Rodney slid to his side, leaving his hand possessively on her stomach. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were rosy. She pulled the sheet over them, smiling a lazy, satisfied smile, and kissed him with slow, sultry kisses.

Things were somewhat returning to normal. It was late and he was exhausted, but she had just woken up. He saw her so little lately, that he decided to stay up with her tonight until she was ready to sleep again. They had a lot to talk about. She seemed intent on more kissing, which was fine for now. He was just determined not to be the guy who dozed off. Well, not this time, anyway. He slid his hand up some more and stopped dead, clenching his jaw. He broke off the kiss and started to rise, looking for his shorts.

"Where are you going?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

"I pilfered some brownies from the mess. You want one?" he asked, peering under the sheet for the elusive boxers.

"Not hungry. But you go ahead."

"Emily, the nurse said you only ate twice today. I threw some sandwiches in the fridge. Want one of those?"

"No thanks. They're probably frozen. I lost half a case of diet coke in that stupid thing. Are we going to argue about this again?" She pulled on his arm, pulling him back toward her.

"I fixed it. You didn't have the temperature set properly. Look, I don't want to argue, but you've lost something like thirty pounds—you need to eat something."

She cupped his cheek and shook her head, smiling, saying, "Your propensity for hyperbole is adorable."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're exaggerating."

"I know what hyperbole means, dammit. How much have you lost? Do I have to get Carson on the radio to ask him?" He shouldn't have said that. He wouldn't actually do it and he knew it would make her mad, but she needed to take this more seriously.

"Stop it," she said crossly. "I've lost eleven pounds since. . . the day I was wiped. Carson says I'll gain it back in a couple of months if I just eat larger portions. He's not worried about it, so why should you be?" Then her expression changed and she looked uncomfortable, saying softly, "Do I really look that terrible?"

He felt guilty. She was already dealing with too much. "No. Of course not. You're beautiful. I guess eleven pounds doesn't sound like much," he conceded reluctantly.

She sighed. "It wouldn't be for you. You're six feet tall. You have a large frame. Maybe I'll eat something later. I'm just not hungry right now, ok?"

"Ok. It's just. . . ." He took her hand and gently laid it over her ribs to present his evidence.

She jerked her hand away and pulled the sheet back up. "I know. You've made your point. I know you're worried about it, ok? Look, my mom will take care of it, believe me. She's like an Italian grandmother. By the time I get back I'll probably have gone too far in the other direction. Will you still want me when I'm fat?"

"Yep. You could be the stay-puff marshmallow girl and I wouldn't care. You could be like me." He gestured at his own generous midsection, glad for a chance to lighten the mood. She seemed to be very testy about her drastic weight loss, but unwilling to do anything meaningful about it. Though what it was exactly that she was supposed to be doing, he wasn't quite sure himself—but a few extra desserts wouldn't hurt, couldn't she see that?

She smiled happily and said, "I like you just the way you are. You're soft, like a teddy bear." She wrapped an arm around him and squeezed.

"Mm," he smirked at her. "I don't think anyone else will agree with that comparison."

"Maybe not. They just don't know you like I do. There's that smirk I love. It was getting rusty, mister." She was beaming.

He huffed. It had been too long.

"You're a healthy weight, though, right? I mean, you look great to me and you're out there in the field a few times a week. You're getting exercise with all those long walks to and from gates."

He rolled his eyes and spoke without thinking, "Carson doesn't agree with you. He says I'm pre-diabetic, that I need to cut back on carbs."

She furrowed her brow. "Really? You need to take that seriously. You do love your carbs."

"Hm." He frowned. How had this suddenly become about him? Oh, God, she was warming up to the topic. He could see it.

"I mean, if you just cut back on the jello, that would be a good start. Baby steps, McKay."

"I like jello," he countered sullenly.

"It's pure sugar!" she giggled. "I'll bring back some diet for you."

"Don't bother. I won't eat it."

"Even if it's blue?" she teased.

