Three days before Christmas Eve, Cam has planted himself at the chair-height section of the kitchen counter, rolling out the dough for the blueberry tartlets -- since he's in residence for Christmas this year, instead of fixing to be exhausted from travel, he's got the time to fuss with some of the more delicate desserts, the kind he hasn't gotten a chance to contribute for a while. It's surprisingly soothing, to build the layers and layers of pastry crust; after a few of them, he's nearly reached a Zen-like trance, shutting out the chaos and confusion of the House During Christmas Week until it barely reaches his ears.

Of course, the iPod helps with that, too. He and JD really should have bought another one -- with a larger hard drive -- by now, but it's more fun to bitch at each other for replacing the contents; he managed to steal it out of JD's sock drawer and switch it over this morning, and he's got Zeppelin cranked up so high that he can't hear anything but the Queen of Light took her bow and then she turned to go; the Prince of Peace embraced the gloom and walked the night alone. He's just gotten up to singing along with waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow when two hands lift the earbuds out of his ears.

"Herd of thundering elephants could sneak up on you," JD says, mildly.

Cam tips his head back to squint up at JD, who's got his elbows planted right in the knots in Cam's shoulders and is leaning on them. Feels good; he's achey today, from the cold, from the weather, from all the baby-wrangling duties he can't help but keep contributing to even when he knows he shouldn't. "The herd of thundering elephants don't get out of school until three," he says.

From the baby sling against JD's chest, AJ -- who makes enough noise to be considered a herd of thundering elephants all by his lonesome -- bangs his baby fist against Cam's head. JD reaches out to capture AJ's hand before Cam can tell if he's drumming in time with Bonham or not. "Still," JD says. "Bad idea to drown out the background."

There's nothing in JD's voice that even hints at censure. It's just a statement, like any statement JD makes. But Cam takes the meaning anyway, sudden and sharp. Cam's never been ground forces, never had any experience with being somewhere where his awareness of the surrounding area could make the difference between life and death (his or others'). JD is telling him without actually telling him that it's time to start thinking that way.

Cam reaches down and shuts off the iPod; he leaves flour smudges on the click wheel, and the tinny noise from the earbuds cuts off. "Yeah, okay," he says. There's an argument waiting there, lurking underneath the muddy waters, but he doesn't feel like having it now; it's going to be one of the ones where they shout at each other for a good hour or two, and now isn't the time or the place for it. It's going to be the one (on the surface) about how they've promised each other that what they're doing isn't going to come crashing into their lives here, about how there's no need for him to be on edge and jumping at shadows in his momma's own kitchen, and -- deeper down, in the parts where Cam wouldn't admit it out loud even if you put hot pokers to his feet -- the one about how bitter he is that he isn't going to be able to go follow JD even if (even though) he wants to.

They've been having that one a lot lately. Hard to feel like you're a valuable and useful member of a team when the most you're preparing for is to sit in the kitchen and make blueberry tarts.

"Pair of hands," JD says, and holds his up. "What do you need me to do?"

Freed of JD's restraint, AJ grabs a handful of Cam's hair. Cam winces. "Keep the baby out of my hair," he says. "Literally. Other'n that, I'm good."

He could actually use a few things from the pantry, but he's not directly at the point of needing them yet, and when he gets there, he's pretty sure he's going to haul his sorry carcass out of the chair and get them himself, instead of asking JD for them. And he's pretty sure that JD will let him, because he knows that JD knows how fucking helpless he's feeling. They haven't actually had that particular fight yet, and Cam thinks they're not going to, because JD won't let them. JD's just been -- quietly and without fanfare -- letting Cam push himself as far as he can go, instead of jumping in to ease the way.

And a year ago, Cam would have fussed to beat the band about it. A year ago, Cam would have called JD names, stormed and raged and accused, called it manipulation and ostentation and worse. Now, he recognizes it for what it is. The tough part of loving someone, Momma always used to say, is giving them what they need, not what you want to give them; doing things the way they need them done, not the way you want to do them. Cam knows JD well enough by now to know that for him, watching Cam struggle is a torment, because the way JD shows love is to do. But right now, the last thing Cam needs is to be done for, and JD -- now -- knows that.

So he changes his mind, and says, "Actually, I could use another cup of coffee," and a little bit of the tension around JD's eyes eases.

"I'll make a new pot," JD says. "This one looks like it's been sitting all afternoon."

Cam laughs. "Yeah, well. So've I."

He watches as JD makes himself busy with coffee beans, filter. Something in the way JD's moving, something in the way JD isn't quite meeting his eyes but at the same time isn't looking away, something in the way JD is holding his shoulders or his head or even just the way JD is being more solicitous than usual, makes Cam add things up.

"You've got your plan, don't you," he says.

JD's shoulders tense. His hand comes up automatically to cradle the back of AJ's head, the same gesture Cam's seen a thousand times before. Right now, though, it takes on a new meaning, one Cam thinks might be I'm leaving, but I'm not leaving you. "Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."

I. Not we. Cam fights the urge to close his eyes, fights the nausea that's starting to rise from the pit of his stomach. He knew this was coming. He's been ready for it. Doesn't change the fact that hearing it hurts like hell.

