Author's Note: Beta'd and bounced off a number of talented individuals, including annsgcfan, Bekah See, LilFerret, Myrth, Mandy and Ooober. Thank you ladies for your encouragement, ideas and reality checks. Getting back to Sam wasn't as difficult as I thought!

April

Sam stepped out of the cab and looked up at the apartment block. It wasn't what she would have chosen herself, but it was nice all the same. All things considered, she was alive, out of danger and had money to live on.

She briefly felt her eyes burn as she thought of the flip side of the coin; the friends she had been forced to leave, her passions and dreams that she could no longer follow, the very essence of her identity.

Carrying the small flight bag that contained all her worldly possessions, Sam made her way into the lobby of the building. It was clean and bright; the result of artificial lighting rather than airy space and windows. It had that grey-white feel of inner city buildings, Sam noted.

She rode up in the elevator and then walked the hallway to her door, smiling at the little ironic reference to her former life on the wooden surface. Number 38. Of course, what number couldn't she cross reference with ten years at the SGC?

Inwardly, she chided herself. She knew that the more she kept reminiscing, the harder it would be. But somewhere deep inside her, that old stubborn streak was rearing its head and telling her that she didn't want it to be easy. It wasn't fair to their memory.

Sam awkwardly fumbled for the keys, unlocking the door and moving inside. She put the small suitcase down and slumped against the door, closing it shut. With a faint smile, she looked around the apartment, noting the generous size and furnishings. Given her knowledge, of course, the Air Force would want to buy her silence.

She wandered through, looking at the streamlined, modern furnishings, thinking about how it reminded her of planets they had visited. She had always known that she didn't want to do the job forever. Saving the world is great when you're a twenty-something hotshot, but these days…?

She wanted to settle down, make a home, start a family. All those things that other women her age had started long ago. But that dream had disappeared along with the alternate timeline.

With a sigh, she fumbled in the bag for her pictures. Cam had always teased her mercilessly for what he called her "Shrine to the SGC", but Sam had seen teammates stranded, she knew the importance of a small memento.

They weren't framed, nothing special. In fact, they were battered, faded, with curled edges. A picture of her with Dad and General Hammond, when she and General O'Neill had been awarded medals – he had been a Colonel back then, of course. There was one of the team – her team, as she occasionally referred to it – the General, Daniel, Teal'c and herself. She didn't have one with Cam or Vala, though a gnawing regret told her that she should. Either way, it was too late now.

Sam slumped on the sofa, remembering the look on O'Neill's face, that lack of recognition. It had stung her so deeply, the wound still open and raw from her loss on the Tok'ra home world. The bonds of a relationship built up over years, erased in an instant. It was only now that Sam realized how Teal'c had felt.

She sleepily opened her eyes, shafts of bright light piercing through the gaps in her slatted blinds. It took a few seconds for her consciousness to catch up with her body, filling in the missing details on the who, what, why, when, where and how.

"Sir," she mumbled quietly as his gasping face filled her mind, the shock from the stab wound Ba'al had inflicted on him. She felt the surge of anger inside her once more, the longing to avenge O'Neill's death, stolen from her by the bastard's disappearance.

The tears welled up, tears that she hadn't been allowed to shed, mourning that she had to forfeit. She was Sam Carter, who cared what she felt, she was too important to the world. The world said 'jump' and she had to do it, regardless of all the goddamn shit the world poured on top of her.

Angrily, Sam pulled a pillow over her head, trying to block out the sound of the traffic and the light that was streaming in. She wasn't ready to face the world; she didn't want to have to go out in public. She half wished that she had been sucked up with the other timeline, ceased to exist. This existence just seemed to make a mockery of everything she knew and loved.

It was too late, her brain had woken up now, and so had her bladder. Groggily, she got out of bed, slamming the pillow down as hard as she could, not that it relieved much tension.

Padding out to the bathroom, she awkwardly tripped over various pieces of furniture that her sleep filled eyes couldn't see.

Two minutes quickly turned into ten, ten into twenty. Sam sat on the toilet, head in hands, not able to find the motivation to carry on. She had always had goals in her life, a reason to exist, and a task to fulfill. Now… she had nothing.

Out of nowhere, the absurdity of the situation hit her and she began to laugh. Here she was, head in hands, pants round her ankles, sat on what was essentially a porcelain replica of an Ori ship, lamenting about the one thing she had spent years wishing for – time.

She quickly finished her morning bathroom ritual, scraping her hair into a high ponytail. Changing into a pair of shorts and a tank, she decided to explore the neighborhood the Sam Carter way – with a jog.

Her stretches took a little longer than usual; her muscles were taut after her time on the sub and on the base, cooped up with little opportunity for exercise. But she did them, grabbed her keys and headed down to the street.

Out on the sidewalk, she looked briefly from side to side, deciding which way to go. 'Fork in the road stuff,' she thought to herself wryly. It was quiet and few people seemed to be around, she'd have the streets to herself, more or less.

She set off, taking in her surroundings, noting the little essentials like the mail box, the news stand, the grocery store and smiling politely at the occasional person who looked at her, carrying on her way.

It had been a stupid idea to go out jogging. One of the stupidest ideas she had ever had – Thor would be proud. Sure, it had been fine at first, with just a few random people on the streets, but as rush hour got well and truly underway…

She punched her fist into the wall and grimaced as the cement bruised her knuckles. She needed to dye her hair dark, do something because she hated the way people looked at her. As if she were a ghost. She hated not being able to turn round and tell them the truth, explain the idea of multiple timelines and realities. And most of all, she hated that she couldn't just be Sam Carter.

Angrily, she tied her damp, washed hair into two braids and pulled a cap over the top, carefully adjusting her glasses. She had to remember not to smile. The smile was instantly recognizable, no matter what she did with her hair.

She heard the knock on the door and fished in her purse for some cash. She couldn't face the grocery store, not after all the people earlier. Instead, she'd just ordered take out.

"Pizza," called the guy, hammering again on her door.

Sam hurried to answer it, pulling the door open. His smile faded into a look of confusion as he recognized her face.

"Hey, aren't you…"

Sam smiled a tight, thin lipped smile. "No. I get it a lot. But no."

She handed over the cash and took the box, quickly closing the door and sliding down to the floor in a heap of despair.

"Sir, please," Sam protested down the phone. "There must be another way. I can come and work in one of your labs, in one of the research centers, anything you want. You name it and I'll-"

She scrunched her face up in frustration as her offer was debunked yet again. She wanted to slam the handset down, but resisted the urge, knowing that it wouldn't get her anywhere. Patient yet persistent, that was the key.

"Sir, you're worried about the threat I might pose," she told him, through gritted teeth, "And the fact that I look like a well known public figure. To tell you the truth, I don't like that fact either. Working for the air force would minimize public exposure and keep me in…"

She was cut off again by the curt voice on the other end of the line. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling and walked round the apartment, hand on hip.

