Dr. Samantha Carter's mornings began with the quiet precision of a well-oiled machine. Her alarm chimed softly at 5:45 a.m., a gentle reminder rather than an intrusion. With an unhurried but purposeful motion, she silenced it, swinging her legs out of bed and standing, instantly alert. The muted glow from Georgetown, Washington, D.C. skyline seeped into her spacious townhouse, casting soft light on the neatly organized space. It was devoid of clutter, the decor subdued in shades of steel grey and ivory—intentional, like everything else in her life.
A large walk-in wardrobe in her bedroom held an array of perfectly pressed black and charcoal suits arranged by shade and season. Beside them, a modest but exacting selection of silk blouses, all in shades of white or grey, were paired with skirts that fell precisely above the knee and tailored pants. She reached for a well-fitted charcoal jacket, matched it with a crisp white blouse, and slipped on a pair of jet-black Louboutins, the signature red soles a flash of vibrancy against her otherwise minimalist attire.
As she caught her reflection in the mirror, her eyes rested momentarily on the thin gold necklace she always wore—a delicate infinity pendant that seemed to hover just above her collarbone. It was the only item in her life that seemed to carry sentiment, a gift from her mother the day she graduated from Harvard Medical School. The memory flickered briefly across her mind, a flash of pride and joy tempered with the quiet sadness that had followed her mother's passing two years later. The loss had come swiftly, and there were moments whenSam wondered if her mother ever really understood how much of her success she owed to her.
But such reflections were few. A lingering gaze, a moment of stillness, and she moved on.
Her mother's absence wasn't the only shadow lingering in her past. Her father, a Colonel in the Air Force, had died on a mission abroad when Sam was just ten years old. She'd grown up revered for the uniform, understanding its silence and secrets. Even as a child, she had never questioned why her father's work had been so classified—she had only known that he had died "in service to his country," words that had come to shape her unyielding commitment to her career.
By 6:15 a.m., she poured herself a black coffee in the kitchen. Breakfast was an afterthought—a plain piece of toast and the ever-present notebook where she jotted ideas for her ongoing research projects. She was one of the top mental health professionals in the country and the world, often consulting for government agencies and even the U.S. Air Force. Her clinical insights were well-regarded, but her reputation for professionalism and a certain detached, analytical coldness were equally established. For Sam, emotions were to be observed and studied, not indulged.
With coffee in hand, she settled into her home office, where the morning's first task awaited. Her plush downtown office in D.C. wouldn't open for another two hours, but she preferred to review her cases in the quiet of her own space. Among today's notes was an unusual referral from the Air Force—Colonel Jonathan J. O'Neill.
Samantha took a slow sip of her coffee as she settled into the leather chair behind her desk, her gaze shifting to the open file on her screen: Colonel Jonathan J. O'Neill. Something about his profile was unsettlingly familiar, even if the specifics were concealed beneath layers of classification and redacted sections.
His official position was listed as "Deep Space Telemetry," a phrase Sam had seen enough times in government paperwork to know it was more a euphemism than a job title. A cover story. She'd come across countless terms like it over the years, vague placeholders that meant nothing—and everything. But that wasn't what held her attention.
A Colonel stationed out of Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs was unusual enough. Cheyenne was a facility associated with only the most highly classified projects. For O'Neill to hold the title of Deputy Commander, he must be competent and exceptional, capable of navigating a high-stakes environment where failure wasn't an option. According to his file, though, O'Neill's latest mission had ended disastrously, though the exact nature of the mission was neatly omitted, sealed behind blacked-out lines. What remained was an equally vague reference to "overseas operations" and his return to the States under orders to undergo psychiatric evaluation.
Her fingers tapped thoughtfully on the screen, skimming through what little of his history she had access to. A notation from his Commanding Officer, General George Hammond, stated unequivocally that O'Neill wouldn't return to duty until he'd completed therapy sessions. Hammond had directed Jack to Washington, D.C., to see her—and to continue for however long it took for him to regain a semblance of stability.
