Another twist on Dickens' A Christmas Carol, inspired by the wonderful crop of seasonal fic, past and present, by all the wonderful Requited gals. I only apologise that it's not a M/Sk. Horribly silly and sappy, but what do you expect? It's Christmas fic!

A Merry Little Christmas

***

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the Yuletide gay
From now on your troubles will be miles away...
So have yourself a merry little Christmas day

***

AD Skinner’s Office
Christmas Eve
8.00 PM

Report, draft copy. Margin notes. Question, question, comment, clarification
required, question. Mark return to agent. Outbox.

Admin. Re: new parking protocol. Skim. Initial. Outbox.

December quarter budget reviews. Pending. Definitely pending.

Skinner dumped the budget pile in the appropriate tray with a sigh, privately
giving himself permission to put the hated task off a little longer. It was
Christmas, after all, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to get through
already. Paperwork had no respect for the holiday season, but thanks to his
efforts the bottom of the inbox was almost visible - another hour or two should
do it, and he could go home. To an empty apartment, it was true, but with the
small satisfaction of a clear desk.

Meanwhile, the stuffiness of the room and the tediousness of his reading was
sending him to sleep. Glancing at his watch, he decided to allow himself a
short break, and rose from his chair. He didn’t think he could face yet another
cup of coffee at this hour, but perhaps a brief change of position would
relieve his sense of creeping fatigue. He stretched a little and wandered over
to the window, seeking a respite from the stillness of the near-deserted
building. The glass had fogged, and Skinner cleared a small circle of view by
wiping his hand over it in time-honoured tradition. Outside, it had begun to
snow again, lightly. Snowflakes danced in the glow from streetlights and in the
headlights of a passing car, and a small smile crept across Skinner’s face at
the sight.

Momentarily he considered throwing off the rest of the evening and going home
to a glass of scotch and the legal thriller he had been meaning to get to for
some time, but quickly canned the thought. Christmas Eve was one of the best
times of the year to clear his desk without interruption, and his evening would
just have to wait a little longer. Giving the street a final wistful glance, he
turned away.

He sighed and sat back down, feeling the blanket of weariness descend upon him
once more. After a pause he pulled off his glasses and put them in the small
pool of light from his desk lamp. Then he bent his head and closed his eyes for
a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose lightly to relieve the tension.

“Hello, Walter. Nothing’s changed around here, I see.”

The husky, familiar voice shattered his brief moment of peace. Skinner jerked
upright and instinctively pushed back from his desk, grabbing at his glasses
with one hand. He took in the dark hair and broad smirk of his visitor with
stunned disbelief. No. This could not possibly be happening.

“What in hell?” was the only thing he could manage. “You’re...” Dead, he
thought wildly. I killed you myself. Should have know that wouldn’t be enough.
A quick glance told him the door was as firmly shut as he’d left it. And he
hadn’t heard a thing. As usual. The resurrection of Alex Krycek grinned with
amusement and mimicked Skinner’s reaction, throwing up his hands in feigned
shock. At least they were empty, clear of any immediate threat. Skinner’s mind
began to work again, and he scrabbled in the desk for his service weapon. The
apparition made no attempt to stop him. Instead, he laughed as Walter’s hand
closed around the grip and brought the gun up to bear.

“You tried that already, Walt, remember? A bit unoriginal, don’t you think?”

Despite the jibe, Skinner felt a little better with the gun in his hand. If he
could kill Krycek once, he was sure he could manage it again. And again.
However many times it took.

“Alex, or whatever you are... what the hell do you want?”

“Now, now, no need to get all defensive.” Krycek shrugged. “I was passing by
and saw your light still on. And it is Christmas. The season of goodwill. I
thought maybe now you’d be pleased to see me.”

He looked remarkably healthy for a dead man, his green eyes glittering with the
same practised insolence. Skinner couldn’t help staring at the pale,
unblemished skin of his forehead, looking for a mark, some scarring, anything
that would tell him what was going on, whether this was the same Krycek he had
shot in the parking garage those months ago. Fatally. Skinner had seen many
inexplicable things in his years as Mulder’s supervisor, not least Mulder’s own
resurrection, but it was something he felt still constituted a fairly
noteworthy occurrence.

“So you just dropped by for some eggnog and a chat, is that it?” Skinner shook
his head in disbelief even as he said it. He felt like a player in some
surrealist drama. Any moment now, fish would begin falling from the sky.

