One more "Merry Christmas" or "Season's Greetings" wish, and Walter Skinner believed he would take his gun out and shoot someone.

It wasn't that he was bitter about the season, or that he hated holidays in general. It wasn't even a lack of belief in the higher power of choice. It was the fact that everyone, even his most obsessive agents, seemed to lose all sense of propriety, not to mention work ethics, every year when the season rolled around.

Well, and Christmas was a holiday for children.

He firmly believed the latter reason for his irritable disposition - literally despised the forced revelry and mandated party-going that seemed to accompany his position within the FBI.

Loosening his bowtie, Skinner sighed, relaxing into the comfort of the chair behind his desk and the familiarity of piles of work surrounding him. This was a ritual worthy of his attention and focus in life, not hob-nobbing with the director and deputy director and a throng of politicos who merely celebrated as a reason to be seen in all the right places with all the right people.

This was tangible. Productive. Made a difference in the lives of American citizens.

He snorted at a previous thought, seeing that Kim had left a 302 on the top of the most prominent stack on his desk. Stuck to the top of it was Kim-code. A neon pink sticky note that merely conveyed her neat script writing, "Allegedly Urgent."

"Agent Mulder - the only other creature on the planet who seems to care less about holidays than I do," he chuckled. "What mischief are you bringing down on me this time?"

Shaking his head lightly, he opened the file, perusing the contents quickly. Something about a haunted something or other, somewhere within driving distance.

"What the hell. Merry Christmas to you, too, Mulder. Go knock yourself out." He scribbled his signature on the authorization form and set it aside.

The file bumped against something on the edge of the dimly lighted desk, sending it clattering to the floor.

"Shit," Skinner muttered. "How many times do I have to tell that girl not to leave things so close to the edge?"

He adjusted the desk lamp and leaned over to see what it was this time. Probably paperclips again, and he'd have to turn on the overhead light to retrieve all of them.

But his eyes caught sight of something shiny - too big for a paperclip, and the wrong kind of shine. He groaned, reaching for the small gold foil-wrapped package. Flipping the tiny card taped to the top of it open, he read the brief message: "Merry Christmas, Walter. Your Secret Santa."

"I didn't even put my name down on the stupid list this year," he grumbled under his breath. "So help me Kim, if you did this and have been planting gifts from me around here to someone, I'll shoot you too."

He sighed and put the package out of the way, grabbing another file and opening it. Yes, this one would be a nice diversion. Senate Subcommittee Hearing notes on pending legislation mandating a stiffer penalty and potential federal charges levied against hate crime offenders.

He read the first paragraph of dry bureaucratic drivel before his eyes darted back to the package.

"Christmas is for children," he reiterated to himself.

Another three paragraphs arguing why prosecution of hate crimes should fall under the purview of the federal judiciary... then eight more on why they should remain state-court prosecutory domain...

"Only jewelry comes in boxes that small," he muttered. "Who the hell would do something so inappropriate as give me jewelry?" He snorted. "Maybe it's someone's idea of a practical joke. Give Skinner an earring."

Still, his fingers began to twitch just a little with the urge to open the package. But Walter Skinner was no weak-willed man. He scolded himself silently, returning to his notes.

"The position of the federal prosecutors, from the Attorney General to the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is that compelling evidence exists that state courts are not responding to the serious nature of hate crimes within their jurisdiction, and therefore, the impression of implicit consent of such behavior is becoming a problem of national concern, bound to manifest in growth in this particular area of criminal activity."

He dropped the file after reading aloud in an effort to regain his focus back to the matter at hand. "Fucking idiots," he growled. "Of course people think hate crime is acceptable if the courts don't punish them appropriately! What do they think?"

He startled, phone ringing and breaking the peaceful silence in his office. "Skinner," he muttered in his most annoyed tone.

"Sir, it's Kim. I just wanted to make sure you found the 302 from Agent Mulder. I didn't have a chance to speak with you about it before you left the party tonight."

"I found it, Kim."

"And there was a package delivered for you just before I left the office tonight. It appeared to be a Christmas gift, sir. I left it sitting on the right hand side -"

"Found it too, Kim. Who sent it?"

"A delivery service dropped it by just before seven, Sir. I don't recall seeing a name when I signed for it, but I was eager to finish up for the day."

"You didn't happen to put my name on that Secret Santa list, did you Kim?"

"No, but if you've changed your mind -"

"I haven't. The card on the package just said it was from my Secret Santa," he said, derision dripping from the last two words to fall from his lips. "I just assumed that my name had mysteriously appeared on the list this year."