That told her two things. First, the severity of the issue; the Air Force didn't send a top officer across the country for mere protocol. And second, the level of trust General Hammond held in O'Neill; the Air Force didn't invest in someone this deeply if they weren't invaluable.
Yet, as she skimmed further, the sparse details of his personal life gave her pause.
The word divorced appeared almost casually in a single line, followed by a short mention of a son. It was the briefest of notations—"Son, deceased," with only a single, terrible line to explain: accidental discharge, service weapon. She drew in a breath, letting the words settle. He hadn't just lost a child; he'd lost his child through an accident involving his own weapon. For someone in his position, that tragedy would be seismic, an unrelenting burden with no easy resolution. Sam felt a flicker of empathy, even as she mentally cataloged the complexity he'd bring to their sessions.
Sam allowed herself a moment to construct a preliminary profile from the clinical distance of her chair. Colonel O'Neill was, by all appearances, a walking contradiction. He'd climbed to the rank of 2IC at one of the most secretive bases in the nation, meaning he'd demonstrated a level of skill, control, and precision most could only imagine. Yet the man she'd be seeing now was anything but controlled. A man with unprocessed grief and unresolved trauma, combined with the scars of an unknown mission gone wrong. He was, in essence, the perfect storm of a patient: a man defined by the need for discipline, now wrestling with pain that defied every rule he'd built his life around.
As she read, an unsettling feeling began to gnaw at her—a sense that there was more to this case than the thin veneer his file allowed her to see. The secrets weren't limited to his career or mission; they reached into every part of his life, carefully masked but ever-present. She was used to complex cases, but this felt different, like a puzzle missing half its pieces.
She closed the file with a tap and sat back, her blue eyes narrowing as she mentally prepared for what lay ahead. Colonel Jonathan J. O'Neill was a mystery, yes. But more than that, he was a threat—to himself, to the mission he would inevitably return to, and, perhaps, even to her own carefully maintained detachment.
Sam closed her laptop, her morning review complete, and moved with quiet purpose through her Georgetown townhouse. The residence was an impeccable blend of history and modernity, with high ceilings and hardwood floors that held an understated elegance. Sparse, with minimal decor, the townhouse reflected her preferences—clean, orderly, and without distractions. An occasional touch of luxury marked the space, such as the glass sculpture on her mantle and the understated Persian rug in soft greys and blues that stretched across the living room floor. But beyond these few items, her home was a place for thought and precision, much like the woman herself.
She gathered her leather portfolio, slid her phone into her bag, put her oversized sunglasses on, and stepped through the main hallway toward the garage. Her footsteps echoed briefly in the silence before she reached the door that led to her vehicle—a black Mercedes-Benz AMG GT Coupe, a machine of sleek power and elegance. For Sam, it was a symbol of efficiency and style combined, a quiet expression of her success. Settling into the driver's seat, she started the car, the engine's deep rumble breaking the early morning silence, and eased onto the road.
The drive into downtown D.C. was uneventful, the early sunlight casting long shadows across the sleek facades of high-rises and government buildings as she navigated the familiar route. Georgetown faded behind her, replaced by the city's sharp lines and structured rhythms, a landscape she found as controlled and orderly as her own life. She pulled smoothly into her office building's exclusive underground garage, her reserved spot waiting by the elevator—a privilege granted to only a few in this luxurious setting.
As she ascended, the quiet hum of the elevator was oddly calming. The doors opened to reveal a bright, elegant reception area, the visitor's first glimpse of her practice. The waiting area was simple yet plush, with a few modern armchairs in soft greys and whites positioned around a glass coffee table adorned with minimalistic art magazines that were changed as soon as the new edition was published. Warm, neutral tones dominated the space, a subtle hint of luxury without ostentation. Behind a sleek reception desk sat her assistant, Martha, who was always professionally dressed and efficient, a silent guardian of Sam's carefully constructed order.
Beyond the reception, Sam's private office awaited, spacious and meticulously arranged. Light blue walls met a pristine white ceiling, softened by the warm, diffuse glow of LED lighting, designed to create a calm, welcoming atmosphere. Behind her large desk, thick, tailored curtains could be drawn to control the natural light streaming in from a generously sized window, a detail Sam appreciated, preferring to work without the distraction of the bustling cityscape.
