He's comparing prices of frozen fish, of all things, when he catches a sight of familiar blonde hair. She casually reaches past him, unaware, until something makes her look up and freeze in shock, mouth agape as she hovers with the packet of breaded cod in her hand, shopping cart casually restrained with the other.
"Hey," he offers lamely. She's looking older since the last time he saw her. He ruefully concedes that he's looking the worse for wear, as well. A far cry from the days when they first met.
"Hey," she replies. There's an awkward silence; he glances down to the hand that used to have a gold band on it, the band that labelled him as hers. There's no outward sign anymore that they'd ever known each other. When he looks up, he finds her looking at the same hand. He moves the fingers on it a little self consciously, drumming them against the shiny cardboard.
"Cold," he offers by way of explanation. "How've you been?" he asks her, partly because he needs to fill in the deafening sound of nothing, and partly because he really needs to know. The last time he saw her he'd been walking off with the impossible, something that she would never get an explanation for, promises be damned. They'd both known it at the time, too.
"Good," she says. And he can see in her eyes and her tone of voice and the way that she holds herself that it's true. And from the lines round her eyes and the deepened frown lines he can tell that it hasn't been easy to get there. And – oddly enough – the shame is mingled with a pride that burns with its intensity. Because despite the fact that his wife had never been caught in a barrage of bullets, or ever been captured by an enemy, she had always been the strongest person he knew, no exceptions. The years haven't changed that.
"You?" she asks, almost awkwardly, as if she has no right to be asking it. Because they've been too close to be fooled by a 'fine' and a smile, but they're not close anymore; they have no right to expect an honest answer.
He shrugs off the question. "Oh… you know," he says, gesturing with the packaging of the frozen fish to emphasise his non-answer.
"No," she replies, almost shockingly blunt in her directness. "I don't."
She looks at him, a clear challenge. She'd never been happy with less than honesty from him, the slight lies that he'd had to tell her. The 'I'm okays' when he was anything but.
He backs down. "I'm not bad," he says. And it's true. He's not bad. There's nothing terrible happening in his life. There's just… nothing to be bad.
She's not fooled. But she's not quite willing to challenge him that far, it seems. So she nods once instead, and both seemingly happy in their respective lies, she moves to push the shopping cart away. He knows that there's more to be said, but he doesn't quite dare say it.
Only he doesn't quite dare let her walk away again, either, because the last time she did that it nearly broke him. So he stands, conflicted, holding the warming cardboard in his frozen hands, torn in a way that only she has ever been able to manage.
In the end, he doesn't have to say a word, because with a muttered curse Sara turns round and switches what he's holding in his hand for what had gone into her cart. And he can't help but smile as he realises the absurdity of each of them having the others' favourite as he flexes the hand to return the warmth to it.
"Goddammit, Jack," she mutters, clasping his cold hand with her own. And he can't help but be reminded of Charlie and his icy cold hands after making snowmen at the end of the pier. Which always inevitably led onto him being teased by both of them that the snowman had a better chance of catching anything than Jack did.
"I can think of something to warm them up," he suggests lightly. Because thinking doesn't hurt like it should. He's remembering carrots at dawn; watching Charlie wedge one into the snowman's face slightly off centre and crooked, and hours spent propping up a fishing rod to get that perfect photo. He wonders if she still has it, or whether it's lost in his attic somewhere.
She looks at him and rolls her eyes. She's never been one to fall down laughing at his jokes – with her he'd normally find the tables turned however he tried. "Oh?"
"Coffee," he says, deadpan.
Playing poker with Teal'c has obviously paid off, because she stares at him, failing to find a suitable retort, until she turns, picks up a coffee jar and places it in his thawing hands. And this time she is trying to repress the laughter, eyes regarding him with a humour that he never thought he'd see again.
"Let me know how it goes," she offers as a parting shot, as she turns and walks off without a backwards glance. He thinks maybe she's got the right idea.