"The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(5/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part I for archive info, disclaimers, etc.



~~~~~

As Mulder Saw It

~~~~~

Eddie Van Blundht was the last case I wrote to Daniel about for a
long, long time.

It wasn't that I didn't want to write, but what the fuck was I going
to tell him? Hey, Daniel, how's it going? Sorry the Red Sox sucked so
bad this spring. Oh, by the way, Skinner's made a deal with the devil
to try to save Scully's life. I took a couple of days off to
straighten that out. She, meanwhile, is seeing dead people, a
phenomenon which seems to occur only to those who are about to die.
Oh, and you should've seen it -- I bowled a strike.

Not bloody likely. I mean, Daniel's a rationalist, like Scully, but he
tries hard to listen to me with an open mind, and doesn't
automatically reject what I tell him. He says he's heard stranger
things, and anyway, if I need to talk about it, he wants to listen.

The thing was, even if I could figure out how to say it, I didn't want
to. And there was no goddamn good way to tell him what I really did
want, or to come anywhere near to getting what I wanted if I told him.

I didn't want to explore how it made me feel or do anything that could
remotely be construed as working through it. I was way, way past that
point. 

All I wanted was sex.

Yeah, you heard me right. I wanted Daniel home, all right, but mostly
what I wanted was to get him in bed and fuck him senseless, or maybe
throw him up

against the nearest wall, slam into him so hard he couldn't breathe
and fuck him until his legs wouldn't hold him up.

Or he could do it to me. He's very good at it. So either way would
have been fine.

I sound like I just didn't give a damn about Daniel's feelings, don't
I? I mean, just a few months earlier, all I wanted was to spend a
whole night holding him, and there I sat, reading Daniel's e-mail,
reading about how much he loved me and missed me, and I was responding
like a horny, testosterone-poisoned bastard who just hadn't been
celibate this long since the first time he got fucked. 

Well, I hadn't gone that long without it since my first time. That
part was true. But the rest? No. No way. It's just that I wanted
Daniel so much it was like every higher brain function I had was shut
down and there was nothing left except raw, unthinking physical need. 

I was like an infant too young to have language, left to cry in the
night for its mother's arms and warm milk, without a shred of ability
to imagine mother in any other terms until those arms had held him and
that milk had nurtured him.

If you want to draw any pseudo-analytic parallels between milk and
semen, go ahead. It won't bother me one bit. The comparison works just
fine for me: There are times when I feel deeply comforted by giving my
lover a blow job, or even knowing that I'm about to. 

Go ahead. Analyze that to death if it makes you feel better. I don't
give a shit. I know what it means to me.

Daniel knows it, too. It's not going to make him feel unloved if I
come over to his place and go for his zipper the minute the door is
closed. It's a guy thing. It's a message, and it's very clear: I want
you. I gotta have you now, I can't wait, because when I have you,
everything's all right.

That's what he wants to hear. 

I obviously don't know much about what straight women want, but I read
one of Scully's romance novels once, when we were stuck in some one-
horse town with nothing else to read. It was an eye-opener. The guy
kept whispering, "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen ... I
love you with all my heart," and the girl always smelled like lavender
and had skin like silk and she was vowing her eternal love nonstop
from the first kiss to the last climax.

I'm sure that's not what it's really like. I'm equally sure they write
them that way because that's what heterosexual women want it to be
like.

Fine. Whatever pops your cork. To each his own.

Daniel is mine.

What Daniel and I do together, the way we talk to each other, the way
we touch each other, is earthy and rough and entirely in masculine
terms. If we watch baseball, I insult the Red Sox and he insults the
Yankees, and if we bet on the game, the winner collects. A bet is a
bet, and there are no exceptions.

Once in a while we go for a run or we shoot hoops and believe me, we
both play to win. Daniel shows no mercy, and neither do I. I love him,
but I'll whip his ass if I can and he knows it. 

We'll play hard, and we'll laugh and we'll insult each other's
athletic ability and ancestry and everything else, then when the
game's over we'll go back to his place, and he'll be hot and sweaty
and breathing hard and giving me all kinds of shit about how badly he
kicked my butt -- well, some of the time ... 

And then the door closes.

