"The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (7/13)
by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part 1 for disclaimers, etc.




Federal lock-up
Washington, D.C.
November 28, 1996
Thanksgiving Day

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

As Scully Saw It

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

"You know," Jim said, "I rarely eat anything that isn't powdered or
freeze-dried and this," he gestured toward his tray, "tastes like shit
even to me."

"That's your own fault for insisting on sharing my Thanksgiving
dinner," I said as I spooned up another postage-stamp-sized piece of
turkey roll. "Jail food is notoriously bad."

"Yeah, but I figured if I could eat what they serve on a submarine, I
could eat anything," Jim said, with that impish smile of his. "That's
what I get for thinking."

Poor Jim. Here he was, sitting on the edge of the cot, eating his
unappetizing Thanksgiving dinner with a spoon and trying so hard to
keep my spirits up, and I wasn't responding much at all.

Even if I couldn't respond, though, I was still grateful to have Jim
there with me -- it was a testament to the depth and power of
Skinner's connections and of his care for me, despite his outward
behavior.

What it signified about Jim's feelings toward me, I didn't know; right
now, I didn't want to know. I had other things on my mind; dark,
frightening thoughts of how much danger Mulder was in, and of how
pitifully little I had done to dissuade him from following Alex Krycek
into that danger.

But Mulder at least was a trained agent with years of field
experience. Daniel, despite his military background, would be out of
his league with people at Marita's and Krycek's level.

And I was the one who had sent him into their world ...

"Dana," Jim said, quietly, snapping me out of my daydreams.

I looked up at him, startled. "I'm sorry, Jim," I said, with what I
hoped was a gracious smile. "It's not the company, really; I just have
a lot on my mind."

"I know you do," he said, putting his hand over mine. "I'm worried,
too. I'm kicking myself pretty hard right now for backing down as fast
as I did. I should have done something more to stop him."

In spite of myself, I smiled, even as I withdrew my hand. "Great minds
think alike," I said, digging the thick, blunt-handled spoon into a
lump of dry, almost solid cornbread dressing.

"You mean you're blaming yourself, too," he said, and he let out a
heavy sigh. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

"What could possibly be funny?" I said, puzzled.

"It's just an old family joke," Jim said, shaking his head in
amusement. "Daniel used to have this basset hound named Max -- he said
the dog's full name was Maximillian Q. Reilly, but no one knew what
the Q stood for. Anyway, whenever anything went wrong, somebody would
look at Max and say, 'Look at him -- he's blaming himself.'"

The mental image was too funny to resist, and I laughed out loud.
"Poor Max," I said. "It must have been a heavy burden for him."

"It was," Jim agreed, nodding. "But I learned something important from
Max: No matter what happens, your basset hound is always having a
worse day than you are."

I laughed again, but more softly. "I suppose it's as good a way as any
to keep one's troubles in perspective," I said. "Too bad Skinner can't
arrange for a basset hound to visit me."

"Well, I'm not a basset hound, but I'm here," Jim said, and I was
touched to see real sadness in his eyes. "I wish I could do more to
help."

"You're helping a lot just by being here," I said, and I meant it.
"Even if you're not having a worse day than I am -- or are you?"

"Well, let's see," Jim said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You're in
jail, so you're one up on me there. We're both worried about Daniel,
so we're even there, although you're also worried about Mulder, so you
win that one, too."

"Then I suppose I am having the worse day," I said, quietly. "Not a
distinction I would have chosen."

"Ah, but you're forgetting something I'm way more worried about than
you are," Jim said, with a softer smile. I knew that smile so well; it
was Daniel's smile. I wondered if Jim knew it.

I turned my eyes back toward my tray. "And what might that be?" I
said, stabbing at the rubbery pumpkin pie with my spoon.

"You," Jim said, quietly, laying one hand gently against my cheek. "I
am very, very worried about you. How long are you going to keep
quiet?"

"Forever, I suppose," I said, turning away from him. He didn't
protest, just let his hand fall back down at his side, but I could
still feel the warm imprint of his hand where he had touched me.

