"The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (6/13)
by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part 1 for disclaimers, etc.


That ended in the last year of our marriage. More and more often,
instead of coming home and spending time with me, Daniel would stay
late at work, or go out with some friends ... or so he said.

I didn't really know what to do; I just started taking a lot more
showers, bought a long-handled bath brush, and began to play the radio
while I bathed, to keep the silence from being too oppressive.

Inside, I suppose, I knew what was wrong. When I look back on it, the
signs were there; I just pushed it from my mind and refused even to
consider it.

But it hurt; oh, God, yes, it hurt.

But then, maybe ... maybe it hurt him, too, for me to deliberately
refuse for so long to acknowledge what he was going through.

That was a new thought; one that I couldn't really deal with right
now. Daniel was worried about something; even in the candlelight, I
could see that clearly.

"Danny, what's wrong?" I said, without thinking, then flinched as I
realized my mistake. I was just so used to it -- I had always been
allowed to call him by his childhood name, even after high school,
when he started making everyone else call him Daniel.

I had always treasured that privilege, although I really think Daniel
suits him better than Danny. I hated to give it up, even now.

"Sorry," I said, sheepishly. "I meant Daniel."

But to my surprise, he shook his head. "Danny is still okay, Jill," he
said, smiling softly. "From you, anyway -- no one else."

"I thought you didn't like it anymore," I said. "You didn't like it
when I said it the other night."

He shook his head again, the smile fading. "I wasn't behaving very
well that night, Jill," he said. "Not with you or with anyone else."

"I didn't notice anything," I said, softly. Damn him, he was getting
to me again, and he wasn't even really trying.

"Just take my word for it," he said, the smile reappearing for just an
instant, but then he sighed and looked away.

"You still haven't told me what's wrong," I said, turning toward him a
little, slowly so I wouldn't slosh bubbles all over him, resting my
arm on the rim of the tub.

"No, I haven't," he said, but he didn't look at me. I knew what that
meant: He was really upset about something but he was trying not to
show it. 

"Danny," I said, very quietly, then waited until he turned toward me
again. "Something's really wrong, isn't it?" I said, when I was sure I
had his attention. "Tell me."

He nodded. "Fox is missing," he said, quietly. "Dana doesn't know
where he is, but she's pretty sure that, wherever he is, he's with the
man who shot me."

I gasped. "Daniel, is she sure?" I said, in horror. "How in the world
did that happen?"

"I don't know, and Dana says she can't tell me," Daniel said. "All
I know is she fainted when she realized what was going on."

"Is she all right?" I said, and believe me, I was genuinely concerned.
I've never been overly impressed with the quality of healthcare in
correctional facilities. "Is anyone taking care of her?"

"Jim's with her," Daniel said. "She's all right; she stabilized
quickly. She's just worried about Fox."

"So are you," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "You're worried
to death, Danny. I can see it in your eyes."

He smiled, just a little. "I never could hide anything from you, could
I?" he said.

I closed my eyes. For a second, I thought I might summon the strength
just to let that comment pass unremarked, but I was tired of suffering
in silence, I guess ... I mean, I know I was.

"There were a few things you hid pretty well, Daniel," I said, softly.

For a minute there was no sound in the room except the slow plunk,
plunk of water dripping from the faucet and the slight hiss of bubbles
breaking.

"Yes, I guess there were," Daniel said, finally, and his voice was a
little thick. "And I am sorry, Jill. I know I've said that a million
times, and you're probably no more interested in hearing it now than
you were before, but it's true, nonetheless."

"No, I'm sorry," I said, leaning back against the bath pillow, feeling
very ashamed. "That was a cheap shot. It was uncalled for, and I
apologize. You came here to tell me something."

"Yes, I did," he said. He sounded disappointed.

I knew what he wanted me to say; I just wasn't sure I'd ever be able
to say it.

"I've got to go to New York," he went on. "I have to go talk to a
woman who Dana says may know where Fox is."

"Why are _you_ going?" I asked in surprise, opening my eyes again.
"Why doesn't she get someone in the FBI to go?"

