Title: A Christmas Most Fowl
Author: Kedd
Summary: He's not quite sure where it all went wrong, but he thinks it's somewhere between cracking open the rum and eggnog and deciding the turkey looked like Apophis, minus the weird hats.
Pairing: S/J
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Part of the sj_everyday Secret Santa exchange, for vickysg1, who asked for Sam and Jack's first Christmas as a couple, set post-S8.

Jack O'Neill was man enough to admit that he was panicking. He was also man enough to try and blame someone else for it. Of course, he didn't really want to blame Carter, and he knew, logically, that any problems between the two of them were both of their faults. But his panic, well, that was definitely all hers.

It was due to their last conversation. Like all of their phone calls recently, it'd been short - cut off this time, by some emergency on her end, although that tended to vary. (Even as a General, there were still emergencies he had to deal with; unfortunately, most of them involved politicians, finances, or paperwork - sometimes, all three.) But recently, their conversations had been strained, a bit tense, and that had Jack worried. It was all still so new, and he didn't want to mess it up. He couldn't afford to mess it up, because it was Carter and, as he'd recently discovered, life without Carter was not a life he enjoyed. Circumstances seemed to be conspiring against them, however, because she was back at the SGC, there were new bad guys at large, and they'd only seen each other for two weekends in the last two months.

Jack smirked. Those weekends, however, had been excellent.

It had been the thought of those weekends, and how he desperately wanted more of them, that had led him to broach the subject of Christmas with Carter. Now, he knew that the SGC didn't have regular holidays, like the Pentagon did, but with Carter's seniority it shouldn't be a problem for her to get some time off. So, he'd asked her to come and spend Christmas with him, in Washington.

She'd sighed, "I don't know, Jack. I just -" she'd paused, and he could picture the little crease that formed between her eyebrows as she was thinking, "- Not that our weekends haven't been great," he could feel the 'but' coming on, "But, it's Christmas. I'd like to do something different."

Jack guessed she meant something other than ordering Chinese and spending the weekend in bed. "You mean, like Christmas dinner or something?"

"Yeah," she'd replied, "Something normal."

And it was those last two words that had him panicking. Because when Sam got that tone in her voice, he found himself unable to prevent the memory of their one meaningful conversation at his cabin from running through his head.

She'd been standing down by the pond, the full moon causing the crests of the waves to be gilded with silver, strands of her hair glinting in the moonlight. He'd taken his time walking towards her, being sure to make enough noise not to startle her. They'd all noticed the difference in her today; she'd been quieter, her smile slower to start and quicker to end, and she'd been distracted, her attention often focussed off in the distance.

He stopped beside her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring off over the water, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she could physically hold herself together, ground herself when he knows she's falling to pieces. Jacob's dead; the price of their victory, and while Jacob might have accepted that, for Carter acceptance is just beginning. Pete, she'd said, was 'gone,' and she hadn't elaborated much further, other than to say it was her choice. But it's another major change in her life. And with the Goa'uld and Replicators gone work, her usual safe haven, is undergoing a major change of pace and direction too. He looks at where her fingers are digging into her biceps, her knuckles white with tension. She's just trying to hold on to something.

"Carter," he said, hesitant to break her concentration.

"Sir," she replied, not making any move towards him.

He gave her another moment just in case, and then cleared his throat, wondering if being out here, pressing her was the right thing to do. "How're you holding up?"

She turned towards him at that, her eyes wide and bright with unshed tears, and he couldn't help but reach for her, gathering her in to him, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her head down against his shoulder while he buried his face in her hair. It took a minute, but he felt her begin to relax, her arms tentatively unfolding and grasping onto him instead. And he knew that Carter was letting him in, letting him see 'Sam', as had so rarely happened through the years.

