Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, I promise to play nicely with them and bring them back in time for supper. And if anyone thinks fans make any money out of fanfic they need their heads examined. -S.

Comments are more than welcome at sarahenany@hotmail.com

Okay, here it is. This is sorta a missing scene from "The Georgia Street Motors" - my own personal speculation on how Hardcastle might have spent his time between shooting McCormick and finally seeing him come home. It's all from Hardcastle's POV, with a dream sequence in the middle. It gets a bit mushy at times, but I figure someone has to get the ball rolling! This scene has been rolling around in my head since I was a teenager. Forgive me if it's not great literature: I figure that if there isn't any fanfic on the Web, it's our responsibility to make some! Think of those new generations of fans out there! :)

For those who may not have seen "The Georgia Street Motors", the story so far is that "The Georgia Street Motors" are a group of judges, ex-motorcycle cops all, who have decided to implement their own brand of vigilante justice and kill the criminals from their courtrooms who were paroled early. To stop them, Hardcastle, their ex-partner from way back when, sets up a sting operation where he pretends to rejoin them in exchange for their help in killing one dangerous ex-con - McCormick. To ensure McCormick's safety, he gets Benny, a pickpocket, to switch the main hit-man, Ray's, gun with an identical one loaded with blanks. Benny does, except Hardcastle can't see well enough to be sure. (Is this my own interpretation, folks?) But when they chase McCormick to a desert location, Ray - who doesn't trust Hardcastle - hands him the gun and says:

"You kill him."

His world reeled as he realized what they wanted him to do.

NO! A lifetime of iron discipline squelched the silent scream almost before he allowed himself to feel it.

The gun was in his hand. McCormick, felled from a punch by his own hand, lay in a cloud of dust in front of the Coyote. As if from a great distance, he heard the kid's voice saying some smart-ass remark about "whatever happened to law and order?"

Smart-ass. Always was a smart-ass. The traitorous, affectionate thought came out of nowhere. Hardcastle stared at the kid he had sworn to protect and rehabilitate, frozen. But he would have to act. The others were watching. Waiting.

His mind screamed a denial of what his hands had to do. For he had to do it. No doubt about it. To hesitate now was certain death.

I've already lost a son. I… He clamped down on that thought severely. Get a hold of yourself, Hardcastle! The gun's fulla blanks. Benny made sure of that. You're carrying on like a teenage girl scared of walking home on a dark night. The fear gave him the resolve he needed. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to fight fear.

He aimed the gun at the fallen man and fired. McCormick was flung backwards with the impact.

Hardcastle watched, incredulous, as the kid was catapulted over the hood of his beloved Coyote, landing in a crumpled heap in the dirt. It can't be! part of his mind said. The other part said, The kid's just a good actor... he's gotta be! He's just acting… keep thinking of that, or we'll never make it. But he felt like he was cutting his own heart out with a knife.

McCormick sat up, slowly, clumsily. His breath came hard and blood seeped from between the fingers of the hand clutching his wounded shoulder. His tiny whimpers of pain almost ripped the Judge's heart apart.

And his next words blew his world apart. "J..Judge!" he whispered, looking down at the wound in stunned surprise. "Th..those are real bullets! Judge, DON'T SHOOT!"

Real bullets. Oh my God. Benny…

Then the comforting thought: He could be just saying that…

But the cold fear in his gut told him otherwise…

Six judges were watching. Six ex-motorcycle cops. If Judge Milton C. Hardcastle hesitated for one instant, both he and McCormick would be left in the sand as bullet-riddled corpses. Either way, Mark could not be saved.

He had no choice.

He had known he would have none.

But that did not make it any easier.

He tried to shut out McCormick's shouts as he fired again and again. He watched his body twitch and jerk as the bullets slammed into him. With every twitch, something seemed to twist inside his gut. Mark… his mind yelled. Mark, please, quit that! I want you to live… GODDAMMIT, NO! Under the Georgia Street Motors' relentless gaze, he didn't stop till he'd emptied the revolver into McCormick's body.

The kid lay in the dirt with the stillness of death. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Instead of running to him as every instinct in him cried out, Hardcastle merely gave a disgusted glance at the ex-con. He handed back the gun, his face hard and unreadable.

Without a word, the uniformed band sped away from the scene.

* * *

"To Hardcastle!"

"To Milt!"

