Chapter 7 - Echoes of Boundaries
The hallway was quiet, the kind of stillness that amplified every sound. Jack leaned against
the wall near the far end, his phone clutched loosely in one hand. The conversation with Sara had
been brief—strained, like so many of their talks. He'd said the words she wanted to hear, but they
felt hollow, weighted by everything he hadn't said.
He absently turned the wedding ring on his finger, the cool metal biting against his skin. He hated
how heavy it felt tonight, as though it reminded him of the lines he'd crossed—and the ones he
couldn't uncross.
The soft creak of a door broke the silence. He looked up and froze as Sam stepped into the
hallway, her coat cinched tightly around her. Her movements were hesitant, deliberate, and when
she turned and saw him standing there, her lips parted slightly in surprise.
"General," she said, the word more formal than it needed to be. She adjusted the tie of her coat,
her gaze flicking to the floor before meeting his again.
"Carter," Jack replied, his voice quiet. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between
them thick with everything they weren't saying.
"I was just… heading out for some air," Sam said, breaking the silence. She gestured vaguely
toward the elevator, her tone carefully neutral.
Jack straightened, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Same," he said simply.
Sam hesitated, then stepped past him. The soft sound of her footsteps faded as she walked
down the hallway, but after only a few steps, she stopped. She turned slowly, her arms crossing
loosely over her chest. "Sir," she began, her voice softer now, "about earlier…"
Jack's jaw tightened, and he let out a long, slow breath. "It was a mistake," he said, his tone even
but heavy with regret. "I shouldn't have let it happen."
Sam nodded, her posture stiffening slightly. "I agree. I shouldn't have… responded."
Jack's lips pressed into a thin line. "You weren't the one who crossed the line, Carter. That's on
me."
She shook her head, her voice gaining a quiet strength. "I'm as much to blame as you are, sir. But
I need you to know—" Her voice faltered slightly, but she steadied herself. "I'm not that kind of
woman. I'm not the kind of person who—"
"You don't have to say it," Jack interrupted, his voice rough but gentle. "I know you're not."
Her arms tightened around herself, as if to shield against the weight of his words. "Good," she
said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because I don't ever want to be."
Jack nodded, the gravity of the moment pressing down on him like a physical force. He stepped
closer, his movements slow and deliberate, stopping just far enough to keep the distance
between them. "I don't know what came over me," he admitted, his voice low. "I've always been
in control of myself—of my decisions. But with you…" He hesitated, glancing away briefly before
meeting her gaze again. "With you, I don't know how to be."
Sam's
breath
hitched
at
the
quiet
confession,
but
she
quickly
masked
it,
her
shoulders
straightening. "You have to be, sir," she said firmly. "Because this—whatever it is—it can't happen
again."
Jack's gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, his hand brushing over his wedding ring. "I know,"
he said finally. "And it won't."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotion. Sam shifted slightly, her fingers
brushing against her arm in a nervous gesture. "If you're worried about me reporting this, you
don't have to be," she said quietly. "I wouldn't do that to you."
Jack exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "I never thought you would," he said. "But that
doesn't make this any less wrong."
Sam nodded, her gaze dropping briefly to the floor. "We'll keep it professional," she said, her
voice steady now. "Strictly professional."
"Strictly professional," Jack echoed, though the words felt like ash in his mouth.
Their
eyes
met
again,
and
for
a
moment,
the
weight
of
everything
between
them
felt
insurmountable. The pull was still there, undeniable and maddening, but they both knew it could
go no further.
"Goodnight, General," Sam said softly, stepping back toward her door.
"Goodnight, Dr Carter," Jack replied, his voice quieter than hers.
She turned, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the door. When it clicked shut behind her,
the sound echoed down the empty hallway, leaving Jack standing alone. He pressed his back
against the wall, his head tilting upward as he exhaled slowly.
Inside her room, Sam leaned against the door, her eyes closing as the silence enveloped her. She
pressed her hands to her chest, willing herself to steady, to block out the ache that refused to go
away.