"Okay," he says. He sets down the pastry-cutter; he's too stirred up for such delicate work, and the world won't end if the tarts are a few hours late. He can hear his own voice; it's calmer than he thought it would be. "Okay. Tell me what you need me to do. Tell me what part you need me to play."

He's expecting instructions, or a demurral until later -- the kitchen's empty right now, but that could change any second, especially once the kids get home from school -- or even a fight about how much JD's going to tell him and how much JD's going to hold back. He's already been bracing himself for the fact that JD doesn't want him to know what's going on, and getting any information out of him is going to be like pulling teeth. He's not ready for what JD does, which is drop the basket for the coffeemaker on the counter with a sharp clack like his hand just wouldn't hold it anymore and cross over to where Cam's sitting with two quick steps.

JD puts both of his hands on the side of Cam's cheeks, cradling his face, the tips of his fingers curling around the back of Cam's head and biting into his scalp. "I love you," JD says. Fiercely, elementally, like his words alone could save the world. "I love you so fucking much."

It renders Cam down, renders him up. It isn't that JD never says it. He does. More, now, than he did when they started; more often, more-frequently unprompted, more in the light of day and more-increasingly either with an audience or without. But the sound in JD's voice now is harsh and emphatic and uncompromising, bedrock-firm and bedrock-stable. It's the kind of sound you can build on, the kind of sound you cradle close and hold for all the nights when your bed will be cold and lonely.

It makes the backs of Cam's eyeballs itch, like he's feeling so much, so deeply, he can't even find the tears he knows are lurking there somewhere. "Love you too," he says, covering his reaction with briskness. AJ reaches out his tiny chubby baby hand and touches Cam's chin. Cam blinks a few times; the kitchen's going swimmy. "But that wasn't an answer."

"I know, dammit." JD exhales out, one brisk and tortured sigh, and bends so that his forehead's touching Cam's. "You're not going to like it."

"Yeah," Cam says. "Yeah. I kinda got that impression already."

When they finally do get around to being able to talk about it -- later that night, after all the kids have gone to sleep and all the adults have started to follow, once the house is shut up and settled down and they're in bed with a kitten trying to climb under the covers between them, once the lights are out and JD can strip down and settle himself along Cam's back and speak into his hair instead of having to meet his eyes -- Cam realizes JD was right. He doesn't like it. At all.

"You're saying that you don't trust me," he says. Flatly; he's trying to keep his temper. Won't do anyone any good for this to degenerate into a shouting match, and if they wake up the rest of the house there'll be hell to pay. It's why, he thinks, JD saved it until now, instead of taking them out to the office in the barn and letting them shout themselves stupid. They'll have to watch their tempers, here. "You're saying that you don't think I can be a part of this without fucking it up for you."

"No," JD says. Firm and quick and emphatic, a denial that's completely instinctive and (Cam thinks) completely wholehearted. "No. That's not it. Not at all. I'd trust you with anything. With everything. But I don't want you to worry any more than you already will."

"Worry more if I don't know what's going on," Cam says. "Worry more if I have to imagine the worst-case scenario for the entire time you'll be --"

Gone, he starts to say, and then it all catches up with him all at once. He's sending JD off to Ba'al. The man -- Goa'uld -- who tortured and killed Jack O'Neill, over and over and over again, for nothing more than a piece of information that Jack O'Neill didn't even have. The one Goa'uld out of all of them, according to JD, who actually displayed any sign of adaptability, of intelligence.

He's sending his lover straight into the snake's den, and JD might not ever be coming back.

The realization washes over him, and for a minute it's like he's standing outside his own body, looking down at himself -- curling up into a ball, his wrists and elbows and knees all shaking, his heart racing and his chest thick and tight like bricks are pressing down on it. He tries to breathe, keep breathing, since that's the only thing he knows how to do. It's not physical pain. He knows how to handle physical pain by now; it's a lover as intimate as JD is to him, companion and mistress and bane and constant irritant. But this is something that isn't physical at all, and it hurts so much he wants to scream.

JD is speaking. It takes a minute for the words to make their way through Cam's awareness. "-- know how to do this," JD is saying. "I don't know how to handle this. I've never been here before. There's never been anyone --"

Cam takes a deep breath; it feels like trying to get your lungs back after you've been thrown off a horse and had the air knocked clean out of you. It catches on the inhale, and he tightens his chest and his throat. He will not let it turn into a sob. He tries to remember everything they've learned about how to fight clean, everything they've figured out about each other's sore spots and trigger-points and places they can't ever go unless they really mean it. He won't let this turn into something ugly. "I need to know," he says. "You want to -- to protect me. To keep me safe. To keep me out of it. That won't work. I need to know what you're doing and where you're going and what your plan is. I need to know I'm doing everything I possibly can to help, and I need to know what I'm sending you into."

Cam thinks JD might be controlling himself as much as he is. So, neither of them want this to turn ugly. That's going to help. They've spent a year and a half learning each other in and out, and it might not have been long enough, but it's what they've got to work with and it'll have to do. For a second, Cam thinks that everything they've done and been to each other so far, every moment they've spent learning how to love each other, might have been leading them to this bed and this conversation and this set of choices.

