Sam leaves on Tuesday morning. Headed back to Nevada, and if she could only get a flight connecting through National and an eight-hour layover, well, she booked at the last minute, and nobody will look twice if she decides to look up her old CO instead of sitting around the airport. Cam offers to drive her to the airport before he realizes he can't, that the car's not accessable and he (not thinking about why, not, not) really overdid it yesterday.

He offers up Spence in his place, since Spence is scheduled for a midafternoon departure, but JD takes her instead. "I don't want you to have to --" Cam starts, but JD gives him The Look.

"Shut it," JD says. It's a strange way of saying I love you, but it's theirs.

The house is quiet today, at least. Quieter. Cindy Lou is up and about, and despite everyone's best efforts, she plants herself in the kitchen and bakes half-a-dozen loaves of bread and a rhubarb pie for dessert. Chandler sits on the counter next to her and adds flour to the wooden board she's kneading the dough out on. She keeps having to stop and touch him; there are flour handprints on his cheek, flour in his hair.

Cam sits at the kitchen table, with his laptop and a mug of tea, and tries to make some headway with the ftp client he's working on. The lines of code refuse to coalesce; after the third time he fucks it up so badly that it won't even compile, he exits vim, closes the shell window, and opens up his poker software. Stewart comes over after a while and climbs up next to him. Cam's been teaching him the finer points of Hold-'Em. The kid cleans up; Cam suspects someone's been giving him lessons on the side.

He hurts less than he thought he would. His brother is still dead, and there's nothing in the world that can make that be all right. But it's the next morning after, and the sun came up after all, and you put one foot in front of the other and keep on going.

JD returns from his errand just after lunch, with a bushel full of produce from the MacGregors' roadside stand, a baffled look on his face, and three tiny balls of fluff, cradled in the hem of his shirt, trying to use him as a climbing-post. "I don't know how it happened," he says, perplexed straight through. "I kept saying no. I think that woman has mind control powers."

The MacGregors do have scary mind control powers; it's how everyone in the county's wound up with a kitten, one time or another. Nobody's been able to trap the momma cat to get her fixed. "I can take them back," JD says, when Momma comes wandering in and gives him the eyebrow. "I shouldn't have --"

But Stewart's sitting on the floor of the kitchen, dangling a piece of yarn for the orange kitten to chase after, and he's actually laughing, and Momma's face softens. "Good thing we still have some dry food lying around," she says. Later on, Cam catches her with the grey-and-white runt of the litter in her lap, blissful kitty paws kneading Momma's thighs with tiny needle claws, and he thinks JD might have known what he was doing the whole time.

They stay through until Friday; Cindy's still shaky, but she's the one to chase them out. "Get," she says. "You've got things to be doing. I'm glad you were here, and I'm glad I've got you. But go home. Ash wouldn't want you to put your lives on pause forever."

In some families, the dead man's ghost gets conjured as an excuse for whatever the speaker wants to support. Not theirs. For Cindy to say it -- because it's true; even if it is the kind of thing that usually gets said by clueless acquaintances offering clumsy comfort, Ash wouldn't want Cam to wreck himself grieving, and everyone there knows it -- means that she's going to be all right. Eventually.

"We'll come back when the baby's born," Cam says, putting an arm around her shoulders and resting his cheek against her hair. "And if you want to send us the demon children, we've got a spare bedroom."

Cindy laughs, and it's only a little bit hollow. "Take them now," she says. "I'll sell them cheap."

Getting back home, back into their routine, does help, especially when -- four days after they're settled back in -- the Navy calls them up and awards them the contract they'd bid on. Cam's a little bit shocked; he hadn't expected they'd get it at all, much less so quickly. It kicks off a flurry of frantic activity: blueprints spread out over every available surface (they've both figured out AutoCAD well enough to make it do what they want it to do, but JD's got a draftsman's hand and a purist's work ethic; he insists on doing it the old-fashioned way) and sixteen-hour days with reference books and circuit diagrams everywhere.

He and JD fall back into their work mode easily (bickering about the circuit-board logic flow, bickering about the specs, bickering about whether they're going to design from scratch or adapt an off-the-shelf system, bickering about the division of labor between working on the handheld unit and working on the controlling software), and it isn't until three weeks later that Cam looks up from the dinner he's thrown together for them both and says, "Have you heard from Sam?"

