Rating: R/NC-17 for implied sexual situations. Jack/Daniel, Daniel/OMC. AU, drama, angst, romance, first time

Spoilers/Warnings: None. Warnings for bad language and sex.

Summary: Destinies collide.

Notes | Disclaimer

Chapter One: Contact

Jack O'Neill knew there was a party in full swing well before he ever stepped inside the small house. The pulsing throb of a bass line and waves of raucous laughter escaped from the confines of the house, bleeding into the night to disrupt the otherwise pervasive hush of the quiet neighborhood.

He pounded on the door, hoping that someone could hear his summons over the din. It took three rounds of staccato rapping before the door was opened at last. Jack was greeted by a blast of sound that accosted his eardrums, and a pretty blonde whose glazed eyes confirmed that the party was indeed well under way. He flashed her his most rakish smile, secretly pleased at the blush and smile it earned him as the young woman stepped aside and let him enter the house without question.

The interior of the house was uncomfortably warm, the air heavy and redolent with the smell of sweat and beer. Someone handed Jack a beer and he took it without pause. He had no intention of drinking it, but it would provide a modicum of cover, help him to blend in just a little bit more. Jack noted that he was a fair bit older than most of the people present--hell, the girl at the door was young enough to be his daughter-but no one seemed to notice or care. They were all too wasted, too intent on grabbing as much pleasure as possible, or in gaining a temporary reprieve from whatever pain haunted them.

Jack wasn't there to party, however, or to flirt. He had a mission to complete; was there to recruit someone, an archeologist named Daniel Jackson to be precise. He lifted the bottle to his lips and used the casual gesture to disguise his scrutiny of the premises. Jack quickly took in all possible forms of entry and exit and threat assessed the other guests, a conditioned reflex deeply ingrained in him from by years of experience and one that held him in good stead. Once that survey was complete, he scanned the figures around him looking for the man he had come to see.

Jack finally located his target over in a far corner, standing in the midst of a small knot of people. They were doing tequila shots and Jack watched as several of them went through the familiar motions. He moved a little closer, his strides slow and his posture relaxed so he could get a better look at Jackson. Jack studied him as he licked the salt from his wrist, raised the shot glass to his lips. Jackson downed the drink and sucked on the wedge of lime. Some of its juice dribbled down his chin and he grimaced before slamming his glass down on the tabletop. A chorus of hooting cheers and laughter passed through the group as another round was downed, moving them all that much closer towards inebriation and blissful unconsciousness.

Jack watched as another man moved closer to his target. He was youngish and dark and his easy manner and patrician profile practically screamed wealth to Jack's trained eye, an impression confirmed when the man slung his arm around Jackson's shoulders and spoke into his ear.

"C'mon, Daniel. Whaddya say? Tomorrow we'll drive to Santa Monica where my dad's yacht's moored and then we'll sail down the coast to Mexico. We can spend a coupla weeks hanging out on the beach and drink some good tequila. Eric, Liz and Alex are already in. So, whaddya say? You comin'?"

When the new arrival received no reply from Jackson, he continued, his voice taking on a slightly shrill tone. "I mean c'mon, it's not like you've got anything better to do at the moment, right? I guarantee ya, after a couple of weeks in the sun this whole mess'll be nothing but a bad memory. So, you in?"

Jackson gave a noncommittal grunt that his friend clearly interpreted as acquiescence.

"Great!" he enthused, then gave Jackson a beaming smile. "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. Not too early, of course," he concluded with a chuckle.

Jackson gave a vague wave in his direction, but the other man had ceased to pay attention. He slapped Jackson on the back before he moved off and yelled across the room and waved to gain the attention of some other partygoer.

Jack watched until Mr. 'My daddy has a yacht' was clear across the room before he pushed off from the wall and made his way to Jackson's side, beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. Jackson looked over at Jack and squinted slightly in the absence of the glasses Jack knew he habitually wore. He frowned, a deep line creasing his forehead.

"Do I know you?" Jackson asked bemusedly as he reached for the bottle of tequila.

"I don't know. Do you?" Jack replied with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Jack could feel Jackson assessing him. Finally the other man shrugged his shoulders, apparently willing to accept this stranger, at least for the time being. Jackson lifted the tequila bottle and raised an eyebrow in silent invitation. Jack nodded an affirmative and Jackson poured him a drink. The liquor sloshed over the side of the glass and down the back of Jackson's hand. Jack took the offered glass and went through the ritual motions: a lick of salt, a drink of tequila, a bite of lime, before he slammed his glass down on the counter top and gave Jackson a cocky smile.