"For crying out loud!" she snapped in frustration. "I'm trying to do you a favor here!"

She threw the handset at the wall, having been cut off at the other end, and flopped on the sofa helplessly. She hated this life, hated the looks of fear that she got from people on the street, hated the fact she couldn't be herself, that she couldn't do anything she even remotely loved.

Sam Carter hated public recognition. Anyone who knew her would…. Maybe that was the problem. No-one knew her. They knew astronaut who was used to the press conferences and her face on television. Sam wrinkled her nose as she remembered the documentary they put together a few years ago, and when she was forced to appear on television to debunk the rumor of aliens. She wasn't a natural in the limelight. It had taken her years to learn to relax in the company of other people, let alone in front of an audience.

All she wanted was to get away, to hide in a place where she wouldn't see their haunted expressions, where she could go without being recognized, where she could use her own name. She needed a place without people, somewhere out in the back and beyond. Somewhere familiar, like a comfort blanket.

May

Sam stepped out of the car, into the dappled green light of the woods. She was a way from the familiar log cabin, but that's how she wanted it. She wanted to breathe in the air, enjoy the pathways so ingrained in her mind and the memories that they brought back. She wanted to enjoy him.

She padded through the undergrowth, allowing her fingers to trace patterns on the bark of the trees, reveling in the peace and anonymity the Minnesota woodlands offered her. She paused and took off her glasses, tucking them away in the pocket of her jacket, allowing herself a moment of freedom, a moment of "Sam".

"Can I help you?" a young man stepped out in front of her. He could have been anywhere between eighteen and twenty-three, his sandy brown hair gelled into lazy, mussed up peaks, and faint stubble grazing his chin and cheekbones.

Sam hurriedly fumbled for her glasses, putting them on a shaking her head. "No, no… I was just checking out the area. Old family friend, place has memories."

"Hey! DAD!" He bellowed in the direction of the cabin, causing Sam to wince.

She shook her head frantically, waving her arms at him. "Oh, no no no! Don't get him out here! Really, it's not…"

She trailed off as he ran towards them; his tight black t-shirt and jeans clear against the golden greens of the foliage. There was no dodgy knee in this timeline, she noted wryly.

The General – no, he wasn't a general here – stopped in front of her and his face twitched into the sort of exhausted annoyance that was usually reserved for Apophis or Ba'al in her world. She flashed him an awkward smile, trying to force under the emotions that arose from her classification in the 'goa'uld' category of pest.

"Hi," she said, waving at him in the same gawky way that he used to do back at her.

He pointed lazily at the glasses. "Who invited Clark Kent?" he asked no-one in particular. "And what've you done with Lois and Jimmy?"

Her smile changed from awkward to shy, as she looked up to him from the floor she'd been staring at. This banter she recognized. This was more like her Jack.

"Sir…" she started, trying to muster confidence and looking him in the eye. She found it hard to do, considering she'd seen him die, spent the past few weeks mourning his death. It was, she supposed, exactly how most people felt looking at her. "Jack… I need your help."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," he replied somewhat uneasily, "But we've given you all the help we can."

Sam and Jack exchanged an uneasy glance, both looking at the young man who still stood beside them. Jack nodded and grimaced slightly.

"Charlie, go get the fishing tackle out," he told him, waving him off.

Sam watched as the man looked at her through squinted eyes, then wandered back to the house. She had never met Charlie, not the real one, at least. She suddenly doubted if this plan was going to work. The Jack she knew… he was who he was because of Charlie's death. His humor, his vulnerability, everything she knew stemmed from that tragedy. She winced as the truth hit her like a punch in the gut. This was not her Jack.

"As I said, Ma'am," he told her again, "We've given you all the help we can."

She shook her head. "I don't want help changing the timeline or anything like that. There's no point anyway. The moment I change this timeline, we switch to the other and I cease to exist, replaced by an alternate possibility of myself." She watched his blank expression with amusement and grinned. "It's fork in the road stuff, Sir."

"Ah," he told her, feigning understanding. But Sam knew him well enough to see through that particular façade. "So what do you want help with, exactly?"

She shoved her hands in her pockets and looked up to the sky, her lips pulled into a tight grimace. "I know I've got to live here and have to assume this secret identity, lose all my friends, as if I haven't already lost enough," she added angrily, then stopped herself. "Sorry, Sir, it's just a lot to take in."

He nodded, that quiet look of contemplation on his face. "Go on."

"I've apparently got nothing more than an undergrad degree in marketing and the Air Force refuses to let me do anything I even remotely enjoy," she continued, her voice speeding up, "and to top it all off, I'm living under the shadow of a dead woman."

"A ceremony on the White House Lawn sure is a lot to live up to," Jack agreed, folding his arms.

She took her hands from her pockets and flapped her arms in wild exasperation. "All I want is a job in the military. Anything. I will scrub floors, if it will get me in. I want to get away from the people who stare at me in the street, I want to do something I know how to do and I want to be fucking useful for a change."

"And what makes you think I'll help you?" he asked, tilting his head curiously.

Sadness filled her eyes as she looked at him. She didn't know what to say, how to word it. In every timeline, every reality, every part of the multiverse that she had ever had contact with, there had been a special bond between them. Whether that had been the closest of friendships, or marriage. It was fate, it had to be. How could anything so random, so arbitrary, happen in so many worlds without attributing to destiny?

He looked at her and she could see in his eyes that he understood.

"I'm sorry, Miss Carter," he said coldly, "But I'm a happily married man."

Sam bit her lip and grimaced as he walked away from her, leaving her alone in woodland that now held nothing but bittersweet memories.

"I am, quite frankly, intrigued by your application," the man told her, thumbing through the papers in her file.

He was small and wiry with oversized spectacles, reminding Sam of a small rodent in business attire. She sat politely in front of his desk, feeling at home in her interview suit, cut in a deep navy blue fabric.

"You've applied for a post in our ICT department, if I have read this correctly," he told her, putting the papers down and folding his hands. He leaned towards her, scrutinizing her face and Sam could feel the redness rising. "And yet your only qualification seems to be an undergraduate degree in marketing."

Sam found herself looking at her feet and nodding in shame. She met his eyes and tried to respond calmly and assuredly. "With all due respect sir, many great computer scientists have few or no related qualifications. It's a relatively new field and many non-specialists have at least a passing competency when it comes to computers, Mr. Lynch."

"A valid argument, I concede," he replied, a small smile etched on his face, "Which is why I took the liberty of calling your referees. At the Air Force, I noted."

She nodded at him and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Which is when they told me that you had no relevant expertise or skills," he told her, causing her to look away in frustration. "The thing is, Miss Smith, I am not sure I believe them."

Sam paused and looked at him quizzically.

