Title: The Good Doctor Affair 1
A/N: Ducky's part of the affair.
Disclaim: Don't own NCIS or The Man from UNCLE. I have, however, meshed the characters together and played around with time. So bear with me. Mild spoilers for Meat Puzzle.
1987
It was an important year at U.N.C.L.E.; it was the year T.H.R.U.S.H. was almost brought down. More importantly, it was the year that 32-year-old Illya Kuryakin walked away from the organization whose secrecy was greater than that of the FBI and CIA combined.
The young Russian had finally had enough. He was tired of Napoleon treating him like a pet; tired of being shot at; sick of being beaten, tied up and left for dead; mostly though, he was tired of Napoleon Solo cheating on him.
So, Illya gathered all his effects from his desk and wore dark glasses to hide his red-rimmed eyes. He ignored Napoleon following him from the office, bellowing after him.
"Illya! Where the devil are you going?! We've work to do!" Strong hands grabbed his upper arms and wrenched him around. Illya stared up into the dark eyes of his now ex-lover. "How could you do this to me Illya? Leave me here all by myself."
He laughed bitterly as his soft lips twisted into a mocking smile. "You are not by yourself Napoleon. All the girls here in the office would gladly accompany you home." He pulled himself from his ex-partner's grip and began to walk away.
Napoleon laughed after him. "Oh so it's about them. What would you have me do? Get down on one knee for you?" The mockery was so great that Illya was certain had he had his gun, he would've given no thought to shooting his ex-partner, ex-best friend, ex-lover.
Instead, he breathed heavily and forced himself out the doors of U.N.C.L.E. with everyone watching. When he glanced back up at the unassuming office building, he could see Alexander Waverly, watching him walk away.
Mr. Waverly's parting words came back to him in a rush. 'UNCLE won't be the same without you, Illya.' And he certainly hoped that it wouldn't.
1991
It had taken Illya Kuryakin less than four years to become a completely different person. He had stepped as delicately from his Russian background as he had into his new British background.
He changed his name, added glasses and exchanged dark turtlenecks and grey and black slacks for colourful bow-ties and nice suits. In addition to a new external look, he forced his personality to change. Whereas he had once been a very shy individual who rarely talked about himself or his past, he now openly told stories of his make-believe family and life.
Doctor Donald "Ducky" Mallard was a completely different person from Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Ducky came from a prominent, lush background filled with caring parents, large houses and servants. Little Illya came from a poor background, a Gypsy father and a mother who didn't love him and long periods in between the times when food was abundantly on the table.
Ducky, however, hadn't lied about his education. He had gone to Edinburgh, as a present from a rich man in St. Petersburg who took pity on him because he was of a starving family. He had been a surgeon, did have two degrees and had traveled the world.
His mother, though, had died long ago. The woman who wrote him occasionally was simply the deranged sister of Mr. Neichov, the man who had sponsored him throughout schooling.
It was that esteemed schooling that offered him many high-paying jobs as he slipped effortlessly out of Illya Kuryakin and into Ducky Mallard. Despite the near complete change, Ducky couldn't shake his undeniable urge to help people. In spite of all his instincts not to, he accepted a job as a military surgeon and was shipped off to Frankfurt to help deal with the income of wounded soldiers from the Middle East.
The chemical scents and constant beep of machines was something familiar and yet new to the ex-spy. He found it, for some odd reason, to be a mild comfort knowing that though he had changed, humanity had not. People were still blowing each other up for unknown reasons, and he was still fixing those people.
One day, while making his rounds, he happened upon a young man in a coma. The man's dark hair was matted with sweat and dust, and his skin tan from the sun and peeling from an explosion. It reminded him of the time he and Napoleon had…he quickly cut off his rambling thoughts and stared at the young man, who despite his current physical condition was still atttractive.
"Well, you certainly seem fine," he remarked to the young man, his mouth barely working to produce a perfect British accent. He lifted the man's chart and stared at the name. "The name Leroy does not become you, Gunny." When he glanced back over the clipboard at the man, sharp blue eyes stared back at him.
A tongue darted out and wetted blistered lips. "Jethro." He smiled down at the young man and produced a cup of water, holding the Styrofoam to the others lips. "Ah. Jethro. It fits you better, I dare say." Jethro smiled slowly. "Excuse us Doctor," another man said sharply and elbowed Ducky out of the way. He tried to ignore the way Jethro's eyes flashed with hostility. "But of course," Ducky said with a soft smile, and he roamed off to find other patients.
When he finally made it back to Jethro's bunk, the young gunnery sergeant was sitting up, his shaggy head cradled in his bandaged hands. "Are you alright?" Jethro looked up at him, and the look seemed to plead for companionship.
Careful not to jostle the young man, Ducky sat down beside Jethro. "Would you like to talk about it?" Jethro threw his arms around Ducky, completely startling the doctor, and clung to him. Sobs choked themselves in the crook of Ducky's neck, strong fingers dug into his shoulders, and it took everything he could not to tighten up at the intimacy of the entire situation. This man didn't even know his name and yet, he was flinging himself at Ducky as if Jethro belonged in the doctor's arms, and strangely, Ducky found that he wasn't quite as opposed to the thought of possibly sharing his life with the young man.
Very awkwardly, he returned the embrace despite the knots twisting in his stomach, gingerly patting the younger man on the back. "Aw Duck, they're gone. My family's gone." So Jethro did know his name, and instead of chiding the gunny on the shortening of his nickname, he just kept patting the young man on the back. "There, there. It will be all right."
Jethro pulled back and stared at him with eyes turned cobalt by tears. He met that gaze head on. Many a time Napoleon had tried to break him by using his stare alone; he hadn't broken for Napoleon Solo. He certainly wouldn't break for Jethro Gibbs.
Slowly he extracted himself from Jethro's clutch as the hateful glare continued and smoothed down his doctor's coat. "Time will eventually numb your wounds; but only you can heal them." Jethro glared up at him with those cobalt eyes. "How would you know." It was meant as a rhetorical question, more of a cheap shot than an actual inquiry. But he answered anyway, twisting actuality just slightly. "When I was very young, my father was killed. He was struck by a drunk driver, thrown 50 meters and bled out from a head wound on a cobblestone lane in Manchester. My mother, unwilling to let him go, married a man who looked almost exactly as my father did. It was a terrible trauma for a little boy of five to have inflicted when every day he had to come home and stare at his dead father, who wasn't really his father."
For a moment, Jethro just stared at him. Ducky finally looked away and watched Jethro's heartbeat march across the monitor. "It's like telling a small child that Santa isn't real, then dressing up as jolly Saint Nick and eating dinner with the child every night." He offered Jethro a wan smile and made his way back into the heart of the hospital.
The rest of the week, he made certain that someone other than him did Jethro's bed checks. Completely unwilling to put up with yet another man who thought he could control everyone in his life with just a smile and good looks, he disassociated himself from Jethro Gibbs. Until Jethro sought him out.
When he reported to the hospital for his shift, Jethro was waiting at the reception desk. Those deep blue eyes locked on him, watched him move closer, and nearly slipped into that dark gaze. The young gunny was dressed in his khaki uniform; a duffel bag lay on the floor at his feet. Ducky slipped behind the desk, signing in while waiting for Jethro to speak.
"I'm leaving today." He glanced up at the younger man but said nothing. "I'm going back to Virginia before a twelve-month deployment." Ducky went back to his paperwork. "And I was wondering if I could get a ride to the airport. I'll buy you lunch first." He looked up at the young man, studied him for a long moment before placing his pen down. "When does your flight leave Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs?" The younger man flinched at his formal title. "Look, Ducky. I was an ass, okay? Can't we just forget it?" For a moment, his old training ran heavy through him. He smoothed the feelings out with a soft smile. "Don't make a habit of it Jethro."
"So…you'll drive me to the airport?" Ducky raised his eyebrows slightly. "What happened to lunch?" Jethro laughed softly and nodded eagerly. "Of course. Lunch. How about I meet you here at eleven hundred?" Ducky nodded slowly, trying not to be sucked in by Gibbs's vibrant grin. When Jethro finally returned to his room to wait for three hours, his old self halved himself and took sides. One half of him couldn't believe he had forgiven the younger man so easily; he reasoned that his new self was trusting and easy going rather than mysteriously aloof. The other half wondered what was for lunch.
He smiled as old reminisces crept to the surface of his mind. The first time Napoleon had offered to buy him lunch, his appetite had won out and the bill had exceeded one hundred dollars. Ever since, his near-constant appetite had been an on-going joke at UNCLE. Secretly, both his past and present selves couldn't wait for lunch.
Jethro, as it turned out, was very punctual and arrived exactly at 11:00, which shocked Ducky very mildly. But when he returned from making his rounds, there was Jethro, rocking on his feet by the reception desk. Those dark blue eyes turned to him, already twinkling with a hidden smile. "Ready to go, Duck?" Casually, he shrugged off his doctor's coat and made his way toward the doctor's lounge. He was already stripping off his scrubs when Jethro came through the door.
When his head came free from the green shirt, Jethro was watching him. He self-consciously pulled on, buttoned and smoothed down his dress shirt. It wasn't as if he hadn't undressed before another male before. He'd undressed before a lot of men; just none of them had ever watched him in quite the same way as Jethro was. And he really didn't want to sound girly by telling the other to turn around.
Sucking it up, he just shoved the scrub pants down over his black pinstriped boxers. He hastily jerked the khakis up over his legs before stooping to pull off the plastic baggies around his dress shoes. "Ready now?" He turned to look at Jethro before nodding. "Yes." Ducky mentally kicked himself when neither Jethro nor himself moved, but rather continued to stare at one another. Slowly, he cleared his throat. "So, uh, shall we proceed?" Jethro seemed to snap out of it and hurriedly opened the door. "Yeah."
He found himself being ushered before the other with a broad hand spread in the small of his back. Ducky wasn't entirely sure he was comfortable with Jethro's touchy style. Jethro opened the door of a government issued vehicle and swept Ducky inside before nearly running to the other side of the car. The whole thing would have been amusing if not for making Ducky feel a little bit uncomfortable.
Jethro, seemingly oblivious to Ducky's mild discomfort, smiled while starting up the car and drove off. Silence clutched the car's interior strongly as Jethro drove and Ducky looked out the window. Another shock jolted into his chest when Jethro parked the car in front of what appeared to be an expensive restaurant.
The other looked at him expectantly, keys in hand. "Well, you ready?" Ducky swallowed heavily. He wanted to voice an opinion. He didn't want to eat in an expensive place; he didn't want the bill to exceed a hundred dollars; he didn't want his appetite to be made fun of yet again.
But Jethro continued to stare at him, patiently waiting. Slowly, he nodded. Jethro was out of the car before Ducky could react and at his side, pulling the door open and helping him out. He blushed at the treatment, which was like that of a couple but he decided it was rather nice and that he really liked this young man. Jethro was already at the door, holding it open and patiently waiting yet again for Ducky. With a blush, Ducky rushed up the sidewalk, ignoring the slight twinge of pain in his right leg.
After they were seated, albeit with a few dirty looks from the other patrons, Ducky stared, regrettably, down at the menu. He'd come from a large family, and there had never really been all that much to eat and because of that past, hunger was almost always lurking in his body. A sharp hunger pain forced his sight to double and see Russian printed across the menu for a brief moment until he blinked. He quickly scanned the menu for the cheapest item. Unable to find it, he decided on just ordering soup and bread.
Their waiter sidled up, placed glasses of water on the table and accepted orders for drinks. When the young man asked if they were ready to order, Jethro gave a decisive yes. Ducky watched as the man sitting across from him ordered for both of them. The waiter didn't glance Ducky's way again. When the young man had disappeared, Ducky glared at Jethro. "What was that?"
"Me ordering for you, Duck."