Jack knew he needed to keep a clear head and doing shots of tequila was not exactly the way to do it, but he needed to be near Jackson and this seemed to be the best way to accomplish that goal. Given the glazed expression in Jackson's blue eyes and the increasing clumsiness in his gestures, Jack figured he wouldn't need to do it for very long.

His assessment was soon proven correct. The party had started to wind down. Most of the partygoers were pretty trashed and were leaving in small groups, yelling their goodbyes to their host. Jack watched Jackson avidly; he noted the too-bright smile, the laughter that seemed too boisterous. He watched Jackson as he downed the tequila, shot after shot, in a way that clearly suggested someone seeking oblivion rather than a good time. Jackson seemed to be drinking to forget, and Jack had a fairly good idea what had sparked this particular binge. Still, Jack was impressed at the other man's performance. Jackson was doing a fine job of playing the role of carefree party-boy and he doubted that anyone else at the party noticed or cared about the brittle façade.

Jack watched as the other man emptied another glass and winced inwardly at the nasty hangover that would be awaiting him tomorrow, or-he looked down at his watch for confirmation-later today. Jackson was in for a very bad morning.

It wasn't long before the house was nearly empty. The last few partygoers wended their way out the door towards a taxi waiting at the curb. The sudden quiet was disconcerting and the room had a chill to it now that it had been deprived of the mass of sweaty bodies. Jack gazed about the wreckage of the room and scanned the random detritus scattered about before he turned his full attention to his putative host. Jackson looked almost as wrecked as his home. He was still in the corner near the kitchen counter surrounded by the tequila-covered rubble. Several empty bottles stood proud amongst the abandoned wedges of lime and a saltshaker that had fallen on its side to spill its contents across a sticky puddle of tequila.
        
Jack didn't know if Jackson had noticed his covert scrutiny throughout the party. Jack thought not--he was trained for this, after all-but he couldn't be sure. By all accounts Daniel Jackson was a smart man with a keen, incisive mind and he'd already proven that he was adept at keeping up a public façade, even when drunk. It would be a mistake to underestimate this man, and Jack had no intention of doing so.

Jackson wove his way over to Jack, a little unsteady on his feet, but still more vertical than Jack would have expected by this point in the proceedings.

"You never did answer my question," Jackson asked once he was standing in front of him, perhaps a foot or so away.

"And what question was that?" Jack responded.

Jackson frowned again. "I asked you if I knew you and you didn't answer me."

"I did answer you."

Jackson gave him a gimlet gaze before shaking his head. "No, you didn't. You evaded the question."

Jackson's voice was slurred with the effects of alcohol, but it was clear that his mind was still firing on all cylinders.

"You're right. I didn't answer you," he replied.

"So..."

"So?"

"Do I know you?"

Jack paused, trying to decide how to respond. Before he had a chance, Daniel asked him "What's your name?"

"Jack."

"I'm Daniel," he replied. He extended his hand. Jack shook it.

"Now I know you," Jackson explained quite reasonably, "so we have officially resolved that question."

A long moment of silence hung between them before Daniel spoke once more.

"Jack?"

"Hmmm?"

"I think I'm gonna pass out now," Jackson said in that same eminently reasonable tone of voice, just before he did precisely that.

Jackson's eyes just rolled back in his head as his knees folded beneath him and his body collapsed. Jack reached out and caught the other man beneath the armpits before he could fall to the floor. Jack muttered a curse; Jackson was every bit as solid as he'd appeared, his body a deadweight in his arms.

Jack slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, grunting at the exertion as he shifted the body to rest more comfortably. He glanced about the living room, trying to decide where the bedroom was. He walked towards the hallway opposite the kitchen, relieved to find the door to the bedroom open. Jack carried him inside and lowered him to the bed as gently as possible. Once he was tucked in, Jack left the room, closed the door softly behind him and prepared to settle himself in one of the chairs in the living room for the remainder of the night.

* * *

Daniel was dreaming of drums. He could hear them in his head, a deep, rhythmic pounding that seemed to echo and reverberate, pulsing through his blood, beating in time with his own heart. Pounding, pounding, loud, so very, very loud. And then he felt the pain spike through his skull, a sympathetic ache dancing to the rhythm of the drums, pulsating and shocking him to awareness.

