GIFTED

Rating: R?

Category: SR, Sk/?

Summary: Walter's friends choose birthday gifts for him.

Disclaimer: Not mine. That honour goes to CC, 1013 and Fox. I'm just being appreciative.

Author's note: This was written for my beloved Hal's birthday - smooches to you, sweetie! It's unapologetic Sergeeva-schmoop, and I'm not revealing the pairing up front - so there <g> I've taken the creative liberty of moving Walter's birthday to January, to fit the current season. See my second note, at the end, to answer a question you might have...

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

If it weren't for the fact that his charming grin was seriously undermining her ability to think, the sales assistant would have turned this customer over to one of her colleagues an hour ago. He was the most infuriating person she'd ever met.

He'd spent nearly two hours in the tiny, exclusive emporium, and he'd inspected just about every tie they had in their vast stock. Nothing was apparently quite right for Mr. Pernickety here. Whole swaths of gorgeous designer silks had been rejected as too bold or too boring. Mind you, given what the man was wearing around his neck, she couldn't begin to guess at the parameters of what did appeal to him... other than viral-green swirls and yellow sea-anemone-shaped splotches, and he already had those. She sighed, and turned to contemplate the wall of mahogany niches reaching from floor to ceiling. Surely somewhere in the 5,000 ties they kept in stock there was one that would satisfy him?

Scanning the ranks of slim boxes with a practised eye she dismissed discreet stripes, college alumni colours, regimental insignia, cartoon characters, abstract florals and silk-screened slices of the Wall Street Journal or the Mona Lisa. They'd all been either offered and rejected already, or she just couldn't face the man's crumpled expression of mild frustration over yet another necktie that wasn't sufficiently "beautiful, elegant, different". "It has to be all those," the man had insisted, causing her to think he had a rather high opinion of his own image, charming grin and rumpled Armani notwithstanding.

Suddenly, she remembered a small collection they had imported as an experiment from a small European manufacturer. They were unusual and hadn't proved popular with the Georgetown academics, congressmen and CEOs who made up the bulk of their clientele. The understated silver-grey boxes had been relegated to the top shelf and had gathered dust there for several months now. Maybe, just maybe...

When the plain silver tissue was lifted away from the first length of woven silk she knew she'd hit the jackpot. The man's curiously tilted hazel eyes lit up, and his long fingers reached eagerly to lift the tie from its box. He held it up to examine the design.

"This is more like it! I can really see him in something like this... "

It was the first indication she'd had that the tie was intended as a gift for someone else. Why on earth hadn't the man mentioned that before? She would have asked certain questions, to establish a bit about the person for whom the tie was destined - his age, his taste in clothes, his interests... she could have probably saved them both a lot of time. On the other hand, it was worth the wait, to see the fascination on the man's face now, as he lifted each of the ties in turn, to study the complex designs.

"Escher..." he was murmuring, "such genius... This is the one, I think."

He handed over a tie shaded from subdued greys to shimmering greens and blues. An interlocking trellis of stylised fishes mutated across the design into an equally complex flock of angular birds - every fin and wing fitting together like an other-worldly jigsaw. From as little as a yard away, the effect was of an understated tiled pattern, perfectly business like, certainly elegant, beautiful and different.

"For my boss's birthday." The man stated, looking inordinately pleased with the selected item. "He's got hidden depths too." He smiled, almost to himself and handed over his credit card.

*****

Mulder sat in his car and contemplated the narrow gift-wrapped box. He was very pleased with himself for finding such a fitting gift for Skinner. Walter would protest the extravagance and Mulder's impulse to give him anything at all, but he would wear the tie, and look wonderful in it. He would probably even understand the subtle joke implicit in the choice of pattern. After all - Mulder was always telling Skinner he was too rigid, too regimented - that he should break free once in a while, and Skinner always retorted that order didn't necessarily mean soullessness, that working within the rules to still get the result you wanted was a very satisfying challenge. Yeah, like that sounded appealing! He chuckled to himself. What was satisfying was that he and Skinner could have a conversation like that these days, without it being confrontational. He'd learned to appreciate Walter a lot more recently, appreciate him for the very things that made him so different from Mulder. Beautiful, elegant, different... yeah, a man and his tie.

