"The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(3/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part I for archive info, disclaimers, etc.



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

Fox,

You're right, you've got me worried. I wish I did know what was wrong.
I haven't got a clue. The last time I saw Dana was when the ship
sailed. She seemed like her usual self; under the circumstances, that
is.

I do remember her behaving this way before, but not quite this badly.
When she did, though, it was over you, if you remember, so if you
don't know what's wrong, I sure as hell don't. And yes, I know exactly
how much of that was my fault, and for all I know, it may be again.
You can kick me when I get home; that is, if there's anything left
after I get through kicking myself.

Have you talked to her mother? Or can you do that without Dana putting
a bullet through your head? I hear she's a pretty good shot.

As far as her listening to me, fat chance. When her mind's really made
up, she listens to me about as much as she listens to Rush Limbaugh. 

I'm a lot more worried than I sound, Fox. I'm also frustrated as hell.
This is one of the real bitch parts of being at sea -- knowing that
something's wrong at home and knowing there's not a damn thing you can
do about it. I can't exactly write to her about it, either, unless you
don't care that she knows you told me all about it. Knowing Dana, she
wouldn't bother to shoot you if she found out you'd been talking about
her without her knowledge. She'd just rip your head off.

I wish I could be there. I don't know if there's anything I could do
if I were there, but I know there's not a damn thing I can do out on
the water except... well, send emotional support, I guess. 

Give Dana my love. You two have to take care of each other until I get
back. Don't let me down. I'm not a cop, and I can't beat the shit out
of you, but I am an orthopedic surgeon, and I know 15 different ways
to break your arm.

Fox, for God's sake, write to me as soon as you know anything more.

Daniel


~~~~~

USS Annapolis
Under the Adriatic Sea

~~~~~

"Mr. Reilly?"

It was the messenger of the watch, Seaman Apprentice Maxwell, come to
wake me for the morning watch. The only thing was, I really didn't
feel like getting up, given that the first night watch -- which ended
less than four hours ago -- had also featured Mrs. Reilly's little boy
Jimmy in a prominent role. 

"Lieutenant?"

Oh, shit. It's just a nuclear reactor, guys. It'll be fine for a few
hours. Honest. And all that water and electricity and oxygen and shit
like that ... well, hell, it won't kill you to go without it for a
little while.

"Yeah?"

"Sir, it's 0300. You asked me to wake you early for this watch, sir."

Fuck it.

"That had to be the other Lieutenant Reilly, Maxwell," I said, sitting
up as best I could and swinging my feet over the side of my rack.

"Sir," Maxwell said, patiently, because he'd heard all my jokes about
a hundred times, "we don't have another Lieutenant Reilly."

"Then for Christ's sake, go get one, will you, 'cause I'm getting
tired as shit," I said, grumpily. "And go see if there's any coffee in
the wardroom. If I've got to take Mr. Donaldson's watch, I ought to at
least get room service."

"Aye, aye, sir," Maxwell said, resignedly. "If the coffee isn't ready,
do you want tea or bug juice instead?"

"Arsenic," I said, grabbing my pants and shoving my legs through.
"Make it a double."

Maxwell threw me a sideways grin as he inched out of my quarters,
quietly so as not to wake my sleeping roommate, Lt. j.g. Ben Holder,
who was as near to useless as any bubblehead I've ever roomed with --
not a bad officer, though --while I got my shirt buttoned and put on
my shoes. 

Six hours on, six hours off, my ass. Lately, it felt more like twelve
hours on, one hour off, if I was lucky. The engineering officer, Lt.
Commander Don Donaldson -- his name wasn't Don, it was Marvin, but
he'd kill you for calling him that -- had been complaining of
headaches a lot lately; his blood pressure was up a little, and the
corpsman was beginning to get worried about it, so he'd ordered extra
bedrest. 

