Author's Note: This story is told in McCormick's point-of-view. It's just a few vignettes of McCormick's interactions with Sarah, showing how their relationship changes from one of suspicion and unease to one of endeavored understanding and gradual respect.

Continuous Improvement is a quality process we use at my workplace. It basically means what it sounds like: an ongoing attempt at bettering something.

-ck

Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.

CONTINUOUS IMPROVEMENT

by InitialLuv

SEPTEMBER, 1983

This past week has been hell. First, the sudden shock of Flip's death and that damn uncomfortable funeral, then Barbara's little "reminiscing" session and her wild idea of how to get her dad's prototype back, and lastly the actual insane acquiring of the Coyote, which ultimately got me sent back to funland. For a change, the cot in my cell was probably the one place where I got the most rest, unless you count the few winks I caught on the couch at Barb's after she and I had safely stashed the Coyote. I sure didn't get any decent sleep at Hardcastle's utopian retreat before we headed to Vegas. I'd barely closed my eyes when Hardcase's ludicrous 2:30 a.m. basketball had woken me up, and then a few short hours later Cody's goons took their turn at disturbing my slumber. And Vegas had been a mix of spying, planning, arguing, and chasing. Not exactly relaxing. The most relaxing part of Vegas was when I got to fully experience the Coyote on the open road, speeding back to L.A.

I've gone without regular sleep before – hell, the two years I was in Q, I rarely slept long enough or deep enough to dream – but the lack of sleep eventually hits me and hits me hard. I wasn't kidding when I told Hardcase I freak out. So when I return to Hardcastle's place, and that little slave driver of a housekeeper comes out of the front door before I've barely parked the Coyote, and then starts yapping at me about duties and responsibilities and how I have to "earn my keep" . . . I lose it.

"It's about time, young man. His Honor called and told me to expect you quite a while ago. If you think you can just come and go as you please without attending to your chores around here, you are sorely mis—"

"Come and go as I please? Nothing that's happened since I got here has been 'as I pleased'! Did His Honor give you any clue what I've been doing the past twenty-four hours? I sure as hell wasn't shopping on Rodeo Drive!" I've climbed out of the Coyote and I'm standing next to it, yelling at the small woman standing on the front steps. "I'm hot and I'm hungry and I'm tired and I've been sitting in this car for three hours and then I had to listen to my gorilla P.O. make me feel like a failure and I'm not going to listen to you, too! You know what you can do with your 'chores'?"

Sarah doesn't answer. She doesn't even seem affected by my explosion. She just stares at me quietly. I stare back, breathing hard and shaking a little.

God, I miss Flip.

"When did you eat last?"

I blink. "Uh – "

"I didn't realize that was a difficult question." And I'll be damned, but I think the old lady actually has a ghost of a smile on her face.

We'd gone to a diner near the motel for a quick breakfast. I'd grabbed a stale donut from under the bell jar on the counter, but I'd barely finished it, as I'd had no appetite at the time. We'd been planning our next step: tracking down Cody to entice him with the Polaroids of Vetrimiel by the Coyote. And then later I'd stolen the cherry out of Barb's drink at the casino. So I guess that was technically the last thing I'd eaten.

"Breakfast," I mumble back.

"Well. Get in here then." She turns to go into the main house. Hardcastle headquarters.

My heart is still beating fast after my tirade, and my throat hurts from yelling. I can feel sweat trickling down my back. I feel like crap.

I don't move.

I haven't been in the main house yet. After Hardcase and I had chased down the guys that tried to kidnap me, he'd driven at a much safer speed – for someone of his advanced age – back to his place. When we'd finished our discussion in the gatehouse, the judge had gone over to the main house to get dressed. I'd been tasked with cleaning up the gatehouse, under Sarah's supervision. She'd directed and complained, constantly shaking her head at the mess and destruction. She'd also unlocked the bathroom, which was considerate of her – hmmp – although if I'd had my tools (currently in Barbara's possession) and if no one was shooting at me, I would've been able to unlock it on my own. Actually, a Mickey Mouse lock like that, I probably would've been able to pick with a paper clip.

I'd hardly had time to sit down and nurse my bumps and bruises before Hardcastle was back, harping at me to hurry up so we could go downtown and give our statements about what had happened (mainly to me) earlier in the morning. Like I wanted to go anywhere near that place after just escaping it barely eight hours before. But before the visit to the cop shop, Hardcastle had surprised me by stopping briefly at my apartment, so I could clean up and grab a few things. He'd sat in the one chair at my stained and wobbly table and had waited patiently while I'd changed, brushed my teeth, and then shoved the toothbrush and a razor and a few other personal items into a black duffel bag. He had raised an eyebrow at the dark-colored bag, as if he'd wondered if its main use was for more clandestine activities.

