Chapter Text
Christmas Eve was always the quietest time of the year on base, manned only by a skeleton crew. Or at least it seemed like it—the few who remained drifted through the halls like ghosts on rotation.
Jack O’Neill wandered the corridor with two mugs of cocoa, telling himself this was not weird. It was Christmas Eve, Jack, People did nice things on Christmas Eve.
He found Sam Carter inside her lab, still working, because of course she was. He held out a mug towards her.
“Carter,” he said. “I bring peace, goodwill, and cocoa.”
She blinked, surprised and tried not to blush. “Sir… thank you.”
“You’ve been in here for hours,” he said lightly. “Figured your brain was starting to melt from naquadah exposure or whatever it is you people do for fun.”
She smiled again — tired, and a hint of fondness lifts the corner of her mouth. “Just finishing some analysis.”
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “if you’re done, I happen to know that NORAD’s observation dome is wide open tonight.”
She gave him a look. “How would you know that?”
Jack shrugged. “Because all the tech nerds upstairs are busy tracking Santa.”
Sam bit back a laugh. “Sir, they take that very seriously.”
“Believe me, I know. Little dots on a big map, the whole command center cheering when he crosses the Atlantic. It’s adorable. Point is no one’s using the telescope. Wanna see the stars?”
After a moment's hesitation — one that had nothing to do with work — she nodded.
Snow clouds had parted just enough for the stars to show through the narrow slit in the dome ceiling. The telescope hummed as it adjusted.
Sam exhaled. “I really do love it up here.”
Jack stood beside her, hands tucked behind his back. “Quieter than your lab. Less… exploding.”
“Nothing has exploded in my lab in months,” she protested.
“Which is exactly why we should celebrate,” he said.
She tried not to smile. Failed.
Jack gestured. “Go on. Pick something shiny.”
She leaned into the eyepiece, graceful and focused. “Jupiter’s bright… Saturn’s visible too. Perfect night for planetary alignment.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, the sky stretching above them.
Jack nodded toward the stars. “So, the Christmas Star. What was it, really?”
Sam’s expression softened. “Astrophysically speaking?”
“Why else would I ask you?”
Sam shifted her stance slightly, warming to the topic in the way she always did when astronomy was involved.
“Well… there are actually several scientific hypotheses about what the Star of Bethlehem could have been,” she began, slipping effortlessly into lecture mode. “One of the strongest candidates is a triple planetary conjunction between Jupiter and Saturn in the constellation Pisces.
“In 7 BCE, Jupiter — associated symbolically with kingship — and Saturn — associated with the Jewish people in ancient astrology — had a series of very close conjunctions. To the naked eye, the two planets would appear to merge into a single, unusually bright object.
“And because Earth’s orbit created a kind of optical loop, the conjunction happened three times in the same year. Ancient astronomers would absolutely have considered that significant.”
Jack blinked. “So… planets playing chicken.”
She smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Another possibility is a comet since comets can appear suddenly and be extraordinarily bright. Halley’s Comet passed in 12 BCE, which is a little early, but Chinese astronomical records mention other bright comets around 5–4 BCE.
“The problem is that in many ancient cultures, comets were considered bad omens, not good ones. So it’s debated whether a comet fits the symbolism. It would be hard to build a holiday carol around ‘fear the sky streak of doom.’”
Jack immediately burst into song: “Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la, la-lah!”
Sam snorted. “Exactly.”
“There’s also the supernova theory. Chinese and Korean astronomers recorded a ‘guest star’ around 5 BCE—a bright point of light that wasn’t there before and persisted for over two months. That’s consistent with a nova or possibly a supernova.
“A supernova would be incredibly bright—potentially visible even during the day. Something like that could easily be interpreted as a sign.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Exploding stars. Very festive.”
Sam smirked. “Well, it would’ve gotten everyone’s attention.”
“Another theory is the heliacal rising of a major star—for example, Regulus or Sirius. That’s when a star becomes visible at dawn after being hidden behind the Sun for a period of time.
“To ancient astrologers, a star’s heliacal rising was considered extremely significant, especially if it happened in a constellation associated with kingship or prophecy.”
Jack nodded slowly. “So the universe basically pulled back the curtain and said, ‘Ta-da.’”
Sam laughed. “In a way.” A smiled appeared on her lips as she answered him. “There’s one more,” she continued, unable to hide her enthusiasm.
“In ancient astrological terms, a star or planet could be described as ‘standing still.’ Planets don’t actually stop, obviously, but during retrograde motion — when the Earth overtakes another planet in its orbit — they appear to pause in the sky before reversing direction.
“Jupiter went into retrograde around the right timeframe, and from the viewpoint of the Middle East, it would have looked like it paused over a specific region of the sky.”
Jack blinked. “So the star didn’t stop. We just did a cosmic fly-by that made it look that way.”
“Exactly.” She beamed at the Colonel’s analogy. “It’s an optical effect, but a very convincing one.”
After explaining all of them, Sam grew quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting upward.
“Which one do you think it was?” he asked her gently.
“Honestly?” she added softly, almost to herself, “the miracle wasn’t the astronomical event. It was that people saw something in the sky… and believed it meant hope.”
Jack watched her in the glow of the instrument consoles, the stars reflecting faintly in her eyes.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Some things show up right when you need them.”
Sam’s eyes drifted upward, then froze. “Sir.”
“What?”
She pointed.
Over their heads, taped slightly crooked to the bottom of a vent, hung a tiny sprig of mistletoe.
Jack stared at it.
Then at her.
Then back at it.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”
Sam pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Sir, did you—”
“No! Absolutely not. Do I look like someone who goes around planting mistletoe on classified military equipment?”
Her laugh escaped—soft. Lovely.
“That’s definitely NORAD’s fault,” Jack grumbled. “Those Santa-tracking elves upstairs probably decorated everything that didn’t move.”
“It’s… festive,” Sam offered.
“It’s a violation of at least three protocols,” he muttered, which only made her laugh harder.
Jack shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware of how close they were.
Of the mistletoe above them.
Of what it implied.
“I mean,” he said carefully, “regulations don’t cover… uh…”
“Mistletoe?” she supplied, amused, and flustered all at once.
“Right. That.”
For one suspended moment, the world held still — the stars, the hum of the dome, the snow outside, the warmth between them.
Then Jack reached up—not toward her, but toward the mistletoe—and tugged it down with a decisive snap.
He placed it in her hand, fingers brushing hers gently.
“Evidence,” he said gruffly. “So no one thinks this was my idea.”
She looked at the sprig in her palm, then at him. Her voice softened. “Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “Merry Christmas, Carter.”
She smiled — warm and gentle, the kind of smile that stings a little in the best way.
“Merry Christmas, sir.”