After her earlier discussion with Marella, Caitlin wasn't surprised to walk into Michael's hospital room and find Gemma sitting with him.

'Hawke, Caitlin.' Michael smiled at them and pushed his glasses up his nose before sitting up straighter. He was dressed in pristine white cotton pyjamas and swaddled in a mass of blankets.

'Well you're looking better.' Caitlin said walking over to give him a kiss on the cheek. She took a step back and sat in the chair Hawke had pulled over for her. She smiled across at the older woman in acknowledgement of her presence.

Gemma rose to her feet uncertainly. 'I'll come back later. I'm sure you'll want to chat.'

'Thanks.' Caitlin said breezily as Gemma seemed to hesitate, perhaps waiting for an invitation to stay.

Hawke waited until Gemma left before walking around to the chair she vacated. He slumped into it. 'So how's the knee doing?' He asked.

Michael gestured at the cage which held the blankets away from his leg. 'They put it back together.' He rubbed his moustache. 'I thought you two were on honeymoon for another few days.'

'We had the feeling something was wrong and when Everett told us Dom had left with you and we couldn't raise Airwolf…' Caitlin shrugged.

'I feel bad.' Michael admitted realising that, however inadvertently, his mission with Dom had curtailed their honeymoon despite his intention not to disturb them.

'Good.' Hawke said without a hint that he was joking.

'Did Dom tell you about Airwolf's little manoeuvre whilst we were in the Antarctic?' Michael asked deciding offence was the best defence.

'Yeah.' Hawke shrugged. 'We'll run some tests.'

'We should have Karen Hansen take a look at her.' Michael argued. He stabbed a finger at the pilot. 'And you should have told me about this before.'

'We didn't know if there was anything to tell.' Hawke said forcefully. 'We still don't.'

Caitlin cleared her throat and changed the subject to Angelina. They chatted for an hour before a nurse came in with Michael's lunch and they got up to leave. Caitlin paused when she realised Hawke wasn't following her and she looked at him quizzically.

'I'll meet you downstairs.' Hawke said.

She nodded and closed the door.

Michael regarded the pilot thoughtfully and settled back against his pillow. 'You have that look.'

'What look?' Hawke asked.

'The look that says you have something to say but you're debating whether to because you might have to make a personal comment.'

Hawke rubbed his chin. 'I guess I shouldn't play poker with you.' He sighed. 'What the hell are you doing?'

Michael got his meaning straight away and stiffened. 'It's none of your business, Hawke.'

'You're right,' returned the pilot, 'it's not.' His even blue stare held Michael's.

'She's going through a bad time.' The spy said defensively. 'Between the cancer and the station being destroyed…' he gestured. 'I'm only giving her a shoulder to cry on.'

'Is that all she thinks it is?' Hawke asked brutally. 'Because I kinda get the impression she's thinking it's something more. Like a second chance with you.' He saw the other man register the comment.

'Do you think it's fair on Marella either having Gemma hang around knowing how she feels about her?' Hawke continued ruthlessly. Michael visibly flinched and Hawke sighed. 'I get that you feel responsible for Gemma, Michael, but do you remember what you said to me five years ago the night she left?'

'I remember.' Michael muttered, his cheeks reddening with remembered embarrassment.

'Think about it.' Hawke held his gaze for a heartbeat before he turned and left.

Michael sighed and looked with disinterest at the food in front of him on the hospital bed-table. He pushed it away, leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eye, his mind racing back five years ago to the night Gemma left him.

It was dark in the bar, dark but upscale, fancy and discreet. It was the reason why he had chosen it in order to get an update from Hawke. Michael had lost the taste for backstreet dives in his early days as a field operative; they held too many opportunities for brawling. Although tonight…he might have been in the mood for a good old-fashioned fist fight, he thought. He downed the shot of whiskey in front of him and motioned with the empty glass at the bartender for another – his third or was it his fourth? He didn't glance up as Hawke took the barstool next to him. The bartender put the whiskey shot down in front of him and turned to the new arrival.

'What can I get for you sir?'

'Mineral water.' Hawke ordered. His blue eyes briefly glanced at the whiskey but the gaze that met Michael's was impassive.

'Report.' Michael said shortly.

Hawke waited for the bartender to move to the other end. 'You were right. Rimmington's sold the new stock already.'

'Who to?'

'Anyone who wants them but mainly to the Middle East.' Hawke took a sip of his drink. 'The next shipment will be taken out by chopper next Friday via Panama. I've been put on stand-by for a run to Rio.'

'I'll have an arrest team ready and waiting in Panama.' Michael downed the whiskey. He raised his empty glass at the bartender. 'I have another project that I want to discuss with you.'

'Archangel, I told you once the Rimmington sting finishes, I'm out.' Hawke swirled the water in his glass and took another sip.

'You'll want this.' Michael smiled. 'How would you like to go over mach one in a helicopter?'

Hawke blinked and he gave a short laugh. 'You're not serious.'

The two men were silent whilst the bartender replaced Michael's drink. When he left, Hawke caught Michael's eyes with his own. 'You are serious.'

'Once you're done with the Rimmington thing, call Marella and get her to set something up for us.' Michael said. He picked up the whiskey.

