---
She was silent as the scenery flew by the window, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face and noting small changes with a detached interest.
"Is it different?" he asked at length.
"What?" Sam didn't look away from the window. "The scenery?"
"Yeah."
"Well, considering the last time I laid eyes on the surface it was all blown up and ruined, yes."
He didn't answer her bitter words, reaching instead to turn the music up louder. That suited her just fine she decided, jutting her chin out determinedly.
"You missed the turn off!" she exclaimed suddenly, watching them pass the road.
"No I haven't," he glanced around him, making sure.
Sam froze, her mouth open in shock. "Sorry.. I..." He glanced at her through the corner of his eye, and she turned to him apologetically. "I wasn't thinking, sir."
"That's unusual." The words were out before he could stop them. They froze, and then she turned to him slowly. He glanced at her again.
The laughter came from somewhere inside of her, she didn't know where, and bubbled free to send the tension in the car flying out the window.
He smiled despite himself, unable to tear his eyes from her as she laughed.
And then her laughter turned to tears, which she desperately tried to stop, rubbing frantically at her face with both hands while sniffing loudly.
Had it been Sam he would have stopped the car and pulled over, offered her a hug and a kiss of support. Had it been Sam he would put and an arm around her and pulled her close to him, kissing her hair and resting his head on hers.
But it wasn't Sam.
He kept driving.
The pain blossomed on her side, the red blood welling up and blooming like a rose over her green clothing. She lost her footing, stumbled against the wall and left behind a smeared trail of blood as the acrid odour of scorched flesh curled its way through her nostrils and burnt itself into her memory.
"Jaffa, Kree!" The clanking echoes of metal clad soldiers boomed down the hallway. Their strides still sickeningly in time with one another, grated on her ears and thumped along with her rapid heartbeat.
Fingers scrabbled madly in the rubble spread over the floor, torn finger pads meeting with shattered glass, spent shells and the familiar, sickening stickiness of warm blood.
"Damn it, Daniel! No!" She choked on the sob, fighting the urge to close her eyes and give in to the darkness starting to cloud on her vision. "No!" she screamed again, smashing her elbow against the wall in a gesture of complete frustration.
The clanks slowed down, their strides now slightly out of time as they positioned themselves to round the corner. Her hands clutched frantically at the limp body, her eyes watching the corner around which they were going to appear.
Her fingers closed over the object she sought, the weakened digits barely able to prise it from the death grip that held onto it, and she staggered to her feet, leaving fresh streaks of blood on the grey wall.
Each step she took, fire arced up her side, into her arms and down to her toes. Each breath brought a stabbing pain into her lungs until she felt that each small, cool mouthful of air she inhaled was immediately doused by the fire burning inside her lungs, a million hot needles stabbing at her relentlessly so that it grew harder and harder to remember, to force herself to breath.
They were nearly on her, their loud steps now once again in time, drowning out all the noise around her, suffocating her small gasps for breath and her moans of pain.
Through the smokey haze of pain and dust she saw her target.
Fifty paces.
Forty paces.
She staggered forwards, her foot catching on a stray piece of metal, and she fell heavily, darkness impairing her vision as a disjointed crack sounded throughout her skull.
Coughing she pulled herself upright, hugging the cold wall for support, ignoring the screams of agony her body was sending her. Another step. Another stagger…
Thirty paces.
Her tongue was swollen; rough against the roof her mouth. All she could see through the curtain of agony was the doorway in front of her, the solid grey paint never seemed so incredibly beautiful to her.
Twenty paces.
They were gaining on her. She could hear their shouts clearly now, imagine the way their 'eyes' glowed red as they relished the prospect of closing in on their prey.
Fifteen paces.
She might make it. Her fingers clutched the object tightly as she stumbled again, sobbing with each choking breath she drew. Everything started to fade. All that mattered was the door. The end of her travels. The end to all of this.
Ten paces.
Through another doorway, ahead to her goal. She heard a shout behind her, the foreign word hanging heavily in the air. An energy bolt skittered past her and she threw herself against the wall, stumbling on towards her goal.
Five paces.
They were behind her now, they could see her ahead of them and she could almost smell the scent of their excitement above the scent of her own blood soaked, burnt flesh.
Three paces.
A ball of bile rose in her throat as another blast raced past her, catching her right elbow. She grunted in pain, but stumbled forwards.