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

Dana sipped at her coffee and turned another page in the disintegrating recipe book. Perched on a stool in her mother's kitchen, she was reliving a lifetime of family gatherings in the fragrant, hand-written leaves of the large notebook. Speckles of pasta sauce, smudges of cinnamon and cayenne, saffron-tinted fingerprints and crumbs of bay leaf and vanilla pod made the book smell like a delicatessen.

The binding had long ago split apart, from the quantity of cuttings, letters, corners of paper napkins and even photographs that were stuffed between the sheets of lined paper. The book was tied together with a length of red ribbon now, from some long-past Christmas parcel. The first pages were in Dana's grandmother's hand - old-fashioned looping script setting out the ingredients and instructions for a new bride's basic repertoire of dishes. Then the writing shifted to that of Dana's mother - energetic, abbreviated, a code of tsps, pnchs and other even less precise measures: "as many ripe peaches as you can fit in the pan", "plenty of good strong cheese", "a generous splash of Aunt Marian's elderberry cordial".

Dana smiled to remember how such vagueness had bothered her when she first tried her hand at following her Mom's recipes. "But how much is 'a splash'?" she had fretted. But Saturday's at her mother's side, sifting flour and mixing batter had eventually given her the same relaxed attitude to cooking as her teacher, and a talent for inventing and adapting recipes of her own. She flipped forward in the book, pushing a snip of christening cake ribbon and a magazine clipping about preserving lemons back amongst the recipes for spiced beef, hermits, minestrone and streusel cake. She was touched to see some of her own creations added to her Mom's collection.

Favourites asked for again and again at birthday and Thanksgiving meals, treats for school lunch boxes and picnic trips, comfort foods for winter ills and times of crisis... The women of Dana's family had always been good cooks and their men-folk had always appreciated it. Over the years, brothers, sons, cousins, schoolmates and boyfriends had sat around Maggie Scully's table and been well fed and made welcome. On recent occasions both Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner had been guests here, and Walter, in particular had been both interested in and knowledgeable about what he had been fed. No-one was more surprised than Dana, when it turned out that her boss was something of a gourmet cook himself, that his mother had left him a legacy of German/Italian culinary traditions and he had added his own spice of Asian influences, a love born in the noodle-shops of Saigon.

Maggie Scully emerged from her pantry with a bulging grocery store sack, plus several jars and tins, and set them on the table beside her daughter.

"I was thinking of making the Parmesan cookies, the clam chowder and the Whiskey Fudge Cake. Does that sounds okay?"

"Mom, Walter will be ecstatic - and he'll tell you you're spoiling him. Those are all his favourites. You really like him, don't you? I'm beginning to think my gift is a bit inadequate..."

"Don't you worry, Dana. It's personal and thoughtful and unique. Walter will love it. He's a good friend and it's a pleasure to cook for him. Walter's a man who really enjoys his food, and I think your idea for his gift is inspired."

"Thanks, Mom. Well, I think I've got everything I need here... I'd better get started."

She reached into the store bag beside her, took out a chunky dark blue book and opened it to the first page. The plain cream paper looked inviting and she uncapped her pen. Around her on the table were her own and her mother's recipes, and a collection of food-related memorabilia. The label soaked off a bottle of wonderful Merlot they'd had to celebrate Walter's commendation for bravery after the Foresman case. A menu from the restaurant where Mulder had introduced them to bangers and mash, "not as good as Mrs. Dodd's in The White Swan in Woodstock, but the best this side of the herring pond." to quote Mulder. A mustard-stained napkin from a Soldier Field hotdog. A complimentary mint wrapper from the worst motel in Arkansas. A photo of Walter and Maggie clinking glasses and wearing tinsel... All reminders of memorable occasions, ready to tuck between the pages of her gift to Skinner.

She took up her pen and wrote in a flowing hand: "To Walter - a man of taste. To remind you of pleasures shared." And she began to transcribe a selection of Walter's favourite recipes onto the waiting pages of the book.

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

Frohike propped his feet up on the bench, sending a pile of videotapes and junk mail sliding to the floor. The ancient typist's chair creaked as he leaned back and let the cascading notes of John Coltrane's sax take him back to a smoky bar, nearly a decade ago. He ran a hand over his raspy jaw and thought about one of the few times he'd seen Walter Skinner in need of a shave...