A while after that, he felt her begin to shake slightly as the tears came. And then she began to talk, about how she knew that Jacob's death was necessary, but it still hurt, and she knew she should be grateful for the last years they'd had, but she wanted more. How she was glad the Goa'uld and Replicators were gone, but that work was changing so much that she didn't know what to focus on, now that she didn't have to save the planet on a routine basis. But she didn't have any reason to leave work early, either, she said, because Pete was gone, and was it any wonder, because she's terrible at relationships, terrible at all that normal stuff, and he knew it and she knew it. And she looked up at him with a red nose, wet eyes, and smudged mascara, and said, "I just wanted to have a normal relationship, you know? With someone who I could come home to, and talk to, and sleep beside, and be happy with." She paused to sniffle, and looked out over the pond. "Something reliable, and dependable, and normal."

And Jack felt like his heart was being squeezed, because Sam had never looked more beautiful to him than in that moment, open and trusting and sharing. And while he could mostly do reliable and dependable with his desk job, he knew that what little he could offer her was far from normal. But he'd composed his face, hiding his worry and despair that it wouldn't be enough in her hair. He'd held her then, and again the next day. By the end of the week at the cabin, they'd come to the understanding that maybe what was between them wasn't normal, but it was something worth trying.

At least, he thought that had been the conclusion they'd come to. But here it was again, her desire for normal. Which she apparently wasn't finding with him. So, he'd cleared his throat and before he really had time to think about it said, "Sure, Carter. A normal Christmas dinner. I can do that."

He'd heard the emergency alarms start to go off in the background of the SGC as he hung up.

Everything was going well until Jack woke up at 03:00 on Christmas Day with the sudden realization he hadn't thawed the turkey.

He'd gone to bed on Christmas Eve confident that everything was prepared for Carter's arrival tomorrow. Recipes has been chosen, ingredients had been purchased, decorations had been set up, and presents had been wrapped. He'd snuggled into his blankets with that sense of quiet satisfaction that he could pull this off, that everything was done, and that Carter would get her normal Christmas - dinner and all.

He woke in a cold sweat with a racing heart and a sense of impending doom. He could picture the night that awaited him: Sam would show up, expecting some form of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing, at the table, like normal people. He would sheepishly hand her a bag of Chinese food, and she'd take one look at the bag, one look at him, and turn around and head for Colorado. Maybe even Denver. And he'd be left alone in Washington with a bag of moo-shu pork, cashew chicken, and paperwork for company. Jack hated cashew chicken.

It took him less than two minutes to get dressed, go to the freezer, grab the turkey, and come to the realization that the damn bird was frozen tighter than the Aschen's sense of humour. Jack stood in the middle of his kitchen, staring at the turkey, waiting for inspiration. He grabbed the rum and eggnog while he was waiting. After three stiff glasses of eggnog, it came to him in the form of an electric blanket, Sam's hairdryer, and the fireplace. He put the bird on the hearth while he lit a rip-roaring fire, and left it perching there as he dug out an old electric blanket, which he tenderly tucked around the turkey. Before searching for the hairdryer, Jack detoured to the kitchen to pour himself a rum and eggnog, hold the eggnog. He came back and settled on the floor, blowing the hairdryer under the blanket, and sipping on his rum.

By 07:30, the bird was almost completely thawed, and Jack had switched from rum to Irish coffee. Now that it wasn't frozen, Jack could see why this turkey had been on sale. The damn thing looked like it had been through a war: the skin was torn in half a dozen places, one of the legs was partially ripped off, and when he dug out the neck it looked like it had been hacked off with a chainsaw. Jack raised his coffee to the turkey, "I always say, if you're gonna go - go down fightin'." He took a drink. "Of course, I'm not expectin' to go down in a knife fight, anymore, but it looks like you gave them a run for their money. Hard to kill, I bet." He flipped the bird over. There was a ragged flap of skin dangling from the bottom. He gave a little whistle. "You know what?" he said to the turkey, "I think they had to try an' kill you a few times - let's call you Apophis."

Jack gave the turkey a little pat, before looking at his watch. The plan, after careful consultation with his secretary about how long turkeys took to cook, was to have the bid in the oven by 12:00, so that it would have a few hours to cook and time to rest before Sam arrived. That gave him just over four hours to get the stuffing made and some vegetables prepped, and maybe eat some breakfast. "C'mon, Apophis," Jack said, hoisting the turkey, "Let's get cooking."

