McQueen's Ark.

Disclaimer:
The characters and situations of the TV program "SPACE: Above and Beyond" are the creations of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Fox Broadcasting and Hard Eight Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Dylan Mackenzie belongs to me.

Chapter 1.

Colonel T.C. McQueen, Commanding Officer of the Wildcards, sat at the bar in the Tun Tavern nursing a beer. All around him was the excited chatter of new arrivals checking the place out. Four new squads had arrived that day - the 122nd, 75th, 101st and the new 205th - and scuttlebutt had it that the 'Toga was heading into something dark and dirty.

McQueen glanced in the mirror in front of him. He could see the 58th playing poker. Hawkes, as usual, was grinning, letting the others know that he had a good hand. McQueen shook his head with a wry smile. However much they'd tried, none of them had been able to teach Hawkes a poker face, and he wondered why they would all throw their cards in whenever he got a winning hand.

They'd tried to get McQueen to join them. Damphousse sensed that he needed the company, but he'd refused. She was right. He did need company, which was why he'd come to the Tun, but he really wasn't in the mood for poker. A parcel had arrived in the last mail call, with pictures of his twin son's third birthday party. McQueen drank his beer down and ordered another. It had been his third wedding anniversary too, and he'd received nothing from his wife Dill.

The barman watched him carefully, trying to decide if Colonel McQueen was intending to get himself drunk tonight. The Colonel was already on his fourth beer and he normally stuck to two. The barman smiled to himself. Everything he thought he knew about invitros had been turned on its head since he'd come to the Saratoga, home to the two most famous invitros in the Corps. It was still true that they were grown in growth tanks and decanted at eighteen, but the idea of them having a lazy, idle, not-giving-a-damn-about-anyone-else-attitude had gone right out of the window. Mostly due to the man sitting in front of him. He glanced over at the ship's other invitro, Capt. Cooper Hawkes, sitting with the rest of his squad playing poker. It was plain to see that Hawkes tried to model himself on the colonel, with varying degrees of success. But between the two of them, the barman thought, they had done more for changing the attitudes towards invitros than any politician.

McQueen gulped at his beer, wondering if a whiskey would help. He'd sat and gone through the pictures, seeing his sons happy and smiling... seeing that Isobel was now walking. And in a dress finally, though Dill had added a note saying that the dress was only for the party. He'd seen the pictures of Dill, looking so neat and trim in her short summer dress, and his heart had skipped in his chest. She so rarely wore dresses, and he'd missed it. He'd felt so miserable that he'd forced himself to compound his misery by getting out the photo album she'd sent him of the children at Christmas.

Again it had been full of happy smiling faces; of the children sitting in front of an enormous tree, surrounded by wrapping paper. And finally a family shot obviously taken professionally. The boys, Cameron and Hamish, blonde haired and blue eyed like him, dressed in kilts and black jackets. Isobel almost a year old by Christmas, dressed in a black velvet dress with a tartan sash. And Dylan, his wife - though he always called her Dill - her short brown curly hair and blue eyes so obviously the original from which Isobel was copied, wore a full length tartan skirt with a white blouse and, again, a long matching sash. The picture was one he'd removed and had framed. It now sat on his desk along with several others, informal pictures of the children playing, and a picture of him and Dill together. He smiled, thinking of one such picture - three sun browned urchins sitting naked in a sandbox, all of them busily engrossed in their own obviously important tasks. He'd taken it himself during the last summer, when he'd had his leg damaged and had spent the next four months getting fit again with a brand new leg.

McQueen smiled to himself. This time it was no Aerotech crap, and he'd really noticed a difference. Of course Mr. Ashbourne, the surgeon who designed the leg, was currently involved in a long, drawn out wrangle over who owned the remains of the last leg, and whether he'd needed permission to remove it. But Ashbourne's lawyers were dealing with it, for which McQueen was grateful. He'd had Aerotech up to here, he thought, downing the last of his beer.

