Author's Note: This is my contribution to the 2017 Christmas story challenge. It takes place in the first season. Enjoy!

-ck

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

THOSE LESS FORTUNATE

by InitialLuv

"Get your butt out here. Carlton's expecting us."

The mid-morning telephone summons from Hardcastle had held no greeting, and the man had not waited for a reply. McCormick held the receiver to his ear for several seconds, long after the judge had disconnected the call, wondering if this partnership would make it into the New Year.

But he'd been hailed, and God forbid he not comply. McCormick left the gatehouse and headed for the driveway, shrugging into his well-worn leather jacket. He shuddered slightly in the brisk air. When did you become such a wimp? he thought to himself. Been living in nice climates for too long. The Decembers of his childhood had run the gamut from brown and dry to snow-covered and slippery, but he remembered Christmases in Jersey as always being cold. Maybe not freezing, but definitely not the mild 60-plus degrees he now recognized as average December temperatures in Malibu. Not to mention the odd days when the needle on the outdoor thermometer moved past 70. On those occasions it felt more like Memorial Day than Christmas.

McCormick stood near the Coyote for a few moments, frowning gloomily as he studied the fresh bullet-holes in the left rear panel. "This'll be easy, kid – just meeting with a guy who wants out of a money laundering deal," the judge had said. The day before, he and Hardcastle had gone to an "unsavory" part of the city to talk with a potential witness. The man, panicky and paranoid, had said he was ready to get out of the business and spill his guts – provided he received protection and avoided incarceration. The meeting had not gone well, as the man's associates had arrived unexpectedly, and had taken umbrage at the presence of the ex-con and the retired jurist.

The retired jurist was now exiting the main house. He came down the steps with an expression roughly similar to the ex-con's. He grunted at Mark. It sounded something like, "Come on."

McCormick dutifully followed Hardcastle to the man's new pickup, but the judge's grouchier-than-usual manner – first evident in the surly phone call – made the younger man edgy. "I thought you said this money laundering case was going to be easy, Judge," he said, his tone verging on whining.

"Quit yer complaining. We need to tie up a few loose ends, that's all."

The wisecrack slipped out without warning, accompanied by a quick grin.

"So, we just need to iron out the wrinkles?"

Hardcastle turned on McCormick with a barely checked fury, and Mark backed up in surprise, immediately sobering.

"Just for that, you're staying home!"

McCormick shrugged, feigning indifference. "I had enough of the place yesterday." It was true; it had taken an eternity for him and the judge to give their statements after yesterday's debacle, and he hadn't been looking forward to another visit to the cop shop. At the same time, he felt slighted.

"Good," the judge said, climbing into his truck. "And if you're looking for something to do, you can wash and wax my car."

"Judge, it's only fifty degrees today!"

"Just find something that'll keep you out of trouble!" the older man snapped. Then he started the pickup and drove away, glaring grumpily out the windshield.

"Me stay out of trouble? You stay out of trouble," McCormick muttered, watching the judge leave. "'Wash my car, McCormick. Wax my car, McCormick.' I notice we never take your car when we go on these hinky assignments."

Then again, the Corvette was a convertible, and Hardcastle rarely drove it with the top up, even in December. Mark sighed. There wouldn't be much safeguard from flying bullets in the judge's car.

Of course, the Coyote didn't offer a hell of a lot of protection, either.

"Enough moping," McCormick chided himself. "You wanted a chance to go Christmas shopping. Well, here you go."

He walked back to the Coyote, taking his ever-present keyring from his jeans pocket. Sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine almost simultaneously, he gunned the race car down the driveway.

ooOoo

McCormick parked at the curb and hoisted himself out of the Coyote, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. He scanned the festive shop windows distractedly. He was still partially bemused with his actions. Picking up a Christmas gift for Sarah was one thing – his mother had taught him to show respect and appreciation for his elders, and he felt both of those things in spades when it came to the matriarch of Gulls' Way. And he hoped she knew that, even if all he could afford to get her was a small, hokey trinket.

But then there was how he felt about Hardcase. Respect and appreciation? Okay, maybe appreciation. And a little admiration. But that's the same thing as respect, isn't it? Damn.

Even though Mark had only been in residence at the estate for roughly three months, he felt he knew the judge pretty well. Still, he had no clue what to get the man for a gift. Hardcastle had more money than God, and seemed to want for nothing. A new baseball cap for his collection? I wonder if there's a team that uses a donkey as their logo? Mark grinned to himself as he ambled further down the sidewalk. Or maybe a new wallet? But that seemed kind of personal.

