Settling In

A/N: Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal, Gargoyles to Disney and Buena Vista, Sentinel concepts to UPN and Pet Fly, Something Is Out There to Columbia Pictures, Special Unit 2 to UPN and Rego Park, Godzilla: The Series to Toho and Tristar, the Real Ghostbusters to Columbia/DIC. Airwolf is AU (moved ahead about twenty years). This story occurs shortly after "Desert Fox", some time after "Tag". "Angel" is what Edwards personnel call Airwolf.

And before I get jumped by either the PC or the straight-laced types for some of the views expressed here... I believe in tolerance. Being tolerant means you respect others' choices. It doesn't mean you have to like them.

~*~*~*~*~

Special Agent Daphne Wyeth pounded her steering wheel, cursing rush hour, L.A. traffic, and whatever jerk back in Washington had tossed out her name for this little "hostage exchange".

Collaborative effort at interagency cooperation, the FBI agent thought, tossing back dark hair as she scowled at the red minivan trying to make up its mind which lane of traffic to swerve into. Yeah, right. Who do they think they're kidding?

The taxpayers, maybe. Politicians were so stupid....

Be that as it may, Jason Locke - who she still hadn't met, and probably wouldn't for weeks yet - was probably zonked out on a hard-as-rock hotel bed, courtesy of the FBI, before they shoved him into a cubicle on what he'd definitely consider the wrong side of the Potomac. And "Danger-prone Daphne", the weirdo from the Windy City, was stuck out in California freeway traffic.

Look at the bright side. Nobody out here's likely to bring up that arson mess in Chicago. The series of dragon-slaying cartoons some smart-Alec had been posting on her walls had gotten old real fast. It didn't even matter that she hadn't been back to the city in almost three years. If people in the agency thought Chicago and weird, they thought her.

A horn blared, accompanying a screech of tires as an idiot in a black BMW tried to shoulder his way past her and a pair of tractor-trailers. Brake lights flashed on like sparklers at a bachelor's party - and from the way steel and glass veered over the asphalt, some of the drivers were just as drunk.

"Arggh!" Throwing up her hands in disgust, Daphne let out a few choice curses she'd learned on the seamier side of Chicago's docks from a short little sticky-fingers called Carl. Off-ramp, off-ramp....

There. And from a quick look at the map, it was even aimed the right direction. Someone up there must like me.

She checked into the specified hotel, accepting the key handed over by a smirking Hispanic clerk. Evidently he'd seen the other people going up to room 307 and drawn his own conclusions. Keep it up, bucko, and I'm asking for your green card.

"Sir," she nodded to the scowling, dark-haired man in the gray three-piece seated just inside the door. Heck of a place to dodge the CIA. "Special Agent Wyeth reporting in."

"I won't ask how you liked the traffic," Special Agent in Charge Thomas Huntley said dryly. He nodded her toward a chair. "Addison?"

A blonde with a laptop and a glint of mischief in her eyes handed over a shoebox that rattled. "Locke's phone. A list of his current files that we've got clearance to get from the Agency computer. His keys - the ones we could get hold of, at least."

"It's someplace to start," Daphne acknowledged. She glanced around the small room, looking longingly at the bed. Sleep. That'd be so nice. But first things first. "Ready to go, sir. I was told we'd have to move on this quickly...."

"We probably can't keep Locke out of town more than a week," Huntley acknowledged. "But you can take the time to catch up from your flight." He smiled slightly, as if afraid to crack his face. "We're not sure where your suspects are currently, but if they keep to their usual routine, they'll be flying back just before dawn."

"Flying?"

"This."

Daphne took the slightly out-of-focus photo, making out guns, a hint of rotor flash, a black-and-white paint job that looked like nothing so much as a killer whale. Orcus helicopterus, she thought dryly. "A black helicopter?" Great. Just when she'd thought she'd left weirdness back in D.C. What's next, Men in Black?

"A tactical weapon," Huntley stated. "Apparently either in civilian hands... or an intelligence agency's." The faint smile vanished. "Either way, it breaks the law just as often as it breaks the sound barrier."

"Sir?" She couldn't have heard that right. A helicopter, breaking Mach 1?

Her new boss shrugged, picking up his coat. "Read the file. But do get some sleep, Agent Wyeth." That hint of smile glimmered again. "There won't be anything happening in Van Nuys tonight."

~*~*~*~*~
"Cuchilla! Here, girl!"

The gargoyle beast growled, lifting her feline head from her inspection of spilled French fries on the edge of dark tarmac. Black-on-black jaguar spots glistened on her pelt as she slunk back to the group, but the four paired horns over her brow ridges were pure gargoyle.

Bloused cotton rustled as Seferina crouched to stroke behind nervous ebony ears, murmuring soft reassurance. The chestnut gargoyle glanced toward the maze of half-lighted Van Nuys runways, cast a wary look back at her dark mate. "There are too many people here. We should go."

