Disclaimer - Story contains an original character from the series Airwolf by Donald Belisarius. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this piece. Additional characters belong to Ladyhawke 620.
Introduction - This story is set in the timeline before the creation of Airwolf by Charles Henry Moffet. It raises the question of what would Michael's life have been like should he and Moffet have never crossed paths. Written 21 years ago, (1987)when I was 16, it is a little rougher than the current fare that I am writing but hopefully, still for a short story worth giving a go. In the episode, "One Way Express" Michael asks Hawke the question about Sonya, "If her name were Gabrielle, what then?" and it got me to wondering, who might've been Archangel's Gabrielle.
Hope you enjoy, Ladyhawke 620
Prologue -
May 17, 1964
Pain and grief clawed at her heart, crushing it in a merciless grip. How could he be gone? His sweet husky words of love still rang in her ears, as bright and fresh as yesterday. Even now, she could hear the soft rasp of his laughter as it rang out with hers.
"Oh, Gavin," she whispered, "you can't be gone." Numbly, she clutched a wilting yellow rose in nerveless fingers. "I still need you. I…" Shaking her head in denial, she stared sightlessly at the throng that surrounded her.
A shove from behind, firm and hard in the middle of her back, sent her stumbling forward like a sleepwalker. Dazedly, she glanced around, the voices around her echoing as if from a distance.
The barest flicker of movement caught her eye and she looked up to see Michael staring at her with tortured blue eyes. Rain dripped from his hair, trickling down his cheek as they faced each other.
"No!" she screamed. "No!" the word ripped from her throat as mindlessly she launched herself at the casket. Sobbing hysterically, the rose she held fell from her fingertips unnoticed. Futilely, her fists beat against the polished wood, its surface cold and satiny beneath her hands. Slowly, slowly, she slid to the ground beside it even as she fought against the cold reality of the truth. Gavin was dead.
Shocked silence seemed to rule the throng of mourners as they stared at her in a mixture of horror and pity. For what seemed an eternity, no one moved and then the murmurs began, chaos reigning the scene. To no avail, the pall bearers tried to comfort her, to pull her away from the casket. Limply, she collapsed in their arms, her body a sagging weight.
Cursing viciously, Michael shoved his way through the crowd, pushing more than one grey-hued mourner out of the way as he did so. Half-angrily, he fought his way through the crowd to where the casket lay, and Alex.
Reaching her, he knelt by the casket gathering her into his arms. "Come on, Alex, let's go," he muttered, trying to pull her to her feet.
"No!" she retorted furiously.
Sighing, he tried again, wrapping her closer in his arms. "It's over. Gavin's dead, and there's nothing you or I can do to change that no matter how much we might wish otherwise. Leave it, Alex. You've got to let him go."
"No!" she ranted, pounding her fists against his chest. Struggling, he fought to grab her wrists as she fought him, her nails raking his skin like daggers, and then abruptly even that brief passion was gone. She wilted like a trampled flower in his grasp.
Pulling her to him, he rose slowly; her body a limp weight in his arms as he stood. For an instant, her additional weight in his arms threatened to fell him and he staggered as pain clawed agonizingly at his bad knee. Then, abruptly he straightened as if the moment had never been and turned on his heel to stalk through the throng.
Glittering, his eyes dared any of them to stop him. And glancing at his face, most of them immediately decided they didn't want to. With startled, silent concordance, the mourners parted as one before Michael as he strode proudly into the graying rain, Alex's long red hair streaming wetly over his shoulder.