I'll look at him then, and I'll see his tongue dart out over his lower
lip and the fire start up in his eyes and all the fight goes right out
of me. Out there he's my competition, but when we're alone he's still
my lover, and I know he wants to take a shower but I also know he
wants to take me with him because he's got things he wants to do to me
there. 

And when we're there, with the water falling over both of us, he puts
his arms around me and I move closer, right up against him because he
feels so good, hot and wet and slippery with soap and I want to feel
all of him. I kiss him and run my hands over his body, and I taste the
water running down his neck and his throat and his chest and I tell
him he can have whatever he wants from me, anything ...

"I know," he says, and he kisses me slowly ... his hand closes around
me and I know then what he's going to do, and just knowing it is
almost more than I can stand ... he turns me around gently and slips
into me so easily, I swear to God he was made to be inside me, he was
born to be my lover.

He touches me and strokes me, he calls me lover and whispers in my ear
how he loves every part of me, how he loves to do this with me and how
much he wants me to come right now, he wants to see me shoot all over
the wall ... 

"Then fuck me, goddamn it, just fuck me," I plead, even though I can
hardly talk; I tighten around him as he's thrusting into me, and he
groans my name, and then I do come, just the way he wants me to, I
come so goddamn hard... 

And when it's over and we get out of the shower, I start to get
dressed and he tells me I'm an asshole and I'm taking too long and I
should get the hell out of his bathroom because he's got things to do.


I tell him he's completely full of shit, and I wait until I see him
smile before I grab him and kiss him fiercely, still unable after all
this time to believe how much I need him and how much he loves me.

Lover or asshole ... whatever he calls me, he means the same thing.
I'm saying the same thing whether I say "fuck me" or "I love you."

If the meaning is understood, the words don't matter. 

Even when we're lying together in bed after making love, I don't tell
him he's beautiful half as often as I tell him he's too ugly to look
at, and he doesn't tell me he loves me nearly as often as he tells me
that I ought to quit stealing Uncle Sam's money and get an honest job.


No, I don't feel like a bastard for wanting Daniel during those
terrible, terrible times. I wanted Daniel in every way there is, in my
dreams, in my arms, everywhere, but most of all I wanted him in bed. 

I didn't just want him in bed: I wanted him face down on the bed with
his eyes screwed shut, smelling like sex and sweat and every fucking
primitive, physical smell of overheated male flesh there is, taking me
into his body and his soul and every goddamn thing he is and not
whispering anything except, "Oh, fuck ..."

I'm not saying that I wasn't being selfish. I was, and I knew it. I
was thinking entirely in terms of what I wanted and what I needed.

But Scully was dying. Those two words had started to define so many
things in the universe. Scully's dying = the sun is going out.
Scully's dying = there's no hope left. Scully's dying = I can't go on.

And Daniel's not here = I can't cope with this. I was coming apart.

I wanted Scully, too, but I couldn't even really let myself think
about that, because Scully had already given me all she had to give.
She had nothing left; in fact, she was so worn out that her doctor had
to hospitalize her.

He said it was for some tests, but I know the FBI's health coverage,
and they don't let you stay for days just for tests. She was sick; she
was dying. And she wasn't just dying, she was dying alone while I ran
around screaming at the top of my lungs to no goddamn avail. 

I was dying alone, too, in my own pathetic, loser way. 

That was my revelation, my great awakening as I stared at Daniel's
letter and wondered why he would send words of love to a useless
bastard like me: Maybe there is a God. Maybe He finally woke up and
decided to give Fox Mulder exactly what he had coming to him. Give him
Scully, give him Daniel, and then take them both away and leave him
pounding his head against a brick wall, crying for love in the dark,
begging the universe for just one more moment when it was all real.

And God would just laugh, because He'd finally put me right back where
I'd always belonged.

Oh, you think God wouldn't do that?  Get real. He's always demanded
some kind of sacrifice, and I mean real sacrifice, blood sacrifice:
Rams, ewes, calves, Isaac and, for you Christians, His own son. Being
both Jewish and agnostic, I take no position on that one.

But, hell, why stop at that? Why not take Scully? Why not make her pay
for my rottenness? It makes perfect sense to me. I've seen the blood
running down her face and the terror in her eyes. 

