Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: A certain unlikely touch to Mark's interior decorating appears in the first season episode "Scared Stiff". It came up for discussion this evening over at the Gulls Way Board and Deanna offered an utterly convincing explanation for the item—so convincing that the moment she said it, I knew it just had to be true.
Photo Opportunity
by L.M. Lewis
October, 1983
Mark first noticed it the evening after he was released from Men's Central, on the strength of Teddy Hollis' testimony that he hadn't been an accessory to the coerced robbery spree. He was trudging up the gatehouse stairs, weary from the rapid-fire series of events that had followed, culminating in Hardcase shooting the gun from Tom Quinlan's hand.
Since Mark had been staring at the business end of that gun only seconds before that, and only seconds later had nearly busted his hand taking Quinlan down, he figured he was entitled to feel a little wrung out. That might have explained it—not that he was going to admit it to anyone—the reaction when, arriving at the top step, he lifted his eyes and encountered a steely gray pair gazing back at him.
He jumped just a little—more like a twitch, maybe. He definitely let out a half-yelp, followed by a one-syllable low-grade cuss, the consequence of embarrassment. He finally leaned over, picked the thing up, and frowned at it: an eight-by-ten glossy of Hardcastle in his judicial robes, with that annoyingly all-knowing judicial expression of his. Mark shook his head and put it back where he'd found it, then stepped away and looked around at the loft and the rest of the gatehouse below.
It was still stripped nearly bare—a tribute to Teddy's desperation—but the pillaging part of Hollins' assault on the premises had all been set to rights. This new and lonely addition to the décor sat in stark contrast to the absence of other knickknacks. It had to be Sarah's work, both setting things to rights and filling in the temporary void.
He went back to frowning at his new roommate. He suspected there was a message there. It wasn't quite "Big Brother is Watching"—but it was the judge, none the less. He figured she was expecting him to say to himself "What would Hardcastle do?" every time he was confronted with an important decision.
He shook his head again. Sarah had no idea. Hardcase chased guys around blind corners and shot guns out of their hands. Hardcase was nuts.
He felt another slight twitch. This time it was a half-smile and he suppressed it firmly. Sarah would be back in here in a few days, supervising the restoration of the stolen goods. He supposed she'd be disappointed if the photo was tucked into a drawer somewhere.
His smile disappeared, completely and abruptly. He had a strong suspicion that she'd be more than disappointed. Sarah was not the kind who gave up on a notion once she'd focused on it. She'd either poke around until she found it, or he'd end up with a whole drawer full of the things as he stowed the replacements one after another.
He sighed, angled the photo slightly so it wouldn't be staring at him, and left it more or less where he'd found it.
00000
February, 1985
He hadn't noticed it at all for a while—like everything else that's there all the time, those things a person takes for granted, mere background noise. He was trudging up the gatehouse stairs, drained emotionally and physically. The preceding forty-eight hours had been a maelstrom in which only a few salient facts stood out: Weed Randall was dead and Hardcastle wasn't.
He reached the top step and his weary gaze came to rest on the photograph. Even in his fatigue the details of it jumped out at him: the dust on the glass, a chip in the corner of the frame from a chance encounter with a blunt object almost a year back. But it was the photography itself—
He shuddered. It must have been the proximity of it—Hardcastle in those damn judicial robes. It seemed entirely likely that these were the same ones he been wearing the day before yesterday when Randall had nearly succeeded in killing him.
He's alive and Randall isn't.
He picked up the photograph, still staring at it. Hardcastle's life had been suspended by the thinnest of threads. He wasn't entirely out of the woods, even yet.
It was the robes, definitely. He yanked open the bottom drawer and thrust the photograph in, face down.
00000
May, 1986
He'd known all along it would eventually come to this. "Indefinitely" did not mean forever. They'd both survived—despite some close calls and perilous circumstances—and they were still friends, he thought. He figured those facts ought to count for something, but he couldn't explain how he felt, trudging up the steps in the gatehouse for what would be nearly the last time.
He supposed he ought to start packing. He sat down at his desk and opened one of the lesser-used drawers. He stared for a moment. Then he reached in and picked up the picture frame, turning it over.
He frowned at the familiar photo. It must be five years old, at least—maybe seven. Even he could see that the man had aged some since it was taken.
Everything changes; everyone moves on.
He wondered for a moment if this belonged to him. It had been there nearly from the start, but not before he'd arrived.
That makes it yours, right? He didn't think the judge would mind but he'd be damned if he was going to ask the man.
He felt one corner of his mouth twitch. Grand theft photo. It seemed appropriate. Then he snatched a t-shirt up from the floor and used it to wipe the dust off the edges of the frame. There was that one dented corner—hardly worth fixing. It gave the whole thing character, like the man himself.
00000
June, 1986
He took the stairs at a steady trudge, carrying the last box up from the car. He was tired but still flush with victory. He wasn't exactly sure who he'd been victorious over—surely not Hardcastle. He knew the man's style too well not to recognize when the fix was in. The judge hadn't so much lost the game as given it away.
He set the box down on the bed, his bed . . . his place. He gazed around slowly taking it all in, every familiar knickknack. He smiled. None of it was really his. It was more as if he belonged to it. He shook his head and reached into the box, pulling out a trophy and what it had been propping against—a framed photo.
"What would Hardcastle do?" he murmured and then grinned and shook his head.
He set it on the desk, chipped frame and all. He didn't have to think about it all that much anymore.
He knew.