"If it's blue, I'll taste it, but I'm not promising anything. It's more than just sugar. There's some protein in there," he reasoned, grasping at straws. "It's got gelatin in it. That's protein, right?"

"Yuck. Do you know what that junk is made from?" She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him, shaking her head.

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me," he said, frowning.

"It's a byproduct of the pork industry—made from the collagen in the leftover skin and bones of the carcasses after slaughter."

He looked at her incredulously. "No. That can't be right. They feed that stuff to kids."

"I'd google it to prove it to you, but, oops, our internet connection is down. I couldn't make up something that gross, Rodney."

He sighed a long suffering sigh. "Fine. You win. I'm off jello for at least two weeks. You've tainted it for me forever," he said morosely.

She collapsed back on her pillow, laughing her head off. He watched her, smiling himself. It was good to see her laugh again, even if she'd just taken away one of his favorite food groups.

When she'd calmed down enough to resume conversation, he asked, "So, what did you do today?"

She wiped a tear away and chuckled a little more, then said, "Not much, unfortunately. Morning coffee with Elizabeth, as usual. We're still hammering out the details from my reports, of course, whatever tidbits I can remember. Late lunch with Carson. He's doing a lot of research into the serum Michael was using on his clone to keep his cells stable. We talked about what we should call him—the clone. I suggested we use Carson's middle name. He seemed to like the idea."

"What's that?"

"Angus," she said brightly.

"Angus? Are you serious? Carson Angus Beckett?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "It's a common name in Scotland. It means 'unnaturally strong.' There was a Celtic god called Angus Og who was reputed to be wise and extremely intelligent."

How the hell does she know about Celtic gods and how gelatin is made, he mused, watching her. Then he thought about Carson again. And Angus? He sighed. "This is going to be like a bad episode of Star Trek," he muttered.

She chuckled. "It could be. Original Series or Next Generation?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. He was tired. It'd been a long week. "Original."

"Oh, um, Mirror Mirror? You think Carson's clone will turn out to be evil? How will we tell? If he grows a goatee? Actually, that might not be a bad idea. It could be an easy way to tell them apart. He was quite nice to me in the alternate timeline—he introduced us, remember? I don't think we have anything to worry about."

"Hello! He was working with Michael. That can't be good."

"Against his will, Rodney. What was he supposed to do? Michael kept killing people if he didn't cooperate. At least Michael didn't have him for long. Michael hadn't accomplished many of his goals yet. Carson told me Angus had been trying to sabotage the work, but Michael was catching on and was talking about punishing him in some vague, diabolical terms. They rescued him just in time. He didn't know he was a clone, you know. Angus thought he was the real thing, same as the other timeline. That had to be a shock for him to hear."

"We're really going to call him Angus?" Rodney groaned.

She shrugged and looked annoyed that he didn't like the name. "If you have a better idea, you'd better tell Carson now while he's still in the stasis chamber. I hope I will be here, to reassure him when they take him out. He and I have a lot in common now, more than just this bizarre future/history."

Hm. Better change the subject. "Did you do any work today?"

She sighed. "A little. It's hard to focus right now."

He furrowed his brow. He didn't like to see her looking so unhappy. "It should get easier, shouldn't it? You're awake more now than you were a week ago, right? What does Carson say?"

"My scans look good." She snorted. "Carson says my sleep schedule resembles that of an 12-month-old toddler. He seems to think I will just gradually return to normal over time. He said tomorrow I won't have to use the nurse anymore. He set me up with the welcoming committee to help me get around. They're going to track my movements and give him a daily log. I'm supposed to report my sleep to him. I only have to go for checkups once a day now."

"Why didn't anyone consult me about this change?" he said testily. "I don't like the idea of you being alone all the time." And no one monitoring your food intake.

"I won't be alone unless I'm sleeping, Rodney. The only person I want around when I'm doing that is you. I'm fine. I've got a schedule of sorts now. I have coffee with Elizabeth and work on reports, followed by a nap. Then I have a late lunch with a friend and a session with Kate, maybe some more work, if I can manage it, then another nap. Then I get to see you." She smiled and started kissing him again, running her hand over his chest. She was trying to distract him and it was working.

