Title: 9.4 Seconds (One of The Many Lives of Samantha Carter)

Rating: MA

Warning: Dark Fic, Mirror Universe, Angst. Discussions include a previous Suicide attempt, and remembrances of torture and being a POW. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Cussing, And two mind-bleaching Squicky pairings, so keep your Clorox wipes handy if you decide to brave this story.

Geek!GirlSamantha was seen in Ripple Effect. She was the quiet one, wearing glasses in the scene with the multiplicity of Carters. This is her story.


Geek!GirlSamantha and her Colonel.

Vixen!Janet and most of the SGC.

Family!Man!GeneralJack and Mrs.General!Sara.

My apologies for any typos. My betas seemed to have overdosed on the mind bleach.

I think that's a compliment?

We're part of a metaverse in which individual sub-universes are continually being generated. Our own experience with the Quantum Mirror proved this much. Realities can exist where we never defeated the Goa'uld or the Stargate program went public. Now while it may feel immediate, the journey between gates is not instantaneous, Jack. It takes on average zero point three seconds travel time. However, according to the gate diagnostics, the travel time for another SG-1 team clocked in at three point four seconds, suggesting a significantly longer trip.

Get to the point, Hank, I hear you growling.

Thirty seven different versions of SG1 have finally returned to their own appropriate verses after a proper sendoff from Star Gate Command today. Some long gone familiar faces were seen replacing members of the current verse's current SG1. Instead of Lt. Colonel Carter, Lt. Colonel Mitchell, Dr. Jackson and Teal'c, there were teams that had Martouf, Narim, Colonel Jack O'Neill (yes, Jack, that means in some universes, I outrank you!), Janet Fraiser, Shau're, Jacob-Selmak, even THOR as a member. Least I think it was Thor, as they all look the same to me.

And the most unusual Team by far was the 10.9 second team led by Marine Colonel Samantha Carter and her team which consisted of Major Janet Fraiser, Captain Caroline Lam and Navy medic Maria Brightman. We ended up having to separate that team from the rest of the alters as that team wanted to kill me and attempted to lead the other alters in a rebellion against me. While the Black Ops SG1 wanted to save their universe, the 10.9 team just wanted me or at least a part of me.

Apparently, I'm not very liked in that Universe as I owed three of them years of back child support. The four harpies wanted a pound of flesh from me that I wasn't prepared to give, and while I'm unmarried, one day I might want to use that piece of equipment again.

But probably the strangest story was the nine point four seconds Dr. Carter, who needed to get back to her universe ASAP because she was close to being grounded for the next few months from Gate Travel. Nice girl, not quite as tough as our Colonel Carter, but one of these days, when I meet you and George in private, I'll have to tell you her story, especially who her husband was!

You won't believe it!

Trust me, if her husband hadn't been there to confirm the information, I would have laughed my stars off! As it was, I truly expected her husband to punch me when he confirmed that he had married Samantha Carter and that she was pregnant. And it wasn't their first kid, not by a long shot!

Don't worry, Jack, it wasn't you, so you won't have to worry about her showing up one day wanting child support.

Hank Landry, Major General reporting to General O'Neill about the recent events of "Ripple Effect"

Geek!Girl Samantha with the glasses and her team clocked in at nine point four seconds.

Some things appear to be universal constants. McKay has an ego bigger than the metaverse in all his incarnations. Even the metaverse won't ever allow him the chance to be an Action Hero, as after all that would be pushing the laws of physics just a tad too much.

And sadly, Samantha Carter always has a thing for the leader of whatever version of SG1 she's in. Irregardless of whether it's Teal'c, Janet, Martouf, Narim, Daniel, Jonas or Jack, the leader of SG-1 makes Samantha Carter's heart beat faster.

In this story, it's just too darn bad that Jack's a General.

