Title: Agunah
Author: prufrock's love
Summary: Mulder has an admirer
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Category: Short Story, MSR, Other POV
Spoilers: through Requiem
Archive: link to: 
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/agunah.html

Agunah
by prufrock's love 

I hate Georgia men.  They don't know Chinese from Lebanese 
from green peas and they all think they have to talk slowly 
and loudly so I can understand them.  As though, if I 
didn't speak English, yelling it at me would make any 
difference.

"You.  Here.  For.  Lecture?" Some redneck buffoon asks 
stiltedly, shouting Pepsi-breath into my face.

I lean back and nod 'yes', following him to a seat in the 
front of the auditorium.  He gestures to a row and waits, 
expecting me to bow, I guess.  I'm Israeli, you fool, an 
Orthodox Jew - we don't bow.  And, except that my knuckles 
don't get sore from dragging the ground all day, I'm as 
much white bread as you are.  Brought up on Pizza Hut and 
Paula Abdul since I was a teenager.

I shove my backpack under the seat and look around at the 
other students assembled, checking for familiar faces.  I 
see a few from my classes - there's the bottle redhead from 
last semester and the gay surfer wannabe from the library.  
I don't know their names; I just assign them labels and 
leave it at that.  They smile at me and I don't smile back.  
They think I'm shy.

Mindless chatter is snuffed and notebooks open as a tall, 
slim man with dark hair steps up to the podium.  I fish for 
my own legal pad and a pen, although I'm sure my notes will 
be nothing like anyone else's.

It shouldn't matter – when God ordains two people to be 
together, the physical shouldn't matter.  Seeing him in the
flesh for the first time, I realize what a fortunate young 
woman I am. 

*****

I updated my research on him over the weekend – explaining 
to my mother that I was so focused on my studies, I 
couldn't come home for a visit.  A privileged child of the 
Internet age, there aren't too many things I couldn't find 
out about Special Agent Fox William Mulder when our 
relationship started a year ago.  But I wanted to see what 
had happened to him for the last five months.

There's that awful movie, of course; you have to special 
order it from someplace in California because Blockbuster 
doesn't even carry it.  I taped the episode of COPS and 
managed to get a few news clips of him doing updates on 
cases.  There have been about a dozen articles that I 
saved, but my prized possessions are the e-mails.  Agent 
Mulder has an AOL account just like everyone else on the 
planet - and I have an alternate screen name and a good 
imagination.  Some things are true: I am a graduate 
student, but I'm studying religion, not forensic 
psychology.  I would like to join the FBI as a profiler, 
although I left out that those idiots already flunked me 
after my psych evaluation - judgmental bitch didn't think I 
saw the right thing in her inkblots.  I probably do not, 
however, resemble Angelina Jolie, but everyone should get 
to be a blonde on the Internet.  Once we met, I knew it 
wouldn't matter.  

I didn't worry about him until he didn't respond for 
several weeks - usually he answered my questions about 
profiling and whatever other banal crap I came up with very 
quickly.  His e-mail started bouncing back, so I thought he 
might be on a case and not able to check it.  Maybe his 
scheming partner won't let him use her laptop; that's what 
he says he does when they travel.  I watched CNN all the 
time, but I didn't see him doing any briefings or hear 
about him being assigned to any cases.  One day in May, 
he seemed to just be gone.  I didn't question him; by then, 
I knew he was going to be my husband and it isn't a wife's 
place to question.

Then, out of the blue, I see in the paper that he's coming 
to Georgia State in October to speak on profiling, filling 
in for Walter Skinner.  Furious that he hadn't told me, I 
e-mailed him, asking if he was angry with me, and the next 
morning, there was a knock on my door.  FBI.  Not Mulder
 - these were Atlanta agents requesting I leave him alone 
or they would cause trouble.  Someone must have found out 
we were to be married secretly; we had to be more discreet.  
The FBI must be monitoring his private e-mail; they have 
that program that can do that now.  Probably his partner – 
that Scully woman.  She and Walter Skinner must keep 
pretty close tabs on him; they're lovers, you know.  