This time McQueen ordered a whiskey. He missed his family and he felt miserable. He deserved a whiskey, he was sure. Six months without them was far too long, he decided, and who knew how long it would be before he saw them again. He downed his whiskey in one gulp and ordered another. If the 'Toga was about to go head first into a fur ball, who knew when they'd next get leave. If they survived.

Drinking his second whiskey McQueen thought about his friend and commanding officer, Glen Ross. Ross hadn't mentioned anything to him. Maybe it was compartmentalised, McQueen told himself, but it was unlike Glen to not even hint that something was up, or to give him a clue and let him work it out for himself. He twitched his finger and a third whiskey appeared in front of him. Then he groaned as one of the newbie's strolled over to the jukebox, staring intently at it before making his decision.

The barman, hearing his groan, smiled. "Don't worry, Colonel - the whole selection has been changed. No more of those old crooners you hated so much. Though I doubt you'll find this selection much better."

"Better bring me another whiskey then," McQueen told him.

"Colonel, you've had four beers and three whiskeys. Is that wise?"

McQueen glared at him. "Are you telling me no?"

"No, Colonel. I'm telling you this is your last drink in the Tun tonight. You'll thank me in the morning." The barman smiled pleasantly at him, despite the growl he got in response.

The air filled with the refrain of a country song that Dill had taken to singing during his last leave. McQueen couldn't remember who it was, but he found himself humming along to it, to the amusement of the barman.

"Found one you like, have we?" the barman asked with a bemused grin.

"Not really. My wife sang this a lot on my last leave. It's catchy." McQueen gulped his whiskey and stood up - if he couldn't get another drink here he had whiskey in his quarters - and found that his legs were not at all happy about it. Steadying himself with a hand to the bar, McQueen strode towards the door, not noticing when the 58th lost a poker player as Hawkes threw his hand in at Vansen's nod and followed him.

They'd seen how much he'd drunk and were determined to ensure he reached his quarters without mishap. Their promotions the previous summer had upset a lot of people. McQueen had fought hard to keep them together, arguing that as a unit they were far more efficient than splitting them they would ever be. He'd argued that by giving them their own commands, yes, they would be able to impart their knowledge to those in their separate squads, but they wouldn't have the instinctive support they had now that made them so damn good. By calling in favours and promising others he'd been able to win them a reprieve. No matter what promotions they may well receive, they'd be staying together until the war was over. The paperwork was signed, sealed, and delivered.

However the effort he'd expended had not gone unnoticed. There was talk that the 58th were providing him with 'services', and that was why he'd fought so hard to keep them with him. Talk about the morals of tanks was again rearing its ugly head, even after six months, and several times Hawkes had been physically restrained, preventing him from attacking someone after a comment had been made about McQueen.

The 58th had taken to surreptitiously following him, determined to prevent any physical attacks on McQueen. Vansen was sure she'd arrived just in time to prevent one, after following him to the gym one afternoon. He'd gone to take a shower after his workout and several other gym users had followed him in. She'd given it five minutes and gone in, calling out to him casually, asking if he had any shampoo she could borrow. She'd found McQueen stood, back against the shower wall, legs braced as if ready for a fight, still half undressed, his face stonily blank, as the other occupants of the showers rapidly exited. She knew the look, having seen him furious on more occasions than she liked to admit. He'd denied anything was wrong and had stormed off. Vansen followed again, making sure he reached his quarters safely.

The next day, after their mission briefing, McQueen'd held them back and given them the full force of his fury at the discovery that they'd been tailing him. He'd refused to let them speak until he'd vented his spleen, and only then did he accept the fact that they worried about him. Even then they were sure it was only because it had been 'Phousse who said it - had told him that they loved him dearly and wouldn't let anything happen to him no matter what he said. He'd stood there dumbfounded, and had finally turned on his heel and marched away, his face crimson. Hawkes had been hurt - hurt and angry that McQueen hadn't understood why they'd been looking out for him. It wasn't until West pointed out that McQueen hadn't been red faced with anger, but with embarrassment, that Coop had calmed down, a smile spreading across his face. "You think he loves us too?" he'd asked. McQueen had appeared in the doorway of their quarters after they'd returned from their patrol and apologised to them, but had warned them not to continue tailing him.

