Thanksgiving.

Sneaks up on them, for all Momma calls once a day and twice on Sundays; they're working to deadline now. Cammie's up to her eyeballs in load test simulations and JD's crunching his way through bugfix after bugfix and they're always sure to take five times a day to make sure they don't forget to issue the death threats to each other and they're both dreading the mid-December user acceptance test and code review they've got scheduled with the Navy geeks. Sneaks straight up on them, and all of a sudden it's Monday before and their flight leaves Denver at oh-dark-thirty and Cammie hadn't found the time to prepare him.

Really is no way to prep someone for a holiday with the family, Cammie knows -- they've joked about issuing first-time visitors a map of the house and land, a pair of earplugs, and a bottle of Scotch on arrival -- except to throw them straight into the middle of the ocean and hope they learn to tread water before they drown. Standard operating procedure is to issue one warning and then it's sink-or-swim time, and every year at least one of the cousins or nieces or nephews can be seen patiently trying to lure an overwhelmed significant other out of the hiding spot and back into the fray.

Still, she owes Nielson the courtesy of a briefing, and more than that, a warning. She barely notices these days when he makes a reference that was old before she was born and she sure as hell doesn't bat an eyelash when he snaps and snarls at her like a man who's been in service since she was in diapers, but family's full of old wise men who'll recognize the mannerisms faster than you can say "cover story blown" and she doesn't think he wants to deal with it.

"Relax, Mitchell," he says to her, when she finally broaches the topic of conversation, Monday night with the lights out and him all tucked up behind her with his nose in her hair and his arm slung over her side. (Like sleeping with an amorous octopus, and the only reason she doesn't protest is because, fuck it, it's nice to be held.) "Your family's crazy. I got it. Best foot forward and damn the torpedos."

She snorts and shoves him over so that she can roll over and drape over him for a change. (One of these days, she vows, they're going to have a bed where both of them have room to sprawl when they want.) "Don't say I didn't warn you," she says.

"Shut up and let me get to sleep before you start snoring in my ear," he says, and she falls asleep smiling.

They're out the door at buttfuck o'clock and at the airport by buttfuck-thirty. First time Nielson's traveled with her, and damned if it don't make a difference. He's the one to drive them to the airport (he can drive her car, retired police-interceptor Crown Vic with its hand controls for gas and brake, as easily as he can drive anything with an engine, and she's usually content to let him do it, because she still hates the fucking thing with a passion -- all right, it's not awful, but it's not Miss Mam'zelle Hepzibah the '66 T-bird and it never will be) and he's the one to load himself up with all their gear and he's the one to wave off the counter agent and the people at security who keep offering her the use of a wheelchair (she swears that one of these fucking trips she's just going to hang a fucking sign around her fucking neck that says "no, you fuckers aren't allowed to push"). The help is so appreciated that she doesn't even mind the fact that they're crammed into coach like sardines in a can and God love the man in the window seat in their row because if God don't love him nobody will. (Really, would it have killed the man to bathe?)

Piss-poor selection of flights either way, even if they are flying the day before Black Wednesday instead of the day itself, and they decided it was better to drive a little on both ends in exchange for non-stop no-layover, so they're leaving Denver and coming into Charlotte instead of leaving the Springs and coming into Asheville (where the airport's small enough that if you sneeze, you miss it). Fair weather and favorable wind puts them down in Charlotte before noon even with the timezones (and one of these days she will find out why CLT always smells like stale urine, except she doesn't really want to know). Nielson sits her down at baggage claim (and usually she'd protest for independence's sake, but commercial air travel makes her feel like someone filled her joints with napalm, so she lets him push her around) and reclaims their luggage.

Not much use in telling Momma not to send someone this far, they'd just rent a car, and sure enough, Momma had put her foot down; if they'd been coming in tomorrow, they would have gotten away with it (since every pair of hands available is pressed into service on Wednesday) but today is (lucky for them hooray) free. She'd scanned the crowd for some familiar face when they landed and found nothing, but they picked up enough time with the tailwind that they're half an hour early. "Think we could make a break for the rental counter and say it was a misunderstanding?" she mutters to Nielson when he comes back with the luggage.