Colonel George Hammond, ex-Black Ops, Widower, and The General All Around Most Miserable Person in the SGC to be Stuck in an Elevator With according to the SGC's Bookie Sly Siler's latest betting pool, stared in disbelief at the geeks that were infiltrating the SGC. Some sweater-clad geekette with glasses and some slacker with even thicker glasses were standing goggled-eyed at the military personnel surrounding. There were even a couple geeks that looked rather pissy and self-absorbed.

Brigadier Jack O'Neill was leading the tour of the geeks, and to Hammond's intense disgust, Jack and the nerdlings stopped in front of him. O'Neill was smirking, which meant he was playing a joke on someone, and more than likely, that meant that Colonel Hammond was the joke.

"This is Colonel Hammond; he's my right arm man here at the SGC. He'll be instructing you in the arts of self-defense and survival."

Hammond nodded an acknowledgement, and he noticed that his aloof reaction was having the appropriate reaction among the geeks. The sweater wearing girl's smile faded and she looked apprehensively at the geek with the thick glasses standing next to her for support. Having put far too many years in the service to lose everything, especially with his empty retirement finally drawing into sight, he didn't spit his contempt and derision for the geeks at O'Neill's feet, though he was sorely tempted. Instead, Hammond nodded his head once.

Sometimes, he hated the younger man.

Yeah, the thick scars that ran parallel up and down the lengths of his forearms had faded somewhat… but to one and to all, psych reports be damned, Colonel George Hammond was Damaged Goods, and the only person in the universe that was willing to take him on as a 2IC was the quirky Brigadier General named Jack O'Neill.

For that, he knew he owed Jack O'Neill everything, including his self-respect and his sanity, but Goddamn it, he should be the one wearing the stars on his shoulders, not the fickle, mercurial puzzle known as Jack O'Neill.

George had no understanding on why the hell O'Neill had agreed to take him.

At one time, George had been the picture perfect officer. Respected, a highly decorated Black Ops, once, he had been an asset to the military. Sometimes, he wondered what would have been if he hadn't ended up in the Iraqi Prison Camp for a year, if he hadn't come back home to a hero's welcome in which he discovered his grief stricken wife had gone out of remission and had died from cancer, all the while believing that he had been KIA… if his family hadn't been killed by a drunk driver on the way to his wife's funeral.

What would have happened, if someone had informed him of the news, trying to cushion the agonizing blow, to soften the incomprehensibility of having lost… everything… instead of learning about their deaths by eavesdropping on his shrink?

Hell, he didn't even have the wedding ring that she had put on his finger all those many years, proclaiming to the universe that he was her personal property. No, the Iraqis had taken it from him when they finally found it, then they had beaten him near senseless because he had hidden it from them.

If he still had that one piece of her… that one… solitary item… that he could touch, that he could actually… feel…he probably wouldn't have cracked like an egg.

Savagely, he crushed the memories, not wanting to look at them too closely.

Yeah, he had a standing weekly appointment with Colonel Mackenzie, the shrink he called Mack the Quack, but he still had no idea what happened during that period when his sanity had cracked. One moment his world had shattered around him, and the next he had found himself on a stretcher, dazedly watching the ceiling tiles fade in and out of view while being raced down to the Emergency Room, even as the medics frantically applied direct pressure to his forearms, shrilly screaming that he was bleeding out.

The docs had patched him up, slapped him on the back, and wished him luck after the Medical Evaluation Board and the Physical Evaluation Board decided that he was still fit for duty. Yeah, he was 'fit' for duty, but nobody… and he meant Nobody had wanted a reticent, senior officer who always wore long sleeves, no matter what the temperature, so to keep prying eyes off his self-inflicted scars.

Hell, he had no goddamn clue why O'Neill had insisted on keeping him as his 2IC when they managed to get the Stairway to Heaven working…. Or whatever the hell they were calling it this week. He made a mental note to check with Siler to see what the top picks of names in the betting pool were this week.

Didn't matter much, in his mind, he just called it the great Stellar Sphincter.

He wondered what it would be like to go through that blue pool. So far they were just shooting a lot of anal probes through the Sphincter while the Pentagon decided what the hell they wanted to do with the technology.