They'd both been feeling more than a little sore with the world and, sitting in the back of the dimly lit jazz club each nursing their solitary whiskies, they'd struck up a conversation and begun a strange sort of friendship. Unlikely, really. Two men who normally kept their own council, didn't make small talk, didn't make friends that easily. They hadn't even made the 'Nam connection for quite a while, even though they were both of a generation that had given more than its quota of young men to that war. It was the music that had got them talking - an unknown trio playing trad jazz with wonderful warmth, and then a vocalist, whose low, melting contralto had been such a turn-on...

She was the one to thank for Frohike making a new friend that night. He'd muttered something about lush curves and a seductive voice being the last thing he needed, (said with some bitterness and the sound of one particular ample blonde's laugh still ringing in his ears), and suddenly the big, quiet man on the stool next to him had pulled a wry face:

"Tell me about it." He stuck out a huge hand in Frohike's direction. "Walter Skinner."

"Frohike - Melvin. You got woman trouble too, then?"

"Wife trouble."

It had all come out by degrees. Skinner was in a new, high-powered and demanding job, putting in long hours and feeling guilty about not spending enough time with his wife. He'd just got through a three-day hell of tough decisions, intense scrutiny from his bosses and the media, and the near-death of one of his team and all he'd wanted was to hear his wife's loving voice... Until she actually picked up the phone and all he could think of was the impossibility of burdening her with the grim realities of his job, with serial killers, child molesters and drug-enraged maniacs with guns... with any of the stuff he had to deal with on a daily basis. He'd talked of inanities, of paperwork and meetings - all he felt able to tell her about - and he'd heard the sadness in her voice, her longing to comfort him for something she sensed but which he could never voice. It was breaking his heart, this tangible, ever-incresing distance between them. Walter Skinner loved his wife, but he didn't know how to share his life with her. He had been looking for answers in a bottle of J&B.

Frohike had listened, and forgotten his own unsuccessful philanderings. Skinner's world was one he couldn't contemplate, and he had to grudgingly admit admiration for a man who took his responsibilities so seriously, and who was going to lose his mind if he didn't find a way to balance it all, or compartmentalise, or step back or something...

The evening had done them both good in the end. They'd drunk rather too much, talked more than either of them was used to, got along unexpectedly well. It was the first of many such evenings, meeting every month or so, enjoying the music and a companionable silence, or talking if either of them needed to. Of course, Frohike knew that Skinner was, to all intents and purposes, a servant of everything he was opposed to. He believed in things with capital letters, like Justice and Order and The Rule of Law, which Frohike derided, but somehow it never intruded on their friendship. Frohike's love life continued to be problematic and eventful, Skinner's marriage became more and more of a cipher as his job became more and more demanding. Sometimes, on those jazz evenings, it had felt as if they were both still looking for something real.

They had drunk a lot of whisky and listened to a lot of jazz over the years.

Looking at the CD case in his hands, Frohike thought he'd made a good choice for Skinner's birthday gift: "Songs for Survivors - a Compilation of Jazz Classics". He set the case beside a bottle of 15 year-old single malt and the gift wrap, and closed his eyes to listen.

Yes, a good choice of music and a good choice of friend.

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

She handed over the priority mail package to the hotel clerk and walked away before she could change her mind again. Soon it would be winging its way to the States and ought to be with Walter in time for his birthday. He would get a kick out of it - yes, she knew her ex-husband well enough to know he'd accept the gift in the spirit in which it was offered. She'd just had a few doubts there about exactly what spirit that was.

Sharon hadn't kept in touch with many of her old acquaintances in D.C since she 'd taken the job with Christie's Oriental Department, so she didn't know what Walter's personal life was like now. Oh, she knew he was still with the Bureau, still working hard, still dedicated... Even here in Osaka, a couple of major FBI successes had made it into the international headlines and she'd seen Walter's face in newspapers, and once turned on the radio and heard his distinctive deep voice answering questions at a press conference. Fox Mulder had been standing at his shoulder and not for the first time, she'd wondered if Walter and he had finally...

Or maybe it was the exquisite Dana Scully who had found the way to the real Walter Skinner. Sharon knew that Walter cared for them both, and maybe someone who shared the same demanding career would make a better job of understanding Walter than she had. She sincerely hoped he had found someone to love, he deserved it. Sharon smiled at the memories that rose as she thought about Walter... Time and distance had muted the sadness of their estrangement and divorce. Now she could look back and enjoy the many good years they'd shared as man and wife. She could savour a lot of very pleasurable memories...

