The crisp morning air at the top of the mountain carried a sharp edge, matching the mood of those assembled to greet the Chief of Staff. General Hammond adjusted his hat, the polished brim reflecting the sunlight as he stood beside Jack. Both men were in their dress blues, their posture straight and formal, exuding the professionalism the occasion demanded.
The distant hum of an approaching helicopter grew louder, and Jack's eyes narrowed as it came into view, a sleek black craft with the unmistakable markings of the Secret Service. Hammond glanced at his watch, nodding slightly.
"Right on time," he muttered, his voice calm but edged with the weight of the unknown.
The helicopter touched down with precision, its rotors whipping the surrounding air into a frenzy. Jack stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. As the hatch opened, men in dark suits and earpieces stepped out first, their eyes scanning the area with practiced efficiency.
Then came Paul Whitaker.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that seemed more suited to a high-level meeting in Washington, D.C., than the rugged terrain of Colorado, he exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His sharp black eyes took in the scene, lingering briefly on Hammond before landing on Jack.
Hammond stepped forward, extending a hand.
"Mr. Whitaker, welcome to Cheyenne Mountain."
Whitaker shook his hand firmly, offering a polite smile.
"Thank you, General Hammond. I've been looking forward to this visit."
Jack stood silently beside Hammond, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"And this," Hammond said, gesturing toward Jack, "is Colonel Jack O'Neill, my second in command."
Whitaker turned to Jack, his gaze assessing. A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he extended his hand.
"The famous SG-1 leader," he said with a teasing tone.
Jack cleared his throat, his grip firm as they shook hands.
"Not currently," he corrected, his voice steady. "I'm on administrative leave. Major Charles Kawalski is leading the team for now."
Whitaker raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.
"Administrative leave? That's unexpected for someone with your reputation. May I ask why?"
Hammond stepped in smoothly, his tone calm but firm.
"We can discuss that later, Mr. Whitaker. For now, I'd happily give you a base tour."
Whitaker's gaze lingered on Jack for a moment longer before he nodded.
"Of course, General. Lead the way."
Hammond's practiced explanations accompanied the descent into the mountain. His voice was steady as he provided an overview of the facility. The group moved precisely, the Secret Service agents trailing closely behind, their eyes scanning every corner.
"The Stargate Command operates as a classified branch of the United States Air Force," Hammond began, his hands clasped behind his back as they walked. "Its primary function is to explore other planets, establish diplomatic relations with alien civilizations, and secure advanced technologies that benefit Earth."
Whitaker's eyes darted around, taking in the stark, utilitarian architecture of the base.
"Impressive. And the personnel? How many people are stationed here?"
"We currently have over 200 military and civilian personnel assigned to the SGC," Hammond replied. "The numbers vary depending on our operational needs."
Whitaker hummed thoughtfully, his gaze sharp as he studied the passing airmen and scientists.
"I imagine discretion is critical for a program like this. You must have quite the screening process."
"Indeed," Hammond said. "Every individual here has undergone extensive vetting to ensure they meet the highest standards of security and professionalism."
As they approached the first checkpoint, Whitaker's attention shifted back to Jack, his smile returning.
"Colonel O'Neill, you've been leading SG-1 for how long?"
Jack's jaw tightened, but he maintained his professional demeanor.
"Since its inception, until recently."
"And now Major Kawalski has taken over?" Whitaker asked, his tone light but probing.
Jack nodded curtly. "For the time being."
Whitaker's eyes flickered with something unspoken, but he didn't press further. Instead, he turned his attention back to Hammond.
"I'd like to see the Stargate itself. I assume it's the centerpiece of your operations."
"It is," Hammond confirmed, gesturing toward the elevator. "Right this way."
When they entered the vast gate room, Whitaker stopped in his tracks, his gaze sweeping over the imposing Stargate. The shimmering metal ring loomed before him, the glyphs etched into its surface, catching the light.
"Incredible," Whitaker murmured, stepping closer. "I've seen images in classified briefings, but seeing it in person is... something else entirely."
Hammond allowed him a moment to take it in before continuing.
"The Stargate allows us to establish a stable wormhole to other planets, facilitating exploration and communication. It's the foundation of everything we do here."
Whitaker nodded, his eyes darting toward the control room above, then back to the gate.
"How many missions have been conducted so far?"
"Over 1,000," Hammond replied. "Each mission is carefully planned and executed by highly trained teams."
Whitaker's gaze lingered on the gate, but Jack noticed something else—a restlessness in his demeanor. His eyes darted around the room, searching as though he were looking for something. Or someone.