“Exactly. But I’d settle for a drink. Don’t worry, I’ll get it myself.” Krycek
headed over to the low cabinet by the conference chairs, the one that Skinner
kept securely locked, and retrieved a half-full bottle of good scotch and two
glasses. He poured them a measure each and set the remainder of the bottle back
on the cabinet.

“Your health,” Krycek said, and drank his share in a long swallow. He grimaced.
“Pity you didn’t have any Stoli.”

Skinner lowered the gun a little but made no move to take his glass.

“Get to the point, Krycek. Threaten me or blackmail me or whatever it is you’ve
come here to do and get out. I’ve got work to do.” He made a vague gesture that
encompassed Krycek, the desk, and the entire FBI building.

“You should ease up on the work, Walter. I mean, really. The Bureau did just
fine before you joined up and will keep on going long after you’re gone.
There’s no need to kill yourself shuffling paperwork around. You might end up
where I am.”

“Dead?” some part of Skinner’s brain entirely unconnected to rationality
insisted on asking.

Krycek shrugged. “Out of service, anyway.”

“Since when have you been so concerned about my health, anyway? Quite the
opposite, if experience counts for anything.”

“Ah, I almost forgot. Your present.” Very slowly, with mock respect to
Skinner’s glare, Krycek reached into one of the many pockets of his leather
jacket and pulled out a small, flat gift box. The cardboard was a bright glossy
red, and it was tied with a big green bow. There was no card. Skinner took it
with his free hand, treating it with great caution, as if it might explode in
his face.

“If it was a bomb, I wouldn’t exactly be standing around waiting for you to
open it, would I?” Krycek said, with some exasperation. “Hurry up, I haven’t
got all night.”

The ribbon slid easily under his fingers, and Skinner eased off the lid to
reveal a familiar rectangular object, one he recalled all too well from seeing
it in Krycek’s merciless hands. Just the sight of it made his heart pound a
little faster and brought a thin film of sweat to his brow. He took it out of
the box, cradling it gently, feeling the deadly weight of it resting in his
hand. If this were the real thing, it held his life, quite literally, in its
electronic circuits. Its screen was blank, but otherwise it looked in perfect
condition.

“It’s pretty easy to use,” Krycek continued. “You turn it on here.” He reached
out before Skinner could stop him and pressed a button. The screen flickered
into life, and Skinner shuddered and resisted the urge to hurl it as far away
from him as possible.

“The left button controls the level of nanocyte activity in your blood,” Krycek
continued, appearing not to notice. “The middle button brings up a touch screen
menu, and you can use it as a personal organiser too, but I'd be careful,”
he added in an blandly innocent tone, but his mouth was twisting uncontrollably
at the corners.

“How thoughtful,” Skinner muttered dryly. If this was some kind of elaborate
hoax, it was certainly one of the more spectacular examples. He pressed the
left button, once, and instantly a wave of nausea passed over him as the things
in his blood responded. Hurriedly, he dialed it back down again. That part, at
least, was unquestionably real. “How do I know there aren’t others?”

Krycek was suddenly serious. “There may be, Walter. I don’t know. But as long
as you keep that one with you at all times, you will have as much control over
them as anyone else does. It should hold you until you can work out how to
deactivate them for good.”

“And why would you hand it over to me?” Skinner asked at last.

Krycek shrugged, “Why not? I’ve got no further use for it. Thought you’d
appreciate it.”

Skinner looked at Krycek thoughtfully, considering for a moment, and then a
smile quirked the corner of his mouth. Slowly, he lowered the gun, and slipped
both it and the control box into a desk drawer.

“OK, I get it,” he said finally. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? I’m fast asleep at my
desk and meanwhile my subconscious is busy wishing me a merry Christmas. And
drinking my liquor.”

“If that’s your theory, why are you even bothering to ask me? It’s not like
you’d believe anything I said anyway.” Krycek smiled. “You have fought well,
and with honour, comrade.” He leant over the desk, bringing his face close to
Skinner’s, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I wish you well.” And he was
gone.

Skinner blinked, once, and rubbed at his cheek with his fingers, wondering
exactly what part of his subconscious had produced Krycek’s kiss. Before he
could gather his thoughts any further, there was a loud bang, and he looked up
again as his office door was flung wide open.

“I should have guessed you’d still be here. I tried your apartment first, of
course, but no-one answered and your doorman said you hadn’t come through yet.
Don’t you ever take any time off, Walter? It’s Christmas Eve!”

