Author's Note: If you write Hardcastle and McCormick fan fiction, you have to attempt a story about "The Birthday Present."

There are so many fanfics surrounding this standout episode that they seem to have become part of canon themselves – it's hard to see where the episode leaves off and the fics begin, as many are seamless. I'm thinking specifically of "For the Record" and "Being There" by Cheride, "Polar Opposites" by BHP, "A Tale of Two Conmen" by Quarterdeck, and pretty much anything by L.M. Lewis. A lot of these stories can be easily located as – way back when – a community was created on this site, called "Aftermath: The Weed Randall Story Cycle" (location: community/Aftermath-The-Weed-Randall-Story-Cycle/69116/).

So anyway, with the numerous fanfics about "The Birthday Present" out there, it's hard to create a new one that doesn't touch on topics already expressed. Nevertheless, here is my attempt.

-ck

Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.


RESTRAINT

by InitialLuv

The young man stood behind the pulpit, looking out over the crowded church.

"I'm saying goodbye to a father today," he said. He paused and swallowed before going on. "I lived most of my life without my real father. I never thought I'd have that security, or companionship, with someone else, someone who wasn't even a relative. But I did. I don't know exactly when it happened, but Milt became like a father to me."

The man in the front of the church took in a ragged breath. The congregation waited patiently. There was soft sobbing, accompanied by rustling as people reached for tissues and handkerchiefs.

"I don't know how to express how much Milt did for me. I tried to thank him, but I don't know if I really said how much I appreciated everything. How much I owed him. He saw someone who needed help, and he didn't think twice." Heads nodded in the church; everyone knew exactly what the grieving young man meant. "He made a commitment to do everything he could for me." The man ran a hand across his eyes quickly. "And I'm going to do my best to not waste the life he gave me."

The man choked back a sob, then sighed heavily. "And now I say goodbye to my father." He left the pulpit, walking down the steps from the altar to stand near the coffin.

"Rest in peace, Judge Hardcastle."

Then Sandy Knight slowly returned to his seat.

"You aren't going up there?"

Mark McCormick wanted to answer Frank Harper's question, but words refused to come. He sat stiffly in his pew, several rows behind Sandy, and stared unfeelingly at the blond man's bowed head.

"I bent a lot of rules to get you here," Frank said harshly.

McCormick flexed his hands, currently hidden under the lieutenant's overcoat, and felt the cold steel of the handcuffs biting into his wrists.

To Mark it seemed that the funeral merged with the burial. One minute in the church, the next in the cemetery. Frank was off to the side, but not far. No, he wouldn't give McCormick that much leash, not when the ex-con was currently under arrest for homicide.

Harper was in a small group with other police officers, men McCormick had gotten to know during his time with Hardcastle. Lieutenants Delaney, Giles, and Carlton. . . They were all clad in dark blue uniforms, complete with handcuffs on their belts and firearms in holsters. They kept looking at him, sending suspicious glances his way as they talked. He tried to ignore their looks, even as he wanted desperately to defend himself. It's not my fault. It's not my fault he's dead.

Except that maybe it was.

And then it was time to bury the judge. People were going up to the grave, grabbing a fistful of fresh, cold dirt and tossing it onto the casket. When Mark's turn came, he felt paralyzed. It was like he was stuck in sludge, or quicksand – no matter how hard he tried to step forward, he was unable to approach the grave.

Sandy appeared at his side. "It's not that hard, Mark. Just throw it." He gestured down at Mark's hands.

Mark looked down at his shackled hands. He was holding a .45 without a speck of chrome or a pearl handle on it.

McCormick tossed the gun down like it had burned him. He lifted his eyes to look back at Sandy, but Sandy had gone. The crowd in the cemetery had disappeared. There was only Mark, and one other person.

Weed Randall nodded shrewdly at the man who had killed him. The dead man's face held a rictus grin as he spoke.

"Not so funny now, are you?" he said.


Mark woke without fully realizing it. He lurched up, and felt his arms jerked back roughly by the restraints on his wrists.

"Mark! Mark! Calm down!"

McCormick didn't respond to the alarmed voice. He pulled at his arms, gasping in fear. He had to get out of here. He had to get away from the specter in his dream, from the unbearable pain of loss. Even as his attempts to escape drained his energy and left him breathless, he continued to fight.

"Mark! Stop it before they give you another shot!" Sudden strong hands were on his arms. "Damn it, Mark! Settle down!"

