MJ

Fox Mulder dragged himself to his office on Tuesday morning still smarting from his previous day's reaming by Assistant Director Kersh. The Monday reaming had been a replay, albeit somewhat enhanced, of one he'd received from Kersh on Friday. He shook his head as he walked in the door; Kersh's tongue-lashings made Walter Skinner's concept of chewing Mulder out look tame by comparison. Skinner, at least, gave a shit, Mulder reflected ruefully; all Kersh wanted to do was bust his chops. He was damned if he was going to let Kersh have his way in the matter, however. That stupid Bermuda Triangle incident he'd gotten himself into had made it fairly clear that for some reason Skinner was still looking out for him, for no clear reason and despite a reported series of upper-echelon threats to Skinner about being found within a mile of either Mulder or Dana Scully. That was enough reassurance to keep him on his feet to get back at Kersh.

"Hi, Mulder," Dana Scully called to him without turning her head. "Glad you're still alive after they threw you to the wolves yesterday. I was almost afraid that you weren't going to make it in."

Her partner headed directly to the coffeepot and grabbed his mug, gaily decorated with the scene of Gort on the Mall from "The Day the Earth Stood Still." "Nah, Scully, you know me. I live for supervisory abuse. Getting flayed alive by Kersh thrills me to the bottom of my soul—and he didn't even send me a bill this time." Scully winced. She had never appreciated Walter Skinner's blind eye for their expenses until Kersh had decided to make them pay up for the incident in Nevada. If there was any way out of Kersh's supervision, she was going to find it. She'd never really understood Mulder's disrespect for authority, even with Blevins, until now. One of the cable channels had run "The Ten Commandments" the other night, and she had, as always, watched it faithfully. Kersh could have been a pyramid construction supervisor, whip and all, she reflected. Mulder strolled to his desk, coffee in hand, anticipating another day of photographs of cattle mutilations, crop circles, and phony UFOs. What he wasn't expecting on his desk was a small parcel, wrapped in shiny blue-and-silver foil, with a small cylinder of the same paper taped to it. "Scully, what's this?"

Scully looked up from a report she was reviewing. "Looks like a package, Mulder. Probably a present."

"Why did you bring me a present? It's not my birthday, and Christmas isn't for two weeks." He sat down and scowled at the package.

"Who says I left it there? It's not from me." She put her file down, came around to Mulder's desk, and picked the item up, staring closely. "Oh." Still holding it, she ran to her handbag and extracted a pocket calendar. "Judging from close examination of the Star of David pattern on the wrapping paper and today's date, Mulder, I'd say someone left you a Hanukkah present." She handed it back to him. "The least you can do is open it. Maybe there's a note."

Mulder tore at the wrapping paper—just like a guy, thought Scully, who always unwrapped gifts neatly, just as her mother did, although she never followed her mother's paper recycling habit. The package contained a snow-globe of the Challenger space shuttle. "Somebody knows me," Mulder joked. He opened the cylinder more carefully; inside was one red candle. "And figures I didn't stop at the Safeway to get candles. They're right." He set the snow globe down, and hit his hand against another small package, this one flat enough to have been overlooked at first glance. Inside it was a small brass Hanukkah menorah, the type that Scully remembered some of her college friends having in their dorms. "And here's where the candle goes, I presume."

"No note?" Scully asked, curious.

"Nope. Let's see. It's someone who knows I'm Jewish, knows I have a space knick-knacks collection or else just figures I'm out in space, and gets here early enough or stays late enough to leave presents without being noticed by us. Does that describe anyone here?"

"Other than knowing you're Jewish, Mulder, only about half of the building. Keep profiling."

By the next morning, Scully and Mulder had entirely forgotten the mystery present—until Mulder came in and sat down at his desk. Two candles, one green and one yellow, lay on either side of another small parcel. Mulder opened it. "What are those?" Scully asked him.

"Uh—they're dreidels. I haven't seen one of these in years. They're tops, but they're marked on each side for playing "Put-and-take." They're traditional at Hanukkah."

Scully picked up the blue dreidel and spun it on a clear patch on Mulder's desk. "Encouraging kids to gamble?" she laughed. "I doubt it'll replace Bingo."

