A/N: Long before I wrote the first chapter, I already knew how the ending was going to be. Or so I thought. There were so many ways I imagined the closing chapter: full of angst, somewhat unresolved, with S/J playing the same game that they always do in the show. But I like Sam Carter being the take charge woman she is and somehow, this Sam in my head refused to conform to the ending I'd envisioned. So there it is, the end of the story. It's left deliberately this way so you can imagine what happens after. To all who stuck with this mammoth that at times, didn't look like it could rise from the dead, thank you for your patience.

All errors are mine.

Chapter 24 - Dialogues

"Sir?"

"Come in, please, Dr. Fraiser. And shut the door behind you. That's a large stack of folders you've got there."

"It's been a long week, Sir. A crazy one."

"If you had told me I would be seeing SG-1 in the flesh again, doctor, I'd be hard pressed to believe you."

"For all purposes and intents, we gave up on SG-1, Sir. It's all in the past right now but—"

"Let's not dwell in the past."

"Yes, Sir."

"But I'll say one thing. For as long as I live, I'll never forget the moment when their old GDOs flashed across the screen."

"Me neither. Or the moment when they came through the gate looking worse for wear."

"…"

"General—"

"As you said, it's been a hell of a week. Report, Dr. Fraiser."

"Tests are only halfway done. Writing their medical reports kept me up all night and then some."

"I'd say it's engrossing reading, but it's also the lives of people we know. And that's what makes it so tough, doctor."

"I know that all too well, Sir."

"How're they doing?"

"Complaining about being held against their will in the infirmary."

"That sounds like business as usual."

"Yes and…well, not quite, Sir—"

"Before we continue, doctor, I want you to know you can speak off the record here, if you wish to."

"I appreciate that, General."

"Take a seat, please. Let's get straight to the point. How are they really doing?"

"As well as can be, given the number of psychological routines and protocols we've been putting them through. SG-1 has been through a difficult, traumatic process of extreme brainwashing—to use a layman's term for it—, then made to live out their lives as completely different people. That sort of technology employed by the Administration is barely something we can understand, let alone take apart, even though it makes perfect sense in theory. And I can't really see any good that will come out of the abuse of technology like this."

"Agreed."

"We're looking at too much for one person to go through in a single lifetime, let alone a period of a few months. The prognosis was always going to be grim, but it was disturbing have it confirmed in their reports."

"What have you and your team figured out so far?"

"Scientifically, it sounds like ground-breaking technology, though the basic idea of brainwashing isn't. The mind stamp solution, from what SG-1 has described, is a special neurochemical process of severing, then rewiring the connections between the neurons. We're talking about the repetitive implantation of stories and altered histories using very, very invasive means, to the extent where the alter-ego—for want of a better word—will mostly likely be permanently imprinted on a person, despite their original memories having returned. SG-1 lived these personas for months on end, even settling into them comfortably after the mind stamp process ended."

"What kind of damage are we talking about?"

"They've been subjected to behavioural modification therapy taken to an extreme, though they can't describe in detail the process. It seems like they were kept in medically-induced comas for a stretch of time as the procedure took place. Physically, their injuries are superficial. Apart from a very bad calf burn on Major Carter's leg and a sprain, I'd say the bruises and scratches found on the others are no different from what they usually pick up after a mission through the Stargate."

"Mentally?"

"We've put them through endless rounds of interviews to determine their mental and physical fitness. They've recounted, both individually and as a team, what they thought happened. By and large, their accounts match, though they are rather…insistent on proving that they're not as affected as we make them out to be."

"I suppose the Colonel and Major Carter are leading the charge on that."

"That part of their personalities will never change, I suspect."

"Active duty isn't an option right now."

"It might take a while."

"Your professional opinion?"

"That's the hard part, Sir. I'd err on the side of caution because psychologically, only time will tell. Our inability to determine the exact mindstamping process in turn makes it difficult to predict how deeply long-term memory alteration will affect SG-1 in the months or years to come."

"That's what worries me."