Ducky glowered and sat in a pout at the table, easily slipping back into Illya as Donald Mallard was too well bred to pout. Jethro just smiled at him. "I'm taking you out for a treat. I don't want you to order something cheap." Ducky ignored him by taking a sip of his water. The waiter, at that moment, showed up with drinks. When Ducky had replaced his glass on the table, Jethro was staring at him again.
"How'd you hurt your leg?" Unintentionally, Ducky rested his hand on his upper thigh and, not for the first time, imaged that he could feel the long, narrow scar that curved there. He'd received it being a Russian spy; a member of THRUSH had kidnapped him and held him hostage, torturing and assaulting him for six long days before Napoleon had finally rescued him. "I got hurt during a skiing accident. For my 16th birthday, my parents took me to the Swiss Alps for a skiing trip. On one of the slopes, my ski hit a rock and tripped me. I broke my leg in the consequent fall."
For a moment, he was sure that Jethro wouldn't believe him. But the other man nodded slowly. "So your family is pretty well off." After a moment, Ducky nodded. "Old money," he said by way of explanation before taking another sip of his drink. The waiter swept by, informing them that their food would be ready shortly before disappearing again. "So…how old are you Ducky?"
The question threw Ducky through a loop, and he looked at the other man for a moment. "I turn 37 in September. Why? How old did you think I was?" Jethro cocked his head and stared at Ducky in an unsettling way for a second. "I thought maybe 26." Ducky nodded and smoothed his hands over the fine tablecloth. He'd only once been in a restaurant as fine as this one, and it had been in Russia on his 16th birthday at Neichov's insistence. "And how old are you Jethro?"
Jethro's mouth split in a grin. "I just turned 23 in January." Ducky nodded slowly, preparing to reply when the waiter reappeared with another man in black-and-white at his elbow. Both carried heavy trays.
As roasted duck and boiled potatoes with leeks, thick potato soup, nearly a loaf of bread and a large bowl of salad were loaded onto the table, Ducky had to lock his jaw to keep it from dropping open. As the second youngest in a family of seven, he'd been lucky to get even an eighth of this meal.
Sweet aromas assaulted his senses and caused his mouth to water. To calm himself, he took a sip of his tea and breathed deeply. He was, once again, reminded of Neichov's dinner. He mentally chided himself as he caught Jethro's amused look. Carefully, Ducky filled his plate, watching Jethro's plate to see if he was getting too much food.
He tried desperately hard to maintain the persona of Ducky Mallard, but Illya forced himself to the fore, as he tasted the duck. With a careful quickness, he devoured the plate's contents and ladled soup into the wide, flat bowl provided. The chunks of potato were hot and flavourful, swimming in the creamy soup. He tried hard not to just inhale his food.
After a while, he realized that Jethro had stopped eating and was watching him. Ducking his head, Ducky looked up bashfully at the younger man, waiting for the questions and mocking to begin. Jethro didn't say anything, just continued to watch. Unable to help himself, Ducky returned to his food. He forcefully slowed his bites but was determined to eat until he felt he'd bust.
Two hours of food later, after he deemed the duck free of all meat and all the soup had been sopped up from his bowl with bread, Ducky casually leaned back with a sigh. Jethro was giving him a most peculiar look. "…What?" Jethro smiled softly and shook his head. "Where does it all go?"
A blush rose heavy to Ducky's face; never before had he heard that question stem from his appetite. "I know what you've got under that shirt, and it isn't a whole dinner's worth of soft stomach. So where does it go?"
Really, he was tempted to name off all the things he did when he wasn't being a good person: fencing, kickboxing, horseback riding, shooting. Ever since quitting the whole spying business, he still hadn't adjusted to his high level of energy he'd once had to strain to the fullest at UNCLE that, as a doctor, he barely used.
"I just don't really ever have the time to eat properly. It seems as if I'm always in surgery or doing some such nonsense like paperwork." Jethro laughed softly before casually checking his watch. Ducky put his tea back on the table. "What time does your flight leave?" Jethro glanced up at him. "1500. We have a little under an hour left."
Part of his mentality questioned if the whole set up was a date, but he casually brushed the thought away. Marines, in general, weren't too accepting of gay people. "Well, what do you want to do Jethro? Since, we've nearly an hour left." Jethro stared at him for a moment. "Tell me about yourself."
"Such as?" Ducky asked, lifting a brow. Jethro shrugged. "Your family, your friends, lovers, experiences…you know, things like that." Ducky slowly nodded. "My parents are divorced; my mother is living in our yearly home in England. My father left for Cairo and a young Jezebel named Alexis. I have an older brother, James; he turned 35 in May and has a lovely wife and three children."
"What about friends?" Jethro prodded, leaning in as if absorbing the information. "I have a limited number of close friends, but an extremely large number of close acquaintances. My acquaintances span the globe so that the sun never sets on my empire. A good number of those men and women are also in the medical field."
Jethro waited for a moment, but Ducky blatantly ignored the silent question pertaining to his lovers. "And relationships?" The younger man grinned playfully. "Any pretty, little lovers hanging about?" Ducky looked at Jethro before sighing and taking a sip of lukewarm tea. "No. My lover and I broke up four years ago. He's mostly the reason why I left my old job; he was always cheating on me." Jethro nodded gently as if he understood. "It doesn't bother you that I'm gay, Gunny?"
A soft laugh passed Jethro's lips. "Why would it Duck? You seem like a very amazing person." Ducky blushed despite being completely unsure of what exactly lay in that casual statement. "Why thank you Jethro."
The waiter swept back through, refilling glasses and removing dirty plates. Discretely, the young man in black-and-white left the check and scurried off to the kitchen with his arms full of dirty dishes. Ducky watched Jethro look at the check, and without batting an eye, the younger man pulled out two one hundred dollar bills and laid the bills on the table. "Ready to go Duck?"
There was that expectant but patient look again. Slowly, Ducky got to his feet and was once again ushered before Jethro with that broad, warm hand in the small of Ducky's back. The pair of them sat in the car, stationary in the parking lot, just looking at the front of the restaurant. "Do you mind if I write you while I'm gone, since I've no one else to write?" Ducky swallowed carefully; the Gunny, he told himself, was simply looking for companionship following a traumatic event.
Jethro's dark blue eyes turned to him, imploring an answer of Ducky. "I suppose it would be alright." Jethro grinned easily and pulled Ducky into a hug across the console of the car. Ducky allowed the contact. "Dad and I am not exactly on speaking terms, my mom's dead along with my wife and daughter. You, at least, seem to care." Ducky smiled softly and leaned back into a straight-backed position.
"Right. Just drive the car back to the hospital once I've boarded the plane; someone will be there to pick it up." Jethro started the car up and slowly backed up. The drive was, once again, almost leisurely and nearly silent. The airport held a deserted look as Jethro parked near the entrance.
Once again, the younger man rushed to Ducky's side of the car to open his door and help him out before walking back to the boot of the car and getting out Jethro's Army-issued duffle bag. They walked into the terminal together, and Ducky, like the perfect gentleman, walked Jethro right up to the gate's entrance. "Well Marine, I look forward to your letters." Jethro grinned at him in a wavering way before dropping his bag and clasping Ducky in a hard hug. In the past four hours, this man he barely knew had shown him more love and compassion than nearly two years' worth of a relationship with Napoleon.
"I'll miss you Duck, and you have to promise to reply to the occasion letter. Okay?" Ducky smiled, scribbled the address of both his German apartment and the Reston House down before handing over the numbers, "Of course Jethro. I'll reply to them all." Jethro grinned again and blinked slowly as if there was something in his eye. Overhead, Jethro's plane was called and people lined up at the gate. "Bye Duck." Jethro lifted his hand in a wave, which Ducky returned. "Goodbye Jethro."
He watched the young Marine get on his plane and dutifully waited until the plane had started to tally down the runway before leaving the terminal. He began the drive back to the hospital, thinking about Jethro. Some of the things the Gunny had done were the things only lovers would do, but he dismissed the thought as something Jethro might've done with all his friends. There was no point in getting his shattered hopes of love up yet again.
1995
Though the war had yet to end, Ducky had grown tired of fixing the wounded soldiers that fluxed in and out of the Frankfurt hospital. So he decided to return to America.
America was, at first glance, the same as it had always been. New York was still crash and rude with people pushing and shoving on the overcrowded sidewalks while taxis and buses honked and raged on the overcrowded streets.
The noise nearly overwhelmed him but he sucked it up and took a walk down memory lane. There was still an explosion pattern on Broadway where his and Napoleon's car had exploded. He walked past the unassuming office building that had once held UNCLE; he was clueless as to whether or not the organization was still in operation, let alone still stationed in the same building as it had been in 1987.
Women leered at him and men smiled lightly in his direction. Sighing heavily, Ducky walked toward one of the many libraries. The massive oak doors swung open before him, and he stepped into the marble foyer. The library on 22nd Street had been a gift to the city and was still a sight to behold.
Curving staircases beckoned him upward, and his shoes treaded on velvet runners. He stopped at the service desk on the top floor and requested computer access. When the lady granted his access, smiling gently at him, he strode past her. The really bad thing about living in America was that you needed a good-paying job to keep ahead as much as he liked. In Europe, he had all the money he wanted, but it would take some time to transfer those funds into American currency.
Until then, he really needed a job. On the computer, he placed several applications in the medical field, looking for a job that dealt with anything but soldiers. He gave the address of the Reston House in Virginia, about thirty minutes from DC. Slowly, he got to his feet and cleaned the lenses of his glasses on his sweater. He decided that the next course of action would be to buy a train ticket to Virginia and move in with the lovely Vanessa Neichov.
He smiled at the receptionist as he walked past and made his way to the nearest train station. New York simply held too many memories for him to live comfortably. He couldn't even breathe easily knowing that he was possibly in the same city as Napoleon Solo.
The train station was empty, as most train stations normally went in the middle of a workday. He bought the ticket and used almost all of what little money he had left in his pocket. When the train pulled up into the station, he boarded among the throngs of leaving passengers and managed to find a seat in a cabin by himself. He locked the door behind himself and settled down for a six-hour commute.
By the time the train pulled into the station just outside Georgetown, Ducky had managed to nod off for a short nap. The train's rough stop jolted him back to full awareness in less than ten seconds. He gathered his possessions and disembarked from the train. He hailed a taxi and directed the young man toward the Reston House.
When he finally reached the house, the last of his money was to be handed over to the young man. He smiled softly and got out of the cab. He prayed that Ms. Neichov would remember him. Vanessa had once been an actress, and when she opened the door it was obvious that the slight dementia had not stifled that creativeness. His mother threw her arms open wide, along with the French doors. "DONALD!" She drew him into an embrace that smelled like Chanel 5. Four Welsh Corgis skidded around the hardwood floor and leapt at him, begging a touch and yapping.
"Hello Ms. Neichov." She smiled at him and ushered him inside. "Nonsense, Nichols already told me. You should call me mother." He grinned, unable to help it. "How have you been mother?" She hugged him again. Ducky remembered Vanessa from his younger days, when Mr. Neichov had tutored Ducky himself and Nichols had been still taking care of his older sister. "A bit tired dear. Shall we go sit down?"
He left his bag in the expansive foyer, checked to make sure the door was shut and locked, and followed his mother into the kitchen. Big picture windows looked out onto the massive backyard lined with willow trees, shrubs and beautiful, climbing roses. "We'll have your funds transferred tomorrow dear," she said while patting his hand softly. "You'll have the entire upstairs to yourself and any visitors. The corgis and I sleep downstairs, in the bedroom by the door."
"Thank you for letting me stay with you." His mother waved her hand softly. "Nonsense Donald, a mother always takes in her child. Though I had hoped that this house would be your wedding present someday." He smiled softly and shook his head. "I am sorry mother." She pulled him into another Chanel 5 hug and shushed him. "Hush dear, it's alright. A mother just wants her children to be happy."
Once Nichols Neichov had accepted Illya as part of the Neichov family, Vanessa had been like a mother to him. The slightly mad, older lady had loved him in a way his own mother had not. Though he had always been his father's favourite son, that paternal love hadn't filled the hole left by the want for his mother's affection; Vanessa Neichov's love had. Ducky's mother slowly got to her feet and wandered about the kitchen, getting ready for teatime.