Jack propped Apophis up on a kitchen chair, as he didn't have much counter space. The turkey looked like a fat, naked, hairless baby, and Jack swore the bird was mocking him as he moved towards the fridge. He scowled at it and took another sip of his coffee. He decided to start with the stuffing, so he grabbed the celery and onions. Chopping was no problem, and neither was the sautéing. Jack even took the liberty of adding a splash of beer to the veggies. He could feel the bird staring at him. "What?" he said, refusing to be intimidated by a turkey, "It works for omelets. And you're just an omelet, all grown up." Jack finished the rest of the beer as he began chopping the bread, throwing it in with the veggies and liberally seasoning the entire pot. "Bam!" He turned to look at the turkey, still perched on the chair, wings awkwardly flopping in the air by its sides. "Prepare to get stuffed."

Jack placed Apophis on the counter, reached into the cavity and removed the neck and giblets, which he promptly threw away. He then began to jam stuffing into the bird, punching it down with enthusiasm. Once the cavity was full, Jack closed the ragged flap over the neck-hole, and stood back, admiring his bird. He gave Apophis another little pat, a sort of 'job-well-done'. After all, the turkey had been fairly cooperative. Jack scooped the rest of the stuffing into a dish so he could heat it up later. Glancing at the time, he opted to move onto the sweet potato casserole.

He'd have to remember to thank his secretary for this recipe. It was very straight-forward, and Jack figured Carter would be impressed that he had another vegetable, even if it was full of brown sugar, and butter, and pecans. By the time he was done that, Jack figured it was about time to heat up the oven.

Except Jack couldn't turn on the oven.

Well, he turned on the oven, but the oven wasn't heating. Jack stared at the oven. The oven stared back at him. He looked at Apophis, as if for inspiration. He didn't get any. The little red light was on, he'd cranked the heat up, but when he'd opened the door a few minutes later, there was no joy. And the elements weren't lighting up. Jack scowled and tried the stove. The burners all lit up, so it wasn't an electrical thing. He checked the oven again. Cold as a Minnesota winter.

Jack decided to give up on his coffee and move back to rum.

He sat at the kitchen table, nursing his rum, frowning at the oven. He couldn't cook a turkey without an oven. Jack briefly contemplated the microwave, but decided on second glance that Apophis wouldn't fit. Carter would show up, and Jack would be sitting here with a glass of rum and a raw turkey. She'd sigh, annoyed that he hadn't even managed to do the one thing she'd asked for at Christmas, and then look at the oven. She'd fix it in no time, of course. Hell, she'd probably even soup it up so the turkey would cook twice as fast. But he'd still have failed, because he could guarantee there was no one else on the planet who cooked their turkey dinner with a naquadah-enhanced oven. And then, after dinner, she'd look at him, and tell him that this just proved her point; she could never have a normal relationship with him and she didn't know why they'd even bothered trying. She'd grab her tool-box and her suitcase, take back the naquadah and fly back to Colorado, where he'd only see her when he had to tour the SGC for some General-thing.

Jack finished the rest of the rum, staring morosely out over the backyard. There was a light dusting of snow, just enough to cover the grass and bushes and guarantee that they would have a white Christmas. That was when inspiration struck. He could use the barbecue. People cooked chickens on the barbecue - someone had sent him a recipe once where they put a beer can in a chicken and stuck the whole thing on the grill - so he could do the same thing with the turkey. "Apophis," he said, only slurring slightly, "We're back in action!"

