Date: Wednesday, December 22, 1999 

TITLE: A Little Teapot and Even Less Faith
AUTHOR: Olivia
RATING: PG 
PAIRING: M/Sk 

SUMMARY: Among other things, a bit of an Xmassy 
thingamajig and - gasp - Mulder Angst. 

FEEDBACK: oliviasn@hotmail.com - but for the sake 
of avoiding confusion around this time of year, 
please don't come down the chimney. I have an 
airgun. And I'm not afraid to use it. 

ARCHIVE: Am not particular about the company these 
guys keep - just ask please. 

NOTES: So I'm writing the next chapter of a nice, 
little serial killer story and my mum calls me. 

"Hi darling, can't wait to see you for Christmas. 
Are you bringing that nice Daniel man with you? 
I was just speaking to him earlier." 
"Mum, I've asked you not to bond with my stalker. 
Is that so much to ask?" 
"Darling, you're so odd. *tinkly laugh*" 
"...!!.." 
"Oh yes, and your cousin Felicia is also 
coming down for Xmas - remember her? she's 
the gorgeous one who's earning pots of money and 
going out with the fighter pilot?" 
//Oh that prodigious slut// "Who, Mum?" 
"Felicia, darling. She's a year *younger* than you, 
remember? Anyway, they're going to have to have your 
bedroom. You don't mind, do you? Thought not. 
Byeee!" 

Love the bag of bones to distraction but to be safe, 
didn't think I ought to continue writing about serial 
killers, y'know? Not right then, anyway. That's really 
not an adequate explanation for this piece but I don't 
really know what could be. Ah well. 

WARNING: I know nothing about Skinner's family as 
far as canon goes -I've just merrily made up whoever 
and however I felt like it - if it deviates, please just 
label the story AU and move on, hokay? 

DISCLAIMER: I freely acknowledge Chris Carter, 1013 
& Fox own and make money off these characters. 
(Well I don't suppose they're going to pay me to admit 
it.) My own intellectual property rights infringement 
schedule and money-making roster is so rigorous that I 
simply can't fit these guys in. This is just for a bit of 
brain-and-pelvis-flex, that's all. 


"Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence." 

Long-Legged Fly
- W.B. Yeats 


He didn’t need to believe; he just needed a little faith. 
He kept that thought with himself, turning it this way 
and that; a daily examination that eased the paranoia, 
stemmed the tendency to take the short road to the big 
fuck-up. It comforted Mulder in the same way a 
pickpocket taking a turn around a deserted square is 
comforted by keeping his hands in his pockets; all the 
while flexing and unflexing his fingers. 

He heard a soft noise and turning, saw a broad 
shouldered shape wending its way towards him. 
Skinner or maybe his brother. Anthony had the same 
barrel-chested build. Surreptitiously he let his hand 
find another pebble and sent it skimming silently 
across the lake’s surface. He watched the silvery 
ripples spread in uneven circles and then slowly 
smooth out again until the water reverted to its 
previously calm condition. 

If he listened hard enough, he was probably drunk 
enough to imagine he could hear the small piece of 
gravel sinking. Instead, he looked up at the three-
quarter moon, trying to count the pock marks in its 
smug, jaundiced face. The bigger picture was there to 
be seen, Mulder knew. He could get out of the cracks 
and gullies of his uncertainty if he could just have a a 
little faith. He didn’t need to believe; he just needed 
some faith. 

Of course that was before he had stormed out of the 
Skinner house, leaving both his unfinished meal and a 
room full of staring people behind him. 

He felt his neck begin to crick and went back to staring 
out over the lake. The sheer breadth of its gleaming, 
dark presence, limited only by the horizon, soothed 
even as it alienated him. Yet as hard as he stared, he 
couldn’t stop himself from tracking the other man’s 
approach from the corner of his eye. The impulses 
were sent, staccato, from cornea to brain, a series of 
staggered images that got his pulse spiralling and his 
jaw throbbing. Each became superimposed upon the 
other, in greater and greater detail, until there wasn’t 
any part of him that was interested in anything else. 

Footsteps crunched loudly on the gravel path, making 
their way towards him. Finally a voice, low and irate, 
and he schooled himself not to wince when the 
question was put to him. 

"What the hell are you doing out here?" 

He shrugged. What was he to say to that? Just lookin’ 
for my reindeer, sailor. Wanna come back to the Pole 
with me, see my etchings? Strangely enough, he 
didn’t feel like saying either of those. Even tagged 
them as inappropriate. Jesus. For one doubtful 
moment, he glanced up to check the sky. Nope. Not 
falling. 

"Just walked in a straight line when I left the house. 
Ended up here," he said curtly. 

"I’ve been looking for you for the last half-hour." 

The naked admission hung in the air between them 
and though he couldn’t see Skinner’s face, he knew 
what particular skew those words would have wrought. 
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t tap the same 
vein of vulnerability that the other man did. He could 
see the power of such gestures but couldn’t make 
them himself because they cost. Catch-22. Skinner, 
isolationist supreme, could. He found it unfair and 
enviable and wonderful, all at the same time. 

He could feel his chest constricting, as if a pocket of air 
had suddenly been pushed off-course and was even 
now striking a course towards his heart. He tried to 
exhale quietly and properly but of course he 
had not been holding his breath. His chest still hurt. 
He put a hand tentatively to it, lightly grazing it with his 
palm and grimacing as he did. There was something 
obscene in the closeness of heart and lifeline. In 
contrast to the indeterminate markings in Skinner’s 
palm, his was a long, clear groove. 

