In late November, on the Gulf coast, 0530 still lay black, dark as night. Ross pulled his vehicle into the parking place next to McQueen's. As he rapped on the apartment door, he heard the strains of music coming from the apartment. Again he wondered at McQueen's neighbors, that they would tolerate that volume, especially at the odd hours McQueen had been keeping. At his knock, the music stopped, and McQueen appeared at the doorway. From the brightness of his eyes, Ross could tell that McQueen had already consumed one of the meanies. He grabbed up the already packed duffel bag, not inviting Ross in.

He shouldered his way past Ross, down to the car. "If we're gonna do this thing, let's go." Without answering, Ross keyed the remote lock in his hand, allowing the trunk to open. McQueen threw the duffel in and seated himself in the passenger seat. Like other car rides, this one started out in silence. The Gulf Coast highway made for a pretty ride, and the blues playing on the entertainment band soothed Ross's nerves. He had several worries to contemplate: Mai had expressed her understanding of this little jaunt, but he knew that taking this time with McQueen would support her view of his priorities; the EEOC committee had given him the time, because he'd said he was doing research; and McQueen also added to his worries. His body language implied that he was willing to try anything, but didn't have much faith that this would work.

There was that little thing he had not had the chance to tell McQueen last night. Finally, the "friend" whose rehab center he had contacted was a woman he hadn't seen in 15 years. At 17 she had suffered under a monumental crush on him, one of her father's junior officers. Anne Fairburn, now 32, she had been a substance abuse counselor for a while. She had kept up correspondence with Mai and himself all through college and internship, saying that they understood her better than her father. He knew she was a good therapist, devoted to her work. What he didn't know, because the subject had never come up, was how she felt about InVitroes. About an hour into the ride, McQueen cleared his throat,

"Are the women mad at me?" He cast an anxiety- filled glance at Ross.

"Cause you beat the crap out of Pete?" Ross grinned to himself at this break in the tension, glad of something else to think of. "Nah, he wasn't talking much. And the girls were just a little pissed that something their dad said ran you off." McQueen sighed, relaxing into the seat. Ross glanced again at this tough man who could stand up to worst that the natural born world had to offer, but quailed at the thought of losing the good opinion of two little girls. They both fell into silence again, this time less tense.

They neared Marianna, Fl and the site of her facility. Ross glanced sidewise at McQueen as he had done frequently during the past three hours. Still slumped down in his seat, Ty's clenched fists, restedon his knees. He had made no further comments, not even opening his eyes during most of the trip. Now the car slowed down, turning into the winding lane of Anne's driveway. McQueen opened his eyes just in time to read the rustically made sign. "Powell Family Center for Rehabilitation Therapy." He snorted softly, "Powell Family Center?" Ross pulled the car into a parking place and turned to McQueen,

"The deal was, you'd give it your best shot" He opened the trunk and got out of the car. Grabbing McQueen's duffel, he tossed it to the other man, pulling his own out afterward.

"What's that for?" McQueen nodded at the bag in Ross' hands.

"Family Center, Ty. I'm signed in too, as your spouse."

McQueen stood stock still, staring at Ross after this calm announcement.

"You have lost your fucking mind." His words were measured, low. Ross shrugged, trying to play it off.

"Well, you noticed. Its a family center. Anne believes that for substance abuse to be overcome, the whole family needs to be involved, parents, spouse, siblings, even kids."

"Which means," McQueen dropped his bag and advanced towards Ross, "Which means she never considered tanks as clients. Does she even know anything about phyllopthetamines?"

"More now than I did before, Captain McQueen." Both men swung around to face the woman. Past the first blush of youth, the woman was beautiful, but not pretty. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders, framing an aristocratic face. "I kinda figured Glenn was stretching the truth when he signed himself in as your spouse. I've known him and Mai for a lot of years and didn't think any person could come between them. Still, on the off chance I was wrong, I wanted to meet the person who could succeed where I failed."

"You're still a brat, Anne." Ross opened his arms and she stepped into them for a hug.

