdered his friend Flip Johnson, although he'd felt animosity toward them, it hadn't been hate, not like this, not this personal. As well as taking his dreams and his car these people had been going to murder him and the Judge in cold blood, face to face, for no reason. They had nothing to gain by killing them and nothing to lose by leaving them alive. They certainly hadn't been careful about not leaving witnesses in their other crimes, and yet, they were going to kill him and the Judge. Simply because they could, and so Mark felt hate on a personal level stronger than he'd ever felt before, especially with Melissa Kantwell, she'd been flirting with him, with a man she was going to kill.
Mark had seen death, certainly a lot more since he'd been hanging around with the Judge, and mostly he felt sorrow, grief at the loss of a life, even when it was one of the criminals they were chasing. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd pulled injured thugs, even murderers from wrecked vehicles so that they would survive. Life was worth something, but when he'd looked down at the faceless body of Arvin Lee, his hate had taken over, and part of him felt, what? Satisfied, happy that he was dead. The hate made him feel that, but he knew that that emotion was just plain wrong, so now the hatred extended to hating himself. It didn't make sense. He hated what the hate was doing to him but he couldn't help it, couldn't suppress the emotions, and the downward spiral was killing him. The negativity was eating him up from the inside out.
Today it had almost killed him, he swallowed hard, God if the Judge hadn't been there to pull him out.. . .
There was a light tap at the door and Hardcastle pushed his way in.
"You awake Kiddo?" he asked as he walked through the door, forcing an air of cheerful nonchalance. The smile wasn't that difficult to fake because despite his ongoing concern, the fact that McCormick was still alive, and would recover was enough for now, the rest would come later.
"Yeah," McCormick answered shifting his position on the pillows. He stared at Hardcastle. Whatever reaction he'd expected from the Judge it hadn't been smiles. Concern, fear, anger possibly, and they were all there in his eyes, but he hadn't expected a smiling Hardcastle.
"Doc says you're going to be OK," the Judge continued as he took the seat next to the bed, "but they're going to keep you in overnight for observation."
Mark nodded.
"And to build you up a bit," Hardcastle stared pointedly across to the fluid bags, before meeting the younger man's gaze again. "Seems you haven't been eating or drinking properly which left a dip in your immune system so your wound has become a little infected." He paused for a moment. "Probably why you passed out."
Mark recognised this for what it was, a Hardcastle lecture, just not delivered with his usual bluster. In fact it was the gentlest delivery he could remember, no doubt in deference to his fragile condition. Dammit, another thing to hate himself for. He hated feeling this vulnerable, this exposed, even in front of the Judge whom he trusted with his life. He dipped his head. "Sorry, guess I haven't been doing so well since. . . recently."
"You wanna talk about it?" the Judge asked quietly
Mark shook his head. "No I. . ." he hesitated for a moment. Could he tell the Judge about the fear, the anger? Could he explain the hatred? Did he want to? "No. . . I'll work it out."
"It's been nearly a week."
"I know." Mark met the Judge's gaze. "I'm sorry," he felt the need to repeat the apology. "I will work through it."
The Judge studied him; there was no doubting the sincerity of the statement. He would at least try. The question was could he succeed? Hardcastle nodded. He intertwined his fingers and looked down at the floor. This was hard for him, talking about emotions wasn't exactly high on his list of skills, but he was the one with the experience, the wisdom. If he couldn't do it how could he expect the kid to do it. "You had me scared there for a minute." He drew in a deep breath before looking up. "You stopped breathing." He let the remembered fear hang in the air before he continued. "Just remember you don't have to do anything alone."
"I know," and he had known for a while now. He wasn't alone in the world anymore. He had someone to watch his back, someone to be there for him, someone to pull him out of a pool when he passed out into it, and for the first time in nearly a week he allowed a genuine smile of his own. "I know," he repeated.
H&MH&M
Mark climbed slowly from the truck, his shoulder was starting to feel better again, at least he could touch his own arm without jumping from the shock, or grimacing from the shooting pains. It was definitely settling down. In fact physically he was feeling pretty good, relatively speaking, amazing what a bag or two of sugar, mineral salts and water and a drug induced good night's sleep could do for you. Hardcastle joined him, trying not to make it too obvious that he was there to support him if necessary.
"I'm good," Mark reassured as he headed for the main house. He'd had to make a promise to the doctor about regular meals in order to secure his release and it was coming up on lunchtime. Hardcastle followed him in, dropping his bag by the door. "I'll take that over to the gatehouse later." He clasped his hands together. "So what do you fancy for lunch."
Mark thought for a moment trying to remember what they had in the fridge. "Ham sandwich would be fine."
