AN: Airwolf and Co. belong to Mr. Bellasario, I'm just borrowing them for a little while. Inspired by the episode HX-1. The dialogue is taken directly from the episode.

Brown Eyed Girl

by Lady Razorsharp

Hey where did we go
Days when the rains came
Down in the hollow
Playin' a new game
Laughing and a running hey, hey
Skipping and a jumping
In the misty morning fog with
Our hearts a thumpin' and you
My brown eyed girl
You my brown eyed girl

--Van Morrison, 1967

--1970--

Saturday night in Da Nang wasn't anything to write home about--literally.

String never told Dom about what happened on the scant leave the brothers' unit managed to get between runs, but somehow String figured that Dom knew anyway. Santini had served in the Pacific and in Korea; he'd probably had his share of nights like this one--lonely, bone-weary, needing sleep and food but instead sitting in a smoky, noisy bar with bellyful of cheap beer. String closed his eyes; not only to keep the room from spinning, but also to focus on the Rolling Stones song blaring out of the jukebox. If he concentrated hard enough, he was back in Los Angeles, sitting at the bar by the beach, college students and pretty girls passing by.

I can't get no sat-is-fac-tion...

String swallowed, noting the sour taste at the back of his mouth. Damnit, the dream wasn't working tonight. He'd be puking his guts out in the alleyway in an hour, his older brother Saint John standing over him with disapproval, and their friend Mace laughing his ass off at "little brothers who can't hold their liquor."

"They asked if my intentions were honorable," Mace boomed in a beery voice from the opposite end of the bar, "So I said to her, 'Honey, you know I'll be back after the war to help you plow those rice paddies.'" He guffawed coarsely. Everyone knew that Mace was much more interested in plowing farmer's daughters rather than fields.

String fought the urge to roll his eyes; the motion would probably finish off his churning stomach. Mace Taggart was every inch a stereotypical G.I., a lanky blue-eyed cowboy with a mop of untamable brown curls and an easy charm that women on both sides of the Pacific responded to--with one exception: Ellie Jameson.

A California girl through and through, Ellie could have been the inspiration for a Beach Boys song with her blonde pigtails and freckles. With a bright smile and a cute figure that was visible even in Army-issue drab, Ellie was a civilian who worked for HeliPro, one of several corporations that supplied parts to the Army's fleet of Hueys. Many of the soldiers had fallen in love with her, but Mace had been among those whose hearts were broken wide open when she fell for Saint John Hawke. String treated her like a kid sister, but sometimes it seemed to him that her liquid brown eyes held too many secrets.

Tonight, watching her giggle drunkenly at Mace's raunchy story, String almost couldn't believe that Ellie--always outraged at Mace's behavior, always giving him a lecture about VD or the plight of mixed-race children--was the same person. What was more, String didn't need to see Saint John's eyes to know how what his brother was thinking--he could feel the waves of disapproval coming off the silent figure sitting beside him.

Mace clinked beer bottles with Ellie. "Oh, well. Here's to love," he said in a voice that String guessed was supposed to mimic Maurice Chevalier.

Ellie grinned, her dark eyes unfocused. "Do you love me too, Mace?" she asked, her amiable nature blurred into teasing with too much alcohol. String wondered if Mace would be able to tell the difference, and waited to see what Saint John would do.

"Oh, you know I love you, baby." Mace gathered Ellie in his arms and gave her a quick, sloppy kiss. "But you just gotta get rid of this joker, Saint John."

String felt his brother tense beside him, but Saint John didn't move. String laughed inwardly; either Mace was incredibly stupid or incredibly drunk--kissing your best friend's girl while your best friend sat six inches away wasn't the best idea, but then Mace had always been too big for his own britches.

String watched Saint John's expression in the mirror behind the bar, and saw the anger and hurt simmering in the deep blue fathoms of his brother's eyes. For an instant, Ellie's smile faded. Her gaze skimmed over Saint John's but didn't stay there.

A half-hearted smile lifted one corner of Saint John's mouth, and he looked away. The smile didn't reach his eyes, and String's brow furrowed. Saint John was tired--they were all tired of the war, of being scared, of being away from home and loved ones, but seeing his brother's weariness made String's throat close up. Not for the first time, String wondered if their hard-won waiver against brothers being in the same unit had been worth all the trouble. He could have gone a lifetime without seeing Saint John like this, he thought, taking another swig of lukewarm swill.

Ellie squirmed in Mace's grip. "Mace," she said, laughing, "put me down." She landed awkwardly, staggering a little on her feet, and leaned on Saint John to steady her.

