Tempting the Fates -
Disclaimer - Airwolf, Hawke, Dom, Caitlin, Archangel & Marella (as well any subsequent Airwolf characters from the t.v. series, I have missed listing) all belong to Belesarius Productions and Universal. Seb, Amelia, & Nicky belong to Rachel500. All other characters are mine. I just wish I could claim the others, sigh. Until then, I'm inviting them out to play.
Introduction - Progeny is the first story in this vein. It is based on characters and the time line created by Rachel500. It takes place ten years after the events of Blackjack where Dominic died. Stringfellow Roper is Hawke's son, Ho Minh who found out about their relationship after his parents untimely deaths in rather suspicious circumstances. Hawke had had his suspicions about him being his son as referenced in the first season episode, "Daddy's Gone A Huntin'" but had been unable to confirm it, and was forced to accept Nhi Huong's decision that Sam Roper was his father. She did however rename the boy after Stringfellow, as a homage to his saving him from the Russians, and keeping her husband from risking treason charges to get their son back as well as reuniting them. Tempting the Fates takes place after Progeny.
Chapter 1 -
Rubbing bleary eyes, Saint John Hawke peered once again at the accounting software on the screen. "Okay," he sighed, "how can I be two thousand dollars off?" Once again he rifled through the crumpled pile of receipts and log books Hawke had turned in to him that morning.
"Grief, String," he muttered. "How can any one person make this kind of mess out of a month's worth of fares?" Grumbling, he smoothed a crumpled ticket trying to read his brother's nearly illegible scrawl.
A muffled clanking noise came from the hanger. Saint John paused momentarily, not looking up. "In here String!" he called. "Running kinda late aren't you? Thought you'd be back an hour ago."
There was no answer.
Saint John waited a minute, and then called again. "String?"
Silence answered, almost as if the hanger held it's breath.
Frowning, Saint John reached down into the bottom drawer of the desk for his brother's .45 he kept there. Long practiced fingers clasped around the grip and clicked the safety off as he stealthily eased out of his chair. Quietly, he sidled up to the office door, ears straining for any other noise.
There! Faint, but definitely the sound of metal bumping metal. Kinda like when you bump something you didn't know was there and catch it instinctively before it falls.
Definitely not String, he thought. Furtive steps echoed in the hanger bay, quiet but distinct.
Reaching, he slid his right hand around the door frame, fingers hunting for the light switch. Flipping it, the overhead lights glowed to life even as he stepped around the corner, gun drawn.
An empty hanger greeted him, the only occupants a battered Hughes helicopter Hawke had been working on, and the red, white and blue Santini Air jet ranger. Confusion knit his brows as he looked around, no one in sight.
A clank of a wrench hitting the floor by the jet ranger had him spinning. Even as he did, his peripheral vision caught movement beside him as a dark shape hurtled down and caught him behind the ear.
Grunting, he hit the ground hard, his hand going to his head instinctively even as his knees slammed into the concrete. The gun clattered from his grip as his vision swan before him. Foggily he looked up, his vision graying even as he did so.
"Unh, unh, unh Mr. Hawke!" the dark clad man admonished. "We can't have that." Rearing back, he slammed a steel-booted toe into Saint John's ribs.
Groaning, the blonde pilot collapsed to the ground, doubling up in pain.
The kick came again and again, thudding into his ribs, but he didn't feel them. His hand fell away from his head and dropped outstretched above him, blood-smeared and sticky, the darkness enveloping him. Oblivion reined.
Holding his breath, Stringfellow Hawke hitched a thumb in the air, hoping someone would take pity on him and pick him up. Another car flew past him, and he cursed in frustration. Great, he thought, first the jeep quit, then the cell phone was dead, now this.
Shrugging against the cooling night air, he hunched further in the battle-scarred brown leather bomber jacket he wore, and kept walking. With a huff, he kicked at a clump of dusty grass alongside the road. He sighed, he couldn't blame 'em, but the walk back to the hanger was sure looking long.
Headlights glowed in the distance, topping a rise. Half-heartedly Hawke raised a thumb and turned, walking backwards along the roadway.
Whipping past him, the truck edged over to avoid him. Hawke had already dropped his thumb and shoved his hands dejectedly in his pockets, when he saw the brake lights kick on ahead. Abruptly, the car backed in his direction and Hawke grinned breaking into a weary loping run. Maybe, he thought, his luck was changing after all.
Raising a hand in farewell, String gratefully hopped out of the truck and onto the tarmac. Easy stride carring him across the air field, he headed for the hanger.
"Saint John!" he yelled, walking through the door. "I'm back. Sorry I'm so late."