He seems slimmer than the way he looked on television, but 
he's every bit as brilliant, as commanding.  He scans the 
crowd of students, and I feel his eyes searching for me.  
I'm so nervous - I didn't know what to wear, what to say 
to him; what does one say to a husband one has never met?  
When he starts taking questions, I stand, glad my dark skin
keeps my blush from showing because my face is on fire.  I 
stutter out a question about serial killers only killing 
within their ethnic group, and then sit down, feeling like 
a complete idiot.

Mulder smiles, says "good question" and proceeds to answer 
in great detail, speaking directly to me.  Oh God, oh God, 
oh God - please do not let me pass out right in the middle 
of the auditorium.  I can feel the bond between us; he 
understands what it's like.  He knows me.  God has ordained 
this. 

An all-American looking Georgia peach with a Wonderbra 
interrupts us wanting to know about female serial killers.  
Bitch!  She's in my Philosophy class; her car door locks 
are going to mysteriously grow broken toothpicks during 
class on Tuesday.  Mulder's too nice to ignore her though; 
he's so polite.

Mulder answers question after question until I can see he's 
getting tired.  I get up, feeling his eyes following me, 
and find the Dean.  I don't think it's overstepping my 
bounds to whisper to him that Agent Mulder looks like he 
might be ill, and I hope Mulder won't be angry.  Dean White 
peers at me worriedly over his glasses for a long minute, 
and then at Mulder, then walks up the aisle to the podium, 
signaling the lecture is over.  The applause is thunderous 
and I move quickly, very proud and wanting to talk to 
him, but the Dean gets Mulder out of the auditorium before 
any of the students can approach him.

As they walk out, the students still clapping, the Dean 
whispers something to Mulder.  Mulder looks back at me and 
shakes his head 'no'.   Smart man.  We can't let anyone 
find out about us.  I play my role, dropping my eyes shyly, 
and when I look up again, he's gone.

*****

I wait; just like the stakeouts Mulder must do.  I found a 
quiet place in the corner of the lobby and waited until the 
crowd thinned and Mulder came out.  

He didn't notice me, but I followed him through the busy 
streets of Atlanta to make sure he was safe.  Outside the 
Underground, he pauses, leaning against the green metal 
railing and pulling out his cell phone.  

"It's me," he says; then almost immediately, "Fine.  It 
went okay.  The crowd didn't make me as nervous as I 
thought it would and the Dean finally rescued me.  Skinner 
owes me big, though.  How's Lump?"

He rubs his hair, smiling as he listens.  "Yeah - I'm sure 
it's Lump that wants the pasta.  There's a place I see 
across the street that looks good.  You want to meet me 
here in a little bit?"

Mulder looks around and I dodge quickly, becoming invisible 
the same way my mother can after thirty years of marriage 
when my father has been drinking.  "Just tell the cab 
driver to bring you to the Underground."

He listens, then laughs, "No, it's not a rave.  It's a 
bunch of underground shops.  The restaurant is right across 
from the main entrance.  I'm going to look around a little 
- several of the kids from the Atlanta  child murders 
disappeared from here, so I thought I'd mill a bit and 
settle down."

He leans further back on the railing, rotating his neck so 
it cracks and rolling his shoulders.  Mulder shed his suit 
coat as soon as he left the auditorium, but now his top 
button is sacrificed and the blue tie is loosened.

"Well, they never did find all the killers.  We both know 
Wayne Williams was a scapegoat.  It's still technically an 
X-file.  We'll talk about it over dinner and turn in your 
pasta as a work expense."

The tie whispers as it leaves his collar and is stuffed 
unceremoniously into his attaché case.  

"No, don't walk - take a cab.  It's still too warm for you 
to be walking that far."

I see his shoulders hunch slightly - he must be in trouble.

"I just worry.  Humor me, okay?  I'll make it up to you."

The shoulders relax and he shifts his hips slightly.

"Well, I can't say over an unsecured phone line."  