He blinked, eyes gummy with sleep, and tried to focus his blurry vision. Daniel was mildly surprised to find himself in his own bedroom; he'd half expected to be surrounded by the tall grasses of the African savannah. He blinked again and tried to remember why everything was so hazy, before he saw a shadow hovering near the bed. The sudden appearance of the shadowed form jerked him to full wakefulness. Another brutal stab of pain seared through his brain, eliciting a gasping moan in response. Daniel squeezed his eyes shut once more.

"Here, you should drink this," a voice said softly in his ear.

Daniel cracked one reluctant eye open. A glass containing some kind of pale, milky liquid rested precariously on his nightstand. With infinite care, he let his slitted eye shift direction to the source of the voice. He wished he had his glasses on and, more than that, he wished that the jackhammer currently pounding gleefully in his skull would go away.

His muddled brain supplied a memory. Tequila. Drinking tequila shots. One after the other, as he tried to escape the wreck and ruin of his life, at least for a while. He'd gotten shit-faced last night and now he had the mother of all hangovers.

Fuck.

"Well, that's one word for it," the voice remarked in a cheerful tone.

Had he said that last bit aloud? Daniel opened his eyes and slammed them shut just as quickly, gritting his teeth against the newest spike of pain.

Daniel heard a soft chuckle and then the voice was back, warm breath tickling his ear. "Here, drink this," the stranger said, as strong hands gently moved Daniel into a sitting position. He kept his eyes tightly shut but obediently opened his lips when the edge of the glass was pressed against them. Daniel drank the liquid without hesitation.

He grimaced slightly at the taste but swallowed it all down. With a sigh, he returned to the soft, welcoming embrace of his pillow and the irresistible pull of slumber

Some time later Daniel awoke again, vaguely surprised that his head no longer felt as if it was in jeopardy of imminent explosion. His mind was a good deal clearer and, while his body still felt achy and sore, he knew he'd live.

Daniel lay in bed for a long moment and stared at a small crack in the ceiling while he gathered his thoughts. Although the temptation to remain in bed with the comforter thrown over his head was strong, his insistent bladder demanded his immediate attention. He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to take care of pressing business. By the time he emerged a half hour later, freshly showered and shaved, he was feeling at least marginally human.

It was with a sense of shock that Daniel surveyed the scene that greeted his arrival in the living room. In lieu of the bottle-strewn, cigarette ash-coated mess he'd anticipated, he found his living room in one piece and more or less in the same order it had been before the start of the impromptu party the night before. Daniel frowned and rubbed his forehead in exasperation, trying to piece together the events of the night before, as well as figure out where in the hell he'd left his glasses. He was trying to puzzle his way through those crucial mysteries when an unexpected voice broke through his reverie like a knife.

"Hey, you're finally awake."

Daniel turned quickly on his heel toward the unfamiliar voice and nearly toppled himself over. He squinted at the unknown man who moved closer, coming into clearer focus as he approached. Daniel took in the lean angular face, the short hair silvered about the temples. The face was oddly familiar, though he couldn't put a name to it as yet. The man held out something towards him. His glasses, he realized with a sigh of relief. One mystery solved, at least.

Daniel slipped them on and immediately felt bolstered by the familiar weight across the bridge of his nose. The face of the other man was now in sharp focus and he could see the details he'd missed before, like the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Colonel Jonathon P. O'Neill, but my friends call me Jack."

"Well, Colonel," he began, adopting the more formal title. "I repeat. What are you doing here? I know for a fact that I didn't invite you since I've never laid eyes on you in my life. Did someone else invite you, or do you make a habit of crashing parties?"

O'Neill's expression gave nothing away. "Why don't I explain over coffee? You look like you could use some."

Daniel glared at O'Neill, wary of the other man and his motives. Still, O'Neill had been here all night and he'd done nothing more nefarious than clean Daniel's living room, at least as far as Daniel could tell. Caution warred with common sense and eventually the latter won. After all, if O'Neill had had something sinister in mind, he would have had ample time to follow through while Daniel was passed out in the bedroom. He hesitated a moment longer then gave O'Neill a curt nod and followed him into the kitchen.