Hawke heard the dismissal in the older man's voice and was tempted to follow the implicit order but as he watched Michael knock back another shot, he remained seated. It took Michael a few moments to realise Hawke wasn't moving.

'Was there something else?' The spy asked, indicating again for another refill.

'You tell me,' Hawke invited, 'you're the one downing the whiskey.'

Michael was surprised into looking at the young operative; he was dressed in a simple grey suit, the mink brown hair was slightly too long and he had impossibly boyish features with cheekbones half the world's models would kill for. If it wasn't for the eyes, he'd pass as another of the young ambitious political set that inhabited the Washington social scene; but those ice blue eyes…cold, unemotional and dangerous; eyes that hinted at the predator beneath the thin veneer of civilisation.

The FIRM shrink had warned Michael that Hawke walked a fine edge between sanity and madness; bottled up rage and guilt for surviving where others hadn't, kept bottled by a steel core of morality and the tenuous hope that his MIA brother was still alive. That Hawke walked hand in hand with insanity didn't bother Michael; his core of morality did. The operative constantly defied orders where they contradicted with his own values; not that he couldn't be ruthless or expedient, but he would be so when he chose to be not for any order. He was definitely not FIRM material and yet…he was an outstanding operative. Michael shook his head and wondered why he liked the young man so much.

The bartender poured out another shot.

'I'll take a beer.' Hawke said before the man could move away. A bottle and fresh glass were placed in front of him along with a bowl of snacks. The bartender moved to serve a newly arrived couple at the end of the bar.

'Look at them,' Michael said pointing at the smiling pair, 'love's young dream.' He smiled bitterly. 'Give them a few years and they'll be sat back in this bar wondering where it all went wrong.'

Hawke picked up a handful of the snacks along with the clue on what was bothering the other man. 'How is…' he searched his memory for the name of Michael's wife, 'Gemma?'

Michael downed his shot. 'Presumably very happy.' He signalled the bartender. 'She left me a dear John…or should that be a dear Michael note earlier this evening.'

'Sorry.' Hawke picked up the beer bottle and took a gulp.

'She thought I was having an affair with Marella.' Michael stared at the empty shot glass; maybe he'd had enough.

'Are you?'

Michael's blue eyes slammed into Hawke's angrily. 'What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I'm not having an affair with Marella. Not that I can get Gemma to believe that.' He sighed. 'Especially since I refused to transfer Marella.'

'Why did you refuse to transfer her?' Hawke asked.

'She's the best aide I've worked with. She gets me. Sometimes she'll know what I want before I even ask for it,' Michael said, 'and I'm not going to make decisions that affect my work because my wife is insanely jealous.'

'I kinda see her point.' Hawke said hearing the fondness in Michael's voice when he spoke about Marella.

Michael downed another shot. 'If you're going to sit and drink with me, you could at least pretend to be on my side.' He gestured. 'Gemma and I were having problems long before Marella came to work with me.' He thought about the arguments over the time she spent on her research, over whether to have children, over his secrecy about his work now she was no longer involved with that side of the FIRM, everything and anything. When had they started to argue so much? He couldn't even remember a time when they hadn't.

He sighed and stared at the glass, finally admitting a truth he'd long kept unvoiced. 'Marrying Gemma was a mistake. Wrong woman, wrong time, wrong everything.' He set the glass down and stood up, reaching for his wallet in the inner pocket of his jacket. 'Thanks for the company.' He laid several bills on the bar and walked out of the bar.

The fresh air hit him and the pavement whirled beneath his feet, nausea churned in his stomach. He felt a steadying arm on his elbow…Hawke…

The next thing he remembered, mused Michael opening his eye to stare at the ceiling of the hospital room was waking up fully clothed in his apartment with a head that ached and a mouth as dry as cotton. He'd surmised with some embarrassment that the young operative had helped him back and put him to bed. The next time he'd seen Hawke had been almost two weeks later at the briefing for the Airwolf project he'd told Hawke to call Marella and set up. Hawke had acted like the night in Washington had never happened so Michael spent the whole meeting talking about Airwolf, pleased to see a hunger light up in the pilot's eyes at the prospect of flying her. It had been as Hawke was about to go that Michael had stopped him, thanked him. Hawke had shrugged and said in his imitable way 'don't mention it' and neither of them had…until now.

Michael sighed. Marrying Gemma was a mistake. Wrong woman, wrong time, wrong everything. His own words taunted him. After that one night of drinking, Michael had simply taken the steps necessary to end his marriage, to end his mistake. His only remaining contact with Gemma had been through their lawyers and through their mutual friendship with Gregory. So what was he doing now, he wondered.

It had been a shock to read Gregory's report and find out that Gemma was seriously ill. Had it been residual guilt that had prompted him into corralling Dom to help him get to Antarctica to bring her home for treatment? The station's destruction, their shared experience getting home had brought back old buried feelings of camaraderie, concern and caring; he and Gemma had once loved each other enough to marry after all. But, he realised, it didn't change the truth of how he felt about their marriage. He reached for the phone on the bedside table and dialled.

'Gemma?' He rubbed his moustache. 'I need to speak with you. Could you come to my room?' He paused as she replied. 'Good. I'll see you then.'