This is my first published story on this site. It's been kicking around in my head for several years. After reading some of the great writing in this category, I felt inspired enough to finally write it down.

The time period of this story (excepting the Epilogue) is June of 1959, and as this story progresses, you will see that I have differing ideas on Mark's birthdate than many of the other fan fiction writers out there. When you think about it, even though there were no shows during the summer hiatus, did Hardcastle and McCormick quit playing The Lone Ranger and Tonto for those three months? I always figured the events in Ties My Father Sold Me happened in the summer, even though the episode was aired in September. Remember, Mark's sign is "Cancer, with Virgo rising" (One of the Girls from Accounting). (Of course, he also says he's a Pisces in She's Not Deep But..., but I always figured that was just a smart remark. You know, McCormick has been known to crack wise.)

Please review and tell me what you think!

-ck

***Thank you to Owl for contacting me and letting me know I'd made an unconscious error in naming one of my original characters. Sorry, newbie fail!

Disclaimer: These beloved characters do not belong to me, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.

Hidden Scars by InitialLuv

Chapter One

DONNA

He's late again.

It's not like this is unusual. In fact, promptness would probably worry me more. Promptness would have a reason attached, an explanation for the odd change. And the reason would be a lie. It doesn't matter how much charm and boyish patter accompany the reason, I know him well enough now to suss out the lies. The only problem is the smile. Once he flashes that smile, the one that crinkles his deep blue eyes and lights up his whole face. . . That smile gets me every time. He knows it, too. He doesn't play fair.

The smile was how I got into this situation to begin with. Or maybe it was Martha. Or a combination of the two. But even if Martha could be partially blamed for me falling hook, line, and sinker for that smile, she had nothing to do with the four-year-old currently kneeling by the piano bench.

He is running a red Matchbox car over the scarred wood, pursing his lips and trying his best to make the correct "race car" noise. He is also trying his best to not be worried about his father being late. He can't tell time yet, but he knows me well enough now, too. He can see I am tense, quiet, and looking repeatedly at the clock. My favorite seat on the sofa also allows me to look out the window to the street below, and when I'm not looking at the time I can swivel my head to watch for the familiar Studebaker.

I suddenly notice how quiet it has gotten in the apartment – no more "vroom-vrooms." I look away from the clock quickly, almost guiltily, to see my son gazing directly at me.

"Momma? "

"What is it, honey?"

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something is wrong?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth I am ashamed of them, ashamed of downplaying his perception.

My son is too young to recognize my chagrin, and yet he abandons his toy, coming to crawl into my lap. His curly head fits right under my chin. Poor kid hadn't stood a chance. With both my loose curls and his father's wavy hair, he was practically born with the ringlets.

I hug him close to me, suddenly feeling a fierce wave of protection and responsibility. Mine, this boy is mine. Nothing that had happened in my past, and hopefully nothing that will happen in my future, can change that. He might have his father's eyes and smile and effervescent personality, but by God he is mine. The fact that he knew exactly what I needed, this quiet embrace –

"Momma?"

"What, baby?"

"That's too tight."

For the first time in the long day I truly laugh. Relaxing my hold on my struggling son, I kiss him on the top of his head and gently push him off my lap in the direction of the piano. He retrieves his car and resumes driving it across the bench, up and down the legs, and then across to the piano itself. It's over an hour past his bedtime, but he's wide awake, anxiously hoping that tonight's bedtime routine will be with the father he doesn't see as much as he should. When the man in question had finally called to say he was on his way home, I had promised the boy - mistake - that he could wait up. I watch him quietly now, lost in my thoughts.

I had been waitressing in the diner in Jersey City for a little over three years. Well, waitressing, opening, closing, mopping, dragging the garbage to the Dumpster, taking the till amount to the bank – everything except for cooking. Vincent had been very particular about his grill, to the point of only letting his son cover when Vincent was ill or needed a day off. And since the diner wasn't open on Mondays, Vincent hadn't need a day off very often.

