Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Author's Note: Continuing on after the story Point of Transition.

Sessions—8

It was Friday afternoon, late enough that even the receptionist had gone home. Westerfield was nearly to the bottom of a backlog of charts, when the phone rang. He might have ignored it, except for an element of intuition that told him it very well might be related to a call that had come a few hours earlier.

He picked it up, giving a greeting that was slightly less professional than his office staff would have approved of.

"Hi, Doc," the caller replied, sounding pensive. "I know it's Friday and all, but I don't suppose you'd be free for lunch tomorrow? I'm celebrating . . . I think."

Westerfield allowed himself a brief smile—that Mark didn't even feel he had to introduce himself, and that he was right, too. "Oh, yes," he said, "I hear congratulations are in order."

There was a momentary pause from the other end and then, "So you knew about it too, huh?"

"What? Oh, you mean before? No, just this afternoon. Milt called, wanted me to know he figured the firm owed me some complimentary legal work."

This got a quick, honest laugh and, "Yeah, well that's true. Any time, I mean, if you don't mind having a lawyer who hasn't even had time to have his credentials framed." There was another pause, and then Mark's tone went back to serious again. "But if you're not free tomorrow—"

"Oh, that's no problem."

"Great." The relief was audible. "Well, Saturday . . . I could come up by your place; you got a spot around there you like?"

"Oh, here's okay. Eduardo's. They're never crowded on the weekends. I was planning on running by the office in the morning anyway. Paperwork. Noon?"

"Noon, yeah, perfect." And now, the arrangements made, the younger man seemed grateful, but in no mood to discuss anything further over the phone. The good-byes were short.

Westerfield sat for a moment after he'd hung up the phone. The call he'd fielded from Judge Hardcastle, not two hours earlier, had been outwardly more ebullient, but very pointedly also directed at a lunch date, though Hardcastle had been willing to settle for Monday. He'd also seemed surprised to be delivering the news of Mark's success with the bar exam, as though he more than half-expected that McCormick would have beaten him to the punch.

But people usually don't call their shrink with good news.

And then his plans for the law clinic, just a quick, sketchy outline, but very obviously his plans, though the judge had taken pains to use the pronoun 'we' almost religiously. Lots of room for speculation there, but Westerfield had learned not to reason in advance of the facts.

He stretched and sighed. He pushed the pile of charts to the side, plenty of time to deal with those tomorrow.

00000

Mark met him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant promptly at noon the next day. His smile was as pensive as the tone had been the day before. He didn't look like a man who had just arrived, by the oddest of possible routes, at the beginning of a career in the law.

His greeting was warm enough, though, and he looked as if he felt guilty about not being as happy as he ought to be. He ushered Westerfield before him, holding the door as they stepped into the cool and dim interior. As expected, the place was half-deserted, the professional crowd all off for the weekend.

They'd exchanged nothing but a few words before they were shown to a table, and even after that Mark seemed to be holding everything back, focusing unnecessarily on the menu before him.

Westerfield looked up from his own and studied the man before him. He wagered a guess and then acted on it. "Not quite what you expected, I'd say."

Mark lifted his head and stared at him, as if he'd had his mind read and found it disconcerting. Westerfield had a notion that he'd made a tactical error. It was a full moment more before the man responded, and then it was a half-grumble.

"Seems like Hardcase isn't the only one who knows me better than I know myself."

"'Hardcase'?"

"Hardcase Hardcastle." Mark waved it off with a hand. "Never heard that one, huh? I think more people call him that than 'Milt'."

"Well," Westerfield shrugged lightly, "it suits him."

"Yeah," Mark managed a rueful grin, "and I don't mean much by it. Really. Sorry it came out sounding . . ."

"Pissed off?"

Mark winced. "That bad?"

Another shrug.

"Okay, I guess it did." McCormick sighed. He returned to studying the menu with more attention than it required. This time Westerfield bided in silence as well.

Mark cracked first. He spoke without lifting his eyes from the page. "You talked to him. Did he tell you what happened?"

"Only that you'd passed the bar."

"Not the rest, huh?"

"Well, he mentioned the law clinic you two are setting up." Westerfield paused for a moment while Mark slowly brought his gaze up.

"Us?" He shook his head. "Not exactly. Him. He did the whole thing. He set it all up."