That's kind of a radical step aboard a submarine, because you can't
just go out and hire a temp, you know? But the kid was on his own in
dealing with this --subs don't rate their own doctor -- so the skipper
backed him up.

I'm next in seniority to Donaldson in engineering, so I got most of
the extra duty.

I knew we'd eventually get things back to normal, and the skipper had
promised me a whole day off once Donaldson was back in battery -- a
whole damn day off, now think about that -- so I was going at it the
best I could.

Still, I knew I'd been getting just a little out of line when I got
back to my quarters at the end of the second dogwatch two days ago and
found a Tampax on my rack with a note that said, "Figured you must be
about to need this, lieutenant."

Ha, ha, ha. I'd have been pissed if I hadn't been the one responsible
for starting that tradition aboard this boat.

You know, I could be a lot nicer if the captain didn't have an uncanny
knack for holding emergency drill during whatever watch I'm supposed
to be sleeping. The man's got a sixth sense for it, I swear. He hasn't
missed a day in weeks.

Nobody gets to sleep through drill, you see. Nobody. Doesn't matter
when they hit the rack. Everybody on the damn boat takes part.

I made it to the wardroom just as Maxwell got there with the coffee --
and, despite his constant protestations that he can't stand me, he'd
found some that was fresh, and he'd brought me a warmed-over Danish,
too. It wasn't really his job; he just did it as a favor to officers
he liked when their hours got crazy.

But when I thanked him, he just fixed me with his hound-dog stare and
said, "Cook dropped it on the deck and stepped on it, sir, so I said
you'd take care of it."

I told him to get his ass out of the wardroom and back to an
operational area where he couldn't give anybody food poisoning.

After I wolfed down my breakfast, I made my way to engineering and
made my rounds, checking everything about twice as closely as I
usually do. It's not that I don't trust the chief; I do. I met Chief
Parker years ago when I was an ensign on Corpus Christi, and he
supervised my engineering training when I earned my dolphins.

No, I've got the best damn LPO in the whole submarine corps. It's
myself I don't trust these days. I'm so loopy it wouldn't surprise me
to see Flipper and Shamu performing a pornographic act amidships.

Actually, that might be kind of fun. It's not easy being aboard the
last all-male crews in the Navy, lemme tell you. 

Yeah, yeah, I know, it's not what I think, I hear all about it from
the guys in the surface fleets. They make these long faces and say,
"You know, the rule is 'look, love, but don't touch.'" 

And? Strange as it may seem, dickwads, you can enjoy talking to women
once in a while, there ain't nothing boring about looking, and if you
can't wait until the end of a deployment to get laid, either figure
out what to do with your right hand or ask the doc for some Depo-
Provera.

And if you decide to get friendly with the other guys, I don't want to
know about it, okay?

Shit, that's a hell of a homophobic statement for a guy whose brother
is gay, isn't it?

But that's not the same thing. Daniel and Mulder are ... I mean, you
know, they're a real couple, not just a couple of horny sailors who
haven't seen women in months. Daniel's with someone he loves. Shit, if
I were with Dana Scully, I wouldn't be watching to see what time Ben
Holder goes to the head so I could jerk off. Some crimes are just
crimes of opportunity.

Dana. God, I wish I could have spent some time with her before we
sailed. That's the trouble with the damn submarine service -- run
silent, run deep. You tell nobody nothin' about where and when or
anything else, not when you're sailing on a mission like this one.

I don't even know if Dana knows where I am. Maybe she does; maybe she
doesn't even care. I don't know. I want her to care, the way I care
about her. She's so beautiful, and so lonely in some ways, while in
others, I don't think she's lonely at all. Sometimes I think there's
room for me in her life --and, you know, maybe there could be, if only
because I do seem to be the only straight man she hangs with.

Jesus. I'm one hell of an arrogant bastard to make that kind of
remark, huh? Reminds me too much of that smirking, "All you need is
one good hard dick, baby," routine that some guys like to pull on
lesbians. Yeah, sure, that's what all women need, right?