The wall opposite her desk was reserved for her academic and professional accolades—diplomas, certificates, and honors hung with geometric precision, a testament to her dedication and expertise. Beside it, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with medical journals, psychiatric texts, and a few volumes of literature added a sense of gravitas to the room. Each book had its place, every title curated, echoing her preference for depth over quantity.
Two comfortable, upholstered chairs sat across her desk, inviting patients to settle in without feeling constrained. A modern, neutral-toned sofa along the side wall offered a more casual option for seating. The centerpiece of the office, though, was her oversized mahogany desk, polished to a mirror finish and devoid of clutter save for her computer and a single notepad with a pen.
Her only personal indulgence hung on the wall directly opposite her desk—a large, abstract painting with bold, sweeping lines and muted colors that felt familiar and slightly disconcerting, as though the artist had captured a sense of movement or emotion beyond recognition. It was, in fact, by a renowned artist, though she rarely mentioned this to her clients, preferring to keep any personal details concealed.
With everything in place, Sam prepared herself for the day's first session, an involuntary flicker of curiosity lingering as she glanced at the clock. It was nearly time to meet Colonel Jonathan J. O'Neill.
Jack O'Neill strode up to the pristine glass-fronted building, his expression a grim mixture of skepticism and annoyance. He had half a mind to turn around and head back to Colorado Springs, but General Hammond had made it clear—no sessions, no duty. And after McKenzie had thrown in the towel, apparently deciding Jack was beyond help, Hammond had opted to send him to this new shrink in D.C., the one with a practice that screamed wealth, polish, and a touch of arrogance. This Carter probably charged top dollar just to talk, and all Jack wanted was to be done with this dog and pony show so he could get back to work.
As he stepped through the glass doors, he was greeted by the muted strains of classical music playing softly through hidden speakers. The floors were a gleaming marble, white with subtle veins of grey that complemented the soft, neutral tones of the walls. It was quiet—oppressively so. Every surface was flawlessly arranged, and every seat looked too expensive. Jack could almost smell the money that must have gone into the place. His lips twisted into a slight scowl; it was precisely the type of place he hated.
He approached the sleek reception desk, where a petite brunette in a perfectly tailored blazer sat poised, typing with the quiet efficiency of someone who didn't know what "hurry" meant. She looked up, her expression of professional warmth as she greeted him.
"Good morning, Colonel O'Neill. Doctor Carter will see you shortly," she said, gesturing to the chairs in the waiting area. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
Jack eyed the chairs, expecting them to be as unforgiving as they looked, but to his surprise, the one he chose was perfectly comfortable, almost inviting him to relax. He shifted uneasily, feeling the whole absurdity of the situation as he scanned the sleek glass coffee table in front of him. Magazines lay in neat stacks—Art in America, Architectural Digest, The New Yorker. He picked up Art in America and leafed through a few pages but quickly lost interest; he saw abstract paintings and glossy photos of sculptures he couldn't care less about.
He sighed, muttering, "God, save me or strike now." He tossed the magazine back onto the table and glanced around the room. Everything here felt impersonal and cold. This wasn't a place that welcomed him—it was a place that demanded you meet its expectations.
Just as he was considering making a break for it, the receptionist appeared again, her demeanor as serene as before.
"Doctor Carter will see you now," she said, gesturing for him to follow.
Jack rose, his civilian attire contrasting sharply with the polished environment. Since he was off duty, he'd dressed casually: leather jacket, white shirt, jeans, and well-worn military boots. He could almost feel the receptionist's disapproval as she led him down a short hallway, her short heels clicking softly on the marble floor.
They stopped at the end of the hall before a polished door with a discreet plaque that read, "Samantha Carter, Psychiatrist." He raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. He hadn't expected Sam Carter to be a woman. The name had sounded generic enough, and in his mind, he'd pictured some older guy in a tweed suit with round glasses and a notebook full of theories, like Daniel.