"Yes, I am. And you're still the handsomest man I know."

They separated and she turned to McQueen. "As for my competence in assisting you with your current difficulty, let's save that discussion for my office. If you'll follow me, gentlemen." She turned and started up the walkway. Both men grabbed their bags and followed after her. She led them into the large ante-bellum style house. Formerly an up-scale home, now the rooms functioned in other capacities. The formal parlor now served as a group therapy room, the bedrooms as offices for the individual therapists. Anne led them into the former downstairs bedroom, now the administrator's office, her office. She sat down beside a large desk, leaving the two officers to sit in chairs facing her.

"Now, Captain McQueen. Do we call you Tyrus?"

He had sat down stiffly, glancing around the room. At her words he turned to her, "God, no!" He paused, "TC will do."

She nodded, satisfied, "TC it is, then. I have the advantage over you, don't I? Glenn, Commander Ross, forwarded your medical records to me. So I probably know more about you than you wish I did. What do you need to know about me."

Sizing up the woman sitting across from him, McQueen gave her an unblinking stare. Anne returned the look, not backing down. His toughest Marines had found that stare hard to stand up to. McQueen allowed a small smile to come to his face.

"Yeah, you probably do. But I don't need to know anything about you, except how you plan to help me out."

"Ooh, tough guy. Okay, here's the deal. Before you check in, we take a little blood and do a complete toxicology scan. Assuming that you've told the truth, and the only thing you're doing is the meanies, you have 48 hours of detox. The good new is they're water soluble. The bad news is the receptors in your brain are way too used to the stuff. For the first 24 hours or so, you'll be asleep and suicidal. The next 24 hours, you'll be angry and suicidal. Hopefully, we can start therapy on Monday. Sunday evening your therapist will come interview you, and take a little more blood. If the detox has completed, you'll start intensive therapy Monday morning."

She turned to Glenn, "TC is right about one thing. We really don't know much about phyllophthetamine addiction. My guess is that if IVs still in servitude acquire it, they end up in cells where they get clean or die. The few studies in the literature suggest administering a skeletal muscle relaxant. This will make TC more amenable to physical management."

Ty sat up at that, "Physical management?"

"Yeah." She stood and moved around her desk, picking up a print-out there. "When you *need* the meanies, TC, what will you do to get them? Cajole, wheedle, sell your soul, try to go through your friend to get out?" Anne handed him the article. "Here's a description of the medication and its affects on InVitros. I won't kid you, the stuff was developed to make intractable tanks tractable." A grimace of displeasure passed across her face, "But that doesn't mean it can't be used to help you out now. Glenn isn't your equal in strength. He'll have a panic button, but I don't think either of you want one of our staff to have to strap you to a bed. With the SMR, Glenn will be able to manage you."

He took the article and glanced at it. "I suppose you know that I don't like the idea of another drug to make me 'manageable'?"

She sat back down, "Yeah, I know. And believe me, I'd rather not ask it of anyone. But I think special circumstances require special measures." She noted McQueen's short nod, then went on. "Okay, I'll have our staff get you situated in one of the cabins. Our facility is an old 'tourist court', over a century old, the cabins served as motel rooms, but are complete with kitchenettes. Of course, we have remodeled them to include some special features. You two will be basically locked in from this evening at," She glanced at her watch, "I make about 6:00 when you'll start crashing, TC, until Monday morning at 8:00am. There is food and drink in the kitchenette. Sorry, Glenn, you're going to be decaffeinated for the duration. There's also no alcohol on the premises. Captain McQueen, I'll be needing your stash now." She held out her hand expectantly. He hesitated

"Stash?" The unfaltering gaze of moments ago shifted. How one face could look so guilty and so innocent at the same time was beyond Ross. Anne didn't move, simply continuing to hold out her hand. After a few seconds, McQueen reached reluctantly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a baggy containing three or four green capsules. Anne took them and then held her hand out again.

