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Summary: Misc. Movies - The Judge. It's not about fairness, or justice. It's about a father who saw his son in a criminal and a criminal in his son, and about a son who cannot see anyone else in his father but a judge. Nobody said it would be easy. OneShot- Henry Palmer, post-movie. To new beginnings.

Warning: Fractured. OneShot. Slight language.

Set: after the movie.

Disclaimer: Standards apply. References to "The Scientist" by Coldplay in the title and the summary.

"You're back."

"You don't sound surprised."

"I don't?" Samantha Powell doesn't even look up from her accountancy book. It would have seemed old-fashioned to not use a computer and electronic cashier in Chicago: in Carlinville, that's simply the way it's done. The fact that he recognizes this makes him think that maybe, maybe, he's not completely wrong in what he's doing. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Henry Palmer. Whether you stay or leave and where you go is none of my business."

He watches her: blonde hair, expressive face, blue eyes downcast. Her forehead is set in a frown of concentration. She is beautiful.

"If that's the case you won't mind if I leave again."

"By all means. You know where the door is."

He doesn't even attempt to go but drifts around the diner, touches the polished wood of the counter, smooths over the gleaming metal of the coffee machine, carefully taps the flowers in the vase. Silence falls, only broken by the sound of her pen scratching over the paper and the occasional rustling of movement.

Hank Palmer always thought he had patience, at least when it came to women. Now, he finds he isn't half as stone-cold as he thought he was. Or maybe it's just like that with her.

"It feels different, somehow."

Finally, Sam looks up, and her small smile is like a sun ray on a rainy day. "Nothing changes in this town, you know that."

"Yes. No." He drifts towards the windows, casts a glance at the street. In the early midday hours, there are few people outside. "I don't know. It doesn't feel the same."

"That's because you have changed."

He turns to look at her, follows the contours of her face with his eyes. The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly.

"So do I look even more handsome than in the past?"

Sam throws her head back and laughs, and then she looks at him again, her eyes warm.

"You still manage to make yourself sound like an absolute asshole, if that's what you're worried about."

His body remembers where his mind has unlearned things: the way her hair feels underneath his fingers, the way she tilts her head when she laughs, the way her fingers tap an unheard rhythm onto the table when she thinks about something hard.

"I'll be staying in town for some time now."

She doesn't react.

"Maybe forever."

"Hmm."

"What? No smart-ass remark?"

Her pen dances over the paper. "I'll believe it when I see it myself."

Lauren is a marvel.

Hank can look at his daughter for hours and he would never tire. He has the sneaking suspicion that this is the only time when she will allow for it, will smile at him and call him Daddy and tell him stupid Knock, knock jokes and ask him to read her a story before bedtime. If he goes by what he knows of himself she will call him Old man before he knows what has happened, will tell him to fuck off and mind his own business and the only thing he'll read her will be the riot act when she hits puberty and thinks there is no need to inform him of her whereabouts. On the other hand, he could be lucky and she could always remain the sweet little girl he knows and loves so much. (He highly doubts it: it's just not the way life goes.) Whatever the future will bring, however; right now she is sweet and gentle and kind, and he loves her with everything he is, was and will be. He will always love her.

(The only thing in his life that he has done well...

But hey, graduating first of his class wasn't too shabby, either.)

"Daddy, I think something is hooked!"

"You think?" Hank forcibly yanks at the fraying endings of his thoughts, twists them together and pushes them back to ponder on another day.

"You think you caught something already? Let's see what we have!"

He starts hauling in the fishing line. Indeed, something at the other end is dragging through the water.

"Could it be that you caught something on your first try? My, these fish are stupid. When I was your age we had to wait for hours for anything to bite."

"Or maybe you just weren't as skilled as I am," his daughter replies, guilelessly, and Hank wants to throw his head back and laugh. Instead, he grins at her.

"You, my daughter, will go places."

"Of course," Lauren answers with the air of dignity only little ones as she is one (and arrogant assholes as he is one) possess. "I am going to be a pilot."

"A pilot?" Hank echoes. "Didn't you want to be a race car driver a few weeks ago?"

"The stewardess showed me the cockpit on my flight here and I saw the pilots and all those levers and lights. I think flying a plane is cool!"

"It certainly is," he agrees and reaches the end of the line. "Look what you've caught, love!"

Lauren regards her catch with big eyes, her teeth kneading her lower lip. "But that's not a sunfish," she says, her voice dripping with accusation.