"I was in Poland," JD says, and to anyone else it might sound like a non-sequitur, but Cam hears it as a beginning. "I was in East Berlin. I spent years behind those lines. Doing things nobody should ever have to do, and the whole damn time, I knew it was for -- something bigger than me. Something important. And I got through it. Because I had Sara waiting for me on the other side, and she was -- untouched. Separate."

Each word sounds like it's being torn out of JD's chest, like he's reaching into his heart and pulling out pieces of the shattered whole that have been held together for years by nothing more than force of will. "I had to have her there," JD is saying, and Cam understands. He does. He's never done anything like what JD -- like what O'Neill -- did; he knows that, even if he doesn't know the exact details of what O'Neill did, even if he knows that some of the stains on JD's soul, some of the stories inked under his skin, are black enough that no amount of light can ever blow the shadows out of the corners.

But he can remember what it was like to be away at war and know that he had his family, had something waiting for him, something that was clean and pure and wholesome. He remembers the way it used to lift him up over the dark times, and he remembers what coming home used to be: setting it all aside, walking from one world to the next, drawing strength from the knowledge that his own sins would, could, be washed away in the fact that someone, somewhere, believed the best of him. He remembers what it was like to feel like he was lost, drowning, not even knowing himself anymore, and only being able to find his way back through by looking at who he was, reflected in someone else's eyes. Someone who didn't know what he was, what he'd done.

Cam's family is a military family, full of military wives, military husbands, military sons and daughters and mothers and fathers. The Mitchells are divided into those who go and those who stay, and those who stay know every single one of the unspoken, unwritten rules about what they need to do, what they need to be, for those who go. Cam grew up watching his momma's face every time the phone rang, watching his momma welcome his daddy home with open arms and never asking any questions.

Cam isn't his momma. And he will not be a military husband. Not when he remembers being able to be the one who answered the call.

"No," he says. Not loudly, but firmly, what Momma always called his digging-in-his-heels tone of voice. JD knows it too. Cam can feel JD's hand tighten, where it's lying on Cam's hip, and he hears JD draw in a breath to protest. He keeps talking right over top of it, because if he doesn't say this in one full burst he's never going to be able to make it clear at all. "I understand. I do. But baby, you gotta believe me that there ain't nothin' that could make me change my mind."

He's distracted enough, emotional enough, that the endearment slips from his lips without him consciously allowing it; he's always so careful not to say it where JD can hear, because he thinks JD would find it an insult. But JD doesn't protest, and Cam keeps going. "You need to be able to come home and feel clean again. Feel like you got someone who can show you what you were like before you had to go do the things you thought you'd never have to do again. But --"

Cam can hear his voice catching, and he can't stand it; he knows JD won't think him weak for having the emotions, or for letting them show. Not anymore, at least. Once upon a time, JD -- O'Neill -- might have. But Cam can't let this get clouded up by all the things swelling around in his heart and in his head, because this is important, important in a way that none of their arguments have quite been up until now.

He rolls himself over in the bed, coming around to face JD, even though he can't see anything (new moon, closed blinds, no light in the room but the tiny anemic nightlight plugged in next to the door in case Cam has to get up in the middle of the night and hit the john). It takes him a second to find JD's face with his fingertips, but once he does, he can read the expression there, through touch and through knowledge of what there has to be. JD's face is just as he expected it: carefully blank, schooled to nothingness, expressionless and controlled. Cam leaves his fingertips on the curve of JD's cheekbone and says, picking through the minefield of potential words, "Partners. For now. For always. Forever. For everything. Everything. I see you. I know you. All of it, all the way through. You gotta trust me to stand by your side."

They're words he never thought he'd say. Forever. It isn't like he's never been in love before; he's had lovers and he's had people he's loved and he's had people he's been in love with. But it's the first time he's ever said always, everything to anyone, and he means it with all his heart.

Underneath his fingertips, JD's face twists. Cam can't read the lines of it, but he thinks it means that they're words JD never thought he'd be able to hear, never again. And Cam thinks of Sara O'Neill, and he thinks of a baby boy with Jack O'Neill's features, and he thinks about all the times either of them, JD or Jack, heard always and knew it to mean while we can.

There isn't anything he can say to convince JD. All he can do is hold on in the dark and trust that all their trials, all the roads they've walked to get to the here-and-now, have shown JD that Cam means exactly what he says. Means everything that he says, means everything he does, means everything they are to each other.

"I never expected you," JD says. The words sound like they're being torn out of him. "I never wanted -- I never thought --"

"I know," Cam says. He lets his hand fall away. He's done his best, and he's said his piece, and everything after this is up to JD now.

There's a long silence, and Cam tries to remember to breathe. Then JD shifts: fractional, minute. "Roll over," he says. His voice is low and desperate. "I need --"

And Cam bites his lip, and he rolls over in the dark, thinking that he's done something wrong, said something wrong. That what JD needs is for Cam to be quiet, and let JD hold on. And he'll take it. It's better than driving JD up-and-out, sending him away (making him feel like he has to be away) and going back to their silences. "I love you," he says, because it's important for him to say it. And he thinks that they've come far enough that JD will be able to hear without wanting to push him away.