Nah. Like it, maybe. Need it? Nope. Sex is good, but it's not oxygen.
Maybe you have to be a submariner to really appreciate that.

I don't know how the hell Dana could ever need me for anything.

Dana's ... shit, I don't know. She's always walking somewhere down
some path that I'm not on, that's planted with flowers I don't know
the name of. 

God, I'm getting all sappy and poetic here. She does that to me. 

But all these long ... hell, are they days or nights? I have no
fucking idea. Anyway, whatever they are, I think about Dana all
through them. I wonder what it would be like to know that she'd be
waiting for me when I got back, to know that we'd go home together and
she'd take me in her arms ...

Gentlemen, meet Lt. Jim Fucking Reilly, senti-fucking-mental fool, now
standing on the deck of a submarine, poised between a nuclear reactor
and a shitload of Tomahawk missiles, with a whole fucking battle group
on the surface just waiting for somebody to start some major shit, and
is he even paying attention? No. All he can do is dream stupid,
pointless dreams about a woman whose heart belongs to somebody else.

That's me: wishing for the same damn shit I wished for from Elise,
having learned not one goddamn thing from that whole disaster.

But I thought she loved me. I mean, I loved her. God, I loved her. And
I guess I thought that would be enough ...

Oh, fuck. I gotta get my mind back on my work before this boat goes
China Syndrome.

"Hey, Mr. Reilly?" the chief calls, breaking into my self-pity
session.

"Yeah, chief?" I call back.

"Maxwell wants to know if you want more coffee," he calls back. "He
says he's making some for the XO but he'll save some for you."

"Yeah, sure," I call back. "Bilge water would be better, but I'm out,
and I got nothing to live for anyway."

I can hear the laughter from the aft ladder as I turn back to my
checklist.



"Mr. Reilly's so full of shit," I hear one of the electricians say.
"Ain't nothin' gets him down, is there?"

"Nothin'," another says. "He's okay -- for an officer."

Yeah. He's okay. In fact, he's just fine.

After all, if you can learn to live without the sun and the sky and
sleep and decent coffee, you can damn well learn to live without love.

Right?


~~~~~

TO: reillyda@washington.navy.mil
FROM: mulderfw@fbi.gov 
SUBJECT: (no subject)

Scully has nasopharyngeal cancer. She told me today. She says it's
inoperable. 

This can't be happening, Daniel. It just can't. I can't lose her.

God, I would give anything I've got to be able to bring you home
right now.