It was hard for Hardcastle to pretend to be himself at the 'party' they insisted on throwing afterwards. Apparently they 'celebrated' every time they 'got another piece of scum off the streets'. Male-bonding crap, he thought in disgust. God, it stinks. Yet he stayed, to avoid compromising his cover and to give McCormick time to get home. (If he's still…) He quashed the treacherous thought before it could take hold.

(Th..those are real bullets! Judge, DON'T SHOOT!)

Hardcastle stilled the shiver in his traitorous body, pasted on a false smile and drank with them. But one of the Georgia Street Motors apparently didn't share their admiration of their new 'partner'. Ray looked round resentfully at the group. "What's with you guys? He just did what we've all been doing for years! What's with the crappy Prodigal Son routine?"

"We haven't welcomed a new member into the fold for years, Ray. Save your diplomacy, please," their dignified leader gently rebuked.

"Hey, Milt? Never figured you for a softy!" Ray taunted. Hardcastle gritted his teeth. The worry - the pain in his heart - was crippling him, making it harder and harder to function. Instead of pretending to be normal, which he knew he couldn't do, he tried to pass off his shaken-up demeanor as squeamishness at having made his first kill. He forced a laugh. "Guess I've never been on the wrong side of the law before."

But Ray just wouldn't leave him alone. "Your heart's just breaking over killing that lousy ex-con, ain't it? Or are you just worried your precious reputation's gonna be ruined if word gets out you got your white hands dirty?"

"Ray…" the warning came again. But in a way Hardcastle was almost glad of the taunting. It gave him an out to leave this revolting gathering. He looked at Ray pointedly, looking more offended than he felt, making sure the others noticed it.

"Fellas, I gotta be going," he said, with the barest final glance at Ray. "Been a big day."

"Ah, c'mon, Milt! Don't let Ray bother you," someone said, but Hardcastle was adamant, though he made a great effort to be friendly and polite. After all, these were supposedly the people with whom he had now thrown in his lot, for whom he had sacrificed years of law and order. He finally extricated himself, with a promise to meet the next day. That suited him fine.

Outside, he took deep breaths of the cool night air. He felt as though he was suffocating. He jumped on his motorcycle and roared off, going faster than he had any need to. He could barely admit to himself how much he needed to see McCormick safe at home again.

(Th..those are real bullets! Judge, DON'T SHOOT!)

To cover the rush of fear, he gunned the motorcycle savagely. Part of him knew McCormick had to be acting, he had to put on a good show for the ex-cops to believe him. But another part hadn't counted on how hard it would be for him to do this. To witness Mark hurt and writhing on the ground. It hadn't been that hard to stifle every impulse in his own heart, to keep himself from running to him - well, he'd hidden his feelings before. But not knowing whether he was alive or dead, turning his back on him and walking away when there was still a chance he could be saved…

Leaving him to die alone.

As his son had died, in Viet Nam…

But the thought was no comfort. He had seen a cop die once from fooling around with a blank-filled gun at close range.

The wind whipped in his face, but it couldn't clear his thoughts. Ray, so help me, if the kid dies (He won't die, don't be a jackass, Hardcastle, what's wrong with you) I'll take you out myself (You outta your mind, Hardcastle? You're a judge, you'll arrest him according to the law you swore to uphold.) I'll murder you with my bare hands for making me kill the one person I still care ab... (Get a goddam grip, Milt, you're falling apart!) (Th..those are real bullets! Judge, DON'T SHOOT!)

The motorcycle roared into Gulls Way. Hardcastle parked it closer to the door than he needed to, and jumped off. But then he had trouble pulling off his helmet because his hands were shaking so badly.

Then he burst in the door, yelling gruffly, "McCormick!", wanting nothing more than to see him again, alive and breathing, lounging his long lean form in one of the study's expensive chairs, with that same smart mouth on him, calling him a donkey in his own house. But there was no one home.

Sarah was out. The answering machine was blank. Of McCormick there was no sign.

The gatehouse was empty too.

Not wanting to admit how stunned he was, Hardcastle moved quietly into his study and sat down. It's okay, he kept repeating to himself. We know they might have the place watched to make sure no-one accidentally stumbles on the body - A rush of agony swept through him unexpectedly with the word and he clamped his eyes shut, riding it out. He stifled an urge to rush headlong out of the house again and straight to where Mark had been shot down. He was NOT shot down! He's just a better actor than he has any right to be, that's all -

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He knew he could not risk going there immediately. At the least he had to wait a few more hours before risking it. And if the hours passed and McCormick didn't show up- No point dwelling on that yet. The kid was fine. He had to be.

