Sixth Sense is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Sixth Sense is a work of fiction and all character and some place names are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This story was originally posted as a short story focusing on tying up loose ends and exploring the relationship between Megan Ravenson and Stringfellow Hawke following their encounter in the episode Fortune Teller, and so I would like to take the opportunity to thank my good friend Elizabeth, for hinting that perhaps there was a bigger story and prodding me into developing this project further.

PROLOGUE.

Los Angeles, California.

October, 1985.

"Thanks for coming," Meg Ravenson eyed Stringfellow Hawke dubiously, as he raised his glass to his lips and took a sip of the foaming golden liquid.

Hawke had arrived at the restaurant before her and had ordered a small beer for himself.

When she had joined him at the bar, he had asked what she preferred to drink and had placed her order for a glass of the house sweet white wine with the bartender, and despite the fact that he had been polite and gracious, making small talk while they waited for her drink, and then to be seated at their table, since the moment she had arrived he had been watching her, like the proverbial hawk.

She had been the one to issue the invitation, and if she was honest with herself, psychic or no, Megan wasn't sure why she had wanted, no, needed, to see Stringfellow Hawke again, except that she hadn't been able to get him out of her mind.

There had just been something about the young man.

They had spent barely two days together, but Meg knew, for all sorts of reasons, they were days that she would not forget in a hurry, and that Stringfellow Hawke wasn't a man she would ever be likely to forget.

She couldn't give it a name back then, but despite his adverse reaction to her, she could not help feeling that they were kindred spirits.

She wasn't done with him.

She had found that idea most disagreeable.

But she hadn't been able to ignore it either.

That wasn't how her gift worked. Try to ignore it, and it just kept prodding away at her, driving her crazy until she did something about it.

She couldn't shake the feeling that her association with him was far from over.

After picking her way through his powerful and very negative emotions, Meg had come away from their association with the undeniable knowledge that he wasn't so very different from her self, and like her, he was doing the best he could to live from day to day.

Of course, Stringfellow Hawke's attitude hadn't helped any, waves of anger and hostility and cynicism flooding off him and bombarding her throughout their whole brief association, making it even harder for her to get at the information that she needed to do her job.

Megan had been hoping that once they had a chance to meet in a more relaxed setting, she would get some thing more concrete to work with, stronger 'vibes' ….

But, it looked very much like they were back to square one.

So, why had Hawke agreed to meet with her?

Stringfellow Hawke sat quietly in his seat, trying to relax as he regarded his companion coolly.

He had been intrigued by her invitation, after all, they hadn't exactly gotten off to the best of starts.

However, the fact that he had so readily accepted that invitation had surprised him even more.

So, why was he here? What did he hope to gain by it? What was the real reason behind her invitation?

He had asked himself those questions over and over, all day long, and still he had no concrete answers.

He had just felt compelled to accept the invitation, a fact that he had found very unsettling.

It had been a couple of days since they had ended their association, but, watching him now, Megan could tell from his whole demeanor, his body language, that Hawke was still just as distrustful and unconvinced.

He was trying very hard to conceal it, but she could see from the tight expression on his face, and the cold, hard, piercing stare of his deep blue eyes that he was both hostile and uncomfortable, that he feared that she would do or say something to draw unwanted attention, or perhaps embarrass or humiliate him, and Megan knew that it would not take much in the way of provocation for him to blow up, and cause a nasty scene of his own.

Oh boy! He wasn't going to make this easy for her, but at least he was here.

"I thought maybe …." Megan left the sentence hanging between them, and in response Hawke arched an eyebrow sardonically.

"You thought maybe I wouldn't show up?" he finished the sentence for her in a deep growling voice.

"Yes," she confessed, fingers playing nervously with the twisted stem of her wineglass. "And no, I don't need to be a psychic to know that you would rather be any other place, with any other woman, than here with me," she added with a soft sigh, lowering her blue grey eyes now, disabusing him of any notion that he might have had that she had some kind of romantic liaison in mind.

Meg experienced a brief flash of satisfaction when she again raised her eyes and saw that he at least had the decency to look a little shame faced.

She might not like it, but she admired his honesty.

Stringfellow Hawke had made his feelings about her so called 'psychic ability' and what he thought about her too, very clear, when they had worked together.

However, his whole attitude, his total over reaction had puzzled Meg.

It still puzzled her.

For starters, he wasn't what he seemed.

Oh yes, he presented the world with this hard, austere, cold, impenetrable facade, coming across as tough and macho and seeing the world only in black and white, but Megan knew better.

