Title: Know My Scent
Author: MissAnnThropic
E-Mail: miss_annthropic@yahoo.com
Summary: A late-night confession about the importance of smell.
Disclaimer: I own nasing! Really, I don't. All you see here (that you recognize, anyway) is the creation of someone else. I take no credit.



I don't know why I said it... even now in hindsight... not even retrospection can shed any real light on the unfurling events of that night. Well, there is one, but not one I'm particularly interested in entertaining, simply because it would be breaking so many unspoken rules Mulder and I seem to have that it might irrevocably damage our friendship. The idea that maybe, in a very dark and deeply buried part of myself, I WANTED to tell him that. Well, maybe not THAT specifically, but certainly the larger meaning that it eluded to. Maybe, after years of brushing with death so often by his side, I thought he needed to know the life in me, even if it were only in a cloaked and shrouded cryptic answer to a stupid question.

It WAS a stupid question, really. Not as dumb as that 'if you had a million dollars' question, but it was certainly not the same Oxford quality musings I'd come to expect from him. Hell, I'll admit this one; that I had come to ENJOY from him. It is fun to listen to him think aloud... his mind works in a most intriguing and fascinating way, it's incredible to follow his train of thought when he'll let me. That and the fact that he has such a way with words. Sometimes I think he could give a blind man sight just by using words to describe the world. He didn't used to think aloud... not when I first met him. He was so much an introverted person... so taciturn; getting him to talk about what he was thinking was often like pulling teeth. But slowly, he started to trust me and feed me snippets here and there. And then somewhere along the line I think he caught on to my dirty little secret... that I just liked to hear the sound of his voice. If he felt indignant about my shallow indulgence he made no indication of it, and from then on he would talk to me... just about anything... just for the sake of talking to me.

That night in question, however, was different. We'd been rather quiet, of course, what could you expect from us at 2:15 in the morning? No one clean of drugs is chatty or particularly deep and philosophical at 2 in the morning.

And no one's mind is particularly sharp at such late hours, either, and that is what I think I'm going to end up ultimately blaming that bizarre unfolding of events that night on. We were tired, not thinking exactly straight, and had been sitting in that cramped car for the fifth hour in a six-hour stake-out shift.

I don't know why they put us on stake-outs, I really don't. I figure it's the other departments in the bureau's way of saying they'd done their 'Spooky time'. They'd dutifully utilized the otherwise 'quaky' agents in legitimate investigations without having to risk me or Mulder actually contributing to the case in our 'Spooky' manner. The bastards probably get some noble fulfillment out of it... like the nice kid in school saying hello to the mentally challenged kids. Damn show stuff... that's all it is; they want to look good by taking pity on us. Fuck them... like Mulder or I need them anyway.

Although, unless its a thick and dreary night like that one was, I really kind of like stake-outs. Now, before you jump to conclusions, I'm not a freak. I don't ENJOY the being stuck in the same spot for six hours, the god-aweful crack of dawn shit that is all you can find on the radio, or the roll of your stomach as the only food you'd been able to find (the nearest greasy pseudo-Chinese joint) seems to curdle in your stomach. I DON'T like that, but most of the rest of it I do.

I like the peace of the car... how it confines your world to a small, manageable space that is so much less complicated that your actual daily life. I also think that after spending so much time in the car while a kid during those long moves we made so frequently, extended time in the car is something nostalgic for me. And, as you might guess and I'm not ashamed to admit, I like the hours alone with Mulder. We're not running after monsters, we're not bickering... we're just there together... sitting still for one of a few rare times. And, of course, the bonus that sometimes he'll talk for long stretches to me. I can get lost in the deep rumble of his voice, though, and I often fall asleep. And damn him, but I think he KNOWS his voice lulls me to sleep. I've noticed that those long, meaningless soliloquies usually follow his trying to ineffectively coax me into getting a little sleep. I can't be mad at him though, because waking up to the sound of his even breathing or the faint brush of his knuckles against my cheek is a rewarding aspects of stake-outs unto themselves.

