Dropping By

by Vathara

How does an archaeologist become an agent?

Dropping By

A/N: This story is set in the "Urban Legends" universe, following "Conference Calls" (AW/G:tS), and before "Snowbound" (AW/RGB). Refers to bits in "Site Omega: Aftermath", "Sneaking", "Dust Off", and "Closer Than They Appear". Stargate belongs to Showtime, MGM, Gekko, and Double Secret, Airwolf to Bellisario and Universal. No infringement intended for any of these.

~*~*~*~*~
Beware! The fish are not what they seem!

"Ahhck!"

Thump.

Dr. Daniel Jackson, linguist, archaeologist, and sometimes-diplomat on more planets than he cared to remember, knelt on a blurry Oriental rug and fumbled fingers over bright colors. There, there - no. Darn it. "Take a day off. Put down the artifacts. Settle into a comfortable chair." Yeah right, Janet. Never trust an M.D. with sleep on the brain.

It wasn't as if he'd been hitting the coffee that hard. So a few days back he'd been a little dizzy for a minute, missed a step while SG-1 was on their way back to the 'Gate. It was the equivalent of two-thirty in the morning SGC time, for goodness' sake. It wasn't that big a deal.

Not that any of that explained the duct tape currently sticking the lid on his fish tank.

Scales and the flash of teeth....

So maybe something on Tyrace had dredged up bad memories of Nem. Salt water, sand, a few local fire-pits - heck, even Sam had given the Tyracean seashore a suspicious once-over. Jack and Teal'c simply hadn't let him out of their sight.

Which got pretty old after a week negotiating with the locals, who were all too willing to assume anyone of his "protected" status had the kind of relationship the Joint Chiefs smashed careers for. A little too much Ancient Greek in the population was not always a good thing.

Ah. There were his glasses-

Fingers on wire frames, Daniel froze. Listened. For what, he wasn't sure. Is someone out there?

"Hmm... means of access," a familiar Southern voice mused in the hall outside. "Door lock, balcony, and of course, the ever-popular luring phone call...."

A woman's laughing Texas drawl. "You could just knock."

"How pedestrian."

"Michael?" Daniel blurted.

"Is it too early for lunch?"

Lunch? Daniel jammed on his glasses, headed for the door in a daze. One of the most devious, outrageous spies he'd ever met was on his doorstep, risking a potentially fatal close encounter of the Jack O'Neill kind. And the spy had brought with him a pilot who flew one of the most advanced working aircraft on the planet; death glider wreckage didn't count. An aircraft the SGC, insofar as Daniel could tell, still didn't know belonged to its own government. And Michael was worried about lunch? "Are you kidding?"

"Ah, good." A soft laugh. "Were you planning to open the door, or shall I let myself in?"

"Michael." A quiet voice, hard and stubborn as California granite.

Correction, two pilots, Daniel thought, glancing through the door peephole. He wasn't surprised that Michael was the only one in view. From the sound of it Caitlin and String were just out of sight, probably keeping an eye on the elevator. Good idea. If Jack shows up....

Jack wasn't supposed to collect him for the pizza-party until this evening. But if the colonel decided to ignore yet another of Janet's edicts and pick him up early - well, things could get sticky.

Better get them inside before people start to talk. Daniel unlocked the door, opened it with an arched gold brow. "Do I want to know how you got past the doorman?" Oooh... fried chicken, mashed potatoes, salmon - is that lemonade? Wait. Don't drool. He wants something, you know he wants something....

"Probably not." A whisper of white, Michael stepped in.

Caitlin was right on his heels, close enough to shift her cooler to her left hand and punch the spy in the shoulder. "Don't you start." A hazel eye winked at Daniel. "We just told him Doc Fraiser wanted to be sure you ate something, 'stead of living on coffee."

Oof. Rack up one truck-sized hole in building security. People knew he worked in Cheyenne Mountain; pull off the act with enough confidence, and they'd just assume this motley trio was another bunch of off-duty airmen come to tend their errant linguist. Which is sort of true. Almost. "Ah... thanks. I think."

"You ought to," Michael noted. "Mother swears by these recipes." Humor crinkled the skin beside a blacked-out lens. "She says hello, by the way, keep remembering to duck, and why haven't you faxed her a potential vacation schedule so she can arrange a flight for you to Virginia?"

Daniel blinked. "Vacation?"

"Hmm."

Hmm. What hmm? Daniel thought, reflexively suspicious. Just because I haven't had a real vacation in... well, it doesn't matter. I get plenty of rest in the infirmary.

Grocery bag in his arms, String was eyeing the fish tank. Particularly the flat olive green binding the top down, rated to stay on at airspeeds up to 140 miles per hour. "Duct tape."