"They're your armada, not mine," he says, sounding far too cheerful for what he's about to face (lucky bastard still doesn't know what he's getting into). "I know enough to know that I wouldn't want to explain it to your momma, though."

She snorts and reaches for her cane to struggle to her feet; he picks it up for her, but holds it out of her reach. Apparently she's supposed to keep sitting. He kneels and rummages in her backpack. (Which she's not supposed to use, since it puts too much weight on her spine, but fuck it all, what else is she supposed to do, use one of those wheeled carryons and kill her only free hand? Yeah, how about not.) He'd stopped to get them two bottles of water once they got off the plane; now he presses one into her hands, digs out her pills and hands her a handful. Painkillers too. Fucking sanctimonious twat, thinking he knows when she needs to take them, and the only thing that saves him from getting shoved down the garbage disposal is that he's right, dammit, and if she lets him decide when she needs them, she doesn't have the little voice inside her head whispering addict, addict, addict.

(That conversation had been fun, the airing of bits of personal history she'd rather like to keep buried, but he'd listened and he'd nodded and he'd never once made her feel weak or shameful. And from that moment, he's been handing her her pills, three times a day, morning noon and night, and it isn't that she can't remember to take the fucking things herself or anything, it's just that it's nice having someone there watching out for you.)

"Aunt Cammie?" comes the voice, just as she's swallowing. She turns her head. Jessie's standing there, plain as day and twice as pretty, and oh, it's been two years since she's seen the girl and she's gotten so adult. Seventeen, eighteen, she must be. Just on the cusp of grown-up, teetering into adulthood, and Cammie knows, suddenly, the reason Momma sent Jessie and not one of the older cousins or the uncles to come get them; it's Momma's way of trying to make Nielson feel at home. Someone his own age.

Fuck, this is going to be ridiculous.

They've got a story; of course they've got a story. Thinly-veiled network of truths made into lies. Nielson's twenty (it's about as far as they thought they could push it; Nielson had bemoaned his baby face, and he can look older when he wants to -- in the dark lights of a club or a bar -- but in the clear light of sunshine she'd place him at anywhere between fifteen and eighteen, tops). Child prodigy, high school graduate at sixteen. The son of one of Sam's old service buddies, orphaned a long time back, ward of the state until he petitioned for emancipated-minor status and has been working in the dot-com industry in lieu of college ever since. Nielson supplied most of the details. Cammie's got a sneaking suspicion he's drawing from the life experiences of someone he knew somewhere once, but she doesn't press further, because the look in Nielson's eyes tells her she isn't supposed to ask.

From there it's honest truth: Nielson decided to strike out on his own instead of working for someone else, needed an extra pair of hands, asked Sam, Sam thought of Cammie and they were off to see the races. (Nielson and Sam aren't bosom buddies, but Nielson says they email back and forth from time to time. Sam hasn't mentioned him, any of the times she and Cammie have talked since Nielson moved in; it's one of the hundred things they can't talk about anymore, and it makes Cammie's heart hurt, because Sam Carter's been her closest girlfriend since all the way back to the dawn of time and every time Sam thinks of her now it's tinged with guilt, guilt, guilt. But there's time still to mend those fences; she won't try to patch everything up at once.)

She's told Momma that Nielson's living with her (save on rent, save on office space) and she's told Momma there's nothing between the two of them (told Momma Nielson's queer, even, when Momma's "uh-huh" sounded a little too dubious; asked Momma to keep that to herself, though, since she doesn't know how out Nielson wants to be to family). Apparently Momma's decided that means Cammie's adopted the fucker, as substitute family, which means that Momma's decided that she's going to do the same.

Momma's notions of hospitality are a little overwhelming sometimes.

So Jessie's standing there and looking a little bit nervous (it's not that the girl doesn't know how to act around a crippled person, not with the amount of time she spends around the clanstead and Daddy, but still, it's been a while since Cammie's seen her and she's pretty sure Jessie's heard the tale of those disasterous weeks Cammie spent back at the house between discharge and ressurrection even though she'd put her foot down and told Momma to keep the extended family away). Cammie sighs and holds out her hand for the cane, and Nielson puts it into her hand without her even needing to glare at him, and she struggles herself up to her feet (and praise God and Jesus and everyone on down, the drugs are starting to work) and gathers Jessie up in a hug. "Hey, you," she says. "Jessie, this is JD Nielson. Nielson, this is Jessie. Cousin. We think."