McCormick stared up dazedly at Frank Harper. Next he turned his head to take in his surroundings. As he gazed around the hospital room, an odd sense of recognition hit. Everything looked vaguely familiar.

I looked a lot like the room the judge was now in.

"Frank?"

Harper sighed in relief. "You gonna be all right? Can I let go?"

Mark nodded slightly. Frank moved back, releasing Mark's arms, but stood near the bed. He didn't like how pale the kid was, and how his eyes, wide and glassy, were filled with confusion. The lieutenant wanted to be prepared in case the young man had another fit.

If anything, though, McCormick now seemed docilely subdued. He looked curiously at the soft material wrapped around his wrists, and the straps encircling them which were attached to the bedframe.

"Why'm I tied up, Frank? What'd I do?"

Frank sat in a nearby chair. "I wasn't here, Mark. I was on my way to visit Milt when one of the nurses stopped me, told me you were in a room yourself. But it sounds like you were pretty uncooperative." The lieutenant looked grim. "The staff said you've been somewhat of an escape artist. They had barely gotten you in a bed to check you over before you took off on them. You were heading for Milt's room when they caught up with you. They were able to get you back in bed, but it wasn't long before you made a break for it again. That time you fell climbing over the bed rail and cracked your head on the floor." The older man's grim look had deepened. "When the nurses tried to get you back in bed that time, you got combative. That's why they gave you the sedative."

McCormick looked away, pointedly avoiding the lieutenant's eyes. After a brief pause, Frank continued. "They decided to restrain you because they didn't know how you'd react when you woke up. I didn't think you'd handle the restraints well – if I'd been here, I would have told them that. But the staff was more concerned with your physical well-being than the emotional."

McCormick closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. "I didn't handle them well, did I?"

"From what I just saw, I'd say no." Frank smiled apologetically. "Although I've only been in here for ten minutes or so, and that's just because Milt kicked me out."

Mark attempted to sit up. "What? He kicked – Oh, no. Does he know – " He broke off as he again pulled at his wrists, and an utter look of terror crossed his face. The lieutenant didn't miss the ex-con's visceral reaction, and he frowned, looking behind him at the door to the hall. Then with a determined expression Frank rose from the chair and came to the bed.

"Here, let me – " Harper reached for the straps on the nearest wrist, undoing the buckles, and then moved around the bed to release Mark's other wrist. "I don't think you need these anymore."

McCormick shook the numbness out of his arms, mindful of the IV tube connected to the inside of his right forearm. He next peeled the Velcro material from his wrists, tossing it aside in disgust. Frank retook his seat in the chair, and observed Mark quietly.

Mark inclined the bed and then began to rub his wrists methodically. When he finally noticed the watchful silence, he looked at Frank with a furrowed brow. "What?

"You want to tell me what's going on with you?"

"Um. . . I don't know." Mark shrugged. "I'm not really sure why I'm here," he said.

Frank hesitated. "You don't remember what happened? I told you, I wasn't here. I've just got hearsay."

McCormick closed his eyes again, lifting a hand to rub the knot on his left temple. "Well I guess the knock on the head didn't help. But that was after I was already here?"

"They're calling it physical exhaustion. I think that's just because there's not a medical term for 'extreme stubbornness.'" Harper smiled softly to take the edge out of the statement. "As far as I heard, when you came to visit Milt, one of the elevators was being serviced. You must've gotten impatient because you took the stairs, and by the time you got to Milt's floor you keeled over." The smile faded. "You're just damn lucky it happened in a hospital, and that you didn't pass out or lose it while you were driving. Not only would you have gotten into an accident, but you could've hurt someone else! And how would you have felt, being responsible for that?"

Mark's face paled more than it was already, which was somewhat of a feat. "I think I have a good idea," he answered flatly.

Frank abruptly realized what he had said, and his face changed color as well, reddening in embarrassment. "Oh, geez, Mark, I didn't mean – damn it. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Mark shook his head, scoffing lightly. "It's all I can think about." He adjusted himself in the bed. "What happened – it's like on a loop in my head. I close my eyes and I see it, I see him."

"Is that why you're not sleeping?"

Mark glanced quickly at the lieutenant, a guarded look in his eyes. "I - I'm. . ." he trailed off, unable to quite finish the reflexive denial. He turned his head and rested it against the pillows. "Yeah, I guess," he admitted. "I get maybe an hour or two before the dreams start." His mouth quirked up slightly. "Except for when I fall asleep in Hardcastle's room. Then I'm usually okay. I feel. . . I don't know. Safe."