The receptionist opened the door, ushering him inside with a polite nod. Jack stepped in, his eyes sweeping over the spacious office. It was immediately apparent that this was Dr. Carter's domain, a place meticulously designed to reflect professionalism and restraint. But no careful design could take away the slight clinical feel that hung in the air.
Behind an expansive mahogany desk sat Dr. Samantha Carter. Her appearance struck him first—a tall, poised blonde with delicate features. She wore thin, blue-framed glasses that perfectly complemented her light blue eyes, fixed on him with an expression of calm assessment. He felt an unexpected tension rise in his throat, momentarily thrown by the woman before him.
The doctor's attire was perfectly professional. Her jacket was tailored to fit precisely, and her blouse was crisp, unblemished white. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, sleek and orderly, reflecting the same sense of control that dominated her environment. On the wall behind her hung a single, large abstract painting, its sweeping lines and muted colors seeming to blur the line between chaos and structure, its familiarity tugging faintly at Jack's memory.
She rose smoothly from her desk, extending a hand. "Colonel O'Neill. Thank you for coming."
Standing before her was a tall (she checked in the file—6'2") brown-haired man with slight grays on the temples. He had chocolate eyes, a strong jawline, and a posture that screamed military despite his casual clothes. He had an air of confidence and authority but also an underlying sadness in his eyes, a look Sam recognized all too well.
He accepted her handshake, a firm grip that belied the turmoil beneath.
"Just Jack," he replied.
She gestured to the seating area in front of her desk, two high-quality chairs angled toward each other, inviting without feeling overdone. Jack dropped into one of them, feeling its plush cushions wrap around him. He glanced around, noting the wall filled with diplomas, certifications, and awards that all but shouted her competence. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood at attention to one side. He noted there were no personal knickknacks, no photos, nothing that would give him any insight into her life outside of this office. She was, in essence, a blank slate.
Jack shifted uncomfortably as she retook her seat, crossing one leg over the other with quiet grace. Her gaze was steady, unflinching, and he could almost feel her evaluating him, dissecting him with those unnervingly sharp blue eyes. For a moment, he wondered if he'd misjudged her. Maybe this Sam Carter had more depth than her posh surroundings suggested.
But then again, maybe she was exactly what she seemed—another high-priced psychiatrist trying to unravel a problem she couldn't begin to understand.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Samantha raised a hand, silencing him.
"Before we begin, I need to set some ground rules." Her voice was steady, devoid of warmth. This was not a negotiation. This was a session for him to confront his issues, and she would not let him dominate. He scowled but remained silent. She continued, "This is a safe space, but you must be honest. If you evade responsibility, we can't make progress."
Jack shifted, crossing his arms. He didn't appreciate being told what to do. His anger immediately started to bubble beneath the surface.
"What do you know about my life?" he snapped. "You sit here in your cozy office while I face bullets and stuff you don't even dream of every day."
Samantha's expression didn't change.
"I know enough to understand that anger can be a shield. What are you protecting yourself from?"
The question hung in the air. He felt exposed, though he wouldn't admit it. This was an attack on his defenses. Jack was not used to vulnerability, especially not in this career.
Sam looked at his file again. Although she already knew it word by word, he was a man marked by loss, and she sensed it would take time to discover the depth of his scars.
"Your CO believes you could benefit from these sessions," she restarted more gently, hoping to disarm him with openness. "What do you think?"
"Doesn't really matter what I think," Jack responded with a mixture of irony and resignation. "He made the call, and I follow orders."
"And what if there's more than that?" she pressed, her voice unwavering. "What if this is an opportunity for you?"
Jack looked at her, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.
"Look, Doc. I'm not the poster child for feelings. I'm just trying to get back to work."
"Getting back to work is important, but it's equally important to address what's holding you back, don't you think?" Sam offered.
Silence enveloped them for a moment, and Sam could feel his walls beginning to rise. But underneath that shell, she sensed a flicker of vulnerability.
Sam regarded Jack carefully as he sat across from her, his arms crossed, posture defensive, and eyes trained on her with a mix of wariness and defiance. She could feel the tension radiating from him, the resistance thickening with every moment of silence. She'd encountered strong-willed patients before, but something about him was different—his demeanor wasn't just defensive; it was a well-constructed wall built out of necessity rather than mere stubbornness.