Both of them lay awake that night, each staring at the ceiling, consumed by the same forbidden
gravity that had pulled them together—and now kept them apart.
The house was quiet when Jack stepped inside, the faint hum of the television drifting from
the living room. Sara was curled up on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, a blanket draped
loosely over her lap. The light from the screen flickered across her face, accentuating the tired
lines that had deepened over the years. She didn't turn her head when he entered, but her
posture shifted slightly, a subtle tension he couldn't miss.
"You're late," she said, her voice calm but edged with something brittle.
"Yeah," Jack replied, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. "Debrief ran long."
Sara nodded, her gaze still on the television, though it was clear she wasn't watching it. "There's
casserole in the fridge."
"I'm good," he said, lingering in the doorway. His hands flexed at his sides, restless. "You didn't
have to wait up."
"I wasn't waiting," she said quickly, the words sharper than she intended. She sighed after a
moment, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I just couldn't sleep."
Jack studied her for a moment, his chest tightening at the sight of her. She looked the same and
yet so different, as though the years had dulled the spark he remembered. He wanted to say
something—anything—to break the silence, but the words wouldn't come.
"I'm heading upstairs," he said finally, his voice low. He turned toward the stairs but stopped
when her voice cut through the quiet.
"Jack."
He turned back, his hand gripping the bannister. Sara had straightened, sitting more upright now,
the blanket falling away slightly. Her eyes met his, and he felt the weight of her gaze like a
physical force.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.
Jack froze, his chest tightening as the question hung in the air. "What do you mean?" he asked,
though he already knew.
Sara's lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked down briefly before meeting his gaze again.
"You've been… distant. More than usual. And you've always been good at keeping secrets, Jack.
But I can feel it. Something's different."
He swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the bannister. The truth burned in his throat, threatening
to spill out. He thought about telling her everything—the kiss, the guilt, the way Sam lingered in
his thoughts far too often. But the words stayed lodged there, unwilling to surface.
"It's not that simple," he said finally, his voice low and strained.
Sara nodded slowly, her expression softening but the doubt in her eyes remaining. "It never is,"
she said quietly. "But this… whatever this is between us… it's not working. We can't keep living
like this, Jack. I can't."
Jack exhaled sharply, his free hand rubbing over his face. "I know," he admitted, the words heavy.
"I just don't know how to fix it."
"Maybe we don't fix it alone," Sara said, her voice trembling slightly. "Maybe we get help."
Jack frowned, her words catching him off guard. "Help?" he repeated.
"A counselor," she clarified. "Someone we can talk to. Someone who can help us figure out if
there's anything left to save." She hesitated, her voice softening further. "Because if we don't… if
we don't try, then what are we even doing?"
Jack stared at her, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He had spent a lifetime hiding
things from Sara—missions, truths, emotions—and now, for the first time, he felt the full extent of
what that had done to them. The idea of counseling made his stomach churn, the thought of
baring himself to a stranger almost unbearable.
"And if it doesn't work?" he asked, his voice quiet.
Sara's throat worked as she swallowed hard. "Then we stop pretending. If it doesn't work, we let
go. But I need to know that we tried, Jack. I need to know that we didn't just… give up."
Jack nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Okay," he said finally, his voice rough. "We'll
try."
The tension in her posture eased slightly, and she gave him a small, bittersweet smile. "Thank
you."
He lingered a moment longer, his hands at his sides, before turning back toward the stairs.
"Goodnight," he muttered.
"Goodnight," Sara replied softly.
Upstairs, Jack didn't go to the master bedroom. Instead, his feet carried him to Charlie's room.
The air inside was still, heavy with the weight of memories. Jack sat on the edge of Charlie's bed,
his elbows braced on his knees as he stared at the floor. The silence of the room pressed down
on him, the air thick with memories and loss.
It had been years since he'd stepped foot in here, yet everything felt frozen in time. The baseball
glove lay abandoned in the corner, the trophies glinting faintly on the shelves. Above him, the
model airplane hung mid-flight, its string frayed and dusty. It was all exactly as they had left it, and
yet, it felt completely different now.