Jack quickly shoveled a path to the barbecue, dusted off the lid, and fired the thing up. He gave it a good scrubbing, making sure the grill was clean, and then ran back in to grab Apophis. This was, he thought, quite possibly a stroke of brilliance. It was as he was coming back out that he hit a patch of ice. Unwilling to let go of his turkey, Jack landed solidly on his back, only managing to tuck his chin in to avoid hitting his head. Apophis landed on his chest, winding him. A sharp pain was shooting through his knee and radiating down the back of his calf, while a dull ache thudded in his back and a burning sensation hit his lungs as he gasped in the cold air. Jack took a moment to simply assess the situation; fortunately, Apophis seemed unharmed. He cautiously stood and moved towards the barbecue, placing the turkey on the grill and closing the lid. Limping back towards the house, Jack knew his knee was going to start swelling again - it had that stiff, painful feeling to it. He cursed - limited mobility was never a good thing when Carter was coming for a weekend.

Still, the turkey was on the grill, the sweet potato casserole was underway, and his secretary had provided a pie. Dinner was looking up.

Jack grabbed some ice from the freezer, the rum from the counter, the potatoes from the cupboard, a knife from the drawer, and limped over to the kitchen table. Plopping himself down, he put the ice on his knee, poured himself a rum, and reached into the bag to begin peeling the potatoes.

What was in the bag, however, felt like no potato that Jack had ever felt. It was mushy, with a hard centre, and a gritty, grainy, oozing texture as it went between his fingers. His first instinct was to jerk his hand away from whatever it was that he was feeling. His second was to squint at the writing on the bag, just to make sure it was the right one. It was. Potatoes were supposed to be in the bag. Looking into the bag and at the mess covering his hand, Jack concluded that potatoes had been in the bag. At some point in the distant past. Now, however, he was left with a pile of moldy, mushy, sludge. And nothing with which to make mashed potatoes.

Jack hobbled over to the sink, hand awkwardly cradled in front of him, to wash off the goop. He was pretty sure he'd probably touched much grosser things at some point in his life, he just couldn't think of when. Jack figured he could open the cranberry sauce and get the salad ready, at least. And then maybe he'd take a nap and ice his knee.

Jack woke up two hours later to a mild headache and the beeping of his watch. He'd set it before he fell asleep, so that he'd be able to get up and check on Apophis. He blearily rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, carefully swinging his legs off the sofa, and hobbled over to the window. Jack rubbed his eyes again.

His barbecue was on fire.

"Shit," said Jack.

More accurately, his grease-trap was on fire, but Jack wasn't too interested in details. He had to rescue Apophis! Jack opened the back door and moved (more judiciously than last time) across the still icy deck. Using the tongs, Jack carefully removed the flaming grease-trap, dumping its contents into the snow back. He took a deep breath, and opened the lid of the barbecue.

Apophis had clearly seen better days. The bird was blackened, and little fingers of flame were licking the bottom and dancing along the wings. As Jack watched, horrified, grease dripped down off the turkey and hit the flames, causing a flare to hit Apophis and ignited one of the drumsticks.

"Shit," said Jack. His turkey was on fire. His turkey was on fire. Jack reacted instinctively, using the barbecue fork to spear the turkey and lift it away from the flames. He glanced around, flaming turkey held in front of him, mind racing. He needed to stop the fire.

Jack plunged Apophis into the snowbank, watching with satisfaction as the flames extinguished and steam rolled up into the December air.

Then he realized that the turkey was in a snowbank. Forget fixing his oven, Jack would consider himself lucky if Sam bothered to take off her shoes before turning around and heading back to Colorado.

He left the turkey half-buried in the snowbank, blackened drumsticks just poking out of the white snow, the barbecue fork sticking up to mark its location. Jack went in and looked at his table, set for two, with places designated for all the food. The candles and poinsettia looked pathetic, while the table itself looked barren, a wide space in the middle left for his feast. Jack grabbed the rum, poured himself a glass, and decided to finish the sweet potato casserole. As he grabbed the dish out of the fridge, he realized he still had some stuffing left too. He took them both out to the barbecue, placing them on the shelf to cook.

He placed the cranberry sauce and the salad on the table and tried to rearrange things so that it would look less awkward. He even put the pie out, hoping it would take up some of the space. He finished his glass of rum and wandered out to grab the stuffing and sweet potatoes, giving Apophis a baleful glare as he staggered by. Fortunately, the stuffing and the casserole were only slightly dark on top, still acceptable. Jack carefully placed them on the trivets, squinting as he saw how empty the table still looked. He sighed. Maybe it would look better with the candles lit?