Jack's stomach tightened, his instincts flaring. He exchanged a glance with Hammond, who gave the slightest nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unease they both felt.
Whitaker finally turned back to Hammond, his smile polite but thin.
"This truly is a remarkable operation, General. I can see why it's such a tightly held secret."
Hammond returned the smile, though his eyes remained watchful.
"We're proud of the work we do here, Mr. Whitaker. But there's still much to see. Shall we continue?"
Jack stayed a step behind as they moved on, his eyes never leaving Whitaker. The tension in his chest grew with each passing moment, the unanswered questions swirling in his mind.
Whitaker's curiosity was undeniable—but so was his intent. And Jack wasn't about to let it go unchecked.
General Hammond led the group back to the conference room as the tour concluded. The air was thick with unresolved tension between Jack and Whitaker, whose polite veneer barely concealed a deeper intent.
"Before we wrap up, Mr. Whitaker, any further questions about our operations?" Hammond asked, his tone calm but edged with finality.
Whitaker smiled faintly.
"None about the operations, General. However, as I asked previously, I heard Doctor Samantha Carter was stationed at the SGC and wanted to confirm if she was still there. Is she?"
Hammond glanced at Jack. "Yes, she is with us as the base psychiatrist," he confirmed.
Paul smiled again.
"Then I would like for a moment to speak with Dr. Carter. Purely a personal matter."
Jack's posture stiffened. His hands clenched behind his back, his jaw tightening imperceptibly.
"She's busy," he said flatly.
Hammond shot Jack a warning glance.
"Dr. Carter is currently assisting with a project, but I'll see if she's available."
Whitaker's smile broadened, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Much appreciated."
Jack bit back a retort, instead following Hammond out of the room. He didn't trust Whitaker—not one bit—and he didn't like the idea of him anywhere near Sam.
Sam sat at her desk, typing a report, the soft hum of the air conditioning doing little to steady her nerves. She knew Paul Whitaker's arrival would disrupt her day, but she hadn't expected it to feel like this—a storm building on the horizon. The knock on her door was light, and she took a steadying breath before answering.
"Come in."
Hammond opened the door.
"Mr. Whitaker requested to speak with you," Hammond said gently. "I can refuse if you'd prefer."
Sam's stomach churned as her mind raced. She had desperately reached out to Paul, seeking nothing more than a professional consultation. The last thing she had expected was for him to show up at the SGC, likely boasting and bringing half of the Secret Service along for the ride—as he so often did. Worse still, she hadn't anticipated his willingness to drag their shared history back into the open. Yet, turning him away now would only make an already tense situation even more difficult.
"It's fine," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil. "I'll talk to him."
Hammond nodded and stepped aside, allowing Whitaker to enter as Jack stood at the threshold. His presence was a silent promise that he wasn't far away. Sam met his brown eyes briefly, her expression unreadable.
Paul entered with the same calculated confidence that had unnerved her when they had met at D.C.. He closed the door softly behind him, his sharp suit at odds with the practical simplicity of her office. His smile was polished, almost predatory.
"Samantha," he greeted, his tone warm but edged with something darker. "It's been too long."
She stood, keeping her expression neutral, though her heart raced.
"Paul. I didn't expect you to show up in person."
"Really?" He stepped closer, his presence filling the small office. "You reached out to me, Sam. Did you think I wouldn't take an opportunity to check in on an old friend?"
Her jaw tightened.
"You know why I called. I needed professional advice, not whatever this is."
Paul chuckled, his gaze sweeping the standard military room before landing back on her.
"Oh, I know why you called. Desperate, weren't you? Trapped here in this... concrete cage with no way out. You're wasting your potential here, chasing—what? Broken soldiers and aliens? You could have so much more right next to me. But then you thought I'd rescue you, didn't you?"
"I called for advice," she said firmly, her voice sharp. "And I have exactly what I want," she added, her voice rising.
His smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating expression.
"You used to be smarter than this, Samantha. Did you really think you could brush me off like some low-level bureaucrat? You reached into my world, and now I'm here."
She crossed her arms, her stance unwavering.
"This is my life now, Paul. And it doesn't include you. You can't manipulate me like you used to."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"You sure about that? Because I've still got plenty of strings I can pull. One phone call and I can have this entire base under review. Do you think General Hammond's loyalty will protect you? Think again. I know people who would shut this operation down if I asked."
Her stomach twisted, but she held her ground.
