"The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(2/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part I for archive info, disclaimers, etc.


TO: scullydk@fbi.gov 
FROM: reillyda@washington.navy.mil
SUBJECT: Navy life	

I know, I know, I said I'd write just as soon as I got here. I meant
to. I really did. I just can't remember the last time I was this busy.
I've been up around zero-dark-thirty every day since I've been aboard
and I hit the rack somewhere around midnight. 

At least I don't have to worry about waking anybody up: For the first
time in my career, I've got a private stateroom. Rank hath its
privileges, as they say. It's different. You get so used to having no
privacy at all aboard ship that being alone at night seems strange as
hell.

Not that I have a lot of time to sleep: No one's inventoried the sick
bay since the last SMO left the ship. I have maybe two weeks to do it
and to get the orders into supply. Fortunately for me, the supply
officer likes me: He says he hurt his back about two years ago and I
treated him. I don't remember him, but it'll be a cold day in hell
before I let him know it, believe me.

I've got some good people working here with me. The senior chief petty
officer is a guy named Domzalski -- I know, it sounds like something
out of a John Wayne WWII movie -- but I've worked with him before and
he's one of the best, a real lifer with more than 20 years in, and
what he doesn't know about running a sick bay isn't worth knowing. My
corpsmen seem scared to death of him, but he's got them doing their
jobs the way they ought to be done and as always, the men and women
who serve under him respect his abilities. Thank God for that. 

We're still short one medical officer, our general surgeon, in fact,
but the skipper tells me he'll be here before we deploy and I hope
he's right. The entire damn Navy is short of medical officers, and
we've already got more than our share, you might say. The air wing has
its own flight surgeons, of course, and they're available in an
emergency, but their primary job is keeping the airdales flying --
which is, of course, this ship's primary mission. The air wing is
already aboard, and they'll start flying as soon as we sail. So long,
peace and quiet.

Anyway, the senior dental officer -- a really nice guy with a Jersey
accent like you wouldn't believe -- is happy to let his staff help out
with the more routine sick calls and emergency triage, and we've got a
medical service staff to take care of the paperwork and other military
crud, so we should be all right.

I've gotten lost about three times a day since I've been here, a
phenomenon known to aviators as loss of situational awareness. It's
not uncommon when you go below decks. Fortunately, there's almost
always some young seaman (all of whom look about 14 to me) who's ready
to lead an old guy back to the sick bay or to officer country. I'm
sure they're getting quite a laugh out of it.

Really, though, I'd forgotten just how confusing an aircraft carrier
can be. Of course, I've never been aboard one this big before. The
noise doesn't help, because it makes it hard to think until you get
used to it. And it is, of course, very noisy and about to get noisier.

On my first carrier assignment, it took me about two weeks to learn to
sleep in spite of the constant noise of the aircraft and the
catapults. Maybe it won't take so long this time. I've already
developed the necessary olfactory fatigue, meaning I don't smell the
jet fuel anymore; well, most of the time I don't. The coffee still
tastes like jet fuel, but it always does.

This is all sort of dry and dull, I guess, but it's hard to put into
words what I really want to say to you. I miss you, but you know that.
Busy as I am, I still think about you all the time and especially
about the night before I reported aboard. I'm not sure I've really
recovered from it yet. Like I said, kid, you are insatiable. 

Speaking of the privileges of rank, one of the great privileges of
being a senior officer is being allowed to go topside when I have a
few minutes. Most people don't realize it, but the vast majority of
those serving on a carrier aren't allowed anywhere near the flight
deck, so it's a hell of a privilege and one I try not to abuse. Still,
every night, right around sunset, I go up to Vulture's Row and I look
out toward the horizon and I think about you. Whether I'm topside or
below, though, I'll always be thinking about you then. Remember that
when the sun goes down in your part of the world.

I'll write again as soon as I can. I love you. Don't forget that.