Tizne nodded, gathering up the packs that held their supplies. The truckers who'd unloaded them at the Van Nuys Airport might have had their suspicions why a shipment of Mexican statuary had camp gear packed with it, but they hadn't stuck around until sunset to find out. "We must, Isabel. If my mate cannot keep Cuchilla calm... we cannot chance losing her."

"Just a few more minutes. Try. She promised she'd come." Isabel Apoyo shifted the most precious trunk in her arms. Not part of the cargo, no; this box had ridden with her on a chartered light plane from Mexico, so the three amethyst-spotted ovoids within spent the least possible time in transit.

Another shift leaned wood against her shoulder. Her wrist was healing nicely, but her right arm still didn't want to bear the weight of three gargoyle beast eggs. "So... explain this to me again," she murmured to the fox-headed red gargess beside her. "Cuchilla's not on the same season as the rest of the clan? What does that mean?"

"That she may not breed with the rest of us." Leaning down, Zorra took part of the weight. "Just as well, perhaps. Given how we found her."

Near the end of her strength in the south of the clan's territory almost a year ago, eggs on a rough sledge and an obsidian dart buried deep in her flank. Isabel had heard the story when the clan began to trust her; asking, as they'd asked every official contact they could find, to look for evidence of the clan Cuchilla had survived. Wish I'd been able to help. "I just wondered if it had anything to do with Bronx turning to stone." That had been a shock, after the days she'd spent playing with El Timoteo's beasts.

"You forget, amiga. We have a sorceress among us. The clan has been lucky that way; magic has been ours, for as long as the elders' tales remember-" The fanged mouth snapped shut; a hint of ruby glowed in her gaze. "Ah."

A white helicopter hovered into view, settling gently to dark asphalt. The African-American woman in the right seat gave them a quick smile, gesturing toward the passenger door.

Tizne stepped near her, talons flexing out of the pilot's sight, grabbing snatches of the breeze from the rotors. "You trust this woman, hermana?"

"Sí," Zorra nodded, lifting her own pack to her shoulder. "Callista said this would be a good path to fly."

The dark-beaked gargoyle winced. "That's what she said about steering the tornado."

"And from what I recall of you telling that story, that worked," Isabel pointed out. "Hermano. If you and yours want to strike out on your own, I'll back you. But Marella's friends helped us when they had nothing to gain."

The dark gargoyle breathed out slowly, talons flexing on his gear. "It's not easy, trusting outsiders," Tizne admitted. "Seferina?"

His mate was coaxing her beast to the white hatch, stroking ebony hackles. "Sweet one. Brave one. Let's try this, sí?"

Rumbling, Cuchilla leapt inside.

"That's... something else," Marella breathed as Zorra closed the hatch behind them all. A manicured hand gestured to an overhead rack. "Radios if you want them."

Isabel buckled into the co-pilot's seat, nestling the trunk in her lap. Settled the headset over her ears one-handed; winced as it caught a strand of dark hair. "How far are we going?"

Lifting into the night, Marella shrugged. "That depends on you."

Four sets of eyes glowed; three red, one white. "Why?" Tizne demanded.

"Easy, Señor," the white-suited spy smiled. "Trust takes time. We all know that. There's a lot of room near Cold Creek. You've got our number; if you want to spend a few nights checking the area out on your own, I can let you out anywhere there's a good landing spot. Or just anywhere. If you're willing to bail out. Most of it's national forest; I'd ram us into a tree if I tried to put this baby down."

Isabel saw tension ease out of wing-cloaked shoulders. Good move, she thought. The El Timoteo gargoyles hadn't lasted this long by trusting governments. Mexican or United States.

She was government. But given that the DEA had missed Argentino's spy in Third Mesa completely, leading to a desert chase that had nearly killed them all... she wasn't feeling too trusting herself.

"Or?" Zorra prompted.

Marella banked north, heading for the San Gabriel Mountains. "I know a man who sets a wonderful dinner table. Even if he doesn't like people very much." She cast a grin toward the foxy gargoyle. "Just warn me if you spot any eagles."

~*~*~*~*~
"You think they're coming?" Caitlin O'Shannessy dodged up, down, and through the cabin's main room, burning off energy as she and Le Van Hawke laid out the table.

"Who's coming?" the Amerasian teenager asked. He shot a dark glance toward his Uncle Dominic, ear twitching at the spatter of butter around crisping trout. "Dad didn't say anything about you having guests."

"Well, now, we're still not sure they're gonna show, Half-Pint." Dominic Santini took his red silk baseball cap off, combed fingers through mostly-gray hair. "And... they're not like our usual guests."

"Zorra's people may be some of the most normal guests you've had up here. But St. John doesn't need to know that. Yet." Leaning on his cane beside the flickering fireplace, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III gently pushed Tet off his shoes. The blue-tick coonhound grumbled softly, dark ears folding as he flopped his head back onto white leather.

Michael sighed. His knee ached dully, and Tet was putting his foot to sleep, but he was loath to leave the muscle-easing warmth. Not when that one last knot from the latest Uzbekistan mess had almost worked its way out of his shoulders.... "Marella can be quite persuasive."

Inwardly Michael hoped she'd been persuasive enough. He'd had gargoyles as enemies before. And - once - as allies.