"Yeah, but you don't play Bingo for chocolate coins, Scully." At the news that there was such a thing as gambling for chocolate, Scully perked up. "We always got these little bags of gold-covered chocolate coins and played each other for them. The chocolate was usually lousy, but it was principle, you know?" Scully nodded, spinning the dreidel again. "You want one? You can have it. I'll bring in chocolate miniature bars tomorrow and we can gamble for Special Dark bars."

The third morning brought three candles—blue, orange, and white—and…a bag of chocolate coins. It also brought Scully's annual Hanukkah present for her partner, this year a silk tie with the Tasmanian Devil acting out colorfully on it in a small print. "I couldn't think of anything to top that coffee mug I got you last year," she apologized. "So I got you something that looks like you after a meeting with Kersh."

The fourth morning was Friday. Four candles, and a glow-in-the -dark plastic alien on a key chain. "Just what I always wanted," Mulder joked—but Scully saw him attaching it to his car keys. "I wonder what's going to happen to my mystery friend over the weekend."

The answer to the weekend question was supplied at eleven o'clock Saturday morning. Molly Anstruther, Mulder's neighbor, knocked on his door as he was sorting through a pile of laundry. "Mr. Mulder? This was in the lobby with your name on it when I came in with my groceries about fifteen minutes ago. I thought you might want it."

"Thanks, Mrs. Anstruther." Mulder took the box from her and opened it, to find two smaller boxes inside, each one neatly labelled for the fifth and sixth days with the day and date marked as well. Mulder stared; finally, a handwriting sample. Unfortunately, it was very neat block printing, although something about it looked decidedly familiar. His gift-giver seemed harmless enough, so neither parcel was likely to contain a letter-bomb; Mulder decided to open his Saturday present immediately. Five candles, one in almost every color that came in the Hanukkah candle box, and a wrapped package. Under the wrapping paper was a thin cardboard box which clearly contained exactly what was shown on the printing—a bottle of Glenfiddich. "I don't think this is traditional for Hanukkah, but I'd better keep my mouth shut." He stared thoughtfully at the other contents of the larger parcel, sighed, and decided to save the contents for Sunday, following directions. At this point, it hardly seemed fair to spoil the game.

He picked the wrapping paper from the Scotch up off of his coffee table. A small card fell out. "Okay, here goes." The card was blank on one side, with a message typed on the other—"Clear your calendar for Tuesday night. Invitation to follow." Setting the card aside, he ran a hand through his hair. "God, I know I haven't set foot in a synagogue since my Bar Mitzvah. Except for Chuck's wedding, sorry. But if you promise me that this isn't from Hilda Seligson on the sixth floor, I'll go back to shul for Yom Kippur this year. Please, God, NOT Hilda Seligson." Hilda Seligson was in linguistics and was forever making it clear to any good-looking eligible male that she knew more about tongues and their uses than anyone else in town. Her demonstration of German gutturals one afternoon had nearly taken her tongue on a tonsillectomy inspection of Mulder's throat before he managed to escape her clutches.

Mulder fell asleep on the couch that night during an all-night cable channel Godzilla marathon, probably, he figured, as he woke up, somewhere during a battle with Mothra. It was six o'clock Sunday morning. Mulder reached for the remote and surfed until he found a channel that wasn't showing an exercise infomercial, and then, remembering that it was Sunday, reached for the parcel on the coffee table. There was no one around to tell him that it was too early to open his present. It dawned on Mulder that he was behaving exactly like a six-year old with a Christmas present. He was actually having fun with his anonymous gift-giver who knew he liked aliens and drank Scotch. What -besides six candles—could there be today? He shredded the wrapping paper. Yes, six candles. If there was ever a blackout in the neighborhood, he was set. Now—what else? He opened the box carefully, then laughed. A blue Marvin the Martian T-shirt, a heavy one with an embroidered Marvin and K-9 on it. "It can't be Hilda Seligson. She'd have sent me a pair of Marvin boxers and a box of condoms with a note by now." Was it time to call Scully yet? He debated, then decided to watch some bad television and have coffee for a bit first.

About an hour later, the telephone rang. It was Scully, getting ready for Mass, checking in on him. "Okay, Mulder, did your mysterious friend send you anything?"