~~~~~

As Mulder Saw It

~~~~~
(All we know of heaven and all we need of hell.)

Sing it to the tune of "Yellow Rose of Texas," or don't, it's trite,
it's overworked, and it's so fucking true it makes me sick to my
stomach. My life had already closed once when Samantha was taken and
now it was closing for a second time. 

My brain tried to imagine what the third might be, but the defense
mechanisms were already in place, and my imagination shut down before
images of Daniel and what might happen in a war zone could send me
crashing into complete irrationality.

So huge, so hopeless ... so goddamn right, because Emily Dickinson
makes me so crazy and she was stuck in my fucking head. I was going to
hear that damn poem in my head whether I wanted to or not, over and
over and over. Another defense mechanism ... play Emily Dickinson loud
enough and you don't hear Scully's weeping, or the silence where
Daniel's voice should be, or your own screaming, disbelieving grief.

Holding Scully in that hallway was the beginning of goodbye, and it
was heaven; she'd never come to me so readily, so trustingly, in a
public place before. She'd never spoken to me that way, telling me she
belonged with me in whatever time she had left. 

With that one embrace, in those few, impossibly painful moments,
Scully healed so much hurt, made me so whole again, and she did it by
making me believe that she really was going to die.

So I watched her go. I stood there with heaven and hell licking at my
feet and I looked at the vial that held all her hopes of tomorrow and
I stuck it back in my pocket. I made a decision for her that I had no
right to make, but maybe somewhere, in the back of my mind, I thought
that one day when she was gone, Daniel and I would find someone who
would help us redeem this insane injustice, who would carry Scully's
children -- and ours -- and help us do for her what she wouldn't live
long enough to do for herself.

It was arrogance of the highest degree, but I wasn't thinking about
that. I had just that moment begun to mourn Scully's approaching,
seemingly inevitable death, and I wasn't thinking in terms of ethics
or what was fair to her. The greatest unfairness the cosmos could
devise had just descended on her, and on me, and there didn't seem to
be much I could do to make it worse. 

It's not an excuse, but it is the truth, plain and simple: I wanted to
find a way to bring Scully back after she was gone, so I kept the vial
for myself. A wild, unthinking grief was so near I could hear it, I
could see it: the doctors running to Penny Northern's room, the rough
terry of Scully's robe, the shadows on her X-ray, the words ...
"difficult in the extreme ..."

I refused to believe it. I refused to accept it. I refused to live
without something of Scully left behind to love. That was just too
much pain for one human body to hold.

I struck back at it with the only things I had, with slow, sweet
kisses, with Emily Dickinson, with an insulated vial holding things
too small to see, things which might someday make a baby that was part
Daniel's and part Scully's and all mine, warm and heavy and sleeping
in my arms.

But there was nothing and no one in my arms now: Not Daniel, not
Scully, not even a real hope that there would be anyone there before
my life damned me to another night on a cold leather couch, another
night of waiting for God or whoever it was that wanted me alone and
friendless to shine his bright lights in my eyes and leave me
helpless, to leave me there with the screams of my name ringing in my
ears, my hands heavy and worthless at my sides as I watched fate
choose yet another victim to sacrifice on the altar of my survival.

Never me, though. It's never me. Someone else always pays the price
for my arrogant greed for love.

And I was as greedy that night as ever. Scully was tired and sick,
sick in body and sick at heart, and I wanted her to come back down
that hallway. I wanted to hold her again, I wanted to hear her tell me
again that she belonged with me. I wanted to hear her say again that
people live with cancer. I could still feel her tiny frame shaking in
my arms with weariness and grief and the ravages of Scanlon's attacks,
I could feel in my blood how much of her own strength she had given
me, and I wanted her to come back, to spend what little strength she
had left to make me whole again.

But she wouldn't come back, not tonight. She would stay where she was
until I left, because she had nothing left for me that night. She had
come close to me and she had felt her life draining away into the
bottomless pit of my need for her, and now she needed her distance.
Her fine and private place ...

My hands were heavy as I walked out of the hospital.

~~~~~

The phone was ringing when I walked in the door.

I almost didn't answer it. Too much had happened in the past two days,
and after all that and a long drive home, I was damn near exhausted. I
didn't really feel like talking to anyone. The only reason I picked it
up was the fear that it might be the hospital calling to say that
something had gone wrong with Scully.

So I picked up the receiver. "Yeah?" I said, mildly surprised to hear
how rough my own voice sounded to me.

The voice on the other end, however, sounded tinny and faint.

"Fox Mulder?" she said. 

"Yes," I said, feeling sick to my stomach. That kind of voice couldn't
mean good news.

"Ship to shore call from Commander Reilly, sir," the woman said. "One
moment, please."

You probably think I was surprised. Well, I wasn't. It made perfect
sense to me. Of course, lots of things make sense when you're sleep-
deprived and emotionally traumatized.

No, I was perfectly calm and rational, and very pleased, right up
until I heard Daniel's voice on the line saying, "Fox?" 

That's when I goddamn near collapsed.

He wasn't there. He was thousands of miles away, in the middle of the
ocean, and I hadn't seen him for weeks, but just hearing him say my
name was almost enough, like being able to lay my head on his shoulder
and feel comforted.

"Daniel," I began, but my voice was shaky and I couldn't go on. 