Nielson holds out a hand for Jessie to shake (she does, looking bemused; they're not a handshaking kind of family, since it's usually like-you-enough-to-hug or dislike-you-enough-to-be-coolly-gracious). "Nice to meet you," he says, and then looks back at Cammie. "You think?"

Cammie grins. "I did warn you," she says. "We've lost track. C'mon. If you're really lucky, I'll ask Jessie to take you around the long way an' show you some of the country before we have to plunge into the madhouse."

Turns out, of course, that Momma's expecting them, which means Jessie doesn't dare to take them too far afield, but Cammie does promise to take Nielson into Asheville before they leave (they're staying until Monday, longer than she really wanted to; not that she doesn't love her family, but by then, she knows, she's going to be ready to commit murder and they've got a fucking contract to deliver on). When they pull up to the house, Momma's out on the porch like a bullet. Cammie occupies herself with getting herself plus the cane out of the car; Nielson and Jessie are arguing over whether he's going to let her take some of the gear. (They'd made nice on the drive, but not friends; Jessie keeps looking at Nielson and frowning, like something's not ringing true to her, and it makes Cammie wince, because nobody can spot something wrong with a persona than someone who's part of that group legitimately.) Momma doesn't come on down to help -- she knows better than to get in the way -- but Cammie can feel her eyes on the whole process, already assessing JD.

She stumbles a little once she gets out of the car. Driveway's more of a parking lot, gravel-covered, designed so it can be expanded if necessary if they have more cars, long-term, than the driveway can support, and gravel's a bitch to try to walk on. Nielson's at her elbow before she even finishes catching herself. Doesn't try to catch her -- never has; knows without having to be told that her sense of balance is fucking shit but help is more of a hindrance. Nielson's the only person she's ever met who doesn't instinctively grab at her to 'help' keep her upright when she stumbles, which always winds up knocking her down. Nielson just positions himself within arm's reach, one elbow crooked out in case Cammie needs to grab for it, and waits for Cammie to steady up. Momma doesn't miss that either, Cammie knows.

"You must be JD," Momma says, when they make their way up to the porch. Got a ramp, not steps, and the railing's sturdy enough that Cammie can lean her whole weight on it if she needs to. Whole house is full of little touches like that, has been just about as long as Cammie can remember, and it's nice and it's useful and it's just another piece of the noose they were trying to tighten around her neck. The house is already all set up. You'll find it easier. And she'd come and she'd lasted all of five fucking minutes (five minutes, two and a half months, who's counting) before she'd run away again, and if she hadn't, she wouldn't have had Nielson in her life.

Next to Cammie, Nielson straightens up and looks Momma directly in the eye. "Yes, ma'am," he says, and butter wouldn't melt. He holds out a hand, and Momma takes it. For a second, Cammie thinks Nielson's gonna kiss it, but no, he just half-bows over it, more of an incline of the head than anything else. "JD Nielson. Thank you for having me. I appreciate the hospitality."

Momma makes up her mind about someone in the first thirty seconds, and Cammie can tell she's already slotted Nielson into the "poor little lost lamb" section of her skull. Plenty of those been welcomed here over the years. "Couldn't have you being alone at the holidays," Momma says. "It's not right."

Nielson smiles (a real smile, not one of his little sardonic twist-of-lips, and Cammie's seen him do it a thousand times and it never fails to take her breath away with the angelic beauty; he can look unearthly when he wants). "I'm used to it," he says. "But it's nice not to have to be. Aunt Sam didn't warn me that she wasn't just finding me a business partner, she was finding me a small nation that would offer me immediate citizenship."

