Chapter Text
She stands idly at the window after pulling on one of her drab green dresses. The material scratches her skin, ropey, stringy, and peeling, perhaps being constructed from some form of plant fiber. She itches absently, watching a bird flit around outside the loft windows, jumping on the stony ledge, twittering happily while constructing what looks to be the beginnings of a makeshift nest.
She has been keeping up with the two little songbirds as they stand near the pane and sing every morning since the harsh winter dissipated. Knows this because the baby responds to the song in the same way that it does her lobbing off a chunk of sugarcane for her morning tea—spinning, spiraling, as if dancing along with nature’s tune.
Her pregnancy is evolving, continuing from the first light tickles within her that she expected were more a form of latent anxiety than evidence of their child learning to be mobile. She’s far enough along now that this child becoming a permanent part of their familial unit is destined. That thought spreads out leading her mind astray, mainly if her and Cameron are truly a family—which they are—and if they will be allowed to continue to live as a family back on Earth—which is doubtful.
“Hey.” His early morning footsteps are heavier than he’d admit to as he plods up the stairs, finding her stationary at the top. Her hand rubbing the baby’s kicking foot, ignoring the heaviness of them as they jolt within her. “I was just coming to get you.”
She grins at him, her hair pulled back and away from her face, and her posture calm despite everything that’s happened within the last week.
No one has seen Seevis in over a week and while his absence is refreshing—knowing he will not be tearing her out of the house while Cameron is away—she cannot help the foreboding feeling cycling through her body along with their baby’s limbs.
“They’re dancing again.”
He places a chaste kiss on her cheek, and then one on her bared shoulder, before his hand falls down to partner with hers. “The birds out?”
“Right there.” She points outside the window to the little ball of feathers, hopping around, stacking sticks and leaves. Making a home. Trying to survive just as they are.
“That’s really something,” he chuckles, bending forward so his conversational partner becomes just below her navel. “You like the birdies?”
As if comprehending, the baby offers him a kick, not that he gets to feel it though, as her kidney takes the brunt of the damage. He does react when she crunches her body towards him, the kick more of a surprise then painful, and his warm hand floats up to cover the area, curling around her lower ribs to the top of her hip bone.
“Come on. Breakfast is ready.”
Snags his outstretched hand, following him gingerly down the stairs which are becoming more of a physical activity with each day. Wagers that they have less than eight weeks—two months—to do something about their current situation if they do not want their child born in this place.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” Slows as she reaches the square landing. There’s a cushion pushed into the far corner now because sometimes she climbs the first four steps, becomes irreparably exhausted, and has to bunk down until she regains her stamina which usually involves a nap.
Once he came home and found her well asleep on the stair landing and feared the worst. His violent shake woke her immediately, and when she asked what the emergency was, he simply held her, alternated between laughing, near crying, and reprimanding her for her poor choice of bed.
The next day when he came home, he had a large cushion in tow which he dropped on the landing for her. Explaining that it would help her if she slipped and help her if she wanted to sleep.
“Uh oh.” He stops at the bottom of the stairs, waiting in case she needs help, ready in case she takes a tumble, all while acting completely nonchalant, like his alert position has nothing to do with her. “What’d I do now?”
“You didn’t do anything.” Stops three steps from the bottom, her face drawn in confusion. “Unless you did do something, and you want to tell me about it now?”
“Oh no, Sweetheart.” Holds his hand out for her to grab for stability, and she notices that her knuckles are baring white against the grip she has on the staircase railing. “I haven’t fallen for that one since middle school.”
He helps her down the last few steps, so she stands on even level with him, though well below his height. He grins at her, perhaps proud of her navigation of a simple staircase. It would be patronizing if it wasn’t so endearing.
Knows he does it so she doesn’t feel completely useless and defenseless. He does it because their time in Ver Isca as been hard on her. Doesn’t know if it is the hardest—only that it wasn’t the relaxing vacation she wanted or deserved.
There are no beaches, no moments of rest, no one to trust other than him.
“I just really hope you didn’t make that gritty oat concoction you love so much.” Twitches her nose at the idea of the off gray congealed mess tasting of cardboard or some strong herb that she wouldn’t be able to stomach without her current heartburn and food sensitivities.
“Nah, I know the baby hates it.”
“They’re not the only one.”
Slings an arm around her hips, tugging her close to his side where she seems to fit perfectly. She doesn’t remember the majority of her intimate relationships—doesn’t remember much of her life before Qetesh took over, and then she primarily remembers slaughters, feasts, and orgies.
While sex has been an everyday activity she approaches without a sense of reproach, intimacy is something that scares her, makes her doubt her self-worth and her confidence, because she knows everything she’s done, knows the way she was treated by Ba’al, Anubis, and Major Lorne and assumed that behavior was what she should expect.
But with this man, one she saw through the domed glass of his jet, a wreck of a person and could inherently sense the good in him. Knew that he wouldn’t harm her if she tried to help him. She still feels the same way.
