Discalimer: The rights to the characters of Judge Milton C Hardcastle, Mark McCormick, Sarah and the backstory belong to someone else. This story is written as an homage to those incredibly talented creators in the hope that they won't mind.
Author's note:- Thanks to L.M. Lewis and Angela for both providing me with the name of the police lieutenant from the episode
This story is dedicated to Sarah and Susan because they brainwashed me into writing it.
This is my first H&M fic. Please let me know what you think- J
Episode tag to Hot Shoes and therefore spoilers for that episode.
Synopsis:- Could Mark really walk away from those two car crashes unscathed?
Delayed Reactions.
"Are you sure you're up for this McCormick?" Judge Milton C Hardcastle eyed Mark critically, noting the slight limp as he favoured his left side. There were lines of pain on the younger man's face and dark circles under his eyes. "You took a couple of hard knocks on that track yesterday, and if you don't feel up to it I. . ."
Mark shook his head. "I told ya I'm fine, I'm used to it. It comes with the territory when you drive race cars." Mark replied, plastering on a false smile. Truth was he felt far from fine, his left side was painfully bruised, and he had a dull aching headache that flared up every so often, making him want to lie down. It had been a lot easier to sell this line the day before when he'd been pumped up on adrenaline at the prospect of driving competitively again. Now it was the day after, and his dreams were shattered, but, perversely, he didn't care. He was fine, the judge was fine, and now all he really wanted to do was get back to normal as quickly as possible, and normal meant a little quality one on one with the judge, and, despite his aches and pains, that's what he really needed right now. He stretched, trying and failing to hide the grimace, and stifling back a groan as his side protested.
"Fine, huh?" the judge allowed the skepticism to show clearly on his face. "Well, I'm taking the ball back inside. We can save it until you're not feeling quite so 'fine' any more."
He turned and started to move away but Mark ran round into his path holding his hands out in a blocking gesture. "OK so I admit I am a little stiff."
"Aha," the judge waved his finger in triumph at the admission.
"But," Mark continued hurriedly "that's all the more reason why some exercise would do me good, loosen me up." He gave one of his best sell it to 'em smiles. "So whaddya say?"
The judge looked down at the ball and then back up at Mark. It was hard to say no to anything in the face of all that enthusiasm. "Well, OK, but don't you start claiming injury when I'm ten points up," he admonished, his finger back in the air.
Mark grinned, "Never happen," He said grabbing for the ball and missing as Hardcastle feinted. "But whatever, you won't hear a complaint out of me," he stated.
Mark was feeling good, his blood pumping, the endorphins of hard exercise having hit his system and he was three points up. He was having a great time and the judge was too, he could tell by the scowl on his face and the twinkle in his eye. He was enjoying this. Mark grinned and bounced the ball twice on the left before switching to the right and dodging past the judge, jumping high so that he only needed a slight throw to make the basket. "Come on Milt, you're slowin' down," Mark said as he retrieved the ball.
"Hey, I'm just takin' it easy on you in deference to your 'not so fine' condition," the judge blustered, and it wasn't entirely untrue. He had been holding back a little on their normal rough play, especially avoiding Mark's clearly injured left side, and although the kid was loosening up as the game went on, Hardcastle was still a little concerned, something wasn't quite right.
"Hey now don't you go holding back on me." Mark bounced the ball, starting the next point. "I can take anything you can throw at me." He moved into a deliberate shoulder charge, albeit using his right side, knocking the unprepared judge down onto his back.
"Why you," the judge protested, pushing himself to his feet and turning to see a grinning Mark having just made another basket.
"That's it the gloves are off," he growled, snatching the ball none too gently from Mark and moving away. Injured or not he was going to wipe that cocky smile off the kids' face if it killed him. He drew in a deep breath and made his play, 'accidentally' elbowing Mark just under the ribs as he moved backwards.
Mark doubled over as all of the air was violently expelled from his lungs and he drew in a couple of panting breaths against the twinges of pain, still grinning as he turned to see the judge making his own basket. "Now that's more like it," he said, as he pushed himself upright and held out his hand for the ball. The judge tossed it to him, grinning himself now.