He hid it well, but, Stringfellow Hawke was a deeply sensitive man, caring, compassionate, affection and fiercely protective of the people and the things that he cared about.

Stringfellow Hawke was an enigma wrapped up in a dilemma, a mystery far too complex for her to solve after such a short acquaintance.

So why hadn't she just been able to walk away?

Put him out of her mind and get on with her life?

Her dear old friend Dominic Santini had sought her out, begging with her to help him and his skeptical young friend, Stringfellow Hawke, to find a friend of theirs, a very important man.

They didn't have much time, and didn't know where to begin to look for the man they had called Archangel, and despite the fact that she had originally turned them down flat, Megan had sensed that they were not exaggerating when they had said that their friend was in grave danger.

Dominic had been his usual sweet, persuasive self. He had seen her work before. He knew that it wasn't a logical process, knew how it tore her apart, that sometimes it was hard for her to define what she saw or felt or heard and that when the answers didn't come, or they came too late, it broke her heart.

Stringfellow Hawke, a serious and intense young man, had been openly hostile from the beginning, which hadn't helped her to focus, but, at least it had been honest.

Meg hated working with people who said that they understood, that they had open minds, only to try to undermine her and destroy her credibility at every turn.

At least Stringfellow Hawke hadn't tried to hide his contempt, although, she had realized immediately that it was because he knew that he had no other conventional options.

Still, after a while, his manner had irritated her, and she too had let her emotions get the better of her, and they had clashed. Badly.

It had been hard work, but, eventually, Meg had proved herself to Hawke, and justified Dominic Santini's faith in her, their friend had been located and rescued, in the nick of time, and Meg had sensed, when they parted, that although she hadn't completely won him over, she had certainly given Stringfellow Hawke something to think about, when she had told him that his dog's name was Tet.

During the search for Archangel, Meg had kept getting images of a Scottish terrier dog and had found it amusing that a man like Hawke would have such a cute canine for a pet. She had voiced that thought aloud, only to have Dominic Santini tell her that String didn't have a Scottish terrier, but on old blue tick hound.

Obviously, in the interim, cynic that he was, Hawke had probably come to the conclusion that she had somehow gleaned the animal's name from Dominic Santini.

Still, Megan had thought that they had at least broken the ice.

Hawke had seemed to soften a little toward her, but, sitting opposite her now, at their candle lit table for two in a secluded corner of this small restaurant, with its soft lighting and low romantic music playing in the background, that she had deliberately chosen because it was neutral territory, well away from her home, and Van Nuys Airport, where Hawke worked with Dominic Santini, Meg could feel the tension and hostility radiating off Stringfellow Hawke once more.

He was wound up like a spring.

She caught him glancing down at his wristwatch, briefly, and wondered if he had merely come here this evening to humor her, so that she would leave him alone in the future, and that maybe he had made other plans for after their meeting, or, if he was simply impatient and wanted this over and done with so that he could get away from her.

Meg raised her glass to her lips now and taking a sip of the cool, refreshing wine, regarded Hawke curiously.

He was a good looking young fellow, when he wasn't scowling. She found herself thinking.

She knew that he had a devastating smile, and that he could be as charming as any other man she had met, when he set his mind to it.

Contrary to the impression he preferred to give, he did have a sense of humor too.

Megan also knew that there was a deep rooted pain and sorrow somewhere in his past that he had not been able to move beyond, and which was still affecting him, even today, and suddenly, there it was again. That feeling.

"I …."

"Meg …."

They spoke together, over each other, then grinning nervously at each other, each waited for the other to speak again.

"Hawke," Meg began, finding herself feeling very unsettled as she looked into his beautiful sky blue eyes.

It was never easy, trying to decide what to say, how far to go. People reacted in different ways, although she suspected that she knew exactly how Stringfellow Hawke was going to react.

"Look, Hawke, I guess I just wanted a chance to apologize. I know I came on a little heavy," she paused, licking her lips nervously before continuing, very much aware of his cold, unfriendly glare. "You have every right to your opinion. It's just that at the time, I couldn't seem to get past your cynicism," she reminded him in soft tones.

His undisguised hostility and blatant skepticism had been like a physical thing, a barrier blocking the very senses that she needed to call upon to help him and Dominic Santini.

His constant referral to her as 'lady', with that condescending tone of voice and twisting little sneer to his lips, instead of using her name, or even a polite 'ma'am, had ground on her nerves and his tendency to resist, to instantly dismiss anything that came out of her mouth, had made her as mad as hell.

His impatience, his strong, overbearing personality and his determination not to even try to understand had overwhelmed her, and finally, she had snapped.

Ok, so he didn't believe. That was his right.