"She says she can't trust them," Daniel said. "After what she's told
me, I'm not sure I do, either."

"And after you talk to this woman, then what?" I said. "Will Dana be
out of jail in time to go find him herself?"

Daniel shook his head. "She's there until Monday, at least," he said.
"If they're still asking the same questions on Monday, and she's still
refusing to answer, she'll be there indefinitely."

"So who's going to ..." I began, then stopped as I realized what the
answer was. "Danny, no," I said, quietly. "You're still not well."

He laughed at that. "You sound just like Jim," he said, shaking his
head. "Why is it that no one seems to think I'm capable of taking an
airline flight and making a few phone calls?"

"Because there may be more to it than that, and you know it," I said.
"I saw on the news about that raid in New York that Dana and Fox were
on; it scared me to death, and I'm not ... involved with either of
them. You could get hurt again, maybe even worse; if this man wanted
to kill you before, he'll want to now, too, maybe even more than he
did then."

"Jill, I've thought about that, believe me," Daniel said, very
quietly. "I'm not anxious to get shot again; it hurt like hell, and I
know better than anyone how easily it could have killed me. But this
is ..."

He stopped then, and averted his eyes. I knew why, too.

"So when are you leaving?" I asked. I didn't want him to finish that
sentence.

"Now," he said, getting up from the floor. "I just came to get a few
things. I'll leave my car here, in case you need it. I'll take a cab
to the airport."

"I won't be here," I said, without thinking. Not until I saw Daniel's
face did I realize how abrupt I'd sounded.

"You're going home?" he asked. He sounded ... I don't know, sad? Not
quite that ... but something.

"Danny, I have to," I said, more quietly. "I'm out of vacation time,
and I'm not eligible for family leave, not for this. You're not my
husband anymore."

"I know," he said. "I've asked too much of you already. You've got
your own life now."

What life, Danny? I thought. But at least this time I had the grace
not to say it out loud. "It's not that so much," I said. "There's just
not much wiggle room in my finances these days, and I'm not getting
paid for this time off. I have to get back to work."

Daniel looked at me for a long, long minute; then he crouched down
beside the tub so that he was looking at me at my eye level.

"Jill, I already owe you more than I can ever repay," he said, very
quietly. "I won't insult you by offering you money for taking care of
me, but it's there if you need it and as far as I'm concerned, you've
got a right to it. You wouldn't take it when we divorced, but you
should have. I wouldn't be where I am now without you."

Well, that was at least partly true, I supposed. I had worked double
shifts and had even passed up a couple of really good job offers in
other cities while Daniel finished med school at Harvard. When I
wasn't working, I was taking care of the housework so Daniel could
study.

In the end, what that meant was that Daniel's medical license -- or
rather, the potential income it represented -- would have been counted
among our marital assets if I had insisted.

I refused even to consider it, so adamantly that my lawyer finally
told me I was nuts. She thought I ought to take Daniel for every penny
I could get, which wouldn't have been difficult: he'd already said,
through his lawyer, that he wouldn't contest any claim I made on his
income.

"He's a surgeon, Mrs. Reilly," she kept saying. "He gets paid three
times as much as other officers of his rank. He's not going to starve
if you take what you're entitled to."

All I wanted, I told her, was for this to be over. I wanted no further
ties to Daniel of any kind, I said.

Famous last words, huh?

I shook my head. "I don't need money," I said. "And I didn't ask for
alimony because I didn't want it. You don't owe me anything, Daniel.
Really."

"You're wrong, Jill," he said. "You couldn't be more wrong."

He stood up then. "I need to get going," he said. "Before I go,
though, I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you've
done. You'll never know how much it meant to me."

I could feel my cheeks growing hot. "Don't thank me, Danny," I
mumbled. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Jill, I would do anything I could for you," Daniel said, very
quietly. "I hope you know that; and I hope, if you ever need anything
-- anything at all -- that I'm the first person you'll call."

I knew I couldn't promise that, so I said nothing; I just nodded.
Daniel waited; hoping, I guess, that I would say something more, but I
just closed my eyes again and sank deeper into the water.