She's a perfect sacrifice if that's what He's looking for.

She doesn't see God that way. She's never seen Him that way. To her,
God is her Father, someone who loves her. Even in her moments of doubt
-- and I know she has them -- that belief is fundamental, solid,
unshakeable, and sooner or later, she comes back to it.

Yeah, well, maybe that's the problem ... I tend to see God as my
father, too. It's not flattering to God, let me tell you. They both
tend to get their sacrifices in blood when they want them.

I got nothing from God, because I had nothing to give him, no proof
that my search had all been worth it. Daniel remained out of my reach,
and Scully slipped further from me with each day that passed.

So I made up my mind. If God wanted proof, I'd get it for Him. I'd
show Him that there was a reason for all this fucking bloodshed, for
everything I'd done to her, for all I'd put her through. If He wanted
results, I'd give them to Him.

It wasn't negotiable.

Not even God was going to defeat me.

~~~~~

TO: reillyda@washington.navy.mil
FROM: jmreilly@scrippsmercy.org
SUBJECT: Things back home -- very important

Daniel,

I have a message for you. I don't understand it, but a mutual friend
said it was very, very important that you get it, so here it is. It's
attached to this message as a .wav file. Let me know right away if you
can't open it.

I'm sorry this is so cryptic. I'm just the messenger.

Jill

~~~~~

Aboard USS George Washington
In the Adriatic Sea

~~~~~

I must have played that file a dozen times, and I still didn't get it.

It was a snippet of Dinah Washington singing "Do Nothing Till You Hear
From Me." Obviously, it was from Fox or Dana, but why go through Jill?
And why that song? What the hell was up?

I was sitting in my stateroom, endlessly clicking on the "play"
button, trying to figure out the mystery, when there was a knock on my
door.

"Enter," I called out.

A young seaman apprentice walked in and came to attention.

"Commander Reilly, sir," he said. He looked nervous -- even accounting
for the usual nervousness of a young enlisted man before a senior
officer.

"At ease, seaman," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"Sir, your presence is requested on the flag bridge," the seaman said.
"There's a flash message from the Annapolis requesting emergency
medical assistance, sir."

~~~~~

Admiral Grumman and Captain Meisenheimer were both waiting for me when
I got to the flag bridge, and both looking pretty grim. 

"Commander Reilly reports as ordered, sir," I said, saluting the
admiral.

"At ease, commander," Grumman said. "You've been informed of the
emergency?"

"Only that there is one, sir, not the nature of it," I said. 

"We don't know much more than that now, doctor," Meisenheimer said.
"The corpsman reports that an officer collapsed in engineering and is
not responding to treatment. From what we hear, he's becoming more and
more confused by the minute, and his vital signs are getting worse."

Jesus Christ. 

My face must have shown the shock I felt, because the two men shot
each other a puzzled glance before Meisenheimer asked, quietly, "Is
something wrong, Dr. Reilly?"

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, trying to get my thoughts about me. "I just
... sir, do you by any chance know the officer's name?"

"No, I'm sorry, doctor, I don't," Meisenheimer said. "Why? Do you
think you might know him?"

"My brother Jim -- Lieutenant James Reilly -- is in engineering on the
Annapolis, sir," I said. "I'm ... I can't help being a little
concerned, captain."

"Of course you're concerned, commander," the admiral said, not
unkindly. "Anyone would be. The corpsman's standing by to talk to you
right now, so let's get you on the horn with him and put both your
minds at ease if we can. Senior chief?"

"We have the Annapolis on secure net, sir," the senior chief radioman
said, handing me the mike. "Annapolis' callsign today is Foxfire; ours
is Mountain."

"Thank you, chief," I said. I pressed the mike button. "Foxfire, this
is Mountain," I said, hoping I didn't sound as nervous as I felt. "SMO
standing by, over."

"Mountain, Foxfire," the voice came back. "IDC here, sir. Over." 

In case you don't know, an IDC --independent duty corpsman -- is
roughly a cross between a paramedic and a nurse practitioner. They're
highly trained, and they can handle one hell of a lot. I was fervently
hoping that this one would be able to handle whatever this was with
some extra advice from me.

