Title: Recipe for Disaster
Author: Manik
Rating: PG-13
Classification: H
Spoilers: Oodles
Keywords: Humour with a dash o' slash
Summary: lunchtime in the Secondary Characters' 
Boarding House

Disclaimer: Not mine. CC owns all. All praise His name and 
send me no money. 

Author's note: In answer to Ashlea Ensro's 
"Mr. Noodles" challenge at
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599/index.html

Feedback, flames, pleas to stop writing: manik5@hotmail.com


Pendrell poked his head into the kitchen -- empty. Thank God.

It was 11:30 am, which meant he had time to get in and out before 
the others starting drifting in for lunch. More than enough time to 
make his favourite dish, which only took three minutes to prepare.

He measured out the water, poured it into a pot and set the 
burner on high. Then he unlocked the many protective devices he 
used to secure his own personal cache of food. Even the Lone 
Gunmen hadn't figured a way past his new lock -- well, at least not 
so far this week. That rat bastard Krycek had suggested that two 
thousand pounds of boom-boom might do the trick, but Pendrell 
suspected he was being teased...again.

No matter. There, safe and dry at the back of his cupboard, was his 
stash of Mr. Noodles. Let's see, which to have today...shrimp, pork 
or Oriental? He selected one, ripped it open and took out the hard 
bundle of dried noodles. Digging into the bottom he retrieved the 
small packet of flavouring. The mere sight of it set his mouth 
watering.

The water began boiling and Pendrell threw in the noodles, stirred 
briefly, and then sat back to wait. Life in the Secondary Characters' 
Boarding House was hard for Pendrell. He had to share a room 
with Bill Scully, who snored like an elephant seal when he wasn't 
mooning over Spender. The others teased Pendrell about being 
dead or tried to persuade the slash authors, "Take LabBoy, 
not me! LabBoy!" Sometimes it got disheartening. But there was 
always Mr. Noodles. His old friend. 

The two to three minutes cooking time passed quickly. He gave the 
noodles a quick stir and they were done. After draining off a bit of 
the water (he didn't like his Mr. Noodles too mushy), Pendrell 
ripped open the magical flavouring packet, added the powder, and 
poured the dish into a bowl. He sighed with satisfaction. Done.

"What the hell are you doing, Agent!"

Pendrell's head snapped up and his testicles drew up into his 
abdomen in dread. Skinner. Shit.

"It's not twelve-hundred hours yet!" The former Marine barked. 
Pendrell stood frozen at the counter. Maybe Skinner would say his 
piece about everyone 'eating together as a team' and then leave. 
Fat chance.

Standing directly behind the quivering Pendrell and leaning 
slightly over the shorter man, Skinner growled softly, "What have 
we got here?"

"Mr. Noodles, sir!" Pendrell spluttered.

"Noodles, eh," Skinner grunted. "I had my fair share of that crap in 
the 'Nam, did you know that, boy?"

"Yes, sir." Pendrell fought to keep his voice even. "I think you've 
mentioned your experiences in 'the 'Nam'...once or twice..."

"You busting balls, boy?"

"No, sir!"

"Good!" Shouted Skinner. "Well, let me have a taste of that." He 
stuck one of his thick, callused fingers into the Bunnykins bowl 
Pendrell's mommy had given him when he left home for MIT.

"Jesus H. Christ." He bellowed. "Blandest shit I've ever tasted. Only 
one thing for it." He reached up into his own cupboard, which he 
never bothered to lock. No one was crazy enough to try and 
booby-trap Skinner's food.

"Tabasco," he announced with a grin that didn't quite meet his 
eyes. Pendrell's lower lip quivered. He liked his Mr. Noodles plain, 
dammit!

"Don't shake, boy, it doesn't look good on you. This'll put some 
hair on your scrote -- even yours." Skinner grumbled as he 
upended the small bottle over the bowl. "Tabasco helped many a 
young grunt gag down the C-Rats they forced us to eat in the 
'Nam..."

Again with 'the 'Nam', Pendrell groaned inwardly.

"In my day," announced a cultured British accent, "it was curry 
powder." The Well-Manicured Man flowed into the kitchen, giving 
Pendrell's now scarlet bowl a dubious glance.

Skinner snorted in derision. "In your day you pansy-ass Limeys 
were getting your sorry asses whupped before our boys showed up 
to save the day," he boomed.

"Really," the Brit said, casting Skinner a deadly look that nearly 
made Pendrell faint. The older man sniffed as if dismissing Skinner, 
then turned to Pendrell. "Really, my boy, you must try a dash of 
curry, it turns even the most banal of American food into the most 
splendid vindaloo..."

And before Pendrell could open his mouth, the man whipped a 
small spice bottle out of the pocket of his smoking jacket and 
shook it over the bowl. "My own private stock," he smiled. "From 
a recipe my dear pater brought back from the Punjab..."

Again with 'the Punjab,' thought Pendrell.

"Oh yeah," Skinner said, "wasn't that the place you English got 
chased out of by a vegetarian in diapers?"

"You *bastard!*" Hissed WMM.

"Goodbye, Mr. Chips," growled Skinner, going for the old 
man's throat.

While the two older men brawled, Pendrell looked down at his 
bowl of Mr. Noodles in despair. Could things get any worse?

"Hey Pendy," breathed a husky voice from the kitchen door. 
"If you're still hungry, I've got something over here for you to eat."