He grabbed her hand. "Let's just talk about this, now, ok? We're running out of time. We've already done. . . that. Let's just talk for a while."

"Don't you want round two?" she asked huskily.

He huffed at her in disbelief. "Are you kidding? Of course I do. Let's just focus right now. Elizabeth got an ultimatum today. Do you know about that?"

Her face shuttered down and she fell back against the pillow. "Yes. I know."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go. What choice do I have? Elizabeth told them I was waiting for the Daedalus' return trip, but that isn't good enough for them. Carson apparently filed a case study about my reaction to the gate weeks ago. They ordered Elizabeth to give me dramamine and send me through—or else. But Carson doesn't know for sure if that will be enough when going through thirty-two sequential gates. He can't predict if it will affect my current condition in a negative way. He's going to file for a medical deferment, but I suspect it won't have any effect. They're threatening to send marines through to find me if I don't show up in a week. I don't want Elizabeth to risk her job over this. And I don't want them to come take me by force."

"They're bluffing, Emily. Don't be scared. It'll be ok."

"I'm not scared!" she retorted hotly. "I'm pissed. They're so hungry for details of the future—the bloodsucking bastards. Why did they destroy the device if they want to know so bad? Why do they have to pick on me?"

"Because it isn't just dreams to you. You remember it all. There's no uncertainty. You've already proved that. They know you know."

"I'm not a prophet. I'm just the unlucky sap who touched two really obnoxious devices."

"I know. Just tell them everything and they'll be done with you."

"That could just be wishful thinking and you know it. They could detain me indefinitely, hoping I'll remember something else."

"I don't think O'Neill or Landry would let that happen."

"It's the IOA! O'Neill and Landry don't have any control over what they do with me. Do you realize they wanted to put Daniel to death over this Ori thing he just went through? Oh, my God, they are just insane! I—if they had just let it rest for a couple of weeks, even a few days. . . maybe I wouldn't be so mad, but they don't care that I'm struggling, that I need time. They just don't give a damn."

He didn't know what to say to reassure her. She seemed angry rather than frightened. That was probably a good thing.

"It's not that I don't want to go. I see very clearly that it's my duty. I'm not denying that. I just. . . I want to be professional about this. I want to be in a better place when I go. How can they take me seriously when I'm an uncontrollable narcoleptic? I don't see how a few more weeks is going to make a difference from a galactic point of view. They have my reports."

"I know. It's ok." Quiet grew between them, because he couldn't do or say anything to change it for her. He was completely impotent with regards to this debacle.

She seemed. . . somewhat stronger since her recovery, not nearly so shy and timid. He wondered if all those extra memories had anything to do with it. Like now. He looked at her and sighed. The sheet had slipped down and she didn't seem to notice or care. A month ago she would've been turning pink and pulling the sheet up self-consciously.

It was so damn distracting. Her small, sweetly-curved breasts jiggled as she gestured. Her pert, pink nipples all but commanding his attention. He swallowed. He'd always been a breast man. But now he actually wished she would just pull the sheet up so he could think. He pinched his eyes closed, trying to refocus. But all he could think about was the afternoon, weeks ago, when he'd told her about having Cadman's consciousness in his brain.

He'd been grousing about what an ordeal it'd been and she'd said, solemnly, "It could've been so much worse, you know."

He'd looked at her incredulously and said, "How?"

"You've never considered the fact that there was a fifty percent chance it could've gone the other way?"

"Oh. Well, no. I was kind of preoccupied with the situation I was in at the time."

"You could've been forced to experience the daily female rituals of grooming, Rodney—first hand. You might have had to participate in. . . shaving her legs, hair styling, putting on make up. . . wearing a bra." She shot him a serious look.

He felt his eyes go wide. He hadn't thought of that. Not even once. "A bra?" he'd managed to get out.

"Yes. You could have found out what a nightmare we go through as a matter of social convention. She was the lucky one. She got to be free of all that for a few days."

"Huh. Bras are. . . a nightmare?"

