"The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(6/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part I for archive info, disclaimers, etc.



~~~~~

USS Annapolis
In the Adriatic Sea
As Daniel Saw It

~~~~~

As it turned out, I didn't need a shore hospital's facilities. I could
tell when I got there that Lt. Commander Donaldson had no real hope.
Every neurological sign pointed to it and every passing moment
confirmed it.

I couldn't locate the bleeding without a CT scan, but all the symptoms
pointed to a rupture near the brain stem, and there just couldn't be a
worse place. 

I tried everything I could think of short of brain surgery -- which,
in all honesty, wouldn't have helped even if I were qualified to
perform it.

God, how I tried. 

I gave drugs to lower the intracranial pressure, to lower his blood
pressure and to keep him from convulsing. We monitored his oxygen
levels and his blood sugar; we sent blood back to George Washington
for tests that couldn't be done on Annapolis and had the results
radioed back. 

The answers were pretty damn discouraging: His blood clotting time was
very, very slow, about what I'd expect from someone taking
anticoagulants. It was puzzling, because someone with that kind of
medical problem wouldn't be allowed on a sub, and it was a hell of a
bad sign, because it meant we'd have a hard time getting the bleeding
stopped.

His breathing began to fail, and I intubated him. After half an hour
or so, he crashed for the first time; he went into v-fib, his heart
muscle quivering erratically, and I shocked him back into a wobbly,
unhealthy sinus rhythm. 

Things kept getting worse, but the corpsman and I kept fighting. We
tried desperately to get him stable enough to transport, but
Donaldson's heart quit on him again. Again, I shocked him and again,
he came back, just long enough to crash again 20 minutes later.

We started all over again, but this time he didn't respond. We fought
for at least 15 minutes to try to bring him back before I forced
myself to admit the truth. His body just couldn't function; the
pressure and swelling caused by the bleeding were slowly squeezing the
most vital part of his brain to death. 

It wasn't a survivable injury, and no physician alive could turn it
into one.

It was over.

Technically, I suppose, he was still in v-fib, but he'd stopped
breathing spontaneously long ago, his pupils were fixed and dilated,
his blood pressure was undetectable and the EKG readout was so near to
flat-line that I just couldn't bring myself to do it to him again. Who
the hell was I doing it for, anyway? The man's brain was gone. 

As many times as I've had to pronounce death, I still don't know what
it is that I'm really doing. It's a legality, something that goes on a
medical record, maybe even something as mundane as an announcement
that we're going to knock off work ... horrible as that sounds. 

But in my heart, as a Christian, I feel it as something more: An
acknowledgement that I'm not God, that things have their time and
their season and that the only thing that truly lies within my power
is to relieve suffering, not to defeat death. 

That doesn't mean I don't feel it when a patient dies, or that I don't
cry for them sometimes ... in fact, I had a very strong feeling that I
was going to cry for this one.

But that was my pain to deal with. My job now was to end my patient's
suffering, to stop putting him through what might well be unimaginable
torture, to let him go and to commend his soul to God.

I put down the paddles and looked at the young corpsman. He was in
pain, too, and he was in terror of the greater pain I was about to
give him. His patient was going to die, and he was very, very afraid
that it was his fault, that he had let it happen.

That was something else I would have to deal with.

"Sir," he said, pleadingly. "Sir, please ..."

He was so young.

I shook my head.

"I'm sorry," I said. I looked at the clock. "Time of death, 1437
Zulu."


~~~~~

Quonochontaug, R.I.

~~~~~


(GET AWAY)


Are you going to shoot me? Is that how much this means to you?

~

Mulder, listen to me. You have been given a powerful hallucinogen. 

~

You don't know that these memories are yours.

~

This is not the way to the truth, Mulder.

~

You've got to trust me.


(SHUT UP)


Put down the gun. 

~

Let it go ...


~~~~~

Mystic, Conn.
As Scully Saw It

~~~~~

That was the dark night, in some ways the darkest night of all.

And in the end, it was all for nothing.

Death was so near, for me and for Mulder, but love was even nearer.
The two greatest forces in the universe, pitted against each other,
and death almost won.

