"The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(16/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part 1 for headers, archive info, etc.




~~~~~

As Charlie Saw It

~~~~~

That was, without a doubt, the most frustrating, confusing day of my
entire life, and that includes every single day I was at Annapolis,
even during plebe summer.

I knew what Bill was angry about. Well, most of it, anyway; that
remark about what happened at Dana's apartment went right by me. 

I don't understand Bill. I really don't. If the commander is gay, it
hasn't rendered him unfit to serve. Just the opposite: He's not
getting the Navy and Marine Corps medal for cowering and shrieking.
The guy plunged right into burning aircraft wreckage and then again
into the water to try to save some lives. 

And any officer who would stand up and ream Bill out the way Commander
Reilly did, knowing how angry Bill already was and what might
happen... I mean, that took real guts. 

That's why I ran after Bill. I wanted to tell him all that, but I had
absolutely no success. He just wasn't having it. He was so pissed that
I got a little scared, and he kept referring to the commander as "that
fairy" and "that faggot."

You know, they say the worst homophobes are the guys who really want
gay sex but can't admit it. I started to tell Bill that, but then I
thought better of it. I'm too young to die.

It's true, though. I've seen the research.

Instead, I tried telling him what Barry Goldwater said about gays in
the military: "You don't have to be straight to fight and die for your
country. You just have to shoot straight."

Or, in Commander Reilly's case, cut and stitch straight.

When that didn't work, I changed my tack and tried to play on Bill's
sense of family loyalty, telling him that Dana obviously cares for
these guys and that narking on the commander would hurt her badly.
Bill didn't want any of that argument, either.

So there I was, frustrated and confused and running out of arguments
when Mrs. Reilly happened along, and she confused me even further by
running to the commander and kissing him the minute she laid eyes on
him. 

And let me tell you -- if that's what divorce does to a relationship,
Mary and I should consider getting one.

Suddenly I found myself wondering whether was Billy right or wrong
about the man being gay. I mean, Mrs. Reilly wasn't Miss America or
anything, but she was kind of pretty. Not a knockout, but pretty, and
she seemed nice enough... I mean, I figured she wouldn't have to
settle for a gay man, you know? 

I'm not putting this very well, am I? Look, it was a passionate kiss
from a pretty lady, and the way Commander Reilly was treating her ...
well, he sure didn't act like he wasn't attracted to her, you know?

But then, he seemed pretty attracted to Dana, too. 

Right. I obviously know nothing at all about this.

I didn't have much time to wonder, though, because right about then
Mom took over. She made it really clear that Bill and I were going to
talk to her and that there would be no excuses accepted. She marched
us down the hall to a small waiting area, shut the door and ordered us
both to sit.

"William," she began, and right away I knew he was in worse trouble
than he'd been with the commander. She never calls him William unless
she's well and truly annoyed. "Daniel was right. Your behavior earlier
was inexcusable. Don't interrupt me," she added, firmly, holding up
one hand as Billy started to speak. "You'll get your turn later. For
now, you just sit there and listen."

With a grunt, Bill sat back in his chair, glowering.

"I know what you're thinking, William," Mom said, sternly. "I'm not
here to verify or deny anything you believe. I'm here to tell you that
if you so much as breathe one single word of what you suspect to
anyone outside this family, I will never forgive you. You're my son,
and I love you, and I won't stop speaking to you, but I will not be
able to forgive or forget if you ruin Daniel Reilly's career."

"Mom, the guy's a f...," Bill began.

"Don't use that word in my presence again," Mom said, coldly. "I find
it just as offensive as Daniel does. Whether he is or is not gay is
none of your business, Bill. None at all."

"The hell it's not," Bill said, sharply. "Don't ask, don't tell means
don't do it, either, and you can't tell me he's not in a relationship
with Mr. Mulder."

Billy, Billy, Billy. You always manage to say that name the way some
people say Saddam Hussein. 

"I know that they're very close friends and they have a great deal of
affection for each other," Mom said. "I know that Dana loves them both
dearly. And that's all any of us know for a fact."

"I know for a fact I saw him in bed with Dana," Bill said, still
angry. "And I know for a fact that she was doing it to cover up the
fact that he was there with Mulder."

Wow. So that's what happened at Dana's apartment. Damn ... I'll bet
Bill was fit to be tied.

Wish I'd seen it. 

"No, you don't know that, Bill," Mom said. "You don't know that at
all. In fact, all appearances are that he and Dana are very much in
love. You must have seen the way she greeted him."