Hardcastle settled into the chesterfield to wait, trying to organize his thughts about the case. It didn't help that Mark was everywhere he looked - sitting casually with one hip propped on his desk, draped indolently on the sofa, whining about what to watch on TV, leafing through some casefile with an array of carefully selected sarcastic remarks. Finally the judge slipped into an exhausted sleep. And he dreamed...

* * *

When he woke, it was dark. He jumped up in panic. "McCORMICK!" he yelled, but there was no answer. What could he have been thinking? How could he have left him!

He rushed outside to the motorcycle, leaping on and driving off without a helmet. The cold night air whipped through his hair and into his face as he drove faster, faster…

The plain was deserted, eerily black in the dark night. The Coyote stood just where he had left it. And beside it…

There he lay. Still, silent. Unmoving.

Gone.

Choking back a sob, the hard-nosed judge skidded the motorcycle to a stop, raising a cloud of dust. He had rushed to the younger man's side before the dust had settled. He dropped to his knees beside him, afraid to touch him. Afraid not to touch him. Hoping against hope. (Please, God, please, please…) He touched Mark's throat, feeling for a pulse. He found none, but still he bent his head to the cold face, listening for the slightest whisper of breath.

There was none, of course.

There was no need to hide his emotions now. Mark was not here to tease him about being a softy. Would never tease him about anything ever again.

Despite his father's long-ago injunction that any man who cried was a wimp, tears began to run down Hardcastle's face as he reached out and pulled Mark's dead body into a clumsy embrace. A sob threatened to break out of him, but he stifled it as he always had. He looked down at the boy he held in his arms. I should have protected him. He touched the cold face carefully with his fingertips, smoothed back the shock of unruly brown hair, wiped the dust off the dead brow. Eyes closed, Mark looked peaceful, as though he were only sleeping. It was impossible, obscene, that he would never move again. God, I loved him. Why was it so hard for me to say? And now he'll never know…

He stared again into the calm, dead face, barely aware of the biting wind or the droplets of rain that had begun to fall. He's so young… He choked on another strangled sob, frowning and gritting his teeth to keep it from coming out. Oh, Mark, Mark… He looked up to the sky. I'll do anything. I swear. If you have to punish me, do it. In any other way but this. Take me, not him. He's innocent. He doesn't deserve to die…

He had said these words before. Suddenly it was as though he held a body bag in his arms. Dreamlike, his hands floated to the zipper. It opened to reveal a dearly familiar face. Will… Hardcastle gasped at the sight of his long-dead son.

The rain disappeared and the world swam as he was flung back in time, to the moment when he and Alice had picked up the body bag from the authorities. They had had to identify him, too. Back then, he hadn't had the luxury of tears. There had been Alice to think about. She had broken down, screamed and cried. He'd had to put his grief on the back burner, tough it out as he'd always done, if he wasn't to lose his wife as well as his son. Everyone had said he was a real man, a tower of strength. His father would have been proud. He'd made the arrangements, stood strong and tall at the funeral, delivered a short and moving speech about those who gave their lives for their country, while she had cried all through the ceremony. They were a typical traditional Middle American couple. Typical emotional wife; typical strong husband. Milton C. Hardcastle had never been one to shirk his duty.

But despite his best efforts, Alice had never been the same. Traditional women live for their children, and when those are gone... He couldn't blame her. Her only child, born after years of trying. They hadn't known it then, but they were never to have another. Not that he would have wanted to. Milton C. Hardcastle didn't believe people could be replaced. That was one of the reasons why he was so tough on killers. You could have another kid, sure, but it didn't change that an irreplaceable individual, with all their individual traits and foibles, was forever gone from the world.

So he put on the façade of the strong, unemotional husband, as his father had done before him, and day after day he watched the woman he loved turn in on herself a little more, crumple and fade. He didn't know how to reach her. He assumed she had known he loved her; he guessed she recognized his fierce defense of her was motivated by adoration. He'd never known or loved another woman. He'd even picked a fight with a Mob leader once because he'd insulted her. That had to count for something. But now he couldn't break through her impenetrable wall of grief. Oh, he'd held her as she cried, comforted her as best he could. But if there were words that would draw her out, he didn't know them. And of course, Alice had died.