The idea of a new wallet jogged McCormick's memory, and his grin grew as he thought of the extra forty dollars in his own wallet, cash he'd won off of the judge after yesterday morning's basketball game. Hardcastle had actually won the contest, but McCormick had doubled down on a pulse bet, and now had two twenty dollar bills to show for it.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Mark barely discerned the jingling of the bell until he was almost on top of it. He paused to study the source of the noise: a man dressed as Santa Claus, eagerly ringing a hand bell and encouraging passers-by to donate to The Salvation Army. The heavy-set, bearded man stood next to a familiar red kettle.

Santa nodded at the ex-con with a broad smile. "Merry Christmas, young man! Care to donate to those less fortunate?"

McCormick barely hesitated. Remembering how he had been one of those "less fortunate" just a few short months ago, he pulled one of the twenties out of his wallet and shoved it into the slot on the kettle. He was turning away when a high voice piped up nearby.

"Look, Mommy! Santa Claus!"

Mark looked in the direction of the voice, and saw a small girl of about four, holding the hand of an attractive brunette who looked much too pretty to be her mother. Wearing a short fur coat, a grey skirt, and red tights with long black boots, the woman looked warm and sexy at the same time. McCormick was suddenly conscious of his old leather jacket, faded jeans, and battered Nikes.

"Well, hello, sweetheart!" Santa had moved away from the kettle to bend down near the child. "Have you been a good girl this year – " the man paused slightly, looking up at the mother. "Jamie," the woman mouthed.

"—Jamie?" Santa finished. The girl's eyes widened as a delighted smile filled her face. "You know my name!" she whispered.

"Oh, I know when you're sleeping, and I know when you're awake. So you'd better be good, for goodness sake."

Jamie nodded slowly, a look of such seriousness on her face that McCormick nearly laughed. He realized he'd been watching the entire interaction with a dopey grin. He also realized the mother was now regarding him with unalloyed interest. On further inspection, Mark saw the woman's left hand – still clutching her daughter's – had no wedding ring.

A woman with a kid? Huh. Okay. Sure, why not? It's Christmas.

He was about to turn on the McCormick charm when all hell broke loose.

One minute the four were standing immersed in the sweet moment. Then in an instant, a thin, gangly blur burst into their small group, grabbed the donation kettle off of its stand, and continued down the sidewalk.

All thoughts of a holiday romance left McCormick's mind. Before he'd even made the conscious decision, he was pursuing the thief. "Hey! Stop him!" he yelled, but the man with the absconded kettle was nimble, and he wound his way around anyone who might have had the inclination to get involved. Not only was the thief nimble, he was fast. McCormick could feel a stitch forming in his side as he ran, trying to avoid the same bystanders the first man had dashed past.

The thief turned his head briefly to check how close his tail was. McCormick caught sight of the man's face, and saw the "man" was actually a kid, probably not older than fifteen. And his expression was one of desperate fear.

Seeing how Mark was only a few steps behind him, the kid suddenly swerved off the sidewalk and into traffic, in a last-ditch attempt to shake off his pursuer. Unable to immediately cease his own forward motion, McCormick finally skidded to a stop at the intersection. He was about to enter the crosswalk when he heard the sickening thud, and jerked his head toward the sound.

The kid had almost made it across the street. Maybe five feet before he would've reached the opposite curb, a beat-up Toyota had slammed into him. McCormick watched in horror as the boy tumbled off the hood of the car to land in a crumpled heap. The donation kettle crashed to the street, breaking open. Coins exploded out onto the ground, and dollar bills fluttered in the breeze.

An immediate crowd formed on the far side of the street, causing cars to slow and swerve. It appeared to the ex-con that the majority of the people were attempting to claim the scattered money. The horror in his gut now mingling with disgust, Mark stepped off the curb and into the crosswalk, meaning to join the smaller group attending to the fallen thief.

The screeching of tires on his right caused McCormick to turn his head.

He was able to think "Mercedes 500SL, nice car." And then it hit him.