"Mom, for God's sake, stop it," Billy snapped. "Just quit playing
games with me. I know what I saw."

"Then you'd better believe what you hear, too, Bill," Mom said, and
although her voice was steady, I could see that she was afraid she'd
push him too far and she'd never see him again.

Don't discount the possibility. Bill holds a grudge for a long, long
time.

"And what's that?" Bill said.

"I told you before," Mom said. "I won't forgive you if you do what
you're thinking of doing. I might want to, but I'm too angry and too
ashamed, and far too frightened that you're going to ruin a wonderful
officer's career because you don't approve of his choice in friends."

"No one's going to ruin anything, Mrs. Scully," came a deep, grim
voice from the hallway. I turned to see who was speaking.

He was big, and I mean big -- tall and muscular, broad-shouldered,
bald as a billiard and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, but not one bit
wimpy. In fact, the look on his face made him pretty scary looking, to
me, anyway.

That impression was further bolstered when he put his hand on his hip,
pushing his jacket back out of the way, and I saw the gun holstered at
his side.

I didn't know who he was, but I was thinking that if he didn't want
Bill to say anything, then maybe Bill had better not say anything. I
didn't think it was a good idea to make this guy mad.

Mom recognized him, though.

"Mr. Skinner," she said, politely. "I'm sorry. You've caught us in the
middle of a family dispute."

"So I heard," Skinner said, his lip curling slightly. "If you'll give
me a few moments alone with the commander, Mrs. Scully, I believe I'll
be able to settle that dispute -- once and for all."

Mom sighed with relief. I shot her a small smile.

"If you'll excuse me, sir," I said, with a quick look toward Bill, "I
think I'll go say goodbye to Dana."

And then I left. I didn't look to see whether Mom was following me; I
wasn't especially concerned about that. This Skinner guy looked to me
like someone who could handle just about anything.

No doubt about it: The rescue operation had commenced.

~~~~~

As Daniel Saw It

~~~~~

You know, when I look back on that day at Trinity Hospital, I can't
help thinking how a few minutes one way or the other could have
changed everything so much.

If Fox had come in just a few minutes later than he did, I might not
have seen him at all. If Bill Scully had decided to go back to the
Stennis just a few minutes earlier, he'd never have seen what happened
-- and as far as I'm concerned, what happened was that I blew it all
to hell. I've spent years learning how to keep my emotions off my
face; I don't know why the hell I failed so spectacularly then, but I
did.

And if Jon hadn't come in when he did, Fox and I wouldn't have wasted
any time on arguing about him.

I'm not saying Fox didn't have a right to be upset. He did. It was
fairly clear to me that Jon had baited him out of ... jealousy, I
suppose... and he's only human. I just wish we hadn't spent any of the
precious little time we had on talking about Jon or anything he said. 

But then, if Jon hadn't come by, I might not have gotten the key to
his office, either, and that would have meant not being alone with
Fox, not having a chance to make love with him for the first time in
six months ... that, I think, might have damn near killed me, to be
that close to him and not be able to do anything about it.

We did do something about it, though, and if I weren't so unsure that
God actually approves of it, I'd be on my knees thanking Him. There's
no way to express how much I wanted -- needed -- to be with my lover,
even for just those few minutes. He seemed to know anyway, though ...
I don't think he's ever taken charge of things quite so thoroughly
before, but somehow, he seemed to know that it was exactly what I
needed him to do.

And yet, I still couldn't tell him what was really wrong. He probably
thought it was something about Jon, and I guess that was part of it.
He could definitely be forgiven for thinking it was about Jill, which
it wasn't, not entirely, anyway.

The really rotten part of it is that I wanted to tell him. I had
planned to tell him. For weeks, I'd imagined myself lying in his arms,
telling him all about that terrible night on the flight deck and what
I did then, describing all the sights and sounds and emotions that
keep coming back to me and keep me awake nights. I'd imagined it so
thoroughly that I could almost hear him answering me, telling me it
was all okay.

And yet when the moment came, I didn't tell him. I wanted to, but I
couldn't. 

But he still knew something was wrong, and he still took care of me in
the only way he had to do it at that moment.

Fox can be hot-headed, impulsive and obtuse sometimes, but in times
like that, I'm reminded all over again of why I love him so much.

But of all the little things that might have made events turn out
differently that day, the one that made the most difference in the
long run was that I decided to go by the gift shop on the way out and
find something to read on the long plane ride. 

