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.

A/N:.. I don't usually do notes but.. sorry for the long wait .. no excuses I'm just slow.

Once again – MANY THANKS to Karen, she's the Bestest beta ever, and Vasalysa – who keeps the cheese to a minimum, and offers endless advice and help. What would I do without the two of you?

Small Miracles.

McQueen paced his cabin, examining all his options. As far as he could see he didn't actually have any. Either he asked Commodore Ross, or he didn't. It was as simple as that. Except he didn't have a choice. He had to ask him. Ty flung himself onto his bed and peered at the reason for his worry. After two months aboard the Saratoga, he finally had to let someone else know, and that someone was going to tease him mercilessly. With a sigh of resignation, knowing he couldn't put it off any longer, McQueen got up and headed for the Commodore's quarters, knowing that he'd be there strumming away on his guitar and expecting McQueen to show up at any moment.

Standing outside the door, McQueen took a deep breath and knocked loudly.

"Who's at my hatch?" came the familiar deep growl from within.

"Colonel McQueen, sir," he replied.

"Come on in, Ty," the Commodore growled again.

Still trying to decide whether to ask him now or to wait until they'd had a drink, McQueen stepped through the doorway and pushed it closed behind him.

Ross glanced up at him and shook his head. "What's up, Ty?" he asked.

McQueen frowned. Ross had always been able to read him like a book, no matter how hard he tried not to show his feelings. He stood at parade rest, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"It's this mission, Glen," McQueen said. "I need to ask you to do something for me." He hurried on at his friend's raised eyebrow. "I'm going to be away at least eight days, maybe more, and this is important…."

"If you're going to ask me to look after Dylan and the children for you if anything happens, you know you don't need to ask."

"It's not that," McQueen almost smiled, "though I know you would, Glen. But Dill wouldn't let you. I need you to feed…."

"Ty, I think after all this time I know that your precious bonsais need watering occasionally." Ross twitched a grin.

"Please, Glen, let me finish," McQueen tried again. "When I came back from leave, I brought back a present from my children. I know it's against regs, but I did it anyway."

"Ty McQueen breaking regs?" Ross chuckled. "You've kept it quiet. I've not heard a single whisper."

"No one knows, Glen, except you, and I'd rather it stayed that way," McQueen told him. He took a deep breath. "My children bought me a pet. It'll need feeding and cleaning while I'm away. I'm asking if you'll do that for me, please. It's a hamster... a little furball that keeps me awake at night."

"A hamster?" Ross guffawed. "Good grief, Ty! Of all the things I thought you would say, a hamster was not it. Now fish, I could see you with. Fish… but a hamster? That's a child's pet, Ty."

"Like I said, Glen, my children bought it for me," McQueen said stiffly. "Will you feed it for me?"

"Sit down, Ty, you're making me uncomfortable," Ross told him. "In fact, before you do, pour us both a drink. Of course I'll feed the thing for you. Does it have a name?"

"It does indeed have a name. Stirrup. The children named it," McQueen told him as he poured the drinks.

"Oh dear," Ross chuckled. "It's always a mistake to let your children name things, Ty. You really should have learnt this already."

McQueen quirked a grin as he handed Ross his rum. "That I discovered this last leave. This damn hamster is my own fault. I bought the children pets. I guess they felt I needed one." He sat down and sipped his whiskey.

"What did you buy them, a dog?" Ross asked, his eyes closed as he gently strummed yet another blues riff.

"If only it'd been that easy," McQueen sighed. "I bought Cameron what he desperately wanted and got myself in Dill's bad books because of it. Made a whole lot of work for myself too. If I ever say I can do carpentry, just remind me that I can't."

"Carpentry?" Ross asked, opening his eyes and staring at McQueen.

"It's a long story," McQueen smiled. "Involving pigs, goats, rabbits and a whole lot of wood."

Ross's eyes grew wide. "Now you have to tell me," he grinned. "As your commanding officer, I'm making it an order."