He leaned forward, running a hand through his hair, his thoughts spiraling. With Sara, his life had
always been divided. He'd built walls to protect her—from his missions, from the choices he'd
had to make, from the darker parts of himself. She'd known he worked in black ops, but she'd
never understood the depths of what that meant. She didn't know the weight of taking a life, how
coldly efficient he could be when a mission required it. She didn't know the man who could stare
down an enemy and pull the trigger without hesitation. And he had wanted it that way. He'd
wanted her to see only the good parts, to think of him as the man who played catch with their son
in the backyard, who grilled burgers on Sundays, who made her laugh when the world felt heavy.
But that man had died with Charlie. The version of himself he'd tried to be for Sara had been
buried in the same grave, leaving behind someone harder, someone colder. And Sara had felt that
shift, even if she didn't have the words to name it. She'd watched him retreat into himself, her
questions about his missions met with silence or deflection. He had thought he was protecting
her, but in reality, he had been shutting her out.
And then there was Sam.
The thought of her made his chest tighten, his grip on his knees flexing as he tried to push the
memory of her away. But she lingered, just like she had on base—unavoidable, sharp, and entirely
too perceptive. They had only been working together for a short time, yet somehow, she had cut
through his defenses faster than anyone had in years.
It was unsettling. Maddening.
She knew the weight of command, understood the burden of making decisions that cost lives.
Didn't flinch when he was blunt, didn't balk when his temper flared after losing men in the field.
She knew the Stargate program inside and out, knew the exhaustion in his eyes when another
mission had gone sideways or another team hadn't come home. She could read the signs of his
mental fatigue with a precision that both comforted and unnerved him. With her, he didn't have to
explain the toll of watching people die under his command—she just knew.
It was the kind of understanding Sara had never been able to give him, and that fact made him
feel sick to his stomach. Sara hadn't been allowed to understand, not really. He had kept her out
of that part of his world, shielding her from the darker truths of his job—the blood on his hands,
the lives he'd taken, the kind of man he became when the mission demanded it.
And Sam didn't know everything either.
She didn't know about Charlie. She didn't know the full depth of the guilt he carried every day, the
weight of losing his son and how it had hollowed out his marriage. She didn't know the man
who'd once been a husband and father, who had clung to the illusion of a normal life until it
shattered completely. Sam only saw him through the lens of the base—General O'Neill, the leader,
the strategist, the soldier. She understood that man. But she didn't know the broken one sitting in
this room, staring at a model airplane covered in dust.
But she knew enough. She knew when he needed space, when to offer insight, and when to
simply stand beside him in silence. That understanding, as dangerous as it was, had started to
feel like a lifeline.
But then there was the other part of Sam—something beyond the professional. Something that
had crept up on him so fast he hadn't even seen it coming. She wasn't just brilliant; she was
vibrant, quick-witted, and unflinchingly kind in a way that made him ache. And she was young.
Too young for him.
The difference in their ages hung in his mind like a warning bell, a glaring sign of how wrong this
was. He couldn't stop himself from noticing her, from being drawn to her, but every time he did, it
felt like crossing an invisible line he couldn't uncross.
What kind of man had he become? Sitting here, in his son's room, thinking about another woman
while his wife was downstairs trying to save their marriage? He clenched his fists, his knuckles
whitening as the guilt churned in his stomach. Sara didn't deserve this—she didn't deserve a
husband who couldn't even sit in the same room without thinking about someone else. And
Sam… Sam deserved someone who wasn't so broken. Someone who didn't carry this much
baggage, who didn't have a past that shadowed everything he touched.
He stood abruptly, the motion making the bed creak beneath him. His gaze lifted to the model
airplane, its crooked propeller a small imperfection in an otherwise pristine room. Slowly, he
reached up and unhooked it from the string, turning it over in his hands. The dust clung to his
fingers, and he wiped it away absently, placing the plane gently on the desk.