Even then he had never cried. Milton C.Hardcastle had been raised by a tough, stern father who believed that boys didn't cry, that being strong would see you through, that right and wrong were fixed and unchanging. It was a belief that had served him well for most of his life. You knew where you stood. Except there were flashes of his rebel spirit that sometimes admired people with style, with flair - even though they were on the wrong side of the law. People who cared about others, who showed their feelings, who broke the law for their own reasons. An image flashed by of Harry, the bank-robber with style, dropping off the bank teller who'd fainted during the heist at hospital in the getaway car, and leaving stolen money to pay her bill. But those images had stayed buried for most of his life. Until...

Now he could admit it, now he was gone. 'Skid' Mark McCormick was the only man he had met who hadn't conformed to the pattern he'd set out for himself, that his own father had instilled into him so long ago. Oh, he'd met guys who thought differently from him, sure. But he'd always dismissed them as either criminals or wimps, lacking in moral courage. McCormick, though-

Ever since that first day, he'd earned his respect. A convicted felon, with questionable skills in picking locks, stealing cars... Someone Hardcastle shouldn't have been passing the time of day with, let alone partnering up with him to catch the big fish. But that was part of it. Impulsive, Mark McCormick lived on the edge because he was an idealist. He'd have laughed at the idea but he was really more of a Lone Ranger than Hardcastle himself. You saw a wrong, you righted it. Someone stole what was rightfully yours, you stole it back and the law be damned. Like that hotrod. Crazy. Ready to throw away his freedom to avenge a friend. To shelter a friend and stand by him no matter what. Like that kook Teddy Hollins. (I know the kid. You gotta understand him... Sure he's a flake, but he's a buddy! And he wouldn't rip off a friend unless he had a good reason!) Even when he'd betrayed Mark, he'd still stood by him, proved his innocence. And he got me to go along with it. I must be as crazy as he is...

Loyalty was Mark's hallmark. The kid was loyal to a fault. Perhaps it was that quality that had finally led Hardcastle to pick him. In this kind of work, you needed someone you could trust not to change sides when you weren't looking. And all his life, he'd operated on the priciple that anyone might. Watch your back, don't trust anyone. Only...

Only, working with McCormick, he'd had the luxury of not having to watch his back. Knowing the crazy, loyal kid would never desert him, because he'd pledged his loyalty to him. Not because of some stupid parole agreement. Oh, partly because of that, but also because he saw it wasn't in the kid's nature to throw his partner to the wolves. He'd stick by you if it killed him...

(He couldn't pick a lock in a motel door in Iowa. I picked the lock.)

Why had he done that? Turned himself in when Hardcastle had, for a minor infraction of the law? And why had he, Hardcastle, required it of him? To ensure he learned the lesson of abiding by the rules? He knew he was a stickler for the law. Why should he require it of the kid? And why had the kid done it, against his own beliefs and to his own harm, if not for that insane loyalty?

He knew why the kid was so loyal, of course. McCormick had never had anyone or anything real to belong to. So he gave his heart freely, fully and willingly, only too glad to belong to someone and be a part of their life. Had he abused that trust over the years? Used it to achieve his ends and endangered Mark unnecessarily?

(I've been freezing my buns off waiting for you to show up…)

Come to think of it, why had Mark been waiting for him when he went out to steal those papers, waiting patiently for him to appear? Waiting patiently in the cold to commit a crime with him, covering up his sacrifice with that same damn smart mouth? McCormick had taught him that there were more important things than the letter of the law. Of course Hardcastle had always known that, but he'd lost sight of it over the years. He'd just needed reminding...

A really, really dumb phrase from high school floated into his mind. Some idiot had written it on the wall, and he'd had to look at it every morning for years. Typical smarmy teenage stuff. "A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and sings it back to you when you have forgotten the words." Dumb, sentimental mushy stuff. So why was he remembering it now with that terrible sense of loss?

The boy lying still in his arms would never sing again.

He looked down at McCormick's dead face, wet with the rain that was still coming down, and a sob burst from him, despite a heroic effort at control. Then another, and another. The dam that had held his feelings back for more than twenty years crumbled, and he buried his face in McCormick's hair and wept for his son, his wife, for all the lost chances, for all the words that had never been said, for the loss of all the people he loved the most.