"Well," McQueen told him, "it started with a piglet…."

By the time he'd finished telling the story, Ross had tears streaming down his face.

"I can just see the expression on your face when Dylan said she'd get help... that 'I'm a Marine, I can do this' look you get," Ross laughed. "Oh, the humiliation... the honour of the corps at stake!"

"It's not that funny Glen," McQueen scowled.

"Yes, it is. You forget I've known you a long time, Ty. It's taken you years to accept that you can't do everything. It must have been so galling to discover that fence building is not a skill you have."

McQueen sipped his whiskey, scowling at Ross.

The following morning at 06:30 the 58th and McQueen were geared up and climbing aboard the ISSAPC that was parachuting them behind enemy lines. They were on a fact finding mission. McQueen didn't like it. Radio silence the whole time, except for a five mike window each day enabling them to zip the information they'd gathered about the enemy's troop movements, supplies and numbers, back to the Saratoga. They had no idea when they'd be picked up. Eight days was an estimate. At some point towards the end of that time they'd be given co-ordinates for their pick up. But until then, they were on their own.

Of course it wasn't the first such mission they'd had, and McQueen was sure it wouldn't be the last. But something about it gave him the jitters, and he had them triple check their gear before they got on board. His nervousness was made all the worse when the door to the bay slammed open and Ross strode through it, a look of deadly seriousness on his face.

"Colonel McQueen?"

"Sir!" McQueen almost jumped to attention, he was so nervous.

"I came to let you know," Ross's eyes twinkled, seeing the nervousness McQueen displayed. It wasn't obvious to anyone else, but Ross knew the signs, "that you needn't worry about it. I'll take care of it for you. It'll be waiting for you when you get back."

Ross watched with delight as he saw realisation dawn on McQueen's face, and the glare he gave him before speaking.

"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt of your abilities. Just don't lose it, sir, or Dill will kill us both."

With that, McQueen turned and herded the 58th onto the ISSAPC, while Ross chuckled softly, as McQueen turned to give him one final glare before the doors closed.

Three days later they huddled together for warmth in their one remaining tent. The rain had started that morning. Within seconds it had been falling so heavily that they were all soaked to the skin, and the girls - Major Shane Vansen and Captain Vanessa Damphousse - had disappeared into their tent to put on dry clothing while McQueen and Hawkes hastily arranged some tarps to keep the worst of the rain off their campsite.

West had been standing guard when he'd heard the rumbling over the steady noise of the rain. His heart had stopped in his chest as he'd realised what he was hearing. With a cry, he'd leapt forward and grabbed both girls, pulling them out of their tent as the flash flood burst through the trees, carrying away the tent and all it's contents. McQueen and Hawkes had grabbed their packs just in time, though McQueen's pack had got a severe soaking before he'd managed to hoist it onto his back. Hawkes had grabbed for the second tent, and somehow managed to climb up into a tree whilst hanging on to it.

They'd spent five hours huddled in the trees - trees which had been their cover, and now were the only thing between them and the raging torrent below - before the water had subsided enough to allow them to get down and search for a safer camp site. By the time they found one that was to McQueen's satisfaction, they were all covered in filthy, stinking mud from the flood, and both girls were practically blue with cold, still wearing only the underwear they'd been in when West had grabbed them.

The three men had rummaged in their packs for dry clothing. McQueen discovered his pack hadn't been properly closed and, to his disgust, everything was wet. Hawkes and West, however, had dry flight suits that they gave to the girls. Then they'd stripped off their wet ones and hung them to dry as best they could outside, under more hastily arrange tarps, while they huddled in the sleeping bags with the girls for warmth. They'd grumbled incessantly about sharing the bags, until McQueen had snapped at them that they needed to share warmth, unless they wanted to get hypothermia. His mood had been bad ever since he'd found the radio had also got wet, and until it dried out they'd have no idea of how badly damaged it was.