"Well, Jack," she tried again, keeping her tone calm and neutral, "how are you feeling today?"
Jack's jaw clenched slightly, and he exhaled, clearly disinterested in this question.
"I'm here," he answered curtly. "That's gotta be a start, right?"
She gave him a slight nod, acknowledging his reluctance without judgment.
"Being here is one thing," she replied, "but engaging with the process is another. I imagine this isn't where you'd choose to spend your time."
"Nope," he replied, popping the p with obvious impatience. "But here we are."
She watched him closely. "So… let's start with why you're here."
Jack let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Look, Doc, as you know, I'm here because General Hammond said I had to be. He seems to think I need a 'mental reset' or something." He made air quotes around the phrase. "I think I'd be better off just returning to work."
Her eyes didn't waver.
"And that's not happening until we make some progress here. That's the understanding you have with him, correct?"
"Yeah, and I'd like to know how talking about my feelings will change that," Jack retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"It's not about talking for the sake of talking," she replied smoothly. "Sometimes, unpacking what's happened, understanding how we respond to things, can shift perspective. Help us rebuild, get unstuck."
He shrugged, looking away. "I don't see what there is to unpack," he muttered.
She leaned forward slightly, keeping her gaze steady.
"You have experienced… significant losses, Jack. Both in your professional and personal life."
Jack's expression hardened, his eyes meeting hers with a flash of hostility.
"Look, Doctor Carter," he said, his voice laced with irritation, "I don't need someone I just met to summarize my life. I know my own story."
Sam held his gaze, unflinching.
"Knowing and understanding are different things."
He leaned back, crossing his arms even tighter as if physically closing himself off.
"Listen, I'm not exactly in the business of understanding. I'm in the business of doing."
"Isn't it possible that understanding could help you do even better?" she pressed gently, feeling the edges of his resistance start to fray.
Jack rolled his eyes.
"Oh, right. Do you think sitting here and discussing what happened will make me a better soldier?"
She leaned back, letting the silence stretch between them.
"I think," she said finally, her voice calm but unyielding, "that if you keep avoiding this, it will keep affecting you, whether you acknowledge it or not. You don't have to share everything with me today or next week. But I can't help if you don't let me in."
He looked at her, his gaze searching, maybe even slightly uncertain for the first time.
"What exactly do you expect me to say, Doc? That I'm broken? That I can't handle this anymore?" His voice had a bitter edge, almost like he dared her to confirm his fears.
She softened, sensing his vulnerability beneath the sarcasm and deflection.
"No. I'm here to help you make sense of it. To let you process it. You've been carrying these burdens alone for a long time, right?"
He stared at her, silent. She could see the flicker of something—regret, maybe. Pain. But then, as quickly as it appeared, he shut it down.
"This is just another hoop to jump through," he said flatly, dismissing her attempt to break through.
She took a deep breath, willing herself to be patient.
"Perhaps. But the more open you are to this process, the sooner you can return to where you want to be. I think you know that, Colonel O'Neill. And maybe, just maybe, it could give you something else too."
He frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And what's that supposed to be?"
She held his gaze, unflinching. "Relief."
The word hung between them, heavy and full of promise. He seemed almost willing to entertain it for a moment, but his walls returned stronger than ever.
"Well, Doc," he said, a faint smirk returning to his lips, "we'll see about that. However, I was under the impression that Shrinks gave their patients some magical pills and waived them off. I'm more than willing to accept that option."
Sam's expression hardened.
"It's one of our prerogatives, yes. However, it isn't how I work. So there won't be any 'magical pills' for you, Jack. Do you want to share anything else today?" she asked.
Jack shook his head.
Sam looked at her agenda. "Then I'll see you in three days', at the same hour. Have a nice day," she said. There was no handshake this time, and she didn't get up.
Slowly, Jack got up and left the room without saying a word.