Silence greeted him, despite the lights were on overhead. Brow furrowing, he glanced around. "Hey Sinj," he called, "where are you?"
Hunting, he paced through the hanger. "Hey Sinj, you fall asleep on the job?" he taunted, heading in the direction of the office. Getting no answer, he ducked under the tail boom of the Hughes. "Hey man, where are you?"
Rising up, his eyes lit on the open office door. Clearly illuminated in the flourescent light, the desk lay overturned and papers were strewn everywhere.
"What the…?" he started, only to trail off in surprise, his eyes widening. He started towards the office glancing down as he did so.
"Saint John!" the words ripped from his throat as he scrambled across the floor, lunging on hands and knees for his brother. Frantically, he searched for a pulse hearing nothing but his own pounding heart. Sucking in a heaving breath he finally found one, his eyes pouring over his brother's bruised and battered face.
Practicality seeping in, Hawke reached for the phone, punching in numbers even as he prayed. "Hold on Sinj, help's coming," he muttered the words choking out past the lump in his throat.
Shifting his weight uneasily, Hawke watched the ambulance attendants load the stretcher with his brother's body on it into the ambulance. Fear still clutched at his chest though they'd assured him Saint John was in good hands.
Watching the ambulance lights fade in the distance, he trudged wearily back to the hanger. He'd have to lock up and call Caitlin before he followed, no matter how badly he wanted to go with his brother.
Stepping inside, he sighed. Dom would be having a cow if he could see his place like this. 'Course that wouldn't compare to his ire about whoever had jumped Saint John. Man, he wished he was here.
Picking up the radio he called out to the cabin. "Caitlin, Caitlin this is Hawke. Pick up."
The pause stretched on for a long moment and then Caitlin's voice rang back. "Santini Air, this is Cait. Come on back."
Closing his eyes in relief, Hawke pressed the button. "We've had a break in at the hanger, Cait. I don't know when I'll be back."
"Everything okay?" she asked, her tone worried.
"Saint John was here, Cait," Hawke sighed, his voice heavy.
"Oh no," she cried. "Is he okay?"
"I don't know. Whoever it was worked him over pretty good."
"Give me a few minutes, Hawke. I'll pack up the kids and we'll meet you at the hospital."
"No, Cait," Hawke replied. "I'll be okay. I'm just going to lock up here and head to the hospital. There's no need to drag the kids out and upset them."
"You sure?" she asked unhappily.
"Yeah, I'll give you a call as soon as I hear something. Hawke over." Grabbing the keys to the jeep off the desk String headed for the door.
Taking the steps to the hospital doors two at a time, Hawke hurried inside. Pulling up short, he asked at the admittance desk after his brother.
"Saint John Hawke?" the woman repeated, the name rolling unfamiliarly on her tongue.
"Yeah, an ambulance would've brought him in a few minutes ago," he forced out the words impatiently, fighting the urge to shove her out of the way and look at the records himself.
"Ah, here he is…"
"Where?" Hawke ground out impatiently.
The clerk looked up in annoyance. "Well, if you're going to create a scene about it…"
String raked a frustrated hand through his hair, muscle ticking in his jaw. Forcibly, he reined in his rising temper and aimed for contrite. "Sorry," he breathed out harshly. "I'm just worried about my brother."
Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, the clerk pinned him with her gaze.
"Please," Hawke rasped.
After a minute, she subsided, looking somewhat mollified. "Very well. Room 817, eighth floor.
"Thanks," he tossed over his shoulder, already loping for the elevators.
"Hey! No running!" she exclaimed in irritation, shaking her head in disgust.
Rocking on his heels, Hawke counted the floors and the stops to his brother's floor. Blowing out an impatient breath, he charged out the doors even as they slid open. Glancing up at the sign listing room numbers, he barreled down the hall to his right.
Almost instantly, he plowed into someone so hard he rocked back on his feet. "Sorry," he apologized, grabbing for the handrail on the wall. He glanced at the other man contritely.
Blue eyes widened in surprise. "Michael!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" he asked in confusion. "How did you know?"
Archangel straightened his tie, tugging his vest into place as he looked at Hawke. "Know what?" he asked quirking an eyebrow.
"That Saint John was here," Hawke answered, the certainty striking him even as he said it, that his brother wasn't the reason for Michael's visit.
"Saint John's here?" Michael asked in surprise. "Why?"
"Robbery at the hanger," Hawke responded trailing off. "Why are you here, Michael?" he asked frowning.
"Marella took a tumble down the stairs at Red Star," he said looking away.
"She okay?" String asked, concern in his voice.
"Don't know yet," he replied, tapping his cane absently on the floor. He sighed, not meeting Hawke's eyes. "She hasn't regained consciousness yet."
