Date: Fri, 31 Oct 1997 13:20:12 From: Susan Ross Moore Subject: "The Regulator" 1/2 TITLE: "The Regulator" AUTHOR: Susan Ross Moore AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS: smoore@iquest.net RATING: PG (for a few bad words -- nothing extreme) VIOLENCE: 1 (no direct injuries) CATEGORY: S, A SPOILERS: "Gethsemane" SUMMARY: Told primarily from Mrs. Scully's and Skinner's points of view, one explanation of what happens to Scully following Agent Mulder's death and her presentation at the board of inquiry that followed. DISCLAIMERS: The X-Files and the characters of Special Agent Fox Mulder, Special Agent Dana Scully, Mrs. Margaret Scully, and Assistant Director Walter Skinner are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the Fox organization. I've only used them for literary purposes, taking a few liberties with them, and will make no money whatsoever from the production of this piece of fiction. Please post to a.t.x.c. and to the Gossamer sites. Please ask me for permission to post to other Web archive sites. Many thanks to beta-reader Miki for her valuable insights and willingness to work under a very tight deadline!! The Regulator by Susan Ross Moore (Begin Part 1 of 2) Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Each breath comes more painfully than the last. I'm so tired. Inhale. Expand the chest muscles. Draw air into the lungs. Feel the ribs separate and spread. Exhale. Let the lungs deflate. Flush all of the stale air from the alveoli. Feel the chest contract again. "Oh, God, I can't go on much longer. How far is it to the surface?" Panic darts past my faceplate -- a school of minnows that changes direction constantly so that I can never quite see it. I can hear my pulse thumping sullenly in my ears. It sounds wrong -- electronic -- but I can't tell just why. Again, I wonder how far it is to the surface. I can't see daylight. I can't see *anything*. But I'm not cold; I'm either in warm water or I'm close to the surface. "Breathe slowly, Starbuck, and take long strokes. Conserve your air and strength." "I *am* breathing slowly, Dad. I'm taking the longest strokes I can." But wait; how can I talk with you when we're underwater? And . . . How can I hear you when you're *dead*? Am I dead, too? No; I can't be dead. Surely I wouldn't be this uncomfortable if I were. Mulder promised me I wouldn't die. "We'll fight this," he promised. Fight what? I can't remember. I can taste the dark bite of rubber from the regulator in my mouth. I move it around a bit and then clench my teeth against its unyielding surface. I keep swimming. I don't know where to. * * * My back is really starting to hurt. The chair cushion, worn down by hundreds of backs leaning against it for thousands of hours, doesn't support me properly. I lean forward to relieve the pressure; the vinyl protests with a sharp squeak. I flinch because for just a moment I'm afraid that I'll wake her. She was always a light sleeper, even as a child. At the slightest noises, she'd rouse and her red curls would snake across the pillow as her head swiveled to follow the sounds. While she might not be fully awake, she'd be fighting her way up from sleep. Especially when her father was at sea, she'd keep the proverbial one eye open while she awaited his return. However, this time she doesn't wake up and I slowly exhale away the tension. She's being kept in a drug-induced coma and it would take a brass band to wake her -- if even *that* would do the job. Her heartbeat, as reflected by the heart monitor in the room, is slow and steady. Her breathing, the sound muffled somewhat by the oxygen mask she wears, rasps slightly through the black rubber airway but is also slow and steady. Slowly, my back and neck muscles knotting in protest, I reach out and tentatively take her left hand. I work my fingers around the IV tubing and tape above her wrist; and then I slide her cool, flaccid hand into mine. I marvel that her hand's the same size as mine now. No longer can her entire hand fit in my palm. I notice too that two of her knuckles are a bit enlarged. Her nails are clipped short and are unpolished; no dirt is lodged under the nails. The cuticles, while a bit ragged, are well-kept. It isn't the soft, perfectly manicured hand of a lady, but neither is it as gnarled as a farm hand's. I give her hand an encouraging little squeeze even though I know she won't return it. The early morning sunlight slants in through the window and casts a harsh shaft of light down the wall just past her headboard. It barely misses her face. I get up slowly, tiptoeing through the hospital room as if it were her nursery, and slide the drapes half-closed. I'd really like to get up and get some coffee, but I think I'll wait a while. The doctor's supposed to make his rounds in another half hour; I pray that he'll confirm the good news the nurses gave me earlier. * * * Perhaps I'm being unprofessional by dropping in before formal visiting hours, but she's an agent in my division and I'm responsible for her. The brown paper bag bumps my leg every other step. Its contents' warmth transfers through my trousers, but even it can't completely stop the chill I feel as I approach the hospital room. This is still a grim duty, one that I'd rather avoid. I glance into the doorway. The