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

Rated: K

Author's Note: Set in 1991 and follows the stories 'Second Chances' and 'Side Bet' (with a nod to the much earlier 'Hearts and Flowers'). Kathy is from the second season episode, 'One of the Girls from Accounting'.

Many thanks to the beta's, Owl and Susan, even though this was apparently a badly-behaving document.

Counselor

By L. M. Lewis

The visitor wasn't completely unexpected, though it was unusual and there had been no phone call. It hadn't been all that many hours since he'd last seen the man, leaving the office—late, as usual—and presumably heading for home.

Hardcastle swiveled his seat around and glanced over his shoulder at the first sound of the familiar engine. He saw the Coyote pull in neatly by the fountain, but its driver did not immediately climb out.

When he did finally emerge, he stood there, his profile etched by the moonlight. He seemed to be contemplating his destination, and for a moment the judge thought he might head straight for the gatehouse. He was looking toward it with an almost wistful expression.

But he finally cast a glance toward the main house. The light from the den window must have been obvious. He turned in the direction of his gaze, trudging up to the front steps and the door.

The judge had half-expected the knock, though McCormick had a key. Maybe it was the circumstances that made the younger man feel he was playing the role of a guest.

Hardcastle heaved a sigh and said 'Coming," as he lumbered to his feet. He applied an expression of surprise almost dutifully before he opened the door. Then he said, "Kinda late, isn't it?" to the man on the other side.

Mark stood there, hands now in his pockets, looking mildly sheepish. "Sorry," he said, in an entirely non-specific way.

The judge waved him in, and followed him down the stairs back into the den. McCormick didn't sit immediately. He took a couple steps away from the doorway and stood, half-way between the desk and the mantle, looking a little lost.

"What's up?" Hardcastle asked casually, though it was pretty obvious what the 'what' had to be at this hour.

Mark said nothing for a moment, just a slow shrug. The judge gave a raspy, impatient sigh.

"Lemme guess, you and Kath had a 'date' tonight, huh? And there you were, all wrapped up in that Hanzinski thing—which I told ja could wait until tomorrow—and you forgot about getting home until it was too late. Is that about it?"

"Yeah," another shrug and then a nod, "that's about it. Actually, I was supposed to meet her at that little Italian place over by where she works, and oh, I forgot completely. She waited for about forty-five minutes, then she called the office, but I guess I'd already left. And then she got worried. I dunno why, but," Mark cast him a puzzled glance, "she worries an awful lot."

"Women are like that."

The younger man nodded again, then subsided down into the nearest chair. He was still frowning, as if he was trying to remember the exact chain of events for the purposes of a deposition.

"So, you messed up on meeting her." Hardcastle sat down across from him. "Then what?"

"Well . . . I got home, and she wasn't there." McCormick winced. "And it still didn't dawn on me right away."

"You were still thinking about the Hanzinski case."

Mark glanced up. "Yeah." He looked momentarily grateful for the understanding. "And I got worried, I mean, when I realized she wasn't home yet . . . then I finally did remember," he put one palm to his forehead, "and I called the restaurant, but she wasn't there either."

"And you thought maybe she'd been hung up at work, too, and maybe you could just hightail it over and be sitting at a table when she finally showed up, and nobody'd be the wiser?"

There was a pause, and then a quiet, "Maybe."

"How far'd you get before you realized that that was a dumb plan?"

"Not quite to the driveway," Mark said a little sullenly. "She met me there."

"So, you had a fight?"

Mark was looking down at the floor. There was another pause before he finally said, "No, not really. She kinda told me off. She was pretty upset."

"I'll bet," Hardcastle said dryly. "Then what happened?"

Mark slumped down a little further in the chair; now it was evident that he was looking anywhere but at the judge. No answer was immediately forthcoming.

"She was steamed," Hardcastle prompted. "You stood her up and she was worried. She let you have it."

"Yeah," Mark muttered, a note of resentment creeping out around the edges of that one word. "She let me have it. I was inconsiderate, I'll grant her that, but it's not like I'm the only one who puts in overtime. March and April—it's sleep and work for her. Anyway, it was an honest mistake. I forgot."

"So, you had a fight." Hardcastle shrugged. "Don't tell me this is your first one."

"We didn't fight." McCormick said with utter conviction. "Honest. She chewed me out; I swear I didn't say a word. We don't fight."

The judge stared back steadily. "You didn't? You don't? You've been married almost half a year now."