McQueen sat at the entrance to the tent and scowled furiously. After checking over their rations he'd found that they'd lost over half of them, that half being in the girl's packs. So not only were they cold and wet, they were going to be hungry too. McQueen fidgeted. His spare flight suit was wet and hanging up to dry, but he wasn't going to take off the one he wore. He had on under his turtleneck the t-shirt Dill had sent him, with the picture of her decked out in sexy underwear and stockings. He'd taken to wearing it at times of stress, and this mission had stressed him from the moment he'd read the briefing notes. He figured the t-shirt was his version of Hamish's comfort blanket, but no one else needed to see it.

McQueen thanked God that he wasn't wearing the black silk boxers she'd sent him. At least if he had to strip off, the t-shirt would be hidden. But everyone would see his boxers. He hadn't yet got up the courage to wear them, afraid of the fact that he couldn't send them to the laundry without scuttlebutt having it ship-wide by the end of the day. The t-shirt he'd washed in his bathroom, but he wasn't sure about the boxers. He'd probably ruin them.

As he sat there, cold and miserable, McQueen's mind ran aimlessly while he watched the surrounding area carefully. At least all the rain would keep the chigs indoors, he figured. They hated the wet. Suddenly he felt a warm glow deep inside him; a distinct feeling of happiness, joy and childish delight. It instantly made him think of home, and despite himself, he smiled, picturing his three children as he'd last seen them. The boys: three year old twins, the image of him, standing in their pyjamas to wave him goodbye. The smaller of the two, Cameron, clutching his 'daddy doll' Cashus tightly to him, whilst his thumb was firmly wedged in his mouth and tears threatened to fall. Hamish, a head taller than his brother, his lip trembling, and his little head bobbing as he desperately tried not to cry. Both of them fair like him, with eyes that changed their shade of blue with their moods, just as his did. Isobel - Izzy - held in Dill's arms as she cried and called for him, desperate for her daddy to come back to her... tears streaming down her little face as she watched him being driven away by her beloved Gamma, Dill's mother Moira. And then there was Dill - Dylan - his wife. Small and elfin like, with big blue eyes and a cheeky grin that he loved so much, her hair a mass of wild curls that bobbed as she spoke, or laughed, or giggled, as she so frequently did.

McQueen sighed, a great chest heaving sigh, and reached to hold onto the feeling of home. Something that as an invitro, he'd never thought he would ever have. He'd gone twenty years feeling like an outsider... the scum of the earth. Twenty years, during which he'd suffered all manner of abuse, from the physical to the verbal, and just about everything in between. Even during his first marriage he'd never really felt comfortable. And then six years ago he'd met Dylan, and it was as if everything had fallen into place. McQueen smiled to himself. She'd never cared that he was a tank. His birth had never been an issue for her. The very fact that he'd spent the first eighteen years of his life in a growth tank before being decanted, and sent for five hellish years to the uranium mines on Omicron Draconis, was something that brought out her maternal instincts, and he had to admit sometimes he felt like he was the fourth child in the family as she bossed him about endlessly.

McQueen knew Dill couldn't help it, and in fact he knew he responded to it surprisingly well. It was one of the things he loved about her. She knew she did it and tried hard not to, but at each and every turn she found herself doing it again. He knew, though he'd never admit it to her, that he played up to it. He loved the feeling that he was being looked after. Even after six years it was still a feeling he enjoyed. McQueen was aware that his therapist, Hilary, felt that Dill was smothering him... dominating him. But he'd yet to get her to understand that that was what he wanted. What he needed. It seemed that only Dill understood that, and even then it wasn't a conscious understanding on her part.

McQueen turned as he felt movement behind him, and a hand rested gently on his shoulder. It was Damphousse, who'd come to sit beside him.

"Sir, why don't you take off that wet suit and get into the bags with the others. I'm dry and warm now. I can take a watch," she said softly, her voice low so that only he could hear her.

