Author's Note: This vignette is set during the first week of McCormick's residence at Gulls Way, a few days after the guys returned from Las Vegas.

-ck

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

SHARP DIALOGUE

by IntitalLuv

"McCormick! Pay attention!"

Mark McCormick reluctantly pulled his gaze back from the activity on the distant shoreline, to focus on the man in front of him holding the pruning shears. Milton C. Hardcastle, recently retired judge, was glaring impatiently at the young ex-con now in his custody. "I'm not going to let you butcher my roses just because you were too distracted to listen to simple direction!" he blustered.

Mark shrugged, unconcerned. "I'll grant that these roses are kinda pretty, Judge, but they've got nothing on the. . . " he waved in the direction of the beach ". . .the beauty down there."

Hardcastle snorted. "I know what 'beauty' you're talking about. That one that jogs every morning in her underwear."

"Every morning?" McCormick repeated hopefully. Then, addressing the second part of Hardcastle's statement: "It's the beach, Judge. You're supposed to wear a swimsuit."

A second snort. "Swimsuit? My handkerchief has more material than that supposed swimsuit."

"I know." A sly grin accompanied Mark's words, as he again peered out at the beach. His enjoyment of the view was cut short by a sudden slap to the head. "Focus, kid!"

"Damn it, Hardcastle!" McCormick rubbed the back of his head. "Fine! You want me to learn how to prune your lousy roses?" He reached forward to grasp a stem. "Let me at these bad boys – Ow!" Abruptly pulling his hand back, Mark looked incredulously at the blood welling from his finger.

"Thorn?" Hardcastle asked mildly.

Mark put the injured digit in his mouth, sucking at the wound. He didn't respond, other than sending a dirty look at the older man.

The judge chuckled at the scowling ex-con. "I know you said you don't know anything about gardening, but it's common knowledge that roses have fairly sharp thorns." Now Hardcastle was grinning. "Maybe the 'knowledge' part doesn't apply to you, huh?"

McCormick pulled his finger from his mouth, examining it critically. Then he looked up, the sly smile back in place. "Oh, trust me, Judge, I know about roses. I've given roses to plenty of women. Hell, I've gotten roses from women!" He paused before continuing, thoughtfully, "But they've always been wrapped in that florist's paper. And I think they might've had the thorns removed."

"Well, these don't." The retired jurist indicated the nearby rose bushes. "So you need to be careful. And I don't just mean your fingers. I told you, I don't want my gardens mangled!"

"Yeah, yeah. You and Sarah both." McCormick sighed. "She didn't even trust me to weed yesterday without standing over me." The anger and annoyance were creeping back up. "You know, you didn't tell me I needed gardening experience when you floated this 'fast gun' idea to me."

"Well, I'm telling you now. And stop trying to start a fight to get out of your chores – it won't work. You're going to have responsibilities around here, and you're gonna do them the way Sarah or I say to do them. Understand, kiddo?"

Mark's head snapped up. "Knock that crap off, Judge. I'm not a kid."

Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. "No? I'm twice your age – "

"I wouldn't brag about that."

" – and to me, you are a kid!" Milt finished, his steely blue eyes flashing. He took a calming breath, then looked closely at McCormick. "Are you even thirty yet?"

"I – I . . . Almost! I will be!" was Mark's vague answer.

"What, in a year?"

"No!" Mark said, immediately defensive. Then he cleared his throat, quietly adding, "Not quite. More like nine months."

"Mmm."

McCormick bristled at the obvious brush-off. "How would you like it if I started calling you 'geezer'?"

"I'd say if you value your freedom, you'll treat me with some respect," the judge answered, his voice low and menacing.

The two men stared at each other for a few moments. McCormick lowered his eyes first, mumbling something inaudible. Hardcastle huffed softly, then bent down near the bottom of the bush.

"Now you need to start down at the base, and open up the plant to the air, see – "

"Can't I at least wear gloves, Judge?"

Milt looked up from his bent position. "Gloves? What, are you fragile or something?" He shook his head disparagingly. "This is too delicate for gloves. You gotta be able to feel what you're doing, so you can tell if the stems are weak or if the leaves are too dry. . ." When Mark rolled his eyes in amusement, the judge rose completely and looked hard at the ex-con. "Well, tell me – do you wear gloves when you work on your car?"