Mulder delighted in telling him that this was ineluctable 
proof that he was destined to have the last laugh 
between them. One of the few jokes he was permitted 
to make about his own mortality that didn’t drive the AD 
to tell him fiercely to shut up, just shut up and stop 
talking such foolish, tasteless shit. All the while he said 
that, he would be gathering Mulder into his arms, 
beginning that terrible, desperate species of foreplay 
that drove them apart before it brought them together. 

They never spoke of it afterwards; no warm, sleepy, 
aimless talk followed those debilitating moments. They 
both just lay next to each other, each plotting their own 
way of shoring up the dam. Even the threat of 
attracting the roving eye of calamity was more than 
they would tolerate. Yet to not continue with each 
other, that was equally intolerable. The risk was worth 
it. He really believed that. A little faith, that’s all he 
was lacking. 

But it was very quiet where they were and he found it 
hard to speak first. The sounds from the house, full of 
people and music, were a series of indistinct murmurs 
that, much like the reedy croak of the frogs, blended 
seamlessly into the background. Apart from the 
occasional clear laugh or yell or fragment of a song, 
carrying over to them on the still night air, they stood 
next to each other in silence. 

Mulder tried again to breach the hush, comfortable 
though it was. Cleared his throat artificially, a mixture 
of warning and incipient stage fright. Their silences, no 
matter whether created by pain or pleasure, were 
never entirely uncomfortable. They had too much 
experience with one and not enough with the other for 
it to be otherwise. He was aware in a bright, sharp 
way that eluded his lover, how very much they needed 
to guard against that kind of ease. 

"I’m sorry I wrecked the party." 

An impatient sigh was all he got for one, cheated 
moment. Then heard rather than saw Skinner put out 
his hand, feeling for him. Despite his best attempts, he 
twitched violently when warm, callused fingers 
eventually closed around his own hand. Skinner spoke 
then, kindly but firmly. 

"It’s not a fucking party. It’s just a few friends and 
family, doing the Christmas thing. You know that." 

He stood there uselessly for a second or two before 
curling his fingers up into the warmth of the other 
man’s hand. 

"Besides, you didn’t wreck anything. They’re just 
worried about you. This isn’t the best place to go 
charging around by yourself at night." 

A slight increase of pressure in the hand that gripped 
his own and then, another admission. 

"I didn’t know where the fuck you’d gone. You could 
have gone anywhere." 

He replied half-heartedly, "Nothing would have 
happened to me. I’m an FBI...guy." 

A hint of amusement in the dry response, "Agent. 
That’s the word you’re looking for. And you’re a little 
drunk. I’ll worry if I want to." 

"You’re not exactly sober yourself," he said gravely but 
felt the constriction in his chest give a little, knowing 
that the other man could easily mark the moment when 
evasion turned into the lesser crime of tease and joke. 

A snort of disbelief next to him, confirmed this. "I 
know. Can you believe I didn’t bring even one of those 
goddamned candles down here with me? I couldn’t 
see a thing all the way down here. And there’s my 
mother, filling the whole fucking house with them." 

Mulder smiled at that, not caring it could be heard in 
his voice. "She said she’s thinking of calling up Vogue 
Living. She thinks that’s the most innovative christmas 
dinner display she’s ever done. They’ll want to feature 
her living room in their next issue, she said." 

"Shit you don’t have to tell me. I know. Everybody 
knows. The thing that gets me is that she probably got 
the fucking idea from Vogue or one of those other 
stupid *Living* magazines she has, in the first place." 

The tone of exasperation was just enough to widen 
Mulder’s smile to a grin. He had an idea that Skinner 
was smiling too, although he couldn’t see him as more 
than an indistinct shape. 

"I wouldn’t take that up with her, if I were you. She 
lives to redecorate. You know that." 

A sudden shotgun laugh from Skinner at that; its 
occasional appearance no longer as startling and out 
of character as it used to seem to Mulder. He noted 
absently though that it still had the same power to 
jumpstart his libido. 

"Do you know that she spent fifteen minutes yesterday 
trying to convince me of the virtues of a ‘darling little 
teapot’ that she just knew I would love? $500. Some 
kinda fucking antique. When she knows we use the 
same old beaten-up one we always have. $500. What 
gives her these insane ideas?" 

"I can see it would be difficult to think of you and not 
think ‘Darling. Little. Teapot.’ It must be the way you 
move yo--" 

"There’s no need to bring the way I move into any 
conversation which has both my mother and teapots in 
it. You can’t afford to pay for the therapy." 

Mulder snickered then, helpless to stop himself. In 
sympathy, he bent down and picked up the beer he 
had nearly forgotten about and held it out in front of 
himself, saying, "I got a beer. Want some?" 

"Like a hole in the head. Warm beer I can live without," 
Skinner said, disengaging their hands in order to take 
the proffered bottle, anyway. After a long swallow, he 
pushed it back into one jean-clad hip and they shared it 
that way for a minute or so, until it was finished. 

"Think we could go back to some good whisky and a 
bit of light now?"

"You don’t want to know why we’re out here drinking 
warm beer in the first place?" 

"Only if you want to tell me." 

"Asshole," Mulder said without heat, "Why do you have 
to be so reasonable?" 

"It’s the warm beer talking," Skinner said mockingly 
and then said in a softer tone of voice, "and you never 
talk unless you’re pushed and I’m not sober enough to 
do it the right way." 

"I heard you talking to your sister," Mulder said 
abruptly, rising to the same old bait, in the same old 
way. 

He could practically hear Skinner’s brows coming 
together in an exasperated glare. 

"I heard you talking to my sister, too. Gimme a little 
more to go on, Mulder." 

Mulder sat down heavily on the ornamental rock 
behind him and heard Skinner follow suit, carefully 
leaving a space between them. 