He'd just finished giving his "creative" statement to the officer who'd sought him out at the hospital, a cop named Caruso that he'd thought was one of Carlton's men; McCormick knew he'd seen the man once or twice at the police station during one of his and the judge's many visits. The talk with the police officer had drained him more than he had expected, and after Caruso had closed his notebook and left, Mark had drifted off into a light doze. He'd been almost asleep when he was awakened by Hardcastle's familiar grumbling voice, somewhere in the distance. McCormick sat up slightly, then groaned and lay back down on the gurney. He'll just have to find me, he thought, again closing his eyes.

A few minutes later (or maybe a few hours, McCormick was finding it difficult to keep track of time), Hardcastle walked into the curtained area, accompanied by the emergency room doctor. McCormick opened his eyes, grinning wanly at both men.

"Am I getting out of here?"

"Are you still feeling nauseous, light-headed?" The doctor asked.

McCormick see-sawed his hand. "Not so much nauseous anymore. I don't know if that's because I'm feeling better, or because I don't have anything left in my stomach." He tried another grin. Neither man returned it.

Mark attempted sitting up again, and while he was able to remain upright, he winced against the dizziness. "Maybe I'm a little light-headed," he confessed. Hardcastle gripped his right elbow, steadying him.

The physician assessed his wobbly patient. "I'd like you to be able to walk a straight line before you leave here. You already have a mild concussion – you don't need to trip and hit your head again." The man then gestured at the judge. "But I spoke to Mr. Hardcastle about your injuries, and I believe you'll be fine to leave as long as you listen to him and follow my instructions." McCormick and Hardcastle exchanged looks: one hopeless, and one smug. The doctor continued. "I realize this may put a damper on your Christmas plans," he directed at Hardcastle, "but he'll need to take it easy for the next few days."

The judge made a dismissive gesture. "That's fine. Just staying home this year, anyway."

The doctor nodded, then pulled aside the curtain. "I'll get your paperwork together, Mr. McCormick."

Hardcastle and McCormick watched the physician leave the cubicle. When the man was out of earshot, the judge turned to the ex-con.

"I thought I told you to stay out of trouble."

McCormick didn't respond, instead rubbing the back of his head, grimacing. "Damn, this hurts."

"Then stop playing with it." With a surprisingly gentle touch, Hardcastle pulled the younger man's hand down. "You didn't answer me."

"Despite what you might think, Hardcase, I don't go looking for trouble. That's your M.O., not mine."

The judge snorted softly. "Well, how about telling me why you were down there in the first place."

"I had errands to run," Mark answered vaguely. "I didn't realize I was on house arrest." He closed his eyes briefly, waiting out a slight surge of nausea, and then moaned.

"What? You okay?"

"Yeah. . . " McCormick sighed in utter dejection. "But the Coyote is still downtown. Damn it."

Hardcastle waved a hand. "Ah, I got your car."

"You – " McCormick stared, suddenly sure that he was disoriented again. "How?"

"I was in Carlton's office when the accident call came in, you know," the judge said. "Didn't know right away that you were involved, but somehow, I wasn't surprised." McCormick rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it, as a simultaneous wave of pain and dizziness hit.

Hardcastle waited for McCormick to recover before he went on. "Carlton ran me down to the scene in a squad. I wanted to get there and see how you were, but they had just taken you off in the ambulance. Anyway, I picked up your car. Drove it here."

"What about your truck?"

"It's at the police station. It's a helluva lot safer there than your car was downtown. I'll figure out how to get it home once we get you home."

Mark looked down at the floor under his dangling feet. "That was – really nice, Judge. Thanks."

The judge grunted. "So now you owe me a favor. Tell me what really happened."

"What do you mean, what happened?" McCormick looked up. "I got hit by a car – a nice car. Next year's model, even."

"I mean before that. And I want the truth, not the version you gave Officer Caruso. Your statement sounded like a fairy tale."

McCormick's eyes narrowed. "How do you know what I said to Caruso?"

Hardcastle let out a sharp breath. "Are we really gonna do this? Don't you know by now that I know people, and I can find things out? I ran into Caruso as he was leaving, and I read the statement you gave him. Let me see if I've got this right." The judge squinted his eyes as he adopted a thoughtful expression. "You said there was some third guy – one you conveniently couldn't describe – and that he was the one that stole the donation kettle, and the kid was chasing him. Oh, and you were just going about your business, and only got involved when you saw the kid get hit by the car." Hardcastle looked intently at McCormick. "That right?"

Mark returned the hard look. "How did you wrangle my statement out of Caruso? What did you do, threaten to have Carlton make him work on Christmas?"