I had started at the diner the year I turned sixteen. That was the earliest my step-father, Ron, would allow me to get a job. He had also directed that until I graduated high school, I could only work during the summer. My mother hadn't voiced her opinion. She'd rarely voiced any opinion beyond saying "I do." But when your husband dies and leaves you with two young children, and a decent-looking man with a good job shows interest, you look past the verbal (and later physical) abuse. You learn to keep your mouth shut and your head down. At least, that was what my mother learned. As for my brother and me, we learned to take care of ourselves and get out of that predicament as soon as we were able.

My brother Douglas is six years older than me. He has been at his factory job for almost twelve years now. He started at the very bottom: long hours, unpaid overtime, and little to no benefits. He is now a supervisor. He married a secretary who worked for the supervisor he eventually replaced. I actually like Brenda. They have a little girl, Annie. I don't get to see Brenda and Annie anymore. Doug has a problem with me. Truth be told, I have a problem with him.

The "problem" didn't start until Martha got a ride to work from the man with the smile. Martha waitressed at the diner, too, but for her it wasn't an escape from an abusive step-father and a barely-there mother. Martha had been waiting for her big break. The diner job was a brief stop on her way to stardom. She was a dancer, a singer, an actress. Well, at least a dancer. Although it wasn't exactly ballet. And she sometimes came to work with slight bruises. That might even have been one of the reasons my problem began. I didn't want to end up like Martha. And I thought I could avoid that by denying the truth and falling for the possibility of a white picket fence. . .

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . It was a rainy afternoon in mid-July when Martha came breezing in to the diner, still in partial costume. She had a raincoat wrapped tightly around herself with one hand, and her other hand clenched a damp paper bag that held her uniform. "I'm so sorry I'm late, Donna! Wayne was supposed to pick me up and he never showed! I had to beg for a ride." She nodded back at a man behind her. He tipped his chin in her direction with a laugh and a grin.

"Baby, I'd take that kind of begging any day," he said.

Martha stopped in her tracks and glared. I'd never actually seen her that rude to someone before, especially someone who had just done her a favor.

The man seemed to realize he'd overstepped. He spread his hands in apology. Martha softened her look somewhat, but still seemed suspicious.

"Donna, can you get him something to eat? I'll pay. He really did help me out."

Martha disappeared into the bathroom to change into her uniform. I grabbed a menu and brought it over to the man who sat himself at the counter. "Coffee?" I asked.

"Please." I grabbed a cup and poured, slid it over to the man, and then looked up to see him staring at me.

I had other diners to take care of. Vincent had rung the bell to let me know an order was up. But I was caught in his gaze, disarmed by his penetrating blue eyes. And then he smiled.

"Donna."

"Huh?"

His smile grew. "Your name's Donna."

"Oh. Martha told you."

"Sure. Maybe. Or I read your name tag."

"What's your name?" I felt a little at a disadvantage.

He paused. It was like he had to think. Why would someone need to think before they tell a person their name? I thought crossly.

I should have known then.

"Mickey. Mickey Thompson. "

"Are you sure about that?"

That smile again. "Well, when you're a performer, sometimes you have stage names. Martha'll tell you. Do you think she performs as Martha Dunce?"

He was right. I knew Martha despised her last name, and used the name Marsha DuBois. Later that year Martha officially adopted her pseudonym. I'd always wondered if Mickey gave her some assistance with that task.

I had unconsciously moved a little closer to Mickey, pressing up against my side of the counter. "So is Mickey Thompson the stage name, or the real name?"

"Donna!" Vincent hollered from the kitchen. "Quit flirting and get to work!"

At that point Martha came out of the bathroom, pinning up her hair. She heard Vincent, saw me and Mickey talking, and her face became concerned. If I hadn't figured it out by Mickey's hesitation at giving me a name, I should have at least gotten an inkling by Martha's unusual reaction.

But sometimes things happen and you realize you're just along for the ride.

Mickey ordered the blue plate special (pot roast), and a piece of blueberry pie. After the pie he settled in to smoke a few cigarettes in between cups of coffee. At one point he looked disgustedly at the cigarette in his hand and muttered that he was trying to cut back "to give the pipes a break."

I had stayed near him as much as I could, in between helping the few diners that Martha couldn't cover. And when Martha wasn't busy, she was hovering near me. I could almost feel her clucking her tongue. And I didn't care. To hell with her.

