Adequate Moonlight
by Laura Castellano and JinniyahX

Archive:  Feel free

Disclaimer:  Not ours, never were, never will be

Rated PG-13

Keywords:  MT, MSR

Summary:  How wrong can dinner plans go?





It was a myth that bachelors couldn't adequately feed themselves. 
Mulder found it amusing that the typical non-married guy was 
considered master chef of the fast-food-and-frozen-dinner genre, 
but less than competent at anything else.  The truth was not 
quite so extreme: he wasn't going to be serving Baked Alaska or 
Cherries Jubilee anytime soon, but he was a pro with a cake mix 
or a can of chicken noodle soup.  Sometimes he even added extra 
chicken that he'd cooked himself on his stove-top grill.

So it was with a profound sense of self-worth and confidence in 
his culinary abilities that Mulder extracted a box of 
pre-assembled lasagna from his freezer and popped it into the 
oven.  Hey, he wasn't *crazy!*

With Scully coming over for dinner, he couldn't afford to take 
any chances.  Even while recognizing it for the idiocy it was, he 
was still stricken with the masculine need to impress his woman. 
Better to accept what one is, he reasoned, than to fight nature.

Besides, he doubted her cooking abilities were much better than 
his--after all, when would she find the time to practice? 
Nonetheless, being a girl with a mom like Margaret Scully, it was 
presumable that she had at least been given a foundation. Young 
Fox, on the other hand, had learned what he knew through simple 
trial and error.

He consulted his watch.  Forty-five minutes until Scully's 
scheduled arrival, and the lasagna should be steaming hot and 
ready for her by then.  He'd already emptied the bag of pre-cut 
salad into a plastic bowl and set out some dressing.  The frozen 
dinner rolls didn't need to be heated until the last minute.  The 
only thing that remained was dessert. With visible pride, he 
opened the refrigerator and glanced lovingly the Jell-O No Bake 
Cheesecake he'd created earlier that afternoon.

With strawberry topping, even.

Everything was ready except the lasagna, and that was well on its 
way.  With a nod of satisfaction, Mulder headed for the shower.  
He got precisely two and one-half steps across his kitchen before 
the lights went out.

"Dammit."

The word practically echoed in the suddenly silent apartment.

"Fuse."  It was the first thing that came to mind.  The 
electricity had been flaky lately anyway, with power surges and 
flickers occurring just often enough to be a real irritation 
rather than a minor annoyance.  In the past two weeks, Mulder had 
learned to save his documents frequently while working at the 
computer.

The moonlight through the windows illuminated the room enough 
that he was able to make his way to the coffee table without 
breaking any toes.  Mulder was already rehearsing the earful he 
intended to give the landlord when he punched the button on his 
cordless phone and remembered it wouldn't work without 
electricity.

Biting back more expressive obscenities, Mulder felt his way into 
the bedroom to where his cell phone lay on the dresser.  He 
knocked his wallet to the floor in the process, scattering change 
and various important notes to himself, but that was of no 
consequence now.  The important thing to remember was that Scully 
would be here in half an hour, and the lasagna was not finished 
cooking.  

He wanted to curse the building superintendent who had changed 
out his reliable old gas range for an electric one just a few 
months earlier, but then remembered the guy had one of those 
old-fashioned phones that was actually connected to the wall. The 
kind that *would* work during a power failure.

Perhaps all was not lost, after all. If the landlord went to the 
basement and replaced the bad fuse at once, he would only be 
fifteen or so minutes behind schedule. Mulder was certain he and 
Scully could find a way to fill those fifteen minutes.

Without letting himself dwell too heavily on that thought, Mulder 
dialed the manager's office.  After six rings, he was switched to 
voicemail, and Arnold Schwarzenegger advised him to leave a 
message because,  "I'll be back!"

With a roll of his eyes, Mulder terminated the call.  He wondered 
how Mr. Atkins had gotten an Arnold impersonator onto his 
voicemail.  Probably paid some guy to do it.

Examining his options, he decided he was left with two choices: 
serve Scully cold salad and cheesecake in the dark, or go 
downstairs and try to fix the problem himself.  Maybe if he 
swiped a fuse from another box...  The second floor was less 
populated than the fourth at the moment, so it stood to reason 
they didn't need the electricity as badly.  Didn't it?  It made 
sense.  In a way.

The flashlight he always carried, which had been beside his 
wallet and cell phone when he changed out of his suit after work, 
had mysteriously disappeared.  Either it had been abducted by 
aliens, or it had been a silent casualty of his skirmish with the 
dresser that had also victimized his wallet.

Sighing in frustration, feeling very pious because he was able to 
keep the string of bad words that wanted to emerge behind his 
teeth, Mulder carefully groped his way back to the living room 
and out the front door.

"Elevator's out," his neighbor informed him as soon as he stepped 
into the hall.

"Well, duh!" was what Mulder wanted to reply, but settled for a 
pleasant, "Thanks, I'll try the stairs," instead.

After all, he reasoned, he was no stranger to the stairs in his 
building.  He took them frequently when the ancient elevator 
tried his patience.