Of course they'd ignored him, and he knew it. So now they played a careful game of 'we know you know, but we're pretending that you don't' and tried not to crowd him. The only time it had been mentioned since was when Hawkes, during a poker game, had casually asked why McQueen disappeared to the commodores' cabin twice a week when the commodore was on the bridge. McQueen had gone very quiet, before releasing a huge sigh and had admitted that he was 'seeing someone for some personal stuff' and the commodore had a secure net link he used, before glaring at them, throwing in his hand and leaving. Hawkes had been all "What did I say?" and the girls had decided that what McQueen meant was that finally he was getting therapy. To which West had snorted, "And about time too!"

On this occasion, however, McQueen reached his quarters safely. A little wobbly, but safely. Once he'd seen him go in, Hawkes had headed back to the Tun, stopping to salute the commodore who passed him in the hallway.

Commodore Glen Ross was on his way to see McQueen. He had news for him that he wanted to personally deliver, and he wanted to see the look on his friends face. As much as he was delighted to see his friend settled and finally happy, content in his life at last, what Ross hated was that he (and as far as he knew it was only he who could see it) could see how much the conflict between McQueen's desire to be with his family and his dedication to the corps was tearing the man apart.

Ross'd been totally astounded when McQueen had come to him when he'd arrived back on the Saratoga six months ago, telling Ross that he was finally having therapy for his nightmares, and asking if he could use the secure net link in the commodore's private quarters to continue the sessions. Ross could still see McQueen standing there at parade rest, his head down, eyes staring at the floor, as he made his request. McQueen seemed afraid of having finally admitted weakness. It had taken some doing to get permission from the high ups. But with McQueen's mother-in-law using her contacts planet side, permission had been granted, though Ross suspected it had more to do with Moira's efforts than his. He smiled though at the memory of McQueen turning up for the first session and panicking at the thought that Ross was going to stay. Ross had simply been late in getting himself out of the shower and getting dressed, but he'd made sure it hadn't happened since, and was pleased with the way the sessions seemed to be helping McQueen cope.

Rapping sharply at the door, Ross was surprised that there was no response. He'd just seen Hawkes leaving, which usually meant McQueen was tucked up safe and sound for the night. Ross chuckled to himself. Who the hell the 58th thought they were kidding when they claimed that they most certainly were not following McQueen around, he just didn't know. But he was grateful that they were doing what he'd like to be able to do - look out for his friend. He rapped again louder, and smiled as he heard the mumbled response.

"Who's at my hatch?"

"Your boss," Ross growled.

"It's open."

Ross let himself in, to find McQueen sprawled on the bed, one boot off and one boot on, surrounded by photo albums of his family. He raised his eyebrows at the whiskey bottle on the desk, and the glass clutched in McQueen's hand.

"Drowning your sorrows,Ty?"

"Kinda." The blue eyes stared at the tall black man, standing in front of him with a raised eyebrow.

"You really think getting drunk will help?" Ross asked him, taking the half full glass from him.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," McQueen said mournfully. "I miss my kids, Glen. I really, really miss them. Dill sent me pictures of the little guys' birthday party. They were three years old last month, and I've seen them three times in those three years." He looked up at Glen, tears in his eyes. "The damned ghillie sees more of them than I do."

"The what?" Ross asked, downing the whiskey himself. He smiled at the taste of it. It was the good stuff that Dill sent to both of them regularly.

"The ghillie," Ty told him. "People pay to fish on the loch, and the ghillie looks after them. He takes them out for the day. He's a gamekeeper, I guess. He takes the boys out on the loch. Dill says he loves them, but I love them, Glen. They're my boys."