"Now the rest." McQueen looked away. She snapped the fingers of her outstretched hand, "Come on, TC. You want to get clean, remember. Keeping a couple for reserve is not what you want." At first it seemed that he ignored her, then he stood and opened his duffel bag. From the shaving kit at the top, he pulled another baggy. It, too, contained three or four. Taking the baggy from him, she smiled. "See how easy things can be?" Anne walked to the door and put her hand on the knob. "You guys wait here. I'll send in one of the techs to take some blood, and show you to your cabin. You probably have about four hours of free time before we need to lock you in. You may want to get some exercise in, since it'll be a couple of days before you'll have the liberty to do it again. We have a very nice jogging trail, as well as a pool and fully equipped weight room." she turned the knob and exited the room, leaving both men a little breathless in her wake.

McQueen shook his head ruefully,

"Are you sure you want to do this?" "Yes, I am." He stood and gathered up his stuff. As he walked to the door, it opened, allowing another young blond woman to enter, "Good day, gentlemen. I'm Michelle, I'll be your primary therapist for your stay here." She shook their hands.

Glenn smiled, flirting mildly, "Aren't you supposed to lead us to our cabin?" ,

"Yes, yes I am. But I need to get some blood first." She pulled a small lancet from her pocket and held out her hand again, "May I have your hand, TC?" He put his hand in hers, not flinching when the device pierced his finger, taking a minute blood sample. Holding the vial close to her face, she shook it a little, then checked the read-out. "Clean as a whistle, TC. The only toxin is the phyllophthetamine." She put the device back in her pocket and opened the door and led the two of them from the house, down a walkway to a set of small cabins. "Here they are, gentlemen. You're in Number 18." she handed Glenn a key and pointed them towards the cabin with the large "18" on the door.

Ty and Glenn had taken Anne's suggestion of working out in the afternoon, starting with the gym, moving on to the jogging trails and finishing up with a couple of laps of the pool. They were pulling themselves out, when Michelle approached with a small white cup in one hand, and a slightly larger one in the other. They dried off, and pulled on the sweat pants and shirts they'd left by the pool. It was a little cool for swimming, and Ty was glad that he had his flight jacket with him as well, shrugging into it.

"It's time to get back to the cabin, gentlemen. TC, here's your meds." Michelle handed him the smaller cup with a tiny white tablet. He took it from her, grimacing, and swallowed down the pill. She handed him the juice as well, which he dutifully drained. "Now, let's get back to the cabin." McQueen fell in behind her, admiring the view from the rear. Glenn noticed his friend's interest and nudged him. McQueen shrugged and kept walking.

At the cabin door, Michelle stopped, "Anne told me you'd been reading up on the meanies. Do you know what to expect during detox?"

He looked at her and grimaced, "Yeah, nausea, vomiting, narcolepsy, craving, uh....night terrors. Have I left anything out?"

"Well, shakes maybe, sweating almost certainly. Other than that, I think you pretty well described it." She watched them go to the door, then waved, "Have a nice night."

It was an hour later, locked in the small cabin, that McQueen began to feel the affects of withdrawal from the meanies. Over dinner, he started nodding off. The first couple of times, Ross tried to awaken him, then realized that at least asleep, McQueen was unaware of how depressed he was. The sleep that McQueen drifted into was sound, almost death-like Ross watched over him, reminded of the days spent together in the POW cell, and again in the hospital.

Ross knew he carried a certain amount of guilt in his need to see this through, he knew. At the military hospital he had overheard more than one conversation about how much cheaper it would be to replace the InVitro than to fix him. He knew that there was not as much care given or attention paid to McQueen. But he had made the assumption that the physicians would at least follow the hippocratic oath to the extent of "first, do no harm." That assumption had come way too close to costing his friend his health, his career, and his sanity. Now all Ross could do was sit by, and watch Ty try to get things back together. It seemed like there should be more. He was awakened from a light doze to find Ty struggling to his feet.

"I gotta get to the head!" He was bent over, clutching his abdomen. Ross turned the light on, helping McQueen to the bathroom. He held Ty's head, as he emptied his stomach into the toilet, then handed him a damp cloth.