And Cammie's staring at him (she's seen him be charming before when he wants to be, but it never fails to creep her the fuck out; who is this pod person and what has he done with Nielson?) but Momma's laughing and holding open the door for all of them. It's one step up from organized chaos inside, of course. It always is. "Cammie, honey, you're in the peach bedroom, and JD's next to you in the blue room. I don't have anybody in with either of you just yet, since I knew you'd be like to beat after flying and we're not full up this year. You let me know if you need anything. I'll let you rest up a bit, but as soon as you're settled, I'll expect you in the kitchen. Not you, JD, honey, we'll give you at least a day before we put you to work."

"Wouldn't dream of not pitching in," Nielson says, and shoulders their shared duffel. "Point me in the direction we're going, Mitchell, I left my map and compass in the car."

The peach bedroom is the furthest you can possibly get from the front door and still be in the same zip code -- in the new wing (the newest of the new wings; there are twelve bedrooms in this house and Cammie knows they're talking about putting on yet another addition), but at least it's on the ground floor. She tries not to think about how she's not going to be able to stay in her old bedroom ever again. They make it back there without running into anybody, which is a minor miracle. She points at Nielson's room; he follows her into hers. She lets him drop their gear on the floor; she stretches out on the bed, feeling everything in her back starting to relax with the weight taken off of it.

"You need me to rub anything?" Nielson asks, coming to stand at the side of the bed.

"Naw, I'm okay," Cammie says. She shut the door behind her, but a shut door in this house doesn't mean much during the day; knock-and-open-immediately is a family habit, and, well, she doesn't want to get into having to explain why Nielson's kneeling over her.

Nielson curls a hand around the back of her neck, rests the weight of his hand against her skin. Quiet affectionate gesture. With anyone else he's got a personal-space radius as wide as the Gobe desert, but with her, it's like he has to touch her every thirty seconds, just to make sure she's still there. "Liar," he says. He's grown expert at reading the lines around her eyes, the set of her mouth; he knows exactly how much pain she's in at any given moment, straight down to the inch. "Roll over."

She huffs out a sigh. "'Cause I really want to explain to my momma why you've got your hands under my clothes," she says, but she rolls over anyway, and his hands settle on the curve of her hip, warm and comfortable.

"We'll just tell her you're my sugar mama," he shoots straight back at her. "Close your eyes and relax, bitch, or I'm going to shove another pill down your throat."

The banter's a lot more familiar than the 1950s robot Nielson was in front of her momma, and it does make her relax. He knows just where to rub, how much pressure and how long she can stand to be touched in any one spot, and, hell, it's been a long damn day already and the day isn't even half over yet. Travel takes it out of her like nobody's nevermind. "Keep that up I'm gonna fall asleep," she finally says, blurry and half-asleep already.

"So what's stopping you?" Nielson asks.

She sighs, and it turns into a yawn halfway through. "Ain't gonna abandon you to the family," she says. "Jes' gimme a couple more minutes."

He laughs, soft and reassuring. "I'll be fine," he says. "Told you already. You crash. I'll wake you up in a little while. I can make myself useful until then."

She knows better than to argue with Nielson when he's got that note of finality in his voice, but she really doesn't want to abandon him (preparation will not yet have reached a fever pitch, where he could hide in the kitchen and as long as he was being useful he'd be left alone; no, they're going to want to talk to him, and he's smart and he's quick but that don't mean he's necessarily going to be able to spot all the minefields before he's tripping into them). She's suddenly wiped, though. The nap's tempting.

"I said sleep, Mitchell," Nielson repeats, his hands working into the knots of her muscles. "Don't make me have to hit you over the head."

"Oh, hell," Cammie mutters, or tries to, because all of the exhaustion she's been holding off all day has crashed down over her and she can't keep her damn eyes open. It's not that she doesn't think Nielson can't take care of himself; it's that it's rude to bring someone as your guest and then go off to take a nap while you throw him to the wolves. But Nielson's laughing at her (the fucker) and the rumble of his laughter is soft and soothing, and oh God his hands feel good on her battered body, and the next thing she knows she's opening her eyes again and the light in the room has shifted.