The thought of Sam flashed through his mind again, unbidden and sharp. She didn't just
understand his burdens—she saw him. In ways that felt too close, too real. But she didn't know
him. Not the man who had failed to save his son, or the man who had spent the last ten years
hiding from the life he'd ruined. She knew General O'Neill, the leader and strategist. She didn't
know Jack O'Neill, the broken father and husband who sat here now.
And maybe that was what scared him the most. That the part of himself Sam did see was the one
he was beginning to wish he could be.
The contrast between the two women felt unbearable. With Sara was a stranger in his own home,
the weight of his secrets building walls he couldn't tear down. With Sam, he felt seen in a way he
hadn't in years, but it wasn't the wholehim—it was only the man he allowed her to see. The
thought twisted inside him, the guilt and longing tangling together until it made him feel physically
ill.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out the battered pack of cigarettes he'd picked up earlier that
day. He hadn't smoked in years, hadn't wanted to. But tonight, the weight of his choices felt too
heavy to bear without something to dull the edges and as he lit one and took a drag, the familiar
burn in his throat was grounding in a way nothing else had been. He hated it—hated that he was
slipping back into old habits—but he didn't stop. The smoke curled around him as he exhaled, the
acrid taste a reminder of everything he'd tried to leave behind and failed.
Jack stood there for a long moment, staring at the plane on the desk, the cigarette burning
between his fingers. When he finally turned and left the room, he closed the door gently behind
him, the quiet click echoing down the hallway.
Back in the master bedroom, Sara was lying on her side, her back to him. The scent of the
cigarette clung faintly to his clothes, and he saw her wrinkle her nose slightly before she spoke.
"Jack?"
"Yeah?" His voice was rough, heavy with exhaustion.
She hesitated, the pause stretching long enough that he thought she might not continue. But then
she did, her voice trembling. "Do you even want to try anymore?"
He stared at her back, the question twisting in his chest like a knife. He wanted to lie, to tell her
something comforting, but the truth came out instead.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice raw. "But I think we owe it to ourselves to find out."
Sara didn't respond, but the slight shift of her body toward him told him she'd heard. Jack lay
awake long after she had drifted off, staring at the ceiling, the cigarette pack on his nightstand
and his thoughts tangled between two women he could never reconcile.
Sam pushed open the front door, the warmth of home greeting her with the scent of dinner
and the sounds of Grace's laughter drifting from the kitchen. She hung up her coat and kicked off
her shoes, smiling softly at the comfort of the routine she'd built for herself and her daughter.
"Mama!" Grace's voice called out, full of excitement, as she dashed out of the kitchen. Her small
feet pattered across the floor, and Sam barely had time to crouch before Grace threw herself into
her arms.
"Hey, Pumpkin," Sam murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as she pulled her close.
"What's this big rush, huh?"
Grace grinned up at her, her brown eyes sparkling. "Liz made chicken nuggets, and I helped!" she
declared proudly.
"Oh, you helped, did you?" Sam asked with mock seriousness. "And by helping, do you mean
you taste-tested everything before it got to the plate?"
Grace giggled, nodding furiously. "A little bit."
Liz appeared in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips and a playful smirk on her face. "It was
more than a little bit. I don't know how there's any left for you, Carter."
Sam laughed softly, brushing a strand of blonde hair from Grace's face. "Thank you, Liz," she said
warmly. "I owe you one."
"Just keep paying rent on time and we're even," Liz quipped, disappearing back into the kitchen.
Sam carried Grace to the table, where plates were already set, and settled in for dinner. Grace
chattered non-stop, telling stories about her day at preschool, her classmates, and the adventures
she and Liz had while cooking. Sam listened attentively, nodding and laughing, her heart swelling
with love for her little girl. No matter how heavy her day had been, moments like these made
everything else seem smaller.
After dinner, Sam and Grace curled up on the couch with a storybook, the little girl snuggling into
her side as she read aloud. Grace's head rested against Sam's chest, her small hand clutching her
mother's arm as she listened intently. Sam cherished these moments, feeling the warmth of her
daughter against her and the pure, simple love in her gaze.
