Jello

By BadgerGater

Episode: Pre-Stargate the series

Spoilers: none really

Category: humor, I hope

Pairing: Jack/Sara, after all, they were married then.

Summary: A crisis in the O’Neill household

Rating: G

Warnings: Messy

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of SciFi Channel, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Don't own. Love 'em though.

Author's Note: Dedicated to the denizens of the Netherlands Mini-Con 2003, especially Corine and family. You all know why<G>.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“No.” The voice was stubbornly insistent, the jaw set, the arms crossed over the chest, the perfect image of angry denial as could only be expressed by an O’Neill.

“No?” Jack O’Neill asked again.

“No, Daddy. Mommy said I could have Jello.”

“Well, I’m not Mommy,” Jack answered, stating the obvious. “And Daddy’s don’t make Jello.”

The small face fell in disappointment, a tear escaping from under the lush eyelashes, trickling down the cheek. “But Daddy…” he wailed, and then more tears fell.

Jack sighed. He could defy his superiors, withstand the tirades of Colonels and Generals, but the tears of one small child left the Special Operations officer helpless.

Charlie wanted Jello.

Charlie was gonna get Jello.

It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Sure, Sara always said he couldn’t boil water, but that was an exaggeration. He could. He did, on frequent occasions, like when he was forced to make instant coffee, never his first choice, but better than going coffee-less. And in the field, he’d boiled water for numerous uses. So, yeah, he *could* boil water.

“Okay, where is it?”

Charlie’s tears cleared miraculously, a smile returning to the four year old’s face as he trotted over to the cupboard, opened a drawer and revealed the interior packed full of Jello boxes. Choosing two, the boy handed them to his father.

“Two?”

“Mom always makes two.”

Cherry, the box said. Reading the instructions, Jack was sure he could handle it. Pour the stuff into a bowl, add boiling water, stir, add cold water, set in refrigerator… even a culinary challenged guy like himself could handle something *that* simple.

“Piece of cake,” he muttered.

“Not cake, Daddy, Jello.”

Jack smiled indulgently down at his son. Picking up the boy, swooping him through the air so that the child giggled in delight, O’Neill set his son on the counter near the kitchen sink. Opening the cupboard, Jack picked a clear glass bowl, and set it on the counter beside the boy.

“Mommy doesn’t use that bowl for Jello. She uses that one,” Charlie pointed up into the cupboard at a blue bowl.

“Well, Daddy’s gonna use *this* bowl.” Manly pride demanded that he win at least one argument today.

Charlie folded his arms across his chest, warning, “Mommy won’t like it.”

Jack grinned. “Mommy *will* like it. Trust me.” Grabbing the teakettle off the stove’s back burner, Jack filled it at the sink, then set it on the burner, turning the setting to high. Tearing the end off the small cardboard box and opening the small bag within, O’Neill dumped the contents of the first box into the bowl, then the second.

Confident now, he rummaged in the cupboard to find a measuring cup, and a big serving spoon to stir the mixture with.

Jello.

Easy.

Any fool could do this

**********

Drumming his fingers on the countertop as he waited for the water to boil, Jack stared out the window at his back yard. The lawn needed mowing again. The first of Sara’s flowers were about ready to bloom. Last time he’d been home, it seemed like they’d just been tiny leaves peaking out of the ground. And the grass hadn’t even started to grow. He looked down at his son, and thought about how fast the boy was growing, and how much he missed out on every time he left on a mission. Sometimes it seemed like Charlie was a whole different kid when he got home. So yeah, home was routine, but it was also special. Reaching down, he ruffled Charlie’s blonde hair. “How about, after all this cooking stuff, we go outside and play catch?”

Just then, the tea kettle began to whistle.

Reaching over to the stove, Jack picked up the kettle, carefully pouring the bubbling liquid into the measuring cup and dumping it into the bowl, then repeating the movements.

He set the kettle on the back of the stove once again, turning off the burner he’d used to heat the water.

He could already hear the clink-clink of the spoon against the side of the bowl as Charlie stirred the mixture.

Crack!

