In Sickness and In Health
by MKH26
"McCormick!" Mark heard his name muffled from under the towel, the deep voice octaves lower than usual with the virus.
"Yes, sir?" he asked meekly, wringing his hands as he stood in the kitchen doorway.
Slowly the towel was lifted as the judge turned his flushed face to start at Mar.
"Yes, SIR?" he mimicked, frowning. "C'mere..." he ordered.
But Mark stood his ground.
"I'm not gonna' hit 'cha!" Hardcastle shook his head. "C'mere!"
Mark slowly shuffled over to the kitchen table, still worrying his hands.
"Sit down." the judge ordered, kicking the chair opposite of him out, once again pulling the towel over his head and the steaming bowl of liquid.
Mark sat as directed. "Yes, judge?" he asked nervously. Hardcastle may be sick, but he could still kick the crap out of Mark's shins under the table with his heavy, steel toed work boots. And Mark figured he had every right to.
Mark heard a heavy sigh from under the towel, followed by a wretched, gurgling bout of coughing. Yep, it had settled in his lungs. Damn, Mark thought, berating himself. Maybe bronchitis? Pneumonia?
"I know what you're thinking, kid. Stop it. Now." the judge ordered, clearing his throat the best he could.
"But..."
"No buts!" he shouted, bringing on another coughing spasm. "It's not your fault I'm sick! Well, not entirely..." he conceded, sniffling under the towel. "Was partly my fault for insisting I be around YOU when YOU were sick."
That only served to make Mark feel even more miserable, if it was possible. Hardcase must've sensed the guilt from deep under the towel as he went on.
"Someone hadda' take care of you when you caught the bug." Hardcase surmised, clearing his throat again.
"Shouldn't have had to be you," Mark groused, miserable at the thought that he and he alone infected the judge. And at his advanced age, even though he was as fit as he could possibly be, even a bug like this could... Mark didn't let his mind go to that dark place.
"Yeah, well, who else, then?" Hardcase replied with a raspy voice.
"I should have stayed in the gatehouse and took care of MYSELF." Mark replied, playing with the box of medicine that sat on the table. "I AM supposed to be an adult..." he frowned. This was all wrong, conversing with a talking towel with no face...
"Kiddo," the judge coughed, sounding like he was hacking up a lung. "NOT your fault! Stop kicking yourself..."
"Sure..." Mark whispered, staring at the box of medicine. Even without seeing his friends' face, Hardcastle knew it was masked with guilt. Just as he knew there was nothing he could say or do to ease Mark's sadness. Truth be told, he'd probably feel the same had the situation been reversed, him infecting Mark. But McCormick wore his heart on his sleeve. He felt guilty if he stepped on an ant on the sidewalk...
"Hey, kiddo, think this is really helping." Hardcase tried to sound upbeat as he possibly could, feeling as crappy as he did. "Think you could reheat the water for me?"
Harcastle nearly was decapitated with the speed that Mark whipped the damp towel off the judges' head and grabbed for the bowl. He was eager to do anything he could to help the judge over this bout of sickness...
Taking the bowl over to the sink, he spilled out the contents and refilled it with fresh water, setting it in the microwave and pushing buttons. While waiting, Mark grabbed another fresh towel and the box of medicine, pouring a healthy amount into the now steaming bowl of water and stirred it with a wooden spoon.
Resting his head on an upturned hand, Hardcastle followed Mark's frantic movements. Poor kid couldn't do enough. If he kept this pace up, though, the judge knew he'd wear himself out, having just gotten over the virus himself. If the judge looked like he was ready to sneeze, Mark ran halfway across the house to show up with tissues for his friend. When the judge decided to stand, wobbily though it may be, Mark just about tripped over the coffee table to help. The judge appreciated the attention, really he did, but if Mark offered one more tissue or jumped to attention once more, Hardcase would be forced to get his shotgun and plant some buckshot in a certain ex-con's ass. He just wished Mark wouldn't feel so damned responsible for the judge catching his virus. Hardcastle knew how much he'd worried when Mark was sick a week or so ago, he could only imagine the guilt Mark must be carrying for having passed it on to the judge.
