His first impression was a feeling of incredible well-being. There was no
pain anywhere at this moment, not even discomfort, but only a curious
lassitude that was too comfortable -- too natural -- to be the result of
opiates. The desire to drift off again was overwhelming, but Stringfellow
fought it although making no effort to rise. The room was pleasantly warm,
the sheets cool and crisp, the bed soft enough to make the concept of
leaving it immediately an undesirable one. He sighed contentedly, a sharp
'ping' from his ribs shocking him out of the lethargy to a semi-aware
state. Forcing himself to relax, he began to take stock of his body, only
now becoming aware of the background throbbing located just behind his
eyes, and the subtle ache in his ribs and stomach that warned of stiff
muscles that would make themselves known with the first attempt at
movement. He twitched his hands, regretting it instantly when the skin on
his palms responded by trailing a diluted brand of vitriol through his
nervous system. Not as bad as it was, he accepted, not yet stopping to
wonder precisely how it 'was.' These were physical pains and easily
ignorable, especially since his stomach did not so much as quiver when he
repeated his attempt at taking a breath. The nausea that had been a
constant companion for ... he couldn't remember how long ... was gone.
That alone made everything else bearable.
Satisfied he was at least reasonably sound, and feeling delightfully clear headed, the secondary questions of where he was and how he got here began to present themselves. He allowed curiosity to motivate him to open his eyes, finding himself staring at a dim fluorescent bulb set in a white- painted ceiling. Moving only his eyes he glanced from side to side, scanning a sterile looking room decorated in the universal, utilitarian style of a medical facility. Something glinted dully on the left, a plastic bag filled with some colorless fluid; he traced the tubing down to where it disappeared under a small band-aid on his arm, languor replaced instantly by a thrill of very real fear. What kind of drugs were they feeding into him? And who were 'they'? I hate hospitals, he thought with mounting panic. Spent too much time in them already. If this really is a hospital and not a--
He gasped, the preceding week slamming down with sledgehammer force. Not a hospital -- a laboratory! Drugs, Horn and ... Dom?
He gritted his teeth and lifted his head a few inches, the background throbbing increasing exponentially then settling back to tolerable levels. He squinted hard and was soon able to make out a first-floor window to his right; the view was that of a manicured lawn bordered by wide-boughed trees, the very edge of a parking lot visible in the extreme corner of the pane. Hawke dropped his head back to the pillow, aesthetics taking a back seat to another frightening fact: pretty as the view was, he'd never seen it before in his life. This wasn't one of the local hospitals he'd frequented in the past several years, and this wasn't Marty Bergman's clinic. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten here, and if he could trust the memories continuing to rush back at a confusing rate, that was a very bad sign indeed.
If he could trust them.
How long had it been since he'd been able to trust what his senses were telling him, or what his brain asserted to be true? Angelica, as beautiful and pure as any artist's Madonna, had been a deceitful Siren, using his infrequently exposed heart to lure him into her father's trap. Once there, John Bradford Horn had finished the job, warping loyalties past and present and reshaping them to his own designs. Worst of all, though, had been Anastasia Zarkov. Attractive and deadly, it had been her manipulations that had stolen from him that which he treasured the most -- the memories of his brother -- replacing them with an obsession wearing a stranger's face. Much of his world had been clouded since then, drugged into obscurity, his self-confidence shaken enough to force him to rely on others to anchor him into what he was constrained to accept as reality.
But were his so-called friends any more trustworthy? Hawke swallowed hard and turned to re-examine one of the most horrifying moments of his life, watching what he'd thought was Dominic Santini suffocating in a metal coffin. Michael had told him it was all a lie, that that hadn't been Dom at all, and String had chosen to believe him, for the alternative was too unbearable to contemplate ... or to carry. Over the years there'd developed a kind of trust between them, the friendship a vulnerability that Hawke had not only permitted but prized, little though he would ever have admitted it even to himself. Aware of that rare faith, the blond agent had used it as well. Some part of him conceded that Michael's motives weren't malicious -- that they were even partly motivated by concern for him, but even then the deception still hurt. Still, if the latter part of his memories were correct ... if Michael really had saved Dom's life, then Hawke would gladly forgive him anything and everything up to and including the lie.
He closed his eyes again, refocusing within, searching his memory, thoughts and senses again. He lifted his hand, clenching the fingers, accepting the pain this caused as genuine. This was his anchor -- he existed. He lived, breathed, thought -- he was. This was always my foundation in the past, he told himself, inside of me, not out. There was no longer a cloud over his thoughts; he sensed that his system was clear of drugs, neither the ... concussion...? He gingerly touched his temple, wincing at the bruise there. ... neither concussion nor exhaustion sapping his faculties any longer.
He concentrated, conjuring up an image that had been lost to him for a long time -- a tall, broad-shouldered man with bronze hair, sharp blue-gray eyes and a long jaw. He studied it warily, fearing to find another image overlapping it -- that of a short, much older man with gray hair and a very square chin. The blessedly single image that remained continued to instill in Stringfellow Hawke feelings of fraternal warmth and comfort that could not possibly have been generated by any man except one: Saint John Hawke, his brother.
That means this has to be real, he decided at long last, embracing the relief that washed over him so strongly as to take away his breath. I can accept my perceptions again. I can trust myself! He frowned, one final flicker of doubt clinging tenaciously despite everything. I would like just one piece of proof. If I can just see Dom and Saint John again, I'll know everything is all right. Nothing else will matter if I can just see that they're alive.
But how to accomplish this? Opening himself wide to the outside world, he extended his extraordinarily acute hearing to the full; even through the closed door he could hear people moving about, voices pitched at conversational levels, the low clank of metal on metal. As a prisoner at Horn's estate, the soundproofed walls had permitted no outside noises to filter into the cells except for the irritating hum of the electronic locks. Everything here was all noises associated with a real hospital, and there was no hum. That in itself helped reduce some of the anxiety even if comfort was a very long way away.
Shelving his dread in favor of action, he again opened his eyes and gave the room a second scan. Escape must be a priority now -- escape and finding Dom. He could continue this voyage of self-discovery once they were all safe. His bandaged hands making dexterity a little difficult, he nevertheless succeeded in pulling the IV needle out of his arm, a few spots of blood trickling to stain the loose blue pajama bottoms and hospital smock some unknown had dressed him in. He sat up, an unexpected wave of dizziness spilling him sideways against the headboard. He leaned against it, breathing heavily, his ribs sending sharp warnings through his chest. A moment later his head cleared and he swung his feet to the tiled floor, again nearly falling when his previously damaged ankle balked at supporting his weight.