Daniel winced. "I've, ah..." Oh gods, this is going to sound ridiculous. "Had a hard time trusting the fish lately." He waved toward the kitchen. "Would you like to put those down?" If he laughs, I swear I'll... hit him over the head with a Budge translation. Or something.

There was humor in that storm-blue gaze. But not a shred of laughter. More... recognition?

Daniel halted mid-step. "You know about the fish." How? Michael. If String knew about it - it had to have been Michael. Somehow. "What'd you do?"

"Almost got munched," Caitlin said tartly, thumping her cooler on top of his table. "You didn't hear 'bout Acapulco?"

"I believe the Mexican government suppressed much of the story." Michael began unpacking some of the comestibles in a waft of salty chicken and melted butter, eliciting a none-too-subtle growl from the archaeologist's stomach. "Not that there were many outside ourselves who knew the truly important details." A blond brow lifted.

You shouldn't ask. You really shouldn't ask, Daniel told himself. It's probably classified, it's definitely trouble, and... munched? Something tried to eat Michael? "What happened?"

Archangel settled into a chair. "It seems an unexpected bit of geological turbulence resulted in a sudden shift of locale for the North American mutation conference...."

~*~*~*~*~
"I don't like it."

"I grant you it's not the prettiest resume out there, sir, but-"

"It's full of holes."

Colonel Jack O'Neill, head of SG-1, official second in command of the SGC, and currently the man supposed to be planning a pizza-party, kept flipping through General Hammond's classified folder on one Deputy Director of Special Projects. A little beyond Eyes Only, he mused, leaning back in his briefing room chair. We're up to 'tear your heart out and eat it before you turn this over'. "Avionics expert, talent scout, general all-around go-to guy for the really weird stuff... no offense, sir, but I'm surprised we got this much on Archangel. How did you get it?"

"I do have some contacts in the official part of the NID, Colonel. They've been watching Deputy Director Briggs ever since he started borrowing aircraft carriers." Hammond's faded red brows lowered, watching the folder as if it might sprout fangs and savage his 2IC. "The Joint Chiefs aren't happy that Firm personnel were anywhere near our lower levels."

Makes a bunch of us. But Mairin had needed somebody. And outside of Archangel, Jack didn't know anyone who could have found a willing, spy-trained host that fast. "Don't suppose you brought up that little treaty we have with the Tok'ra. You know, the aid and abet clause?"

"They didn't issue a reprimand," Hammond said dryly. "But it is official: no intelligence agency outside of the military is to know of the existence of aliens."

Jack rolled dark eyes. "We've got shreds of Hivemind fighters all over the planet."

"Many of which are in the Firm's labs, apparently," Hammond grumbled. "Archangel's been very proactive in ensuring the technology stays out of unfriendly hands."

"And that would be a good thing...?" I don't believe it. I'm actually putting in a good word for Archangel... hey, wait a minute. "You didn't tell the Chiefs."

The general scowled. "They're quite aware that Ms. Williams was a Firm trainee."

"But you didn't tell them Archangel actually went mano-a-snake-o with Anise."

Silence was answer enough.

"Hoo, boy." Jack dropped his head into his hands, eyes fixing on some of the weirder details in the file. Suspected of having met with the French about H.E.A.T.? Damn, he's been busy.

"I don't know this man, Colonel. And that," Hammond pointed an accusing finger at the folder, "Is not helpful."

A wry smile tugged at Jack's mouth. "Given that it looks like a lot of it's based off the copy that goes to Congress, that's not that surprising."

"Excuse me?"

Ah. Right. Even with a couple years running the SGC under his belt, Hammond hadn't lived and breathed Black Ops. "Sir, our duly elected congresspersons get the willies about dealing with soldiers who've shot people. They really don't like knowing about spies who've shot people."

Color was rising above the general's collar. "Are you saying these agencies lie? To Congress?"

"Well, I wouldn't say lie, maybe, just not say everything...." Jack caught the general's glare; sighed. "Yes, sir, they do. Working in the shadows isn't pretty, and it isn't nice, and every once in a while senators have this nasty habit of yanking people out of field operations if one itty-bitty whiff of scandal gets back to D.C. And never mind that they've probably just pulled out the people who knew what they were doing and could've kept the casualties down."

Hammond raised a skeptical brow. "Deputy Directors aren't in field operations."

"Most of them, no," Jack admitted. "Which wouldn't stop a guy like Kinsey from getting Archangel kicked out of the Firm if he had half a chance." And then what would he do? Not like there's much work out there for ex-Deputy Directors. Not the honest kind, anyway.

Funny. Honest wasn't how he usually thought of Archangel. Sly, deceitful, double-dealing, yes. Honest, no.

But when it came down to it, Archangel was on the country's side. Every time.