On the next three points the play got rougher still and both men were panting hard. "Ha," the judge said, jubilantly, "Only one point down now. You're goin' down McCormick." He picked up the ball and moved round, forcing Mark to mark him from behind, he pushed backwards, inching himself closer to the basket. He waited until he was nearly there feinted right then went left, turning and launching himself upwards for the throw in a single move. He felt Mark move behind him, registered his elbow hitting something, but his momentum carried him up and round as the ball sailed into the basket. and the judge landed his jump in triumph. "Yes," he let the jubilant word out, clenching his fist and punching sideways into the air. It was only then that he noticed something was wrong.
The judge's elbow hit Mark on the temple, his own move pushing him into the blow. He didn't feel anything, didn't have time to register pain. He just dropped like a stone.
The judge stared for a moment at Mark's still form; it somehow took time to register, despite his earlier unease, despite having felt the blow. Seeing Mark lying there, not moving, was still shocking, and so the shock held him, just for a second, and then he was moving forward. "Hey stop faking McCormick," he said, because there was just the slightest chance that this wasn't what it was, that Mark was messing with him. God he hoped that Mark was messing with him. He'd kill him for it, of course, but that was better, anything was better, than the kid really being hurt. "I told you I'm not going to fall for your tricks. Just because I evened up. . ." He was at his side now, and able to gently roll him over, to see his face, his ashen gray features, feel for his pulse, which was far too fast and erratic. His gut tightened, whatever was wrong he was out cold, and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch.
He quickly checked his airway and put him in the recovery position, and then ran for the house. "Sarah," he shouted for the housekeeper, "Sarah!"
"Why Judge whatever is the. . ." Sarah came out of the kitchen wiping her floury hands on her apron.
"Call an ambulance, get them out here now." He was still shouting, despite the fact that Sarah was now only a few feet from him. "It's McCormick," he said, "there's something wrong with the kid."
Sarah's hand went to her mouth leaving a trail of flour across her chin as she covered an exclamation. "Oh my!" It took a moment for her to recover, a moment to see the appeal for help in the judge's eyes. She gathered herself together, dropping her hand and giving him the efficient response he needed. "Of course, I'll get right on it."
The judge nodded his satisfaction and ran back outside. Mark wasn't as he'd left him, he was moving and for just a moment, Hardcastle thought that he'd come round, that everything was going to be all right, but it was clear as he watched that it wasn't. Mark's limbs were moving in an uncoordinated mess, he'd rolled onto his knees and he was trying to get his hands under him but they weren't cooperating. His head remained on the ground as though it was too heavy to lift. He lifted one shoulder but his arm was placed wrong and it slipped, dropping him sideways even as his other hand attempted the same on the other side, and then his legs dropped back down too. It was painful to watch and Hardcastle ran as fast as he could. He needed to get to him, protect him before he hurt himself more.
Mark's existence had narrowed to a cocoon of pain. His head was ringing with agony and the world was spinning round uncomfortably, like his brain had been replaced by a giant kaleidoscope, with each churning colour linked to a different unpleasant sensation, the red of agony, the green of nausea, the lilac and purple of pain, the blue of falling, the yellow of screaming. All shifting round in his head as some sadist played with him. The green came past again, and he found himself vomiting and too weak to lift his head, and the pain just exploded, shattering his insides now in white and silver fragments. It hurt more than he could bear and still he had to, because there was no escape from it, none.
Hardcastle pulled Mark up as he began to vomit, holding him up and away from it was all he could do, preventing him from choking as he expelled the contents of his stomach onto the ground. When it was over, Mark's muscles were shaking from the effort and the judge pulled him away, laying him down gently again, he spoke softly, but it still came out with a gravelly undertone. "McCormick, can you hear me?"
Marks eyelids fluttered a little, but his eyes did not open.
"Come on McCormick, I need you to wake up?" The judge had been around enough head injuries, between his sports and his profession, to know that the longer someone was out for, the worse the condition. What he needed was for Mark to wake up and ask him what happened, then Hardcastle would ask him questions about what day it was, who the president was, and who they were about to send up for theft, kidnapping and attempted murder, and Mark would answer them all just fine. Then he could cancel the ambulance, get the kid a couple of aspirin, and after a few days rest he would be as good as new.
Except his gut told him that wasn't going to happen. This was serious, and the kid needed that ambulance now. He looked up and listened, willing the sirens to break through the silence, the ambulance to turn round the corner, nothing.
He looked down, gripping Mark's hand in his. "Come on kid," he almost pleaded. "Just open your eyes for me will ya?"