Mulder said God wanted a sacrifice. I never believed that. I can't
believe it, even when I'm not sure I can trust God for anything at
all. But the lines of force crossed somehow that night, power against
power, and Mulder nearly made himself the sacrifice, whether God
wanted it or not.

Yes, I said himself, not me. Mulder didn't hurt me. He would never
hurt me. He is incapable of it. I never feared being hurt, not even
when the gun went off. 

Someday he may remember who he was trying to shoot. He may not. I
don't know who it was, and I don't especially want to know. I only
know that it wasn't me.

And when he fell to his knees weeping, I put my arms around him to
comfort him, but also because I knew the Washington County deputies


would arrive soon, and I had to protect him. I had to keep them from
shooting him, yes, but I also had to keep them from seeing his face,
or how he was trembling, or from hearing whose name he was whispering
as he wept.

When they finally let him leave Rhode Island, I took him to a hospital
in Mystic. Maybe it was the name, or maybe it was just that it was the
closest city of any size. I don't know. I just knew I had to get him
away from Quonochontaug as fast as I could. I brought him to Mystic
and I had him treated in a hospital here and then I brought him to a
hotel on the edge of town and put him to bed.

And somewhere, in the darkest part of the night, he came to me in my
bed.

I'm not sure yet if he really thought about what he was doing. He knew
it was me, though ... he called me by name, whispered it over and over
as he sat on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but his boxers. He
ran one hand through my hair, then bent to kiss me -- gently at first,
the way he usually does, and then harder, pulling me into his arms and
holding me so tightly it hurt.

I pulled back the covers and took him into my arms.

And then he buried his face in my shoulder and wept, in a way I'd
never heard him weep before and never thought I would. He clung to me
desperately, the satin fabric of my pajamas bunched up in his fists as
though he had to hold on to me or fall to his death, like some
arboreal infant.

He was pulling at me so hard the seams on my pajama sleeves gave
way... I heard the faint ripping noise and felt the cool air on my
back, but I never said a word.

Not one single word -- not even when he loosened his grip and lay
back, just a little, just far enough to look into my eyes, to seek
permission for something... I didn't know what. I only knew we were at
a crossroads, and that this, finally, was the ultimate, the greatest
intimacy Mulder could ever imagine sharing with me.

And because I was dying, because he needed me so badly, he would let
it happen -- unless I said no.

I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. I'm sure he could read my
answer in my every breath. I just raised myself up a little as he
gently lifted the pajama shirt off me and settled himself back into my
arms with a shuddering little sigh.

Oh, God, the heat that flashed through me ... I was trembling all over
from the shock of my desire, as powerful as a stroke of lightning and
nearly as dangerous... I moaned under my breath as his skin slid
against mine, making my nipples hard, making me hot and wet ... it
wasn't what he intended, it wasn't what he wanted, but I could no more
have stopped it than I could stop the rain from falling outside.

But it was different now, not like the first time his touch had made
me tremble and moan, when the sound had made him jump away from me in
horror. He knew now what would happen ... he knew what he was doing to
me. He just couldn't stop himself from doing it ... 

He was beside himself with grief, unable to make sense of anything in
his confusion. 

The only way he could put himself together and keep going was to feel
me, to touch me this closely, to know that, for the moment at least, I
was still there. He needed it in a way he'd never needed it before.

He needed it badly enough to put me through this.

And I loved him enough to let him.

He raised his head and looked at me. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Scully, I'm so sorry, I know I shouldn't, but ..."

"Shh," I said. "It's all right."

"This isn't fair to you," he said, shaking his head, but I interrupted
him again.

"You let me worry about that," I said. "Lie down now and rest."

I smoothed the damp strands of his hair away from his forehead; he
still felt so hot, fevered almost, although he wasn't ill ... at
least, not in that way. He wasn't crying any longer, but there was
such wild, desperate longing in his eyes, such deep sorrow ... 

"You're so soft," he whispered. "I knew you would be."

"Shh," I whispered back, tears filling my eyes. "Just let me hold you,
Mulder. Please."