"I grant you thwarting Senator Kinsey seems to be becoming a base hobby," the general acknowledged. "However, in this instance I find myself sharing some of the senator's misgivings." Hammond took out a second folder, flipped through, tapped his fingers on a page. "Some of the Site Omega addenda. Specifically, Major Hicks' report on how H.E.A.T. penetrated the Sandy Point military base."

Yeah. One of the less than stellar incidents in the annals of military security, and never mind that the Hivemind had been controlling the soldiers at the time. The mutation scientists had apparently used a little robotic bug....

Urk. "Aw, no."

"The description closely matches the remnants Security discovered in Dr. Fraiser's computers," Hammond said dryly. "And shortly thereafter, an unknown intelligence agency pulls Dr. Jackson out of Guatemala." A red brow rose to what would have been his hairline, in a younger man. "I gave up believing in coincidences after I took over the SGC, Colonel."

Makes two of us. Jack rose. "I'll talk to Daniel, sir."

"Go easy on him, Jack." Hammond stood, gaze drifting back to the damning folders. "So far Archangel's been more of an ally than some of the Pentagon."

So far. But who knew what kind of game Archangel was playing? "I'll just warn him, sir. Daniel's been hurt enough."

Yeah. Warn him, Jack thought, winding his way through the layers of security covering his exit from the SGC. And kick myself later. Damn, I knew it was a bad idea to introduce those two, I knew it....

At least they'd only met twice. Not nearly enough times for even Daniel to make friends. And Danny knew Archangel was intelligence, he'd know that meant the guy was slippery. After all, Jack had told him Briggs wasn't on the side of the angels the first time that white-wearing catastrophe had shown up in NORAD....

Oh. No.

Three times. They'd met three times - even if that first was just a glance and a tip of a Panama hat.

Which meant Archangel knew Daniel knew what he looked like, long before Jack had arranged the meet. Which meant that hesitation, about the cane and patch-

Oh, shit.

Archangel had been covering something. Jack knew it, deep in the gut; a twisting knot of instinct honed by years of operations gone sour. Just as surely as he knew Ariella, sweet, motherly, still-training-operatives Ariella Coldsmith-Briggs, hadn't switched to German by accident.

I told Daniel back then that Archangel was a spook, Jack realized, heading for his car. Then Briggs told him he was in "data analysis", and Danny didn't so much as twitch. Which could mean he forgot, or he was playing along, or....

Now his head hurt.

His cell phone rang. "O'Neill," he bit out.

"Sir?" Sam; a breath of normality in a world suddenly gone crooked. "We're at Janet's. Did you want us to pick Daniel up?"

Breathe, Jack. There's got to be a good explanation. "Nah, I'll get him. You and Teal'c handle the teenage terror, there." Cassie's squeal cut through the background noise; he grinned. "Who's winning?"

"You have to ask?" Jack could almost see Sam roll her eyes. "I think Teal'c should teach a course. 'Special Tactics as applied to Water Pistol Combat'."

"Cheer up, Major. Reinforcements are on the way."

~*~*~*~*~
"...So there they are, in the middle of Acapulco, cops all 'round the place, rappelling down the side of the hotel like a couple of kids on a dare," Caitlin was chortling, waving her hands over what was left of lunch. "An' the first thing Michael says when he hits the ground is, 'Taxi!'"

"Oh, gods." Snickering, Daniel buried his head in his hands.

"Actually, I believe the first thing I said was 'ouch'," Michael admitted. "I grant you, a taxi was next on the agenda...."

"Goldfish?" Daniel sucked in a breath, wiped tears of laughter from behind his glasses. "You almost got eaten by goldfish?"

"I've heard of more ignominious deaths in the Game," Michael said dryly. "But not many."

"Lucky for you they missed." A fresh wave of snickers hit, and Daniel couldn't resist. "Think of the epitaphs. 'Caught asleep with the fishes. Weighed in the scales and found wanting. Still carping on....'"

"And I thought Dominic's sense of humor was torture."

That finally drew a laugh from String. Quiet. Just a bare flash of dimple and gone. But a laugh.

Beats those shy, sneaking looks at Caitlin, Daniel thought. He was an anthropologist, not just an archaeologist; he'd been watching his unexpected guests all through the story. Every time Caitlin was looking somewhere else, String was watching her. Quiet. Just out of the corner of his eye.

And every time she looked his way, String was looking somewhere else. As if he feared, like a vision in morning mist, she'd vanish the moment she knew he saw her.

And every time String's eyes were elsewhere - Caitlin was watching him.

Oh, boy. Can we say, get a room already?

But unlike Sam and Jack, these two weren't in a military chain of command. So... it couldn't be that simple.