When the teakettle was finally put on to boil, and his mother had rejoined him at the table, she took his hands in hers. Her hands were soft, narrow and small as they cupped his own strong, scalpel calloused hands. "You haven't changed at all young Illya, still as beautiful as ever." He blushed, and she laughed softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Thankfully, the kettle began to whistle before he had to say anything in return. "Here, let me mother." He carefully disentangled their hands and stood to remove the kettle and ready the fine china cups. Slowly, he added the steaming tea and basked in the scent of Earl Grey. "Honey, milk, or sugar?" Ducky asked as he brought the two cups to the table. "No dear, thank you though."
They sipped their tea in silence. "I've a present out in the garage for you Donald, though it may need some work. But I'll let you go and get situated. Your rooms have already been made livable by Libby, the maid." He slowly got to his feet. "Just don't forget your present in the garage dear." He looked over his shoulder at her, "Yes mother." Ducky gathered his duffel bag and backpack from polished floor and moved upstairs slowly. He opened the set of heavy, double doors and stepped into the massive master suite.
The bed loomed before him, lit from curtained light streaming through the doors leading out onto the balcony. He dropped his stuff and moved to the other side, pulling away the thin curtains and pushing open the ornate French doors with frosted glass. Sighing, he walked back into the centre of the bedroom and toward the door leading to the private sitting room connected to the bedroom. Cabinets lined with mirrors and shut with glass doors held bottle after bottle of expensive scotch, whiskey and bourbon. He pulled open the blank cabinet door underneath the alcohol cabinets and opened the freezer where rows of vodka sat. He sucked his breath in and dropped down in a large armchair.
He was nearly afraid to leave his suite of rooms, so he returned to his bedroom and moved into the bathroom. The marble floors were black; the shower was set in marble and fitted in the back wall with shower-heads across the ceiling and down the sides. A large marble tub rose out of the corner of the left and back wall with only a narrow, white cabinet keeping the tub and shower from touching. A mirror with frosted edges took up half of the right wall, with a sprawling counter set with two deep sinks and covered in the necessities. The black and white toilet was crouched to the left of the counter with a half wall providing cover from the shower. Ducky sucked in a deep breath. It would take a little while to get used to the money.
There was no doubt in his mind that the rest of his floor was just as beautifully furnished as his suite. The small library office opened onto a balcony as well, the doors position just behind a sprawling mahogany desk and matching chair. Floor to ceiling bookcases took up most of the wall space. There was a spare bedroom, making the number of total bedroom six, and a public bathroom that was somewhat smaller than the master bath. Each of the rooms was cavernous and furnished with nearly antique, but worn and comfortable, furniture.
Casually, he made his way back downstairs and out into the garage. The extensive garage was immaculate with all the tools in their places on the walls, the counters clean and the floor swept. A drop sheet covered what could only be a car on the left side of the two-car garage. He pulled away the white sheet, and his knees nearly gave out. The Morgan dully gleamed from under dust. The vintage car sat low on deflated tires and the windows were dirty. Ducky ran his fingers over the smooth, black soft top before stroking the gritty silver paint. He decided right away that the car needed a completely new life.
Never before had anyone given him a gift such as the car. He rushed back into the house and swept his mother up into a hug. "Thank you," he whispered while he clung to her. She simply handed him the keys. "It needs a lot of work. I bought it in Lancaster and had it shipped over. I think the family said it'd been driven twice before." Ducky clung to his mother again until releasing her enough to take the keys.
He wheeled the Morgan out of the garage on its flat tires and retrieved the water hose. The water washed away streams of dirt and dust, revealing the shiny, silver body. Ducky rolled up his sleeves and dutifully scrubbed the caked-on dirt until the sleek body of the Morgan gleamed. He jacked the car up, and carefully he removed each decrepit wheel and washed the wheel hubs. He slid into the driver's seat, inserted the key, and started the engine. The Morgan's old engine turned over twice before catching life and giving a weak rumble before dying again. He slipped out the door and pulled the hood up, making a mental note of what was needed.
His mother stepped out onto the wide, covered front porch and waved money at him. "You'll need to go to the auto store. I've already called you a taxi, dear." Ducky looked down at his dirtied dress shirt and tried to smooth his ruffled hair. He slipped his glasses off and placed the streaked lenses in the garage before accepting the money from his mother and getting into the cab. He bought the parts needed and ordered a whole new wooden frame from the Morgan Auto Company. The man behind the desk told him it would probably be five days before the frame would make it over. When he was returned to the house, unthinkingly he check the mailbox and was sorely disappointed at the empty contents but set his mind on the Morgan.
Already, he had decided that the Morgan would be his life until completed or a job offer came in. His driver's license would be transferred from Germany to America, along with his extensive funds, by the time the week was out.
Within two weeks, he had the Morgan completely refurnished to its vintage self. The car was beautiful, if he did say so himself, and he loved it even more for having fixed it himself. It was one of the greatest pleasures in his life to climb into the driver's seat and turn the key, to listen to the car's engine roar to life immediately and to rumble patiently for him to shift gears.
All he needed next was a job. Most of his money had been placed in a bank account in the Caribbean to accumulate interest and keep him from squandering the hard-earned funds. Only a small portion, a measly $100,000, was kept in DC so that he had easy access whenever he needed money. Unlike most Americans, Ducky didn't believe in credit cards, and therefore didn't have any. The only card in his wallet, aside from his driver's license, was his debit card. He had learned from Napoleon's mistakes that though credit cards were nice, they were also vindictive little bits of plastic. He was hoping for a call, and hopefully for a job, sometime before the week was out.
He sat at the table with his mother that night, sipping tea and discussing life, when the phone rang. Slowly, he got to his feet and plucked the phone off its base. "Hullo?" For a moment, there was silence on the other line before a soft voice piped up. "Uh yes, Donald Mallard?"
"Yes?" He waited patiently while the young woman collected herself. His name tended to surprise people; they always seemed to think he was just yanking their chain. "My name is Stacy Carlson, and I'm calling on behalf of Director Tom Morrow about your job application."
"Yes?" She took another deep breath. "We would like to schedule an appointment for an interview; that is, if you're still interested in the job Mr. Mallard." He tried to remember what institution Tom Morrow was the director for, but the institute's name slipped his mind. "Of course. Just name the date and time." He could hear the young woman flipping through a date book before answering him. "How about tomorrow at 9:30? Will that be okay for you?" Ducky nodded briefly before realizing that she couldn't see him. "Of course. I'll be there. Thank you."
"No, thank you. The address is 716 Sicard Street, Washington Naval Yard. Have a good day sir," and she ended the phone call as soon as the pleasantries had passed.
"Did you get a job dear?" He looked over at his mother and rejoined her at the table. "No. I have an interview though." His mother grinned at him. "Well done Donald. I'm very proud of you. Where at, might I ask?" He blushed softly and picked up his tea cup to give him something to do. "I am not entirely sure, but it is a government institution." For a moment, his mother looked at him before shooting him a demanding look. "Well, get to bed then. You need to be well rested for your interview."
Ducky looked at the clock. "Mother. It is only 7:30. My interview is tomorrow morning. I have more than enough time to finish my tea, read some of my book, go to bed around 10:00 and still get a good night's rest without going to bed this very instant." His mother gave him a look, which resulted in him sighing and getting to his feet. He carried his tea cup to the sink and placed the thin china in soapy water and walked toward the stairs. He stopped in the downstairs study to get his book and crept upstairs to his suite of rooms before he upset his mother.
He changed into soft, thick cotton pajama bottoms and pulled off his shirts before climbing into bed. Ducky settled back against the mound of pillows, covered his knees with the thick, green comforter and settled his book on his knees. His current book was on the human mind including phobias, tendencies and personality characteristics. He was currently working on getting yet another degree, one that would allow him to legally profile people, and the book had become like a Bible to him.
For the next few hours, he lay in bed, flipping through the book's pages, reviewing what he had already learned. His exam wasn't for another few months, but he had never been one to waste his time simply because there was time to waste. When Ducky next glanced at the clock on his bedside table, it was 11:54. With a heavy sigh, he removed his glasses, setting the lenses on the bedside table next to the clock and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He shifted down further into the large bed, pulled the covers up over his chest and closed his eyes in an attempt to force sleep.
At precisely 5:30 the next morning, his alarm clock trilled shrilly in his ear. Ducky sat up and slapped the shrieking device sharply, effectively shutting it up. Slowly, he stretched and yawned before kicking his legs out from under the covers and getting to his feet. He changed into a pair of black sweatpants and pulled a hooded sweatshirt over his naked torso. He dropped to sit on the floor and pulled on his old, worn-out trainers, got to his feet and trotted from his room.
By the time he got downstairs, his mother had already begun brewing coffee. He kissed her gently on the cheek. "I'm going for my run. I'll be back mother." He crept through the house, careful not to wake the corgis, opened the front door and stepped out onto the front porch. The morning was cool, the air crisp and he began to stretch. He had gotten used to running when he'd still worked for UNCLE, now he kept running simply because it felt good and was good for him. He jogged down the front steps, across the front lawn and down the quiet street.
Most of the houses were still dark as he jogged past each one, concentrating on keeping his breathes shallow and even. His heart beat was deafeningly loud his ears, and the slap of his sneakers against the pavement rang out against the silence of the morning. Mentally, he counted his steps, calculated the length of his stride into the number of feet in a mile and counted to eight times that. Like always, he reached a private park for a ritzy neighborhood. Ducky stopped for a breather, bent forward to touch his knees and drew in long, slow breaths.
Slowly, he straightened and turned about-face. He stretched out his legs and massaged his right thigh hard, fighting off the niggling pain creeping from his muscles. Ducky took one last deep breath and began to jog back. On his way back to the Reston House, as always, people were getting into their cars and heading toward work, telling him that it was nearly 6. He counted his heartbeats this time. When he passed the mailbox, his heart broke a little as it always did. By the time he stepped up on the porch, his heart was beating roughly 115 beats a minute.
He dragged a hand across his warm face and drew in a shuddering breath. Ducky popped the neckline of his hoodie to send air down over his sweating torso. He pushed the door open and stepped into the cool comfort of air conditioning. His mother peeked out of the kitchen. "Feel like some coffee or breakfast?" The very thought of food turned his stomach. "No thank you mother. I think I am going to go upstairs, finish my workout and then take a shower." She nodded, and he jogged up the stairs.
When he pushed his bedroom door open, his breathing had evened and his body cooled. He walked past his suite of rooms and down the hall. He unlocked the far door and stepped into his own personal defense room. Ducky kicked off his shoes and felt the mats give slightly under his weight. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders while drawing nearer to the punching bag. The grinning face of Napoleon Solo stared back at him. He bounced slightly and swung out, denting the picture in the middle. His knuckles stung, but he didn't have time to wrap his hands. He barely had time for a thirty minute go at his ex-partner.
His blows landed hard and fast, denting and ripping the picture until Solo's face was a mangled mess of black and white. Ducky let his hands fall, and his shoulders slumped. He took in deep, regulated breaths before turning and leaving the room. He locked the door behind him and made his way toward his suite. When his bedroom door shut behind him, Ducky slumped against it, boneless. He was suddenly nervous.
Soundlessly, he pushed away from the door and stripped off the hoodie as he moved to his bathroom. The shower spurted out hot water, and he stripped off his socks and pants before stepping into the spray. The water thudded against his back like a good massage despite the fact that the water made his hands sting. There was icy water in one of the sinks, waiting to soak his hands after the shower, to stop the swelling and bruising.
Over the sound of the shower, Ducky managed to pick up the chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs. Seven chimes was enough incentive for him to move. He grabbed a flannel, swept it over the bar of soap and quickly washed his body. As the spray rinsed his body, he scrubbed almost painfully at his scalp. The stream swarmed over his tired muscles, relaxing him before he cut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Ducky dried off quickly and soaked his hands in the chilly water for a brief time before stalking into his bedroom and pulling out his best dark suit. He returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and hair, shave, apply deodorant and to use the mirror to perfectly tie the claret bow-tie.