Of the two, his aching bones preferred allies.

"Who's Zorra?" Le Van asked the lean, dark blond turning the fish; the only uncle in the room actually related to him.

Stringfellow Hawke slid a spatula under crisping fish, flipped it. "Gargoyle." He eyed the pan's contents, slid in another chopped onion. "Seemed decent."

Glowing accolades, from Hawke, Michael thought. But also a warning. Stringfellow might call him a lot of things, some of them even complimentary, but decent wouldn't be on that list.

So Hawke wasn't sure Zorra or her companion Isabel would make good spies. And whether they would or not, he preferred they avoid espionage as a topic of dinner conversation. At least for tonight.

Fair enough, Michael admitted. From what Caitlin had told him the other day, Hawke was stretching civility as it was having him up here.

I wish I hadn't seen this coming....

After they'd arranged St. John's rescue from Burma, he and his crew had blended into Santini Air fairly well. At least to start. Jo Santini fit in like a missing puzzle piece, juggling flying and spying deftly as her uncle. Mike Rivers was aggravating but tolerable, the flamboyant playboy gradually settling down into a responsible agent. Even Jason Locke wasn't too annoying, for a Company man. Though Archangel still avoided him. It wouldn't do to be caught snickering over the switch he'd so effectively pulled on the man. Locke had no way of knowing he didn't have the real Airwolf.

But St. John did. And that was beginning to be a problem.

Not because Sinj would betray them to Locke. He wouldn't. Probably.

But he knew Hawke was flying Airwolf for the Firm. And he did not like the idea of his little brother as a spy. Especially for Archangel.

Michael sighed, rubbing away the start of a headache. St. John hadn't thrown down the gauntlet yet. But he had gone so far as to say he didn't want Archangel near his son.

Hawke, in turn, had quietly stated that Michael was welcome up at Eagle Lake. Anytime.

From String, it might as well have been a declaration of war.

And everyone at Santini Air knows it, Michael thought dryly. Except Sinj.

Locke ought to have intervened, if only to keep his own Airwolf team running smoothly. Except that the CIA agent had just been yanked back to Washington, as part of the fledgling effort to get the Company and the FBI cooperating.

As Dominic might put it, snowballs would stand a better chance in Saigon, Archangel thought wryly.

But interagency tangles didn't worry him nearly as much as the fact that Locke had been pulled out in the first place. On the surface, the recall made no sense whatsoever. Locke was a field agent, not an analyst.

Of course, if you were a Committee member with an axe to grind, trying to lay bloody hands on a certain Firm-built helicopter... it might make a great deal of sense.

Or it could simply be some hare-brained Congressional subcommittee plan to get those "in the field" talking to each other, Michael admitted to himself. Coincidences do happen. Occasionally.

Still. He planned to keep a very close eye on Special Agent Wyeth. Even though she couldn't be nearly as much trouble as two Hawkes in a bad mood.

Currently Caitlin was conspiring with Rivers and Jo to make sure the two brothers didn't exchange too many words until tempers cooled down. Which wouldn't be anytime soon, if he knew Hawkes. The family temper tended to burn long, slow, and cold. And when it did blow, small countries might vanish off the map.

Dangerous, for two men who flew Airwolves.

Thank goodness they still listen to Dominic. Their guardian turned mentor was half a breath from grounding the pair of them, just so they'd fight it out hand to hand. Instead of with Hellfires.

"A gargoyle?" Le finally found his voice, eyes wide. "Wow. From New York?"

Michael smiled quietly. Reports from that city had been gradually settling down, thanks to some underhanded press releases by the Firm and the NSA, blunt statements from H.E.A.T. that the situation was not contagious, and the tireless public-relations work of Dr. Venkman. Nicely done, that. Spengler and the other Ghostbusters might have the facts, but it took the psychologist's touch to soothe the media into reporting something near the truth.

Hawke shook his head. "Mexico."

"Just don't ask how we met her," Caitlin advised, setting the salad in the middle of the table. A cherry tomato disappeared into her grip; Michael heard the soft crunch as she snacked.

"Classified," the thirteen-year-old sighed, thumping his chin against the top of a chair back. "Sheesh. Don't you guys ever do anything that isn't top-secret?"

Michael chuckled, shoving St. John and his temper into his things-to-worry-about-later box. He could wait there with the rest of the former Soviet republics. "Young man, I assure you, there's nothing classified going on tonight." And most of what I manage to persuade your relatives to involve themselves in is classified considerably above Top Secret.

But Le Van didn't need to know that. Michael had argued out a set of ground rules with String as soon as they knew Sinj's son was here to stay; he knew String would rather go to his grave than give up classified information, but he also knew Hawke had no idea how vulnerable he'd suddenly become. A grieving hermit was hard to threaten. A man with a son....

No one's using Le Van as a pawn. Not on my watch.

Easier said than done. Michael had placed his agents, scouted Le Van's school for security hazards, and talked and talked and talked until that damn taciturn pilot gave in... if only to get him to back off.