"You seriously don't know that? Where have you been?" She rolled her eyes, but didn't look mad. She wasn't laughing at him either. "They bind, chafe, leave horrible, deep, red marks on your skin—and those are the good ones. It's sort of bewildering to figure out how to buy the right size. It doesn't seem to matter how much money you spend on them. There are supposed to be measurements you can take, but I've never found them to accurately reflect size. Bras are more for men than they are for women, Rodney. We know for a fact that men invented them. Somewhere along the line someone decided we needed to be. . . contained. And I'm lucky. I'm. . . well. . . sort of. . . ." She trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.

He was perplexed so he prompted her, "What?"

Her face was pink and she fiddled with her hair. "Smaller." She shrugged. "Girls who are bustier have to deal with. . . weight."

"So, don't wear them," he'd suggested, not being able to resist giving them a proper examination while she giggled and squirmed, her fingers curling in his hair. There weren't any red marks to be found, but then, she hadn't been wearing one all day, had she?

She seemed scandalized. "People would notice. No way. Not me. I couldn't do it. Not for a minute."

He'd always liked watching her dress and undress but there was a new level of fascination after that. She didn't seem to be primping, as she fastened a bra and tugged it on, looking pointedly in the mirror as she pulled it into place and deliberately slipped a hand into each cup to align each breast just so. And when she would take it off at the end of the day, she looked so grateful, rubbing the small pink welts on her rib cage and running her hands over each breast lightly as though freeing them was such a relief. He didn't think he would ever get tired of watching her do it, or helping her do it, for that matter.

She said. . . she said they would grow, swell, with pregnancy if. . . that ever happened for them. He liked the thought of that. Not because he wanted her to be different. . . but because he was fascinated with the idea of watching her ripen with a life inside her. She could give him their child—a gifted, brilliant child, who would surely get the best of both of them. And she would nurture that child, the way she nurtured him, and they would all be better for it. He wondered if her feelings would change. . . about having children now. But that wasn't a question for today. It could wait.

He sighed and looked at her. She was staring off into space, clearly still thinking angrily about the IOA. It looked like she'd be leaving for Earth in less than a week. He wanted to go with her, protect her, rip into the IOA reps that were being so callous. . . but he couldn't and that was really eating at him.

Things were coming to a head here. There was still so much left to do. If he walked away now, he would leave a heavy burden on Zelenka and there was just too much riding on this going right. Emily had given them the tools to change everything for the better, but if he left, he might sabotage that and. . . dammit. . . he couldn't risk it. So, she would have to go alone. He hated it. Between his work and her excessive need for sleep, they'd barely talked since she'd revealed her knowledge of Atlantis' future. There was still so much they should talk about before she left.

He reached out and twined his fingers with hers, speaking softly. "We haven't talked about the fact that I can't go with you. I want to. You know that, right? I want to ask Carson to go with you. He could look out for you, keep an eye on you, keep them off your back."

She sighed and laid her arm across her forehead. The sheet slipped down even farther. "I know you can't, Rodney. I know you're worried, but no. I'm not asking Carson to come with me. His plate is full. I'm a big girl. I'll go alone. And you should know that if I'm going all that way, going through that damn bridge, I'm not rushing back. I'm going to stay with my mom for a couple of weeks. It's what Carson wants, anyway. He says I need a break. I don't think he's wrong. I can't work a proper day right now anyway and it doesn't seem right to keep paying me to sleep. It would be perfect if you could come with me. But, the timing's just terrible."

"Ok. I. . . figured. It's going to be weird without you here."

"It's weird with me here. I'm a looney-tune. It'll be a nice break for you."

"Don't say that, Emily. I've never thought you were crazy. Never. I'm sorry. I keep saying I'll never doubt you again and I keep screwing up. I know you. . . you'll be ok. You don't have to prove yourself anymore. Not to me."

"You didn't believe me about the jello," she said, slanting an eye at him and grinning.

