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

Rated: K+

Author's Note: Following on after #8, the aftermath of Point of Transition. Oh, and there are brief references to Hoops and A Worden Christmas, for those who are puzzled.

Sessions—9

"I thought you might be tired of Italian," Hardcastle smiled and, at the upward arc of Westerfield's right eyebrow, he added, with a knowing nod, "McCormick came home with tomato sauce on his tie Saturday."

"That's a lot of deductive reasoning from one stain."

"Practice." The judge shrugged. "I'd been kind of wondering how soon he'd call you."

"You beat him by two hours Friday afternoon, I believe," Westerfield looked at the other man steadily. "But he asked for the earlier appointment." He was watching. There was no flinch. He supposed it was all right as long as it was McCormick he was talking about, rather than the judge himself.

Either that, or an overriding sense of worry had the man distracted. Westerfield jerked one thumb over his shoulder. "We could walk down by the park. I'm kind of in the mood for a hot dog." Somehow he thought this might be one conversation better conducted side-by-side rather than face-to-face.

Hardcastle gave that a quick nod, as though he appreciated the motives immediately. He settled into a strolling walk, chin down and hands in his pocket.

"Lunch went okay Saturday?" the judge asked, very tentatively after a moment or two of silence. "I mean . . ." he backed off, almost seeming embarrassed. He'd gotten the semi-stern refusal to share information enough times; it appeared he was expecting it again.

"How's he been?" Westerfield tried to make it sound like a friend asking, not a psychiatrist.

Hardcastle stopped in his tracks, and half-turned to face him, with a look of surprise on his face. "You talked to him Saturday. What do you think?"

"I meant since then . . . and maybe before, too." Westerfield smiled gently.

From Hardcastle there was a sigh. "Okay . . . well, maybe he was a little more, I dunno . . . settled, yesterday. Hard to say. At least he wasn't avoiding me like he was on Friday." He paused, as though he'd been about to ask him straight out what he'd said to change things, and caught himself at the last moment. He finally started up again, a more neutral statement. "It's been a while since you've seen him, I guess."

Westerfield cocked his head. "Yeah, over a year, I think. Was I wrong in assuming that was a good sign?"

They'd continued on in their walk. The judge said nothing for a moment, then cleared his throat and stuffed his hands a little deeper in his jacket pockets. "It's been tough for him the last year or so, ya know. There are a lot of people who look kinda cross-eyed at a guy with his background making a run at the bar. It took some doing. A lot of hearings. Paperwork."

"All successful."

"Yeah, in the end. But, see, that's what I thought was the problem at first. He was worrying about it all the time. Then we got past that."

"But he didn't stop worrying, eh?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "No, if anything, that last semester of law school it got worse. Took me a while to figure that one out. I mean, besides the pre-bar jitters. Everybody gets those."

Westerfield nodded.

"Nah, this was more like being afraid of what would happen if he did succeed. You know, the responsibility. He takes that pretty seriously, maybe because he knows the consequences."

"Makes sense."

"And I talked to him about it."

Westerfield tried to control the look of surprise on his face, but Hardcastle had already glanced to the side and caught it. He smiled. "I do talk to him, and it's not always about the Dodgers." The smile briefly flashed into a grin, and then subsided. "So . . . okay, he didn't exactly lighten up. Well, maybe he did a little, when we went back to Arkansas last Christmas—that's where I'm from originally, Arkansas—but then we got back, and he was done with school, and the bar was coming up and you woulda thought he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell."

The judge finally paused to take a breath and then he added, in a puzzled tone, "I dunno where he got that idea. I think he knew more going in to law school than some people know coming out."

"Practical experience has to count for something," Westerfield nodded encouragingly.

"You're damn right, not to mention he's a pretty quick study. He had to be; I didn't cut him much slack." The judge said this with a note of personal pride. Then that smile faded, too. "But I figured, what the hell, he'd get through the bar exam, and he'd get the results and then . . . well, then everything would be hunky-dory, ya know?"

"And that was last Thursday."

"Yeah, we had a little celebration and all. I took him down to Barney's Beanery, and he opened the envelope."

"That was a surprise, too?" Westerfield asked quietly.

"Well . . . yeah."

"I don't suppose you thought of what might have happened if the results weren't what you'd been expecting."

Hardcastle gave him a brief, blank look, followed by a quick shake of the head. "Not you, too? No, he had that exam nailed. I've never seen anyone so ready."

"Okay," Westerfield sighed. "I grant you that. You're the expert," he added, leaving up in the air exactly which area of familiarity covered this situation. "And then, after that?"

"Well, we polished off a bottle of champagne, and I ran him by the new office."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, it was supposed to be a surprise." There was at least a hint of rueful chagrin in the judge's expression. "Okay," he admitted, "maybe I didn't want to listen to anymore of that 'this is never going to work' hooey. I was tired of arguing with him about it. You know he was starting to look for work as a paralegal. It was like he figured I was going to kick him out if he didn't start paying rent or something. Where does he get these ideas?"

Westerfield didn't have to give this much consideration before he answered, "From the sub-basement—the department of early childhood rejection. Once it's down there, it never really goes away."

Hardcastle frowned. "I suppose." He let that hang there for a moment, still layered with some disbelief. The he took in another slow breath and let it out before starting up again.

"Well, that night, when I took him over to the office, he seemed okay about it, maybe a little, I dunno . . ."

"Shocked?"

"Surprised," the judge corrected abruptly.

"Well, it was meant to be a surprise; that's what you said, right?"

"Yeah." The rueful smile was back. "But we had talked about it, honest. I thought it was what he wanted." A moment of strained silence and then, "I thought he'd be happy."

"You think he's not?"