With a little over an hour and thirty minutes until he needed to leave, Ducky trudged down the stairs and into the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the table, sipping coffee, but quickly got to her feet when he entered the room. "Look at you. Absolutely stunning. You'll get the job for sure," she said while pulling him into a quick hug. "Now, how about some breakfast?" Sighing, Ducky relented. "I suppose mother." His mother grinned and moved toward the stove, quickly readying to scramble some eggs and prepare some toast. "Fix yourself some coffee dear and sit down."
Working on autopilot, Ducky fixed himself a cup of black coffee and sat down at the table. Shortly after, his mother placed a plate piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast covered in strawberry jam. Slowly, Ducky ate his breakfast and sipped his coffee while listening to his mother ramble on and on about the job. He was a bit nervous, but nervousness could be overcome. Really, he was excited to be able to drive the Morgan into a busy place and show it off. People were often entranced with the vintage car that, true to European fashion, had the steering wheel on the right side of the car instead of the left.
Glancing at the kitchen clock, which read 8:37, Ducky slowly got to his feet. He needed to leave the house at 8:40 to get to the Naval Yard within fifteen minutes of the designated time, and it was always good to show up early. He stood up, placed his dishes in the sink and kissed his mother on the cheek. "Wish me luck mother," he told her before retrieving his car keys and walking out the front door. He quickly walked down the front walk and approached the shining Morgan, tugged the door open and settled in the driver's seat. Ducky inserted the key and turned the ignition, loving the sound of the engine's purr. Slowly, he down-shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway before fluidly shifting into first and driving off down the road, shifting up appropriately as he went.
As he entered the Naval Yard, Ducky slowed down and carefully read each street address. The building marked as 716 was an unassuming, squat building of light red brick with glass doors and relatively wide windows. After a few moments of searching, Ducky was able to find a parking space, put the Morgan into park, got out and locked the car behind him. The glass doors opened before him obligingly; he got on a lift, traveled to the second floor and stepped into a busy, yet clean, office. A young woman looked at him, smiling in a nearly love-struck way. "Can I help you sir?" He smiled softly, "Yes. I have an appointment with Director Morrow at 9:30." She pointed to the side, at a metal staircase. "Up those stairs and through the door." He touched her hand softly, "Thank you." She blushed hard and looked down. So this is how Napoleon felt, he thought while walking slowly through the squad room.
A hand grabbed his upper arm and was wrenching Ducky around, "Hey. I need to see your-Ducky?" He stared up into the dark blue eyes of Jethro Gibbs. For a moment, the hurt from letters not received crashed back into his heart. He had, of course, attributed the lack of letters to him being forgotten by the young Marine. For a brief moment, Jethro's fingers tightened against his forearm, pulling Ducky just a little bit closer. Chapped lips opened as if to say something when another man came by, smacking Jethro upside the head. "Gibbs! Com'on! We got a dead Marine out in Norfolk." The older man was gone, and Jethro stared hard at Ducky. "This isn't over. You and I are gonna talk. I'll be back, and you better be here." Those dark blue eyes bored into Ducky, who simply looked back. "I have an appointment to keep." Ducky slowly pulled away and walked languidly up the stairs, feeling Jethro's gaze on him all the way until Ducky disappeared through the doorway.
There was a young blonde sitting at a desk, a secretary he presumed, and she looked up at him when he came to a stop in front of her desk. The clock on the wall behind her read 9:20. "Can I help you sir?" He smiled at her lightly. "Yes my dear. My name is Doctor Donald Mallard, and I have an appointment with Director Morrow." The girl was tripping all over herself, blushing hard and smiling back. "Of course. Yes, but the appointment isn't for ten minutes."
"It has always been my policy that the early bird catches the worm." He smiled at her again and waited while the girl, her name plate said her name was Stacy Carlson, buzzed her boss and waited for a reply. Within minutes, Morrow opened his door, grinned widely at Ducky and beckoned him into Morrow's office. "Come in, come in Doctor Mallard."
The other man ushered Ducky into the spacious office, sat him down in a comfortable chair and crossed around to settle behind the large desk. Morrow leaned his elbows on the dark desk, fingers tented. "Well Doctor Mallard, for some reason I thought you'd be older, considering your experiences." Ducky smiled softly. "Please, call me Ducky; everyone does. And I do believe that you are the only person to ever say that to me." Morrow sat back in his chair, smiling softly. "So, have you ever been a ME before?" Ducky nodded slowly. "Yes. When I finished my schooling in Edinburgh, I went immediately into surgery at London's Royal London Hospital. A few months after I started as an emergency surgeon, the head ME quit when the Medical Board found out that he was taking drugs from the hospital. The Board then stepped in and asked that I take up temporary residence as the head ME, to which I agreed. After a few months, the Board called me before them again and asked that I become the permanent ME, to which I also agreed."
Ducky leaned back into his chair, smiling sadly. "I worked as the resident ME for six years before a colleague began having a problem with me; I felt that this problem was effecting the way I was working, so I put in my two-week notice and finished my work. I left Royal London Hospital with the highest letters of recommendation, which in 1991 got me my job as a military surgeon." Morrow shuffled the mentioned letters and looked up at Ducky. "So why did you resign that position?" Ducky leaned forward slightly. "I decided that I needed to be closer to my mother, who had recently been diagnosed with a mild form of dementia. I could not take care of my mother while in Germany, so I moved to Virginia to make sure that she was properly cared for."
Morrow laid the papers down on his desk and looked up at Ducky. "Do you think, that if you do make this commitment, that you'll be here over ten years?" Ducky swallowed hard; a job was always something to be taken to the fullest, to put everything he had behind it; a job had somehow always managed to become his life. He was ready for dead bodies to become his life, for at least the dead offered answers to the questions that the living often chose to ignore. Slowly, Ducky nodded. "Yes. I would plan to commit until you forced retirement upon me." Morrow grinned, reached across the desk and grabbed Ducky's hand in a firm shake. "Well Ducky, you've got the job. How does tomorrow at 7 sound for your first day on the job?" Ducky felt his face crack open in a massive grin. "Thank you sir." He followed Morrow's example and stood, before being ushered from the office. The young assistant Stacy smiled at him before ducking her head and returning to her work. Smiling to himself, Ducky descended the staircase and reentered the squad room.
A strong grip once again took hold of him, and Ducky found himself being pulled to the side and turned to face Jethro. Those dark blue eyes searched him for a long moment. "What're you doing here Duck?" Unwilling to be swayed, Ducky straightened. "Applying for a job." Jethro's brow furrowed. "And…" Ducky smiled. "And you are looking at the new ME." The younger man grinned at him, briefly pulling Ducky into a hug which he did not return. Jethro pulled back, clearly puzzled. "What's wrong Duck?" Finally, he looked up at the younger man and spoke in a concise way. "You know Jethro, when you promise to write someone and then don't, it hurts. I thought you had forgotten me." He could see the hurt in Jethro's eyes, written on his face. "I…I'm sorry Duck. I just never had the time, I reckon." Ducky pulled away from Jethro, but a heavy hand grasped at his shoulder. He didn't want to see the look pleading for companionship on the younger man's face. "Lunch Duck? My treat." Damn you Jethro Gibbs for using my stomach against me, Ducky mentally swore before sighing.
He glanced over his shoulder at Jethro, who was wearing a hopeful, little smile. "Please let me make it up to you Duck." A twinge in his heart and stomach forced him to decide, and he relented. "All right Jethro, but this is the last time I will so easily forgive you." However, he seriously doubted he'd be able to make good on that promise. Jethro grinned, squeezing Ducky's shoulder slightly before pulling away. "You wanna go now? Or wait a bit?" Ducky pulled back his suit sleeve and glanced at the fine silver Rolex on his wrist. The crystal face glinted back at him, gothic hands swinging past roman numerals. 10:45. Methodically his mind raced through equations, factoring time and distance, figuring out the answers. "I have to go and have my credentials made, which should take no longer than fifteen minutes, putting us as at eleven hundred." He could see the shock on Jethro's face, but he ducked his head and continued. "Thus allowing us to leave a little past 11:00; giving in time for traffic, we should be able to be near all restaurants within twenty minutes, putting the time at 11:20. That is, if you are willing to accompany me to having my picture taken?" Jethro's jaw finally left the floor, and he nodded.
"Course Duck. Never worked with a genius before…you're just full of surprises." Ducky flushed lightly, though Jethro was not the first person to call him a genius. He thought back over all the surprises that he entailed; surprises that he promised to keep secret. "Thank you Jethro…shall we go?" The younger man smiled and pulled Ducky along behind him toward the elevators. He wasn't too excited to be in an enclosed space with Jethro, but did finally get on the lift. At least, he mentally said, the touchiness has stopped. But some silly little part of him said it was simply because the pair was at work and that once they left the NCIS headquarters the warm, broad hand would come back.
As he had guessed, the picture hadn't taken long. He swept his hair slightly to the side with his fingers, adjusted his glasses and smiled softly, trying hard not to blink at the blinding flash. The young man then swept him forward and began filling out all of Ducky's information in a slow, neat hand. "Your tag will be ready tomorrow morning; so when you come in, just come down and get it. Okay?" Ducky nodded slowly and followed Jethro out.
Just as he had thought, as soon as the pair left the NCIS building Jethro's hand was spread in the small of Ducky's back, ushering him toward Jethro's car. The younger man opened the passenger side door, waited for Ducky to slip into the car and firmly shut the door behind him before nearly sprinting to the other side of the car and getting in. The other let out a deep breath before starting the dark, government-issued car.
Moments rolled past without any conversation at all before the car came to a stop at a red light, and Jethro turned and stared at Ducky. "Look Duck… I didn't forget you. I just never had the time to write, or I woulda. I promise. I never woulda hurt you." A hand lay down on Ducky's arm. "You know that." Ducky looked at him, seeing the sincerity in the younger's eyes. He placed his hand on the other's hand, smiling softly. "The light is green." A horn blared behind their car, and Jethro slammed down on the gas. "And, yes Jethro, I know." The younger turned his head and smiled at Ducky before pulling into a little bistro off the main road.
Jethro slowly got out of the car and walked around to Ducky's side. Ducky felt his heart flutter as he was once again the center of the younger man's attention, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it. He had never been the center of anyone's attention unless he was being tortured or fucked, and even then that attention wasn't certain. But with Jethro, that attention was solely fixated upon Ducky.
The younger man helped Ducky out of the car and gingerly ushered him into the restaurant. It was a painful reminder of how much Ducky had missed the simple contact for the last four years. That broad hand rested tenderly against the small of his back, and Ducky thought he felt a slight tremor in the fingers, but mentally shook the idea off as preposterous.
Inside the bistro, the air was warm and smelled of fresh bread. Unable to help himself, Ducky stopped and felt Jethro press against him lightly as he took a deep breath. When he was younger, his mother used to make bread, hand knead it and cook it over an open fire. Jethro's voice came softly over his ear, and he fought down a shiver. "C'mon Duck, let's go sit down."
A young woman stepped up to them, smiling as her gaze drifted between Jethro and himself. "Two?" He could only assume that Jethro was nodding in the affirmative because the young woman was suddenly leading them to a cozy booth in a back corner. He wondered if everyone just assumed that he and Jethro were romantically involved.
He didn't get much time to wonder about that particular question though, as Jethro ushered him into the booth before sitting across from him. The younger man was staring at him in an unsettling way. Ducky cleared his throat softly and looked up as a young waiter crept to their table-side. "What can I get you guys to drink?" Unwilling to be treated like a girl yet again, he smiled up at the waiter. "Yes, I would like un-sweet tea, please." He felt Jethro's eyes on him, but ignored it. The waiter turned his attention to Jethro. "And you sir?" Jethro sighed hard, "Coffee." The waiter dipped at the waist before ambling off to fetch their drinks.