"You're jealous!" Ross snorted.

"No, I damn well am not!" McQueen snapped.

"Yes, you are," Ross chuckled. "And I don't blame you. If some chap was hanging around my wife and children, I'd be jealous too."

"Rhonda wouldn't cheat on you, Glen," Ty told him.

"And Dylan wouldn't cheat on you any more than you would her." Ross smiled. At McQueen's frown, he laughed. "I heard about that Major from the 67th - the one who propositioned you in the Tun a week ago."

McQueen blushed. "Yeah, well, I sent her away with a flea in her ear," he mumbled.

"What did she say to you? I heard that you yelled right in her face and told her to get the hell away from you." Ross sat forward, eager to hear.

McQueen grinned at him and quirked an eyebrow. "You really wanna know?"

"My best friend pitches a fit in front of a Friday night crowd at the Tun? You bet I want to know!"

"She started off like they all do. You know, the 'I'd never have guessed you were a tank' crap. At which point I showed her my wedding ring and told her I wasn't interested. Then she asked how long I'd been married, progressing to 'A man must get awful lonely up here, away from his family, and need some relief'." McQueen smiled wryly at Ross. "And how many times have you heard that one? So I told her I really wasn't interested, and asked her to leave me alone. At which point she said that obviously the rumours were true - the 58th were my fuck buddies, and that's why I'd fought so hard to keep them. By then I was already a little pissed. But then she said, 'What do you do? Take them one at a time, or do you have orgies?' And she said 'I'll bet you like that. Everyone says tanks enjoy group sex'," he grimaced. "You'll forgive me if I lost my temper at that point, but I'd heard just about enough. I knew there were rumours but…."

Ross burst out laughing. "Oh, what I would have given to have been there!"

"Why, Glen? Why do people always assume that just because I'm a tank, I'll fuck anything that moves? I hate it! People just can't believe that I found someone who doesn't care that I'm an invitro... who loves me for me. Or else they assume that I don't actually love her. After all, those years in a growth tank didn't exactly equip me with a full set of emotional responses, and I'm bound to still be deficient 20 years later!"

"Ty," Ross said softly, "they listen to speculation and rumour. Anyone who's different... and let's face it, invitros are different Ty. Grown in a tank until the age of eighteen, and then decanted…."

"Like a fine wine," McQueen giggled softly.

"It's just plain bigotry. My ancestors, little more than a hundred years ago, went through the same thing. People assumed we weren't human. We didn't have rights. Hell, earlier than that we were slaves, used and abused just like you were. The same things were said about us that they nowadays say about invitros. Especially when it comes to sex," Ross told him, smiling. McQueen was drunker than he realised, if he was giggling.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. I remember my grandpa telling me that he had a lot of white girlfriends when he was a young man. They all wanted to know if it was true that black men were better equipped than their white counterparts." Ross grinned at McQueen. "Sound familiar?"

McQueen nodded. "Dill's never once said anything about that."

"Well, she wouldn't, would she? She had no comparison." Ross could hardly believe his ears. Here was Ty McQueen, talking about such a personal issue with him. Damn, but that therapy must be working, he thought.

"She did," McQueen grinned. "I wasn't her first. She has been known to call me big boy though."

"Hell, Rhonda calls me that!" Ross chuckled, realising that in all the years he'd known McQueen, they'd never had a conversation like this. He felt honoured that McQueen finally felt comfortable enough to talk to him, and hoped it wasn't just the drink.

"You know, once, years ago, I got so paranoid about it, I looked it up on the net," McQueen snickered.

"Looked what up?"

"You know... the average size. And then I measured myself!" he chuckled.

"You measured yourself?" Ross guffawed loudly. "I sure hope you weren't disappointed!"

"Nope," McQueen winked, "I found out it was true."

Ross's jaw dropped. "Really?"

"Oh yes," McQueen grinned.

"So?"

"So what?" McQueen asked innocently.

