A/N: This is more or less an experiment based on an inspiration I got while writing the next chapter to 'Lost and Found'. I started scribbling down this scene and pretty much before I knew it, it had developed into this. First off I'm not sure if I've ever started and finished something of this length in a single day before, and second, it was so unexpected that I'm basically throwing it out there to see what you all think. Plus, it seemed a bit of a waste to get all this written and then not publish it.

Again, all original characters created by CBS are owned by them, and I don't think they ever said Mac's mother's name ('Millie' is *Gary's* mother's name), so I'm going with my own continuity and taking this as a sort of continuation of 'You Can't Win 'em All'. Hope you guys like it and thanks for reading!

"Mac, I honestly don't know what to do with you," the principal said, thumbing through papers and shaking his head before looking up at the sullen teenage boy sitting in front of him. "You're an enigma, you know that?"

Mac just slouched further down in his chair and folded his arms.

The principal finished looking through the folder before closing it and focusing his gaze solely on the transgressor on the opposite side of his desk. "On the one hand I have a stack of complaints from your teachers about your wise-ass comments to them…"

Mac rolled his eyes.

The principal glared at him before continuing, "…you skip almost a quarter of your classes, you've gotten into three fights this year, but you're maintaining an 'A-' average and apparently you're one of the best 3rd basemen our team has had in a while."

Mac shuffled in his seat.

"Usually it's one or the other – grades, or landing in front of me all the time." The principal fixed him with a knowing look and tapped Mac's student file that was in front of him. "I'm assuming those grades are simply so you can retain your spot on the team."

Mac didn't say anything. He really didn't have to as his brief glance down told the principal that that last statement was the truth.

The principal sighed. "You're not stupid, Mac, clearly," he said, as the boy's look changed from one of stubborn defiance to one of resignation, "Most students would kill to get your grades and they study and go to class. You apparently hardly even try and still turn these results in."

"So what's the problem?" Mac asked sulkily.

The principal's voice got an edge of anger to it, "The problem is that kid out in the hallway who I have to talk to yet and who's got a black eye and a split lip thanks to you. The problem is this the third time you've been in my office for fights this year, not counting for skipping class and talking back."

Mac could see the principal's anger and frustration slowly ramp up and in response felt his sullen defiance return.

"The problem is that technically at this point I could at least suspend you if not give you an incomplete for the year, and I could definitely get you kicked off the baseball team for the season!"

That got Mac's attention and he felt a plunge of fear shoot through him at the steel in his principal's eyes and suddenly realized that up until now he had completely dismissed the possibility of any serious consequences.

"The problem is, you are turning in these grades and I have a distinct feeling that all of those options are only going to make things worse," the principal continued.

A sliver of hope edged its way across Mac's pounding heart and he didn't dare speak.

"So here's what I'm going to do," the principal met Mac's eyes without a trace of warmth, "You are going to get a three day suspension as well as detention for the remainder of the school year…"

"But it was his fault!" Mac cut in in protest and referring to the junior still waiting in the hall for his turn in front of the principle.

But the principal held up his hand, cutting Mac off and biting out his next words. "I. don't. care." he said, "There comes a point you have to simply be the bigger man."

"Yeah he's small that's for sure," Mac muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" his principle asked sharply.

"Nothing," Mac returned.

"There's one month left in the school year" the principal continued, fixing the teenager in front of him with an icy glare, "You need to have your ass in the seat during class with your mouth closed every day, and if I hear a hint of anything to contrary or the slightest complaint from any of your teachers, I promise you, you will regret the outcome, grades or not."

Mac pressed his lips tight together and bit back a response. His principal pulled over a piece of paper and started writing on the form. Mac watched in the following silence that was so conspicuous it was almost audible. "What's that?" he asked finally.

"This is a conversation record of everything we discussed that you're going to take back to your parents and have both of them sign before returning it to me tomorrow," the principal said without looking up or pausing his writing.

A small smile almost crossed Mac's face. Well that he handle. He had long ago taught himself to forge both of their signatures, and he was damn good at it. He could explain away his detention by saying he was staying late to train for track tryouts, and he'd just leave and come back at the normal school times during his suspension. They'd never know. It was fortunate too, because his father would just about kill him if he found out. Especially since he'd managed to keep them in the dark about all his other visits to the principle this year. He got in enough trouble at home as it was without adding to it by getting double punishments for school offenses.