"So you just rot here in jail?" Jim said. He stood up, taking my tray
from me. I had given up on the pie. "Isn't there any other way to
resolve this? Can't your boss do anything?"

"No, he can't," I said, brushing the crumbs off my wrinkled skirt.
"Actually, he wants me to tell the committee where Mulder is, although
he hasn't ordered me to."

"Then maybe he doesn't really want you to," Jim said, setting the
trays down by the small sliding door at the foot of the cell door.
"It's my experience that people who _can_ give orders to get what they
want usually _do_ give them -- like, for instance, Daniel."

"I think Skinner just doesn't want to give me an order he knows I
won't obey," I said, looking over at Jim. I wondered if he knew how
exactly the blue of his sweater matched the blue of his eyes ...

"Shit, I wish I could find a way to make some officers I know think
that way," Jim said, straightening up. Then he stopped. "Was this file
here before?" he said, looking at me.

I followed his gaze. There was an FBI file folder, about a half-inch
thick, lying on the floor next to the food trays.

I shook my head. "I haven't seen that one before," I said. "Maybe it
belongs to Skinner. Could you hand it to me, please?"

Jim picked up the folder and gave it to me. I could feel the contents
slipping and shifting inside the stiff manila; it contained
photographs, then. I laid the folder on my lap and opened it
carefully.

And I stopped breathing in that instant.

There were dozens of black-and-white photos, the kind the FBI prints
for use as evidence, and every one was a photograph of Mulder ...

 ... Mulder, sitting in a bar next to a beautiful woman with long,
dark hair, porcelain-white skin and lips as dark as blood ...

 ... Mulder, holding a door for the same woman, one hand resting on
the small of her back ...

 ... Mulder, holding the woman in his arms, with something on his face
that looked like shaving cream ...

 ... and Mulder, naked, lying on a tiled floor with that same woman,
his hand on her naked breast, his mouth fastened on hers.

The pictures didn't lie. It was Mulder, and he was making love to a
woman.

Even having seen it, I still couldn't make myself believe it. Mulder,
having sex with a woman? It was ludicrous, impossible: He'd told me
years ago that he'd never even considered it, that he absolutely did
not want that at all.

For four years now I had taken Mulder's assurances as a promise,
almost -- foolish as it was -- as a vow of his fidelity to me. I had
used that promise as a balm for the constant ache of wanting him, as a
shield against the quiet, illogical but ever-present fear that it was
me, personally, that he didn't want.

Now, I had no defense against that fear: It had come true.

The photographs fell from my lap and scattered across the concrete
floor as I lunged for the toilet, vomiting up my Thanksgiving dinner
as if by doing so I could purge my mind of what I had just seen.

I was only distantly aware of Jim's hands on my head, supporting me,
holding my hair away from my face. I could hear his voice, but what he
said might as well have been Sanskrit for all I understood of it.

No, I heard nothing except the words that were pounding through my
head, mocking me, laughing at me, telling me -- in a voice roughened
and deepened by cigarette smoke -- what a fool I was to believe in
Mulder, to give up my freedom to protect him.

"Breathe, Dana," Jim said, his voice faint in my ears, although he was
kneeling right beside me. "Just stay where you are and breathe slowly.
I'll get the guard."

"No," I said, shaking my head furiously, gasping for air at the same
time. "I don't need the guard. I'm fine."

"You are not fine," Jim said, firmly, as he handed me a cup of water
from one of the lunch trays. "You're sick as a damn dog and you're
practically in shock. Here, rinse your mouth."

"I am perfectly fine," I said, as I rocked back on my heels and took
the cup from him; but my hand betrayed me, shaking the cup so hard the
water sloshed over the rim. I decided to ignore it. "It's just ... I
must have eaten too fast."

