After The Rain

After the rain washes away the tears
And all the pain
Only after the rain
Can you live again

The apartment was on the second floor, right next door to one of the last elevated train lines in the city; every passing subway car sent a screeching roar reverberating through the building. 'Apartment': a grandiose term for a single room and miniscule bathroom -- the latter barely big enough to house a toilet, sink and shower; the former just large enough to contain a few kitchen appliances, a broken- down dresser, a tiny television on a cardboard box, and a queen-sized mattress on the floor.

Tom Davis awoke on Monday morning to the shrill cry of the alarm clock coinciding with the grumble of a passing train -- the building's furnace was out again, and the apartment was cold -- but there was a wonderful solid warmth snuggled against him, and that eased the sting of morning just enough to bear.

"Unghh." Light-brown curls stirred on her pillow; her eyelashes fluttered open, and sleepy eyes gazed into his. "Morning? Already?"

"Yeah," he murmured, delivering the bad news with a kiss -- to hell with morning breath; kissing Lisa was always sweet.

Then it was a frantic rush to get ready. They showered together as usual, not an erotic activity but a swift practicality -- there was never enough hot water for two people to bathe consecutively. They shivered together as they rummaged through their meager collection of second- hand clothing, looking for things to wear, and dove into jeans and sweatshirts as quickly as they could. Together they donned coats, grabbed wallets and purses and things and left the apartment, Lisa pausing to secure the three separate door locks behind them.

A harsh morning storm blew icy breath through their too- thin coats as they headed for the subway, holding hands and struggling into the wind. After three blocks of this, they finally reached the diner that supplied them with breakfast four days out of five: for ten luxurious minutes, they lingered over coffee and donuts at one of the warm tables in the back, holding hands and talking quietly about the trivia of their life. What flavor ramen noodles for dinner? and did they have enough subway tokens to make it to work until their next paychecks? and could they afford to splurge on a bargain-matinee movie this weekend?

Then they were battling their way through the crowded train platform, bullying their way onto a packed train, jammed belly-to-belly against each other by the rush-hour mobs. Tom considered that it would have been an incredible turn- on, if the train hadn't been so damned claustrophobic; as it was, the train was crowded enough that being pressed up against his woman was only a mild turn-on. Wearily, she rested her head against his chest, and he held her tightly with one arm and clung to an overhead hand-hold with the other, trying to keep his balance as the train swayed.

Change of trains: Tom and Lisa transferred to the much less crowded local, sinking into seats side-by-side for the second leg of the journey. Again, a brief interval to be close, to snuggle in each other's arms -- then it was their stop, and time to leave the station and catch the bus. Sometimes, when the weather was nice and there was enough time, they'd walk and save the bus fare, but there was no question of that in today's cold, not with Lisa just barely getting over last week's head cold; luckily, the bus was waiting, and they paid their fare and hurried aboard.

The bus lurched and jolted over pothole-ridden streets, past dingy buildings and brick-box apartment buildings, into the warehouse district. They got off the bus together, walked a half-block together -- carefully; the pavement was ice-covered and treacherous -- stood in line to punch their timecards together, and parted at the stairs with a too-brief kiss. "See you later, Lisa," he murmured, clinging to her hand, to savor the contact for just a moment longer.

"Later, Tom," she replied, and released his hand regretfully.

Lisa headed up the stairs to the office, where she worked, and Tom lingered an extra minute to watch her go -- then hurried downstairs to the factory, barely making it to his workstation before the morning bell rang.

The other guys were already there: Larry, who was sleeping with Juanita from the factory and had another woman at home. Joe, just out of high school, eternally psyched about the band he played guitar for. Mike, married with two kids, who'd never been out of the 'neighborhood', who'd worked and lived in the same ten-square-block area of Brooklyn all his life. Carlos, who was always making noises about getting out of his momma's house, and never quite did. The radio was on, tuned to the Latin station that Carlos and Larry preferred; in the afternoon, Joe and Mike and himself would prevail, and tune it to the rock station instead, but for now there was the incessant beat of Spanish music carrying over the sounds of the factory.

Then Erin McKesson brought over the first tray, and the workday began.