Love always,

Daniel


~~~~~

TO: reillyda@washington.navy.mil 
FROM: scullydk@fbi.gov 
SUBJECT: RE: Navy life

Yeah, sure you've been too busy, sailor. If I had a nickel for every
time I've heard that one, I could retire from the FBI.

I'd tell you about our latest case if I knew how, but even for us,
this one was strange. Take two agents of moderately lapsed faith, one
Catholic and the other Jewish, and you're going to trip over one of
those faiths during a case once in a while. This time, it was the
apikoris -- the disaffected Jew --who kept tripping over his non-
existent faith. Still, faith or no faith, it's going to give a guy a
hell of a stomachache to run into a bunch of bloodthirsty neo-Nazis,
you know?

I'm not going to describe the case beyond that. I'm not in the mood to
have you question my sanity. I spend too much time questioning it
myself. The only thing I know for sure from this case is that neither
member of the X Files team is in very close touch with the more
traditional, orthodox aspects of his or her faith, and both of us seem
all right with that, most of the time.

Writing to you this way is tougher than it sounded over dinner with
friends and family, so I think I'll stop until I can gather my
thoughts. You know what I want to say, anyway, and you know I was
never any good at it even when we were alone together. That doesn't
mean I don't feel it or don't wish I could say it.

But sunset sounds like a good time to think about it.

Take care.


~~~~~

As Scully Saw It

~~~~~

I was sound asleep when the phone rang, but that long ago ceased to
startle me. I just look at the clock; if it's after midnight, I assume
it's Mulder and that nothing's really wrong.

I fumbled for the receiver.

"This had better be good, Mulder," I said, flopping back down onto my
pillow.

"Dana, it's Daniel," came a soft voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
wake you."

"No, it's all right," I said, sitting up. "Is everything all right,
Daniel?"

"Yes, everything's fine," Daniel said. "But I just found out we're
sailing at 0500 and ... I was wondering if you would still be able to
come. I know it's short notice ..."

"It always is, isn't it?" I said. I remembered all the last-minute
good-byes of my childhood. Things change ... missions change, orders
change, ships have to move out fast, and sometimes Daddy's gone before
you wake up.

"Yeah," Daniel said, and I thought perhaps he was remembering the same
thing. "It always is."

"Daniel, you know I'll be there," I said. "But are you sure you don't
want me to bring Mulder? We could meet somewhere ..."

"No," Daniel said, firmly, interrupting me. "I've already called him.
We've said our goodbyes, and he doesn't ... just being there and not
being able to do more than shake my hand isn't going to help him, Dana
-- or me. There's nothing to be gained by taking that risk."

For a moment, I tried to picture that scene -- me giving Daniel a kiss
while Mulder struggled not to watch -- and I knew that Daniel was
right. Painful as this might be for Mulder, it was far better than the
alternative.

But it hurt so, for all of us.

I sighed. "Where shall I meet you?" I said.

