Natalie has to admit she's surprised to see Sam sitting across from her after only twelve days in the infirmary. In that time she's been able to turn the office into something that more resembles a living room than an institutional supply closet. It doesn't seem to matter if she's treating civilians or servicemen; they all rather sit on a couch than peer at her across metal desk.
"Daniel told me he'd come to see you."
Natalie just waits. There might have been a full stop at the end of that sentence, but Sam certainly isn't done.
"About me."
Natalie nods. "Yes, he did."
"And?"
"And you're welcome to talk to him about what was said here." At Sam's hard look she continues, "It would be counterproductive, today, for us to talk about how this situation is affecting your teammates. Or to talk about what they are peripherally thinking about how you're handling things. They know you better than anyone here. I'd venture a guess that they know you better than anyone at all. But I also know they're getting some bad intel."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're hiding. Of course you're still hiding. This is a big thing to deal with. It's going to pop up in the strangest places even though you've already started fitting your life back together. But here's the thing: I've talked to them all. And not one of them has mentioned that you're scared. I've heard angry. I've heard sullen. I've even heard 'strangely okay'."
"I'm not scared," Sam says flippantly.
"And I'm not new," Natalie counters. She gestures to the corner of the room where a small table with a coffee pot sits. "Coffee?"
"No, thank you."
"I'm going to fix a cup," she cajoles.
"No. Thank you." Sam waits until Natalie sits back down. "I am angry."
"Okay. Why?"
"Why?!" Sam scoffs.
"Yes. I don't blame you. I think a lot of people would be angry. I want to know, specifically, why you are angry."
"I was beaten, raped and tortured. Wouldn't you be angry?"
"Sure. But why are you angry."
Sam stands suddenly and for a moment Natalie is sure she's going to flee. But instead she starts pacing back and forth across the small space with a definite limp. "I'm angry about everything!" Sam shouts when her back is to Natalie and she hopes Airman Cullison really is discreet because there's no way he hadn't heard Sam's outburst.
"They left me there," Sam says with quiet contempt.
Natalie fights the urge to validate the statement.
"The things I endured, no one should ever have to live through that. I'm angry because I can't do my job now because of what's been done to me. I'm angry because I'm not the person I was before that mission. I'm angry because I can never be that person again. I'm always, from now on, going to be a person that experienced those things on that planet."
Sam's still facing away from her when Natalie says, "There are different kinds of emotions. There are emotions we call primary. Those are the big ones, like anger. Also, fear. What you're experiencing right now, Sam, isn't really anger."
Sam wheels around, her mouth open to retort.
"No, hear me out." Natalie holds up a forestalling hand. "These things you're saying are rooted in fear. 'I'm scared I won't be able to do my job because of what's been done to me.' 'I'm scared I won't be the person I was before that mission.' 'I'm scared I'll never be her again.' 'I'm scared I'll never move past what happened on that planet.' That's what I heard. It's in your voice.
"Here's the thing, Sam. You will, eventually, be able to do your job. You will be the woman you were before the mission and you'll be her even though you experienced the things you did. And you will learn to move past those things. I think you're not as sure as I am. That's not anger. It's fear."
Sam sits back down and Natalie leans back in her seat.
"When people experience trauma, especially trauma associated with imprisonment, sometimes they start to have a tough time identifying emotions. Hell, some people are just generally bad at identifying emotions. They're tricky. And the truth is, you might not really know what you're feeling unless you understand which underlying issue is driving the emotion."
"So I'm scared."
"What does being happy feel like?"
Sam sputters for a moment, opening and closing her mouth. "Well, I don't know how to describe it."
"Try."
Sam gapes at her. "I can't!"
"When was the last time you felt happy?"
"Before I was left on that planet," she spits.
"Specifically."
"I don't know, Doctor."
Natalie looks at Sam and she looks exhausted. They've only been talking for a few minutes but it's enough for the moment. "I think we're done for today."