For the last six weeks, it had been the same thing, four hours per shift, two shifts per day, five days a week: heat-sealing little plastic bags of nails. Not all contracts were the same -- sometimes it was screws, or bolts; sometimes it was big plastic bags. But the job was always essentially the same, because that was what the company did: packaged things in little bags, put bar code labels on them, then packed them into bigger bags and put bar code labels on those, and then -- and this was the real irony -- shipped the whole thing off to a military distribution center.

After all they'd been through, they'd ended up working for a government subcontractor. Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor? Tom thought, with a small grin.

Lisa's job was at least marginally more interesting than his. She was up in the office, typing up DD250s for the shipments, preparing invoices and so forth. Her job was what paid the bulk of the rent; she earned almost double what he did. The combined total of their salaries was less than the average college graduate earned in a part-time job...

Tom and Lisa Davis didn't have college degrees, though. Tom and Lisa Davis barely had birth certificates and Social Security numbers. And so Tom and Lisa Davis had low-wage jobs in a factory in Brooklyn, a lousy apartment in a spectacularly bad neighborhood in Queens, a bank account that hovered in the low three digits and a credit card that was always maxed...

On the other hand, Tom and Lisa Davis had each other.

And that made it all worthwhile.

First shift passed rapidly; the bell rang, and while the other guys lined up at the lunch truck parked outside, Tom climbed the stairs to the office. Lisa was at her desk, diligently typing information into the computer -- she sensed his presence, as she always did, and turned to greet him with sparkling eyes and a warm smile. While the other office workers shared the pizza they'd chipped in to buy, Tom and Lisa found a quiet corner and shared the meager bologna sandwich that represented all they'd had in the fridge for lunch -- it wasn't enough lunch for one person, nowhere near enough to sate two appetites.

They drank in the love in each other's eyes, and were content.

Four hours more, and it was over; Lisa met him at the time- clock, as she always did. The train was just as crowded going home, and the wind was even fiercer as they struggled down the street. They stopped at the bodega on the corner, long enough to get warm, and to buy a few things: a couple of cans of generic-brand cola, a loaf of half-price bread several days past its freshness date, a quarter-pound of bologna for lunches, a third of a pound of ground chuck and a dented can of mixed vegetables. Tom carried the bag, and Lisa unlocked the front door, and wearily they trudged up the stairs to their apartment.

Half an hour later, there was dinner: ramen noodles supplemented by peas and carrots and hamburger to become something resembling a meal. Lisa spooned the mixture onto the only two plates they owned, and they ate sitting cross- legged on the mattress -- the heat was out again, so they huddled together with the frayed blanket tucked around their shoulders, while the evening news blared unnoticed on the TV in the background.

Shortly, Lisa got up and headed for the bathroom, and emerged transformed: the satin nightgown had been purchased for two bucks at a charity thrift store, but it clung to her like a second skin. "You're going to freeze in that," Tom warned, even as his eyes devoured the vision before him, even as the sight of her sent blood rushing straight to his groin.

"You'll keep me warm," she said wryly, settling down beside him on the bed.

He wrapped the blanket, and his arms, around her; Lisa snuggled close and kissed him, giggling under her breath as his beard tickled her face. She pushed him backward onto the bed, landed on top of him...

And though it was chilly in the apartment, neither of them noticed the fact for quite some time.

Fox Mulder was dead.

Dressed in black, she stood by the gravestone bearing his name, hardly listening to the platitudes being offered by the minister officiating the ceremony. After all they'd seen and done, after all they'd been through, for it to have ended like this...

Attendance at the funeral was sparse. After all, who would bother showing up to mourn the FBI's most unwanted? Skinner would have, but he was already gone... Bitterness surged through her, and regret; it shouldn't have been this way. Only a few lonely figures standing in the rain, and the odd dark shadows that haunted the edge of the cemetary, watching unobtrusively.

It shouldn't have ended this way.

She stood alone, and no one dared approach; she wore her misery like a cloak. She stayed long enough to run one hand over the new tombstone, in an endless moment of unhappiness.

And then she left the cemetary, walking briskly through the rain as if to put it all behind her, tears mingling with raindrops on her face.

The hired limousine was to have dropped her at home; instead, she had it leave her by the park. She walked for a while, lost in thought, then caught the subway out to Virginia. There, she hailed a cab at the station and had it take her on a long, expensive drive to a small shopping center in Maryland. Again, she walked for a bit, satisfying herself that she hadn't been followed, before making her way to a nondescript house.