"Yeah, Scully," he chuckled. "My secret pal sent me a bottle of Scotch and a Marvin the Martian shirt. Whoever it is has good taste in aliens."

"Any clues about who your secret Santa—or is it your secret Judah Maccabee? I don't know—is yet?"

"Uh, Scully, didn't they ever tell you about Harry Hanukkah? He's the guy who brings good Jewish boys and girls their Hanukkah presents. He's a dermatologist and he drives a Lincoln from town to town handing out presents and referring girls to his brother the plastic surgeon for nose jobs."

"Mulder, you're nuts."

"Same to you. Anyway, no hints yet but I got a note threatening a dinner invitation."

"Is this Hilda Seligson's way of trying to get you on a date?"

"I don't think so, Scully. Anyhow, I hope the hell not. If Hilda Seligson and I were the last people on earth, I guarantee there'd be zero population growth."

Mulder arrived at work on Monday morning with a sense of anticipation having nothing to do with the file full of midwestern fertilizer receipts that he knew Kersh would have had sent down to his desk. As far as he was concerned, midwestern farmers could terrorize all the fields they wanted; he and Scully hadn't unearthed one mad bomber yet, though their field work had caused them to be invited to some really delicious farmhouse meals—the only benefit either of them had found from the domestic terrorism caseload, and one they had no intention of letting Kersh hear about. When he walked in, Scully was sitting at his desk, waving a small wrapped item. "Your present awaits," she announced, smiling. "Hurry up and open it. I want to see what it is."

Mulder examined it. "It looks like someone wrapped an envelope."

"Money?"

"With my luck, all of this has been a buildup to this being a mysterious set of directions to meet an unknown informant somewhere in the back hills of Kentucky at midnight on Thursday." He tore the wrapping paper off; the contents, as he had surmised, turned out to be an envelope. He felt it. "Doesn't feel like a map, and no computer disks in it; that's good news right there." He tore the edge off of the envelope, shaking out the contents, a small piece of pasteboard and a note.

Scully grabbed the pasteboard. "It's a ticket to the Clapton concert on Saturday, you lucky bastard. And it's a good seat. You don't want it, I'll take it."

"Like hell you will, Scully." Mulder unfolded the note. Typed; he should have known. "The note says, 'I have the other ticket; hope you'll be able to join me Saturday night. Tell me at dinner tomorrow. Check your email for details.'"

"Your secret admirer has good taste," Scully told him. "Which means it's not Hilda Seligson, that's for certain. Have you got any clues?"

"Knows I'm Jewish, sends me aliens, buys good Scotch, must like Eric Clapton. And is somehow able to get things around this building anytime they want to."

"A rich maintenance staffer?" Scully joked.

"Lord, I hope not." Mulder ran a hand through his hair. "Somebody must love me, huh?"

"I don't know," Scully mused. "I'd rather have a secret admirer leave me diamond earrings."

"What on earth would I do with diamond earrings, Scully?"

"Didn't you ever want a pierced ear, Mulder?"

"Had one in college. I got tired of it." Mulder headed to the coffee pot. "No piercings, no tattoos. Mister Conservative, that's me."

"Like hell," Scully snorted. "You ever get rid of that waterbed, Mulder? Or the leopard print sheets?"

"I WAS thinking about getting rid of the mirrors. There's something about seeing that much of yourself when you wake up in the morning that the human mind can't handle."

"You mean you don't want to watch yourself making wild monkey love to Hilda Seligson?"

Mulder made a particularly sour face. "After you, Scully."

"You'd prefer her brother?"

Mulder winced that time. "Low blow, partner. Watch it."

Scully swallowed. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry." She had forgotten Mulder's indirect connection to Derek Seligson. Hilda's brother, Derek, also at the Bureau, had been Alex Keycek's roommate at Quantico. Scully had spent more than one night a few years ago listening to Mulder berate himself for having gotten himself involved with Krycek. Apparently he and Derek had shared a few drinking sessions back then jointly castigating themselves for having ever noticed Krycek's existence. To the best of Scully's knowledge, only she, and maybe Hilda, knew that both men had been intimately involved with Krycek, although Scully was relatively certain that Walter Skinner, as well as she, knew about Mulder. "I didn't mean anything, Mulder."

