A/N: Thank you for the reviews so far! I plan on updating this story quickly, as Christmas is sooner than I realised. (Much sooner than I realised- gulp!)

The 'pray tell' exchange between Skipper and Gilligan is borrowed from the Dusty's Trail episode 'Brookhaven USA'. Not the dialogue, just the 'pray tell' bit.

Chapter Two

Gilligan traipsed through the jungle collecting bits of wood. He thought about his sister, and the way she used to stare at the Christmas tree, as mesmerised by the twinkling lights as he was by Mary Ann's fabric angel. Before he knew it, he was lost in memories of childhood Christmases, of running through the snow with Skinny Mulligan, so eager to play outside that he forgot to put his coat on first. And then later, shivering by the fire, drinking hot chocolate to warm him up from the inside out while the last remnants of snowflakes in his hair turned to water, trickling down his neck and into his collar as he bent over his steaming mug.

William dear, you'll catch a deathly chill one of these days, his mother always said. But he never did.

Gilligan examined the wood as he piled it into his cart. Some of it was hard and gnarly, but some of it was soft enough for whittling. He decided to save some and see if he couldn't whittle some of it into shapes for the girls to decorate.

He headed back to camp, bumping the little cart over the stony ground. He wondered if it was snowing back home.

The Skipper was waiting for him when he arrived at the Supply Hut. "Well! Nice to see you at last, Gilligan. Do you know how long I've been waiting for that wood?"

Gilligan shrugged. "No."

"A long time!" the Skipper said, brusquely.

"Why?" Gilligan countered. "There's plenty of wood lying around. Look, there's some right there!"

"Gilligan, that's a chair."

Gilligan pouted, bumping the cart against the door frame as he brought it into the hut.

The Skipper heard him muttering under his breath, but ignored it. "Gilligan, I'm not mad at you. But when I give an order I expect it to be obeyed. We still need to maintain our routine, even at Christmas!"

"Boy, you sure are a Stooge!" Gilligan declared suddenly.

The Skipper blinked. "A what?"

"A Stooge. A guy who hates Christmas."

"Gilligan," the Skipper grinned, "I think you mean I'm a 'Scrooge'."

"Yeah! You sure are a Scrooge," Gilligan agreed, nodding vigorously.

The Skipper deflated with a loud sigh. "I'm sorry, Gilligan. I'm not a Scrooge. In fact, I love Christmas! It's just that when I ask you to do something, I'd like you to do it. It's how it was in the Navy, remember, little buddy?"

"But Skipper, we're not in the Navy any more. We're not even on a boat any more. And it's Christmas. Can't I stop doing chores for once?"

The Skipper went over to Gilligan and put his big, beefy arm around the young man's slim shoulders. Gilligan smiled up at him, hopefully. "No." the Skipper said in his sweetest voice. "You can not stop doing chores. But I can stop yelling at you for taking so long. As it's Christmas." His blue eyes twinkled down at the first mate, who sighed and accepted defeat.

"I guess it's better than nothing," Gilligan conceded. He slipped out from under the Skipper's arm and began unloading the wood.

"What took you so long, anyway?" the Skipper asked.

"Oh, I stopped by to see the girls," Gilligan said, arranging the wood into a neat pile in the corner of the hut.

"There's a surprise!" the Skipper said, drily. "And why, pray tell, did you stop by to see the girls?"

"Because, pray tell, I wanted to see what they were doing. I saw them carrying a big box full of junk into their hut, pray tell." Gilligan stood up and dusted off his pants. "They're making decorations. Real neat ones, too. All tied up with ribbons and bows. And Mary Ann made this cute little angel with wings and eyes like this." He crossed his eyes and stared inwards at his nose.

"A cross-eyed angel?" The Skipper was dumbfounded.

Gilligan grinned widely. "They're gonna put it on the tree."

"I'm not sure I want a cross-eyed angel staring down at me from a tree," the Skipper muttered.

"It's real cute though, Skipper. You'll see. And Ginger was making stuff to hang from the tree. It was funny, because she had these little bits of glitter sticking to her and sometimes she sparkled, and she didn't even know it."

The Skipper suddenly found himself thinking of Ginger, sparkling. Before long he was imagining her like the fairy on the tree, only her eyes were perfect. And then she wasn't on the tree, she was floating in the air. She glowed like the sun, her face serene and beautiful. Huge, white, feathery wings sprouted from her slender shoulderblades and unfurled towards him. Beckoning.

"Oh, yeah," Gilligan said, suddenly remembering something. "I was going to whittle some wood for the girls!" He returned to the corner, saw the chunk of wood he wanted lying at the bottom of the pile and pulled it out. The resulting crash and clatter of wood falling over itself snapped the Skipper out of his reverie, just as he was about to kiss Ginger in her divine angel form. With a puff of delicate smoke, the vision was gone and he was left staring in frustration at the hut wall where a small spider scuttled back and forth, happily spinning its web.

"Gilligan! Why do you always have to...!"

"Skipper!" Gilligan immediately put his finger to his lips. "Ssh! No yelling, remember? It's Christmas!"

"I'll give you Christmas," the Skipper growled, and promptly smacked Gilligan on the head with his cap.

In the middle of their little exchange, they heard tinkling laughter and muted giggling coming from the direction of the girls' hut. The Skipper stopped scowling at Gilligan and drifted over to the open window. "Listen to that," he sighed, dreamily. "The sound of women's laughter. Isn't it like music to your ears?"

Gilligan pulled a face. "If that's music, I wish my ears had an 'off' button. I prefer The Mosquitoes."

"Gilligan, name me one good thing about The Mosquitoes."

Gilligan pouted. "They're not girls!"

The Skipper shook his head, fondly. "Little buddy, one day you'll wake up and realise that girls are the most beautiful creatures on earth. And one day you'll wish you'd realised it sooner."

"Never," said Gilligan, forcefully. "I'm gonna be a bachelor for the rest of my life!"

"But look at the Howells, Gilligan. Happily married for over twenty years!"

There came the sound of Mrs. Howell's voice carried on the evening breeze. She was sharply reprimanding Mr. Howell for something. And then there came the sound of Mr. Howell pleading, but Lovey, darling! Please listen to me! It was an accident! I didn't know it belonged to your mother!

"Happily married, huh?" said Gilligan, eyeing the Skipper suspiciously.

"Well," said the Skipper, tapping his fingers together sheepishly, "most of the time."

Gilligan shrugged his shoulders. He stared at the lump of wood in his hands. "I guess I'll go get started on my whittling. It'll be nice to make something useful instead of doing rotten old chores, for once."

The Skipper ignored the pointed comment. He'd suddenly had a flash of inspiration. "Gilligan, I think I have the perfect solution! For the Howells. To make them feel young again this Christmas. Oh, boy- the more I think about it, the more I know it'll really cheer them up!" And me too, he added in his thoughts, picturing Ginger standing in a moonlit clearing, her arms outstretched towards him while tiki torches turned her pale skin to a delicate amber and cast a fiery halo around her hair. Yes! This will be the perfect thing to cheer up an old sea dog like me at Christmas!

"Yeah?" Gilligan was more than a little interested. He loved it when the Skipper included him in his little schemes.

"Gilligan, put down your wood. There's something I'd like you to make for me."

Gilligan put down the wood. "You want me to make something?" He stood in front of the Skipper, his blue eyes wide with anticipation, hands clasped together, fingers firmly interlocked. "What is it, Skipper? What do you want me to make?"

The Skipper smiled and gave Gilligan a secretive wink. "Gilligan, I want you to make me some mistletoe."