So this half of Santini Air was quite clear on what they did and didn't tell the youngster in their care. If something was classified at any level, Le didn't hear about it. If he were there when they needed to talk, String would tell him he wasn't cleared and ask him to take a walk. And with String's hearing, Michael could finally sleep nights without wondering if a too-curious teenager would get in trouble for knowing something he shouldn't.

Then again, String had gotten his piece of the bargain as well. Don't lie to him, Michael, the pilot had said. Le hasn't had much he could depend on. At least let him know he can trust us.

He ought to know better than to trust me, Archangel had argued.

Too many times we almost got killed because we didn't trust each other, Michael, came the blunt reply. I know the odds. I'm not giving up Airwolf. And I'm not losing Le Van.

"Most of what we do ain't classified at all, Le." Dominic leaned back against the cabin bar. "Trust me, kiddo. Most of the time we get hurt, it is a stunt."

Air whispered around wool; Michael caught the white sweater before it could hit his face. "Guests," Hawke pointed out, retreating to the stove.

As in, lose the jacket. These were gargoyles, not errant Company or Firm agents who deserved to face the wrath of Archangel. They didn't even need to know about Archangel.

Odd thought. He'd been Archangel most of his adult life. Was Archangel, now and forever, to most everyone who knew of his existence enough to work with him. Or against him. Certainly when he'd collided with Pyetr in Germany it'd been as Archangel, not Michael.

But to the people in this room, he didn't have to be Archangel. Not always.

Opportunity to add to Airwolf database, gargoyles, came a warm, fluffy tickle in the back of his mind. Noted: nighttime sorties preferable near mission base of operations, Eagle Lake. Noted: full dark prevailing. Possibility direct observation?

No, you can't come, Michael thought back, pulling white wool over his head. Ordinarily he'd whisper it. Anything to keep the illusion of distance between his mind and the AI.

But Le Van was a Hawke, after all. He'd hear a whisper. And that would raise questions none of them wanted to answer.

A mental grumble. Logically Michael knew Airwolf saw the point of his refusal. This wasn't a combat mission.

At least, he hoped not.

Contact data valuable. Possibility of maintaining open link for purposes of indirect observation?

Airwolf wanted to look through him. The ultimate in surreptitious surveillance; drinking in information from his own senses. A rational request, if you looked at it logically. One way or another Airwolf probably would encounter gargoyles again, and she'd benefit by having a tactical database to draw off of.

Yet... that would mean holding that feathery warmth close. Dangerously close, as far as he was concerned. Why don't you ask the others?

Permission already obtained: pilots Hawke, Caitlin, came the brisk reply. Denied: pilot Dominic. Reason: tired. Unwilling to maintain multiple data flows.

Smart man. Fine. I'm tired too.

Psychic scan indicates falsehood. A sense of hurt; warmth withdrew.

Damn. He could weave darkest deception around heads of state with a smile on his face. Why did it always hurt to lie to Airwolf?

Maybe it was that endless, gentle curiosity. The helicopter that served as Airwolf's body might be armed and armored to the teeth, capable of smashing MiGs from the sky with a thought - but the AI herself genuinely meant no harm. Not unless her pilots bade her.

Or maybe it's knowing what Hawke will do to you if she cries, Michael thought dryly, catching that cool, blue-eyed glance across the room. Stringfellow Hawke would quite willingly take apart any number of men to defend Airwolf. And that was before he'd learned she was alive.

She was joy and wonder to fly; life against death, against the most overwhelming odds. She would pull them from the jaws of Hell itself.

And maybe that was the most frightening thing of all.

Lady? Carefully, carefully; not reaching out any more than he had to. Angel, listen....

A slim tendril of thought reached back. Michael Archangel?

Just a little, Lady. He let her weave warmth into the back of his senses, trying not to flinch. Don't go any deeper.

Conditions noted. It was like being swiped with an intangible tongue; warm and friendly and happy.

"Talked you into it, hmm?" Dominic's grin could have lit a runway. It was no coincidence the older man was standing so his bulk blocked Le Van's view.

Michael suppressed a shudder. It'd be so easy to get used to that warmth, to forget it had ever been absent.... "How the hell does he stand it."

"String? He's good with kids. Be glad you don't got nightmare patrol."

Michael looked at him askance. "You can't possibly be serious."

Dominic snorted. "Who's not being serious? She's a kid. She gets nightmares." A wry twinkle in brown eyes. "What, you never talked a kid down from the scary monster in the middle of the night?"

A helicopter that could smash tanks, having nightmares. Good god. "No."

The older man's gaze turned serious. "Michael, kids love their parents. It takes something real evil to get 'em to stop." A strong finger poked white wool. "Whatever evil is, you don't got it."

That stung. He was a master of spies. Responsible for more deaths than Airwolf would ever cause. A killer and a liar and a Machiavellian manipulator, all in his country's service. "Evil's part of my job description, Dominic. Ask St. John."

Santini, damn him, didn't so much as turn a graying hair. "Sinj don't know you. String does." He cocked an ear toward the lake. "Sounds like Marella's coming in loaded."