JD snaps his fingers. "She called yesterday," he says. "I was in the middle of supplier hell when she called, forgot about it as soon as she hung up. She's working on O'Neill. He says he's got it under control and doesn't need any help from, and I quote, 'a bunch of damn civilians'." JD's lips twist into something with only superficial resemblance to a smile. "I told her to tell him where to shove his civilian."

"Maybe he doesn't need us," Cam says. "Maybe they really do have it under control."

JD shakes his head. "He needs us," he says, tight and grim. "He's just trying to convince himself that he doesn't. Give it time. I only hope we've got it."

They don't talk about it otherwise. Haven't talked about it yet, probably won't, not until the time comes. They both know, now, that believing either one of them could walk away is naiveté of the highest order. Or rather, believing that either one of them could stay away.

Cam thinks that neither one of them are the people they were a year ago. It makes him stop and take stock. They've cleaned off one tiny corner of the kitchen table to eat at, and JD's sitting there with the ever-present book in one hand (one of Heinlein's juveniles; Cam has long since given up on trying to pin down JD's taste) and his fork in the other, head bowed. The setting sun streaming in through the bay windows sets his hair on fire. It makes Cam's throat tight.

"I love you," he finds himself saying.

JD looks up, his face unguarded and open. "I love you too," he says, automatically. "What was that for?"

"Nothing," Cam says. "I just --" He makes a gesture with one hand, taking in the kitchen, the house, their life. "You know."

And JD smiles. He puts down the book and reaches across the table, taking Cam's hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the back of Cam's knuckles. "Yeah," he says. "I think I do."

One of the twins, whichever one's on-world, makes sure to check in weekly -- not status reports, nothing so overt, but just a quick reassurance that they're still there and still okay. It's partially a courtesy, since both Cam and JD know what can happen at the SGC, and partially the relief that comes from having some member of the family actually know what they are and what they're doing, someone they don't have to lie to. Cam remembers those days.

He's the first in the family to know that Skipper's bound for Atlantis after all; he's the only one in the family to know that it's Atlantis, and not some mysterious overseas assignment. Cam's pretty sure Sam's keeping an eye out for the twins, too -- she's stationed at Area 51 still, but the Mountain's got a long arm. He calls her up when he hears and says, straight out, "How dangerous is it?"

She hesitates a second, and in that hesitation, he can read the true answer. "Dangerous," she finally says. "More than the Mountain. But they can really use him. Sheppard's drowning out there, and Pegasus could really use someone who's competent and sneaky and just a little bit underhanded."

"Well, that's Skipper, all right," Cam says, and tries to push away the little frisson of worry.

"I'll make sure I keep an ear out," Sam says, and he can hear, in her voice, the sound of her knowing he's worried.

Skipper ships out at the end of August, and Spence starts calling more often after that. Cam hears the loneliness in his voice; it's not the first time they've been stationed in two different places, but it's the first time in a while, since most of their commanders recognize they work better in a pair. He says comforting things at first, until he realizes that Spence is really just looking for someone to listen, and after that he's treated to weekly parades of who's pissed off whom and who's won money off of who else. He relays the news to JD, who cracks up half the time and looks thoughtful the other half.

They go back to North Carolina for Labor Day weekend. They're greeted by a kitten trying to climb up each of JD's legs -- Cam masterfully suppresses a snicker at the look on his face -- and a house that's subdued, but within the parameters of normal. Cindy's as big as houses and alternating between being cranky as all get-out, bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, and hiding in her room to get away from it all. Cam's been keeping in touch, of course, but Momma hadn't mentioned how bad it was.

"She's all right," Momma says, when Cam brings it up, as gently as he can. "Just tired, is all."

It's Momma's wishing-makes-it-so, voice, though, and Cam's troubled by it. JD's troubled by it, too. That night, JD is the one to say, "We should come work up here for a few months when the baby's born."

Cam rolls over to face him. "I thought I might be imagining it."

JD shakes his head. "You're not," he says, low and soft. "She's not as okay as she wants herself to be. Either your momma, or Cindy. Could use another pair of hands."

