Getting Sam to take time from her job out at Area 51 takes some careful negotiation; Cam can't say why he (they) really want her to come visit, so he's limited to making noises about how she really must come out to see the house. It's not the best enticement in the world. He's pretty sure that the last thing she wants to subject herself to is coming to stay with the old friend she still thinks she crippled (Sam Carter has elevated guilt to an art form) and the teeny-something clone of her former CO and (if Cam's not mistaken, and on things like this, Cam's rarely mistaken) current-and-eternal love fixation that said old friend is shacking up with.

JD is patient for two weeks. In the middle of week three, he grabs the phone from Cam as he's about to launch into same-song-fifteenth-verse and snaps, "Just get your ass out here, Carter," before hanging up on her.

"That's one way," Cam allows, as the phone rings back. "Not the way I woulda done it." JD bares his teeth and snarls before stalking off. He's not taking waiting well; Cam can't entirely blame him, but Cam is willing to be a little more subtle about things.

For a second Cam debates following him, but no; it's a leave-me-alone temper, not a coax-me-out-of-it temper. He picks up the phone on the fourth ring, just as it's about to ring through to voice mail. When he does, before he can even say hello, Sam says, her voice resigned, "Is Houston okay? I'd have to fly civilian, and I can't get to Austin without another four hours of delay."

There is careful negotiation after Cam hangs up the phone. He's still not sure if JD -- if the part of JD that was once O'Neill -- knows about Sam's feelings. If he doesn't, Cam's not going to be the one to enlighten him. But he drops hints about how it might be easier if Sam's first moment facing JD doesn't happen in a crowded airport, and JD drops rocks (not subtle enough to be hints) about how driving is one of the things that fall into the category of "things that will hurt and therefore I will do for you", and Cam can tell that they're both dialing tempers back a few notches lest somebody wind up sleeping on the couch.

But Cam wins, and that's how he winds up driving three hours to Houston on a Friday night; Intercontinental, even, straight in the middle of Houston traffic hell. And JD was right; it does hurt like blazes to be sitting in one position for three hours, even if he doesn't have to keep his foot down on the gas or on the brake, but it's pride, dammit, and he's not giving in. He parks the car, takes a minute to carefully and lovingly key the Beemer that's parked next to him in the handicapped spaces with no plates or hang-tag in sight. Then he heads on in and checks the arrivals board so he's sure to be standing in the right spot.

When her flight deplanes, it takes him a second to recognize her in the crowd. She looks older than the last time he saw her -- a little thinner, a little more drawn -- but she smiles when she sees him. The smile's a little rough around the edges as her eyes drop down to where he's leaning on his cane, but she recovers fast enough, and he decides that he'll try his damndest to avoid taking offense. She's wearing a pretty summer dress; it contrasts sharply with the beat-up khaki canvas backpack she's got slung over one shoulder.

"Baby," Cam says, and holds out one arm. She steps up into the hug straight off. "Missed you. Sorry I've been a jackass."

"Missed you too," she says. "Sorry I've been a self-centered bitch."

He disengages them carefully, mindful of the people moving around them. It's funny how fast he got used to JD being there to create a bulwark against the ebb and flow of crowds. "You haven't," he says.

Her smile's a little more genuine this time. "Well, you haven't either. How's --" She stops, corrects herself. "What's the emergency?"

"He said to tell you Rule Twelve," Cam says.

He doesn't know what it means -- JD hadn't been willing to explain, and Cam's on his most careful behavior around JD this week, so he hadn't asked -- but it obviously means something to Sam. Her eyebrows go straight up. "He did, did he," she says. "Interesting."

Cam's expecting some other reaction -- or at least an explanation -- but none's forthcoming; she hikes up the strap of her backpack instead. "C'mon," he says, rather than waiting for her to say anything else. "Let's get your luggage, and then I'll buy you a Whataburger for dinner."

Sam's eyes go dreamy for one split second; Cam knows he's one of maybe five people in the world who knows about how much she loves local-chain fast food. "Ah, the benefits of Texas," she says. "I didn't check anything. After you."

He grits his teeth a little -- can't let her see it, but he's pretty sure she'd understand the laws of inertia; getting moving is the worst part -- and gets himself going. She does what would have been falling into step behind him a long damn time ago. Turns out she kind of sucks at pacing a cripple; she's got long legs and there's a trick to walking next to him now, a deliberate shortening of the stride that JD's got down until it looks natural and Sam can't put together to save her life. She keeps hitching ahead, turning her head and realizing he's not at her side, and looking guilty and stopping until he catches up.

