TITLE:  The Dry Cleaners Tale

AUTHOR:  Bear

EMAIL:  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.
( Okay, it was worth a shot . . . )

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

DISCLAIMER:  You know the drill -- 
Twentieth Century Fox et al.  Mulder is not mine and
neither is Scully.  But Debbie the dry cleaner is all mine!
Bwahaha!

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



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, I thought
I would take a chance that I was not the only one
who would watch those 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!


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


The Dry Cleaners Tale
By Bear


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

As the ringing of the bell immediately alerts me to
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 *is* supposed to be an FBI agent, and yes,
Mr. Seinfeld, I *have* 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 is telling
the truth after all.

Or is it just the fact that, for all of his
goofiness, he is 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 . . .
kind of adorable, in all honesty.

*That* is one you do not hear
everyday, I thought to myself as
I quickly focused on my task of
preparing the garments.

Needless to say, he did *not* 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 ''Damn -- 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 had 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 my ''empty nest'' syndrome
is rearing its head, what 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
was muttering into his hand.

''Pardon me?''

''That was the very suspect
I was chasing. In the New Jersey sewer.'' 

There was that gorgeously cute grin
of embarrassment on his face.  He
could *not* seem to get out of there fast
enough, away from my glare.

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

That has 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 Maam'' -- which, for
the record, I do *not* enjoy being
called, thank you -- I was unable
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.
Three weeks or so later he almost seemed to
bounce into the shop, humming
some shop and declaring my bright
red floral blouse to be fabulous
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. 

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

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.
So I left well enough alone.

I got a similar response a year later
when he brought in the *same* suit
and trench covered in mud.  
''It involved chasing down a trailer.
Ask any more, and I may have to kill you.''  

He grinned ever so slightly, 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
three guesses and the first two don't
count.

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

''Let me guess.  Scully?''

He simply looks me in the eye.
''You said it.  Not me.''

I go back to my work and cannot 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! 

****************************************
THE END 
****************************************


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