"Foxfire, say your emergency, over," I said. 

"Mountain, we have a 40-year-old male ..." the corpsman began, and I
thought I might collapse with relief. I looked up at Grumman and
Meisenheimer with a quick smile and a shake of my head -- it's okay,
it's not him -- and was moved more than I would have believed by the
genuine happiness in their answering smiles.

"... with a recent history of headache and mild hypertension. He had
an episode of syncope and sudden severe headache in engineering this
morning, was brought to corpsman's bay unconscious 20 minutes ago.
Pupils unequal and contracted, right-side hemiplegia, bp 165/100,
pulse 70, resp 24, temp 99.7. He woke up 10 minutes later vomiting and
complaining of headache. Vital signs now are bp 200/120, resp 35 and
shallow, pulse 80, temp 100.9. Confusion is progressing and patient
responds inappropriately. Over."

"Any indication of trauma, Foxfire?" I asked. "Over."

"Negative, Mountain," the corpsman said. "Over."

"Stand by, Foxfire," I said, and put the mike down. "Admiral, it's not
much of a leap to say this is a stroke, but it's probably a cerebral
hemorrhage and that's as bad as stroke gets," I said. "They can't
manage this on a sub."

"What do you suggest, commander?" Grumman said.

"The officer's in grave danger, sir," I said. "I doubt the corpsman is
equipped to deal with it even with my instructions; anyway, he's
unlikely to have the drugs he needs. As much as I hate the idea, I
think I'd better board the Annapolis. Once the officer is stabilized,
MEDEVAC is advisable, and the sooner the better, sir. This is as
emergent as it gets."

The admiral pursed his lips and shrugged. "The tactical situation's
clear," he said. "Bill? You got a problem with it?"

"No, sir," the captain said. "Weather's fair. I'm sure the air boss
will be willing to go along."

"Good enough," Grumman said. "We'll let Dr. Reilly use his own
judgment, then. Commander, tell the corpsman what you're proposing.
We'll get you over there just as soon as the Annapolis' skipper signs
off on it."

I'll bet you're wondering what the hell's going on, aren't you?

I'm sure it sounds strange to a civilian, but the fact is, what
happened to the officer wasn't my call. Medical decisions never are,
although most of the time I handle them. In the final analysis,
though, all I can do is give advice. The decision is up to the
captain; or, in this case, the battle group commander, since it
involved more than one ship.

Understand, now, I've never had a commander reject my advice, but it
could happen: to give an extreme example, it would be suicidally
dangerous and tactically disastrous for the Annapolis to surface in
the midst of a sea battle, especially if enemy submarines were
involved. The officer might die if we didn't get him out of there, but
people die in combat. That's the way it is.

And if that ever happens, I'm glad I won't have to make that call.

I shrugged that thought off, and turned back to the mike to give the
corpsman the instructions that would start the plan in motion.

~~~~~

Now, you may have noticed the rather casual fashion in which I said I
would board the Annapolis and tend to the patient.

Believe me, I sounded a lot more casual than I felt. 

You've seen all those submarine movies and television shows where they
dangle some guy from a helo and he swings around like a yo-yo until he
finally falls in the drink?

Yeah ... me, too. Scary as hell, aren't they?

I always thought it was great that Jim was in submarines. It's a hell
of a tough job, and I'm proud of him for doing it. I'm perfectly happy
to leave it to him, too. I hate submarines myself. I mean, I'm not
exactly claustrophobic, but I can think of places I'd rather be, even
when they're on the surface.

The whole business about getting aboard a submarine at sea was way,
way more than I ever wanted to think about, but there just didn't seem
to be much choice; the mortality rate from this kind of stroke is
phenomenally high. If my patient was going to live, I had to get him
stable and get him to a shore hospital where, if he was lucky, they
could operate to stop the bleeding and maybe relieve the pressure on
his brain.

Anyway, the captain had dangled a pretty good incentive in front of
me: He'd ordered me not to hurry back.

"Lt. Orland can handle the MEDEVAC," Meisenheimer said as he gave me a
final briefing on his own bridge. "You take care of your patient, make
your inspections, get things squared away, and then go sit in the
wardroom and visit with your brother for a while. Admiral's orders.
Annapolis' crew needs some sun, and you need a break."  

I almost laughed. If he only knew. But I had to give him a diplomatic
answer.

"I never argue with rank, sir," I said. 

"No, you don't, commander," Meisenheimer said, shaking his head. "You
certainly don't. Sometimes I almost wish you did."

Well, that was a strange answer. I didn't have the time to wonder
about it, and I sure couldn't ask him to explain himself. I didn't
have the gall, which the captain had apparently figured out already.

Meisenheimer didn't seem inclined to discuss it further at the moment,
either.

"Your ride's waiting on the flight deck, commander," he said, with a
curt nod. "Dismissed."

"Aye, aye, sir," I said, snapping to attention. I executed an about-
face and left the bridge.