Maybe, just maybe, if he crawled far enough on his hands and feet, licked enough boots, they'd send him through that Sphincter… and if he was lucky, he'd find the death he had been denied.

"Sgt. Siler, take Drs. Carter and Dr. Jackson down to the infirmary, as Dr. Fraiser will check them out. Colonel Hammond, I want to talk to you," O'Neill ordered, derailing George's train of thought.

Jack O'Neill flashed him a crooked grin, and Hammond nodded his head. Like the dutiful bird dog he was, he trotted after the General, several steps behind the General, much like Prince Philip and the Queen.

"George, take a seat," Jack ordered.

He did so, and he waited for Jack to lower the boom. Saying nothing, because there was nothing on his end to be said, except for an insincere, "I'd be DELIGHTED, Sir!", he waited patiently for Jack to stop fiddling with his chair. Hammond's light blues eyes wandered over the assorted various pictures of Jack, Sarah and their happy brood that were sprinkled on the wall, not even wasting the energy to hate the fates for what had been taken from him.

What was the total now? Four, five… maybe a dozen O'Neill kids?

No. Four were out of the womb and Sarah was having twins this time. Shit. You'd think at his age, Jack would know better. The General was forty five years old, only five years his junior. This must have been a surprise.

Yes, as he pondered the thought, the timing was about right. It appeared that General O'Neill and the missus had gotten sloshed at Msgt. O'Brien's farewell party and had themselves a big ole whoops. Or else Sarah knew about O'Neill's multiple affairs and decided to really stick it to him.

"The geeks need to be space and survival ready. They need to know how to defend themselves and how to shoot," O'Neill explained.

George nodded his head, glad to have an excuse not to examine the O'Neills' marital relationship too closely, because he couldn't comprehend how any man could be unfaithful to the woman he had sworn before God to love, honor and cherish until death parted you. And technically, George could still swear on the Bible that at this moment, he loved, honored and cherished his late wife above all others.

But Hammond didn't say anything, because he knew how this was heading.

"You're my miracle worker, George," Jack said with a saucy smile. "Get the geeks through modified basic training, as they'll be going through the Stargate with the teams. I don't want to send them out to the wild blue yonder as sitting ducks. They need to able to pull their own weight, and they need to able to defend themselves."

Again he nodded his head, not wanting to give Jack the satisfaction of seeing him discomforted by the news. He'd rather slam his hand in the door repeatedly than deal with the geeks. Christ, basic training? Why the hell didn't Jack give that job to one of the NCOs?

"George, you do know what that means don't you?" Jack questioned.

He nodded his head as the reason why Jack was giving him this awesome responsibility abruptly became crystal clear in his mind. O'Neill wasn't just a screw up, he was a fucking sadistic bastard, Hammond decided.

Which meant that he, George Hammond, was a masochist, as George always came crawling back for more. Every day he came back to lick more boots, as he feared what would happen the day he was petitioned off as too old, leaving him with absolutely no reason to get out of bed in the morning. He was coming far too quickly upon thirty years in and with no chance of promotion in sight; he'd be given the boot.

On the first day of the month after the month in which the officer completes 30 years of commissioned service... That thought came to mind, closely followed by what would happen on the second day of the month after the month in which this particular officer completed 30 years of commissioned service… and he wondered how long it would take before they found his body.

After all, he had no friends.

No one ever called him to invite him out for a quick game of pool.

Hell, nobody even sent him a goddamn email chain letter, because who the hell would the Crazy Colonel be able to forward them?

He never saw his neighbors, so it might be months before someone noticed the stink of his decaying body.

"Colonel, that means you're going to actually have to talk to the rooks," O'Neill explained. "Verbal instructions. You'll have to actually open your mouth and instruct them."

"Yes, Sir!" George answered quickly.

He was dismissed, and he decided that he'd need to eat something before he met the rooks.

Naturally, George sat alone in the dining room.