With the key she'd been given, she let herself in, walked through an absurdly normal-looking living room to the basement door, and trudged wearily downstairs.

"It's done," she reported, in a voice harsh from crying.

Two of them didn't look up from their work; they were busily tapping away at computer keyboards, making the necessary arrangements. The third glanced up from his own makeshift workstation long enough to glance at her compassionately -- and the room's fourth occupant rose from the couch he'd been sprawled on, and came to her.

She fell into his arms and clung to him, too exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days to care what anyone might think of the embrace; and the tears, only barely repressed, stung at her eyes once more.

"Shh," he murmured, stroking her hair with slow, gentle strokes. "It's okay, Scully. It's okay."

But it would never be okay. Not really.

"Okay, we're set," reported one of their allies, reaching up to nudge his glasses back into position on the bridge of his nose with one finger. His eyes found hers for a moment, then slid away, unable to meet her gaze. "I know you said you didn't want it this way, but... the only plausible way we can do this is to make it a suicide."

She sighed. "This is going to kill my mom," she murmured, hoping desperately that her words were merely a figure of speech, that her mother would be able to withstand the loss of yet another child...

"Sorry," Langly muttered, turned back to his computer swiftly, as if relishing the escape from the unpleasant human interaction.

And she turned back to the man who still held her close, buried her face in his chest as if she could escape the misery of what was about to happen.

There could be no solace from the pain -- and yet, the feel of his arms around her was a comfort, somehow. Whatever happens, she thought, we'll be together. It shouldn't have been enough to relieve the agony they were living through... but it was.

She thought of how her mother would mourn at her funeral, and felt ashamed of herself for that.

"We'll find a way to let her know," said her partner into her ear, very very softly. "We'll find a way, Scully," even though of all of them, he had been the most insistent that no dangling loose ends be left to trip them up later.

Tilting her head back to meet his gaze, she summoned up a weak smile for his benefit; and he planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

"So," said Frohike without looking up, his voice laced with irony and not a little compassion, "you ready to die, Scully?"

As usual, the thundering roar of the train woke them; she felt Tom moan slightly, as the awareness of morning hit home.

For Lisa, there was a different awareness. Fatigue, lingering and palpable, and a churning sensation in her gut...

She barely managed to scramble out of bed and to the bathroom before the nausea hit.

Halfway through her vomiting, she became aware that someone was draping a blanket around her shoulders, shielding her from the pervasive cold; stroking her hair away from her face, holding it there as she regurgitated bile and what was left of her dinner. She heard him make a small gagging noise, as if her spasms of nausea were provoking the same involuntary reaction in himself. Yet he never faltered, never left her side...

For the thousandth time, the awareness of how much she loved this man, of how loved she was, surged to life within her: for the thousandth time, that knowledge made a grim situation bearable.

When finally the sickness abated, she wiped her mouth with the wad of toilet paper he handed her, spat once into the toilet to clear the awful taste, sipped hesitantly from the glass of cold water he'd made certain to have ready for her. Sitting back on her haunches, she felt his arms encircle her loosely, enfolding her in warmth. "You okay now?" came his voice, as if from a distance.

"I think so," she murmured, leaning back against him.

"I hope you're not having a relapse," he said, with concern, referring to the winter cold that had laid her up for several days.

"I hope so, too." Even the smallest illness was dangerous. There was no health insurance; their meager income was still too much to allow them access to the free clinics, which were overcrowded anyway -- and every day she had to take off work cut significantly into that too-small income. Already, they lived hand-to-mouth; they couldn't afford to lose pay.

Yet Tom hadn't complained, not even when she'd had to call in sick for the fourth consecutive day. He'd worked overtime shifts without complaint to bridge part of the gap, phoning home on every break to make sure that she was all right; he'd skipped his morning coffee-and-donut to save a few extra pennies, to buy the expensive cold medicines that alleviated her distress...

"I love you so much," she whispered, and felt his arms tighten around her in silent response.

As they went through their ritual of morning preparation, she was alert for any signs of returning illness within herself. The nausea had gone, leaving no trace of the dizziness or achiness she'd come to expect -- but something was different. Something indefinable, but definite.