~~~~~

Near pier 11
Norfolk Naval Station
Hampton Roads, Va.

~~~~~

Four hours later, I was with Daniel, drinking coffee and talking in
one of those warm, mom-and-pop cafes that always seem to spring up
around Navy bases. Sometimes, we didn't talk, but just sat there in
the comfortable silence that grows between true friends. If only
Mulder had been there, it would have been perfect.

Daniel looked much the same as ever, if more tired than he usually
did; he was wearing working khaki without his ribbons, as is customary
aboard a ship, but he looked more familiar and more like himself than
he had in his dress uniform.

I was tired, too. My eyes were stinging with lack of sleep, but that
wasn't an unfamiliar feeling; under the circumstances, it was almost
welcome, a tangible reminder that this day was different, something to
mark it out as special and hurtful all at the same time. 

And he smiled at me as he talked, with that lovely Daniel smile, and I
smiled back, wishing more and more with every passing moment that I
could just hold his hand, that regulation and protocol didn't require
him to keep his distance.

Despite the hour, the cafe was nearly full with Daniel's shipmates,
sitting in groups or with their loved ones, sharing a last moment
together as he and I were doing. Most of the sailors greeted Daniel
when they walked by with a respectful nod, a "Good morning, sir," or a
less-formal, "Hey, doc," but none of them stopped to chat. They knew
not to intrude.

Just from those few greetings, though, I could see that Daniel was
already well-liked by the crew. They rendered him the proper
courtesies, as they would have done for any officer, but willingly,
and with warmth and respect, not grudgingly out of fear or resentment.
My father always told me you could tell a lot about an officer's worth
when the enlisted men responded to him that way. That, he said, was an
officer worth having.

And I found myself resenting that idea quite a lot. I didn't want the
enlisted people or the officers to like Daniel, or even to have him
around to like. He wasn't theirs. Anyway, if he turned out to be a
rousing success as senior medical officer, the captain might just
decide to keep him.

I couldn't even bear to think about that.

I listened to what Daniel told me about his ship, and his sick bay,
and it did interest me; I would have liked to be able to go aboard and
see the facilities, but there was no time. 

Mostly, I just looked at him and listened to his voice, immersing
myself in the familiar, beloved presence, trying not to think how
badly I was going to miss him in just a few minutes, trying even
harder not to cry at the ungodly unfairness of the fact that I was
here instead of Mulder.

Someone tell me, please, what possible harm it might do to our
nation's defense for Commander Daniel Reilly, who has served his
country with honor for more than 17 years, to be allowed to
acknowledge that the person he loves most in this world happens to be
of the same sex? Would that bring the Statue of Liberty crashing down?


Too soon, it was time for Daniel to go. The sounds from the dock
announced it; the movement in the cafe and all around the waterfront
confirmed it. We had about 10 minutes to say goodbye, and that was it.

Daniel arose, left money for the check and the tip on the table and
picked up his cover.

"Come on," he said, quietly. "I'll walk you to your car."

"Daniel, I can stay until the ship sails," I said. "There'll be plenty
of people here to keep me company. I'll be fine."

"I know that," Daniel said. "I'm not worried that you can't take care
of yourself. I was just hoping you'd go back home and ... take care of
someone else for me."

Without even thinking, I grabbed his hand and held it tightly. He
shouldn't have let me -- there were still plenty of junior officers
and enlisted people in that cafe -- but he did.

"On one condition," I said, almost whispering. 

Daniel nodded. "Name it," he said.

"You come sit in the car with me for about two minutes," I said, still
whispering. "I want a kiss goodbye."

Daniel laughed. "That's the easiest condition anyone ever imposed on
me," he said, giving my hand a squeeze before letting it go. "Come on,
let's go."

We didn't talk as we walked toward my car; I unlocked it, and Daniel
got in on the passenger side, I on the driver's side.

For a moment, I just sat there looking at him stupidly, as though I'd
never done this before, but the truth was, I hadn't -- or at least,
not like this. I'd never been the "wife" in the equation, just the
sister or the daughter. I couldn't think of the words to say goodbye.

Daniel, with his usual gentleness and tact, took over.

"Come here, Dana," he said, putting his hand on the back of my neck to
pull me closer.

And then, for the first time, he kissed me.

You know I don't mean that literally. Daniel's kissed me before. He's
even kissed me in bed when we were both naked, if you'll remember ...
although that wasn't exactly what it sounds like.

But that was my friend kissing me, Mulder's lover kissing Mulder's
best friend; this was Daniel Reilly kissing Dana Scully, for myself
and what I could give him. 

I don't mean that he wanted sex. I had no such thoughts in my mind.
Daniel's sexual orientation wasn't going to change just because he was
shipping out for six months and his lover wasn't around to say
goodbye. 

But it was sensual, and sexual in the truest sense, the sense of
intimacy and physical connection, and I felt myself responding to it
just in that way, wrapping my arms around his neck, all but melting
into him. If he hadn't felt so familiar in my arms, if even the scent
of him hadn't been so imprinted in my memory as the scent of Daniel, I
might have forgotten who he was --it was all so different.

But it was Daniel, and as sweet as it was, as much as I had longed to
know what it would be like to kiss him that way, it hurt, too. No
matter how much he cares for me, Daniel wouldn't have kissed me that
way unless something desperate was driving him. 

When he moved away, and I looked into his eyes, I knew that I was
right. I saw love, even a hint of desire, but I also saw sadness and
longing ... something bordering on grief.

"Daniel," I whispered, laying my hand on his face. "Daniel, was that
for me or for Mulder?"

He shook his head. "You can give him a kiss for me," he said, and he
kissed me again, very gently. "I hope you will. But that one was for
you, Dana." 

"Why?" I asked. "Why kiss me like that now?"

He smiled, gave a little shrug, and ran one hand lightly over my hair.
"I wanted to," he said.

"You wanted to," I repeated, but I was smiling too. "You've got to do
better than that."

"Don't make me," he said, shaking his head. "It's going to sound
incredibly selfish if I say it out loud."

"As if you've ever been selfish with me," I said, softly. "Never mind,
Daniel," I said, as he started to speak again. "It's all right. Things
have never really been complicated between you and me, and I don't
want to complicate them now. Just kiss me again, because you have to
go now."

"All right," he said, quietly, and he did, his strong arms holding me
close, and for those few moments we were warm and safe together and we
loved each other, and there was no reason to worry, no need to
explain. I knew why Daniel needed this from me ... I could feel it in
the way he was touching me.

He was about to be terribly, terribly alone.

It would begin the moment he walked aboard the ship, and would last as
long as this voyage lasted, even though he would be surrounded night
and day by about 6,000 people. That didn't matter: His rank and
position would set him apart, and leave him with no peers, no one whom
protocol and regulation would allow to be his friend.

No, Daniel wasn't being selfish or playing games; he just needed to be
held and to feel loved, and the plain fact was that I was the only one
there who loved him. He knew I wouldn't turn him away.

And because he is my friend, because I love him, because I would lay
down my life for the man whose kiss Daniel truly longed for, I relaxed
into his embrace and let him be close to me, as close as he wanted to
be. I knew it wasn't enough -- it was Mulder he really wanted and
needed, and I wasn't Mulder. I couldn't be more than a willing,
inadequate surrogate.

But I was, I promise you, much more than willing: I was positively
aroused. I'd felt that for Daniel before, but never like this; this
was stronger, more fundamental than anything he'd ever made me feel
before, but it was sweet, too, and wonderful, and it was safe to feel
it, because it was Daniel.

There was never any reason for me to fear Daniel, then or now or ever.

All too soon, it was over. With one more gentle kiss and a whispered
"I love you, Dana," Daniel let me go, picked up his cover and got out
of the car. I got out and walked around to the passenger side.

"Dana, you don't have to stay here until she sails," he said, putting
his cover on. "This always takes longer than it's supposed to, and
it's cold out here. Just let me get aboard and then you go back to
D.C. I'd rather not think of you standing here in the dark shivering."

"All right, if that's what you want," I said, wrapping my arms tightly
around myself. "I'm used to it. My dad would never let us hang around
the dock either. He was afraid we'd cry or misbehave; he said it would
set a bad example for the enlisted men's children."

Daniel laughed. "I used to hear that one myself," he said. Then the
smile softened. "Goodbye, Dana," he said, quietly. "And thank you."

I shook my head. "Don't thank me, Daniel," I said. "You know what you
mean to me. Now go before I set a bad example for the enlisted men's
... best friends, or ... whatevers."

"Whatever, indeed," Daniel said, softly, then he bent to give me one
quick, highly illegal kiss. "I'll see you when I get back."

I couldn't answer him. All I could do was nod. He gave me a smile in
return, then turned and walked away, down the long dock toward the
gangway. I watched him go, returning the salutes of the sailors and
fellow officers as they passed. He walked up the long gangway, saluted
the OOD and the national ensign ...

And then he was aboard, and the huge ship hid him from my sight. 

I got in my car, drove back to D.C. without stopping, right to the
Hoover building and went straight to Mulder's office.

I found him sitting at his desk, in the dark, staring at the wall,
tossing a pencil from one hand to the other. He didn't even turn
around when I came in.

"Is he gone?" he said, in a flat tone.

"Yes," I said, as softly as I could.

Mulder nodded. He didn't say anything; he just caught the pencil in
his right hand.

I didn't move until I saw the pencil quivering. Then I walked to him
and pulled his head toward me, and he wrapped his arms around me and
clung to me desperately, as though the earth beneath him had been
washed away on the morning tide.