"Not exactly my day," he grumbled, testing his foot again more gingerly. This time it held him although not without aching protest. Moving slowly, he gave the room a cursory search, disappointed to find it more than a bit barren; he'd hoped someone had at least stowed his clothes somewhere accessible. A man walking around in hospital pajamas was guaranteed to attract a few stares.
Accepting the inevitable, Stringfellow next padded silently in bare feet to the closed door, cracking it open and hitching one eye around the jamb. To the right he could see several white uniformed men and women scurrying busily about whatever duties they'd been assigned. Some carried charts, others trays, at least two wore stethoscopes dangling from their necks. Of guards there was no sign ... at least, no visible sign.
Very cautiously he turned his head to the left ... and found himself face to face with a mustached blond man who, judging from his upraised hand, had been preparing to enter the room at that very moment!
Hawke yelped involuntarily, battle trained reflexes catapulting him backward out of the man's reach. He made to assume an offensive stance but misjudged both his velocity and the amount of strain his ankle was willing to take. It twisted, landing him on the floor staring up, as the intruder completed his original intention, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
"That was an interesting exhibition." Michael Coldsmith-Briggs leaned heavily on a silver headed walking stick, white teeth flashing under his mustache in a broad grin. "I don't think the Chinese Circus is looking for any more acrobats, but I'll be sure and put in a good word for you."
Too shaken to react to the humor, Hawke could do nothing except sit where he was and stare up at the blond agent. Save for a slightly swollen nose protected by a small bandage, Michael certainly showed few outward signs of the ordeal they'd been through; impeccably dressed as usual in white suit, vest and shirt, blond hair neatly groomed, he looked more like a model for Gentlemen's Quarterly than the effective and deadly Deputy Director for the secret organization usually referred to as the Firm. Michael's presence should have been heartening, but too much had happened too fast for Hawke to assimilate it all. They could both still be prisoners despite the ease with which the agent had entered. "Michael," he managed, only the faintest tremor coming through his tone. He glanced warily past the agent into the hallway; a doctor and nurse passed by, heads held close in confidential talk and paying not the slightest attention to them. "Are-- Where are we?"
His distress must have registered on the older man, for Briggs' grin faded, amusement turning into reassurance. "This is a private sanitorium just outside Los Angeles," he said, bracing himself on one leg and offering his hand. "The Firm uses it to treat operatives who need non- and post- surgical medical attention."
Hawke considered him for several seconds, while Briggs endured the scrutiny patiently, showing no sign of hurry. Finally, Hawke reached up to accept the offered assistance, stopping just in time when he saw the new bandages around his palms. The pain in his hands had muted to a dull aching that matched that in his head, quite forgotten once the decision to act had been made. He turned his hand over, offering Briggs an apologetic little shrug.
"I'd forgotten about those burns myself," Michael said easily, leaning a little forward and hooking his fingers under Hawke's shoulder instead.
"It's nothing." With the other's assistance, Stringfellow struggled to his feet, dismissing his wounds with another slight lift of his shoulder. They too were a subject to be dealt with in a more secure place. Escape and finding Dominic were the only important things to consider right now. He did pause, however, to study the older man closely. "You look all right," he determined at last. "Did Horn--?" Uncomfortable, he spread one hand, blue eyes asking the question he could not.
Archangel, fortunately, was a long time master at the art of reading minds. "Did Horn brainwash me?" he translated the gesture accurately. "No, Stringfellow, Angelica appeared before Dr. Zarkov was able to progress beyond her ... 'softening up' stage." He shuddered, and Hawke had no trouble imagining what that 'softening up' stage consisted of; he'd been through it himself. "I ..." He tapped his left thigh. "... am simply here for a check-up and to schedule additional therapy so I can get this blasted leg brace removed." He grinned again. "I decided to check in on you. You've been sleeping for nearly two days."
"Two days?!" At the blond's nod, Hawke braced an arm around his ribs, thoughts swirling maddeningly. "I can't have been here for two days. I have to.... I mean...." He fixed Michael's one blue eye with a defiant stare, a muscle leaping in his jaw, his stomach feeling like a lead weight was sitting in it. This was it -- everything on the line. "Michael, we have to find Dom."
Briggs' eye widened behind his lens. He pursed his lips and turned to the still ajar door, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps you're right," he said at last. "We should make finding Santini a priority."
Hawk heaved a sigh of relief. "Then you'll help me?"
Another pause and Michael nodded. "I'll help you. Can you walk?"
Walk? He'd run through an artillery barrage if it meant saving Dom! "I'll manage," he swore, limping forward a few steps in proof. "Do you know where Dom is?"
Michael stuck his head into the hallway, peered in both directions and made a beckoning gesture with one hand. Hawke followed him out, breath beginning to come faster as adrenalin pumped into his body, preparing him to react to any threat that would come their way. Discreetly, they stepped out into the corridor, a few of the nurses sending them curious looks. Michael ignored them, proceeding two paces forward then stepping to the side and turning toward Hawke. "I think I just found Dominic," he announced, lifting one arm in a flourish.
Hawke glanced at him, puzzled, then followed the pointing finger. There, not a dozen feet away and resting comfortably in a wheelchair was.... "Dom!" The exclamation was ripped from his throat, breath snatched away. For the second time that day the blackness nearly reclaimed him, shock turning his knees to something akin to jelly. He stared, blinked, and stared harder, but the apparition remained comfortingly substantial.
"String!" Santini's seamed face creased even further in a wide grin, making the scar tissue under his jaw and on his cheek pucker. "String, boy, it's about time you woke up! Didn't I tell you it would be any minute now?" This last was addressed over his shoulder, and it was only then that Hawke noticed the two other people in attendance, the male tall and bronze- haired, the woman petite, blonde and china skinned.
"I'd say you called this one, Dom." Saint John Hawke smiled his own welcome and pushed the wheelchair until they were only a few feet from the astounded man; Stringfellow was glad of that -- he doubted he could have moved a single step. "Good to see you vertical again, brother. We were starting to worry, weren't we,al Jo?"