I heard him sigh, and then the quiet sound of his footsteps as he
walked away. I waited to get out of the tub until I heard him in the
bedroom, packing his suitcase -- and as I'm sure you can imagine, I
know quite well what that sounds like. Every Navy wife does.

I stepped out of the tub, took my bathrobe from the hook behind the
door, slipped into it and tied it around me.

And then I simply stood there like an idiot, dripping on the bathroom
rug, trying in vain to remember what I had intended to do next. I
stood there, listening to the old, familiar sounds ... the opening and
closing of drawers, the rattling of clothes hangers, the rasping of
the zipper on his overnight bag, the clinking of his keys ...

His keys. He had picked up his keys.

Without thinking, I jerked the bathroom door open and ran out, down
the hall toward the front door, just as fast as I could.

"Danny," I called out, "Danny, wait."

I rounded the corner and stopped; there he stood, looking quite
startled, one hand on his suitcase and the other on the door.

"What is it, Jill?" he said, clearly confused.

"It's just ..." I began, then stopped. Why was I there? "I just
wanted..." I began again, then shook my head. "I mean, I ..."

Without another word, Daniel put down the suitcase, dropped his keys
on the coffee table, walked over toward me and took my hand, just the
way he used to when we were together.

"Tell me, sweetie," he said, quietly.

For just a moment I was almost completely disoriented; it was as
though I'd dreamed the last three years, as though Daniel was still
mine and I was his. His hand, his voice, even the way he called me
"sweetie" -- everything was so familiar that it hurt.

And I wanted to go on hurting like that forever.

I didn't know I was going to do it; if you'd asked me whether I ever
would, I'd have said no, never.

But I did. I let go of his hand and flung my arms around his neck,
pressing my lips to his cheek, holding onto him so tightly I'm
surprised he didn't choke.

His arms went around me, holding me in a grip so convulsively tight
that I knew, without being told, that I wasn't the only one whose eyes
were filling with tears.

"Promise me you'll be careful," I whispered in his ear. "Promise,
Danny. Don't let anything else happen to you."

"I won't," he whispered back, and I could feel his breath stirring the
loose strands of hair at my temple. "I promise."

I nodded, feeling the soft scratch of his late-day stubble against my
cheek; just one more touch that used to be so commonplace that I'd
scarcely noticed it.

But I had missed it, these past few years. I had missed so many
things, things that used to be part of everyday life with Daniel, whom
I had loved so much ... and loved still.

I turned my head just slightly and kissed his cheek again,
lingering for a moment, then hid my face against his shoulder, nearly
overwhelmed by the confusing jumble of emotions I was feeling.

"Jill, there's so much I want to say to you," Daniel said, still
whispering. "So many things I've wanted you to know. I'd give anything
for just a few more hours with you so I could tell you, but I can't
stay. This is ..."

There it was again: that sentence he couldn't finish, because he was
trying so hard to spare my feelings.

Maybe it was time I tried to spare his.

I took a deep breath to steady myself and leaned away from him just a
little so I could see his face.

"But this is your lover we're talking about?" I said, as gently as I
could. It did hurt to say it; yet somehow, with Daniel's arms around
me, it was bearable. "Is that what you wanted to say, Danny?"

Daniel didn't answer right away; after a minute, though, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry, Jill."

"No, don't be sorry," I said, and I laid my head against his chest.
"You've spent too much time already being sorry about things that
aren't your fault."

I thought he might protest at that -- it would have been like him --
but he said nothing. I raised my head and looked up, looked into those
deep, blue-black eyes, and I knew why.

Daniel had told me a hundred times on the day he left me that he was
sorry for what he'd done, for hurting me and lying to me.

This time, he wasn't saying it ... not out loud, anyway.

Maybe that's why this time, for the first time, I really heard it.

I laid my hand over his heart; he covered my hand with his, and his
fingers closed around mine, and he leaned forward, gently resting his
forehead against mine. He started to say something, but I shook my
head.

I didn't need to hear him say it. Not with words; not now.