He rolled his eyes at her. "Will you pull the damn sheet up, already? I can't think with those twin mounds of destruction staring at me," he accused. She pressed her lips together, smothering a giggle, and complied with his request. He looked at her more seriously. "I don't know when the mission will be yet. The timing will be close. Maybe I could come for a few days at the end, before you come back. What do you think?"

"I'd like that. You know that. But I'm not going to hold my breath. Things are crazy here right now. I doubt you'll be able to get away. Don't worry—the SGC will make sure I'm taken care of. My mom will fatten me up. I'll rest. I'll come back ready to work again. I hope." She was staring at the ceiling, looking pensive.

He ventured a little closer and smoothed her hair back from her face, determined to ask the question he was really worried about. "Emily. . . are you talking to Kate about. . . the other timeline?"

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yes."

"You told me about the dreams. . . why don't you want to tell me about it?"

She looked troubled. "I've told you lots of things. . . ."

"You told me about Atlantis. You told me about Tony's. But. . . what was your life like? Were you happy? You haven't said much, you know," he asked softly.

"It doesn't matter. That stuff isn't real."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like a novel or a movie. It's just a story. No matter how real those children seem to be to me in my mind, they just aren't real. They'll never exist. It can't be good for me to think about them or talk about them. It hurts, knowing I can't ever see them again—but they aren't even real. It's absolutely insane. How. . . how can I mourn someone that was never born?" she asked, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.

Oh, God, what was he stirring up? "But they are real, Emily," he said gently, running a hand down her arm.

She looked perturbed. She slapped his hand away and sat up suddenly. "What? How can you say that? What do you mean?"

He sat up too. "They do exist. Not here, obviously. But somewhere in an alternate universe, maybe many alternate universes—there are versions of you who will have those kids or some permutation of them. I mean, in each universe, it just depends on whether you put on the gloves before you touched the Dartaran device, right? Sometimes you did, sometimes you didn't. Sometimes you went to Atlantis to find me, other times you stayed. Maybe Daniel even lived in some of those realities. There may be other outcomes as well that we aren't equipped to imagine. You haven't abandoned them. You're there caring for them, or some version of you is."

"Oh," she said, laying back down, looking shocked.

He brushed a lock of her hair from her face. "You didn't realize that?"

"I'm not a physicist!" she said in a strangled, anguished cry and curled up in a ball.

He laid down next to her and she moved to wrap herself around him, clinging to him. He patted her hair and frowned. "I thought you understood that. Whenever there's an occurrence that can lead to more than one outcome, each of those outcomes will be played out. It's quantum mechanics."

"I knew that," she whimpered. "I just didn't know it had anything to do with time. I thought. . . it either happened or it didn't. I don't know. None of it really makes any sense to me and I'm so damn tired of trying to make sense of it."

"Well, it seems to me that what you saw in the dreams, in these memories, was one reality—the path you were on—what would have happened if you'd never touched the device. But the second you touched it, another reality was formed and that is. . . where we are now. Technically, the device showed you the wrong future, because the second you touched it, it couldn't really be your future anymore then, could it—because even if you lived it out exactly as it was predicted, you had foreknowledge that was not present in the original timeline. Do you see what I mean? It's a kind of paradox. Knowing it changes everything."

"Yes. That makes sense because they didn't intend for it to be a prediction of the future. They just intended for it to shape a person's behavior. None of this was what they intended."

"What do you know about this race that created the device? They were called the Dartarans?"

"Essentially nothing. I looked in the database—I used every possible spelling permutation of the name Dartaran and found no reference to them. They didn't pass through Pegasus then, I guess, or weren't known here. They may have pre-dated the Ancients or maybe they felt pressure from all the human populations the Ancients were seeding throughout the Milky Way. They could have gone anywhere, really. If they could control time in this way with such a small device, they must have been very, very powerful technologically, don't you think?"

He nodded, frowning. "No kidding. That's an understatement." It had been reckless to destroy it. They could have learned a lot from it. Any alien tech was worth a good look, just for innovative ideas. Even dismantled, never used again, it could still be incredibly useful. The physics of time were something physicists grappled with. It wasn't well understood. "I wish I could have seen the device before they destroyed it," he said.