"I should say we were," the woman stated firmly, though her pretty face was split by her own warm smile. "The doctors said you would be fine, but when you didn't wake up...." She spread both hands in an open, Italian gesture her uncle used often.
String was aware of her and Saint John both, he could feel Michael moving closer to the trio. But he couldn't quite bring himself to tear his eyes away from Dominic Santini's brown ones. This was the confirmation he needed and the reality he'd craved: his brother and foster father -- the firm bases on which he'd built his young life. "It's really you, isn't it, Dom," he said softly, not in question but because the words tasted so sweet in his mouth. "You're really alive."
Santini smiled wider and patted his chest. "In the flesh, kid. A little less of me, maybe, but enough."
Enough. Yes. String swallowed hard, his breath coming out in a little sob. Heedless of aches, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Santini's bone-thin middle, resting his head against the old man's shoulder as he had when he'd been a child; Dom slid forward to meet him, pulling him into a tight embrace and hanging on with every bit of his strength. "M-missed you, you old chopper jockey," he choked out gruffly.
"I missed you, you crazy, snot-nosed kid," Santini retorted in his ear. The angle of his voice shifted, and String knew he was glancing at the blond agent behind. "I told Michael you might need an old cripple around for a while longer yet. Glad to see I was right."
String pulled back to regard him fondly, exchanging a look with his brother over Dom's shoulder. "A lot longer." He sniffed and wiped his face on the short sleeve of his tunic, using the opportunity to glance around the busy hallway. He still didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean a thing where the Firm was concerned. With the advent of electronic surveillance and defense, human guards were little more than a luxury anyway. "Are we prisoners?" he asked, seeking information, the blond agent's assertions not easing his foreboding.
Saint John placed a possessive hand on Santini's shoulder, his gray eyes full of that confident strength that had not eroded even in the midst of starvation, torture and imprisonment. "Not as long as I'm alive," he pronounced with utter surety.
Jo looked troubled but added her voice to Saint John's. "You don't think this is a trap, do you, String? Or that we'd be part of it?"
"Or that I'd actually lie to you about something like this?" Briggs' words carried a bitter irony in them more barbed than any retort, and when Hawke lifted his head to glance at him, although still huddling protectively in front of Santini, the agent offered a thin smile without humor. "It isn't necessary to mistrust everything I say, Hawke. I rarely splinter families without good reason."
They stared at each other uncomfortably for several seconds, then Jo circled the wheelchair until she was standing beside Dom's left arm. "He's telling the truth, String. This is a private Company hospital called the Leas. You, Dom, Michael and the injured members of Epsilon Guard were airlifted here straight from Horn's estate."
Dom fondly ruffled the hair along Hawke's neck, the gesture conveying a measure of the reassurance String still desperately craved. "Some of us are only here being measured for a new foot." He tapped his right leg. "I'm a little too old to hobble around on crutches all my life."
"A prosthetic should enable you to lead a normal life again, Uncle Dom," Jo interjected cheerfully.
Santini rolled his eyes. "Why don't I remember her being that perky," he growled, slapping the woman's brown sleeve in mock irritation. "And this one...!" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Saint John was watching them with an expression of pacific benevolence. "He's already putting me through paces these so-called experts laughingly refer to as therapy. Sadism, that's what I call it!"
"If you call building your heart and cardio-vascular system back up and exercising atrophied muscles 'sadism,'" Saint John returned unheatedly, "then I suppose you're right."
String felt another thrill of fear go through him. Ignoring the discomfort from his hands, he remained in a kneeling position and gripped the old pilot's forearms as tightly as he could, staring earnestly into the seamed face. "Is there something wrong with your heart, Dom?" he asked, having to swallow hard before he could get the words out.
Santini grimaced. "Nothing wrong with my ticker except I haven't used it much in three months. It'll be fine." He freed one of his arms from String's death grip, using it as a model might to display the gray pants and white shirt he wore. "Hey. I'm even being discharged today! Jo and Saint John came by to pick me up; we ran into Mr. Clean in Admissions, and decided to stop up and see if you were awake before we checked out." He shot Briggs a mischievous look. "Seems the Spotless Wonder here is in the market for a nose job."
"I was rather fond of my original nose," the blond agent retorted, although String could still feel that single-eyed gaze boring into his back. "I was hoping to keep it for a while."
Another vision filled Hawke's head, the last one before the blackness had claimed him, and he felt the constricting band across his chest ease just a bit. "You saved Dom's life," he said softly, at last looking up at the blond agent. Their eyes met, locked, held for a long moment, and String could see the depths of the regret there, something he'd never noticed before -- had never been capable of noticing before, perhaps. Once, Michael had been both friend and enemy with Saint John's well-being standing between them. He'd been the one on the other side; the Them Hawke had fought most of his life. But Saint John was rescued, and Dominic safe thanks to this man. Thanks to this friend? Was it truly something he could admit at long last? "We ... I owe you for that, Michael," he offered from his heart. "I won't forget."
"Won't you?" Forgive and forget, Hawke interpreted.
He faltered at the carefully neutral question, seeing how important it was to Briggs even beyond the stoic facade. Leave it to him to cut through the trappings and skewer the matter in the very heart. There, with Dom's arms around him, his family bracketing them on either side, feeling comforted for the first time in the better part of a lifetime, there he was able to extend the solace he was being given to another who needed it just as badly. "Maybe some things are better forgotten," he said at last, feeling Dom squeeze his shoulder.
An odd tension seemed to seep out of Michael's sturdy body, a grateful smile lighting his handsome face. "Guess we'll have to chalk that one up to the record neither one of us is keeping," he replied, twirling his walking stick breezily.
String grinned and turned back to the others, catching a fleeting, disapproving look on Saint John's face. It was gone as soon as it had appeared, leaving him to wonder if he'd seen it at all. There was no time to question though, for his legs were starting to cramp. He sighed and made to rise, trying twice before a laughing Saint John brushed past Briggs and hauled him physically upright.
"Has anyone else noticed how graceful my kid brother is getting in his old age?" he remarked to the group at large, while setting Stringfellow on his feet. "Ready to go back to bed, buddy?"
String pulled irritatedly out of his grip then had to snatch at Dom's wheelchair to maintain his balance. "I'm not going back to bed," he growled, glaring away Jo's half-hearted offer of assistance. "I'm going home."
