Fanfiction: The Hawke Brothers
Fandom: Airwolf
Series: Snapshots
Summary: Seb Hawke reflects on being a 'Hawke' brother.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Hawke/Caitlin. Saint John/Jo.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Written for entertainment purposes only.
The Hawke Brothers
The family have only been reunited for a short time when Sebastian Hawke, youngest of the brood, realises the term ‘the Hawke brothers’ doesn’t include him.
It’s a small thing.
It’s running into an old Army buddy of his Dad’s at Santini Air on a rare occasion where the whole family is gathered. They - meaning him, his Dad and his Mom - are meeting up with Hawke and Caitlin to travel to the couple’s cabin in the mountains, Sarah is prepping the chopper ready for departure and Saint John, who owns the Air Service with his girlfriend Jo, is teasing their sister.
Charlie Bunty rolls up to the gathered family with a raucous laugh. He grabs Alan Hawke before words can be exchanged and pats him on his back, exclaims over his resurrection, grins at him and stares at Hawke and Saint John with glee.
‘Ah, the infamous Hawke brothers!’ Charlie rubs his hands before wagging a finger at Alan. ‘Boy, Al, could I tell you some stories about these fellas! They sure do have a reputation.’
Seb recalls the incident when he excuses himself from his brother’s table after one too many anecdotes about Hawke and Saint John as kids. He stands on his brother’s porch, hands gripping the rail tightly and tries to accept that he’s never going to be considered a ‘Hawke brother.’
And he’s cool with that.
He is.
OK, so it may sting a little. A lot.
But he’s nineteen and headed for university thanks to a scholarship Michael Coldsmith-Briggs has arranged. He’s finally going to have the life he’s dreamed about after years on the run and being careful; he’s going to leave the nest and spread his wings. He doesn’t need to be a Hawke brother, Seb thinks, his jaw tensing as he stares out blindly at the dark silvery lake in front of him. He would be him; Sebastian Hawke.
And Sebastian Hawke is a cool dude. Maybe he isn’t some hero; maybe he can’t fly a plane like he was born to it, but he can take apart a computer system in minutes, he can write code in seconds; he rules in the digital world where his brothers fear to tread.
But he can’t help but see in his mind’s eye the look of pride on his father’s face at Charlie’s assertion; can’t help the tang of jealousy that sours the back of his throat and the churn in his belly at the idea that insidiously whispers through his head that his parents are always going to love them more than him; that he will disappear to university and they won’t even notice.
He faintly hears the sound of a door opening behind him and he tenses. He’s so not in the mood for company.
‘Beautiful night.’ Caitlin’s Texas twang is carried softly on the night breeze.
Seb shrugs as she takes up position next to him, her forearms resting on the railing. Her short red hair is covered by a scarf; he knows she’s still recovering from injuries that almost killed her and his conscience twinges.
‘Should you be out here?’ Seb worries. ‘It’s cold.’ He’s already shrugging out of his jacket and offering it to her.
Caitlin accepts it with a ready smile and even though he’s young and skinny himself, the brown leather jacket almost drowns her thin frame. He refuses to contemplate that he bought it because it reminded him of the one Hawke wears sometimes.
‘I needed some air.’ Caitlin nods into the distance at the shadowy mountains and rippling water; there’s pine scent in the air along with dirt and grass. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it.’
In truth, Seb’s hardly looked at the scenery but he nods obediently.
‘’Course that’s not why you’re out here.’ Caitlin’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I do the same when I’m at my folks.’
Seb stares at her in surprise.
‘I have an older sister.’ Caitlin says. She doesn’t explain further; there’s no need. There’s an understanding look in her eye that tells him everything and simultaneously makes him feel as exposed as a deer caught in headlights. He flushes so hard he can feel his cheeks burn and he’s grateful for the dim light and hopes furiously that she can’t tell.
‘It’s stupid.’ He admits, turning away sharply.
‘Human.’ Caitlin contradicts with amusement.
Her light tone helps some of his own discomfort seep away and he risks another glance at her.
‘I get that my parents missed them and that they want to make it up to them for leaving them.’ Seb says quietly. ‘It’s just…’
‘They’re your parents too.’ Caitlin nods. ‘It’s new right now but things will settle.’
Seb isn’t convinced. ‘It’s not just that.’ It’s the way they all look at Hawke; like he’s special; favoured; loved beyond the rest of the siblings. His gut twists with envy. And then there’s the whole Hawke brothers thing…
Caitlin pats his arm. ‘You should talk with Saint John.’ She presses a kiss on his cold cheek before he can respond and she’s gone so fast that he wonders if she was there at all. It’s the chill on his arms and back from the loss of his jacket that tells him she was.
He’s about done moping - he refuses to use the word ‘sulk.’ And it’s cold outside. He follows her into the cabin.
o-O-o
A week later, he’s sprawled on the sand outside the back of Sarah’s house, ostensibly babysitting his nephew but in reality paying more attention to the book in his hand, when Saint John sits beside him.
Seb stares at him before glancing back at the house and the faint sound of female voices drifting from the open doorway. ‘Sarah home?’
‘Yeah. Her car’s out of action so Jo and I gave her a lift.’ Saint John hands him a Coke, still in its bottle, the sides of the glass frosted and cool to the touch. ‘She invited us to dinner.’
Seb takes a long swig; he figures he’s going to need it. Not that Saint John intimidates him. Much. It’s because he looks so much like their Dad, Seb assures himself; the build; the hair; even the eyes although they’re a warm hazel rather than a cool blue. His oldest brother has an easy smile and there’s little sign of the impassive mask that Hawke wears. Seb likes Saint John.
‘You should be watching him more.’ Saint John tilts his bottle at Chris. Seb suddenly realises his nephew is at the water’s edge with a bucket. The admonishment heats his cheeks.
‘I am watching him.’ Seb states defiantly, staring at the sand at his feet.
‘If it’s the same way I used to watch Hawke, you need to do better.’ Saint John says dryly and Seb is surprised enough to look at him.
Saint John lifts his Coke bottle and gestures at the book Seb is holding. ‘Although usually my distraction was Kelly Haferman rather than,’ his eyebrows rise, ‘the Complete Anthology of Mathematic Equations.’
Seb pulls a face. He’s always been a geek but the teasing tone of his brother takes the sting out of the comparison.
‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here.’ Saint John’s fingers are pulling the damp label off the Coke bottle and Seb wonders idly if he’s worried. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
Seb shrugs.
Saint John takes it as the invitation it was intended to be and launches into a detailed explanation of some air show that’s happening the following weekend. Seb’s heart sinks. He’s fairly certain he can see where this is headed and steels himself to say yes to the favour of staying behind and looking after Santini Air that he’s sure is coming.
‘…so I was thinking you might want to come with me.’ Saint John finishes.
Seb stares at him.
‘Seb?’ Saint John laughs nervously.
‘Sure.’ Seb can’t accept fast enough; attending an air show with Saint John? Like he needs to think about that for more than a minute.
‘Great.’ Saint John smiles widely. ‘String’ll be stoked.’
‘Hawke?’ Seb manages not to choke on the Coke he’s just gulped but he fears his voice comes out more like a squeak regardless especially when Saint John shoots him a strange look. Maybe it’s because Seb’s calling their brother by their surname - and he doesn’t want to think about the reasons for that too closely - but Seb knows deep down it’s because of something else.
‘Uh,’ Saint John looks faintly uncomfortable, ‘I did mention he was coming too, didn’t I?’
Seb shakes his head; he would have remembered that.
‘Oh.’ Saint John shrugs. ‘Well, I just think it’s a good way for the three of us to spend time with each other, get to know each other better.’
Seb frowns. He has a horrible feeling that Saint John hasn’t mentioned it to the brother they share.
‘Look, if this is something you two usually do together maybe I shouldn’t be along.’ Seb offers tightly.
Saint John doesn’t look at him. ‘It isn’t easy.’
‘What?’ Seb asks confused.
‘Being his brother.’ Saint John says bluntly. His gaze catches Seb’s. ‘But he’s worth it.’
Seb sees more than sincerity; he sees regret in his brother’s eyes and wonders at it.
‘Took me a while to figure that out.’ Saint John explains. He drops his gaze and Seb gets that Saint John has confided something in him.
Something.
Seb’s not sure what. He hides his unease by taking another gulp of his drink.
‘When he gets to know you and you get to know him…’ Saint John waves out at the ocean. ‘You’ll see.’
Seb represses the sigh. He’s not sure Hawke’s going to see it the same way but he nods.
Saint John grins and toasts him with the Coke. Seb tries to smile and pretends he’s not regretting his decision already.
o-O-o
It was a bad idea.
It’s the only thought Seb’s had all day. Hawke has been his usual stand-offish, taciturn self. He’s barely said two words on the flight there. Seb half-suspects Saint John didn’t tell Hawke Seb was coming along with them.
If the flight was awkward though, it’s nothing to what’s happening on the ground as they arrive.
Seb watches his brothers with an annoyed grimace. There’s a batch of pilots around them; back-patting and manly hugs going around. He mistakes Hawke’s look of pained tolerance for basking in adoration. He’s never felt more like he isn’t one of them. He’s never felt more alone. He slinks away from the crowd deciding they won’t miss him.
He finds the bar at the outskirts of the air field where the show is being held. It’s dark, the floor is sticky and the music is more country than he likes but there’s a pool table and beer. Seb whips out fake id, pays for a tankard and heads for the table.
He’s beaten three cowboys and the pretty brunette waitress is shooting him smiles that have Seb’s blood heating to a nice simmer when the fourth cowboy gets shirty about a shot. Seb might make a disparaging comment about the guy’s shirt, his boots, his manhood.
In between the meaty finger poking him in the chest and the stale cigar breath, the accusations of hustling - which OK maybe he deserves - something snaps and Seb hauls off and punches the guy.
The bar turns ugly real fast.
Seb finds himself facing off against twelve cowboys. His heart is beating. He’s breathing heavy and the fact that he’s in way, way, over his head is beginning to sink in through the alcoholic fog of the beer he’s imbibed.
There’s a sound behind him but Seb’s too freaked out by the guys lined up in front of him to pay attention. An instant later and he’s flanked either side by his brothers. He doesn’t know who’s more surprised to see them; him or the guys he’s facing off against.
‘This ain’t your fight.’ Meaty Finger Cowboy grunts. Seb isn’t liking the way he’s holding the pool cue and there’s a mean look in his eye.
Saint John shrugs. ‘He’s our brother.’
Hawke cocks his head to the side and shoots Meaty Finger what Seb tags the look. The one that says you’ve messed with the wrong guy or more simply; run.
‘Your funeral.’ Meaty Finger spits out his chew and that’s the signal.
Seb’s not sure what happens next; he’s too busy dodging punches and chairs and geez, pool cues, to notice. He’s sent flying over the bar and ends up with the pretty brunette waitress. He smiles awkwardly before he jumps back over and reenters the fray; doesn’t seem right leaving his brothers to clean up his mess.
A few minutes later and the Hawke brothers are the only ones standing. It takes Seb aback to realise that he’s just thought about himself as one of them…he doesn’t get time to dwell, the cops arrive and half an hour later they’re cooling their heels in a jail cell.
Seb wonders whether he should worry as Saint John and Hawke simply debate who to call - Michael being the winner - before, call made, they head to the bunks and without words, Saint John takes the bottom while Hawke takes the top. Hawke notices Seb’s hesitation and motions at him to take the single cot across the cell.
‘You should get some rest.’ Hawke states firmly. He’s already lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, feet crossed at the ankle.
Seb sinks onto the thin mattress and stares at his brothers. They seem far too relaxed about the whole thing. He was expecting a lecture about being in the bar, about getting them into trouble but nothing. He’s not sure if he’s grateful, relieved or peeved.
He touches his tender jaw, his bruised lip and the swelling puffing up under his left eye suggests he’s going to have a shiner. He wonders that Hawke and Saint John have come out of the brawl with nothing worse than bruised knuckles. He should really get them to teach him how to do that. He also wonders that they’re not fussing over him. In a strange way their acceptance that he can handle his wounds makes him feel like a man. He lies down and tries to pretend the nonchalance that his brothers seem to exude.
It’s two hours - and Seb knows the time exactly because he’s been watching the clock on the other side of the bars like it’s Christmas Eve and he’s five - before Michael turns up.
The spy is in his usual working garb of white three-piece suit with matching crisp white shirt, white silk tie and shiny white leather shoes. The rosewood cane and black eye-patch detract from the sartorial elegance. Seb knows Michael is pissed because Michael’s one good eye is glinting at them.
Hawke wrestles with the mattress a little before he jumps down and saunters over to the bars.
‘Hawke.’ Michael’s tone is less than amused.
‘Michael.’ Hawke leans through the bars and nods at his best friend. And they are best friends. Seb can see that in the way Michael’s expression has already defrosted and how his lips twitch even if the other man tries to hide it by rubbing his moustache with a single finger.
‘You’re here less than a day.’ Michael begins.
‘If I’d wanted a lecture I’d have called Cait.’ Hawke interrupts brusquely.
Michael simply grins evilly.
Hawke straightens. ‘You told her?’
‘She was in my office when the call came.’ Michael shrugs.
Hawke exchanges a look with Saint John that Seb can interrupt only too well; they’re in trouble.
Michael seems to take pity on them because he nods at the guard and a moment later they’re free.
Hawke takes a moment to thank Michael awkwardly before they part company; Michael heads to the stretch white limo outside the police station and the Hawkes to the airfield where they climb back into the chopper to make their way home; a condition of their being released.
The journey back is as silent as the one there but the silence is not awkward and Seb is sleepy from the adrenaline rush and the beer, he’s not sure which. He’s jolted awake by Saint John’s faintly uttered ‘uh-oh.’
Uh-oh?
Seb sits up and peers through the front of the chopper. Three women await, arms folded over their chests and looks that send Seb scurrying backwards. Not good. The Hawke women in full warrior mode is a frightening thing. He can see his father, Mike Rivers and Jo all waiting by the hangar entrance at a safe distance.
Hawke sets the chopper down with a gentleness that Seb envies before he just sits there. They all sit there.
‘Are we getting out?’ Seb asks worriedly.
Saint John rubs the back of his neck, straightens his shoulders and he gets out. A heartbeat later, Hawke follows and Seb is suddenly scrabbling to keep up.
Caitlin’s eyes rake over Hawke before she evidently determines he’s OK and breathes out. Seb endures a similar look from his sister and mother.
There’s a sharp maternal intake of breath as Jane Hawke gets a good look at his injuries. Her eyes dart to Saint John’s. ‘Saint John Hawke.’
The command to explain - and it had better be good - is imbedded in the name. Seb winces. He’s heard that tone before and the last time he ended up grounded for a week. Saint John pales and it’s as though he morphs from the adult male he is to the young boy he was. He shuffles.
Seb watches fascinated as Saint John sends their brother a clear signal for help.
Hawke remains composed in the face of his mother’s wrath. ‘It was my fault.’
Seb’s head whips to Hawke.
Hawke shrugs. ‘They were picking on Seb.’
Seb is touched but he really can’t let Hawke take the blame. He clears his throat. ‘Actually it was my fault.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ His mother says firmly. ‘String and Saint John are older, they should know better.’
Saint John’s face takes on a pained expression. He looks at Seb and at Hawke.
‘We’re sorry.’ They all say quickly.
His mother’s expression softens. ‘Fighting is not an answer.’
‘No, ma’am.’ Hawke agrees.
‘And what kind of example is that for Chris?’ Sarah adds.
Caitlin snorts and hastily turns it into a cough. Seb realises up close that now she’s seen they’re OK, she’s not so much annoyed as amused.
‘We’re sorry?’ Seb says again, hopefully.
Jane’s eyes narrow on him but she nods finally. She turns and heads back to the hangar without another word. Sarah falls into step beside her.
Caitlin grins. She and Hawke look at each other and she leaves the brothers alone.
‘We’re older so we should know better?’ Hawke repeats with disgust.
Saint John slaps his shoulder fondly. ‘Welcome to my world.’
Seb sighs guiltily. ‘Uh, thanks. For,’ he waves at their family, ‘and for back at the bar.’
Hawke shrugs.
‘I, er,’ Seb feels compelled to come completely clean, ‘I should probably tell you it was really my fault. Back there. I started the fight.’
Saint John and Hawke exchange an amused look.
‘Yeah, we kinda figured that when you hauled off and hit the guy.’ Hawke said. His blue eyes are filled with pride. ‘Nice hook, by the way.’
Seb’s mouth falls open as he realises they must have followed him to the bar and been watching him for a while. ‘You…’ he stutters as Saint John grins at him, ‘you knew?’
‘We saw everything.’ Saint John confirms, nodding. ‘Cute waitress.’
‘But you…’ Seb looks at them confused. ‘You stood up for me.’
Saint John and Hawke are looking at him as though he’s an idiot and Seb is beginning to feel like one.
‘We’re brothers.’ Hawke says as though it was obvious before he and Saint John turn and walk away to the hangar.
The blunt truth of it slams into Seb like a sucker-punch. And suddenly, Seb feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s a Hawke brother after all.
fin.
Series: Snapshots
Summary: Seb Hawke reflects on being a 'Hawke' brother.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Hawke/Caitlin. Saint John/Jo.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Written for entertainment purposes only.
The Hawke Brothers
The family have only been reunited for a short time when Sebastian Hawke, youngest of the brood, realises the term ‘the Hawke brothers’ doesn’t include him.
It’s a small thing.
It’s running into an old Army buddy of his Dad’s at Santini Air on a rare occasion where the whole family is gathered. They - meaning him, his Dad and his Mom - are meeting up with Hawke and Caitlin to travel to the couple’s cabin in the mountains, Sarah is prepping the chopper ready for departure and Saint John, who owns the Air Service with his girlfriend Jo, is teasing their sister.
Charlie Bunty rolls up to the gathered family with a raucous laugh. He grabs Alan Hawke before words can be exchanged and pats him on his back, exclaims over his resurrection, grins at him and stares at Hawke and Saint John with glee.
‘Ah, the infamous Hawke brothers!’ Charlie rubs his hands before wagging a finger at Alan. ‘Boy, Al, could I tell you some stories about these fellas! They sure do have a reputation.’
Seb recalls the incident when he excuses himself from his brother’s table after one too many anecdotes about Hawke and Saint John as kids. He stands on his brother’s porch, hands gripping the rail tightly and tries to accept that he’s never going to be considered a ‘Hawke brother.’
And he’s cool with that.
He is.
OK, so it may sting a little. A lot.
But he’s nineteen and headed for university thanks to a scholarship Michael Coldsmith-Briggs has arranged. He’s finally going to have the life he’s dreamed about after years on the run and being careful; he’s going to leave the nest and spread his wings. He doesn’t need to be a Hawke brother, Seb thinks, his jaw tensing as he stares out blindly at the dark silvery lake in front of him. He would be him; Sebastian Hawke.
And Sebastian Hawke is a cool dude. Maybe he isn’t some hero; maybe he can’t fly a plane like he was born to it, but he can take apart a computer system in minutes, he can write code in seconds; he rules in the digital world where his brothers fear to tread.
But he can’t help but see in his mind’s eye the look of pride on his father’s face at Charlie’s assertion; can’t help the tang of jealousy that sours the back of his throat and the churn in his belly at the idea that insidiously whispers through his head that his parents are always going to love them more than him; that he will disappear to university and they won’t even notice.
He faintly hears the sound of a door opening behind him and he tenses. He’s so not in the mood for company.
‘Beautiful night.’ Caitlin’s Texas twang is carried softly on the night breeze.
Seb shrugs as she takes up position next to him, her forearms resting on the railing. Her short red hair is covered by a scarf; he knows she’s still recovering from injuries that almost killed her and his conscience twinges.
‘Should you be out here?’ Seb worries. ‘It’s cold.’ He’s already shrugging out of his jacket and offering it to her.
Caitlin accepts it with a ready smile and even though he’s young and skinny himself, the brown leather jacket almost drowns her thin frame. He refuses to contemplate that he bought it because it reminded him of the one Hawke wears sometimes.
‘I needed some air.’ Caitlin nods into the distance at the shadowy mountains and rippling water; there’s pine scent in the air along with dirt and grass. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it.’
In truth, Seb’s hardly looked at the scenery but he nods obediently.
‘’Course that’s not why you’re out here.’ Caitlin’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I do the same when I’m at my folks.’
Seb stares at her in surprise.
‘I have an older sister.’ Caitlin says. She doesn’t explain further; there’s no need. There’s an understanding look in her eye that tells him everything and simultaneously makes him feel as exposed as a deer caught in headlights. He flushes so hard he can feel his cheeks burn and he’s grateful for the dim light and hopes furiously that she can’t tell.
‘It’s stupid.’ He admits, turning away sharply.
‘Human.’ Caitlin contradicts with amusement.
Her light tone helps some of his own discomfort seep away and he risks another glance at her.
‘I get that my parents missed them and that they want to make it up to them for leaving them.’ Seb says quietly. ‘It’s just…’
‘They’re your parents too.’ Caitlin nods. ‘It’s new right now but things will settle.’