"I know."

She was quiet for a while, then rolled on her side and said, "What do you want to know about it?"

"You don't have to tell me now if you don't want to. Are you getting tired?" He felt bad. He'd pushed too hard. He didn't want her to be upset.

"It's ok. It's strange, really. I don't know why, but I feel so much better knowing they might actually be out there somewhere. It was hard to bear the thought that they only existed in my mind. I mean, I know when I told you about the dreams, I told you how hard it was after Daniel died, but it wasn't always like that. We were happy. They were wonderful. Daniel would've been proud of them. You liked them." She smiled at him sadly.

He decided to change the subject to something lighter. He smiled indulgently. "So, ah, here's a question for you—the day you were discharged from the infirmary, you made a weird comment that I've wondered about. You said something like, 'thank God for Daniel Jackson to talk some sense into me.' What was that about?"

She went still and didn't meet his gaze. After a long moment she said, quietly, "I. . . don't remember."

"You were pretty sleepy," he said, running a hand over her stomach under the sheet, thinking maybe it was time for round two after all, if she was still interested. "I just want to know what I should be thanking him for. Before you talked to him, you didn't want to have much to do with me, but afterwards you seemed pretty much like your old self, a little sleepier than usual, but the same old Emily. So what did he say?" He kissed her shoulder and looked at her expectantly.

"Rodney, I've told you there's nothing going on between Daniel and me." she said weakly and sat up. She held the sheet to her chest and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I know that. He practically gave you to me when you were asleep." Damn. He shouldn't have said that. He grimaced, waiting for her wrath, but she hadn't seemed to notice. He waited a moment, watching her.

She had an odd expression on her face. She got up and started rummaging around in a drawer for underclothes and pulled them on with stilted, jerky movements.

"I was really sleepy. I didn't know what I was saying," she mumbled.

"Ok. What's going on? You said something about having wretched ideas of fate and entitlement, does that ring a bell?" Something was wrong. He was starting to feel that feeling of dread again, but he wasn't sure why.

She pulled a uniform shirt over her head. He realized she hadn't made eye contact with him for some time. "I don't know." She looked like she was actually scared.

He was starting to feel scared too. He finally found his boxers, pulled them on, and went over to her, trying to reassure her, convince her, something. "Don't do this again, Emily. Tell me what's going on," he said gruffly.

Her face was white. She pulled on pants.

"It'll be ok, I swear. Is this something about the memories?" He turned away from her abruptly. "Oh, God. Something really terrible happens to me, doesn't it? You're afraid you won't want me anymore. What happens? Do I lose a leg? An arm? Do I get cancer or, or, or some crazy Pegasus disease that the doctors on Earth don't know how to cure?"

She grasped at him in a strangely desperate manner and said, vehemently, "No! It was nothing like that. I'll always want you! Never doubt that, ok?"

"Well, what is it then? Look, whatever it is, we can work together to try to prevent it. Just tell me, Emily. I love you. Let me fix it."

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I can't lie to you. You can't fix this. I don't think it can be fixed, in any real sense. I'll tell you what we talked about, but it could change things between us forever. I won't lie. That terrifies me."

He stared at her blankly. What could possibly be so bad? She pulled him into the living room and pushed him gently toward his favorite chair. She sat down, opposite. They watched each other warily from their native, evening work spots, the spots they assumed before fatigue or amorous intentions got the better of them every night. . . before the carcaerum device changed everything, anyway.

Her voice sounded drab and tired, but resolute. She stared at the stained glass, though he knew she couldn't see anything through it at that angle. "Daniel said the future is plastic. He said I was. . . deserving. He said it didn't matter as long as I did my best. I'm trying to do my best, I swear. But when I came, I. . . didn't know everything. I only knew fragments. Those little bits. . . they didn't give me the full picture and I was selfish. I wanted you even before I met you."

"I don't understand." He wanted to clutch her by the shoulders, search for understanding in her sad, brown eyes. But he was stuck where she'd placed him.