door is half-open; I can see them both in the half-light. The younger Scully on the bed looks so peaceful and fragile; nothing, of course, could be farther from the truth when she's awake. The older Scully looks just that -- older. My jaw and gut clench as I look at her. Margaret Scully looks as though she's aged ten years during this latest ordeal. She hasn't looked up at me yet. I don't think she's asleep; maybe she's caught up in the memories of Scully -- Dana -- that I don't have. It's not right for me to intrude on the most functional family I've seen in years. But, I'm here and I care enough to ask how she's doing. As I walk across the checkerboard linoleum, I allow my wingtips to scuff the floor to keep from startling her. I notice that the bedside table holds a bestseller paperback novel, purchased no doubt from the hospital's gift shop, and a pair of reading glasses. I take the last step and close the gap between Margaret Scully and myself. She hasn't looked up, but I know she knows I'm here. "How's she doing today, Mrs. Scully?" My voice is soft but raspy. "I wanted to check in on Agent Scully before I went to work. Has there been any change?" "Yes." She turns slightly to face me. "Please, pull up a chair and stay a few minutes. M-m-m, is that coffee I smell?" "Oh. Yes." I have almost forgotten that I brought her some breakfast. I open the bag. Her coffee's cream and sugar; mine's black. Luckily, the counter person has pushed in the marker on the lid; I confidently hand her the right cup. I give her a moment to set down the cup and then hand her the rest of what I brought -- a still-warm sesame seed bagel and cream cheese. She takes a sip of coffee and then spreads the cream cheese thinly on her bagel. She takes the first bite and swallows almost convulsively before telling me the news I've come to hear. "The bleeding finally stopped somewhere around midnight. I have to wait for the doctor to see her this morning, but I think it's a good sign. I think she's getting better, Mr. Skinner." She takes a shaky breath. "I *need* her to get better." "She will get better, Mrs. Scully. You have my word on that." My voice stayed calm despite my reservations. Holding my still-untouched cup of coffee, I rise and start for the door. Not quite knowing what to say next, I stop and turn back. She looks up at me. "Thanks for bring me breakfast, Mr. Skinner. Go on to work; I'm fine." * * * I am still swimming. I'm in some sort of tunnel, with no end in sight. I feel like a salmon swimming upstream with an inner ear disorder or Gretel walking in the woods with no bread crumb trail to follow. I'm starting to get angry; I want to stop doing this but I don't know how. Mostly I keep swimming because I *have* to. The act of swimming consumes me, regulates my life. No longer do I concern myself that I don't see anything, that sounds seem all wrong, and that I can't really feel anything. I'm not sure where I'm going; I only know that I have to get there. Mulder wants me to get there. I slowly realize that I'm now in the big pool at the base where Dad was stationed when I was in the fourth grade, wearing the same silly bathing suit all the girls at school had to wear. How in the hell did I get here? Dad and I are in the pool; the chlorine stings my eyes. Missy's sitting on the side, dangling her long, freckled legs in the water; she's making excuses that she can't get her hair wet because Jimmy's taking her to the movies after supper and she wants to look perfect for him. Dad's teaching me to snorkel. I can't get the mask to seal properly and water's trying to get up my nose as I float on my stomach. The faceplate's fogged, too, but that's because I refused to spit on it like Dad did on his. I argued that I'd rather have a fogged mask then to look through spit -- even my own. I can hear the strange, noisy sound that my breath makes as it passes through the snorkel tube even though it's muffled somewhat by the water, my hair, and the faceplate strap, and the farther-away pool noises. I take a big breath and dive as deep as I possibly can. I'll show Dad how well I can do. I'll dive clear to the bottom this time. When I surface, I'm no longer in the pool; I'm in the cargo hold of a ship. I'm in my regular work clothes. Everything smells damp and musty. What the hell kind of a dream is this? This is too disorienting. Wait. Mulder is here also. We are old, so very, very old. I'm really having trouble doing anything, but Mulder -- he's dying! Even though I realize that I too am dying from old age, I can measure my remaining time in days. Mulder's only got hours left. Struggling with my own trembling hands and faltering vision, I work incessantly to effect a cure, more for Mulder than for myself. I succeed, and we both survive hale and hardy. I keep swimming. Inhale. Left stroke. Exhale. Right stroke. Now Mulder and I are on another boat, a smaller one this time. I can smell fish cooking over a campfire a distance away. I'm wearing everyday clothes. This is crazy. We're chasing some sort of lake monster. Queequag's running ahead of me, barking furiously at something I can't see. He's slipped his collar; I have to catch him before something happens to him. We're offshore quite a ways; I can't tell because it's nighttime and there's