If the entire room was full, and everyone had to sit in each other's laps, he'd still have a table for four open as most people didn't like dealing with him due to the highly infectious, much feared disease known as "Complete Mental Snap". So while he was industriously mashing something that looked like potatoes into submission with his fork, he was surprised when he was joined by someone. Fortunately, he was busy smashing his spuds to release some of his inner tension, because God help him if Mack the Quack ever saw him obsessively and compulsively rubbing his ring finger again.

His wedding ring physically might not be there… but damn it, psychically, spiritually, emotionally, it was there, and it wasn't ever coming off. The only time Mack the Quack saw him rubbing his finger during a particularly stressful moment, had led to three weeks of twice daily sessions in which Mackie quacked about rituals, repetitive actions and the damaged psyche.

Ah, it was Doctor Janet Fraiser, his fuck buddy. Whenever his demons were riding him too hard, and he couldn't take another lonely night in his bed, she'd take him to his bed, ride him hard, ride him wet, and hang him up to dry, leaving him with nothing resembling pride left but his physical ache eased.

The good doctor was probably the closest thing he had to a friend, but he wouldn't use that term for their… relationship. Everyone thought Janet Fraiser was a sweet, compassionate angel, but he knew her, and accepted her for the sadist that she was. Their couplings… or making HATE as he sardonically called it, consisted of Janet abusing the hell out of him until he came.

After his stint in the Iraqi Prison and all the psychotropic drugs he was on, his head and his body were so screwed up that the first time he had tried to bed Janet Fraiser, he couldn't get his tray in the upright and locked position.

George had tried, God knows he had tried, to be gentle with Janet on their first night together, wanting to prove to himself, if nobody else, that somewhere down deep, the old George was still there, and fighting to regain control.

George had been surprised that his deeply traumatized soul had craved the chance to actually… emotionally connect with another person, when to his complete bewilderment one afternoon; Janet Fraiser had asked him to share her bed for the night. Rationally, he should have cursed her out and told to stop joking as he wasn't her own personal source of amusement, but instead he had softly stuttered, "I'd be d-d-delighted…"

That entire experience had been a lesson in frustration and futility from the moment he arrived at her doorstep, nervously clutching a tacky bouquet of flowers he had bought at a shopping market because he was halfway to her house when he realized that he should bring her something. If what was occuring was a honest to God date, George really needed something. Janet had met him at the door, wearing nothing more than a see-through peignoir, and her boldness had startled him in being shyer than his norm.

George had wanted nothing more than to put his head in her lap and have her massage his aching temples…much like his wife had often done. Janet would talk and he'd listen as she soothed his soul with a gentle touch. He yearned for another human being to touch him gently as it had been far too long since Angie…

When the Iraqi guards tired of kicking him in the back and his gut with their steel toed boots, he had crawled to a corner of his cell, all the while holding tightly onto to memories of Angie in his mind. When it got real bad, sometimes he day dream that he'd make it home, where he could sit on the floor, and rest his aching head on her knee while she massaged his head and neck. But no matter how bad it had gotten, and God knows it had gotten really bad; he remained focused on getting home, so he could see his dear Angie again. She had been sick with cancer, but she had been in remission for three years before he landed in that Iraqi Cell, so he had refused to even consider the fact that she wouldn't be there waiting for him when he came home.

After George had been freed, he held onto that hope that his wife would be there to greet him, with open arms. But he had realized quickly that something was terribly wrong, as no one answer his questions about where Angie was. He thought that maybe Angie had declared him dead, that she had married another during the year that he was gone, and while that hurt, he could have dealt with that. But the bitter truth was far, far worse than that.

He had been such a fool, stupidly hoping that the reason for the unexpected invite was because Janet had seen some worthy trait in him that was hidden deep beneath his scarred visage, the physical blemishes he wore and the emotional traumas he had endured.