~*~*~*~*~
"Eagle Lake," Marella identified the swathe of dark water as they landed on the floating dock. "One of the largest tracts of privately-owned land in this forest. A three-day walk on foot from anywhere civilized, and that's if you're pushing it." Shutting down the turbines, she cast a glance back at her passengers. "Plenty of room to get lost in if you don't want to spend the day."

Zorra kept her muzzle expressionless, holding inside the blend of doubt and hope she felt as she gazed out toward the white-chinked cabin. A real home, this was. Meant to last so long as its dwellers lived. Old logs stood strong and solid as the walls of El Timoteo's rookery, a weathered contrast to the extra room someone had added to the east.

Not built for her clan. Even stained to match the rest of the cabin, that wood was at least a year old.

Isabel slipped her a reassuring wink as they opened helicopter doors. "Smells like fish."

It did indeed; freshwater, with onions and peppers adding their own savor. Bread was in there too, and a hint of greenery and garlic.

"Trout from the lake. Stringfellow's not fond of red meat." White boots tapped lightly on floating wood as Marella stepped out. "But there's always some in the freezer."

"String-" Trunk in hand, Isabel stopped. "Hawke?"

A lean, tan human stood in the cabin doorway; light from inside glinting off dark blond hair, face hidden in shadow. "Evening."

And in that breath Zorra knew the face didn't matter. All she'd ever seen of this man was a pair of piercing blue eyes, framed by a helmet black as the eerie craft he piloted. The voice was key; and that voice was calm in the midst of nightmare, rescue out of the blackest pits of despair.

"Amazing. Actual civility." Marella sauntered up to Hawke, crossed her arms. "I suppose we should get inside before you strain something."

"Yeah."

"This is one of those who rescued you from Sonora?" Tizne asked in an undertone as the humans crossed the threshold.

"We cannot speak of that, Tizne. We gave our word." Zorra stepped into the cabin, hiding her confusion. Easier, once she looked about. There was so much to see.

Paintings decked every wall, leading the eye up the stairs toward a loft. A brass sculpture of an eagle met their gaze by the door, fierce as any she'd seen in the skies over Mexico. Stone and mortar formed the body of a bar at one side, the photos of humans in green uniforms hanging over it as carefully framed and mounted as any of the paintings. A cello leaned against the wall, bow ready to use beside it. And a fireplace burned bright and comforting, warmth beating out into the room.

Cuchilla pricked up her ears at that last, pushing aside a dark-spotted hound and a white-clad human to get to the warmest stretch of stone. Purring, she settled into a loose curl, yawning in a flash of fang before dropping her head onto her paws.

"Mama mia! What is that?" An elderly human scratched behind the hound's ears, cast them a wry glance. "Oh, let me guess." Dark brows flashed up. "Housecat?"

"Cool!" A slant-eyed teen lunged forward - only to be caught by a redhead with a grip like steel.

"I believe that's a watchbeast." The man in the white sweater braced both hands on his silver-headed cane, studied the rumbling not-quite-a-cat by his feet. "European beasts bear a closer resemblance to canines. But then, I'm told those in Japan look more like dragons." He shrugged slightly, turned the same intense gaze on those from El Timoteo. "Good evening."

What happened to him? Zorra tried to keep the shock from her face; knew from the muffled exclamations behind her that her clan-sibs hadn't. For it was a one-eyed gaze they met; the other, if it were still there at all, hidden behind a dark patch on his glasses.

Yet that blue gaze was clear and piercing as Hawke's had been, that horrid desert night. Not a gaze that looked for pity.

"I hope you don't mind if we stick to English," the man went on. A smile curved his mustache. "I've been told my Spanish is terrible."

"Getting better." A wry smile bent Hawke's face. "Supper's on."

~*~*~*~*~
Interesting night, String thought, watching Michael play gracious guest. Kind of fun, listening to the man make conversation without ever alluding to his real job. An amazing amount of which consisted of arguing details of stunts and pyrotechnics with Dominic and Caitlin. Agents used a considerable quantity of trickery in their work, one reason the Firm was able to keep Santini Air on retainer without raising too many eyebrows. Not that they didn't have ties with other theatrical companies. But if Michael's people needed something in a hurry, sometimes String could find it quicker.

The pilot glanced down at his plate, toying with a shred of carrot as Michael skipped again around the subject of what he did for a living. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. The white-clad Firm agent came up here to relax; to be himself, without any of the pretenses that surrounded an agent's life. To be Michael and Archangel, among the few people who accepted they were two threads of the same tangled personality.

But Archangel had wanted to meet the people his agency was going to arrange visas for. To know, for certain, before he let gargoyles loose on Cold Creek.

And when Archangel wanted something, Michael usually lost.

Now that half-dark gaze had narrowed his way. "Hawke, please tell me you've never auto-rotated off the top of a three-story building."

String held back most of a grin. "Maybe."

Course of action highly inadvisable, jabbed at him. Pilot hazard. Unlikely to contribute to mission success.