If I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have passed by the coffee shop, and
if I hadn't passed by the coffee shop, I wouldn't have seen Jill.

I did see her, though, and because of that, things went very, very
wrong later on.

I had bought a paperback book to read and I was headed for the
hospital's front door when I happened to glance toward the coffee shop
and I saw her. She was sitting at a table by herself, one hand to her
forehead as though she was just too tired to hold her head up any
longer. She had a sandwich and a soft drink in front of her, but she
hadn't consumed much of either of them.

She looked, in short, unhappy as hell.

For just a moment, I thought about walking away and leaving her alone.
Given what had happened outside Dana's room, I was reasonably sure
that Jill had figured out what had really been going on between me and
Jon a few years back, and I just wasn't sure I could stand to have
this conversation now.

But I love Jill -- I always have, and I always will -- and I just
couldn't leave her like that. She might tell me to go to hell -- God
knows, she had the right -- but I had to make the effort, I had to see
if there was anything I could do or say to make things better for her.

I steeled my nerve and walked over to her table.

"Jill," I said, and she looked up quickly, a bit startled, I think.

For just a second, I thought she was glad to see me, but that
impression didn't last long. Her eyes dimmed and her smile faded, and
she looked back down at the table.

"What is it, Daniel?" she said, listlessly.

"May I sit down?" I said.

"Knock yourself out," she said, gesturing toward an empty chair.

"Not if you don't want me here," I said, shaking my head.

"Then get," she snapped. "I didn't ask you to follow me, Daniel."

"I'm not following you," I said. "I just saw you sitting here and I
wanted to talk to you. I won't stay long, Jill; I can't. I've got a
hop to catch."

She looked back up at me quickly then. "You're leaving already?" she
said, and she actually sounded a little sad.

"Yes," I said. "The emergency is over, and the ship's in a war zone. I
have to get back."

"Well, go, then," she said, looking away again. "I don't want to keep
you if you have somewhere else to be."

God, it hurt to hear her talk that way. I knew I had it coming, but
still ... you'd have to know Jill to know how unlike her it was to be
so rude. She's not a rude person, not at all, unless she's extremely
upset.

Obviously, she either really didn't want me there or she did but
wasn't going to give me the satisfaction of knowing it. One way or
another, I was going to find out, which meant I was going to be rude,
too. I pulled the empty chair closer to her and sat down.

"Jill," I said, and then I hesitated.

"Yes, Daniel?" she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Do you want to
tell me something? Something, oh, I don't know, about my former
colleague and supposed friend Dr. Jonathan Zuckerman? Maybe about what
was really going on when you claimed to be out playing basketball with
him at the Y?"

Ouch. 


"I don't think I have to tell you, do I?" I said, quietly. "I'm sorry,
Jill, but you probably know that already."

"Oh, hell, go ahead and say it again," she said, nonchalantly. "It's a
golden oldie -- I never get tired of hearing it."

"Jill, for Christ's sake," I said, wincing. 

"For Christ's sake, what, Daniel?" she said, turning on me with a
fierce expression in her eyes. "For Christ's sake, you were supposed
to be faithful to me. You don't get a pass just because it's another
man instead of another woman. What the hell did you think would happen
when I finally met one of your boyfriends -- although the really cruel
irony is that I'd already met him, isn't it? I worked with him every
day. I even shared some of my fears about you with him, and he seemed
so ... fucking ... sympathetic."

"Maybe he was," I said, without thinking.

"Spare me," Jill said, looking away from me. 

"If you'd let me explain," I began, but Jill cut me off.

"Even if he was sympathetic, it doesn't help, Daniel," she said. "I've
still got to live for the rest of my life knowing that I made a fool
out of myself in front of him, talking about what a wonderful husband
you were and how much you loved me."

"That was true," I said, quietly. "It still is."

"Go to hell," Jill said, pushing her tray away and standing up. 

I couldn't move. I just sat there, staring at my cover and turning it
around in my hands, just for lack of anything better to do.

This was getting to be too much like the day we broke up. She was
badly hurt right now, and so was I -- she by my infidelity and I by
the cold fury in her eyes. This time, she wasn't screaming or hitting
me, but she might as well have: It hurt just as much as if she had.

"I don't want you to love me, Daniel," Jill said, picking up the tray.
"I don't know why I thought I did. It hurts too much. I don't need it.
I'm going back to San Diego and this time, I'm staying. Have a nice
life."