"Thank you, Vanessa, but I'm okay," he told her.

"Sir, you're soaked through. You'll get pneumonia," she persisted.

"I said I'm fine, Captain," McQueen snapped. Instantly he was sorry for snipping at her. "I'm sorry, Vanessa. I appreciate your thoughts, but I'm fine. Honestly. I won't get pneumonia, I promise." He gave her a small, quick smile.

Vanessa looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then, her brown eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter, she asked, "Are you wearing them, sir? Is that why you won't strip off?"

McQueen looked at her - at this lovely black woman sitting beside him. Her concern for him obvious. Of all his 'kids', Damphousse was the one who knew him better than he'd ever realised. He smiled at her, remembering that she'd seen the silk boxers Dill had stashed in his bag.

"No, Vanessa, I'm not wearing them." For a moment McQueen hesitated, then, "I haven't worn them. I daren't send them to the laundry."

"Oh no, sir, the last thing you want to do is send them to the laundry. They'll ruin them!" 'Phousse exclaimed.

"I know. They ruined a shirt that Dill sent me," he smiled sadly.

"That lovely blue one, which matched your eyes?" she asked.

McQueen looked at her long and hard. "Should I be worried that you know exactly which shirt I'm referring to?"

Vanessa blushed. "Sorry, sir," she whispered. Then she looked up at him and smiled. "But since you met your wife, sir, we've watched your six the whole time. We know whenever she sends you new clothes. Shane and I probably know your wardrobe as well as you do, sir. Sorry. I realise you feel it's an invasion of your privacy, but really sir, it's just that… well… we care about you."

McQueen turned away from her. "I know you do, Vanessa," he whispered, "I appreciate it. More than you realise."

Again he felt her hand on his shoulder. "No, sir. We know how much you care for us. What you did to keep us together... what you continue to do, sir." Damphousse squeezed his shoulder. "And sir, I have some special soap just for washing silk, so if you want to wear them, I'll give it to you when we get back."

McQueen turned to look at her, his face flushed. "Thank you, Vanessa. I'll ask Dill to send me some."

"Now then, sir, go on. Go get out of those wet things and get yourself warm, please," she pleaded.

Smiling, he acquiesced. "Okay, but call me if you see anything."

"Yes, sir!" Vanessa grinned, as McQueen crawled back into the tent, careful not to disturb any of the sleeping bodies already wedged into the sleeping bags.

After wriggling around to get himself out of the cold, wet suit, McQueen passed it to Damphousse, who hung it out with the others in the vain hopes that it might dry. He lay down, closer to Vansen than he would have liked, but there was no space anywhere else. He curled onto his side, his hand wandering unconsciously under his turtleneck to stroke the picture of Dill as he fell almost instantly asleep, more tired and exhausted than he'd realised.

Damphousse sat and watched him. She smiled as she saw him curl up and go to sleep, his back to Vansen, but frowned as she saw his hand wander under his shirt. Once he woke up, she decided, she was going to insist she take a look at his ribs. If he was cradling them in his sleep then at the very least he'd bruised them.

McQueen woke up to the smell of food, and his stomach growled loudly. He stretched himself, trying to work out the kinks in his muscles, groaning as he realised his shirt was still damp. Sitting up, he looked about. He was alone in the tent, and the rain seemed to have stopped. He could see the others sitting outside around a small fire, heating up some of their precious MREs. Reaching for his pack, McQueen wondered if he dare risk taking off his turtleneck so that he could take off the damp t-shirt underneath. He checked the others again. None of them were looking in his direction. He shifted himself so he sat with his back to them and began pulling the turtleneck over his head.

"Careful, sir!" he heard Damphousse say from behind him. "I saw the way you hugged your ribs. If you've bruised them, maybe we should strap you up for a while. Let me see."

"My ribs are fine, Damphousse," he told her, his voice muffled as he pulled the turtleneck back down.