"She asked you whether you were serious about me. 
Whether I was someone you wanted to bring back 
again." 

Skinner said nothing, waiting silently for more. Christ, 
Mulder thought miserably, this was just the kind of 
holiday cheer he’d spent his whole life running away 
from. 

"Don’t you remember what you said? Your brother 
was standing right next to her. He probably heard the 
whole thing. Christ, Walter, I feel like five different 
kinds of shit for being here." 

"I’m missing something then, Mulder," Skinner said 
calmly, "I don’t understand how what I said could have 
made you angry. I thought it explained things very 
clearly." 

"That’s what you think of me?" Mulder said and even to 
himself sounded more miserable as he did angry. He 
winced. Insult to injury. 

He couldn’t help it. The booze and the high-strung half 
hour spent alone with his own humiliated, hurt self, had 
tired him out. "I’m good to fuck but when it comes 
down to it, you tell people – your family, for fuck’s sake 
- that you don’t need me? That’s what’s been going 
on with us? All this time I thought that --" 

He clamped his teeth firmly shut, terrified of what 
stupid, vainglorious hopes he might reveal. Just lance 
the wound and keep moving, he counselled himself. 
Another shitty moment, that’s all. It doesn’t have to 
mean anything. Keep moving. He was tired of the 
shifting ley lines of Skinner’s silences, of twisting in 
the wind, trying to read his moods. 

Skinner put out an arm again, encircling Mulder’s 
waist, letting his hand rest companionably against his 
left side. 

"All this time you thought what?" 

"Nothing." 

"Want to hear how that conversation ended?" 

Mulder said nothing. Yes. No. Go. Stay. It was 
never enough when it came to Skinner. Too much was 
always too little and too little was always unbearable. 
But he stayed where he was. Told himself that he 
chose to be compelled. 

Skinner began stroking his side slowly, lightly and said 
carefully, "I then said that I wanted you. Do you 
understand? I said I didn’t need you. I wanted you. 
And so yes, it’s serious. And then I told her to shut up 
and stop asking so many questions. Got it?" 

"Oh." 

Mulder thought of the mad exit he’d made from the 
house. The bleak, malevolent contemplation of self 
he’d indulged in by the lake. Ridiculously, it seemed 
like far too soon to let Skinner off the hook, even 
though he had been in the clear the whole time. Why 
didn’t you come looking for me sooner? Why did it 
take you so long to find me? Recognized what 
senseless thoughts they were but couldn’t help himself 
anyway. Like everything he did, when it came to 
Skinner, he moved forward in the dark, operating on a 
mix of intuition and longing. It often felt like every 
decision he made was no more than mere caprice, as 
if he were driven this way and that by dogs snapping at 
his heels. A little faith, that’s all he wanted. Just to 
light the way. Not an unreasonable aspiration. 

"Well shit, Walter. Why’d you let me leave like that?" 

The hand stroking his side faltered a moment before it 
pinched him hard, Skinner betrayed into a choked 
laugh. 

"Asshole. I had my mouth hanging open like everyone 
else." 

Mulder grimaced and pushed his head into Skinner’s 
shoulder. 

He could hear Skinner grinning as he said "Oh no you 
don't. You have to come back inside, Mulder. Better 
we get it over with. We’ll say it was a misunderstanding. 
No one’s going to ask any more than that. One half’ll 
be too scared of me and the other half’ll feel too 
sorry for you. You’ll see. It won’t be that bad." 

"Christ," Mulder said savagely, "this must be what hell 
is like." 

"At least the drinks are free."

"Ha-fucking-ha. You’re enjoying this." 

Skinner’s other hand found Mulder’s cheek and gently 
fitted itself to the too sharp cheekbone and jaw. His 
thumb moved back and forth in an insistent caress. 

He said slowly, "I didn’t when you walked out. I had no 
fucking clue what had happened. I know you’re not 
convinced about coming here for christmas. I know 
you’re the only stranger here. But try to be smart. 
Even if that’s what I thought of you and me, am I really 
going to tell my sister at a christmas party, Mulder? 
Just use that fat head of yours next time." 

"Easy for you to say," Mulder muttered and moved his 
head cautiously out of Skinner’s warm grip. 

Said as an afterthought, "Mouth hanging open? 
Wouldn’t that qualify as a change of expression for 
you? In public? I don’t believe you." 

Skinner made no effort to recapture him or rise to the 
bait, asking instead, "Why easy for me to say?" 

"You belong here. I don’t," Mulder said shortly, 
deliberately, as if he were explaining it to the village 
idiot. 

"Jesus, Mulder." 

He heard Skinner give one of his controlled, angry 
sighs and bristled. Skinner shorthand for ‘Mulder, you 
give me ulcers.’ They both knew if it wasn’t Mulder, 
Skinner would find something else to be angry about. 
But it wasn’t wise to point that out. He had learnt that. 

All Skinner said when he spoke again was, "Look, you 
just got here. Everyone loves you already. Give it a 
minute or ten, okay?" 

Mulder shook his head, still eager to find a scar or two 
to poke and show. 

"It’s the same everywhere. It’s just worse here, that’s 
all. I never belong and you drag me here with your 
whole family turning out to be one big supportive 
clan..." 

Mulder petered off, unable to really press home the 
only point that mattered. 

"Don’t be such an asshole," Skinner said angrily. 

A pause. 

Then, in something as close to a reasonable tone as 
Mulder ever heard him use, "Can’t you just let things 
be? You belong with me. Let the rest work itself out. 
And if you don’t want to be here, you can go back. 
This was supposed to be fun. If you’re not having any, 
then you should leave. I’m not going to hold it over 
you." 