There was that gaze again, and Ducky refused to meet those dark blue eyes. "You look good Duck. Younger, more alive." Ducky shrugged in a noncommittal way. "How was your time at sea Jethro?" The other man looked at him, almost stunned that Ducky would change the subject. "It was…good. I met someone; we've been dating for a year now." He tried to ignore the feeling of hurt that jabbed sharply into his heart, and instead offered a soft smile. "Well now, I am very happy for you." He hoped that the soft bitterness in his voice wasn't as perceptible to Jethro as it was to his own ears.
Jethro looked down as the waiter brought their drinks. "Do you know what you'd like to order?" Ducky saw Jethro look up and knew what was coming. He tried to beat the younger man to the punch but wasn't fast enough as Jethro ordered for the both of them. "We'd like a large supreme pizza, no green peppers, one of the big table salads and an order of cheese bread-sticks." The waiter wrote quickly before glancing up. "Would you like to try some of our wine, sir?" Jethro shook his head. "Nope, working." The young man in black and white nodded, "Okay. Well, I'll get this in for you, and the pizza should be out in about thirty minutes. The bread-sticks will be out in just a little while. Do you want the salad with the pizza?" Jethro nodded, and Ducky sighed as the young waiter rushed away to put their order in.
"Why do you do that Jethro? I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." Jethro looked up at him, smiling lightly, and it caught hold of Ducky's breath. "Maybe I'm trying to keep you safe Duck." He felt his brow furrow in confusion. "By ordering my food for me?" Ducky was intrigued by the soft blush that flushed Jethro's tanned face, even as the younger man's cheeks crinkled in a smile. "Okay, I get it. Sorry." The younger man rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
Ducky was unable to keep the smile in as he placed his hand on Jethro's. The younger man's look softened. "It is quite all right Jethro. I assure you, I am quite used to it." Jethro's brow furrowed. "Whatcha mean by that Duck?" Before he could begin to stumble over an explanation, the waiter came by their table and placed the bread-sticks on the table. With a smile, Ducky picked up a bread-stick and took a bite.
He watched Jethro lick his bottom lip and glare. A laugh wormed up his throat, but he quickly swallowed it down and effectively ignored the displeased glower from Jethro for Ducky having outsmarted the younger man. "So Jethro, tell me her name." He took a sip of his tea while Jethro stuttered for a moment, once again wordless. "Uh, well her name is Joann." Ducky nodded slowly. "Are you going to marry her?" Jethro ran his fingers roughly through his hair. "Well yeah, I reckon. And I was kinda hoping you'd be my best man before I asked Joann." Something wrenched hard in his chest, and he was pretty sure that it was his heart breaking. "Of course I'll be your best man Jethro. I'd be honoured to."
The look of uncertainty on Jethro's face was a shock, but the pizza and salad was placed on the table. Ducky was glad for the distraction. Jethro selected a slice and slid it on a plate and handing it to Ducky before getting a plate himself. Ducky ate slowly, feeling for once in his life not all that hungry. But he ate first one slice and then another, carefully avoiding Jethro's confused look. He completely understood why the younger was confused; because they both knew that Ducky was more than capable of eating half of the pizza and the salad on a normal basis.
"You okay Duck?" Ducky looked up abruptly, startled out of his reverie due to the long moments of silence. He glanced up at Jethro and nodded slowly. "Oh yes Jethro, I am just trying to determine if I need a new tuxedo or if an older one will do." Jethro smiled weakly, "I'm pretty sure that your old tux will be just as good as any new one I might buy, so you might as well just use an old one and save your money. Besides, I don't want you looking nicer than me on my wedding day, do I?"
Nodding, Ducky smiled and took yet another slice of pizza. He didn't quite think that he could distract anyone from Jethro, but he wasn't going to say anything. Instead, Ducky finished his pizza and fell still, making eye contact with Jethro. Finally, the younger man caught on and gave Ducky a soft simper of a smile. "You're ready to go back to the office building." It wasn't a question, rather a sad, nearly whispered statement, but Ducky couldn't bring himself to nod. He just stared down at the table and waited. With a sigh, Jethro got to his feet, dropped a fifty dollar bill on the table, and began to move away; Ducky followed suit.
The ride back to the office was silent and awkward. Ducky stared out the window and tried to ignore Jethro. Tension radiated off the younger man, but Ducky could do nothing to fix it. His heart was too broken at the time to worry about Jethro's. Jethro put the car in park and turned to look at him. "Look, Duck. I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable. Don't feel like you have to be my best man just because you're my best friend."
Ducky's brow furrowed lightly, because he had honestly no idea that he was Jethro's best friend, not that he was complaining of course. Unthinkingly, he reached out to consolidate his friend. His fingers touched the back of Jethro's hand, instilling a need in the other man to look up and make eye contact. "Jethro. Never think that I do something simply because we are friends…though I must admit that I am surprised you consider me to be your best friend."
Jethro looked hurt and shocked at that, and Ducky hastened to fix the damage his statement had done. "I simply mean that I figured a fellow Marine would be your best friend. You know, Simper Fi and all that." Jethro suddenly burst into laughter and clutched at Ducky's shoulders. "Duck, you have been there for me through thick and thin. You affect so much of what I do that I can't even begin to explain it. I want you to be my best man because you are one of the most important people in my life."
Ducky smiled softly. "I guess I shall be seeing you about work. But I should probably go, my dear Jethro, before Mother begins to worry." Slowly, he got out of the car and walked back to the Morgan. When the door closed gently after him, Ducky ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair in a nervous manner. He didn't want to see Jethro get married, but of course he would be there to watch, take part as his heart broke as Jethro gave away his own heart to another, to someone other than Ducky.
2005
Slowly, Ducky settled into his chair. The New Year was proving to be quiet strange already, and it was only February. The people, or rather pieces of people, in the large drums had turned out to be people he had once known. People he had once worked with to prosecute a young man who had wanted to be a ME and instead had raped and killed a pretty young woman. Those people, including the prosecutor, the judge, and the jury foreman, being dead had of course disturbed Jethro to no end, which explained what Caitlin was doing, currently occupying the downstairs sitting room.
Lately he had found sleep even more elusive, which explained why he was currently in the downstairs study, drinking scotch and re-reading an old medical tome, instead of lying in his large, warm bed. He took another sip of the amber liquor and felt his eyelids become a little heavier. In truth, as of late, drinking was the only way to get a decent night's sleep. If he'd been upstairs in his private sitting room, he'd be drinking iced vodka straight from the bottle, as he'd found that to be a relatively quick way to fall into oblivion. Another sip and his eyelids closed halfway. The book felt heavy in his lap. He leaned further into the chair, took another sip and blinked again.
Glancing down at the book, he was surprised as the clearly written words wobbled slightly on the page before descending into the odd text that was Russian. Another blink and the words righted themselves, changing back into English. Ducky firmly closed his eyes, feeling the scotch pulling him toward sleep.
It only seemed like a few breaths before rough hands grabbed him, instantly startling him into consciousness. He stared up into the crazed eyes of one Vincent Hanlan. The young man grinned at him and quickly jabbed Ducky in the neck with a paralyzing drug. Ducky felt his body go limp, and the young Hanlan jerked Ducky to his feet with an overly vicious pull, swearing at Ducky the entire time. It soon became apparent that Hanlan blamed Ducky for everything that had gone wrong in Hanlan's life. A gag was shoved between his teeth, his hands bound and he was thrown into the back of a white van. Quietly, he lay on the hard floor, with Hanlan's knee digging into his back while someone drove crazily. Ducky briefly wondered about Kate, and nearly winced when he thought of the rage that Jethro would become. A soft breath rattled out of his lungs, which seemed to set Hanlan off, because the younger man wrapped his hands around Ducky's neck, thumbs pressing against his windpipe and effectively cut off Ducky's air supply. The world went black in a series; first, there were tiny pinpricks of black space, which eventually became bigger spots, which morphed into massive spills of blackness that grew until the blackness touched and melted together, rendering him unconscious.
When he was next conscious, Ducky found himself in a very unpleasant place. Concrete walls pressed in tight against him, and he was reminded of the young man at Edinburgh. The young man had been claustrophobic, had told Ducky and their fellow classmates to leave the young man undisturbed for 12 hours before climbing into one of the pull-out coolers commonly found in a morgue and shutting the door. Ducky also remembered being among those few who had remembered their classmate and had gone down to retrieve the young man, only to find a corpse. The boy had died of fright. Slowly, Ducky closed his eyes and took deep, regulated breaths. He counted his heart's beats and put total faith in his dear Jethro. He was fairly certain that the younger man had, by now, been informed of Ducky's disappearance and was coming to his rescue. He just had to be patient; after all, he told himself, patience was the greatest virtue to man.
However, he drew the line when he was pretty sure he'd been in the concrete cupboard for at least twelve hours. Ducky had quickly become bored, having nothing to do but stare at the uninteresting, grey concrete ceiling. Outside, he could hear voices coming closer and let out a soft sigh. The door swung open, and Hanlan's mother pulled the shelf out. Ducky blinked at the sudden light which was rapidly causing a headache as the light streamed through the non-tinted glass that filled the frames of his unnecessary glasses. He stared up at the elderly woman who looked at him with pure hatred and her son who glared at him vindictively. Ducky felt Death creeping up on him, and he tried to calm his wildly pounding heart. It would do no good to stay in a dangerous situation such as this and be so twisted up on fear that he wasn't able to think straight. He drew in deep breath after deep breath, forcing himself to calm and for all the tension to seep from his body. With a calm resignation, he stared back up at the Hanlans and hoped for yet another last minute escape. When the mother produced the needle, the hope for a last minute escape was all but lost; the sadistic smile that both Hanlans shared seemed to seal his fate.
This is how it is going to end, he thought in an oddly calm way. Many times, he'd been close to death. Every time he had always managed to slip just out of Death's grip and into Safety's arms. Not this time it seemed as the deranged young Hanlan's mother pushed the thick needle into his neck. Four minutes, he thought softly. The young Hanlan leered at him, telling him that Ducky only had four minutes until his entire body bled out.
He didn't need to be told this. He knew how much time he had, and how quickly it was slipping away. He could practically feel the needle pulling his blood from his neck; feel the thick warm fluid oozing from the rubber tube that ran from the needle's end. If he were younger, Napoleon would burst through the door any second. If he were younger, he'd have been up, ripping the needle from his neck and shooting the demented pair that held him hostage.
THRUSH had often threatened him, but never had the diabolic geniuses come this close to killing him. But the paralytic agent was still running strong in his veins, and all he could do was bite down harder on the gag in his mouth and stare at the ceiling. How THRUSH would laugh to see him like this; how Napoleon would sneer. He heard the soft guzzling sound as his blood first touched the drain.
The door flew into the room and in rushed his friends. Jethro, Anthony, Timothy and Caitlin rushed into the room, guns drawn. Ducky could see the panic in Jethro's eyes as his friend was already screaming at the deranged son and mother pair. Jethro, obviously unwilling to trust anyone but himself with Ducky's kidnappers, told Tony to save him. Slowly, or so it seemed, Anthony removed the gag allowing Ducky to hoarsely tell the young agent to free his hands. With his bonds finally gone, Anthony helped him sit up. Carefully, Ducky pulled the needle out and pressed his hand tightly to his neck, demanding something to stop the bleeding. The Hanlan boy apologized to his mother before slitting his throat with a scalpel.
Jethro rushed over to him, pushing Anthony aside, and held Ducky close. He could feel the younger man's frantic heartbeat against his ear as Jethro's rough palm pressed against his neck, holding the fabric and his hand against the bleeding wound. He forced a soft smile to his lips as he peered up at his savior. "What kept you?" Jethro, luckily recognizing the attempt at humour, smiled. Ducky felt Jethro's arms tighten around him and allowed himself to relax into the safe embrace.
