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Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me. This is for entertainment purposes only. No money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: Okay, while ‘Highways’ is under construction, here’s a short vignette inspired by ‘Hate the Picture, Love the Frame’ where Hardcastle is framed and has to spend a few days in the cooler. Feedback is welcomed at sarahenany@yahoo.com; this piece I feel could stand a rewrite, so let me know if it needs anything.
McCormick stared at the blank card, helplessly holding his pen. What the hell should I say?
Hardcastle was spending Christmas Eve in jail, of all places. The frame-up had been tight, and there was no way to get bail till after the holidays. McCormick’s heart tightened as he thought of the danger the Judge was in. How down he’d been when he was at home. Now spending Christmas in jail, alone and depressed-
Involuntarily he saw the image of Hardcastle sitting alone in a cold, gray cell, sitting on that iron bed he remembered so well, with no company - He dashed away the treacherous tears that had come to his eyes. Quit it, Skid! Come on. He needs you to be strong for him, not fall apart!
His eyes went to the card again. What could he say? Not the truth, certainly: ‘Hardcastle, I can’t stand it that you have to spend Christmas apart from me’ - Yeah, right. ‘I miss you, Hardcastle’ - Too mushy.
‘Hardcastle, I’ve got you to thank for where I am today’ - And just where are you, hotshot? How about ‘Wish you were here’? That sounded funny, and he didn’t think the Judge being in jail was a laughing matter. Well, maybe he would later. When he’d got him safely back home.
He could still remember the terrible scare he’d got when the Judge hadn’t been there last time he’d visited. The chill that crept out from his heart into his arms and made his hands tremble with fear. I know the prison yard. The corridors, the men’s room. I know what can happen in there. A blade, a fast move - As he’d begged the prison guard to look for Hardcastle, he’d had the irrational thought: I wish I was in there to take care of him. Now that’s a weird thought. For years I’ve wanted to avoid so much as the memory of this place. He was the one who put me in there, anyway! But it should, it should have been me instead of him. I know the prison, I can handle myself inside. But him - Oh please, God. Please. As the guard had led him inside, he’d had images of finding the Judge lying bleeding, hurt, or worse, raped -
McCormick drew a long, shuddering sigh. Thank God, that hadn’t happened. Funny as it seemed, the crazy jackass could handle himself anywhere.
His eyes went back to the card. ‘Judge, I don’t want you to be down or depressed, ever. I’ll always be there for you’ - Shit. This isn’t working. He hates that kind of talk. It’s getting late! What’s with you, Skid? Can’t write a simple Christmas card? ‘You’re the father I never had. At Christmas, I wanted you to know that I never had a real sense of family, but now I -’ Double shit! Come on, Skid! Think! He took a deep breath. ‘Take care of yourself in there, because if anything happened to you,I’d-’ Dammit! ‘I’m so worried about you inside, Judge, I-’ That’s right, add the burden of your worry to his problems.
McCormick leaned back in desperation. Anything he said would embarrass the Judge, who hated ‘mush’. But this maelstrom of love and worry raging inside him, so strong it hurt, was clouding his thoughts. He was so scared of saying the wrong thing. C’mon, Skid! Just write something, anything! ‘If I could take your place, I would’ - And what good’s that gonna do him? ‘Milt, I want you to be okay always’ - what a dumb thing to say! ‘Milt, I -’ I what? I love you, his heart supplied instantly.
I love you.
That’s all I want to say.
But you can’t just say it straight out to him, not even in a card, and it’s getting late, and I have to get the wreath to the jail, (God, Hardcastle in jail, this is insane) and I -
Decisively, McCormick picked up his pen and wrote, underneath the silly printed greeting:
Love
Mark
Closing up the card, he impulsively held it to his chest, taking a deep breath. That would have to do. He could write nothing else. He could only pray the Judge would understand what he was trying to say.
Hell, he knew he would.
In his cell, Hardcastle stared at the two simple words on the card for a long time. He knew what the use of McCormick's Christian name meant. Touched beyond words, he stared at the wreath. Then the prison lights went out.
He rested his head against the wreath and breathed in its fragrance. For a moment, Mark's presence seemed almost tangible in the dark. "Love ya too, kiddo," he thought, not even daring to let the words pass his lips.
Just for a moment, he felt less alone.
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