"No sir. Well, not to my knowledge at least. I would hope that everyone recalls last year when your name was accidentally added -"

"Uh-huh. Well, in any case, it appears that someone has decided that I need more of the Christmas cheer in my life than I've already got," he said. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Agent Mulder attached a request to his 302 that he be notified ASAP on your decision. I think he's planning on visiting his haunted mansion on Christmas Eve."

"I'll see to it that he gets the message," Skinner agreed. "Anything else? I'm in the middle of reading the minutes for the subcommittee hearing on hate crimes, Kim."

"Well... I - I was just curious what it was, Sir."

"What, what was?" he asked.

"The gift, Sir. May I ask what it was?"

His fingers itched again. /Stop it! You're a grown man, Walter!/ "I haven't opened it, and was actually hoping that you knew who sent it so I could just return it with a note of apology that I'm not accepting gifts this year."

"Oh, but sir - I'm sure whoever sent it would be so disappointed if you did that!"

He frowned. "This isn't from you, is it?"

"No. I mean, I'd have loved to get you a little something for the holiday, Sir, but I know your feelings on the subject."

Sighing, he lifted the package once again. "Well, I guess I should open it and see what's inside then. Wouldn't want to offend anyone."

"Alright, sir... Merry Christmas."

"I'll see you Monday, Kim."

He continued to finger the package idly for a long time after they disconnected their call. She had a point. Whoever sent it probably would feel slighted if he just returned it. And if he never opened it, he'd probably never learn who did send it - or properly thank them - thus offending even more.

"Another thing to dislike," he grumbled. "Forced gratitude for gifts I specifically told everyone I didn't want."

Still, his fingers gently pried the lid off the package. His frown deepened to a scowl. "What the hell is this?"

He dumped the contents into his hand. A keycard - like one was issued in nicer hotels, fell from the box. He flipped it deftly with his fingers, noticing that it was for one of the nicer establishments in Washington DC.

If Sharon were still alive...

"No," he muttered under his breath. "She wouldn't. Not after years of marriage in name only. Not after living through the humiliation of that prostitution scandal - knowing full well that nothing really happened between the two of us."

He shuddered lightly at the memory, thankful to be in the privacy and sanctity of his office where the world could not see with their judging eyes that Walter Skinner was a man with emotions... not to mention secrets.

He picked up the box again, shaking it to see if a note identifying the sender was lodged inside. When nothing happened, he laughed. "Practical joke, huh? I show up to the hotel with this key - ask what room it's for, and what... a dead hooker for Christmas?"

He slipped the keycard back into the box, but noticed a square of paper folded and placed inside the lid before he could replace it on the package. "So Santa does have an identity," he murmured, intrigued now.

Carefully, he unfolded the slip of paper, reading the block-handwritten script aloud, "Meet me at midnight Christmas Eve. Room 994. All will be revealed."

Walter chuffed out a soft laugh again. "Will it now?" Whoever this Secret Santa was, he wasn't very bright.

Skinner grabbed the phone, dialing for information. Within minutes, the front desk of the hotel answered the phone.

"Good evening," he said gruffly. "This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Someone dropped a keycard to your hotel in my office this evening - only I'm not sure which of my guests I should return it to. It's for room 994. Could you connect me with that room, please?"

"Certainly, sir. One moment please."

The line connected and rang several times before rolling over to the hotel's voice mail system.

Frustrated, Skinner punched zero, ringing back to the front desk. Another clerk answered the phone this time. He repeated his message to the point of asking for the connection up to the room. "I don't suppose you could tell me who's registered in that room, could you?"

"Um... we don't usually give out that kind of information, Mr. Skinner. I can talk to the manager and have him call you right back."

"Certainly," Skinner agreed. "Or I could come by the hotel and speak with him in person."

The idea of flashing his badge and demanding the information tickled his mind - though his conscience was pricked, offended at the mere notion of using his position for personal reasons.

"I'm sure that won't be necessary, sir," the clerk replied. "Just give me your number."

Skinner rattled off the main number for the Hoover Building - just so the manager would know to whom he was calling - and politely informed the girl to have her manager ask for Assistant Director Skinner's office.

The subcommittee hearing notes were all but forgotten as he sat waiting, drumming his fingers on the desk. He idly wished he had the ability to will the phone into ringing.