"We gonna be okay to come work up here?" Cam asks. He wants to; there are some things family's supposed to do without being called on, without being asked. But he's not just asking about whether or not they can stand to concentrate in this madhouse; he's asking if JD thinks he can handle the constant background strain of quasi-disapproval. It's getting better, will continue to get better the longer the family sees JD's not going anywhere. But it's wearying for him, and he's not the one that's the target of all the thoughtful looks.

"It'll be fine," JD says. Cam falls asleep with JD's fingertips resting against his face and the rhythm of love beating in his heart.

Back home, and three days later they're on a plane to Washington for a no-notice face-to-face with their clients to deal with settling a change request; JD offers to come along, and Cam says yes without having to think about it, because for all that JD swears he's going to let Cam handle the business end of things, JD's better at it half-asleep than Cam is at full alert. With all the travel they've done this year, it's enough to kick them into being preferred-class flyers, which is nice -- free upgrades -- and they score an amazing last-minute deal at the Pentagon City Ritz-Carlton, which is a full two stars up from the Hotel Washington, where Cam usually stays when he's in town.

Cam almost doesn't want to amputate his own legs at the hip by the time they get unpacked and settled in, which is a nice change. "I could get used to this," he says, as they're waiting for the room service (he doesn't feel that good; room service is a better option than trying to drag his carcass out to dinner, and while he'll cheerfully send JD out to get takeout tomorrow and the next day, he thinks JD might want to chill out and relax too).

JD laughs at him, soft and sweet. "When we're rich, I'll put you up in five-star hotels worldwide," he assures Cam, and Cam rolls over on the bed and props his chin up on his hands. He doesn't think JD's kidding. He's figured for a while that JD's master plan involves making a shitpot of money. He's just waiting for JD to tell him what that master plan is.

They're halfway through dinner when the knock sounds on the door again. Cam frowns -- it's not the kind of place that comes to collect the room service dishes without being called -- and JD gets up to answer. Cam can just see his hand ghosting over the small of his back, then falling away. They don't talk about the fact that they both keep handguns, or about the fact that JD can always lay his hands on his piece within minutes when they're at home, or about the fact that Cam knows JD always checks his clutch piece in luggage when they travel, even when they're going back to North Carolina -- though when they're in the house, JD keeps his piece in a lockbox in their suitcases, and Cam knows full well why. They don't talk about the fact that JD's a paranoid son of a bitch, and they don't talk about all the times JD's paranoia saved his skin in the past. It is simply a fact of their lives.

But JD checks the peephole, and Cam can see, by the sudden tautness of his shoulders, that their visitor might not be a danger, but is certainly unwelcome. He undoes the chain and opens the door. Cam can't see who it is, but JD's voice is ugly as he says, "It's considered polite to call ahead first."

The voice that answers isn't the same timbre, but it's identical in tone. "You woulda let me in if I had?"

"Probably not," JD says. He holds open the door and steps back, and General O'Neill walks in.

O'Neill's dressed in a pair of beat-up jeans and a button-down flannel shirt, looking like he'd be perfectly at home in backwater nowhere and sticking out like a sore thumb in DC. Cam watches O'Neill's eyes -- flick, flick, flick, taking in every inch of detail of the room, from the single suitcase to the king-sized bed.

Cam fights the urge to spring to his feet and salute. "Sir," he says, warily.

O'Neill spares him a look. "Mitchell."

It's surreal. It's beyond surreal. Cam knows that tone when it comes from JD -- it's the "annoyed and put-upon" voice -- and he shouldn't know it from O'Neill, but he does.

"Well, you brought me home to meet your parents," JD says to Cam, irritated sing-song. "Guess it's my turn to return the favor. Something to drink, General? I won't even poison it."

The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Cam reaches out a hand; JD's standing just close enough for Cam to snag him by the back of the jeans, drag him out of O'Neill's personal space. "Truce," he says, and he catches JD biting his lip. JD doesn't want to be an asshole, Cam thinks. There's just something about O'Neill that brings out the worst in him.

"Right," JD says. Clears his throat. "I assume you made sure you weren't followed."