"And I'm calling them before the day's out about it as well," the principal added.

Mac's stomach plummeted. As bad as the month of detention (and probable temporary benching from his coach when he found out about all this) was, he positively dreaded what his parents were going to do.

The principal finished writing, signed his name, and handed the form to Mac. "What class do you have next?" he asked.

"Biology," Mac replied, folding up the form and shoving it in his back pocket as he stood up.

The principal nodded and looked at Mac closely as the boy carefully swung his backpack over his shoulder and tried to smother a grimace at the movement. "You okay?" the principal asked, genuine concern in his voice. Even though he was getting in trouble for it, the boy had been involved in a fight with an opponent who out-weighed him by at least 60lbs.

Mac nodded. He had a pounding headache and his whole torso hurt when he moved. He hadn't taken his shirt off yet, but he could tell where each bruise was and he knew they weren't going to be pretty.

"You sure you don't want to see the school nurse?" the principal double-checked.

"I'm fine," Mac replied.

"Alright," the principal said. The teenager was clearly hurt, but he was more than old enough to decide to deal with the consequences of his actions and tough it out if he chose to. "You can go."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mac's stomach twisted in knots as he turned the door handle and stepped inside the house. Sure enough, his mother was waiting for him. Even though this scenario played itself out to greater or lesser degrees nearly every other weekend, this was by far his most serious offense yet, and for the first time in a long while he was genuinely nervous.

"Your room. Homework. Go." she told him shortly, her voice deadly quiet.

Mac didn't utter even a hint of an argument. But his mother stopped him as he headed up the stairs.

"The form," she said, holding out her hand.

Mac mutely took the piece of paper out of his back pocket and turned it over. He didn't think he had ever seen his mother this angry. Her eyes flashed fire, and if looks could kill, he'd have dropped dead as soon he had walked in. She didn't let him squirm out of her glare either, and even as he turned and finished climbing the stairs, he could feel her gaze follow him all the way up.

He dropped his backpack in his room before heading to the bathroom. To say his head was pounding was by this point an understatement and he suspected he had a sprained or cracked rib. It felt like it anyway. Not that it really mattered since there was no way he was going to complain about his injuries in light of everything. But he desperately needed Aspirin or Tylenol, whichever his parents had in the cabinet. He closed the bathroom door behind him and gingerly pulled his t-shirt over his head. He winced at the sight of the bruises on his chest which looked quite angry at this point. Although he was winning the confrontation when the fight had been broken up, Mark Peterson was significantly bigger than him and had the power behind his punches to go along with it. There was no way to tell exactly what sort injury he had sustained, but as he carefully pushed against the worst bruising on his side, holding his breath and gritting his teeth against the pain, he didn't think anything was broken. He resigned himself to simply dealing with it. He took a double dose of Aspirin and headed back to his room and lay down on his bed, choosing to wait until the Aspirin kicked in to put his t-shirt back on. And screw homework, he thought.

Two hours later JoAnn Taylor paused outside her son's bedroom. She hadn't heard a sound since sending him up here and she wasn't entirely sure whether that a good thing or a bad thing. Usually her son had some sort of record or cassette blasting from his player whenever he was home. She pushed his door open. He was lying on his bed, his t-shirt held in one hand and his other arm draped over his face. His chest slowly rose and fell as he slept, and JoAnn wasn't sure if the bruises she saw across his torso made her angrier at him for what he'd gotten himself into, or sympathy at how painful they looked. It was both, she decided. She couldn't help thinking back to ten years ago when she had found him in the back of his closet after the first fight he'd gotten into when he was only six years old, and while he was still a bit on the short side for his age, he was no longer the scrawny, scrappy little boy of back then. His propensities certainly hadn't changed though. But his father being full-blooded Irish and her being half Irish and half Italian, the poor boy hadn't really stood a chance. But there had been a change in him the last couple years that JoAnn couldn't really put her finger on. He was edgier in a quiet sort of way, quicker to take on a dare or fight to prove himself, and JoAnn didn't think it was purely just being because he was a teenager. But as much as she suspected something specific had happened, Mac kept it extremely close and she had never been able to get a hint of anything out of him.

She knocked on his now open door to wake him up. "Mac," she called.

Mac woke up with a start, and realizing that his mother was standing in his doorway, hurriedly pulled his t-shirt over his chest. But he knew it was too late and she had seen the evidence of the altercation at school. Her lips were still set tightly too.

