"Miss Caitlin," Zhenya said, with a gallant bow over her hand that probably had the girls swooning fifty years ago in Russia.
Caitlin smiled, let loose a girlish giggle that had Hawke wondering if she had morphed into a twelve-year old.
"Hawke," Zhenya said, standing rigidly and inclining his head and torso stiffly in Hawke's direction.
A Russian handshake, Dominic had called it earlier. It seemed more formal than that to Hawke, probably part of some elaborate Russian custom adapted to the casual California environment in which Zhenya found himself.
Zhenya's smile was one of boyish delight, a man of seventy years or more trying a new adventure with a new friend. Come to America, get a ride in a helicopter, thought Hawke with amusement.
He watched as Dominic gave Zhenya a tour of the Jet Ranger, explaining, as if to a student pilot, the function of each piece of equipment, arms waving to encompass the scope of the main rotors, passion evident in the tone of his voice even if the words were lost, aimed away from Hawke and toward the helicopter and his companion.
Whether Zhenya enjoyed his first ride in a helicopter or not, Dominic's spirits were lifted by sharing his love of flying with the man Santini now jokingly referred to as "an old Army buddy, sure it was the Russian Army, but we were on the same side then!"
Seeing Santini brighten and cast off his business worries brought a smile to Hawke's lips. He felt Caitlin sidle up beside him.
"You know," she said slowly, voice full of speculation, "we do know that reporter. The one who wanted to do a story on your brother?"
Hawke's smile faded immediately. He hadn't thought of Daphne Treadwell in a long time, certainly didn't want to see her any time soon.
"I wonder if she'd be interested in doing a story on Zhenya?"
Hawke frowned. Exposing that nice old man with his private grief to a wily reporter seemed a pretty unfair way to pay him for Dominic's joy.
"I bet it might drum up some business," Caitlin suggested. "People reading about it in the paper may think about taking a flying lesson, maybe just want to hire us for a joy ride like Zhenya had?"
Archangel would be proud of you, though Hawke sourly. It was exactly the type of canny business move that worked well in both intelligence gathering and corporate America.
"You don't think it's a good idea," she said, now sounding doubtful, probably weighing the benefit to Santini Air against exposing Zhenya to the drama of a 'human interest' story.
"No," Hawke said abruptly, frowning deeply. "I don't."
Caitlin sighed, folded her arms. "Okay."
The man lost his son, Hawke thought, a little annoyed with Caitlin. He deserved quiet support, the dignity of private grief, not the circus of media attention. If St. John came home…he corrected himself abruptly, when St. John came home, the last thing Hawke would ever do would be expose his brother to the media spotlight, though they'd pursue the story of a long-term MIA reunited with his family like a Pulitzer-prize winner. Hawke would take St. John up to the cabin and give him the quiet time and space to adapt to family and home, to come back to himself. Give his brother the space to heal and hold him close by.
The sputtering whir as the Jet Ranger's engines caught and its rotors began their powerful sweeps woke Hawke from his reverie. Dominic, in the pilot's seat, helped Zhenya adjust the headset, leaned over to strap Zhenya into the co-pilot's seat. Both men were laughing and Hawke pushed away the bad mood that had threatened.
He heard Caitlin's sigh next to him. "You remember your first time?" she asked wistfully.
Hawke felt a broad grin break over his face. "My first time in a helicopter," he asked, "or my first time in a helicopter?"
It was worth the almost personal admission to see the flood of red rise from her neck and wash over her freckles.
The Jet Ranger lifted off, Zhenya waving madly at Hawke and Caitlin, who lifted their hands in salute.
Hawke grinned. "Two old fools acting like a couple of schoolboys."
"Jealous?" Caitlin shielded her face with the flat of her hand.
"Yup," Hawke responded, not entirely sure if he was pulling her leg or telling the truth. He wouldn't have minded a joy ride, occasionally envied Santini his ease with new people, and yet Hawke wouldn't want to take the constant risk of extending himself. Hard to be jealous of something you didn't want to be, but somehow he was, which irritated him because the emotion was so entirely illogical.
"C'mon flyboy," Caitlin said, grabbing Hawke's arm. "You close up shop and I'll buy lunch."
"That's a deal," Hawke said, turning to pull the hangar door closed and reaching for the padlock. "Just so you know, I'm not a cheap date."
"Yeah," Caitlin said. "Sandwich and a beer. I may have to take a loan."