"For all its fragility, the human body is amazing and the mind, even more so. It deals with trauma in ways we can't fully understand yet, sometimes shutting itself for so long that mentally, it convinces itself that it has recovered."

"That's a grim prognosis."

"To frame it in a way the layman can understand, it's…like an extreme form of PTSD."

"Maybe we should treat it as such."

"Although, I've found Colonel O'Neill to be ever the optimist."

"The Colonel? Really?"

"That optimism might have something to do with getting me to sign off on his medical forms and clear him for active duty. The rest of SG-1 is going to follow in his footsteps. From a professional standpoint however, I'd recommend gate travel to be suspended pending medical and psychological approval. Unfortunately, that could take months."

"The top brass are asking questions."

"I've just submitted my detailed analyses and reports to the board. The bottom-line is, we've never dealt with something like this before."

"Just when I think I've seen everything there is to see, every day at the SGC never fails to surprise me. We deal with it anyway. I trust your judgement, Dr. Fraiser. I may or may not have the final call in this. But we'll damn well fight for them."

"We will, Sir."

oOo

The door swung open to a large pile of folders that were piled on the General's desk. That couldn't be a good sign when Hammond summoned him at oh dark thirty from his bunk, since that meant a talk was in order.

His favourite kind.

"I have Dr. Frasier's report on my desk, Colonel. And what you've been through is remarkable."

Jack had to hand it to the man. He pulled all the punches, looked you in the eye and went straight for the jugular.

He tried for levity. "Is it, Sir?"

Hammond gave him a look that he knew all too well. The kind that made errant grandchildren come to heel and battle-hardened Colonels cower in shame.

"I meant that in the best possible way, Son. Considering what I've read of your reports, this is nothing less than a miracle. It took me more than three phone calls to the President assuring him that SG-1 aren't clones, or variants of themselves like wolves in sheep clothing. And I'm glad to say that the memorial services we had for you can actually stay a memory."

Unconsciously, Jack's fingers tapped a rhythm on his knee. Was there a punch line somewhere here?

"Good to know where we stand, General," he ventured cautiously. "When all's been said and done, there's just one important question left."

"You're looking at a return to active duty."

He shrugged. "Read my mind, Sir."

The deep sigh that came from Hammond couldn't be good.

"About that. It's good to have you back, Jack. You and the rest of SG-1."

"And I have to say it's good to be back. But…?"

If Hammond heard the sharp edge that'd crept into his voice, he ignored it. The man hadn't made General by getting easily roused as a bear being poked in hibernation after all.

"But you know as well as I do, that SG-1's miraculous return is going to cause some waves and for this reason, your team is on stand down until we can prove—without a shadow of a doubt—that you will be fit for active duty again."

Hammond's bluntness was strangely soothing to his fraying edges.

"And how long would that take, General? We've been through a battery of tests, endless rounds of interviews and several meetings with the President that I've to admit are…not very useful. Can't say I'm looking forward to more."

And wasn't that the truth? Being poked and prodded was enough to try a saint's patience and the sheer agony of hours of sitting through repetitive questioning that determined their psychological well-being—while being confined to base—was making the whole team antsy, restless and ready to break.

It'd only brought back the first few weeks in Neithana that he'd rather leave festering but shut tight in the darkest pits of his memory banks. When he'd awakened disoriented, disabled and swimming in pain, pissed and in misery and unable to get a grasp on time and place. When people insisted that his name was Jonah Tuvall and that he was an elite soldier who'd undergone a surgical procedure and how they were carefully restoring what he'd lost during a training mission.

How was this any better than an interrogation meant to satisfy the brass that gave zero fucks to anything other than their asses?

"Do you have something to say to me? Off the record?"

More deflection was the way to go, though he didn't doubt that Hammond saw through the bullshit that he was trying to lay on thick. Sometimes, Jack wondered if it was actually better to let them fumble around in the dark than to unearth the secrets that no one really wanted to know.

"If you're worried that my head would crack, don't be, Sir. I'm still me, scars and all."

"There's no quick fix and you know that. Those scars worry me more than you know."

He pushed that metaphor to its limits. "Scars scab over, Sir."