~~~~~

TO: scullydk@fbi.gov 
FROM: reillyda@washington.navy.mil 
SUBJECT: Navy life

Jesus Christ. How much did you say your education cost? I think you
should go get your money back, or at least make them teach you English
composition again for free. For someone normally so capable with the
English language, you are a complete flop at letter-writing. At the
very least, I know the report you gave the FBI had to have more
details in it than that.

Work on it, OK? Or send me the FBI report next time instead. As far as
questioning your sanity, you're too late. I started doing that years
ago.

I've finally got a full complement of medical officers aboard. Our
general surgeon, Lt. Tom Orland, reported aboard right before we
sailed. He's a generalist, but he's had lots of experience in routine
gynecology, which is a hell of a relief to me, since I have next to
none. We've got a lot of female officers and crew, and they deserve
something better than a ham-handed orthopedist who's trying to examine
them while simultaneously reading a gynecology textbook to see how
it's done.

Too much information, right?

Let's just hope we don't need anything more than routine early
obstetric care, since Lt. Orland's not an obstetrician. We've only got
one other surgeon aboard and that, as you may remember, is yours
truly, and it's been a while since I did any gynecologic or obstetric
surgery. I believe the average pregnant woman would run screaming if
she saw me coming with my saws and hammers and bolt cutters.