Never had an affair made him feel this tired. Or maybe he was just getting old. But Ducky didn't feel old, only being 50. Maybe it was the few extra pounds he had put on in recent years, once work had become far more pressing and his mother's condition worse to the point that she ran off several of the nurses he hired. He simply didn't have the time to work out the stressed energy that kept him going, resulting in many a restless, sleepless night, and fitful nights when the sleep did come. He simply remained pressed close to Jethro's side until a paramedic forced Jethro away.
Gentle hands lifted him onto the gurney and wheeled him out of his would-be crypt. The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, told Jethro he couldn't ride with Ducky to the hospital, shut the door and drove off. He felt an IV being inserted into his wrist and felt something akin to bliss flood his veins. His body no longer ached as the small dose of morphine finally allowed him to rest peacefully.
As was to be expected, all he saw was white when he opened his eyes. Over the years, he'd found that all hospitals looked the same on the inside, what with their white walls, white ceilings and white floors. Only the furniture and people changed. A heavy fog coated his brain for a few moments, before clearing and allowing him to think back over his latest life-threatening escapade. Ducky finally became aware of Jethro's presence at his bedside and turned to look at the younger man, who was sleeping in a very uncomfortable looking chair.
He looked down at Jethro's hand, where it was tightly clenched around his own. The news was on, but muted. Ducky saw his face and read the captions, proclaiming that the missing ME, Doctor Donald "Ducky" Mallard, had been found after being missing for two days. It also reported that the diabolical couple, Vincent Hanlan and his mother, had been captured with Hanlan dead and his mother in police custody. He sighed softly and shifted in the bed, instantly awakening Jethro. "What's wrong Ducky? You okay?" Ducky smiled at him and used his left hand to pat Jethro's right. "Ah nothing my dear Jethro. I am perfectly fine, just wished to sit up is all."
The look of relief on Jethro's face was apparent and led Ducky to think back on his memories. Of all the times he'd been forced to visit Medical while working with UNCLE, never had he woken to Napoleon at his side. Never had Napoleon ever even shown the slightest bit of concern, but back then Ducky had always bounced back from wounds. Still, it was nice to have the feeling of someone caring so much. Jethro sat up in his chair and moved closer to Ducky's bedside. "Are you sure you're okay Duck? Anything you need? Want?" Ducky smiled softly. "No dear Jethro," he said while patting the other's hand, "I am quite alright, I assure you." Ducky shifted further against his pillows, in effect sitting up, and sighed. For having spent the last 36 hours in the hands of a madman, he felt surprisingly well.
Outside his room, a squabble could be heard between a nurse and a male. Ducky frowned as the voice struck a memory. He was fairly certain that the voice was one he had heard before, before he'd become Ducky. Jethro stood up, more than ready to tell the pair fighting outside the door off. The door swung open, and Ducky's heart stopped. He tried to sink back into the pillows as Napoleon Solo stepped into the room, casually brushing the angry nurse off and shutting the door in her face.
In the past 18 years, Solo hadn't changed much. Napoleon's hair was still dark, still slicked back, and his good looks still eluded what Solo perceived to be charm. It was not unnoticed by Ducky when Solo gave Jethro a scornful look and stepped closer to Ducky's bedside. Solo was already seemingly in a territorial battle with Jethro over Ducky, as it normally was. Napoleon was the kind of person who became terribly jealous when something or someone he called his own was shown interest to by another person, be it male or female. Napoleon dropped a possessive hand onto Ducky's, careful of the IV in his hand. "Ah Illya, it has been quite some time." Ducky dutifully ignored the confused look that had taken up residence on Jethro's face. He bit his lip and looked up at Napoleon, glowering quietly at the man whose thumb was rubbing circles on the back of Ducky's hand. "You are lucky I am the only one who seems to remember who you are. But I must say," Solo paused to trace the backs of his knuckles along Ducky's cheek, "you have aged beautifully. Always my beautiful Russian."
Ducky jerked his head back, tensing his jaw against the pain that flared through his neck. He glowered at his ex-partner and looked at Jethro, searching for some comfort. Jethro stared back at him, confused and hurt. Ducky felt angry, hurt tears biting at the backs of his eyes. "Sir, you must have me confused." Napoleon laughed softly, so sure he'd won after chancing a glance at Jethro and having seen the other man's unwillingness to step in. "I would not forget my Illya," Solo said lightly before sitting on the bed's edge. "When I saw you had been kidnapped my heart wrenched, and I came to Virginia to look for you." Ducky let out a shaky exhalation, looking anywhere but the lying man in front of him and too ashamed to look at Jethro, to let the man he loved see him so hurt. His fingers curled in the crisp, white bed sheet before he turned a scalding look on Solo, who seemed taken aback by the look, though Ducky was sure it had lost some potency because of the tears.
"I am afraid I do not know you sir." He saw Napoleon's jaw tense up and saw the anger darken the older man's eyes. Napoleon brought his hand down sharply on the bed in a slap, barely missing Ducky's leg, and Ducky unintentionally tensed. "Dammit boy!" Ducky blinked hard and bit his lip to keep the tremor in and felt a few tears trickle down his cheeks. He drew in a shaky breath and looked up at the ceiling. Napoleon leaned in close, one of his hands clutching at Ducky's leg; his other caught hold of Ducky's chin and forced him to look at Solo. "You cannot forget me. You may have a new life, but I am part of your past and nothing can erase your past. Not you, not Her Majesty's Secret Service, not even the bloody KGB can change that." Ducky tried to look away, but Napoleon's grip on his jaw prevented it. He shut his eyes tightly and felt Solo pulled away.
Cautiously, Ducky opened his eyes and saw Jethro with a tight grip on Napoleon's arm. "I think you should leave." Napoleon brushed Jethro's grip off and jabbed a hard, angry finger into the younger man's chest. "You may think you have him, but you don't even know him. Illya, Ducky, whatever you call him…he's mine." Ducky saw the vein throb in Jethro's neck, his eyes narrow, his jaw tense. "If he's yours, then why is he here, with me? Where were you when he was hurt? When his mother was sick? When he was taken? To you, Duck," Jethro stressed his name, "is nothing but a possession." Napoleon laughed, drawing closer to Jethro with an angry look on his face. "Then what is he to you? Just a little fuck toy?"
He saw the way Jethro's fingers curled into fists, and Ducky knew exactly what was going to happen. "You asshole," Jethro snarled and punched Napoleon Solo soundly in the face, causing the 60-year-old man to crumple to the floor with a moan of pain. Solo sat on the floor, his fingers clutching at his face, as Jethro moved to stand in front of Ducky's hospital bed, thoroughly blocking Napoleon. Slowly, Napoleon got to his feet, blood seeping between his fingers, and glowered at both Ducky and Jethro. "You, Illya Kuryakin, are a disgrace to the UNCLE and KGB organizations, and a pathetic excuse for a man." Jethro took a menacing step toward Napoleon, and in effect, ran the other out of the room.
"Jethro…" Ducky tried, looking valiantly at the younger man, who still had yet to turn around to him. "I'm gonna go tell the nurses to release you. Then I'm gonna take you home and put you to bed. Let me tell you right now, I'm staying at Reston. I should've been at Reston to begin with. Then maybe none of this would have happened." The younger man, with fingers of grey already softening his dark hair, marched out of the hospital room. Ducky slumped, disheartened, into the pile of pillows behind his torso. He suddenly hated Napoleon Solo far more than he ever had, but he also knew that dwelling on those feelings would not push away his feelings toward Jethro. Ducky simply wished the younger man would scream, smack him, kick him while he was down. But, he knew Jethro wouldn't. That was Napoleon, and he was no longer Illya.
With care, Ducky shifted up in bed, more than ready to get out of the God-forsaken place called a hospital. He was rubbing his bad leg when Jethro stalked back into the room and true to his word, bundled Ducky up and whisked him away toward the Reston House. Luckily, his mother had been sent to stay with Helen Patterson for a few days, while Ducky recovered. Jethro used his own key to let them into the house and helped him up the stairs. Much to Ducky's dismay, Jethro helped him strip down to his undershirt and boxers and pull on a pair of sleep pants before ushering him into bed with a broad hand in the small of his back. Jethro kept his gaze carefully shuttered from Ducky, even while tucking him in and turning out the lights. Jethro lingered in the doorframe before firmly shutting the door behind him and, presumably, going to the spare bedroom. This, of course, left Ducky alone in the dark to mull over his thoughts.
Never once had he thought about something or someone returning from his old life, considering most of those people were either dead or stowed away in high-security prisons strewn about the world. Ducky tried not to think about the hurt look on Jethro's face, but he knew that Napoleon's words had cut the other to the wick. Napoleon had always had that going for him, the ability to cut anyone down, and Ducky knew that from enough personal experiences. His mind wandered back over dark memories that he hadn't thought of for years.
Finally, those thoughts were too much for Ducky, and he swung silently out of bed. As an after-thought, he grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, pulled on an old robe and made his way into his private sitting room. Turning his stereo on low, while the melancholy and docile tones of Beethoven echoed around him, he grabbed a bottle of vodka and settled onto the comfortable old smoking sofa. A thin layer of ice covered the bottle and forced him to hold on to the bottle as the ice stuck to his skin. He twisted the dark blue top off and took a long swill of the icy liquid; the chilly liquor burned down his throat and set a fire in his stomach. Memories came at him, hard and nearly elusive, so he shut his mind down. Instead, he concentrated on lifting the bottle to his lips and drinking himself closer to oblivion. Ducky closed his eyes against the look of betrayal that had carved itself onto Jethro's handsome face and was now burned into his mind. He took another long sip.
Footsteps echoed in his ears, and fingers gently tugged the bottle from his grip. He looked up at Jethro, his eyes feeling swollen and scratchy from the unconscious tears shed for both past and present times. Ducky reached out blindly, groping for Jethro's unoccupied hand, and clutched at the other man. "Oh dear Jethro…words do not even begin to express…I am eternally sorry for having dragged you into this; never once when I ran from my past did I imagine that my past might run after me." He tugged the younger man closer to him, pulling Jethro onto the couch beside him. The leather groaned softly under the added weight. Ducky stared deeply into Jethro's eyes, holding both of the younger man's hands with his own. "I was, once upon a time, Illya Kuryakin. But I am not him anymore. I am Donald "Ducky" Mallard. I am still the man you know, whom you've always known. I may harbour pieces of Illya, and I always will, but I am Ducky. I am still the young man you met those long, 14 years ago. I am still the man who comforted you after the deaths of Shannon and Kelly. I am still the man who stood beside you, who was your best man for three weddings. I am still the man who loves you as a best friend," he broke in his tirade to take a deep breath before throwing himself into what could possibly ruin their friendship. But in all honesty, Ducky was tired of hiding his feeling. "I am still the man who fell in love with you long ago, who waited for your letters and felt rejected when none came." His eyes felt heavy as tears swelled in them, darkening their colour before falling daintily down his face. "I am still, and will always be, your Duck, Jethro."
Long moments of silence lingered, until finally Ducky felt forced to call the other's name. In response, Jethro got to his feet and walked out of the sitting room. It felt as if Ducky's entire world crashed down upon his ears as Jethro seemed to confirm what he had always thought. His declaration of love had broken their friendship in two and left Ducky with just a fragment of what his life had once been. He retrieved another bottle of vodka before creeping back to bed; hopefully, things would look better in the morning.
The next morning, when his alarm clock went off at 5:30, his head began to pound. It took two slaps for Ducky to find the clock and yet another to silence the howling device. On steady feet, he swung out of bed and stood up. The motion made his head pound even more, but he forced the pain away. He dug around in his bedside table, found the aspirin and quickly dry-swallowed two. Ducky stretched briefly, thoroughly getting his sluggish blood flow to return to normal speed. He ran a hand briefly over his face before stripping off the sleep pants in favour of black sweat pants and pulled on his hoodie. Slowly, he dropped to the floor and began to stretch out his legs before pulling on socks followed by old, worn-in sneakers. Ducky got to his feet and trotted from his room and down the stairs. The front door clicked shut softly behind him.