Takes a good fifteen minutes for them to get out to the parking garage, where it would have taken three or four before, and she's in one of the hitch-ahead phases when she walks straight past where his car's parked, craning her head around her.

"Baby," he says, just one soft word, and she jerks (guilt, guilt, it's eating her alive) and turns around. He knocks the trunk of the car.

It takes a second for her to process. She'd helped him put in some work on the Mustang, fixed up the carburetor while he'd done the brake lines and banged out the dings in the quarter-panel. Cam's driving a Crown Vic now, one of the 1999 first-year Police Interceptor models; he'd gotten out of the hospital to discover that Carter (the cousin, not Sam; Carter's got ten years on the job back home, different kind of service, is all) had called through the cop grapevine to find a surplused one for him. Carter had put in the hand controls, too. Cam wouldn't have done it himself, but he's grateful that Carter did.

But Sam looks miserable. "The Mustang --" she says.

Cam sighs. Better to have this out straight off. "Too low to the ground, hard to get in and out of, couldn't take the hand controls, not enough room to stow a chair if I need one. Deeded her over to Bobby Lee for a dollar and a promise that he'd treat her like he treats his girlfriend. Not the end of the world. Betty here's a bit of a whale, but she does me just fine."

He holds out a hand for her backpack. She slides it off her shoulder, and then looks uncertain as to whether or not she should hand it over. He sighs. Reaches out and takes it. He won't put up with being thought less abled than he is. He tosses her backpack in the backseat with a little more force than he ought, and when he shuts the door, the echo rings loud in the garage.

"I'm so sorry, Cam," Sam says, quietly.

And that tears it. "Samantha Eileen Carter, I don't want to hear another word out of you," he says, and she's so startled by hearing him channeling Momma that she shuts straight up. "You didn't have a thing to do with this. Last time I checked, you weren't flying the -- plane -- that shot me down, and you damn hell weren't the idiot that left me out on that ice for seven hours. And this didn't happen because I was protecting you. This happened because I was defending my -- country, and I was following orders, and if God himself rewound time and put me back there, I'd do the same damn thing over again."

He's starting to shout -- he can hear it -- and so he stops himself, reins it back in. "And when you go around giving me that look in your eyes," he says, more quietly this time, "you're saying that you don't think the lives of every man, woman, and child we pass by are worth a little suffering for. And I know you don't think that. So you zip it and get over yourself, baby, 'cause I'm not taking it from you."

Her eyes are swimming, and she looks like he's slapped her. But she draws herself up straight and squares her shoulders. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah. Okay." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Yeah," she repeats. "I'm sorry."

It's not pity this time, so he'll take it. He nods. "Accepted," he says. "Now c'mon. I'm hungry."

It's a little awkward for a bit, especially when she sees him driving with his hands and not his feet, but he turns up the CCR (he won this round of the iPod war, since he was going to be driving solo) so they don't have to talk. Discretion is the better part of valor. He sings along, and she unbends enough to tap out the beat against the door-handle.

The car smells of grease and french fries for a good hour, even though they have to park to eat. They go through the drive-through, but eating while he's driving is one of those things he'll never do again. She watches out the window as the world goes by. Cam likes the road from Houston to Austin; he's done it a few times already, and once you get on 10 it's a straight line out to 71 and from there to home. He puts up with the quiet (hard to have quiet when CCR's turned to the Beastie Boys, but he doesn't mean that kind of quiet) for a while, and then sighs and dials down the music.

"Tell me about what you're up to these days," he says. "Car's not bugged. We check."

They check now, he means. JD had taken the credit card and gone, in quick succession, through Radio Shack, Fry's, and a few dusty hobbyist-speciality stores Cam hadn't even known existed. The car's a Faraday cage now: no signal in, no signal out, except for the hack JD put together for the iPod retransmitter. Cam doesn't know what steps JD's taken for the house; he just trusts that whatever they are, they're the best possible.

So she tells him what she's doing -- it's R&D on paper, but it's turned into politics of the highest (and smelliest) order, she says, defending the technology brought back from the program against all comers -- and he tells her what he's doing (she makes impressed noises; he doesn't think she expected this to work). Then it's on to family news and gossip, though he's pretty sure she talks to Momma more often than either one of them lets on. Momma adopted Sam like a long-lost daughter about five minutes after they met. That gets them to nearly half an hour out from home, and he's starting to relax when she stirs and says, "Is he -- doing okay?"