Don't worry, Lady. String hugged that fierce warmth, never minding the prickles. I'd never do that with you.

He wouldn't try that now, truth be told. He had too much to live for. Santini Air, the odd, flying family he and Dominic had pulled together; Hawkes and Santinis and their various strays... including a redheaded former cop, a few types in white suits, and one unbelievably classified AI.

Funny, that it had taken a helicopter and a battered, underhanded secret agent to wake him up to what was right in front of him.

Owe you for that, Michael. Big time.

"You don't even have wings!" Tizne objected. A pile of trout ribs decked one side of his plate, topped by a gnawed T-bone; the gargoyles had put away an amazing amount of meat.

Guess the Cold Creek general store's going to get busy, String thought, scratching Tet under his chin. "Yeah."

"People been flying without 'em most of a century now, you know," Dominic pointed out, laying down his knife and fork.

"Or not flying, sí?" Seferina chuckled.

Isabel groaned. "Is anyone ever going to let me live that down?"

"I doubt it." Zorra's lips showed an amused gleam of fang. "It's too good a story."

"What happened?" Le Van was all bright-eyed attention, leaning over his plate to the point he risked knocking the water pitcher off the table.

Zorra tapped it back toward the table's center with the casual ease of someone who'd lived with a pack of gangly-limbed teenagers. "Well, it was just before mi amiga met the clan-"

"Quiet." String held up a hand. Something... near the fireplace....

Crunch. Crackle. A high, kittenish mew.

"Purrrrr."

"¡Ay, caramba!" Seferina hopped clear of the table, heading for a mass of piled, multi-colored rugs. "You could have told me."

Cuchilla rumbled in the middle of a nest of shredded rugs, licking fragments of purple-spotted shell off squirming black fur. One massive paw reached out, gathered in another egg in the midst of cracking.

"Oh no," Marella murmured.

"S'okay," Caitlin reassured her. "The antiques're on the walls upstairs." Her voice dropped. "They are, aren't they?"

"Yeah." String shook his head in disbelief. Seferina was cooing and petting the adult beast, a soft murmur of reassuring Spanish as striped and spotted cubs squirmed toward their first meal. Tizne was grinning, exchanging a series of cocky handgrips with Zorra. And Isabel's face flickered between a wince at the damage and wry joy at the sight of new-hatched fur.

"Kittens," Le Van breathed, dropping into a crouch for a better view. "Can we keep one?"

String shot him a hard look.

"Aww...."

~*~*~*~*~
Marella leaned against the dock railing, drinking in the silvery gleam of moonlight on the lake. She could almost feel the roar of highways draining out of her ears, supplanted by the soft sigh of wind and the quiet chirp of crickets. Eagle Lake might not have massive supercomputers, or fine theater, or any of the trappings of city life... but it had peace.

It'd taken a while to realize how much she needed that.

And I'm not the only one. "So far, so good, sir?"

A quiet thump beside her; Michael joined her at the rail, taking his weight off his rosewood sword-cane. "It's not sir right now, Marella." The blond mustache bent in a wry smile. "At least no one's shot anyone else yet."

She tossed back a stray dark curl, answering his dry grin with her own. "I thought you preferred to be optimistic." A dark brow canted upward. "Is it Dominic?"

"Dominic Santini can handle Hollywood directors, enemy agents, and Stringfellow Hawke in a foul mood. He can certainly deal with gargoyles." Archangel frowned at dark water. "Le Van's fascinated. Caitlin's willing to take them as she would any newcomers to the area. And Hawke will only be a problem if they linger at the lake. He may not be as fiercely solitary as he was three years ago, but he still prefers his privacy unmolested."

Dark brows flew up. "You're worried about the gargoyles."

"You've read the same files I have," Michael admitted. "From all evidence, they tend to be traditionalists." Fingers traced the splintery edge of rough wood, lost in thought. "Circumstances being what they are, we'll hopefully get the more adaptable members of the clan. But I suspect the good citizens of Cold Creek will have an easier time accustoming themselves to gargoyles than the clan will to California."

"Yes; they're not exactly another wolfpack," Marella murmured.

"We are not a pack."

"Are you sure? Dominic says it's got a nice ring to it." She let her voice slip into a fair imitation of the Italian's accent. "The Lady's Wolfpack."

Michael sputtered. "You said that to Dominic?"

Got you. Now she could get to what was really bothering him. "So is Stringfellow coming out here, or do I need to dragoon Caitlin into locking you both in Le Van's room again?"

"Marella." Flat threat.

She let the glare wash past, ignored. "The Lady does give me updates, Michael." Since I'm the only one that can get any of you help if something goes wrong. "You two need each other as much as you need her."

Now the glare turned haunted. "We're not - I don't-"

Marella laid her hand over his, feeling strong fingers gone chill. For a brief instant, she considered dropping a hint to the IRS about one Blair Sandburg. Who said revenge was unprofessional of an agent? It's not fair. Michael's still so afraid.... Not that Hawke was much better. If it weren't for Airwolf constantly tugging them back together, she was certain the two men would have high-tailed it to opposite ends of the globe. "You forget I've also read your personnel files." She let a smile dimple her face. "If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that both of you definitely prefer the opposite sex."