I laid my hand gently on the rough, unshaven cheek and gently settled
him against my breast. Even in the dark, I could almost trace by touch
the outlines of the reddened area where his mother had struck him. I
tried to imagine my mother striking one of her children in the face,
and I couldn't; it was impossible. 

But Mulder hadn't even looked very surprised. Hurt, yes, but not
surprised. Just... weary.

I believe Teena Mulder loves her son. I know he loves her. But I have
no frame of reference for mother love that allows a son to find a slap
in the face familiar and unsurprising. None at all.

I kept seeing Mulder's face as the mark of his mother's hand slowly
appeared on his cheek. I kept tracing the shape of it with my fingers;
I kept hoping he would look at me or speak.

But I knew he hadn't come to me because he wanted to talk about it. He
had come to me because he wanted me to hold him to my breast and love
him, and we were lying here nearly naked, skin against skin, because
he needed that in a far more than symbolic way.

Maybe I should have turned him away, protected myself from his need
and from the almost unbearable want he was awakening in me. I should
have forced him to deal with me as his work partner, made him tell me
in words what he remembered. It was my job. I needed to know.

But in the end, I knew nothing. I never would. 

He didn't even know. 

That memory was gone forever, like the memories of his childhood. The
visions he tried so desperately to recover might have been true
memories, but there was no way to know that either.

I had nothing to go on and nothing to give him except my love for him
and my desperate hope that he would carry with him the memory of a
night when I gave him what comfort I could, when I repaid him as best
I could for standing beside me as the doctors explained all the
ramifications of my illness and my treatment and my imminent death.

I caressed his cheek once more, and kissed his forehead slowly,
lovingly. I felt him stir just a little against me, and I could have
cried, although for what, I didn't know.

I knew there was a chance the ketamine was still affecting him, but in
my heart, I knew that it was far, far more. This despair came from his
heart, from losses deeper and more hurtful than I could ever imagine.
I knew, without flattering myself unduly, that my approaching death
was shaking the foundations of his adult life almost as badly as
Samantha's disappearance had shaken his childhood, becoming a horror
that haunted his nights and would not let him rest.

I couldn't give him that rest. I could love him with all my heart, I
could weep at how badly my death was hurting him -- and I did weep for
that, all night --but I couldn't do what I so longed to do, make love
to him and soothe away his nightmares and let him sleep. 

Only Daniel could have done that, and Daniel was so very far away ...

No. I couldn't let myself think about Daniel. I couldn't let myself
imagine the look on his face if he knew what I was doing in bed with
his lover while he was at sea. 

I tried to tell myself this was nothing, just a closer embrace than
we'd shared before, but I knew Daniel wouldn't see it that way at all.
It would hurt him almost beyond belief to know that we had both
betrayed him in this way.

The only thing that salved my guilty conscience was the even deeper
pain of believing that I wasn't going to live long enough to see
Daniel again. I would never have to look him in the eye knowing what
had happened this night.

Mulder wasn't to blame for this. He simply wasn't in his right mind,
and he was being driven by a desperation I could only imagine. I was
the one who had time to reflect, who could have said no. 

But I didn't. When the moment had come, and I had to choose whether to
hurt Mulder or to hurt Daniel, there was no contest. I chose to hurt
Daniel. I made my choice in a heartbeat, without a second thought,
even though I love him more than words can ever tell. 

Yet I knew that although I might never see Daniel again on this earth,
if he knew -- if he knew everything -- he would understand, and he
would forgive me... he would have to. 

I did it to save Mulder, and that meant it was the only choice I could
make. 

And I wept for that, too.

All that night I lay awake, my thoughts running away from me the way
sand runs out of a clenched fist. I didn't know what to do. I didn't
know how to comfort Mulder, how to ease the pain of my death. I didn't
know how to keep this terrible breakdown from happening again. 

And I had to find a way to keep it from happening again. Mulder
wouldn't be able to take much more. 

I had to act, and I had to act quickly.

The wad of bloodied tissues in the bathroom wastebasket told me all
too clearly that my time was running out.



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