No question about what she means. "Yeah," Cam says. He doesn't like carrying tales, but better if she's prepared. "He's happy. We're happy. And -- it's better if you think of him as someone separate. He's his own person. He's not a teenager, and he's not an idiot. But he's not O'Neill, either."

There's more to it than that, but that's about all of JD he feels comfortable handing over.

"He thinks something's wrong, doesn't he," Sam says.

Cam sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, he does. Caught Ba'al on CNN a few weeks back --" He catches her nodding out of the corner of his eye; so JD's already been poking her for information on that. "And I don't know what you guys are doing about that, but he's nervous. Needed to know more than anyone could say on an open line."

"Yeah," she says. She sounds unhappy. "That's about the only thing that'd pull him back in, isn't it." She rubs a hand over her face. "I'll wait until we're all in the same room. I've got some bad news and some good news."

"Gimme the good news now," Cam says, because the resignation and weariness in her voice is making him nervous.

Sam makes herself smile. "The good news is that we're pretty sure Ba'al doesn't have any people in Homeworld."

Cam whistles, soft and low. "If that's the good news --" he says.

"Yeah," Sam says. "It's been one of those years."

Cam's been dreading the moment when Sam and JD first come face-to-face for a while, but it turns out to be nothing like what he'd envisioned. He gets the car parked and brings her around the back entrance, the one that's a ramp, not steps. It opens up on the laundry room, and from there to the kitchen. JD's sitting at the kitchen table, laptop to hand, glass of red wine at his elbow. He's got three Tupperware containers spread out next to him (one of green and red pepper strips, one of baby carrots, one of hummus; they're both making a considerable effort to retrain their snacking habits). He's in jeans, socks, and a long-sleeved, high-necked black t-shirt, which is about three pieces more clothing than they usually bother with around the house.

His eyes come up, wary, when Cam leads Sam in. "Carter," he says. Cam can't read anything in his voice.

"Sir," Sam says -- automatic and always will be. Then stops herself. "JD."

Could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Cam says, "Doctor Scott, Rocky, ugh," which gets a smile out of JD -- they do Rocky down at the Drafthouse now and again, when the mood strikes; JD's been tapped to play Rocky twice so far and is always a crowd hit -- and walks over to the table. "Hey," he says, and leans down to kiss JD. It's what they always do when one of them gets home, and he's not going to pretend in front of Sam.

JD's a little tense, but Cam wasn't expecting anything else; he keeps the kiss quick, and then turns around. "You hungry?" he asks Sam.

She laughs. Makes herself laugh, Cam sees, but it's a laugh anyway. "We ate two hours ago."

Cam nods. "I'll make coffee, then," he says. Can't go wrong with coffee when you're going to be up all night talking.

"Sit," JD says, and gets up. "I'll get it." He heads over to take the beans out of the cabinet. Cam watches as he detours over to the stack of prescription bottles and pops three of them open. Muscle relaxant, neuropathic pain blocker, opioid -- two of those. Cam wasn't good enough at hiding the pain, then. He doesn't usually try to do it around JD, but JD's the only one he doesn't pretend around; Sam might be family, but he still doesn't want to give too much away.

JD pulls a shot glass down with the coffee fixings, splashes a single swallow of whiskey into it. Brings the handful of pills and the shot glass over and puts them on the table at Cam's side. Sam's settled herself down across from him; Cam can see her eyes widen a little at the booze -- dumb idea to combine alcohol and opioids, yeah, but it's either that or double the dosage again, and Cam's not too eager to go that route until and unless he has to. The whiskey just kicks the pills into working faster, without making him stupid.

"Figured out why homer keeps segfaulting," JD says over his shoulder, as he heads over to start grinding the coffee beans. All the machines in their home network are named after Simpsons characters. Cam hadn't argued; his suggestion had been NCAA basketball coaches, and JD had shot that one down quickly. "SCSI lock. I pulled the new drive back out and it's ticking right along now."

Sam's a little wild around the eyes; Cam remembers that O'Neill's supposed to be a technology idiot. He'd forgotten. "My fault?" Cam asks, because he thinks that JD's doing this on purpose, establishing points of differentiation.

"Nah. Bad terminator, not bad chaining. And I think there might be some buffer issues. I'll fuss with it later. Carter, you still take milk and sugar?" JD leans on the island.

"Yeah," Sam says. Quiet. She's watching JD, and Cam would give a lot to know what she's thinking. "That'd be great. Thanks."

"Got some cookies, too," JD says. "Those little lemon things."