"You barely ate at all," Jim said, watching calmly as I rinsed my
mouth. I spat as quietly as I could into the toilet, and then took a
few sips of the tepid water. "Dana, I don't know what those
photographs mean," he said, "but even for a bonehead like me, it's not
hard to figure out what they mean to you, and why they would upset
you."

Involuntarily, I looked down at the photographs scattered all around
my tiny cell, and I shuddered. "Jim," I said, just above a whisper, as
I turned my head away, "would you put those where I can't see them?
Please?"

"Yes, of course," he said, quietly, pressing a paper napkin into my
hand. "Come on, wipe your face and then go lie down. You're upset, and
you need to rest."

I started to protest again, but I had no strength left for it; anyway,
he was right. I did need to lie down. Nodding, I took Jim's
outstretched hand and let him help me to my feet, then I stumbled
across the floor to the cot, trying desperately not to look at the
photographs that littered my path.

As I lay there, eyes closed, I could hear Jim moving quietly around
the room, picking up the photographs. He said nothing, and I was
grateful for that. My brain still refused to confront the problem
posed by these photographs, or to do anything except hammer away at me
with the same painful thoughts over and over.

"All right, I've got them," Jim said after a few minutes, and I felt
the mattress shifting as he sat on the edge of the cot next to me. I
opened my eyes; he had the folder in his lap, one hand laid across it
to steady it and, I suspected, to make sure it didn't open
accidentally.

"I don't know what to do with them," I mumbled. "I don't want to see
them again, but I don't know how to get them out of here, either."

"I don't know either," Jim said. "I could try to take them with me,
but they'll search me when I leave -- they always do."

I shook my head. "No," I said. "That wouldn't do. I'll just have to
leave them on the desk with the other files until I'm released."

"You know, I've been thinking about that," Jim said, thoughtfully.
"About your getting out of here, I mean. I'll bet that's why these
photographs are here."

"I know," I said, wearily, laying my forearm across my eyes to block
out the light, which suddenly seemed far too bright for comfort.
"Someone sent me those so I'd be angry at Mulder -- angry enough to
betray him to the committee. That much, I've figured out."

"That's what I'm thinking," Jim said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "which
is why there's one thing about those photographs that just baffles the
shit out of me."

"Just one thing?" I said, dubiously, moving my arm so I could look at
him. "You mean something other than the sight of a gay man making love
with a woman?"

He smiled then; not Daniel's smile, but his own. Yet to my surprise, I
found that it still had some of Daniel's calming effect on me.

"Okay, so it's more than one thing," he said. "Not to be indelicate,
Dana, but those pictures seem to consist of nothing except what most
people would call foreplay -- and not very much of that."

I winced a little at that and turned my face away from his. "I haven't
wanted to look at them that closely," I said, swallowing back tears.
"What are you suggesting?"

"That what you were given," Jim said, more gently, "is a bunch of
crap, something designed to make you believe a lie. They're
photographs of an incomplete act, and that doesn't make sense."

"Why do you think that?" I said. "I'm not disagreeing with you, but I
don't see what difference it makes."

"I'm not the investigator here," Jim said, with just a flash of his
usual devilment, "but it seems to me that if someone out there wants
to piss you off so badly that you'll turn against your own partner, it
doesn't make sense for them to censor the act itself. I think they
sent you those pictures because those are the only ones they've got."

"So what are you saying?" I said, still puzzled. "You're telling me he
didn't go through with it?"

"Maybe it's not that he didn't go through with it, but that he
couldn't," Jim said, more quietly.

"What do you mean, he couldn't?" I said. "I don't understand you,
Jim."

For just a moment, he hesitated; then, with a slight shrug, he
answered me.

"I didn't want to mention this," he said, and I could hear the genuine
apology in his voice, "but Dana, nowhere in any of those photographs
does Mulder have even the beginnings of an erection. Not even," he
said, with something more like his usual humor, "at a point where, I
can promise you, I would have had."

"Jim," I said, warningly, but at the same time, I felt an unexpected
rush of heat at the thought of Jim Reilly aroused and hard and ready
for me...