Stupid, stupid fool that he was, desperate in his desire to be held and touched by another human being, he knew how Janet was, yet still, he had hoped for more. No surprise to him to find out what she had wanted was another notch on her bedpost and she had decided to do the Crazy Colonel just for shits and giggles.

No surprise, none at all, but still… disappointing.

His efforts at gentle caresses had been virginally awkward and he had stuttered and stumbled over the soft, caring words he had practiced repeatedly in his car because George knew that the cold-hearted bitch was inwardly laughing at him and unfavorably comparing him to the silver-tongued Jack O'Neill.

Yet he stayed, goddamn it, he had stayed, just wanting to feel close to somebody…. Anyone…. Even Janet Fraiser….

Then his body had just refused to cooperate.

His ego shattered, his self-respect in shreds, George had gotten out of her bed, grabbed his pants and attempted to flee the scene of the crime with all due haste. If the fact he couldn't get it up, and keep it up hadn't already angered the good doctor, the fact that he was running for the hills really pissed her off. Fraiser had cursed him out, harsh words were said on both parts, and then things got ugly. The next thing he knew, they were having earth quaking, bed slat breaking, bed sheet tearing sex in her bed.

When it was over, and Janet was sleeping off their physical altercation, George had been deeply ashamed to realize that he was in tears. He had wiped his eyes roughly, tried to keep his rapidly fraying emotional control from completely unraveling, when he had felt Janet snuggle closer to him.

"Don't be ashamed, George. You don't realize how much it means to me that you tried so hard to be gentle with me, and how you obviously wanted me to enjoy tonight. The guys I've been with lately… they don't really care about my enjoyment…all they want is a quick fuck and they're out of here."

"You deserve better," George stated. "Better than them, and certainly better than me."

"George… you must have been one hell of a man…" Janet paused.

"Before I went nuts," he finished her question bitterly.

"Before the Iraqis got you," Janet whispered. "George, you're simply not wired for compassion anymore. They took what was good about you, and they twisted it into something darker, but that's ok, George… I can handle pain and darkness just fine. For me, it's enough to know that you wanted to and you tried…"

They had fucked repeatedly after that little tender declaration, through the night and until the early AM when the dawn was streaming through her window. There was no love, no tenderness, no softly spoken lies about love, fidelity and devotion between the two of them. What they had was rough, violent, and ugly.

It was all of which he was capable… and all that he deserved because… the fact that he kept coming back for more abuse was so wrong on so many different levels. Fraiser delighted in her control over him, that she had him more and more sensitized and responsive to various fetishes. Sometimes, in the early hours when he couldn't sleep because he refused to take those little pills that Mack kept throwing at him, he'd stare at the ceiling, and obsess about how if Janet Fraiser actually gave a damn about him, she'd actually be attempting to help him work through his sexual hang-ups, not give him a dozen assorted new ones in various shapes and sizes.

He didn't need Mack the Quack to tell him that the simple reason he kept coming back for more was because he was fooling himself that one night, he'd do something right for Janet and she'd actually care about him as a person, rather than a willing fuck partner. That the twisted wreck of a man known as George Hammond was so lonely and so desperate for human companionship that he'd take a number and wait his turn to service Janet Fraiser.

There were all too brief, precious moments, usually right after she screamed out his name, while Janet was writhing uncontrollably underneath him and clawing his back hard enough to break his skin, that he'd pretend for a few minutes that she was fond of him.

As for Janet, finding her naked brother in the arms of her husband… well… that explained why the good doctor had a slight chip on her shoulder with regards to anything with a dick.

He knew exactly why the hell she took his Damaged Goods to her bed. Pissed off that Jack had gone back to Sara after the Great and Totally Unexpected Conception of the Latest O'Neill Brats had occurred After Jack had Promised that He Really Was Getting a Divorce This Time, Janet delighted in rubbing her numerous affairs with Jack's subordinates into a liver gnawing, fuming General O'Neill's face.

If Jack brought her up on charges, she'd just drop that little bombshell about their longtime affair into the proceedings.