"Shut up," JD says. Cam's heart sinks in his chest, thinking he pushed too far, thinking he's stepped wrong and screwed up. And then JD rests his forehead against the back of Cam's skull and wraps his arm around Cam's chest, holding on so tightly Cam can't quite breathe, and JD says, "Everything."

It's an admission, and a concession. Confession and pledge and capitulation all wrapped into one. And JD sounds like he can't decide if he's desperate or joyous at the meaning of it.

"Here's what I need you to do," JD says.

And the love in it, the sheer depth of trust, makes Cam shut his mouth and listen, where he wants to argue and poke and prod and rail against the dangerous parts. Because JD's plan is stupid and it's crazy and it's dangerous, and it's breathtaking in its audacity and it's nothing like what Cam thought he was going to come up with. But JD's right. It's the only thing that has a more-than-fifty-fifty chance of working.

Christmas is bittersweet this year. Would have been even without the knowledge of what's about to come hanging over them. It's not the first Christmas Ash hasn't been there for, not by a long shot; there are always a few open places at the table come Christmastime, left for the people who can't be there for one reason or another. But it's the first year there's no chance of Ash ever coming back, and Cam misses his baby brother so much it makes him want to put down his head and cry -- when Momma takes out the stockings and has to fold one of them back up again to put it away, when Cindy has to leave the room and comes back with her eyes red and swollen, when Chandler or Stewart gets quiet and soft and Cam can see them holding back the words Daddy said.

But Cam keeps his mouth shut, and he doesn't think -- doesn't let himself think -- about how things come in threes. Births. Deaths. Disasters. Because he left that conversation, alone in the dark with JD's body pressed up against him, with a promise that he'd be here waiting as long as he had to, and he'd have faith that JD would come home safely to him, because he knows that's what's going to keep JD during those long and lonely nights when he's pretending to be something he isn't.

I could not love thee, dear, so much, lov'd I not honor more. And Cam sits in the living room and watches JD pulling packages out from under the tree, handing them over to the person whose name is written on the tag, and he watches the way JD laughs and smiles and pretends nothing's wrong. He watches JD sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the couch, AJ curled up on his chest and Jason in his lap and Sarajane sitting next to him and resting her head against his shoulder. He watches the way JD leans into him, so subtly and unconsciously that Cam thinks JD might not even know he's doing it.

And Christmas night, after all the sugar's worn off and the toys have been put away and the kids have been put to bed, Cam puts the kitten out and locks the door to the bedroom and makes love to JD, lets JD make love to him, until he's so tired his eyes are crossing and he drifts away to sleep before he can get his brain and his mouth to coordinate long enough to say I love you one last time.

JD is gone when Cam wakes up; the bed is cold, and there's a kitten curled up on the other pillow. Cam opens his eyes, and when Squeaker yawns and stretches and then tucks himself back up with a paw over his face, Cam feels so much, so deeply, that all he can do is close his eyes again and pray.

All the wishing in the world won't make things so, though, and so he gets himself out of the bed and into his clothes, grabs his cane and his shower kit and thumps himself down the hallway and washes himself clean, sweat and lube and come and tears all alike. By the time he's out, AJ's howling, and Cam knows everyone else is waiting for JD to go and hush him up. And JD could be out for a run, and JD could be down in the basement, and JD could have ducked out to the market for something they've run out of in the kitchen, but Cam knows better. Because JD's bag has been sitting, packed, in the bottom of the closet for the past two days, and when Cam woke up this morning, that bag was gone.

Cam takes himself into AJ's room and goes through the motions that are as natural to him as breathing. Changes AJ's diaper, feeds him and burps him. AJ's fussing, still, and Cam closes his eyes, knowing that it's a sound they're going to have to get used to. "I know," he says. "I know, baby. I miss him too."

But the morning's too full of things to do for him to cry like the baby's crying, and so he straps AJ into the baby sling -- he might not be the one AJ wants, but AJ won't ever settle unless he's held up against someone's heartbeat -- and goes to find himself a cup of coffee and some of the leftover muffins for breakfast.

Momma's in the kitchen when Cam gets there, and he has to stop when he sees her, because she looks worn clear through, in a way that she's starting to look more and more often. The stress of a houseful of family at Christmas never used to do her in, but it's been a bad year and it's not over yet. But Momma doesn't miss much, even when she's exhausted; her eyes are sharp as she looks at the baby, then up at Cam again. "JD sleeping in?" she asks.

And this, this is going to be the hard part. This is going to be the part that tears Cam clear in two. Because there's no way he can make this look like what it really is. There's no way he can make Momma understand, not without telling her secrets that aren't his to tell, and it's like to be the death of him. "No," he says, quiet and strong. "Momma. I need to ask something of you."

She sets her coffee mug down on the table with a soft click. She can tell, Cam thinks. Theirs is the kind of family that can call on each other for anything and everything, without having to ask, without having to give advance warning that they're about to ask. His phrasing it like that is a clue, and he can see Momma bracing herself, wondering what the king hell is going on. "You know you don't have to," she says.

Cam knows. But there's a ritual to this sort of thing, an asked-and-answered solemnity that brings it weight and dignity. "You know there are things we aren't telling you," he says. "You know there are things we can't tell you."