Cool morning air brushed past his face as he stepped off the front steps. He took a few deep breaths before jogging off down the road. The rubber soles of the old Pumas padded hard on the asphalt, and his heartbeats pounded in his ears. He wasn't going as fast as he would've liked, but was more than ready to take what he could get as a 50-year-old man who hadn't exercised much in the past five years. By the time he reached the eight-mile mark, a stitch had taken up residence in his side, like a knife jabbing between his ribs with every beat of his heart.
He sat down on a bench and looked around the nearly deserted park. A pair jogged past him with a large dog pulling the woman along. Taking shallow breaths, his heart slowed, and the stitch was sucked back into his muscles. Getting to his feet, Ducky slowly stretched out his tired muscles before jogging back to the house, occasionally brushing his heavy, blonde hair off his forehead. He drew in breaths through his open mouth to keep enough oxygen coursing into his blood and muscles. He could feel little trickles of sweat dripping down his back by the time he reached the Reston House. When he trotted up the steps, he carefully stretched out his legs and rubbed his right thigh hard, effectively stopping the pain creeping toward his knee before entering the house.
Without his mother there, Reston House was quiet, and he crept up the stairs and toward the locked work-out room, past Jethro's still closed door. Ducky plucked the key from its hiding spot and undid the tumblers before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He pulled off the hooded sweatshirt and dropped it on the matted floor and kicked his worn-out trainers off and against the wall. He bounced lightly on his feet, approaching the punching bag and popping punches at the air. Ducky danced lightly around the punching bag before jabbing at the bag with resounding smacks. He felt the skin on his knuckles pop open and felt the joints bruise, before stilling. He slowly ran his hand along his forehead and stiffened when a soft creak whispered into the room. Turning his head, he didn't see anything and chose to ignore the possibly imagined sound.
Leisurely, Ducky crept back to the center of the room and balanced on one foot. As his age had progressed, he had found that yoga helped his joints and muscles. He raised his hands above his head and stretched until his stomach protested at the small space. He lowered his linked hands and switched feet before doing the same. Slowly, Ducky placed both feet on the floor and stretched backward, feeling vertebra pop all the way down as his spine rolled until his palms touched the mats. It was hard to breathe in such a position, but he managed before straightening slowly. His back felt better from the home-chiropractic treatment. Ducky sank to the floor and stretched his legs away from his body before stretching between them, stretching until his pelvic bone popped hard. He lay along each leg before bending back and pushing up on the mat, forming an arc of his chest and stomach. With a heavy sigh, he got to his feet and stretched up on his tip-toes before settling back to the soles of his feet and leaving the room. It felt good to fall into his old routine again, and he ambled toward his room for a quick wash and was already making plans for what his light breakfast would entail.
The water was warm as it sluiced over his pleasantly aching muscles. He sighed softly and slumped against the slick wall, allowing the water to pound his back. With his head pillowed on a folded arm, he tried to think of what to say to Jethro. He tried to decide what was needed to be told in order for everything to be okay with the younger man once again. Ducky finally made up his mind to tell Jethro about his childhood and some of his relationship with Napoleon. He nodded firmly to himself before straightening and running his fingers through his hair.
He rubbed the flannel along the soap before scrubbing at his skin, massaging the clean rag against his body to relieve the tension that the water simply couldn't. Ducky poured some shampoo into the palm of his hand before rubbing his palm against the lay of his hair. As water swarmed his scalp, his fingers dug against his scalp with his nails scratching hard to clean his hair. It felt good, and he scrubbed a little harder until the water twining down his legs was clean of any bubbles. Slowly, he turned the water over to cold until finally shutting the stream of water off completely.
Droplets of water slipped leisurely down his body before Ducky finally roused himself to step out of the large showering cubicle and into the humid air of the bathroom. The marble floor was cool and sticky against his bare feet before he stepped onto the bathmat and reached for a towel. The thick cotton wrapped around his waist before he strode back into his bedroom and toweled off roughly. He pulled on a clean pair of baggy sweatpants and an undershirt. When the undershirt fell loosely about his frame, Ducky mentally sighed. He surely hadn't lost that much weight; he didn't miss that many meals, but the shirt was supposed to be tight-fitting instead of baggy enough for someone to run their hands up under the thin cotton.
His stomach rumbled softly, informing him that perhaps he had missed too many meals. Slowly, Ducky slipped on his glasses and trotted from his rooms and down the stairs. He glanced toward the guest room and wondered if Jethro was ever planning on getting up. With a sigh, he entered the kitchen and began to brew coffee. The heavy, aromatic scent was sweet as the coffee began to drip. He turned and selected a pan, setting it on the large stove, before moving to the refrigerator that hulked in the corner of the large kitchen. He opened the door and pulled out a carton of eggs, a bag of bagels and a jar of strawberry jam. He placed the food on the counter-top before pulling down a bowl, into which he cracked a few eggs before returning the carton to the fridge. Ducky pulled open a drawer and grabbed a long fork and began to beat the eggs into a smooth fluid.
A small drop of canola oil hit the center of a pan with a hiss. With a spatula, he spread the oil about before pouring in the eggs and proceeding to make scrambled eggs. He placed a halved bagel in the toaster before returning his attention to the eggs. By the time his bagel popped up, the eggs were done, and he was dishing them onto a small plate. He pulled one of the bagel halves out of the toaster, spread jam on the hot surface and placed it on his plate before fixing a cup of coffee and moving to the small breakfast nook set in a wall of bay windows. He slowly ate, sipping his coffee, and watched a couple of birds flit past the window. Ducky finished his cup of coffee and got to his feet, placing his dishes in the sink before strolling into the downstairs study.
Ducky settled down in one of the large leather chairs and picked up an album from the table nearby. He flipped slowly through the old, worn-soft paper until he found the one page he had been looking for. He traced his finger down the crinkled picture of his father, grinning widely, with little Illya balanced on his knee. His father, Peter, had been exceptionally tall with unruly black hair that was only combed with his father's blunt fingers. His father, much like Ducky, had had soft, pale blue eyes that always seemed to be twinkling with mirth and a mouth always twisted into a smile or opened in a deep, booming laugh, set in a shaggy, heavy beard. He trailed his finger down his father's grinning face before looking at his own small self. Ducky had been five at the time the picture was taken, almost too skinny with nearly-white blonde hair and transparent skin.
Jethro's voice was soft as it whispered over his ear. "Whatcha got there Duck?" Ducky ran a hand over his mouth slowly. "My father." His voice cracked as he glanced at the younger man, seeing the look on Jethro's face, he rephrased his answer. "My real father. In 1957, on the 13th of September, I was born Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. My father, Peter, was a gypsy in Russia during the second rise of communism. I was the youngest boy in our family, born sixth out of seven children." He traced the picture again as Jethro came around and sat down on the sofa, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. "Our family was poverty stricken, which was even worse considering Russia's economy at the time." He flipped the page and looked down at his mother. "My mother, Ana, never loved me. She stopped loving the boys after her second." Jethro patted the sofa next to him. "Come show me those pictures Duck."
Slowly, he got to his feet and sat down next to the younger man. His body shook slightly, but he continued. "My mother did not like my father being a gypsy, and she did not approve of his ideas. My father taught us children to not trust on the government. He told us often that the communist act was not going to last. That Marx's idea of an ideal world through communism was just that, idealism that the world was incapable of producing. He told us over and over that the government was incapable of taking care of us, and he would beckon toward our empty ice box and point at our hungry bellies as proof." Ducky flipped a few pages and stroked his fingers over the only picture of him and his six siblings together. He tapped the tallest boy. "Peter was the oldest," and he followed the line of children down to the end of the second row, naming off his siblings. "Then Viktor, Naomi, Kirsten, Nik, myself, and Hana. This is the only picture of all of us together. My father's death tore us apart." He took a deep breath and closed the album with a soft thud. Ducky laced his fingers together on top of the old book and leaned his head back, eyes closed.
"My father, the only one in that family to love me, was killed when I was fourteen. One night, the KGB broke down our door and dragged my father outside. They beat him to death because someone had talked about my father's dislike of the communist ideal. Then the officers dragged my siblings and me out onto the snow-covered lawn and made an example of our dead father. I still remember him laying there, his face swollen and purple, his smiling lips curled in a grimace and split. His ragged clothes torn and his limbs twisted in unnatural ways." Ducky covered his mouth with his hand and breathed deeply. "Then they took Peter, who was 19, Viktor who was 18, and Nik who was 16 away. We never saw them again. I was the only boy left, and my mother hated me the most. My father always told me that she hated me simply because he loved me more than any of his other children and because I was independent."
Ducky sat up and stared down at his linked fingers, unwilling to look at Jethro, even though he knew the younger man was staring at him. "My mother became irate at me a few months after my father was murdered, and she sent me to St. Petersburg to make money to help support the family by…by selling my body for a small price. She always told me I was too pretty to be a boy; that I should have been born a girl instead. I was just another prostitute in that dirty city, jumping at any money just to keep myself alive. I was beaten, abused, and raped. I went hungry for days and often my skin was blue. A little while after I turned 15, I met Nichols Neichov, one of the few remaining rich people in Russia. He took me off the streets and tutored me himself in many different subjects. I learned five languages from him: English, French, German, Italian, and Latin. He taught me anatomy, history, English and composition, algebra, calculus, geography and chemistry for the next year, and when I turned 17, he enlisted me in Edinburgh. I graduated when I was 19, and I returned to work for Mr. Neichov, who was a doctor. Instead, the KGB got me at the airport and forced me to become an agent for them. I was enlisted with my best friend, Ian Trebsky."
He tiredly rubbed his eyes and forced himself to look at Jethro; the younger man was staring at him with a carefully guarded gaze. "The next year, the KGB sent me to New York as a liaison agent with the UNCLE organization. Within a few months, Napoleon Solo, the man from the hospital, became my partner. A little after my first year at UNCLE, Napoleon began coming on to me, which then led to a relationship. He was impulsive and reckless, especially when I was involved. There were a few affairs, or missions, that actually put my life on the line. Napoleon liked to have me waiting for him, so he would wait until the last minute to sweep in and save me. That is how I got the scar on my leg, because Napoleon waited too long and let me be tortured and assaulted for six days before he showed up. He cheated on me all the time and I finally got tired of it. But every time I tried to leave, something would happen. Napoleon did not like to lose, and he was losing me. So, he would find a way to place me in Medical, and it would push back my leaving, until I finally tendered my resignation with Mr. Waverly, the organization's supervisor. And here I am. You've known me from that point on."
Unable to read Jethro's expression, Ducky looked down and stammered. "Jethro…I did not want to tell anyone about my past—including you. I wanted a chance to start over new, to start out with money and someone loving me. I was trying to forget about all the bad things in my previous life." He looked up at the younger man with a soft simper. "And, I did not want you to leave me, but it seems as if I have messed this life up too."
Ducky ran his tongue over his bottom lip nervously, waiting for Jethro to say something. He felt tears sting the backs of his eyes and looked down at the sofa. "Duck…" he looked up at Jethro and was surprised when the other's rough hand came up against his cheek as the younger man's lips crashed against his. Jethro's body pressed hard against his, forcing him back onto the couch as the other's slick tongue pressed incessantly against Ducky's lips. With a soft gasp, Ducky gave himself over to the kiss, tentatively sliding his tongue along Jethro's. The younger man's hips collided with his, and Ducky flushed when Jethro's hard arousal pressed against his thigh. Unable to help himself, he moaned and arched up into the kiss. He felt a hand tangle in his hair and allowed his arms to wrap around Jethro's neck. Ducky pulled himself as close to the younger man as he could.
