This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

Author's Notes: This week's episode on the Gull's Way board is "Whistler's Pride", which got me to thinking about heroes on horseback.

And, not for the first time, I've stolen a title from Billy Joel, though the fantasies in question are about as different as you can get.

Sometimes a Fantasy

by

Cheride

It was unsettling, truly, the way you could be just conscious enough to recognize being in a dream, and still not quite conscious enough to just wake up and put an end to it already. It was almost like an out of body experience, and he wasn't even sure unsettling was a strong enough word. More unsettling by far, though, were the times when you were content to stay in that in-between world and the tiny conscious part of your brain valiantly willed itself to keep dreaming.

So it was that he could see himself, perched upon the back of a galloping stallion, chasing after an escaping pickup truck, and he could almost feel the rush of the wind coursing over his body, his hair being lightly tousled, his shirt flapping against his skin. Or maybe that was the adrenalin; he could also feel his heart pounding, keeping time with the thundering hooves. He thought maybe that was a little unusual, but probably no more so than the grin that was spreading across his face as if this wild chase was actually taking place. Still, though he was obviously dreaming, he decided this was one of those times he might like to sleep just a little bit longer, so he rolled over, pulling the sheet to his chin.

And then, in the way that made sense only in dreams, it was suddenly night time, and he was no longer clad in jeans and a casual shirt, but was now dressed in solid black, a gaucho hat pressed firmly to his head, with a small mask covering his eyes, and a cape billowing behind him in the wind. His faithful steed still carried him, racing past stucco homes with graceful archways and warm, flickering light showing through small windows that seemed to beckon him to stop and rest for a while. But he knew that rest was not possible; somewhere in the darkness, bandoleros waited for justice. Raising his sword high, he dug his booted heel into the side of his horse and sped even faster into the night. And in his bed, a small grin lingered.

The night soon circled back to day, and the rapier was replaced with a six-shooter, a single shot ringing through the air as he shouted a warning to the fleeing outlaws riding quickly past the saloon and out of town. The warning went unheeded, however, so he hunched down, close enough to feel the mane brushing against his cheek, urging his mount to a faster pace. The star on his chest glistened in the bright sunlight as he followed the men into the open desert.

And as he raced through the sparse brush, dirt flying up from the ground, covering him in a gritty film, he began to feel himself slowly losing touch with stallion beneath him. He tried to gather the reins tighter into his fist—clutching his sheet with both hands—willing the charging animal to stay with him, not to give up just yet. His work tonight was not yet done; somebody needed to stop these bank robbers.

He fought against the return to consciousness, wanting to move more quickly, to close the distance between himself and the bandits before it was too late, before he would no longer be able to bring them to justice. Bandits had to be brought to justice; he seemed as sure of that in his half-dream state as he was while thundering across the expanse, proudly sporting a white hat atop his head. He could feel himself drifting closer to wakefulness, even as he heard the laughter of the escaping outlaws. There would be no justice for them this evening, but there was always tomorrow night.

And then, against his will, his eyes opened fully, and he pushed himself upright in bed, staring into the darkness of his room. He tried to make sense of the scattered images and not-quite memories that clamored for attention in his head, but it was no use. The details were already lost, leaving him with only the vague feeling of excitement that always follows adventure, and a small sense of loss that he couldn't explain.

"No more pepperoni and anchovies before bed," McCormick muttered to himself, as his head found the pillow again and he drifted back to sleep.