Momma sniffs, disdainfully. "Body'd have to be dead to miss that much," she says.

Cam closes his eyes. He can feel the winter-morning sunlight coming through the kitchen window; it feels good on his face. "I need you to believe in me," he says. "I need you to trust me. What's going to happen in the next few days, I need you to remember through it. We're doing this because we need to. Because it's important. Because it's the right thing to do, the honorable thing to do, and I need you to believe that's the truth instead of what it looks like."

"He's gone and left you, didn't he," Momma says.

The words burst from Cam's lips. "No. No. He left. But he didn't leave me. Didn't leave us. He's -- had to go do something. I can't tell you. I can't." He rests his cane against the side of the counter and braces himself, curls his fingers around the edge of the counter and just breathes. In. Out. "I wish I could. Oh, God, Momma, I wish I could. But it's important to me that you don't think the worst of us. Of him. Of this."

He's not sure what he's expecting, but a minute later, Momma's hand descends on his shoulder. For a minute he wishes he was fourteen years old again, bringing his problems home to Momma and setting them in her lap for her to cluck over and then solve with no more trouble than she would have sewn up a ripped sleeve. But he's a grown man now, and he knows it's impossible.

"Seems to me like --" she starts, but she's interrupted by the sound of the swinging doors being pushed open.

"Aunt Sassy, Aunt Cindy Lou wanted to know if you had the --" And Cam closes his eyes, because the universe hates him; it's the one person in the entire house who has a chance of seeing through him to the root cause of what's got him in a mood. When he turns around, Spence is looking in between the two of them, his face chagrined. "Sorry. Didn't realize you were in here, Uncle Cam."

"It's okay," Cam says. He knows Spence isn't missing the fact that JD's nowhere to be seen, that Cam's the one holding AJ. Spence is here until the day after New Year's; SG-9 is the diplomatic unit, and the IOC negotiators they tend to escort don't work during the holidays. If they'd just waited another week to put this into action, Cam could have been assured of fewer pointed questions.

Then again, he wouldn't have had anyone around who actually knew what was going on, either. Which is part of why, he thinks, JD picked now. Best to have someone he doesn't have to lie for. It's the kind of subtle gift JD would have wanted to leave.

"Finish your sentence, Spencer," Momma says, and Spence tears his eyes away from Cam to look back at her.

"Ah. Aunt Cindy Lou wanted to know if the load of laundry finished up. Lucy had a little accident with the potty training, and Cindy doesn't have anything clean to put her in." Spence flicks his eyes back to Cam, and Cam can see the sympathy written there, plain as day. It sets his teeth on edge. "And she said to ask you if you had any extra rags, 'cause the upstairs closet is out."

Momma sighs. "I'll go give the girl a hand," she says. "Cameron, don't you go anywhere. We're not done talking yet."

"Yes, ma'am," Cam says, in an undertone, and turns back to the coffeemaker to finish pouring himself a cup of coffee. Not right that a body should go through all this in the morning before he even gets to the caffeine.

Too much to hope that Spence will just go away, and sure enough, as soon as Momma's gone, Spence is crossing the kitchen on silent feet. "You look like someone punched you in the gut," Spence says. "You all right?"

Cam laughs. It's supposed to be a quick dismissal, but it catches him, and the next thing he knows, it's bubbling up from deep in the back of his throat and threatening to overwhelm him. It's not quite hysteria, but it's the closest he wants to come to it, and he just leans himself back against the side of the counter and buries his face in his hands. Because no, he's not all right, and he's not going to be, not for a while. Not until this is all over. The hard part's just starting, and his family is going to be dragged into this after all, and there is nothing on God's green earth he can do to make it better in the least.

By the time it's run its course, he realizes that Spence is standing next to him. On his bad side, holding on, holding him up, careful not to bump the baby, but letting Cam lean on him, standing straight and tall like Cam can hold on for as long as he needs to. Cam pulls himself back and sniffles; Spence just leans behind him and snags a napkin from the holder on the counter, handing it over so Cam can blow his nose. There's something new in his face. Something different than Cam's ever seen there before. Spence has always been the more grown-up of the twins, and he's been serving in warzones for long enough that there's nothing immature left about him, but now, all of a sudden, Spence looks adult.

The Stargate program does that to people. Good people. Chews them up and spits them out on the other end, as strangers.

"It's starting, then," Spence says.

AJ -- who has been remarkably quiet through the whole thing -- bounces himself in his carry-sack and bangs a fist against Cam's shoulder. Cam reaches down, automatically, to give the baby a finger to hang on to. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. It is."

Spence just nods. "You tell me what you need from me, then," he says. "I'm here for another week. You've got me until then, as much or as little as you can tell me."

Looking at him, Cam thinks that this isn't the kind of life he ever wanted for anyone he loves. The sneaking, the lying, the sacrifices. Spence without Skipper is like half a person, and Lord only knows when Skipper's going to be back. If Skipper's going to be back. Cam knows the casualty rates from Atlantis; JD didn't want to tell him, but he insisted. There's a bang from upstairs -- God knows what it is, but it means the house is starting to wake up, and the kitchen's going to be overrun any second now. "Later," he said. "But if we don't get the chance --"

Voices, from just outside. Cam feels like he wants to scream. "Yeah?" Spence says, quick and fast.