She hadn't asked to get involved, but, once she was, Megan Ravenson had known that no matter how difficult it was, no matter how painful it was to her personally, she simply could not walk away.

Stringfellow Hawke might be the most offensive and arrogant and mule headed jackass she had ever met, but she was just as stubborn and determined, just as dogged and tenacious and she wanted to find their friend just as badly as they did.

Just because she went about it in a different way, didn't mean that it was wrong. It didn't mean that he had the right to belittle her, ridicule her and generally try to put her down.

She had no idea how her gift worked, and she did not claim to be perfect.

Sometimes she made mistakes, misunderstood or misread the signs, after all, it wasn't always logical, and in no way could it be called scientific. She could only describe what she saw, or felt, the way she saw and felt it, and quite often it was just a jumble of confusing images and sensations, that most of the time she didn't have the right words to describe, but, when someone came to her seeking help, she always took it very seriously, and she always tried to do her best not to let them down.

Basically, Stringfellow Hawke had openly challenged her authenticity, indeed, he had practically called her a charlatan and she had taken it as a deep, personal insult, for the man had no idea the heartache and torment that she went through in the process of trying to help others.

The only way that she could think of to get him off her back had been to open herself up to him, something she usually tried to avoid because she already had enough pain and disappointment and grief in her own life, without taking on board other people's miseries, but she had wanted to prove to him that she was no fake, and over wrought and angrier than she had been in a long time, she had said some things in haste, that under normal circumstances she might have kept to herself.

He didn't need her to tell him about the ghosts that he carried around with him, and he hadn't appreciated her telling him that he should let go of some of them, so that he could get on with living his life.

"I'm sorry," she told him sincerely now.

"No, Meg, I'm the one who's sorry," Hawke emitted a huge, shoulder raising sigh now, his expression softening, just a little. "You had every right to react the way you did," he confessed. "After all, I was down right rude to you," he added, lowering his eyes briefly, recalling that he had indeed been rude, and pretty rough on her too, and even now he didn't really understand why he had reacted so violently against her.

"My only excuse is that I guess I must have left my tact and sensitivity in my other pants, along with my good manners and my best behavior," he raised his eyes and gave her a wry half smile now, then dropped his head, suddenly bashful, as he reached out to take another small sip of his cold beer. "I don't know what got into me. I'm not usually so …." his voice trailed away as he raised his eyes to her once more.

"Aggressive? Dismissive? Resistant? Hostile?" Meg supplied for him, suddenly finding herself grinning back at Hawke as he nodded his head in agreement with her. "I could have been a bit more tactful," she conceded softly. "It's just that I couldn't figure out your attitude. You came to me for help, then deliberately went out of your way to sneer and dismiss and debunk. Almost as though you wanted me to fail, just so you could gloat about it."

"We were running out of time, and your hostility was muddying the waters, preventing me from doing what you had asked, to help you, and I guess I just got so mad because I knew how worried you and Dominic really were, and that your friend was in real danger. I knew that if I didn't find a way to make you back off, we would never find him."

"I know, Meg, and for what it's worth, I'm glad you stood up to me. I'm still not sure we would have found Michael, if it hadn't been for you," Hawke confided gently now. "You did what you had to do," he threw her a questioning look now, and Meg frowned at him.

Did he think she had bluffed him? Conned him?

Did he think that she had just taken a wild guess about those ghosts he carried around with him? That she had played on his emotions? That she had just told him something to simply shut him up?

"I know what you do can't be easy. I know it's not an exact science. I can't begin to understand how it works, but now that I've seen it, I understand a little better. It's not just something that you do, it's something that you really feel, and then to have to try to deal with idiots like me."

"I just get so sick and tired of always being on the defensive, of always having to try to justify myself," Meg sighed deeply, eyeing him curiously.

Oh yes, he was saying all the right things, but she could see in his eyes that he didn't really believe.

He was simply trying to mollify her.

"I didn't ask for this gift, Hawke, and believe me there are more days when I think it's more of a curse than days when I consider myself lucky to have the gift. It is a heavy burden to carry," she used his words to her now. "I'm only the interpreter, and most of the time, I don't seem to be able to find the right words," she sighed softly. "I know I sound crazy, but that's just the way it works. Tell it like it is," she threw him a rueful smile now. "Even if I run the risk of being carried off in a straight jacket."

Hawke smiled back at her, but he was far from relaxed. He knew that he had acted like a jerk, and he did feel ashamed of his behavior, even if he still couldn't explain the cause of it.

There was something reticent about her, and he found that most disconcerting.