It was one such memory that had prompted her impulse to buy Walter such a personal birthday gift. She'd been walking through a store and a display of silk kimonos caught her eye. Fingering the smoothness of the beautiful fabrics, she felt herself flushing and feeling suddenly very warm under her cool linen suit. Dipping her head so that her dark hair hid her hot cheeks, she was back in her first married home, a tiny New York apartment, shabby and freezing that first winter, but with high ceilings and lovely tall windows and a view of a romantic roof-scape and the treetops of Central Park...

Walter was a newly promoted ASAC and on the fast track to success, giving his best to the job. She was working part-time in Rizzoli's bookstore and taking an art history class at NYU in the evenings. They were ravenously in love, and had to snatch romantic moments together when they could, but they were never enough. They hadn't even had a proper honeymoon, as the New York Bureau lost it's ASAC to a heart attack, and Walter's bosses offered him the job, a week before their wedding. Sharon knew that Walter was upset at not being able to give her the relaxed, idyllic honeymoon trip he'd wanted to, but she also knew he was far too immersed in his new job to be able to organise anything now. She had a small nest-egg that her grandmother had given her and she used it to book them into the honeymoon suite of a nice hotel, just for the weekend. It wasn't the Waldorf, but it was a world away from their cramped and draughty apartment.

She picked Walter up from work on the Friday and whisked him away to their temporary love-nest, with its circular bed, satin sheets and vases of roses. Walter was still adorably dumbstruck when she peeled him out of his suit and pushed him under the rose-scented bubbles of the bathtub. They'd made love in the bath and the bed, dozed and made love again, until their rumbling stomachs interrupted their passionate murmurs and Walter had laughingly phoned for room service. When the knock came on the door, Walter draped a satin sheet around himself and let the waiter in. The sheets were bright kitschy Valentine Day scarlet, but her gorgeous husband looked as magnificent as any emperor or far eastern potentate wrapped in the shimmering satin. The waiter had barely left before she had Walter tumbled on the bed again, biting his chest softly through the slippery fabric, sliding it off his big shoulders, stroking the heat of him under the cool silkiness... She'd vowed then, that as soon as they were earning enough to afford a few luxuries she would buy Walter a proper silk robe. She never had.

She was a bit embarrassed that now, all these years later, the feel of a silk robe against her cheek could reawaken that vivid memory and that long-held fantasy. Before she knew it, she'd bought and paid for a plain, heavy silk kimono in a deep forest green. It would look wonderful against Walter's golden skin, gleaming softly as it clung to his beautiful muscles, flowing gracefully around his lean hips and long legs... Back in her hotel room, she tore open the package and buried her face in the soft garment, spreading it on the bed and remembering... She knew she couldn't turn back time, but she couldn't easily forget a man like Walter, and he was worthy of a beautiful thing like this robe, something that would compliment his own beauty.

She parcelled up the robe and wrote a brief note to go with it, then had doubts and unwrapped it again. What if he thought she was trying to get back with him, what if he had a lover and they took offence at his ex-wife giving him something so personal? If she was brutally honest with herself she truly didn't know whether she'd like to give marriage to Walter another go. She still loved him, heck she was still turned on by the thought of him, but she wasn't in love with him now. Besides, unless he'd learned how to share his feelings, let people in a lot more than he used to, he wasn't ready to be married to anyone. She re-wrapped the parcel again and took it down to the lobby before she lost her nerve.

She hoped Walter was ready for love now, and that someone who could appreciate him would see him in that robe and make some happy memories of their own.

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

Eyes gleaming, a faint tinge of pink on her pale cheeks, Holly Michaels clutched her purse to her chest and felt the square edges of the gift box inside it. Her therapist would be proud of her, because with this act she had finally faced up to the feelings she had, to the need she had... Four years since... The Incident... four years of coming to terms with the guilt, the humiliation, the cringing embarrassment, not to mention the increasingly erotic dreams... One ordinary day at work had turned into a nightmare, and turned her life upside down.

Until she'd assaulted him, believing he was the man who had mugged her, Holly had viewed AD Skinner as a godlike figure from the executive levels, someone who she occasionally had to share an elevator with, or process a data search for, but not someone who would ever notice her. She'd been astonished, looking back after The Incident, that he had known her name, her first name, and called her by it. Dana had laughed when she commented on this, and said that she bet Skinner knew her birthday too, and the fact that she had tried out for the Olympic equestrian team in '92. He made a point of knowing stuff like that, she said, and it made him one of the better bosses in the Bureau.