He must have heard it. "Hang on a second, Fox," he said. I could hear
muffled sounds over the line, and a voice saying, "excuse me, sir,"
and then Daniel came back on the line.

"Sorry," he said, speaking more quietly. "There's next to no privacy
on board. Somebody's always close enough to overhear. Fox, I've been
trying to call you for two days."

"I've been out of town," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.
"It's been a bad few days ... bad news turning into a bad FBI case."

"Before you tell me anything, Fox, remember this is an open line,"
Daniel said. "Don't say anything about your case or my ship, okay?
Just tell me how you are, and how Dana is."

"I'm fine," I said, reaching up to wipe the tears from my eyes. I
didn't give a fuck. Daniel couldn't see them, and even if he could, he
wouldn't have given a good goddamn, anyway. 

"You don't sound fine," Daniel said, gently.

"I am," I said. "I will be, anyway, once I get some sleep. Scully's
not doing so well. She's in a hospital in Allentown, Pennsylvania, but
she should be out soon; maybe tomorrow."

"Why is she in the hospital?" Daniel said, and I could tell that he
was genuinely alarmed. "Has this thing already metastasized?"

"No," I said, quickly. "It's a long story, Daniel, and like you said,
I shouldn't tell you over an unsecure line. Let's just say she was
being treated by a doctor who didn't have her best interests at heart,
and it left her in bad shape."

"Christ," Daniel said. "Are you saying ..."

"I'm saying he nearly killed her," I said, cutting him off. "We'll
have to save the rest for later."

"But does she have cancer?" Daniel asked, hopefully. "Or was that
something they made up?"

"God, I wish it were," I said. "She has it, all right. She looked at
the MRIs and the biopsies herself."

"Shit," Daniel said, almost under his breath. "Well, she's a hell of a
pathologist," he said, and now I thought his voice sounded a little
shaky. "There's not much chance she could be mistaken about that."

"No, there's not, is there?" I said, in a low voice. "It's just my
luck -- I always take up with the best doctors around."

I heard a sound that might have been a laugh, and then Daniel spoke
again. "Thanks -- I think," he said. "Listen, Fox, speaking of the
best, the guy you want treating Dana is Jon Zuckerman at Trinity
Hospital. I met him when he was with the VA. He took an interest in
nasopharyngeal CA because so many GIs exposed to Agent Orange got it
and he wanted to know why. There hasn't been much progress in treating
those neoplasms, but he's made most of what little progress there is.
If you think Dana won't mind, I'll call him and ask him to see her."

"Daniel, if you thought she ought to see Dr. Demento, she wouldn't
argue with you," I said, sitting down on my couch, feeling a rush of
relief. I knew what it was, too; even from thousands of miles away,
Daniel was making sure everyone was taken care of, easing some of this
burden off my shoulders and letting me lean on him, just for a little
while.

"All right," Daniel said, and then he paused for a moment. "Listen,
Fox," he said, almost hesitantly, "I can't stay on the phone. I have
to keep this short. Even if I didn't, I couldn't ..."

"I know," I said. I did. He couldn't say any of the things he wanted
to say to me. I hadn't expected him to. Wanted him to, yes, but never
expected. 

"Just ... if I were there," he began again. "Well ... you know, don't
you?"

"I know," I said again.

I closed my eyes. I could almost see him, standing in some
communications room, the receiver in his hand, trying to talk to me
without being overheard, trying to convey to me in words that no one
else would understand that he loved me, that he missed me, that he
would do anything to stop this terrible thing from happening.

I opened my eyes again. 

"I know what you'd say, Daniel," I said, softly. "And you know what
the answer would be. Now quit talking to me and call this Dr.
Zuckerman, okay?"

"Okay," he said, laughing. "You take care of Dana, all right? And be
careful for yourself, too."

"Oh, like I need you to tell me that," I said. "I'm not the one who
needs to be careful, asshole. You're the one who caught two rounds in
the chest."