Jack trudged into his hotel room later that evening, closing the door more violently than he intended. The room was sleek and modern, all polished metal and leather, with dark wood accents that made the space feel cold and impersonal—almost like Dr. Carter's office. He threw his jacket onto the armchair and let himself fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The Air Force was paying it; he was just there to sleep and endure.
"Relief," he muttered to himself.
The word hung in his mind, her voice saying it repeatedly. He hadn't signed up for this kind of soul-searching; he'd been through enough without some shrink peeling him apart, layer by layer.
With nothing to do, he grabbed his phone and dialed Daniel's number. A few rings later, Daniel's familiar voice answered.
"Jack! I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. How's D.C. treating you?"
Jack scoffed.
"It's…exactly what you'd think, Daniel. Quiet, posh hotel, soft music in every lobby. The whole city feels like it's holding its breath."
Daniel chuckled.
"Sounds peaceful. So, how'd the session go? Did Dr. McKenzie's replacement make a good impression?"
Jack grunted.
"Let's just say it wasn't a him."
There was a pause on the other end and then Daniel's surprised laugh.
"Oh, it's a her? Now, that's… unexpected."
"Yeah, imagine my surprise. This isn't some old guy in tweed. No, this is Dr. Samantha Carter—5'9", blonde, blue eyes, and no patience for sarcasm, as I found out the hard way." He sat up, smiling at Daniel's amused silence.
"Poor man," Daniel finally muttered, mock sympathy evident in his tone.
"Yeah, laugh it up, Daniel," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "She's got the place decked out like a museum—big mahogany desk, not a personal item in sight, and a giant painting that's… well, a mess."
"What's wrong with a little abstract art, Jack?" Daniel teased.
"Everything! Nothing made sense in there, not the art, not the session, and definitely not this 'relief' she's promising," Jack replied. "She's treating me like a puzzle, analyzing every word. It's frustrating as hell."
Daniel chuckled softly. "Well, you are a puzzle. Even to us."
Jack shook his head, trying not to grin.
"You say that, but then Hammond tells me SG-1's grounded until I'm 'fixed.' Makes me feel like a damn broken appliance."
"Jack, Hammond knows you'll be back. This is just… temporary maintenance," Daniel replied gently. "Besides, we're keeping busy. Reports, evaluations—never a dull moment around here."
"Right," Jack scoffed. "I'm sure everyone's just thrilled with paperwork while I'm benched in D.C."
Daniel sighed, humor giving way to understanding.
"Jack, just… try. Maybe Dr. Carter's not what you expected, but it's a chance to look at all that stuff you don't talk about. You might even be surprised."
"Sure," Jack muttered. "We'll see. She said something today and called it an 'opportunity.' Like this therapy gig is some grand adventure."
"Well, coming from her, that sounds kind of… encouraging," Daniel replied. "Give it a shot, Jack. Besides, it's not like you're off the team forever. We'll all still be here when you get back. I heard Kawalsky say he kind of misses you around," he said in a lower voice.
Jack sighed, sensing the unspoken support in Daniel's words.
"Alright, Daniel. I'll try not to make her job too miserable."
"Good man," Daniel replied, chuckling. "Hey, I'd love to chat more, but I've got a report to hand to Hammond."
"Of course you do," Jack replied dryly. "Enjoy your reports, Daniel. I'll call if I make any 'progress' with Dr. Carter. And tell Kawalsky to stay away from my Simpson's collection!" He warned.
"I will, and I'm looking forward to hearing your progress," Daniel said, barely hiding his grin. "Take care, Jack."
Jack sighed deeply as he hung up, the day's weight settling. He'd try to get through this if only to return to where he belonged. A war was being waged out there, and most of the world had no idea existed—including Dr. Carter. Jack needed to be back with his team, fighting to keep Earth safe so people could live peacefully, blissfully unaware of the danger beyond the stars.
He wondered what Dr. Carter would think if she knew the truth. What would those sharp blue eyes look like if he told her about aliens trying to destroy them, enslave them? If he told her that he traveled to other planets? That his work was not just "deep space telemetry" but the defense of their entire world? Jack smirked, almost amused. Yeah, he'd love to see her reaction to that.