"Your father's home and it's dinner time," she said briefly. "Get dressed and come on down." She turned and left, closing his door.

Mac lay still for a moment, looking after where she had disappeared, his heart hammering from waking up so suddenly and the instinctive gut reaction to his mother finding him asleep instead of doing his homework like she had told him to do. But she hadn't said anything about it either, and despite the fact that he could clearly tell she was still angry at him, there had been enough softness in her voice to tell him that she felt a level of sympathy at the fact that he hadn't escaped unscathed. Despite the return of lead in his stomach at the prospect of facing his father, knowing his mother wasn't completely mad at him made him more resigned to whatever the outcome would be.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They ate in near silence, Mac's father shooting him dagger filled looks every few minutes. Mac kept himself buried in his plate in sullen silence. At least his headache was now gone. When they were done, JoAnn got up and handed McCanna the report Mac's principal had sent back with him. She proceeded to clear the table while McCanna read it, daring Mac with a look to get up from his seat at the table. When he was done, he slowly set it down and wiped his face with both hands, clearly gathering his thoughts and figuring exactly how to express what was running furiously through his head.

He dropped his hands on the table and looked at his son. "I honestly don't know what to say, Mac. Somehow, 'what the hell were you thinking!' doesn't even begin to cover it! And it's not even what you got in trouble for today that's getting me, it's that," he picked the report back up and read off it, " 'Since this is the third time Mr. Taylor has seen me for fighting and the tenth time total this school year…'…" McCanna stopped again, searching for words and absolutely livid. "THREE times for fighting and TEN times total in a single year?" he slammed the paper back down on the table.

JoAnn sat in the chair opposite Mac, adding her silent disapproval to her husband's verbal outraged one.

"Now, correct me if I'm mistaken," McCanna continued, his eyes molten with anger, "But isn't there a report of discipline that we're required to sign for these previous offenses and punishments that Principle Kelley referenced?"

There was no escaping, and Mac knew it. "Yes," he replied.

"And how come we never saw those?" McCanna asked, his voice deadly quiet.

Mac searched for a way to answer that wasn't going to get him in any further trouble than he was in already. "Because I turned them in," he answered, arms folded defensively across his chest and his chin down.

"And aren't we required to sign them?" his father continued.

"Yes."

"Then why didn't we get a call since we clearly didn't sign them?" Now his father's voice had reached the dangerously quiet level.

"Because they thought you had," Mac mumbled.

"And what would have given them that impression?" his father continued relentlessly.

Mac opened and closed his mouth.

"You signed them, didn't you," McCanna said, leaning across the table towards Mac.

There was no point in denying it, and Mac simply kept his sullen look with his arms folded. "I still get A's in everything, I don't know what the big deal is," he muttered.

His father's incredulous anger turned to incredulous disbelief. "You don't know what the big deal is?" he asked, "You don't see the big deal in forging your parents' signatures multiple times and placing yourself in jeopardy of finishing the year?"

Mac slouched further down in his seat and scowled.

"And if you're so smart to be getting A's while skipping class, how come you're not smart enough to take fights off school property and to keep your mouth shut when you do go to class?" McCanna continued.

Mac shifted. He had gotten into probably three times as many altercations of varying degrees as anybody knew about because he did know better. But he chose to keep his mouth shut and continue to keep his parents in the dark about it.

McCanna shook his head, "I hope this last fight was damn well worth it," he said.

"He insulted my girlfriend," Mac informed his father, the warmth of anger at the memory stirring in his chest.

"Oh, and would this be the same girlfriend whose father caught you last week?" McCanna asked without a trace of humour.

"We weren't doing anything," Mac protested.

"Well I suppose if you call having your tongues down each other's throats with both your shirts off 'nothing' then I suppose that's what it was," McCanna said sarcastically.

Mac glowered.

His father sighed and the boiling edge of his fury dissipated. He sat back and just looked at his son. Teenagers were dreadfully difficult things to manage, he thought. Because while he was beyond angry with Mac, he also clearly remembered being sixteen himself and getting into rather similar situations and feelings. He drummed his fingers on the table as he contemplated what to do with his boy. "Do you have any papers due?" he asked suddenly.

The query caught Mac by surprise. "I got a literature report due the end of next week," he said.