She closed her eyes. "If I hadn't come to Atlantis, you would have eventually fallen in love with. . . and married someone else. We were both widowed when we met. I didn't know about it, when I came. I swear I didn't. I never would've presumed. I just wouldn't have. . . ."

"Oh." He looked at her, finally comprehending what her grief had been about when she woke up, what had continued to trouble her at odd moments when she thought he wasn't looking. Maybe even the nightmare she had the night before. "Well, it couldn't have been anything like this, like what we're like. Who was it? Katie Brown? Because she and I. . . I mean, you were right about that, I think."

"No. Not Katie. You proposed marriage to her, or tried to, but something happened to make you change your mind and she left Atlantis. You broke up." She was looking down, barely audible.

"Ok. Is it someone I already know?"

She looked at him squarely, pain written over her features. Her voice was firm, dispassionate, before it broke. "Yes. I think so. You loved her, Rodney. Really loved her. I was thinking about leaving. . . going back to Earth. . . so maybe it would still happen. Daniel said I was wrong."

Anger and fear blazed inside him. He struggled to keep it under control. He rose stiffly and ground out, a quiet roar, "No. He loved her. I didn't love her. I love you. He isn't me. His life is completely different. Quit saying it was me. It wasn't me. I didn't do those things."

She flinched. "I—ok." She looked confused and hurt.

"Daniel talked you out of," he swallowed thickly, trying to fully understand, "he talked you out of leaving me?"

Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were wild and haunted. "I felt so guilty. I thought I'd robbed you of something special, something you really deserve to have. I didn't want to leave you. But, what if she makes you happier than I can?" She seemed to gather herself together and started to sound angry herself, though tears were streaming down her face, dripping unheeded from her chin. "I can't stop the memories, Rodney. They come to me when I least expect it. I keep seeing you—him—describing her and—dammit, Rodney—it's so painful! She sounds like the ideal woman for you and I can't compete with that! Kate said I could try hypnotism to try to compartmentalize these stupid, awful memories, so I'd only think of them when I want to—" She choked on her own tears.

He just stared at her, uncomprehending. How could she think anyone else could possibly make him happier? Why had he ever asked about this? Why couldn't he have just left it alone? He wanted to go back, take back the questions so this conversation would never have happened.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "All I wanted was to be happy. I never wanted to hurt anyone. All my decisions were mistakes. I don't know what to do now. Daniel said no good could come of telling you about it. Was I supposed to lie to you? I tried, but you wouldn't let it go. I don't know how to lie to a direct question. Oh, God, please forgive me. I don't know right from wrong anymore. I'm so sorry." She broke down into sobs.

He came to himself with a guilty start, staring at her in disbelief. She was suffering, had been suffering for some time. She didn't ask for any of this, didn't deserve any of it.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he'd never been clear enough about his feelings. Maybe he'd never told her how happy he was, how much she had changed his life for the better.

He sat down next to her and gathered her up. He whispered wordless assurances until she stopped crying and looked up at him, her expression hovering between trepidation and hope.

"Don't ever tell me her name," he said gruffly. "I don't ever want to talk about this again and I don't want you to even think about it. You didn't make a mistake coming here. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Nothing can top that. Nothing, Emily. I don't want anyone else. I want you. I don't care what happened in the life of that. . . counterpart. The memories you have will help us save lives, help us make Pegasus safer, but he isn't me. He might look like me, sound like me, even think just like me, but he isn't me, and I don't ever want you to be confused about that again, ok?"

He held her until it seemed like maybe she'd fallen asleep again. He just sat there thinking, going round and round it all in his mind, trying to understand how she might have come to such conclusions, how Daniel had kept disaster at bay. He cycled through long minutes of worry, self-recrimination, self-doubt, anger, feelings of fierce protectiveness, tenderness, gratitude and longing.

Suddenly, she shifted, not asleep after all. She looked up into his face and stroked his stubbled cheek with her thumb. "Round two?" she asked softly.

He touched her gently, reverently, and whispered hoarse words of love into her ear.