God, it was killing me to see the hurt and the anger in her eyes, to
hear her talk to me that way. I thought we'd put all that behind us,
that we were on our way to being friends.

I was wrong. 

She really had no further use for me. She was making that plain. 

I couldn't blame her.

I looked up, hoping to say something else to her, and realized I must
have been lost in thought longer than I'd realized. Jill was at the
door, pushing it open, heading outside, away from me ... forever, if I
believed what she'd just told me.

I didn't want to find out. I grabbed my cover and practically ran
after her, ignoring the rain and the gusting winds in my haste. I
followed her out of the hospital and down the street, and  caught up
with her just as she was crossing a side street next to a quiet little
park.

I shouldn't have done it, but I reached out and grabbed her by the arm
and pulled her back under the huge recessed doorway of an abandoned
drug store, out of the rain, out of the sight of anyone who might be
passing by.

It startled her, and she whirled around quickly, but her fright didn't
last long. She was madder than hell when she realized who it was that
was manhandling her.

"Daniel, God damn it, let me go," she said, but not too loudly. Except
for that one day, Jill's never been a screamer.

"Not until you talk to me," I said, a little breathlessly.

"I don't want to talk to you," she said, and I could see the tears
coming to her eyes. When Jill's really angry, she almost always cries.


"Just five minutes," I begged.

"I thought you were catching a plane," she said, but there was just a
hint of hesitation, and I began to breathe more easily. She was
relenting; maybe not all the way, but enough for now.



"I can catch a later flight," I said, letting go of her arm. "Please,
Jill. It's important to me. I don't want to leave things like this."

"Daniel, I don't know," she said, looking away from me, but I knew she
didn't mean it. She was going to talk to me.

Thank God. 

"Just for a few minutes," I said, and I reached for her again, but
this time, I took her hand. "That's all I'm asking."

Jill sighed then, but it was a sigh of resignation, not relief. She
didn't take her hand away, but she didn't actually hold my hand,
either --she just didn't resist. 

I waited, almost afraid to breathe, until she looked up at me again,
and I saw the tears running down her face.

"Daniel," she said, her voice breaking, "when are you going to let me
go?"

Let her go? What did she mean, let her go? I couldn't ... I couldn't
even imagine it. The very thought hit me like a sledgehammer in the
chest.

"Never," I said, and without thinking, I pulled her into my arms and
kissed her with more passion than I'd ever before kissed her or any
other woman ... or anyone but Fox. I held her so close we could have
melted into each other, as though by holding her I could make her a
part of me, make her forget she'd ever even thought of leaving me.

With a sound that was almost a whimper, Jill looped her arms around my
neck, and she kissed me back, in a way that told me more clearly than
words ever could just how much she'd kept inside her all these years,
how much desire she'd never dared express to me before.

Now, she was letting it all out ... and I was returning it, almost
desperate to make up to her in some way all the hurts I'd done to her,
all the things I'd deprived her of. I kissed her as though it was to
be my last kiss ever on this earth.

I could feel her startled reaction through every inch of her tiny
frame, felt the sharp intake of her breath into my mouth, felt her
pressing herself closer to me in a way that spoke half of desire, half
of disbelief that this could possibly be happening between us.

It was happening, all right. For the first time in -- I couldn't tell
you how long -- I felt myself wanting her, wanting her smallness, her
softness, the quiet female tones of her voice, the gentle curves of
her body, the warm, wet, secret place inside her where I used to
belong, where I could go and feel loved and welcomed and protected.

And God help me, I felt myself getting hard.

And so did she.

This, finally, was the feeling, the knowledge, that I had avoided
facing for so long that I scarcely knew I was avoiding it.

I knew what I was avoiding while I was married to Jill: thoughts of a
sexual relationship with a man. It wasn't latent homosexuality,
either; it was the real thing. I just didn't act on it, at least, not
very often... not until the end.

What was happening to me now was scaring the shit out of me. Not a
half hour earlier, I'd been lying on a couch making love with Fox, and
here I was responding to Jill more strongly than I had in years, maybe
not since we were first together. 

So what the hell was going on? Was I hiding something from Fox --
latent heterosexuality, perhaps?

No. That's not it. I think about sex with women roughly as often as
the average

heterosexual female does; that is, rarely and almost never seriously.

Jill ... well, Jill was the great exception in my life.