"Sir, you lay down and cradled your ribs. It's no use pretending you haven't hurt yourself. That was a give away," she said sternly.

"Damphousse, I haven't hurt my ribs! Now can I please finish taking off my damp shirt with at least a pretence at privacy?" he snapped, refusing to turn around even though she placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Sir, please let me see your ribs. I'll worry all day if you don't. And at least I'll be able to tell the others that you're fine. We're worried about you, sir," Vanessa pleaded.

"You told the others I was hurt?" McQueen was furious with her. "Damn you, captain! You wanna see my ribs? Here, look!" He turned to face her and pulled his clothing over his head and off, so that he was clad only in his khaki boxers. "See? No bruises. No nothing! I'm fine, just as I said I was! What is this? 'Be over protective of McQueen' day?" He shivered in the cold.

Damphousse stifled a gasp as she saw the scars on his chest. The fact that he'd actually gotten a suntan whilst on leave made them appear paler, so that they stood out more.

"Happy now?" McQueen snapped, feeling vulnerable and self conscious, unhappy that she'd seen how bad his scars were. The only person he felt totally at ease with about them was Dill. "See anything you like?"

"Colonel, you're cold. Come outside and sit by the fire. We've heated you an MRE. I'm sorry I didn't believe you, but you were hugging yourself in your sleep," Vanessa told him apologetically, a blush creeping up her face. She was overcome with guilt that she'd pushed him when he was so obviously uncomfortable about showing his body.

"Well, I'm fine. Go tell the others I'm fine, and if our clothes are at least drier than they were earlier, tell them we're moving out!"

Damphousse nodded at him and left him alone. He was obviously now in a bad mood, and it might be best to just let him work himself out of it.

"But our clothes are still damp!" Hawkes groaned when she told them they were moving on.

"Yeah, we'll all get pneumonia or something," West muttered as he pulled his still damp flight suit from the makeshift line.

"What's the matter, Hawkes? Afraid you'll catch a chill? Put them on and stop griping!" McQueen scowled as he emerged from the tent, his turtleneck back on, as he reached checking to see which of his flight suits was the driest. "Eat your food and let's pack up. We need to get to our next set of co-ordinates before it starts raining again. Vansen, you check the radio?"

"Yes, sir. It's drying out. There doesn't seem to be too much damage. I think we can still receive, but maybe not send," she fidgeted awkwardly.

"And?" McQueen demanded as he pulled his suit on and zipped it up.

"Maybe it's the other way around, but I won't know until it's properly dry."

"So why are you sitting around? Get it dried off ASAP, major!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" she returned before scurrying off to find something to dry the radio.

"Sir," Damphousse held out an MRE to him, "you need to eat too, sir."

"I don't have time to eat," he told her, disappearing back into the tent to find his boots.

"What crawled up his butt in the night?" Hawkes muttered. "We're cold and wet and he won't let us stay here. It ain't like the chigs are gonna be any better off than us, is it?"

"Hell, Hawkes, he's in a bad enough mood already. Don't piss him off anymore, man!" West grumbled. "Who knows how long he'll make us march before he's happy."

"Do you people have a problem? Shall I say it again in words of two syllables? Get your gear packed and move out!" McQueen yelled at them as he emerged, pack in hand from the tent.

They scurried about while McQueen stood and glared at them, before he stormed off to scout out the area ahead of them, his M-590 gripped firmly in his hands. When he returned ten mikes later they'd cleared the camp and were sitting waiting for him, their faces sullen as he told them to get moving.

Four hours later he stopped, allowing them to rest, and rummaged in his pack for a ration bar. Despite his protest to Damphousse earlier, he was hungry and should have eaten the MRE they'd heated for him. Somehow though, despite his hunger, his appetite just wasn't there. He didn't let them stop for long and they were heading off in less than twenty mikes, much to the general disgust of Hawkes who complained loudly enough to get McQueen glaring at him.