"This isn't D.C., Paul. You don't have the same leverage here."
He smirked.
"Leverage is leverage, Samantha. Whether it's D.C. or the middle of nowhere, Colorado doesn't matter. I'm a powerful man, and I don't forget when someone wastes my time. Or dismisses me."
Sam's voice rose, anger flaring in her chest.
"You think you can intimidate me? I don't care how many strings you think you can pull. Whatever this is—whatever you think you're doing—it ends now."
Paul's smile vanished entirely, his eyes narrowing.
"Be careful, Sam. You're playing a dangerous game. I've ruined people's careers for less."
Outside her office, Jack paced. The muffled sound of their voices reached him, the sharpness in Sam's tone making his blood boil. He had heard enough.
Throwing the door open, Jack strode in.
"That's enough," he barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
Paul turned to see Jack standing in the doorway, his eyes cold and unyielding. The tension in the room spiked as Jack stepped inside, positioning himself squarely between Paul and Sam.
"You've had your talk," Jack said, his voice low and menacing. "Now leave."
Paul's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Colonel O'Neill. Always the hero, aren't you? Tell me, do you make a habit of barging into private conversations?"
Jack stepped closer, his posture brimming with restrained fury. The two men, nearly the same height, locked eyes in an unyielding stare, neither backing down.
"Only when someone thinks they can walk into my base and threaten my people."
Paul raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Your base? Last I checked, Colonel, you were on leave. Or are you just playing guard dog for Dr. Carter now?"
Jack's fists clenched, but his voice remained calm.
"You've made your point, Whitaker. Now get out."
Paul glanced back at Sam, his smile returning.
"You've got quite the knight in shining armor, Samantha. Too bad he's not enough to keep me away. This isn't over."
"Consider it over," Jack snapped, his tone like steel. "Because if you come near her again, you'll regret it. Now get out, Mr. Chief of Staff."
Paul chuckled, shaking his head.
"Oh, I don't think so, Colonel. You don't have the reach I do. Remember that."
With a final, chilling glance at Sam, Paul turned on his heel and strode out of the office, his presence leaving a palpable chill in the air.
After he was gone, the silence in the room was deafening. Sam exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Jack's expression softened as he looked at her. Despite their argument the night before and what she had told him, his protective instincts kicked in as soon as he saw "Mr. Washington D.C." stepping out of that helicopter.
"You didn't need me to step in."
"Maybe not," she admitted, meeting his eyes. "But I'm glad you did."
Jack allowed himself a small, genuine smile for the first time in what felt like forever.
"Always."
General Hammond stood at the top of the mountain, watching as Paul Whitaker climbed into the sleek black helicopter. The rotors stirred up a cold gust of wind, and Hammond's hat threatened to blow off as he tightened his grip on it. Whitaker offered a courteous wave before disappearing into the craft, his demeanor as calm and controlled as it had been during his arrival.
Hammond, however, felt anything but calm. The man's visit, under the pretense of professional curiosity, had been peculiar from the start. Hammond's gut told him there was far more to the story than he had been told, and Whitaker's request to see Dr. Carter only deepened his suspicion.
The helicopter ascended smoothly, cutting across the clear Colorado sky until it was nothing more than a speck. Hammond adjusted his uniform and turned back toward the facility, his face set in a grim frown.
Inside the helicopter, Paul glanced back at the mountain, his expression unreadable as the rotors roared to life, whipping up dust and debris. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over a contact. A slow smirk crept across his face.
"Not yet," he murmured, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "But soon."
As the helicopter gained altitude, Paul leaned back in his seat, his smirk widening. He had underestimated Sam's resolve, but that didn't mean the game was over. If anything, it had just begun.
"Colonel O'Neill, report to my office," Hammond's voice came through Jack's radio. The tone left no room for delay or misinterpretation.
Minutes later, Jack strode into the office. He closed the door behind him, his posture tense but defiant.
"You wanted to see me, Sir?"
Hammond gestured for him to sit, though Jack remained standing. The general leaned back in his chair, his expression of controlled frustration.
"Colonel, what the hell just happened?" Hammond's voice was steady, but the words carried the weight of his authority.
Jack folded his arms. "With all due respect, Sir, I don't think there's much to tell."
"That's not going to cut it," Hammond shot back. "Whitaker's visit was already unusual. Then he insisted on speaking with Dr. Carter, and when I escorted him out, he barely even mentioned the Stargate. It's clear this wasn't about our operations. So I'll ask again—what the hell happened?"
Jack exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully.