As her fingers closed over the doorknob, she gave in to the urge to laugh in success before throwing the door open and nearly falling into the small room. Ignoring the numbness creeping over her, the screaming, constant ache in every part of her body, she dug into her pocket and pulled out a cold, smooth metal ball.
She watched them as they approached her, weapons at the ready. Their quick, relentless pace made her long, difficult journey up the short hallway seem pitiful.
Her teeth closed over the pin and she pulled it out slowly, the satisfying feel of the metal being released into her mouth giving her a surge of strength to throw the grenade them. She watched the confusion on their faces as the small object flew towards them, and then swung the door shut, leaning heavily against it until it shuddered slightly as the explosion rocked the hallway outside.
The hand that grabbed hold of the bolt was shaky, her fingers refusing to take hold of the metal pin and slide it into place. Giving up she turned around and let her eyes get accustomed to the darkness.
The object in her hand was heavy, and she looked down at it. Touching the small dial, a window of light sprang into life in front of her. She flicked the dial quickly, searching desperately.
A bang on the door behind her jerked her out of her false bubble of safety and she glanced quickly at the strangely peaceful scene in front of her before reaching out a hand and touching the soft, humming pane of glass.
A slight shock ran over her, no more than the sensation of a spider web brushing gently against her skin.
And then she was free.
Gasping, Sam sat upright on the bed, the night air cold on her sweat soaked skin. Pressing against her cheeks with her hands, Sam struggled to control her breathing.
Real. It was still so real.
She could still smell the stench of her burnt flesh; her throat still constricted by the dust.
She could feel Daniel's blood seeping out of his chest, running onto the ground and dissolving into the dust of the ruined SGC.
It had been too late. For all of them. They'd all died.
Shivering in the cold air, Sam wiped away her scalding tears and scrambled out of bed, kicking the tangled sheets from her legs and staggering across the woollen rug covering the wooden floor.
Water. She just needed a drink of water to calm her down and bring her back down to reality. A drink of water, some fresh air and she'd be fine.
She was always fine.
She had to be fine.
Padding softly along the carpeted hallway, careful to tiptoe past what she knew was the Colonel's bedroom so that she didn't wake him up, Sam made her way into the kitchen. The room was silent apart from the steady tick of the clock and the unobtrusive hum of his refrigerator. Standing there in the dark room with only the dim green glow of the oven's digital clock, she shivered again.
Where were the glasses kept anyway?
If she had to hazard a guess, she'd say in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.
Quietly flicking on the light, she moved across to the cupboard and opened it to reveal a shelf full of neatly stacked, clean glasses. The glass was cold and smooth beneath her fingers.
Running the tap until the glass was full, Sam let her gaze drift out of the window as she took a slow sip of the cold liquid. It washed down her oesophagus; the coldness curdling in the pit of her stomach as she shivered again.
It was unreal.
All of it.
Like a dream.
Standing here, watching the solitary car drive past his house while the headlights washed over the kitchen in a warm glow, it felt like a dream. A peaceful, quiet dream that was easily believable in the ethereal darkness of the night.
Come morning, when the sun shone and chased away the shadows she was hiding in, reality would present itself starkly and coldly.
She was married to Jack O'Neill.
She wasn't in the military.
Kowalski was alive.
Her lab was yellow and her plants had been red.
God, this world was fucked up.
She sighed and rested her forehead on the cold glass, her breath fogging up the surface until all the outside lights and stars blurred together in a soft glow. A single tear was hot on her cold skin.
"What are you doing?"
She jerked around, the glass slipping from between her cold fingers and shattering on the ground.
The Colonel looked just as shocked as she was, his hair standing in all directions and his eyes wildly confused as he gazed at her.
"I'm…sorry…I… I was just getting a drink," she stammered, the cold liquid seeping around her feet and the shards of glass glinting brightly in the kitchen light.
"Don't move, you've got bare feet. I'll get a broom." His words were curt, delivered emotionlessly, the same way his eyes now studied her emotionlessly.
He must have loved her, she realised suddenly, the pain sharp as it knifed through her.
Her Colonel.
He was dead now.
Her eyes stung with hot tears that pricked painfully against her eyelids.
She would not cry. She would not cry.