"But otherwise, dreams keep you from sleeping?" Frank persisted. "Nightmares, about Randall?"

Mark's mouth had suddenly become dry, and he swallowed before he continued. "Sandy, Randall, all of it. Sometimes it's exactly what happened. Sometimes it's worse. And the dreams are so . . . real, that when I wake up, it takes me a while to remember the truth." He swallowed again. "But the truth's bad enough."

Frank didn't answer. He reached for a pitcher of water on a nearby table, poured a cupful, and handed it to McCormick. The younger man nodded his thanks before drinking deeply.

Mark was handing the cup back when Frank said, "So you're not sleeping. What about eating?"

McCormick rolled his eyes. "I'm eating, Frank," he muttered.

Now it was Harper's turn to scoff. "That wasn't very convincing, Mark."

Mark shot the man a glare, but it was short-lived, as he saw Frank's no-nonsense expression. "I get hungry, I eat," the younger man amended. "But I haven't had much of an appetite."

"That's pretty obvious." Frank gestured at the IV. "They said you were dehydrated and that your blood sugar's out of whack. I don't think you were bad off enough that they were gonna admit you, but then you kept trying to escape, and smacked your head on the floor. You're here overnight at least. And if you don't behave, it could be longer."

"What do you - longer?" Mark's voice became panicked, and he began to ramble. "No, Frank, no. Come on, that won't be necessary. I'll stay put, I'll do what they say, they don't have to keep me in bed any longer. I mean, overnight's long enough. And I'll still be here anyway, in Milt's room, so if they want to check on me – " He interrupted himself. "Wait. Does he know what happened? Did you tell him?"

Harper didn't answer aloud, but he shifted slightly in the chair, clearing his throat softly.

"Aw, Frank. . ."

"He was asking about you as soon as I walked in his room, Mark – he told me he'd expected you a couple hours ago. What did you want me to do, lie to him?" Harper asked, his tone defensive.

"Well, you could have distracted him, told him the truth without really 'telling' him the truth," McCormick replied, but the suggestion was halfhearted at best. "You know, like say I was nearby, or that you were sure he'd hear from me soon. . ."

Frank shook his head angrily. "Wouldn't work, Mark – I'm not as good a con as you. And do you really think he wouldn't figure it out? You're in the same damn hospital." He took a calming breath. "He's figured out everything else so far, once he was coherent enough to connect the dots. He wasn't even surprised about this." The lieutenant waved a hand, indicating the bed and the IV stand. "But he sure as hell wasn't happy about it. And he wasn't too happy with me either. I'm a cop, for God's sake – I know what to watch for. I should've seen this coming." Harper looked somberly at the man in the hospital bed. "I'm sorry, Mark. I dropped the ball."

Mark shrugged off the apology. "I'm fine, Frank."

"Right. Not sleeping or eating. Running yourself ragged by spending all your time here, or back at the estate doing chores. Not talking to anyone about what happened."

"Who am I supposed to talk to?" McCormick asked bitterly.

"Who do you think? Milt."

"No." Mark's response was immediate and emphatic. "He just needs to worry about getting better. He doesn't need to worry about me."

"No, he doesn't!" Frank agreed. "But he's been worried about you since he woke up."

"More like since he got shot," Mark murmured.

Frank tilted his head, tipping an ear closer. "What? What'd you say?"

"Nothing." McCormick gave a quick shake of his head. "But Frank, really, he doesn't need more to worry about. I don't want him to know I'm a wreck, and that I can't take care of myself. He'll feel like it's his fault or something because he isn't in any shape to yell at me."

"You're a wreck?" Frank raised his eyebrows. "I thought you were fine."

Mark laid back heavily into the pillows. "Yeah. I'm fine. That's why they had my arms tied up." He turned his head away from the lieutenant.

Frank couldn't think up an adequate response to Mark's statement. He studied the younger man thoughtfully, noticing the slight, intermittent trembling. Mark stared in the opposite direction, doing his best to ignore the older man's presence.

"What are you going to do about this, Mark?"

There was a long silence before McCormick replied. "I'll eat, Frank," he said, his voice tired and somewhat hoarse. "I'll make sure I eat three times a day, whether I'm hungry or not." He turned his head back to look at Harper. "But I can't do anything about the dreams."

"They're just dreams, Mark. They're not real."