Yeah, right. Like there's anything simple in this whole mess. Daniel waited another minute for the laughter to wind down, gave Archangel a skeptical look.

The spy gazed blandly back, granted him a wry shrug. "If the two of you could take up watch? I believe we should be secure for at least another hour...."

"Yeah, no sense in counting on should-be's," Caitlin nodded, rising to wash her hands. "We'll be around."

Daniel waited until the two pilots' footsteps had retreated down the hall. Swallowed back a sudden, hot pain. "I'm an anthropologist, Michael." I know what you're doing.

"So you are." There was sympathy in Archangel's voice, but not one shred of apology.

"You just happened to drop by," Daniel said dryly. "From California."

"I've been known to drop by odder places." Archangel's smile was wry. "Washington, Berlin, Monrovia...."

"Shared food, friendly social interaction, shared intimacy by way of stories not to be disclosed outside of the close social group," Daniel ticked off points on his fingers. "Am I missing anything?"

"Reinforcement of trust based on cooperative survival of life-threatening situations, and the suborning element of knowing secrets that might threaten your survival in the social group you are currently dwelling in, if they were disclosed," Archangel added matter-of-factly.

Yeah. That. "Gods."

"Anthropologists have a great deal in common with case officers," the spy mused. "We learn how to blend with the social groups we come in contact with, we develop informants... and we protect them."

"I don't need protecting!"

The blue gaze was level as a blade. "I've dealt with the NID, Daniel. I assure you, when it comes to their more radical elements, I wouldn't face them alone."

Daniel shook his head. "That's not why you brought them."

"True enough." Michael gazed at him over folded hands. "String and Caitlin are a significant part of my... household, is that the term you use in your field?"

Daniel looked away. "Close enough."

"And I did bring them intentionally," the spy went on. "To demonstrate for you the kinship bonds available in my society." A blond brow climbed. "Rather like dangling Pinot Noir before a confirmed alcoholic, I must admit."

Daniel's fingers curled into fists. That warmth, that aching longing, that simple touch of hand on hand that showed no matter how fearful String and Caitlin might be of each other, there was still bone-deep trust- "Damn you."

"Daniel."

"No!" The archaeologist whirled, stalked toward the balcony.

"Daniel." A quiet thump of cane. A soft touch on his shoulder, holding him back from the ledge; warmth and clear sky, wind-to-chase, wind-to-play....

It hurt. It hurt and it soothed and it struck at every weak spot in the wall around his aching heart. And Archangel knew it. And he knew Archangel knew. And Archangel knew he knew... gods. "H-how do I know any of this is real?"

"My mother cares about you." Michael's hand kneaded his shoulder. "I would never use that. Not against you. Not against anyone."

No. No, please.... "I should be - used to this. People just take what they want...."

"I want you to be well." Michael's voice softened. "And like you, I want to save the planet in the process."

No. Daniel swallowed dryly. He didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it.

He wanted to believe it....

"Is your world so simple a place, Dr. Jackson?" A hint of anger edged that genteel voice; a flash of steel, sheathed in silk. "Is every act, every being, driven solely by the greater good - or evil?"

I thought it was. I wanted it to be. "Tell me," Daniel whispered. "Tell me you don't get something out of this!"

"That, would be lying." The fingers never paused, seeking out knots of muscle, spreading quiet in their wake. "You have far more in common with String than you know, Daniel. I envy the both of you your focus, your... purity."

Purity? "He's a killer." And so am I....

"He's an operative. And a very good one." A hint of humor vibrated in Michael's tone. "And yet, he still believes in good and evil. Just as you do."

Daniel risked a glance at that half-dark gaze. "What do you believe in?"

"Shadows." Michael's smile was faint, quizzical. "Shadows, and duty, and saving those you care for. In the end, that's all we have."

True. He could feel the truth of it, sinking into his bones.

"So." The spy's face was still, unreadable. "You have your truth, Daniel. What do you want?"

"I want-" Jack. Sam. Teal'c.

Sha'uri.

But when the chips were down, the rest of SG-1 had their orders. And Sha'uri....

Daniel never felt himself start to cry.

~*~*~*~*~
Hurts. A sense of drawing back, fur and feathers padding cautiously around the edges of agony.

This wound goes deep, Angel. We're going to have to be careful. Michael carefully gathered the archaeologist against him, murmuring soft words as Daniel dripped tears on his shoulder.

Archangel had expected tears. Had carefully orchestrated this little meeting to produce them, using the blend of family warmth and chill truth to play the archaeologist's raw nerves as Hawke would his cello. Reaching out, with an operative's training and that subtle sense of Daniel, to push and tug and stress an injured soul - until it gave.

Let all the poison out, Daniel. All the festering anger, the guilt, the grief. Open it up, and let it go.