"I belong with--" 

Mulder was silent for a moment. Then said as casually 
as he could, "So *this* isn’t a difficulty for you?" 

Skinner growled something impotently and gathered 
Mulder to him, saying in frustration, "Fuck, Mulder. I 
hate talking about this shit, you know that. How long 
have we been at *this*? No. You jerk. No. It’s not a 
difficulty for me. Not any more. Is it for you?" 

Mulder started to shake his head and realized Skinner 
couldn’t see him do that. "No," he said quietly, feeling 
like he was admitting to torturing small animals to 
death, "No, it’s not a difficulty for me." 

Skinner exhaled noisily then, making a point of being 
heard. 

"Okay. Do you want to leave?" 

"No," Mulder said again, desperate to end this yay-nay 
conversation. "Alright? No." 

"Good. So shut up, Mulder," Skinner said, bringing his 
hand back to Mulder’s face, slowly, cautiously. "Let’s 
have a meaningful silence, if you need to have 
something. You like those right?" 

Mulder let Skinner’s hand find his jaw, helpless in the 
face of the same old intoxication, made worse by its 
matter-of-fact invasion of each and every part of him. 
Wondered curiously with the part of his brain that was 
still considering the bigger picture what Skinner 
thought he needed to be so careful about. He moved a 
little uncomfortably and the other man immediately 
began stroking his side again with his other hand, 
which had fallen still. Mulder bit back an urge to toss 
his head and whinny. For fuck’s sake. He turned 
around, leant forward, found Skinner’s mouth by the 
expeditious route of bumping hard against it and cut off 
a muffled curse from the other man by kissing him. 

After a long, sweet minute, Mulder made his point and 
grinned into the darkness as Skinner, with another 
particularly exasperated string of curses, slid his hands 
roughly under Mulder’s sweater and t-shirt, found some 
skin and sighed in satisfaction. Mulder put out his 
hands, palms down, behind him on the rock and leant 
back to give Skinner better access to him. Skinner 
leant forward and rested his cheek against his chest, 
idly stroking over Mulder’s right nipple with skilled 
fingers, alternately soothing and irritating the sensitive 
flesh, until Mulder said between gritted teeth, "Is that all 
you’re going to do?" 

He felt Skinner smile against him before he licked a 
long, flat path along Mulder’s stomach and then 
upwards to his navel. His tongue moved in small, 
catlike strokes that had Mulder hissing his name and 
grudging the darkness the sight of that smile, all too 
rarely seen. Then Skinner stood up abruptly, bringing 
Mulder flowing up along with him in a confused, 
throbbing heap of flesh and bones. 

"Wha--?" 

"Come on, Mulder," Skinner gripped him by one wrist 
and pulled him firmly into his own body, "this will be 
nice, don't worry." 

Mulder moved a little and began unzipping himself, 
only to find Skinner’s hands over his own, stopping him 
and then Skinner was whispering in his ear, "Don’t. 
Don’t do that. Just come here." 

Mulder stopped and Skinner pulled him back into his 
arms, wrapping them around him. Warm, strong hands 
massaged his back and ass and even though it was a 
little painful, Mulder found himself asking quietly for 
more, telling Skinner not to stop, not to stop on pain of 
death. He waited in tensed anticipation for that 
signature moment when the hard, knowing touch
changed into a softer, sultry type of persuasion; all the 
more dangerous for its refusal to be denied. 

He wanted to make his pleasure known and use his 
admission to ask for more but, as always at this early 
juncture, such frankness was unpalatable to him. They 
were both startling mirrors of each other in their 
lovemaking; Mulder began with social decrees and 
cautious advances and Skinner was led by impulse, 
following his whim and invading Mulder with a certain 
reckless anarchy which aroused as much as it 
antagonized Mulder. So, as he did each time they 
began this progression, he started from high ground, 
and made strategically vague demands. 

"Please," he said, his voice more strained than he 
knew, ‘Please. More." 

"Not right now," Skinner said firmly, if with a touch of 
regret, "This is as much as you get right now." 

Mulder stilled in disbelief. "This?? This is what we’re 
going to do instead of- Jesus, Walter, I practically had 
my sweater up over my head, like some teenage virgin. 
And you’re hugging me?" 

Skinner replied, his voice all husky benediction, "You’re 
such a fucking shit, Mulder. Just let me hold you 
without gagging you for the privilege of it, okay?" 

Then he bent his head to Mulder’s ear and murmured 
confidentially, "Although we both know you like that. 
Don’t we?" 

Mulder stiffened, then slumped in resignation and said 
in irritation, "You’re a hack, Walter. I’ve probably given 
myself pneumonia, you know. You’re going to have to 
spend the rest of our holidays nursing me back to 
health."

Skinner rubbed one side of his jaw against Mulder’s 
soft hair. "Do you want to go back inside? You’re 
guaranteed a more attentive audience there." 

"Shut up," Mulder said balefully, staying right where he 
was. 

And surprised himself by mumbling an involuntary 
protest when, a few minutes later, Skinner stopped his 
rough, warm caresses and stepped away. 

"Come on. We have to go back or they’ll think we’ve 
fallen into the lake." 

Mulder remembered what else he wanted to say. 

"Walter? About your present..." 

"Mulder, let’s start walking, for fuck’s sake. It’s cold." 

"I tossed your present in the lake." 

Nothing. Only Skinner, Mulder thought resentfully, 
could make these silences speak so stridently. He 
could feel the disbelief rolling off the other man, though 
he couldn’t see him. 

"It was only your fake present though," Mulder offered 
by way of consolation, feeling more and more like an ass. 

"Mulder?" Skinner said quietly. 

"Yeah?" 

