A/N: Written even later at night, please be nice.... Thanks, folks :-)


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Sam took a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips from the neighboring kitchen counter and carefully poured its contents into a bowl of cookie dough. She waited until the dough was fully buried under the chips before setting the bag aside. Mom wouldn't like this. Sam had always liked her cookies a little more chocolaty than the rest of her family. But since now she was the one to make the cookies, Sam decided she'd have it her way.

Ever since the first time she and her mom had made "Welcome Home Cookies" for dad years before, it had become sort of a tradition. Only as Sam grew older, she would be the one to make the cookies, without her mom's help. She already knew the recipe by heart at was proud to say that at the age of fourteen, she really did make mean chocolate chip cookies.

As she mixed the chips into the dough, Sam started humming. As she worked hard against the tough mixture, her humming grew louder until it became singing.

"Would you stop that?" Mark shouted from his room.

Sam jumped. Had she really been singing that loud? But, oh, what did she care, she was in a good mood. Dad had just gotten home from a long mission that morning and when he picked mom up from work and they came home, they would all have her marvelous chocolate chip cookies and milk. And mom would be happy again, not like she'd been for the past few weeks when she'd missed dad terribly. Everything was right again, so why wouldn't she hum. Or sing, anyway.

"I can sing whatever I want!" she yelled back at him.

The reply was immediate. "You call that singing?" There was a pause. "And I hate the guy!"

She decided to dismiss his remark about her singing; she knew music wasn't one of her fortes. But who on Earth could hate Rick Springfield?!? He was so cute! Those brown eyes could turn any girl into a puddle of goo. Besides, what did her twelve-year-old brother know about music, right?

She began louder. "Jessie is a friend, Yeah, I know, he's been a good friend of mine…"

There was a loud theatrical groan that caused a smug smile to spread across Sam's lips, followed by loud thumping down the stairs and a sound of the front door slamming shut.

Good, Sam thought, at least now I can have some peace.

After some time, when the muscles of her hand and arm began to protest, Sam examined the dough with expert eye and having determined that the level of chocolate chip dispersion was sufficient, reached for a cookie sheet. She placed the small balls of dough on the metal with skill that could only be acquired by years and years of practice, putting a reasonable distance between them, so that they wouldn't stick together. That would ruin her reputation as a cookie expert. She brushed back a stray strand of her long blonde hair. She really should do something about the hair, it constantly got in the way. Sometimes, she thought that she would just have it cut really short. She also liked to say it out loud; it was fun to watch people's reactions. They would always be horrified, begging her not to do it, saying it would be a terrible shame to cut such beautiful hair. Golden, that's what they said. Sam snorted.

She filled one sheet, put it into the pre-heated oven and set the timer to ten minutes. Then, she reached for another one and began working again. As the sweet scent of fresh baked cookies filled her nose, Sam remembered the first time she'd made cookies with her mom. A lot has changed since then, they'd moved more times than she could count, her dad had been promoted two ranks; he was now a full bird Colonel. Colonel Carter. It really had a nice ring to it. But she would always welcome him with fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and they would sit down, all of them together, mom, dad, Mark and Sam, drink milk and eat cookies and catch up on stuff dad had missed while he was away. Oh, milk! She quickly checked the fridge.

Nothing. Well, never mind, she would just tell dad to go get some when he got back. Mom would probably insist on making dinner anyway.

The timer went off.

Sam jumped to the oven and took out the hot metal plate full of beautiful, light brown cookies. She couldn't help but smile proudly at them, she could picture mom's face when she sees them; she was always so proud of her little Sammie.

Ugh, Sammie. Mom was the only person who could call her that. From anyone else, it made her feel like a two-year-old.

Sam quickly shoved the other cookie sheet into the oven, setting the timer again. She marveled at the result o her work for another moment or two and then started cleaning up the mess. She rinsed the bowl so that the dough wouldn't dry in it, then did the same with the spoons she'd used. After that, she put all the ingredients back to their original places and washed the counter with a damp cloth.

Sam looked around, pleased with her work. Mom liked to have everything in order; she'd be glad that Sam cleaned everything up.

When the timer went off for again, she took the second sheet out of the oven and set it on the stove, having removed the first one. She went to one of the cupboards, took out a large porcelain plate and put it on the counter. Using a flat spatula, she removed the cookies from the sheet and put them on the plate, one by one.

Suddenly, she heard a car stop in the driveway.

Her heart started pounding faster. Sam felt a little silly, but she couldn't help it, she was just so excited. She knew exactly what would happen, her dad would walk in, mom right behind him, he would inhale theatrically and ask something like: 'What's the heavenly smell?' He always did that. And then he would come to the kitchen and act all surprised that she'd made cookies for him. It was transparent and predictable, but she loved it anyway. Oh, yeah, she loved this little tradition of theirs.

The front door opened. Sam tried to calm her heart and breathe normally.

"Sam?" she heard dad call.

It took all of her self-control not to shriek with happiness. "In here," she called instead, unable to keep herself from at least smiling.

Sam continued her work with the cookies, wanting it to look natural when they come in. She heard footsteps at the kitchen door.

Sam looked up, smiling at her dad, knowing that he was smiling too.

Only…

He wasn't.

His face was worn, he looked ten years older.

Sam blinked, confused. His eyes were red as if…

"Why are you crying?"

He didn't answer. Just looked down, avoiding her eyes.

Something was terribly wrong. Sam's throat clenched as a terrible thought ran through her mind.

No, that couldn't be it. There had to be another explanation.

Her eyes filled with tears when he looked at her again.

"Wh… Where's mom?"

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