"What," Sam says sarcastically, "we don't get an hour?"
"Sessions very rarely last an hour anywhere. You're lucky if you get forty-five minutes." Natalie closes her notebook with a smile. "But we're not on any time constraints. We're done when we're done. And today we're done now. My door's always open to you. If you want to talk later, come on by. But you look like you could use a break. And maybe a sandwich."
Sam looks like she thinks Natalie's quite off her rocker.
"Honestly, Sam. This really isn't like what you've seen on television. We're not going to meet once a week for an hour. I'm not going to make you lie down on a couch and tell you how your dreams are all about sex and how it's all your mother's fault. We'll work on what we can when we can and the rest of the time we'll just make sure you're getting through the day to day."
"Okay," Sam says sounding more relaxed than Natalie had ever heard her. "Then one last thing before I go. If this is about getting me through the day to day, how do I get through conversations with my team when all I really want to do is beat the crap out of all of them?"
Natalie laughs and appreciates the small grin it brings to Sam's lips. "You remember that they're also the ones who brought you home."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"You know, I'm not so sure you're actually a psychologist."
"Well then," she echoed one of Sam's earlier statements, "perhaps you'd better call me Natalie."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Jack throws another punishing punch at the bag and revels in the sharp spikes of pain that travel up his forearm from his knuckles. The skin splits and it occurs to him he should have taped his hands. He swings again. Eh, too late already anyway.
He seethes with anger. He never seems to say the right things to Carter. She's floundering. She's not even faking anything well. He knows she must be angry with him. With all of them. But he can't bring himself to ask her outright. She'd lie anyway. And he's terrified to hear her voice what he already knows to be true. He's terrified she's not going to be cleared for active duty. Mostly, he's terrified she'll never forgive him.
He thinks back. He never really forgave Frank Cromwell. Oh sure, he turned from mad as hell to caustic. And he may have even found a little of the old kinship as he watched his old friend sucked through the event horizon to his death. But no, he never really forgave him. And he'll always hate Frank at least a little for his part in the worst chapter of Jack's life.
And Jack hates himself a little, too, because he knows exactly what Sam's going through – as much as empathy can transfer – and he has absolutely no idea what to say to her.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Sam pokes at the soggy white bread that lays lifelessly atop something that vaguely resembles tuna salad. She's come to a place where base food makes her irrationally angry. Base food. Base lighting. Base beds. Base smells. Base people. She pictures smashing all them against constricting grey base walls.
"Would you like something else, Major Carter?"
Sam sighs but doesn't look up. "No, Teal'c, I wouldn't."
He sits down across from her without invitation and suddenly she's picturing smashing Teal'c up against the block wall. She snorts because even if she ever were capable of such a feat, she's certainly not now after seventeen weeks of torture and starvation. She pushes back from the table with far more force than is strictly necessary.
"You have not finished your lunch."
She shoves her tray at him. It collides with his and an explosion of fruit salad flies into his chest. He jumps out of his chair and to her his shocked expression appears furious. She pushes back in her chair but her up and out momentum causes her to knock backward out of the chair. He reaches across the table and while she knows – she knows for absolute certain – he means to help her, the irrational part of her brain reacts with abject fear. She cries out and scuttles backward and backward until she's wedged into a corner and behind a table.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry," and tears are coursing down her face and she's absolutely mortified that she's begging Teal'c for the same mercy he's always shown her. When she's finally able to catch her breath she notices Teal'c crouched down several feet in front of her, his hands dangling with the palms facing toward her. Bits of fruit cling to his t-shirt and flaked coconut perches comically on his shoulder.
"I am unharmed, Major Carter. And you'll find you are as well."
She chances meeting his eye and is shocked to find a small twinkle of humor there.
"Though perhaps I should go change my shirt."
"Teal'c, I—"
"Do not worry, Major Carter. I now know not to comment on your eating habits."
And for the first time in months her laugh is genuine.