All the while Michael listened, watched, felt every last shift of muscle that hinted at Daniel's storm-tossed emotions. Reweaving the fragile threads of a soul with his own calm, and sympathy, and fearless surety.

Break with what you were. Believe in what you are. Trust what you are becoming.

Trust me.

One more step in separating this lamb from the flock. One more negotiated obstacle, in the creation of a willing agent.

His mother would be proud.

But the silence grated on Archangel's nerves. Sobs were healthy, healing. This soundless weeping....

Reaching out, Michael felt the ache, dark and deadly as a knife to the heart. Dark as any of the wounds that had driven agents to him over the years, to find some way to strike back at their tormentors. Oh, yes. Very careful, indeed.

This wasn't like taking the raw edges off Hawke's pain. String had loved Gabrielle, truly loved her; yet in the darkest hours of the night, String had known what he was, and what she was. Operatives. Risk-takers. Those who danced with Death, and knew they might one day pay Her in full.

But Daniel... Daniel had given himself, heart and soul, to a woman who by all rights should have lived a quiet life. To a world that should have known peace, save for the squabbles of neighboring tribes; battles more ritual than war, conflicts the archaeologist had proven himself more than capable of handling in his time on Abydos.

Daniel had found his dream, and had it reft away.

It's as if I ever lost the Lady....

Airwolf's flash of curiosity quickened his own. Daniel Jackson known to be capable of minor empathic links. Exemplars: registered passenger, Airwolf. Minor secondary link, Michael Archangel.

Yes, Angel, I know-

Explore link for aural damage? Exemplar: Firm analyst, Penelope Courtland?

Archangel blinked. I am an idiot. Depression, lack of ability to connect with those who should be supporting him, killing grief; all symptoms Penelope had exhibited after her sister's violent death. Go, Angel. But be careful.

Always careful. A wolfish intrigue padded through him, reaching out a feather-touch to the man in his arms.

Pain-

Sha'uri.

Can't find - so long - can't touch-

Sha'uri!

~*~*~*~*~
String!

String was unlocking the apartment door even as Airwolf's call rang through his link, following that feel of pain and grief and confusion. "Damn it, Michael!"

"He just - I didn't-" Daniel stammered.

"It's all right." String brushed past him, easing the dazed spy into a kitchen chair. He'd halfway expected this; Michael took a case officer's duty to an agent seriously as wedding vows. And given the depth of pain Airwolf had read in Jackson.... "Just pushed too hard. Michael." He laid his hand over the spy's, met the half-dark gaze with his own. "Michael. I'm right here."

"So you are." Archangel's voice was thin. With a raw edge that hinted at a killer headache. But there was awareness in the eye that met his, a flex of fingers under his own.

Good. String glanced at the archaeologist. "You okay?"

"I think so. I-" Surprise dawned behind thick glasses as Daniel glanced out the window. "There's sunlight out there."

String held back his surprise. "Yeah."

"It's bright. Shining on the trees down the street, green and emerald and gold where the leaves flutter. And there's something red, moving in the branches. Feathers. I don't know the name...."

"Cardinal."

"But it's small, and it's alive, and-" Daniel dragged in a breath, huddled on himself. "I can't remember... when was the last time I just looked. I can't-"

"I know." No wonder Michael had insisted he come here. String knew this darkness. Knew how it ate away the core of a man, until there was nothing left but empty shadows.

"You... know." Blue eyes looked up, distracted from their attempt to hide once more. "What happened?"

"I loved a woman. Gabrielle." String had to look away. "She was murdered."

"You tried to save her." A bare whisper.

"Too late. One hour, fifteen minutes maybe... just too damn late." String shook his head. "Things were gray after that. For a long time."

"Until Caitlin."

String shot the archaeologist a sharp look. Archangel's agent or not, he wasn't taking that from anyone.

"Hawke." Michael's voice had an edge that could have sheared steel. "Contrary to your beliefs, the world will not come to a cataclysmic end if you admit you care about her."

String scowled. Caitlin was off limits, damn it, he thought Michael understood that-

"String! We got company!" Airwolf's link vibrated with Caitlin's warning, carrying the image of a car turning down the street, familiar from Michael's file on Jackson.

"Michael." String nodded at the window.

"I heard." Archangel rose, leaning heavily on his cane. "We should have just enough time to make it seem as if no one else was here."

~*~*~*~*~
Jack drummed his fingers on his thigh, listening to the quiet swish of Daniel's dishwasher; a watery counterpoint to the clicks of an archaeologist fumbling with the door locks. Figures. He can open an 8,000-years-plus Stargate, but not a twenty-first century lock. Okay, how do I do this? "Daniel, the guy I introduced you to in a family reunion may not have done anything yet, but there's a good chance he'll try to use you down the line?" Yeah, right, that'll go over like a pile of bricks-

And Jack caught sight of the archaeologist's red eyes as the door swung open, and Archangel faded off his list of concerns. "You okay?"