I let him wonder. A guy's gotta have some secrets.

Back at the estate, I'd called Barbara from the gatehouse, and when she'd shown up with the Coyote things had moved pretty fast. Before we'd left for Vegas, Sarah had made us sandwiches to eat on the trip, and Hardcastle had sent me to grab them. Sarah had met me on the step, handing me the basket that had also held fruit and cheese and crackers. I had peered into the kitchen, but I haven't yet set foot inside.

I'm still standing next to my car (my car!), hesitating, when Sarah looks back at me impatiently. "Let's get moving, sonny," she calls out sharply. Even as I wince at the moniker, it does get me to move. I follow Sarah into the front door.

The minute I enter the house, I notice – and appreciate – the drop in temperature. The house is kept pleasantly cool by the deep colors of the interior and the closed shutters in what I guess is the main living room. I continue to follow Sarah, walking past the large room on my right and the staircase on my left. I try not to gawk again, like I had the other night in the gatehouse, but it's hard to not be distracted by the obvious wealth, no matter how subtle. I have to hurry down the hallway to catch up with Sarah, who has turned and is waiting for me. "Sorry," I murmur. She makes an irritated "tsk" sound, then leads the way into the kitchen.

Sarah goes to the refrigerator. She barely looks my way, but nods her head at the table. "Sit down."

I sit.

I don't know how she does it, but in a matter of minutes there's a relative feast on a plate in front of me. A chicken salad sandwich on thick, fresh bread, next to a large scoop of homemade coleslaw and a larger scoop of homemade potato salad, and a small dish of what looks like chocolate fudge pudding. If you add in the bowl of fruit on the table, it's more food than I often eat in a day . . . at least in the six months since I got out of stir.

Well, I didn't eat that great in prison, either.

I gawk up at the woman, trying to figure out exactly what's going on. She looks back, her expression stern.

"Is there a problem, Mr. McCormick?"

"N-no," I stutter. "It looks – delicious." I pick up the fork and take a few bites of the potato salad. It has the perfect ratio of potatoes to eggs to spices. It's heaven.

"If you're thirsty there's tea. Or you can have water – "

"Do you have any milk?"

She doesn't answer right away. Then she scoffs lightly. "Do I have milk," she mutters under her breath. She retrieves a glass from a cupboard and a pitcher from the refrigerator, and soon I have a cold glass of milk in front of me to complement my meal. I take a gulp, and I swear it's the best tasting milk I've ever had.

Sarah busies herself in the kitchen as I eat. She cleans and organizes, sits down briefly to write a shopping list, and occasionally watches me, frowning at how fast I'm shoveling in the food (but damn it, I'm hungry). The hovering is obvious (I mean, how many times can someone clean a stove?) but I try to not let it get on my nerves. I know Sarah doesn't know me and doesn't like me – that was apparent yesterday morning when she blamed the wreckage of the gatehouse on me and not on the crazy judge with the shotgun – but knowing that she doesn't trust me does bother me. What does she think I'm going to do, steal the silver? Okay, so (technically) I'm a thief. I still have morals.

When I'm scraping the dregs of the pudding out of the dessert cup, Sarah starts to gather my dishes. I stand up quickly. "I can do that."

"Yes you can. And you will. But for now you are to head over to the gatehouse and get some rest."

I stand rooted to the spot, positive I've heard wrong. "I'm to what?"

The woman turns around to look at me in annoyance. "Weren't you just yelling at me about how tired you were?" I open my mouth to answer but she keeps talking. "Because if not, you can certainly run out to pick up the items on my list. They could wait until tomorrow, but if you'd rather go hot-rodding in that . . . car and head to the market, far be it from me to stop you."

I drop my head, unsure of what to do. I'm dead on my feet, but I feel I should at least offer to go to the market. I pick up the list from the table, studying it quietly. There are some items I've never even thought to buy at the store, as they are too expensive and pretty unnecessary for a bachelor who eats simple meals standing at the sink. I'm about to ask which market she frequents when Sarah brusquely plucks the list from my hand.

"Never mind that now. I still need to speak to Judge Hardcastle about some of the items on here. Go." She gestures in the direction of the gatehouse.

I get the impression I've just passed a test. I push my chair in to the table, then head for the back door. I have my hand on the doorknob before I remember my manners. I turn back briefly.