Archangel cleared his throat, gaze involuntarily flicking down the sleek lines of her dress before determinedly settling back on her face. "Yes. Well...."

Marella held back a blush. Michael might have a well-deserved reputation as a womanizer, but he'd never been anything but a perfect gentleman where those working with him were concerned. He admired their intelligence, encouraged their skills of deception, and most certainly enjoyed their beauty - but he'd never laid an unprofessional hand on any of his "angels". And never would.

Damn.

"All the research indicates that members of an empathic bond need a certain amount of regular physical contact with each other," she said patiently. Anyone human needs physical contact, Michael. Not that he'd believe her if she told him that. He was Archangel; he didn't need anyone.

Or so he thought.

"Just spend a little time with Hawke, and you'll both stop growling at people," Marella finished. Considered that last statement. "Well... maybe you will."

Michael sighed, white wool catching on dark splinters as he leaned against the rail. "You know what the Committee would do if they knew."

I wish I didn't. Locke would find what was left of his team in the wreckage of Santini Air. If he found them at all. As for Airwolf's pack....

If they were lucky, they'd be dead.

She shut away that dark thought. The Committee didn't know. And they weren't going to. For as long as everyone at this lake could keep it that way. "So. Do I need to find him?"

The blue eye went distant. "Apparently not."

Marella knew that cant of white shoulders; she turned, barely making out the red plaid shirt in the shadows. The pine-green jacket beside it was the only surprise. Caitlin's been taking stalking lessons, I see. "And how long have you two been there?"

"'Bout a minute." String stalked onto the dock, settling in on Michael's blind side; Caitlin book-ended him, silent and graceful as a falcon on the wing. "Bothers me too."

Michael scowled, even as he unconsciously shifted his arms to lean nearer to the pilot. "Unfortunately we appear to be inextricably enmeshed in this... situation."

"Yeah."

"We've been scouring the current research on empathy. Scanty as it is; most of those so afflicted have enough warning to steer clear of agencies like ours-"

"Michael." Caitlin's tone was soft, understanding. "You're not a freak. You're just - like us."

The azure gaze turned stormy. "Covert combat pilots disdaining the fine maneuverings of deception for direct, costly and entirely too visible use of munitions? I think not."

"Never know 'til you try." String moved in shoulder to shoulder with the agent. Marella gripped the railing as Michael shifted away; mindful of splinters, but determined not to move.

Caught between them, Archangel stiffened; blew out a long, snarling breath. "I'll have you know I thoroughly despise this."

Marella let her smile slip into her voice. "We'll put it on record."

Hawke wrapped an arm around the taller man. "Easy, Michael. Not going to hurt you...."

Marella barely heard the whisper, as her boss and friend finally yielded to the bond and relaxed, leaning into the pilot's grip. "That's what terrifies me."

~*~*~*~*~
"So." Isabel regarded her love by the fireplace, watching Seferina fuss over Cuchilla's litter. Le Van had been packed off to bed by Dominic an hour ago, yawning all the way even as he protested he could stay up until dawn. Right now the older pilot was going over a topographical map with Tizne, pointing out the best routes into Cold Creek; apparently he'd flown around here long enough to read mountain winds as well as any clan member. The other four humans still hadn't come in from the lake. "What do you think?"

Zorra frowned, lips lifting as if to test the air. "We shouldn't stay here. Not for long."

"Damn." The DEA agent's heart sank. Had she misread these people so badly?

"Oh! Not because of them." The foxy muzzle bent in an embarrassed smile. "I do not have Callista's gifts. But I can feel... some things." She waved talons toward the lake. "This place has power. It is safe enough to visit, yes; we are Hawke's guests, we will not be harmed." Dark eyes met hers. "But it is Hawke's place."

Some of the tension eased out of Isabel's shoulders. She still didn't know much about magic, but if Zorra said it was safe, she'd trust the gargoyle's judgement. "You'll be safe for the day?"

"Very," Zorra nodded, satisfied. "Did he mean us harm, we would know it by now. The wind itself would whisper we were not welcome." A brick-red arm reached out, gathered her in. "You've found a good place, mi amor. We must only look near it."

Ummm.... Warm. "Mi amiga...."

"Hey!" A fierce Italian glare broke their clinch. "You two want to save that for behind closed doors?"

"The doors appear closed," Zorra said dryly. Not moving from where she had one wing wrapped around her chosen mate.

"Yeah, but they ain't yours," Dominic jabbed a finger their way. "We got a kid under this roof. You keep that somewhere else."

Bitter anger burned in the back of Isabel's throat. Mother of God, she was so tired of this. "And where do you expect us to go? Some back alley?" She gestured out the windows. "The middle of the wilderness? We've got a right-"

"You got a right to do what you want to do in your own place," Dominic cut in bluntly. "Maybe I don't like it, but you got a right to do it. You're under this roof, you're a guest. You keep it decent."