"You're a singer?" My palms were clammy. Why are my palms clammy?

"That I am. I play a little piano, too. I could teach you."

"What? To sing, or play piano?"

"Either. Both." He leaned back a little, running his fingers through his dark waves, and a shiver ran up my spine. What is wrong with me?

Mickey looked conspiratorially around the emptying diner, then leaned back in. In a low voice that no one else was meant to hear, he asked the question I'd been hoping for since he'd said my name.

"When do you get off?"

I had been staying with Doug and Brenda. When Mickey dropped me off that first night, Doug shook his hand and asked him if he wanted to come in for a drink. Mickey politely begged off, saying he had to get back for a matinee show the next day. Doug shrugged as if it was no skin off his back (and he was probably glad he didn't have to share his booze). Brenda, nine months pregnant, huge and overdue, grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bedroom. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Tell me everything!"

And I did. I told her about the smile. About the way his eyes pierced mine, leaving me breathless and queasy. About the mystery that seemed to surround him, the "bad boy" reputation Martha gave him (and coming from Martha, that was something). The way he had taken my hand as we'd walked, and how it had felt so natural, so right. The soft kiss in the car, my hands caressing his silky hair.

I was in trouble.

And not three months later, I was "in trouble." When Mickey came around, there was no more shaking hands and invites to a drink from Doug. In fact, there was an eviction of sorts from Doug. Brenda really tried to go to bat for me, but I didn't want to put her in that position. They had a baby, and I didn't want to come between them. They were already having enough problems between Douglas being a full-time workaholic and a part-time alcoholic. I understood why he wanted me to leave. I also understood that part of it was because he didn't want Mickey around. Mickey charmed the ladies, and Brenda was also taken in by the smile.

But it hurt. If anyone should have been trying to help me, it should have been my brother. My father had died when I was three; Douglas had been just a few weeks shy of his ninth birthday. He'd taken care of me then, and he'd been the only positive male role model I could remember. As for my father, the most I remembered of him (and it felt like other people's memories) was that he had soft grey eyes and liked to golf. Doug ended up with my father's golf clubs. I got the grey eyes.

We both kept our father's last name.

Mickey and I moved to an apartment in Atlantic City. I found another waitressing job, at a restaurant on the bus line, although about eight months into my pregnancy I stopped working. And I spent a lot of time alone. Mickey was constantly playing gigs: little shows in little clubs, bigger shows in the casinos, occasionally flying to upper New York or Pittsburgh or even Washington, D.C. He'd often bring me home a souvenir. Once he brought me a sterling silver rattle for the baby, and I just looked at the extravagant gift.

Small time lounge singers can't afford gifts like that. They can't afford nice apartments to lodge the mother of an unborn child, a mother who isn't even working, isn't even contributing to the rent, the electricity, the grocery bills. And the piano, the television, the crib – it all cost money. Yet the money appeared. Sometimes even when Mickey wasn't working. He'd go out for a night "with the boys" to play poker until dawn, or out for a weekend to catch a fight at Madison Square Garden, and he would come home with a wallet thick with bills. He'd explain it off as gambling winnings, and of course that made sense. But it didn't make sense when he'd claim car trouble and not return for two days, and yet still seem to have money to spare.

But like my mother before me, who had learned to keep her mouth shut, I kept my fears to myself. I was going to have a child. And also like my mother, I didn't want to do it alone. Mickey might not have shown an interest in marriage, but he didn't bolt when I told him I was pregnant. That had to count for something. So far it had counted for just about six years. Our son will be turning five in less than two weeks.

I realize that in my recollections I have completely forgotten to check the clock. And now, I only do it out of reaction to the key turning in the lock. An hour and a half late. Well, that's not as late as he was getting to the hospital after I gave birth.

As the door swings open a four-year-old streaks past me, to leap into his father's arms. "Daddy!" he crows.

Mickey catches him easily, not even dropping his keys. He looks over our son's head to lock eyes with me, as if to gage exactly how much trouble he's in. I see the crumpled clothes, the shade of stubble on his face. His eyes look tired, almost sad.

And then he turns to look at the grinning child in his arms, and it's like the years drop off his face. He grins back at his miniature mirror image.

"I missed you, Markie."