"I know you didn't, Scully; I'm just getting hyper about this." Mulder began rearranging the pens on his desk into geometric patterns, fidgeting.

Scully shoved a thick file at him. "Here. Nitrate fertilizer should take the edge off of those nerves. It works for me."

"Yeah, this stuff could replace Sominex." Mulder stared listlessly at the file.

"Get cracking. We have an official weekly reaming by Kersh today after lunch." Scully smiled malevolently as she sharpened a pencil.

There were no emails later that day; Mulder was vaguely apprehensive by the time he left work. There were no messages on his home computer, either. He cracked open the Glenfiddich and poured a hefty Scotch on the rocks. Oh, well, if he'd been set up or stood up, he still had a bottle of Scotch, a cool shirt, and a Clapton concert ticket to show for Hanukkah; that was more than he'd gotten on the material end of the holiday in years. True, Scully always gave him a card and something cute, like this year's Tasmanian Devil necktie, but you expected that sort of thing. His old friend Chuck and his wife sent a card every year, and Frohike sent e-cards; last year he'd thrown a latke party as well. Admittedly, playing dreidel against Langly for cans of beer last year had been an event worth remembering, but most Hanukkah seasons were a major waste of holiday for Mulder. At least this Hanukkah had been interesting.

He walked into the office quietly the next morning. "So where's your mystery date taking you for dinner?" Scully prompted him.

Mulder shook his head. "Beats the hell out of me. No message, even last night."

"You'd better check this morning, then. Your eight candles are sitting there waiting for you."

"No mysterious wrapped packages?" Mulder asked as he seated himself and booted up his computer.

"Nope. I guess your date comes wrapped up later, lover boy."

Mulder opened his mail. "Junk, junk, a message from the Gunmen, two UFO sightings, something from "Fate" magazine—what the—? Okay, anonymous sender; that looks promising…Hoo boy, Scully, looks like I've got a blind date for happy hour, anyway. That, or a scavenger hunt; I'm not sure which."

"Oh?"

"I'm supposed to stop at Quigley's Pub at six sharp—not one minute before or after—yes, it says that. I'm supposed to identify myself to the bartender, and the bartender will give me directions from there."

"That's getting even more mysterious, Mulder. Could you get Frohike to break through the anonymous mailer business?"

"I could, but the guys might not get it finished before Mystery Date time." Mulder chewed his lip absently. Quigley's at six was an interesting choice. Like a few other bars in the area with really good food, it was a favorite government worker hangout at lunch, had a very mixed crowd during happy hour, and was primarily a gay bar in the evenings. Unlike Louie's, several blocks over, it didn't bring on male strippers at eight o'clock, but the straight after-work crowd didn't stay there long. If it were later, Mulder deliberated, he could count, at least, on his gift-giver being male, since none of the office lesbians were likely to be trying to fix themselves up with him. Six o'clock was anyone's guess. It seemed plausible that Mystery Date had chosen the place and time just to keep him off balance until he got there. Mulder took a profiling stab. "Okay, Scully, this is a guy. A straight female would never pick Quigley's after work. Later at night would be obvious, six is debatable; I'm betting they did this just to make me wonder. A straight female probably wouldn't think to play a game like that with me."

"I don't know; Mulder; I would."

"You don't count, Scully. You know me too well. Besides, we play 'mess with your head' with each other all the time for the hell of it. And if I do get to Quigley's and I find you there doing anything but snooping out of rank curiosity, I will make you miserable for all of next year."

Fortunately, Quigley's was a very short walk from the Hoover Building, which meant not having to fight for a parking space near the bar right after work. Mulder pulled on his coat, made his way to the elevator, and prepared to take the brief hike over there making guesses. Derek Seligson? Hardly likely, and he'd have just issued a flat invitation if he actually were interested. Pendrell—well, not anymore, poor guy. Would Krycek actually have the nerve? Yes, but he'd be more mysterious than this about it, and probably wouldn't be going through the FBI office. Was there anyone from work he remembered running into in a bar? Not that would go to this kind of effort, or be interested in asking him out on what amounted to a date before they'd actually fucked. Who the hell was it?