"Wonder what moron blew the power," came the irritated voice of a 
neighbor Mulder hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting.  "Damned 
idiot!"

Mulder crept silently past the grouch, volunteering nothing. He 
was almost around the corner when the guy said, "Hey, mister, the 
elevator's not working."

"That's why they invented stairs, buddy," Mulder answered, trying 
hard to keep the sarcasm in his voice to a minimum.

"Smartass," the guy muttered before slamming his apartment door.

"Dumbass," Mulder responded under his breath.

Later, Mulder would constantly remind himself that he had been 
extremely careful.  He had held onto the handrail--something he 
normally eschewed--and had placed each foot tentatively on the 
next stair before adding all his weight to it.  He'd have made it 
to the ground floor in one piece, he would insist, if not for the 
stealthy way the paper concealed itself in the darkness.

Joe Garagolo's Italian Bistro had opened only two days ago around 
the corner from Mulder's building.  They had daily lunch specials 
for under seven dollars, and Spaghetti-Better-Than-Your-Mama-
Used-To-Make for an undisclosed price.

The reason Mulder knew this was because the entire building had 
recently been papered with advertising flyers.  He had thrown 
away the first one to appear on his door, and then, realizing 
that Joe Garagolo's Italian Bistro would provide Excellent 
Italian Cuisine Delivered to Your Door for a Small Fee, had 
tucked the second one into his phone book.  Apparently it had not 
been enough, for the relative of the flyer he'd so callously 
thrown into the trash was apparently now bent upon killing him.  
He felt his foot slip on the paper and didn't even have to guess 
what it was.

As he fell, Mulder's only Italian thoughts were of the lasagna in 
his microwave, which would certainly never be done in time for 
Scully's visit now.

The string of obscenities he'd so carefully guarded before 
emerged effortlessly from his mouth now, and Mulder clutched at 
the ankle he'd twisted on the way down.  His elbow hurt where 
he'd banged it, and so did his knee, but those pains were 
bearable.  The fire invading his right ankle was something of 
which a medieval torture master would have been proud.

His first thought was to call Scully, but naturally his phone had 
gone flying when he'd fallen.  He felt blindly around for it, and 
was about to let out a cry of triumph when his fingers touched 
the plastic casing.

His would-be shout of triumph turned to an echoing, "Son of a 
BITCH!" when instead of pulling the phone to safety, his fingers 
clumsily knocked it down the next flight of stairs.

Frustrated, discouraged, and fighting the nausea that gripped 
him, Mulder tried to bring himself slowly to his feet.  There was 
no question but that he'd sprained his ankle.  The only real 
decision to be made was Up or Down?  True, he was a lot closer to 
his apartment than to the office on the first floor, but then 
again, the office was downhill all the way. And if he could make 
it, there was still a chance that some part of the evening could 
be salvaged.  He looked upward, although he could see nothing in 
the inky surroundings, and suddenly the trek back to his 
apartment seemed insurmountable.

Down, he decided at once.  Down to the manager's office where he 
hoped the problem would be taken care of, and then he'd sit in 
the lobby and wait for Scully.  Maybe she'd feel sorry enough for 
him to take him to dinner instead of making him face the scene of 
his failure that awaited in his kitchen.

That conclusion reached, Mulder turned in the direction he was 
certain led downstairs, took one confident step, and smacked his 
head hard against the wall.

Falling, he managed to stay conscious just long enough to twist 
his already injured ankle again on the way to the floor.

*****

Scully looked up at the apartment building on Hegal Place, trying 
not to strain her neck as she searched in vain for a visible 
light.  It took her several moments to realize that not only was 
Mulder's building completely dark, but the entire street was lit 
by nothing but stray moonbeams.

She opened the door and entered the lobby, and nearly bumped into 
the elderly man she recognized as Mulder's landlord.

"Hi, Mr. Atkins," she greeted.  "What happened?"

"I think a transformer blew," Atkins answered, his face a picture 
of disgust.  "I can't get through to the electric company, but if 
I'm right, it's going to be several hours before we're back up 
and running."

Scully made appropriate noises of sympathy before pulling out her 
trusty flashlight and starting up the stairs.  Mr. Atkins was 
still complaining when the heavy door shut behind her.

As she'd suspected, it was pitch dark in the stairwell.  She made 
her way carefully up the first flight, but her tiny flashlight 
seemed less suited for the job with every step she took.   She 
would call Mulder to come and rescue her.  She knew for a fact 
that Mulder had a bigger flashlight.

Chiding herself for not having taken the time to learn how to 
program speed-dialing on her new phone, Scully kept slowly 
climbing as she dialed Mulder's cell phone number by touch.

Later, Scully would maintain that it was all Mulder's fault she 
dropped her flashlight.  Had she been the least bit prepared to 
hear the theme from "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" just 
above her head, she would have kept a better grip, but how could 
she have suspected that Mulder's cell phone was not safely in 
Mulder's apartment, as it should have been, but was, in 
actuality, lying on the floor three steps above where she herself 
now stood, swearing at her partner for causing her to drop her 
flashlight?