That's probably why they get put ashore so quickly -- to save them
from the available physicians. I should probably issue a standing
order: Female personnel are NOT allowed to engage in gynecological
events requiring a D&C while on board.

By the way, lest you think that a Navy ship is a hotbed of hot beds,
sailors usually get pregnant at home with their husbands before they
deploy, not at sea. Don't let anyone tell you anything different. 

And DON'T worry about me. I haven't looked at anyone else since the
day I met you, and I'm not going to now, no matter how long we're at
sea. (That's your cue to write back and lie to me and tell me you
weren't worried, but it's OK; I'm used to it.)

Another thing I'm used to is that the more you feel something, the
less you say, so just this once, I'm going to let you off the hook for
that somewhat less than coherent letter. I'll just take it as a sign
that my feelings aren't unrequited. Still, this is going to be a hell
of a long deployment for me if I don't get at least some kind words at
some point, so maybe you could work up to it ... try writing something
like, "I kind of like you, Daniel," or, "Gosh, Daniel, you don't annoy
me nearly as much as most of my boyfriends do." It's not much, but
it's a start. We could go from there.

Just try it, okay?

I guess I'd better go ... I feel like the mother of octuplets on this
ship, with someone always crying for my attention, and someone's
crying now, figuratively speaking. It's almost halfway through the
midwatch, so there goes my chance to hit the rack at a reasonable
hour. Not that I don't enjoy staying up until the wee small hours
every damn night, but I'm always ready to try something different.

I always think of you before I fall asleep. I can almost feel how
you'd fit next to me in that tiny little space, how happy I'd be if I
could roll over and put my arms around you and sleep for however long
we had. 

Even at home, it's never long enough, is it? One of us is always up
and out the door before sunrise.

But maybe it won't always be that way.

Until then, I still feel you with me, every minute of every day.
Nothing's ever going to change that.

I love you. Try to write back -- really write back. Okay?

Love, 

Daniel

~~~~~

TO: reillyda@washington.navy.mil
FROM: mulderfw@fbi.gov 
SUBJECT: Scully

Daniel,

I'd tell you not to worry, but know you're already worried just
because you're getting an e-mail from me that has Scully's name in the
subject line. I spent a long time trying to figure out whether to
write to you about this at all. 

I did write, though, because something's wrong and I don't know what,
and there's no one else I can talk to. Scully won't talk about it, and
I mean not at all. She's not acting like herself, and she damn near
got herself killed, and that is no exaggeration. She's behaving ...
well, like she did after the Pusher case, if you remember what I'm
talking about.

It started a couple of days after you sailed. The powers that be
decreed that I had to take some of my accumulated leave -- my first
real time off in four years, other than comp time and sick time, so I
decided I'd visit Graceland.

You can abuse me about that later, sailor.

Not to get too elaborate, but Scully started acting very strange,
saying things like she thinks she's lost sight of her life. I admit
it, I didn't help; I said something about how I busted my ass to get
the X Files opened, whereas she was just assigned to them. 

Yes, I know I'm a jerk, but I had no damn idea what the hell was going
on. We were talking about my vacation, and why she didn't have a desk;
you'd just left for six months, and I guess everyone was just a little
on edge...

To make a long story short, I went to Graceland and she went to
Philadelphia to follow a lead in a case I'd been working and she met
this guy named Ed Jerse, she went on a date with him, got drunk, got a
tattoo, for Christ's sake, and spent the night with him. 

You see what I meant about the Modell case?

Anyway, somehow, Jerse made her as a cop, and he went caveman on her.
He said his tattoo made him do it. Turns out his tattoo made him kill
another woman a few days earlier. He stuck his arm in a furnace and
tried to burn it off after he attacked Scully, but she was already
pretty beat up, and she spent a few days in the hospital.

In my professional opinion as a criminal personality profiler, this
guy is completely off his nut.

I don't give a shit about Ed Jerse, though. He can rot in hell for all
I care. I'm worried about Scully. Even when she got out of the
hospital, I still couldn't get her to talk to me about it. She's so
damn distant ... she won't tell me what's going on, or why she took up
with this psycho.

I don't expect you to be able to do anything about this, and I'm sorry
as hell to distract you while you're trying to raise your octuplets,
but Daniel, I am out of ideas. If you know of anything that might be
making her act this way, I hope you'll tell me. Or maybe you could
write to her; she always did listen to you a lot better than she did
to me.

There's a lot more I'd like to tell you, but it'll have to wait for
another letter.

Fox


END "The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(2/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)