Title: superposition of eigenstates
Rating: R for... well, a very bad word.
Disclaimer: These people are owned by.... Actually, I have no clue who owns SG1. But it isn't me. Nope.
Summary: "She's only in the hospital for three weeks before he gets her discharged."
Notes: Umm.. yeah. Title and random stuff from kbk, SG1 canon helpage from Susan217, and special thanks for canon and American to Ana P. This is for Lilla, because I promised her this thing years ago.
She's only in the hospital for three weeks before he gets her discharged. Next-of-kin (commanding officer), not a danger to herself or others (trained to kill), "just wandered off" (absent without leave). They were probably just glad to get rid of the crazy American draining the NHS. They give her a packet of sedatives and start changing the sheets before she's even out the door.
In the car park she asks him if she's always been like this.
"Like what? I'm pretty sure you weren't born a man, if you were wondering."
"Why do I remember things happening twice? Not... not twice the same. Different things. Did something happen? Was I like this when we met?"
"Nah. You were way taller."
"That's not funny."
"Truth never is."
He unlocks the passenger door and lights up a Marlboro.
"You gave up. After... you never smoked when I knew you."
She thinks there's something underneath the words, but the only thing she knows for sure is that she's lost her mind (somewhere under Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado).
She can't be that crazy though, because he gives her a set of tickets that zigzag to the antipodes via four continents and three types of transport. They sit in a plain brown envelope with a passport, a bundle of used US dollars and two Visa cards with two different names on them.
She looks at the passport and reads someone else's name next to her picture. She points this out (it's something to say), and he just shrugs and slides a tape into the car stereo. Madame Butterfly (she dies in the end).
"So it's true? Those things I remember? I mean not the... not the normal stuff. The weird stuff with aliens."
"You want to build up reality based on things other people tell you are true?"
"So why are we running away? Who's looking for us?"
"You always wanted to see New Zealand. And the scenic route's actually quicker this time of year."
She slides sideways and rests her head on cold glass. "This is giving me a headache."
"Don't think about it," and there's a hand on her knee (it doesn't belong there).
They eat junk food at a service station off the M4 en route to Dover and she flushes the hospital sedatives into the sewer system. If she keeps her head clear reality will reassert itself and the right (wrong) set of memories will fade away.
When they get in the car she opens her mouth to speak and he gives her a look.
"Don't ask, don't tell."
She memorises the road map instead.
On the boat to Calais she discovers that she doesn't get seasick, though she has a clear memory of throwing up over the side of an (imaginary) ocean liner. She plays it as her trump card and counts a full fifteen seconds before Jack comes up with a smart-mouth answer to that one.
She's smiles and drinks her cup of weak, almost-boiling coffee in one go.
In the hotel in Geneva she fucks him, because she (doesn't really) remember doing it before. It's rushed and clumsy, but she's a enough good liar to cover it. She should probably be angry with him, because she (isn't) emotionally vulnerable and she (is becoming ever less) confused about who she really was and is.
She wakes up alone (like she always does) holding a set of dog tags with her (real) name on them.
In Venice the audience can understand the words, so it probably hurts them more when Madame Butterfly dies. Ignorance is probably bliss.
But they (Jack) always say the music gets the message across anyway, subconsciously. Apparently you can know things without ever knowing you were told.
Hong Kong is where she cracks and asks outright for the first time since the M4.
"What the hell happened?"
She's angry, tired, and she's holding a gun. She's pretty sure that covers all the bases.
So he tells her.
The pills kick in faster than she'd expected, and the static in her mind is almost comforting once she's used to it. The two separate histories are incompatible and beautifully fractured. Apparently she's started talking maths in her sleep, but that's just another quirk of her illness. Nothing that can't be put aside as "symptom" or "side effect". Both of these categories are mere facts of life, like crazy women who have delusions of aliens and distant worlds.
They're taking the scenic route to New Zealand. One of them is crazy and one of them is lying.
But at the very least, all of it is real.