That perks her up a bit. "Oh, God, you've got Momma's lemon bars? Okay, yeah, dinner was two hours ago."

That makes Cam laugh. The lemon bars have always been Sam's favorite, which is why he took the time to bake some of them yesterday. He wants her to be comfortable here; he wants her to feel welcome. It's his home, and it's important to him that his friends feel at home here too, especially since he doesn't have all that many real friends left anymore.

JD understands that, Cam thinks. The need to make welcome. He might not share it -- not in the same way; JD's welcome shows in different ways. But JD knows what's important to Cam, and what's important to Cam is important to JD.

There's ten more minutes of semi-awkward conversation before Sam finally sighs. "Okay," she says -- to Cam, because she understands him too. "I've been fed, I've been watered, we can skip showing me my room and letting me take a shower. You've discharged your obligations and Momma won't haunt you. Let's just do this."

Cam opens his mouth -- yeah, okay, he does follow the rules of hospitality, but still, not right for her to set it out like that; feels like she's mocking. But JD's hand settles over his and squeezes, and Cam takes another look at Sam. She's looking a little ghostly, more than a little tired. Hell of a year, she'd said. Getting down to business is the kindest thing he can do for her right now. JD sees it.

"Landry," JD says. "Is he Trust?"

Sam takes a deep breath, blows it out. Closes her eyes. "No. The General cleared him a few months back. He's an idiot, but he's not dirty."

"The General" can only refer to O'Neill. "Okay," JD says. Apparently that's good enough for him. "You got people in the NID?"

Sam nods. "Barrett," she says, which apparently means something to JD, because he nods again. "He's trying. There are a few of us. Nothing official. Barrett, the General, me, Major Davis. Colonel Reynolds. Who was really confused about that message you sent him, by the way. I didn't tell him where it really came from. I guess you could call us a conspiracy."

JD laughs, free and clear. Cam loves that laugh every time he hears it. Sam looks up from her coffee and gives JD a blank look. "Wouldn't be the first time," JD says, and Sam's confusion doubles at the merry sound in his voice. "Anyone in Ba'al's camp? Anyone on the inside?"

Sam shakes her head. "We're holding that in reserve. Last person we tried to plant got very dead."

"Yeah," JD says. "Okay. Do you --"

The phone rings. JD makes a face and slides off the bench to pick it up. "Hold that thought," he says, to her, and to the receiver, "Yeah?"

Then his face changes, goes blank and locked-down. "Oh, shit," he says, and "sorry, ma'am," he says, and "God, no, I'm so sorry," he says, and Cam's heart stops. "Yeah, hold on," JD says, and he brings the phone over, and as he hands it to Cam, he takes Cam's hand and holds it tight. That's when Cam knows.

"Who?" Cam asks, his knuckles tight on the plastic of the cordless handset. Because it's Momma, it has to be Momma, and someone's gone.

Momma's crying. He can hear it in her voice, the sound of tears and of a wild, boundless grief. "Cameron," she says. "Honey, sit down."

"I'm sitting, Momma," he says. "Who?"

"It's Ash," Momma says. Two syllables that cut Cam down straight through. "We got -- they came -- It was a crash, honey, they shot his copter down, they say it was quick --"

"No," Cam says. "No." JD's hand is tight on his; he can see Sam looking nervous, see JD mouth a name, see Sam's face crumple. It all registers like a dim haze, because his world's narrowed down to Momma's voice on the other end of the line. "Oh, hell, Momma --"

Two weeks. Ash had two weeks left, and then he was going to come home to collect Cindy Lou and the kids and move them out to wherever he was stationed next, serve out the rest of his tour making young boys jump when he barked at them and teaching them how to love the sky.

He feels like JD might crack his knuckles, holding on so hard, and he can't make himself loosen up. They always say it was quick. There's a script. Cam's seen it. He threw it away, the few times he insisted on being the man in the black car that pulls up in the driveway and ends the waiting. Threw it away, and said it plain, and then held on and waited while the family cried.

His head isn't on straight. "We'll be there as soon as we can," he says. "Missed the last flight out by now. We'll be on the first one in the morning."

Momma sniffs on the other end of the line, and the sound breaks his heart. "Yes, please," she says. And that just makes it worse, because Momma doesn't ask; Momma suggests and Momma hints and sometimes Momma flat-out orders, but Momma doesn't ask. "I need my boy home with me."

"Tell Cindy I love her," Cam says. "You tell Cindy I'm coming."

Two goddamn weeks. Two goddamn fucking weeks, and Cam's baby brother is dead, and oh, God, Cam can't breathe.