"Why are you giving me fake presents?" 

"I thought it would be fun. I have a real present for you." 

Another silence. 

"But my fake present - you threw that in the lake?" 

"Yes, for fuck’s sake, yes. Don’t you listen?" 

"So," Skinner said almost kindly, "What was it?" 

"You don’t want to know why I threw it in the lake?" 
Mulder asked. 

"I’m sure I can work that out for myself," Skinner 
replied dryly. 

"It was a plaque," Mulder said, suddenly hearing 
himself loud and clear in the dark night and wishing 
Skinner to the ends of the earth. 

Skinner said nothing so he went on doggedly, biting 
the words out. 

"There’s a picture on it. A black and white drawing of a 
man, uh, naked. There’s uh well, lube. There’s lube. 
And a hand which is, well, inserting the lube with...with 
all fingers except the thumb which is...making a 
thumbs up sign." 

A deep breath. Then, "It also said ‘To Walter S. 
Skinner - For Outstanding Service in...in the Line of 
Booty."

"And you were going to give this to me in front 
of...them?" Skinner asked tonelessly 

No need to identify who the ‘them’ was. Mulder felt 
his face heating up, equal parts anger and 
embarrassment. Playing ‘Open Sesame’ without a 
password. Hardly a grown up game. Nothing grown 
up about his reaction when he wasn’t allowed in. Still. 
Here he was. Still hanging around Skinner Central, 
pressing on secret panels and knocking on hollow 
walls. Looking for a little bit of faith, to take him 
that extra distance. 

"Walter, what do you think they think we do?" he 
demanded, "You think they don’t know about lube and 
all that stuff?" 

He went on, before Skinner could interrupt, "Okay, I 
agree - who knows what your mother thinks. She’s 
from another planet. I know. I know. But anyway -
did you think I’m such an asshole that I’d give it to you 
in front of them?" 

"Not really," Skinner said, his tone so mild that Mulder 
was driven to scuff one shoe roughly into the 
unresisting gravel beneath their feet. 

"I’ve been carrying it around with me all night so I could 
give it to you when we got a minute alone," Mulder said 
curtly. 

"I didn’t notice," Skinner said and Mulder knew he was 
trying to be conciliatory. 

"Well, anyway," he said, accepting the truce, "It’s at the 
bottom of that lake now. So forget about it." 

"Good idea. Let’s go back."

They trudged back up the hill slowly, in silence, until 
Skinner slung a companionable arm around Mulder’s 
shoulders and said with an edge of plaintive inquiry, 
"Booty?" 

Mulder stopped. Leant his head against Skinner’s 
broad frame and stood there for an endless moment, 
shaking with laughter, low and hard. Skinner curled his 
hand around his left shoulder and pulled him in closer 
for that moment, his grip tight and proprietary. Then he 
shook Mulder off and gave him a not ungentle push in 
the back to move him along. 

Mulder got himself under control by the time they 
reached the warm, yellow light of the house and turned 
to look at Skinner before they went back inside. Took 
in the broad, remote planes of his face and the dark 
eyes turning even darker as they adjusted to the light. 
He shook his head at the other man then, filled with a 
painful, inarticulate love of all things Skinner; seen and 
unseen. Got a bland, inquiring look back in return and 
the faint raise of an eyebrow. For a moment, he was 
on the brink of unstoppable laughter again. Skinner’s 
mouth twitched then, and he elbowed Mulder sharply in 
the ribs and said in a low, relaxed voice, “Stop it.” 

He got a few stares when he went back in but Skinner 
said something urbane and vague in his best AD voice 
about fresh air and misunderstandings and there the 
matter rested. Both brother and sister managed to 
catch his eye at different times and flash him a nice, 
decent smile. He flushed and summoned up his own 
grin back at them. An hour later, they were all three 
caught up in animated conversation and he was feeling 
pretty good. Probably the beer talking too. 

Or maybe it was the hard, stern looks that Skinner kept 
giving him from across the room. He wisely curbed the 
urge to burst out merrily "Here I am, Walter - look, no 
hands!" It was, he consoled himself, good for Skinner 
to wonder if he was behaving himself. At the very 
least, it would give him an ulcer or two. Either way, by 
the time the gathering was pared down to just Skinner, 
his brother, sister, his mother and Mulder himself, he 
was feeling pretty good. 

Skinner’s mother, Paula, announced gleefully that they 
were going to open their presents, since it was nearly 
christmas. Her children groaned in unison but she paid> 


Transfer interrupted!

shepherded them all, 
including, Mulder was amused to see, a highly irritated 
and graceless Skinner, into the living room. There, a 
large pine tree held court, carrying, what Mulder was 
sure, must have been its maximum load of ornaments, 
candy canes and tinsel. 

Skinner’s mother was a monument to the festive 
season. All year round. A more hapless contrast 
would be difficult to find. Both his brother and sister – 
while far more sociable than Skinner could be, even in 
his nightmares - noticeably shared Skinner’s reserved, 
solitary nature. They spoke when they had something 
to say and not when they didn’t. They laughed more 
easily than Skinner but not more loudly. In their own 
quiet way, both had made Mulder feel more than 
welcome. 

Skinner’s mother, on the other hand, was an anomaly. 
She was a dainty, warm and dippy woman, very much 
the gracious lady of the manor. Like some children’s 
character stuck in an alternate reality, she lived in a 
world of her own peculiar logic. Her children carefully 
let her have her head and do as she would, while trying 
to manage her covertly, with varying degrees of 
success and a lot of love. 

He was snapped out of both his analysis and good 
mood by a sudden exclamation from Paula. 

"Ooh. Who is this from? It says ‘Mulder’ on it." 