There's a pause, and I swear he's blushing.  

"I guess it's true what they say about those hormones.  Um, 
I think I have to go now.  I'm in a public place."

The standard 'byes' follow, then the phone slips back into 
his slacks pocket.   

I wonder who he was talking to - probably some cheap tramp.  
I'm not angry; I understand that men have needs.  My mother 
drilled that into my head from age twelve on: sex doesn't 
equal love.  Women want love, men want sex.  I don't think 
that's true of Mulder, though.  He may be getting sex from 
someone else, but he loves me.  If he asked me, I would do 
whatever he wanted.  I care that much about him.  Then we 
could have it all - love and sex - and he wouldn't need 
anyone else.

There's a rush of cool, damp air as we enter the 
Underground.  He passes Hooters, smirking, and walks through
the maze of shops.  I follow at a discreet distance, 
wondering when and where he wants me to approach him.  
Mulder's not so much shopping as he is roaming - he pauses 
outside the Victoria's Secret store, but then moves on.  He 
must have the same thing on his mind that I do, but I can 
understand that he's shy.  

I busy myself buying beignets, then hurry to catch up as he 
rounds a corner.  He's examining, of all things, a t-shirt 
with 'warning, educated black woman' printed on it.  Mulder 
holds it up, talking to the sales clerk about sizes.  He 
finally selects a small, checking to see how much the waist 
will stretch.

My face is hot again.  I'm not Black.  My complexion is 
dark, but Middle Eastern and Black are two very different 
things and any idiot knows that.  That shirt could only fit 
a small woman and it's not intended for me – I could never 
wear something so immodest.  Or if it is for me, it's some 
sort of racial slur.  I expected more from him.

I approach him to say that, and then stop in the middle of 
the concourse, realizing again that it's not a wife's place 
to question her husband.  He sees me making a fool of 
myself in public and his face hardens.  He passes me 
silently, going into a record store as I stand 
shamefaced, holding the bag of doughnuts and coffee that 
I'd hoped we could share.     

I wait, sitting at a table eating the hot beignets myself 
and trying not to get powdered sugar all over me until he 
emerges, now carrying two plastic bags - the t-shirt and a 
few CDs - in addition to his attaché case and suit coat.  
Outside, the sun is setting and the shadows growing, so I 
follow closer, almost running into him when he stops 
suddenly to sit down on a bench.  

"You were in the audience," he says to me, laying his arm 
along the back of the bench.  A wedding band on his left 
hand clinks against the metal heavily as though he's not 
accustom to wearing it yet.  I'm glad he wears a ring as 
well.  He must feel it too.

My throat tightens, but I manage a squeaky "Yes."

"That was a good question.  It's almost a rule that serial 
killers kill within their own ethnic group."
 
My God he is beautiful.  Those eyes smolder up at me as he 
lounges like a big cat.  I nod 'yes'.

"Are you a student at GSU?"

Again, I can only nod.  My breathing is shallow, rapid and 
my heart is about to explode.

I stand beside the bench, trying to keep enough space 
between us to appear decent.  Mulder is quiet for a few 
moments, and then stands to put his suit coat back on.

"This restaurant," he asks, pointing across the street as a 
woman emerges from a yellow cab, "Do you know if they keep 
kosher?"

I've never seen anything about him that said he was a 
practicing Jew.  Jewish, yes; practicing, no, but that can 
always be rectified.  "No," I manage, trying to 
enunciate as clearly as possible.  "I haven't found any 
place here that does."

He shrugs, shifting his gaze to the red haired woman now 
watching him from across the street.  "I'm not going to 
worry about it, then.  Is the pasta good?  My partner is 
having carb cravings."

I stand and notice his eyes taking me in – my long skirt, 
my scarf covering my hair like a proper Jewish wife.  

"The best."   

I want to kiss him, to see if those lips are as soft as 
they look, but he steps back.  Not in public; I understand.  
"You're the woman sending me the e-mails, aren't you?"