I've never stopped loving her. I knew that. I never wanted to, or saw
any reason why I should. What I was feeling now wasn't just love, it
was far more, it was something else altogether. I wanted her. I wanted
to take her to bed, to make love to her, to spend the night in her
arms, to feel the way I used to feel when I was her husband and I
could go to her in the night and know that she'd open her arms to me.

I'd wanted her and needed her even then, even if in the aftermath of
our divorce, I'd tried to persuade myself that I never really did. I
did. I always did; just not as much as a man should want his wife, or
in the way most men would. Our marriage bed was running on the 10
percent of my libido that could respond to a woman, and it was
seriously overtaxed.

The other 90 percent was the real Daniel Reilly, and that Daniel was
alone every night because he would never admit he even existed,
because he could never tell anyone just how much he needed another man
sleeping beside him.

But that other 10 percent existed. I thought I'd dealt with that,
faced it, and put it in the past, but once again, I was kidding
myself. My feelings for Jill, emotional and sexual, weren't just part
of our married life. They were real then, and they were real now.
Heterosexual attraction might only be 10 percent of me, but it was
still me ... and, where Jill was concerned, it was still there.

There was no denying it, to myself or to her: I wanted Jill. I'd
always loved her, but it had been forever since I'd felt anything like
this for her, and I'd never felt it for any other woman on earth, not
even Dana, much as I love her. 

But this couldn't happen. It couldn't. 

Reluctantly, I let go of her sweet mouth, but I kept my arms around
her, looking down into her wide, frightened eyes, eyes so familiar and
so hurt that I wanted to weep myself.

"Daniel," she whispered, her lips trembling. "Oh, Daniel ..."

"I'm sorry," I whispered back. "Jill, I'm sorry, I shouldn't ..."

"Why not?" she said, helplessly. "Why shouldn't you?"

"Because I'm in a relationship," I said, hating what I had to say but
knowing I had to say it. "Because I failed you completely and I
cheated on you and hurt you and I'll never be able to make up for
that, but God help me, I don't ever want to be that kind of person
again. I want to do better ... I realize that doesn't do much to make
you feel better."

Fresh tears rose in her eyes, but she nodded, lowering her eyes as she
did. "It doesn't," she said, softly. "But in a way, it does."

"How is that?" I said, puzzled.

"Because it tells me that you did care whether you were faithful to
me," Jill said. "It mattered to you, even if you couldn't accomplish
it."

"I should have," I said, but Jill shook her head and laid her fingers
on my lips.

"You did what you could," she said, and then kissed me. "I wish it had
been enough. I wish _I_ could have been enough for you."

I didn't have an answer for that. My impulse was to tell her she was
wrong, that she was enough for me or for any man, but we both knew it
wasn't true. She was so much to me, so much more than I ever deserved,
and for any other man, Jill would be more than enough, a perfect
treasure ... but not for me.

"That wasn't your fault, Jill," I said, finally. "It was never because
of you."

"I know," she said, and she laid her head on my shoulder. "Will you
just tell me one thing, Daniel?" 

"If I can," I said, stroking her hair, hoping she couldn't hear how my
heart was pounding.

"If ... if you weren't involved with someone else," she whispered,
"would you want to? With me, I mean?"

Oh, God, Jill ... don't tear at my heart this way. Why did she even
have to ask? Wasn't it obvious?

I guess maybe to her, it wasn't. She, like Fox, needed to hear me say
it.

"Yes," I said, and the little hitching sob she gave nearly ripped me
apart. "I do want to, sweetie. I want to right now. It just can't be.
I love you, Jill, just as much as I ever did, but I can't do that to
you, or to Fox, or to myself."

"I understand," she whispered, but her voice was trembling furiously,
and I couldn't bear it. I pulled her closer to me and kissed her
again, more gently, with less passion but with infinite love ...

What happened next happened, I think, almost as a reflex reaction. It
wasn't anything unusual for us, not when we were together, anyway, and
I swear I didn't mean anything by it ... I mean, I didn't mean it to
be a come-on or a seductive move, and I don't think Jill took it that
way, either.

I put my hand on her breast.

That was all, honestly. I just put my hand there, as a sign of
affection, of the closeness we'd always had and were trying to share
again. She, for her part, just put her hand over mine and held my hand
gently to her breast, just like she always had before.

Like I said, it wasn't a seduction move, and Jill didn't respond as
though she was being seduced. It should have been nothing, no problem
at all, just a way of re-establishing contact with each other ...