Qetesh had trusted her first prime, but was still wary of him, knew that even though her seal of approval was literally stamped into his forehead, that he could be easily swayed by other Goa’uld, and although she tasked him with personal duties, she stalked him, hunted him as a jungle cat from the river reeds.
She trusts Cameron implicitly.
Trusts him even when they disagree about basic things like eating balls of beef is better for her than the slice of cherry pie she craves—or more pertinent issues, like aborting their child for fear of raising them in a cultish, stifling environment. She knows that he only has her best interests in mind, so much so that it clouds his perception, causes him to overlook minor details important to the big picture.
But because of his preoccupation with her needs, wellbeing, happiness, and safety, she can easily piece together the important information he ignores.
“I have the kettle boiling over the fire, I set out a cup of fresh water, and your herbs are in your teacup.”
“Mmm,” hums with pure exhilaration because she doesn’t have to ask to know that he’s also cut a slice of the sugarcane to put in her cup. “You really do spoil me.”
“I try.” Tucks his face against the side of her head, dropping a chaste kiss on her temple and buries his nose in her hair, the action makes her shiver.
“I hate to interrupt—”
Cameron draws his face away from hers, slowly, at the addition of a third voice. His hands slide down her arms, and his eyes never leave their unwelcomed guest, sitting at the head of the table in their kitchen.
“—but time is somewhat of a sensitive—”
Before she comprehends his actions, Cameron’s taken a step forward, blocking her body with his own. He’s on alert and looming impenetrable before her. Never questioned that he would protect her, knows that his devotion to her, and now their child, is unwavering, but has also never seen him react to someone who represents a physical threat against her aside from Lorne.
“What the hell are you doing here, Seevis?” His voice is a low, throaty growl, and his hands are held sternly at his side, not quite balled in fists yet, but similar to the regimented aggression and stance she’s been privy to view while being held prisoner under that mountain. “How the hell did you get in?”
“I’m still acting magistrate to the town, Cameron.” Seevis’s voice is dull, laden, and slow. Heavy with all the alcohol he’s likely been drinking since Denya’s passing a few weeks ago.
“Get out of our house.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Seevis pokes at the bit of bread and butter laid out for her breakfast. “I need you two.”
Cameron’s fingers slowly curl into fists at his side. Her eyes dart from the witnessing the action to Seevis who seems unperturbed at the kitchen table. “Like hell you do.”
“The least you can do, is allow me to explain myself.”
“I’m doing the least I could do right now by not beating your sorry ass an inch from death.”
Either the alcohol has stinted Seevis’s reception, or he just generally doesn’t find Cameron threatening—whatever the answer, it’s not going to work out in his favor. “Remember when I said you’d be thanking me for putting her in the ara.”
“Out.” Cameron marches forward, hefting up the magistrate by under his arms, dragging him to the door.
“You need to hear me—” Seevis continues to try and explain himself, the heels of his muddy boots skidding against their clean floors as he fights against Cameron to remain inside.
From over the man’s shoulder, Cameron catches her eye, nodding towards the door.
As she fiddles with the locks, only four now that the one was smashed off by the group of men who hauled her out—one whom she managed to smash in the face with a cooking pot—Seevis, banks himself against the wall, pushing away with his feet, but Cameron subdues him, pinning both his arms above his head.
Then the magistrate starts crying, slick tears down his red face, and shaking as he sobs. “They were going to do to her, what they did with Denya.”
Her hands freeze on the locks.
“While you were gone, another Prior came to me.” Cameron’s hold slackens on Seevis, though he doesn’t release the man entirely. “He said that your lack of belief needed punishment, and that by burning her, there would be no reason for you to stray from the will of the Ori.”
“You’re lying.” Though the words as spat out in a growl, Cameron doesn’t sound entirely convinced. She isn’t entirely convinced. Obviously burning her alive would result in the baby perishing as well, and if the baby is the Will of the Ori—
“What do I have to gain by lying to you?”
She turns away from the locks, refusing to undo the final deadbolt. “But what do you have to gain by telling us the truth?”
“I know you two are not from around here.” Seevis rolls his shoulders and Cameron releases him, moving back to stand before her, his muscles still tense, waiting to pounce if Seevis oversteps the small freedoms they’ve allowed him.
“Obviously, you signed us into the town.”
“I know you’re not from this galaxy.”
She draws her eyes up to Cameron, who, when considering everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, is keeping his composure incredibly well.
“What makes you think that?”
“When you got here, you weren’t savvy to our customs.” Seevis dusts of his white sleeves, clearing any lingering effect from the scuffle. “Something I became privy to when you stated you left your previous village due to uprising in nonbelievers even though the Ori massacred the last facet two years ago.”
The baby punts rather hard at her side, making readjust her stance. “So why not tell the Priors? Secure yourself a higher position in their hierarchy.”
Cameron’s hand covers hers where their baby is tumbling within her, trying to alleviate her discomfort. “Yeah, from what we’ve seen, you’ve sold guys with less sins up the river.”
“Because they were not opposers of the Ori.” They both fall silent at Seevis’s insinuations as the man gestures back to where he was sitting at their kitchen table. “I have an offer that might interest you.”