"Whitaker and Carter have... history. They knew each other back when she worked in D.C. That's all I can say."
"History?" Hammond repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Colonel, I don't appreciate evasiveness. What kind of history?"
Jack shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening.
"The kind that doesn't affect her performance here, Sir. Whatever he thought he was doing by showing up, Doctor Carter made it clear she's not interested."
Hammond studied him for a long moment, his eyes sharp and probing. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
"I respect your loyalty to the people you are close to, Colonel, but I get the sense you're holding something back. Dismissed."
Jack gave a terse nod and exited, leaving Hammond with even more questions than answers.
Not long after, Hammond's voice summoned Doctor Samantha Carter to his office. She arrived promptly, her expression guarded.
"You wanted to see me, General?"
"Have a seat, Doctor," Hammond said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
Sam hesitated before sitting, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. The general's serious demeanor told her this wouldn't be a routine conversation.
"I just spoke with Colonel O'Neill," Hammond began. "He mentioned you and Mr. Whitaker have a history. Care to elaborate?"
Sam's stomach twisted, but she kept her voice steady.
"We met when I was in D.C. Although I'm not supposed to share this…" Sam cleared her throat. "He was a patient of mine."
Hammond's eyebrows lifted slightly. "A patient?"
"Yes, General, but that has to remain classified," Sam admitted. "But we... also briefly dated."
The admission hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Hammond leaned back in his chair, his expression a mix of disbelief and disappointment.
"You dated a patient while you were practicing psychiatry?"
Sam's cheeks flushed.
"No, of course not. We dated after his therapy was concluded."
"And yet, years later, you called him for…what? Advice? Favors?" Hammond pressed, his voice sharp. "Why?"
"I was desperate," Sam said quietly, her hands clenching in her lap. "I was stuck here against my will and wasn't adapting. I missed my life at D.C.; I missed my practice… I thought he could help me."
Hammond's gaze hardened. "Help you how? Be specific, Doctor."
Sam hesitated, then took a deep breath.
"To get out of SGC, General. I call in a favor."
Hammond's expression darkened further.
"So let me get this straight—you jeopardized your position, your integrity, and potentially this entire program by involving someone outside the SGC in matters that should have stayed here? Because you missed your old life?"
"I didn't mean for it to go this far," Sam said, her voice trembling slightly. "I thought I could handle it."
"Well, you didn't," Hammond snapped. "And now I have to clean up this mess."
Sam's head bowed slightly under the weight of his words.
"I take full responsibility, General. If you feel my position here is compromised, I'll resign."
Hammond studied her for a long moment, the disappointment in his eyes cutting more profound than any reprimand. Finally, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I'll need time to think about this," he said heavily. "You can leave."
Sam rose to her feet, her heart heavy with guilt.
"Yes, General."
As the door closed softly behind her, Hammond remained seated, his gaze fixed on the space where Carter had stood. The weight of what he had just learned pressed heavily on him. His instincts had been right—Samantha Carter had been maneuvering behind the scenes, involving high-level players to create a path out of the SGC.
The question that loomed large in his mind was one he couldn't ignore: could he still trust her? Hammond knew the answer wouldn't come quickly. Trust, once shaken, was difficult to rebuild, and the stakes at Stargate Command were too high for uncertainty. He sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as the implications sank in. This wasn't just about Carter's career—it was about the integrity of the entire program.
Sam walked back to her office in a daze, her heels echoing loudly against the cold, sterile floors of the SGC. Her conversation with Hammond replayed in her mind, each word cutting deeper, each syllable laden with the weight of disappointment. By the time she reached her door, her hands were trembling. She stepped inside, locked it behind her, and leaned against the cool metal, trying to catch her breath.
Her office, once a haven where she could lose herself in work, now felt like a cage Paul had called it. She paced momentarily, then sat heavily at her desk, her eyes fixed on the blank surface before her. The enormity of what was at stake began to sink in, twisting her stomach into knots.
Everything she had fought for here—her position, budding friendships, and fragile yet significant relationship with Jack—could vanish instantly. Hammond's disappointed gaze was seared into her memory, his words circling her mind like vultures. She'd maneuvered in ways she thought were harmless, desperate to find clarity and control in her chaotic life, but it had backfired spectacularly.
Her job as the base psychiatrist, a role she had grown into despite her initial reluctance, now felt precarious. Her connections to Janet and Teal'c, friendships that had slowly begun to restore her confidence, might crumble under the weight of her mistakes. Even Daniel, whose quiet support she had started to rely on, and Kawalsky, who had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome, could see her differently after this.