Mark could just make out words, mixed in with heavy buzzing, someone was talking o him. There was someone there, someone who could help him. He tried to force his eyes open, tried to ask for the help that he needed, but his mouth wouldn't work, his eyelids were too heavy. All he could manage to do was to close his hand and grip onto whoever was there, his lifeline against this agonizing pain. His fingers closed and he could feel the warm flesh, and it was his only comfort in a living nightmare.
The kid's lips moved and the judge could have sworn he mouthed the word help. He felt the grip on his arm tightening, emphasising the muscle shakes in the hand that held him.
"It's OK kid, help's coming." Hardcastle tried to reassure him. "Help's coming."
H&MH&MH&M
Hardcastle scrubbed his hand over his face and attempted to stretch a little, shifting in the hard plastic chair. He was vaguely aware that someone had told him there was somewhere more comfortable to wait, a room down the hall? He dismissed the idea; he didn't feel like being comfortable. Didn't want to. . . not until he knew, not until he had some news, one way or the other.
The paramedics from the fire department had arrived first, they'd messed and fussed, put him on oxygen, inserted an IV, but they couldn't do a damn thing about the pain he was in, because it was a head injury. They'd all had to carry on watching him suffer, mostly out of it, but not enough for the agony not to show on his features, for the small whimpering sounds as they moved him to break your damned heart. Then the ambulance had come and they'd let the judge ride in with him, and he'd had to keep watching, as Mark drifted on the edge of consciousness, as his vitals panicked the medical personnel, but in some ways that had been better than now. At least he could see him. At least he knew he was still alive.
Since they'd arrived in the hospital he hadn't even had that comfort. The doctor had been out to see him, had asked him questions about the bruising on his side. The extensive damn bruising down the kid's side that he hadn't though it important enough to mention, and so Hardcastle had told him about the crash, and the spin out, and the doctor had nodded thoughtfully, and then he'd told Hardcastle what was wrong, a subdural hematoma, bleeding into the brain. How they would drill a small hole into his skull to drain off the blood and relieve the pressure. How Hardcastle should go home because even when they were through with the procedure it would take many hours, maybe even days before Mark would wake up, but he couldn't go home, because the doctor couldn't answer the question that he needed answered, couldn't tell him if Mark would make it through the procedure, and until he knew, Judge Milton C. Hardcastle could not go home.
Dammit! How had the kid got under his skin so quickly? How had he managed to become this important to him? It'd been a while since he'd sat in the hospital waiting for news that would devastate his life, and if McCormick died it would do just that. Why? Why should he feel so terrible? He was at an age where he was losing friends all the time, some of them close, some of them he'd known all of his life, and he felt bad, yes, but not like this. This was like the pain of losing family. Why?
Because McCormick represented hope, McCormick represented his future. He was replacing the family that he no longer had. He was the one that he knew he could save, the one he could turn around, the one he needed to be part of his legacy. It had taken a long time to find him, he'd tried and failed before, but now he was sure he had the right one, even after working with him for such a short time, there was something about him that made him different, that made him worth saving, so much that he liked.
There was so much hope, so much promise. He couldn't lose that now. He just couldn't and if McCormick died, from a stupid blow, in a stupid basketball game. . .
"Judge?"
Hardcastle looked up to see Lieutenant Jenkins staring down at him.
"I. . .er. . .came up to the estate to get yours and McCormick's statements and Sarah told me that you were here." He paused looking slightly uncomfortable, gazed down the corridor and back. "Any news yet on the kid?"
Hardcastle had pushed himself wearily to his feet, his thoughts were sluggish, pulling out of his introspection and away from those burning emotions was a little like wading through treacle. "They're operating now," he said. He could feel the tears glistening in his eyes, just at the point where he could hold them back, just. Dammit he hadn't cried in front of anyone since his wife died.
"He seemed fine last night," Jenkins stated, "What happened?"
I hit him that's what happened, smashed him on the head so he bled into his brain and now he's going to die and even if he doesn't he'll never be. . .The guilt pushed the words through his head like a torrent, and he wanted to verbalize them, wanted to get it off his chest to try to alleviate the clawing guilt, the pain, but he didn't, couldn't admit it out loud because it was still too horrifyingly painful to contemplate and so he pushed it back, clamped down on it, held the boiling emotion within. "I. .he. . " he said hesitantly. "He hit his head, doctor said he has a subdural hemasomething," he waved his hand dismissively, like he didn't know all of the details, all of the painful, heartwrenching details. He met Lt Jenkins's gaze, managed to hold it for a moment. "He was bleeding into his brain Bill." Somehow putting it into words was making it even more real. He slumped back onto the hard plastic chair. "They're drilling a hole into his skull," into his skull, the words echoed as he spoke them, as the enormity of it hit him again like a slap in the face. He looked up again. "Did you know they could do that?" he asked plaintively.