"No. That's a shoe."

"Why are there shoes in the lake, Daddy?"

"Because someone threw them in, I guess."

"Don't they need them?"

"Maybe they made a bet who would get home faster with only shoe."

"But then they would have to jump." Lauren's voice is tentative.

"They most probably had to," Hank agrees and can't shake the picture of old and experienced fishermen jumping home on one foot.

Lauren smiles, and his heart feels incredibly, unbelievably light.

Glen ordered the parts necessary to repair Dale's projector, and Hank helped him repair it, piece by piece.

It takes some time but at one point they find themselves back in the basement, each on a different chair, each with a beer, and Dale's carefully inserting the spool into the projector. The steady humming of the turning wheels inside the machine is the only sound.

"I didn't have the time to cut out the… the scene," Dale offers, weakly, casting nervous glances at his brothers.

"Don't worry about it," Glen says, and he really does sound calm. Hank remembers a shaking, broken man, near tears who begged him to keep their father out of prison. The kind father and husband who loves his family, loves his father, loves his autistic brother, the generous man who worked so hard to build himself a future after his was shattered by his careless other brother, and who always, always tried to be strong but couldn't any longer. He's better now, Hank thinks, he doesn't look pale and shaken and shattered. The judge's death hasn't been too long ago and yet something – perhaps Hank's decision to move to Carlinville, perhaps (most probably) something else – has helped the eldest Palmer son to regain his balance.

"Play it, Dale," Hank says and sips his beer. And then they watch the entire movie, from the beginning to the end.

With all its scenes.

With the accident.

With Hank's conviction.

The movie ends with a frame from their mother's burial: the open coffin, and then a dark figure in front of it. Hank wonders who it is, the judge has less hair, and then the man turns and he recognizes himself.

"So you're back, huh."

Sheriff Cooper never was a friendly man to begin with, Hank thinks, and, because he can, returns the rather impolite greeting with politeness. It's a strategy that he adopted when he realized that people disliked him for his work and his work ethics and that he, quite suddenly and surprisingly, cared that they did. It always startles the people: to hear the man they hate so passionately and want to insult so badly answer with politeness, no matter what they throw at him. Of course, they trace it back to his sheer gall and arrogance, and maybe, maybe, that was what it was but not anymore.

Hank is sick of his arrogance. He really is.

Of course, nobody would notice that, because he has the reputation of being a stone-cold asshole. Once upon a time it would have made him proud, he guesses. Might as well be alright to be reminded of it now and then. That way, he's not likely to forget his past mistakes.

"A good day to you, Sheriff. It does seem as if I will stay in Carlinville for quite some time, now. How are you?"

"Huh."

The detective sips his coffee, checks his watch. "I have to get going."

"Have a pleasant afternoon."

Hank can almost see the alarm signs raised in the elder man's mind, the hawk eyes searching for a sign of arrogance, of pure gall. He answers the gaze openly and smiles, and then continues towards the grocery store.

The bell that rings out his entrance sounds cheerful.

Somehow, Hank can relate.

There's still dirt on his hands from planting the white hydrangea at their mother's (their parents') grave when Glen finds him in the evening. He sits down next to Hank, his back to the back of their stone, and huffs.

"She loved these flowers."

Hank doesn't reply.

For a while, they just sit in silence until the thing that has been eating into him for over fifteen years suddenly bursts, like a dam under the pressure of tons and tons of water, like an old column that has steadfastly supported an otherwise crumbling structure through weather and wind and now, suddenly and without any warning, shatters under material strain. Why here, why now? He can't say.

"I'm sorry."

While speaking the words, he realizes how often he has thought them in the past but never voiced them out loud. How heavy the knowledge felt, how suffocating.

"I'm sorry about everything."

Glen is quiet for so long Hank is afraid he destroyed it, finally and irretrievably. He can hear his mother's voice: Apologize to your brother, Henry. Was this one of the reasons he never came home before? Maybe, but then; probably not. It was his own pride, his own conscience and his own arrogance. A lethal mixture. He'd laugh over his younger self, only that most likely would make him cry.

"I can't say I never blamed you for it."

Glen doesn't say hated, but it's close. Hank fists his hands to stop them from trembling but this is what you deserve.

"But you didn't do it on purpose. We were reckless, stupid. We were young."

Hank huffs out a laugh, because that's what he's told himself so often it feels like it's subterfuge. A stupid, inexcusable excuse.