String shifted uncomfortably. "Musta been a pretty bad fall."
"Couple of flights. She's banged up pretty good. Broke her wrist, possible concussion."
"Sorry, Michael," Hawke murmured not knowing what else to say. "anything I can do?"
"Damn shoes," Michael snarled abruptly, thumping his cane angrily on the floor.
Hawke raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"That woman and those ridiculous heels of hers. What was she thinking trailing up and down all those stairs in those things? Just asking to break her fool neck. Limping angrily, he paced the hall in front of Hawke.
Hawke let him vent for a moment and then cut in. "Was it an accident?"
"Of course it…" Archangel paused, suddenly thinking. The silence drew out for a long moment. "Yeah," he finally stated, blowing out an exasperated breath. "No sign of anyone else who didn't belong." He raised a sharp, blue-eyed gaze to meet Hawke's level one. "Why?"
"I just wondered what with Saint John and the hanger," String answered.
Remembering the other's problem, Michael winced in remorse. "Your brother okay?"
The ambulance guys seemed to think he'd be," he replied quietly. "The hanger was a pretty big mess."
"They get anything?" Michael asked, falling into step beside Hawke as he continued towards his brother's room.
"Not really, least that I could tell," Hawke replied. "Cash box is gone - maybe a few hundred dollars there. Caitlin went by the bank when she left yesterday afternoon. I didn't spend a lot of time looking."
Archangel nodded in understanding.
Pausing, they reached saint John's door. "I'll wait for you," Michael said quietly, lowering himself into one of the chairs in the hallway. Hawke nodded absently, oblivious to the other's sympathetic gaze. Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway into his brother's room.
Pale green walls greeted him, accenting the pallor of the man lying in the bed. Livid bruises stood out starkly against the pale skin. "Geesh," String swallowed, stepping slowly towards his brother and pulling up a chair. "They really worked you over, Sinj."
Reaching over, he placed his hand on his brother's arm. Remorse and regret lay heavy on him as he watched over Saint John. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I should've been there Sinj."
"So you could get your butt kicked, too?" Saint John croaked, peering blearily at Stringfellow.
"You're awake," Hawke blurted in surprise.
"Yeah," Saint John replied dryly, reaching weakly for the pitcher of water.
Realizing what he was wanting, String hurried to pour him a glass. Holding it for him, he watched his brother take a sip or two before leaning back tiredly on the pillows. He closed his eyes and rested, breathing hard for a minute.
"You know," he said after a moment, "it wouldn't have made a bit of difference if you'd been there, String. Except maybe, you'd be lying here too."
"I should have had your back," String replied quietly.
"Maybe," Saint John allowed. "Maybe not. So where were you anyway?"
"Had a flat, had to hitch a ride back to the field."
Saint John nodded, closing his eyes. "Go home String," he sighed. "I'll be fine. I promise."
Feeling like he'd been dismissed, Hawke just sat there, a stunned expression on his face.
After a minute, Saint John cracked an eyelid looking at him. "You're still here? We're good, String. You can't control everything, I know that. I wish you did."
"But…"
"Cait'll be worried. I'm tired, and I just want some sleep. Come see me in the morning," with that he closed his eyes again.
Silence reined. Hawke shifted uneasily in his chair. Finally, putting his hands on the chair arms he pushed up. He stood there in the middle of the room feeling at loose ends for a long moment before he turned towards the door.
His hand was on the knob to go, when Saint John spoke quietly. "Love you, String. I'm glad you came."
Hawke looked back at his brother. "Love you too," he replied his voice gruff. He stood there silently for a second and then stepped through the door.
Seeing him, Michael rose stiffly to his feet. "He okay?" he asked, eyeing String with concern.
"Yeah," String replied certainty seeping through his soul. "Yeah, he's okay, Michael."
Together the two men walked slowly down the hall.
"Any news on Marella?" Hawke asked.
"No," Michael said quietly. "None."
"You're staying," Hawke said. It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact.
Michael nodded, not speaking.
"You want company?"
Surprised, he shot a glance at Hawke. The younger pilot's distaste for hospitals was legend. "No," he said somberly. "I'm fine, it just wouldn't seem right to leave her."
Hawke nodded in acknowledgement, keeping pace with the other.
"Here's your ride," Archangel grinned wryly at him, stopping at the elevator.
"See you, Michael," Hawke replied. "Call me if you need anything."
The spy nodded and turned to go. The heavy steel doors started to close. "Hawke!" Michael called out.
A tanned hand caught the doors in mid-slide. "Yeah?"
"Thanks," Archangel said, a world of appreciation in the one word.
Hawke grinned and let go of the doors. Even as they slid shut, he threw up a hand in farewell.