Tizne stepped back from the map, eyes glowing faintly. He'd been one of the first to defend their pairing to the elders, caring only that his clan sister was finally happy. "Is that what you'd tell your friends Hawke and Michael?"

Dominic stepped up nose to beak with the soot-skinned gargoyle. "Michael and String ain't that way, mister. And you're lucky they ain't here, 'cause they'd knock you into next week." He stepped back, shook his head. "If Cait and Marella didn't beat 'em to it."

Dominic flipped off the kitchen lights, tipped his red baseball cap to Seferina. "Ladies. Blankets in the window boxes. Night."

Tizne growled once the man was out of sight. "As if the clan were not thick-headed-"

"I think," Seferina said quietly, "That is enough." Tucking one last shred of rug over the snoozing litter, she rose. "We are guests, sí?"

"Sí," Zorra sighed. "I only wish...."

That the world was different, Isabel finished silently. That we could love, and care, and not be condemned....

"Elders," the watchbeast handler stated, "Have earned the right to respect. Did he say you could not love?" She shook back her dark mane. "Only that you should do so at your own hearth."

True, Isabel admitted reluctantly. She'd seen hate of her kind in men's eyes before. Loathing, mixed with the sick challenge to violate her choice of love by violating her body.

Dominic's gaze had held none of that. Distaste, perhaps. An air of doubt; definitely skepticism, though thinking back she couldn't be sure if that were due to the fact that they were both female, or that one of them was gargoyle.

But there was no hate in him.

It wasn't perfect. But perhaps... it would be enough.

~*~*~*~*~
Flying co-pilot over southern California, Major Mike Rivers knuckled away a yawn in the dark before dawn. "Man." Another yawn stretched the blond's jaw. "Who'd have thought Canada would be dealing tech with the Russians?"

Holding his Airwolf steady, St. John Hawke shook his head. "Brave new world, Mike. Everybody's looking for a deal." Maybe Jason could explain it. He couldn't.

Assuming Jason was around to explain. Before they'd gone radio-silent, Jason had mentioned some trouble back in Washington. Nothing to worry about, he'd assured them, just a little bureaucratic snafu. He'd have it cleared up in no time.

Jason, my friend, why do I not believe you?

Something on his console bleeped. "Jo?"

"Two F-15s, coming up fast," Jo Santini warned from the engineer's seat.

Sinj frowned. Edwards Air Force Base. String said those guys were twitchy. Nervous F-15s; not what they needed. "Do they see us?"

"Absorbing 90% of their radar, but-"

The radio warbled on. "Hey, Angel!" A fighter pilot's voice, cocky and amused. "You're early." Silver wings waggled; the rightmost plane rose, setting up for an overhead strike. "Think you'll like this one."

Angel? Sinj mouthed. His helicopter had been called a lot of things, some of them unprintable, but never that. How did they get this frequency? "Who is this?"

"Pirate." Tactical showed a laser pulse ranging out, trying for target lock. "Who are you?"

Jo bit out a soft swear. "Two more, coming up from the northeast!"

Pirate chuckled. "Told you you'd like this one."

"We're dead," Mike muttered under his breath.

"Not yet we're not." Gritting his teeth, Sinj prepared to fly for his life.

~*~*~*~*~
"Pirate?"

"Yeah, Valley?" Pirate asked absently. He barely spared a glance toward the plane she was flying, concentrating on closing their box around the elusive black helicopter. The new pilot was zigging and zagging like a madman, flying on Starlight a hundred-fifty feet above reddish dunes. Has to be a newbie. Angel's usual pilots would be under a hundred. And faster.

"I got a bad feeling."

Pirate frowned. Valley had a way of knowing when things were off; rigged dice, a valve a hair too loose, an alley a shade too dark. "We're about to get target lock and you've got a bad feeling-"

Sun-bright light burst over his scopes; a pair of Sunbursts, shed like glowing tears.

"Whoa!"

~*~*~*~*~
"And we are out of here." Sinj thumbed on the turbos; the massive hand of Airwolf's engines plastering him back against the seat.

They bounced over a ridgeline and down, running over a river in a whisper of shadow over water. Sinj kept one eye on their speed, the other on the fuel gauge. Going to have to call Jason for a refuel.

The CIA agent wasn't going to like that. But they didn't have much in the way of options. Kicking it past Mach, they'd gone into critical fuel consumption. They'd never make it all the way back to the Valley of the Gods.

Maintaining the ECM, Mike shook his head. "What the heck was that about?" He ran a finger across dials, checking each by eye. "No missiles. They were waiting for us and they didn't even try to shoot us?"

"Seemed like they were playing a - game," Jo said thoughtfully.

"A game? With who? They were waiting for us, Jo." Rivers flung up a gloved hand. "It's not like you can mistake Airwolf for anything else!"

"Yeah." Jo's laugh rang hollow in Sinj's ears. "She's one of a kind."

Except she isn't, St. John thought. But of the three in this helicopter, only Mike didn't know that.

Twitchy, String had said.

Those F-15s hadn't been twitchy. They'd known exactly what they were up to.

Dammit, String! You said you were retired!