"What do you mean you've never been on a picnic?" Jack's eyes are wide with shock and maybe disgust, his hands flat against the commissary table.
Sam shrugs and finishes chewing her jell-o, then swallows it. "Exactly what I said, Sir. I've never been on a picnic."
"Carter, fer cryin' out loud, Cassie has been on a picnic. Teal'c has been on a picnic!"
"Then it sounds like maybe there was a picnic I wasn't invited to."
"Actually, Cassie's was for school and Teal'c's was with Daniel, and I wasn't invited either." He scowls. "Don't think I'm not still sore about it." Jack leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and studying Sam's face. He knows she moved a lot as a kid because of Dad, and he knows her mom died when Sam was pretty young, but that not once in her childhood had anyone taken her on a fucking picnic was baffling. Not even one of the idiots she'd dated? "We're going on a picnic, you and me."
"Sir?" Sam almost drops her spoon but manages to catch it as she stares up at him, half confused and half curious.
"Carter, you can't keep living like this."
She laughs. "Like someone who has never been on a picnic? Sir, we eat outdoors all the time; it's literally part of our job."
He shakes his head. "Camping is not a picnic. The whole vibe is different."
"The vibe is different?"
"What are you doing Saturday, Carter?"
"Kinda starting to feel like I'm going on a picnic, Sir."
"You bet your ass you are, and you're going to love it."
Jack spends the next three evenings prepping for this picnic that he has decided will fix the egregious hole in the tapestry of Sam's life. He's not sure why it's so important to him that he added a temporary awning over his back deck in case of rain, and that he's added a few strings of faerie lights. He figures it's safer to have the picnic at his house than risk being seen by any colleagues who already gossip and wouldn't understand that he's merely, you know, taking his best friend out on a picnic because none of the dumbass trolls in her life had ever bothered and her father had been too busy. As one does.
He's not sure why he spent over an hour picking out the perfect picnic blanket at TJ Maxx on Thursday evening, or why he'd gone back there Friday to buy what looked like fancier than he usually keeps at home pasta. Or why, as he was tossing the fancier pasta salad to lightly dress it, he actually felt nervous about if she'd like it. Or why he had backup blue jell-o and chopped fruit just in case.
Saturday morning, he packs the basket, despite their destination being his back yard, because it's part of the ritual, the vibe. He uses the picnic basket his mother had used; it's handwoven and a little bit shows its age, but he prefers it to the overpriced fancy one he still has from a pile of wedding gifts that somehow ended up with him after Sara left. Sara hated picnics, so he guesses she didn't have a use for it. As far as Jack remembers, it's still got its tags on up in the attic. That's got to be some kind of metaphor.
So he packs the pristine little cucumber sandwiches and charcuterie and pasta salad first, securing their glass containers at the bottom before adding the spinach salad and the small mixed cakes. He got half chocolate and half vanilla cake because he thinks she might prefer vanilla, but he isn't sure, so he got both to make sure it wasn't obvious he was trying so hard to please her.
He loads the blanket and the basket into the backseat of the truck and smiles. She'll make fun of him for this, but he'll stand his ground about the ritual. What does she know about picnics?
The first raindrops start falling on his way to pick her up, and his heart drops just a little. What if she refuses to go? When he does arrive at her house, he's excited to find that she's not only dressed, but also carrying an umbrella.
"Rain or shine, Sir," she says. His heart does a weird flip thing, but he just hauls her into the truck as fast as he can.
"Fear not, Carter, I got this," he says.
"Oh yeah? It's about to be pouring, Sir. Where will we picnic?"
He winks at her as he turns toward home. "C'mon, Carter, do you really think I don't plan that far ahead?"
"To be fair, Sir, I didn't know you thought about picnics at all."
"Well that's because you don't spend enough time thinking about fun things that aren't quarks or whatevers," he says, turning onto his road.
They arrive at Jack's house and he takes her umbrella before running around the truck to let her out and offer the cover to her. "Hold on," he says, reaching into the back seat for the basket and blanket.
"Sir?"
"Don't worry about it; just follow me," he says, reaching out his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her forward into his home.
Jack tugs her to the back of the house and opens the sliding glass door to his deck. "I saw the weather and made this in case," he says.
The deck is mostly pounded by harsh spring rain, but there is one dry spot, covered by a few strategically placed tarps with little lights draped below. Jack spreads a puffy, quilted blanket out on the deck and drops the picnic basket from his hands.
"C'mon, Carter."
She steps out, not sure how to feel about any of it-about an in-case picnic on a back deck, about being invited on a picnic to begin with. About the obvious care taken for this.
"Sir…"
"Sit down, c'mon."
She sits. He tugs her closer so she's covered by the makeshift awning and the faerie lights. Their knees touch. "Why did you do all this, sir?"
"Everyone should go on a picnic, Carter," he says, honestly. "People should make this effort for you." He shrugs and meets her gaze with fewer barriers than she has ever detected in their relationship. "This counts." He smiles and opens the picnic basket on his right. "Do you like pasta salad? Prosecco?" he asks.
"Love both," she smiles.
"Fantastic. Check this out; I made it myself, and the pasta is fancy!"
Thunder startles them only one time that afternoon, and they do get wet with rain, but most of their time is spent enjoying the fancy pasta salad and cake, and a little bit of blue jell-o. And a lot of prosecco.