"You can't say something like that and not substantiate it!" Ross chuckled.

"What, you want me to get it out and show you?" McQueen was giggling again, his hand reaching for the zipper on his flight suit.

"Don't you dare!" Ross laughed. "Tell me what you found out."

"The average size is six inches. I'm bigger than that," McQueen smirked.

"Six inches. Is that normally or erect?" Ross was wondering about himself now.

"Erect. And about five inches round is normal. I'm a bit bigger there, too." McQueen was grinning like the cat that got the cream.

"So how much bigger?" Ross asked. "Should I be jealous?"

"Two inches, and an inch round," McQueen said proudly.

"You got a tape measure in here?" Ross asked with a grin.

"No," McQueen laughed.

"A slide rule?"

"Yeah, but I'm not lending it to you!" McQueen chuckled. "I don't want you jerking off in my bathroom!"

"Damn you, McQueen!" Ross laughed. "How in the hell did we get around to comparing sizes?"

"You started it," McQueen told him gleefully.

"You could have lied!" Ross chuckled.

"What kind of man lies to his best friend?" McQueen reasoned.

"A man who's not showing off, that's who!" Ross grinned. "Hell, I came here for a reason, and I'm damned if I can remember why now!"

"Better pour us some of that whiskey then," McQueen grinned. "All this talking's made me thirsty."

"I think that you've had enough already," Ross told him. "I can smell you from here!"

"Don't be like that. And after I told you all about my net research, too!" McQueen whined. "Go on, pour me another. You know you want to."

"Now you're whining, I know you've had enough," Ross told him. "And I remember what it was I came to tell you. We're heading back to Earth."

McQueen sat bolt upright.

"I knew that'd get your attention," Ross chortled. "They want to use the Saratoga as a rendezvous for the Secretary General again."

"What for this time?" McQueen asked.

"I'm not supposed to say, but as you won't be here, I'm going to tell you."

"I won't?" Now McQueen was eager to hear.

"Nope, you won't. Hayden is meeting with the Chiefs-of-Staff and the Head Honcho from Aerotech. Pre-peace talk discussions."

"Peace talks? We've heard nothing about that," McQueen said pensively.

"Well, it seems that Operation Firefly worked. You remember that one, do you? You guys got your medals and long overdue promotions because of it. After the intensive bombing a message was received from the Chig home world. It has taken them nearly a year to decide whether or not it was genuine," Ross sighed.

"During which year more men and women have died." McQueen growled.

"Yes," Ross shook his head sadly. "But anyway, you won't be here because Aerotech specifically requested you not be. Nor any members of the 58th, or indeed myself."

"The 58th I can understand. After all, they might tell me something. But you?"

"They know about our friendship. But I'm not complaining. I get to go home and see Rhonda. Two whole weeks, Ty. I get two whole weeks. You get a little longer. I said if they wanted you gone, they had to take into account the extra travelling you had, to get home to Scotland." Ross laughed. "Why don't they want you there? Who did you upset?"

"I imagine it's because of this dispute that's still raging over my leg. Aerotech were pissed off that I got an Ashbourne leg instead of one of theirs," McQueen told him. "It's one hell of a leg though. I thought the other one was good, but this one is better. Sometimes I forget it's not a real leg."

"Did you do any net searching on your leg?" Ross asked.

"No, why? Should I have?"

"I did, and I can tell you why you got Aerotech, and not Ashbourne, the first time around." At McQueen's raised eyebrows he carried on. "The Aerotech legs costs less than a quarter of the Ashbourne one. Ty, you are walking around with over a million dollar's worth of leg!"

McQueen paled. "Christ, Glen, I owe Moira and Ashbourne big time," he whispered.

"From what you told me, Ty, Ashbourne wanted to do it. And after the crap you've taken from Moira over the years, well…" Ross smiled. "I'm sure you can say thank you when you get home in a week."

"A week? That soon?" he gasped. "Glen, can I send a priority message to Dill to let her know I'm coming home?"

