AN: Just an experiment I attempted after watching "Shadow of the Hawke," aka the Pilot episode. This is roughly the last five minutes of the movie. Airwolf and Co. don't belong to me, they belong to Mr. Bellasario.
Changing the Rules
By The Lady Razorsharp
Archangel struggled to the door, his bad leg dragging a little against the worn floorboards. He opened the door, and the noise of puttering rotors gained in volume. Hawke sat on the couch, numb, wishing to God he'd never heard of the Firm, Airwolf, or Gabrielle Adeneur.
The shattered gait paused on the threshold, and silence stretched out between the two men. Finally, Archangel spoke, his voice so low that the noise from the helicopter nearly obscured it.
"Did she suffer?"
Hawke raised his eyes to the wall opposite to stare into Vincent Van Gogh's wounded visage; he had the feeling that the painter's helpless expression was mirrored on his own features.
"What difference does it make?" he growled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hawke saw Archangel whirl clumsily to face him. Good, thought Hawke. About time you showed some emotion, you cold-hearted bastard.
The black lens that hid Archangel's blind eye flashed in the dwindling sunset. "Damnit, I was the one who sent her out there, and I want to know!" snarled the man in white. "Did she suffer?"
Hawke closed his eyes, seeing Gabrielle's blistered face against the darkness. He rubbed his hand against the cushion of the couch, as if to wipe away the memory of Airwolf's joystick against his palm, of the click-click-click of the trigger beneath his finger as he emptied Airwolf's arsenal into Moffett's jeep. Once again, he heard the explosion, saw the massive fireball blossom into the sky like some avenging angel rising from the earth on fiery wings.
String. Santini's calm voice in his ear roused him from visions of the Huey's cockpit, and the specter of thick jungle dissolved into endless sand dunes. String, it's done.
Hawke sighed and opened his eyes. Punching Archangel's lights out had made Hawke feel better last time, though it hadn't solved anything. He'd still gone to Libya, still risked his life, still done what the Firm told him to do. As usual, Dom had thrown his lot in with Hawke and they'd managed to pull it off. Stealing Airwolf had taken guts and a healthy shot of luck, and Hawke wondered if Archangel realized it had never been about the money.
The only consolation was that Airwolf was safely tucked into the foxhole Dom had scouted in the Valley of the Gods, away from prying eyes and greedy hands. If the Firm wanted to see Airwolf's shiny bulletproof hide again, they'd have to play by Hawke's rules.
Behind him, Archangel waited, tension rolling off him in waves that Hawke could almost feel against the back of his neck. It was on the tip of Hawke's tongue to tell Archangel to go to hell and to never darken his doorstep again.
Then the sight of Airwolf as they had driven away--silent and potent in a pool of light at the bottom of the caver--flicked through Hawke's mind. Dom had immediately nicknamed the helicopter 'The Lady,' and Hawke supposed Santini was right; Airwolf was like a cruel and beautiful mistress, making men chase after it with slavish desire and leaving destruction in its wake. That all-consuming devotion had pushed its creator over the edge, and Gabrielle had been a sacrifice to Moffett's goddess.
With a sigh, Hawke shook his head. Why Archangel wanted to hear the lie was beyond him, but Hawke realized that he wanted to hear the lie, too.
"No. She didn't suffer."
Even as he said it, Hawke knew Archangel wasn't stupid; if anyone understood the depth of Moffett's insanity and capacity for cruelty, it would be the man bore the scars of Moffett's attack on the Firm's HQ.
Archangel lingered in the doorway for a moment, and then nodded to himself. He turned and left, his cane thumping against the deck. In just a few minutes, the whine of the rotors changed pitch as the pilot prepared to lift off, and soon the drone of the helicopter faded into the distance.
Lying at Hawke's feet, Tet raised his head and whined. Hawke stared at the rangy hound for a moment, and the dog quirked his head, ears flicking in silent question.
"Yeah," Hawke ground out. "Come on."
The sunlight was almost gone by the time he sat down at the end of the dock, but he didn't need the music. Searching the pine-covered hills for the eagle, Hawke drew his bow against the strings, eliciting a mournful sigh from the cello.
He played for Gabrielle; he played for his parents. He played for Saint John and all the friends he'd lost in 'Nam. Hawke had learned long ago to simply let the tears come, feeling the wind bite his wet cheeks, and played on.
At long last, there was a screech above him, and his eyes tracked the graceful figure of the eagle as it soared along the lakeshore. With a quiet ruffle of feathers, the eagle landed on the railing, unafraid, and Hawke let the last note die away.
--End--