Once Grace was tucked into bed and fast asleep, Sam made her way back downstairs. Liz had
disappeared into her room for the night, leaving the house quiet except for the faint hum of the
refrigerator. Sam grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter and poured herself a glass, retreating
to the living room. She sank onto the couch, curling her legs under her, and took a long sip, letting
the wine warm her throat as her thoughts spiraled.
The kiss. Jack. His voice, the intensity in his eyes, the way she had leaned in, wanting something
she had no right to want. She stared at the glass in her hand, her fingers tightening around the
stem. She had never crossed a line like this before—never let herself fall into something so
reckless, so dangerous. The guilt was suffocating.
She thought about her little girl who relied on her for everything. Grace deserved a mother who
was steady, disciplined, in control. Not someone who let herself get swept up in an attraction to a
married man. She had made a life for herself and Grace, a good life. What had she been thinking,
jeopardizing that for… what? A fleeting moment of weakness?
The sharp ringtone pulled Sam from her spiraling thoughts, making her start slightly. She set her
wine glass down on the table and reached for her phone, glancing at the screen, she hesitated for
a moment before answering, pressing the phone to her ear.
"Hi, Dad," she said, her voice lighter than she felt.
"Sam," Jacob greeted, his tone robust but carrying a warmth only reserved for her. "How's my
favorite scientist?"
Sam couldn't help but smile faintly, leaning back into the couch. "Tired," she admitted. "But good.
Grace is doing great. How about you?"
"Oh, you know me. Still trying to figure out how retirement works. I swear it's harder than
commanding a base," he quipped before his voice took on a more serious note. "I heard you met
with the president yesterday."
Sam straightened slightly, surprised. "How did you—?"
"Come on, Sam," Jacob interrupted, the amusement clear in his tone. "You think something like
that doesn't make its way to me? I've still got a few friends in high places."
Sam let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "Right. Of course you do."
"I'm proud of you, kid," Jacob said sincerely. "Not everyone gets to walk into the Oval Office and
talk shop with the leader of the free world. You must've made quite the impression."
Sam's grip on the phone tightened slightly as she thought back to the meeting—and to Jack. "It
wasn't just me," she said carefully. "It was a team effort."
Jacob hummed in response, but she could tell he wasn't buying her humility. "Team or not, they
don't let just anyone into a room like that. It's a big deal, Sam. Even if you're too modest to admit
it."
Sam stayed silent for a beat, unsure how to respond. Jacob's approval was rare, and as much as
she wanted to savor it, the weight of her guilt made it hard to accept. She could almost hear him
shift gears before he spoke again, his tone shifting to something more pointed.
"You know, moments like this…" He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "I can't help but
wonder why you ever left the Air Force. You could've been running your own base by now."
Sam sighed, leaning her head back against the couch. "Dad, we've been over this," she said, her
tone resigned. "It wasn't the right path for me."
Jacob let out a low huff. "It's just hard for me to wrap my head around it. You had so much
potential. You still do."
"I'm still doing important work," Sam countered, her voice steady but tired. "It's just in a different
capacity."
"I know that," Jacob replied, his voice softening. "And I'm proud of what you've accomplished. I
really am. I just…" He trailed off before clearing his throat. "I guess I always pictured you following
a different trajectory."
Sam stared at the ceiling, the familiar tension creeping into her chest. She'd had this conversation
with her father more times than she could count, and yet it still had the power to sting. "I'm happy
with where I am," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "And I think you'd like the team I'm
working with."
Jacob chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "You mean Jack?"
Sam froze, her heart skipping a beat. "What about General O'Neill?"
"Oh, nothing," Jacob said, the humor in his voice unmistakable. "Just that he's a damn good
officer. Smart, loyal, capable. I always knew he'd go far."
Sam's throat tightened, and she gripped the stem of her wine glass to keep her hands from
trembling. "He's… good at what he does," she said cautiously, trying to keep her voice neutral.