O'Neill throws JD a seriously annoyed look. "Teach your grandma to suck eggs," he says. "Carter says you two want in."

JD opens his mouth to say something, but Cam cuts him off. "If you need us," Cam says. "Seems to me like you could use someone who isn't bound by the same rules you are."

"Maybe," O'Neill says. It's dragged out of him, like a concession. His being here is concession enough, Cam thinks. And a sign that whatever O'Neill's dealing with is big; big enough for him to break the treaty of mutually benevolent ignorance he and JD had wordlessly agreed on.

"Pull up a chair," Cam says. JD throws him a look; it's unreadable.

O'Neill stays standing. "You're in the middle of dinner. I'll come back."

"Pull up a chair," Cam repeats. He grabs his cane, which is sitting up against the wall, and uses it to skin past O'Neill's hip and snag the desk chair to drag it up to the table. "You came this far. We'll listen."

O'Neill hesitates, like he's about to say something, and then sits. He's still dividing his attention between Cam and JD, like there's something bothering him, and Cam thinks about all the things he knows about Jack O'Neill, all the pieces of him reflected in JD's eyes.

"So," JD says, into the awkward silence. "How's Washington working out for you?"

Something sparks in O'Neill's eyes, something that tells Cam JD's question is equal parts insult and taunt, but he matches pleasantry for pleasantry. "Just fine. How's sodomy working out for you?"

"Jesus," Cam says, before he can catch himself. He's still holding his cane; he raps it across JD's shins. "Behave. I mean it."

He sees the look pass between them. It doesn't take much for him to interpret O'Neill's shock as a question -- you gonna put up with that? -- and JD's smirk as an answer -- you'd be surprised what I'm willing to put up with. O'Neill's body language is practically screaming awkwardness. Sam might have hinted at what lies between the two of them, and Cam knows full well that O'Neill would have checked them out, would have known they'd bought property together and started to comingle their lives. But it could have been explained away. O'Neill wouldn't have wanted to believe that his clone could have the things O'Neill always wanted.

Cam makes his voice as matter-of-fact as he can when he turns back to O'Neill. "I'm not sleeping with you," he says. "So I can't hit you. Yet. Don't push it. Either of you. I'm not above throwing ice water in someone's face."

O'Neill's face is going through a range of contortions, from outrage to shock. Cam's not above admitting that he's almost enjoying it, in the little malicious corner of his mind that he tries to avoid letting control much of anything. It's not that he feels uncharitable towards O'Neill -- far from it; how could he, when JD is O'Neill, or was, and he knows that all the best parts of his lover were formed in the crucible of the man who's sitting here at their table with them. It's just that JD is practically radiating distress, like the two of them are two halves of a fusion bomb circling ever nearer before the explosion, and Cam knows which side he'll come down on if it comes down to it.

So he has to make sure it won't come down to it. He reaches over and grabs JD by the jeans again, dumps him into the other chair at the table. JD goes, willingly enough, though he gives Cam a Look-with-a-capital-L: watch it. Cam looks back (we both knew full well this could happen, so suck it up and soldier, soldier) and reaches over to twine his fingers with JD's. O'Neill looks away, quickly, fixing his eyes on a point over Cam's left shoulder. JD sees it and smirks, hooking one of his knees up over the arm of the chair and slouching.

Cam sighs, but he lets it go and doesn't call JD on it. None of his business if JD wants to antagonize O'Neill, except if it's bad enough to make O'Neill not want to call on them if O'Neill needs them. And if O'Neill's here, it means that O'Neill's willing to at least entertain the idea that he needs them. "Tell us what you need," Cam says.

O'Neill sighs. "Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot. I came here to see how serious you two are."

"Deadly," JD says. All the sullenness is gone from his voice, as though it never were; he's still slouching, but it's a different kind of slouch, the coiled tension of a spring waiting to be released. "You know why."

Something passes between them. Cam can't read it, as much as he tries. It's disconcerting. He can read JD like an open book; it's just that half the time, the book might as well be written in Greek. "You remember," O'Neill says. Cam doesn't know what he's referring to.

JD nods, once, just a quick jerk of the chin. "I remember," he says. "Nightmares stopped a while ago, but some things you don't forget."