"I have a right to read your statement, wise guy. You're in my custody, you know."

"I was the victim here, Hardcase – I got hit by the car! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Yeah, except for providing false information to a police officer."

McCormick huffed, but didn't answer. The judge went on. "No one else corroborates your report. Your story sure as hell didn't match what the witnesses said. Honestly, kid, don't you think the bell-ringer guy knows who nabbed his kettle?" When Mark still didn't speak, only staring stonily ahead, Hardcastle continued. "Caruso said maybe you were confused because of the knock to your head. I let him believe that. But you're going to give him an amended statement when you're feeling better, you hear me?"

McCormick shook his head minutely, mindful of the pain that accompanied larger gestures. "Wait. How do you know what the witnesses said? How many statements did Caruso have in that notebook?"

Hardcastle frowned slightly, not meeting McCormick's eyes.

"Judge, you said you went down there to check on me, and when you saw I was already gone, you picked up my car and drove it here. That is what you told me, right? I didn't imagine that?"

Hardcastle cleared his throat, and turned his head toward the curtain. "The doc's taking his sweet time with your paperwork."

"Judge!" The loudness of his own voice caused a sharp pain in his head, but McCormick ignored it. "You want me to be honest with you? How about you try and be honest with me."

Hardcastle turned back to glare at the younger man. "I didn't lie to you! I did what I said." He lowered his voice. "Maybe I did a little more. Like talk to that Salvation Army Santa, and a witness or two. And I guess I had a few words with the guy that hit you."

Mark's irritated expression faded, and a pleased grin took its place. "A few words, huh?"

Hardcastle's glare increased. "Don't go and get full of yourself! You're just damn lucky you were in the crosswalk when he hit you, and that he admitted he was at fault – he was too busy looking at the crowd around that kid, and he didn't see you until it was too late."

"I'm lucky?" McCormick asked incredulously. "The docs here destroyed my jacket getting it off. I loved that jacket." He sighed theatrically, then grinned again. "Hey, have you gotten me a Christmas gift yet? I could really use a new leather jacket."

"Knock it off." The judge's face softened slightly as a smile attempted to break through the glare. "Okay, so now you know – I talked to a few people. I talked to the cops that were still at the scene. I know what happened. So why did you lie to Caruso?" Hardcastle pressed. "Create this fiction of the kid chasing a mystery bad guy?"

McCormick was quiet. He examined the bandage covering the deep scrapes on his left arm, and experimented bending his sprained knee.

"C'mon, kid," Hardcastle coaxed. "A good conscience is a continual Christmas."

McCormick looked up in amazed disbelief, and the judge laughed aloud. "Benjamin Franklin," he explained.

"Man, you must have just been waiting to use that one," McCormick muttered.

"I figured with you, I wouldn't have to wait too long." Milt grinned. "Now tell me why you lied."

Mark closed his eyes. "I had good reason," he said wearily.

"Enlighten me."

McCormick took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and looked imploringly at his friend.

"He's just a kid, Judge. And his face, when I was chasing him. . . He was terrified. He ran out in traffic and almost got himself killed, just to get away from me." Mark grimaced. He thought it would be awhile before he forget the "thud" of the Toyota hitting the kid.

"That's not your fault, kiddo."

"I know that. Well, I guess I do. If I hadn't chased him, maybe. . . But I didn't think about it. I just ran. And now he's lying beat up in a hospital bed."

Hardcastle looked around the cubicle. "Do I need to point out where you are?"

"I'm fine." Mark rolled his shoulders, and hissed softly as a sharp pain shot up his back. "Okay, maybe not 'fine,' but not as bad as him. Concussion, broken collarbone, couple of busted ribs, broken leg. And a helluva lot more bruises and scrapes than me."

The judge looked critically at the younger man. "And how do you know that?"

"You're not the only one who can find things out, Judge." McCormick snorted. "I also found out he's fourteen, his name is Nick, and he has an eight-year-old brother named Chris. It's just them and their mom, and money's really tight. That's all I got before they took him up to surgery. And there was a search party looking for me by then anyway." He grinned sheepishly. "But I got a pretty good feeling about him. He's not a bad kid."

"Well, he made a bad choice."

"Judge, he was desperate! And it was an impulse, it wasn't like he was planning it."