She was careful to keep this from him, didn't let on -- but as soon as she was in the office, at her desk, she phoned the clinic on Nassau Avenue to make an appointment. Even the twenty-dollar nominal fee they charged would strain their budget, but it had to be done. She had to know.

Of course, if the problem was more... exotic than a run-of- the-mill cold or flu, the underfunded clinic would surely never detect it...

With a sigh, she struggled to put that concern out of her mind.

A last-minute cancellation had left a slot free at two p.m. that afternoon -- it would cost her more time from work, cost money that they couldn't afford to lose. On the other hand, Tom wouldn't have to know she was going, would be spared the worry... decisively, she accepted the appointment.

She hung up the phone, turned to the stack of paperwork on her desk, began to work -- but couldn't shake the dread, the fear, that clutched at her belly in small repetitive spasms.

The clothes he was wearing: jeans, a t-shirt, a nondescript windbreaker, socks and underwear. A new wallet, containing a social security card and a birth certificate, both of them carefully aged to simulate wear. Two hundred and sixty-three dollars and an odd amount of change, tucked securely into his right front pocket. A bus ticket, one- way, non-refundable.

It was all he owned, now. All that he had.

Except for the woman huddled beside him on the bus-station floor, shivering in the cold.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, drew her close, attempting to provide warmth. After a moment, he wrapped the other arm around her, too; and she settled against him as if she belonged there.

Which she did.

"Hey," he said softly -- not using her name: it wasn't her name anymore, and the new names they'd been given didn't feel like them, yet.

She glanced up at him, managed a shaky smile. "Hey, yourself," she replied, with an echo of the old stalwart spirit.

He liked that; it made him feel better. She'd been unnaturally silent since their transformation had begun, and it had worried him immensely.

"We're going to be okay," he assured her, even though there was no way he could know for certain -- "we're going to do just fine," he vowed, determined to make it so.

It seemed that her smile strengthened, into a resolve as fierce as his own. "We are," she agreed, with quiet strength.

He pressed his lips against her forehead, eased stray strands of hair away from her face with gentle fingertips - - it still startled him that her hair was no longer flame- colored; just another change to adapt to, on top of so many others.

But she was still herself. A rose by any other name was still as sweet...

"There's something we need to talk about," she said softly, so that he had to strain to hear her above the bustling of the bus-station crowd and the indecipherable announcements being made over the loudspeaker.

"What?" All the arrangements had been made -- where they would go, what they would do when they got there, how they would cement their deep cover so that their new identities would be as rock-solid and unshakeable as possible. All possible effort had been made to tie up any dangling loose ends -- and he didn't like where this was going, the intimation that there was still something to be resolved.

Her eyes met his, clear crystal-blue, seeming to penetrate deep into his soul. "There's no workplace policy for us to adhere to now," she murmured. "We need to figure out what that means for us."

Time stood still; he couldn't breathe. "I know what it means for me," he whispered, terrified beyond reason of what she might say next, that she might not feel the same...

But as he watched, her eyes softened into an expression he hadn't dared dreamed of finding there. "For me, too," she whispered.

Obligingly, time continued to stand still, as he sought and found in her eyes the only truth that mattered to him anymore.

Their first kiss was soft and chaste, a light brushing of lips that was less a consummation of desire than a promise of what was to come -- yet that silent promise energized him, sending waves of pleasure cascading through him.

Then time began to move forward again, rudely interrupting the momentary bliss with a blaring announcement that their bus was preparing to board.

He broke off the kiss with a heartfelt sigh, struggled to his feet, extended a hand to her to help her rise -- pulled her to her feet and into his arms in the same smooth move. Around them, the other passengers in line shuffled about and grabbed their suitcases, as the bus driver came to the door and called for everyone to have their tickets ready; he dug into his pocket for his ticket, as she reached for hers, and shortly they were filing onto the bus with the rest.

It was crowded, but they'd been sufficiently far up in the line to snag two seats together. Once again, she settled into his arms -- but it was different now, somehow; even a simple embrace had been transformed, by the mutual knowledge that there was far more than platonic affection and common purpose connecting them.

In time, the bus pulled away from its dock at the station, rumbling past dark, silent midnight streets on its way out of town. He stared over her head, past her, so intently that she shifted in his arms to see what he was looking at.