"I want it done by eleven tonight," his father told him.

Mac's mouth dropped open in disbelief. He leaned forward and spread his hands. "But I haven't even read the book!" he protested.

"Then ten tomorrow night," his father returned, "Fully edited and ready to turn in." He pointed at his son, "And I don't want to hear a word of excuse."

Mac sat back in chair and re-crossed his arms angrily.

"You're also working all summer," his father continued.

Mac shrugged. "Fine," he replied. He'd been planning to work somewhere part-time anyway as that would be his only means of funds to do anything.

"Full-time," his father continued.

Mac sat stunned. That he hadn't planned on. "Full-time?" he managed. It wasn't that he minded work itself, but he had had plans for the coming summer.

McCanna almost smiled at the youthfulness in his son's voice and knowing exactly what was running through the boy's head. "Full-time," he repeated, keeping his look stern, "One of the guys I work with has a brother who owns his own construction business, and he's already told me you can work for him. You'll start the Monday after school finishes."

Mac sat back, utter defeat in every inch of his body language.

"Now I suggest you get a start on reading that book for your paper," McCanna told him.

Mac slowly pushed himself up from the table.

"He's your son through and through," JoAnn informed her husband with a smile as the two of them watched Mac angrily climb the stairs to his room.

McCanna rubbed his temples with his fingers. He looked up at his wife, "His temper maybe. He certainly didn't get that sneaky smarts stuff from me. That's all you! I bet your parents never knew the half of what you got up to."

JoAnn smiled slyly at her husband, "That is for me and us to know and them to never find out," she said.

McCanna laughed. "Amen to that!" he replied. He looked back towards the stairs and Mac's room from which music was now coming rather loudly. "If he gets in trouble with us as often as he does and he's still getting away with all this other stuff, kind of makes you wonder just how much he's exactly up to."

"I don't think I want to know," JoAnn replied.

McCanna continued gazing towards the stairs for another long moment, the same sentiment his wife had felt earlier passing through him. Whatever daredevil streak and stubborn tough front Mac maintained to everyone around him, McCanna could tell that his son was dealing with something. For all that his son spent so much time out and running around, he rarely brought any friends over, and beneath his temper his father could pick up on a deep-seated frustration and almost a sense of loneliness as paradoxical as that outwardly sounded. He resigned himself to the fact that he would probably never know exactly what Mac was dealing with, and maybe it was nothing more than the teenage struggle to find one's place. And although the thought of Mac's deception still made him furious, McCanna felt it soften in the wake of the rush of concern and love he felt for his boy. Wherever and whenever Mac found his place, he had no doubts his son would excel; he only hoped Mac did find it and didn't first lose himself getting there.

He suddenly cringed as the music coming from Mac's room crescendoed into an indistinguishable lead guitar vs drumset vs bass line seeming cacophony. McCanna looked over at JoAnn. "How the hell does he read with that racket going on? I can't and I'm not even upstairs let alone in his room!"

JoAnn shrugged, "Teenagers," she said.

McCanna sighed, "Yep, that about sums it up." He sat for a moment longer before standing up. "I can't take it that loud," he said, leaving the kitchen and heading up the stairs.

JoAnn chuckled as she ran the water to wash the dishes and heard McCanna pound on Mac's bedroom door. "Mac!" she heard him nearly yell through it. She could almost see Mac's exasperated roll of his eyes.

"What?" her son shouted back.

"Turn that down!" McCanna returned back.

She could envision an even more pronounced full body eye roll.

"FINE!" Mac yelled through the bedroom door.

JoAnn could hear the put-upon angst in his voice and she chuckled. The volume of the music diminished somewhat and McCanna huffed back down the stairs. "Sometimes…!" her husband said exasperatedly as he disappeared around the corner to grab a dish towel out of the linen closet to help his wife finish cleaning up. "What?" he said, as he came back into the kitchen and saw JoAnn's shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Nothing, nothing," JoAnn said, her dancing eyes meeting McCanna's simmering ones. "The two of you just sound so alike." She returning to rinsing the glasses and flatware, biting back laughter which persisted in bubbling irrepressibly up.

McCanna shot her sideways glares as she pressed her lips together in an attempt to stifle her giggles. "Do not," he said huffily.

"If you say so," JoAnn said in an overly innocent voice.

McCanna just fixed her with an unblinking look as he dried the plates that she had already washed.