And then there was Jack.
Sam swallowed hard, her chest tightening. Their relationship was already on shaky ground, fragile but undeniably real. He'd supported her, stepped in when Whitaker had crossed the line, and stood by her in ways she hadn't even known she needed. But what would he think now? Would he see her as manipulative, untrustworthy, someone who couldn't handle the weight of her own choices?
Her gaze drifted to her notebook, where her notes about some people at the base and personal insights emerged.
It could all disappear.
She closed her eyes, letting her head rest on the cool surface of her desk. Her mind wandered briefly to Washington, D.C.—the life she could return to if everything fell apart. Her old practice, her meticulously decorated house, the polished world of politics and influence she had once navigated. It was all there, waiting for her.
But it felt hollow. Empty. Meaningless.
The thought of returning to that life, leaving the SGC and all it had come to mean to her, filled her with a sense of loss so profound it nearly stole her breath.
She stayed like that for a long moment, her body tense and still, willing herself to remain composed. There was nothing she could do now but wait. Wait for Hammond's decision and Jack's reaction and see if the life she had built here was salvageable.
The waiting was the worst part.
Sam exhaled shakily, her breath ghosting over the desk's surface. She clenched her hands into fists, forcing herself to sit up. Whatever came next, she would face it. But the uncertainty gnawed at her, leaving her more vulnerable than ever. The mask had dropped entirely, and she didn't know if it was worth putting it back on.
For now, all she could do was wait.
Jack sat in the farthest corner of the mess hall, a steaming cup of black coffee in front of him, accompanied by a thick slice of chocolate cake. The room was quiet, almost eerily so, with only a few personnel scattered around at this hour. It should have been peaceful, but Jack's mind was anything but.
Whitaker. Just the thought of the man made his jaw tighten. Jack hadn't trusted him since he stepped off that helicopter, and his tailored suit and smooth words were in stark contrast to the raw, real grit of the SGC. And now, after what Sam had admitted about their past, Jack's distrust had deepened into something darker—an almost nauseating mix of anger, confusion, and hurt.
She had lied to him.
He sipped his coffee, the bitterness doing little to mask the bitterness in his chest. All those therapy sessions, all those moments when he had opened up to her—let her see parts of himself he hadn't shown to anyone in years—and she had been planning her escape all along. She had reached out to Whitaker, maneuvering behind the scenes to get out of the SGC while pretending everything was fine.
Jack set his mug down with more force than necessary, his teeth grinding together. He felt betrayed. No, more than that—he felt blindsided.
But as much as the anger burned inside him, it wasn't alone. Another quieter but persistent voice asked him the one question he couldn't ignore: Could he really blame her?
His hands wrapped around the coffee mug, his grip tightening. He had dragged her into this world, hadn't he? Taken her from her perfectly controlled life in Washington, D.C., with less than 24 hours' notice, and thrown her into the chaos of Stargate Command. He had offered her no choice, no time to process—just a whirlwind of secrecy and pressure. She had been stuck here with a binding NDA.
Jack sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his temple. How would he have reacted if their roles were reversed? If someone had yanked him out of his comfort zone, thrust him into a world that challenged every part of who he was, and expected him to adapt on the fly? He'd probably have fought tooth and nail to claw his way back to his old life.
The cake sat untouched on the table as Jack's mind replayed the months he'd spent with Sam—the therapy sessions, their constant back-and-forth, and that trip to his cabin. She'd been the one who hadn't given up on him and dragged him through the muck of his mind when he was too stubborn to do it himself.
He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. She could have dragged the process out and done the bare minimum to satisfy Hammond's orders. Instead, she'd taken the time to treat him, really treat him, even when he'd been a pain in the ass. Why would she have tried so hard if he had meant nothing to her?
But then came the nagging doubt that wouldn't leave him alone: What was her endgame?
Had she been honest with him during all those sessions, or had she just been playing a game, the kind she was probably used to in D.C.'s political circles? Was this all about making her exit easier, or was there something real between them?
Jack stared into his coffee, his stomach churning. That's what really bothered him—he didn't know. He needed answers, real answers, not half-truths or evasions.
Pushing the cake plate aside, Jack downed the rest of his coffee in one long gulp. The questions swirling in his mind weren't going to answer themselves, and only one person could give him the truth.
This time, he wasn't walking away with more questions than answers. He would get to the bottom of it, no matter who got hurt.
Even if it hurt him most of all.