The day after their first coupling, George had been drinking coffee in the cafeteria, deep in thought and trying not to look too closely at the previous night's tawdry activities when Janet had deliberately run her fingers over his neatly shorn scalp. He had been surprised by that and had nearly spit his coffee out, which naturally amused Janet due to her deep seated need to be in complete control.

"Giddyup, Cowboy," she said in her most seductive tones, before pitching her voice a little higher. She did it deliberately, wanting to be overheard by someone. "You're such a bad boy… I'm gonna have to buy a new riding crop. I can't believe I snapped it in half on you. You've got rather resilient skin."

Then in a more professional tone.

"Oh, hello, General O'Neill. How are you doing? I'm a little…. Sore…this morning. I must have slept wrong last night. My back hurts…thighs… I don't even think I could close my legs even if you ordered me to do so as I pulled a muscle or three. See you later, Colonel." Janet possessively rubbed the back of his head once more, deliberately marking him as her property in front of the General before sauntering out of the cafeteria.

O'Neill sat down next to him, and the General sighed.

"George… I'm not being official right now…but our dear Doctor will mind fuck you something fierce if you're not careful," O'Neill said quietly. "You're a good man, Hammond… You've been through hell enough for three men already; don't let her add to it."

He always thought about that warning, especially times like now, when Janet wore a smirk. To be safe, he nodded an acknowledgement of her presence. Unlike most people, Janet didn't care if he spoke or not.

"My place or yours?" She purred seductively before she deliberately ran her hand up and down his inner thigh and gave him a very friendly squeeze. "I think you'll need some relaxation after you deal with the kiddies."

Gesturing with his hand to signify his choice, he knew what Janet would say before she opened her mouth.

"My place it is then. Seven?"

He nodded and Janet sighed, "One of these days, George, I want to see your apartment. It can't be that messy."

"And make you pack up all your toys?" He quipped dryly before he flashed her a brief smile.

"You should smile more often, George," Janet said seriously. "Makes you look younger."

"I ain't got nothing worth smiling about," he retorted.

After lunch, he had to report back to General O'Neill's office. The General had outdone himself as he had written up a syllabus for Basic Training Suitable for Geeks. George flipped through it and then he shook his head when he saw the subject matter for day nineteen.

"No," he said loudly.

O'Neill knew him too well as he knew what subject had elicited that firm denial.

"They need to know what could happen to them out there, Colonel," O'Neill stated calmly.

"That you get put in a goddamn four by six cell and get the shit beaten out of you for a year. And when you get home, you find out that everything that kept you sane while you were in that little box was dead and long buried? Do you want me to roll up my sleeves and show them all how well I handled that? I will not be your goddamn freak show, General."

O'Neill gave him a long look and then ordered him to shut up and sit down.

"Colonel Hammond, I appreciate your concerns. But the fact of the matter is I'm a fuck up as a General. You know it, I know it, and the Pentagon knows it. They put me here to keep an eye on that piece of inert alien technology and then somehow it started working. I have a chance here, Colonel, to prove myself, and if that means, I need Mackenzie in that classroom ready to sedate you so you can prepare those rooks for what they might face out there, so I don't fuck this chance up, Mackenzie will be there. You owe me, Hammond, as I was the only one willing to give you a chance…."

The General ranted for a bit and then he paused. George nodded his head and then asked one single question.

"So that's the reason why you took me on as your 2IC…." Hammond drawled slowly, willing that news not to hurt, but damn it, how the truth scored his scarred soul.

If a world… no universal class fuck up like General Jonathan O'Neill and the sadist known as Fraiser had nothing but contempt for him… maybe he would have been better off dying in that prison.

Where had his life gone so completely wrong? When had he become such a victim of derision and contempt from two fucking people he wouldn't have given the time of day to before his little mental snap? Would Angie have ever married such a complete fucking waste of space?

My dearest Angie, for the first time, I'm so glad that you're dead. I'd hate for you to see how low I've fallen.