O'Neill sighs again, and when he rubs a hand over his face, Cam knows it for JD's gesture of capitulation. "All right," he says. "Ba'al's got people planted. Not in the SGC, not in Homeworld. I'm keeping a close enough eye on that, and Carter's managed to finally put together that handheld naquadah detector she's been working on for years. But it won't pick up humans who have --"

"Conrad," JD says.

"--decided to cooperate, yeah. And God only knows who's on the payroll. We've gotten what we can out of Farrow-Marshall, but we can't get people on the inside."

"Sam said the last people who tried wound up dead," Cam says.

O'Neill's lips twist wryly. "Carter talks too much. Yeah. Picked out one of the best deep-cover operatives we had and tried to send him in. We got back his hands. Packed in dry ice. Sent to my office."

"Personal," JD says, quietly. "He's making it personal."

"It's already personal," O'Neill corrects. "It came with a warning. An ultimatum. If we don't interfere with him, he'll let us go on thinking we run the place. If we get in his way?"

He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Cam looks at JD; there's the faintest of tremors running through JD's body, like the quiver of a live wire or an electrical circuit. "What's his game?" JD asks.

O'Neill shakes his head. "Nobody knows. I can't catch a clue. Best guess is that he's trying to rebuild his empire, and he wants to start here."

Cam winces. He doesn't know what the political situation is like out in the galaxy-at-large, but he thinks JD does. JD's good at putting together pieces, and Sam and Spence and whatever other conduits of information JD still has have been giving him pieces for weeks now.

JD's chewing his lower lip, and his eyes are thoughtful. "Makes sense," he says. "First world. Jaffa?"

O'Neill shakes his head again. "Can't spot any. Not a guarantee, though."

"Yeah," JD says. "Gotcha."

They've forgotten Cam's here. He settles himself back in the chair and watches the two of them; it's a little bit like watching an echo, watching a mirror. The body language is the same, but it's twisted and distorted by circumstance. It's just enough to tell him that O'Neill's seriously uncomfortable but suppressing it, that JD is just as uncomfortable but is starting to become interested.

O'Neill's also watching JD like a hawk, trying to sift through the cues and tells for the answer to a question Cam hasn't quite yet managed to identify. "Can't do it myself," O'Neill says. Cam can tell the admission costs him.

Whatever the question is, JD knows it. His eyes go flat. "I'm out," he says.

"You offered to put yourself back in," O'Neill says.

Cam's missing about eighty percent of this conversation. It doesn't matter. JD will tell him later. "Hell," JD says, and his fingers tighten on Cam's. "Fuck you, you know. Just -- fuck yourself with a chainsaw."

It's not vicious, just weary capitulation. O'Neill relaxes, fractionally; Cam sees it in the easing of his shoulders, the same way JD telegraphs his resignation. "Wouldn't ask," O'Neill says. Wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.

"Wouldn't accept," JD says. Wouldn't accept if I didn't know it was. "Damn you. I have a life. I have a family."

It's a balm to Cam's ears, but it's a bullet to O'Neill's. Cam can see his shoulders go back up, the tightening of his face. Watching it, Cam wonders how much JD was lying -- not consciously, but lying anyway -- when he said that he didn't realize how much his old life was binding him until that life was taken away. O'Neill knows, Cam thinks. O'Neill knows, and he grieves it.

"If you're not in --" O'Neill starts, but JD's shaking his head.

"You know I am," JD says, low and vicious. "And you know why. But this is it. One op. Nothing more."

He doesn't need to look to Cam for permission; they've already agreed. But they're both talking as though it's just JD, and Cam won't have that. "We are," he corrects, and both men turn to him with identical blank looks. "I'm not sending him off blind. Full disclosure, or nothing."

It's not enough. He'll still lie awake at night with the worst-case scenario running through his head. But they talked about this, and no matter what Cam wants, no matter how much Cam wishes it were otherwise, there's just no way on Earth or elsewhere that he's anywhere near able-bodied enough to pull of something of the magnitude they both know is going to be required. And he won't cripple JD by making him constantly have to watch over his shoulder to make sure Cam's all right.