a thick mist on the water. I think the lake's a mile or two wide; we must be about halfway across it by now. The sonar starts blipping wildly. We look at the screen -- something enormous is barreling toward us. Mulder's frozen in his tracks. His "Oh, shit!" expression says it all. In the last few seconds before disaster strikes, I have the presence of mind to radio out a proper mayday (thanks, Dad!); I have the common sense to have found out where the survival gear was *and* to grab it; and I haul his ass off the boat only a moment before the final, wood-splintering impact. I make sure we're safely ensconced on what must be a tiny island. I get a light going so that the rescuers can find us. I start getting us dried off. In fact, the only things I *didn't* do were organize the trip, rent the boat, and lead the conversation that kept us occupied and eventually led to our being found. Huh. I wonder if Mulder ever found a way to get his boat deposit back. Where's Queequag? I didn't see him as we went overboard. Is he all right? * * * I'm back in her room again. The nurses chased me out for an hour or so to conduct their morning work. I really can't bring myself to say the clinically correct words. I can't accept that my younger daughter's lying in Intensive Care, totally helpless, comatose, and until somewhere around midnight last night, with no real chance of recovery. Now that she's looking a bit better, it's as if I'm waking up too. Four long days ago, I had just picked up my keys and purse. I needed to run a few pointless errands. Actually, I just wanted to get out of the house for a while. What's that ancient curse? May you get what you ask for? Since that afternoon, I've been home just long enough to bathe and change clothes. The front doorbell had chimed. When I opened the door, two black-suited men stood on my porch, their hands clasped at their belts, and with somber looks on their faces. "Mrs. Margaret Scully?" the left one asked. I turned my head to look at him, but his features were difficult to make out because of the glare from the early afternoon sun. "Yes?" The single word caught in my throat. They didn't have to tell me who they were or why they were there. I had seen enough of this as a Navy wife. I knew that my daughter -- my *only* daughter now -- was dead. Only hours before, she had sat at my kitchen table, her face strained as she struggled not to cry. I had waited for her to speak, but I already knew the news would be horrible. The last time I had seen her so distraught, she had turned up on my doorstep, shoes in her hand, a lost look in her eyes. She had told me that Mulder had died. But, Fox Mulder had survived that incident. This time, however, she related being summoned to his apartment. Police were everywhere, going through his things. She had been led to the sheet-covered body and was asked to identify it. It only took a moment to confirm that it was Mulder. "That him?" the detective had asked dispassionately. "Yeah." She explained that it was the only word she could force through her throat Anything else would have betrayed her. Again, not knowing where else to go or what else to do, she had come to see me. Just telling me all of this hurt her terribly. We had cried together, she for the loss of her partner and friend, and I for her loss and the pain that had forced Mulder to take his own life. I silently prayed for his soul to find peace. The man on the left spoke again. "Ma'am, would you come with us, please? Assistant Director Skinner asked us to drive you to the hospital. Your daughter, Special Agent Dana Scully, has been -- taken ill." "Hospital? Yes. Of course. Give me a moment." I turned to get my purse and keys from the fern stand by the door, realized I was already holding them, and turned back. Too stunned even to be embarrassed about it, I let the man on the right close the door and then guide me to the dark green Taurus while the other man hurried ahead to open the car door for me. We rode in awkward silence. The men probably didn't know any more than what they already told me. Because they had said "ill" and not "injured," I knew it had to be the cancer. The *damned* cancer. How long would Dana have? Would I -- would I even get there in time? Couldn't they hurry? Assistant Director Skinner met me at the door of Dana's hospital room. I had only met him once before, but this wasn't the calm, collected man I remembered. He moved in kinetic jerks. His face was flushed and damp with perspiration. His suit jacket was draped over his left forearm; his tie was loosened and his top two shirt buttons were unfastened. Oh, God, was that *Dana's* blood on the front and sleeve of his white shirt? In response, the blood froze in my veins. Everyone else seemed to melt away as he took my elbow and walked into the hospital room with me. She was lying still, on her back, with the head of the bed elevated. IVs and other tubes seemed to run everywhere. One IV was connected to a nearly empty bag of blood. Her nose was heavily bandaged beneath the oxygen mask. Her complexion, always a bit pale -- the redhead's curse -- was translucent. If I hadn't already known it, I now realized just how serious this was. Mr. Skinner was talking low and fast as he steered me toward the chair. He was both