Or it would have been, if Fox hadn't chosen that moment to walk around
the corner.

I didn't see him right away. I heard the scrape of shoes on the
sidewalk, and I noticed the footsteps stopped abruptly, but I didn't
really pay much attention. All I saw was an umbrella and a dark trench
coat, made even darker by the rain, and neither called for much of a
response from me, other than to remember that I was in uniform and
shouldn't be doing this in public.

I let go of Jill quickly and stepped back ...

And that's when I saw him, wide-eyed, his face a terrible mixture of
pain, disbelief, anger and fear as his eyes swept over me and her,
taking in the flushed faces, the heavy breathing ... and the erection
unmistakably lurking behind my uniform trousers. They don't offer much
at all in the way of concealment.

I heard Jill's gasp, but I couldn't really respond to it. I was
literally breaking out in a cold sweat. I knew what had been happening
was no threat to Fox, but he had no way of knowing it. All he could
judge by was what he saw, and what he saw was me kissing Jill,
touching her breast and getting hard from doing it.

"Fox," I said, weakly, but he just held up his hand and shook his
head. He said nothing.

He just turned and walked away.

"Daniel, go after him," Jill said, urgently. "You've got to tell
him..."

For a moment, I almost did. I had no idea what I might say to him or
even how I'd get him to stop and talk to me; all I could think was
that I had to keep him from leaving me, I had to make him talk to me.

But somehow, I knew he wouldn't. He'd been afraid of the hold Jill has
on me since the day he met her, and maybe even before that, and now
I'd confirmed his worst fears.

He was wrong, of course. I do love Jill, and I was responding to her
now, but it's nothing compared to what I feel for him. Fox is
everything to me, everything I've ever wanted and needed, craved,
starved for my whole life ...

If what I feel for Jill was even half of what I feel for Fox, I'd
never have left her.

I know Fox, though, and I knew he wasn't ready to discuss it. If he
had been, he'd have stuck around. If I ran after him, he not only
wouldn't talk to me, he'd be angry as hell that I'd done it.

"It wouldn't do any good," I said, shaking my head. "Not now. Later,
when he's had a chance to cool off."

"You'll be at sea by then," she said, helplessly. "Daniel, please. I
don't want to do anything to hurt Fox."

"You didn't," I said, firmly. "I did."

"I was here, too, remember?" Jill said, more quietly. "I'm not letting
you take all the blame for this, Danny."

In spite of everything, I smiled. "So I'm Danny again?" I said,
lifting a lock of hair off her face and tucking it behind her ear.
"Does that mean I'm forgiven?"

"I forgave you a long time ago, remember?" Jill said, smiling faintly.
"I just... I'd never had to put a face and a name on it before, Danny.
It hurts. It's going to take a while to get over it."

"I know," I said, quietly. "All I can tell you is that hurting you is
and always has been the last thing I wanted to do. I wish you could
believe that."

"I do believe it," Jill said, and she kissed me gently on the cheek.
"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

"I know," I said again. Jill smiled softly and put her arms around me,
and for a moment, we just stood there, trying to offer each other what
little comfort we could.

And God help me, it was working. Once again, Jill's love and her
friendship were sinking into my soul, healing me and soothing my
fears.

Somehow, that was almost more frightening to me than my earlier
physical response ... but this, I couldn't turn away. I needed it too
badly.

"Come on," she said, after a while, letting go of me. "I've got a
rental car parked just across the street. If you're really sure you
don't want to go after Fox, then get in and I'll drive you to
Andrews."

"Thank you," I said. "I do need a ride. I doubt I'd ever get there on
time in a cab."

"You wouldn't," she said, with a wry smile. "Anyway, the cab fare
would break you."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Reilly," I said, with mock sternness. "I am a
full commander now and I've got more than enough money for a cab, and
even for a cup of coffee if we get there early enough."

"Is that an invitation?" Jill said, looking up at me.

I nodded. "As long as you don't break any speed laws getting me
there."

"When did I ever?" Jill said softly, taking my hand. 

"Never," I said, but I wasn't looking at her as I said it -- I was
looking down the street toward the spot where I'd last seen Fox,
walking away from me, head down, through the rain, walking away alone.

I looked back at Jill. "You never broke the speed laws, Jill," I said,
quietly. "You never broke any of the rules. That was always me."

And it still is.



END "The Eighth Side of the Triangle"(16/?) by Susan Jameson
(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)