By Bear
beargirl@xemplary.com

RATING:  PG or a soft PG-13

SPOILERS:  "Tooms," "The Host," "Terma," "Bad Blood," FTF…just about
anything and everything leading up to Season 5 or 6 is fair game.

FEEDBACK:  Pretty please, with sugar and a cherry on top?  Oh, and if
you can pay me a million dollars, that would be nice too. <veg>
(Okay, it was worth a shot…)

ARCHIVE:  Anywhere ­ Gossamer, Mulder In Jeopardy, wherever.  All I
ask is that you let me know ­ I'd like to know where I can go visit my
baby. ;)

DISCLAIMER:  You know the drill ­ Ten-Thirteen, Twentieth Century Fox,
etc.  He's not mine, and neither is Scully.  But the dry cleaner's all
mine!!!  Bwahaha…

SUMMARY:  Oh, great -- *him* again, I think to myself.  Wonder what it
is *this* time?

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:  After abstaining from writing fic for quite some
time, this is my first attempt at getting "back in the groove," so to
speak.  This is actually one of *many* attempts at writing something,
so after some tiny steps at some bigger ideas, I decided to start with
a smaller idea, this one coming to me after watching "Tooms" and "The
Host" in particular.

Now since I know for a fact that there is at *least* one "Mulder
attacks the monster of laundry and loses"-fic out there <veg>, I
thought I'd take a chance that I wasn't the only one who would watch
Mulder's Armanis take a beating or two on the show and wonder what his
dry cleaner would think.  Now in all fairness, I have never worked
with dry cleaning, so my knowledge of the subject is slightly limited.

For the sake of the timeline, I was going by the airdate of "Tooms,"
and taking "The Host" as taking place sometime between June and July.

So here we are ­ not a lot, but a little something that might elicit a
nice little giggle or two.  Enjoy!
 

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The Dry Cleaner's Tale
By Bear
 

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The ringing of the bell immediately signaling the fact that I am no
longer alone, I look up from the articles of clothing I have been
tagging for pick-up, eager to greet my latest customer.

The instant I lay eyes on him, the eagerness quickly evaporates like a
ghost, as I feel my friendly smile freeze briefly before falling
altogether.

Oh, great -- *him* again, I think to myself.  Wonder what it is *this*
time?  Ghost droppings on the lapel?  A mustard stain sprayed by the
Wolfman?

I must say that this Fox Mulder, in addition to having one of the
strangest names known to man, seems to come up with the most
challenging orders known to man as well.  Not only is it difficult to
get his variety of stains out short of blasting his suits with
dynamite, but he seems to come up with the oddest excuses.  I mean,
okay, yes, he's supposed to be an FBI agent, and yes, Mr. Seinfeld,
I've run into my share of bloodstains from orders from FBI agents out
here in good old DC.

Of course, he looks so uncomfortable and embarrassed afterward that
sometimes I wonder if he's telling the truth after all.

Or is it just the fact that, for all of his goofiness, he's just so
darn cute?

Well, anyway, several years ago, he brought in this suit complete with
a white shirt.  That is, a white shirt in its *previous* life.  *This*
one looked to me like a finger/splatter painting gone wild, and
smelled like a three-year-old managed to puke on it.

After recovering briefly, I put on my brightest smile and leaped to
the most obvious conclusion in an attempt to be conversational.  "What
happened?"  I asked him with a lecherous wink.  "Just how wild was the
party? or can you even remember?"

He suddenly looked incredibly uncomfortable, seemingly trying to tuck
his head into his rather tall, noticeable bod (good luck, Pal!), and
mumbled, "Actually…<ahem>…mrmrmr…<cough>…mutant in an escalator."

"Excuse me?" I prodded, wondering if I heard him correctly.

"I was chasing a liver-sucking mutant in an escalator," he declared
softly and quickly, looking adorably miserable.  He blushed and
flashed a grin of embarrassment that seemed…well, kind of adorable, in
all honesty.

Well, *that's* one you don't hear everyday, I thought to myself as I
quickly focused on my task of preparing the garments.