"I think there is more to this story than meets the eye," he continued, looking down at her application. "Your letter, for one, made you sound very knowledgeable about the subjects at hand. But I cannot afford to take chances where a major governmental agency such as the Air Force is involved."

He nodded curtly and got to his feet, walking around the table as she did the same.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Smith," he told her, taking her hand.

Sam idly toyed with the piece of cake in front of her, her heart not in it. She'd never been that big on cake, it was more something she'd inherited from him. Certain habits were infectious.

She let the fork clatter on the plate as she got to her feet, heading towards the small desktop computer in the living room. It wasn't bad, but compared to what she was used to, it felt like a lead weight from the seventies.

With a sigh, Sam sat down and opened her browser, running a hand lazily through her thick, blonde hair. She found that the internet was a safe haven, where she could discuss theories and chat with people and generally be herself, without getting recognized as the dead astronaut chick.

She stretched and smiled wryly to herself. She didn't like being on her own on her birthday. On the birthday scale this was fairly near the bottom. And, boy, had she had some birthdays. She'd been kidnapped on her 32nd, tortured on her 37th, hell, she even died on her 30th. But, at least she'd been amongst friends, she thought, remembering O'Neill's perfectly timed "Happy Birthday" wishes throughout the years.

The sight that met her on Google made Sam jump in surprise, before leaning into the screen and allowing the hover text to appear. Instead of the "oo" there were two large blue eyes that looked remarkably familiar.

Sure enough, the words read "Birthday of National Hero, Astronaut Samantha Carter."

Sam swore loudly and stalked away from the machine, choosing instead to sink into the couch and pull a pillow to her chest. She couldn't live like this, live in that woman's shadow. Even her birthday had become sullied by the presence of her alternate self's ghost.

She wished for a phone call or a card from the boys, but she knew that even if they had tried to send cards via the Air Force, someone would have intercepted them on the grounds that they might contain hidden messages. Yeah, like "I love you" and "I miss you".

The thing that really worried her, though, was the absence of news. She'd been here two months now and had heard nothing. If they were going to find the Stargate, then surely she would have heard something by now? She'd always been told no news is good news, but something didn't quite ring true anymore.

June

Sam was bored. Her newfound agoraphobia combined with the stringent Air Force regulations meant that job hunting had become something of a farce. She needed a hobby, but even that seemed to be beyond her in this hellhole of a timeline. There was no garage space for a motorcycle, no back yard for gardening and no basement to create a stargate out of a toaster.

Okay, so the last one was Orlin, but a girl could dream.

She was finally writing her book on theoretical astrophysics, one that she'd been desperate to write for years. It was a follow up to the one she'd written whilst wearing Anise's arm devices. Though, seeing as she could never publish, she had taken to posting the occasional chapter online, to general acclaim in the world of geekdom.

However, despite what Doctor Lee and his comrades might say, there were only so many hours that a person could spend online, writing, posting, gloating and generally wasting away the otherwise meaningless hours. Sam needed a hobby. A new hobby.

Which is why she had decided to brave the stares and open mouths to head to the little music store five blocks down. She had spotted it whilst driving by a few weeks ago, but hadn't got the courage to go in. But now, seeing as everything else had been taken away from her, why shouldn't she chase a frivolous childhood dream?

She wandered down the narrow shop, looking at the wall of instruments, an untrained eye lost in a sea of objects. Sam wasn't quite sure where to start.

"Hi," greeted a youngish woman with chocolate brown hair. "Can I help – Wow! I expect you hear this a lot, but you look just…"

"Like that astronaut, right?" Sam answered, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I've heard it a few times. Not fun being a ghost."

The shop assistant smiled apologetically. "So, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a cello," she said simply, the smile becoming genuine. "Nothing fancy, just… a cello."

The woman nodded. "What level are you? Intermediate? Advanced?"

"No… just beginner," Sam admitted, sheepishly. "It's just a… silly childhood dream. I always wanted to play and I've found myself in a situation where I've got plenty of time on my hands and thought why the hell not?" She closed her eyes and shook her head in embarrassment. "And I'm sharing way too much information!"

"Not at all," the girl told her. "It's so rare we hear stories like that. Everyone just seems so busy these days. You'd think they were out saving the world or something."

Sam raised her eyebrows and nodded, indulging in a small smile at the woman's unintentional irony. "Yeah, right. Saving the world."

Sam flinched as she heard a knock on the door. She carefully lay down her cello and bow so that she could answer it. Okay, so she was a beginner, but she could just about play an octave or so and she wasn't that bad, was she?

She opened the door and smiled expectantly at the woman on the other side. "Hi."

"Hi… I'm Kara from down the hallway," she said, gesturing that she'd offer a hand, but they were full, with two large pizza boxes balancing on one, and a bottle of soda and a DVD in the other.

Sam nodded. "I'm S…. Becky. Becky Smith and I'm from… well… here."

"You're not hiding a secret identity, are you?" Kara commented, laughing at Sam's shocked face. "It's just the way you tried to introduce yourself as Smith rather than Becky. Just joking."

Sam smiled, her eyes wide with panicked relief. She thought she had blown the identity thing for a moment.

"Anyway, I ended up with way too much pizza and thought 'Hey, I've not really met that chick down the hall' and decided to come and offer," She explained.

Blushing, she shrugged when Sam's eyebrows rose into her hairline. "Okay, I didn't over order the pizza. I was just feeling lonely, and noticed you don't get out much and…"

"It's okay," Sam assured her, opening the door and gesturing her inwards. "Anyone bearing pizza and Star Wars is welcome in my home".

Kara cheered excitedly as she bounced into the apartment. "I knew you were a sci-fi kinda girl."

"You have no idea," Sam muttered quietly, as she closed the door.

July

"Washington City Paper Advertising Department," Sam answered, pen poised to take notes.

Her fear of recognition combined with her refusal to give up on a return to her timeline had deterred Sam from work. But an underlying feeling of guilt and need to contribute had gnawed away at her until she finally applied for a position at a local-focused weekly paper.

She sat in her bland little cubicle, taking calls, selling ad space and pretending to be marketing hotshot Rebecca Smith. She listened to the idle chitchat of her colleagues, the constant nagging of her department head and lamented the size of her salary in relation to the revenue she was earning for the company.

She hung up the phone and held her head in her hands. It was a far cry from the camouflage and combat boot world she'd inhabited before.

"Smith," called a voice from outside. She ignored it; she had become quite the expert at tuning out voices so she could concentrate on her work. It was a skill she'd developed after years of putting up with Daniel and O'Neill.

"Becky!" the same voice called and she looked up, suddenly realizing that the speaker meant her. Even after three and a half months, her brain refused to acknowledge the name Becky.

She smiled apologetically. "Sorry… dreamland."

"Well there's a department meeting in five, so you better get your butt out of dreamland and into conference room three, pretty damn quick," the man told her, before wandering off through the myriad of flimsy cubicle walls.