"I'd expect nothing less," Jacob said. "I remember having him under my command years ago. He
could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he always got the job done. If you're working with him
now, you're in good hands."
The irony of her father's words made Sam's stomach churn. She managed a small, hollow laugh.
"Yeah," she said, barely above a whisper. "I guess I am."
Jacob didn't seem to notice the shift in her tone. "Anyway, I'll let you get some rest. Just wanted
to say I'm proud of you, Sam. And give Grace a hug from me, will you?"
"I will," she said quickly, desperate to end the conversation before her emotions got the better of
her. "Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, Sam."
She ended the call and set the phone down on the table, her hands shaking slightly as she
reached for her wine. Her father's praise echoed in her mind, but instead of pride, all she felt was
the crushing weight of guilt. Jack wasn't just her commanding officer—he was the only man her
father had ever spoken about with genuine respect. And now, she had crossed a line she never
thought she'd approach.
Grabbing her cardigan from the back of the couch, Sam stepped out onto the small porch at the
front of the house. The night was cool, the air crisp against her skin as she leaned on the wooden
railing. Above her, the stars scattered across the dark sky like tiny diamonds, a sight she had
always found grounding. But tonight, even the expanse of the universe couldn't ease the turmoil
inside her.
Her gaze shifted upward, focusing on a single, faint star. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to
remember why she had built the life she had. She had chosen to be independent, to raise Grace
on her own, to keep her focus on her career and her daughter. She had been so certain that her
life didn't have room for complications, least of all feelings for someone like Jack O'Neill.
And yet, he had crept in anyway.
Sam's grip on the railing tightened, her knuckles whitening. She hated this vulnerability, this pull
toward a man she could never have. It was wrong—every part of it was wrong. And the guilt she
felt now was only proof of how far she had let herself fall.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she pushed herself upright. She couldn't afford to let her
emotions control her. She glanced at the stars one last time before stepping back inside, closing
the door firmly behind her.
Back inside, Sam placed her cardigan over the back of a chair and sat down again, her thoughts
still swirling. The sound of footsteps behind her broke her reverie, and she turned to see Liz
leaning casually against the doorway, holding a cup of tea.
"You okay, Blondie?" Liz asked, her tone light but her eyes sharp with curiosity.
Sam hesitated, glancing down at her nearly untouched glass of wine. "Yeah," she said, forcing a
small smile. "Just… long day."
Liz walked over, plopping down onto the arm of the couch. She took a sip of her tea, studying
Sam with the kind of knowing look that only a best friend could give. "You've been a little off
lately. Want to talk about it, or should I just keep making passive-aggressive observations until
you do?"
Sam let out a breath of laughter, shaking her head. "You don't miss much, do you?"
"Not when it comes to you," Liz replied with a smirk. She leaned forward, setting her cup on the
coffee table. "So? What's going on?"
Sam hesitated again, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She didn't want to tell Liz about Jack
—not directly. The idea of saying his name out loud felt too raw, too dangerous. "I guess I've just
been… overwhelmed," she said carefully. "Balancing everything—work, Grace—it's a lot."
Liz tilted her head, her expression softening. "You're doing great, Sam. Better than great. Grace is
thriving, and I'm sure you're killing it at work. But you've got to stop acting like you can carry the
whole world on your shoulders without breaking a sweat. You're human, you know."
Sam let the words sink in, her friend's words, simple as they were, hit closer to home than she
wanted to admit. "Thanks, Liz," she said quietly.
Liz shrugged, standing up and grabbing her cup of tea. "That's what I'm here for. And if you ever
need to vent or, I don't know, scream into a pillow, you know where to find me."
Sam watched as Liz disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps fading into the quiet of the
house. Left alone again, Sam picked up her wine glass and took a slow sip, the warmth doing
little to soothe the ache in her chest. She needed to figure out how to move forward, how to let go
of something that was never hers to begin with.
But for now, all she could do was sit in the silence, her thoughts still tangled between the stars
outside and the man who had turned her world upside down.