The question was largely academic, Paula having 
carefully made everyone else open their presents until 
only Skinner’s and Mulder’s presents to each other and 
her present to them both, were left. That she managed 
this despite Skinner’s best efforts to stop her, 
impressed Mulder a great deal. He resolved to ask her 
what it was about the way in which she regarded him 
with a faint wrinkle between her brows and her head to 
one side, that so thoroughly and comprehensively
defeated Skinner. 

"It’s from me. To Mulder," Skinner said wearily while 
his brother and sister grinned at each other. 

"Walter, you should have asked me, darling," Paula 
poked a delicate fingertip at the tight, unforgiving knots 
of ribbon around the present and ran a doubtful eye 
over the masses of industrial tape used to stick the 
edges of the wrapping paper down. 

Skinner thrust the present at Mulder, who received it 
with a suspiciously wide eyed look, his mobile mouth 
quirking as he caught Skinner’s scowl. 

"Thank you, Walter. I’m sure I’ll love it, whatever it is. 
Because you bought it for me. Beca--" 

"Mulder," Skinner said warningly, a glint in his dark, flat 
gaze, speaking eloquently to Mulder of threats of pain 
and torture, "Open it." 

Mulder opened it to find a first edition copy of one of 
his texts that was falling apart. Skinner had found him, 
one day, working himself up into a childish rage as he 
had struggled to put the pages back into their right 
order and tape the spine of the book together. And, 
Mulder remembered with a twinge of resentment, taken 
over the task from him, calmly and capably. He 
couldn’t believe Skinner had remembered that isolated 
incident. They hadn’t even been together then. But 
clearly he had. 

He knew he must look like he’d won the lottery and 
carefully kept his eyes on the book as he said, "The 
Psychopathology of Serial Murder: A Theory in 
Violence”. Walter, you remembered." 

Skinner gave a noncommittal grunt and said, "Well, 
you were in such agony over it. And being such an 
ass. Hard to forget." 

"Well now!" Paula exclaimed, a little uncertainly, "Isn’t 
that... nice!" 

Mulder looked up then and joined the real world and 
saw three pairs of eyes looking carefully at both the 
book title and himself. 

"It’s a very...*good* book," he offered weakly. 

Skinner nodded pleasantly. "You should see how 
attached he is to it," he said smoothly, barely flinching 
when Mulder’s kick caught him on his shin, "Never 
leaves home without it." 

Paula looked at Mulder fondly and said, "I hope you 
come back again. Walter really comes out of his shell 
around you." 

Leaving both Mulder and Skinner gaping at that 
comment, she grabbed another present. 

"Ooh. ‘To Walter, Merry Christmas – Mulder’ What 
could this be? It’s so big!!" 

She held the elaborately wrapped present up to her ear 
and shook it with immense satisfaction until Skinner’s 
brother intervened. 

"Mom, for God’s sake, you’re going to break it." 

"Anthony, you’re such a fusspot. Not a good trait in a 
man, dear. You’ll never land yourself a nice girl at this 
rate." 

She shook it once again fearsomely hard, clearly 
disappointed not to hear anything rattle. 

"Oh for fu—" 

Skinner’s sister talked over their brother, diplomatically, 
a grin on her face. 

"Mom, you’d be the one most upset if anything’s 
broken. Anthony knows that. Anyway, it’s Walter’s 
present. Let him open it already so we can see what it 
is." 

"You’re right, Liz. She’s right. Anthony, you know I 
love you darling. I’m so proud of you. You know how I 
get, this time of year. All this fuss and bother; it’s 
really not me at all." 

A flabbergasted silence greeted this blatant untruth 
while Skinner’s mother carefully tucked a stray wisp of 
hair behind her right ear. 

"In fact," Paula announced brightly, "I’ve been thinking 
how much that country look is for me. Of course, it’ll 
mean redecorating from top down but well, I’m 
prepared to go through all that darlings, if it means I 
can simplify my life a little. I think, really, a little 
sacrifice is called for. A little *courage*, you know." 

Her children exchanged speaking looks of mingled 
affection and exasperation. 

Skinner finally leant over and eased the present out of 
his mother’s hands, saying mildly, "Before we get into 
Country Kitsch, Mom, let me open this. Maybe Tony, 
you could...?" 

"Sure, sure," Skinner’s brother got up hastily, saying, 
"Mom, another glass of wine for you. Coming right up." 

"Doahhn." 

Skinner didn’t turn his head. Just said "What?" as he 
fiddled impatiently with the ribbon around the gift. 

"No. NO. Doahn." 

All eyes turned to Mulder, whose jaw was working 
overtime, as he tried to form some words that didn’t 
look like they were coming out that year. 

Skinner put down the present and leant over, putting 
one hand on Mulder’s back. 

"What is it? Are you okay?" 

"Don’t.. The present. Don’t." 

"What? What about the present? What are you talking 
about?" 

His horror so great that he was unable to push any 
more words out, Mulder finally pulled his hand out of 
his pants pocket and thrust a small box at Skinner. 

"What is this?" 

"Yoh." 

All the Skinners looked at him keenly, like he had just 
set them a very interesting puzzle to solve. 

"What was that, Mulder?" 

"Do you think he’s having some kind of attack?" 

"Can. You. HEAR. Us. Dear?" Skinner’s mother 
mouthed loudly and slowly at Mulder, cupping one 
manicured hand delicately behind her left ear. 

Mulder wished he was dead or at the very least, at the 
bottom of that goddamned lake. 

"Yours," he managed to grunt finally at Skinner. 