He understood now the reason for McCormick's gentle teasing: he'd wanted the Judge to let up on the hard-nosed façade a bit before the bottled-up feelings inside destroyed him from within. To relax that iron mask of dignity. And now McCormick was gone and, too late, Hardcastle allowed himself to acknowledge what he had lost. He might have been able to let his defenses down and show his feelings with McCormick - not that he would ever have done that, and besides, the kid had been able to guess what he was feeling without being told - but it would have been possible, because Mark didn't think it made you less of a man to show your feelings. Another trait his dad would have dismissed as 'wimpish'. But now, that would never happen.

He felt as though, now that he'd started, he'd never stop crying. McCormick had been more than a good friend to him, and look how he'd repaid him. He'd gotten him killed. A smart-ass phrase came to him.

(How come I'm always the duck in this partnership? Y'know, by the time I'm outta your custody, the only job I'm gonna be qualified for is that of a target in a penny arcade.)

Smart-ass. Always a smart-ass. The world had lost its spark without those smart-ass comments.There was no fun in life now. Sure, he could arrest the killers, keep doing his job, but he knew now that his days would be a featureless grey expanse of duties to perform. The joy was gone, forever. And he hadn't even appreciated the precious gift of Mark's irreverent, iconoclastic, beloved presence while it lasted.

Behind the pattering of the rain, he heard a sound. He looked up into the barrel of a .38. Behind it, Ray's grinning face was looking into his.

"Figured I'd find you here," said Ray, menace underlying his jovial tone. "I knew you loved him. And he loved you more than anything. He'd have given his life for you. You killed the best friend you ever had, chump." Hardcastle wondered how Ray knew what he hadn't known himself as flame spurted briefly from the gun. His last thought before fading out was that he wished he hadn't hit Mark before he shot him.

* * *

Hardcastle started awake, sweating. How long had he been asleep? Just for a moment his brain was fuzzy, then his mind exploded in fear: MARK!!! His dream was only a blur in his mind, but the feeling it had left was a terrified coldness that spread through his entire body. Jumping up, he headed for the door. Hesitating in the sober light of reality, he pulled back, giving himself time to wake up properly. Then he turned towards the door again. Then back. He realized he was pacing. Just as he was about to turn again and bolt through the door, the key crunched in the lock and McCormick walked in, in the flesh, long and lean and covered with dirt, grinning that smart-ass grin and munching on something or other.

Weak with relief, Hardcastle could not speak, but just looked at the beloved presence, vibrant with joy and life. For a moment, he drank in the sight. Then he fixed McCormick with a glare that would wilt a cactus. "Where you been, McCormick?"

"Gettin' gunned down made me hungry. So I stopped for a burger." Perky and smiling in spite of the bruise that covered his swelling cheek and split lip, McCormick sat at the table with the brown bag and bit into his sandwich with relish. His living eyes sparkled up mischievously at the Judge, taking in his burning glare. "Oh don't look at me like that, I got you one too."

Why that little… He knows how I.. He was late on purpose.. He... The realization hit Hardcastle that McCormick had been trying to draw out his feelings by deliberately being late. So what? I oughta let him know that I... I.. He doesn't deserve it! I oughta chew him out for making me worry like that, I… "You scared the hell outa me back there." The words slipped out, unplanned.

That broad Cheshire-cat grin. Lazy. Satisfied. And the teasing words. Exclaiming, feigning surprise. "Why Judge! You were worried about me!"

"NO, I wasn't worried about you!" Hardcastle snapped before he could help himself. It was unnerving to see those brown eyes burning into his soul, seeing everything he didn't say. Daring him to say it. "I was thinkin' that if somethin' happened to you," he continued in a calmer tone, "the plan wouldn't work, see."

McCormick's face fell, but only marginally. "Oh. Well,that's nice. Thank you." He took another bite. "How's my lip look?"

You think I'm gonna feel sorry for doin' that to you after what you put me through, you gotta nuther think comin'. Now was his chance for revenge. "You look like Travolta."

"John Travolta!"

Hardcastle looked at McCormick with an expression of carefully studied nonchalance. "Seymour Travolta. He's a bail bondsman on Fifth. Little short, fat guy. Sweats a lot." Gotcha.

McCormick looked at him. The Judge seemed to have won, but he knew McCormick was going to get him for that comment. The smart-ass comment would strike when he least expected it. But that was part of the fun.

Life had meaning again.