Daniel accepted the proffered coffee with a murmur of gratitude. He cradled the ceramic mug in both hands and breathed in the rich aroma before drinking deeply. Even without looking up he knew the other man was watching him. He continued to drink, nonplussed, feeling clarity return to him, along with additional memories of the night before.

Daniel put the empty mug down and turned to look at the other man. "So spill. Why are you here, Colonel?"

"I need your help."

Daniel's own brows rose in surprise. Of all the answers he'd been expecting, that was not one of them. "My help?" he asked, making no attempt to mask the incredulity he was feeling at that request.

The mysterious Colonel O'Neill, nodded then pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and extended it in his direction. "Do you know this man?"

Daniel studied the face in the photograph. It was an older man, around sixty years of age. His swarthy face showed the faint lines of age. The hair was black, shot through with silver at the temples and the crown and throughout the neatly trimmed beard. The eyes behind the stylish glasses were dark and fiercely intelligent.

He handed the picture back to O'Neill. "That's Dr. Ari Stephanopoulus, renowned Egyptologist. His work on the Amarna Period was ground breaking and is pretty much required reading in the field. His book on Queen Hatshepsut was on the Times' best-seller list for two months back in the early nineties. It's not often an archeologist can gain the admiration of his academic peers and more widespread popular acclaim, but Dr. Stephanopoulus has managed it."

His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the man watching him so intently. "But you already knew all this, didn't you? You didn't pop up on my doorstep by accident."

"No I didn't," O'Neill said, confirming the obvious. "I came here to recruit you."

"Recruit me?" Daniel asked, unable to suppress a snort of pained amusement. "Recruit me to do what? Clear out a lecture hall in under ten minutes? Teach others how to make a laughingstock of themselves and lose all credibility in their field?"

Daniel started to gesture wildly, building up steam as his diatribe continued. "Or maybe you need someone to spout a few far fetched theories as party entertainment? Maybe I could even throw in a few jokes or make balloon animals for the kids while I'm at it."

"Do you know what we were celebrating at the party last night, Colonel O'Neill?" Daniel asked. "We were celebrating my official expulsion from academia. I suppose it hardly came as a surprise, but still, I'm impressed at how quickly they achieved it. The head of the department called the Dean of the College of Humanities who called the President of the university who then called a special session of the Board of Regents and then wham, bam, thank you ma'am, before you can even say Akhenaten, Daniel Jackson is no longer on the payroll. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that."

Daniel made no attempt to hide the bitterness and the disillusionment he felt. For weeks, months it had been churning inside him, eating away at him like acid, but Daniel had refused to give it voice. Now that the floodgates had been opened, he was incapable of stopping it from spilling forth. Restless energy thrummed through his body, which was suddenly wired with adrenalin and Daniel began to pace, moving back and forth across the kitchen floor. "At this point, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the University of Chicago tried to revoke my doctorate retroactively as punishment for giving the field of archeology a bad name. If you're looking for help, I'd say you're barking up the wrong archeologist here."

O'Neill was looking at him again. "Well, that depends entirely upon what I'm recruiting you for."

Daniel glared at O'Neill. "Look, I don't know what you want from me, but I'm not interested. So if you'll leave now, I've got things to do." With that, Daniel turned his back on O'Neill and began to walk back towards the living room.

"And what precisely would those things be, Dr. Jackson?" O'Neill asked, his voice low and steady. "Getting drunk and passing out? Cruising down to Mexico to get drunk and pass out south of the border, perhaps?"

Daniel had frozen in place at his words. He turned suddenly, to glare at O'Neill. "And what if I do, Colonel? I fail to see how that is any of your business."

O'Neill shrugged. "I suppose that's true enough, Doctor. It just seems like a waste of your talents, is all."

"Well, it's not as if there is much call for my talents these days. My colleagues have made that very clear."

O'Neill nodded, compassion evident in his eyes. It made Daniel wince uncomfortably.

"So what will you do?" O'Neill asked.

Now it was Daniel's turn to shrug. "Dunno. Maybe find myself an obscure dig somewhere, let this all blow over."

"It won't blow over," O'Neill said, stating what they both already knew. "Frankly, I don't see your colleagues adopting a 'forgive and forget' attitude any time soon, do you?"

Daniel didn't answer. There was no need. They both knew the answer already.

"What if I could offer you an alternative to hiding out in the desert and licking your wounds?"