Hardcastle was a little disappointed, he knew what McCormick was doing, settling for whatever was the least problem, that wasn't going to cheer the kid up. "You sure? You can have anything you want."
Mark turned to face him, looking at the animated, almost eager stance with a quirk of amusement on his lips, this was one step above hovering. The judge was actively trying to cheer him up, and he had said he would try. Somehow his second brush with death in less than a week had at least reminded him of the importance of the man in front of him, and a little bit of the emotion he felt towards him, like? love? was starting to push some of the hate out of the way. "Anything huh?" he asked, his eyes gaining a slight sparkle.
The Judge looked back at him, pleased to see at least a little more animation from him. "Within reason," he qualified.
Mark gave it a little thought. "Pancakes," he finally announced.
"Pancakes?" the judge asked raising an eyebrow.
"It's what I really fancy right now, pancakes," Mark confirmed.
"Then I shall whip us up a batch, course they won't be as good as Sarah's, now she could really make a stack." The judge was already heading into the kitchen, with Mark following. "Course I've never figured why mine aren't as good, I am using her recipe." He was busy getting out the things he would need. "Damn!" he cursed softly as he studied the contents of the fridge. "No eggs," he said turning back to face McCormick who made a good job of covering his disappointment.
"It doesn't matter. . ." Mark began, but the Judge was already heading to the table to retrieve the truck keys.
"I'll just pop down the market it won't take me more than ten minutes. Go and put the TV on I'll call you when the pancakes are done."
Mark didn't bother with any further protest, the Judge was a bit like the proverbial unstoppable object when he got an idea to do something and Mark didn't feel much like being an immovable force at the moment, even if he had really wanted to stop him, after all it meant he would get his pancakes, something he actually felt like he would be able to both face eating and keep down. "OK," he managed the reply just before the Judge disappeared through the door.
H&MH&M
Hardcastle could sense there was something not quite right the second he stepped back into the house. There was something niggling. No sound of TV from the den for a start. He quickly deposited the bags on the floor of the hall and headed through to the den. The atmosphere was palpable even before he looked through the door, thick and black with anger. Mark wasn't sitting on the couch where he'd expected to find him. Instead he was standing staring at him. His expression as dark as the tension that now hung between them. What could have happened, what would have. . .
"When were you going to tell me?" Mark asked; his expression tight with barely contained anger and frustration.
The Judge fumbled through his thoughts for a second before the explanation hit him, but he couldn't confirm it outright, not yet, just in case this was something else, even though he knew it wasn't. "Tell you what?" he asked cautiously.
Mark didn't reply he just pressed the play button on the answer phone.
"Hi this is acting Sheriff Dan Johnson up in Cochise County, just updating you as you asked on Melissa Kantwell's escape. Still nothing I'm afraid. The state-wide bulletin hasn't got any hits yet and the general consensus is that she's changed her appearance. I'll keep you updated, but since it's been more than 48 hours now, the chances are that she's already made it down into Mexico. Sorry I can't give you better news. I'll be in touch."
The message ended and the silence stretched. Mark was staring at the answering machine. Eventually he looked up. "So when were you going to tell me." His tone was low and dangerous. "Sometime before I was due to appear in court as a witness against her I assume. 'Cos I would have looked damned stupid turning up on my own." The bitterness underlying the anger was clear.
Hardcastle knew that he was on damage limitation now. "I was kinda hoping they'd recapture her before you had to know," he stated as he moved round his desk to sit in his chair. "You've been so down I just didn't want you to get any more. . ." he paused searching for the right word. "upset."
"Upset," McCormick repeated loudly. "Upset, now why would I be upset, just because the person who stole and burned my money, the person who kidnapped and tried to kill us, the person who stole my car and shot me. Just because she escaped from your precious justice system now why should I be upset?" He was shouting now
"It's your justice system too," Hardcastle countered, "And I didn't tell you because there was nothing you could have done."
"I could have gone after her," Mark was still yelling.
"That's exactly what I was afraid of," Hardcastle tried to calm down his tone in the hope that the young man would copy his example. "What could you have done that the Sheriff's department, state police and border control couldn't?" Mark set his lip in a tight line, the judge tried a different tack. Standing again to face Mark down. "Besides you were in no condition to go charging across the country looking for escaped convicts."
"Who are you to decide what condition I'm in, what I'm capable of doing," Mark yelled back.
"I'm your parole officer that's who," the words had left the Judge's lips before he'd had time to think about them and he regretted them instantly. "I. . .I. ."
But it was too late, Mark gave an angry glare before he turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the front door as he went.
"And I'm your friend," the Judge finished the sentence quietly as he sank down into his chair.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .