Disclaimer - Story contains original characters from the series Airwolf by Donald Belisarius. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this piece. Story is written by Ladyhawke 620.

Letters Home -

Dom's Letter-

Sighing, Dominic Santini tossed his red satin ball cap on the battered metal desk in the back of his office. It'd seen better days. Heck, truth of the matter was, he'd seen better days.

He raked a thick hand through his flyaway grey strands, leaning against the desk even as he slumped to a seat in the chair beside it.

Fact of the matter was, String was hurting. Oh, his young friend might never cop to it, might never admit to it, but it was there, lurking like some ravening creature in the depths, seeking to devour him.

Vaguely, he wondered what it'd take to break him, to shatter that iron determination that'd hauled him all the way home from the depths of that hellhole in 'Nam and home again, made him the man he was today. A strong man, an honest man. And one with enough armor-plating around his heart that no one might ever get in.

You didn't raise a son twenty-something years and not have some idea what he was thinking. And Hawke was his son, or as close to it as one could get without blood.

And he didn't like what he was thinking one bit…

Gabrielle's death had shaken him, rocked him to the core. But it'd given an old man hope- hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the son he'd loved so much might be able to open up enough to let another in, to love someone, to finally pick up the threads of his life that'd frayed into nothingness when they'd lost Saint John.

Of course, that hadn't been what'd happened at all. Instead Hawke had mourned - and Dom had no question he had. He'd endured two weeks worth of silence from the cabin, torn between desperate worry for his surrogate son and the uneasy fear white-clad government types would be swarming over Santini Air any moment, only to have Hawke return with the walls higher and stronger than ever.

Typical Hawke.

And it worried Dom, not just as he saw his hopes for grandchildren and retirement someday slip away with this dark, new Lady String had brought into their lives, but also as he realized there was a very real possibility she might cost him his.

Not that he'd ever turn his back on flying with the kid, anymore than he had his old man. He'd lived more than his fair share of years and he'd never forgive himself if he didn't stick with him to the bitter end.

And there again was the problem. If something happened to him - and here he had to agree grimly it was a much bigger possibility at sixty-eight than at thirty-four, then who would back Hawke?

Mindlessly, he tapped the pen he held, rubbing rheumy blue eyes.

Young fool would probably blame himself, not seeing that sixty-eight year old legs ran slower than thirty-four year old ones no matter how you shook it, and that he'd gotten himself into this of his own free will.

Experience might dodge you a lot of bullets, but luck sometimes ran faster than a man could. Unfortunately, Hawke didn't see that.

He sighed. He'd taught both boys to be responsible, to own what you did, but String somehow took it a little too much to heart5, thinking he could save the world, when sometimes a man couldn't even save himself. He didn't want to be a part of that guilt when and if it was ever him that went down.

But how to convince him? How to convince him that his choices were his own and no matter what the cost, he wouldn't ever choose to do anything else? That right there with Hawke was where he wanted to be. Flying that dark beauty was already in his blood and he couldn't imagine being anywhere else as long as he had breath in his body and String was flying her.

And it was a good thing it was String flying her…

He'd seen the destruction she could reek - the cost in devastation and life she could wield. A lesser man might be tempted.

Not his boy, though. He'd seen enough death and war to know what he held in his hand.

She'd cost him dearly, too. Gabrielle dying in his arms was reminder enough of that.

Dom sighed, rubbing weary hands across his face. He had a nasty feeling she'd cost Hawke a whole lot more before all was said and done…if some good could come out of it, if there was a chance he could find out what'd happened to Saint John, then he deserved that much.

Years had taught him, there was a lot he loved about his country. There was also a lot she did wrong. How she'd treated that boy was criminal.

He just hoped Hawke didn't get himself killed, righting it.

Or him. The pen clicked in his hand, bringing him back to the present; reminding him that despite his late night ruminations, time was marching on. Hawke would be in in a couple of hours and any chance for getting his thoughts down would be gone admist the shuffle of the day.

Gone like so many things he'd wished he'd said to Saint John, to String when they were both boys. No matter how he tried now, String refused to listen to.

The boy wasn't just hard-headed, he was a rock.

Not that, that'd ever stopped him…Dom grinned. Hawke wasn't the only stubborn one. Resolutely, he reached for the sheet of paper.

It was an argument he intended winning. Preferably in person, of course. He'd like to think he had a few more good years of knocking heads in him, but if not, then he'd at least get the last word in.

And for once, String would listen. He wouldn't leave him any other choice.

He picked up the pen and began to write.