"A fuck up for a general and a nut for his 2IC. And we are the ones keeping Earth safe. God fucking help us."

"George," O'Neill interrupted quickly. "I've never thought that you're crazy."

"Doesn't matter," George admitted slowly, his thick Texas accent gruff with emotion. "Everyone else on the base thinks it. I acknowledge what I owe you… but I ask… if I can't do it… don't order me to do it… please."

His voice slowed and to his shame, his voice nearly broke. God, he was falling apart again, showing weaknesses that could be exploited to both Fraiser and O'Neill, both of whom would be more than ready and willing to turn those Achilles' heels against him.

"This position, it's all I got… don't make me bawl like a calf looking for its mamma in front of everyone. You know they all think I'm nuts…don't destroy what little respect they have for me…"

Damn it to hell, he was rubbing his ring finger, obsessively, compulsively, that single-minded repetitive ritual trying to ease his soul. Deliberately, he stopped caressing his hand, and then he looked at General O'Neill. The younger man looked ill at ease and yet conciliatory all at the same time.

"George…I've spoken to Mackenzie about this. He believes that you overseeing the training of the geeks will be good for you. You'll have to deal with a variety of different people with different skills and most importantly, you'll need to open your mouth and instruct them. There is a wealth of knowledge in that bald head of yours, George, and your experience in that prison might ensure that those people make it out alive."

"How did it go?" Janet questioned.

They were in Janet's bed after a session, and Janet wanted pillow talk. Normally, she was content to let him decide what he wanted to say or not say, but tonight, she wanted all the dirt on the newbies.

"O'Neill's right, if a Goa'uld,' he pronounced it "Ghool" due to his accent and as a sign his disrespect for the snake heads, "gets 'em, they're dead. I started them on wind sprints, pushups and basic conditioning."

"Rod the Bod gave you some trouble?" Janet giggled.

Rodney McKay had whined and moaned his way through the entire afternoon. The final straw had been the push ups. Rodney couldn't or wouldn't do them correctly, and so Hammond had kept on him until he managed to do the required… five…pushups correctly.

"If he doesn't stop whining, he'll get his team killed,' George predicted darkly.

"What did you think of Doctor Samantha Carter?" Janet asked; her voice strangely intense.

"Can't place the name," he admitted after a long pause where he tried to remember all the geeks' names. McKay. Jackson. Lee…. Carter? Was there a Carter in the group?

"Sweater girl," Janet laughed. "Glasses, blonde, wears those sweaters that are too big?"

"Ah! Yes. Quiet. Knows how to do a correct pushup, so she's not a complete waste of space," he admitted. "She can also read military insignia accurately, and she was busy teaching the other geeks the trick."

"She should… she's a military brat. Know who her daddy is?" Janet questioned.

"Should I?" He asked, wondering what was percolating in Janet's brain.

"Your old buddy, Major General Jacob Carter," she teased. "Isn't he the one that left you for dead?"

He pushed her off him, and sat up. Major General Jacob Carter had once been a friend, but that was before he had left George behind enemy lines. A thousand different emotions were filling his soul, but the majority of them were shrieking for vengeance and Jake Carter's head on a platter.

"Jacob CARTER'S daughter?" He growled. "She's that bastard's daughter?"

"Yes…." Janet admitted.

His heart dropped a few feet inside his chest, and tried to process that information. Samantha Carter was Major General Jacob Carter's pride and joy.

The man who had his stars, for the love of God.

Jake had gotten a Medal of Honor for leaving him behind enemy lines! His career had skyrocketed in the five years since he had left George behind to die.

And his wife and his two kids were alive; probably he even had grandkids from Mark by now. He thought of his two sweet grandchildren Tessa and Kayla, and he instinctively began rubbing the wedding ring that was no longer there on his ring finger, wanting to ease the pain.

"And you know what, George?" Janet said with a sweet smile. "She's a virgin."

"She's young enough to be my daughter, Janet," George protested.