"Not as well as you think." Hammond speared him with a pointed look. One that could have frozen the glaciers in P3R-118 without the need for Korros. One that said his patience was finally running thin. "I'm going to repeat myself, Colonel. Is there something you want to say to me, off the record?"

Jack shrugged nonchalantly, then shoved his hands into his pockets. Maybe it was time to test the waters.

"The truth is, Sir, this experience has made me wonder if all this psychological business is taking a toll on my old, creaky bones. Just sayin', you know."

"Personally, I agree," Hammond said slowly, to his utter surprise. "No one will deny that you've been through a lot. The reports from SG-1 were beyond difficult to read. But professionally, you're far from done."

"So—"

"Both you and Major Carter."

The speculative, frank tone told him more than he needed to know, despite what he and Carter had decided to leave out of their reports apart from stating their deepening acquaintance as Jonah and Thera before their own personalities cracked through the weakening mindstamp and its shielding.

Hammond could damn well read between the lines.

There was no bringing back the past, though the fateful day they'd decided to step onto P3R-118 had also given him a glimpse of how he and Carter would have been together, minus the shackles of rank and duty. That moment had been his salvation, good while it lasted.

It'd taken him a while to realise that he hadn't yet stopped grieving the abrupt loss of those moments, more so when the woman in question was now his second IC.

Irrevocable truth, unchangeable fact.

But Hammond's hands were always tied these days, despite the sympathy-tinged answer revealing that the General did understand. That because of this, his resignation letter would continue to sit, untouched and gathering dust, at the bottom of his drawer for a while yet.

He'd take all that he could get right now, however, and Hammond had as good as granted him what he needed.

"Yes, Sir," he ground out, eager to return to the solitude of his cabin where it would be easier to shut down that very brief resurgence of hope.

"Do me a favour, son."

Hammond's quiet order halted his steps.

"Jack, I'm particularly concerned for Major Carter, who doesn't seem to be coping as well as you are."

Hammond was wrong. Carter didn't seem to walk to talk then and chances were, she wouldn't want to talk now. The reality of military life and routine had had time to sink in, more so after the rounds of exhausting tests and questioning they'd undergone.

That much she'd made clear on P3R-118, when they'd all but gone back to their stilted ways, separated by rank and the horror of breaching the regulations.

He stiffened unconsciously.

Like Pavlov's dog, any mention of Carter conditioned him to make a response. He paused, debating how to answer the General. Was it right to simply say that they'd just go on as though the better half of the past year hadn't happened? That no matter what the fallout was going to be, SG-1 was just going to soldier on, like the premier team they were, the shining example of military teamwork and unbreakable bonds?

They were as good as running on empty right now. Back in Colorado Springs, where the idea of home was as foreign and indefinable as it had been on Neithana.

But on that ice planet, at least Jonah and Thera had known where they'd stood with each other, those brief moments of happiness sharply juxtaposing painfully with the agony of readjusting back to a holding pattern that made him feel as caged as he was as a POW a lifetime ago.

"Carter is one of the most resilient people I know, Sir."

"No one is unbreakable."

He paused. "Yes, Sir."

Hammond's smile was both cryptic and sad. "I'd appreciate it very much if you spoke to her. I think Major Carter would appreciate it too."

He scrubbed a hand down his face, knowing that was as good as an order. Off the record or otherwise.

But Hammond hadn't put a deadline on this conversation. That now they were on enforced downtime, Jack figured that he had a while to regroup and get his own head straightened out before that very uncomfortable talk came to pass.

Just…not yet.

oOo

When there was no one around for miles, the slightest sound—such as footsteps through the grass or even a creak in the wooden planks that lined the short dock—was amplified in a way that had Jack sitting straight up in bed disoriented and confused.

He strained and listened.

Heard nothing else but the chatter of the wildlife and the occasional squawk of a bird that flew overhead.

Maybe it was just one of those times, he told himself. Just one of those times when he thought he'd woken up in those swanky digs back in Neithana, only to see late afternoon light slanting through the dirt-stained windows and not the giant dome that covered the once-pristine city.

