Wearily, String sprawled across the bench in the gangway watching his brother pace. Any minute, he expected saint John to wear a hole through the two inch thick steel plating. Finally, he could take it no more.
"Take a seat Sinj, before you pace a hole through the hull. The captain will never let us off if you sink his ship."
Hazel eyes met his in startled surprise. "Wha…?"
String indicated the path he was wearing.
"Oh, …yeah." Saint John had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Sorry."
His brother jerked his head towards the operating room just beyond the doors where they waited. "They'll let us know, Sinj. You did the best you could by Mike."
The rangy pilot slumped forward, his head in his hands. "Yeah, I know." He didn't look particularly consoled.
String tried again. He knew his brother'd been down to the payphones. "Any word from Jo?"
Saint John raked a hand down his face tiredly. "No," he said. "Hospital won't release any info - just that she's stable. Tried Cait at the hangar, didn't get any answer there."
Hawke raised an eyebrow, momentarily surprised, before he squelched it. With them gone, Jo hurt, and the business to run, Cait could be anywhere…
…assuming of course, she was still talking to him. It wouldn't have been too hard to figure out a call from the carrier was either him or Sinj.
He bit back a groan, realizing he was getting as bad as Sinj.
"Could always try stealing an F-14," he teased, trying for humor. "Hear they make pretty good time."
His brother chuckled. "Yeah, right. Think I'll wait on the Lady. I've seen your carrier landings. You're crazy if you think I'm flying anywhere with you anytime soon."
String grinned, hunting for a snappy comeback.
The door behind them opened, and both men were on their feet in an instant.
A petite nurse, of maybe 5'3" looked up at the two men in unfamiliar flight suits. She would've been pretty except for the smudges of weariness on her face.
Still in surgery scrubs, she tugged the face mask she wore down. "I take it you're Major Rivers' friends?"
Hawke nodded.
The answer, though lacking proper military protocol seemed to satisfy her. "Major Rivers is out of surgery. Captain Taylor says you should be able to see him in about fifteen minutes."
She started to turn to go.
"Wait," Saint John rasped. "How is he?"
She hesitated, knowing her patient was behind her - maybe not lucid, but awake.
"Please…"
Reaching behind her, she pulled the door closed. "Captain Taylor has set the bone and given him antibiotics and an iv for the pain and infection. It's too soon to tell what kind of nerve damage there is."
Saint John frowned. "But he'll be okay?"
The brown eyes were cautious. She'd been a part of the team that had retrieved Rivers earlier, and it didn't take a lot to guess he'd probably originally been one of the pilots of the two aircraft.
Offhand, she'd have guessed the T-3, after the way it'd landed with more spit than polish on the deck.
It explained a lot, especially considering the shape the plane was in, and her patient.
"Captain Taylor is hopeful we can save the arm," she said softly. "I think it's safe to say though, Major Rivers days of flying fighter jets are over."
Saint John's eyes met String's. A muscle in the lean jaw clenched. Neither one said anything.
Watching them, the nurse heaved a harsh sigh. She'd figured as much. "I'll be back to collect you in ten. Plan on keeping it brief. I don't want my patient upset."
She turned back, closing the heavy steel door behind her.
Saint John cursed, swinging away from Hawke.
String's reaction was more sanguine. He'd spent too many years battling the younger pilot for top spot for it to be anything else. "She doesn't know Mike, Sinj."
Saint John paused worriedly. He raked a frustrated hand through his hair. "You think?"
"I know," String replied confidently, slapping him on the shoulder. He only hoped he was right.
Eyes fluttering shut, Amelia caught herself on the edge of sleep. She raised her head from the pillow, peering into the darkness, trying to decide if her brother was asleep. "Nicky?" she hissed.
Tiredly, he flopped over. "Go to sleep, Amelia," he muttered. "It's over. Mom and Tuyen handled the bad guy. We're safe."
Sheets rustled. For a heartbeat, he thought it'd worked. A minute later, a plaintive voice from across the room assured him it hadn't.
"Is daddy coming home?"
Not when, but is he…
Was he? For a long minute, he was silent, fear and unease gnawing at his stomach. Sam's dad had left and he'd never seen him again. He fought the urge to burrow under the blankets and cover his head. Was he?
Nicky swallowed hard, remembering the anguish on his dad's face when he'd left the hospital to go after Mike, finally recognizing the emotions written there.
He'd been scared. He'd been sad. But most of all he loved them.
A weight lifted from his chest and he scooted over, hearing the soft pad of 'Melia's bare feet as she drug her quilt across the floor. Scrunching over, he made room as she clambered up onto the bed beside him.
"Yeah, 'Melia," he promised quietly. "He always comes back."
Groaning, Mike blinked, the sound of hushed voices awakening him. His hearing might not be as keen as Hawke's - but at the moment a whisper was like a jackhammer in his head.
Pain radiated from his shoulder down as he tried to shift, a sharp pang running up from where the iv pricked the skin. Okay, maybe here was good enough. Wearily, he closed his eyes.
"…nerve damage…too soon to say how much…"
Blearily, he recognized the voices - Saint John's husky whisper and String's quiet rasp, tempered by a softer feminine one. Tension clearly radiated in both.
He frowned, fighting the painkillers.
Something was wrong. They were worried.
He focused harder, holding his breath, struggling to pick out the words. A moment later, he wished he hadn't - flopping back white-faced and exhausted against the sheets, her words ringing in his ears.
Screw her, she was wrong.
Scowling, he fought to flex the fingers of his right hand, ripping free the bandages, willing them to move.
Nothing.
Stubbornly, he fought harder, wincing in pain as he pulled the iv loose, knowing if he didn't lick this, his days of flying the Lady were over.
The barest movement from his pinky caught his eye.
So were his hopes of landing Sarah…
Oh, hell.