"Of course you can, you fool!" Ross grinned. "Why the hell do you think I came to tell you? Now what's that you have there? Pictures of your kids? Come on, let me see the tykes! The last time I saw any of them was when Isobel was born. That's what, nearly 18 months ago?" He reached for the photo album, his face splitting into a wide grin. "Damn, those boys look more like you all the time. You must have been quite something, floating there in that tank of yours." Ross looked over at McQueen when he heard soft snores. McQueen was sound asleep, propped against the wall.

With a smile, Ross pulled him down the bunk and removed his other boot, surprised that McQueen offered no resistance. He peeled him out of his flight suit and covered him with a blanket, before turning out the light and leaving him to sleep.

McQueen strode onto the bridge next morning with a scowl. His head ached, and he was sure someone had carpeted his mouth during the night. He was just glad that he hadn't drunk enough to make him throw up.

Seeing the way the bridge crew hurriedly turned to their tasks, Commodore Ross looked round. Seeing McQueen's scowl, he grinned, whispering "Morning, big boy" as McQueen came to stand by his side.

McQueen simply stared at him. "Good morning sir," he said quietly.

Ross gazed at him speculatively. "You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?" McQueen asked, frowning. He remembered Ross had been in his quarters. There was talk about peace talks, he thought, but he didn't remember much else.

"Do you remember we talked about leave?" Ross kept his voice low.

"Did we? What about it, sir?" McQueen looked totally confused.

"Just what do you remember about last night, Ty?"

McQueen thought for a moment, and then paled. "I woke up out of my flight suit," he whispered. "I'd had too much to drink. You were there…" He looked Ross straight in the eye. "I… I didn't do anything inappropriate, did I?"

"No, not unless you consider bragging about the size of your…." Ross grinned as McQueen's eyes widened.

"Oh, my god," he whispered. "I didn't...?"

"Most informative you were, too," Ross chuckled.

"I am so sorry Glen. I have no excuse. That was unforgivable," McQueen told him.

"Relax, Ty. I started it. We were discussing attitudes towards invitros, and the subject just sort of came up, pardon the pun. I take it you forgot about your upcoming leave too?" Ross asked him.

"I have leave?"

"We all do. You, me, and the 58th. Aerotech wants us all out of the way for these talks." While he'd been speaking Ross had taken McQueen's arm and pulled him off the bridge and into his office. "Let Dylan know you're on your way. Get her to warm the sheets. Big Boy's coming home!" At McQueen's blush, Ross laughed, and left him to contact Dill.

Ten mikes later McQueen returned to the bridge, coming to stand next to Ross at the Lidar station. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?" he whispered.

"Not for a very long time," Ross smiled, clapping him on the back. "So tell me, was Dylan pleased?"

"She wasn't home. I had to leave a message," McQueen sighed.

"Never mind, try again later," Ross told him, reaching for a data pad that a young lieutenant was handing him. "Looking forward to seeing those kids again, I'll bet?"

"Yes, sir," McQueen smiled.

Ross chortled. One sure fire way to make the man smile was to mention his children. "So any plans for your leave? Going to whisk Dylan away somewhere exotic? I'm planning on taking Rhonda to Tahiti myself. Lie on the beach, drink lots of alcohol, and get to know my wife again."

"No sir. Once Dill knows I'm coming, she'll be contacting some friends we made on that damn cruise. You know, the Titanic," McQueen scowled.

"It was hardly that, Ty. After all, it didn't sink, did it?" Ross murmured, his eyes on the Lidar.

"It may as well have done. It was torture from day one." McQueen peered over his shoulder. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh crap, it's another of those damn super hive ships, isn't it?" Ross groaned. Turning, he yelled, "I want squads in the air now, people! Take that bogie out of my sky!"