"You're being foolish," he scolded himself. "It could be hours before this manager calls back -"

Another ring, this one expected, anticipated, silenced his conversation with himself. "Walter Skinner," his smooth voice intoned into the receiver.

"This is Mr. Dobbs from the Hotel Dupree downtown. My night clerk said you were trying to find one of our guests?"

He repeated his cover story a third time. "I tried ringing the room, but obviously, no one is there if I've got the key," Skinner said. "And I had a number of rather influential guests here tonight. I'd really like to be able to return this personally."

"We don't give out that sort of information, Mr. Skinner - not without appropriate legal authority."

He sighed. "Well, I guess I should just return the key to you -"

"But I suppose I could make an exception, considering your position," the manager offered. "What was that room number again?"

"It's 994," Skinner replied.

"Ah yes, Mr. Klaus. I believe he's in New York this evening, sir."

"Klaus," Skinner murmured. "Well, I'll see what I can do about getting this card back to him - or at least word to him that I've got it so he doesn't worry. I appreciate your time."

Skinner hung up the phone with a grunt. "Klaus, huh? Maybe related to Claus? As in Santa? Who the hell is behind this?"

His mind rapidly scanned through the list of usual suspects, none of whom were FBI related. Had to be one of the old gang from the Marines. Only they would be twisted enough to pull a stunt like this.

"Ok," he grinned. "You want to give Papa his Christmas present? I'll have one waiting for you too, guys."

The minutes ticked by, audibly - as though magnified and echoing in Walter's mind. He'd been watching the clock for nearly 26 hours without stopping by the time he entered the lobby of the Hotel Dupree at 23:45 hours on Christmas Eve. He knew these guys - he probably could've shown up a full day early and they'd have been prepared for him.

But he played along as long as he could possibly stand it. And now, standing in front of the elevator doors that would take him to the ninth floor, his heart pounded with all the anticipation of... of... well, a child on Christmas morning.

He snickered to himself at the thought. Crazy bastards. It was just like them to pull a stunt like this - teach him a lesson about being such a bah-humbug during the Christmas season.

The elevator chimed as the doors slid noiselessly open. Walter slipped inside, struggling against the urge to repeatedly punch the button marked with a nine. Instead, he made a smooth, graceful move and pressed it - just once maintaining the unflappable veneer of the polished Assistant Director of the FBI.

In his heart, he was jumping up and down - like he used to do on his bed on Christmas morning, trying to wake his older brother so they could go out and open presents together. The smile that spread across Walter's face softened his eyes and smoothed the stern lines on his brow that accompanied the heavy mantle of leadership he wore.

He felt in an instant, youthful. Transported back in time to the happiest days of his life - as a young boy, worshipful of an older brother who would die too young in a war that shouldn't have been waged. Pleasant thoughts wove their way through his mind, remembering Bobby and those bright, crisp Christmas mornings when they were all young and innocent.

The elevator chimed again, announcing his arrival on the ninth floor and banishing his youthful past back into the recesses of his mind. He smoothed his tie and stepped off.

A placard on the wall indicated he needed to turn left to reach room 994, and Walter strode down the hall confidently. It would be good to be with his troop again. Had been far too many years since they'd celebrated life, commemorated those who had not been so fortunate.

The light on the door's lock turned green, and Walter twisted the handle, pushing his way inside.

Heavy silence greeted him.

But the hotel room was a suite. A bucket of chilling champagne and a tray of hors devours was positioned invitingly on a silver cart near the mini bar.

"Didn't think I'd be early, huh?" he chuckled. "Or are you going to pop out and try to scare me?" he called out a little louder this time.

Silence once again, was the only response.

With a heavy sigh, Walter slipped out of his overcoat and hung it over the back of one chair before moving to the tray of hors devours. He picked through the offering, hoping to avoid anything remotely resembling sushi, shellfish or fish eggs, all of which he'd had more than his fill at recent soirees.

He smiled again. These were hors devours for men. Real men. No quiche-cups. No caviar, escargot, or other such posh delicacies. Cheese, crackers, pigs in blankets... He barked out a short laugh. So they remembered.

"Aw, c'mon out," he called. "It's no fun having Christmas alone."

On cue, the telephone rang. He didn't hesitate a beat before picking it up. "Hello?"

"Have you... heard... the news?" a computerized voice intoned in his ear.

Walter dropped the cracker in his hand to the floor, overcome with a sick sense of fear and foreboding as he flashed back to a more recent memory - this one altogether horrific. He felt the shiver of tiny machines rushing painfully through his bloodstream.