The clock next to him confirmed that dusk was still about an hour away, though he'd tired himself out on the dock the whole morning before falling into bed and letting sleep take over.

To distract himself, he'd set out tasks—mundane, boring and exhausting—to accomplish each day for the entire week he'd been granted leave. Day 2 into this and he knew he was looking at abject failure.

Quelling the voices in his head and the constant playback of the past year in his mind was going to take more than just back-breaking manual labour and he'd found out the hard way, when his thoughts drifted to Carter as he mucked out the cabin and tried to work himself to exhaustion.

The voices actually spoke louder here, in the solitude he thought he'd craved and the memories as inescapable as they'd been back in the claustrophobic walls of his tiny room at the base.

Whatever it took to keep the demons at bay, he was desperate enough try it, save for taking solace in a bottle and putting a gun to his head.

For a few, sublime minutes, Jack lay back and shut his eyes, letting his mind wander aimlessly.

The tell-tale creak came again—a rhythmic tapping of footsteps on grass and then on wood.

"Sir?"

The voice alone made him shoot out of bed. What the fu—

Before he could do anything else, the bedroom door swung open revealing Carter, who stood in jeans and a white blouse that fluttered around her in the drafty house.

"You left the base."

"Carter?" He gaped at her, running fingers through the thick swaths of hair that'd been flattened by the pillow.

Her sudden presence here had snatched away any bit of composure that remained, leaving him on shaky ground. But if he was off-centre, Carter looked anything but. Admittedly, the last time he'd seen her was when they'd been facing a host of questions from a panel of medical personnel and she hadn't looked too good then.

And the last thing he'd expected was that she'd be stepping into this space that he had barely told anyone about. On his turf, no less, with no interruptions.

"General Hammond gave me some directions."

She leaned casually against the doorway, the insouciant pose oddly contrasting with the hesitation on her face.

"Do you remember what I said before we went through the gate?"

He paused at her question. Counted backwards from ten slowly, tried to calm his galloping heart rate.

She was here.

Out of her fatigues and donning a new skin of confidence that she wore as well as the mantle of SG-1's second IC. A Carter that he'd never seen before, except perhaps, when she was Thera Arann, the steady blue of her gaze grounding him.

Maybe he wasn't quite ready for the direction in which the conversation was headed.

Wait.

There was still a way out of this and he needed to give it to her. As many times as he could, though this…thing happening between them felt wholly new. Remade. Reforged.

"I remember a lot of things, Carter."

Just like that, his deliberate vagueness brought back the flash of wariness and uncertainty he knew he'd put back on her face.

"Sir, I—"

He interrupted her and gestured to the empty space next to him on the bed. Just to buy a little more time as he fought to regain a semblance of coherence. The woman in front of him was Carter, and yet not Carter and it was a confounding sight.

It riveted him as much as it threw him off. Suddenly, he was fucking out of his depth, flailing for purchase on a slippery slope that could send them both back to purgatory with a wrongly uttered word.

Somewhere in the grass, a critter called out as a slight breeze filtered through the open window. The sounds of nature were yet another thing he'd become unaccustomed to.

"Why don't you come in and sit?"

She covered the distance in three steps, slowly sinking down on the mattress next to him.

"I think this talk is a long time in coming."

He agreed silently, though hadn't she made herself clear a few weeks ago, when it became apparent that things were better left in a room?

"That leaves us—"

He shrugged helplessly. "Before you go on, Carter, I'm going to say that I don't have the answers. God's honest truth here. But if you want a resignation letter," he looked away for a moment, "it's lying in a drawer back home waiting to be submitted."

"I still think of Thera." The confession was hushed, whispered like she was ashamed of it. "It's hard to…let her go."

Unable to help himself, he looked at her jean-clad leg that hid the scar on her calf. Just the latest proof of that double life they'd led, the only tangible remnant that she'd brought back with her that matched the memories that weighed them down.

He understood completely. Maybe he and the rest of SG-1 were the only ones who could. That they'd live with the dual identities the time until their lungs gave out, because there were too many things to forget. Not that he regretted all of it.