"Lie," Cam says, before anyone can interrupt them. "When they come. Lie through your teeth. About everything."

There are questions in Spence's eyes, but Miranda's bustling into the kitchen full of noise and hustle, and Spence doesn't have a chance to ask them. "Oh, thank God, Cam," she says, arms full of squalling three-year-old. "Hey, listen, I'm looking for JD; I gotta run to the store, and I was wondering if he'd watch Jason --"

Spence looks away from Cam and reaches out to take Jason from Miranda's arms. "I got him," he says. "You go."

Miranda looks between them. "Is everything okay?"

Cam's going to get really tired of that question, really damn fast. "Yeah," he says, grabbing his cane in one hand and his mug of coffee in the other and making his way for the back door to go hide in the office. "Yeah. Everything's fine. Everything's just damn fucking peachy."

He stays in the office for most of the rest of the day. AJ's got a playpen in there, full of toys that will keep him mildly occupied at least; as long as he's close enough to the desk that Cam can reach out and pick him up whenever he starts fussing too loudly, it's all good. And the longer he stays in the office, the less he's going to have to explain to the family. He's expecting a visitor or two -- Spence, come to ask more questions; Momma, come to finish the conversation -- but they leave him alone. Maybe someone in the family is finally learning tact. More likely, there's just some crisis going on in there that's eating up everyone's attention.

He expects dinner to be a torment. For the most part, they're down to just the regular complement of household inhabitants, and not even all of them; the day after Christmas is usually for Mitchell offspring to gather up the spouse and the kids and take them to the other set of grandparents for a holiday visit. Cam had been looking forward to the peace and quiet in order to get some work done, but he hasn't accomplished anything except staring at the screen for the whole damn day. Hasn't even been able to win a single game of Minesweeper.

Momma sends Spence out to pick Cam up for dinner; there's been talk of installing an intercom, but it's never been necessary. There's always been someone around to run out and play fetch. Cam's just glad it's not one of the younger kids; they idolize JD, and he's not quite ready to answer questions yet. "I told them JD had an emergency," Spence says, quietly, as they walk across the lawn. "They think it has something to do with his family. I didn't say that, but I implied it really heavily. They think it's something messy and he bailed on out of here to keep it from exploding on us."

"Thanks," Cam says, quietly. It's not going to work. But it was quick thinking, and he appreciates it. Spence has probably been spending the entire afternoon dropping things in the right ears, nudging so subtly that even the people in this family aren't realizing they're being nudged. It's good of him to try. Cam's pretty lucky to have him.

"Later on tonight," Spence says, just as they're reaching the back steps -- only the front half of the house is equipped with a ramp, and Cam's feeling just ornery enough not to walk around, no matter how much he hurts like blazes from spending the whole day all tensed up and the stairs won't do him any damn good. "I know you probably don't want anyone to overhear, and I know you probably just want to go hole up and ignore all of this. But later on tonight, I want to know what the plan is, and how I can help."

"Yeah," Cam says. There's more he should say, all the parts about how he's grateful that he has Spence there to run interference for him, all the polite things and the kind things and none of the things about how he's not sure he can do this and get through it. But he doesn't feel like talking. He transfers his cane to the other hand and grips the railing, gritting his teeth through each and every one of the stairs (four steps up: a fucking mountain to climb, and it's not fair, it's not fair, he used to take them in two giant leaps and he never even thought about it, like all the other things he used to take for granted until they were taken away from him).

"Uncle Cam," Spence says. Quietly, because the door's open and there's light spilling out of the kitchen, noise and bustle, and just because the rest of the family haven't noticed that Cam and Spence are out here doesn't mean that they should be overheard. "I'm not going to say it's going to be all right. Because you know as well as I do that things like that don't mean anything. But he's smart and he's tough and if anyone's going to be able to do it, however he's decided to do it, it'll be him."

And Cam sighs, because Spence is only trying to help, and Cam has the feeling that he's going to be relying on Spence's help a lot this week. But JD might have been learning to open up from Cam, but Cam's been learning to keep his mouth shut from JD. The last thing he wants right now is to talk about his feelings. They're so big, so messy, that if he starts talking about them, he's going to be on his knees on the porch howling loud enough that the neighbors five miles away are going to be able to hear. "I know," he says, though, because Spence is trying, and the last thing Spence deserves is to get snarled at. "I know. I'm just ... this is going to get messy. Because we gotta build him a cover, without anybody here knowing what they're doing. And I'm damn out of practice in lying like that."

Spence cocks his head and frowns. "You can explain that later," he says. "But -- It's all right, Uncle Cam. You might be out of practice at lying. But diplomacy is just lying with a whole government's force behind you. I've got enough practice for both of us."

It makes Cam's lips quirk, just a little. Not a smile. Not even amusement, really. But Spence smiles back at him, and it's enough to get them both into the house and sitting down at the dining room table for dinner.