All around him people ran to and fro. McQueen slipped on a head set, co-ordinating the launching of the selected squadrons, proud that the 58th were once again in the air, but fearful that they might not return. The enemy's super hive ships had caused them problems before. He prayed that this time, having had more experience with them, it would be over with quickly, and he would be down in the landing bay watching as his kids returned. Already he could feel the laser cannons firing and hear the yells for torpedoes to be launched. Closing out all other sounds, he concentrated on the job in hand - getting his people in the air and co-ordinating their attack.

Six hours later he had just flung himself onto his bunk for a quick catnap, removing only his boots, when there was a loud rapping at his hatch. Heaving a great sigh, McQueen got up and answered the door. It was Ross, beaming like a fool. "Come on quickly!" he cried, grabbing McQueen's arm and leading him down the corridor.

"Glen! My boots!" McQueen squawked as his friend almost dragged him along.

"Forget your boots. Just damn well hurry!" Ross chuckled.

"What the hell is going on!" McQueen demanded as Ross flung him through the door to his quarters.

"Language!" Ross grinned, pointing. "There are little ones listening."

McQueen turned and looked at the view screen Ross had pointed at. There on a live link were Cameron and Hamish, smiling at him. "My god" he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

"Hello, daddy!" called Hamish, his face splitting into a huge grin as he saw McQueen.

Cameron sat and sucked his thumb, Cashus, his black flight suited doll, clutched tightly to him.

"Hello, my boys," McQueen whispered, taking a seat where they could see him clearly. "Are you being good boys for mommy? Did you get your presents? Did mommy get hers?" He had a barrage of questions he wanted to ask them. And to ask Dill.

He heard Dill off camera telling Cameron to say hello to daddy. Ty smiled - just the sound of her voice made his heart miss a beat.

"The presents comed, daddy. Fank you," Hamish grinned. "A real boat! Will we go on the loch in it, daddy, when you come home? Cameron likes his new bike. He says I can share it. He can share my boat too!"

"Good boys," McQueen told him, "sharing nicely. Did mommy get her present?" he asked again.

Hamish looked to his right and nodded. "Mummy says yes, it's bootiful," He looked again and McQueen could hear Dill saying something. "Mummy says did you like your present? Was it your birfday daddy?"

"No, Hamish, it wasn't my birthday. It was a special present just from mommy, but it didn't get here yet." McQueen's smile dropped. "That makes me sad."

Cameron took his thumb out of his mouth, preparing to speak, when Hamish spoke up again. "Cashus said you were sad. Do you need a kiss, daddy?"

Ross, standing to the side, smiled as Hamish disappeared from view and re-emerged in Dill's arms, being held up to kiss the camera.

"Happy now, daddy?" Hamish asked, climbing back onto his seat next to Cameron.

"Play with your penis, daddy," Cameron said calmly.

"What?" McQueen asked, startled, throwing a black look at Ross, who'd laughed out loud.

"Playing with my penis makes me happy," Cameron smiled. "When you come home mummy can…." Cameron was whisked away from the camera and Dill appeared.

"Sorry about that. It's his current fixation. Be prepared to answer lots of questions when you get home. I miss you," she smiled, turning to help Hamish down.

"Bye daddy!" came his voice as he ran after Cameron.

"Bye Hamish" Ty whispered. "Hello Dill."

"Hello, my lover. My present hasn't arrived yet?" At the shake of his head, she shook hers. "Damn! Never mind. I'll get you another." She looked to the right. "Damn! Our time is up! I love you, Ty. You come home soon, please."

"I love you too, Dill," he whispered as the connection cut out.

Ross stepped forward, grinning. "Out of the mouths of babes… big boy!"

McQueen shook his head, a small smile on his face. He stood up. "Thanks, Glen. Now if you'll excuse me, my feet are cold."

"Off to give the little one's idea a try?" Ross chuckled

Straightening his shoulders, McQueen strode off down the corridor, throwing back over his shoulder dryly, "That's for me to know!"

Ross stood and laughed until tears trickled down his face. The image of the expression on McQueen's face at Cameron's words would stay with him for a long time.