"I've had a bellyful of this bitching and moaning!" he yelled at them. "So you're wet. You're tired. You're hungry. You're Marines! Deal with it! My children whine less than you people do! Now get your gear and let's move it!"

Eight days later they emerged into the bright lights of the landing bay, dirty, smelly, exhausted, and half starved. Their food had run out two days previously and they had run into two separate chig patrols, during which they had all received minor wounds. The squad had feared for McQueen's life as he had quite obviously taken his rage and frustration out on the chigs, taking risks they knew were unnecessary and dangerous, snarling at them if they dared to tell him to be careful.

"Okay, people," McQueen growled at them. "Hit the showers, sickbay and get some food, in that order. Then hit your racks. We'll debrief at," he looked at his watch, "20:00 hours."

There was a communal groan as they realised he'd allowed them a mere four hours before the de-briefing.

"Bitching again?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.

"Sir, no, sir!" they yelled in unison, before they ran for the doorway as fast as they could, skidding to a halt as Commodore Ross stepped through the hatch in front of them.

"Colonel McQueen?" he asked them.

"Collecting his gear, sir!" Vansen answered, snapping off a smart salute as she did so.

Ross's nostrils quivered and his dark face twitched. "5-8, get to the showers now. Double time!" he ordered.

"Sir, yes, sir!" they bellowed and ran from the room.

McQueen stepped out of the ISSAPC as Ross approached it. "Commodore," he said softly.

"Ty," Ross let him know this was an informal visit. "Phew, you stink as badly as your kids do! Let me tell you what I need to on the way to your quarters."

McQueen looked at him worriedly. "Is something wrong, Glen?" he asked as they made their way to the hatch.

"I'm afraid I have bad news, Ty," Ross told him seriously.

McQueen stopped dead in his tracks, his face paling. "Is it Dill? The children? What's happened to them?"

"Relax, Ty," Ross smiled, reaching a hand to grip his friend's shoulder. "It's not them. As far as I know, they're fine. This is something else."

"Something else?" McQueen queried as he began walking again, only to stop and stare at the tall black man. "You've killed the hamster, haven't you? What did you do to it? Forget to feed it?"

"It may not actually be dead. But it's been four days, and although I've put food down, there's no sign of it," Ross admitted. "I swear I shut the lid properly, but the next morning I arrived to feed it and it was gone. No sign of it. I searched your quarters thoroughly and I couldn't find it. Hell, I even put a bowl of maple syrup down for it," he grinned, "but it hasn't turned up. I'm sorry, Ty."

McQueen glared at him. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I'm going to be in when the boys find out?" he asked him.

"Don't tell them," Ross offered as they reached the door to McQueen's quarters.

"Don't tell them? Damn, Glen, they expect regular updates on how it's doing, complete with pictures!" McQueen turned and opened the door, stepping carefully in case Stirrup should be on the floor.

About to throw his pack onto his bed, he stopped and placed it carefully on the floor instead, before stripping the bed slowly, just in case the hamster was lurking there. Satisfied it wasn't, he sat down and glared at Ross. "Damn you, Glen! How difficult is it to look after a hamster? I managed it. I should have known you'd do something like this!"

Ross sat down at one of McQueen's two desks. "I was doing exactly what you told me! I took it out and stroked it, said hello to it, and put it back. I know I shut the lid. It must be faulty. It's not my fault, Ty."

"What am I going to tell the boys?" McQueen sighed.

"Just at the moment I think your priority should be getting in the shower. What in God's name are you covered in? You stink to high hell!" Ross chuckled. "You can worry about your children afterwards. Take my advice - shower, eat and sleep. After that anything will seem easier."

"Just what I told the 58th," McQueen smiled. "Though I've kinda got used to the smell."

"Well, I haven't, so go clean up and I'll see you later in my quarters for a drink. Usual time?" Ross asked, getting up and heading for the door.