"Thank you for the food, Sarah."

Sarah has just sat down, and is again concentrating on the shopping list. She lifts her head marginally, nods at me, and then returns to her writing.

ooOoo

When the judge finally makes it home it's almost dark, but he comes barging over to the gatehouse bellowing my name, waking me out of a sound sleep. I've really only slept a few hours, yet when he rouses me I feel awake and alert and ready to take on Hardcase Hardcastle.

Good food and a full stomach go a long way toward improving my mood.

OCTOBER, 1983

I've been grounded to the estate.

Hardcastle has gone to meet up with some other judge-type guys for lunch, and before he left he told me point-blank to not leave the premises. I guess I could go down to the beach (although I'm not really in the mood), but under no circumstances am I to go past the gate.

And I'm okay with that.

It's only been a few days since the mess with Tina Grey. The judge and I are both still smarting over that one. It makes sense that I'd be feeling pretty stupid, after getting suckered in by Tina's act, regardless of how good she was. But I can't quite figure out why Hardcase is acting like he's the one who should be upset. I mean, I'm sorry, but no one was asking him to dig his own grave.

Although I never would have been staring into that hole out in the desert if I hadn't been such a dope.

So anyway, after that debacle, hanging out at home (home?) sounds pretty good.

Of course, any time there's a spare minute when we're not chasing around like the Green Hornet and Kato, Hardcastle loads up my chores. I know some of them are understandable (washing the floors, cleaning the pool), and some are necessary (repairing a broken step leading to the front door, cleaning the crap out of the gutters so they don't overflow when it rains). I'm even okay with his suggestion to adjust the height of the chandelier over the dining room table, as both the judge and I (well, mostly me) keep conking our heads on it. But cleaning and reorganizing the basement laundry room? I know busy work when I hear it. Although I guess in this case it would be "keep McCormick out of trouble" work.

I postpone the chandelier assignment, as more often than not, when I work with anything electrical, I end up shocking myself. Instead I head to the laundry room, and stand with my hands on my hips, surveying the disarray. There's storage boxes stacked around and on top of the file cabinets, a haphazard collection of old and broken odds and ends cluttering up the table and shelves, a busted ironing board shoved in a corner. . . Maybe this wasn't exactly a busy work chore. This small room looks almost as bad as the gatehouse. (I'm kind of a slob. I gotta work on that.)

I wonder how long this room has been like this. I'm amazed Sarah sets foot in here. Although as I continue looking around, I see that Sarah's base of operations – the section immediately around the washing machine and dryer – is the only tidy area in the room.

Where to start, where to start. . .

I move a few boxes off of Hardcastle's file cabinets, and then eye up the cabinets themselves. I'm a little curious, and I know I could easily pick the locks, but I'm not sure if I want to open those cans of worms. Yeah, I've been surprised by how interesting some of his files are, at how they grab my attention and actually get me a little angry. Some of the crap those guys got away with! And a fair amount of them have never spent any real time behind bars. Yet here am I, a "two-time loser," most recently sent to the pokey for taking my own car back from my girlfriend –

Okay, enough of that.

I turn away from the file cabinets, looking around distractedly. There's a full basket of dirty laundry on top of the dryer. Sarah's chore for the day, I guess. Investigating further, I see it's tablecloths.

Okay, Hardcastle hadn't exactly put "do the wash" on my list, but I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I dig into the basket to grab the tablecloths, opening up the washer so I can dump them in. But once I have the washer open I find Sarah has more laundry soaking. When I look (and smell) closer I see lace curtains, soaking in diluted vinegar. How dirty can curtains get, I wonder. Of course, when the house gets shot up (like when J.J. Beal decided to make a return visit), I guess the dust and crap gets everywhere.

I look around the washer and dryer, quickly finding what I need. I drain the washer, using my hands to gently swish the curtains back and forth. Once the water has drained I reposition the curtains in the machine, adding the detergent and setting the washer controls accordingly. As the machine begins to hum quietly behind me, I tackle the mess on the table against the wall.

The washer's only been going for about five minutes when Sarah appears, up at the doorway. "Mark? What do you have in the washer?"

I turn to look behind me. "Laundry," I say sarcastically, but with a grin.

"I have to do those curtains a specific way – the lace is very delicate! Stop the washer before you ruin them!"

Her sharp tone causes my grin to falter, but I persevere. "I have them on the delicate setting, and I put them in the pillowcase you had sitting out. And I used the Woolite." I gesture at the bottle near the washer.