JD's talking to Sam, low-toned voice, and there are tears running down Sam's face and she's nodding. It's all happening far, far away. To someone else. Like all of this is happening to someone else. JD pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket and starts dialing one-handed. Cam hears "reservations" and "domestic" as JD makes his way through the IVR.

"She'll like that," Momma says. "She'll --"

Her voice cracks, and Cam can hear her struggling for control, struggling to breathe. "Soon's we can," Cam promises. "You just hold on. I love you. We'll be there soon's we can."

He's repeating himself, but it doesn't matter. Momma says something else, but Cam can't quite hear that either. There's a dialtone in his ear a minute later. He clicks off the phone, automatically, and sets it down on the kitchen table.

Sam reaches over the table to grab his other hand, the one JD's not crushing. "Cam," she says. "I'm so sorry --"

"She's pregnant," Cam says. "Cindy Lou. She's five damn months along."

"Oh, God." Sam breathes in. "I'm coming too. I'll stay as long as you need. I've got the leave. I never take it."

"Momma'll like that," Cam says. When he hears himself say it, hears the distant and detached sound of his own voice, he recognizes that he's probably in shock. Shakes himself a bit. Won't do anybody any good if he can't think. "We need to call for the --"

But no; JD's already on the phone with the airline, making the arrangements in a brisk, calm voice. "Pack," Cam says. "I need to pack."

JD presses the cell phone's mike against the side of his face as he turns his head. "I've got it. Sit," he says, command written clearly in every syllable, and then moves the phone back. "No, sorry. Thanks. Do you have anything arriving sooner? We don't mind a tight connection."

Sam squeezes his hand. "Hang on a second," she says, and lets go. She saw where JD got the whiskey from; she pours a full shot this time, brings it back to him. "Here."

Cam knocks it back without thinking. It brings tears to his eyes; that's his story, and he's sticking to it. "God," he says. "Oh, God, Sam, my brother. My baby brother."

"I know," she says, her eyes swimming. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

The next couple of hours are nothing but a blur, between the grief and the drugs and the alcohol and the pain. There's all kinds of pain; physical, emotional, heart and soul. Cam remembers JD getting him up from the table, squirming his head and shoulders under Cam's arm (can't find his cane, can't make a grip, can't hold on to anything anymore) and getting him over to the couch to lie down. He remembers JD holding his face in both hands and speaking, slowly and clearly, but for the life of him he can't remember what JD said. He remembers Sam crouched next to the couch where he's lying, one of her hands in one of his and the other smoothing back his hair.

He remembers voices and noises and he can't make a damn lick of sense out of any of them. Any more than he can make sense of a world where they can send people to other galaxies in the blink of an eye, but they can't keep a thirty-five-year-old father of three -- four -- from giving up his life to defend an acre of sand.

He snaps to when they're in the car, when they're on their way to the airport. He can't tell if he's losing time, or if he's just slept; the fact that he can't tell is a bad sign. JD parks them in short-term parking. It'll cost an arm and a leg when they get back; he opens his mouth to say something, but JD just glares at him. "I'm not leaving you, even long enough to park the car," he says.

"Oh," Cam says. Presses a hand to his forehead. "Sorry. I'm just --"

"Yeah," JD says, and grabs both suitcases out of the trunk. "It's okay. I know."

First class seats (JD again) and it'll be an open-ended return ticket, Cam knows. Uncle Al meets them at the airport. Same flight. He sits down next to Cam; Sam's on one side, and JD had been on the other, but he'd carefully loosened his hand from Cam's grip to go get them coffee. (JD hasn't slept, Cam thinks. It's five in the morning. He wonders if JD's eaten.) "Cameron," Uncle Al says, his voice full of heartbreak. "I'm sorry."

Cam's starting to get tired of people saying that, and there's going to be more of it ahead. "S'alright," he says, even though it's not. Won't be for a damn long time.

JD crouches down in front of him, coffee in hand. "Here," he says, and presses it into Cam's hands. "Drink." He looks up at Uncle Al. "Sir."

Uncle Al reaches out and rests a hand on JD's shoulder. "Al," he says. "I'm glad you're here. Thank you for coming."

Some messy emotion flicks in JD's eyes, is set aside. "Couldn't not," he says.

Uncle Al squeezes JD's shoulder, then lets go. "I know. Sassy and Cindy will be glad, too. It's a hard thing to bear."