"No!" he rasped. "No! Not again!"

But the voice continued, "You have... twenty... four hours... to... have a..." The line clicked, disconnecting before the message was completed.

"Oh god," Skinner rasped. "Fucking Krycek! What do you want this time?"

"You have twenty-four hours..." That voice that haunted his nightmares for months now - it was so close, so painfully close.

Skinner's eyes lifted slowly moving through the room to an open doorway in the suite. Krycek stood before him, dressed in black, arrogant, defiant... unyielding.

"Until what?" Skinner hissed. "Just get it over with now, Krycek! Stop toying with me!"

Krycek held up his hands, both flesh and blood and plastic, in supplication. "I was just going to tell you... you have twenty-four hours to have a Merry Christmas."

Skinner's jaw dropped. He snapped his mouth shut quickly. "Just what the hell kind of game are you playing this time, Krycek?" he snarled.

Keeping one hand held where Skinner could see it, Krycek reached slowly inside his jacket.

Reflexively, Walter pulled his gun, training it on the young man in an instant.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Alex murmured, low and husky. "But I've got something for you. Now will you put that gun away?"

Walter nodded, reluctant to holster his weapon, but did so anyway. His eyes widened when another gold foil package appeared from the breast pocket of Krycek's jacket. "What is it?" he growled.

"Christmas present," Krycek said, the beginnings of a mischievous smile curling his lips. "You have gotten one before, haven't you Walter?"

"Don't call me that!" Skinner snapped. But his attention clearly was averted to the package Krycek held in his hand. He repeated himself. "So what is it?"

"You can open it, but only after I leave."

"Coward," Skinner growled.

"Prudent," Krycek smirked. "Merry Christmas."

He laid the package on the table before walking toward Skinner to leave the room. He stopped beside him, casting a sidelong glance at his former boss. "Room's yours for the night. Unless you decide you want some company."

And then he was gone. Swiftly out the door, as if he'd never even been there. Except the evidence was still on the table across the room. Skinner glared at the package, wondering if it was a bomb. Or maybe the inside was poisoned, leaving him to writhe and die in pain alone on Christmas in a hotel suite paid for by a man named Klaus.

"Unless I want some company," Skinner muttered under his breath. "What was that, Krycek? A dig about the last time I spent the night in a hotel like this?"

He let his anger whip him into a seething mass of anger before stalking across the room. He snatched the package up off the table, not caring if it contained something lethal, so angry, he felt indestructible against whatever it might contain.

One ruthless rip through the flimsy foil, and the room began to spin - everything swimming behind a sea of surreal emotion.

Now Walter Skinner was not a man prone to emotional outbursts. Those were the idiosyncrasies of weak men, the crosses borne by those without character or fortitude in the face of tribulation. But not to men like Walter Skinner.

Yet as he held the small electronic device in his hand, the very symbol of freedom, pure and bright and beautiful, something foreign dripped from his chin, onto his hands. Warm and salty, leaking into the cracks at the corners of his mouth, this interloper invaded his world.

Walter Skinner wept. Tears of disbelief. Tears of the pain of knowing the hell this device had inflicted in the past. Tears of joy that it would not happen again. Not tonight, not ever.

He was free! Debt paid in full. Obligation ended. Merry fucking Christmas!

If he could've shouted it from the rooftop of the hotel, Walter would've. Instead, he collapsed into one of the chairs and wept until it transmuted into joyful laughter. He cradled the control box in his hands, feeling that he'd never seen an object so precious in all of his life.

In that moment, another card that had fluttered to the floor when he tore that gift open, caught his eye. He sobered. "A catch..." he whispered, dreadful doubt gripping his heart. "Please... don't let it be a condition."

Slowly, he moved toward the card, bending over and retrieving it with a slight tremble to his hand. Walter's eyes fluttered shut. Not a coward. Not afraid. Not going to lose this precious freedom ever again. These were the mantras his heart pounded out in a steady staccato.

He opened the card first, then his eyes. Then he blinked. And blinked again.

"Oh god," he whispered.

Inside was a phone number and a simple message. "You don't have to be alone on Christmas, Walter. None of us should be. But now you're free to be with whomever you please. No strings attached... unless you want them. Alex."

He didn't remember how he got to the chair. Walter just stared at the device in one hand and the note in the other. Krycek... no, Alex... Alex was right. No one should be alone at Christmas.

He picked up the phone and began dialing.

THE END

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