O'Neill sat down and gestured to the empty chair next to his. Daniel continued to glare at him for a few moments longer before dropping inelegantly into it. O'Neill offered him a fleeting grin then, resting his elbows on the table top, he leaned in towards Daniel, his expression serious.

"For the past two years, someone has been leaking highly sensitive military Intel to terrorist cells operating out of Egypt. We've been trying to figure out exactly who is behind the leak and how he or she was been passing along the information. So far, we've had no luck with identifying the former, but we think we've finally figured out the latter."

Daniel sat up sharply. "You think Dr. Stephanopoulus is involved in this."

O'Neill nodded. "Yes, we do. We've had dozens of agents in DC and Cairo following the trail, trying to figure out when the information reached Egypt and then establish some kind of pattern to help us trace it back to the source. It was only by luck-and quite frankly, pure coincidence-that one of the clerks who was tracking flight manifests happened to see a clipping in the Washington Post about a reception at the Egyptian Embassy that included a photo of Dr. Stephanopoulus. On a hunch, we checked his travel history and found that it correlated perfectly with every known transaction in Egypt."

O'Neill shrugged. "Actually it's a perfect cover when you think about it. Who would ever suspect an archeologist of espionage? He has a legitimate excuse to go to Egypt, a longstanding history of such travel, plus American citizenship, so there's nothing to raise red flags. He's an academic after all, a scholar."

"Anthony Blunt was a renowned art historian as well as a Soviet spy," Daniel remarked.

"Yes, yes he was. So there is precedent. But let's face it, Dr. Stephanopoulus seems to be an unlikely spy. As you pointed out, he's a respected scholar in his field, he's famous. He also has a substantial family fortune and some pretty influential friends."

Daniel shook his head. "Look, I don't know anything about this whole spy deal, but if you suspect Dr. Stephanopoulus of being involved, why don't you just arrest him?"

Now it was O'Neill's turn to shake his head. "No good. At present we only have suspicions. We're only going to get one crack at this and if we blow it, either by arresting the wrong man or worse, by arresting him before we have a solid case, he'll be cut loose and then he'll run.

"But that's not all of it. Right now, Stephanopoulus is our only link between the terrorists and the source. He's our only lead to finding the people leaking the information. We nab Stephanopoulus prematurely, the source will just go to ground for a while and then recruit a new courier and we'll be back at square one."

"That makes sense, I suppose. But surely it must be easier than this."

"You'd think," O'Neill said. "The real problem though is the source himself. This isn't run of the mill Intel we're talking. This is ultra top secret, for your eyes only stuff, if you get what I'm saying."

O'Neill paused. Daniel nodded his understanding and gestured for the other man to continue. "This kind of information is only accessible to the top muckety mucks at the Pentagon: The Joint Chiefs, the President, his cabinet, and the Senate Appropriations Committee. Whoever is behind this is a major player in DC and the only way we can possibly nail him is to figure out who he is and then catch him in the act.

"That's where you come in."

"What?" Daniel asked, his mouth gaping in shock.

"We need to get someone close to Stephanopoulus to observe him, see who he's meeting with and then report back to us."

Daniel stared at O'Neill, stunned speechless at what the other man was suggesting. "You've got to be kidding!" he said when he could finally speak again.

"I'm quite serious, Dr. Jackson."

Daniel shook his head, laughing, though the sound was shrill and mirthless to his own ears. "You came here to try and recruit me to be a spook? You really are desperate, Colonel, or insane. Take your pick."

"I'm not crazy, but you're not far off with the desperate," O'Neill explained. "Stephanopoulus is clever and he also has a lot of very powerful friends. We can't just go barging in. We need to get someone on the inside, someone who can gain his trust. Someone he'll feel comfortable enough around to let his guard down. You're perfect for the job."

"No, you've got the wrong man. You said it yourself. I'm a joke. Dr. Stephanopoulus would laugh in my face."

O'Neill shook his head. "Actually, your recent...difficulties lend credence to your cover. You've got a legitimate reason to seek him out. A promising young archeologist, whose career is on the rocks. Why wouldn't you seek help from an established scholar who might be willing to help? Especially when that scholar is an old friend of the family."

Daniel's head shot up at that last comment.

O'Neill continued, his gaze riveted on Daniel the entire time. "Dr. Stephanopoulus was a close friend of your father's, wasn't he? They studied together at Harvard. It was Stephanopoulus who introduced your parents. He was the best man at their wedding. He's always taken an interest in your career, in the son of Melbourne and Claire Jackson. He'd hardly turn you away, would he?"