"Look who's talking," Daniel said. "Call me if that shoulder ever
bothers you. Those old wounds can really hurt when it rains."

And he hung up. 

I knew why. He needed the silence so he could hear me.

I laid the phone down on my coffee table and looked out my window,
straining for a glimpse of the eastern sky.

"'Bye, Daniel," I said. "I love you."


~~~~~

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

Yes, Daniel, it's really me. I'm still alive, and I expect to be for
some time to come. I still have things to do in this life, and I'm not
going to quit yet.

I got your letter. I would have written back sooner, but Dr. Zuckerman
has been occupying all of my off-work hours with chemotherapy, either
by administering it or by leaving me to cope with the aftermath. So
far, I still have my hair and --I hope -- my sense of humor, but I
don't know if either will survive much longer.

I knew I missed you, but I hadn't realized just how badly until I read
what you'd written. I could almost hear you speaking when I read it.
Thank you, by the way. I'm not sure I'm as strong as you seem to
think, but I need to be if I'm to survive this.

I also wanted to thank you for referring me to Dr. Zuckerman. I'm
quite familiar with his reputation, and I'd never have gotten in to
see him without your intervention. He's all but terminated his
clinical practice these days in favor of research, and his staff told
me they were quite surprised to hear that he'd agreed to take on a new
patient. You're more influential than you let on.

I am still working. In fact, Mulder and I investigated a plane crash
in New York two weeks ago in which there seemed to be some
irregularities. That's probably as much as I should say about it,
except that the case resulted in two personal tragedies that have left
us both saddened. One of the victims of the crash was a young man
named Max Fenig, whom Mulder had known several years ago. He was a
member of the Mutual UFO Network, and although he was not the most
stable person I've ever known, he was sweet-natured and enthusiastic,
and we were both quite fond of him. Closer to home, Agent Pendrell,
who had worked with us on several cases, was killed in a shooting
while trying to protect a witness in the case.

In the midst of the tragedies, though, was a truly touching moment,
and you are perhaps the only person on earth who can truly appreciate
it: Mulder remembered my birthday. He gave me an Apollo XI
commemorative keychain, which he claims means nothing except that it's
"a pretty neat keychain," but you and I both know that's not true.
Meaningless gestures are not for our Sir Galahad.

It's hard to believe you've been gone for three months already. So
much has happened... it seems like forever, and I miss you so much.
Mulder's doing his best to keep things going and to keep me going, but
he's not Superman, and I don't expect him to be ... anyway, you know
how we can get on each other's nerves when we're working. It's hard to
power down when the whistle blows. I suppose I'm just learning first-
hand what so many others have learned: Cancer is a huge strain on even
the closest relationships. My own mother reacted to the news first
with anger and only later with tears. 

Dr. Zuckerman wants to hospitalize me next week for another, more
intensive round of chemotherapy. I am not sure the drugs are affecting
the cancer, but they are definitely affecting my immune system, which
I hate. It makes forensic pathology challenging, since there are few
better ways to encounter dangerous bacteria than in a corpse.

But then, maybe it's just as well. I can't do autopsies these days
without thinking that I may be a corpse myself someday soon.

Would you think I was being overly sentimental and silly if I said I
thought I could face this much better if I were going to be staying
with you when I got out of the hospital? It's true ... 

I am getting sentimental ... but you asked me what I wanted you to
bring me when you came home, and there's really only one thing I want,
and that's you. I am so tired, and so afraid, and I want so much just
to curl up in your arms and go to sleep. 

Oh, I'm sorry. It's getting late, and it must be the medication ...
The chemo is making me so sick, and I'm taking all sorts of things
that make me sleepy. I shouldn't even send you this, but it's so late,
and I really don't have the strength to rewrite it ... anyway, it's
all true.

Hurry home, Daniel ...

Dana



END "The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(3/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)