Needless to say, he didn't exactly look terribly happy with the bill,
but paid it without a word.  Once the bill was paid and he was in the
process of taking his load home, I could have sworn I heard him
mutter, "Well, I'll be damned ­ she got it out after all!  Scully owes
me a dollar now…"

Okay, fine ­ I admit it.  That put a big shit-eating grin on my face
for the rest of the day.

Not the part about this Scully-chick ­ the part about getting it out.
I felt as though I'd accomplished the dry-cleaning equivalent of
climbing Mount Everest at that very moment.

****************************************

Two months later, he came trudging in looking as adorable as ever, but
decidedly skinnier with a rather punk-looking spiked hairdo.  Perhaps
it's my "empty-nest" syndrome, with my oldest son in college, but my
first instinct was to sit that boy down and feed him a nice big pot
roast.

The minute he plopped down his latest order, a nice whiff of the sewer
overtaking me and damn near curling my eyelashes, that instinct
quickly faded.

"Whew!" I declared, trying to make a nice, light conversation.  "Been
chasing suspects in the sewer, have you?  Well, I sure hope you
watched out for those crocodiles and sea monsters out there!"

"Uh…<cough>…mrmr…suspect," Mr. Gorgeously Embarrassed FBI muttered
into his hand.

"Pardon me?"

"Let's just say that was the suspect I was chasing," he repeated with
that gorgeously cute grin of embarrassment on his face.  He couldn't
seem to get out of there fast enough, away from my glare.

****************************************

Well, that's pretty much been par for the course over the years.  Of
course, there *was* a period not long after that where the suits not
only seemed to be in relatively good condition, but the strange
conversations seemed to all but completely evaporate.

And ironically, I almost wished that they *were* soiled beyond
recognition, if for no other reason than to get him to talk about
*something*, or to add a spark of life to his eyes.  All I could tell
was that he seemed to be missing something, but apart from "Hello" and
"Have a nice day, Ma'am" (which, for the record, I do *not* enjoy
being called, thank you), I couldn't seem to pry much out of him.

That went on for three months.  Not even the blood stains I spotted in
an order once seemed to muster much of a response, apart from a shrug
in response to my playful question of whether the stains were the
result of chasing vampires.

Thankfully, that passed soon enough.  It couldn't have been three
weeks or so later that he almost seemed to bounce into the shop,
humming some shop and declaring, "Debbie, that blouse is absolutely
*fabulous* today!" as he dropped off his latest order of
barbecue-stained shirts.

Hmmmmm…well, obviously our boy managed to find whatever it was that he
had lost.

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Otherwise, it's pretty much been that way all these years.  About two
or three years after that incident, he came in with a suit and trench
coat absolutely *dripping* in oil.  Before I could even get off any
cracks about going to Houston to drill, he simply turned his head,
avoiding eye contact, and with a blush I could see from even there,
hissed, "Don't ask."

I got a similar response a year later when he brought in the *same*
suit and trench covered in mud.  "Let's just say it involved chasing
down a trailer.  Ask any more, and I may have to kill you," he added
with a slight grin, but a look in the eyes told me not to say one more
word.

Hey, my lips were sealed.
 

So here we are back at the here and now.  He has flashed his trademark
sly grin, which almost instantly puts a feeling of dread in the pit of
my stomach as he hands over his contents.

I remove the covering and take a look.  Oh, good ­ mud again.
Followed by…

…lipstick?!?  On the *collar*?!?  *This* guy?!?

Taking a whiff at the pants…well, let's just say this isn't anything
I'm unfamiliar with.

I put down the suit and scan his face.  There is that classic blush,
but I'm also detecting a wide, evil smile.

"Don't tell me," I tell him.  "Let me guess.  Scully?"

He simply looks me in the eye and declares, "You said it, not me."

I go back to my work and can't help but smile.  I may be slightly
jealous of Scully, but at least she can help this guy get a
halfway-normal wash load, if nothing else!

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THE END
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Well?  How is it?  Please let me know at beargirl@xemplary.com.
Thanks! ;)