Seb isn’t convinced. ‘It’s not just that.’ It’s the way they all look at Hawke; like he’s special; favoured; loved beyond the rest of the siblings. His gut twists with envy. And then there’s the whole Hawke brothers thing…
Caitlin pats his arm. ‘You should talk with Saint John.’ She presses a kiss on his cold cheek before he can respond and she’s gone so fast that he wonders if she was there at all. It’s the chill on his arms and back from the loss of his jacket that tells him she was.
He’s about done moping - he refuses to use the word ‘sulk.’ And it’s cold outside. He follows her into the cabin.
o-O-o
A week later, he’s sprawled on the sand outside the back of Sarah’s house, ostensibly babysitting his nephew but in reality paying more attention to the book in his hand, when Saint John sits beside him.
Seb stares at him before glancing back at the house and the faint sound of female voices drifting from the open doorway. ‘Sarah home?’
‘Yeah. Her car’s out of action so Jo and I gave her a lift.’ Saint John hands him a Coke, still in its bottle, the sides of the glass frosted and cool to the touch. ‘She invited us to dinner.’
Seb takes a long swig; he figures he’s going to need it. Not that Saint John intimidates him. Much. It’s because he looks so much like their Dad, Seb assures himself; the build; the hair; even the eyes although they’re a warm hazel rather than a cool blue. His oldest brother has an easy smile and there’s little sign of the impassive mask that Hawke wears. Seb likes Saint John.
‘You should be watching him more.’ Saint John tilts his bottle at Chris. Seb suddenly realises his nephew is at the water’s edge with a bucket. The admonishment heats his cheeks.
‘I am watching him.’ Seb states defiantly, staring at the sand at his feet.
‘If it’s the same way I used to watch Hawke, you need to do better.’ Saint John says dryly and Seb is surprised enough to look at him.
Saint John lifts his Coke bottle and gestures at the book Seb is holding. ‘Although usually my distraction was Kelly Haferman rather than,’ his eyebrows rise, ‘the Complete Anthology of Mathematic Equations.’
Seb pulls a face. He’s always been a geek but the teasing tone of his brother takes the sting out of the comparison.
‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here.’ Saint John’s fingers are pulling the damp label off the Coke bottle and Seb wonders idly if he’s worried. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
Seb shrugs.
Saint John takes it as the invitation it was intended to be and launches into a detailed explanation of some air show that’s happening the following weekend. Seb’s heart sinks. He’s fairly certain he can see where this is headed and steels himself to say yes to the favour of staying behind and looking after Santini Air that he’s sure is coming.
‘…so I was thinking you might want to come with me.’ Saint John finishes.
Seb stares at him.
‘Seb?’ Saint John laughs nervously.
‘Sure.’ Seb can’t accept fast enough; attending an air show with Saint John? Like he needs to think about that for more than a minute.
‘Great.’ Saint John smiles widely. ‘String’ll be stoked.’
‘Hawke?’ Seb manages not to choke on the Coke he’s just gulped but he fears his voice comes out more like a squeak regardless especially when Saint John shoots him a strange look. Maybe it’s because Seb’s calling their brother by their surname - and he doesn’t want to think about the reasons for that too closely - but Seb knows deep down it’s because of something else.
‘Uh,’ Saint John looks faintly uncomfortable, ‘I did mention he was coming too, didn’t I?’
Seb shakes his head; he would have remembered that.
‘Oh.’ Saint John shrugs. ‘Well, I just think it’s a good way for the three of us to spend time with each other, get to know each other better.’
Seb frowns. He has a horrible feeling that Saint John hasn’t mentioned it to the brother they share.
‘Look, if this is something you two usually do together maybe I shouldn’t be along.’ Seb offers tightly.
Saint John doesn’t look at him. ‘It isn’t easy.’
‘What?’ Seb asks confused.
‘Being his brother.’ Saint John says bluntly. His gaze catches Seb’s. ‘But he’s worth it.’
Seb sees more than sincerity; he sees regret in his brother’s eyes and wonders at it.
‘Took me a while to figure that out.’ Saint John explains. He drops his gaze and Seb gets that Saint John has confided something in him.
Something.
Seb’s not sure what. He hides his unease by taking another gulp of his drink.
‘When he gets to know you and you get to know him…’ Saint John waves out at the ocean. ‘You’ll see.’
Seb represses the sigh. He’s not sure Hawke’s going to see it the same way but he nods.
Saint John grins and toasts him with the Coke. Seb tries to smile and pretends he’s not regretting his decision already.
o-O-o
It was a bad idea.
It’s the only thought Seb’s had all day. Hawke has been his usual stand-offish, taciturn self. He’s barely said two words on the flight there. Seb half-suspects Saint John didn’t tell Hawke Seb was coming along with them.
If the flight was awkward though, it’s nothing to what’s happening on the ground as they arrive.
Seb watches his brothers with an annoyed grimace. There’s a batch of pilots around them; back-patting and manly hugs going around. He mistakes Hawke’s look of pained tolerance for basking in adoration. He’s never felt more like he isn’t one of them. He’s never felt more alone. He slinks away from the crowd deciding they won’t miss him.
He finds the bar at the outskirts of the air field where the show is being held. It’s dark, the floor is sticky and the music is more country than he likes but there’s a pool table and beer. Seb whips out fake id, pays for a tankard and heads for the table.
He’s beaten three cowboys and the pretty brunette waitress is shooting him smiles that have Seb’s blood heating to a nice simmer when the fourth cowboy gets shirty about a shot. Seb might make a disparaging comment about the guy’s shirt, his boots, his manhood.
In between the meaty finger poking him in the chest and the stale cigar breath, the accusations of hustling - which OK maybe he deserves - something snaps and Seb hauls off and punches the guy.
The bar turns ugly real fast.
Seb finds himself facing off against twelve cowboys. His heart is beating. He’s breathing heavy and the fact that he’s in way, way, over his head is beginning to sink in through the alcoholic fog of the beer he’s imbibed.
There’s a sound behind him but Seb’s too freaked out by the guys lined up in front of him to pay attention. An instant later and he’s flanked either side by his brothers. He doesn’t know who’s more surprised to see them; him or the guys he’s facing off against.
‘This ain’t your fight.’ Meaty Finger Cowboy grunts. Seb isn’t liking the way he’s holding the pool cue and there’s a mean look in his eye.
Saint John shrugs. ‘He’s our brother.’
Hawke cocks his head to the side and shoots Meaty Finger what Seb tags the look. The one that says you’ve messed with the wrong guy or more simply; run.
‘Your funeral.’ Meaty Finger spits out his chew and that’s the signal.
Seb’s not sure what happens next; he’s too busy dodging punches and chairs and geez, pool cues, to notice. He’s sent flying over the bar and ends up with the pretty brunette waitress. He smiles awkwardly before he jumps back over and reenters the fray; doesn’t seem right leaving his brothers to clean up his mess.
A few minutes later and the Hawke brothers are the only ones standing. It takes Seb aback to realise that he’s just thought about himself as one of them…he doesn’t get time to dwell, the cops arrive and half an hour later they’re cooling their heels in a jail cell.
Seb wonders whether he should worry as Saint John and Hawke simply debate who to call - Michael being the winner - before, call made, they head to the bunks and without words, Saint John takes the bottom while Hawke takes the top. Hawke notices Seb’s hesitation and motions at him to take the single cot across the cell.
‘You should get some rest.’ Hawke states firmly. He’s already lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, feet crossed at the ankle.
Seb sinks onto the thin mattress and stares at his brothers. They seem far too relaxed about the whole thing. He was expecting a lecture about being in the bar, about getting them into trouble but nothing. He’s not sure if he’s grateful, relieved or peeved.
He touches his tender jaw, his bruised lip and the swelling puffing up under his left eye suggests he’s going to have a shiner. He wonders that Hawke and Saint John have come out of the brawl with nothing worse than bruised knuckles. He should really get them to teach him how to do that. He also wonders that they’re not fussing over him. In a strange way their acceptance that he can handle his wounds makes him feel like a man. He lies down and tries to pretend the nonchalance that his brothers seem to exude.
It’s two hours - and Seb knows the time exactly because he’s been watching the clock on the other side of the bars like it’s Christmas Eve and he’s five - before Michael turns up.
The spy is in his usual working garb of white three-piece suit with matching crisp white shirt, white silk tie and shiny white leather shoes. The rosewood cane and black eye-patch detract from the sartorial elegance. Seb knows Michael is pissed because Michael’s one good eye is glinting at them.
Hawke wrestles with the mattress a little before he jumps down and saunters over to the bars.
‘Hawke.’ Michael’s tone is less than amused.
‘Michael.’ Hawke leans through the bars and nods at his best friend. And they are best friends. Seb can see that in the way Michael’s expression has already defrosted and how his lips twitch even if the other man tries to hide it by rubbing his moustache with a single finger.