If he was expecting the woman to retreat, he'd reckoned without Jo Santini's own Italian fire. She pulled herself to her full five-foot, five- inch height, hands on her hips and blue eyes blazing. "You have spent almost two solid days unconscious!" she snapped. "You've taken drugs on top of a concussion and shock ..."
"Ah-HA!" Dom interjected, scowling hugely. "I knew you were on something back at the estate!"
"... and you're almost out on your feet now!" Jo's light soprano rose in volume until Santini fell silent, cowed, and even the usually unflappable Saint John stared open mouthed at her. String actually backed up a step before catching himself. "You're going back to bed until the doctors tell you you can go."
Stringfellow flared then stopped; the strain in his adopted cousin's face showed too much concern for him to sustain his annoyance, and he was too exhausted to work up any righteous indignation anyway. He rubbed the new bruise where the IV had been inserted, meeting the woman's gaze tiredly. "I can't stay here, Jo," he stated quietly, hating the entreaty coming through his voice; it was too much like vulnerability, and he refused to ever allow that to show. "I just want to go home."
Jo studied him in return, her temper disarmed by the lack of argument. She threw up her hands, addressing her complaint to the ceiling although now devoid of heat. "You've got to be the most stubborn person I've ever met!"
"Amen," Archangel muttered just loud enough for all to hear, then smiled seraphically when String turned a glare in his direction.
Dominic chuckled and ran a hand through his sparse gray hair. "Now she gets the picture!" he told Jo heartily. "You might as well give up, honey. I've always said that once that boy puts his mind to something there's no changing it. He's every bit as stubborn as Saint John ever was."
The bronze-haired Saint John jerked upright in mild offense. "I've never been that bad in my life!" Ignoring Jo's snort, he straightened further, his long nose high. "I've always believed in the spirit of cooperation and harmony and...."
"Awww, you're both a pair of stubborn...," Santini muttered, ending the matter. "Besides, String'll do better coming home with me, anyway. At least at home a man can rest. Not like these places where they wake you up in the middle of the night to shove a sleeping pill down your throat."
"No good." Saint John interrupted what was building into a promising lecture on the evils of hospitals, by stepping forward, squeezing Santini's arm in one hand and placing another on String's shoulder. "He's coming home with me. Jo has been living in your house for months now, but I've got a recently vacated guest room available."
"Mike moved back in with Wendy?" Jo guessed, winking at an interestedly listing Michael, who winked back.
"Wendy ... or Kathleen," the older Hawke brother replied, managing to shrug without releasing either Dom or String. "All I know is, he moved out yesterday."
Stringfellow sighed, hearing his inevitable fate and knowing that arguing was no longer going to do him any good. "Why don't I just go home?" he asked without any expectation whatsoever.
Jo patted him solicitously, and String was now hard pressed to decide which he disliked more, her anger or her maternalism. "You're going to have to get used to the idea of staying over for a few days," she said in sugared tones. "For one thing, you're too weak to manage by yourself yet. For another, we're throwing Uncle Dom a big welcome back party the day after tomorrow, and you're invited."
Hawke shot Dom a grin, leaning his back surreptitiously against the wall in what he hoped was a nonchalant enough attitude to conceal the fact he really was close to keeling over. If I don't hang on, they'll make me stay here, he thought with a shudder. I can't handle that, not now. I need to get out of here. Aloud, he said, "A party, eh? Sure you're up to doing a little swinging?"
"Stick it in yer hat," Santini retorted with great dignity. "And aren't you talking a little cocky for someone walking around in his pajamas?"
String looked down, actually aware of his lack of clothing for the first time. He snagged a passing nurse by the arm and demanded, "Where are my clothes?"
The middle-aged nurse, five-foot ten and built like a full-back, looked the much slighter young man up and down coolly. "Patients are not permitted to wander the halls without doctor's permission."
"I'm not wandering anywhere, lady," Hawke flared back, stubbornness lending him the strength to come to stiff, angry attention. "I'm leaving and I want my clothes."
They glared at each other for a long moment. "Aren't you Stringfellow Hawke?" the woman asked, freeing her arm by the mere expedient of giving Hawke a solid push. "We heard about you." She ignored his surly grumble and spun on her heel. "If Doctor Sullivan says you can go, I'll personally bring you your clothes and your walking papers. If not, the next sponge bath you get will be my pleasure ... but not necessarily yours."
String felt a blush rise in his cheeks. "What do you mean the next sponge bath?"
The large woman's reply was an evil grin. "Wait in your room while I get the doctor. He'll probably be about fifteen minutes, and I personally doubt you can stand up that long."
Michael stroked his soft mustache to cover the grin that Hawke saw anyway. "I'll clear your release with Administration. Sullivan may be feeling suicidal and refuse to sign you out, you never know."
He strolled off in the nurse's wake, leaving Hawke alone with his candidly smirking family. "I don't want to hear it," he growled when Saint John took his arm and ushered him back to the room and bed he'd just quitted. A snit was just as impossible to maintain as indignation, however, especially with Saint John's affectionate arm around him, and Dom staring between the brothers, the worse for wear but gloriously alive and wearing that big sloppy smile on his face. String discovered himself beaming just as widely, his heart more full of joy than he ever dared hope for in his whole life.
Saint John perched himself at the foot of the bed, one wide shoulder brushing String's, his expression carrying a touch of excitement over the contentment. "You missed a good one yesterday, brother. Mike and I went after that weapons stash Horn was planning to sell to Muhallah."
"One of Horn's men spilled the location?" the younger Hawke guessed, raising an interested brow.
Dominic hooted and flapped his arms, managing to resemble a beheaded chicken. "Sang like a birdie, baby! And these boys ..." He stabbed a thumb at Saint John and by implication, Rivers. "... made the trip over and hit the base just before dawn their time. Saint John is just getting back."
"Much resistance?" String wanted to know, wincing from a vision of more bullet holes in Airwolf's armored hide.
His brother shook his head. "Jason suppressed word of the hit on Horn's estate, so they didn't have a clue until we started the raid. They brought out some Ack-Ack and a Stinger or two, but nothing Airwolf couldn't handle."
"You better believe that!" Nobody questioned Santini's Lady!
Saint John chuckled and leaned forward to chat with Jo, who was holding Dom's hand tightly, while String took a minute to sit back and watch them all from a mental distance. Saint John -- his brother! -- was back and even more functional than String was. Three months ago Stringfellow Hawke would've traded his own life to see Saint John like this again and counted it a bargain at that. To have Dom back too was almost more than he could believe!