She hadn't allowed him to get away with his high handed manner, setting him straight in no uncertain terms, but now, she seemed a little withdrawn and subdued.

Hawke was certain that she had something on her mind, something that she was finding hard to broach, and he had a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew exactly what she was going to say to him.

So now who's the psychic? He thought to himself sarcastically.

"And I don't always like the things I learn in the process," Megan let out a deep, shaky breath now. "But I can't pick and choose what I see. I don't like seeing into peoples' lives, seeing their deepest fears, their darkest secrets," She paused to draw in a soft breath. "I don't always let on about the things I learn either," she confessed, and now it was Hawke's turn to frown, leading Meg to wonder if she was wandering into dangerous territory.

"People don't always need to know," she pressed on. "Other's don't want to know. It's enough for them to know that someone else is aware of their pain and their grief."

Hawke's expression remained tight, his eyes glinting ominously, but he gave her an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.

"Tell me, Hawke, why are you so skeptical? Why were you so eager to shoot me down in flames every chance you got? Why are you so determined not to believe? Surely you know that you have a gift too?"

Even as she finished speaking, Meg had no idea how she suddenly knew that, but was also certain that it was true.

This drew a sharp look from Stringfellow Hawke, making him start in his chair.

The look of surprise on his handsome face quickly morphed into a dark, dangerous scowl, but now that she had started, Megan had no intention of stopping.

"Oh yes, you have a gift too," she plowed on, ignoring the warning look in those deep sky blue eyes, a thrill of excitement running down her spine as she finally understood what it was that had been bothering her about Hawke. "That acute sense of hearing of yours …."

Now Stringfellow Hawke's beautiful blue eyes grew wider in astonishment.

"And that heightened sense of danger. That funny little tingle you get that lets you know that something isn't quite right. That someone isn't to be trusted. Call it 'gut instinct' intuition, whatever you like, it's a sixth sense that not everyone has Hawke, but you trust in it, because it's saved your life many times," she told him with absolute certainty now.

Stringfellow Hawke was staring at her with open mouthed astonishment now, and Meg could not help smiling softly back at him.

"You see, String, your dog's name isn't the only thing I know about you," Whispering now, she leaned across the table, wondering if she was pushing her luck with him, just a little too far, as she watched his mouth swiftly close, lips compressing together in a thin, angry line.

"I guess you're talking about those ghosts I carry around with me, again?" Hawke hissed back through clenched teeth, his blue eyes sparkling with anger again, and Megan immediately pulled back, sitting up straight in her chair as she reached out for her glass to take another sip of her wine.

She knew that he was volatile, had expected a strong reaction from him, that was why she had chosen a very public place to talk with him, in the hope that it would temper his hostility and anger.

"Did you see all my deepest fears? My darkest secrets?" Hawke snarled, his blue eyes hard chips of ice, his face set in a grim mask of barely controlled rage.

"Maybe," she gave a soft sigh, raising her eyes to him once more. "People have the wrong idea about me, about what it is that I do. I already told you, I'm not a witch. I don't do spells or incantations, or go off into a trance. I'm not a con artist, cashing in on people's grief and vulnerability either. I do what I do, to help people but, my job isn't just about the dead, String," this drew another sharp look from Hawke. "I'm here to help the living too," she explained gently.

"When I called and asked you to dinner, I didn't know why I wanted to see you again. I just knew that I had to, that there was something important that I had to tell you. I still didn't know what that was, until a moment ago," she confessed, lowering her eyes to her wine, briefly, before looking back up at him once more.

"When we were working together, I got some impressions off you," she explained, knowing that again the real words she needed to explain to him what she had felt were eluding her. "Not very strong impressions, because all that negative stuff you were throwing off was interfering, but, one of them was that, although you deny it, dismiss it as just one of those things, you're not so very different from me. You have a gift too, and I think the reason I couldn't get you out of my mind is because I have to tell you that you must go on trusting that 'gut instinct'."

Now Hawke was regarding her with a mixture of barely controlled anger, and curiosity, and for one awful moment Meg feared that the anger would win out and he would get up and leave.

"I think it's because I need to tell you that whatever it is your gut is telling you about your brother," Meg rushed on. "You have to go on believing it."

"My brother?" Hawke spat out incredulously now, his eyes fizzing with rage.

"Sinjin." She pronounced the unusual name very carefully and Hawke stared at her, his eyes suddenly demanding to know what it was she thought she knew about his brother. "Oh, I don't know anything specific, Hawke," she told him honestly. "But I do know this, he isn't one of the ghosts I told you about." and now there was conviction and absolute certainty in her voice and in her eyes, as she steadily held his startled blue gaze.