Instinct took over. Jack didn’t think, he reacted, grabbing Charlie off the countertop, pushing him down on the throw rug and covering the child with his own body. Adrenaline surged through his bloodstream, his heart was racing, his breath rasping through his throat.

“Daddy!” Charlie wailed in panic, squirming beneath him.

Charlie?

He was home, in his own home. No one would be shooting at him here. But what the hell had that been?

Lying on the floor, Jack suddenly felt something uncomfortably warm soaking through his pantleg. Raising his head just a few inches to look, the sight of red liquid dripping down off the counter, onto his pant leg, and the floor, scared him. Had he been shot? Or Charlie?

But wait.

The color wasn’t right.

That wasn’t blood red.

It was… something else red.

“Shit.”

“Daddy!” Charlie chastised. “Mommy says you shouldn’t use that word.”

“Mommy’s not here.” Jack slowly pushed himself off the floor, his hand encountering more warm, sticky red fluid. Ick.

“Oh for crying out loud.”

It was Jello, red Jello, leaking down off the counter and dripping into sugary wet puddles on the floor.

Where the hell was it coming from?

Standing now, he realized the counter was covered in the viscous cherry colored liquid.

The bowl was nearly empty, its crystal clear surface marred by a series of cracks ringing the base. “Shit,” Jack muttered a second time. He tried to pick up the bowl, but it came apart in his hands, the sides pulling clear, the base and the last of the heavy fluid still sitting in the midst of a pool of bright red.

Tossing the broken top into the trash, Jack then carefully lifted the bottom half, trying not to spill any more, carrying it over to join the remainder in the garbage.

Quickly, he grabbed the roll of paper towels off the wall-mounted rack. He ripped off half a dozen sheets, soaking up the mess on the counter, and used a handful more to sop up the gooey liquid on the floor.

“Daddy?”

“Ah, just a little problem here, Charlie.” Jack grabbed the boy and set him up on the counter once more, on the far side of the sink this time, so he wouldn’t smear around the sticky mess. Taking more towels, Jack wiped up the thick fluid. By the time he was done, the paper towels were gone and the wastebasket almost full.

Charlie was wiggling around, wanting to get down and help, but Jack knew he *really* didn’t need the assistance of the four year old. This was already a big enough mess without sticky little hands spreading the stuff all around.

Taking the dishrag from the sink, Jack wet it with hot water, then wiped off the counter once more. Rummaging under the sink, he found some dish soap, and sprinkled it across the counter top, using it to help clean up the sticky mess.

Next, the floor. Using the wet rag and hot, soapy water, Jack spot washed the area of the kitchen floor near the counter.

Done at last, he stood back and surveyed the area. No glaring specks of red remained. He ran a hand over the counter, and didn’t encounter any more stickiness.

Oh good.

Sighing in relief, Jack turned back to his son who was watching with wide eyes.

“Mommy going’s to be mad,” the child warned.

“Mommy won’t be mad. She won’t even notice. See, it’s all cleaned up.”

“You broke the bowl.”

Jack waved a hand at the cupboard. “Mommy has lots of bowls. She won’t notice.”

“Mommy always notices,” Charlie answered with a child’s knowing tone.

********

Sara knew something was up. Jack was looking way too innocent, being far too solicitous, hurrying out to the car to help her carry in the groceries, even before she’d asked. He hadn’t even complained when she’d reminded him to take out the garbage.

Then there was Charlie’s wide-eyed look, the one he got when he’d done something he knew he shouldn’t have, but Sara hadn’t found out about yet.

“So,” she asked, suspiciously, “did you boys have fun this morning?”

Jack tried to look innocent. It was something he was good at, as more than one of his CO’s had been known to say. But he wasn’t facing a mere Colonel or General this time, he was facing his wife. Jack looked over at his son, a conspiratorial look exchanged between them.

Sara’s mother instincts went into overdrive.

“Oh, yeah.”

“So, what did you two do?”

Jack grinned, the grin looking a little suspicious to Sara’s experienced eye. “This and that,” he answered noncommittally. “Guy stuff.”