He swallowed hard, happy and yet a little afraid too. In the past, happiness was always harbinger of disaster and loss, and Hawke knew that he was in no condition right now to endure either. But what if it did happen again? What if all of this was only temporary -- some cruel deity's idea of a cosmic joke, this moment the set-up before the devastating punch line was delivered?
Then the joke would be on him, Hawke thought fiercely, because no one is taking my family away from me without a fight! And there in the midst of those he loved best, he even found himself believing it.
***
Satisfied he was at least reasonably sound, and feeling delightfully clear headed, the secondary questions of where he was and how he got here began to present themselves. He allowed curiosity to motivate him to open his eyes, finding himself staring at a dim fluorescent bulb set in a white- painted ceiling. Moving only his eyes he glanced from side to side, scanning a sterile looking room decorated in the universal, utilitarian style of a medical facility. Something glinted dully on the left, a plastic bag filled with some colorless fluid; he traced the tubing down to where it disappeared under a small band-aid on his arm, languor replaced instantly by a thrill of very real fear. What kind of drugs were they feeding into him? And who were 'they'? I hate hospitals, he thought with mounting panic. Spent too much time in them already. If this really is a hospital and not a--
He gasped, the preceding week slamming down with sledgehammer force. Not a hospital -- a laboratory! Drugs, Horn and ... Dom?
He gritted his teeth and lifted his head a few inches, the background throbbing increasing exponentially then settling back to tolerable levels. He squinted hard and was soon able to make out a first-floor window to his right; the view was that of a manicured lawn bordered by wide-boughed trees, the very edge of a parking lot visible in the extreme corner of the pane. Hawke dropped his head back to the pillow, aesthetics taking a back seat to another frightening fact: pretty as the view was, he'd never seen it before in his life. This wasn't one of the local hospitals he'd frequented in the past several years, and this wasn't Marty Bergman's clinic. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten here, and if he could trust the memories continuing to rush back at a confusing rate, that was a very bad sign indeed.
If he could trust them.
How long had it been since he'd been able to trust what his senses were telling him, or what his brain asserted to be true? Angelica, as beautiful and pure as any artist's Madonna, had been a deceitful Siren, using his infrequently exposed heart to lure him into her father's trap. Once there, John Bradford Horn had finished the job, warping loyalties past and present and reshaping them to his own designs. Worst of all, though, had been Anastasia Zarkov. Attractive and deadly, it had been her manipulations that had stolen from him that which he treasured the most -- the memories of his brother -- replacing them with an obsession wearing a stranger's face. Much of his world had been clouded since then, drugged into obscurity, his self-confidence shaken enough to force him to rely on others to anchor him into what he was constrained to accept as reality.
But were his so-called friends any more trustworthy? Hawke swallowed hard and turned to re-examine one of the most horrifying moments of his life, watching what he'd thought was Dominic Santini suffocating in a metal coffin. Michael had told him it was all a lie, that that hadn't been Dom at all, and String had chosen to believe him, for the alternative was too unbearable to contemplate ... or to carry. Over the years there'd developed a kind of trust between them, the friendship a vulnerability that Hawke had not only permitted but prized, little though he would ever have admitted it even to himself. Aware of that rare faith, the blond agent had used it as well. Some part of him conceded that Michael's motives weren't malicious -- that they were even partly motivated by concern for him, but even then the deception still hurt. Still, if the latter part of his memories were correct ... if Michael really had saved Dom's life, then Hawke would gladly forgive him anything and everything up to and including the lie.
He closed his eyes again, refocusing within, searching his memory, thoughts and senses again. He lifted his hand, clenching the fingers, accepting the pain this caused as genuine. This was his anchor -- he existed. He lived, breathed, thought -- he was. This was always my foundation in the past, he told himself, inside of me, not out. There was no longer a cloud over his thoughts; he sensed that his system was clear of drugs, neither the ... concussion...? He gingerly touched his temple, wincing at the bruise there. ... neither concussion nor exhaustion sapping his faculties any longer.
He concentrated, conjuring up an image that had been lost to him for a long time -- a tall, broad-shouldered man with bronze hair, sharp blue-gray eyes and a long jaw. He studied it warily, fearing to find another image overlapping it -- that of a short, much older man with gray hair and a very square chin. The blessedly single image that remained continued to instill in Stringfellow Hawke feelings of fraternal warmth and comfort that could not possibly have been generated by any man except one: Saint John Hawke, his brother.
That means this has to be real, he decided at long last, embracing the relief that washed over him so strongly as to take away his breath. I can accept my perceptions again. I can trust myself! He frowned, one final flicker of doubt clinging tenaciously despite everything. I would like just one piece of proof. If I can just see Dom and Saint John again, I'll know everything is all right. Nothing else will matter if I can just see that they're alive.
But how to accomplish this? Opening himself wide to the outside world, he extended his extraordinarily acute hearing to the full; even through the closed door he could hear people moving about, voices pitched at conversational levels, the low clank of metal on metal. As a prisoner at Horn's estate, the soundproofed walls had permitted no outside noises to filter into the cells except for the irritating hum of the electronic locks. Everything here was all noises associated with a real hospital, and there was no hum. That in itself helped reduce some of the anxiety even if comfort was a very long way away.
Shelving his dread in favor of action, he again opened his eyes and gave the room a second scan. Escape must be a priority now -- escape and finding Dom. He could continue this voyage of self-discovery once they were all safe. His bandaged hands making dexterity a little difficult, he nevertheless succeeded in pulling the IV needle out of his arm, a few spots of blood trickling to stain the loose blue pajama bottoms and hospital smock some unknown had dressed him in. He sat up, an unexpected wave of dizziness spilling him sideways against the headboard. He leaned against it, breathing heavily, his ribs sending sharp warnings through his chest. A moment later his head cleared and he swung his feet to the tiled floor, again nearly falling when his previously damaged ankle balked at supporting his weight.
"Not exactly my day," he grumbled, testing his foot again more gingerly. This time it held him although not without aching protest. Moving slowly, he gave the room a cursory search, disappointed to find it more than a bit barren; he'd hoped someone had at least stowed his clothes somewhere accessible. A man walking around in hospital pajamas was guaranteed to attract a few stares.