"Be careful," he warned as Mark turned with the bowl from the sink. "That water's hot, no need to burn yourself." But as soon as the words left his chapped lips, Mark tripped over his own shoe and the bowl flew out of his hands and crashed to the floor, shards of glass everywhere. The judge drew his hand down his face and sighed.
Mark stood unbelievingly down at the mess he'd created.
"I'm SO sorry, Judge!" he apologized, near tears. "I'll clean it up right now!" as he grabbed for a new towel and dropped to his knees on the wet floor.
"McCormick..." the judge began, but as soon as Mark began to sop up the hot liquid, he rose to his feet, turned to throw the damp towel angrily into the sink and ran out of the kitchen.
"Can't do ANYTHING right..." he muttered angrily in a wavering voice as he slammed the front door behind him, heading out into the yard.
Hardcastle sighed heavily, bringing on a new bout of coughing that he was thankful his young friend didn't hear. He knew he'd best go after Mark, even though he only felt like crawling into his bed.
Feeling twenty years older than he was, he slowly rose from the chair, careful to avoid the mess on the floor, and made his way out of the kitchen to the door Mark had just exited through. Luckily the glass in the panes of the door weren't cracked, as Hardcastle thought they'd be, as hard as Mark had slammed the door shut behind him.
The judge noticed a stickiness on the doorknob and pulled his hand back to find it red with blood... Mark must've cut himself on the broken bowl when he tried to pick up the pieces.
Walking out into the damp, gloomy weather, he didn't have far to go to find McCormick. He was sitting on the bottom step, leaning his body against the side railing, picking angrily at a weed in his hand.
"Hey, kiddo." the judge said quietly as he dropped his achy body to sit on the stair next to Mark with a grunt.
"Let's see your hand." Hardcase ordered as Mark grudgingly held his bloody hand out for inspection. Didn't need stitches, the judge thought as he produced a white handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wrap his friends' hand to stem the flow of blood.
"Thanks." Mark whispered, flexing his hand with a grimace. It was only just beginning to burn.
The judge continued.
"You okay? Really?" he asked, looking at Mark. Marks' face was stained with streaks of tears that he roughly brushed away when he realized the judge was staring at him.
"I'm just peachy." he muttered as he ripped apart the weed in his hand. "Sorry about the floor, I'll go clean my mess up." he said as he began to stand.
"No, sit, kiddo." the judge laid his hand on Mark's shoulder, forcing him to sit back down. "Talk to me."
Mark sighed loudly. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked, his voice quivering. "How much I screw up? How sorry you are that you're stuck with me? How I made you sick because I'm a whiny little SOB who can't take care of himself?"
"That about covers it." Hardcastle shrugged. Marks' head shot up to look at the judge to find a smirk on the ol' coots' face.
"Ol' donkey..." Mark muttered. But he still didn't feel like smiling. "Why do you put up with me, Hardcase?" he asked, staring out at the gray skies overhead, the dark skies that matched his mood.
The judge shrugged again. "What can I say, I like a challenge..." Mark chuckled at that.
"Oh, I'm a challenge, alright." he countered. "Probably haven't had a 'challenge' like me since your son was in diapers..." Immediately, Mark felt terrible, bringing up the subject of the judges' dead son like that. Mentally he was kicking himself across the driveway.
His head shot up to see the sad, far away look on his friends' face at the mention of his son.
"I'm sorry, Judge!" Mark whispered. "I'm so sorry... see? There I go again, screwing up. I don't know why you don't just send me back to Quentin and wash your hands of me..." his wavering voice faded away. Shooting a glance at McCormick, Hardcase would tell more tears weren't far off...
"Do you WANT to go back there?" he asked Mark, who practically broke his neck, swivelling it around to face the judge.
"Why, ARE you gonna' send me back there?!" he asked in a voice two octaves higher than his normal voice. It took all he had for Hardcastle not to burst out laughing at the shocked look on Marks' face at the thought of the judge being so angry, he'd send Mark back to the House of Many Doors. Immediately, though, he felt terrible laughing at Mark's biggest fear of all. That would be beyond cruel, even for the judge.