explaining and apologizing at the same time. I couldn't focus on his words. I thanked him and let him know that I appreciated that he had done everything possible to help Dana. Then I sat down. To begin my vigil. End Part 1/2 of "The Regulator" by Susan Ross Moore smoore@iquest.net Begin Part 2/2 of "The Regulator" by Susan Ross Moore smoore@iquest.net * * * I'm at my desk. Correction: My *body's* at my desk but my mind's with Scully at the hospital. Damn it, she shouldn't even be there. Sure, a field agent know there's always a chance that they'll get shot or stabbed, be in a car crash, maybe even end up in a plane crash. I can also rationalize that an agent is still a human being, subject to normal human frailities such as colds, heart attacks, even -- being driven to suicide. They can even contract cancer, but not as a result of a case or even a series of cases. This shouldn't have happened to *her*. I realize that I've slammed my fist onto the desk. Coffee has splashed everywhere. I grab tissues from a desk drawer and start mopping up before papers on my desk are ruined. <> I don't know if I'll ever be able to walk into that office again without confronting Mulder's ghost; it'll blame me for what just happened to her. I may soon have to face Scully's ghost as well. I know that I'll never be able to erase the memory of what I found there four days ago. It must have been impossibly difficult for Scully to go before the the review board. It wasn't enough that she had to just tell them that Mulder was dead; someone or something forced her to discredit him as well. Hell, the man's body wasn't even cold yet! I was secretly glad I hadn't been asked to sit in on that meeting, yet I wanted to be there to help Scully through it. She looked so drawn and tired when she came out of the meeting, I told her to go on home. She mumbled something and avoided eye contact. When she headed toward her office instead of the parking garage, I called out to her, my voice a bit sharper this time. She turned back and instead of yelling back gestured that she was going to get her handbag. I nodded and let her go. About an hour later, I had the strange feeling that Scully *hadn't* left as I had instructed, but was down in that morbid office, the specter of Mulder probably lurking somewhere nearby; she was likely doing something that passed for work when she knew good and well that Mulder's death surely signaled the X-Files' death also. I called the office, holding my breath as I hoped she wouldn't answer. Six rings. Nothing. Still, I trusted my suspicions and went down there personally. The door was ajar. The overhead lights were on. I was scripting what I wanted to say to her as I walked into the office. Instead of finding Scully hunched over file folders at her pitiful excuse for a desk, she was at Mulder's desk. Her right hand, still holding a pen, was near the close edge of the desk. Her left arm was crooked at the elbow and her head was lying on her forearm. Her hair had fallen forward, covering her face. At first I thought she had merely fallen asleep from the day's strain and sorrow. And then I saw the blood. Given the terrible lighting in the office, I hadn't seen it at first. But there it was, a growing pool at least the size of my open hand. I hadn't prayed for a long time but I beseeched every deity I could name as I rushed past the clutter to her side. Despite seeing the pen in her hand, a thought streaked into my consciousness. Please don't let me find that she's shot herself too! Two fingers sought the side of her neck. A weak pulse. Thank You, God! I grimaced as I gently pulled the hair away from her face; much of it was stuck into the gory mass. Her weapon was still holstered at the small of her back. Good. When I could finally see her face, it was easy to tell that she hadn't been shot. Her nose was bleeding. Not gushing, but steadily. I hadn't seen a nosebleed that bad since I was nine and a kid on my team took a line drive to the face during a Little League game. I called her name and shook her right shoulder; the pen fell from her hand. She didn't respond. Her body was limp, her skin pale beyond belief. I grabbed up the phone, punched in the switchboard, and ordered an ambulance immediately. I sucked air through my teeth as I tried to sit her up and staunch the bleeding. The smell of blood was strong and metallic. I had to peel blood-soaked papers from her face. Her eyes were closed. I could see the crusts of dried tears, clogging her eyelashes and leaving sparkling salt trails down to where they mingled with her blood. By the time the paramedics arrived, I had shed my jacket and was squatting by her side, holding her to my chest. I knew to elevate her head, but when I pinched her nose, her breathing had changed to rasping gurgles. Not wanting to choke her, I let go. The bleeding resumed. The paramedics scooped her up, deposited her on the gurney, and began their assessment. One started an IV while the other checked her blood pressure. "It looks like we got to her in time, sir," one said several long minutes later. "As soon as we stop the bleeding and replace the fluids, she should be fine." <> I simply nodded my head in reply. A lot of heads turned as we hurried out to the ambulance. I knew that I looked