Holly could believe it. Later that same horrendous day, she had sat in Skinner's office, trying to answer Dana's questions through her tears, she had felt the beginnings of what had become an obsession with the tall, stern Assistant Director. He'd stood behind Dana, occasionally fingering his bruised chin, clearly mystified as to how a meek, mousy data clerk had been "pushed" into attacking him, and more than a bit mortified by the bruises to his self-esteem, as much as those to his face and body. But he'd been gentle and courteous to her at every stage, asking her pardon for leaving the interview, making sure she had a ride home after, and wouldn't be on her own after her ordeal. He'd stressed several times, both in soft, awkwardly formal words to her face, and in his official report of the whole business, that he assigned no blame to her for his injuries, and that her behaviour would in no way affect her position in the Bureau. He'd even facilitated her relocation to the telecomm department and arranged for her to have time off for counselling.

She knew her attack on him had to have hurt. She saw the purple marks of her kicks on his face and stomach when help arrived and reality began to return to her senses. She sat on a chair feeling still slightly detached from herself, watching while Dana washed the mace out of the AD's smarting eyes and then convinced him to let her check out his other injuries. Scully cleared all the gawking agents, security men and secretaries out of the small office while she examined her boss, and Holly just caught a glimpse of Dana's small pale hand probing carefully at Skinner's lean muscled abdomen, before she was ushered out by Security. It was she who spotted Skinner's glasses in the corner where they had landed, after he wrenched them off in agony, and after she was bustled away from the scene, she found them still clasped in her shaking hand. She gave them to someone else to hand back to him, too ashamed to look at his brown eyes, reddened by the mace.

In some ways it would have been easier if Skinner had blamed her, if he had yelled at her, or put a reprimand in her record. If he had even been cold towards her afterward, or ignored her. Then she could have felt the disgrace she felt she deserved, taken her punishment and relished the rightness of it. But Skinner had continued to murmur a greeting to her in the elevator, to thank her sincerely when he needed work from her, to behave as impeccably as he always had. And then the dreams started - strange, exciting dreams in which Skinner loomed over her with his huge hands trapping her, his eyes dark and blazing. There was no sound in the dreams, but she knew he was pronouncing her punishment, not yelling, but growling with unnerving calm, his fists tightening, his big arms flexing, his jaw clenching...

It had taken her months to admit to her therapist about the nature of the dreams, and she'd rejected outright Dr. Miles' explanation of why she wanted to be punished by her boss so she could feel reparation had been made. Dr. Miles seemed to think it was all about guilt and balancing the books and about Holly's poor self-esteem. It was all those things, but Holly had been unable to admit to the rest of it, that she had powerful sexual fantasies about Walter Skinner doling out her punishment, of being held down by those strong hands, or thrown over those hard thighs and spanked until she came... The fantasies became more and more elaborate. She delighted in dwelling on every tiny detail of each new scenario, until she had refined her perfect erotic scene. The ridiculous romance-novel costumes were ditched, the riding crops and shiny boots were discarded, the brooding-lord-in-his-castle-chastising-the- wayward-serving-wench plot was abandoned. It was just Holly in her neat dark suit standing in front of the AD's desk, palms sticky, heart thumping. And Walter Skinner, rising like Zeus from behind the acres of cherrywood, dazzling in knife-creased navy wool pants, flawless starched white shirt, elegant paisley tie and a leather belt with a narrow silver buckle.

The belt fascinated her - she could see it exactly: the hand-stitched edge, the grain of the smooth leather, the understated elegance of the slim buckle. Skinner would slide the belt through the buckle with interminable slowness, then draw the belt through the loops on the waistband of his pants with equal deliberation. By now, Holly in the fantasy was weak-kneed with fearful anticipation and Holly in her peach-toned bedroom was licking her lips with breathless arousal. Every time she pictured Skinner flexing the belt in his hands, snapping the supple length, doubling it in his fist, ready to stripe her tender bottom... She'd never actually got as far as what happened next. The choreography of how she got bare-assed for him, of how he held her, of how many strokes he gave - none of that mattered. Not even the pain of how the lashes would feel was important. All that mattered was that she was ready to take her punishment, and that Walter Skinner had the means to administer it.