“Guy stuff,” Charlie echoed.

Sara looked around. The house looked intact. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing seemed missing. Nothing seemed odd, except for the look on the two faces, father and son. Guilty, they were definitely guilty of something.

Shaking her head, Sara O’Neill waited for the shoe to drop.

*********

It didn’t happen for a while.

Jack continued to be the perfect gentleman all evening, helping with supper, even offering to clear the table and do the dishes. Sara was getting more and more worried. Whatever he’d done, he clearly knew he was in trouble.

Finally finishing in the kitchen, Jack joined Sara and Charlie in the living room, sliding down to sit beside her on the couch. “So, you want to watch a movie? Your choice? How about that Barbara Streisand one you like?"

Now he’d officially gone too far. Jack loathed that movie. Sara’s worry factor had reached the proverbial perfect ten and she couldn’t bear the suspense for another minute. “Okay, that’s it. I can’t stand it anymore. Tell me what you did.”

“Huh?” Jack stared at his wife, wide-eyed.

“What did you do?”

“Why do you think I did anything?”

“Because I know you, Jack O’Neill, and I know that look, and I can add two and two and come up with four, which means that, for some reason, you think I’m going to be mad at you. And you’re trying way too hard to avoid it.”

Jack’s grin faded. “Ah, well…”

“Daddy tried to make Jello,” Charlie said.

“Tried to make Jello?” Sara stared from her son to her husband. “*Tried* to make Jello? How could you not make Jello? All you have to do is boil water.”

Jack shrugged. “You always say I’m hopeless in the kitchen, can’t even boil water.”

“I exaggerate. Learned it from you.” Tapping her foot on the floor, she ordered, “Flyboy, it’s confession time. Tell me what you did.”

Jack suddenly found the pattern of brown and tan blocks in the living room carpet fascinating, tracing the pattern with his big toe, hands behind his back, the picture of perfect innocence... not.

“Ja-ack…”

“It was an accident.”

“Right….” Sara was getting a bad feeling, a really bad feeling.

“I didn’t know it would happen.”

“I assumed that…”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“That’s a given, or it wouldn’t have been an accident.” Sara persisted.

Jack was sweating. Facing up to Sara was worse than confessing to his mother, who hadn’t ever let him get away with anything either. Both women saw right through his best innocent look.

“Tell,” Sara insisted.

“I was making Jello, and the bowl broke.”

“It was a big mess,” Charlie added.

Jack threw him a withering look. “Thanks for the support.”

Charlie grinned.

“What was a big mess?” Sara was exasperated now.

“I poured the hot water into the bowl and it cracked and broke and, uh, stuff sort of dripped all over. But I cleaned it up,” Jack added quickly. “Used soap and hot water.”

“That’s good.” Sara was still skewering him with her gaze. “Which bowl was it?”

“I’ll buy you a new bowl.” Jack promised.

“That’s nice. Which bowl?”

“I, uh...”

“Jack…” her patience was worn through.

“Really, I didn’t know it would break. Honest,” he pleaded for mercy one last time.

“Jack!”

“That fancy clear glass one, the one you use all the time.”

“My crystal bowl? The one that was a wedding present? From Aunt Vivian?” Sara was staring at her husband. “From my *favorite* Aunt Vivian?"

Jack had been taken to task by Colonels, glared at by Generals, chewed out by drill sergeants who could put the fear of God into God himself. But Sara mad at him… he cringed. “Really, honey, I’m sorry.”

She was shaking, not sure whether she ought to cry, or laugh.

“Look, Sara, honey, I’m sorry. Really,” Jack stepped closer, but wary of the reaction he’d get, didn’t reach out to touch his wife. “I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

She was still shaking. “You will, oh you will.” Should she tell him? Nah, the look on his face, the contrite, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I’m really a dear sweet guy look was something she got all too infrequently. She’d let him grovel, sweat and cringe.

Because, well, yeah, she really loved Aunt Viv.

But she’d always hated that ugly bowl.

And she was never gonna tell him that.

------------------

The End