"Mulder?  You up there?" she called, and began to worry when 
there was no answer.  "Mulder?"

When she was met with nothing but continued silence, her worry 
deepened to actual concern.  Was it possible her partner had been 
kidnapped, and had managed to leave his cell phone lying on the 
steps as a message to her, knowing she would leave no clue 
uninvestigated in her attempts to find him? Could the transformer 
which had so conveniently "blown" have actually been a Consortium 
conspiracy designed to throw Mulder off guard so he could be 
spirited away somewhere in the dark?  Or had something even more 
sinister occurred, something in fact so sinister that her 
mind--which hadn't had quite as much exercise in paranoia as 
Mulder's--couldn't yet comprehend it?

So intent was she upon these thoughts, so anxious to reach 
Mulder's apartment and ascertain his safety, that Scully took 
less care of her steps than she should. It was with a gasp of 
surprise, accompanied by a quite audible, "Oof!" from the lump on 
the floor, that she tripped over her own partner, coincidentally 
twisting her left ankle in the process.









Mulder was jolted from his pleasant unconsciousness when someone 
landed across his belly.

"Oof!" he protested.

"What the heck--"  He recognized Scully's voice, and as soon as 
she began feeling him up, he recognized Scully's touch.

"This isn't really the place for that activity," he commented 
while thoroughly enjoying her exploration of his body.

"Very funny, Mulder.  Are you all right?"

"Of course I am, Scully.  I frequently take naps in my stairwell. 
It's the latest health craze.  The firmness of the floor is good 
for the lower back, while the pure air--"

"Shut up, Mulder."

Mulder closed his mouth immediately.  He opened it a moment later 
to ask, "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Twisted my ankle a bit," she confessed, and he could tell from 
the pain she tried to mask in her voice that her "a bit" was 
understated.

"Me too.  Bumped my head a bit, too."

"Enough to knock you out, I'd say."

"I wasn't knocked out!" he protested.  "I told you, I was 
napping."

"Mulder--"

"I know, shut up, right?"

"Actually, I was going to ask if you thought we could make it 
back to your apartment."

"Well, we have two good ankles between us.  What more do we 
need?"

"A little less height disparity would be desirable, but you have 
to work with what you have.  Come on, let me help you up."

Mulder pulled himself up by the handrail, while Scully did her 
best to assist.  He groped around in the darkness.

"Where are you, Scully?"

"Right here," she assured him as she slipped her arm around his 
waist.  "Which ankle did you hurt?"

"Right one.  You?"

"Left.  Perfect."

Mulder tried not to laugh as they fought their way up the few 
stairs to the fourth floor, but by the time they finally made it 
back to apartment 42 they were both in stitches.

"Oh, geez that hurts!" Mulder gasped, still laughing as he sank 
to the sofa.  

"I'll get some ice," Scully offered.  "You don't by any chance 
have any Ace bandages lying around, do you?"

"Me? Are you kidding?  Of course I do, Scully, they're in the 
bathroom.  I'll get them."

They limped their separate ways, and when they met back at the 
couch, all their supplies had been gathered.  

"What do I do?" he asked, and followed Scully's instructions on 
wrapping her ankle.  She did the same for him, and then handed 
him an ice pack and a pillow.

"You have to elevate it," she told him, "and ice it.  With a 
little luck, we'll both be fine in a day or two."

"Just a minute, Scully," he said, and hobbled toward the kitchen. 
Clinking sounds were audible, and when Mulder returned, he held 
two dessert plates.

"What's this?"

"Well, dinner's ruined, but I managed to salvage dessert," he 
joked.  "Cheesecake tastes better at room temperature anyway, if 
you ask me."

Accepting her plate with delight, Scully dipped her finger into 
the topping.

"Strawberries, Mulder.  I'm impressed."

"You should be.  I slaved over that cheesecake all day."

She chuckled while he settled himself beside her on the sofa, 
propped up his ankle on a pillow on the coffee table, and dug 
into his own piece.

"If only we had some candles," she mused.  "But I guess the 
moonlight will do.  The romance of this situation simply floors 
me."

Mulder laughed so hard he nearly dropped his cheesecake, for 
which he treated her to a mock glare.  

"This settles it.  Next time I'm in the mood to treat you to 
lasagna, Scully, I'm having it delivered from Joe Garagolo's 
Italian Bistro.  I can take a hint."

Before Scully could ask him to explain that strange statement, 
the kitchen light came on.  The refrigerator stuttered back to 
life and the sounds of civilization were in full swing.

"Guess the party's over.  It must not have been a transformer 
after all, because Mr. Atkins assured me that if it was, we'd 
have several hours in the dark."  Scully's wistful expression 
told just how much she'd enjoyed sitting there in the 
near-darkness beside Mulder.

Without a word, Mulder set down his now-empty plate, limped to 
the kitchen, shut off light, and returned to her.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

Mulder took her own plate, devoid of all but a few crumbs, and 
placed it next to his own.  Then, slowly, deliberately, he kissed 
her, savoring her immediate response.

"I told you, Scully," he whispered before pulling her into a 
comfortable embrace.  "I can take a hint."



End