With a sigh, Sam grabbed her notepad and pen, making her way through the department to conference room three. She'd only been at the company a couple of weeks and hadn't suffered too many department meetings, but she was already getting an idea of what to expect and it wasn't pretty.

"And ad sales are down 5 from last quarter," the speaker commented as Sam slipped into a room, causing much disruption and head-turning. "This is a case of life and DEATH, people."

Sam rolled her eyes at the melodrama and shook her head.

"You got something to say, Smith?" the speaker asked her, folding his arms and glaring. "You walk in late and roll your eyes at me?"

"I just think you're over reacting," Sam replied, months of anger and frustration rising up in her. "I think you need to get some perspective."

She looked round and indicated the room at large. "Because if you think this is a matter of life and death, you need to open your eyes and take a look at the men and women who put their asses on the line for your safety. And they don't do that by taking ad sales, they do that by crossing enemy lines and getting shot at. By guns. On a daily basis." She paused and raised her eyebrows, a small shadow of a smile crossing her face. "And if you think that a 5 drop in ad sales even remotely compares to that, then you need to remove your head and take a good look at the world outside of your ass."

Satisfied that she'd made her mark, Sam turned on her heel and left the meeting.

August

She walked across the dry, yellowing grass of the cemetery towards her mother's grave. She was making an assumption; that in this timeline, her father had asked to be buried with her mother, just like in her own. But she needed to see them, needed to talk to her Dad.

Her skin was warm and sticky in the stifling summer heat, and the strands of her fair hair that rested on the back of her neck grew damp with sweat. She could feel the sun on her shoulders, turning them pink and regretted her choice of tank.

She reached the well known plot and stopped, frowning at the sight that met her. Her father's headstone wasn't here, nor was her mother's. She looked around her at the grounds and sighed helplessly, flapping her arms, a few petals from the bunch of flowers fluttering to the ground.

"Can I help you, Ma'am?" asked a passing warden.

Sam jumped and looked at him in surprise. "Oh… yeah. I'm looking for General Carter's grave. Jacob Carter. I thought he was buried here and I've driven a long way to be here."

"You mean the astronaut's father?" He asked her. "Yeah, he's buried up with the rest of the ninety eights. Not sure why you're looking over here." He pointed to a bench a way in the distance. "Swing a left at the bench and follow it down. You can't miss it. They put a little memorial plaque there for his daughter as well, even though they say the two barely spoke. There's always teddies and flowers and things."

She nodded, thanked the warden and set off in the direction he had indicated. Ninety-eight made sense; that was the year he had become host to Selmak. She didn't quite understand why he wasn't buried with Mom, but there were hundreds of possible reasons.

As she took the path shown to her, it became obvious to Sam what the warden meant by not being able to miss his headstone. She felt herself choke up at the numerous cards, flowers and toys that had been left there in memory of his daughter. The lives she must have touched…

Sam knelt in front of the headstone, laying the bunch of flowers across her lap. She looked at the plaque with her name on it, sat on a base adorned with a small glass globe. She nodded awkwardly to herself; it was hard to acknowledge the reality of it at times. It was one thing knowing she was dead, but seeing it face to face…

She rested a hand on the cool headstone and spoke quietly. "I needed someone to talk to, and I didn't really know who," she told him. "They won't let me talk to Daniel or Cam and the Jack here, he's…" she shook her head. "This is ridiculous. You don't even know who I'm talking about, you've never met them. You've never met me. At least not this me."

She wiped a tear from her face and slid further down so that she was sat on the grass with her feet either side of her. "You must have been so proud of her. An astronaut. That's all you ever wanted for us. I miss you."

"You knew him?" asked a female voice from behind her. "Most people come here for Sam, not for Jacob."

"We served together," Sam said, drying her eyes and taking her hands away from the headstone. "General Carter was my first CO," she told the woman, her eyes still fixed on the cool, dark slab. It was the lie she'd rehearsed and, in a way, it was true. A father was always a girl's first commander.

"Sorry to intrude," the woman said. Sam heard her kneel beside her. "I come here once a week to take the flowers and cards." Sam turned to her, mouth open in wonder. "I keep the cards, but I find homes for the other things. They're not much good to her now," she joked, her voice cracked and raw.

Sam looked at her mother's face, longing to reach out and touch it, comfort the woman she had missed for so many years. "I had forgotten your voice," she whispered without thinking.

"I'm sorry?" Mrs. Carter replied, blinking in surprise. She met Sam's eyes and gasped at what she saw. "Oh my God. You look just like her."

"I get that a lot," Sam croaked hoarsely, looking up at the sky and blinking back a fresh wave of tears. She forced a tight smile, trying to mask the breaking heart. Finally something good had happened in this God-forsaken timeline, something wonderful. Something that almost made up for her losing Cam and Daniel and even Jack, but she couldn't act on it. She couldn't acknowledge that it had happened and it was tearing her apart.

Mrs. Carter observed her with piercing blue eyes. There was no doubt which parent Sam most resembled. "I'm sorry. I see her in the face of every young girl I see," she told Sam quietly, a hand on her shoulder. Sam longed to lean into her, accept the comfort, but she couldn't. Ever.

She nodded bravely. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter," she said quietly. "I only wish we met under different circumstances."

With a swift and subtle hand movement, she removed the card from the flowers she had brought, and laid them in front of the headstone. She stood slowly and walked away from the plot, clutching at her stomach, the grief filling her with physical pain.

The shuttle blazed across the sky and Sam watched, hands over her mouth, as a shaky, handheld camera filmed her final, heroic act.

Her last words were broadcast from the shuttle, stating her intention, how she loved her Mom and her brother… Sam turned away from the screen, tears staining her cheeks.

She had shied away from watching this, always distancing herself from that woman, telling herself that it wasn't her but an alternate, someone completely different. That's what she had done when Doctor Carter came through the mirror, it's what she did when all the various Samanthas had come through the gate a couple of years ago. And it had worked just fine.

But she didn't have to live in their shadow. This time she was the other. This time she had seen how much she had touched lives, how this Samantha Carter had saved her team and laid down her life. The actions, the dream, everything seemed so close to what she believed in. And her Mom. She had seen her Mom.

She watched on as the President gave his address, speaking of courage, bravery and service. She felt her throat burning as the camera panned out across Pennsylvania Avenue, showing the masses of people assembled. Not to see a coffin. There was no coffin. What they came to see was a flag, nothing more than a symbol.

Her mother took his place, speaking of a little girl who dreamed of being amongst the stars and travelling to distant worlds, a dream that she had never achieved. But in its place, she had achieved something much more; she had saved lives and lived on in the public conscience.

The officers stood to attention for a 21-gun salute and the flag began its journey across the lawn to where Mrs. Carter now stood, shedding silent tears.

