Stringfellow Hawke sat in the driver's seat of the hire car he had driven from Los Angeles, and watched people coming and going. He had thought about borrowing one of Dom's choppers to make the trip to Elkington, but had decided that driving would give him a chance to get his thoughts into some semblance of order and his emotions under control.

The trip had taken him several days, and now that he was actually here, sitting in the parking lot of the Senator Benjamin Cantrell Memorial Hospital, all he could think was what the hell was he doing there?

He had arrived in Elkington late the previous evening, unable to believe just how familiar the place looked and felt, so much so, that he was able to find the street where Helen and Stringfellow Santini had lived and cruised right past the house, which looked exactly as he remembered it.

He had no idea how he knew how to find it, but he found it oddly comforting that it was real.

It somehow justified his journey and endorsed his belief that Helen Maynard was here in Elkington.

He holed up in a small motel on the outskirts of the town, but instead of getting the good night's rest he had hoped for, sleep had eluded him, his thoughts filled with memories of the dream, and Helen Maynard's lovely face.

Now that he was actually here, he somehow could not get his legs to work, and carry him the few yards to the reception area.

He couldn't get the notion out of his head that he was about to make a complete fool of himself.

Suddenly able to see with perfect clarity how ridiculous and irrational all of this would seem to her.

A stranger, turning up to tip her world upside down, with a tale that was just so, incredible, fantastic, unbelievable.

And that was if she was awake.

She would think him a madman.

He was sure of it.

And sitting here, watching the people coming and going, Hawke knew that she probably wouldn't be far wrong.

Maybe he was crazy.

Still, he had come a long way.

He needed to know.

He needed to draw a line under the whole business.

He needed a conclusion to it, so that he could move on.

Go on with living his life.

Not the dream existence of Stringfellow Santini.

And Hawke didn't know what he would do if Helen Maynard was still in a coma.

He hadn't thought that far ahead.

Sitting here, in silent contemplation, he again recalled what the dream doctor had told him about talking to comatose patients, that they might be able to hear and understand, on some deep subconscious level. Even if they didn't remember, when they finally woke up.

He could do that for Helen Maynard.

It was a small thing.

But, it might prove to be a trigger to her awakening.

Yes.

He could do that much for her, if nothing else.

Taking in a deep breath, at long last, Hawke summoned the courage he needed to get out of the car and walked purposefully into the hospital lobby, asking at the reception desk for Helen Maynard's room number.

This time he had had the forethought to have Archangel call ahead, to let them know that he was coming, not wanting to be tossed out of yet another hospital on his ear, before he had achieved his goal.

They were expecting him, the receptionist told him with a warm, friendly smile, and not only gave him Helen Maynard's room number, but directions on how to find his way to the second floor, and the Daisy Cantrell wing.

Hawke took the elevator and followed the receptionist's directions to the letter, finding a nurses station at the head of a long corridor and taking a deep, steadying breath, he approached and asked for Helen Maynard's room ….

Only to be told, much to his astonishment, and amazement, that Helen Maynard was outside in the hospital grounds, getting a little fresh air.

"She's awake?" he asked incredulously.

"She certainly is."

"How? When?" Hawke stammered and watched as the nurses smiled kindly and sympathetically at him.

"She's been awake for a week now. Getting stronger every day," the head nurse on the floor informed him brightly. "We'll be sorry to see her leave, but glad too. It's a miracle, but she seems to have come through the ordeal without any permanent damage. It won't be long before she's ready to go home. She's out there, in the sunshine. I'll get one of the girl's to show you the way."

"Thank you."

In a kind of daze, Stringfellow Hawke walked in silence beside a kindly young woman whom the floor nurse on the Daisy Cantrell wing had recruited to take him out to where Helen Maynard was sitting, on a bench in the beautiful mid morning sunshine, and thanked her politely as she pointed Helen out and grinning knowingly, left him standing in the doorway.

Now that the moment of truth was upon him, Hawke could feel his palms sweating and his mouth had gone dry.

He had no idea what he was going to say to her.

Suddenly it didn't matter.

He just wanted to see her again.

See that beautiful, radiant smile lighting up her face …. For him.

See those beautiful green eyes twinkling with life and love and amusement.

He didn't care what she thought of him.

He wanted to see her.

One last time.

If only to say a silent goodbye, and thank her for the insight that he had gained in being her husband, and father to those wonderful children.

If only in a dream.

Perhaps that would be all the closure he needed.

To allow him to move on.

To whatever the future might hold for him.

Hawke drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself as he wiped his sweaty palms down his pants legs, before setting off in the direction the young nurse had pointed out to him.

It did not take him long to locate Helen Maynard.

And when he did, his heart came up into his mouth and his breath caught in his throat.

She was exactly as he remembered her.

She was lovely.

A petite brunette, slender and fine boned, her long, straight hair neatly styled in a French braid, which fell just between her shoulder blades, as, he now recalled, it had been in the hours following the birth of baby Constance, and wearing a hospital issue gown, with a fluffy white towelling robe over the top and fluffy slippers on her small feet.

A lump suddenly rose in Hawke's throat and he had to swallow, hard, to move it.

Vividly recalling the intimacy of the moment when he had witnessed the birth of their daughter, Connie ….

Their daughter, in the dream.

The heat of remembered embarrassment, blooming on his cheeks now, even as his heart soared with remembered joy and his arms recalled the warmth of the small, wriggling bundle that Mrs Randall, their elderly neighbour and midwife, had placed there just minutes after her birth.

Would Helen remember?

If so, just how much would she be able recall?

Like himself, would she remember all of it?

And how it felt too?

Helen Maynard was sitting with her legs crossed demurely at the ankles, eyes closed and face turned up to the sun.

She looked so relaxed.

So peaceful.

For a moment, Hawke wondered if she was napping.

But, as he drew closer, almost as if alerted by some sixth sense, because Hawke knew that she could not possibly have heard him approaching, Helen Maynard lowered her head, raised her hand to shield her eyes from the brightness of the sunlight streaming through the nearby trees, and looked right at him.

Hawke stopped dead in his tracks a few yard away from the bench.

Her reaction amazed him.

Her eyes grew wide, her mouth opening to form a perfect oh …. And then, she was smiling at him.

Heartened by the warmth he saw in her eyes, Hawke moved slowly toward her, approaching her cautiously, not wanting to scare her, then, came to a stop before her, taking in the tears sparkling in her beautiful green eyes as she gazed up at him …. And the unmistakeable look on her face.

Recognition.

"String?" she spoke first, her voice nothing more than a whisper, as she regarded him with awe.

"Hello, Helen," he greeted her in a hoarse voice, and as he spoke, Helen Maynard reached up toward him with her right hand, fingers shaking slightly, as she lightly traced the outline of his jaw with her fingertips, without actually touching him.

"Ohmygod …." she gasped. "You're real …."

"Yeah, I'm real," Hawke smiled gently. "You, too."

"Me, too," she blinked away fresh tears, which rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin, and forgetting himself, Hawke reached out with fingers that were also shaking and carefully brushed her tears away.

"I thought I dreamed you," she said in a low voice, hot colour rushing into her cheeks now, as she captured his hand in her own briefly.

"I thought I dreamed you," he smiled back at her, thinking that she was probably the most beautiful sight that he had ever beheld, blush and all. "It was a very beautiful dream, Helen. Thank you. I can't believe I found you …."

"I can't believe that you actually came looking for me," she blinked her tears away and they rolled slowly down her soft, pale cheeks.

"Are you kidding?" Hawke stammered. "Until I found out that you were real, I thought that I was going crazy!"

"Me, too. Nobody would believe me when I told them about my husband. Just a dream, they said. But, there you stand, real as thunder," her voice trailed away. "You are, real, I mean? You're not a hallucination?"

"No Helen. I'm real," he assured, reaching out to take her hand as he squatted down before her, his eyes now on a level with hers, so that she would not have the sun in her eyes when she looked at him.

"You certainly feel real," she squeezed his hand gently then, and automatically her thumb began to draw lazy circles in his palm. This drew a smile from him. "So, I'm not crazy then," she let out a soft sigh of relief and Hawke found himself smiling back at her.

"No more crazy than I am."

"How?" she stammered, letting go of his hand now, embarrassed by her uncharacteristic forwardness, and wide eyed, a confused expression on her lovely face.

"I don't know," Hawke told her honestly, watching several different emotions cross her lovely face one after the other in quick succession. "Helen, what do you remember, exactly?" he asked her tentatively.

"Everything," she gasped. "Oh my, yes. Everything. You. The children. Papa Dominic. Baby Constance," her eyes grew wide then, with horror and more heat and colour suffused her cheeks. "String?"

"Yeah," he lowered his head briefly in embarrassment too.

"Oh, gee," she was suddenly grinning at him, a wonderful, open, genuine grin. "What a ride!"

"Uh huh," Hawke agreed coyly, uncomfortable that she found his discomfort amusing, but knowing that she was equally as embarrassed.

"Were you in a coma too?" she asked now, her curiosity obviously overcoming her previous embarrassment.

"No. Helen, may I sit down?"

"Sure."

"I wasn't in a coma, Helen," Hawke explained once he had sat down beside her, leaving a large gap between them, so as not to intimidate her or cause her any anxiety with his proximity.

"But, I was in the same hospital as you. At the same time as you. I got a crack on the head, a silly accident at work, but, it put me out of commission for a couple of days, and when I woke up …. Well, I guess you know how I felt when I woke up?"

"Lost. Confused. Disorientated. Alone. Adrift. Emptiness. Loss. Grief."

"Yeah."

"It was so real."

"Yes."

"And so good …."

"Yeah," he agreed with a deep sigh.

"I was never so happy. I never knew it could be like that, between two people. We shared so much, and it felt so good. So beautiful. I didn't want it to end," she confessed on a ragged breath, dropping her gaze so that he could not see her beautiful, expressive eyes.

"Me neither," Hawke reached out tentatively and gently raised her chin with his index finger so that he could look into her eyes.

"Really?"

"Really," he kept his voice low and his gaze steady, willing her to see his true feelings for her.

"And now?"

"I don't know," his voice was almost a whisper.

"Me neither," she let out a soft sigh then and wiped another crop of tears from her cheek. "It's so weird. It's like I know you. Like I've known you all my life, but, the rational part of me knows that it's not so."

"I know how that feels."

"I know it wasn't real, but …."

"But you can't forget it. You can't get it out of your head. You can't let go."

"No."

"Helen?"

"String? Do you think?" her voice trailed away then, and she once again dropped her eyes so that he could not see the turmoil of emotion behind those fathomless sea green irises.

"Do you?" he asked, his heart skipping a beat as his question drew her gaze back up to his face, and at last he could see hope beginning to dawn in those magnificent eyes.

Suddenly all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and pull her close, claim those wonderfully warm and soft lips he remembered so well, with his own, and, miraculously, he could see his need reflected back at him in those lovely green eyes.

"Could we?" she asked in a voice so soft and low, he wasn't sure he had heard her for a moment. "Should we?"

"What do we have to lose, Helen? I don't know about you, but what I have right now isn't so great."

"I know."

"So why not? Why not take a chance? Don't we both deserve a little happiness? I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking what if, if only, regretting a lost opportunity. A real chance to have all the things I haven't even allowed myself to dream of, until now, when I already know in my heart that if we just give it a chance, it could be so wonderful, because, I've been there I've seen it. Felt it. Lived it."

"Me, too."

"So why not?"

"Mmmm, why not?" she murmured, seeming to be mesmerized by his face, her gaze never wavering from his beautiful blue eyes.

"I'm willing to give it a try, if you are?" Hawke spoke in a low, hoarse voice and watched the light of hope deepen in her beautiful, tempestuous green eyes.

"Oh, yes. Yes! More than anything," she whispered back. "But, no expectations. No pressures. We take each day as it comes and see where it leads."

Suddenly they were both grinning, both of them having the uncanny feeling that they had had this same conversation before ….

And then her arms were suddenly twining around Hawke, drawing him closer, until at last, his wish was granted, and their lips met in a soft, sweet, passionate kiss that robbed them both of breath and left them both weak kneed and grinning like idiots when they parted at last.

"Wow! Deja vous," Helen chuckled gently, and Hawke could not help thinking that it was a wonderful sound.

"Yeah. Deja vous," he agreed. "I guess we've done that before."

"But, only in our dreams."

"Wanna do it again?" he threw her a lopsided grin then, and she laughed softly at the outrageously soppy expression on his face.

"You have to ask?"

"If there's one thing Dominic Santini taught me, it was to be a gentleman," Hawke chuckled.

"Papa Dominic? Is he real too?" Helen could not hide her surprise.

"Yeah. He's real, and I know he can't wait to meet you," Hawke found himself reaching out to brush a stray wisp of her lovely hair away from her cheek and she smiled softly at him and captured his hand, bringing it to her lips so that she could press a soft kiss to the back of his hand.

"You don't mind?" she looked up into his eyes again then, her expression uncertain.

"Of course not. It's quite normal, even for people who aren't married," he grinned boyishly.

"Mmmm. What was I saying? Oh yes ….. Papa Dominic, I'd like to meet him too, but, first, I think you'd better tell me the parts of the dream that are real."

"Where to start?" Hawke sighed expressively and Helen found herself grinning at him again.

"I usually find the beginning is a good place," she chuckled.

"Would you like me to start with Once Upon a Time?"

"Only if you want me to come over there and sit on your lap," she teased him gently and then stopped suddenly, regarding him with a shocked expression. "Oh boy!" she gasped. "We're doing it again," she pointed out, and Hawke realised that she was right.

They had had this conversation before too, practically word for word, only he had been the one to tease her.

And then suddenly, she was laughing happily, and he could not stop himself from grinning back at her.

"Is your name really Stringfellow Hawke?" she asked somewhat sheepishly then.

"Yeah," he sighed deeply. "I know, it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."

"It's a perfect name. It's unique. Just like you," she leaned forward, a little shyly and brushed her lips briefly against his, and when she drew away again she was blushing furiously.

"Don't stop …. I like it. I could get used to it," he told her honestly.

"Me too."

"Helen?" he grew serious then but Helen Maynard was not going to allow him to spoil the mood.

"Sh …." she raised her index finger to his lips to silence him. "What happened to, no expectations? No pressures? To taking each day as it comes?" she reminded him. "Don't analyse it, String. Just accept it and enjoy it. This is something bigger than either of us, something that we can't control. Destiny. Fate. Karma. A miracle …. Whatever you want to call it, and we're both just along for the ride. So, sit back and enjoy it."

It was good advice, Hawke knew.

And he was beginning to believe in good fortune …. And miracles.

Smiling softly he reached out and drew Helen Maynard close into his body, slipping his arm gently around her shoulder and cradling her against him, looked down into her happy, smiling face and although he had no idea how, or why, Stringfellow Hawke knew that he had never felt so happy or so peaceful or contented in his life before, as a feeling of completeness and homecoming and belonging settled over him.

He had no idea what the future might hold for them.

But, he was sure of one thing.

He was going to savour it, and make the most of every precious moment, just in case it turned out that he was dreaming again.