Swallowing, she watched him approach with a yellow dustpan and broom. She didn't move as he knelt at her feet, his back muscles rippling in the dim light as his arms quickly and efficiently swept up the soggy, sharp mess on the ground before her.
"Don't move yet, there's still glass there."
She looked down at the ground in front of her. Was she going to have to stand here all night until it was dry enough for him to use a vacuum cleaner on the tiles?
There was a crashing sound of glass falling on glass as he emptied the scoop into the bin and then carefully placed it back into the cupboard where it belonged. He seemed to hesitate a moment, and she saw his shoulders and back move slowly as he drew in a deep breath, gathering himself.
Gathering himself. For what?
He turned back to her, his face carefully controlled. "I'm going to…pick you up and move you, okay?"
She nodded mutely, and gathered her own thoughts as he approached her again.
"Hold on," he whispered, coming to a standstill next to her.
He was so close that if she turned her head she'd brush his neck with her lips, his scent clogged her senses and that deep wrench of grief tore through her again.
They both jerked as though they'd been shocked when he touched her, uncertainty flickering in their eyes before it was masked again. His jaw was held stiffly as he carefully picked her up. She put her arms around his neck, her eyes stinging as she experienced the way his skin felt beneath her hands.
Her eyes were burning with unshed tears as he placed her down again, well away from where the glass shards were still shimmering wetly in the light.
"You… you okay?" he asked gruffly, stepping back from her while his eyes flicked awkwardly around the kitchen.
"Yeah."
He shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot before stepping backwards again. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."
She watched him walk out of the room, flicking the light off behind himself and plunging her into a world of darkness.
Gasping she leant against the fridge and slid down alongside it until she was pooled on the ground in a crumpled ball, sobs tearing at her throat.
She missed him.
She missed them all.
---
Jack was in a bad mood.
Glaring at the Airmen at the check in point, he marched silently into the auxiliary elevator without even signing his name.
Sam - she - was following some distance behind him, her eyes shadowed and dark as she almost crawled along the ground.
He'd heard her crying as he'd left the kitchen.
But what was he supposed to do? She wasn't his wife. She wasn't the woman he loved, no matter how much she looked like Sam.
Silently she got into the carriage with him and he sullenly punched the button that would take them to her lab. Then he was off to see Kowalski.
He snuck a glance at her; she looked like crap.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jack watched as the numbers slowly crept towards Sub Level 21.
Who was he trying to kid? Only himself, obviously. Sighing, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth ready to speak.
Nothing came out.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
This time he croaked, and she shot him a hesitant glance before turning back to her study of the ground. She seemed to spend a lot of time staring at the ground.
The elevator pinged and he glanced up at the numbers in surprise. Well, that had gone quick.
Silently she shuffled out of the elevator. They exchanged an awkward glance again, both pretending they hadn't really been looking at one another, before they separated and she headed down to her lab while he pressed the elevator button again.
This was so screwed up.
---
Why did he feel like she was his responsibility?
And why did everyone seem to think so too, he wondered angrily. It wasn't like she was his wife. If anything, the guy who gave her permission to stay should be the one looking after her.
He cringed. That was harsh. Much harsher than she deserved. It wasn't her fault Sam had died; that was his fault entirely. It wasn't her fault the Goa'uld had wiped out Earth in her reality, though she seemed to think so.
And it wasn't her fault that she'd been allowed to stay.
Sighing, Jack turned his attention back to Hammond.
Hammond was watching him silently, obviously waiting for an answer to a question Jack hadn't been paying attention too. Could this day get any worse?
"What are you going to do now, Jack?" Hammond asked gently.
Jack. This meant it was a personal conversation. Jack hated personal conversations, he'd been having way too many of them lately.
"I don't know, sir." Maybe go home and have a few drinks, drown his sorrows in the amber liquid… might just drown himself too while he was at it.
Hammond frowned in concern. "What about Cassandra, Jack?"
Cassie. He flinched. "What about her?"
Hammond hesitated. "You're going to have to see her again soon, Jack."
Jack clenched his jaw. No. He wasn't going to see Cassie. He wasn't going to get close to her again, only to have his daughter die on him as well.
"Jack, she's already hurt enough. Janet says-"
"I can't, sir. Not now."
"What about Sam? Doesn't she deserve the right to have her daughter?"
"Cass isn't her daughter," Jack retorted scathingly.