"Yeah, usual time. We're de-briefing at 20:00, then I'll come on over to you. Boy, am I ready for a stiff drink," McQueen smiled.

"Well, I have more of that whiskey Dylan keeps me supplied with especially for you," Ross chuckled.

"You have more? Did we get a mail call while we were gone?" McQueen asked, looking around at his desks.

"We did indeed," Ross told him.

"So where's my mail?"

"Er," Ross's smile turned to a frown, "there was no mail for you."

"What d'ya mean, no mail?" McQueen looked confused. "I always get mail. Dill always sends me mail."

"Nothing came, Ty. I'm sorry." Ross headed to the door. "Maybe it'll come next time."

"Yeah, maybe," McQueen muttered despondently as Ross pulled the door shut behind him.

Emptying his pack and checking his laundry bag for Stirrup before filling it with his flight suits and clothes from the mission, McQueen grabbed his t-shirt and stripped off, heading for the shower. He stood and let the hot water run over his filthy body for a few moments before reaching for his shampoo and washing his hair. He washed it twice before it finally felt clean and he moved to his mud stained body. As he reached for the shower soap, McQueen caught movement out of the corner of his eye. There, sitting amongst the soap bottles, was Stirrup. A very wet and miserable looking Stirrup to be sure, but definitely his own golden hamster.

"Hey you," he smiled. "You're soaked. Where the hell have you been? I'll bet you're hungry, too," Ty reached out and took the little creature in his hands.

Turning off the water and reaching for a towel to dry it off, McQueen carried the hamster back into the main room and rubbed it dry before putting it back in its home, making sure the lid was securely closed.

"Now just you stay in there while I get clean, and once I'm dressed, I'll get you some food and fresh water," he told it before heading back into the shower.

Finally emerging feeling clean at last, McQueen rummaged for clean clothes. His hand felt the soft silk of the boxers and he remembered Damphousse saying she had soap to wash them if he wore them. For a second he hesitated, but his sadness at having received no mail from Dill or the children overcame him, and he felt suddenly terribly homesick. The boxers were being pulled on before he'd even realised he'd done it.

McQueen stood there wearing only his boxers, looking at himself in the mirror. They were looser than he normally wore, and he wasn't sure if he liked them or not. He shimmied his hips and watched as the fabric moved, then scowled as he realised what he was doing. He dragged a turtleneck out of the drawer and pulled it on. A clean flight suit following rapidly.

By the time he'd pulled on socks and laced his boots, Ty'd remonstrated with himself for being such a fool, and turned his attention to the hamster that was sound asleep in the little plastic boot that Izzy had chosen for it. He checked that it had fresh water and enough food, and double checked the lid, finally placing a heavy book on the top just to make sure it couldn't escape again. Then creeping out quietly so that he didn't disturb it, he went to get himself some food.

Dill strolled along the path to her mother's house, smiling at the children in front of her. Hamish, holding Izzy's hand as they chased after Cameron, who had finally learned to ride his new bicycle. He was so proud to have a new bike, even though it was a tricycle. She remembered the look on his face when the delivery van had pulled up outside their house two days before the boys' third birthday. She'd panicked, wondering what the hell Ty'd bought them now, and had been relieved to see that it was only a bike for Cameron. Though the row boat for Hamish had surprised her, until Hamish had screamed in delight that daddy had got him a real pirate boat, and she'd seen painted on the prow a skull and cross bones. It was things like that, she thought, that reminded her of why she loved him so much.

That and the memory of him and the children out on the loch in the boat. Dill shook her head. Was it really only two months ago? Ty and the boys, with bandanas on their heads and eye patches he'd made for them, pretending to be real pirates as they'd raided the kitchen for food, claiming to be starving after their trip around the high seas, threatening her with plastic cutlasses, and ordering her to get them drinks and food or walk the plank.

She was still smiling when she reached her mother's house.