Mulder. Of course. Never mind the fact that he had left the Bureau, never mind
the fact that he had disappeared abruptly one day without a parting word to
Skinner, leaving Scully and the baby to manage on their own, never mind that
there were a thousand other places he should be right now rather than here in
Skinner’s office. Skinner had subconsciously wanted to see him, and lo! Here he
was.

“Let me guess, Mulder,” Skinner said, feeling unnaturally calm. “You’re the
ghost of Christmas Present.”

“Am I?” Mulder adopted an expression of surprise, and looked down at himself,
feeling his arms and legs theatrically. He was dressed simply in jeans and
white T-shirt, with a long black overcoat to ward off the chill. “If you say
so, Walter. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call you before I disappeared, all right?
It was just too much to deal with all at once - being alive again, and the
voices in my head, and then Dana - and the baby. I kind of felt - well, that
you’d done enough for the time being. Is everything OK? You look tired.”

Skinner began to feel that familiar twinge of tension between the eyes that
Mulder unerringly produced. It was an impossible question. Since Mulder had
been assigned to him all those years ago it seemed that life had become
impossibly convoluted. Secrets, lies, and conspiracies drawing them all ever
downwards into a murky maze. Swept along in the flood tide of Mulder’s
theories, Skinner had stayed afloat as best he could, hoping that if he held on
long enough, somehow, they would all be rescued. When Mulder had ‘just gone’,
Skinner had wondered whether this meant they had been saved or had finally
drowned. He still didn’t know for certain. Still, he was alive, and the world
was still intact, more or less, so he supposed that counted as an affirmative.

“Yes, Mulder, if by OK you mean that we’re all mostly around and I still have
no idea what the hell is going on. I’m fine. You?”

“Never better,” Mulder said, flinging himself uninvited into a chair, and
Skinner had to concede that his departure had been good for him. His eyes
sparkled, and his long limbs radiated a vibrant energy that had been missing
for a long while. “We did it, Walter. It’s over. The rebels won.”

“What?”

There was a long pause, and Skinner could practically see the cogs whirring in
Mulder’s brain as he pondered exactly how to respond.

“Not tonight,” he said finally. “There’s too much to explain, and I’ve got to
get back to Dana and William. But I was there, Walter. I saw it. There were
changes taking place in my brain chemistry while I was buried - it took time
and I had to learn how it worked, but it meant I could communicate with them
when I got back to the ship. The aliens. The ones working with the Consortium
weren’t the majority at all, they were the equivalent of terrorists in our
world. The so-called rebels were a special team sent after them by their
government, but it took time before they fully realised the extent of what was
happening here, and by then it was almost too late. I don’t think they want
anything to do with our planet, personally, they seem like they’ve got enough
trouble managing their own. Anyway, I don’t know whether we’ll ever be able
round up everyone that was involved on Earth, but at least the colonisation
threat is moot for the time being, and as far as I know all the experiments
that they and the Consortium had been conducting on humans have been abandoned.
And that’s a good start, right?”

It took Skinner a minute to properly process the story that Mulder had blurted
out in one long stream of words. When he had finally made some sense of things,
he sat back in his chair, and looked at Mulder, who gazed back at him
expectantly. Then he threw back his head and barked with laughter. Mulder
smiled uncertainly.

“I thought you’d want to know...” he began, but Skinner was still laughing.

“It’s not you, Mulder,” Skinner said finally. “It’s my dream, after all. I just
never knew I had such a great imagination.”

“Dream? Ah! The Ghost of Christmas Present. I see,” Mulder said. “Well, true to
my name, I have something for you.” He rummaged around in a coat pocket and
pulled out a lump of rock. Skinner studied it with interest, but could discern
nothing unusual about it. It was roughly fist-sized, black, heavy and very
glossy, its surface fragmented unevenly into horizontal facets. Certainly quite
attractive, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“Thank you, Mulder,” he said. “I’ve always wanted... a rock.”

It was Mulder’s turn to laugh. “Very funny, big guy. This is no ordinary rock.
It’s a 100% genuine alien artifact, hand-selected from the soil of another
planet. Makes a great paperweight too.”

Skinner chuckled again, and turned it over in his hand with mock reverence,
finally setting it atop his much diminished in-tray. “Should come in handy,
then.”

“It’s genuine, I swear it is. If you’re going to get it analysed, just promise
me you won’t get it done at a government lab.”