"Jill, I have no right to ask you this, or anything else, for that
matter," he said after a minute. "But I would give almost anything if
you would stay just a few days longer -- just until I get back,
because I really need to talk to you. I know you don't have a paycheck
coming in, but there's money in the top drawer of my desk if you need
it, and I'll leave the car here. Please say you will."

I started to tell him no, to say that I had to get back to San Diego
or risk losing my job, but I didn't. That was an excuse for leaving,
not a reason.

I wanted to leave, but I knew I needed to stay. I needed to hear what
Daniel wanted to tell me, and I needed to start healing. And God help
me, I needed to help Daniel heal, too.

"I'll stay," I said, snuggling deeper into his arms. "I'll be here
when you get back, Danny. However long it takes, I'll be here."

************

New York City
2:52 a.m.

************

As Marita Saw It

************

Someone was knocking on my door.

Who in the world could it be this time? Fox Mulder was enjoying the
hospitality of the Russian government, while his partner was a guest
of the Americans, so it couldn't be either of them; nor, for reasons I
will never disclose, could it be their supervisor.

I looked through the peephole and, without thinking, licked my lips.
Someone had dropped quite a present on my doorstep; whoever he was, he
was gorgeous.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"My name is Daniel Reilly, Miss Covarrubias," he said, not too loudly.
"I'm a friend of Fox Mulder."

Well. This was unexpected, and there weren't supposed to be any
surprises at all in this operation; I'd been assured there wouldn't
be. Obviously, I needed to find out more about Mr. Reilly and what he
wanted. I opened the door, leaving the chain on.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Reilly?" I said.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Miss Covarrubias," he said. "But no
one's heard from Fox in several days, and his partner thought you
might know where he had gone."

"I have no idea where your friend might be, Mr. Reilly," I said, as
coolly as I could. "He and I are not in communication with each
other."

"Miss Covarrubias, may I come in and explain?" he said, and I could
just barely sense the impatience behind his careful politeness. It was
the kind of self-restraint that spoke of old family, long traditions
and careful upbringing.

I added that to my list of keys to unlocking this man's secrets, and
to getting back in control of the situation.

"It's late, Mr. Reilly," I said. "I find it a bit of an imposition on
your part ..."

"I won't stay long, Miss Covarrubias, I assure you," he said. "But I
do mean to find him, and I believe -- if you'll pardon my saying so --
that you know a great deal more than you're telling me."

My inclination was to refuse, to shut the door in his face and then to
call one of the elders to find out who this person was. The only thing
that prevented me was the knowledge that, if this Daniel Reilly was
important in Fox Mulder's life -- or his partner's -- someone there
already knew of it, yet hadn't informed me.

That meant I had to find out for myself where this man fit into the
overall scheme of things, unless I wanted to suffer the nearly total
loss of influence that comes, in my world, to those whose information
is known to be second-rate.

I stepped back, closing the door just long enough to unlatch the
chain, then opened the door again.

"Come in, Mr. Reilly," I said. I gestured toward the same chair in
which Fox Mulder had taken his last innocent sleep. "Please, sit
down," I said, seating myself on the chair opposite. "What is it that
makes you believe I can help you find your friend?"

"Because Dana Scully told me that you would know," he said. "And I
trust her instincts."

"I see," I said. "Have you and Agent Scully known each other long?"

"Almost three years," he said. "Miss Covarrubias, I'm sorry, but I'm a
bit pressed for time. I need to know what you told Fox when he was
here -- and I do know that he was here. Dana gave him your address
right before he disappeared."

"Disappeared is a very strong word, Mr. Reilly," I said. His growing
impatience was all to the good; I needed him just a bit more impatient
and a bit less in control, however, if I was to learn what I sought to
learn.

"Disappeared is the appropriate word, Miss Covarrubias," he said,
quite calmly. "He's gone without a trace -- except, perhaps, for
whatever traces he left here."

A very interesting man, this Daniel Reilly; much less volatile than
Fox Mulder, and not as easily manipulated through his emotions. His
eyes were calm, revealing nothing except his ancestry, which was
unmistakably Celtic. No other people has eyes so blue they are nearly
black, eyes that change so swiftly and engagingly from joy to sadness,
from laughter to lust.