"Yeah, well, the next day, Friday, we were supposed to go back over there, get some stuff settled. But he seemed sort of . . . distant."

"'Distant'?"

"As in maybe he thought he'd made a bad decision, that kind of distant. You know, avoiding me."

"Maybe 'distant', as in needing some space?"

He saw the judge blanch, as though he hadn't wanted to hear that version out loud. Hardcastle swallowed once but didn't answer.

"Everyone needs it sooner or later," Westerfield pointed out. "Even close relationships have boundaries. A person can step away from something without intending to leave."

Hardcastle appeared to be taking this in. He nodded once.

"And you have to admit, he's got a lot to deal with right now. He told me about the directorship."

"That," Hardcastle huffed. "Ya know it's really just a start-up operation. A storefront office, that's all."

"With a well-known ex-judge on the staff? I doubt it's going to stay small for long," Westerfield speculated. "So, why the role-reversal?"

"Well," Hardcastle frowned again, as though he hadn't planned on putting it into words, "maybe it's time for him to stop thinking of himself as Tonto."

"Maybe that scares him."

Hardcastle looked indignant. "See, that's what I mean. He's gonna be a better lawyer than I was. I mean, I was a good enough judge, but lawyering, it's not just knowing the law, you've got to be good with people. I dunno, it's a little bit of a con job sometimes." He glanced aside in almost-embarrassment, as though he'd hated to admit it. "You know he's got that, right? Not that I think he'll abuse it," he amended hastily, "but damned if he doesn't have it."

"Well, that's good."

"What?" Hardcastle asked, seeming to sense there was more to the comment than mere agreement.

"Oh, that you see him as different—not a carbon copy."

Hardcastle stood in stunned silence for a moment, as though the thought of similarity had never occurred to him. He finally found some words. "We aren't at all alike."

Westerfield carefully suppressed a smile.

Smile or no, the other man caught the whiff of disbelief. He hmmphed. "Come on, Doc, just because we're both lawyers . . ." There was a hint of a smile at the end of this, as though being able to make that off-hand comment was a source of quiet pleasure.

"It's good, like I said. And I think the directorship was a good idea, too, even if it does take a little time for you both to adjust to it."

Hardcastle looked puzzled. "'Both'? It was my idea." Then the expression only deepened as the silence spun out, with Westerfield giving him a pointed look.

"Ah," the judge finally said. "I think I get it."

"You're pretty quick on the uptake for an old 'emeritus' lawyer."

"But he never would have asked for it. He would have just gone along, being Tonto. He needed a little nudge."

"It was more like a kick in the pants, the way you did it," Westerfield smiled. "No wonder you thought you needed to get him liquored up first."

"It was only one bottle of champagne and a Corona." Hardcastle grinned. "And don't worry; I'll be there. I wasn't going to make him fly solo—not right at the start."

"But, eventually."

After a quiet couple of seconds, Hardcastle finally said, "Eventually we all have to. And he'll want to be on his own, sooner or later." There was the faintest of grimaces there.

"Have you talked to him? I mean, about that?"

A quick negative shake of the head.

"You should, I think. You might be surprised."

"Anyway," Hardcastle raised his eyes, "he thought he wanted it, the directorship I mean. I'm pretty sure he did. Maybe now he's having second thoughts. Gratitude can only go so far. It's a lousy leash."

"You didn't want a leash, though, did you?"

"Nah," Hardcastle shook his head, "well, maybe at the very beginning, just to keep him from running off and trying to get himself killed. Lord knows, it didn't always work, even for that. No," another quick negative shake, "no leash. He's been free for a long time, even if he didn't realize it."

"What makes you think he didn't?"

"Well, he must by now." The judge shrugged his shoulders. "He's been out of school for six months now."

"And you think that was all that held him, before that? His parole, and then the tuition?"

"No," Hardcastle blinked in surprise. "Nah, neither of them. I practically had to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him before he'd even admit his parole was up. And he was in law school almost a whole semester before I caught on to that. I think he only moved out then because he was worried that I'd think he was taking advantage of me."

"Doesn't sound like a guy who was trying to cut and run."

"No, never that," the judge agreed. "And the tuition was just an excuse I made up for him to stay. But, now . . ."

"Now you move on," Westerfield prompted gently. "But I don't think that necessarily means moving much apart."

There was another moment of silence. Hardcastle's chin dropped down slowly, and then he cast a slow sideward glance at the other man. "Maybe McCormick wasn't the only one who needed a nudge. Maybe I thought I needed one, too. If I didn't let go some, he'd have to pull away."

"You do exert a pretty strong gravitational field," Westerfield admitted. "Your friend the police lieutenant said something about that."

"You mean I'm overbearing and obnoxious sometimes? Hah, Harper ignores me when I get like that. So does McCormick, mostly."

"And when the relative position of things change, there's bound to be some wobble before there's a new equilibrium." Westerfield smiled as he carried the analogy forward.

Then he broke off and added, almost without realizing he was going to, "But he is in it for the long haul." He took a breath; this wasn't psychiatric speculation anymore and he had a notion that, even if not for the wording, his tone would give that away.

He saw that he was right. Hardcastle had stopped walking again, his head turned again and cocked. The smile that appeared was very genuine and certain. "He told you to say that, huh?"

Westerfield's shrug was minimally embarrassed.

"I told you he was persuasive." Hardcastle grinned. "Well, he could have told me himself," he huffed gently. "Though I guess I'd already figured it out . . . you tell him—"

"Uh-uh," Westerfield shook his head. "None of that. You can tell him yourself, whatever it is. You'll just have to squeeze it into the seventh-inning stretch. I'm not a go-between; I'm just the guy you have lunch with.

"Look," he smiled, pointing to the corner ahead, "hotdogs."