"Oh, Dylan, there you are!" her mother cried. "What took you so long?" She looked at Dill's face. "Oh, dreaming about T.C. again, are we? I see. Well, come in. I have something I want you to see." Moira took her into her study, away from the children, and clicked up a page on her computer. "Read this. It arrived today." She left Dill to read it.

Ten minutes later Dill emerged. "Is this your doing, mother?"

"No. They asked me if you'd be interested. They obviously felt you did a good job with T.C. and that Cooper chappie. Though I'm sure they didn't expect the end result." Moira smiled wryly at her daughter.

"None of us did, mother. That was just my good fortune," Dill grinned back. "But what do you think? Should I? Apparently it'd be safe for the children to come. And to be honest I think they'd be a help."

"Are you going to do it?" Moira asked, handing her a cup of tea.

"I don't know. I'd like to ask Ty, but the mail takes forever and they want to know by the end of the month," Dill told her, sipping at the tea as she sat down. "What should I do?"

"I think maybe we'll see if we can't wangle a live link to the Saratoga for you. If they want you enough, they'll agree to letting you speak to your husband about it first. You just tell them you can't make a decision until you've spoken to him. After all, he might not be happy with you and the children going into space, and then what would you do?"

"That's simple, mother. If Ty says no, then I won't do it." Dill put her cup on the table.

"Really? Are you feeling alright?" Moira reached a hand out to feel her forehead. "That doesn't sound like the Dylan I know."

"They're his children too, mother. If he doesn't feel it's safe for them, then who am I to argue? After all, he does know what he's talking about. He's been out there long enough…," she was interrupted by one of her young sons.

"Mummy! Quick! Izzy's eating a bug!" Cameron told her, his eyes wide. "It's a wriggly one, mummy!"

Dill dashed into the other room and came back with her 18 month old daughter in her arms. She held her firmly over the kitchen sink and washed her mouth out with soap while her mother and sons watched. Once she was done she put the now screaming toddler down and sat back down with her tea. "And I'll do that every time you eat a bug, young lady! And crying for daddy won't help you either!"

"Finally trying to break her of that disgusting habit, are you?" Moira laughed. "Well, a least if you do go, there'll be no bugs for her to eat."

"Oh, she'd find something, don't you worry," Dill said, finishing her tea. "Right. I'll go tell them I need to talk to Ty first, and ask them to arrange it. Then I shall take my brood home and feed them before I put them to bed and sit down to read the latest batch of letters from Ty."

She was back in ten minutes, and gathering up the children, she headed home, promising the children they could make a disc to send to daddy before they went to bed.

Three weeks later found her packing to take the children into space with her. Dill hadn't been able to speak to Ty. It seemed that the Saratoga was too far away to enable a live link, and so she'd sent him a message telling him about it, and her mother had promised to pull as many strings as she could to ensure he found out sooner rather than later. It had been a hard decision for her to make, but she'd finally agreed to it after she'd been assured that they would be far behind the battle lines and given large quarters on the space station Mir. She just hoped that it wouldn't fall apart the way its namesake had.

It wasn't for long, Dill kept telling herself… a simple six month stint doing what she knew how to do. What she'd done already, she smiled. Well, of course helping Ty to play had been easy once he'd finally let himself go. And Cooper had been just a big kid himself. Would the other invitros she was going to deal with be as easy as they had? She certainly had a much better understanding of invitros now, and that would definitely stand her in good stead.

Closing the case, she frowned. It hadn't been that long ago that she'd told Ty she was too busy with the children to work, and now here she was dragging them across the universe so that she could. Considering he'd made it obvious that he thought she should be at home with the children and not working, she wasn't at all convinced he'd be pleased about it. She was hoping, however, that it might make it easier for them to get together. Cameron had been telling her a lot just lately that daddy was angry, or upset or just plain unhappy. Ty's therapist Hilary had told her he'd started missing sessions too, and she was seriously worried about him. Not half as worried as I am, Dill thought, as she put the case on the floor and picked up another to begin filling.