Disclaimer: Alas, alack, they are not mine. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Title: Country of the Crepescule: Mother's Milk Author: Dryad Rating: PG13, V, MSR Spoilers: 'FTF', 'Requiem', 'DeadAlive', 'Essence' (if you have any clue about S8 you'll be fine, even if you haven't seen DeadAlive or Essence. I think.) Archive: Yes please. A note where would be nice. Summary: Could you resist the temption to eavesdrop on your child? Note: All of the stories in this series are standalones, and take place throughout the show, ranging from PG to NC17. Read in any order ya like. Further notes and commentary at bottom. Feedback: Be brutal. You know you want to. Country of the Crepescule: Local Boy - available soon Mother's Milk - available now Scene from a Road Trip - future release Catch a Falling Star - future release Do You Like Our Owl? - future release Maggie held the photo album tightly to her chest and leaned against the cabinet to close the top drawer. At last, after a week of severe humidity which had swollen every single piece of wood in the house, the air had dried and the drawer no longer squealed when she opened or closed it. And all the doors could be fully closed instead of barely lining up with the jamb. She sighed and turned around, falling against the cabinet. If only Bill and Missy were here in more than spirit. She missed Bill so much. She still found herself waiting for him to call and tell her he was coming home, still looked for his letters in the mailbox. He would have liked Fox, she was sure of it. In fact they were strikingly similar in some regards. She clasped the album with both arms, resting her chin in the gap between the hard leaves. Eight years. He'd been gone for eight years. What was it Dana had said after her first case? That's right, when her father had asked what her new partner was like, Dana had smiled quizzically and said, '"I like him"', and nothing else. Bill had raised an eyebrow and refused to ask her anything else despite Maggie's under the table pokes to his knee. She never would have guessed the two of them would have lasted eight years, nevermind what had happened in the past few months. She'd resigned herself to the fact that only two of her children would ever give her grandchildren, and then this...gift...had come along, one she hadn't prayed for. When Dana had told her, she'd thought her daughter had lost her mind in her grief. Ultimately science had failed and faith had proven stronger. '"We tried in vitro, but it didn't take,"' Dana had said, a look of confused wonder on her face. '"It's a miracle."' And God help her, Maggie had been both horrified and relieved. Sitting there in her own living room, Dana curled up on one corner of the couch, sipping chamomile tea and unconsciously rubbing her belly. Was it Fox's? She didn't know. She assumed so. Dana had never admitted the depth of her feeling for her partner, but still waters ran deep, and Dana had never been one to spill her innermost secrets. At the time she'd simply been grateful at the prospect of another grandchild, grateful her daughter would get to experience the joy of pregnancy and, hopefully, motherhood. Even so, Dana had been but a shell without Fox, a strong one, yet a shell nonetheless. Nonetheless, now he was back, and Dana had blossomed once more. Which was why Maggie found herself in the hallway outside the kitchen, watching their reflection in the collage of family photos on the walls as they washed the dishes. Dinner had been pleasant, if somewhat awkward. Tara had rattled on rather desperately about Matthew's exploits at school, and everyone had ignored Fox's silence. She recognized the haunted look in his eyes, however. She'd seen it often enough in Bill during the early years of their marriage, when he'd had leave during the war. Whatever Fox had been through - and both he and Dana were suspiciously quiet about that - it had come close to destroying him. It had come close to destroying Dana. There but for the grace of God... They looked sweet, standing at the sink together shoulder to shoulder, Fox wrist deep in soapy water, Dana rinsing and drying. Maggie couldn't see them completely, just the brightness of Dana's hair, the navy of her loose sweater, the faded blue of Fox's jeans, their faces hidden in shadow. His head snapped towards Dana, and Maggie could barely see his expression. She thought he might be smiling. It occurred to her that she was eavesdropping, but she so rarely saw them together outside of a hospital she forgave herself and stayed. She strained to hear what they said. "I love you too, Scully," Fox said, staring down at Dana. Maggie rocked back in shock. Loved her how? As a partner? A friend? A lover? Or even, possibly, a husband? No, wait, he'd sounded surprised and pleased and amazed, affectionate. All because Dana said she loved him? Good lord, hadn't they ever said it before? His reflection stuck his hands underneath the flow of clean water and dried them on the towel Dana was holding, turned to face her. After a moment she looked up and faced him too. He traced her cheek with one hand, touched her swollen belly with the other. "Scully's." "Mulder, I hope you're not planning on calling this baby 'Scully' for the rest of his or her life." Maggie hoped not too. She was struck by the tenderness with which Dana drew Fox's head down to kiss him on the forehead. Surely they were lovers? God, she just couldn't tell. Fox slid his hands around the collar of Dana's shirt, then cupped her jaw. What on earth...? "Just checking," he murmured, before leaning down and kissing Dana right on the lips. It was, perhaps, the sweetest kiss Maggie had ever seen. Light, delicate, lingering. She felt priviledged to have witnessed it. A loud thump on the ceiling and a muffled "Matthew Reed Scully!" broke the moment, and when Maggie looked at the photos again, Fox and Dana were washing dishes once more. She closed her eyes and wished with every fiber of her being for them to have a normal life, devoid of death and mayhem. She had a feeling both of them were ready to stop, to just stand still for awhile. To rest. Author's Notes: The title of this series comes from the poem "The Man From Athabaska", by Robert "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" Service. I have no idea if Bill Scully was ever in Vietnam, but what the heck, why not.