Accepting the inevitable, Stringfellow next padded silently in bare feet to the closed door, cracking it open and hitching one eye around the jamb. To the right he could see several white uniformed men and women scurrying busily about whatever duties they'd been assigned. Some carried charts, others trays, at least two wore stethoscopes dangling from their necks. Of guards there was no sign ... at least, no visible sign.
Very cautiously he turned his head to the left ... and found himself face to face with a mustached blond man who, judging from his upraised hand, had been preparing to enter the room at that very moment!
Hawke yelped involuntarily, battle trained reflexes catapulting him backward out of the man's reach. He made to assume an offensive stance but misjudged both his velocity and the amount of strain his ankle was willing to take. It twisted, landing him on the floor staring up, as the intruder completed his original intention, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
"That was an interesting exhibition." Michael Coldsmith-Briggs leaned heavily on a silver headed walking stick, white teeth flashing under his mustache in a broad grin. "I don't think the Chinese Circus is looking for any more acrobats, but I'll be sure and put in a good word for you."
Too shaken to react to the humor, Hawke could do nothing except sit where he was and stare up at the blond agent. Save for a slightly swollen nose protected by a small bandage, Michael certainly showed few outward signs of the ordeal they'd been through; impeccably dressed as usual in white suit, vest and shirt, blond hair neatly groomed, he looked more like a model for Gentlemen's Quarterly than the effective and deadly Deputy Director for the secret organization usually referred to as the Firm. Michael's presence should have been heartening, but too much had happened too fast for Hawke to assimilate it all. They could both still be prisoners despite the ease with which the agent had entered. "Michael," he managed, only the faintest tremor coming through his tone. He glanced warily past the agent into the hallway; a doctor and nurse passed by, heads held close in confidential talk and paying not the slightest attention to them. "Are-- Where are we?"
His distress must have registered on the older man, for Briggs' grin faded, amusement turning into reassurance. "This is a private sanitorium just outside Los Angeles," he said, bracing himself on one leg and offering his hand. "The Firm uses it to treat operatives who need non- and post- surgical medical attention."
Hawke considered him for several seconds, while Briggs endured the scrutiny patiently, showing no sign of hurry. Finally, Hawke reached up to accept the offered assistance, stopping just in time when he saw the new bandages around his palms. The pain in his hands had muted to a dull aching that matched that in his head, quite forgotten once the decision to act had been made. He turned his hand over, offering Briggs an apologetic little shrug.
"I'd forgotten about those burns myself," Michael said easily, leaning a little forward and hooking his fingers under Hawke's shoulder instead.
"It's nothing." With the other's assistance, Stringfellow struggled to his feet, dismissing his wounds with another slight lift of his shoulder. They too were a subject to be dealt with in a more secure place. Escape and finding Dominic were the only important things to consider right now. He did pause, however, to study the older man closely. "You look all right," he determined at last. "Did Horn--?" Uncomfortable, he spread one hand, blue eyes asking the question he could not.
Archangel, fortunately, was a long time master at the art of reading minds. "Did Horn brainwash me?" he translated the gesture accurately. "No, Stringfellow, Angelica appeared before Dr. Zarkov was able to progress beyond her ... 'softening up' stage." He shuddered, and Hawke had no trouble imagining what that 'softening up' stage consisted of; he'd been through it himself. "I ..." He tapped his left thigh. "... am simply here for a check-up and to schedule additional therapy so I can get this blasted leg brace removed." He grinned again. "I decided to check in on you. You've been sleeping for nearly two days."
"Two days?!" At the blond's nod, Hawke braced an arm around his ribs, thoughts swirling maddeningly. "I can't have been here for two days. I have to.... I mean...." He fixed Michael's one blue eye with a defiant stare, a muscle leaping in his jaw, his stomach feeling like a lead weight was sitting in it. This was it -- everything on the line. "Michael, we have to find Dom."
Briggs' eye widened behind his lens. He pursed his lips and turned to the still ajar door, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps you're right," he said at last. "We should make finding Santini a priority."
Hawk heaved a sigh of relief. "Then you'll help me?"
Another pause and Michael nodded. "I'll help you. Can you walk?"
Walk? He'd run through an artillery barrage if it meant saving Dom! "I'll manage," he swore, limping forward a few steps in proof. "Do you know where Dom is?"
Michael stuck his head into the hallway, peered in both directions and made a beckoning gesture with one hand. Hawke followed him out, breath beginning to come faster as adrenalin pumped into his body, preparing him to react to any threat that would come their way. Discreetly, they stepped out into the corridor, a few of the nurses sending them curious looks. Michael ignored them, proceeding two paces forward then stepping to the side and turning toward Hawke. "I think I just found Dominic," he announced, lifting one arm in a flourish.
Hawke glanced at him, puzzled, then followed the pointing finger. There, not a dozen feet away and resting comfortably in a wheelchair was.... "Dom!" The exclamation was ripped from his throat, breath snatched away. For the second time that day the blackness nearly reclaimed him, shock turning his knees to something akin to jelly. He stared, blinked, and stared harder, but the apparition remained comfortingly substantial.
"String!" Santini's seamed face creased even further in a wide grin, making the scar tissue under his jaw and on his cheek pucker. "String, boy, it's about time you woke up! Didn't I tell you it would be any minute now?" This last was addressed over his shoulder, and it was only then that Hawke noticed the two other people in attendance, the male tall and bronze- haired, the woman petite, blonde and china skinned.
"I'd say you called this one, Dom." Saint John Hawke smiled his own welcome and pushed the wheelchair until they were only a few feet from the astounded man; Stringfellow was glad of that -- he doubted he could have moved a single step. "Good to see you vertical again, brother. We were starting to worry, weren't we,al Jo?"
"I should say we were," the woman stated firmly, though her pretty face was split by her own warm smile. "The doctors said you would be fine, but when you didn't wake up...." She spread both hands in an open, Italian gesture her uncle used often.
String was aware of her and Saint John both, he could feel Michael moving closer to the trio. But he couldn't quite bring himself to tear his eyes away from Dominic Santini's brown ones. This was the confirmation he needed and the reality he'd craved: his brother and foster father -- the firm bases on which he'd built his young life. "It's really you, isn't it, Dom," he said softly, not in question but because the words tasted so sweet in his mouth. "You're really alive."
Santini smiled wider and patted his chest. "In the flesh, kid. A little less of me, maybe, but enough."