Sam pushed him roughly against the wall, his shirt bunched in her fists. She curled her leg around his thigh, kissing him fiercely, allowing his stubble to burn her mouth as the bass-line thumped through her body.

He pushed back, swinging her round so it was now her back up against the wall, her short skirt riding higher as he pushed his leg between her thighs. He ran one hand through her hair, tangling it as the other roamed her shoulder.

She gasped as he broke away from her mouth and worked his way across her jaw and down her neck, the bristles contrasting with the softness of his lips and tongue.

She relished the atmosphere, the attack on her senses; the way the music filled her, the way various bodies pressed up against her, the way the place smelt. She needed this, needed to forget the pain, she needed to feel.

Breaking away, she grabbed two shots from a tray passing by and knocked them back, allowing a trickle to escape down her chin, which he greedily licked away.

She didn't even know his name, didn't know where he was from, she didn't care. She wanted a body, not an emotional connection. She whispered into his ear, nipping his lobe as she finished. She knew he was younger than her, probably a lot younger, but she also knew she could get away with it.

She needed this, needed to feel alive.

September

Sam stood the spoon upright in her oatmeal and timed the number of seconds it took to topple over. This sort of meaningless pastime had become a central feature of her life, one that spanned the transition from cello practice to book writing.

She longed to travel and break free from the mundane rigmarole of everyday life, but a passport was the one document the Air Force had not granted, the one document that the government had been advised not to issue. SG1 needed to be kept under close scrutiny.

There was a reason Jack had always chosen fruit loops over oatmeal, Sam recalled, a mischievous smile crossing her face. It wasn't so much that he disliked it, as the humiliation it had once caused him.

A cartoon strip had appeared around the base, years ago, entitled "The Adventures of Colonel Oatmeal". The hero bore more than a passing resemblance to another Colonel they all knew. Sam had delightedly used it as timely retribution for all his gags about P3X-595 and "little tank top numbers".

The piece de resistance, however, was the morning breakfast conversation between the four of them, as Jack sat stewing over his morning bowl of oats. She fondly remembered her comment on whether it was "better to lick or suck Oatmeal", and Daniel's response about "rolling it round your mouth". Until that infamous time loop incident – and Sam never had got to the bottom of that mystery – Jack suddenly became very particular about his choice of breakfast foods.

Thinking of her teammates, she put her hand on the small black notebook that lay beside her on the table. Using her own identity as a basis, she had found certain little details that led back to the Air Force, before hitting a wall. Little things she could potentially use to track down others with created 'identities'.

But she knew that however much she wanted it, however lonely she was, there was no way that she could ever track them down. It wasn't that she wasn't capable, it was more what the Air Force would do. So far, they had stuck to every promise made in their agreement, and she assumed they had done the same for the guys. Although she could potentially get by if the Air Force cut her off, and would even relish arrest and isolation to get her out of the public eye, what about Daniel? How would he cope without the support of the government?

She slid the book away from her with a sigh and prodded her oatmeal again.

12 seconds. Must be a record.

October

A knock at the door distracted Sam from her cello practice. She rested the instrument on its side with the bow on top and got to her feet. She relished the hours she spent with her instrument, the soulful, melancholy sound reflecting her predominant mood spectrum.

She opened the door, a polite smile plastered across her face. "Hi. How can I…" she trailed off as she saw who was in front of her.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled awkwardly. "Sounding good," he muttered, indicating over her shoulder. "Nice to see the taxpayer's dollar at work."

"Jack," she gasped, her mind still trying to catch up with her eyes and process what was happening. She stumbled forward and caught him in a tight hug. "You came back for us."

"Mind if I come in?" he asked, waiting for her to disentangle herself.

She nodded numbly, showing him inside and indicating for him to sit on the sofa. As he did, realization hit her. She had just hugged a complete stranger at the door. Dumbass.

"So… what can I do for you?" she mumbled, sitting opposite him. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks as she spoke.

He shrugged, picking a coaster from the coffee table and twirling it round in his hands, avoiding her gaze. "General thought someone ought to check on you kids, what with it being six months and all," he told her. "For some reason, he decided I was the best one for the job."

"If I were the General, you'd be the last person I'd pick," she joked in reply. "Not exactly the world's biggest people person."

He met her eyes and smiled. "You know me better than I thought."

Sam became uncomfortably aware of her surroundings. The little nods to her previous life – the Simpsons DVDs, the empty cans of Guinness on the mantelpiece. She shut her eyes in a silent prayer that he wouldn't notice.

"Nice DVD collection," he commented.

Oh, Jeez. The gods were against her tonight.

"We, uh, noticed you chose not to seek work," he broached the subject gently.

Sam smiled ruefully. "I chose. I sought. I worked. But maintaining a job's kinda hard when you're dead."

Jack scratched his ear and screwed up his face. "You know, I've been meaning to apologize for that."

She tilted her head and watched him curiously. Jack O'Neill did not apologize easily. Or well, for that matter.

"When you came up to the cabin," he mumbled, still fidgeting uncomfortably. "I wasn't exactly welcoming."

"I seem to remember the nickname Clark Kent being thrown around," she teased gently, slowly becoming more secure.

No, this wasn't the Jack O'Neill she knew and remembered. He hadn't been through the agony of losing a son. Her Jack had been little more than a broken shadow when she first met him, it had taken him years of healing to get to this point. So no, this wasn't the same man, he wasn't as understanding in that sense. But this Jack had never been broken, he had never suffered that pain, he was still whole. He just didn't understand.

He nodded and tossed the coaster back on the table top, picking up a photo instead. He tilted his head as he looked at it, then put it back, his face contorted and pained.

"So we were…." He started, pointing between the two of them. "You and I, we were…"

Sam shrugged and smiled tightly, avoiding eye contact. "We were close," she admitted, vulnerability creeping into her voice. "I mean, we all were," she added quickly. "You can't go round saving the planet without some sort of bond forming."

She could feel his gaze on her, the way he assessed every word, weighed it against her body language. It was all too familiar and yet… different.

"How's Daniel?" she asked, breaking the silence by steering the conversation back to something more comfortable. "Have you seen him yet?"

She saw the sadness in his eyes as he shook his head. "I can't give you that information, Ma'am. I wish I could."

Sam nodded awkwardly and got to her feet, her teeth clenched against the mixed wave of grief and anger that was surging within her. "If you've not got any more questions…"

November

Sam sat and picked at her salad as passers by turned to look at her. She smiled politely, if somewhat uncomfortably, at each one of them, much to Kara's amusement.

"Can't take you anywhere, can I?" she joked, gently kicking at her friend's shin under the table.

Sam shrugged and screwed her nose up slightly. "I guess I'm just not used to the attention yet."

"What? Because you look like that dead space chick?" Kara asked, somewhat taken aback. "Becky, they probably don't even remember her name, I sure as hell know I can't. All they know is that your face looks familiar. Loads of people have that problem and it's nothing to do with space rockets and heroism. You need to get your head out of them clouds, girl."