Daniel rubbed at his eyes, gave Jack half a guilty shrug. "Bad dreams."

I'll bet. A waft of fried chicken hit Jack's nose as he walked in, rich with peanut oil and spices. "You order lunch out?" Not that it smelled like take-out; too wholesome, with an undercurrent that somehow smacked of real mashed potatoes, butter and milk and lumpy spuds, not the reconstituted flakes most outfits tried to pass off on people.

"No, not exactly...." Daniel followed him into the kitchen, where a stray wax-paper bag of chocolate-chip cookies still lingered on the table. "Some people from the mountain dropped by. I guess a lot of people were eavesdropping when Janet told me to go home and eat something."

Probably the understatement of the decade, Jack thought. Nurses had a way of hanging around when Daniel needed tending. And they talked to Supply, and Supply talked to Maintenance, and Maintenance talked to everybody.

So why were his nerves twitchy?

Wake up, Jack. Eyes that red aren't just nightmares. Not even Daniel's nightmares. The colonel wandered out of the kitchen, scanning Daniel's rooms. Man did some serious crying. Why?

Whatever it was, he meant to hunt it down. And kill it.

~*~*~*~*~
I'm dead.

Daniel's breath caught as a Black Ops-trained colonel stalked his apartment, obviously searching for anything out of place. He'd had to leave Michael and String to get the door, there was no way they could have gotten out of here....

I'm worse than dead. Gods, we left sheet music on the piano-

Not that that should mean much; he did play, off and on. And Michael had wiped the cover over the keys clean, not a fingerprint marring the black polish....

And... Jack was looking under the piano.

Oh no-

And straightening again, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Huh? Daniel moved near his baby grand, lips parted to catch the barest hint of scent. Pine trees, mist and mountains... they were here.

And just as obviously weren't, now.

Where are they? "Jack?"

Jack poked his head into Daniel's study, paying particular attention to the covered computer. "Not warm," he muttered, pressing a hand to the side of the disk drive.

"Ah, no. I haven't turned it on today. Janet said rest, right?" Daniel caught a flicker of white out of the corner of his eye, tried not to glance toward the bedroom door. "Um, Earth to Jack?"

The colonel eyed him. Scowled.

And headed straight for the bedroom.

No! Daniel didn't know what Jack would do if he found Archangel. But given that Jack didn't like Archangel, and Archangel didn't want to be found, and String was all too inclined to shoot first and worry about hiding the bodies later - messy. Very messy. "So, I guess we should be going-"

No good. Jack marched into the bedroom like the wrath of O'Neill.

Thwap. Bang! Thump. Sliiiide.

So much for his bedroom.

Jack stood in the middle of the floor, glaring at openings. Empty closet, empty dresser drawers - well, except for the odd assortment of clothes, fatigues, and excavation brushes - empty blankets.

Right. So there's nobody here, so you'll... oh, no way, Daniel thought, eyeing a waft of disturbed dust alongside his foot-warming throw-rug. There was no way Archangel would be hiding under his bed. Way too cliché.

Still....

Jack yanked up the mattress, ready and willing to put one of Daniel's displayed swords through anything cowering under the box springs. Dust-bunnies scattered for cover, gray and streaked-blue and gritty brown.

But not a hint of white.

They must have been going out of the bedroom. But to where? Daniel stifled a breath of relief, turned it into a sigh of irritation. "Okay, now you're starting to scare me."

Forcing a smile, Jack let the bed recollect itself. "Ah, Daniel. Did you move stuff in here?"

"Move things? Like what?" Daniel blinked at him, trying to pull off puzzled and indignant. "I shelved a few more books, but... did something happen back in the base?"

"No," Jack said quickly. "Well - not exactly."

"Not exactly?" Daniel pounced. "As in, not exactly an alien invasion? Not exactly a mutant brain-eating virus? What?"

"I'll... tell you on the way. Come on."

Yes! But even as he trailed in Jack's wake, Daniel couldn't resist one last glance around his rooms. They had to be somewhere....

And for a brief instant, the apartment seemed brighter. As if the flash of sun through balcony windows were not bouncing off another gritty building, but a patch of fresh-fallen snow....

Or a swath of white.

~*~*~*~*~
For a guy who'd obviously cried himself out, the archaeologist looked a little too together, Jack thought as he drove, nerves still jangling.

And that's a bad thing? Part of his mind jabbed at him.