She'd spotted the belt in Fortunato's window, and blown a week's wages on it. As soon as she'd bought it she felt better. It was precisely like the belt Skinner wore in her fantasy, but she didn't think he already owned one like it. She'd made a point of studying every detail of AD Skinner's apparel recently. The belt was gorgeous - soft and sleek and almost alive as the shop assistant coiled it's dark gleaming length into a silk-lined box. When she got it home, she'd spent an hour running it through her hands and sliding it against her bare leg before hanging it on the hook on the back of her bedroom door, where she could see it, waiting for Him. Eventually, she had to curl it into its box again and wrap it, and here she was today, Skinner's birthday, bringing it to him.

She planned to leave it on his desk. There would be no difficulty, if necessary, she would route an urgent visitor authorisation to him when Kim was on her break, so that he had to go down to the lobby himself to clear it. Then she just had to wait. Skinner might not know the significance of the gift, but she did. She was giving him permission to exact punishment. She didn't imagine he ever would, but the possibility was delicious!

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

"Thanks, Carl, just there will be fine." Kimberly smiled at the burly security guard and set the bowl of narcissi she was carrying down beside the tub of tulips, hyacinths and snowdrops that Carl had placed at the end of Mr. Skinner's desk. She'd taken care to lay a length of plastic over the Persian carpet first, so that no soil or water could stain it. Now, she crouched down by the two beautifully planted containers and carefully straightened leaves and touched the compost.

"I'll give them a little water now, then they won't droop before Mr. Skinner gets them home."

She rose and rummaged in her bag for something, then disappeared out into the corridor. A moment later she was back with a small brass watering can, which she used with practised restraint on both pots. "Not too much, we don't want the bulbs to rot, do we?" She talked to the plants as she tested the moistness of their soil with a judicious finger. "I know it's still early for you, my lovelies, but you'll come into your own over the weeks. You little ones are making a lovely show already, at any rate." She lifted the little hanging heads of the snowdrops, the only things in full flower in the large container. A sliver of china blue showed along the tight, shiny sheath of the hyacinth heads, and the long green buds of the daffodils promised a bright cluster in a week or so. In the porcelain Dutch bowl, the delicate Paperwhites stood like graceful slender girls, already starting to give out their fresh perfume in the warmth of the office.

Kimberly dusted off her hands and lifted the narcissi onto the corner of the wide desk, setting them on a round cork mat next to the Assistant Director's daybook. She checked her watch: 7.30 - he would be here soon. She picked up her purse and extracted the packet of specially blended coffee she had brought. Mr. Skinner's favourite, and the perfect accompaniment for one of her own pecan brownies. If the poor man had to work on his birthday, then she was going to try and make it as pleasurable as she could.

When she returned from filling the coffee maker, she met Agent Mulder coming out of Skinner's office. He grinned at her, cheerily.

"Hi, Kim. I was just leaving the boss-man something for his birthday. He's doing rather well by the looks of it - another box on his blotter and those beautiful flower pots, which I take are your contribution?"

"Yes, they are. I'm glad you think they look okay. I know it seems a strange gift for a man, but I happen to know that Mr. Skinner particularly likes spring flowers and you mentioned that he has a balcony at his apartment, so I thought..."

"It's a great idea, Kim. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. And actually, I don't think I'm giving anything away, but he's looking for a house to move into. With a garden. He told me he had a weird longing to mow grass and plant vegetables! Can you picture it?" Mulder screwed his face up into a ferocious scowl and lowered his voice by an octave: "Sweetpeas - it said on the seed packet that you would flower from mid-June. It's now July and I want to know exactly why you have not followed protocol!" Suddenly he noticed that Kimberly was wiggling her eyebrows at him rather frantically, and he managed to don a suitably sheepish expression before he turned round.

"Oh, morning sir, didn't see you there. Happy birthday, and excuse the disrespect just then. I'm sure no sweetpea would dare to show up late in your garden, sir."

Skinner was struggling to keep a straight face and in the end gave in and grinned back.

"I'll have you know I won a prize for my sweetpeas at the State Fair in 1961. I have green fingers." He looked down doubtfully at his hands, red from the cold. "Thank you for the birthday wishes, though. It's not begun very well, however. My car wouldn't start - I had to take the Metro in and get the garage to deliver it here later. It's bitter cold out there this morning."