Sam smiled weakly. "Her name was Samantha Carter. She was living her dream, doing what she had wanted to since she was a little girl. She had a family that loved her, she was engaged. To a complete dick, I might add, but she was happy."

Kara ran a hand through her thick, dark hair and leaned back in her seat, watching Sam carefully. "You know an awful lot about this woman, Becks," she commented, her face filled with concern. "You talk about her living her dream… maybe it's time that you stopped mourning hers and seizing your own. You're only ever going to be a reflection of her if you let yourself be."

"I wish I could," Sam muttered quietly as she picked up a forkful of salad.

"You're Catholic, right?" Kara interrupted, changing the subject somewhat abruptly.

Sam nodded, her face a picture of confusion. "Yeah, how did you know that?"

"Oh… I just notice stuff," she shrugged, avoiding Sam's gaze. "Just little things in your flat… odd things. Everything is so new, but there's a handful of things that…"

Sam shook her head. "I used to…" she searched for a minute, trying to remember the back story that the Air Force had created for her, "..Live abroad and couldn't bring much back with me. I didn't want to either, to be honest. It was messy."

"Egypt, by any chance?" her friend asked quickly.

"No!" exclaimed Sam in shock. "I mean, whatever would make you think that I lived in Egypt? Oh, God no. Not there."

Kara was now the one to look confused. "It's just that you have a picture on your mantelpiece… with that crazy archaeologist guy who lives in Egypt. You look close."

"It's a long story," Sam sighed heavily. She never thought anyone would put the two together, but Kara was astute. One of the things she admired in her friend -she wasn't sure friend was the right word, given the deceit, but it would have to do – but also one of those qualities that caused rather a lot of trouble.

Kara leaned back forward and clasped her hands, eyebrows raised. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam sipped her coffee, legs crossed on the sofa as she finished telling Kara her story. She'd bought herself time, saying that it was something she'd discuss later over coffee, not in the middle of the restaurant.

"Wow, so you were in publishing," Kara acknowledged with a nod that indicated how impressed she was.

Sam smiled wryly. She had told Kara her story, not the truth. "Yeah, Dr Jackson was a big client for a time. All the talk shows wanted a piece of him, as you well remember."

"Sure. Who wouldn't want to publicly humiliate the crackpot archaeologist," she joked in return. "So you two…."

Sam looked at her puzzled, then gasped in shock as she caught on. "Good GOD, no! Daniel and I became good friends over time, but nothing like that." She picked the photo up from the coffee table. "This was the guy who… he was… we were… it's really, really complicated. He died just before I moved here."

"Really?" Kara asked in surprise, taking the photo from her. "Because I thought I saw him round here a couple of months back." She looked up at Sam's shocked face and grinned. "Good for you, getting on with your life. Much better to convince yourself he's dead than to mope around."

"Kara…." Sam said awkwardly, fidgeting a little in her seat. "That wasn't him. The guy round here… they look really alike but it wasn't him."

"Dude, what is this? You work in a lookalike agency or what?" she joked.

Sam smiled, despite herself. "No, that was his brother. They look so alike but their personalities? They're so different. My Jack… when we first met, he was broken, so torn, he had lost everything and the way he healed, the way he protected himself was to become this really brittle, sarcastic yet funny and irreverent man. And underneath was this gentleness… it was just…"

Kara watched her, not knowing what to say. "I… I'm so sorry. How did he…? I mean, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but I just…"

"We were away on business," Sam told her. In all of this she was staying as close to the truth as she could. She was a terrible liar, she got flustered and awkward, so the more truthful she could be, the easier it was. "And we got caught in a tight spot, he got shot."

She kept the story short and factual, not trusting her tenuous emotions.

"And that's when you moved here," Kara mumbled.

Sam nodded sadly. "I didn't even go back to my house, I just took my case and got on the first flight I could. The company set me up with a flat and everything as a sort of compensation. I guess they didn't want the media involved in this one."

"You know," Kara told her, draining the last of her coffee, "Every time I think I've got the measure of you, you turn everything around and I see you in a whole new light."

December

The gift shattered, the sound muffled, as the parcel hit the wall. Sam cursed loudly at the returned package; the bastards could have at least delivered it. It was Christmas for Christ's sake.

With a growl of frustration, Sam slammed her fists against the door, tears welling up in her eyes as she did so. She was alone, again, not even Kara, who had gone to spend the holidays with her family, was around to keep her company.

Sam didn't want a lot; she just wanted to know that her friends were safe. It's what anyone would want. She had just wanted to send a little gift to them, just to brighten up their day. If their life was anything like as mundane as hers, they would appreciate it.

But no, the Air Force refused to deliver it and here was the package, returned. A matter of national security, the note with it had said. We apologize for the inconvenience, it had continued. We wish you a pleasant and safe holiday, it had concluded.

She sank into a dining chair and held her head in her hands, sighing in frustration as she thought of her friends, her family and everything she'd lost. Despite the promises she'd made to herself over the months, she still found herself wallowing in the past and unable to find a way out of the situation she was in.

The knock at the door took her by surprise. She wasn't used to visitors; it wasn't as if she had an active social life. It wasn't as if she could have an active social life.

She walked to the door and opened it, furiously putting a cool hand to her flushed cheeks.

"Merry Christmas," came the gruff greeting from the man stood in the hallway.

Sam looked at him awkwardly, not sure how to respond. "Your Air Force buddies decided I wasn't such a security risk after all?" she asked, semi-jokingly, though the bitterness was still tangible in her voice.

Jack's eyes flitted past her to the parcel now lying on the floor. She watched as his mind computed the details and he muttered a quiet "ah".

"If this is another official check up visit, I'm fine," she told him, her voice quivering slightly. "I'm not working, for reasons I told you last time, I'm not plotting your demise, though I'm sure the Air Force are monitoring all my movements, spending and online activities anyway, and unfortunately, I've not kicked the bucket, so yes, I am going to be a pain in your proverbial butt for a good while yet."

"Sam," he told her, his face wincing slightly, as if using her real name caused him pain, "Just let me in."

She stood aside, shocked by his weary tone and the expression on his face. She watched quietly as he walked into her apartment and slung his jacket across the table as he passed, finally sitting on the couch.

"Now get me a Guinness and we'll talk," he mumbled, as she closed the door.

She nodded numbly and walked into the kitchen, grabbing two bottles and quickly removing the caps. Her mind still racing through the possibilities, her resolve weakened by the need for friendship, for intimacy. If she couldn't have her Jack, this one would do. Maybe not for life, but for Christmas, at least.

She sat in the armchair, not wanting to invade personal space. It was odd how people avoided sitting on a couch together if there was an alternative.