Oh, God, I did not need to entertain thoughts like that. There was no
reason for it, except that I was tired, and frightened, and this side
of Jim -- the gentle, nurturing side -- was soothing and comforting. I
was simply confusing my perfectly normal response to his tenderness
with something more ... something I couldn't let myself feel for him.

I liked this Jim Reilly, though. I liked him more than I dared admit.

With some difficulty, I forced myself back to the problem at hand. "If
he wasn't interested, then why was he with her?" I said, shaking my
head. "If he didn't want to do it, then why even try?"

"That, I can't tell you," Jim said. "I think this is where I step back
and let the FBI take over. Although," he added, with a thoughtful
expression, "there was one other thing that seemed out of character."

"What?" I said, puzzled.

"Well," Jim began, then stopped, as if unsure. "I just ... well,
Mulder's Jewish, isn't he?"

"Non-practicing, but yes, he is," I said. "Why does that matter?"

"Because in those photographs, he's wearing a cross," Jim said, then
shrugged. "I don't know. It probably doesn't mean anything, but it is
a damned unusual ornament for a Jew, even one who's not very
religious."

"A cross?" I said, wonderingly. "What kind of cross?"

"A very small one, golden, on a thin chain," Jim said. "In fact, it
looked a lot like the one you usually wear."

Without thinking, I reached for the cross at my neck but my fingers
found only skin. Of course: My cross was in the property room, locked
up with my other valuables. I hated not having it; I almost never
voluntarily leave it off. Mulder knew that, too; that's why he guarded
it so carefully when ...

And that was when I realized the meaning of what Jim had seen: Mulder
had my cross. He not only had it, he was wearing it around his neck,
and there was only one time in our entire partnership when that could
have happened.

Quickly, I sat up, putting my feet on the floor; I was trying not to
hope too much, but my heart was pounding. "Jim, I need a favor," I
said.

"Whatever I can do, you know I will," he said, with a simplicity that
warmed my heart. "What do you need?"

"When you leave here, I need you to call the FBI and ask for Holly in
records," I said. "She should be there; she usually works Thanksgiving
so she can take off to shop the day after. If she's there, tell her
you're a friend of mine and that you need to speak to A.D. Skinner.
She'll connect you to his apartment. He has a direct line from the
Hoover, and it's the only phone he's likely to answer on a holiday."

"And when I have him on the phone, what do I tell him?" Jim asked,
looking more interested than puzzled.

"Tell him I need copies of any X files Mulder investigated while I
was missing," I said, then stopped as I saw the surprise in Jim's
eyes.

"You were missing?" he said. "When? What happened?"

I shook my head. "I can't tell you that right now," I said. "Someday,
maybe; but for now, I just need to know what Mulder was doing during
that time. Tell Skinner it's extremely urgent. Can you do that for me,
Jim?"

"I'll leave now," he said, rising from the cot. "But if I leave, I
won't be able to get back in here until tomorrow; is there anything
else you need?"

"No," I said, then stopped. "Well ... a prayer or two, I think, if you
haven't given up on it."

"It's been a while since I made it to Sunday Mass, but I think I can
come up with one," Jim said, smiling that smile that was so achingly
like Daniel's ... and yet so thoroughly different.

He set the file down on the small desk, then walked to the cell door
and knocked briskly. I heard the footsteps of the guard as she
approached.

"There is one thing you should know, though, before I start praying,"
Jim said as the door opened and the guard stood back to let him
through.

"And what might that be, Jim?" I asked, softly.

"I'm not promising you that I won't pray for my own nefarious wishes
to be granted," he said, in a low, conspiratorial tone. With that, he
stepped through the door, and I heard the cold sound of the door
closing and the key turning in the lock.

For a moment I just sat there, listening to his footsteps and those of
the guard retreating down the hallway; another door slammed, and I was
alone again.

"No promises from me, either, Jim Reilly," I whispered to the silent
air. "None at all."

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

As Mulder Saw It

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

I need to stay awake. Why the fuck can't I stay awake? I keep going
back to sleep and having nightmares.