Saint John's poker face was legendary among the ranks, and he turned a version of it on Mace and Ellie. "You guys have had enough to drink; why don't you just float away?" he said in a tenor made raspy from shouting over the noise of chopper blades.

"Float?" Mace remarked in his patented smartass-remark tone. "That's the Navy." Apparently he'd gotten the hint from the edge of disgust in Saint John's tone, and he moved away from her to sit beside String. As he passed, Mace nudged Ellie a little too hard, and she sprawled into Saint John, who in turn bumped into String.

Damn you, Mace, thought String, his stomach doing flipflops at the unexpected motion.

Ellie was draped bonelessly all over Saint John, her bell-like laugh slightly out of tune. "Float," she repeated, as if it were the funniest thing she'd ever heard.

Saint John looked up at her with an unsmiling gaze of piercing blue that was a Hawke family trademark. She'd learned that for String, it was a warning to stay away, but with Saint John, it was an open invitation to break down the door. Ellie leaned her chin on Saint John's shoulder and smiled up at him through the veil of her lashes.

"Do you love me?" she asked, still teasing as she had with Mace, but her words were edged with warmth that not even too much bad sake could erase.

It worked; the impassive mask began to show fine cracks in the marble, and something like the man she loved looked out at her as if trying to engrave her face on his memory.

"Do I love being alive?" he replied.

The seriousness of his tone shattered the party mood. Ellie pulled away, half-sober, wincing at the volume of the music. "Don't say that," she muttered darkly.

Saint John frowned. She could almost hear his thoughts: Maybe we've all had too much to drink. He straightened from where he'd been leaning his elbows on the bar. "Ellie, I was just kidding," he said, in an all-too familiar tone she'd heard him use with his brother, a tone that said It's over, drop it.

"Okay," she said, looking everywhere but at him, "but not here, not about that." She pushed away the nightmare images: The charred ruin of a burned-out Huey, rows of pine boxes draped with American flags, lists of MIA tacked on a board.

Finally, she raised her eyes to his. Come on, Singe, she thought. Do I have to spell it out for you?

Breathlessly, she waited as understanding dawned over his roughened features. A fleeting smile crossed his face, and she knew he was remembering sultry nights spent in a sweltering, dusty storeroom not far from where they sat.

She kissed him; he tasted of cheap beer and sweat, and two days' worth of beard scratched against her skin. His hands were pulling her olive drab teeshirt out of her camouflage pants even as she unlatched his belt and popped the buttons of his fly. The boots were laced too tightly; they wouldn't be able to get them off in time, so they just pushed as much fabric out of the way as they could. Awkward as hell, but when it was over they grinned stupidly at each other, laughing and crying and laughing again.

The next time, he arrived with his laces loosened, and he'd actually managed to shave. They made an impromptu pallet on the floor using some old moving-van blankets, and she found some emergency candles which she stuck into a helmet full of sand. With the addition of some tinned rations that were still mostly edible, accompanied by a flask of scotch—'won it off Dunkirk in a poker game,' he explained——and they both agreed it was by far and away the most romantic night they'd ever spent with anyone.

His voice brought her back to the present. "I'd love you at home," he said, his quiet words almost drowned out by the cacophony of chatter around them.

Ellie blinked. That sounded awfully like a proposal, Saint John Hawke, she wanted to say, but her heart was stuck in her throat. Instead she smiled, blushing like a schoolgirl. What're you going to use for my engagement ring, a pop-top?

Mace had witnessed the entire exchange, and right on cue, he covered his jealousy with a disgusted sneer. "Jeez, I think I'm gonna be sick," he drawled. Ellie supressed a snicker; all Mace needed to make the picture complete was to start yelling about girl cooties.

"I'm gonna be sick," String muttered, looking a bit green around the gills. The kid was sharp and possessed a sense about his brother that bordered on eerie, but he was only twenty and skinny as a beanpole. Rotgut in Da Nang wasn't a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in old man Santini's backyard, but somehow Ellie didn't think String needed to be reminded of that fact just now.

Besides, she was too busy accepting a marriage proposal. She smiled at her unlikely groom.

"So are we gonna get married and have lots of kids?" Warmth spread itself from her core outward as she imagined herself carrying his child. They hadn't been careful; it could have already happened. The thought filled her with terror and joy.

If bombs had been falling outside, she knew he wouldn't have budged an inch. He saw only her. "Yep. Lots of kids."

Chin trembling, Ellie smiled and leaned in to capture Saint John's mouth in a kiss that spoke of hope and desperation. Her tears overflowed, and she broke away to bury her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, oblivious to the curious stares of the other GI's.

He ducked his head to whisper in her ear. "...lots of very beautiful kids."