Washington, D.C. Home. All that they'd come to know. Everything that had been familiar. Slipping past, sliding away, as if it had all been a dream.

"Goodbye," she said softly, under her breath: a solemn farewell to the lives they'd once had.

Lives filled with trauma, with loss. With endless quests to unravel the inexplicable. Desperation, frustration, slapping them in the face again and again and again, fighting until there was no more strength to fight...

Slipping past. Sliding away, as if it had all been a dream.

It was all gone; they had nothing left.

Except for that silent promise, phrased in the warmth of an embrace, framed in a single soft kiss...

With one hand, he turned her face away from the window, toward him, and drank in the sight of her -- brown-haired, now, but still her. "Hello," he whispered. "Hello, Lisa."

For a second, it seemed as if she didn't understand; and then, she smiled -- brilliantly, blindingly, a smile filled with warmth and tenderness and love. "Hello, Tom," she whispered.

He drew her into his arms again and held onto her tightly as Washington slipped away, unnoticed, unseen.

"Hey, Davis!"

The foreman's bellowing shout resounded through the warehouse, audible even over the rock music blaring from the radio; Tom set down his heat-sealer and looked up, wondering what he'd done wrong this time.

But Pat didn't seem angry; instead, there was a serious look in his eyes. "Your wife just called from the clinic on Nassau," he said. "She wants you to meet her there, now."

The clinic? Now? What... Frantic, fearful thoughts chased each other through his brain as he snatched up his jacket and fled the factory. He ran the nine blocks without stopping, and only when he was nearly there did it occur to him: I forgot to punch my timecard, and it didn't matter, not at all.

Lisa mattered. Nothing else.

He burst through the door, panting, out of breath, and she was standing there, in the front office, whole and alive and unharmed -- a tight knot inside him unraveled at the sight of her, in a great wave of relief -- then clenched tighter than ever as he registered the look of sheer panic on her face.

"Mulder," she whispered.

His eyes widened, stunned and more afraid than ever -- she knew better than to use that name, had never used that name, not since it had all begun -- there had to be something deeply, terribly wrong, for her to break cover like that. "Lisa," he hissed urgently, a reminder and an entreaty for her to tell him what was happening...

She rushed to him, all but fell into his arms; instinctively, he hugged her tight, noticing that she was shaking fiercely. "What's wrong?"

Her head tilted back, eyes seeking his -- and it was then that he realized that there was more than simple panic in her face. Something like... wonderment?

"I'm pregnant," she said.

For long moments, he could only stare.

"That... that's impossible," he managed to stammer, finally. "Isn't it?"

"I had thought so," she responded, her voice nearly steady.

Pregnant. It couldn't be. The Bad Guys had seen to that; they'd torn her fertility from her, as they'd torn away her life...

"Are... are they sure?" This was bad, very bad. The free clinic in Brooklyn couldn't know of her odd medical history, didn't have the equipment or experience to recognize a more exotic and damaging condition...

"They're running blood tests. But it looks pretty certain." And still she was gazing into his eyes, as if deriving support from that contact; her eyes were frightened, almost pleading...

Then it hit home. Pregnant. They were going to have a baby. They were going to be parents. They were going to be...

...living in a dingy one-room apartment, with no health coverage for the medical expenses, with no money to cover the inevitable time off from work, the expenses of diapers and baby food and child care. No friends, no family to turn to for help... their mothers would never know that they were grandparents...

It should have been a joyous miracle; instead, it was a nightmare. Their grim situation had just become orders of magnitude more unmanageable, and the realization sank through him like lead.

Lisa, more sensible and pragmatic than he'd ever been, had no doubt come to the same realization already.

And there was only one possible way to deal with the situation.

"We'll manage," he said, nearly inaudibly. Then, louder: "We'll make it work, Lisa."

She stared at him, unbelieving, wanting desperately to believe.

He caressed her face with loving hands, savoring the sight and feel of her as he always did -- there was no way he could ever take that for granted, not after years of being denied such simple pleasures. "We're going to be all right," he promised her. "All three of us."

Tears sparkled in her eyes. "How?" she wanted to know.

It was an answer he didn't have, yet. But he would, soon. He'd make sure of it.