He would know. Momma had four brothers; only three of them came home from Vietnam, and one of them came home in a coffin. And Uncle Al didn't come home until seven years later, and Cam's never heard him say word one about all those years as a prisoner of war. There've been Mitchells and kin in every war since the one that made them a country, and there's plenty of Mitchell blood been spilled to keep that country thriving.

Cam feels numb, and slow, and stupid. JD gets him on the plane. Sam in tow; Cam's dimly aware that she and JD are talking, that Uncle Al's listening, and Cam thinks he should be paying attention, that he might be missing something important, but he can't focus in on it. He sleeps through some of the flight; not all. The flight attendants' faces have sympathy and pity; that's Sam's touch, there, showing her military ID at the counter and asking for what help they can give. Making sure everyone knows to ease the way.

And they make it home, and Momma's crying and holding on (and she's so thin, so frail; when did Momma get to be so old?) and Cindy Lou is sitting hollow-eyed at the kitchen table and looking at nothing at all, and Daddy's sitting next to her and holding her hand, and Chandler and Stewart don't understand it all, but they understand that their daddy isn't coming home again.

And Sam sits down next to Cindy and takes her other hand, and Cindy turns her face to Sam and breaks down on Sam's shoulder, and Cam knows Cindy's been trying to hold together, trying to hold on, even around family, but to have another woman there -- another woman who's grieving, but not grief-struck; another woman who's been there, who knows -- gives her leave to let go a bit. And JD picks Lucy up off the babyseat on the counter and settles her in the crook of his arm, tickles her toes and says soothing things to her, and the sound of a baby laughing isn't anything new to this kitchen, but Cam can't think of a time when it was any more needed.

There won't be a viewing. Momma's wrecked and she's not thinking clearly, can't take care of things the way she usually does, but she gets hold of herself long enough to explain that there wasn't enough left of the body (just an earthly shell, Cam thinks; his brother's already long gone) to make pretty. The notice in the paper will say that the family will be At Home to Visitors in lieu of a viewing; it won't run until tomorrow, but the neighbors don't need a notice to start ringing the doorbell as soon as afternoon comes. They all know what the car in the driveway means. The counter's lined with fresh-cut garden flowers by mid-afternoon; there's barely enough room in the refrigerator, in the freezer, for all the casserole dishes accumulating. The family's well-loved.

Late evening, Spence shows up at the door. He's in BDUs, and he's got two suitcases and two garment bags with him. Skipper's nowhere to be seen: offworld, Cam thinks; offworld, and he'll come home to find his cousin gone. Spence hands one of the suitcases and one of the garment bags to Sam, says something soft to her. She smiles. Must have gone over to her house in the Springs, Cam thinks, picked up some clothes and Sam's spare uniform; she's kept the house, closed up and waiting, in case she needs to go back. Nobody who's been touched by the Stargate program ever fully walks away.

And Cam answers the door when the doorbell rings, and answers Chandler and Stewart's questions, or tries to, anyway -- your daddy's gone, because sometimes when you do your duty, bad things happen, and there are bad people and good people all over this world and the people who did this aren't necessarily bad people, they're just trying to do their duty, too, and it's all complicated and hard to understand but your daddy loved you, baby, he loved you so much -- and gets the casseroles in the oven at the right time to feed people and makes sure the coffee never runs low. He makes sure that Cindy Lou lies down -- you get your body to bed right this minute, Cynthia Louise, because your baby needs you and you aren't going to let that go comes out of his mouth, and he sounds so much like Momma should that it makes his heart hurt -- and says all the right words to all the people who come calling.

He thinks that he should take care of Momma, but no sooner does the thought cross his mind that he realizes Momma's sitting in the parlor, with Daddy to one hand and JD to the other. JD's found the baby-sling, and he's got Lucy tied up against his chest. She's sleeping. JD's got one hand on the back of her head, and Momma's clutching the other one tight. Cam stops in the doorway. JD looks up -- always knows when Cam's in the room. Doesn't smile, just nods once, and Cam knows that it's being taken care of.

They get through Saturday, and on to Sunday. They'll bury Ash on Monday. Cam was the one to spend the time on the phone with the funeral home, was the one to make all the arrangements, following down the lines of Momma's neat script in her event-of-emergency book. JD offered, but Cam had to do it himself. Momma's a wreck and Daddy's keeping her upright; they finally got through to Cindy Lou's doctor and got him to call in a prescription for something that won't hurt the baby as long as she doesn't take it for too long, and she's sleeping it off in a dark room with someone checking in on her every half-hour. Cam's the only other choice.