Mulder grabbed the brass door handle, nearly throwing the door open, as he checked his watch for the seventy-fifth time. Six o'clock, on the dot, according to Seiko. He fought his way up to an open space at the bar and flagged the bartender. "What can I get you?"

"My name's Fox Mulder; I understand I'm supposed to check with you about meeting someone."

"Oh. Hang on." The barkeep peeked at a yellow sticky note near the cash register. "Next room, third booth on the right. It's reserved."

"Thanks." Mulder wormed his way out of the anxious post-work two-for-one crowd and headed through an archway leading to the main room at Quigley's, where busy government workers chowed down on pasta of the day, grilled chicken Cesar salad, and gourmet burgers at lunch. He saw the booth the bartender had described. Empty. He stripped off his coat, tossed it on the bench towards the wall, and slid into the booth. If nothing else, a waiter should be taking a drink order in a minute. Someone was coming up behind him; that was probably the waiter, now.

From overhead, behind him, "Can I buy you a drink?" The voice was familiar; Mulder's reaction was nearly reflexive. He jerked around and looked up.

"Uh—sir?"

Walter Skinner clamped a hand on firmly on his shoulder. The other hand was gripping what appeared to be one of Quigley's infamous double vodka martinis. "Mulder, you're sitting in a booth at Quigley's during happy hour with nothing to drink. That's a citable offense and you know it." He let go of Mulder's shoulder and moved into the seat across from him. "So I offered to buy you a drink." He flagged a waiter. "What'll you have?"

Mulder turned to the waiter. "Um—Heineken, please. Make it a dark." The waiter nodded and strode off. "Thanks, sir. I'm supposed to be meeting someone here right about now, though."

"Oh?" Skinner took another sip of his martini, examining the lemon peel floating in it as if its aesthetics rivaled a Rodin bronze. "Who's your date?"

"Frankly, sir, I have no idea. I seem to have been invited on a blind dinner date for the last night of Hanukkah, and I'm supposed to meet them here."

"I'm here by myself," Skinner told him. "Mind if I join you until your surprise date arrives?"

"Sure. Knock yourself out." Mulder loosened his tie. "So, how's it going over in the fast lanes?" He prompted Skinner to begin on a story of the latest events in the units under his supervision. Mulder sighed inwardly; he'd have given anything to trade Kersh in to go back under Skinner's supervision. Muldewr's beer came; Skinner's story continued.

"So, how's it going with Kersh?" Skinner inquired. Mulder screwed up his face. "That good, huh?" Mulder recounted a few events of the past couple of weeks. "Mmm. Tough break," Skinner sympathized. "Say," he said, looking at his watch, "it's six-thirty. Where's this date of yours?"

Mulder checked his own watch. "Damn. I should have known I'd get stood up. This whole thing was just a little too mysterious."

Skinner nodded. "Well, if you don't have any plans for dinner, why don't you come along with me? I was planning to do some cooking tonight, and it's better cooking for two than it is for one."

Mulder grinned in acknowledgment. "Tell me about it. I can cook, I just don't. No reason when you're the only one around."

"I force myself." Skinner finished his drink. "Can I give you a lift over to my place? I'm parked right around the corner."

"Sure. My car's still at the office."

Skinner's condo smelled wonderful, as far as Mulder could tell. "It smells like you cooked already. What is it?"

"I don't know what you call it, Mulder. My mother always called it pot roast. All I know is I put it in a crock pot this morning and it ought to be done." Skinner took his coat and Mulder's and hung them in a hall closet. "I hope you like carrots."

"I love them. Do you have potatoes in it?"

"That's on the side, Mulder. Hang on." Skinner began turning on lights and making his way towards the kitchen. "Want anything to drink?"

Mulder peeled off his suit jacket, folded it, and laid it over the back of a chair in the living room. "What have you got?"

"Wine and beer in the fridge, liquor in the living room over by the entertainment center." Mulder found the bar and glassware. "Ice is in the freezer. Help yourself." Mulder looked over the selection, which was small but all better than his own liquor. Jack Daniels, Finlandia, Glenfiddich, and a bottle of Cuervo Gold, all opened; a bottle of Tanqueray, behind them, unopened and faintly dusty. The vodka martini was obviously Skinner's staple. Two bottles of Noilly Prat, the green label and the red one. Someone had tried explaining vermouth to Mulder once before; the concept eluded him. One was for martinis and the other for manhattans; that was all he'd been able to surmise. No, the mixed drink concept was too complicated. He poured two fingers' worth of the Glenfiddich—he might as well stay on the same stuff he was drinking at home from his anonymous friend—and considered the subject of ice.