"I was just thinking, you know. It would be so horrible, if she met someone at the SGC… who just took his time, got dear, sweet, shy, virginal Samantha to trust him, and then completely fucked her over after she gave it up. If you do it correctly, you might even ruin her life, George. Jake left you behind and you were declared KIA. Your wife died from grief, George, and your family… " Janet paused; her dark eyes unexpectedly full of tears.

"Was killed on the day of the funeral by a seventeen year old drunk who didn't even have a license," George spat.

He sat in her bed for fifteen minutes, while Janet got dressed and left him alone in his brooding solitude. She returned after a while, and he wanted to know the answer to one question.

"Why did you tell me this?" George questioned.

"I don't want Samantha as competition, George. A lot of the men at the SGC are like bloodhounds, they smell her inexperience and they want to take it and mold her into their idea of the perfect woman. You know that stereotypical masculine bullshit pride about being the first man in a woman's life and how every relationship afterwards is tainted with how you affected her for better or for worse," Janet told him in a quiet, emotionless voice.

And he wondered briefly if Janet Fraiser had been a virgin when she married her husband. If she had been, that little tawdry tidbit would explain a hell of a lot.

He left Janet quickly after that, wanting and needing to return to his sanctuary. His loft apartment where he was the only one allowed. Certainly not Janet. For her to visit his condo for one of their 'sessions', it would be a spiritual desecration, especially to his late wife. He closed the door behind him quickly, locking the assorted locks and dead bolts rapidly.

For a moment, he really looked at his condo. It was a nice place; Angie would have loved it, as it had every amenity she would have wanted. Cathedral ceilings, ceiling fans, huge bedrooms, a Jacuzzi. After he had left the psych ward, one of the nurses had talked to him about a friend of hers, a real shark of a lawyer who was willing to take his case on for free. The lawyer had sued the 17 year old driver, the kids' parents, the owner of the vehicle the kid was driving plus the bar for negligence.

And George had won BIG.

The cash register had rung loudly when he had taken the stand.

A highly decorated Air Force Career Officer, ex-POW, taking the stand with a shrink on standby, reduced to stuttering monosyllables on the stand when he discussed the hell he was now living in as his family was dead thanks to the punk kid, had rattled the jury. When his lawyer had "regretfully" asked him to show his arms to the jury, to show them the physical scars from his suicide attempt, he had been surprised when a few of the jurors had openly wept.

George hadn't had to show them off, because naturally the defense attorneys had objected, but…. He couldn't understand why those jurors had cried for him. He still couldn't comprehend how these complete strangers could feel sympathy for him while the people that dealt with him every day treated him with thinly veiled contempt.

And so George had bought this place, thinking all the while how much Angie would have loved it. First thing he had done was have it repainted in her favorite colors.

It wasn't a home; it was a literal shrine to his dead. Pictures of his wife, his children and their families were everywhere. He took off his jacket and threw it onto the table, and he quickly walked towards the smallest of the four bedrooms. Three too many really, but the view of the man-created lake was something Angie would have loved, and so he had bought the unit.

This small bedroom was sacred to him; it was his physical memorial to his dead. By the time, he was back on his feet, most of his family's personal items have long been distributed among various relatives and sold, but there were a few things he had obsessively managed to track down. A lot of photos mainly… but a few highly treasured items were kept here.

Kayla's teddy bear.

Tessa's blanket, which she had dragged everywhere.

On the really bad weeks, where he was mindlessly pacing the floors at night because he couldn't sleep, sometimes, he'd lie on the bed located in the shrine, and stroke the brightly colored blanket until he fell asleep.

A bottle of perfume that was the same scent his wife had always worn. Sometimes, he sprayed a precious drop or two on his pillows, and went to sleep, hugging them tightly, wanting to pretend for just a little while that his wife was lying next to him in bed.

He would need to put away a great many of the mementos if he was serious about destroying Jacob Carter's daughter.

She'd never give it up to him if it was obvious he was still in love with his dead wife.