Nobody asks Cam about JD. But it's the kind of not-asking that's ostentatious in its absence, like the elephant sitting in the room that nobody's mentioning, and half of it is sympathy (poor Cameron; Lord only knows what that boy of his is up to, but any fool can see it's leaving him a wreck) and half of it is censure (poor Cameron; Lord only knows what that boy of his is up to, but whatever it is, it can't be good). His daddy's in the second camp. It's hard to convey disapproval in a simple request to pass the potatoes, but Daddy's always been able to do it, and now's no different. Cam's expecting any minute for Daddy to burst out with an I-told-you-so, and Cam doesn't know what he'll do if he gets it, but it's not going to be pretty and he's not sure he'll be able to make it through.

Momma's watching him, too, and that doesn't help. The conversations he's not having are piling up like cordwood, stacking on top of each other and just waiting to come crashing down. Cam doesn't remember putting a single bite of food in his mouth, but he must have, because the next thing he knows the dishes are being cleared and Momma's standing up and saying, "Cameron, you give me a hand with something in the next room." If he lives to be a hundred, he's never going to lose the instinctive stomach-plummeting sensation that accompanies those words, and tonight is no different.

She takes him out onto the front porch, and it's cold outside, cold enough that Cam's hip starts to ache within a few minutes of leaving the warmth of the house, but she doesn't seem to notice. "You sit yourself down there," she says, and points at the porch swing. "And you tell me why I've had to spend the whole day defending your boy to your father without a word of help from you."

It's brisk and it's bracing and it's completely Momma, in words and in delivery, and Cam opens his mouth to feed her another set of lies and bursts into tears.

He's cried more in the past twelve hours than he's cried in the past twelve months, except for that week he doesn't want to think about at all, and Momma takes one look at him and all of her upset melts away. She settles herself next to him on the swing and the next thing he knows he's being rocked against her shoulder, the way she used to do when he was little, and he holds on and cries like his world is ending and all she does is stroke his hair and make little soothing noises until he finally hiccups and falls silent.

Momma's still got her apron on from cooking, and she fishes in a pocket and comes up with a kitchen towel to pass it over to him. He uses it to wipe his eyes, and then says screw it and blows his nose in it. It's either that or use the hem of his shirt, and either way, he's going to have to do the laundry. Chores don't wait for you to save the world, he thinks, and for a second he can't decide if he's going to burst out laughing again or go back to watering Momma's shoulder. But he hangs on, barely, and sniffles a few times and blows his nose again.

"Oh, baby," Momma says, and the sound of her voice would break Cam's heart, if he wasn't starting to think his heart was already breaking. "Oh, my baby. I'm so worried about you."

"I'm all right," he says, his voice thick with tears and snot, and takes a breath to start doing damage control. He shouldn't have broken down like this; he shouldn't have even asked Momma for her grace, this morning. Momma already suspects something's going on, and Momma's no idiot. But she holds up a hand to stop him, and he falls silent.

"You hush up for a minute and listen to me," she says. "I'm going to say something, and I know you can't tell me yes or no, but you can at least know that I know it, and maybe that'll make you feel better. You been lying to me for years, Cameron Everett, and I know exactly why you have been, and I know why you have to do it. You been doing what you think you need to do, because we raised you to do the right thing and we raised you to know your responsibility and your duty. And part of that duty is doing the things that you can't talk to to anybody, for any reason at all. Not even to make your momma stop worrying about you."

It hits uncomfortably close to home, and he opens his mouth again -- to protest, to stop her -- but she gives him the look, the one that's been shutting him up since he was old enough to recognize it. "I said hush," she says, firm and implacable. And he hushes. "And then we get the phone call in the middle of the night telling us that you've been hurt, and your daddy and I aren't anybody's fools, because we knew damn well that what happened to you, what you went through, wasn't any training accident. And we kept our mouths shut, and we didn't say anything, because we raised you right and you said it was important and if you said it was important, it was. Because I know damn well that you know what important is. And I watched a part of you dying in that hospital bed, and I watched you look like you were fixing to be miserable for the rest of your life because you couldn't climb on back out of it and go back to whatever important things you were doing, and I kept my mouth shut and I didn't say anything. Because you're a grown man, and you make your own choices, and we raised you to stand on your own two feet and handle things yourself, but we always knew that you knew you had a home to come back to and people to call on when you needed us."

He almost protests the "own two feet", because it's not something he'd be bothered by normally -- "crippled" isn't a dirty word in this house, and nobody dances around the topic of Cam's injuries, and nobody ever does the self-conscious thing where they say something that could be considered tactless and then fall over themselves to apologize. But he's feeling fragile and crystalline today, and Momma sounds like she's building a head of steam to a conclusion he isn't going to like. He isn't going to interrupt again, though. You don't interrupt Momma when she's working up to a lecture.

"I said to you before," Momma says, "and I'll say to you again. Any damn fool can see that you're into something big. And I wish like hell you could tell me, but the fact you can't means that it's something just like what you were up to before you wound up in that hospital bed. Because if it wasn't, you'd tell me. You wouldn't be so miserable about the fact that you can't say a word. And that boy of yours, he's too damn young to be up to the same sort of things you were, but he's got the same look in his eye that you get when you talk about it. And you asked me this morning to trust you, and you asked me this morning to believe in you, and I know you know just how easy it would be for me to think that he broke your heart and left you standing. But you say he hasn't. And Spencer has spent the whole day pretending like he isn't trying to build you both a story, and I know Spencer like I know you, and I know that he knows what important is, just like you do. And he's sworn the same oaths you have, and anybody can see that he knows exactly what's going on, and the two of you are both pussyfooting around like someone shot your dog and your boy's gone missing."

