Jet ranger flaring, Saint John set the helicopter down on the dock feeling the familiar shudder of the wood beneath him as he did so. He raked the headset off his head, ignoring the twinge of nerves in his gut. For pity's sake, Saint John Hawke, he thought in disgust, one would think you'd never gone fishing before. He's your brother for Pete's sake. Shaking his head ruefully, he hung the headset on the peg before him.
Still, it'd been years since he'd fished with String. Memories of a ragtag little brother pleading to go teased his mind.
"Sinj! Sinj! Please, can I go? I promise I won't scare the fish…" his brother merely eight, and him twelve, he'd rolled his eyes in disgust, remembering the last time the kid had gone and dumped them both in the lake. Their parents had been alive then.
"Come on, Saint John," String had laughed, dark blue eyes laughing in the sunshine. "You know the only reason you don't want to go, is Dom and I are going to fish you under the table." The older man had chuckled sensing the challenge in the younger man's voice.
He'd been right, Saint John thought ruefully. They had. It'd been one of the last times he's seen Dom laugh, leaving for boot camp a couple days later. The next few days had not been so happy, the old Italian torn between pride for his eldest surrogate son and a healthy sense of fear. String hadn't made it any easier, pushing to join him. He'd been too young, but that hadn't stopped him from trying.
The years in between had passed and String had extended the invite from time to time, but somehow he'd seldom ever seemed to take him up on it. Dom was long since gone and so was the little brother who'd tagged along all those years ago.
Climbing down from the helicopter, hazel eyes swung across the lake to the cabin porch. Well, maybe not, he thought wryly, feeling a grin tug at his lips. String perched on the top rail of the porch waiting. Idly, he wondered how long he'd been there.
Chuckling, he started up the path. "Stringfellow Hawke," he teased. "One would think you have nothing better to do than hang around and go fishing."
String's grin, though brief, was real. "I don't," he said.
Gentle amusement lacing his voice, Saint John glanced at his younger brother, raising an eyebrow. "Getting lazy in your old age there, Hawke," he taunted.
"Yeah, well, so what does it say about you?" his brother retorted. "Besides," he drawled, "I can think of worse ways to go." The tone was laconic.
Saint John felt his lips twist in amusement. He glanced around, expecting to hear the sounds of Cait and the kids inside the cabin. It was silent. There was nothing.
"So what'd you do with Cait and the kids?" he asked. "Not using them as bait, I hope."
String's laugh was rough and a little rusty. "Nah, they took the chopper and went to town."
Saint John nodded, even as he eyed his brother. String looked better than he had in weeks, at peace with himself. "Mmm," he muttered non-commitally. "So, what's keeping us here?" he asked.
"Not a thing," his brother drawled, confidently taking the three steps across the porch to where the fishing rods leaned. His fingers slid across the rough bark of the logs, before they wrapped around the rods.
Adeptly, he transferred the poles to his left hand and turning, took a couple steps before his outstretched hand caught the post before him.
If Saint John hadn't known he was blind, he wasn't sure he would've caught it.
He fought the sudden lump of pride that clogged his throat and burned his eyes. "You want me to carry those?" he asked, clearing his throat.
"Sure," String accepted the offer matter of factly, with a shrug.
Saint John reached out and took the fishing rods, again feeling the rush of pride, knowing where his brother'd been only a few short weeks ago.
He hesitated, wondering if he should offer String a hand to negotiate the steps.
And again, his brother surprised him.
Hand sliding down the well-worn wood rail, he made his way down the plank steps unhesitatingly. At the bottom he paused as if listening, perhaps for his brother's footsteps behind him. "Saint John?"
"Yeah?"
"We going fishing or what?"
The water lapped at the sides of the boat, mother nature's hand gently rocking the cradle of life. The motion would've been soothing were it not for the splitting headache it was giving Stringfellow Hawke.
The downside to seeing more than shadows, he thought wryly, a half-grin teasing his lean cheek - not that he'd ever complain. His vision had been coming back gradually over the last few days, at first only shadows and vague movement, he'd been hesitant to say anything, afraid to hope for too much, afraid to raise the others' hopes and certainly afraid to raise his own.
It still wasn't everything it was before, but it was enough to keep him from falling on his face over every blessed thing.
He'd come to realize though, he'd had a gift much more precious to him than his sight - the love of his family. Whether he ever flew again or not, he knew he was blessed, even if sometimes he'd been too pigheaded to realize it. Faith might've carried him through, but they'd been waiting for him on the other side.
He raised dark blue eyes hidden by aviator shades to watch Saint John. The sun was edging down behind the mountain tops, starting to shadow their craggy slopes. " 'Bout time to head back, don't you think?" he asked.
Saint John looked up from the fish he was threading onto the stringer, startled. It was later than he'd realized. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "Jo'll be expecting me back."
Hawke stifled a smirk. "Cait said something about bringing her back to the cabin for dinner."
Saint John raised an eyebrow. It was the first he'd heard of a dinner invitation. "Oh?" he replied, having the sudden odd feeling he'd been had. String was up to something.
Hawke shrugged. "Sorry, guess I forgot to say something. Might want to head back before they get there…"
"Yeah," the hazel-eyed Hawke drawled, sure now he was missing something, just unable to put his finger on it. He dropped the fish on the stringer back over the side of the boat and reached for the oars.
Wearily, Saint John Hawke pulled the oars one last time, the skiff sliding across the flat water towards the dock. Dropping the oars in the bottom of the boat, he reached to catch the front end of the boat before it bumped. Despite everything, the skiff stubbornly swung out from the dock.
"Hey, String, how 'bout catching the line?" he growled in irritation, hauling in on the tie line. He realized the thoughtless stupidity of his comment almost as soon as he said it. How was a blind man supposed to catch a tie line? A dull red, embarrassed flush climbed his neck. He reached down for the fish.
Apology on his lips, he turned.
His brother wasn't in the boat.
"String?" he questioned, confused.
"Here," Hawke's rough voice answered, from the top of the dock.
Startled, Saint John eyed his brother and then the ladder down the side of the dock to the boat and back again, perplexed. "How…? never mind…" he muttered, confused. He sighed, picking up the fish, still shaking his head.
He stood, balancing in the boat, reaching for the ladder, wet, live fish flopping and dancing on the stringer making everything wet and slick, ladder rungs included. Not surprisingly, halfway up the ladder he slipped.
A strong, tan hand caught his arm, square-tipped fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his forearm, hauling him upward. "Careful," the husky rasp warned.
Hazel eyes met dark blue ones, crinkling around the edges.
And realization dawned. "You can see…" Saint John whispered, stunned amazement in his voice, a grin splitting his face.
String grinned back at him. "Yeah."
"Woo - hoo!" Saint John's triumphant, celebratory yell echoed off the mountainsides, as he swung his brother around in a bear hug that almost landed them both in the lake.
Neither one noticed.
Watching the helicopter with the last of his dinner guests fade from sight, Stringfellow Hawke sat on the dock, cello in hand. The evening wind was cool, whipping his hair into his eyes even as he idly drew the bow across the strings. Strong, slender fingers picked out the notes more from experience and feel than sight, and a haunting Prokiev melody floated on the wind.
From the porch, Nicky listened, remembering a promise he'd made. And then finally, drawing a deep breath, he took the first step down the stairs.
He had a promise to keep. A promise to both of them.