Bill didn't know what to say. "Hey he's young and strong, he'll pull through this." He tried, because he needed to be reassuring, needed to offer comfort to the clearly distraught man in front of him. He'd got the sense that the judge cared for McCormick from the way he'd spoken about him, but he hadn't realized just how much, until now. Bill didn't know McCormick, but he knew the judge, and if the kid had become this important to him in such a short space of time then he must be something special. He looked around again, searching for something else to say, some other comfort he could offer in the face of the judge's pain. "The doctors here are good, this is a state of the art facility Milt, he's in good hands."
Hardcastle nodded at the platitudes, recognizing them for what they were but appreciating the sentiment with which they were conveyed. He looked up and saw the concern on Jenkins's face, and that's when it hit him how close to the edge he was, how raw and exposed his emotions were, too exposed. Men of his generation didn't share such things, didn't outwardly display them. Hell they probably weren't supposed to even feel them, especially for someone who in reality they hardly knew. So he pushed them down, bottled them up, hardening his expression a little as he stood again. "Yeah, you're right. He'll probably be fine right?" he asked, not really thinking it, let alone believing it. "You said you wanted to take my statement, I could do it now if you like," he suggested, pushing the emotion ever deeper, building a wall to keep it in. He needed to be practical. It was the right thing to do.
Bill looked at him, admiring the strength and the fortitude of the older man. He wasn't sure he would have the same control if the same thing were happening to someone he cared about, but he couldn't possibly take the judge up on his offer. He was astute enough to realize that the sudden show of strength was for his benefit. "No. . er. . . that's Ok Milt. We've got enough to hold Collins and the others. The tests on McCormick's car show clear signs of sabotage, plus we have witnesses in the pit crew who don't want to take the rap." He paused, studying the judge for a moment. "You just let me know when you're both up to making those statements, and I'll come back out."
Hardcastle nodded, appreciating the implied sentiment. "I'll do that," he said gratefully.
"And if there's anything you need. . ." Bill offered, meaning it, even though he knew it was unlikely to be taken up.
"I'll be sure to let you know," Hardcastle replied, watching until Bill disappeared round the bend in the corridor before dropping back to his lonely vigil in the hard plastic chair. His emotions now thoroughly suppressed, he stared blankly at a small crack in the plaster of the wall and waited for news.
He tried hard to focus on what the doctor was saying but there was a certain relieved euphoria that was flooding through his system, because he was sure, when he'd seen the green scrubs, that the doctor was coming to tell him that Mark hadn't survived, that he hadn't even made it out of the operating theatre, except he had, and it was hard to deal with the overwhelming sense of relief that that brought, but he had to, because from the expression on the doctor's face he knew that McCormick was far from out of the woods, and so he tried hard to reign in the swirling emotions and listen.
"We'll be keeping him in ICU for the time being, you won't be able to see him until morning now, so it really would be best if you went home, got some rest yourself, believe me we're doing all we can."
"But he is going to be all right now, isn't he?" Hardcastle asked, reading the uncertainty in the doctor's eyes before he gave his reply, the euphoria of McCormick's survival thus far was draining rapidly, leaving an empty hollow in it's place.
The doctor let out a short sigh. "We'll know more if and when Mr. McCormick wakes up. It's difficult to give a proper prognosis until then." He paused giving the Judge time to digest what he was saying. "The longer he's unconscious the more risk there is of complications, I'm afraid all we can do at the moment is hope that he wakes up soon. You should go home, someone will call you if there's any change."
Hardcastle nodded. "I will," he stated, his focus drifting back to introspection; if he wakes up? not when, if. The single word sent a chill down his spine. He looked up realizing that the doctor was still there. "Thanks," he said, "For all you've done."