It kills him to know that he's going to have to send JD off into the lion's den, and it kills him more to know that he's going to have to come up with some explanation for the family, something that makes sense. Something that doesn't even come close to the truth of what it is: that Cam will be left on the widow's walk, waiting for his soldier to come back home.

O'Neill and JD both open their mouths, same time, but Cam doesn't want to hear what either one of them is going to say. "No," he says, cutting them both off. "My price. You bring me in, too. I know I can't go along with him, but I'm not stupid and I'm not just going to sit back and wait. I'm in."

JD's fingers tense on his, then ease. O'Neill's studying his face, liek he's trying to understand, like he can learn to read Cam in those few moments the way it took JD months to be able to. Maybe he can. His eyes dart down to their joined hands again, and when he looks back up, for half a heartbeat, Cam can see naked pain and longing written there before it's stuffed away.

"It'll take some time to build a cover," O'Neill says. Capitulation, agreement.

JD snorts. "Let me take care of it. I'm better at it than your people would be." Than you would be, but JD doesn't say that. A courtesy only. Cam knows O'Neill can hear what's not being said.

"You going to be able to do this?" O'Neill asks. And there's history there, history Cam doesn't understand and is going to have to ask about. But not now.

JD meets O'Neill's eyes, clearly, with resolve. "Don't have much choice, do I?" he asks.

Because that's the long and the short of it. They don't have a choice -- they've agreed on that much, at least. If Ba'al is making a play for Earth, there's no way they can stand back and not do anything. Cam almost envies JD, because he can be the one to actually do something about it. This close, facing it, he's starting to ache already, down in the pit of his heart.

"If we had a choice, I wouldn't be here," O'Neill says, and Cam hadn't expected a bald confession like that, but of course it's true; O'Neill probably wants to be here about as much as they want him here. "You keeping your skills up to date?"

JD nods. "More than you, probably," he says. It could be antagonistic, could be nasty, but it's not; it's a simple declaration of fact. JD is younger, probably stronger. His teenager's body will do things that O'Neill's body forgot long ago. "About the level we were in Poland."

Some shadow of memory crosses O'Neill's face, at the mention of their shared past or even just at JD's choice of pronoun. "It'll have to do," O'Neill says, crisp and short, and stands. It's JD's gesture, the sudden need to be up and out, and Cam's heart aches for him. "I'll be in touch. Your email server's secure?"

"As secure as I can make it," JD says, and Cam thinks that might be pity in his voice, well-hidden. Or maybe it's just empathy, or understanding.

O'Neill nods. To both of them. "Don't call me," he says, "I'll call you," and strides across the room. To anyone else, it would be the motion of a man in supreme control: of his life, of himself, of the situation. Cam only knows it for a lie because of all the time he spent learning all the ways JD's body lies to him.

"Jack," JD says, softly, just as O'Neill's hand closes on the doorknob. O'Neill's shoulders stiffen, like he's been shot in the heart. He doesn't turn around.

JD waits a second, to see if O'Neill will say anything. O'Neill doesn't. When JD speaks again, there are acres of compassion in his voice, and Cam can't understand a word of it.

"You'd better," O'Neill says, and the door clicks shut behind him.

The silence stretches out. JD's face is pensive, like he's turning something over and over again in his mind. "What'd you say?" Cam asks, when JD doesn't say anything.

JD focuses back in on him. "What? Oh. That I'd take care of it."

It's not quite it -- if it had been something that simple, JD wouldn't have dipped into one of the languages Cam doesn't understand -- but Cam won't push. "You okay?" he asks instead.

"Yeah," JD says, after a minute of careful consideration. "Yeah. I think I kind of am."

Cam nods. Dinner's gone cold, and he's lost his appetite anyhow; he pushes back his chair, picks up his cane and heads for his side of the bed. The laptop's on the bedside table; he can get a few hours of coding in, catch an early bedtime and be ready for their meeting tomorrow. But once he gets settled, he finds himself watching JD, who's sitting at the table still and staring off into space.

"You wanna talk about it?" Cam offers, after fifteen minutes or so, and JD shakes himself at the sound of Cam's voice and comes over to sit on the other side of the bed.

"I need to tell you," JD says, each word sounding as though it's being dragged out of the places of his head where he just doesn't let himself go anymore, "about what Ba'al did to me."