disheveled, blood-smeared, and coatless. One paramedic quizzed me about what had happened. All I could guess was that she had cried herself into a nosebleed. When he frowned at that answer, my voice dropped to a harsh whisper as though I were shielding Scully from the words. "She has -- a tumor. She's been having nosebleeds." The paramedic stiffened a bit and nodded his understanding. "Her partner died last night," I rambled on. Why was I telling him this? Was it to help her treatment or to confirm the reality to myself? "She had to ID the body this morning. He -- he shot himself in the head." "Man, that's rough," the paramedic replied as he gave me a damp cloth for my hands. It was then I realized I too was crying. I busied myself at cleaning myself up, and then wiped away my own tears. "I'll see to it that her family's notified." I wasn't looking forward to facing her mother. * * * I'm swimming much more purposefully now. Instead of just moving my arms and legs and listening to my breath rasp through the scuba gear's regulator, my movements now have meaning. Instead of moving aimlessly, no destination in mind, now I'm swimming with intent. I know where I'm going and what I have to do. I reorient myself now that I know where *up* is, and head for the surface. My arms and legs synchronize and I can feel the water move past me. I'm heading to the surface, to the light, to life. Inhale. Stroke. Stroke. Exhale. Stroke. Stroke. * * * It's now the morning of the sixth day since Dana collapsed. Nearly a week of backaches, missing the comfort of my own home and bed while I wait and worry. I know I'll have to lose her soon, but not yet. There's still too much for us to do, too much I need to say to her. The doctor kept his promise. Dana has gone an entire day with no new bleeding, so the drugs that kept her in a coma have been discontinued. Sometimes her hands and feet twitch as if she's walking. Her face is much less heavily bandaged now and I can see twitches there as well. Her eyebrows are pursed right now, as if she's concentrating on something. No one can tell me when she'll wake up, but I think it'll be very soon. One of the nurses brings me a cup of coffee as the breakfast trays are passed out. I really appreciate this and express my thanks and acknowledge her hope that Dana will awaken soon. I walk to the window and watch the finish of the sunrise as I sip the hot, sweet brew. I must have been caught up in my reverie longer than I had thought because I realize that the sun is up fully now and I'm being chased out so that Dana can have her bath. I just pace the hall this morning; I feel there's no need to scour the gift shop for magazines or a book. Besides, I don't want to get that far from her room. I hear feet scurrying and turn around as an icy hand of fear grips my throat tightly. Several white-garbed figures are dashing down the hall -- to Dana's room. I join them. The aide who was doing Dana's bath slips out of the room. She looks frightened. I break into a run, my leather soles clattering and slipping on the waxed linoleum floor. By the time I get to the doorway, the emergency's ending. The doctor's removing the black rubber airway. Dana's eyelids are fluttering and she reaches up and swats at the doctor's arm. She coughs a bit as the airway comes out. I cross myself hurriedly. "Please don't make her start bleeding again," I pray. I wait anxiously as the doctor and nurses check Dana over; finally, they disperse. The doctor grips my shoulder reassuringly as he pockets his stethoscope and faces me. I'm holding my breath. "She's out of the woods, Mrs. Scully. I'm sorry to tell you that we can't do anything about -- the underlying cause of her bleeding. However, we've gotten this episode under control. I'm going to keep her another day or two, just in case." I nod my head to let him know that I understand what he's saying -- and what he *isn't* saying. "It's -- it's also time that she go on medical leave, Mrs. Scully. I'll talk with her supervisor to arrange this. I think it's obvious that she's become too fragile to endure any major physical stress." I cringe at that remark. Dana would certainly dress him down for calling her "fragile." However, it's somehow reassuring that someone else realizes this. I recover and ask, "May I see her now?" He pats my shoulder again. "Yes, of course. Just keep her quiet; don't do anything to excite her. We can't risk another bleed." My hand trembles as I reach up to pat his hand in return. "Don't worry; I'll take good care of her." I go in and resume my seat by her bed. Her head turns slightly and her eyes open. The bandage is gone; I can really see her face again. "Hi, honey," I say as I take her hand. "It's good to see you looking better." "Hi, Mom. I hear I collapsed at work. I -- I guess I'm not as tough as I thought." "You're plenty tough, Dana, but it's time to rest now," I say as I stroke the hair from her forehead. I'm afraid of tiring her. I want to talk for hours but realize we should wait until she's stronger. "I'm glad you're here, Mom, but," she looks around the room, "I want to see Mulder. Where is he?" <> "Mom?" Her voice increases in volume and she rises up a bit. "Mom? What's wrong? I want to see Mulder!" The end. 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