Sarah stares at me quietly. "How did you know how to do that?"

I shrug. My mom and I had lived above a laundromat when I was a kid. I'd hung out down there a bit, usually when my mom was at one of her jobs and I was feeling lonely. I'd picked up things. I'm about to mention something along those lines (excluding the personal aspect) when Sarah tilts her head slightly. "Of course," she says. "I'm sure you learned a fair amount in the prison laundry."

The grin has disappeared. "Right. Because we washed so many things with lace in prison."

At first I think Sarah is going to reprimand me for the rude remark, or maybe even apologize for her thoughtless statement. But of all the things I'd imagined, I didn't think she'd laugh. She doesn't laugh a lot. She should do it more. She has a young girl's laugh, almost a giggle.

"Oh, Mark. The things you say."

I grin again, unable to stop it. "You liked that, huh?"

Sarah doesn't answer, but she's still smiling. "Well, thank you for starting the wash," she tells me. She starts to leave, then turns back suddenly. "Don't put those curtains in the dryer!"

I snap off a mock salute. "Wouldn't dream of it, Sarah. These curtains definitely need to be hung outside to be kissed by the sun."

Sarah turns away again, shaking her head. Before she passes through the doorway, I catch another amused look on her face. Unlike the wide smile of a few moments earlier, this is more of a smirk.

I'll take a smirk.

I'd had Hardcastle laughing my first day at the estate – hell, he'd grinned at my wise-ass comments when I'd smarted off to him in his courtroom (in his damn courtroom!). But Sarah's been a tough nut to crack. So while I would have liked another girlish giggle, I'll take the smirk.

For now.

NOVEMBER, 1983

Hardcastle and I part ways at the Coyote; he trudges wearily into the main house. (I'm sure he's feeling his bumps and bruises, especially after a long ride in my cramped car.) I trudge just as wearily to the gatehouse. I have my bag, but Hardcase is still holding my cracked and dented helmet.

Once inside the gatehouse, I waffle between dropping into exhaustion on the couch, or unpacking. I settle for just digging my race suit out of the bottom of my bag, where I'd shoved it in anger and frustration. I feel a little embarrassed about that emotional reaction now, as I pull out the revered suit and try to shake out the wrinkles. It occurs to me that Hardcase and I both wear uniforms at our jobs – well, he did, before he retired.

And with the rotten showing I just had this past weekend, maybe retirement is where I'm headed, too. Over and done with my career of choice before reaching thirty. I sink down onto the couch, my fists tightly clenching the material of my race suit.

I'm a pathetic loser.

I'm so overcome with self-pity that I ignore the first knock on the door. The second, louder knock is accompanied by a voice. "Mark?"

I stand up (a little slowly, I've got bumps and bruises, too) and cross to the door, opening it. Sarah is standing on the other side, holding my helmet. She looks me up and down, and a small frown appears on her face.

"Well, it appears you're still in one piece."

"More or less." I grin, although it feels a little off. Sarah's frown grows. I backtrack, dropping the grin. "I'm okay, Sarah. Really."

Sarah huffs sharply. She gestures at the race suit in my hands. "Does that look as bad as your helmet?"

I don't answer. I take the damaged helmet from her hands, and toss both it and my suit onto my already cluttered table. Without looking back at Sarah, I return to the couch and drop down, wincing at the quick movement. I attempt to mask the hiss of pain.

With a quiet sigh, Sarah comes fully inside and shuts the door. She comes to stand near me but doesn't say anything, just looks down at me. It bugs the hell outta me. I'm a foot taller than her and maybe seventy pounds heavier, but damn she makes me feel like a kid in trouble with the teacher. She's like those nuns that used to silently shake their fingers at me when I talked too much.

That happened a lot.

When I can't take Sarah's gaze anymore, I jerk my head up. "What?!"

I instantly regret my irritated tone. Sarah's face holds only concern. She sits next to me on the couch, and puts a hand on my arm.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." I muster up a smile, but it doesn't quite dilute my grumpy sarcasm. "Don't worry – your personal chore boy will be back to form before you know it."

At least that's something I'm good at.

Sarah gives another huff, although this time it's a little softer. She lowers her hand, and draws back to regard me seriously.

"His Honor says you did well out there."

"His Honor lied," I scoff. "I didn't even finish the race."

"I don't believe he was talking about the race, Mark."

"That's the whole reason I went out . . . " I trail off as I realize what Sarah is saying. Hardcastle was talking about getting the bad guys. Riding to the rescue. Because that's the only thing that matters to him. And that's okay for him, but . . .