Mark shook his head. "Never."

"But you fight with me all the time." Hardcastle hadn't had to work much to get some shocked disbelief in his response.

"It's different." The hint of sullenness was back, now with a tinge of anxiety. "We're married. It's gotta work."

Hardcastle stared again, trying to sort that one out. Then he asked, point-blank, "So how did it work tonight?"

Mark dropped his gaze again. "Not so hot." His voice had dropped, too. It was barely a mutter. "I got in the Coyote."

"Did you tell her where you were going?"

Mark slumped a little further. "I didn't know where I was going."

"Were you planning on coming back?"

Mark looked up sharply. "Yeah, of course."

"Did she know that?"

There was a long, silent pause.

"No," he finally said quietly. All the sullenness was gone from his expression now. In its place was full-bore worry and regret. "I went up the coast a ways, until I ran out of steam. Maybe half an hour, tops. Then I turned around and headed back." He shook his head slowly. "An hour, at the most it was an hour, altogether. I'd never run out on her. I swear."

"Mighta looked that way from her side, though," Hardcastle pointed out, after a moment's careful consideration.

Mark looked stricken. For a moment he held his breath, then finally let it out with a sigh and said, "Yeah, it might've . . . and when I got back, she wasn't there." This last part held more than a shadow of despair.

"Did she take stuff, a suitcase?" Hardcastle asked practically. "Did you call her mother's place?"

"I did, right away. There was no answer. I think her mom's away for a couple of days, and yeah, there's a suitcase missing."

"A big one or a little one?"

Mark held his hands out, about two feet apart.

"Aw, that's just an overnighter . . . a weekender, tops. She can't be that mad at you—not that it doesn't sound like maybe you deserve it."

McCormick's despair was starting to be overlaid with an annoyed expression. "You aren't being very much help, you know."

"You want advice, huh?" Hardcastle edged forward in his seat and fixed the younger man with a firm gaze. "Look, it's simple, you're supposed to fight. You go and have a good fight, then you make up."

"But—"

"You think maybe if you fight, then it'll all fall apart?" the judge asked.

The younger man's sudden silence was as good as a 'yes'.

"Okay, maybe. It's possible. But I tell ya, if you never fight, something'll snap, or fester, maybe both. And if you get in the car and run off to avoid it, that's worse than fighting. Best thing is to fight clean, get things out in the open and settle 'em. And," he paused and shook his head in disgust, "for God's sake, don't forget when you've got a date. Best thing to do then is just say you're sorry and take it on the chin like a man."

Mark had listened to it all in utter silence. The flat look of despair was back, as though he thought it might be too late for all of this.

"Do you think she'll come back?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle rested his elbows on his knees, "if you ask her. Roses wouldn't hurt; got a couple of nice Lydias back there."

McCormick looked utterly baffled for a moment.

"She's in the gatehouse." He gestured with one thumb toward the window. "The car's in the back drive. And you both gotta be up pretty early in the morning. I think you better hurry up and get the fight over with, so you have time to make up," Hardcastle said, straightening a little and making a shooing motion with both hands.

Mark only looked startled for a moment, then he was up and on his feet, a smile of relief on his face. The judge reached for the pruning clippers he'd left unobtrusively on the side table.

"Clean cuts, don't ruin the canes." He handed them over. "You need a flashlight?"

"Hah, not likely," McCormick shook his head. "I've been stealing roses from that garden for close to seven years, Hardcase."

"Lotta good it did ya."

"Up till now." Mark smiled and waved the clippers once as he turned and headed for the door. "Hey," he paused again, one hand on the knob, looking over his shoulder, "is this fair, bringing flowers to a fight?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded, "like they say, it's all fair. Besides, it's already kinda late. You aren't gonna want to go out and get them afterwards. This'll save you some time."

"Yeah," McCormick frowned, "it is late. Maybe we should skip the fight and go straight to the making up."

"Hah. If she lets you. Maybe . . . just this once. But try not to make a habit of it," the judge looked sternly disapproving for just long enough to get a smile from the younger man. "Now git," he added firmly.

Mark opened the door and was gone.

Hardcastle leaned back and crossed his legs. Then he tilted his head up and a little to the side, finding the familiar face—the photograph in the old silver frame.

"Never fighting," he shook his head and muttered. "Who ever heard of such a thing?"

And it took only the smallest nudge of imagination to feel the warmth of her smile.