He digs Chandler and Stewart's Easter suits out of the wreck they call a room. Makes sure they get fed, starts running them a bath. He's about to go supervise when Miranda stops him, puts her hands on both his shoulders. "You go sit," she says, firm and no-nonsense, and turns him (gently) around. "I can see how bad you're limping. I can handle the boys."

She's talking to him like he's about to come apart at the seams any second. Cam doesn't know why; he's holding up fine. He just hadn't noticed he was limping, is all. He remembers JD pressing pills into his hand at breakfast-time, again at lunch. But he's been on his feet all day, and he can't quite remember where he last saw his cane.

Turns out his cane's in the kitchen, propped up against the wall, and Momma and Daddy are sitting at the table, along with Uncle Al and Spence and Sam and JD and Uncle Bayliss and Uncle Roy. Cam picks up the cane -- and yeah, once he's leaning on it, he realizes how much he fucking hurts, but he's not quite done yet and if he sits down he's not going to get back up. And Momma says, her voice blurry (she hasn't been dipping into Cindy Lou's sedatives, Cam thinks, but there's a glass of brandy at her hand, and Daddy keeps nudging it close to her), "That's five."

"Told you I'd do it, Sassy," Uncle Roy says.

Momma shakes her head. "Not with your arm."

Uncle Roy busted his arm a few weeks back getting Chandler out of a tree Stewart talked him up into. And that makes it make sense. They're settling pallbearers.

Family tradition -- they have too many centered around death, Cam thinks, and he's conscious, somewhere, in the back of his mind, of a rage at the unfairness of the universe, so deep and so furious that it makes him shy away from even coming close to it -- says that the closest relatives, military or former, serve as escort. "I'll do it, Momma," he says. There shouldn't have been any question. His daddy can't, but Cam's still got both of his legs, even if they don't always do what he wants them to do. They'll be good enough to see his brother home to rest.

Momma looks up at him. Her eyes are red, Cam can see. "Honey," she says. "You can't."

"Don't you tell me what I can't do," he says.

Something flutters, deep in his chest. Momma's face twists up. "You be practical now, Cameron," she says.

Cam sets the mug of coffee he was pouring down on the counter with a clack. "I know what I can do," he says. "And I will do this. He's my brother, Momma."

"Cameron," she says, and closes her eyes. Exhausted, Cam thinks. He shouldn't be arguing with her. But he's not going to give in on this one. When she opens her eyes again, she looks at JD, a plea in her face. Do something.

JD studies it, and then gets up. Cam's expecting reasoned words, an appeal to logic. He's not expecting JD to search his face, looking for something -- Cam can't tell what -- and, when he finds it, just nod.

Then JD moves, one quick flash, and kicks Cam's cane out from underneath him.

Cam goes down, and he goes down hard; spinning, pinwheeling his arms, headed for a bad landing and he can tell it. He's got just a fraction of a second to think bastard, the bastard, and then JD's there: reaching to catch him the way he never does, taking Cam's weight on his arms and his chest, cushioning the landing and sinking to his knees with Cam cradled tight. And Cam thinks, wanted to show me what would happen if I tripped, and Cam thinks, Jesus, my legs hurt, and Cam thinks my brother's dead, and he takes a deep breath in and lets it out on a howl along with all the tears he hasn't been able to cry.

JD turns them slightly, enough so that Cam's weight is resting on his good hip and not the bad one, and holds Cam's face against his shoulder. Cradling Cam's head like he'd cradle the baby, shielding Cam's grief, though there's no shame in honest tears. He doesn't say any of the things people trot out to try to soothe or comfort. No "it'll be all right" or useless shushing. He doesn't stroke Cam's hair or rock them back and forth. He just holds on, and Cam holds on too, and it takes him a surprisingly short time to cry out his grief.

When he's starting to do nothing more but sniffle, JD takes his hand away -- other arm's holding Cam up, and Cam doesn't want to move yet, and he knows JD won't make him -- and holds it out, and someone puts a tissue into it. They've got them handy just about everywhere in the house this week. JD presses it into Cam's hand, and Cam wipes his eyes and blows his nose and takes a deep breath. When he sits up, nobody's looking at him; they'll give him his space.

"I'll ask George," Momma says, picking up the conversation that was interrupted fifteen minutes ago like it never paused.

"I'll do it," JD says. Quietly. Like he's expecting to be told no. But Momma's eye settles on him, and there's a minute when Cam thinks she might see straight through him, and then she nods.