“And spoil a good story? I wouldn’t dream of it,” Skinner promised.

Mulder rose from his chair.

“Well, it was good to see you.” He shot Skinner that quick interrogative look
that he usually saved for criminals and their victims. “You know, you should
probably ease up on the paperwork a bit. Go home early for a change, take some
leave. I think your job is pretty safe for now.”

“You know, you’re the second person to tell me that tonight,” Skinner said. “My
overworked brain is obviously a little lacking in subtlety.”

“Us manifestations of your subconscious care about you, Walter. We really do,”
Mulder said. “So before I disappear again I just wanted to say thank you. For
all the times you’ve helped us, and everything you’ve done.” He came around the
desk to shake Walter’s hand, and then suddenly drew him into a bear hug. “I
missed you, you know,” he whispered, and his lips grazed Skinner’s forehead
before he pulled back again. A look passed between them, and then it was gone.

“You too, Mulder,” Skinner said softly, “Although, I admit, sometimes it’s been
a relief.”

“I bet,” Mulder smirked, his old self again. “So how’s the new guy working out?
Hardworking, conscientious, keeps liver-eating mutants out of his reports?”

“Agent Doggett’s doing well. He’s...” Skinner began, and then trailed off,
realising he was talking to himself. Mulder was gone, his door was shut, and
someone was tapping softly but insistently at it.

“Sir?” The door opened a fraction and Doggett poked his head around. He looked
surprised to see Skinner sitting there. “Sorry. Thought maybe you’d gone after
all.” Skinner’s world did another sideways shift, and he blinked and shook his
head again, hoping to clear it. A deep breath and things would be back to
normal. He exhaled slowly.

“It’s all right, Agent Doggett, come on in. Shouldn’t you be at home right
now?”

“Could ask you the same question, sir,” Doggett said. “And I suspect I’d get
exactly the same answer.”

“Just thought you’d finish up a few things before the holidays, right?” Skinner
said, and smiled a little as Doggett nodded in acknowledgement. He’d loosened
his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves in deference to the late hour, and his
eyes gleamed a brilliant blue in the dim light. Skinner hesitated a moment,
then went on.

“John, just humour me for a minute. You didn’t happen to see Alex Krycek or Fox
Mulder on your way up here, did you?”

Doggett eyeballed him warily, despite the prior warning. “Sir, you shot that
bastard yourself. Krycek, I mean. Or at least that’s what I was given to
understand. And there ain’t no-one knows where Mulder is right now, except
maybe Agent Scully, and she’s not saying. So unless you’re asking me if I’m
having visions, the answer is no.”

Skinner felt a mixture of relief mixed with embarrassment at having so
obviously fallen asleep at his desk.

“Yes, of course. Just checking. So, what do you need me to sign off on before
you can go home?”

“Just the Maryland final report, and paperwork for replacing the phone I lost
through near-drowning,” Doggett said, handing them over the desk. “Hey, nice
paperweight,” he said, pointing at Skinner’s in-tray. “Present from someone?”

Startled, Skinner looked from his in-tray to Doggett, and back again. Mulder’s
‘alien artifact’ was still there, black and immutable. He felt like groaning.
This was too much. Now he was even having to work in his dreams.

“You could call it that,” Skinner said, and waved Doggett to the chair while he
read over the report, skimming the bulk of it, only checking that the few
clarifications he had asked for last time had been made. It was all in order.
“OK,” he said, signing off and handing it back. The request for a replacement
phone took only a glance and another signature.

When he looked up, he caught Doggett eyeing him intently before glancing away.
Skinner handed back the form, and stood up. “Anything else?”

“No,” Doggett said slowly. “Just - well, Merry Christmas, sir.”

“Merry Christmas, John.” Skinner’s eye caught the bottle of scotch still
sitting over on the cabinet, open. “Join me in a drink?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Walt,” Skinner offered, moving around to reach the bottle. He poured a fresh
drink for Doggett - using Krycek’s empty glass, but he didn’t think that was a
big concern under the circumstances. Handing it to the agent, he sat on the
edge of the desk and raised his own, untouched, one.

“To the X-Files,” Skinner proposed. “And Charles Dickens.”

“The X-Files,” echoed Doggett, and they drank. “Uh, Walt, sir, are you - well,
are you feeling all right? Not saying anything’s the matter, I was just
wondering. What with Krycek, and Mulder, and Dickens and all.”

“Never mind, John - it’s a long story. I haven’t been getting into the bottle
early, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just go with it, all right?”