Anyway, I've digressed from the incident I was intending to address. Now, keep in mind that we had been up for nearly 20 hours, and we were both a little distracted by our feeble attempts to take this stupid assignment seriously.

We'd been sitting quietly, lost in one of those long, peaceful silences, when Mulder had unexpectedly spoken gently, "Can I ask you a question, Scully?"

Now, had I known the weird ass question he was going to ask I may have denied permission, and if I'd known my answer I would certainly have declined to relent. As it was, I just nodded and urged, "Sure, Mulder."

Mulder was quiet a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. That's something else funny I've noticed about him. When he's with other people in normal circumstances (coworkers, superiors, even strangers), he has this knack for putting his foot in his mouth... speaking before thinking and causing offense to a great many people whose paths he crosses. With me, however, he becomes contemplative and pensive before speaking. He considers his words carefully before he addresses me, typically. I've still not figured this out, but he does it a lot, and he was doing it then. As practiced, I sat quietly to wait for the words to formulate satisfactorily in his head.

Mulder had taken a breath, then asked, "If something happened to me..." I remembered feeling a little colder, maybe even a sense of dread at that first comment... I didn't like where this was going and I didn't really want to be thinking about if something happened to Mulder, but as always I let him finish. "If for some reason I disappeared, and was later returned and you were allowed one means by which to verify that it was actually me, what method would it be?"

Remember, now, it was late and my brain wasn't quite working on all eight cylinders. I should have known that right off when I actually seriously considered the question rather than laughing it off as ludicrous as I might have done under normal circumstances.

You see, with Mulder and I, we have this sort of dialect... never speaking complete truths... alluding to them in language and indicating them in actions, but we don't talk about real feelings. Not often, anyway. I'm not sure why, but I have a few theories. I'm just that kind of person who has trouble admitting any kind of dependency or weakness... I feel like the moment I confess I've opened myself up to being hurt (and Mulder is a weakness... I'd no doubt suspend good judgment if something did happen to him). Mulder... I think it scares him only because real feelings were always lies in his family. His parents' laughable relationship had trivialized emotional attachments between two people in Mulder's eyes... I think he probably fears admitting true feelings between us for fear that it would trivialize them.

For most of these reasons I know what my largest problem was that night. I had not thought to filter my answer, failed to critique it before it left my lips. It bypassed inspection, so to say. I'd answered honestly... the thing that really came to mind after serious consideration to his question.

And I'd said it.

I'd looked at Mulder, finding him still waiting in mild curiosity for an answer, then looked out the windshield as I answered, "Your smell."

The silence that followed was more charged... alive, and it had caused me to look over at Mulder. He was looking back at me, mouth not agape, but a definite surprise he'd not even been prepared for dominating his poorly lit features.

"What?" I'd asked. At the time, I really didn't see why the answer would have debased him so. It was just the truth... and it was then that the slightest inkling of apprehension at what I'd confessed began to seep into me.

Mulder, to his credit, came out of his stunned stare rather quickly. Shaking it off with a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders, he'd explained, "I just didn't expect that answer from you. I was sure you'd say genetic testing... you know, DNA typing or something."

Actually, it had crossed my mind, but for some reason I had allowed myself that night to speak the one I strangely knew I would have the most confidence in.

Mulder looked at me after a long pause, curiosity obviously nagging at him. He didn't really need to ask, but I wasn't feeling up to just volunteering the information... there was still the chance he'd let it go, write it off as yet another enigma to add to the unexplainable aspects of his partner.

But he'd considered me a moment, then asked, "Why my smell?"

I don't know WHAT possessed me to answer that. I should have just shrugged... SHOULD have admitted that I wasn't even sure myself... hell, even correcting myself and falling back on my science would have been the best move. But they didn't even occur to me, at least not long enough for me to actually consider using them.