Jethro pulled back slowly, and Ducky greedily gasped in air, panting against the other's lips. He glanced up at Jethro through smudged lenses and blinked slowly. "Duck, you couldn't make me leave if you tried. Wanna go somewhere more comfortable?" Ducky felt self-conscious all of a sudden, aware that he was no longer 20. His heart beat erratically in his ears, making it hard to think, but he vaguely realized he was nodding.
That hot, hard body slipped off his own frame and left Ducky feeling cold. He drew in a shuddering breath at the look Jethro was giving him, at the darkened eyes that hinted at so much more than simple, primal need. Slowly, Ducky got to his feet and forced his knees to be strong. Jethro reached out and took hold of his hand gingerly before Ducky turned his back on the younger man and led Jethro toward his bedroom. His free hand clutched at the hand-rail as he walked up the stairs on unsteady legs. He could feel Jethro's fingers curled against his own.
His mind was hurtling over every little thing he had said, and nowhere could he find a sexual invitation. Nowhere could he find something that would bring this on. In his chest, his heart wrenched at the thought of Jethro simply just yanking Ducky around by his heartstrings.
The door to his bedroom fell open with a whisper, and Ducky released Jethro's hand to enter the room and remove his glasses, placing the lenses on the dresser. His heart was kicking wildly in his chest as he approached his bed. Without even the certainty that Jethro was in his room, Ducky dropped his gaze to the floor and began to undress. His shirt had barely touched the wooden floor when Jethro shut the door and was upon him. Blunt fingers combed into Ducky's soft hair, palms cupped the back of his skull as Jethro angled his mouth for a kiss. The kiss was possessive and loving, hard and demanding. The cloth of Jethro's shirt was almost rough against his skin, and Ducky pressed closer, his fingers winding their way into the front of the younger man's shirt.
Jethro's kiss pulled the strength from his knees, and he fell back onto the made-up surface of his bed, pulling Jethro down with him. The other man's weight was heavy and hard, almost smothering. It felt good. Softly, he moaned into Jethro's mouth, pressing close. Slowly, Jethro pulled back, panting hard and flushed beautifully. "Wow," the younger breathed, and Ducky blushed. He made eye contact for a brief moment, until he remembered his place and respectfully looked away.
He slumped into the soft mattress, looking up at Jethro. The rough pad of the younger man's thumb brushed his cheek in a soft caress. "You really are beautiful, Duck. You know that, right?" He tried to whisper out some words, to rebuff the tender comment, but couldn't. His throat had tightened, and instead all he could do was look away and bite his lip. Jethro's hot mouth ran slowly down his neck, and Ducky could feel his pulse thundering against the slick skin of a tongue.
Whimpers and moans pulled themselves breathlessly from the walls of his chest as his fingers clutched at Jethro's strong back, digging into shoulders as he shifted restlessly under the younger. Finally, his fingers touched the hem of Jethro's t-shirt, and he pulled the shirt off quickly. Jethro's fingers were slipping and gliding down his chest, his ribs and his stomach, making Ducky squirm and leaving him short of breath. "You're so smooth," Jethro murmured in a husky voice that made Ducky blush for some unknown reason. He slit his eyes and looked at Jethro who was staring down at him in something akin to wonderment. Ducky wondered how long it had been since someone last appreciated his body the way Jethro seemed to be.
His breath was harsh, stilted pants, and Jethro stared down at him with nearly black eyes. Jethro spread a broad hand above his heart, and he could feel the throbbing organ jumping against his ribs, almost as if dying for Jethro's simple touch. "Okay Duck?" There was, unless he was mistaken (which was highly unlikely), actual concern in Jethro's tone as the younger man stared down at him for a while. Instead of answering, he leaned up just far enough to brush his lips gingerly along Jethro's. The fire that was breathing, living in his belly had died down just enough for his blood to slow to just a steady pull rather than a heady thrum.
Jethro kissed him again, slow and languidly, and Ducky felt the sluggish fire suck all the oxygen from his lungs and set the flames of passion licking throughout his body. He ran his own fingers up over Jethro's shoulders to dig into Jethro's taunt skin. Jethro's hips pressed down hard against his, sending heat screaming through his frame. Unthinkingly, Ducky's hips drew up against Jethro's, and the contact dried up all his breath. A shudder tripped hard through his limbs. Jethro's hands gently pulled down his frame, scraping over his chest and ribs to catch at his hips. Slowly, Jethro slipped Ducky's sweatpants from his hips.
Ducky was unable to keep the blush concealed as Jethro's mouth fell open in shock. Slowly, those dark eyes roamed back up Ducky's pale skin to catch hold of Ducky's gaze. "You…don't wear boxers?" Ducky bit his bottom lip and tore his gaze away. Jethro's fingertips glanced along his arousal, pulling Ducky's hips up with the lingering touch. "I-I only wear boxers to work…" his sentence was bitten off by a breathless moan. Jethro chuckled softly, "Maybe I should stay over more often?" There was no mistaking what Jethro was implying, and Ducky lifted his ashamed gaze to meet the younger's. There was an impish smile curling Jethro's lips, taking years and sorrows off.
Suddenly, Jethro pushed off the bed and began to fumble with his jeans. Ducky took a calming breath and rolled over onto his hands and knees, as he'd been taught by Napoleon Solo and others like Solo. He felt the bed dip behind him, and warm, broad hands roamed up his back before a mouth dipped down to the ink marring his skin. Ducky gasped in a soft breath as a slick tongue traced a line of the tattoo. One of Jethro's hands scorched the skin pulled tight along his hip and gently eased Ducky over onto his back, his face dropping to nuzzle the crook of Duck's neck. "I wanna look at you Duck."
That simple sentence made Ducky's heart feel dangerously close to combustion. It made it seem as if the whole sex thing wasn't going to just be another rut. Jethro's lips touched his as soon as Ducky's back touched the bed. Fingertips once against curled in Ducky's hair as Jethro's hips pressed down tight against Ducky's. The contact drew him insane, forced his head back, and for the first time, he realized soft words were streaming from his lips.
Jethro had pulled back and was staring down at him, and Ducky could feel the dark gaze on his skin. Slowly, he opened his eyes, somewhat ashamed, and met that unwavering stare. "Uh…" Ducky cleared his throat which was somewhat hoarse from using an unused language. "Sorry…I suppose is what I should say, yes?" Jethro continued to look at him, as if the world outside of Ducky's bedroom did not exist. "Duck," Jethro murmured while brushing his lips against Ducky's softly, "were you talkin' dirty to me in Russian?" He was unable to keep the blush away as his unused blood rushed to scorch his cheeks. "Perhaps." Something in Jethro's eyes changed, and Ducky wetted his lips nervously.
Those hard lips crashed down on his, and the moan that erupted from the melded mouths wasn't his this time. Jethro's hands curled in his hair, holding Ducky still as hips ground down against his. The soft cotton boxers did nothing to keep Ducky from feeling the hot, hard arousal that rubbed against his own erection. He was whimpering, writhing beneath the stronger, younger man. In his chest, his heart was slamming against his ribs and his ribs were jerking with every breath. The simple fact that it was Jethro touching him, rubbing against him, kissing him was what drove his senses to a new height.
Slowly, Jethro pulled back and kicked off his boxers. Ducky kept his gaze locked on the younger man's gaze. When their hips collided this time, there was nothing to keep skin from touching skin, and Ducky tossed his head back in bliss, only slightly aware of the prayer falling from his lips.
Jethro's right hand was skating gingerly down his body, while the left kept the younger poised above him. Their lips melded together, effectively cutting off the babble of Russian and allowing Jethro to swallow his moan when Jethro's broad, calloused hand curled around both of their erections and began to move. Ducky felt his back bow, pressing hard into the strong, loose grip of Jethro's hand. Jethro was stroking their erections together, and Ducky knew he wasn't going to last. He was gasping, moaning, and pleading incoherently. Mumbled Russian was tumbling from his lips as his hand grasped at Jethro's arm as he started to cum. Jethro continued touching him, stroking their erections together even as Ducky finally finished, eyes squeezed shut because it was all almost too much.
He felt Jethro's lips brush his ear, the soft and damp hair above his ear. He almost didn't hear the barely breathed words, "I love you Duck. Always." And then he broke. Curling away from the man above him as best he could, he tried to squeeze his eyes closed tighter, a feeble attempt to keep the tears in. His chest hitched painfully, and he just waited for Jethro to leave. That was what people did when they supposedly loved you.
Shame burned through him tight, eradicating the last vestiges of pleasures, as the tears finally made their way out from under his lashes. He tried to bury his face in the soft pillow, but Jethro caught his jaw, forcing his head into stillness. But still, he didn't open his eyes. "Ducky?" He refused to open his eyes. "Ducky…" Refused to see the mockery he was sure to find. "Duck." That voice brooked no argument, and he slowly opened his eyes. Ducky gasped in breaths, trying to slow his breathing, to calm down, even as tears made their way out of the corners of his eyes.
Jethro's thumb brushed his damp cheek, and those dark eyes searched his. "What's wrong? I…did I do something?" He tried to turn his head away, but Jethro held him still, that intense gaze imploring him to share his secrets. He felt the tears start anew, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep from making a fool of himself. "You…you told me you loved me." A small blush skirted Jethro's cheekbones, but the younger nodded forcefully, "And I meant it Duck." His heart was beating hard in his chest, his stomach twisting sharply. "I'm just waiting for you to leave…" he whispered. Jethro shook his head, brushing his lips over Ducky's tenderly, "I'm not gonna leave."
Then Jethro slumped listlessly beside him, strong, tawny arms curling around Ducky's frame and pulling him against his chest. "I promise Duck. I'm not going anywhere, unless you're going too." Ducky sighed softly as blunt fingertips traced the sharp lines of the wolf tattoo on his back, the words soothing his aching heart. He pressed his ear close to Jethro's chest, listening to the strong, hard beat of the younger man's heart. "Hey Duck," the other asked softly, his voice a deep rumble in the pit of Ducky's ear. "Hmm?" Jethro leaned back softly and peered down at him with deep blue eyes, his fingertips still trailing lightly over the tribal tattoo spread across his back. "Tell me about this tattoo. I never thought you would have one…"
Smiling softly, Ducky pressed close against the younger and relaxed. "When I was at Edinburgh, I met my best friend Ian. I was 17; he was nearly 19. We were roommates and eventually, we became lovers. He was the one person I could tell everything to, and I thought I loved him. Before we were to return to St. Petersburg, he convinced me to go with him to get a tattoo. He got a bear, to show nationalism for Russia. And somehow, I wound up getting a wolf. Ian had always called me his pet; that was his term of endearment for me, so it kind of fit. Of course, after the KGB forced the both of us to enlist, we rarely saw each other and we began to drift apart. Then one day, the higher officers took Ian outside and shot him. I never figured out the reason why. I suppose I should have gotten the thing removed, but it reminded me of my youth, of careless by-gone days and I could never worm up my courage to get it removed. Besides, all my lovers since then have been decidedly interested in it."
Softly, Jethro laughed. "Well, I plan on being the last of your lovers, if you'll have me…" Ducky felt his body tremble lightly, which made Jethro's arms tighten around him just barely. He placed a hand on that broad, tawny chest and pushed back just enough so that he could look into Jethro's dark eyes. "Of course…until you get tired of me, of course." He looked away at the last of his sentence, unable to continue making eye contact with that dark, intense gaze. "Not gonna happen Duck," Jethro told him softly, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. He turned his gaze back to Jethro's, pressing a light kiss on that stern mouth, "Well…I guess you'll just have to stick around and prove it."
Jethro laughed, a full sound that made his heart skip in his chest, before the younger man snuggled down more fully into the soft covers, making himself more comfortable. "Deal," the arms around his waist tightened more, and he felt Jethro's face bury in the crook of his neck, "I won't move from this spot until I have to." Ducky smiled, feeling Jethro's eyelashes on his neck, the slow heavy breathing as the younger started to drift off. He dropped his head back, eyes closing, and for the first time in a long while, no bodies haunted his thoughts, no toying memories held his mind hostage. And he slept.
Fin.