It's a sordid little story of knives and acid and a thousand other things that can be done to the human body, over and over again. It's a story about a Tok'ra (and that's a shock; Cam hadn't known, hadn't even suspected) and a Goa'uld and a woman. JD's voice is soft and even, control layered over a deep aching chasm Cam can only sense the edges of, and JD strips off his shirt and touches tiny sections of his sea of ink with the tips of his fingers and tells Cam, slowly, what each of them mean.

His fingertips hover over one symbol, the one Cam thinks might stand for Daniel Jackson, and then fall away. Something else there. Something Cam won't ask about, and JD won't tell him, and Cam tries hard not to be hurt, not to push, because he's known since the beginning that he doesn't own all of JD. Just the parts JD will let him see. It's enough -- it is; he isn't just telling himself that -- and JD's carrying a heavy enough burden; Cam won't add to it.

"Come here," Cam says, when JD's voice trails off and his eyes say that he's somewhere else, down in the places inside his head that should be marked 'here there be dragons'. JD takes a deep breath and then comes, swarming into Cam's space and wrapping arms and legs around anything he can reach so fiercely Cam thinks he might be strangling.

He doesn't mind, though. He kisses JD's shoulders, and JD breathes out rough and ragged, and they only stay like that a minute before JD's stripping Cam's clothes off with urgent hands. His mouth burns against Cam's skin, and his hands are rough, demanding. It's the first time Cam remembers JD ever treating him with anything less than perfect care.

"I'm sorry," JD says, afterwards, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Sorry for forgetting. Sorry for pushing you.

Cam snorts. "Shut it," he says. Don't be an idiot. I love you.

They go to the meeting with their Navy liaison. It's obnoxious and boring and Cam wants to shoot something halfway through; he and JD occupy themselves by playing Buzzword Bingo with their eyes, and when the liaison actually manages to come out with a single sentence that includes, in all sincerity, "synergy", "leverage" (used as a verb, of course) and "dynamic", Cam nearly has to excuse himself so he can go crack up in the hallway.

O'Neill emails them both and says he'll leave the cover story in JD's hands. JD isn't saying much, but he does say it's going to take him a while to get things set up; he doesn't give a time frame, but Cam's thinking, from the way he talks about it, that he means months instead of weeks. There's a little comfort in that, at least.

Comfort enough to get them back home and through another few days of work -- and oh, God, Cam's realizing that he's probably going to have to finish up this contract by himself, and that's going to suck royal donkey balls; maybe he can persuade Sam to take some of her banked leave and come on out and help him. JD throws himself into the task at hand, but there are dark circles under his eyes and he's not sleeping. Cam does his best not to hover. JD's a grown man, and can manage his own affairs.

Hovering is in Cam's blood, though, and it's hard for him to repress it. He cooks the meals and sends JD out to run -- though JD's quite willing to be sent; Cam thinks JD's been slowly stepping up his workout routine over the past few weeks, quietly and without fanfare -- and makes sure JD's at least in bed at a reasonable hour, even if he's not asleep. He's trying not to hover, but JD can see the concern anyway, and he thinks -- maybe -- JD's comforted by it.

They don't talk about it. About any of it. They're going to have to, but every time Cam thinks about opening his mouth and suggesting that now would be a good time to have The Discussion, JD tells him no with an arch of the eyebrows and a twitch of the lips, and Cam lets it go. He's going to spend the rest of his life learning the roadmap of JD, but he's learned enough to know when JD's working something out. At least JD's working it out here, instead of somewhere else.

And then it's the middle of September, and the phone call comes one bright sunny Saturday morning, and it takes them a few hours to get everything packed up and the keys turned over to Miss Ella next door and all of the appropriate papers and books and tools dropped off at the FedEx center for second-day shipping. When Cam turns on his cell phone after they're wheels-down at Raleigh, it's to find a voice mail message waiting for him; despite all their best efforts, they're just a little bit too late.

They name the baby Ashton James, and they'll call him AJ. He's got his daddy's eyes and his momma's nose, and holding him in the hospital, feeling that tiny grip fixed around his finger and listening to him gurgle, Cam thinks: it's going to be all right.

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