Enough. Yes. String swallowed hard, his breath coming out in a little sob. Heedless of aches, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Santini's bone-thin middle, resting his head against the old man's shoulder as he had when he'd been a child; Dom slid forward to meet him, pulling him into a tight embrace and hanging on with every bit of his strength. "M-missed you, you old chopper jockey," he choked out gruffly.
"I missed you, you crazy, snot-nosed kid," Santini retorted in his ear. The angle of his voice shifted, and String knew he was glancing at the blond agent behind. "I told Michael you might need an old cripple around for a while longer yet. Glad to see I was right."
String pulled back to regard him fondly, exchanging a look with his brother over Dom's shoulder. "A lot longer." He sniffed and wiped his face on the short sleeve of his tunic, using the opportunity to glance around the busy hallway. He still didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean a thing where the Firm was concerned. With the advent of electronic surveillance and defense, human guards were little more than a luxury anyway. "Are we prisoners?" he asked, seeking information, the blond agent's assertions not easing his foreboding.
Saint John placed a possessive hand on Santini's shoulder, his gray eyes full of that confident strength that had not eroded even in the midst of starvation, torture and imprisonment. "Not as long as I'm alive," he pronounced with utter surety.
Jo looked troubled but added her voice to Saint John's. "You don't think this is a trap, do you, String? Or that we'd be part of it?"
"Or that I'd actually lie to you about something like this?" Briggs' words carried a bitter irony in them more barbed than any retort, and when Hawke lifted his head to glance at him, although still huddling protectively in front of Santini, the agent offered a thin smile without humor. "It isn't necessary to mistrust everything I say, Hawke. I rarely splinter families without good reason."
They stared at each other uncomfortably for several seconds, then Jo circled the wheelchair until she was standing beside Dom's left arm. "He's telling the truth, String. This is a private Company hospital called the Leas. You, Dom, Michael and the injured members of Epsilon Guard were airlifted here straight from Horn's estate."
Dom fondly ruffled the hair along Hawke's neck, the gesture conveying a measure of the reassurance String still desperately craved. "Some of us are only here being measured for a new foot." He tapped his right leg. "I'm a little too old to hobble around on crutches all my life."
"A prosthetic should enable you to lead a normal life again, Uncle Dom," Jo interjected cheerfully.
Santini rolled his eyes. "Why don't I remember her being that perky," he growled, slapping the woman's brown sleeve in mock irritation. "And this one...!" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Saint John was watching them with an expression of pacific benevolence. "He's already putting me through paces these so-called experts laughingly refer to as therapy. Sadism, that's what I call it!"
"If you call building your heart and cardio-vascular system back up and exercising atrophied muscles 'sadism,'" Saint John returned unheatedly, "then I suppose you're right."
String felt another thrill of fear go through him. Ignoring the discomfort from his hands, he remained in a kneeling position and gripped the old pilot's forearms as tightly as he could, staring earnestly into the seamed face. "Is there something wrong with your heart, Dom?" he asked, having to swallow hard before he could get the words out.
Santini grimaced. "Nothing wrong with my ticker except I haven't used it much in three months. It'll be fine." He freed one of his arms from String's death grip, using it as a model might to display the gray pants and white shirt he wore. "Hey. I'm even being discharged today! Jo and Saint John came by to pick me up; we ran into Mr. Clean in Admissions, and decided to stop up and see if you were awake before we checked out." He shot Briggs a mischievous look. "Seems the Spotless Wonder here is in the market for a nose job."
"I was rather fond of my original nose," the blond agent retorted, although String could still feel that single-eyed gaze boring into his back. "I was hoping to keep it for a while."
Another vision filled Hawke's head, the last one before the blackness had claimed him, and he felt the constricting band across his chest ease just a bit. "You saved Dom's life," he said softly, at last looking up at the blond agent. Their eyes met, locked, held for a long moment, and String could see the depths of the regret there, something he'd never noticed before -- had never been capable of noticing before, perhaps. Once, Michael had been both friend and enemy with Saint John's well-being standing between them. He'd been the one on the other side; the Them Hawke had fought most of his life. But Saint John was rescued, and Dominic safe thanks to this man. Thanks to this friend? Was it truly something he could admit at long last? "We ... I owe you for that, Michael," he offered from his heart. "I won't forget."
"Won't you?" Forgive and forget, Hawke interpreted.
He faltered at the carefully neutral question, seeing how important it was to Briggs even beyond the stoic facade. Leave it to him to cut through the trappings and skewer the matter in the very heart. There, with Dom's arms around him, his family bracketing them on either side, feeling comforted for the first time in the better part of a lifetime, there he was able to extend the solace he was being given to another who needed it just as badly. "Maybe some things are better forgotten," he said at last, feeling Dom squeeze his shoulder.
An odd tension seemed to seep out of Michael's sturdy body, a grateful smile lighting his handsome face. "Guess we'll have to chalk that one up to the record neither one of us is keeping," he replied, twirling his walking stick breezily.
String grinned and turned back to the others, catching a fleeting, disapproving look on Saint John's face. It was gone as soon as it had appeared, leaving him to wonder if he'd seen it at all. There was no time to question though, for his legs were starting to cramp. He sighed and made to rise, trying twice before a laughing Saint John brushed past Briggs and hauled him physically upright.
"Has anyone else noticed how graceful my kid brother is getting in his old age?" he remarked to the group at large, while setting Stringfellow on his feet. "Ready to go back to bed, buddy?"
String pulled irritatedly out of his grip then had to snatch at Dom's wheelchair to maintain his balance. "I'm not going back to bed," he growled, glaring away Jo's half-hearted offer of assistance. "I'm going home."
If he was expecting the woman to retreat, he'd reckoned without Jo Santini's own Italian fire. She pulled herself to her full five-foot, five- inch height, hands on her hips and blue eyes blazing. "You have spent almost two solid days unconscious!" she snapped. "You've taken drugs on top of a concussion and shock ..."
"Ah-HA!" Dom interjected, scowling hugely. "I knew you were on something back at the estate!"
"... and you're almost out on your feet now!" Jo's light soprano rose in volume until Santini fell silent, cowed, and even the usually unflappable Saint John stared open mouthed at her. String actually backed up a step before catching himself. "You're going back to bed until the doctors tell you you can go."