Yes, damn it, it was. Just because SG-1 got stuck saving the planet on a semi-yearly basis didn't mean they weren't human. Well, except for Teal'c. But even the rock that was Apophis' former First Prime needed a little kel-no-reem to even things out. And Jack sure hadn't seen any lit candles back there.

Yet some of that same calm seemed to hang around Daniel. As if the archaeologist had found a steady spot in his landslide of a life, and was hanging on while the rocks fell around him.

Guess this is as good a time to tell him as any. "The general thinks Archangel bugged the SGC."

"What?" Daniel rocked back in his seat. "When?"

"Sometime before he pulled you out of Guatemala. If that was him," Jack qualified warily. "I'm sorry, Daniel. I know you were glad to find Ariella. But Archangel's her son - and he's up to something. I can feel it."

"Like what?"

How the hell should I know? Even those rare times he'd been cleared to know everything Archangel was up to, Jack had always felt the spy had at least three other plots going on the side. The man made a corkscrew look straight. "Could be a lot of things. He's got an ax to grind against a bunch of Russians, for one thing." Jack rolled his eyes. "Probably how he got onto us in the first place."

"Maybe not."

Jack glanced left, catching a snapshot of Daniel's thoughtful look. There was something odd in the archaeologist's tone.... "Yeah?"

"Rebecca Courtland."

The late sergeant. Jack hid a wince. Daniel had taken that death hard. "What about her?"

"She has a sister."

"Say what?"

"She has a sister, Jack," Daniel repeated patiently. "Penelope Courtland. I found the name in Rebecca's phone records. On the long-distance charges."

Oh, no. Oh, hell. "Don't tell me." Jack resisted the urge to pound his head against the steering wheel. "California."

"The Institute of Applied Technology," Daniel confirmed. "I looked them up. Something about their records seemed a little... odd."

"They would. That's the Firm." Pulling into Janet's driveway, Jack muttered a few choice words in gutter Arabic.

"Jack!"

Right. Linguist. Polite linguist. Usually.

But Jack could see the scenario rolling out in front of him clearer than his water-soaked 2IC coming down Janet's driveway. And he didn't like it one bit. One Courtland in the Air Force. One in the Firm. The sergeant buys it. We send a message home, deepest condolences, so sorry, training accident-

Only since the disasters of the Hansen and Ames cases, intelligence agencies were being a lot more careful about investigating odd events relating to one of their employees.

Which means they would have looked at this "training accident", Jack knew. And run right into the Pentagon's stone wall-

Only Archangel, being Archangel, saw stone walls as red flags. And he wouldn't have taken the Joint Chiefs' word as a reason to back off.

"Jack!" Cassie, water pistol cradled in one arm, hanging onto his window with a grin and a towel wrapped over her shoulders. "Hey, Daniel!"

The archaeologist caught translucent pink plastic with a slosh, gauging the capacity of his derringer-sized weapon against her water cannon. "No fair."

"You're not as wet as Sam is," the teen pointed out.

"Kid's got a point," Jack noted. Oh boy, has she ever. The towel Sam had draped over one shoulder didn't do much to disguise how her tee-shirt clung to... certain areas no CO should be looking at. Damn it. "You guys go on ahead."

"Sir?" Sam traded a glance with Daniel.

"Phone," Jack waved a hand noncommittally, heading inside. "Be out in a few."

Relays clicked. Secretaries were gone through. "Hammond," the phone finally answered.

"Sir." Jack glanced where Janet stood by the kitchen door, keeping an eye on the no-holds-barred water fight going on out back. Cassie and Teal'c held the field, but it looked like Daniel was playing decoy while Sam launched a water-balloon sneak attack from the rear. "You know that guy we were talking about? The one that gave you a really bad feeling?"

"I believe I do."

"He may have a personal reason to be ticked off."

Thoughtful silence on the line. "That would seem inconsistent, given the matter of Ms. Williams."

"Not if you know him," Jack said wryly. "With this guy, the shortest distance between two points is around three corners, through a back alley, and down a drain spout."

Another pause. "Given that, Colonel, what do you suggest?"

"Bigger guns," Jack muttered. Cleared his throat. "I don't know, sir. Right now, we need each other. If we can just convince him we've got a mutual problem... well, it might work out. I think." I hope.

"I'll take that under consideration." The general's voice lightened. "Now. As your CO, I must remind you you're supposed to be off-duty."

"Yes, sir." Jack hung up. Drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter. And stopped, at a narrow look from Janet. "Sorry."

"Problem?" his favorite redheaded Napoleon said briskly.

"You could say that." No, wait. This is Janet. You can talk about it - as long as you leave out the really classified details. "Remember the guy who brought in Judith? Tall, blond, sneaky as hell?"

"Michael?" Dark eyes looked at him askance. "You really don't like him, do you?"