Daniel felt his anger flare once more. "I think you should leave now, Colonel," Daniel said, his voice as chilly as an artic wind.

"Dr. Jackson," O'Neill began, his own voice calm and even. "If we're right, Stephanopoulus is a traitor. He's selling military intelligence for profit and thereby putting this nation's security at risk. Field operatives and soldiers alike have died as a result of his actions. This has to stop. He has to be stopped."

"From every thing you've told me, this is a military matter. I'm a civilian, not a soldier, and I'm certainly not a spy. Surely there are people better suited for this kind of thing."

O'Neill stood his ground and stared back at Daniel. "You're wrong. You already know him, Daniel," he said, dropping the title in favor of the younger man's name. "You're the only one who can get close enough to do this."

Daniel shook his head in resolute denial.

"Look, even if you don't give a damn about the military, you're still an archeologist. I would think you'd be angry that someone is using your field of research for such ends. He's making a mockery of archeology, your field. Your parents' field. Don't you care?"

Daniel could feel his face flush as a wave of righteous indignation washed through him. "Care? Why the fuck should I care? That noble field of scholarly inquiry that you're calling on me to protect just tossed me out on my ass! I've lost my job, my grants have been revoked, my peers treat me like a social disease that can't even be discussed in mixed company. So you tell me, Colonel, why should I give a damn what goes on in the field of archeology? This has nothing to do with me anymore."

Daniel closed his eyes for a long moment, his hand rubbing at his forehead. His earlier headache had returned in force.

"I asked you to leave, Colonel. Please don't make me ask you again." His energy expended by his passionate tirade, Daniel dropped heavily into the nearest chair, cradling his weary, aching head in his hands.

There was a long pause before O'Neill spoke again. When he did his voice was unexpectedly soft. "I've read your file, Daniel. I know that you were on the fast track, an up and comer with a bright future, but then you threw it away because you refused to perpetuate the falsehoods that you'd been fed. You knew the truth and you were willing to torpedo your own career to make sure others knew as well. It seems to me that someone who cared that passionately about the truth wouldn't want to just stand back and stay silent in the face of a grievous lie."

Daniel remained seated, his head cradled in his hands and just breathed. In and out. In and out. He willed his headache to go away. He willed Jack O'Neill to go away, but neither seemed inclined to do so.

Fuck.

For a moment Daniel's anger flared. Who the hell did this Colonel O'Neill think he was, barging into Daniel's life like this without warning? Daniel didn't want this, didn't need this. He needed to think, to get his life in order, get his career on track again. The anger waned almost as quickly as it had sparked, to give way to bleak resignation.

'What career?' his treacherous mind taunted. 'You're washed up, Daniel. You know it, your peers know it, even O'Neill, a total stranger, knows it.'

So what now? That was the real question, Daniel realized. What the hell was he going to do with himself? So far he had avoided that question like the plague. He'd opted instead to distract himself with alcohol and sex and anything else he could come up with that helped him to avoid dealing with the situation. But now, he found that it was all he could think about. Oblivion was a lot easier and a whole lot less painful, but sooner or later he'd always known he'd have to make up his mind and do something.

It would appear that later had arrived, quite suddenly and in a form he would never have anticipated in a million years.

Daniel raised his head. The kitchen was silent and O'Neill was gone. He lurched from his chair and staggered to the living room. O'Neill stood at the door, his hand poised above the knob.

"Colonel..."

O'Neill turned at the sound on his name. O'Neill studied Daniel as he straightened to his full height.

"What do you need me to do?" Daniel asked wearily.

O'Neill walked towards Daniel. "Come with me to DC. I'll fill you in on everything you need to know on the flight."

"You want me to just drop everything and go with you, just like that?"

"Is there something keeping you here?" O'Neill asked, the sweep of his arm encompassing more than the empty living room.

Daniel sighed. "Not really, no."

"Look, Daniel, I don't want to pressure you, but I need to know. Are you in?"

Daniel looked about the living room of the small house that had been his home for the past two years. There were too many bad memories in this place. They seemed to permeate the walls and furnishings like the stench of rotting garbage. O'Neill was right. There was absolutely nothing keeping him here. Maybe the best thing for him was to get as far as possible from LA. And the truth was, he had absolutely nothing to lose.

"I'm in."