Krycek. Great. Just what he needed.

The leather-clad, mono-armed erstwhile Russian had taken an
 unhealthy interest in Pendrell as of late. The bashful lab tech 
didn't know why -- on the show the two had never met, but 
nobody cared about canon anymore.

"Go away, Alex!" Pendrell blushed furiously. "I'm busy!"

"So I see," Krycek purred, draping himself over Pendrell's back. He 
dipped a long, elegant finger into the bowl, brought it to his full 
lips and sucked...slowly.

"Mm-hmm, Goldilocks, this porridge is too hot! What it needs is 
something thick...and creamy..." Krycek slithered over to the fridge 
and threw the door open wide. "Let's see what Poppa Bear can 
find..."

While Krycek rummaged in the fridge, Pendrell looked over at 
Skinner and Well-Manicured Man. The muscular AD had the 
cultured senior citizen on the floor in a headlock, knocking his 
head against the linoleum while the Brit defiantly sang, "There'll 
always be an England."

"Here we are," Krycek announced, flitting back over to Pendrell 
with a small tub in hand. "Sour cream. Improves anything. Borscht, 
cabbage rolls, goulash, Mr. Noodles..." He added a small spoonful 
to the bowl then stood back to survey his handiwork. "Just like my 
Babushka used to make for me on cold winter mornings."

Pendrell seethed, tears springing to his eyes. 

"Oh, Tovarich, why do you cry?" Soothed Krycek. "Your little 
Rasputin make it all better..." He pinned the dainty dead character 
in the corner and began licking his neck in broad strokes. Pendrell 
sniffed loudly before giving in and kissing the Russian back.

"Well, this is enough to turn the stomach," drawled the 
Cigarette-Smoking Man. Grimacing at the sight of two grown men 
using his kitchen as a bordello, CSM put out his ever-present 
smoke in the much-abused bowl of Mr. Noodles. He sighed. This 
is no place for a shadowy government agent, he thought. At least 
he'd been subjected to a lot less of that slash stuff lately. But along 
with some hot hot m/f sex, he'd been forced to undergo a lot of 
angsty inner suffering, which frankly gave him gas.

"Never fear, Wrinkled White-Haired One of My Dreams, Ashlea 
is here!"

Cancerman spun to face the Diva. "You!" He shouted. "What now, 
do I get to hold Teena's disease-racked body in my arms as she dies 
again? Or maybe try to rescue that thankless son of mine from the 
Consortium just to have him spit in my face?"

"Try this on for size, Ciggy," said Ashlea, puffing on a doobie-sized 
Morley. "You have a mind-blowing affair with a young fanfic writer 
with a thing for wiry grey chest hair."

"Why, Ashlea?" Cancerman sighed. "Why me? You're young, you 
should be writing about Mulder, or hell, even Skinner is closer in 
age to you than me..."

Ashlea snorted. "Those wimps? I think not." She stubbed out her 
cigarette on Pendrell, who shrieked, but didn't stop Frenching 
Krycek. "Smart is sexy. Evil is sexier. C'mon. Times-a-wasting." 
The mismatched couple walked out arm in arm.

Skinner looked up from WMM's prone (supine? Who cares...) body
 to see another writer enter the kitchen. It was mlb, of course. Man,
 he'd barely had time to recover from the last bout of bedroom 
gymnastics with Scully...

"Up and at 'em, Sport," announced mlb. "I've got you slated for a 
'Gone With the Wind' crossover. You're Rhett Butler, Scully is
 Scarlett O'Hara, Mrs. Scully is Mammy, and Mulder -- as if you
 couldn't figure this out -- is Ashley Wilkes. Now hurry up, I've got 
to get this written before that bitch Manik steals my idea again..."

"Hot damn!" Said Skinner. "The South will rise again!" He got up, 
brushed himself off and followed mlb to his destiny. "There'll be 
plenty of pouting on the old plantation tonight," he chortled.

Another writer, wearing her requisite lab coat, came in and pried
 Pendrell and Krycek apart with a cattle prod. "Come on guys, 
I need you for another 'Doofus and the Cossack' smut-fest." 
Giggling madly, the trio pranced out of the kitchen.

Well-Manicured Man stared up at the grease-stained ceiling. Alone 
again, naturally. Why did he never get to star in his own stories? 
Plenty of guest appearances, but he was never the hero. And his 
sex life seemed limited to sordid trysts with Krycek or prepubescent 
girls... He looked up as yet another writer entered the kitchen.

"Okay, WMM," said Stephanie K., Queen of the Shippers. "You're
 making a cameo in my latest MSR. You'll appear to Mulder in a 
dream sequence, telling him that it's time he admitted his love to 
Scully..."

"I won't do it!" The old man snapped. "I want my own story! I want 
my own love interest!"

"If you insist," Stephanie shrugged. "The writer in line behind me
 wants you for some Peskow smut..."

"What!" Shouted the indignant Brit. "That Bolshevik? I wouldn't 
touch him with a ten-foot brolley..."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever," said Stephanie as she helped him to his feet
and led him out.

THE END

End Note: to the unnamed writers referred to in this story -- I don't 
know you personally, so I didn't feel I had the right to use your
 names, but consider this a fan letter. You're all wonderful and I am 
not worthy.

Feedback, flames, pleas to stop writing: manik5@hotmail.com