Room's in shadow, though not completely dark yet. There's the sound of a small riot going on outside and down the hall, which is pretty much par for the course around here even when they're not taking in strays for the holidays; it's only going to get worse tomorrow when the rest of the crowds descend. She feels better for the nap; the sleep did her a world of good. Sleep plus Nielson's massage (boy could rent out those hands if they ever need to cover a dry spell) and she almost feels human again. She drags herself up out of the bed (Nielson left her cane right where she'd look for it) and thumps her way on out.

She tries the kitchen first, after stopping to pee and brush her teeth, because the kitchen is usually the first place to look if you've lost somebody in the house and don't know where they've gone. (Kids in the back forty, running up and down, climbing all over hill and dale; the men in the den, door shut behind them, sports on the TV being ignored in favor of whatever argument nobody's going to win; the old women keeping a lazy eye on the kids from the back porch, knitting in hand. A place for everybody, and everybody in their place. But it all comes back to the kitchen in the end.)

When she gets there, it's bedlam, of course. Six conversations going on at once and everybody's talking at the top of their lungs and nobody and everybody listening to each other. Aunt Lorena's saying something about college -- her oldest just started at Duke in the fall, Cammie remembers -- and Uncle Fred's complaining about the mess George Lucas made of the new Star Wars movies and Cousin Stella sounds like she's halfway through a rant about her latest idiot CO (who, from what Cammie's had passed on to her secondhand, deserves the title of idiot and then some, and she's been meaning to call Stella up and give her all the tips and tricks she learned over years and years of dealing with sexist pigs, since Stel's only a First Lieutenant and hasn't had the time to build a toolkit of her own, and she hasn't gotten around to it yet).

Cammie can parse out the threads of conversation automatically -- to be a Mitchell is to be able to listen for four conversations while carrying on a fifth -- but she's a little surprised to find, once she heads on in, that Nielson's right in the thick of it, sitting down at the table with an apron tossed over his long-sleeved t-shirt to keep it clean. He's got a bushel of boiled potatoes at one elbow, a tub of naked potatoes at the other, and a knife in his hand. He's got his head turned away from the door -- saying something over his shoulder to Stella at the counter, some suggestion for how to deal with the idiot Major, and knowing Nielson, it'll be just as good as the advice Cammie could give herself, if not better.

He doesn't see Cammie come in, but Momma's at the pantry, taking something out, and she's turned to face the door; her eyes meet Cammie's across the room. To be a Mitchell is to be able to read subtle body-language cues from across the room. Momma tips her chin at Nielson, just a little, and smiles. Apparently whatever Nielson's been up to while she's been asleep, he hasn't made a mess of it too badly.

Pile of potatoes won't peel itself, and Cammie's always felt better in this kitchen with something in her hands to accomplish, so she heads on over to the table to give Nielson a hand. No extra chairs at the table -- they've all been dragged off for God knows what -- but as soon as she draws near, Nielson's out of the seat like a flash, all casual and I-was-just-getting-up-anyway, without even having to look over his shoulder to see she's there. Fucker always knows where she is in the room. "Hey," he says, tossed over his shoulder, slinking over to the sink to fill a glass of water for her (and either he's already been shown where the glasses are, or it's just that she's arranged their kitchen in the same configuration as much as possible because it's just what feels right). "Sleeping Beauty finally awakens."

If he's teasing her in front of the whole family, must mean he's already feeling safe and secure enough to drop the Wally Cleaver routine. So she doesn't feel too bad about flipping him the bird (Momma tsks, but Momma's always disapproved of some of Cammie's rougher manners) and saying, "'Least I didn't wake up to your ugly face. Who the hell taught you to peel potatoes, anyway? This is why I don't let you into my kitchen."

"Which lasts about as long as necessary for you to realize that there's a sink full of dirty dishes and you don't wanna do 'em," Nielson says, coming back and putting the glass of water at her elbow. Some sleight-of-hand trick, and the next dose of her meds appears from the depth of his pockets, to be laid next to the water. She quirks an eyebrow at him (you walk around with my drugs?) and he shrugs a shoulder back at her (knew you'd forget to take them when you woke up) and she narrows her eyes at him (well, I had no idea how long I was asleep for) and he snorts (long enough that it's time to take the drugs, so take the drugs, bitch).