He'd just poured himself another glass of rum, lit the candles, and dimmed the lights when he heard the scratch of Sam's key in the lock. He took a big gulp of the rum, bracing himself for her disappointment.

"Jack?" Sam called from the entranceway. She frowned at the dark hallway. It had been odd enough that Jack had requested she just meet him at his house instead of picking her up at the airfield, but she'd figured he was worried he might get caught in an emergency meeting or something. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that had happened. It was definitely unlike him to not greet her at the door, usually with a kiss that had a warm humming sensation rushing down her body and her toes curling.

"In 'ere," his voice came from the back of the house, sounding decidedly off.

Sam hurriedly shed her jacket and shoes, worried about what could be wrong. As she moved towards the well-lit kitchen, she glanced into the living room, surprised to see a large, real, completely decorated tree surrounded by a few boxes of presents and two stockings hanging by the mantle place. (One was stuffed to overflowing, while the other looked rather sad, being entirely empty.) She blinked in surprise. In all the years she'd known Jack, the only time she'd seen Christmas decorations at his house was the year Cassie insisted they have dinner at Uncle Jack's. She wouldn't have thought he'd have bothered bringing them from Colorado.

She shook herself, more determined than ever to find Jack. Was Cassie here? Or supposed to be here? Had something happened to her?

The kitchen was a bit of a mess. There was a bag of half-melted ice sitting on the table, and dishcloths strewn across the counters. A bag of potatoes with an odd, blackish stain was perched next to the sink, and what looked like a couple of empty eggnog cartons next to that. But that wasn't what caught her eye, Jack was standing through the doorway to the dimly lit dining room, his back to her, leaning heavily on the chair in front of him. His shoulders were slumped, and he appeared to be favouring his left leg. Sam hurried over.

"Jack?" she asked, gently touching him on the shoulder. "What's wrong?" As he startled and turned towards her, Sam's eyes were caught by the table, and she gasped slightly. He'd clearly set the table for the two of them, laying out his nicest dishes and real cloth napkins in a cheery red. Some candles were lit in the centre, their flames dancing playfully over the bright red of the poinsettia and the serving dishes spread between the two plates. She could make out a salad, and some cranberries, and stuffing, and what looked like sweet potatoes. A giant pie took up the place of honour next to the candles.

An awkward grunt drew her attention back to Jack, who was wincing as he wobbled slightly, clearly having stepped on his left leg. Sam moved to duck under his shoulder, supporting him, and pulling out a chair for him to sit in. "Jack! Are you okay?" she asked.

"Not 'smuch," he slurred slightly, trying to lower himself gracefully into the chair. "I'm sorry, Sam. I messed it up."

She peered at him in surprise, but he was avoiding eye contact. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, and a second glance at the table revealed a mostly empty bottle of rum and a glass that had a small splash remaining. She gave him an incredulous look. "Are you drunk? And what happened to your leg?"

Jack winced, ignoring the first of her questions. "I slipped on the ice while cookin' Apophis. Hurt my knee; 's not bad."

Sam blinked in surprise, wondering just how much Jack had had to drink. "Apophis?"

A long-fingered hand lazily waved through the air over the table. "The turkey. It caught on fire. It's in the snowbank." Jack sighed, hand dropping heavily into his lap. "I'm sorry, I jus' wanted to give you a good, normal Christmas." His hand reached for hers, intertwining their fingers. "You deserve to be happy, Sam, to have the sort of normal Christmas you want. That you could've had."