"Wipe your face, Ty." Glenn went to the kitchenette and grabbed a glass, filling it full of cool water. "Here" he gave it to his friend, "Rinse out your mouth." McQueen did as he was told, leaning against the basin. Unexpectedly, he keeled over again, cramps grabbing at him.

"I'm not sure this is worth it." He vomited again, the vomiting turning to dry heaves as there was nothing left to bring up. The cramps subsided. This time he slid down the bathroom wall, coming to rest between the tub and the toilet. He leaned his head against the cool porcelain. Glenn handed him the washcloth, thrown aside in the second wave of cramping.

"You gonna do that some more?"

"I hope not."

"You wanna come on back out of there? The smell can't be helping your gut."

McQueen grabbed at the side of the tub, using it to pull himself up. His first steps were unsure, but he made it out to the sitting room, taking a chair by the window. He drew back the curtains with one hand, not looking in Ross's direction.

"Most InVitros are claustrophobic, did you know that?" Ross sat down in the chair at the other side of the windows.

"No, I didn't. That must have made that 120 days in solitary a special kind of hell for you."

"No, it was the dreams that made it hellish." He looked up sharply. "You keep doing that to me."

"What?"

"I keep telling you things that you don't need to know."

Ross smiled gently, "Ty, everyone needs to tell someone those things. I don't need to know them, you're right. But you need to say them out loud."

"Did Anne say that? Damn, have you two been talking about me for days?"

"Ty, you know exactly when I called her, Tuesday morning at 0800." The paranoia was another symptom of withdrawal that Anne had warned Glenn about. He said nothing more, sitting back in the comfort of the large chair, waiting for McQueen's next move. He felt, more than heard, McQueen stand up and move to the bed he'd been occupying before the cramps hit him. Ross hadn't even gotten into his yet, but he figured he'd better take advantage of the quiet time.

When the next morning came, McQueen continued to sleep, stirring occasionally in restless dreams, but not awakening. Ross spent the day reading, playing the guitar, watching over his friend. In the early evening McQueen roused himself enough to eat dinner with Ross, but fell asleep as soon as the table cleared. Again Ross also went to sleep early, preparing himself for the next day, when Anne said, McQueen would be "angry and suicidal

The sun shining across his face served as reveille. McQueen was on the floor at the end of the bed, running through a calisthenics program.

"I guess it's true what they say about you Marines, huh."

McQueen sat up, looking over the foot of the bed. "Always ready, you mean?" He stood and stretched, "Yeah, I guess so. And that drug Anne gave me seems to have worn off. I didn't have any problems with my calisthenics." He had turned toward the bed to pick up a towel and so missed the thoughtful look that crossed Ross's face. When he had turned back, towel draped across his neck, Ross was out of the bed pulling on his sweat pants, left across the chair the night before.

"I don't think that this is going to work. I feel like I need to get back to the base."

"Ty, it's Sunday morning. Besides, you're on leave for the next ten days. Colonel Ramirez does not expect to see your ass before then."

Walking to the small kitchenette, Ross started the common chore of getting breakfast going. "The coffee may be decaf, but you'll feel better with something in your stomach. How about scrambled eggs." After setting the coffee pot going, he swung open the door to the small refrigerator and peered in. They'd planned breakfast Friday evening, and hadn't even had a chance to use Saturdays. All Glenn had to do was pull the bowl of pre-scrambled eggs out. He put the skillet on the two burner stove, and got down to business. McQueen ambled over, looking over his shoulder.

"You know, I am hungry." His mild voice almost led Ross to believe that the plan he and Anne had worked out before hand would be unecessary. Still, better safe than...He waited until McQueen had turned around, seating himself at the table before pulling down two juice glasses. In the bottom of one he placed a small white tablet, filling it up with orange juice. He turned, placing that glass in front of McQueen.