She answers snort for snort and chivvys the pile of pills off the table with one swoop, tossing them back. "Family rule, I told you," she says. "Momma, tell the boy I ain't lying."

Over her shoulder, Momma laughs. It's a happy sound, and Cammie knows Momma didn't miss the way Nielson's taking care of her, the way Nielson's so careful and solicitous. "I'm staying out of this one," Momma says. "Raised you to fight your own battles, Cameron Evangeline, and don't you forget it. JD, honey, we're out of kitchen towels again. Up the stairs, first door on the left, third shelf down and just bring the whole armful, I'm sure we'll use them."

"Yes, ma'am," Nielson says, out of the kitchen in a quick flash, and Cammie can hear the thud-thud-thud of Nielson's feet as he takes the hallway stairs two at a time. She bites back resentment at the sound. It's just one of the things he can do that she can't. There are things she can do that he can't, too. Like buying beer and voting and she tries not to hold it against him that the things he's lost to time will come back again, for the most part, while the things she's left behind her will never be hers again.

"He's a good boy," Momma says, once Nielson's out of earshot. "Seems like having him around is good for you."

It's the closest Momma'll get to I like him, for a while at least, and there's a part of Cammie that's grateful to hear it. Momma could have caused trouble if she'd focused on the (apparent) age gap, if she'd thought Cammie and JD were up to something. Still, she can't help the resentment, hearing the relief in Momma's voice, the gratitude that her poor crippled baby won't be forced to face the world alone.

She grits her teeth. Momma can't help it, is all. Mitchells are stubborn and independent and Momma should know, having raised two and an assortment of nieces and nephews and cousins besides, but she and her momma have been butting heads since the time when (three years old) Cammie had pushed Momma away from tying her shoes and insisted "Cammie do", and it's been "Cammie do" ever since, the whole way. And Momma's never quite noticed, too busy (out of love, out of concern) trying to make things easier for her, and it's harder to yell "Cammie do" at thirty-six than it was when she was a toddler.

So she says, "When he's not trying to drive me batshit insane, I guess," and Momma tsks at the language again, but then the chaos of the kitchen overtakes them again and the matter of her home life gets set aside while Momma gets called over to season the bean salad.

Nielson comes back downstairs ten minutes later without the towels Momma sent him up for, but he doesn't get glared at, because he's got an armful of squirming baby (Lucy Amelia, ten months old, Cindy Lou and Ash's youngest). Lucy smells like baby powder and she's trying to do jumping jacks in Nielson's arms. He's got a hold of her like an expert, enough support that she won't wiggle free, not so much that he'll hurt her, and it makes Cammie's heart leap up into her throat. She knows O'Neill had a son, knows the boy died, nothing else; Nielson only gave her a couple of pieces. But Nielson seems content to hold the baby.

"She woke up from her nap," Nielson says. "Didn't want to leave her up there alone. Cindy still at the store?"

"Baby seat on the counter," Momma says. "You just strap her in there. Someone'll feed her in a minute."

Cammie reaches for her cane. "I got it," she says, gathering her strength for the struggle to her feet. Nielson gives her the stay put look.

"I'll take care of it," he says, and yeah, okay, it would be a pain in the fucking ass for her to wrangle the baby, and he damn well knows it and so does she, but it just drives home the fact that the closest she's going to get to having children now is going to be the scattered stolen moments when someone hands her a cousin or a niece or a nephew and sitting there, in the kitchen she grew up in, in the kitchen of the house she always thought would someday come to her and her children straight on down the line, it's all too fucking much.

So she gets up anyway, and it hurts, hurts, and Nielson's throwing a startled look at her like she's just managed to confuse him again, and she doesn't say a word, to him or to Momma or to anyone else in the kitchen. She just takes herself out of the kitchen and out through the hallway and onto the front porch, where she gets herself down onto the front porch swing and just breathes.

Her eyes are closed (and stinging a little, but you'd never get her to admit it, not in a million fucking years), but when the front door opens again, she doesn't need to open her eyes to know who's come to join her. Anybody can hear her daddy coming a mile away, these days.