H&MH&MH&M
Mark knew that he had been sleeping, a lot. He knew that, but when he woke up he still felt utterly exhausted, and his head always hurt, unless he had just taken some of the medication that they were giving him, and then he could float on fluffy clouds of comfort for a while, but that just made him sleep even more. In fact it was more than just his head hurting, at first everything seemed to ache, and even his eyelids seemed sore, but it was easing, was getting better. He knew he was making progress, but it was frustratingly slow and he still couldn't remember any of the events that had put him here. The last thing he had a clear recollection of was helping the Judge from Collins' car. God he had been scared that Hardcastle'd been hurt when the car spun off like that, but he was OK and Collin's and his crew had been arrested and then. . .nothing. Nothing until he'd woken up in the hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses and beeping equipment, with a headache the size of Texas and, from what he could feel, a huge turban shaped bandage around his head. He hoped they hadn't messed up his hair. Come to think of it, that was something else that hurt. Could hair hurt? Well whether it could or not it did, but not as much as the fact that he hadn't seen Hardcastle at all. He wasn't sure how long it was now, sleeping so much made him lose track of time, but he knew it was days and Hardcastle hadn't been near.
His gut tightened and tears pricked his eyes as he thought about it. He knew that he was just an ex-con, one of many the judge had taken on in his time, foolish to think, or even hope, that he meant any more to the old man than someone to help him do the donkey work on running down the criminals in his files, but Mark had let himself hope, had felt some sort of connection, knew that he was rapidly and cascadingly falling in love with the old man, in a father son sort of way. It was the strongest connection that he'd felt with anybody, with the possible exception of his mother. He'd never had the chance to have a relationship with his father, and that had left a gaping hole, a pain that he'd struggled to live with at times, struggled to recognize for what it was, but he'd managed to live with it, mainly by ignoring it, by not acknowledging the deep seated need. He'd managed, until he met Hardcastle, until he'd lived with the old man, fought with him, worked with him, played with him, argued with him, grown attached to him, and now all of the pain in his head paled into insignificance against the background of shattered hope.
He knew enough from what he'd been told to know that he had almost died, that it had been touch and go for a while, knew that if the judge cared about him even a tenth of how much he cared about the judge then he would have been to see him by now. Clearly he didn't, not that Mark should have been surprised, he knew he wasn't worth. . .
"Hey you're awake."
Mark looked up to see Nurse Julie Sanders beaming down at him. She was pretty, and had an infectious smile that it was difficult not to respond to.
"The judge will be pleased."
"Judge?" Mark questioned.
"Judge Hardcastle," Julie replied. "He's been here every afternoon, stayed for at least two hours, but you've always slept right through his visits, not that he complains of course, but I'm sure that he'll be happy to see you awake. We've been keeping him up to date on your progress but it's not the same as talking to you."
Mark blinked a couple of times. "He's been here every day?" he asked, struggling to process this sudden shift in his world view.
"Oh yes," Julie replied, "he didn't leave the hospital at all for the first twenty four hours, wouldn't go anywhere until he was sure you were out of danger."
"Why. . ." Mark's speech was hesitant. "Why didn't you wake me when he was here?"
Julie had been busy straightening up his blankets and checking his IV whilst she was talking, but she stopped at his last comment and looked him directly in the eye. "Well he tried talking to you, but you slept right through it, and it's generally not considered a good idea to shake patients who are recovering from a brain injury."
"Oh," Mark mouthed the word more than spoke it. "I guess not."
Julie smiled at him again. "Anyway, he should be here in about five minutes, so if you can try not to drift off in that time, you'll get to talk to him for yourself. Now," she said returning to her task. "Do you think you could lean forward for me while I fix your pillows."
H&MH&MH&M
Hardcastle pushed the door open and stepped into the room. This was the moment he had simultaneously been waiting for and dreading. For the past few days he'd been almost relieved to find Mark sleeping each time he'd come. He knew the kid was out of danger, was making progress towards his recovery. He'd managed lengthy conversations with the doctors and nurses that were caring for him, and knew that the long term prognosis was good. McCormick would be fine. He had dodged the bullet, survived this one, and come out on the other side relatively unscathed. The treatment had been a complete success, but, and this was the but that still held him in fear each time he stepped through the hospital doors. They couldn't tell him if the kid would be the same. Injuries to the brain could affect how you behaved, how you felt, how you thought. He had realized fairly early on in this whole tangled nightmare that there was something he feared almost as much as he feared the kid dying, and that was that he wouldn't be the same, wouldn't be the mouthy, cocky, irritating, annoying, intelligent, loyal, honorable, hardworking, loveable rogue that he was getting used to not just having around, but having as a part of his family, his friend. What if he wasn't the same? What if this injury had changed him because injuries to the head could. . .
