A/N: Thanks to L.M. for convincing me not to throw the baby out with the bath water.

EPILOGOPHILIA: YOU WOULD CRY, TOO, IF IT HAPPENED TO YOU

by

Owlcroft

It was half-time and the score was tied, one touchdown apiece. Hardcastle glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly noon. These East Coast games really throw me off, he thought. Better go see how McCormick's doing and get some kinda lunch together. He lifted himself out of his chair and strolled down the hallway, feeling a little guilty about making the kid work through the football game. I guess it wasn't the crime of the century or anything. And he did pull the plug on Fish just in time. Hate to think about what woulda happened if he hadn't.

"Huh," he said aloud. "Tonto really saved the day there, not the Lone Ranger." He reached the doorway and peered within.

McCormick was still feeding disks and checking the monitor.

"Hey," the judge leaned up against the doorframe and crossed his arms, "you ready for a break? It's halftime and I was thinking about that leftover chicken for lunch."

Mark looked up at him, stretched his back a bit, and nodded. "Yeah. That sounds good." He rearranged a few files on the desk, then spoke nonchalantly. "What's the score?"

"It's a real sister-kisser so far." Hardcastle turned and started back toward the kitchen. "Seven to seven," he tossed over his shoulder.

McCormick joined him in the kitchen just as he took the foil-wrapped chicken out of the fridge.

"You gonna heat that up?" Mark asked.

The judge pondered that for a moment. "Nah. How about we just have it cold with some of that potato salad from the store? Kind of like a picnic in front of the tube."

Raised eyebrows and a sideways glance were McCormick's initial response. "I'm not through yet. Probably take another hour at least."

"Ah, close enough." Hardcastle waved a hand at the cabinets. "Get a coupla plates and some forks. You gonna want a beer?"

Mark dutifully took down two plates and grabbed two forks and a serving spoon from the drawer underneath the counter. "Um, yeah. So . . ."

"What?" The judge grabbed some paper napkins and placed them on the tray with the chicken. Hearing no response, he shot a glance at McCormick, then opened the refrigerator again for beer and potato salad.

"So, um . . ." McCormick shrugged and reached into another drawer for the bottle opener. "Yeah, I'll finish up the copying after the game." He handed the opener to the judge without making eye contact and reached up for a couple of glasses for the beer.

Hardcastle took the opener and smothered a sigh. "Look, even I can't stay mad forever. Besides," he opened the bottle and passed the churchkey back to the younger man, "it's more fun to watch a game with somebody."

"Oh, yeah?" Mark took one of the opened bottles and poured it. "Even the guy who let your 'antique legal diplomas' get away?"

"We-ell," the judge took a swig from his own glass, "maybe not that guy."

McCormick stared at him in suspicion.

"You didn't let 'em get away, didja? They're hanging on the wall right now. C'mon." Hardcastle collected the chicken and the potato salad along with his glass. "Half-time's about over."

Hah! Surprised him, didn't I. The older man led the way to the television and arranged the 'picnic lunch' on the coffee table in front of it. But it is more fun to watch a game with him around. I mean, with somebody.

finis