Christmas 1975

Several weeks before Christmas 1975, Dominic Santini sat down to think. His younger ward, Stringfellow Hawke, was finally safely home from Vietnam after being shot down during his third tour and wouldn't be going back because the war was over; Saigon had fallen earlier that year, while String was still in the hospital. Sadly, his older brother St. John hadn't been in any of the batches of released POWs that had been sent home, and the government was now saying that most if not all of the surviving POWs had been located and were on their way home if not already returned. There was a good chance that St. John would never come home, not even in a casket. And that meant that Dominic had a serious situation on his hands.

String had insisted on signing himself out of the military hospital and coming home as soon as his doctors gave him a decent chance to survive the flight. Besides being shot himself, he'd suffered serious injuries to his right shoulder and chest when his chopper crashed; Dominic had been told that if the crash hadn't happened as close as it did to a MASH unit, String probably wouldn't have survived at all. But the stubborn kid had come home early, and Dom had only been able to keep him at his house in Van Nuys, California for just over 6 weeks before String had insisted on returning, alone, to the mountain cabin he owned near Eagle Lake. He'd now been up there for a month, and although Dominic checked in by radio with him daily, and brought him supplies once a week, the kid had had virtually no other human contact since he'd left Dom's house. He was a shadow of his former self, lost in rage, despair and guilt over St. John's capture and his own inability to find him and free him. Not that he hadn't tried. The kid had signed up for 2 more tours of duty, joined a Special Forces unit, survived his own stint in a POW camp, and never given up. He insisted that St. John was still alive and that he would know if St. John was dead.

Which left Dominic with a man he regarded as his own son who was too damned stubborn to admit that he needed help. He wouldn't talk to anybody, certainly not a military psychiatrist, about how he was handling things, but Dominic knew from his weekly visits that String wasn't doing well. He clearly wasn't eating enough, as every time Dom went up the boy seemed thinner. He wasn't as bad yet as he had been after his own time as a POW, but he seemed to be getting closer and closer to it. He'd completely stopped eating meat, and told Dom that he was catching fish out of the lake and eating those. Considering that neither one of the kid's shoulders was functioning very well, one healing from the bullet wound and the other from the crash damage, Dom wasn't even sure if String could make a decent cast with a fishing rod at the moment. Dom himself had done a hell of a lot of wood chopping to get wood stored for the winter; the cabin's only heating was by fireplaces, and String definitely wasn't up to swinging an axe yet.

So now he was trying to figure out how to handle Christmas. He knew there was no point in asking String to join in the Santini family celebrations; the kid wouldn't even let him bring his niece Jo, who might as well have been String's little sister with as much time as she'd spent at the house while String and St. John were growing up, out to visit. But maybe, just maybe, he could get the kid down to his own house for a day. If that didn't work, he'd come up with another plan, because there was no way in hell he was leaving his boy alone over Christmas. Dom was already afraid that there'd be a day when the kid wouldn't answer the radio and Dom would fly out to find that String hadn't been able to take it anymore and had killed himself. He knew from his own experience as a soldier that the holidays were the worst time for returning soldiers in that regard. He'd lost more than one old comrade to suicide over the holidays.

He broached the subject on his next supply run. As he unloaded groceries and cans of gas for the generator from the chopper, giving String the lighter items, he kept up a running dialogue about what had been going on at his air service and with the family. Once everything was in and they'd settled inside to take a break, Dom made his first move.

"Hey, kid, Christmas is coming up," he said gently. "I know you ain't ready to deal with the whole Santini clan yet, so I'm not even gonna to ask about that. But will you at least consider coming down and spending the day with me?"

He knew his answer before String even spoke, by the way the kid's jaw tightened. "No," the boy said shortly.

"Aww, come on, kid, you shouldn't be alone on Christmas!"

"What do I have to celebrate?" String growled. "St. John's not here, and he probably doesn't even know Christmas is coming up wherever he is, because I'm damn sure the VC aren't setting up Christmas trees!"

Dom knew there was no point at all in trying once again to convince String that his brother was probably dead. String refused to hear it. He blamed himself for St. John getting captured, as he'd been flying the last rescue chopper to have seen St. John and had been too loaded down with other soldiers to pick St. John up. The next chopper out there had found exactly nothing – which was why St. John was listed as MIA, Missing in Action, rather than confirmed as a POW.

"OK, kid, I can understand you not wanting to celebrate. We don't have to do anything. Just come down and be with me."

"No."

"Why not?"

String rounded on him, the first display of any kind of raised emotion Dom had seen from him since he'd gone back to the cabin. "Because I'm not fit to be around other people!" he yelled. "Because I'm angry. I'm on a knife edge all the time. If I'm around other people and I lose control, somebody's gonna end up dead!" He paused, breathing hard, working to get himself back under control. "I can't risk it, Dom," he said quietly. "You know I can't."