"So you thought you'd help him out by fudging your statement? Saying that he was chasing someone else who stole the charity kettle, so he could be the hero of the piece, instead of the villain?"

"He's not a villain!" McCormick protested loudly, and then raised a hand to his head. "Damn."

"Settle down." Hardcastle reached out to place a hand on the ex-con's shoulder. "You're in a hospital, keep your voice down."

"Well, don't get me riled up," Mark mumbled. Then, more clearly: "He's a kid. He's not a villain."

"He's a thief."

McCormick studied the judge for a moment, his face expressionless. When he spoke, his monotone voice matched his blank face.

"Is that all I am? A thief?"

Hardcastle gave a huff, and rubbed his nose. He inhaled as if preparing to speak, stopped, sighed, and then tried again.

"You're the guy that chases the thieves."

McCormick raised his eyebrows slightly as he considered the compliment. "Well, maybe now. But I wasn't always. I was that kid. And I don't want him to follow the same path I did."

Mark's head dropped, and his next words were almost a whisper.

"I just want him to have a chance."

Milt regarded the lowered head, and sighed inwardly. He felt his bad temper fading, as it was overcome with something that felt like compassion.

How do I let this kid get to me?

Well, actually he did have an idea. He'd already been upset after the near miss the day before, and the fact that he hadn't predicted the abrupt bad turn their witness meeting had taken. He and McCormick had gotten out of that situation by the skin of their teeth, and only then because of McCormick's driving prowess. And how did he thank the kid for getting them out of that jam? By taking out his frustrations on him. Grumbling and yelling at him when he didn't deserve it. Then when Hardcastle had learned of McCormick's accident, and had not immediately known the kid's condition. . . He'd been surprised, and a little unsettled, by how worried he'd been. Carlton had run him to the scene in a squad car not only because it was quicker, but also because the lieutenant wasn't convinced Milt could drive himself there without breaking a few traffic laws.

If Hardcastle had been surprised by how worried he'd been about McCormick, he'd been floored by how relieved he had been once he'd heard the kid's injuries weren't serious. Sure, he'd realized during the case with Tina Grey that McCormick had started to feel less like a business partner and more like a friend, or – dare he say it – a son. But this time it had seemed even more so. It's because it's Christmas, Milt thought. Everybody gets sentimental at Christmas.

Apparently even cantankerous old retired judges.

Even as relieved as he'd been, it hadn't prevented him from tearing into the driver of the Mercedes that had hit the kid. Enough so that the extremely apologetic man had promised that once he was done with the police, his next stop would be the hospital – to make arrangements to pay for McCormick's medical bills.

This time the sigh was audible, and somewhat resigned.

"Maybe you're right, McCormick."

McCormick raised his head. "I am?" he asked doubtfully.

"Sure. The kid deserves a chance. But there's legal ways we can do that, you know."

"Yeah?" Mark's face brightened. "You would do that? You would help him?"

Hardcastle held up a hand. "But he's gotta help himself. Make restitution for the lost money." McCormick opened his mouth, and the judge shushed him with a gesture. "I know, he doesn't have the money to spare. So he can do community service, once he's back on his feet. Maybe even volunteer for The Salvation Army. It probably wouldn't need to be much – the bell-ringer Santa I talked to said he got a good share of the money back. A lot of the people who scooped it up turned it in. Christmas goodwill and all."

"But you could help him? That would be great. He doesn't deserve juvie for something like this. I mean, he didn't hurt anyone – "

Hardcastle stared at his friend. "I feel like I need to keep reminding you where you are. You keep this up, I'm gonna suggest they admit you."

"Ha. Fat chance." McCormick slid off the gurney to stand upright, and was pleased to feel only a touch of wooziness. "Anyway, he didn't hurt me, the guy in the Mercedes did." The ex-con pulled at the judge's arm. "Let's go find my doctor so we can get out of here. I'm hungry. I missed lunch and I threw up my breakfast."

The two men left the curtained area and walked toward the emergency room desk, McCormick limping slightly. "You know, Judge," he said casually, "if you really want to help Nick, you could maybe chip in a little for his hospital bills. . . Even if they get a financial hardship discount, his family can't afford a big bill like that."

"Don't push it, McCormick," Hardcastle growled.

"Aw, c'mon, Judge." McCormick clapped the older man on the shoulder. "Remember what St. Francis of Assisi said."

Milt fought back a grin. "Yeah, what's that?"

"For it is in giving that we receive."

END