"Do you want anything?" he called into the kitchen.

"Yeah," Skinner replied. "Scotch, neat. Bring it on in here." Mulder carried a second glass along with him into the kitchen, setting it on the table. He opened the freezer to grab ice cubes.

"What's this?" He was staring at a freezer bag full of what couldn't be latkes.

"Get that out, please," Skinner told him. "Those are a batch of my grandmother's potato pancakes. She brought the recipe with her when she and my grandfather came here from the Ukraine. I make huge batches and freeze them. How many do you want?"

Mulder took a large gulp of Scotch. "Well, I guess it's the last night of Hanukkah so I ought to eat a whole pile of them to make up for the past week. What do you have—sour cream or applesauce?"

"Both." Skinner removed several pancakes from the bag. "Four are more than enough for me. How about you? I've got a ton of them."

Mulder shrugged. "I hate to do this, but I was always a pig around latkes. I could eat a dozen of them without trying, but I'll control it. How's six?"

Skinner turned, looked Mulder over, and considered. "I'll do eight. You'll eat them."

"That's the problem. I'd have to run six extra miles to make up for it."

"Bull. They're good for you. My grandmother always said so."

"Don't tell me she was Jewish."

"Ukrainian Orthodox," Skinner informed him. The bag was sealed, and Skinner handed it back to Mulder. "Back in the freezer. Thanks. My whole family's Eastern Orthodox of one kind or another on my mother's side. Ukrainian, Russian, Serbian, and whatever else you can name. My dad's family is Methodist. I understand he almost backed out when he found out how long their wedding ceremony was going to be."

"How long was it?" Mulder asked, swirling the Scotch over the ice cubes in his glass.

"Around three hours, my mother claims. I had an Orthodox wedding myself. I don't think I've gone back to church since. It was long enough to make up for services for the rest of my life." Skinner slid the pancakes, on baking sheets, into the oven. "Anyway, my grandmother had more potato recipes than Betty Crocker. This is the one I learned to make. Salad?" He picked up his own Scotch and leaned against the stove, working on the contents of his glass. "Or is that too much?"

"Too much here, if you've got all those veggies in with that roast."

"Okay, then," Skinner said, "fifteen minutes or so. You can help me set the table. Mind if I turn on the CD player?"

"Sure; what are you playing?"

"Any preference?" Skinner asked, heading out to the living room. Hearing a negative, he told Mulder, "I'll just stack the thing, then. I hope you like blues."

"Yeah, sure," Mulder told him as silverware went on the table, around white-and-black patterned dishes. "Anything else you want on the table?"

"Just the food, and I'm bringing that in a minute." Even as the first track was starting, Skinner was on his way back into the kitchen. He reemerged in short order bearing a platter with sliced roast beef, vegetables, and a stack of potato pancakes; setting that on the table, he ducked back in the kitchen to reappear with sour cream and applesauce in hand. "Sit down, Mulder; hand me your plate, please?"

Mulder handed the plate over and watched Skinner begin filling it. "That should be enough, sir."

"Mulder, you're in my apartment eating my grandmother's potato pancakes and my mother's pot roast. Don't go around calling me that in front of my family." Skinner passed the plate back to Mulder. "How's that?"

"It looks great—um…Walter."

"That's better." Filling his own plate, Skinner began his analysis of the Redskins' current standings, a topic guaranteed to provoke Mulder into conversation. Mulder disputed Skinner's statistics on the team's rushing records for the year, waving a spoonful of sour cream in the air while agitating. "You'd better not get that stuff on me," Skinner threatened.

"Oh, sorry." There was a brief lull as both began doing justice to the roast. Mulder stopped midway through one bite and cocked his head. "What's that you've got on the CD player?"