Hawke's reaction spoke very clearly to Megan.

It told her that her words were not what he had been anticipating, and suddenly, she understood the reason why he had reacted to her in the way that he had.

It all made sense now.

That 'gut instinct', that intuition, that unquantifiable something that warned him of impending danger, alerted him that something was not right, that allowed him to judge whether a person was quite all they seemed, had kicked in as soon as he had laid eyes on her.

That inexplicable feeling, that undeniable yet indescribable sense, that awareness that he had come to rely on, that he had trusted his life to over the years had suddenly overwhelmed him, and he had known all along that Megan Ravenson was no fraud.

He had known instinctively that she was the real deal, and suddenly he had been afraid that she might tell him that the one thing that kept him going, that ensured that he carried on from day to day, his unshakeable belief that his brother was still alive, was a lie.

He had been terrified that she would tell him that he had been clinging to a false hope all these years, that indeed, his brother really was dead and gone.

He did not want to believe that she really had the gift.

He wanted to dismiss her as a fraud. That way, he could disbelieve, and dismiss anything that she might tell him about his own situation.

"He's alive?" Hawke choked out in a low, ragged voice, eyes boring into her.

"Seek and ye shall find," Meg smiled gently at Hawke as she reached out across the table for his hand, lightly squeezing his strong, tan fingers with her own, neither confirming nor denying anything.

"Is he alive!" Hawke demanded harshly, his strong fingers suddenly curling around her slender wrist, biting into the delicate flesh.

"I already told you, I don't know anything concrete," Meg bit into her bottom lip to stop herself from crying out in pain. "I can't tell you where to find him, Hawke, only that you have to keep looking. Seek and ye shall find. Trust in your instincts. You can't explain to anyone why it is that you feel so strongly that he is still alive. But you do," she told him with conviction.

"Yes, I do," Hawke released her wrist when he noticed the wince of pain on her face now. "He's my brother. I would know. I would feel it. If he was gone. Dead," he drew in a deep, ragged breath, feeling shame flood through him as he watched Megan Ravenson gently rub at her sore wrist. "I don't know why I feel that way, every one says he's dead, all the evidence points to it being true, but somehow …."

"You know he's alive," Megan whispered, her blue eyes soft with understanding as she took in the anguish in his eyes now.

"Yes," Hawke confessed.

"Then keep doing what you're doing. Don't give up," Despite the fact that only a few moments before he had hurt her, Meg reached out to take his hand in her own once more, squeezing it reassuringly. "Yes, you have ghosts. We all do, Hawke. We all have people, things that haunt us, but, for what it's worth, I don't have any sense of Sinjin in that way, not like the others," she told him honestly, meeting his gaze with steady eyes.

"The others?" Hawke choked.

"The people you love. Your parents, Carrie Ann, Gabrielle …."

Meg stopped when she saw him flinch, saw the pain, and then the anger and distrust return to his eyes, saw that his first thought was that she had somehow prized the information out of Dominic Santini, and she let out a soft, wistful sigh.

Just for a moment, she had thought that she had gotten through to him.

"They are still around you, watching over you, loving you as they always did, and blaming yourself for their deaths, not living your life to the fullest, is hurting them too. They want nothing more than for you to be happy, Stringfellow, and that means letting go," she gave his hand another gentle squeeze. "Let them go. Move on, so that they can move on too. So that you can all find some peace at last."

It was good advice, but Megan Ravenson suspected that he was not yet ready to accept it.

"String, you have to make room in your life, for new people to come into it. You have to make room in your heart, for new people to love you. You have to look to the future, not cling to the past," she told him sagely now.

Meg withdrew her hand from his gently now, and pushing back her chair, rose gracefully from her seat.

She looked down at Stringfellow Hawke, and felt a wave of regret wash over her that, whilst she did not think that they were done with each other, she knew that they would never truly be friends.

"All I'm asking is that you keep an open mind, String. If you can't trust me, at least promise me that you won't stop trusting in your intuition."

Hawke nodded mutely, wanting to say more, but unable to find the words, and uncertain as to whether he would believe what she had to say or not.

Megan stepped out and around the table, coming to stand beside Hawke, looking down at him with a gentle expression of understanding as she reached out and gently squeezed his shoulder.

"And, in the mean time, if I can help you with your quest to find Sinjin, you know where to find me."

Stringfellow Hawke made no answer, but for just in instant, Megan thought she saw something soften in his beautiful blue eyes.

"We're more alike than you imagine, String," and with that, she turned and walked away with dignity and grace, leaving Stringfellow Hawke alone with his thoughts.