"Course not!" he frowned. "Just sounds like YOU think that's where YOU belong."
Mark sighed heavily, blowing out his breath as he closed his eyes tight.
"Tell me, explain to me just why you think you deserve to be sent away." Hardcastle asked quietly. Now wasn't the time nor the place to get into a coughing fit. That would about send the poor kid right over the edge...
"I just keep messing up, Judge." he answered so quietly, the judge had to lean close to hear. Course, the growing thunder i the distance wasn't helping any.
"I'm not even sure I make a decent Tonto for you. I usually screw up our cases, I never listen to you..."
"Hmpf, that's for damned sure..." Hardcastle mumbled, just loud enough to be heard.
"Listen, kid, no one said any of this would be easy. Personally, I think you make a damned fine Tonto. Even if you can't ride a horse to save your life..." the judges' voice trailed off. Shaking his head as he recalled the one and only time he'd taken McCormick for his first ride that ended with a near concussion from Mark falling from the bucking horse and hitting his forehead on a rock.
"Horses give me headaches." Mark muttered, absently rubbing his forehead. He swore he still had a scar from that catastrophe, a badge of honor as he liked to refer to it. He may not have stayed in the saddle, but at least he took pride in the fact that he TRIED... he just wished he COULD ride a horse, to have something to share with the judge. He loved horses so...
"What I'm trying to say," the judge continued, ignoring Marks' remark, "... is that you don't ALWAYS mess up. You give it your all, whether it's working the hedges or a case, and that's all that matters. It's all I expect of you. I mean, it's not like you volunteered for the job..."
Mark snorted. "Yeah, I sure as hell didn't have a choice, did I? Working with a crazy man or spending more time in the slammer. Some choice..."
"Guess all in all, it really wasn't a fair position to put you in..." Hardcastle admitted with a shrug as he scratched his head. "But do you regret your decision?"
"Course not." Mark smiled for the first time that day. "A crazy ol' donkey beats the House of Many Doors any ol' day." Mark finally tossed the weed aside, seeing as how thee wasn't much left to it anymore. "Truth is, Judge, you've been good to me, and I may not always say it, but I appreciate it."
"Now you're cookin'!" the judge smiled back before he was hit with a vicious sneeze, then another.
Mark eyed the judge seriously.
"What?!" the judge asked defensively, sniffling. "Can't a person sneeze without being interrogated and accused?!"
"A PERSON, sure. YOU? No. You're sick, you shouldn't be sitting out here in the damp air. Get inside, Hardcase." he ordered, standing up and leaning over to grab the judges' arm to help him rise up.
"I'm not an invalid, McCormick!" Hardcastle grumbled, although he knew he needed a tissue and fast. So where was McCormick with a kleenex when he needed one?
"Go sit in the den for a few minutes, let me clean up that kitchen floor before one of us slips and falls." Mark suggested, steering the judge away from the kitchen.
"I'll let you know when I've heated up another bowl of water." Mark added, reading the judges' mind and grabbing him a tissue.
Hardcastle sighed as heavily as he dared, blowing his nose as he sat down in the leather chair behind his desk.
"Try to hit the wastebasket this time, would'ja, Judge?" Mark called out on his way to the kitchen.
"Judge?" Mark called out once more.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks." Marks' head popped around the doorway.
"What for?" Hardcase tossed the wadded up tissue into the wastebasket. "Two." he muttered. He looked up bleary eyed as he met his friends' gaze.
But Mark merely smiled warmly. They both knew what he meant. Thanks. For everything since they'd first met. For placing his faith in Mark. For his friendship and guidance. And at the moment, most of all for not blaming Mark for making his so sick. The judge had every right to.
"If you're really grateful, once you're done cleaning up your mess maybe you can scrounge up some soup for me, that would hit the spot." Hardcastle suggested, sitting back in his chair, closing his eyes and clasping his hands over his chest.
"You got it, Kemosabe." Mark chuckled. "Need anything else?"
"Nope." the judge yawned, propping his feet up on the desk. "Got everything I need right here."
Indeed he did.
He had his Tonto.
The End