"You need gloves in this weather. Maybe someone will give you a pair for your birthday. Have a good day, sir, and I'll see you at Dana's Mom's tonight."

"You'll see me at 10.30 for the Cable Grove debriefing, Agent Mulder. Work doesn't stop just because it's the boss's birthday."

"Right sir, yes sir." Mulder gave Skinner a snappy salute and made a hasty exit before Walter's good mood evaporated.

*****

Kimberly beamed at the relaxed repartee, and at the prospect of Skinner being able to plant out his bulbs in a proper garden soon. I wonder why the sudden urge for domestication, she pondered. Could there be a special someone in Walter's life at last? Someone to settle down with? She'd seen more than a few Bureau personnel fall for the handsome AD over the years, and she'd wondered if maybe Dana Scully... or even Fox Mulder... Kim was no prude and no bigot and she was very fond of Walter Skinner. More than fond, if she was honest with herself, but she didn't think Walter saw her as anything more than an efficient assistant and, hopefully, a friend. No point in holding a torch for the stunning Mr. Skinner. But she would love to see him happy, see him loved. She though that Mulder and Scully were about the closest friends he had, and she knew he cared for both of them. The hours he worked, she wondered if Skinner ever had time to meet anyone outside of work, let alone have a relationship...

The coffee maker beeped and she got up to take the birthday boy his mug of Sumatran Special, making a little wish for his happiness.

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

It was 11pm when Walter pulled into the parking garage of his condo in Crystal City. He was tired and happy and full of good food.

Maggie Scully had given him a wonderful birthday meal, and with Mulder and Scully adding their lively presence, he had felt surrounded by friends and happier than he had in a long time. Scully had handed over a beautifully wrapped package and watched with sparkling eyes as he'd untied the ribbon and turned the pages of the recipe book she'd made for him. His voice had been strangely husky as he'd thanked her and leaned over to give her a soft kiss on the cheek. He felt honoured that she and her mother had passed on some of their most special recipes to him, but most of all, he was touched by all the reminders of times spent in their company, and touched that Mulder and Scully had kept these reminders and seemed to remember the occasions with special pleasure, as he did.

Mulder had given him a long, narrow box and watched with barely concealed impatience until he'd opened it and pulled out the amazing Escher tie. It was too much. He'd drunk no wine, knowing he had to drive home, but still he felt a bit misty-eyed as he'd pulled Mulder into a manly hug and promised to wear the tie the following day. He'd taken it out again, later in the evening, when the others were in the kitchen clearing up and had sent him, as the guest of honour, to sit down and relax. Walter had gazed at the beautiful, satisfying precision of the design, appreciating the geometry that shifted fishes into birds, but also appreciating the free-ranging imagination that could conceive such a pattern. He understood that both he and Mulder were represented in this picture. Good old Mulder, always reminding him that there were ways and ways...

He climbed out of the car, and reached back in to gather up the rest of his haul: Maggie's home-made delights that he would savour over the next few days, and an assortment of calorific treats from the ladies of the JEH, who still hoped to snare one of its most eligible bachelors. Frohike's bottle and CD had been delivered that afternoon, and he was planning to finish the day with his feet up on the sofa, a glass of that rare aged malt in his hand and Miles Davis on the stereo. He picked up the last object: a small, square black box, with the device of a very upmarket Italian designer, and inside it, a very expensive black leather belt. No label, no greeting. Kim said it had appeared on his desk when she went out to make the coffee. He was puzzled as to who might have sent him such a thing, but he was too tired tonight to worry about it. Maybe he'd wear the belt tomorrow and see if anyone reacted. He'd left Kim's wonderful flowerpots in the office for now. The narcissi could stay on his credenza there, bringing a bit of Spring into the stale air of the Hoover Building, the patio tub he would bring home at the weekend, show it to... Walter suddenly remembered that he had left before the mail arrived that morning, There might be a letter... He stepped into the parking garage elevator and punched the number for the lobby.

Even more laden than before, he exited the elevator on the 17^th floor and set down some of his burden while he located his keys. His mailbox had been gratifyingly full of cards - he recognised his sister's hand and that of several other family members. Not the writing he had hoped for, though, His heart fell a little but then the concierge had handed over two other parcels, one all the way from Japan: Sharon. And one with the longed-for hand - a flat, plain box.