"Yes."  I hope he likes what he sees.  Most American men do 
- they think I'm exotic with my long haair and dark eyes.  
Then they label me a frigid Jewish princess and move on, 
but I know he won't do that.

"I don't want you to interrupt our dinner.  This is my 
work."

"Of course.  I'll just wait."

I see the silent understanding in his eyes before he turns, 
crossing the street and greeting his partner.  I've seen 
pictures of her, but I thought she was with the Assistant 
Director.  Sitting down on our bench, I evaluate her 
critically, realizing she's pregnant.  His hand is on her 
back, guiding her through the door and he's the picture of 
a solicitous escort. 

She must have gotten pregnant on purpose to try to trap him 
into marrying her, but it won't work.  He'll have to leave 
her, but I won't mind if he brings the baby - if it's even 
his child.  I wouldn't put it past her to be pregnant by 
Walter Skinner and pass the child off as Mulder's.  The 
idea of being a stepmother makes me a little nervous, but I 
can do it if the child is his and that's what he wants.

I wait, and Mulder quickly steps back outside, putting 
his cell phone to his ear.  He glances at me still sitting 
in the shadows as he speaks, then goes back inside to wait 
for a table.  Through the glass door, I see his partner 
reach back and take his hand.  He looks down, saying 
something to her, and she shakes her head "no", resting a 
hand on her belly.  Mulder kisses her forehead, then the 
waiter comes to seat them.

I promised I would wait and that I wouldn't disturb them, 
but I didn't promise I'd wait outside.  After about fifteen 
minutes, I go in, requesting the next booth and sitting 
down so I can see Dana Scully, but so Mulder has his back 
to me and didn't see me come in.  

I spread my napkin over my lap as he orders, not liking 
what I'm hearing.  Mulder certainly isn't worried about 
keeping kosher; that will change, too.  A good wife keeps a 
kosher home, according to my mother.  Of course, according 
to my mother, a good wife ignores her husband doing 
anything to the children that she doesn't want to see.

I whisper my order to the waiter, who writes it down with a 
crayon on the butcher paper they use as a tablecloth and 
then leaves me to observe. 

"Did you solve the Atlanta child murders in fifteen minutes?"
the woman asks, eyeing me suspiciously as I stare past her 
at the wall.  "Or did you remember you're still supposed to 
be taking it easy?"

"I'm taking it easy; you know I'd never ignore my doctor's 
orders.  I got you something, Doc," he says, leaning toward 
her. 

I hear plastic rustling as the woman says, "Why am I not 
sure I want to see what it is in public?"

"I'm not the one with the libido in overdrive."

"You're also not the one complaining," she retorts and my 
stomach sinks.  We are going to have to do something about 
her, Mulder.

I watch as she holds the t-shirt up to her chest, laughing.  
"I have red hair and freckles.  Where in the world am I 
supposed to wear this?"

"How about to bed?"  His voice is a fist penetrating into 
warm honey.  "We can check out all the places you have 
freckles."

I swallow most of my water, almost choking.  She must be 
blackmailing him; he has to do this, but that doesn't make 
it any easier to watch.  

I hear footsteps behind me and there's a strong hand on my 
shoulder.  "Ma'am, please come with us.  We'd like to ask 
you some questions."

I go with the two FBI agents without any fuss.  Mulder has 
turned around to see what's happening, and I see him frown, 
putting on a show for his partner.  I'm guessing they're 
taking me to a safe house so he can come to me later.  

"Any idea what that was about?" Dana Scully asks as I walk 
away with the two men.

"None at all," he responds.  "Try your pasta - I hear this 
place has the best."

*****

Agunah – under Hebrew law, "a chained wife."  Even in cases 
of abuse or abandonment, a marriage cannot end until the 
husband consents; if he does not agree to a divorce, the wife 
becomes an agunah.  The woman is not considered married, but 
she is not free to remarry, making her an outsider in the 
Orthodox community.  Although the Church frowns on any man
who does this, there are still very few true repercussions
for him aside from social embarrassment.    

End: Agunah