"You've talked about it," Westerfield said consideringly. "I thought you'd planned on that. Being partners, I mean, once you were out of law school."

"Yeah." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's what makes it so weird. I wanted it. I know I did. I still do."

"But . . .?"

"He went and set it all up. The office. Everything. I didn't have a clue. I didn't even think I'd passed the damn test."

"That's a lot of confidence."

"Well, I suppose. I dunno what he would have done if I hadn't passed." Mark frowned.

"Maybe his expectations were realistic. After all, he's been around the whole time you've been in law school."

Mark let out another sigh. "Yeah, but see, so was I. That's what I mean. He knew better than I did."

"Sometimes the perspective is better from the outside."

He got a glum nod of acceptance in return. Clearly there was something else besides self-awareness that was at issue here. Westerfield traced the conversation back a few steps.

"The surprise . . . ?" He let that trail off at the end, not wanting to do anymore unwelcome mind-reading.

This time the reaction was more like chagrin. "Sorry," Mark said again. "Really. I didn't mean to drag you out to have somebody to bitch to." He was looking a little off to the right, as though even eye contact had become too embarrassing. "And I have no reason to complain. None. The man put me through law school. Now he wants me to be the director of the damn clinic." He was shaking his head in slow disbelief.

"But it would have been nice, I suppose, to be asked," Westerfield said after a moment of thoughtful silence.

Mark shot him another look. "He did ask me."

"Sort of. A little after the fact, it sounds like."

The younger man winced again, as though the admission was almost painful. "Yeah," he finally said. "It kind of felt that way." He looked away again. "Thing is, I would've said yes."

"But it makes a difference, that you didn't feel like you had a choice?"

"Maybe that," McCormick answered slowly. Then something else came out, more in a rush—"Did he think I wouldn't? Did he feel like he had to maneuver me into it? Like I'd cut and run the first chance I got?"

He shook his head. "Anyway, it's too much, you know. I'm fresh out of law school. He's got thirty years of legal experience. He should be directing the place. I'm Tonto for crissake."

"You were hoping he'd be in charge just a little bit longer?"

Mark seemed to hesitate, and then nodded silently.

"But he'll still be there, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Mark hesitated again and then added, "He says he's some kind of emeritus something or another. That's the way he put it." His frowned deepened. "That's wrong. That makes it sound like he's retiring."

"Well," Westerfield smiled, "he already did that once, and it turned out for the best, didn't it? What makes you think this won't, too?"

"I dunno," Mark pinched the bridge of his nose again, sliding back into sullen. "I know things have to change. I've been the one saying that all along . . ."

"But?"

"But," Mark sighed slowly, "maybe I felt like I'd finally gotten everything right."

"'If it ain't broke, don't fix it?'"

"Yeah, something like that," McCormick muttered.

Westerfield smiled. "Life is a process, not an object. A fly perfectly preserved in amber is a dead fly."

Mark quirked his own crooked smile. "That's a good one. It'd make a nice bumper sticker."

"Might have some made up. It's pretty pithy," the psychiatrist grinned.

Mark's own smile had become a little rigid, then it faded away. He dropped his gaze to the menu again, though there was very little pretense left.

"So," he finally said, "what the hell is the matter with me? I've got what I wanted. I got it handed to me on a silver platter, and instead of being happy about it I feel . . ."

Westerfield waited patiently for the rest, until it became apparent that there wasn't going to be anymore. "Multiple choice or essay?"

"Huh?"

"I prefer working with the open-ended essay format myself. It's usually more revealing. But I can give you options if you need them." Westerfield was still smiling. "You feel worried, frightened," he paused for a moment and then added, "angry?"

This time the mind-reading act went over a little smoother. Mark seemed resigned to being understood. He gave the list a slow nod and said, almost quietly, "All of the above. And I understand all of it except the anger. That's just wrong. I . . ." Mark appeared to bite the rest back, as though he'd been on the verge of a confession.

He started again, a little less intensely. "He only has my best interests at heart. He's done a helluva lot for me. I'll never be able to pay him back. And now this on top of it."

Westerfield gave him a studied look and then finally said, "What makes you think all the debt is on one side?"

"He said it, way back when. I'm an expensive hobby."

"And you call him 'Hardcase Hardcastle'. Do either of you mean it?"

Mark looked momentarily startled, then he said, "Well, yeah, sometimes. He can be a real donkey. A mule even."