"I hope you brought me some grapes," Mark said, shifting on the bed as he saw the judge enter.
Hardcastle squared his shoulders a little, he hadn't brought anything, hadn't really believed that he would find Mark awake. "I did, but I got a little peckish in the elevator and ate them," he replied, God this felt good, maybe the kid would be all right. Maybe what the nurses had been telling him was true.
Mark pulled a false scowl, he couldn't possibly feel anything negative because just the judge being here was confirmation that he cared, and Mark couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone around who cared whether he lived or died. It felt so good. "But you brought me some magazines right?" he asked, clearly able to see the judge's empty hands. "or did you eat them too?"
Hardcastle moved further into the room. "No I didn't bring you any magazines."
"Flowers?" Mark asked, somehow managing to hold a straight face.
"No," Hardcastle was clearly becoming more frustrated, the truth was these things hadn't even occurred to him, he'd been so focused on how Mark would be.
"A get well card? " Mark asked, trying and failing to look disappointed, because the truth was he didn't care about any of those things he just cared that the judge was there, but now he was, he couldn't resist the temptation to wind him up.
"No," Hardcastle snapped back as a defense against the guilt why hadn't he. . .
"A balloon?" Mark asked, now completely unable to suppress the grin that was forming.
"What are you McCormick, five years old?" Hardcastle asked, moving to the seat next to the bed, finally catching on that Mark was doing this deliberately. He was OK, was gonna be OK. " Look, I didn't get you anything all right? Now can we get over it?"
"Sure," Mark confirmed, "but the next time you visit, can you at least bring some chocolates? There have to be some advantages to being sick."
"And if you were really sick I might consider it," Hardcastle said. Oh this felt wonderful, it was like the finest opiates were pumping through his system with no side effects. "But admit it kid, you're just faking it now so you can get the attention of the pretty nurses."
Mark struggled to suppress the grin, to make himself look a little more pathetic, he gave a fake weak cough, actually feeling much better than he had. "Hey that's unfair," he said, but at that point nurse Thomas entered and both men watched her as she walked across the room, the close fitting uniform tightly hugging her figure.
"I'm sorry to interrupt I just brought some fresh water," she said, moving to put it on the side table. She turned to give Mark a beaming smile. "Doctor says you could be outta here in a couple of days," she said happily. "Isn't that good news."
Both men smiled back at her and nodded, watching her walk to the door, it was almost as if she'd spent time practicing the most provocative walk she could in the form fitting uniform.
"Then again," Mark grinned as the door closed, "Maybe I could have a relapse." He turned to look at the judge, smiling, and it was the most reassuring thing he could have done.
Hardcastle studied him and for the first time since he'd seen Mark lying on the ground, he allowed himself to believe that things would be all right.
H&MH&MH&M
Mark had been home for three weeks now and he couldn't contain his frustration, his anger any longer. Yes he'd signed up to doing chores around the estate in exchange for his keep. He understood that he'd be trimming the hedges, cutting the lawns, digging over the garden and cleaning the pool, but there was more to it than that.
He'd also signed on to help the judge with his files, somewhat reluctantly at first maybe, but it had been part of the deal, and it was the part of the deal that had brought the two men together, that had been allowing them to form a bond stronger than friendship, and it was the part that was missing now.
No! There was more to it than even that. More to it than the judge just treating him with kid gloves, as though he were some fragile thing that would break at any moment, and that meant no cases, no contact sports, not even going for twenty on their heart rate. There was all of that missing, and there was something else that was putting distance between them, and Mark couldn't carry on. Couldn't live like this. Maybe if it had been like this from the beginning he could have coped, but he knew what it had been like, knew what he was missing out on.
Seeing the judge hurriedly hiding the case file he had been reading as he walked into the room was the final straw.
Mark stopped dead in his tracks as Hardcastle tried to cover the guilty expression. He stared for a moment. "I want to go back to prison," he stated, his tone tightly controlled, his hands tensing into fists by his sides.
Hardcastle looked shocked. "What?" he asked incredulously.
Mark studied him for a moment, his resolve faltering at the shock and pain that he saw, but he couldn't hold back now, this needed to be resolved and if it couldn't then maybe he would be better off back in prison, at least there he knew why he was being treated the way he was. At least there he could live with the pain and the disappointment because it was expected, wasn't linked to a hope and a memory of better times.