"You're certainly not acting as if she's yours either. And as much as she loves Janet and Janet loves her, she's not Janet's daughter, Jack. She's yours. And Sam's."
Jack clenched his jaw. "I know that."
Hammond shook his head slowly, disappointment evident in his gaze. "Doesn't Sam at least get a say in the matter?"
"What are we going to tell Cassie, sir? How can we explain to her that Sam isn't dead anymore?" The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Sam was dead. This was a substitute they were talking about.
Hammond sighed, and Jack cringed. He knew what was coming, he could tell.
"Jack, if we want this charade to work, if we want to at least give this Sam Carter a chance – God knows, she deserves one – then we're going to have to make it as close as possible to what it used to be. If you choose not to be married in a year or so, that's fine, everyone will understand that the witness protection could do that to a marriage… but now? Now you have to try and be a family. For Cassie's sake and Sam's sake.
He hated it when Hammond threw the emotional blackmail cards on the table.
"So we don't tell Cass that Sam isn't really Sam?"
That sounded so weird. And it grieved him to think it was true.
"No. We don't."
Closing his eyes, Jack nodded. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay, I'll do it."
"Good. Janet's already got Cassie ready to go home."
Jack's eyes flew open, and he glared at Hammond. Damn, the man and the doctor knew him too well. Damn his conscience.
---
She was pissed at him. Actually, pissed didn't even begin to cover it.
But at least it felt normal. Having someone pissed at him, that is. There was always someone who was mad at him, someone who hated him for some reason.
And today it was Cassie's turn.
Not that he blamed her of course; she didn't ask for her second mother to die. She didn't ask to be 'given' to Janet on a long-term basis while Jack tried to sort himself out again. She didn't ask for him to abandon her.
But he had done all of that, so she was pissed.
Shooting a glance at his sullen daughter glaring out the window next to him, Jack sighed. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. How was he supposed to tell her that Sam was back, in a manner of speaking?
A thought struck him.
If she thought that the real Sam was back, she was going to expect him to behave as though the real Sam was back.
Jack O'Neill could do most things when he put his mind to it, but pretending that she was really Sam… not even he could do that.
Silently he stopped the car and turned around, turning the car so that it was heading towards Cheyenne Mountain again. Not yet. He couldn't deal with this yet.
"Where are we going?"
"I forgot something."
Cassie grunted – she grunted? – and turned her gaze back out the window.
"It's okay to yell at me," he said eventually, slowly down at an intersection.
"It won't do anything," Cassie shrugged. "It won't change anything."
"No, it won't," he agreed slowly. "But it'll make you feel better."
She remained silent.
"Why did you leave?" she asked eventually.
Not that question.
"Because…I needed…Cass…"
"Don't lie to me!" she snapped, glaring at him.
Lie to her. Ha, if only she realised that in a few hours time her whole life would be built around one very large lie.
"I didn't leave you, Cass…" he started out.
"Yes, you did. You left me. At Janet's. With a pair of pajama's and my toothbrush."
He flinched. Okay, so it had been a hasty decision. But…
"I needed to deal with it."
"We could have dealt with it together! You're supposed to be my Dad, Jack, and you dumped me. The first time I really need you, you dumped me."
He glanced at her, looking at the 13 year old. Maturity didn't even begin to cover it; she was old inside. What she'd been through… Sam dying, him leaving, her world being wiped out,old.
"I couldn't, Cass. You wouldn't have understood then-"
"I am not a baby, Jack!"
"Since when do you call me Jack?" he deflected the statement.
"Since you stopped being my Dad."
Now that hurt. But he deserved it.
"Can I ever be your Dad again?"
She was quiet, her little jaw clenched and her red brown hair glinting dangerously in the light of the setting sun.
"Cass…" and now he was about to lie to her. Big time.
"What?"
"We would have been dealing with different issues."
"Mom died, Dad. She died. How can that possibly be different issues?"
He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to cry.
He wasn't going to cry.
"She didn't die, Cass."
He was crying. Not overtly, but the burning in his eyes and the way the road in front of him turned blurry all indicated tears were in his eyes. A scalding droplet trickled down his cheek. Yes, he was crying.
"She didn't… Dad?"
He stopped the car and pulled into a spot under some trees. She was terrified; he could see the panic rising in her brown eyes as she shrunk away from him, pressing her body against the car door.
