FUTURE IMPERFECT 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.
This story is purely a figment of my imagination, and apart from the usual ensemble of characters, borrowed for the occasion from Mr Bellisario and company, any and all resemblance to any real person or place is purely coincidental, accidental and downright bad luck on my part!
Prologue.
Thursday am.
Stringfellow Hawke came awake, eye lids fluttering, tentatively at first.
Heavy.
Too heavy.
Just like the rest of his body.
Like he was pulling 10G's, in a nose dive, on the test range.
Gravity, pushing him down on to a hard surface.
Awareness was returning, only very slowly.
Gradually.
The first thing he really registered was the noise.
A soft, beeping sound, and then, the scuffle of soft soled shoes on a hard, polished, tiled floor, in an otherwise quiet room.
He wasn't cold.
He wasn't hot.
There was a soft breeze tickling his nose.
With an odour.
Only very faint, but, it was one that he was aware that he should recognise.
His head felt muzzy, stuffed full of cotton wool, slow and sluggish, and reluctant to work.
All this he registered even before he opened his eyes.
Opening them at last, didn't help.
Everything was a blur, and he had to close his eyes again immediately against the brightness of the light, feeling wetness seeping from between his lashes and down his cheeks, as the brightness brought tears to his eyes.
He knew he had to try again, had to know where he was.
He forced his eyes open once more, blinking away fresh tears as he tried to focus on the ceiling immediately above him.
Movement, out of the corner of his eye.
"Well hello there," a soft, female voice cooed close to his right ear and he blinked rapidly again, trying to focus on the moving shape that loomed over him now.
A fuzzy white blur, without definition.
"Well now, you certainly took your time," a blurred shape, a face, he guessed, although nothing as defined as features were discernable to him, loomed closer to him.
He must have tried to move then because in the next instant he felt the light pressure of her hand against his shoulder, stilling him.
"Rest easy, Stringfellow. Take your time. Things are going to seem a little strange for a while," she leaned in close to him, taking his cool hand in her warm one, squeezing it gently as she spoke slowly, in a soft, reassuring voice.
"We've certainly waited a long time to see those beautiful baby blues' of yours, but, doggonnit, if she wasn't right. They really are the deepest blue I have ever seen."
Her words, although barely registering in his fuzzy brain, were strangely comforting, or perhaps it was her tone of voice, soft and soothing and reassuring. He could hear the smile in her voice, rather than actually see it, so he focused on that and tried to speak.
Only to find him self consumed by a fit of harsh, rasping coughs.
"Oh no, honey, don't try to talk. Now listen to me, Stringfellow, I am Nurse Pattie Monroe, and you are in the hospital. You've been here for some time, but you're alright now," she assured softly.
"When you arrived here, we had to put you on to a ventilator, to help you to breathe," she explained slowly. "But the good news is that we removed the breathing tube a couple of days ago, when you first showed signs of trying to breathe on your own. Your throat is going to feel a little raw for a while. Best if you don't try to talk just yet," she patted his shoulder reassuringly now.
Sure enough, Hawke realised that his throat was dry and burning.
However, he found it reassuring that he did not appear to have any kind of pain.
Except, that was, for a dull sort of throbbing behind his forehead.
"Now, you lie still and I'll go get the doctor. He'll explain everything to you, answer all your questions. In time. For now he'll just be pleased that you decided to come back to us," she smiled softly down at him then, her plain open features swimming before him and finally coming into some semblance of focus now.
"It is good to have you back with us, Stringfellow," she turned on her heel then and walked swiftly toward the door on the opposite side of the room, her rubber soled shoes squeaking on the highly polished flooring.
While the nurse was gone, Hawke tested out his limbs and found that all seemed to be in good working order, if a little heavy and slow.
No pain.
No paralysis.
Well that had to be a good sign.
Didn't it?
So what the hell had put him in the hospital?
After several minutes, unsure if he had faded in and out several times in the meantime, the nurse returned, bringing with her a tall, well built, balding man in his late fifties, who immediately greeted him with a wide smile.
"So, you finally decided to take a look at us. Yup, she was right, deepest blue eyes I never thought I would see," the doctor gave him a wide, toothy smile and then winked at the nurse who was standing to the side of him, as he reached out and took his patient's wrist, to take his pulse.