Stringfellow flared then stopped; the strain in his adopted cousin's face showed too much concern for him to sustain his annoyance, and he was too exhausted to work up any righteous indignation anyway. He rubbed the new bruise where the IV had been inserted, meeting the woman's gaze tiredly. "I can't stay here, Jo," he stated quietly, hating the entreaty coming through his voice; it was too much like vulnerability, and he refused to ever allow that to show. "I just want to go home."
Jo studied him in return, her temper disarmed by the lack of argument. She threw up her hands, addressing her complaint to the ceiling although now devoid of heat. "You've got to be the most stubborn person I've ever met!"
"Amen," Archangel muttered just loud enough for all to hear, then smiled seraphically when String turned a glare in his direction.
Dominic chuckled and ran a hand through his sparse gray hair. "Now she gets the picture!" he told Jo heartily. "You might as well give up, honey. I've always said that once that boy puts his mind to something there's no changing it. He's every bit as stubborn as Saint John ever was."
The bronze-haired Saint John jerked upright in mild offense. "I've never been that bad in my life!" Ignoring Jo's snort, he straightened further, his long nose high. "I've always believed in the spirit of cooperation and harmony and...."
"Awww, you're both a pair of stubborn...," Santini muttered, ending the matter. "Besides, String'll do better coming home with me, anyway. At least at home a man can rest. Not like these places where they wake you up in the middle of the night to shove a sleeping pill down your throat."
"No good." Saint John interrupted what was building into a promising lecture on the evils of hospitals, by stepping forward, squeezing Santini's arm in one hand and placing another on String's shoulder. "He's coming home with me. Jo has been living in your house for months now, but I've got a recently vacated guest room available."
"Mike moved back in with Wendy?" Jo guessed, winking at an interestedly listing Michael, who winked back.
"Wendy ... or Kathleen," the older Hawke brother replied, managing to shrug without releasing either Dom or String. "All I know is, he moved out yesterday."
Stringfellow sighed, hearing his inevitable fate and knowing that arguing was no longer going to do him any good. "Why don't I just go home?" he asked without any expectation whatsoever.
Jo patted him solicitously, and String was now hard pressed to decide which he disliked more, her anger or her maternalism. "You're going to have to get used to the idea of staying over for a few days," she said in sugared tones. "For one thing, you're too weak to manage by yourself yet. For another, we're throwing Uncle Dom a big welcome back party the day after tomorrow, and you're invited."
Hawke shot Dom a grin, leaning his back surreptitiously against the wall in what he hoped was a nonchalant enough attitude to conceal the fact he really was close to keeling over. If I don't hang on, they'll make me stay here, he thought with a shudder. I can't handle that, not now. I need to get out of here. Aloud, he said, "A party, eh? Sure you're up to doing a little swinging?"
"Stick it in yer hat," Santini retorted with great dignity. "And aren't you talking a little cocky for someone walking around in his pajamas?"
String looked down, actually aware of his lack of clothing for the first time. He snagged a passing nurse by the arm and demanded, "Where are my clothes?"
The middle-aged nurse, five-foot ten and built like a full-back, looked the much slighter young man up and down coolly. "Patients are not permitted to wander the halls without doctor's permission."
"I'm not wandering anywhere, lady," Hawke flared back, stubbornness lending him the strength to come to stiff, angry attention. "I'm leaving and I want my clothes."
They glared at each other for a long moment. "Aren't you Stringfellow Hawke?" the woman asked, freeing her arm by the mere expedient of giving Hawke a solid push. "We heard about you." She ignored his surly grumble and spun on her heel. "If Doctor Sullivan says you can go, I'll personally bring you your clothes and your walking papers. If not, the next sponge bath you get will be my pleasure ... but not necessarily yours."
String felt a blush rise in his cheeks. "What do you mean the next sponge bath?"
The large woman's reply was an evil grin. "Wait in your room while I get the doctor. He'll probably be about fifteen minutes, and I personally doubt you can stand up that long."
Michael stroked his soft mustache to cover the grin that Hawke saw anyway. "I'll clear your release with Administration. Sullivan may be feeling suicidal and refuse to sign you out, you never know."
He strolled off in the nurse's wake, leaving Hawke alone with his candidly smirking family. "I don't want to hear it," he growled when Saint John took his arm and ushered him back to the room and bed he'd just quitted. A snit was just as impossible to maintain as indignation, however, especially with Saint John's affectionate arm around him, and Dom staring between the brothers, the worse for wear but gloriously alive and wearing that big sloppy smile on his face. String discovered himself beaming just as widely, his heart more full of joy than he ever dared hope for in his whole life.
Saint John perched himself at the foot of the bed, one wide shoulder brushing String's, his expression carrying a touch of excitement over the contentment. "You missed a good one yesterday, brother. Mike and I went after that weapons stash Horn was planning to sell to Muhallah."
"One of Horn's men spilled the location?" the younger Hawke guessed, raising an interested brow.
Dominic hooted and flapped his arms, managing to resemble a beheaded chicken. "Sang like a birdie, baby! And these boys ..." He stabbed a thumb at Saint John and by implication, Rivers. "... made the trip over and hit the base just before dawn their time. Saint John is just getting back."
"Much resistance?" String wanted to know, wincing from a vision of more bullet holes in Airwolf's armored hide.
His brother shook his head. "Jason suppressed word of the hit on Horn's estate, so they didn't have a clue until we started the raid. They brought out some Ack-Ack and a Stinger or two, but nothing Airwolf couldn't handle."
"You better believe that!" Nobody questioned Santini's Lady!
Saint John chuckled and leaned forward to chat with Jo, who was holding Dom's hand tightly, while String took a minute to sit back and watch them all from a mental distance. Saint John -- his brother! -- was back and even more functional than String was. Three months ago Stringfellow Hawke would've traded his own life to see Saint John like this again and counted it a bargain at that. To have Dom back too was almost more than he could believe!
He swallowed hard, happy and yet a little afraid too. In the past, happiness was always harbinger of disaster and loss, and Hawke knew that he was in no condition right now to endure either. But what if it did happen again? What if all of this was only temporary -- some cruel deity's idea of a cosmic joke, this moment the set-up before the devastating punch line was delivered?
Then the joke would be on him, Hawke thought fiercely, because no one is taking my family away from me without a fight! And there in the midst of those he loved best, he even found himself believing it.
***