"It was… a set up…she didn't…"
"But I saw her… she…"
Resting his head in his hands he leant on the steering wheel. "She was hurt… but she got better."
"You… what the hell are you talking about?" she demanded. He could hear her hands fumbling with her seat belt.
"Witness protection," he mumbled.
He could see Sam, lying on the bed, calm and still. The machines were silent and her skin was cold. Clammy.
She died.
"What… Dad?"
Cassie was crying, mascara sticking to her cheeks as she furiously wiped away at the tears, black smudges streaking across her pale skin.
"She's back, Cass."
But not the way you think, he added silently, pulling her into his arms. She might have been thirteen, she have might been older than her years inside, but he could still hold her small body on his lap and tuck her head against his neck, and hold her while she cried. Her fingers dug into his back as she clutched at him, her tears hot and wet against his skin.
"Cass…" he murmured. "I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry."
And she cried.
---
He stood in front of the phone hesitantly, his eyes feeling raw and scratchy, the remnants of his crying fest.
To phone or not to phone, that was the question.
Phone. He had to phone. He couldn't just spring this on her and expect her to know how to act when he brought Cassie home.
Brought Cassie home. At least he'd have one real member of his family back.
Gripping the receiver tightly with on hand, Jack slowly started to dial his home number.
"Hello?"
Oh crap, she answered. Now what?
"Hello?"
"Uh….hi…" What the hell did he call her? He couldn't call her Sam – that was just plain wrong and asking waaay too much – and he couldn't very well call her 'She', could he?
"Who is this?"
"Me…" Jack or Colonel O'Neill? This was so awkward.
"Colonel?"
"Yeah…"
"Oh. Are you okay, sir?" Her voice also sounded distinctly wobbly.
"I'm… I'm fine. I'm just calling to tell you that I'm bringing Cassie home."
There was a silence. "Cassie?"
"Yeah, Cassie."
"Where's Janet?"
"At home." Now he was just plain confused.
"So… isn't it a bit soon to introduce me to Cassie again? I haven't even read all the details in my folder…"
That's what he thought, but that's not what Hammond and the rest thought. "Hammond said we had to, to make it look real." The words got stuck in his throat.
Again, a silence.
"You still there?" he asked eventually.
"Is…is Cass…"
His eyes widened. "Cassandra. Our-" he stopped abruptly. Ours. No, she wasn't his and hers, she his and Sam's.
He bit his lips, using the pain to fight the fresh flood of tears.
"Colonel… are you saying that I adopted Cassie?"
"Not you. Sam and I did."
That must have hurt her as much as it hurt him. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
"Shit…" she breathed eventually, and he almost dropped the phone. Shit? Since when did she say 'shit'? Sam never swore-
This wasn't Sam.
"I just thought… I just thought I'd let you know."
"Thank you, sir." The response was automatic.
"And… we have to make it look real," he added, hating the way the words caught in his throat.
"Real?"
"Like you're really her."
She was quiet again.
"You're going to have to stop calling me 'sir' and 'Colonel' all the time and call me Jack."
Her voice was quiet. Too quiet. "Then you're going to have to call me Sam."
He licked his lips. "Okay."
"So we have to…"
"Play act," he filled in.
"Okay. Are there any rituals… or anything I should know about?"
He thought about it. "Welcome home kisses… have the coffee on… table set for three in the kitchen – we don't eat in the dining room." It was surprisingly easy to map out Sam's day for her.
"Are you sure you're not making this up so you get a free house keeper, sir?" she asked, and he could hear her drawing her breath in.
That was the kind of joke Sam would make.
He closed his eyes. "I'm sure, Sam." There. He'd done it. He'd called her Sam.
"I'll… I'll see you soon then?"
"Yeah. I'm at the SGC. I've just got to get something from my office and then Cass and I will head home."
"Where is she?"
"She's busy telling General Hammond off for lying to her."
"About what?"
It was an irony, Jack realised, that Cassie should be chewing Hammond out for 'pretending' that Sam died, when she really had died.
It was an irony he really wished hadn't happened.
"I'll see you soon then, sir," she repeated.
"Yeah. Bye…"
"Bye."
It was only after he hung up that he realised she still called him sir.
---
So. Comments, thoughts, anything? Please!