Glen, miraculously, laughs as well. They look at each other and start laughing again.

"I'm sorry, too, Hank," Glen says when they have finished and they're back again at their father's funeral, I just want to get some air, –Don't disappear again, ever. Everything could have been said then, with one hug, but neither one of the sons of Judge Joseph Palmer ever had believed in the sole reconciling nature of gestures. In a household were justice always was a way of living, words have power.

Silence descends again but this time, it's peaceful.

And then footsteps alert them and Dale drops down on Glen's other side and they sit, three brothers, around the grave stone of their parents. Dale starts singing their mother's favorite song softly. After a while Glen falls into it, almost unwillingly and then freer. Hank only listens and then finds himself humming along.

The scent of summer is overwhelming.

Lauren is gone again, back to Liza who, for the first time since he left, didn't hurl accusations at him when he called to let her know their daughter had boarded the plane safely.

It feels… strangely lonely.

Like the end of something. A part of him is gone forever and not even his daughter, sweet as she is, can bring it back in the few weeks she spends with him every year. Hank doesn't miss Liza as much as he misses being with someone. The preparation for his new job is well and good and keeps him busy enough. And yet–

Maybe calling Sam isn't the best idea. He realizes she knows what he thinks – she always knew, with her uncanny ability to read him – and that he probably hurts her by asking her to meet him. Likely. But he feels tired and broken and because she never treats him like he needs protection and solace she's the best person to be with right now.

So he sits in the diner and watches her work, and the soft light makes her face and her hair glow.

"Hank?" Sam is looking at him, her gaze inquiring. "What are you thinking?"

He thinks he would very much like to kiss her now.

"I am thinking I'd like to kiss you now."

His heart betrays his mind again and again nowadays, and he can't even find it in himself to be angry.

Sometime he wonders.

Why? What was the sense in this? Who got the laugh out of seeing a father and a son fall apart like that? Because if it wasn't for fairness and justice, for what else has it been? Joseph Palmer had seen his son in a criminal and had let him off lightly, and the criminal killed a 16-year-old girl brutally. As a result, the judge had seen a criminal in his son and when Henry Palmer drove a car against a tree he sentenced and convicted his son harshly, as he felt he should have done with the criminal years ago. It was one decision. One, not two, because one thing led to the next and one life after the other shattered. One decision - made in good faith, moreover - destroyed so many lives. And all for what?

There's no silver lining in this, not for Hank. He went and studied law and graduated top of his class. He made himself a name, worked himself up the career ladder until he could bathe in money and pick the fattest raisins out of the pie, and what had it given him? He hadn't been happy, either way. He'd destroyed his marriage until his wife cheated on him. He pushed away his family and his friends and his colleagues. He broke himself into smaller and smaller pieces while, at the same time, raising himself over what he supposed his father would always be and, at the same time, knew he'd never reach. Joseph Palmer never was a kind man and maybe not even a good one, but he was a great man. In a way, he taught Hank everything he ever needed to know, gave his son a goal to strive for, even if it was an antithesis: Judge Joseph Palmer shaped his son. So what was Hank supposed to do: thank his father, as the judge had proposed? No. There could have been a different way, there could have been a better path, a way without cruelty and resentment and guilt. The judge could have taught his son without pain, without the harshness. And Hank could have found himself without hurting his brother even more, without making his mother cry. He just can't say whether he could have made it without estranging his father.

Maybe, maybe.

So what: go back and fix everything? That kind of thing is impossible. He can just walk forward, step by step. Apologize to his brother. Apologize to his mother. Learn to understand his father, perhaps, just a bit, just a heart-beat of him. Learn to see the good things he had, because the first years with Liza were good, and, even more: she gave him Lauren. It's something he will be eternally grateful for. Hank vows he will repeat it to his daughter again and again: how much he loves her, and how proud he is of her. Whenever she achieves something, whenever she fails, whenever she picks herself up from the ground and dusts off her knees and continues forward, tears in her eyes but determination in her features.

He won't mess up again. Not his job, not with Lauren.

Not with his future. (If Sam will have him.)

Until the end, the judge had been unable to say I'm proud of you. Hank won't repeat the judge's mistakes. But he'll strive towards his example. Because the man hadn't necessarily been a good man, but he'd been a good husband and a good judge.

Finally, Hank accepts him as a father, as well.

Liza calls him to finalize the details of their divorce.