He settles himself down next to her on the swing, careful and steady, and she waits for him to say something (knows why he's out here, knows it was Momma who sent him, knows it was probably Nielson who told Momma she was in a snit if Momma didn't notice for herself), but all he does is settle an arm around her shoulders. She holds herself apart for half a second, then melts against his shoulder, just like she used to do when she was tiny, and they stay like that for a long damn time.

"I'm proud of you, honey," he finally says, against her hair, and she breathes in the smell of him, sawdust and aftershave. "Knew you wouldn't give up."

They haven't talked about it. Momma's been smothering her with love and care, and Daddy's been leaving her be, letting her find her own way, waiting for her to figure out whether or not she needs to ask him what happens next. Her daddy's always understood her better than her momma has, and this is no different. Still, her voice catches when she asks, "When does it get easier?"

Her daddy's quiet for a minute, and then he sighs, soft and shifting. "Some of it never does," he says. "But you learn ways to forget."

The tears spill over the edges of her eyelashes, and she blinks, hard, then squeezes her eyes shut and rolls her eyes back up in her head, breathing through it. She's learned a thousand tricks to make herself stop crying, over the years. "I feel like --" She stops, swallows. "If I work harder. If I push more. If I --"

"You hush," Daddy says, and the sound of him, strong and confident, has her swallowing back what she was going to say next: he learned to walk again with both his legs gone, and she was right there alongside her momma watching him struggle, and there'll always be a part of her that thinks: she still has her legs, so if she can't get better, it's because she's not trying hard enough. "Cameron Evangeline, you hush yourself up now. If you think I believe you haven't been pushing yourself as hard as you can and then some, then you don't give me credit for knowing my own girl. I still don't know how you really got hurt and I'm not asking, but I have never once seen you back down from anything and I don't think you're starting now."

His arm's warm around her shoulders, and she feels like she's six years old again and bringing him her scraped knees, feels like she's sixteen and bringing him her heartbreaks, feels like she's twenty-six and bringing him her uncertainty about what paths to take and what opportunities to claim and which she should leave behind. "I don't know what to do with myself," she says. "I don't know who to be if I can't be who I was."

He rubs reassuring circles against her shoulder. "Seems to me like you're making a good enough start," he says. "You and that boy of yours."

She has to laugh, and once she does, it makes it easier to lift a hand and scrub away the few tears that have managed to escape. "Not mine," she says, trying for lighthearted. "I ain't claiming any responsibility for that thing in there."

Her daddy laughs too, soft and amused. "Glad to see you have him, at least. If you won't let family help you, and I know full well why you won't, so don't you roll your eyes at me, missy, it's good that you can find family elsewhere."

"Yeah," Cammie says, and rests her head against her daddy's shoulder again. "Yeah. I guess it is."

Because that's the long and the short of it. Nielson pushed his way into her life with a challenge and a dare, and it's taken her this long to realize that she's taken him up on it. He's obnoxious and he's unbearable and he's a collection of impossibilities and implausibilities, all shoved into a skin that shouldn't exist, but he's hers. And she's his. He's adopted her just as thoroughly as she's adopted him, and neither one of them look the way they think they should look or are living the lives they thought they should lead, and maybe it's enough to have another person there going through it with her.

"Come on," her daddy says, after another long minute of sweet silence and understanding. "Cold out here if you stay too long, and it's bad for these old bones." Bad for her bones, too, she knows he means, and she'll take that from him where she wouldn't take it from anyone else, because he of all people has earned the right to baby her a little. "Your momma'll understand if you stay out of the kitchen for a bit. We've got the poker game going already, and you're welcome to buy in."

She takes one last deep breath, makes sure the tears have faded, and sits up straight. Tries for lighthearted, and doesn't do too bad a job at it. "You're lettin' me into the den of iniquity? Thought you hung out a sign saying 'no girls allowed'."

He laughs. "Your money'll play just as good as anyone else's will. And no daughter of mine doesn't not know what to do with a deck of cards. 'Sides, Al keeps trying to get us to switch the game to Razz, and you're the only one who's got a chance in hell of beating him."

Takes them both a while to get up to their feet, but it's all right. There's nobody out here to see but the two of them.

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