"I want you to revoke your custody order, send me back to prison and I'll take my chances," Mark said evenly, "Because the way you have me prisoner on this estate, your own personal slave, I'd be better off. . ."
Hardcastle stood up now as fear gripped him, he'd been protecting the kid since he got out of the hospital, keeping him safe, only giving him chores on the estate. Did it really come across as. . . ?
Mark saw the distress and his heart broke just a little. He didn't want to hurt the judge. This hadn't worked, and he just wanted to cut his losses, escape form the clearly unfounded hope of a closer relationship. "Look it's Ok I understand it didn't work out," Mark softened his tone just a little. He still couldn't remember what had happened in the day before he'd collapsed and maybe he'd done something to deserve the judge pushing him away. Whatever, he knew he couldn't go on this way. "Maybe the next guy. . ."
Oh God, he was going to loose him. What had he done? Over the past few weeks the guilt had been building, the fear that it would happen again. He wanted to wrap him in cotton wool and protect him from the world. Couldn't risk hurting him again, because that one blow to the head by a stupid elbow in a stupid game had almost killed him, and he couldn't let that happen again, couldn't be responsible for. . ."I don't want a next guy" Hardcastle stated. "There won't be anyone else, if you don't. . .There won't be anyone else."
"Then let me help you," Mark stated, "Let's get things back to how they were before."
Hardcastle hesitated.
"What is it?" Mark asked, knowing that if he didn't get that question answered then this would all be over.
Hardcastle stared at the younger man, felt the fear of loss all over again, and the tears began to sting his eyes, prickling on the edge of forming, but he held them back. "You nearly died," he stated softly.
"I know, " Mark met and held his gaze, "but that wasn't your fault it wasn't anybody's fault. You can't protect me from. . . ." He stopped, processing the judge's reaction to his comments. "Oh my God that's it isn't it. You think you're responsible?" He held Hardcastle's gaze for a moment before the emotion became too much, and the judge turned away. For Mark the reaction just added further confirmation. How could he possibly think any of this was his fault? "You think you caused this," he pressed, "Why?"
The guilt had been eating him up for nearly a month now ,and the emotional confrontation was enough to finally drag it out of him. He knew the kid couldn't remember anything for about twenty four hours before he'd collapsed, retrograde post traumatic amnesia, the doctor had called it. So he didn't know he had hit him didn't know. . ."Because I hit you, that's why, " Hardcastle's voice was shaky with emotion. "I'm the one that hit you." He turned back to face Mark. He was enough of a man to at least do that. "We were playing one on one, against my better judgement, I knew you weren't fit, and I hit you in the head with my elbow and you went down." He paused for a moment. "You don't need to go back to prison, I'll set it up so you can do your parole somewhere. . ." he stopped, Mark's reaction wasn't what he expected, there was no anger, no condemnation, just a sense of relief that the kid was expressing by grinning, and dropping back onto the chair, all of the tension floating away. The judge gained a new sense of anger. Here he was baring his soul and the kid found it amusing. . .
"So that's it," Mark stated, believing for the first time in days that this was something that could be fixed. "Judge, you didn't do this." Mark stated firmly. "I thought you'd talked to the doctors? The bleed was undoubtedly caused when I spun off the track, at the same time that I damaged my helmet. It was a slow bleed that wouldn't have shown any symptoms until it was nearly too late. In fact if I'd gone to bed instead of playing with you, you probably wouldn't have found me until morning." He shifted subconsciously at the reminder of his own mortality, at the reminder of how close it had been. "You hitting me probably saved my life."
The judge stared, it was a lot to take in. After almost a month of guilt, of accepting responsibility, it was a big shift.
"So can we please get back to normal now," Mark asked.
H&MH&MH&M
It was two days before the judge agreed to a game of one on one, two days of gradually shifting back to the routine from before Mark's collapse. "Come on Judge or we'll be playing in the dark." Mark shouted up the stairs. Finally the judge appeared, a big grin on his face and something behind his back.
"What took you so long?" Mark asked as the judge moved down the stairs.
"I was looking for something," he stated. Arriving at Mark's side he pulled the object out from behind his back. "I want you to wear this," he said holding up a battered looking helmet. "It's my old football helmet," he stated, grinning, he turned it around a couple of times. "I know it's a bit battered. " He met Mark's gaze, " but then so is your head." He grinned again. "After all you never can be too careful."
Mark gave a slight grimace around his grin. Oh yeah things were getting back to normal.
The End.