~~~~~

USS Annapolis
In the Adriatic Sea

~~~~~

The transfer from the helo to Annapolis wasn't quite as scary as the
movies made it out to be, but I can't say it ranked in my top ten
moments of Navy life, either. Still, I managed to get through the
hatch without injury, and even came down the ladder with a fair amount
of grace.

The trouble didn't start until I was finally aboard, because that's
when I saw him: Lt. James Starlington Reilly, the officer of the deck,
the representative of his commanding officer, waiting to receive the
proper courtesies from this newcomer to his vessel.

Oh, he was glad to see me all right, but for him, this was a lot more
than a visit; it was a supreme moment in our history as brothers and
as Naval officers, and he couldn't wait. He was grinning like a damn
Cheshire cat --and it was an evil, evil grin.

The enlisted men who were bringing down the medical supplies must have
known what was up, too. They didn't venture to smile, but they were
watching, in that "no, sir, I'm not watching" way that any enlisted
man with half a brain quickly perfects. 

They knew Mr. Reilly was about to enjoy himself immensely.

That damn twerp. He'd set this up on purpose. But I'd been dealing
with this little smartass for 34 years, and I could deal with him now,
too.

I fixed Jim with my sternest stare, came to attention, saluted him and
said, as crisply as I could, "Request permission to come aboard."

If that brat's grin had gotten any bigger, it would have gone all the
way around his head, I swear to God.

"Permission granted," he said, returning my salute. He took his sweet
time about dropping it, though. "Welcome aboard the Annapolis, sir."

"Thank you, lieutenant," I said, dryly, as I dropped my salute and
shook his hand. "And you are enjoying this way too much, mister."

"Hey, how many times in my life am I going to get a salute from you,
sir?" he said, still grinning. 

"Just once, if I have anything to say about it," I said. "Talk to me
on the way to the corpsman's bay, lieutenant. I need to see my
patient."

Right away his face fell. "Aye, aye, sir," he said. "If you'll follow
me, I'll escort you."

We made our way down the narrow passageways, twisting and turning and
bumping into enlisted men who murmured apologies. I had to duck a lot;
the Los Angeles class wasn't designed for men my height. Jim, however,
maneuvered around with admirable skill and even managed to make
conversation as he guided me along.

"Sir, Mr. Donaldson's pretty bad off from what I hear," he said in a
low voice as we climbed down a ladder. "Scuttlebutt is he's not going
to make it. Do you know if that's true?"

"I don't know anything yet," I said. "I've got to examine him first.
But I doubt we'll know much for certain until he's been evaluated in a
shore hospital. George Washington's got excellent facilities, but we
can't do everything."

"God, I feel like a shit," Jim said, shaking his head, as we came out
on the lower deck. "I was so pissed because I had to stand his watch
again, and then I found out why -- because this had happened. I didn't
know he was really sick, sir. I had no idea."

"You had no way of knowing, lieutenant," I said, as we got to the
corpsman's bay. "You have no reason to feel guilty. Drop it -- it's
counterproductive."

"Yes, sir," Jim said, quietly. Then, leaning in close to me so we
wouldn't be overheard, he said, "Daniel, will we have a chance to talk
before you leave?"

"Yes," I said, just as quietly. "We will, Jim. I promise you that."
Then I stepped inside the corpsman's bay and closed the door.


END "The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(5/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)