I had a life before him, I had plans.

I try to tell Sarah this. "You know, if Hardcastle hadn't been out there, I would have just been a driver. Like everyone else. And it's not the driver's business to know where the money's comin' from. All I know is I had maybe the best equipment I've ever had on the track, and the best chance to make someone notice me, and I lost it all. Because Hardcase couldn't leave well enough alone. And the damn fool could have gotten us both killed, too!"

Sarah gazes at me mildly. Her voice, in direct counterpoint to mine, is calm and somewhat dry.

"I had the impression you were doing a fairly good job of that yourself."

I stare back, momentarily confused. She elaborates. "In that death trap you call a race car."

"Well, yeah," I say, still stuck on Hardcastle's interference, "that's because my car owner knew I was in cahoots with law-and-order Milt, and had my crew chief sabotage my car!"

Sarah sighs again, and the short exhale is noisy and impatient. "Don't you sit here, young man, and try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You must realize that what you're doing now, what you're doing here, is far more rewarding than driving around fast in circles!"

"Oval," I mutter.

"Excuse me?"

"Oval. A race track is an oval, not a circle."

I'm expecting another tongue-lashing, but Sarah chuckles. I smile back hesitantly. "There's always risk with racing, Sarah. I know that. I've been doing it long enough. But I'm a good driver. When someone isn't purposefully trying to take me out." I'm hoping Hardcase hasn't had time to tell her about how I got loose and tagged the wall during practice. Although to hear it from Larry-Larry, that was more the car than me. "That baby's been through a couple of races already," he'd said. "It's getting old and tired."

Yeah. That was from the honest, trustworthy guy who had held Hardcastle at gunpoint.

"And what about the other drivers out there?" Sarah is asking. "Are they as good as you? What if one of them loses control, and you get involved and get hurt? What would we do then?"

What would they do?

"I don't think you have to worry about that, Sarah," I answer slowly. "After my screw-up this weekend, I don't think I'll be getting any more offers to drive for a while." If ever.

"Good." Sarah rises. "Because His Honor has put a lot of effort into saving your life, and it's very ungrateful for you to throw it all away on a race track."

"Saving my life?" I stand up as well, and look down at Sarah. "And how was throwing me in prison for two years saving my life? A lot more could have happened to me there than in a race car!"

Sarah holds her ground. "And it's thanks to Judge Hardcastle that you're not in prison now. You're here, you're healthy and intact."

"Intact," I echo, testing out the word. It feels wrong. Not that the word's not right – the statement isn't.

But I don't want to go there.

In fact, I'm ready to be done with this conversation. I'm tired, I'm depressed, and I just want to get back to moping and licking my wounds. I start to move toward the door, subtly edging Sarah in front of me. "Okay, Sarah, you gave me something to think about. And I will. But right now I just want to get some rest."

"Fine." Sarah moves briskly to the door and opens it, but she doesn't leave. She turns back to me, and her voice and expression soften.

"The main reason I came over was to tell you I have dinner in the oven. I made a meatloaf. I thought it could be a celebratory meal, or comfort food. I figured you'd enjoy it either way."

Sarah knows her meatloaf is basically my favorite meal. Okay, the recipe might be simple and it's definitely not fancy, but she makes it with hard boiled eggs in the middle of the loaf. Exactly like my mother used to. And in my book that makes it her best dish.

"And your garlic mashed potatoes?" I ask quietly.

"Of course." Sarah gives me a look that I can only describe as exasperated affection. Affection? When did that happen?

"I could eat," I say, and I mean it.

"Good," she responds, and I'm amazed and a little humbled by the sincerity in the single word.

Then Sarah seems to suddenly remember her original place in our relationship, because her next words are a stern directive. "It should be ready in about fifteen minutes. That gives you plenty of time to wash up and come set the table." And on that, she leaves.

I stand in the middle of the room, looking around the gatehouse with fresh eyes. A house of my own. A really nice house of my own. On a beautiful estate, above a semi-private beach. A guy who came out to Riverside with me, even though he considers auto racing a "blood sport," just to support me and watch over me. A woman who planned a meal specifically with me in mind, to either celebrate my success or to help ease my disappointment.

And apparently both of them know how to talk me out of feeling sorry for myself.

I find myself smiling. Maybe I'm not such a loser after all.

About five minutes later, I make my way to the main house for what I've decided will be a celebratory supper.

END

Author's Note: Anyone who has read my fanfic Inheritance Tax might notice a little "inside joke" reference in the last vignette of this story. :)

-ck