"So, you were saying…" she prompted, handing him his bottle and taking a swig out of hers.

He ran a hand over his stubbly mouth and up, over his hair. "I was in the city and know how bad the holiday can be on your own and I thought of you… her… you…"

"You knew her?" Sam asked, her eyes wide in shock. All this time she thought that she had been a stranger, just some random dead woman. And then she remembered, out on the ice, her face and hair covered by the hood, and his look of pained recognition. "Oh, God…."

His face tightened, his mouth pulled into that tight, thin line as it always did when he felt the emotions rise. She saw it in him, she could read him like a book, and evidently that worked both ways.

"We were close," he said, looking down at the bottle, running his thumb along the rim. "Really close and I cared about her, more than I was supposed to."

Sam felt the familiar burning as the all-too-familiar words hit her ears. It was as if he were back, not like it was another man. With a sudden thud at her heart, she realized what Dr Carter had felt all those years ago.

"At the cabin, when you told me you were…"

"... A happily married man?" Jack replied, flashing her a quick, wry smile. "It's true. Kinda. The married bit at least."

Sam nodded and watched him as he screwed his face up in that familiar, awkward way as he tried to work out how to say his next sentence.

"I was in l… I felt this… bond between us," he told her, waving the bottle about and almost spilling the drink. "We were close, incredibly… close. And, like I said, I cared about you and there was this…"

"Thing," Sam finished, smiling sadly as she looked down. "You can't explain it, words don't really have the capacity, it's just… like there's some sort of fine electric current and you're totally helpless and…"

"…you just can't fight it," he concluded, meeting her eyes. "But we had to, for Sara's sake. See… what you told me, what you told your interrogators… here Charlie never shot himself, Sara and I stayed together. We have our problems, there are cracks, but we're together."

He put the beer on the table for a minute and scrubbed his face with time-worn hands. "I have a horrible job. A despicable job. I do things that no man should have to do. And I hate myself for it. The least I can do is be decent and honorable and faithful in my marriage."

Sam smiled and nodded. "So we…"

"We were friends, really close friends, but we couldn't ever…" he stopped and she could feel the pain in his voice. "I regret it now, I really regret it. If I could go back and change it, just see what it would have been like."

"We had regs," Sam laughed gently, using it to hide the raw emotion. "We couldn't be together because you were a full bird and I was a captain. Then I was a major, but still no joy. Then you were general and I was colonel… not to mention the chain of command thing. But then you transferred and there was sort of…"

"…that current thing," he finished.

She nodded. "It's almost like…"

"Magnets," the both said together, meeting each other's gaze.

Sam burst out laughing and rocked up onto her feet, turning away from him. It was surreal how someone could seem so much like him, yet not be. He had Jack's eyes, his smile, his smell… but he wasn't…

She gritted her teeth and chided herself for bringing it up again. They lost people in the field all the time; it was part of the job. It's just that you never expected to get so attached to a person. That's what rotations were for, transfers and promotions. It was supposed to aide the whole frat reg thing.

"I never said goodbye," she heard him say behind her, the leather creaking as he stood up. "You know… what you say about you and me… him… and then us in this timeline or whatever you call it… I kinda keep thinking…"

"…That this is our second chance?" She finished, turning to him. She shoved her hands awkwardly in the back pockets of her jeans, smiling shyly as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. She had all but forgotten that tenderness, the way he protected her, and she shut her eyes, wishing she had it back.

"I'm not leaving Sara, I'm not going to give up on that," Jack told her in a low voice. "I may not be a happily married man, but I am a married man. The flip side…? I can't stop thinking about you… her… both of you. And I can't go on with things as they are."

"It's like being haunted," she replied softly, opening her eyes again.

He nodded and held her face in his hand. "Closure, that's all I want. A proper goodbye."

She let him move closer, winding an arm around her waist, the other knitting itself in her hair as he looked into her eyes, a sad smile playing on his face. She watched him as he watched her and she saw that he was more like the Jack in her timeline than she had realized. This Jack had been broken, he had lost someone… he had lost her. And she had lost him.

Lightly, she brushed her lips against his, not for anything more, not as a prelude to passion, but as a simple, final goodbye. Taking that second chance. As he returned the kiss, she leaned in, allowing herself to forget who he really was, allowing herself to sink into his arms one last time.

They stood quietly, his forehead rested against hers, holding each others' arms, clinging to each other like they had always done in those times of need.

Then, equally quietly, without so much as a whisper, he kissed her forehead and walked away, picking his jacket from the table in a single sweeping moment. That was the last she'd see of him, that was her closure.

A melancholy look at the table where the jacket had been, revealed a single white envelope. Numb, she walked and picked it up, toying with it in her hands as she read the familiar scrawl… "Sam".

She slowly folded the envelope in half, tucking it away in a drawer. She had her ending, even if it wasn't quite a happy one, she didn't need anything more.

January

Sam sat on the floor with the two boys, holding a little, old-fashioned astronaut doll in her hands and showing them.

"I used to play with one of these when I was a kid," she told them, smiling at the memory.

The dark haired child frowned. "Why would you play with astronauts? They have scary jobs and die and stuff. Soldiers are way cooler," he told her, lifting up the G.I. Joe.

The blonde gave him a confused grin as she listened to the innocently flawed child-logic.

Kara's question about Catholicism had actually led somewhere, despite the scenic and somewhat endangering route the conversation had taken to get there. Her friend had known the lonely situation that "Becky" was in, and had suggested volunteering at the kindergarten in the local church.

She had balked at the idea at first; Sam had never really thought of herself as good with kids. But through the years, with Cassie and Merrin, Orlin and eventually Cam – well, let's face it, men were just kids with rather more substantial allowances – she figured that she had to be as good as the next person. Make an alien feel relaxed and included, you could tackle any of them.

Relieved to find that she did get on fine with the kids – she was surprised at just how much she had grown and changed in her social interactions over her years at the SGC – Sam also found an added benefit; children, in their innocence and naïveté, had no idea of or interest in who she looked like or might be. She was just their big friend, Becky.

She found it a release to be out of the apartment building, doing something productive, serving the community without the fear of recognition and judgment that usually plagued her everyday life.

In a strange way, she felt like she had found her niche in life.

February

Sam sat at the dining table, smiling politely at the officer who was interviewing her. Her hands were cupped around her coffee, taking sips at various intervals as she nodded and charmed her way through the interview, so unlike the bitter, sarcastic digs she had made at Jack.

"You've taken up a voluntary post, Miss Smith," he mentioned, flicking through his file of papers, his method more thorough and formal than her previous 'parole officer'.

She nodded enthusiastically. "I'm working at St Patrick's Kindergarten," she told him. "It's part time and voluntary, so no income or stipend. It's a way for me to get out of the apartment without recognition and give something back to the community. It was unexpected, but it could potentially be a new career path for me."