"Somehow," he answered, with conviction.

She made a small sound, almost a sob, and buried her face against his chest; he recognized it as surrender, acceptance of his belief, even if she didn't yet believe it herself.

"We'll find a way," he whispered, into her hair. "I have faith in us," and just once, just for this moment, let himself indulge in the memory of who they'd been; "Scully," he murmured, and somehow felt her smile.

The sun beat down on their heads as they walked hand-in- hand from the Greyhound bus station. It had been a long ride, but now it was over; and even though it was a hell of a risk for them to be there at all, the warmth of the Florida winter was a welcome relief from the New York ice.

She shed her jacket, after a time, and he folded it carefully and tucked it into the bag he carried: the single cheap duffel that contained their few worldly possessions. The bag was fairly heavy, but he didn't mind holding it -- fair was fair: she was already carrying extra weight, after all.

As they crossed the street toward their destination, he caught sight of them in a store window, and it surprised him how very ordinary they looked. Just a typical couple: the man tall and too skinny from months of never quite getting enough to eat, looking like a run-of-the-mill redneck with his beard and flannel shirt and dirty jeans; the woman petite and pretty, face framed by the mane of soft brown curls that spilled down her back, her cheap cotton sundress falling in folds over the rounded curve of her belly. Sunlight glinted off the gold rings they wore, the only items of any intrinsic worth that they possessed, sending bright sparkles spinning off into space...

A nice, bright, sunny day: a good day for a fresh start. Or so he hoped. If he was wrong, if there were no answers for them here, well, they'd spent the last of their money on the bus tickets out, and there was no place else to turn...

But he refused to think about that, focusing instead on the soft warmth of the hand curled around his, on the way her hair shimmered in the sunlight.

The address, when they reached it, looked very much like the rest of the businesses on the street: a small hardware store, with dusty windows and a fading sign hung above the door. For a long moment, they stared at the place -- for another long moment, they stared at each other -- and then he drew a deep, deep breath, and led her inside.

A small bell jingled as the door slammed shut behind them. The customer at the counter didn't notice, or care -- but the long-haired stockboy looked up as they entered, and almost dropped his broom in sheer surprise.

Carefully ignoring him, they walked together to the counter, where the store's owner was ringing up the sale. The customer took his merchandise and walked out, leaving the owner free to assess the couple who stood before him.

The burly man took his time surveying them, seemingly drinking in the sight of them. His eyes traveled over them in a slow once-over, widening slightly as they took in the evidence of her pregnancy; then returned to their faces.

"Can I help you?" he asked, and though his tone of voice was studiedly casual, there was far more than a shopkeeper's propriety or Southern hospitality in the inquiry.

Tom let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding. "Mister... Taylor?" he said tentatively, letting the new name glide over his tongue, getting used to the feel of it there. "My wife and I," with the faintest emphasis on the operative word, not missing the small smile that graced the other man's lips as he said it, "we're new in town, and we were wondering if you might have jobs for us."

After a long, agonizing interval that couldn't have been more than a second, the shopkeeper smiled; a wide grin that they'd never seen in the old days. "Oh, I think we can work something out," he said.

In the space of that moment, as the sun streamed through the dirty store windows to transform dust motes in the air into sparkles, Tom Davis knew that everything was going to be just fine.

Then 'Mister Taylor' came around the counter, clasped Tom's shoulder with one large hand, and Lisa's with the other. "Welcome home, kids."

"Thank you, sir," said Lisa, the excess formality a leftover remnant of the old days.

The long-haired stockboy came to greet them, and there ensued a round of handshakes and unselfconscious embraces, the heartfelt reunion of old friends who'd never officially met. Taylor grabbed a chair and directed Lisa to sit down, to rest her feet; snatched a handful of coins from the cash register and sent 'Joe the Stockboy' down to the gas station to get some Cokes and tell the others what had happened -- then fixed his gaze upon Tom.

"I still need that floor swept," he said, with a wry grin. "Might as well get started in that new job, huh?"

Tom grinned back at his former and future boss. "Yes, sir," he said.

The storm was over, and though the newfound sunshine held its own difficulties... it was going to be all right, now.

He bent to kiss his wife, then picked up the broom and began to sweep the floor.

Lyrics by Nelson, 1990

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