The door was unlocked at last, and he elbowed it open and let his armload of gifts slide onto the sofa. Coat off, tie loosened, shoes off. He padded about putting the foodstuffs away and collecting a glass for his whisky. The jazz CD went into the stereo, the lamps were switched on and he poured himself a good finger of the pale amber spirit, before flopping down on the leather couch. Extracting the parcel he was most interested in, he had his finger under the seal to tear it open, when he had another thought and set it aside again.

"I want to take you up to bed with me. Let's see what Sharon has sent first."

The silk robe took him completely by surprise. For a second, he felt again that familiar guilt of her doing all the work in the marriage and him never being able to give enough back. But then he reminded himself that they were friends now, and his friend Sharon had sent him a beautiful gift. He opened the note that was slipped between the silken folds.

"Dear Walter, I hope you'll forgive me for such an intimate gift, but after all, I do know you very well, and if you remember, I promised you one of these about 20 years ago. Wear it with pleasure, Walter, and I hope there will be someone to appreciate the sight of you in silk, the way you deserve to be appreciated. Much love, and best wishes for a happy life, Sharon."

He smiled and smoothed his hand over the note, shaking his head at the coincidence.

"Thank you, Sharon," he murmured, "you don't know the half of it..."

Then he left the litter of envelopes and boxes where they lay, and picked up what he needed. The silk robe went over his shoulder, the glass of single malt in one hand and the precious unopened parcel under his arm. He left the music playing as he headed for the stairs.

*****

Almost midnight, the last minutes of his birthday.

He lay on the dark blue comforter of his big bed, wearing nothing but the silk robe. It clung to his shower-damp body in places, but it felt wonderful and Walter knew he looked good in it. At long last they were alone - he opened the flat, plain box. Inside were a letter and a pair of hand-stitched leather gloves, silk-lined.

He laughed out loud, and lifted the gloves to his face, loving the smell of the soft leather, the smoothness against his cheek. He slid his hand into the left one, against the whisper of the silk lining, each finger settling into its own perfectly-sized tunnel. He flexed his fingers, easing the glove fully onto each digit. The leather gleamed luxuriously across his broad knuckles, his fist looked like a piece of heavy, well-oiled machinery, dark and sleek and powerful. He picked up the letter in his naked right hand, and began to read.

"Walter,

"I'm going to picture you lying on your bed, fresh from an after-work shower, maybe just in sweat pants, or better yet just a towel. I sometimes wish you wore pyjamas or a robe, just so that I could take them off you. Very slowly.

"I wish I could have been with you today, but it's only a few hours until Friday, and I'll be home then, to give you more than these gloves. They may seem a strange choice of gift, but I know you need some, and I consider them a most intimate gift, actually. Put one of them on now, Walter - feel the warmth of the silk inside. My hand has been there too, my love, where yours is now. My skin surrounded by that softness, borrowing your space until your own beautiful hand could fill it. You know how I love your hands. They are what I think of when we are apart, when I am trying to sleep in a strange bed without you. I think of your glorious hands, so gentle, so patient, so capable. I imagine those long blunt fingers of yours curled around mine, spread against my back or touched to my lips... I think about kissing your hands - the broad palms, warm and dry, the knuckles bearing the scars of your life.

"When I put my hand into the glove, I imagined your hand there, surrounding mine like the silk and leather. And, forgive me for being crude, I imagined your fingers reaching somewhere else warm and dark and tight, reaching into me. And I imagined my fingers too - slipping inside your silken tightness, fitting as close as that glove, stroking into you, loving you. I held up my gloved index finger and slid it over my lips. I cupped my own sheathed hand over my own cheek. The leather is very soft, Walter, but it is no substitute for you, for your velvet, and silk and muscle. I put the gloves away and closed my eyes and remembered how you feel.

"Flex your fingers for me, Walter, in the warmth where mine have been. Then put away the gloves and close your eyes. Imagine I am with you tonight, my love. Wrapped around you, kissing your face, synchronising my heart beat to yours.

"I love you, Walter.

Tom."

*****

THE END

Second author's note: "Tom" is an OC that Hal and I invented for Walter. He may or may not appear in other stories eventually. We have a very clear idea of what he looks like and who he is, but for the purposes of this story, all you need to know is that he loves Walter. Clearly a man of taste.