I'd sighed, took time to consider MY words before speaking, then foolishly and blatantly confessed, "I thought of that, actually... DNA testing, and that would satisfy the scientific skeptic in me, but I think even you would admit that we've seen enough during our work to make such impersonal means of identification shaky. I think that there's part of me not ruled by science that would know... that knows your smell so distinctly that I... I don't question it. I'm not sure how to explain it, but I know that if you were returned after being gone... I know that the moment I could smell you, I would know without doubt YOU were home."

I'd spoken my mind, my ACTUAL mind, and I haven't recovered since! I laid my heart on my sleeve to him... I RARELY do that... that's more his department (and for the record, I don't know how he does that... never had I been more terrified).

Mulder had stared at me a long time. I remember thinking it strange that he did not seem dubious of my answer... that it didn't seem to befuddle him in the least. If the roles were reversed, I think I would have ordered him to get some sleep after a comment like that... but Mulder didn't. I think he may have even given a small, imperceptible nod... or maybe I imagined that. Neither of us said anything more on the subject after that.

But the reason this still bothers me so much, I know... why the events of that night plague me still is because of what I know in my heart and mind. What I told Mulder that night was the pure and unadulterated truth. I could be rendered incapable of lying and that answer would have been no different... not a single word of it.

And I'm not sure what scares me more about that. The fact that I told him such a personal, secret truth or that his scent could be so significant to me. But it's true... everyone has their own smell, and Mulder's scent is unique and distinct. Not only distinct, but one I know by heart. Sometimes, I swear to god, I can walk into a room full of agents and not be able to see him, but catch some imperceptible whiff of his own personal aroma and I KNOW he's there. The finality with which I trust this sense is a little disturbing, because there is not a single doubt in my mind it's Mulder when I catch his scent.

What it boils down to, anatomically, is an almost animalistic, simple fact of biology. As a human animal, I trust my senses. I've learned over the course of our work on the X Files that my eyes and ears can deceive me, but scent has never lied to me. I've never caught scent of my partner to find it was a hoax. When I smell him, it is HIM without deviation.

And I trust this more than science. A DNA test would be great for verification, but I wouldn't know in my heart it was Mulder until I breathed in near him and was saturated with that smell I could pick out from a crowd of a thousand men.

Thinking back on that night when I'd literally spilled my heart to Mulder, offering him a truth he'd never expected from his conservative little partner, I realize that something else is bothering me when I think back to that conversation.

Mulder had not looked at me oddly when I confessed that to him, and as I mentioned before, I thought I may have even seen a faint nod. It was a wild, preposterous, and VERY open to criticism theory, but Mulder had spoken not a word.

I wonder... was his silence rendered because of surprise at my answer or because it would have been his as well? I know that it sounds incredibly obscure, but fact remains it is a sense ingrained in us by the facts of our biology that dates back to the time before man's ancestors even THOUGHT about coming out of the woods. It is there and undeniable.

And, when I think about it, something like that would be so much more typical of Mulder. Fox Mulder, bless his sometimes insufferable heart, is a man that reacts on feelings... runs on instincts and senses. It would not be a stretch to entertain the notion that he might hold sense of smell in a high regard.

And then, after all this thought concerning the subject, I find myself WISHING for something.

I may not know to what extent this same concept holds up in Mulder's little world, but I know how strongly it does in mine. I know how much faith I place in the recognition of Mulder's smell, and I know how undeniable that scent is to me. I know how absolute it is to me... how familiar and mine alone (how many other people can claim to be able to distinguish Mulder's scent so exclusively as I KNOW I could?).

If I allow myself to believe that Mulder would let his heart once more lead his head, then I guess I could ask only one real thing from my partner. That he know my scent.

It is the ultimate answer... the strongest identification characteristic I know of by which to ensure it is Mulder standing beside me. I can only hope he knows my own just as well, and that to him it is just as absolute. If it is, I honestly feel in that same deeper certainly that we will never be lost... that we can forever find each other, for we know the mark of each other that no lab can recreate.

His scent is all I need of him, and let it be all he needs from me... and let that stand as truth undeniable. Know my scent as I know yours, Mulder, and we'll always be able to find home.



END