Skinner frowned in consternation. He looked at the 
present in his mother’s hands. He looked at the box 
Mulder had thrown at him. He looked at the present 
again. A dark and terrible suspicion began to dawn on 
him. He leant over, practically tore the gift out of his 
mother’s hands and tossed it over to Mulder. Who 
tossed it back at him like it was a hot brick. Skinner 
glared at him. Mulder turned a deeper shade of red. 
The others watched them both with carefully neutral 
expressions, except for Paula, who said fondly, "Oh 
you boys!" 

Skinner finally cleared his throat and said awkwardly, 
"This is a bit of a mix-up. This," he indicated at the 
little 
box in his lap, "is Mulder’s present to me." 

"This," he carefully picked up the other present and put 
it to one side, "is a private present." 

Mulder looked up and met Skinner’s sister’s expressive 
eyes, brimming with amusement. He bit his lip, trying 
desperately hard not to laugh, aware that Skinner was 
ready to rip his scalp off, given the least excuse. 

He sprang to his feet instead and said unsteadily, "I’ll 
go put this away right now. So there are no...no more 
misunderstandings." 

He felt Skinner’s eyes boring a hole through his 
shoulder blades as he left and was so busy grinning all 
the way to the bedroom and back that it wasn’t until he 
had returned that the thought struck him forcibly. 

What the hell had he thrown into the lake? 

Almost on cue, Paula said fretfully just as he re-
entered the room, "Liz, don’t tell me I don’t know where 
I kept it. I wrapped it and put it right under this tree, 
right here. So. Where is it gone?" 

Mulder felt Skinner stiffen in belated realization next to 
him. He looked steadfastly ahead, refusing to catch 
the other man’s eye. 

Anthony said heavily, with the air of someone who had 
been here before, "Mom, you’d better tell us what it is 
so we can search for it." 

"It was the most beautiful little teapot you ever saw, 
Anthony. I was telling Walter all about it just yesterday, 
wasn’t I, Walter?" 

Skinner made a strangled sound, half-way between a 
cough and a snarl. Mulder stood, frozen, next to him. 

Skinner’s brother and sister stopped searching then 
and turned to look at he and Mulder. 

Paula’s eyes narrowed suddenly. "Walter?" she said in 
glacial tones reserved for a small and incredibly 
naughty child, "Do you know something about this?" 

"Don’t even think about it!" Mulder hissed frantically, 
trying in vain to catch Skinner’s eye. 

Skinner turned to Mulder and gave him an ominously 
benevolent smile. 

Then, before Mulder could say or do anything, he said 
thoughtfully, "I can’t be sure Mom but I think that 
Mulder threw your teapot into the lake." 

In the ensuing chaos, Skinner walked over to the bar 
and poured himself a large whiskey. Watching Paula 
reach for the fireside poker purposefully and Mulder 
begin to skitter away after one last hunted look at 
Skinner, he felt emboldened enough to place his glass 
right there on the side table, without even reaching for 
a coaster.

****************************************

TWO DAYS LATER, DRIVING HOME.... 

"She threatens to gut me open with a poker one day 
and tells me to come back again, the next." 

"Yeah," Skinner said, "She’s good like that." 

Mulder shot Skinner a greasy, dirty look. 

"And you. You handed me straight over. Bastard." 

Skinner looked like he wanted to smile but pursed his 
lips instead, as if to whistle. 

Mulder glared at him. "Don’t make a sound." 

Skinner muttered something under his breath that 
Mulder couldn’t quite hear and kept driving. Mulder 
looked at him long and hard, daring him to repeat it. 
Skinner didn’t. Instead he watched the road with an air 
of rapt attention and far too much satisfaction for 
Mulder’s liking. He settled into his seat to sulk for as 
long as he could manage. 

It turned out to be longer than he expected. 
Somewhere along the way, he fell asleep and came 
awake with a gasp, leaving behind a confusing dream 
of hot showers and guilt. 

Skinner, thinking he’d had a bad dream, said quietly, 
"You’re awake. In the car. Relax." 

Mulder groaned as a tiny memory surfaced slowly and 
said, "No, it wasn’t a bad dream. I remembered 
something though. You’re not going to like it." 

Skinner tensed behind the wheel. "What now?" 

"Mm. Well, look, bear in mind how busy we both were 
before we left, okay? It was an easy mistake to make. 
Could have happened to any—" 

"Spit it out, Mulder." 

Mulder sighed and then said apologetically, "I forgot to 
pay the electricity bill. We’re going to have to shack up 
somewhere for the night. If you want a hot shower 
when we get back, that is." 

Skinner turned his head, oblivious to the change in 
traffic lights and stared at him for one murderous, 
disbelieving second. 

"Mulder, you’re fucking kidding me. We’re going to 
have to stay at a goddamned motel now. Yeah I want 
a shower. Jesus! How did you for--? I told you. 
Specifically. To pay that fucking bill. Do I want a sho-
Fuck! I cannot believe you." 

The car behind them had the temerity to use its horn to 
alert them to the green light. Skinner swung around in 
his seat to glare at its hapless driver for a few long, 
dangerous seconds until he saw him reach uneasily for 
his car phone. 

Then he put his foot on the pedal and accelerated 
down the freeway for a few, mutely manic yards before 
easing up and turning his attention back to 
Mulder. 

Mulder said helpfully, "You’re turning red. Do you 
know what stress does to arteries as old as yours?" 

Skinner opened his mouth, struggled soundlessly for 
an apoplectic second and then ground out, "Do you 
know what my boot in your infantile ass is going to do 
to it?" 

"Walter, you don’t mean that. You told me you’re not 
into kinky sex." 

"I take it all back. All that christmas cheer you 
swallowed somewhere when I wasn’t looking, is doing 
nothing for your personality." 

