Author's note:- Ok, for those of you who don't know me, I'd better explain that, when it comes to cliffhangers, I am, in fact, evil with a capital E and a capital VIL as well. I hope you enjoy this, please let me know - J

Chapter 2: If Only. . .

Mark got a few steps before he stopped. Normally his anger would have taken him clear back to the gatehouse but he simply couldn't sustain the build up of emotion. It was like trying to inflate a leaking tyre. The emotion was there all right he could feel it forming, and he'd sure as hell been angry at the Judge for keeping Melissa's escape from him. He'd been able to feel the red haze, and it wasn't as if he'd never been angry at the Judge before. He made decisions that were just so damn infuriating, treating him like a kid, and he hadn't been a kid in such a long time, hadn't been allowed to be a kid for as long as he should have been, and, whenever Hardcastle made him feel like that, there was the conflict that every teenager feels, that makes them want to tear themselves apart, the conflict between needing respect for their independence and ability to function unaided in the world, and the need to still have someone who would love and protect them. The need that made every teenage child argue with their parents. The fact that McCormick was nearly thirty, didn't alter the fact that what the relationship between him and the judge needed to undergo, was a natural right of passage, before it could build into anything stronger. It was scarily predictable and normal for a young man who had missed out on so much growing up.

This, however, wasn't normal. If he'd just felt the anger for another half an hour, stomped around and vowed to prove the judge wrong, then it would have been normal. So what was different, apart from the fact that he couldn't seem to hold on to that anger and frustration, apart from the way it now swirled around him but not in him, because in him just seemed empty.

Empty.

He sighed and scrubbed his hand across his face, briefly considering going back inside. There was a part of him that knew the judge hadn't meant the comment. If he'd said it a year ago, then yes, there would have been some truth to it, and Mark might have taken it literally, but that was then and this was now, and there was so much more to their relationship. Hardcastle only ever dropped back to being 'judicial' when he was trying to protect him from something.

Yes, and right now he's trying to protect you from yourself, just like he did last week. He's trying to stop you from doing something stupid, just like he's always done. He cares about you.

Mark looked back at the door longingly, there was a part of him that wanted to go back, a part of him that needed to go back, that needed to feel protected, but the black emotions wouldn't let him.

'He's better off without you,' the idea drifted up from somewhere deep inside, and although his consciousness was tempted to argue with the voice that gave the thought form and meaning, he couldn't help acknowledging that deep down he believed it. 'The way you are now, you're only going to get worse. Do you want to drag him down with you? He'll try to help you and it will kill him too.'

'He's better off without you.'

In the end the voice of negativity won. Mark turned, shoulders slumped in defeat and walked slowly back towards the gatehouse.

H&MCH&MC

'Well that went well', Hardcastle told himself as he stared thoughtfully across his desk, chewing on the edge of his finger. He shook his head slightly. 'I'm your parole officer,' 'you're in my Judicial stay,' ' I could send you back to prison' Way to go judge, all phrases he'd used, all guaranteed to make the kid trust him, he didn't think. What on earth had possessed him to go back to that? He hadn't felt the need to threaten the kid in a long time now, at least not with any strength of meaning behind it, and even if he did the kid just laughed it off. He knew where he stood, at least he had done, but now. . ? Did McCormick even recognise that he just wanted to protect him, that he was looking out for him the way the kid had demonstrated time and time again that he would look out for the Judge?

He stared at the door for the den. Should he go after him? Normally no, he would give him a good half hour to calm down, cool his heels, then either McCormick would turn up in the kitchen starting lunch or dinner, and the question of what they were having would be used to break the ice back into what passed for normal between them, or, depending on the time of day, the Judge would go out on the pretence of checking up on whatever chore it was that McCormick was busying himself with, and a détente would be established in the only way that two alpha males could. That wasn't going to happen today, not just because, given Mark's injury, neither scenario was likely, but because this was one of those very rare arguments where one of them, or sometimes both of them went too far. In those cases there was either an eating of lots of crow on one side or the other, or, more rarely, there were several days of testosterone fuelled stand-off, but again, neither scenario seemed likely to the Judge, and so he was left with what? Unexplored territory, and in this case it would be up to him to do the exploring, because McCormick certainly wasn't in any condition to.

That left an awful lot of questions. Leave him? Go after him? Wait until he came back on his own? Give him time to cool off and then. . ? He pinched the end of his nose. This was giving him a headache.

'Pancakes,' the word on it's own seemed incongruous to his train of thought. Then he got it. The kid wanted pancakes. If he made them it would give him an excuse to take them over to the gatehouse. After all, the doctor had insisted that if he left the hospital then he had to have regular meals. So it was the perfect excuse. He could take them over, see how the kid was doing and take it from there. If he was ready to talk then he would stay. If he wasn't then at least he could get a look at him, make sure he hadn't done anything irreparable, maybe even make him listen even if he wasn't ready to.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Hardcastle pushed himself from his seat and headed for the hallway to retrieve the bags from the market before heading for the kitchen.

H&MCH&MC

Hardcastle had a stack of eight pancakes ready when he heard the tell tale sound of the Coyote. He had just been arguing with himself about whether it was enough, or should he do a couple more. Even though he knew he probably already had more than McCormick would eat, especially given his recent appetite, the compulsion to do that extra couple, 'just in case,' had been too much, and he had started to pour the mixture into the pan when the dull roar of the engine firing reached him.

He just about had the presence of mind to turn the gas off before he headed for the door at a run, but he was too late. The bright red machine was already disappearing round the bend in the drive. "McCormick," he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Come back," he ran futilely down the drive, still able to hear the roaring engine even though it remained beyond his line of vision. He ran until he could see the gate, but he was too late to even tell what direction the kid had turned as he cleared the driveway.

He briefly gave consideration to going after him, but he didn't have either the keys for the truck or the Corvette and by the time he'd made it back to the house and retrieved them, the trail, such as it was, would've run cold. Dammit, he didn't even know which way he'd turned. If only he'd done less pancakes. . . If only he'd just headed after him. . If only. . .

He wasn't sure how long he stood staring at the empty drive for. It could have been a few seconds; it could have been an hour. He let out a long breath as his mind once again began to function, and all he had was questions. Had the kid gone out to drive around to clear his head? That wasn't unheard of, driving always seemed to have a soothing effect on him. Not that he should be driving at all of course, not with his shoulder in the condition it was, not having passed out and nearly drowned only the day before. Or had he been mad enough, and stupid enough to think he could head out to Arizona to start looking for Melissa Kantwell? Until the judge could answer that he wouldn't know where to begin to start looking, or if he even needed to.

He cursed softly to himself as he turned and headed back towards the house.

H&MCH&MC

Melissa shook out her hair and revelled in the feeling of the wind blowing through it as she slipped the Coyote into a higher gear, and pressed her foot back down on the accelerator. "Oh Sugar, isn't that feeling of acceleration just the most exhilarating thing you ever felt?" she asked, glancing across at her companion in the passenger seat, completely oblivious to the fact that unconscious people do not answer questions.

McCormick's head shifted slightly as she took a tight bend too fast, and the back tyres went into a short lived skid sideways before gripping the road again with a slight shudder as they came out of the turn. A small trickle of blood rolled down his forehead.

"Oh yeah, Sugar," Melissa shouted enthusiastically over the roar of the engine. "You and me are going to have some fun."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .