Chapter 4

He was running -- heart pounding, fists pumping, full out running. The sounds of pursuit drew closer, from the flank this time rather than behind. Lungs bursting, he entered the clearing, automatically choosing the tree line rather than the path, knowing the paths were invariably booby-trapped. He glanced around wildly, seeking shelter -- escape! -- finding little save the burned vines of a recently napalmed jungle. The tattered rags were all that was left of the cotton pants some villager with a heart had thrown at him a year ago; his feet had been long bare, in summer or winter. Confusion reigned most of the time; lack of food or rest made it hard to concentrate and only the primitive medicines of the country folk prevented the parasites he carried from taking him away.

But still he survived -- survived to fight, to escape. He had to survive -- he had someone home waiting for him.

He ran again, bushes stinging his bare skin, calloused feet slapping the earth.

A river. Make it. Make it to the river. They can't track you in the water. Make--

Something hit him between the shoulder blades and he went down hard, something else smacked him in the head. ... Darkness ... Light again. Looking up into a grinning face, yellow skin stretched tight over the skull. "Again?" the apparition said in stilted french. "Again you try to escape us and again we catch you. When will you learn? Is ten years not enough for you?"

"A hundred years won't be enough!" he spat back in english, grunting when ungentle hands pulled him to his feet. "One day I will go home. I have to. String doesn't know I'm alive."

The Laotian Colonel shook his head sadly. "Your child of a brother has long forgotten you, Captain Hawke. He no longer cares whether you are alive or dead."

"String would never give up on me," Saint John Hawke grunted, the defiance for his own sake rather than the other's, even as the first fist sank painfully into his stomach. "That's why I ... have to go ... home...."

Saint John woke with a jerk. He sat bolt upright in bed, covered with sweat and still feeling the punishing blows inflicted as repayment for his escape attempt. He blinked and ran a hand across his face, staring around in the dark and wondering where he was. Something glowed by his hand and he focussed on it, recognizing it for a clock, the hands standing at two hours before dawn. He looked to right and left, only gradually coming to awareness of his surroundings. Nightbirds chattered in the distance but there was no insect noise, and that in itself was puzzling. There was always insect noise in the swamps, a buzzing, screeching cacophony that robbed sleep from all but the totally exhausted. He then became aware that he was sandwiched between a warm woolen blanket and clean sheets. He touched the soft nap of the terry robe he still wore, and welcome memory returned in a rush. This wasn't the slave camp any longer -- it wasn't even Southeast Asia. This was California, his brother's house and bed. Saint John Hawke was home.

Joy filled him at the thought as it always did and he opened his eyes wider, gazing at the distant timbers of the ceiling, barely visible with the light from the window. He let his gaze trail around the room, the log walls, the scattered paintings, the antique maple bureau in one corner. Sparse furnishings but comfortable and unchanged since the day his grandfather had passed away. String had kept everything exactly as it was, and for that, Saint John was grateful.

Knowing that further attempts at sleep this night would be futile, he padded down the stairs, silent in bare feet, and paused by the window to look out at the stars. Open air. Freedom. A taste he'd never expected to savor again. The bitterness remained, of course -- fifteen years of abuse and mistreatment and humiliation don't vanish in two months ... or two years. Fifteen years out of his life. Fifteen years his brother had spent hurting alone.

He strolled back into the living room proper, giving Marella and Jo a cursory glance as he passed; they still slept the sleep of the righteous. Last night's fire still burned, and he stopped by the hearth to warm himself -- the high country grew cold at night. Several photos sat on the mantle and he chose one at random, turning it until he could see it by the ruby embers. It showed three men, himself, String and another: Dominic Santini. So String hadn't been completely alone, not so long as there was a single beat of Dominic's large heart. Hawke breathed a silent thanks to the old pilot for watching over his brother, the ache of knowing he'd never see the man again assaiing him briefly before he could banish the hurt. This is no time to wallow, he reminded himself firmly, nevertheless heaving a final sigh. We have a mission today. Wonder where String is?

He put on a fresh pot of coffee then shook the women awake, taking the time while Marella fixed eggs and toast, to review the hard-copy terrain charts, committing the surrounding layout of the village of Pindarte to memory. He discussed it with Jo over breakfast, Marella adding snippets on 'safe' radio frequencies and local rumor.

"You know what you're to do?" Marella asked as Jo prepared to depart. "The directions for Joshua Field were on the ROM disk. The Huey is fueled and pre-flighted. All you have to do is start the engines."

Jo patted her jacket pocket. "Got my orders right here, and the coordinates for my rendezvous. You know, I could just fly down there with Saint John and String, and save Santini Air some chopper fuel."

Marella shook her head. "Sorry. The Army is holding maneuvers in that area all day and I don't want anyone catching a glimpse of Airwolf before Michael is back safe; even the Pentagon can put two and two together. A helicopter with these exclusive call signals has been given special clearance; we'll have to leave it at that."

Jo sighed, large blue eyes resolute. "At least I won't have to worry about armaments by myself. All I have to do is follow Airwolf in and out. Piece of cake."

"Let's hope it stays that way," Saint John said by way of farewell. Jo was scared -- it showed -- but she was determined, too. Saint John had no doubts that she would uphold her end of the job so long as he and String upheld theirs.

Jo zipped her jacket, offering Saint John and Marella a nervous smile. "Well, I guess I'd better be--"

"Wait a minute." Hawke cut her off by raising his hand, his head cocked in a listening attitude. "Helicopter coming. It's Airwolf."

The other two also froze, then both slowly nodded. "I hear it, too," Marella said, tugging her makeshift nightshirt a little lower. "It must be Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow."

The three crowded around the open door, watching the sleek ebon craft hover briefly above the lake, then settle down in the clearing directly in front of the porch. It was a close fit; the whirling rotors hacked leaves and small branches from the nearest trees, littering the ground. The great body settled to earth without incident, however, resting easily on her extended landing gear.

The roar of engines ceased abruptly though the great blades continued to turn for several minutes; the door opened and a gray-clad and tousled Stringfellow Hawke emerged. He resealed the cockpit and approached the cabin at an unhurried limp. "What are you all looking at?" he greeted the assembled group grumpily, brushing past them and hanging his flight jacket on a hook beside the cello.

"Obviously, a grouch," Jo shot back with all of her uncle's spirit. "Sheesh. You're worse than I am in the morning." Her gaze dropped to his left boot. "You took the brace off. I'll bet your leg is hurting like heck, isn't it."

If he heard her, String made no mention. He limped into the kitchen and helped himself to the coffeepot. Jo pursed her lips at the snub then angrily turned her back, Marella accepting the pilot's attitude as she always had, with poised disdain. Saint John watched his brother from the corner of his eye as he finished making his goodbyes to Jo, attempting to gauge the younger man's condition. Despite the protecting barriers, it had always been ludicrously easy for him to read Stringfellow's thoughts and feelings. Though the Hawke brand of stubbornness ran through them both, it was not difficult to pick up the subtle red flags the sensitive younger man sent up with each tense muscle and closed line of his face. That he was in pain was obvious; Jo was probably right about his ankle. But more -- String was bothered big time by all this. Even through the habitual reserve that too was a part of them both, the agitation was visible to one who knew where to look.

"... see you on the ground," Jo finished, waving nervously and stepping out the door. "Good flying."

"Same to you," Saint John returned, nodding gravely as she left. He waited until she'd descended the path to the water and entered the chopper, before shutting the door and returning to the parlor where Marella already was. "We'd expected you to radio for a pick-up," he told Stringfellow, shoving aside the afghan and seating himself on the sofa.

"I have to admit this surprised me." Marella appropriated the afghan again, this time tying it around her waist. "I would have thought breaking cover would have been the last thing you'd want to do before a mission."

Stringfellow regarded her coolly if blearily. "There's camouflage netting in the aft supply compartment," he said gruffly, setting his half-full cup in the sink. "After you're dressed you can help yourself." Saint John stirred, drawing his attention from the frustrated black woman. "That robe's too small for you," he remarked, staring pointedly at the other man's bare legs. "You should have used one of Dad's from the trunk. He was more your size."

"Next time," the older brother returned, having purposely decided to avoid old memories tonight.

Marella puffed out her cheeks and slipped behind the men into the kitchen, reaching for the frying pan. "How do you like your eggs, Stringfellow?"

String ran a hand wearily across his face, rubbing red eyes. "Coffee was enough."

"Still running missions on adrenalin jet fuel, little brother?" Saint John teased, recalling an old in-joke from the war. He was heartened when that coaxed a tiny smile from the taciturn younger man.

"Why change a system that works?" String rubbed his eyes again and stumbled around a hovering Marella for the stair, unzipping his flight suit. "I'm going to catch some sack time. Wake me in an hour." Without a backward glance he was gone.

Left alone, Marella and Saint John stared at each other a moment. "He didn't look at my legs," she joshed weakly, replacing the frying pan on a cold burner. "What have you got that I don't?"

Hawke chuckled. He liked this pretty agent, liked her intelligence, spirit and sense of humor. He could see why she had risen so high and fast in her job. "My kid brother never did have any taste. I'm going to go put the camouflage netting on Airwolf, then run a systems check and pre-flight. That'll probably keep me awhile."

One dark brow rose. "You are going to put some clothes on first?" She skimmed him brazenly. "At least you do have decent legs."

Saint John's eyes twinkled. "Yours aren't so bad, either. Why don't you get dressed and come help me? We've got a lot to do if we're going to rescue your boss."

It was with regret that Saint John redonned his clothes from the night before. He wished String was a little closer to his size; after spending so many years in filth, even the thought of putting on soiled garments made his skin craw. One more legacy from the war ... and the war's aftermath. New ones, it seemed, cropped up every day.

He stared into the drug cabinet mirror, scrutinizing himself honestly. Bronze hair stood up in short spikes over his head, and when he looked closely he could see an occasional strand of gray. He did look older than before -- fifteen years was a long time. But the years had been kind to him. Except for his eyes. He peered deeply into the light blue-gray field, attempting to dismiss the shadows there as caused by lack of sleep. What he could not ignore was the deep creases at their edges, the gentler ones in his forehead and around his mouth. He read his history in those lines and it made him shudder.

The mis-sized robe slipped to the floor, and again Saint John Hawke stopped to stare. He was well-built these days, a far cry from the walking skeleton he'd been in Laos. The Laotians had practiced slave labor, working a man until he dropped, then dumping him in an open cage until he'd recovered enough to work some more. It had been a relief when the Cambodians had raided the camp; Khmer Rouge had actually treated him reasonably well, viewing him and the other Americans as potentially valuable commodities -- potentially money-making commodities. In the year he'd been with them, he'd put on fifteen pounds and regained his ability to think clearly. And Buchard's abuses had not started until he'd needed a bargaining chip for Airwolf; before that, the mercenary had provided both medical attention and food.

It was something, perhaps, if not enough. Saint John was too lean for his large frame, and slightly pale, his health still indifferent and his energy levels well below what they should be. He ran his fingers down his ribs, where white scars stood out lividly, souvenirs of beatings and torments and unending despair. He shuddered and reached for his shirt, instinctively knowing that letting String see the marks any time soon would be a very bad idea indeed. He didn't even want to see them himself.

When he emerged from the bathroom it was to find Marella already clothed. From somewhere she'd found a pair of String's work pants and woolen shirt, and was even now lacing a pair of the man's sneakers. Nearly Stringfellow's height, everything was actually a decent fit, though she was obliged to belt the trousers around her small waist to keep them up.

"Don't say a word," she warned, seeing the amused gleam in Hawke's eyes. "I'm not tromping around here in my favorite silk suit and high heels."

As there was little answer to be made to that, the two moved outside to where Airwolf waited, a great predator crouching at the door. The elegant black craft was nearly invisible in the night save for a smattering of stars reflecting from her polished armor plate. Saint John stopped, catching his breath. "She's even beautiful when you can't see her," he murmured, pausing to stare.

Marella was no less affected by the sight. "It's hard to believe that something so deadly can be so exquisite. It's almost a shame to hide her away."

"Aesthetics aside," Hawke said, mentally forcing himself from his reverie, "she's too vulnerable like this. Let's get her undercover so we can begin that pre-flight. And we can talk."

"Talk?" Marella echoed with interest. "About?" Saint John's gaze flicked involuntarily toward the cabin, and her face fell. "Oh. Him. I should have known."

Designed for rapid deployment, it took only minutes to spread the camouflage netting over the ship, from tail to great blades to nose. The mottled coloration would make it blend from above with the surrounding foliage during the day; thermal absorbent, it would cloak even the warmth of the engines from an infra-red scan at night.

Once satisfied that Airwolf would remain invisible to uninvited observers, Hawke and Marella began a Class 1 check of internal systems, not relying on the computer read-outs but pulling off panels and poking into mechanics until certain that each component and its backup were in perfect working order. As they worked, they talked -- or rather, Marella did. Perceptive and worldly wise, she seemed to discern Saint John's need for information about his brother's life. The attractive agent rattled off episode after episode, starting with Airwolf's liberation from Moffett's greedy clutch, and including interpretations based on both professional data and her own feminine instinct. When she was through, Saint John felt that he had a more thorough understanding of Stringfellow Hawke's recent life, reading from each incident the unbending sense of honor, the rock stubborn determination, the emotional isolation his brother had imposed upon himself ... and the reasons behind it. It wasn't anything he hadn't suspected nor anything beyond what he had experienced himself, but it both inspired and depressed him not one whit less.

"... which is why the Firm was determined to get Airwolf back," Marella finished two-and-one-half hours later, while applying an electronic tester to a servo-extended chain gun. "With Dominic Santini dead and you presumed so, Stringfellow was deemed too unstable to trust with government missions. The entire Committee had agreed that bringing in another Airwolf flight crew was the only solution. That's one of the reason's Major Rivers was contacted instead of internal intelligence."

"And String.... Now that I'm back?" Saint John asked, poking his head out from under the forward instrument access. He held his breath, the answer to this question suddenly very important.

"Maybe some of your sense of humor will rub off?" She touched a circuit with the gauge tip, then studied the indicator closely. "Seriously, that's quite an accomplishment. I wouldn't have expected you to have gone through what you did and kept a sense of humor at all."

"A sense of humor is the biggest crutch a prisoner has," Saint John said, remembering camaraderie with the pain. "String never did have much of one even as a kid, though he's got this wild, mischievous streak that always meant fun. At least, he did." He waited, and when she merely moved on to another wire, prodded, "You think the ... 'unstable' Stringfellow Hawke might bounce back a bit now that I'm home?"

"Now that big brother is back?" She winked at him but said earnestly, "I hope you're not going to take responsibility for his success or failure on that front. I'm afraid your brother is a little too self-reliant these days for that."

Responsibility? Saint John slammed the access closed while choosing his words carefully. "I'm four years older than he is," he began, watching his own movements in the obsidian mirror. "That makes a big difference when you're kids, especially when you don't have anyone but each other." He didn't even have me for the last half of his life. I should have been here. Aloud he finished, "I guess old habits die hard."

She considered this then shrugged. "I can't really answer your question. Obviously, we haven't had a chance to do a work-up on him, yet. Once he was reported dead, his file was closed."

She was so casual about it that Hawke prickled. "You're pretty blasè about it. Man dies, you close his file and go on about your business?"

The tester faltered, then she was withdrawing it and turning to face him. "And just what would you have me do?" Very deliberately she began to coil the instrument's cord, her movements sure and unapologetic. "People die in this business all the time, Mr. Hawke. It's a fact of life. I do mourn -- I have mourned -- then I go on. I can't stop living because a friend does. Not Stringfellow, not even Michael." She hesitated, the impression one of steeling oneself before plunging into cold water. "That's what your brother did for you; would you fault me for not doing the same thing?"

Saint John felt his jaw tighten but innate honestly held the angry words in. She was right. He wouldn't want anyone to choose String's path; the thought that his younger brother had mourned so intensely was something to be regretted rather than advocated. "You're a pretty remarkable woman," he said by way of apology.

White teeth flashed. "So I've been told, Mr. Hawke. Just not recently."

He laughed, relaxing and wishing he could know her better. The possibility occurred; he could ask her to dinner after the assignment concluded, spend some time with her off-duty. He opened his mouth to propose just that then closed it, the words aborted on his tongue. Beginning a relationship with her or anyone else right now would be unfair. Fifteen years in his own private hell had left too many scars beyond those on his body -- too many uncertainties -- to burden another with yet. His brother's need was a part of it as well. Maybe someday he would pick up the phone, call her in Washington. Someday. Maybe soon. Not now.

By the time they'd inspected the belly cannon -- the last of the weapons to be so handled -- the sun was peeking over the mountain tops.

"Better go wake String," Hawke said, ducking out from the camouflage and staring at the rose-colored waters with pleasure. It really was magnificent up here. "We rendezvous with Jo in four hours."

Marella looked at her watch, an expensive pearl Swatch. "He wanted us to wake him two hours ago. He'll probably be annoyed."

Hawke breathed deeply, the pure air stimulating. "I stopped worrying about annoying my brother when he was seven and wanted to tag along on my first date. It cost me my favorite baseball cap, but I finally made him see it my way."

She hiked up the borrowed pants, laughing. "Let's hope you haven't lost your touch."

Hawke left the woman in the kitchen putting on fresh coffee while he ascended the wooden staircase to the second level. The bedroom was gloomy, but battle-honed instincts told Saint John that the sleeper still slept; sharp ears told him that he didn't sleep well.

Saint John approached the bed quietly, nursing a sudden desire for a look at his brother without the carefully maintained mask. String hadn't changed much, he decided, examining the younger man with blatant curiosity. A little thinner, the light brown hair a little shorter than before. The features were finely drawn, like their mother's had been, and boyish at first glance. Lines had been etched around the eyes, however, in mirror- image of Saint John's own, which told their own tales of experience beyond their years, and the defensive set to his lips bade everyone to keep their distance. Quite suddenly, Saint John remembered a serious but lively little boy who had followed his adored older brother everywhere, and grieved.

Almost as though sensing the scrutiny, Stringfellow stirred in his sleep, burying his face a little deeper in the pillow and murmuring what sounded like the name, "Dom." Saint John remembered the anguish and terrors that assailed himself during the long hours of darkness. How often had he roused with a snap, covered with sweat and aching, the jungles so real he could feel the bite of the mosquitos and taste the bland rice that had comprised most of his diet? For just a moment the scene tilted and the world was green, the stench of the rotting jungle filling his nostrils and permeating every inch of air. The thunder of chopper blades roared in his ears, and Saint John again saw an eighteen year old pilot, who was staring down at him with horror. "Get out of here!" Saint John heard himself screaming, and then the boy was gone and only the Viet Cong remained ... for a very long time.

A distant murmur intruded in a voice not his own, a low sob, and the world re-righted itself. Immediately, Saint John reached down to shake the other man back to awareness. "Hey, String!" he called softly, releasing the lean shoulder immediately. "Time to go, guy."

Blue eyes flew open, wariness immediately dropping over them, another sob choked back and Stringfellow was awake. He glanced from Saint John to the digital clock on the nightstand, blinked, then started. "Seven o'clock!" he bellowed accusingly. "I was supposed to be up over two hours ago."

"You needed the sleep," the elder Hawke returned mildly, letting his gaze drift out the window to the artificial mound obstructing the view of the lake. "There's plenty of time."

"I'll decide that," Stringfellow grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Saint John glanced away from the window, offering him an amused look. "I see some things haven't changed in all these years," he said, a rich chuckle erupting of its own accord. "You're still a pain in the butt."

Disarmed by the affectionate non sequitur, Stringfellow stared, the guarded look in his eyes slipping for a split second and allowing a fraction of his own amusement to shine through. "I must'a picked it up from someone."

He hesitated, looking as though he wanted to say something but not sure how to start. Saint John gave him the time by turning back to the window and craning his neck. "The camouflage net is pretty remarkable; even from this few feet away I can barely make out the lines of the chopper."

"Nothing but the best for the Firm's favorite weapon," String returned dryly, sitting upright and letting the sheets fall around his waist. "Saint John...?"

"Yes?" Saint John lowered himself to the right edge of the bed, clasping his hands loosely between his knees, wondering at the hesitant tone in his normally over-assured brother's voice.

Dark blue eyes focussed on the linens before rising curiously. "Why did you agree to fly Airwolf for the Firm? You don't owe them anything for getting you out of Southeast Asia."

"Keeping up the family business?" Saint John quipped automatically, his own reserve clicking into place. When the younger man only looked at him, Saint John Hawke shrugged. "It just seemed like the thing to do, I guess. I needed some kind of purpose after I got back, and you're pretty blasted independent." When there was still no response, he went on with more reluctance, "Maybe I was taking care of her for you. Or for Dom. Maybe just for myself."

"You didn't have to." Stringfellow ran his fingers lightly across the sheet, gaze carefully down. "All you need to do is start living your own life."

"Maybe I am," the older man replied, watching the slim fingers trace an invisible pattern on the white. "When are you going to?"

The question seemed to surprise his brother. The patterns ceased briefly then resumed. "I don't know what you mean. You were the POW."

Saint John sighed, and once more the world went green. "Yeah. I was the POW. From a filthy, stinking hole to a cage too small to stand or lie down. Rice paddies and fields and hunger and ... after awhile, no hope left." He became aware that his brother had looked up and was watching him with wide, haunted eyes. Blast it! Causing String to live through what he had, even vicariously, was not what he'd intended. He tried for a lighter tone but it came out sour even to his own ears. "The life and times of Captain Saint John Hawke. Make a great book, eh? From mountain retreat to Viet Nam swamps to thrilling rescue by a super secret spy agency. Best seller stuff."

"You've never talked about it before," Stringfellow said, now grabbing the edge of the sheet and twisting, though his body was very still. "What it was like there. With them."

No, he hadn't. Not even with Mike, with whom he'd spent more time than anyone since he came home. But the dim room and intimacy of the shadows inspired confidences somehow, and Saint John could not forget that the man who shared the shadows also shared his ghosts. "I haven't really thought about it before," he admitted, unable to turn from the blue eyes that seemed to penetrate his very skull. "I don't think I've let myself think about anything except ... today." A shudder worked its way through his frame, raw nerves tingling agonizingly. "Would you want to remember hell?"

"Is there any way to forget?" the younger man whispered and there was naked appeal in his face.

Was there? He'd shied away from the memories for two months, but even now the protective mental shields were crumbling. Wet and hunger and cold. A tattered uniformed man with a whip. A fellow American screaming throughout the night ... and then never screaming again. Jungle green became glittering blue in a tormented, fine-boned face, and some form of personal perspective imposed itself, strangely calming. Hell could never be any worse than Viet Nam ... and he'd gladly volunteer to do it all over again if it would erase just a fraction of that misery from String's eyes. Obviously, Hell had suburbs outside of Southeast Asia. "How?" he echoed, all lightness gone. "Maybe by dwelling on the fact that I am free. Needless to say, I'm pretty grateful."

"You don't owe them anything," String repeated, eyes burning even in the gloom. "No obligations to anyone."

"I wasn't grateful to them," the older man pointed out, tilting his head. "I'm grateful to Jo, Jason and Mike for coming after me. I'm even more grateful to you for making it possible. If not for you pushing all these years -- even putting your life on the line -- I'd still be rotting in a cage."

"If it hadn't been for me," Stringfellow replied in a very low voice, "you wouldn't have been in that cage."

And there it was, out in the open at last, what the younger man had been trying so hard to not say since they'd been reunited. Saint John shook his head as the impact of those quiet, agonized words dented his carefully constructed concept of reality. The belief that his brother had been here, safe and happy, had been the mainstay of his existence back when all other stays were being unraveled one by one. Even then he'd been afraid of the effects his loss would have on a boy who had taken earlier losses too hard already, but it had been easier to believe that String would see what happened as he did -- as inevitable accident rather than personal culpability. He sighed; he should have known better. With Stringfellow, it never paid to take anything at face value.

Moving very slowly he reached around String from the front and placed his left hand on the younger man's neck, letting his fingers play in the soft hair at the nape the way he used to many years before, and was acting big brother to a small child. "Did you really think I would blame you for what happened?" he asked in a gentle voice, expecting String to pull away and surprised and pleased when he did not. "Back ... there, when I was caged, I kept going because I knew that no matter how bad it got, you were here waiting, safe. If I'd let myself believe for one minute that you were blaming yourself...." He stopped, wondering what could have made his own brother doubt that the affection they'd shared would have absolved him of much more than an act of heroism.

"I was at the controls," Stringfellow returned in a choked voice, not looking up when Saint John tugged at a short strand of hair. "It was my decision to go. To leave you there for them."

"There was no decision," Saint John snapped back, demanding to be understood, forcing himself beyond the limits of his own walls though his soul recoiled, and all for his brother's sake. "If you had stayed, everyone would have gone down. How many do you think would have survived one week in the camps much less fifteen years? There were wounded men depending on you to get them out. No choice. And no blame." He slid his hand forward, firmly using his thumb to tilt that stubborn, well-known face toward him. "How do you think I would have felt if you had stayed and those men had died because of it? Because of me, String. Fifteen years for eight lives isn't a bad trade.

It was with obvious reluctance that String met his gaze. Beyond the guilt and pain there was something else, and Saint John flinched when he recognized self-hatred. All this because of me? Oh, kid, maybe it wasn't such a good trade after all.... "It was a lousy trade," Stringfellow echoed the thought as counterpoint, face and eyes anguished.

"No. It wasn't." Stringfellow made to pull away but Saint John abruptly tightened his hold on the other's neck, using it to yank the younger man sideways and against him, wrapping him in both arms and holding on securely, both needing and protective at once. Don't reject me, kid, he begged, shutting his eyes. I need this as much as you do. After a moment he felt String's arms slip hesitantly around his chest, his head settle against his shoulder. Stringfellow clung desperately as he must have needed to do for years -- as Saint John had needed to do for years -- old barriers and personal reserve shattering like glass. "Don't hurt any more, String. Let it go. For both our sakes."

They held on to each other for a long minute until some of the tension seeped out of String's body and the jungle faded completely from Saint John's world. Then Saint John squeezed once and pulled back, still holding his brother by the upper arms. "Hey, I'm home now," he said with some measure of cheer, studying the other's lean face closely and wanting more than anything for their lives to return to normal ... or as close as they could get. "Can we go on from there?"

"I ... guess we ought to." String essayed a tiny smile. The guarded look returned but at least that horrible self-hatred had faded. He might not be completely convinced but there was the beginnings of peace in the back of his eyes, and he was rock steady again, back on balance. Like himself, Saint John knew. The rest -- like the scars he himself carried -- would only heal with time. "Guess I'd better get dressed," the younger man went on. "We've got a rendezvous in a couple hours and I seem to have overslept."

"Grade A pain in the butt," the elder Hawke retorted, slapping his younger brother affectionately on one bare shoulder. "Nice to see some things never change."

***