She takes a deep breath, and Cam suddenly doesn't want to hear what she's about to say, because anything he could say back, any reaction he can give, is going to give too much away. But she doesn't stop. "So I'll tell you what you're doing. Because you need to know that I know. You might have left the Air Force, but the Air Force didn't leave you. And I don't know what in the name of God your boy's got to do with it, but he's in just as deep as you are, and he's gone off to fix up something that you can't. And I've been thinking that for months now, and I've been keeping my mouth shut, and God only knows why they need to use a child --"

There's anger in her voice, but Cam's starting to hope, because it's not anger at him. It's anger at whoever (she thinks) got them into this, anger at whoever won't leave him and JD alone, and for all that he wants to protest her assumptions, it still makes his heart leap, because Momma's only that fierce in defense of people she loves. "But whatever it is, whatever he's doing, it's something big enough that you're scared as hell that he ain't coming back to you. And your daddy may think that boy's run off on you, but your daddy's a blind man, because any fool can see that it'd take a crowbar and some heavy explosives to pry that boy loose from your side. So that tells me just how damn important this is."

And Cam knows he should protest, knows he should tell her that she's gotten it all wrong and let her go on thinking that JD's exactly what he appears to be -- that JD's left, that JD's gotten tired of him, that it's nothing more than a teenager's capricious whims. But he can't. It might make him weak, but he's so raw and aching inside that he needs this. Needs his momma to tell him it's all right. "I can't tell you yes or no, Momma," he says, and he knows Momma will know it for an answer.

She takes the kitchen towel from him and turns it to a clean corner, blots away a tear he hadn't quite noticed. "I know you can't, baby," she says, and her voice throbs with a boundless sympathy. "Don't need to. Nothing wrong with my mind, and you boys have been trying to get around me for long enough that I know all the ways you think you're being clever. And I don't know what you're doing, and I don't know what he's doing. And it's no secret that I didn't approve of him when you brought him home, but I've watched him stand up with you and with this family, and I'm not too proud to admit when I'm wrong. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing, for you and for this country, if you got a way to talk to him, you tell him that I'm proud of him and I hope he comes back safe."

There are tears welling up in Cam's eyes again, but he blinks them away. "I can't," he says. "I don't. I won't, not until --" He takes a deep breath. "But that means a lot. Oh, God, Momma, you have no idea."

She pats his thigh. "I do know, baby," she says. Then her voice turns back to being brisk, the same as he's heard from her as far back as he can remember. Momma's never shied away from emotion, never made him feel less by word or deed for showing it, but she doesn't believe in wallowing, either. "Now you go back there to your office, and you shut and lock that door, and you have yourself a good cry. You let me handle your daddy, and you let me handle everything else. And tomorrow, you can help me strip all the guest bedrooms and do the laundry, if you don't hurt too badly, and we'll do some baking. Best to keep busy."

There's a heavy sympathy there, the voice of experience. Cam remembers all the years when it was Momma and Gran'ma and all the aunts and cousins, bustling around the house: cleaning and cooking and mending, the perfect model of domesticity, and he always thought it had to do with a model of behavior programmed into them in the cradle.

Women's work. Cam's taken some heavy teasing throughout his life, for the fact that he knows baking and sewing and knitting and all the best ways to clean out a grotty shower. Raised by women, has always been his excuse, a laughing dismissal of gender roles so deeply programmed in the people around him that he's never known where to start in trying to dismantle them. And he's just as susceptable as anyone else, even when he knew that Momma and Gran'ma would box his ears at any suggestion that women's work was any less valuable, because even through all of it, he's shut it up into the same categories everyone else does.

But he sees the difference now. It's not women's work, or men's work, or anything so neatly-packageable as that. It has to do with tending, and with nurturing, and with making a place you can call your own. It has to do with building things with your own two hands and keeping them safe and secure. It has to do with keeping yourself busy, and giving yourself something to take your mind off the fact that the people you love are doing things they might not come back from, and filling your days up with tasks and duties to keep yourself from getting sick with worry.

It has to do with reminding the people who go and do the things that you can't -- because of temperament, because of ability, because of circumstance and necessity -- that there's a home to come back to, and that home is valuable, and that home is worth defending at any cost.

He's been on both sides of the divide now. And both of them hurt like hell.

"I will," he says. To all of it. This isn't the house he and JD bought together, it isn't the home they've made together, it isn't the home they will (God, please, let us) grow old in together. But it'll always be his first home, no matter how many other houses and apartments and barracks he's lived in, and the first home always stays in your heart.

Momma wraps her arms around him again. "I love you," she says. "Don't you ever doubt that."

And he buries his face in Momma's hair, and he holds on for just that extra minute, and then he gets himself up to his feet and makes himself smile. "I never have," he says, and takes himself on around back. Maybe he can get some work done today after all.

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