"It’s the festive season, Walter. I’m entitled to it. 
What’re you going to do about it?" 

Skinner said grimly as he hung an unnecessarily tight 
left turn into a motel car park, the first one they had 
seen so far, "A hot shower and some food. Then I’m 
going to fuck it out of you."

Mulder grinned, delighted, and said smugly, "Oh and to 
think I was going to offer to pay for the room." 

Skinner snorted and said dryly, "You? Pay for the 
room? Does that include all the shit you’re going to try 
and order up when you think I’m not looking? Or the 
bath robe that you’re going to try and steal? Or the 
things that you’ll lose or break?" 

Mulder knew he still had that same grin on his face, 
stretched wider if anything; shamelessly screaming all 
the things he tried to keep on a controlled leash. He 
didn’t give a fuck. 

Instead he said theatrically, "I’m prepared to pay for 
those in the time honored currency." 

Skinner feigned astonishment and then ponderously 
shook hands on the deal with Mulder, muttering, "You 
can pay *me* in that. The staff can have my Visa 
card." 

Mulder sniggered in the unselfconscious way of a man
who had had a lot of practice with bad jokes and 
punchy dialogue. Skinner carefully ignored him. 

Finally Mulder asked, for the sake of conversation, "Did 
you like your real present?" 

To his surprise, a fleeting but genuine look of dismay 
crossed Skinner’s face. 

"I didn’t tell you?" 

"Uh, no," Mulder said, bemused, "but I assume you 
would have told me if you didn’t." 

Skinner looked indefinably irate then and said, "I’d like 
to think you could assume I’d tell you if I did." 

Mulder shrugged, not sure what the big deal was. "But 
you don’t," he pointed out prosaically. 

"Never?" Skinner asked, allowing some curiosity to 
show. 

"Not never," Mulder said impatiently, "but nearly. Look, 
it’s no big deal. You liked them right?" 

Skinner looked at him expressionlessly for a second. 
Then, as was customary, answered a question with a 
question, "Cuff links. You knew I wanted that pair. 
How?" 

"You talked about them once when we walked past a 
window in the mall. I remembered. Like you 
remembered my book. That’s all." 

"I should have said so earlier," Skinner said, his voice 
suddenly dark and hostile, although Mulder could tell it 
wasn’t aimed at him, "and I didn’t but I really like them, 
Mulder. A lot." 

Mulder nodded and said quietly, "I’m glad, Walter. I 
knew you did, you know. It’s okay." 

Not particularly inspiring words to his mind but they 
seemed to put Skinner at ease once more. He nodded 
back at Mulder and then watched the road for another 
long spell before talking again.

"So," he said. 

That one word was always a smoke signal that the 
conversation was going to turn serious. Mulder, with 
no intention of giving away all his secrets or the fact 
that he was mentally sitting up straight, lifted an 
eyebrow and drawled lazily, "So?" 

Turning to look at him, his eyes very dark, Skinner 
asked, "Think you could stand going back there next 
year, if you don’t get a better offer?" 

Mulder turned his head away and looked out the 
window for a long moment, watching the people go by. 
A dog standing on the nature strip barked madly at 
them, inviolate and secure in its monarchy. 

"Sure. The year after and the one after that and if by 
then, I haven’t had a better offer, the one after the one 
after that too and... you know, so forth." 

A strong, warm hand came down on his thigh and 
Skinner said clearly, keeping his other hand to himself, 
"I like you. You throw my mother’s presents into a 
lake, I know. But I like you anyway." 

Mulder coughed a small, polite cough. Then said, "I 
like you too. I think we’ve had this conversation 
before." 

Skinner’s hand tightened on his thigh but he only said 
calmly, "Yeah we have. It’s a good one." 

Mulder made some small sound he hadn’t even known 
he was going to make and Skinner said in that same, 
unhurried, calm voice, "That must have been some 
poker she waved at you. I can’t believe you want to go 
back there." 

"If you want to know," Mulder said confidentially, "by 
the time I’m done with you, I’m hoping to sink an entire 
dinner set into that lake."

Skinner belted out that bark of laughter again. "I think 
I’ve lost my fucking mind." 

"Ye of little faith, Walter,' Mulder said airily but covered 
Skinner’s hand with his own and traced the lines along 
his palm with one finger. 

"Don’t tell me," Skinner said in resignation, "You’re 
going to live forever and get the last laugh. I know this 
already." 

"You’re a smart man, Walter baby," Mulder said, busily
winding up his window, "Come on, let’s get this show 
on the road. You promised to fuck me miserable." 

Skinner opened his car door and before Mulder let go 
of his other hand, for the sake of a little private 
superstition, he brought it to his chest for a moment, 
pressing Skinner’s palm to his heart. Feeling his body 
coming alive in anticipation, he could see that a little 
faith was going to take him a long way once he found 
it. In the meantime, a little luck for the rest of his 
life in the uncooperative shape of the man next to him 
would be just as fine. He really believed that. 

********************************************** 

The End.

I have an insane urge to write another part with Pablo 
a supercillious Chilean desk clerk in it, Maria the 
disapproving and austere cleaning lady and at least 
one irritatingly talkative, earnest college kid named 
Benny who has the instant hots for Skinner, amongst 
others. With a bit of angst and understanding sex 
thrown in for good measure. Somebody, stop me. 

I don’t understand why this seems like a good idea. I 
have a serial killer to keep writing about – (part 7 out in 
another day. Truly.) I think there’s something being put 
in my water. I mean, I’m not a conspiracy theorist or 
anything, but I hear fish fuck in it. 

If you read this far, ta very much for condoning the 
lunacy. 

Cheers, 

Olivia