They talk for two-and-a-half hours. When they finally run out of things to settle silence falls, heavy and awkward. Hank can hear her breathing.

"You sound different," his ex-wife finally says.

The the only thing that comes to his mind, weirdly, is: "Thank you."

"I'm glad you found something for yourself." She hesitates, then barges on while he's too stunned to utter a word. "I'm glad you found your place at last. You always seemed like… Like you never wanted to stay in one place. I thought I could … I don't know… Ground you, or something. But I never managed to do that, did I?"

"Liza…"

"No, no. It's fine. I'm sorry for rambling off like that." She laugh-sobs, blows her nose. For the first time since he learned about her cheating on him, her tears don't repulse him. He wants to reach through the phone and hug her. There was affection between them once, even something that felt suspiciously like love. It feels natural to want to console her now and yet he's thankful for the miles and miles of distance between them. "Do you want to talk to Lauren? Lauren, honey, do you want to talk to your Dad? Here, I'll hand him over. Bye, Henry."

"Daddy?"

"Lauren, Princess, how are you?"

His mind is still spinning when he disconnects the phone half an hour later. At the same time, his mind is completely calm.

He only texts her. I'm sorry, too. It wasn't all your fault. I hope you'll find happiness. It's probably the singularly corniest, most clichéd text he'd ever sent before but it feels oddly appropriate. He shared twelve years of his life with Liza: he owes her that much, at least.

Then he considers hunting down a mammoth to regain his masculinity, remembers there are no mammoths anymore, considers punching a wall, decides he will need his hands if he wants to help Glen with the corvette tomorrow and takes his brothers out for a drink instead.

The sunrise is early, catches the last remnants of darkness over the lake. From where Hank's sitting on the old, dangerously rattly garden chair, it looks like the water turns gold with the incoming light.

The first birds begin to sing.

Today will be his first hearing, the first time he will stand in Carlinville's court room as a district attorney. It's a divorce settlement, a rather unspectacular case compared to the large and prestigious ones he was hired for as an attorney in Chicago. Had it been one year earlier, this couple wouldn't have been able to even dream of hiring him for his ridiculously high fee. But he's not an attorney anymore. Now he's a civil servant to the state of Indiana, employed and paid by the government. Hank passed the time when he would have worried about his income a long, long time ago, so he doesn't care anymore. What he cares for are the people that will be present, the lives that will be laid out for him to scrutinize, and whether he will be able to live up to the expectations the judge always placed in himself.

(Not in his son, because there have been no expectations placed in him by his father since the day Hank lost control over the car and crashed it, overturning, into a tree, destroying Glen's entire career in the process.)

He hasn't slept that night, and yet his mind is clear and calm.

It is… stunning.

He never thought it could be this way. He never thought he'd be able to return, and actually stay in Carlinville for good. He had fled the village he had been born in, refusing to even look back. Now he realizes a part of him had always stayed here: returning feels suspiciously like feeling whole again. Hank doesn't know what to do with this feeling, but he lets it settle, lets it sink in. And, with the rising sun as only witness, accepts his past.

Accepts himself.

His mother's whisper on the wind sounds like she is laughing and weeping at the same time.

Welcome home.

Yes, Hank thinks. I'm home.

The chair is more comfortable than it looks like, and less.

The leather is cool and smooth under his fingers. It creaks softly when he settles into it. The still courtroom smells like wood polish, stale coffee and past emotions. Light filters through the window, dust dancing in the first sun rays of the day and the silence, for Hank who is used to rustling paper and clicking keyboards, hushing juries and murmuring crowds, feels suffocating. But not in a bad way. There is an undercurrent running through the wordless melody of the silence surrounding him, something oddly familiar and, at the same time, foreign.

You're welcome, the judge's harsh voice says, and Hank Palmer feels his lips twist into a smile.

He swivels around in the chair, its wheels gliding over smooth-polished hardwood. Catching himself before he hits his knee on the bench behind him he turns in the other direction, stops again, swivels back. The empty courtroom feels like it is laughing at him, but maybe it's a good kind of laugh. Not arrogant, or condescending. A bit wistful, maybe, kind, and warm. The expectant atmosphere sings with the breathless tension that signals the beginning of something new.

I'll believe it when I see it myself.

Me too, he thinks, fondly. Me too, Sam. And is surprised by the sudden urge of wanting to see her. It makes him smile even more.

Welcome home.

The chair feels a little bit too big for him.

Henry Palmer guesses that's alright.