"Any pain? Numbness anywhere?" Hawke shook his head, and then winced as the pain in his head increased slightly. "Bet you got a real doozy of a headache, right?"
Hawke nodded his head, carefully this time.
"Not to worry, it will pass. I'm Dr Marcus Coleman," the man assured, introducing himself casually, and only then did he notice the frown clouding his patient's brow.
"Don't worry, all will become clear in time. You just concentrate on getting strong. I know you must have questions, lots of questions, Mr Santini, but right now, I want you to just relax and try to get some more sleep. I know," Coleman chuckled softly. "You only just woke up," he grinned charmingly down at Stringfellow Hawke, who was still frowning, his watering, unfocused eyes darting around the room now, seeking out the familiar, welcoming face of Dominic Santini.
"Dom," he managed to croak in a soft, rough voice.
"Easy, Mr Santini, don't try to talk just yet," the doctor chastised softly. "You need to get some sleep, natural sleep, not the trauma induced slumber you've been subjected to these past four months, while your body healed. Sleep is still the best cure for most things."
Dear God, the man was calling him Mr Santini!
Four months?
Hawke balked, automatically trying to sit up in bed, thus yanking the oxygen tube from his face and the sudden rough, uncoordinated movement pulling the IV needle from out of his arm, and setting all the machines to beeping erratically.
"Hey, hey, take it easy. What did I just tell you? Relax. I know it's hard for you to take all of this in right now, so don't even try. Give yourself time, Stringfellow. And if you do as you're told and behave yourself, I might let you have some visitors later."
The doctor and the nurse worked together to press him gently back down onto the bed and feeling confusion and weariness settle over him, Stringfellow Hawke stopped resisting their ministrations and sank back against his downy soft pillows in silent submission, as they reattached the IV and the monitors and straightened up the pillows and the bed linen.
Four months!
He had been here for four months?
No matter how hard Hawke tried, it made no sense to him.
He tried to call to mind the last thing he remembered, but there was nothing, just a big, black hole where his memory used to be.
Nothing.
He had no idea where he was or what he had been doing before he opened his eyes to find himself here, in this room.
When he was settled at last, the doctor despatched the nurse to fetch him the drug he required and fresh bags of IV fluids, while he wrote up the sedative on his patient's notes.
"I know that all this must seem very strange to you right now, Stringfellow, but you really mustn't try to rush things. I'm going to give you a shot in a minute, a mild sedative to help you relax, not really a sleeping drug, but a muscle relaxant that will help ease the heaviness you must be feeling in your limbs,"
"Dom," Hawke croaked, a little more insistently.
"Yes, yes. All in good time. I will call your father, but later," Dr Coleman assured softly. "Right now I want you to lie back and close your eyes and get some rest. I'm glad you finally decided to wake up and take a look at us, however, your timing is just a little off. It's the middle of the night."
The doctor grinned as he signed his initials against the drugs order on the patient's chart, then, looking up at last, noticed the strange, penetrating look on his patient's face and the confusion in his lovely blue eyes.
"And although I know that Dominic would be here in a heart beat if I did call him, after everything that he has been through in the last few months, he needs his rest too. Morning will be soon enough for both of you."
Dominic, his father?
Hawke's fuzzy brain simply refused to accept the words he was hearing.
His father was dead.
Dead these last twenty two years.
Drowned, along with his mother, in a boating accident up at the cabin on Eagle Lake.
Was this man under the impression that Dominic Santini was his father?
Maybe Dominic had told them that so that he would be allowed visitors?
Especially as he had no other blood family to speak on his behalf.
Yes.
That made a little sense.
Four months
Four months!
What the hell could have happened to him that would have caused him to lose four months of his life?
Nothing good, was the only answer he could come up with.
The nurse returned and changed the bag of IV fluids while the doctor administered the sedative and in a very short time, Stringfellow Hawke began to feel the tension drain from his body and the muzziness return to cloud his brain.
"Sleep well, Stringfellow," the doctor had a hold of his hand now and was speaking in a soft, reassuring voice. "You're going to be just fine. Just fine," he patted his hand gently then turned and walked out of the room, leaving Stringfellow Hawke to finally succumb to the weariness, closing his eyes at last and gratefully sinking into the blackness of slumber.