"Okay," Westerfield sighed, "so he's kept you around for, what, seven years is it? And you've put up with him. Why?"

McCormick blinked once but then started up as though the answer was obvious. "Because we're friends. I mean, it seems that way."

"Okay, friends. Fine. And friendship isn't like a bank; you're not supposed to keep ledgers." He got a small conceding nod from the younger man and built on that. "When I first met you two—" He saw Mark shudder slightly, as though even after two and a half years, the recollection of the judge's amnesia was still sharply painful. Westerfield paused and drew a breath. "Yeah. That was him without any awareness of your friendship."

"Sometimes I think it was harder on me than it was on him."

"I doubt that," Westerfield said firmly. "He just shows fear in a different way."

Mark shrugged. "Yeah, there's that."

"And at the very least, when he got his memory back he was terrified."

"Of what? He was better, then."

"Of losing you. It was touch and go for a while. And then, when he knew you were going to pull through, then it was the fear that he'd lost you in a different way."

Mark considered this for a moment, a shadow on his face. "I stood by him. You know that. Why would he think—?"

"Why do you think you've done so little for him that you are hopelessly in his debt?"

"Because . . ." Mark paused, frowned, then started up again, "because I'm a total idiot. I'm just as irrational about us being friends as he is." His frown turned into a rueful smile. "That's about right, isn't it?"

"There are no 'right' answers in my line of work," Westerfield grinned. "But I'll give you some points on that one."

"And the whole thing about him not giving me a choice about the directorship?"

"An interesting conundrum, I'll admit. If someone can force you to be in charge, are you really in charge?"

Mark's own grin was still rueful. "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some get shafted with it."

"I don't think that's quite how Shakespeare put it."

"Yeah, but that's what he meant." McCormick sighed. "Okay, well, if he thinks he can get out from under the responsibility with this 'emeritus' thing, he's in for a surprise. Everybody's still gonna think he's in charge."

"No doubt, some may, for a while. But eventually . . ."

McCormick's expression had gone a little more troubled again.

"I mean, if you're in it for the long haul . . ."

"I was Tonto when he wanted one. I'll be a director if that's what he wants."

Westerfield shook his head. "Two points off."

"I thought there were no wrong answers?" Mark said with an indignant look.

"I lied. A decision that important can't be made solely to satisfy someone else. If you do it for that reason, you'll wind up satisfying no one. Do you want what he's offering you?"

Mark had gone almost rigid again. He appeared to be holding his breath for a moment, as though the words, once spoken, couldn't be reclaimed.

"Yes," he finally said. "I want it."

"Then it doesn't matter if you chose then," Westerfield said. "You chose now."

McCormick sat back a little, considering this. He finally gave it a nod. Then he quirked a half smile and said, "You seeing him Monday?"

Westerfield looked quizzical for a moment before he nodded. "Now who's reading minds?" he asked mildly.

"Well," the younger man shrugged, "it's not some big hairy secret. You told me he'd called. He hasn't gone as far as trying to set up an appointment for me," Mark grinned.

The psychiatrist shook his head and smiled. 'Appointment' was not usually in the vocabulary. There was a brief twinge of pleasure at that breakthrough.

Mark's grin had gone a little softer. "You tell him something for me, will you?"

The puzzlement was back. "You won't see him before then?"

"Yeah, I'll see him," Mark conceded, "and we'll talk about the Dodgers, and how long has it been since I checked the pH on the pool, and whether it's worth it to drive all the way up to Dinkey Creek to catch a couple of trout."

"Not the important stuff, huh?"

"Whaddaya mean? The Dodgers are important . . .but this is something different." He looked nervous for a moment.

"Something you can't tell him yourself?"

Mark shrugged. "It might be hard to bring it up, you know, in between the trout and the baseball and the pool." He stared down at the table, as though he were trying to figure out how to phrase the next bit. He finally spoke. "Just tell him he doesn't have to worry. I'm in it for the long haul. He can trust me on that."

"I don't really think anyone needs to tell him that."

"Tell him anyway," Mark sounded a little urgent. "I want him to know . . . but don't tell him I told you to tell him." Mark sat back again, searching the older man's face.

"So, how am I supposed to know?"

"Tell him you've got radar. Tell him you read my mind. He'll get that," Mark smiled. "He does it all the time himself."