It was obvious that he meant with Pete, and Sam took in a deep breath, blinking back tears. She took another look at the table, the cutlery all carefully aligned, the candles in a mis-matched array of candlestick holders, and the bits of pine tucked around the base of the poinsettia adding to the Christmasy feel of the whole thing. She grasped his hands tightly, amazed that he had put so much effort into a Christmas dinner for the two of them, when they had such a short amount of time together anyways. "Jack," she began, trying to get him to look at her. She moved one of her hands up to grip his chin, turning his face towards hers, admiring how the candlelight glinted off his silvery hair, his eyes appearing even darker. "Jack, if I wanted normal, I wouldn't be here." He tried to look away, but she kept her grip firm on his jaw. "Jack. The reason I left Pete was because it was normal..." she paused, looking into his eyes, "What we have - what I feel for you - Jack, it's extraordinary." Sam took a deep breath, knowing that she was about to irrevocably change everything. She wasn't scared, Jack had already shown her how he felt through his actions, but verbalizing it was another thing. "I love you. And if that means that Christmas from now on is pie, salad, and canned cranberry sauce, that's fine. I'd rather be here, with you, eating this, than anywhere else."

She let go of Jack, standing up and turning so she was facing the table, arms wrapped around herself, unable to watch his reaction. They so rarely talked - really talked - that while she knew how he felt, she didn't know. And the uncertainty made her want to hide, just a little bit. She heard the chair scrape against the floor as he stood, the slight pause as he caught his balance, and then his arms were wrapping around her, holding her tightly. She could see their reflection in the window of his dining room, herself enveloped completely in his embrace, his silvered head ducking down to bury his face in her neck. A shiver went down her spine as he placed feather-light kisses against the crook of her neck. Then his hands grasped her tightly, and he spun her to face him.

His shoulders were squared and a wicked gleam was lighting his eyes as he looked at her. Sam only had a moment to prepare herself before he was bending in, one hand cradling the back of her head, fingers twining through her hair, while the other settled low on the curve of her back. Their breath mingled warmly and then his lips were pressing against hers, softly at first, with tiny teasing nibbles. It was only moments before her tongue was begging for entrance, and then the kiss deepened. All she could taste was rum, and she sucked lightly on Jack's tongue, causing a deep groan to rumble through his chest. She could feel the vibrations through every part of her body, they were pressed so tightly together. She moved her hand from the nape of his neck to the back of his head, pressing lightly to urge him on, although her knees were already trembling as she melted into his body, the firm wall of his chest forcing her to lean slightly backwards, and she reached a hand out to balance on the table. Jack moved from her lips down her neck, pausing to kiss and suck on the skin by the corner of her jaw, by the fluttering of her pulse, by the curve of her shoulder. She tilted her head back to give him better access, her breathing loud and ragged as he bit down lightly. Jack began to slowly calm the pace of his actions, moving back up to brush a light kiss against her lips, rubbing their noses together playfully as he pulled away slightly, bending her head down to his chest while he hid his face in the crook of her neck. Sam rubbed her nose in the bit of chest hair exposed by his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat, and leather, and Jack.

Jack kept his face buried in her neck, but she could hear him clearly, "Remember those feelings?" his voice rumbled through her, "Extraordinary's a pretty good description."

Sam's hands clenched on his flannel shirt, and she pressed herself more tightly against him. She felt him place a feather-light kiss on her skin and a shiver ran down her spine. "Jack," she said, pulling away. "Will this keep?" she gestured to the table.

His lop-sided grin sent a wave of heat through her. "Oh, yeah," he said, his eyes dark with arousal, "It'll keep." He reached out a hand towards her, ready to lead her to the bedroom, waiting as she blew out the candles.

Their fingers intertwined as they made their way slowly down the hallway, Jack's arm slung loosely over her shoulder for 'support'. As they approached the bedroom door, Jack looked down at her. "So, New Year's," he said, smirk firmly in place, "Wanna order Chinese?"

The End.

Additional Author's Note: This story was inspired by one of my favourite Christmas stories of all-time, entitled "Dave Cooks the Turkey" by Stuart McLean, a Canadian short story author, compelling reader, and radio host. If anyone's interested, a free pod-cast of the story is available for free online (either google it, or I can send you the link.) It's well worth a listen, especially if you need a laugh!