"He's up to something," Jack said defensively. "And Daniel trusts him way too much."

"Daniel's instincts are usually good...."

"Hello? Hathor? Linnea? Osiris?" Not to mention who knew what other female psychopaths lurking throughout the galaxy they hadn't run into yet. What was it about his archaeologist that attracted the whips and chains types?

Janet raised an auburn brow. "Unless Michael's a cross-dresser and you haven't told us, we're probably safe."

Ooh. Ow. Jack blinked away a sudden vision of Archangel dressed as a white lady, blonde curls and all. Gaah. Medic.

Worst of it was, Archangel probably would cross-dress if the mission called for it. The man had no shame.

Uh-huh. And what do you call what you did on Simarka, having Carter dress like the Shavadai? Not her idea, remember?

"Not to throw stones, Colonel, but you've been known to be rather sneaky yourself," Dr. Fraiser pointed out. "So is the problem just that Michael's up to something, or is it that you don't know what he's up to?"

Jack raised a contradicting finger-

And stopped, and thought.

Damn.

Jack worked his shoulders loose, managed a wry grin. "Janet, have we told you lately how much we love you?"

The doctor gave him an answering smile. "You think you can find out?"

"Well... I think I know where to start." Maybe he couldn't approach Archangel directly. Between the NID and the Joint Chiefs, talking to the Firm would have been risky at the best of times.

But one of Archangel's specialties was avionics.

The guy knows aircraft technology. Ten gets you two, he talks to people in the Air Force.

All Jack had to do was find them.

Taking a filled water pistol from Janet's sink, Jack slipped out to join the fray.

~*~*~*~*~
"Aaaand... winner and champions!" Sleeves dripping, Jack raised Cassie and Teal'c's hands high.

"Darn," Sam muttered, leaning against the back of the house as she squeezed out her shirt. Water had soaked it from azure to almost navy, lightening as she wrung out swaths of cloth.

Bits of rainbow rubber speckling his hair, Daniel held up the wall beside her. Afternoon warmth was soaking through his wet shirt; way too nice to move for anything short of another joint Jaffa-teen assault. "Hey, it's not every day you get to shove a water balloon down the back of Teal'c's neck."

Sam grinned. "Point." She cocked her head toward the house, blue eyes lighting up as she heard the crunch of gravel that was someone pulling into the driveway. "All right, pizza!"

Daniel watched her dash inside, closed his eyes to soak up a few more dregs of late sun. And think.

"Daniel." Michael's tone had been level, even as they'd swept Daniel's apartment of any signs of their presence. "There is one thing you should know. The minute an operative takes on an agent, he starts planning for exfiltration."

The archaeologist stiffened. "I'm not leaving Jack."

"I know." Understanding, glimmering in that half-dark gaze. "He cares. It's very rare." The blond head shook. "But Senator Kinsey and his associates have already proven they can influence the SGC's mission, despite General Hammond's best efforts. You have no idea what the next decision of the Joint Chiefs might bring. Nor do I." Michael turned a hand palm up, offering his words. "Simply remember that you have options."

Options. Daniel had almost forgotten what it was like to have options. After his theories on the pyramids' true age had ruined his academic reputation, after he'd taken a simple translation job for the Air Force that had landed him halfway across the galaxy in the middle of a planetary rebellion, after he'd fought to join SG-1 to find - and lose - Sha'uri....

He'd stayed. Jack had expected it. And knowing what he knew, seeing what he'd seen... gods, he could see an ambush coming. Negotiate a cease-fire. And fieldstrip a Beretta, in the dark, with a concussion, when negotiations had gone to hell and it was kill or be killed. What kind of academic credentials were those?

The kind the Firm is looking for.

He could choose. To stay in the SGC... or not.

It was dizzying.

I don't want to leave.

No, he didn't want to leave. Leave SG-1? Leave the place he could make a difference for the human race, for the planet?

Leave Jack?

I don't want to leave.

But he could. If he had to, if General Hammond got "retired" again, if there was nothing else he could do to keep the NID from playing their sick games with the Stargate... he had someplace to go.

And knowing that made the world feel solid again.

"Hey, Danny!" Jack stuck his head out the door, gray-touched brow lifted. "Come help me fight the ravening hordes for the pizza, will ya?"

"Dan'yel!" Sha'uri, bright eyes laughing, door-cloth held aside as she chased off a riot's worth of the village children. "Come quickly, before Skaara and Father find all the honey-cakes!"

But this wasn't Abydos....

And Sha'uri wouldn't want him to grieve forever.

Home. I'm home.

"I don't know, Jack." Daniel headed in, toward warmth and laughter and the succulent waft of spicy tomato sauce. "I feel kind of like a ravening horde myself...."