"And what sort of time frame are we looking at here?" he asked her, taking notes as she spoke.

Sam shrugged and shook her head. "No idea. I want to spend some time doing this first and getting some experience and…"

"…draining money from the taxpayer," the officer remarked, meeting her gaze with scornful eyes. "It is not a bottomless pot, Miss Smith and you are expected to become self-sufficient at some point."

"With all due respect," she replied in a tone that implied none, "I believe that I was given the choice to seek employment in any field deemed suitable by the Air Force and, as an incentive to do so, my living allowance would potentially be augmented, rather than ceased."

"Miss Smith," he replied, in the same icy tone, "You'll forgive me for pointing out that your living allowance is far more than the pension plan offered to some of the nation's greatest war heroes. I personally don't see what gives you that right, but I've been instructed to monitor your 'reintegration into society' and, so far, I see very little attempt to do so."

Sam bristled at the attack. "What gives me the right, Captain, is that I've served more years in the Air Force than a spineless creature like you ever could. Not doing paperwork and acting as a glorified parole officer, but out on the front line. On other worlds, in other galaxies, risking my life to save the planet…"

"And, furthermore, I'd like to point out that…"

"I've given up my friends, my family, my jobs and everything I've ever cared about to ensure that the human race survives," she carried on, trying to raise her voice above his.

"… The previous officer assigned to the case made some most interesting…"

"And when I see idiots like you who can barely scrape those knuckles from off the goddamn floor," she spat, "I sometimes wonder whether any of it was worth the effort."

"…accusations about your rudeness, ingratitude and volatile nature," he finished, closing his file. "And I have to confess that I agree with his conclusions."

Sam looked round her, an incredulous and indignant look on her face, her arms raised in frustration before slamming them on the table.

"He also noted that you had left not one but three jobs on the grounds that the employers were 'self-centered assholes' and that it's hard to work when you are 'dead'," he continued, his voice almost monotone. "Perhaps you would like to elaborate on your previous statements."

"Take a look in the mirror," Sam spat angrily. "You'll see exactly what I mean."

The officer continued, undeterred, and produced a series of photographs from the document folder. "Perhaps you would care to explain why this gentleman visited you on December 23rd? Our department has no record of the event."

"I'm sorry, I can't remember," Sam lied, flicking her eyes down at the surveillance pictures of Jack entering the building.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Given the situation and your history, Miss Carter, both in this timeline and your own, we have reason to believe it is a matter of significant importance."

She frowned and inspected his face, looking for clues in the cracked façade. "What importance? Why? What happened?" She looked down at the images again. "Where's Jack?"

She held the paper in her hand, her brain still not processing the details. She knew this wasn't the real story; it never was. A cover up, a way to announce that he was gone without raising too many eyebrows.

Silently she put the journal on the table and walked over to her cello. At least she had closure.

March

Outside the apartment block, Sam helped Kara and the removal men stack the last box in the van. It had happened so quickly, without notice, and before she knew it, Sam's only friend in the world was moving to the opposite coast.

It seemed like the end of an era somehow, but the loss felt almost exhilarating, like losing her training wheels. Maybe it was all happening for a reason.

She gave the dark haired woman a final hug and stood on the sidewalk watching as she got into her car and eventually drove into the distance, leaving Sam with that now familiar sense of emptiness.

As she walked back up to her apartment, Sam considered her journey on the last few months. It may have seemed somewhat stagnant and mundane for the most part, but it had offered her the rare opportunity to sit back, take stock and discover who she was as a person, when she pulled aside her military mantle.

In the cool spring light of her living room, Sam reached into a drawer and pulled out a collection of files. She had not spent the last year being idle. Theories and calculations had been put together, creating a handwritten portfolio. She knew that the military would monitor her computer; she knew how to avoid footprints.

She looked at the papers now and fed them through her shredder, one by one. The stargate hadn't been found, Ba'al hadn't come after them, she didn't need any of this. It was time to 'get her head out of the clouds', as Kara had put it, to stop living in the past and to seize the opportunities that this life offered.

She reached the last piece of paper and paused, looking at the curious shape. Carefully, she unfolded it and saw that it was a still-sealed envelope with her name scrawled on it. Running a fingernail across the edge of the flap, she decided to open it, to read that final message. She slid her nail underneath and tore open the envelope.

Sam paused. Looking down at the envelope, a strange and sudden thought crossed her mind. Her face that had been knit in an expression of confusion, lit up with a smile of puzzled joy. She put the envelope through the shredder and laughed.

April

Sam pushed the cart through the grocery store, smiling politely at the curious looks that passers by seemed to give her. She still wasn't used to the attention, but perhaps she never would be. And besides, they probably didn't even know how they recognized her.

She picked a box of fruit loops from the shelf, pausing for a split second as she thought of the memories and connotations associated with the cereal. She was supposed to be moving forward with her life now, not standing in the past. With a resigned sigh, she threw the box into the cart, rolling her eyes at her own self-consciousness.

Despite her best intentions, there wasn't a day that went by without her being reminded of either her past or the other Sam Carter's past; the shadow still hung in the air, however much she tried to ignore its presence.

She paid for her groceries, relieved that it was a regular cashier and not one of the new kids that gawped. Carrying the bag out to the car, she sighed gently.

She unlocked the trunk and put the grocery bag in there, hearing the familiar whir of low flying aircraft. It was unusual for this part of town and she looked to the sky. It was no longer an instinctive response, just one of curiosity.

She watched for a brief second as her gaze focused on a modified Tel'tak type scout ship. This time the reaction was instinctive; she reached for her cell phone and called the emergency number she had been given all those months ago.

"Put me through to your commanding officer," she said with an air of calm and confident urgency. "Tell him it's Colonel Carter. I need to speak to him now."

Her heart raced with familiar emotions, the driving force that had kept her going for the last ten years. The excitement, the exhilaration, the adrenaline and the fear, the sense of urgency but the sense of familiarity with the situation.

Shopping in public with a dead woman's ghost hanging over her? That wasn't her forte. But Goa'uld attacks? Now that she could handle.

He ran towards her and gripped her in a tight hug. As he pulled back, Sam could see in his face the same rush of euphoria that she felt inside. Finally they were back, doing their job, doing what they knew how to do and not living a lie.

She hugged Daniel and kissed his cheek, so glad to be in his company. When he had said he tried to get in touch… they had all struggled with the transition. And while she and Cam had eventually given up, settled into their new lives, even if unhappy with the situation, Daniel had never given up hope.

The three of them grinned at each other with the shared feeling of childish excitement, a sense of smugness and one-upmanship. Finally they would have to listen and believe the stories they had been told.

"One crack about getting the band back together and I might have to punch you," Sam warned Cam with a warm smile.

He punched her arm gently. "You know I like it rough."

She shook her head and the infantile humor and raised her eyes to the heavens.

There's no place like home.