A pleasant thought, indeed. Perhaps Daniel Reilly, unlike Fox Mulder,
could be manipulated in a more carnal fashion.

"I see," I said, rising. He stood, too; quite a gentleman. How
touching ... and how rare, these days. "I can find out what you want
to know, Mr. Reilly," I continued. "I'll need to make a few telephone
calls; it could take several hours. Perhaps you'd like to lie down and
rest while you wait?"

He smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting with a soft exhalation that
might have been -- but was not -- a laugh. "Thank you, but no," he
said, quietly, almost deferentially, but his eyes met mine directly,
and his gaze was firm and unfaltering. "If you don't mind, I'll wait
here."

Yet another surprise, another rejection ... and in almost the exact
words Agent Mulder had used such a short time before. It was as though
these two men shared some impalpable connection, strong enough to keep
their minds moving in the same direction, in spite of their obvious
differences of temperament. Almost as though ...

And then I laughed. There was some humor in it, after all, and a real
lesson for me in the limitations of sex as a weapon.

"So you're the reason," I said, softly. "I can't believe I didn't know
this before."

"The reason for what, Miss Covarrubias?" he said. He honestly didn't
know what I meant; I could tell by his expression.

"The reason, Mr. Reilly, that Agent Mulder seemed so ... resistant to
suggestion when he was here," I said. "Resistant to my ...
invitation."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said, still with that firm,
steady gaze. This time, however his eyes betrayed him; there was
awareness there, but no fear. Admirable ... and again, so rare.

"Oh, come now," I said, still amused by my own stupidity. "You know
exactly what I mean, Mr. Reilly. I won't be so rude as to spell it out
for you ..."

"Thank you," he said, quite calmly. "I think I'd prefer it that way."

"But we both know what we're talking about," I went on, as though he
hadn't spoken. "And if nothing else, Mr. Reilly, you've restored my
sadly crushed pride in my attractiveness."

"You don't need to suffer any loss of pride, Miss Covarrubias," he
said, and strangely enough, he seemed to mean it. "You're a very
beautiful woman, and a very intelligent one. Intelligent enough, in
fact, to know that since you've admitted that he was here, you might

as well tell me what was said and where he went."

All my training, all my orders and instructions told me I should play
him along, send him in the wrong direction, feed his search on careful
disinformation ...

My instinct for survival, however, told me otherwise.

I was in a perilous position with my employers; Daniel Reilly's very
existence had been kept from me, along with the reason he was a part
of Agent Mulder's life -- a very important part, and one of which I
might have wished to make use.

That meant only one thing: I was not trusted, not taken seriously.

Very well, then. The safest course for Daniel Reilly was also the
surest path to my revenge. I would help this man find his lover; I
would tell him the truth and give him the credentials he would need to
help him on his journey.

If my employers noticed his disappearance, they would simply assume
that I had lied to him and sent him on a dead-end journey. They would
not trouble to follow him or to interfere with his travel.

This is a dangerous game that we play, one in which no one dares make
a single misstep. Never let anyone doubt, however, that the lady is an
accomplished player.

I will teach you the foolishness of keeping me in ignorance,
gentlemen.

"Very well, Mr. Reilly," I said, looking him in the eye. "I will tell
you what I told your friend; more than that, I will give you what you
will need to find him -- although you must be warned, he may not be
well when you do."

"Not well?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "In what way?"

I shook my head. "I won't tell you that, Mr. Reilly," I said. "I find
you very attractive, and your devotion to Agent Mulder admirable, but
I have no desire to risk my life in order to share that information
with you. I will tell you that when you find him, you should try to
seek medical attention for him at the first opportunity."

"That won't be a problem, Miss Covarrubias," he said, shaking his
head, his expression showing, for the first time, genuine alarm -- and
annoyance. "I'm a physician. I just need to know what kind of
preparations I should make."

"I see," I said. Yet another interesting twist to this already quite
unusual evening. "In that case, Dr. Reilly, you should prepare to do a
bit of smuggling."




END "The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (6/13)
by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)