Skinner paused to listen. "Oh, that's Eric Clapton's acoustic blues album." He returned to a potato pancake, and to watching Mulder draw patterns while swirling applesauce and sour cream together with his fork before spreading both over his own latkes. Mulder was plainly not distracted or his mind elsewhere; he was merely—and quite happily—playing with his food as he ate.

Mulder put his fork down. He took another sip of what remained of his drink. Glenfiddich. Clapton CDs. And this dinner had been practically ready when they'd walked in the door. He wasn't a rocket scientist, he decided, but it was worth testing a hypothesis. "Speaking of Clapton, what are you doing on Saturday?"

Skinner looked across at him and smiled. "Saturday? I think—well, I should say I hope—I have a date for the Clapton concert. Why do you ask?"

"What do you mean, you hope you have a date?"

"Well, it depends on whether you want to hang on to that ticket you got or not. I just happen to have the ticket for the next seat. Would you care to join me?"

Mulder grinned. "Walter, I guess you do have a date Saturday night." Skinner grinned back. Mulder couldn't help noticing how much younger the man looked when he was smiling, something he'd rarely if ever seen at work. Skinner reached across the table and squeezed Mulder's free hand. "So…how did you sneak all of those presents into the office?"

"You're the genius," Skinner chortled. "You couldn't figure that out? Who got in every morning before you did and made sure you saw them?"

Mulder jerked bolt upright. "Scully? SCULLY? No way." He turned his hand around in Skinner's in order to take hold of Skinner's hand. "I don't believe it."

Skinner smiled again, squeezing Mulder's hand. "Your partner and I had a talk the last time you were in the hospital. I'm afraid I conned her into it. Maybe you'd like to discuss it a bit further in the living room?"

"Nah." Mulder shook his head. "I'll find something to do to her. Let's just go in the other room, huh?"

Still holding Mulder's hand, Skinner rose, for once completely ignoring a table with dishes still on it, his attention completely focused on the man who was the object of his desires. They made it as far as the doorway when Mulder turned and pushed Skinner's shoulders against the wall, leaning forward to press his lips firmly against Skinner's. Lips parted as Skinner worked his hands into Mulder's hair, fingers interweaving with brown silk. Skinner gently, experimentally, slid his tongue between Mulder's lips, finding himself met both with Mulder's tongue, and with Mulder's hands sliding down him and around him, gripping his ass, kneading the cheeks through the fabric of his trousers. He thrust his own hips forward, into Mulder's groin, feeling Mulder grinding his own cock firmly against Skinner's erection. Mulder came up for air. "Must be the Clapton," he panted. "Speaking of which…just how long have you been planning this?"

"Since you broke up with Krycek," Skinner replied, still flushed. Mulder raised an eyebrow. "Of course I knew about you two, Mulder."

"So…," Mulder drawled, fingers reaching to the buttons of Skinner's shirt as Skinner slid hands from Mulder's hair to his neck, "what took you so long?"

"The regulations," Skinner chuckled. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not your supervisor any more." He pulled Mulder back up against him and into another kiss as Mulder began slipping the shirt from Skinner's shoulders. Skinner heard a faint mutter against his mouth that vaguely resembled "damn undershirt" as Mulder pushed the sleeves down Skinner's arms. "Maybe we should move," he suggested to Mulder.

"Living room or bedroom?" Mulder was tugging Skinner's undershirt free from his trousers while running his other hand against Skinner's heated flesh. Skinner felt Mulder's fingers begin playing with his nipples under the cotton knit, teasing him into further arousal. This was clearly going to be one of the easiest decisions of Skinner's life.

"Bedroom. Definitely bedroom." Skinner kissed Mulder again, the tastes of roast, Scotch, and Mulder all clearly defined as he felt Mulder flowing against him and into him. He gently removed Mulder's hands from their grip on him, taking one up in his own hand. "This way. Oh…and happy Hanukkah."

"So," Mulder purred in his ear as they made their way to Skinner's bedroom, "what do you want for Christmas, hot stuff?"

"I think I'm getting my present already," Skinner laughed. "I'll just tie a big red bow on you and leave you in bed."

"Works for me," Mulder purred, running a hand against Skinner's groin, pressing against his erection. "But can we hurry up here? It feels like I've still got a Hanukkah present of my own to unwrap."