Title: Fragrant 1/1 (more Arcadia fun)
Author: Jori 
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Arcadia, Never Again
Category: V
Keyword: UST
Archive: Yes
E-Mail: damienma@bellsouth.net
Disclaimer: No, they aren't mine. I just get to own the little action
figures. They belong to 1013, CC and FOX.
Summary: Scully ponders something that Mulder left behind on the bed
mid-Arcadia
Author's notes: This one is purely for fun: meaning it gave me something
to do while my son watched Blue's Clue's five times in a row. I'm sure
this theme has been done a million times, too. But haven't they all?
Enjoy!

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It should come as no surprise to me that Mulder is a slob. I have spent
hours in that pit he calls 'his' office trying to find an item I could
have sworn I just put down some where it wouldn't get lost. At times I
think the 'Great Office Fire of '98' did the place some good. It did
clear some of the junk out. Kind of a slash and burn effect, taking care
of years of undergrowth in one flash.

Still, since 'living' with Mulder, I find myself surprised all the time
at his slovenly ways. Keeping one's work space in a shambles is one
thing, but doesn't he at least like a clean place to come home to? His
apartment never looks that untidy, but then again, I'm rarely out of the
living room area. And I don't remember ever having enough courage to use
his bathroom. I learned the hard way in college about using a single
man's toilet. Yuck.

I wash my face mask off before it dries, since it served its purpose
nicely. I pick up my tube of toothpaste and squeeze it until it is right
again, with all the paste towards the cap end and the other end
completely flat. Just perfect. I don't know why Mulder has to use this
bathroom anyway. This house has two and a half baths, yet he has to use
mine -- has to leave *my* toilet seat up.

I wipe up the stray water off the counter around the sink, and hang up
my hand towel, straightening out the bath towels as I go. I switch off
the bathroom light, more than ready to jump in bed and fall right to
sleep.

He. . . left. . .  his. . . sweatshirt. . . on. . . my. . . bed.

The same sweatshirt that went whizzing by my head just a few minutes
ago, the one I threw back at him, hoping he'd take it with him. Hang it
up. Fold it. Put it with his laundry, whatever. Just as long as he
didn't leave it in a heap here.

I sit on the bed and pick it up, folding it up until it makes a perfect
rectangle of gray material. Well, I was the daughter of a Navy officer.
I know how to fold things so they are nice and tidy. I could tie it into
a knot, too, if I had to.

Then I do something I've never done in my life. That's not exactly true.
I do something I've not done in my adult life. Not since Marcus gave me
one of his T-shirts back when we were both going away to college. It was
the one he got for free for returning his prom tux back on time and not
stealing the Kelly green cummerbund and bow tie, and it was so soft and
smelled of him. . .

Anyway, I take Mulder's neatly folded sweatshirt and hold it up to my
nose, drinking in his scent. I've been close to Mulder enough times to
know he smells nice. The collar of the shirt is slightly damp and he
must have jogged over to get the necklace out of the storm drain, and
jogged back. It just makes it smell all the more like him. I've always
been sensitive to smell, which is sometimes too bad considering my
chosen profession. It just makes me appreciate the pleasant smelling
things in life all the more.

I breath in the scent of detergent. Maybe Cheer? Perhaps Tide? And what
could possibly be Downy fabric softener. No, I'm sure that is Downy.
Mulder always has nice clothes. Even for this assignment, he had to go
out and buy Ralph Lauren and Izod. His clothes are usually the one thing
he takes care of. And I must admit I like the semi-casual dress. I
usually only see him in a shirt and tie or that old, heather gray
T-shirt. It adds something new to the . . . relationship.

The shirt also carries with it the scent of soap. Irish Spring. That I
know for sure, because the green and white bar is sitting next to my
glycerin soap in the shower stall. Using the same tube of toothpaste I
can live with. I just didn't think we were ready to share the same bar
of soap. It carries with it a certain degree of intimacy I'm not ready
for. The thought of the soap that he ran over his body also running over
my body just is an image I'm not prepared for. Besides, I've shared soap
with a man before. They sometimes leave *surprises* behind.

But I regress. Back to how Mulder smells. I take in another deep breath
through my nose. The cologne is faint, and not overly masculine. I look
up at the bottle he left on top of the dresser. Gray Flannel. Somehow
that seems perfect for him. I don't know why. The only thing I could
imagine him in that would be more perfect would be something called
black leather . . .

Jeesh, Dana. Scully. Laura. Whoever you are. Where did that thought come
from? You are not supposed to be having lusty thoughts about Mulder. You
are still mad at him for that whole Diana thing. And his behavior on
this assignment has been child-like to say the least. Absolutely beyond
reproach. Absolutely. And he smells good. So good.

It's been awhile. I admit it. It has been awhile since I've had the
opportunity to enjoy the scent of a man. Not since waking up in Ed
Jerse's bed, wrapped in his shirt and his fragrance. He smelled so
different than Mulder. He smelled of Surf detergent. Of Jovan Musk for
Men. Of a soap I did not recognize. He smelled. . . inexpensive. Mulder
has never smelled cheap. Of course, everything with Mulder comes at a
price. Even the way he smells.

I put my head down on my pillow, still holding the sweatshirt close. I'm
not going to use it to imagine he's here. If I wanted him here, all I
would have to do it walk down the stairs and beckon him to follow me
back up here. It would be that easy. I know it would be. But I don't
want that. Not yet. Not now. Maybe someday.

This is all I want right now. Really. We work so well together. And I'm
happy. Relatively happy. And he smells good. Damn.

I close my eyes and imagine someday when I will be able to pull him
close, to breath in Mulder's scent off of his body, not just a piece of
outerwear. Not only will I be able to smell him, but I will be able to
touch him, to hold him. Not only will I be able to enjoy his scent, but
I will be able to taste him, all of him. . .

"Scully?" I hear Mulder say, and I bolt straight up to sitting in bed,
surprised to be caught doing what I was doing. The sweatshirt ends up on
my lap, still folded in a tight rectangular package.

"Yes?" I ask, as nonchalantly as I possibly can.

"It is really cold downstairs," he says, his arms wrapped crossed in
front of him for effect. What is he asking for? To climb under the
covers with me? For me to give him the blankets off of my bed? What?

"And?" I ask, my voice trembling just a little.

"Well, if you're *done* with it, can I have my sweatshirt back?" he asks
with a sly grin. I've been caught. The best I can hope for is he'll just
let this go.

"Certainly," I tell him, as the sweatshirt hits him squarely in the
face.

"You know, if you want to smell me, all you have to do is ask, Laura.
That's the best part of marriage. You can have me at anytime," Mulder
says, his eyebrows waggling again. I should have known he wouldn't just
walk off without comment.

"Mulder, switch off the lights on your way out," I tell him, as I tuck
myself under the covers.

"And they said it would never last," he mumbles on his way out the door.

Someday, Mulder. Someday.

THE END

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