"They sure as hell feel real. They're so . . . vivid." The pain that suddenly shone in Mark's eyes made Frank regret his dismissive statement. He tried another tactic.

"They're about what happened? You said like a 'replay'?"

Mark looked away again, but he nodded.

"And then you said sometimes they're worse. What did you mean by that?"

McCormick sighed softly, closing his eyes. For a moment Frank thought he might not answer. But then the younger man began to speak, his voice so low Harper had to strain to hear the words.

"Sometimes I'm too late, when I find Weed. And he kills Sandy. Sometimes I get my parole revoked." Mark opened his eyes to look steadily at Frank. "I still have a hard time believing that I'm not back in prison, with everything that happened – possession of a gun, stealing a car, killing a man. . ." Frank saw the trembling increase. "And then I wake up and my wrists are tied up, and you're here, and I think, I think – "

"Mark, calm down," Frank commanded firmly. "You're not in any trouble, the staff here just wanted to keep you safe." He reached out to grasp Mark's arm. "I'm sorry about the restraints. Even if the nurses here thought that was the right choice, I know that had to be rough, waking up like that."

The ex-con took a deep breath, then exhaled forcibly. "You have no idea." He shook himself a little, causing Frank to draw his hand back. Mark went on. "So yeah, sometimes I dream that I get my ticket pulled. And sometimes . . . I dream Hardcastle dies." After a beat, he shook his head wearily. "And in the really bad dreams, it's all three." Mark grimaced. "A hat trick."

"Is that what you just had now? One of the really bad ones?"

"I don't really want to talk about it, Frank," Mark said quickly, unwilling to share the specifics.

"All right." Frank stood up and stretched. "So then you are going to talk to Milt. That's good." The lieutenant pushed the chair away from the bed, but instead of making an attempt to leave the room, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks and regarded Mark mildly.

McCormick glanced up at Harper, then again turned away, suddenly becoming very interested in the hem on the sheet covering him. He ran the edge of the sheet through his fingers, examining the stitching.

Frank nodded. "All right," he repeated. Leaving the bedside, he walked slowly toward the doorway.

"Frank. Wait."

Harper smiled to himself before he turned around. He came back to the chair, pulling it out and sitting down. He looked expectantly at the man in the hospital bed. "Yeah?"

Mark was now clenching the bed sheets in his hands, reflexively making fists. "If I tell you – about the really bad dreams, about everything – you're not going to repeat it all to Hardcastle, are you?"

Frank bent closer, studying Mark seriously. "You really don't want him to know. Why?"

"I – It's – " McCormick dropped the sheets, and lifted his hands to run his fingers through his curls. "Frank, come on. He's already hurt, he's gonna be stuck here a while yet, and when he does get home, he's going to have to take it easy for a long time. Kinda hard to be all rough and tough when you get shot in the chest." He took a shaky breath. "It can't be both of us. I mean, one of us has to be normal, one of us has to be in control."

"Even if it's a lie?"

"It's not a lie," Mark stressed. "I'm okay – I'll be okay." He lowered his voice. "I have to be."

Frank Harper straightened, sitting back slightly. It was as if he could physically feel the power in McCormick's resolute words. He knew the young man was loyal to Milt. But to be so worried about Hardcastle that he'd actually made himself ill . . . That was more like devotion. When exactly did that happen? That crazy trip to Arkansas? Harper knew that Mark would trade places with the judge in a heartbeat. He would have taken that bullet for Milt if he'd had the chance. Let's hope to God it never comes to that.

For as difficult as it had been for Mark to deal with Milt's close call, (and he's still dealing with it), Frank believed if the roles were reversed, Milt would have an ever harder time handling something tragic happening to the kid. Because the lieutenant could see a little devotion there, too.

Frank shook off the dark thoughts. He settled himself in the chair, and looked intently at the ex-con. "Let me help you, Mark. Talk."

McCormick looked back at the man sitting by his bed – the friend sitting by his bed – who was waiting attentively, his face showing only concern and patience.

When are you going to realize he just wants to help? That's all he's wanted to do since this whole nightmare started.

Mark began to talk, tentative at first, but then with more certainty. And as he slowly let out the fear and pain he'd been holding back, he felt a spark of hope take its place.

He thought – just maybe – he would be okay, after all.

END


Author's Note: Discerning readers may notice I used a few plot points from Cheride's "Being There." Borrowing from a better writer than I.

-ck