They put what's left of Ash into the ground (ten bare steps away from where Cindy Lou's father's grave still has grass struggling to take root again; these things come in threes, Cam thinks, and then shivers and prays that Whoever keeps book wasn't listening) on a bright sunny Monday morning, the twenty-sixth of July, and everywhere Cam looks, there's someone in uniform. Cindy Lou's shining tall and proud, standing up under all eyes. She'll have told herself it's her duty now, to do Ash proud, to show that she knows he died with honor even if she can't understand why he had to. JD is the only one at the coffin's side wearing a suit, not a uniform, but he wears it like his dress blues and stands iron-straight.

Cam thinks he might be the only one who sees JD take a half-step forward before catching himself, when the officers take hold of the edges of the flag to fold it. He's the only one who sees JD clasp his hands at the small of his back to keep himself from stepping in. Or maybe, he thinks, looking at Momma's face in the sunlight and the way her eyes narrow down, he's not the only one.

They go back to the house. The Christ Church Ladies' Auxiliary has taken care of the food for the reception, and Momma's calmer now, able to smile and say thank you, even when it doesn't meet the eyes. They follow tradition and tell outrageous stories and affectionate lies about Ash, from the time Cam convinced him (four years old) that he could dig a hole to China in the backyard, to the time (last leave) when he went out drinking with Carter and Skipper and they'd wound up accidentally ("that's my story and I'm sticking to it," Carter swears) stumbling into a tittie bar.

It gets lighter to hold. Not easier; never easier. Just a little bit lighter. Funerals are for the living. Momma said, last month: grieve a while, and then go on. They're Mitchells. They go on.

Later that night, when the neighbors have all gone home and the family in residence has all gotten settled, Cam goes looking for JD and finds him sitting on the front porch: him in the swing, Sam and Spence circled around him in two of the chairs. They're in the middle of what sounds like a serious discussion, one that's been going on for a while; the front porch is for serious discussions. Cam wonders what he's been missing, these past few days: what's been said and done, what JD's found. Whether JD's mind's been set at ease, or stirred up more.

Cam stops at the door, not sure if he should interrupt, but JD holds out a hand without turning around to look. Cam takes it. Sam watches, but there's something different in her eye now, something speculative. JD tugs him close, and Cam settles in the porch swing, right where he sat not six months ago and got his brother's form of blessing and approval. He's glad, so glad, that Ash met JD. That Ash knew Cam was settled. That Ash didn't go with worry on his heart.

"Just a couple of missions," Spence is saying. "It could be coincidence. Landry thinks it's coincidence."

Sam cuffs him upside the head. The more time she spends here, the more Mitchell she picks up. "General Landry," she corrects. "He's your commanding officer, no matter what you think of him."

Spence ducks his head. "Yes ma'am. But the Lucian Alliance has some intel that we can't trace, and we're not sure where they're getting it. We've been pulled in three times this quarter for S&R, and I'm getting too good at breaking out of jail."

JD and Sam share a quick, knowing look. Sam's getting easier with JD, Cam thinks. Moving closer to seeing him as his own person, while still seeing the pieces of O'Neill that made him up. "Yeah," Sam says, wryly. "The SGC teaches you thousands of job skills you never thought you'd need to know."

"You need a guy on the inside," JD says. "Because if Ba'al's not behind this, I'll eat this swing."

"I know we do," Sam says. She sounds unhappy. "But the General won't authorize the op. Out of his mandate --"

"Never stopped him before," JD says, and Sam throws him an unreadable look.

"Out of his mandate," she repeats, more firmly, "and too dangerous for anyone who has any ties at all to the SGC."

Cam's been seeing this moment coming for a long damn time now, and he's been trying to duck it the whole damn way. But there's a house of sleeping people behind him. Good people; strong people. People who know about duty, and honor, and steadfastness, and what it means to be protectors. He's twelve hours away from having buried his brother, and his legs are burning and his spine aches like fire. But on Friday night, he stood in a parking garage and he told Sam that if God turned back time and he had it all to do over again, he would.

And he's forgotten that for a little while, let pain and anger and shame (not good enough not smart enough not fast enough to save them, his boys and girls, every single last one of them, and him left over to bear witness) blind him. And in four more months, his brother's last baby is gonna be born, and Cam will by God not let it be into a world whose strings are being pulled by a man with a charming smile and a snake in his head.

JD's hand squeezes his. Cam looks up to find JD watching him. His eyes are a question. Cam gives the answer, but not to JD.

"You tell the General," Cam says to Sam. "You tell him about us. And you tell him that if he can use us, we're in."

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