At least, I think they're nightmares. They may be real.

When they happen, I can feel things crawling under my skin.

God, I hurt everywhere, and I'm soaked to the skin and cold ...

I want to get up and move but I don't know where they are.

If they find me, they may not kill me, but I will try my best to make
them. Anything's better than going back to Tunguska gulag, back to the
tests and the torture ... death is better than that kind of life ...

If I move suddenly, they may see me and kill me.

But what if they don't?

What was it the geologist said? Something about the persistence of
life ... survival beyond all reason.

But he gave me the knife. He must have known that it could be a
suicide mission for me to attack Krycek or anyone else with it ... but
he gave me the knife.

If my head and my shoulders and my back would stop hurting, if my skin
would stop stinging ... I could think ... i really need to ... think
...

wonder where scully is ... does she know where i am ... i'd be safe
... daniel ... if daniel were here ... but krycek ... where ... i
think that might be more ... these leaves feel like gravecloth ... if
i sleep for a while and things don't crawl like the things that crawl
i mean the things that crawled into my brain ...

don't move

they will have to kill me ...

isn't it wonderful ...

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

Federal lock-up
Washington, D.C.
November 29, 1996

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

As Scully Saw It

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

Variola virus.

There I sat in jail, less than halfway through the long holiday
weekend, worried sick about Mulder and Daniel, confused to the depths
of my soul by Jim Reilly, and all I was doing was reading the
fascinating story of variola virus as if I hadn't a care in the world.

Under other circumstances, I might have found it interesting reading,
but not now. I was reading the monograph only because I had to do
something or go insane, and as a result, I wasn't comprehending it
very well. All I could think about was Mulder and that woman and those
pictures and why in the world Skinner was taking so long to get me
those files.

I was very nearly at the end of my rope when Skinner came in. He had
a few questions for me before he handed any files over -- such as why
I was protecting Mulder.

I tried to explain, to make him understand what I believed was
happening and why I thought the committee was so fixated on finding
out where Mulder was, but I'm reasonably certain none of that got
through to him.

"These are congressmen we're talking about, Agent Scully," he said, as
though he thought that fact might have escaped my notice somehow.

"I know that, sir," I said, as calmly as I could. "And it is my
natural inclination to believe that they are acting in the best
interest of the truth ... but I am not inclined to follow my own
judgment in this case."

"You're going to follow Agent Mulder's?" Skinner said, sounding just a
bit incredulous. "Is that it?"

I didn't answer him; I don't suppose I needed to. He shook his head in
annoyance, then reached under his coat and drew out a folder that bore
the familiar stamp of an X file.

"Lieutenant Reilly said you wanted me to find out what X files Mulder
investigated during the time you were missing," he said, holding the
file out to me. "There was only one; the department was closed until
shortly before your return."

"I'm aware of that, sir," I said, fighting to keep my voice level. "I
think, however, that the X file you have in your hand may unlock some
of the mystery with which I am now faced."

Judging by his facial expression, Skinner was anything but convinced;
still, he gave me the file. "If you need further materials for your
investigation, tell the guards," he said. "The director has arranged
for you to get whatever you need so this situation can be resolved
quickly and without further embarrassment to the Bureau."

"I understand, sir," I said, and I did. Skinner was telling me that my
career was on the line. I was taking a huge risk for Mulder; whether
that risk was justified, I didn't know, but I knew that at least some
of the answer was in the file Skinner had brought.

"Very well, Agent Scully," he said, a bit gruffly. "I'll see you
Monday when the committee reconvenes, at which time I hope you will
have something better to offer the senators than a speech on your
medical education."

"As do I, sir," I said.

He left, and for a moment I simply sat there, looking at the folder,
hoping and praying that I had assessed the evidence correctly.

I took a deep breath, opened the file and began to read about the
bizarre life and death of the Unholy Trinity and the woman known as
Kristen Kilar.




END "The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (7/13)
by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)