Not when it came to Carter especially.

"You were her, on all accounts, Sam. Not just for weeks but many months. Can't be easy letting it go."

"Wasn't it the same for you?"

He drew in a shaky breath, then slowly wound an arm around her. "Yeah, it was. It is."

Some words were unnecessary. Their thoughts and experiences mirrored each other's, though Carter's personal conflict and sense of duty were probably shouting louder than his.

They'd been each other's in a way that went beyond labels and ranks and circumstances. Neithana had made sure of it, their mindstamps ironically being the last straw that broke the camel's back. But if the mindstamp had overwritten them, it'd only revealed that even that could stop what they could have had together.

Time slipped like gears turning out of alignment.

Carter as Thera, Carter as Carter. Him as Jonah. Jonah and Thera and the feral surge of desire that they'd had between them, giving into the attraction which had long gone past the physical. The inexplicable draw of each other, as they wore the identities of people long dead, gone and near forgotten. If that wasn't enough to screw with someone's mind, he didn't know what else could.

What was it that the psychologists and neurologists said anyway?

That their brains worked differently now, even though they were back to good ol' Sam and Jack, second IC and CO, Major and Colonel. They would permanently carry these two versions of themselves as they'd lived them—the imprinted one perhaps fading after some period of time—but no one really knew the long-term impact of the mindstamping process or the extent to which their brain chemistry had really been altered.

In an odd way, there was the opportunity to proceed on a clean slate, to move forward together, in this turning point that he knew they would inevitably face past their escape from Neithana.

On the first night out of Cheyenne mountain, he'd sat on his own porch and felt like an alien opening the shutters as American suburban life passed him by. Stared at the familiarity of his truck and the layout of his house for a good hour, then wondering how unfamiliar it'd all become and if he'd ever get used to it again. Brought out the photos of Charlie and Sara, realising belatedly that the pain had been muffled by the highs and lows of the past year on the ice.

Until he gave into the restlessness and drove all the way up north in order to find some peace.

By all accounts, this reality that he'd been thrust back into felt like a different lifetime altogether. That the one he'd just escaped had been more real than this odd rural spot in Northern Minnesota he was in now. Doc Frasier called it an adjustment period. He called it a damn nightmare where he spent nearly every moment feeling as though he was about to jump out of his skin.

And with Carter suddenly in the picture, reality seemed all the more distorted, as though he was looking at himself through a thick mist where nothing was all that it seemed.

"What is it you want, Carter?"

No hard science here. Maybe it came down to something as simple as this—what she wanted. Though he'd hoped that those wants aligned with his own unspoken desires too.

Her snort was as inelegant as he'd ever heard. "I've been thinking about that. Suddenly it seems as though I want many things. To stargaze till dawn. To keep working at the SGC. To officially make blue jello a food group."

Jack tilted his head towards the fishing rods leaning against the far end of the wall. "Tough call. We all have ambitions. Mine are far simpler."

Her soft chuckle made him smile in turn as she swatted him in mock-annoyance.

"What if…I don't think we should let this go?"

He raised a brow and brushed his lips against her hair. "Not what you said the last time."

Her sigh was heavy on his shirt.

"I remember the exact moment I came to a different conclusion. When the PPA attacks began. Daniel, Tea'c and I were holed up, desperate to find you. And I remember wishing that we'd done some things…differently. I know you thought I was dead in the explosion…and I know I ran earlier, but this is me saying I won't do it anymore."

Carter's uncharacteristic rambling was yet another reason why he shouldn't be tossing caution to the wind. But…when did it get so hard to breathe?

"Sam, stop. Just hang on—"

"—if everything else was a lie, you—you were real for me."

Words were a tangled mess in his throat as his head tried to catch up with what she was saying. Instead, a choked laugh bubbled out of him, the only sound that didn't justify the emotions that were suddenly tumbling free.

Speechless. She'd made him fucking speechless. Overwhelmed. In awe of her.

"Carter, I…"

She closed the distance that remained between them, her whisper a gentle sweep across his skin.

"I know. Me too."

-Fin