‘You’re here less than a day.’ Michael begins.
‘If I’d wanted a lecture I’d have called Cait.’ Hawke interrupts brusquely.
Michael simply grins evilly.
Hawke straightens. ‘You told her?’
‘She was in my office when the call came.’ Michael shrugs.
Hawke exchanges a look with Saint John that Seb can interrupt only too well; they’re in trouble.
Michael seems to take pity on them because he nods at the guard and a moment later they’re free.
Hawke takes a moment to thank Michael awkwardly before they part company; Michael heads to the stretch white limo outside the police station and the Hawkes to the airfield where they climb back into the chopper to make their way home; a condition of their being released.
The journey back is as silent as the one there but the silence is not awkward and Seb is sleepy from the adrenaline rush and the beer, he’s not sure which. He’s jolted awake by Saint John’s faintly uttered ‘uh-oh.’
Uh-oh?
Seb sits up and peers through the front of the chopper. Three women await, arms folded over their chests and looks that send Seb scurrying backwards. Not good. The Hawke women in full warrior mode is a frightening thing. He can see his father, Mike Rivers and Jo all waiting by the hangar entrance at a safe distance.
Hawke sets the chopper down with a gentleness that Seb envies before he just sits there. They all sit there.
‘Are we getting out?’ Seb asks worriedly.
Saint John rubs the back of his neck, straightens his shoulders and he gets out. A heartbeat later, Hawke follows and Seb is suddenly scrabbling to keep up.
Caitlin’s eyes rake over Hawke before she evidently determines he’s OK and breathes out. Seb endures a similar look from his sister and mother.
There’s a sharp maternal intake of breath as Jane Hawke gets a good look at his injuries. Her eyes dart to Saint John’s. ‘Saint John Hawke.’
The command to explain - and it had better be good - is imbedded in the name. Seb winces. He’s heard that tone before and the last time he ended up grounded for a week. Saint John pales and it’s as though he morphs from the adult male he is to the young boy he was. He shuffles.
Seb watches fascinated as Saint John sends their brother a clear signal for help.
Hawke remains composed in the face of his mother’s wrath. ‘It was my fault.’
Seb’s head whips to Hawke.
Hawke shrugs. ‘They were picking on Seb.’
Seb is touched but he really can’t let Hawke take the blame. He clears his throat. ‘Actually it was my fault.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ His mother says firmly. ‘String and Saint John are older, they should know better.’
Saint John’s face takes on a pained expression. He looks at Seb and at Hawke.
‘We’re sorry.’ They all say quickly.
His mother’s expression softens. ‘Fighting is not an answer.’
‘No, ma’am.’ Hawke agrees.
‘And what kind of example is that for Chris?’ Sarah adds.
Caitlin snorts and hastily turns it into a cough. Seb realises up close that now she’s seen they’re OK, she’s not so much annoyed as amused.
‘We’re sorry?’ Seb says again, hopefully.
Jane’s eyes narrow on him but she nods finally. She turns and heads back to the hangar without another word. Sarah falls into step beside her.
Caitlin grins. She and Hawke look at each other and she leaves the brothers alone.
‘We’re older so we should know better?’ Hawke repeats with disgust.
Saint John slaps his shoulder fondly. ‘Welcome to my world.’
Seb sighs guiltily. ‘Uh, thanks. For,’ he waves at their family, ‘and for back at the bar.’
Hawke shrugs.
‘I, er,’ Seb feels compelled to come completely clean, ‘I should probably tell you it was really my fault. Back there. I started the fight.’
Saint John and Hawke exchange an amused look.
‘Yeah, we kinda figured that when you hauled off and hit the guy.’ Hawke said. His blue eyes are filled with pride. ‘Nice hook, by the way.’
Seb’s mouth falls open as he realises they must have followed him to the bar and been watching him for a while. ‘You…’ he stutters as Saint John grins at him, ‘you knew?’
‘We saw everything.’ Saint John confirms, nodding. ‘Cute waitress.’
‘But you…’ Seb looks at them confused. ‘You stood up for me.’
Saint John and Hawke are looking at him as though he’s an idiot and Seb is beginning to feel like one.
‘We’re brothers.’ Hawke says as though it was obvious before he and Saint John turn and walk away to the hangar.
The blunt truth of it slams into Seb like a sucker-punch. And suddenly, Seb feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s a Hawke brother after all.
fin.