And the sad thing was, Dom did know it. With his Special Forces training, String was a lethal weapon in his own right, with or without a gun or knife. If he cracked when there were other people around, anybody trying to subdue him was going to go down, and if and when String came to his senses afterwards, he wouldn't be able to live with that. It was the main reason he'd insisted on coming up to the cabin, because there was no one nearby that he could hurt except himself. It was String's nature; he'd always protect other people above himself.

"I'm sorry, son," Dom said softly. "I didn't realize you were still that keyed up, or I wouldn't have suggested it. You've been so quiet that I thought maybe you'd settled down a bit." He paused. "Will you at least let me come up here and spend the day with you? Maybe cook something for you?"

"I'll think about it, Dom," String said wearily. "It'll depend on how the nightmares are beforehand. You know that the worse they are, the less I can handle."

Dom knew that, too. He'd learned on String's first leave, long before he'd even considered Special Forces, that String could break bones in his sleep if he felt threatened. All he'd done was grab the kid's shoulder to wake him up and String had broken his arm before he was even awake. Now..well, there'd been some hairy times while String was still at his house, when the nightmares had been bad and String's tolerance level had been zilch. He'd always managed to stop himself from hurting Dom, but that was back when he was a lot less physically able that he was now.

"OK, kid, we'll leave it at that," Dom agreed. "I'll check in with you over the couple days before Christmas to see if you're up for it."

Meanwhile, somewhere in Vietnam:

St. John Hawke did indeed know it was nearly Christmas. He knew, because his captors found it very amusing to taunt him and the other POWs with the knowledge that the holiday was approaching and that their families, back home, would be celebrating without them, sure that they were dead because Saigon had fallen, the North Vietnamese had won, and everyone in the US believed that all living captives had been found and sent home. They particularly liked to tell St. John that his family had forgotten about him, since he'd already been a prisoner for over 6 years.

He and his fellow prisoners had just gone through another bout of this, made worse by the fact that their jailers had decided to wake them in the middle of the night for it and shine bright lights in their eyes the whole time. They'd finally gone off laughing and congratulating each other on how much they'd managed to upset their prisoners.

"Bastards," St. John muttered.

"You got that right," the guy next to him whispered. "Was it any better wherever you came from?"

St. John had only landed in this camp a few days before. He'd managed to break out of the previous one – he thought that might have been his 5th or 6th breakout, he was losing count – and had managed to keep ahead of his pursuers for 4 whole days before they'd run him down. Coincidentally, he'd been near this camp and after beating him nearly senseless for this latest escapade, they'd figured there was no point in dragging him 4 days back to the other camp. They had left him here, nursing broken ribs, black eyes, and, he was pretty sure, at least one cracked shin bone from where someone had stomped on his legs. He wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. He'd still been coherent enough to hear his previous captors telling his new ones to keep him under close guard because he liked to escape, and the new jailers laughing about something after one of the guys from the previous camp had mentioned he was a pilot. He'd passed out then, and had had no chance to find out what was so funny about that.

"Nah, they all suck," he muttered to his neighbor. "Been in plenty, none any better than the others."

"Is it true that you've been a POW for 6 years?"

"Yeah. Got captured on July 4th, 1969, of all days."

"Well, ain't that ironic. My name's Jim, by the way. Marines."

"Sinjin. Army Air Cav."

"What the hell kinda name is Sinjin?"

"English. It's spelled like St. John."

"You ain't English, though," Jim said.

"Old family name. Could be worse, my little brother's name is Stringfellow." St. John had long used String's name to deflect jibes about his own, and he knew String used his name the same way.

"Oh, geez. Bet growing up was fun with those names." Jim paused for a moment. "You don't really think your family's forgotten you, do you? Or that they all think we're dead?"

"String hasn't forgotten. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't believe I'm dead, either." St. John certainly hoped not. He knew that String would have blamed himself for St. John going missing, and he'd probably destroy himself if he thought St. John was dead.

"What about your folks?" Jim asked.

"They've been gone a long time; died when I was a teenager. String wasn't even 13 yet. Our foster father, Dom…" St. John trailed off. He didn't know what Dom would think. But he knew Dom wouldn't forget. "Dom won't forget me. Don't know if he'll think I'm dead or not. He was a POW himself in Korea, in a Chinese camp."

"At least you'll have somebody who understands, if we ever do get home," Jim said wistfully. "My folks didn't even want me to sign up. God knows what they'll think of me after this. Nobody in my family's ever been a soldier. All of them conscientious objectors."

"String'll understand, too. Not the POW part…" I hope, St. John thought. I hope he never got caught. "He was over here when I got captured."

"Then you don't even know if he got home safe," Jim said slowly.

"I believe he did. And I won't let myself stop believing that. If I stop…"

"You need to believe it, to keep going," Jim agreed. "After 6 years, I guess he and your foster father are pretty much all that's keeping you going."

"Yeah," St. John agreed. "See, I'm not even sure if they know I got captured, or if I'm listed as MIA. String was one of the last people who saw me; he was flying the last rescue chopper I saw, but it was full up and he couldn't pick me up. Got captured before another one showed up. I HAVE to get home; I can't leave them not knowing what happened to me."

Jim was staring at him, horrified. "My God, man, your brother – your little brother – was the last person to see you alive and couldn't get you out? What the hell is that gonna do to him?"

St. John hung his head. "I don't know, Jim," he said. "I don't know." But I know it won't be good.

Back in California:

Dom was pleased that String agreed to let him come out, not only for Christmas Day, but to stay the night as well. It fit in nicely with an idea he'd had about getting String some companionship. It wouldn't be a Christmas present, nor would the vegetarian cookbook he'd scoured bookstores for until he finally found one owned by a hippie couple…

Though Dom was a dedicated meat eater, he hadn't touched red meat in String's presence since the day after he'd gotten the kid to his house. The smell of the leg of lamb he'd been making for String's dinner had made the kid violently ill, which hadn't done String's barely healed ribs any good. When String had explained about the smell after battles and the jungle being set on fire with people in it, he'd understood immediately. He'd asked, but String didn't want to try to cope with poultry, either. So he'd done his own research on recipes and had brought along the fixings for eggplant parmesan and a green salad for Christmas dinner, as well as a bag of cannoli for dessert. He'd have made tiramisu, but that was St. John's favorite dessert, and that wouldn't be a good idea.

String was surprisingly calm when he arrived. Dom asked tentatively how he'd slept and was a little nervous when String said he'd dreamed of St. John. Usually those dreams were bad news.

"No, this one was OK. He was still a prisoner, and he was hurt, but he was talking to another prisoner about us and telling him that we wouldn't forget him and that he knew I wouldn't believe he was dead."

"One of those dreams?" Dom asked sharply. String had always had a tendency to dream about stuff that actually happened, although often the dreams were warnings about trouble coming. String nodded. "Is that why you're convinced he's still alive – because you're dreaming about him?"

"Yeah."

"OK," Dom said slowly. "Now, don't get mad at me, kid, just hear me out. Are you sure these aren't dreams about what you want to be true?"

"I'm sure," String confirmed. "Besides, if I was dreaming about what I wanted to be true, I'd be dreaming about him being on a plane coming home, not about him being hurt and still a prisoner."

Dom had to admit that was probably true. "Was…was he hurt bad?" he asked tentatively.

"Been beaten up," String said. "His face and his ribs hurt, and his legs. I could feel it. Not bad enough to do any permanent damage."

"Thank God," Dominic whispered. String was no stranger to the damage that the North Vietnamese inflicted on their captives, and if he said St. John would be OK, well, he knew what he was talking about. It was only slight comfort, but it was better than nothing. String's dreams had been right often enough for Dom to take him seriously.

String received the cookbook gratefully, spending the afternoon looking through it and marking recipes he wanted to try, making a list of ingredients he would need. Dom spent the afternoon happily cooking and watching his foster son in the best mood he'd been in for a long time. The kid even put away a considerable amount of food including several of the cannoli. Maybe, just maybe, String would get through this.

The night was a little rough, but String only had one bad nightmare. He proved to Dom the next morning that he could indeed fish, catching two nice-sized trout and cooking them up for breakfast. He balked when Dom tried to get him into the helicopter. "Dom, I said no! I am not going around people, not even today."

"Would ya calm down? You don't even know where we're going, and there won't be many people. This is something I set up special. The only other person who'll be there is another vet."

"Support group of one?" String eyed him speculatively. It wouldn't be the first time Dom had tried to get him together with other vets to talk things over. String wasn't ready yet. The memories were still too strong.

"Not exactly, but you're close," Dom said, grinning. "If we get there and you decide you want nothing to do with it, just say the word and we'll leave it till later. I'll even let you fly, if you want. At least on the way there."

"Now that's fighting dirty, Dom," String said with a slight smirk. He hadn't technically been cleared to fly yet – mostly because he refused to go back to the VA hospital for the physical he would need to get his license back. But he loved to fly, and Dom would sometimes indulge him when he came up to the cabin – Dom knew damned well that String wouldn't try to fly if he didn't think he safely could. There had been times he'd refused Dom's offer.

