AN: This fic is "Scents And Sensibility", thankfully recently renamed from the old title that kept bugging me all this time.

Content warning: there's a line that could be interpreted as referencing self-harm, which I doubt I intended but I'm giving a heads-up anyway in case anyone's sensitive to that.

Your nemesis changed his shampoo. Faint as it is, it's hard not to notice the scent of coconut in the back of your throat when you're this close (holding his arm behind his back, foot planted in the centre of his shoulders, making sure there's no way for him to escape), so different from the strawberry you've come to expect.

Making a note to check what sales the supermarket had last week, you let out a low chirr. It's part of your job. Can't have your nemesis causing trouble with his purchases, let alone anything else.

In the meantime, you have a scheme to thwart.

Breath mints.

He must be going on another date with some lady he found on the internet again. Not that she'll stick around. They never do. Something about his personality, probably, although you've never had an issue with it.

Sure, he's fucked up, insecure, needy, and emotional, but aren't all evil scientists? This is nothing new.

He's managed to tone it down from when you first met him, at least. Evil science has been good for him. It's something to be grateful for, that he's found some stability in his life, something (someone) to rely on, even if it is just his nemesis.

He's wearing cologne again. Strong cologne, strong enough that you have to hold yourself back from gagging whenever you take in a lungful of it, heavy and cloying on your tongue. It's disgusting what humans seem to think is attractive.

"Perry the Platypus? Are you alright?"

Breathing as shallowly as you can, you nod, eyes watering. You can still thwart him through this, you've done it before. Close your eyes, close your nose, raise your fists, and listen.

"Is it my cologne?" he asks, audibly twisting around. Probably wringing his hands together too. "I had no idea it was so strong, I don't notice it any more. You should have said something. Why do I bother with it anyway, it's not like it's making me any more manly, there's no point! Hold on, I have a fan somewhere- is that better?"

Much.

Now that he's stopped using cologne, you can catch the subtler scents that linger about him. His bodywash, of course. And, when you get right up close and personal, pork. Whatever backstory he'd glossed over so long ago, right before he'd introduced you to Balloony, the effects still remain.

It's not something you've ever received a proper explanation for, and part of you doubts you ever will. It's his story to tell, when (if) he chooses to.

Until then, you'll keep this to yourself. He doesn't need anything more to be insecure about.

Some days, he smells more of soot than anything, dry and sharp in your lungs. Usually after you've thwarted him, when his inator's blown up in his face as usual.

It's a scent you've come to associate with his bright grin as you face off against him, Good versus Evil, man to platypus. He enjoys the thwarting, you think. Feeling like he means something. Which he does, as your nemesis, your lifelong enemy. Fighting him is the greatest feeling you could ever have.

And, at the end, when you've slammed your paw on the self-destruct button and the room fills with soot, you linger for just a second to savour the scent of victory.

His lab coats take on every scent of his after a while, even through the wash. Sweat and soot and the lingering scent of the cologne he used to wear (not so bad in small doses). So, when you don't even get that much, you know he's bought new ones.

How many does he have now? Enough that he's unlikely to miss one. Or, well, a few by now.

You've been studying him in your spare time, late at night in your lair, running the thick fabric of his lab coat through your paws. An old one, soft from wear. The myriad scents of it swirl together in your head until all you know is him, the man you call your nemesis.

What is it about this man, about Heinz, that you're so determined to understand? So exhilarated by the thought of fighting him? Is it that you've finally found your only lifelong enemy? It must be.

There are days when your fights bring you face to face, nose to bill, and the scents of his breath wash over you. You've come to recognise them, now: That swill he calls coffee. Some strange Drusselstinian food he hasn't introduced you to yet. Raw meat.

Humans don't always cook their meat, true, but with him it's always paired with dirt and crushed leaves and faintly rotting underbrush, like he's been hunting.

For all you know, he does.

There has to be some reason he's still considered an ocelot after so long in human society. Quite frankly, it wouldn't even be the weirdest thing he's done.

The worst days are when he reeks of copper. Of blood. Another hidden injury he won't admit to, but you can always tell. He's not as good at hiding it as he thinks he is.

A limp during his monologue. A wince when you kick him in the ribs. A black eye.

Remnants of your previous fights, if you're lucky. Other things, if you're not. You try not to think about it too much.

The last thing he wants is your pity. He's said as much, the one time you offered to help bandage his wounds to assuage your own guilt, so you don't any more. Nor do you pull your punches.

All he wants is for you to thwart him the way you always do. That's why you're here, and you both know it. What else are you supposed to do?

You spend your nights in your lair, curled up in the lab coat you'd taken to ward off the chill, working on your report. Thinking through the day's events.

Not all of it makes it to the page. How close he'd been, arm across your shoulders with his weight behind it, mint on his breath and nothing in his schedule. Whoever he wanted to impress this time, he hadn't made plans to meet them.

Or hadn't needed to.

He's been acting differently this last week. Looking away, unable to meet your eyes. Flushing pink from the exertion of your fights. Not even touching his dating profiles. Taken separately, you'd dismissed them, but you have to ask.

Does he...?

More importantly, do you...?

Pressing your face to the lab coat, you inhale all the scents you've come to know so well. Soot, metal, sweat, grass, the cheap detergent that can't cover any of it. You let out a soft growl, paws shaking from the intensity of your feelings.

How did you ever think this was a nemesis thing? It's not (just) fighting him that makes your heart beat faster, not (just) passion for your job that has you eager to see him each day.

You, Perry the Platypus, have feelings for your nemesis, as unprofessional as that is.

The only thing left to do is tell him.

AN: Nothing like realising you've misheard lyrics after you've used them for a fic title. That's why I'm glad I renamed this one, and just in time.