“OK - it’s your scotch,” Doggett said, taking another sip.

Skinner finished his drink and set the glass back on the table. The alcohol had
sent a long, pleasant burn down to his stomach, and he was feeling pretty good.
“Now you have to tell me I work too hard, and kiss me. Then maybe I get to wake
up and go home.”

There was a spate of coughing as Doggett choked noisily on his drink. “Did you
just say what I thought you said?” he asked, looking up at Skinner, still
spluttering a little. His expression was caught somewhere between bewilderment
and sheer terror.

“It’s been something of a trend tonight, is all,” Skinner said wryly. “Come to
think of it, if you prefer to just disappear quietly, that’ll probably work
just as well.”

“Uh - OK.” There was a long pause as Doggett looked very hard at the scotch in
his glass, then up at Skinner, and then set the glass firmly on the table. “So
you’re saying I have options, right? And I should consider them.”

“That’s right,” Skinner said solemnly, but with a hint of a smile playing
around his mouth. This was a pretty entertaining dream to have, after all. At
the very least, it beat going through the rest of his in-tray. Moments ticked
by, and Doggett was searching his face with that intense gaze of his, but
Skinner bore it with ease. The overwhelming sense of calmness Skinner had felt
at Mulder’s appearance had returned, and he was content simply waiting for
whatever was to unfold.

“Walt,” Doggett said at last, struggling to find his voice, “You do work too
damn hard, and I think it’s finally starting to tell on you.”

Then he stood up in one smooth action, moved up between Skinner’s legs and
kissed him as ordered, hands resting lightly on Skinner’s thighs. Not the quick
peck on the other cheek that Skinner was expecting, but a shaky, hesitant press
of his lips against Skinner’s. After the initial shock subsided, Skinner found
himself responding with enthusiasm. For a moment he revelled in the sheer joy
of freedom, the relief from all things that bound him in the waking world, the
shadowy threats and inhibitions that pressed in on every side. There was
nothing here to stop him from doing exactly what he pleased, and so he did. He
could taste the scotch in Doggett’s mouth, and the kiss quickly deepened and
became harder, more urgent. Even as Doggett’s arms wound around his waist, his
hands grasped at Doggett’s back and buttocks, their bodies seeming to melt and
meld together into one. After a while they came up for air, not wanting to go
too far too fast, and Doggett ran a hand through his hair, his eyes looking
slightly glazed.

“Damn,” Doggett murmured. “Always wanted to do that. Never thought I would.”

“Me too.” Skinner reached for him again, kissing him until they were both
breathless and panting. “Although I guess I didn’t really realize till
tonight.”

“So - now what?” Doggett whispered.

Skinner looked around him curiously. He waited for the jolt of wakefulness, but
nothing happened. The office looked just as it had just before Krycek had shown
up, only the scotch was still out of the cabinet and the shiny lump of rock
remained obstinately in his tray. He resisted the urge to lean over the desk
and open the drawer again to check for the existence of the control box. A
flicker of uncertainty touched him for a moment, but he looked back at Doggett
in his arms, blue eyes searching his face expectantly, and grinned. That was
clear enough proof for him, right there.

“We could give up on work and go home,” he offered. “My place. If there’s
nowhere else you should be.”

“I guess that’s OK by me,” Doggett said, still looking vaguely shell-shocked.
“I’m definitely not getting anything else done here tonight.”

“Anything important you need to get?” Skinner said, releasing him.

Doggett felt for his wallet and keys. “Nope - only the reports.”

“They’ll be fine.” Skinner dumped the pieces of paper in his out tray and
rummaged in his desk for the control box, which he fully expected to find, and
did. He slipped it into a pocket. When he looked up, Doggett had fixed him
again with that intense gaze.

“Is this really your dream, Walt? Or is it mine? Or are we actually doing this
for real?” he asked wonderingly. He reached out a hand and stroked it across
Skinner’s face, then pulled Skinner close and kissed him again.

Skinner shook his head in bemusement, and flashed Doggett a quick smile. “I
really have no idea, any more,” he said, breaking free long enough to grab his
coat and a spare sweater for Doggett. “And right now, I don’t care. I guess
we’ll find out tomorrow morning.”

He switched off the lights, and they left together, the door closing behind
them. And in the soft darkness of the deserted office, Mulder’s Christmas gift
shimmered a little at its heart and then began to glow a soft, luminescent
gold.

27th December 2001

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