So the best two days String had had in a long time continued, as he took Dom's chopper into the air and relished the ability to fly without worrying about enemy fire or finding wounded or stranded soldiers. He set the chopper down softly at their destination and got out, frowning slightly at the sounds of many dogs barking. A man of about Dom's age was walking towards them.

"Dom!" he called out, hurrying down and giving the burly Italian a hearty bear hug. "How are you doing, you old chopper jockey?"

"Pretty good, Joe. Yourself?"

"Hanging in there. This the friend you told me about?"

"Yep. Joe, this is my foster son, Stringfellow Hawke. String, this is Joe Williams. We served in Korea together, and made it out of that damned Chinese camp alive together."

String extended his hand and shook Joe's. "Always appreciate meeting another vet, especially one that knows Dom."

They started walking back up the hill towards the sound of the dogs. Joe looked at String. "Dom tells me you're recently back from 'Nam and having a rough time of it."

String glared at his surrogate father. "Dom talks too much," he muttered.

"You may decide he didn't talk too much this time," Joe said. "He didn't tell me a lot. But from what he said, I think I might have something that will help you." String cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"See, I was Special Forces, too," Joe said. "And I had a hard time getting past the anger and the guilt and everything, until I decided to try something new, and I think I might be on to something. You're not the first Vietnam vet someone's brought here, and so far everybody has said it helped a lot."

"OK, enough of the run-around," String said. "What's the deal? I'm not interested in drugs or meditation or crystals or any of that crap."

Joe laughed. "Neither am I. Just good old fashioned companionship from man's best friend."

"A dog?" String said, bewildered. "How's a dog gonna help me?"

"Not just any dog," Dom chimed in. "These are special dogs. See, Joe figured something out…"

"Shut it, Dom, and let me tell my own story," Joe stopped him good-naturedly. "See, I couldn't hold a job down when I got back from Korea because I couldn't control my temper with people, and I kept getting lost in the memories and not getting my work done. Finally a neighbor who raised dogs took pity on me and hired me to take care of the dogs, and let me do it when it was just me and the dogs, not a lot of people around. And I realized that there were certain dogs that seemed to be able to tell when I was having a rough time, ya know? If I was losing my temper, or got lost in memories, or hadn't slept well, those dogs would act a certain way around me that helped calm me down or get me out of the memories. I asked my neighbor if I could take one of those dogs home with me for the night.

"It had been a rough day, and it was a bad night. I knew I was gonna have nightmares, and I thought maybe if I had the dog with me, it might help. And it did. I was just starting to get into a bad nightmare when the dog started licking my hand and woke me up. And then he climbed into my lap and let me hold him while I was shaking and crying. That dog was with me every day and night for the next 10 years, and got me through every bad spot I was in. And when he died, I found another one. I don't need as much help anymore, but my new girl always knows when I do."

"Yeah, but…well, sometimes I get…I don't…" String stammered, unable to put into words that he was afraid of hurting someone or something else.

Joe put a hand on his shoulder briefly. "I know," he said gently. "Dom told me, when he called me to ask about this. I know you're afraid of hurting people when it gets too bad. I was, too. I was afraid of hurting the dog, too, but no matter how short-tempered I was with people, I never felt like I would hurt the dog, because I knew it would never do anything to hurt me, not like people do sometimes even if they don't mean to. And there were times when the dog would get between me and people and block me so that I couldn't go after them, and get my attention on him by distracting me. I didn't teach him to do any of that, he just seemed to know.

"So I started looking for dogs that reacted to me the same way the first ones I knew did, and then I started trying to match them up with veteran friends who were having trouble. Some of the dogs were like mine, that would block and comfort and wake you up; others were more just friends, something that you could talk to about anything without having to worry about how the dog would see you afterwards – or even just somebody to be with you so you weren't alone. Dom tells me you're by yourself all the time because you're afraid you'll hurt somebody, and thought maybe a dog would at least be company for you."

For the first time since coming home, String felt a dawning hope inside him. Maybe this would help. Maybe this would work, and he could come out of this sane – and then when he did, he was going to get back to looking for St. John, dammit!

"OK," he said. "Ok, let's try this."

Which is why, a few hours later, Dom flew them back to the cabin with String holding an armful of blue tick hound that had crawled into his lap as soon as String had entered his pen, and kissed his face so thoroughly that only Dom had realized that String was crying – the first time he'd done so since he'd gotten off the plane, stumbled into Dom's arms, and confessed, in tears, that he hadn't been able to bring St. John home with him. He didn't understand why String would want to name the dog after the Tet Offensive, but when he left String and Tet at the cabin, it was the first time he'd left since String got home that Dom wasn't wondering if that this would be his last sight of his boy.