Mark was aghast. "What, in the engine? No way, Judge! I have to be able to feel and touch what I'm working on, so I can diagnose whatever's wrong, or figure out if something needs to be adjusted. Gloves would be . . . impersonal," he finished lamely, his face reddening slightly.

"Then you get it. No gloves." Hardcastle bent down again, reaching out with his left arm to lightly grasp the lower part of rose bush, pulling it out carefully. He approached the stem with the pruning shears held in his right hand. "You want to look for any dead wood, and remove that. And see these cross-branches?" The judge looked up to make sure his distractible ward was watching carefully. McCormick's gaze was pointed and focused, but not on the rose-pruning demonstration – instead, he was studying the judge's left bicep with an obvious frown.

Milt glanced at the tattoo, then looked back at McCormick. "That? I got it in the service."

Mark blinked, swallowed. "Okay."

Hardcastle stood again, facing the younger man. "What? Not up to the quality of the prison ink you're familiar with?" he asked, feeling unaccountably defensive.

McCormick crossed his arms, looking back crossly. "Not that it's any of your business, Judge, but I don't have any tattoos."

"Afraid of needles?"

Mark took a deep breath, visibly restraining a heated response. Then he recited, "You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh on account of the dead, or tattoo any marks upon you."

Milt stared at the young man silently. "It's from the Bible," McCormick said.

"I know it's from the Bible. I just don't memorize chapter and verse – "

"Leviticus. Chapter 19, verse 28," Mark supplied, grinning smugly.

"Right." Hardcastle was nodding now as the realization hit him. "Got religion in prison, did ya?" he said knowingly.

Mark's grin dissolved, and Milt was alarmed to see hard fury in the young blue eyes. "I didn't have to 'get' anything, Hardcastle. I already had it. I was raised Catholic." He lowered his head, closed his eyes briefly, and then looked up with an almost desperate expression. "I know guys in prison get inked up, and I know some cons will 'find religion' to get through their hitch. But that wasn't me – that's not me. And if you took the time to care, you'd know." He took a step closer to the older man. "Stop trying to pigeonhole me! I'm more than a damn mug shot!"

Hardcastle held his ground when McCormick advanced, but he kept his posture relaxed and non-threatening, and his voice soft. "You done?"

"Am I – " McCormick felt the anger seep away, to be quickly replaced by a deep frustration. "Yeah. I'm done. Maybe with all of this." He swept a hand, indicating himself and the judge. "Because I don't think I can do this 'indefinitely'."

Hardcastle gave the dejected comment a dismissive wave. "Oh, hogwash. This? You're just cranky." McCormick made a derisive noise, questioning which one of them was most likely to be cranky. The judge ignored the scoff, going on. "You haven't really had a day off since I brought you out here. You take tomorrow off, do what you want, and things will look better. You'll see."

Mark regarded the judge suspiciously, his eyes narrowed under lowered brows. "I get tomorrow off," he repeated. "To do what I want?"

"Within reason!" Milt lifted an admonishing finger. "I don't want you taking off somewhere in that hot rod of yours. You've got plenty you can do around here. You said you still hadn't finished unpacking, right?" Mark tilted his head in admission, although from his distasteful expression it was apparent that the younger man still considered that work.

"That seem too much like a chore?" Hardcastle shrugged. "Then you can relax in the pool or on the patio. I got a library full of books – you do read, dontcha?" McComick nodded mutely, a bemused smile now on his face. The judge continued. "And you can go check out the beach, maybe meet that beach bunny you're so keen on."

"Yeah. Yeah, I could do that." The smile had expanded into a dimpled grin, complete with bright, twinkling eyes. "Thanks, Judge."

Milt smiled back. "Don't mention it, Mark."

McCormick's grin wavered slightly. "Huh. That's . . . that doesn't sound right."

"What now? You gonna tell me to call you Marcus or something?"

Mark glowered. "No. It's just . . . Just call me McCormick, okay? Not kid, or kiddo, or sonny, or junior – just McCormick."

Hardcastle sucked at his teeth, frowning in consideration. "So no nicknames, huh?"

"No. I'm McCormick, you're Hardcastle. Simple."

"Okay. Sounds good." Milt nodded in agreement. "I can do simple." He jerked his head back at the rose bush. "Now can we get back to work?"

"Yeah." Mark crouched down near the base of the rose bush, and looked up expectantly. Milt lowered himself into a similar position so that he and the ex-con were at the same level. Then the older man smiled wickedly.

"Now listen up, sport."

"Teach away, Hardcase."

END