"Let's start with some juice." McQueen picked up the glass, tossing down the contents. The rest of breakfast went equally smoothly. Glenn could almost believe himself to be on a vacation, except for being locked in a one room cabin with a restless Marine. He pulled out the old guitar and started practicing, humming softly to himself. McQueen paced around the room, then picked up a book and flung himself into the chair by the window.

The morning passed quietly, one moment at a time. It was on his return from a bathroom break that Ross found McQueen at the door, fiddling with the lock.

He looked up as Ross came in, "Look, this just isn't going to work. I want out." His hands dropped from the door. "Hit the panic button, tell them we want out."

Ross walked over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. "No, Ty, this is not what you want. You made it through the night. You can make it through one more day."

"How the hell do you know what I want?" He grabbed Glenn's hand from his shoulder and flipped it so that he held Glenn in a hammerlock. "Where is the panic button?" The words were spoken softly, right in Glenn's ear, but the threat was clear. Now was the time to see if the muscle relaxant worked. Glenn pulled himself away from Ty, meeting little resistance.

" Damn you! When'd you slip me the drug?"

Glenn shrugged, "If you need to know, it was in your orange juice." He faced the impossibly bright blue eyes. "What would you do to get out, Ty? That was the question Anne asked you." Ross saw the desperation in his friend's eyes, knew before he did the fist that was coming. McQueen hit the wall beside him, then stalked to the other end of the room, coming to rest by the windows,

"I've got to get the fuck out of here." He picked up a glass on the table and threw it at the window. The glass bounced off the shatter proof glass and fell to the carpet. McQueen turned on Ross, "Let me out!" The words were shouted, his face red. Ross backed up, knowing that his friend couldn't damage him with the muscle relaxant in his system, but not wanting to try it.

"Ty," Ross spoke softly, "Ty, calm yourself. If you don't, who will?"

McQueen stopped, taking a couple of deep breaths. He ran his hand through his hair, "I don't know. But right now I feel capable of just about anything, up to and including killing one or both of us." He turned and sat back down in the chair. "I really don't know if I can survive this, Glenn." He dropped his head down in his hands. Glenn walked by ruffling his hair,

"It'll be okay, Ty, it'll be okay."

The rest of the day was spent reading, pacing, eating. McQueen found that after five months of having a diminished appetite, due to the drug addiction, his body was demanding food almost constantly, but was unable to take more than a bite or two at a time. The rehab center must have expected it as well, the larder was well stocked with fairly nutritious, easily prepared foods. Even at that, he found his tolerance for the frustration of opening a package, and sticking it into the microwave to be nonexistent. The cramps didn't return. Ross watched him. Several times he offered to fix the food, but McQueen seemed to need the activity. In the early afternoon McQueen threw down the book he'd been trying to read.

"I've got to get a shower." He stood and strode towards the bathroom. Ross stood too. Since the attempt in the morning, McQueen had made no effort to escape. Still, Ross felt the need to warn him,

"I already checked out the bathroom windows, they look pretty secure."

"Well, I managed to escape the AIs."

"Yeah," Ross grinned, "But it took me to help you out."

McQueen almost returned the smile, and walked out of the room. When the bathroom opened a few moments later, McQueen stood in the door. He'd put on the sweat pants, and was combing his hair, beads of water still standing on his chest. Ross looked up at him and smiled,

"Well, I guess I can see the bastard's point of view."

"What?"

"Well," Ross shrugged, "You are one pretty man."

McQueen rolled his eyes, a sign that he had regained his good humor, "Not you, too?"

Ross chuckled, "No, not me too. Just making an editorial comment." He perused his friend more closely, "Looks like you really are feeling better, want to play some gin rummy?"

After several hands, where he found his pile of matches shrinking, and Ty's growing, Glenn threw down his cards, "Well there's another stereotype tossed in a cocked hat."

McQueen looked up from his own hand and smiled questioningly.

"The one about IVs being bad gamblers. You've won my house, children, next thing to go will be my ship."

McQueen tossed in his cards, too and sat back in the chair. "Well, you can't be good at everything."


Next : Chapter VII

Previous : Chapter V