Trial and Error, Take 1

Oct 21, 2007 21:53

“Sam, what exactly was that comment about second grade and Christmas about on Mark’s postcard?” Daniel asked, a gleam in his eyes. He had been the designated mail-sorter for the team the day before their exploratory mission, and now seemed like the perfect time to bring it up as they huddled around a pitiful fire and waited for the natives to come back.

Looking first surprised, and then embarrassed, and then resigned (because the other two were going to join in on the ragging unless she spilled), Carter sighed and stirred the fire.

“I was a bright child, at least according to the grades and my parents. Wanted to know everything about anything.”

“Not surprising,” Jack muttered to Teal’c.

“So, when I hit the second grade, I was already skeptical about the ‘Santa Clause’ deal. I wanted to prove, definitively, that he either did or did not exist. Sending a letter to the ‘North Pole’ asking him to personally drop by, reindeer in hand, didn’t work, and Mom and Dad were already on the suspect list.

“The way I saw it, I only had one option left…”

-

Hair pulled back into two pigtails, a seven-year-old Samantha Carter pulled a chair over to the cabinets, attempting to muffle the scraping noises as best she could.

Having positioned the heavy piece of furniture to her satisfaction, she scanned the kitchen again to make sure no one was coming and then stood carefully up on the chair.

Time was, apparently, of the essence; the young Carter undid the supposed ‘Child Safety Lock’ and eased open a creaking cabinet door, rising to her tiptoes in an effort to grab the medicine basket on the middle shelf, just out of reach. Thwarted by her petite stature, because children didn’t hit their growth spurts at seven, she placed her fists on her hips and pursed her lips, thinking fast.

It was easy enough for her to hop off and patter over to the bathroom, grab her stepstool, and run back to the kitchen. The hard part came in getting it up onto the chair; after a few moments of struggling to get it high enough to be put on the seat, Samantha put one foot on the chair rung, gripped the edge of the seat with her free hand, and quickly stepped up onto the rung, the stepstool now sufficiently high.

Clambering somewhat gracefully onto the chair and then with more caution onto the stepstool, seven-year-old Carter held the cabinet door for balance as she tugged stubbornly at the wicker basket. Almost thrown off balance when it finally slid free, Samantha let go to grab the basket with both hands.

While this might have put her in a far more precarious position, the second grader dealt with the problem of balance by dropping her prize into a blanket she had arranged next to the chair. Then it was down from the stepstool, down from the chair, and gingerly search the contents of the basket for her desire.

There it was, gleaming darkly in middle of other, more inferior pharmacy products; it was the one thing she knew could down an eight-year-old in under ten minutes: NyQuil. Handling the substance cautiously, Carter slipped it into her cameo backpack, safely nestled within a box’s worth of tissues, and spent the next four or so minutes struggling to put the basket back in the exact place it had had prior to her raid.

However, even the best first grader was bound to slip up at some point, and Samantha forgot about the heavily belled mini-Christmas-tree displayed proudly on the counter. As she jumped down from the stepstool for the last time, a pigtail brushed a bell with just enough force that it jingled lightly.

She froze, heart beating rapidly as her bright blue eyes scanned the rooms for any sign of Mark or her parents. Then, deciding that she had to chance being caught putting her ‘gear’ away, Carter hauled the stepstool off and raced back to the bathroom, tucking it hastily into it’s corner and then flying back to the kitchen. Caution was rudely thrown to the wind as she dragged the heavier chair back to the table, ignoring the grating sound it produced.

There; almost done.

In one swift motion Samantha scooped up her backpack and shrugged it over one small shoulder, running out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

Mom, coming up from downstairs to investigate, paused at the top of the basement stairs.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothinggottagoupto myroomloveyou bye-“

And the small whirlwind was gone, now in the relative safety and comfort of her blue bedroom. Closing the door, Carter let out a huge sigh, then worriedly checked to make sure the NyQuil was unharmed.

It was.

Smiling with pride in a mission well done, the little blonde sat down and began to plot out the next phase of her plan…

-

“Do I even want to know why you stole NyQuil? At that age, even you were too young to try and get high off of cough medicine.”

“Ssh; let her finish.”

“Indeed, O’Neill.”

“Honestly, Carter, I expected better…”

-
It was time to put out the milk and cookies; Samantha had promised Mark two of her Christmas chocolates if he let her do it, so it was without resistance that she began to compile the ceremonial tray of food.

A few sugar cookies, two carrots for the “reindeer”…

…and a glass of grape juice for the “Big Man” himself. Shooting a glance at her parents, who were busy putting the finishing touches on the tree, she pulled the precious bottle out from the crook of her back where she had stuffed it, disguised by the feathery boa around her waist. Two seconds later she was pouring the medicine into the “Welcome, Santa!” mug and then screwing the cap back on with a surprising amount of skill.

Just as she stashed the empty bottle behind a row of gingermen (and women), her mother looked over.

“Samantha, are you done yet?”

“Almost, Mommy.” With an invisible shake of the glass, Carter made sure the contents were mixed. Then she put it on the red and green tray and, putting on an appropriately large smile, carried it to the coffee table.

“All right now, children, go to bed! Santa only comes if you’re asleep!” Her father warned with a smile on his face, shooing them upstairs. His daughter gave him a kiss and a hug, confident in the knowledge that he hated grape juice and her mother disliked it as well. If anyone was going to drink it, it was going to be Santa…

…if he existed.

The seven year old settled into her bed with the calm assurance that hers was a brilliant plan; the only flaw being that she couldn’t watch to make sure it was not dumped down the drain. But morning would come soon, and she wondered if she would find a jolly old man sleeping soundly near her presents when she woke up.

-

“Daniel, did you just hear Carter admit to trying to poison Santa?”

“…that’s what it sounded like.”

“Carter, please tell me you did not poison Santa.”

“I believe the conclusion of the story would reveal the most about the subject, O’Neill.”

-

Snow lay on the ground as Samantha Carter, genius child, examined the empty mug with a careful and suspicious eye.

Empty.

That was acceptable; that was part of the plan. The only problem was…

Where was the fat man?

After a thorough and exhaustive comb-through and analysis of her plan and its results, Samantha Carter, child genius, decided that there was no such thing as “Santa”.

-

“…well, that explains a whole lot.”

Before anyone else could make a smart remark, the villagers came back and, laying wreaths of something that looked like it should have been buried thirty years ago around their necks, announced they were ready to trade.

“Great,” Jack said, examining the pig-things strung through with something that looks like cat gut. “Let’s go rally the negotiators.”

And the story was forgotten for a while… at least until the next round

stargate sg-1, samcarter_gen, samantha carter

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