Author's Note- This is a sequel to my other Magnus/Darcy fic, "That Call at Three in the Morning".

Magnus hated New York.

He hated it with a passion that was unyielding and unreasonable and unapologetic.

And the worst part was that he knew he was being irrational. Intellectually, he knew that New York was a perfectly lovely city. It was vast and exciting and full of life.

But it wasn't Sweden.

More importantly, it wasn't Ystad.

Magnus was homesick.

Darcy Lewis had convinced him to give up his home, his family, his friends, and travel to America to join S.H.E.L.D. Given his background in law enforcement, most of the requirements for operative training were waived once he decided to sign up.

However, there was a bit of trouble passing the background check. It seems there was a flaw with the facial recognition program and it pinged him as an alien warlord, the same one that wrecked havoc in New York. It had taken three blood tests and a rather uncomfortable and shockingly thorough medical examination to prove that he was indeed Magnus Martinnson and not some intergalactic miscreant. Magnus had found the whole situation ridiculous. He could barely see the resemblance and then only when he squinted.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. training he was required to complete took a good six months at non-descript base in New York City. Every day, he learned things he never that possible and Darcy had certainly kept her word about the exciting new possibilities for field work with S.H.I.E.L.D.

But being assigned to her team? Well, that remained to be seen.

As soon as the ink dried on his documents signing him on with S.H.I.E.L.D., Darcy was called away for a sensitive assignment on the other side of the world. She was undercover, on radio silence, and he had no idea whether she was alive or dead. It was that uncertainty that kept him off balance. He wasn't so foolish to sign over his life to a covert spy organization based solely on his attraction to one of their employees, but he'd be lying if it wasn't a major factor in his decision to leave Sweden.

And he had no idea where she was.

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He went to the Church of Sweden on 48th Street not because he was in a particularly religious mood that Christmas Eve, but because he missed home and hearing Swedish so much he felt like weeping. While his English was "native-like" (at least according to his SHIELD handlers), at times it felt thick and heavy on his tongue and he missed speaking without always second guessing what he'd said. He only had a couple days off from his training for the holiday and he had neither the time nor the funds to make it home for Christmas.

He'd found the church during a quick internet search and started stopping by as often as he could. They had a small cafe with Swedish newspapers that served sweet rolls that reminded him of home. He started visiting every night after training, an oasis of home in a strange and perplexing city. The elderly women who ran the cafe doted on him, reminding him of his grandmother and for a few minutes every day, he didn't feel quite so alone.

They harangued him for a few weeks about attending a service, but he finally gave in, undone by their constant kindness and cheerfulness. There was a Christmas Eve service at five in the evening. He filed into the back of the church, taking a seat, wrapping his gray wool overcoat tightly around him to ward off the chill in the sanctuary. As he sang the hymns in his native tongue and heard the Christmas account once again, it hit him a bit harder than he expected it to. The thought of Mary and Joseph, fleeing to Egypt to protect their child, living in a foreign land, held a much more personal note than it ever had before. The loneliness and isolation of the past six months gnawed at him.

Once the service ended, he planned to quietly slip out, when one of the older ladies who manned the church cafe caught his eye and waved him over. Not wanting to seem rude, he jogged over, anticipating that he'd be home by seven at the latest to enjoy some Chinese takeout and maybe watch an action flick.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

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He awoke on Christmas morning to a loud banging on his apartment door. He blinked and looked over to the time, 9:30 a.m. His head was pounding a bit. He had joined a few transplanted Swedish families from the church as they celebrated Christmas eve in a nearby apartment and they'd been more than welcoming. He had imbibed a bit too much glögg, unfortunately, and hoped he hadn't embarrassed himself by laughing too loudly. He hadn't had the spiced red wine and rum drink for ages and it felt warm and inviting. The taxi ride home had been expensive, but worth it.

He fumbled around, trying to find a pair of pants, finally settling on some heather gray sweats that were crumbled in the corner of the bedroom. He grabbed the matching sweatshirt and shrugged it on as he raced towards the door, flinging it open in his haste.

In front of him stood a vision in red satin. Her dress was fitted with a sweetheart neckline and an A-line skirt that hit her right above the knee. Even with her black strappy heels, she was still good half foot shorter than him, smiling up at him with her impossibly blue eyes.

"Darcy," he stood staring at her, blinking his eyes in disbelief.

"Merry Christmas." She thrust a circular red tin into his hands, a big green bow planted firmly on the Santa Claus illustration on the top. "I decided to try my hand at Swedish baking. It's . . . pepper parkour."

"Wha . . ." He opened the tin, his smile widening as he saw the gingersnaps that lay inside, nestled on red and green tissue paper. "Pepparkakor."

"That's what I said. Pepper parkour."

"No . . . ." He shook his head, deciding not to correct her. "It's fine. Thank you. Where are my manners? Come in." He stepped aside to usher her in. "I could make us some coffee."

"Oh, no. I'm not staying that long."

"Oh . . ." He couldn't hide his crestfallen tone.

"Ugh . . . what I meant was, I'm taking you out. Christmas brunch. We've got a 10 a.m. reservation. It was murder to get it on such short notice, but luckily, I know a guy who knows a guy who is Tony Stark . . . so reservations aren't that hard to come by in this city anymore."

"Christmas brunch?"

She gave him an apologetic look. "I've been like the most horrible recruiter ever. I sucked you into S.H.I.E.L.D. and then I ditched you. I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"By taking me out to brunch?"

"That's the first step."

Magnus liked the sound of that. "Should I wear a dinner coat?"

She nodded emphatically. "Definitely. And a tie."

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As they entered the richly appointed restaurant, Magnus swallowed hard. It was the kind of place where they didn't even bother in printing the prices on the menus. If you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

A tuxedoed maitre d' ushered them to a private half circle leather booth at the back of the restaurant. "Our best table. Mr. Stark's compliments."

"Thank you," Darcy said as she took her seat, scooting over so that she was side by side with Magnus. Once the host left, she leaned over to Magnus and whispered, "He's footing the bill, too. So, eat up."

Magnus nodded, glad he wasn't going to have to forfeit a month's pay for breakfast.

Once they had ordered, Darcy turned to him and gave him a winning smile. "So, I've got a bit of a conundrum."

"How so?"

"Well, I have reviewed all of your files and S.H.I.E.L.D. assessments. You have the makings of a wonderful operative. I definitely want you on my team."

He couldn't have been more pleased with her assessment of his operative skills, however, the look she was giving him was troubling to say the least. "But . . . . There's a but in that sentence, isn't there?"

She sucked in a noisy breath. "But . . . there are some pretty strict anti-fraternization rules between team members. And especially between team members and team leaders."

"Oh . . ." Realization dawned on him. "But if there were no rules against it . . ."

"Well . . . you're not exactly ugly." She winked at him.

"Thanks? I mean . . . I feel the same. Wait. That came out wrong." He ran a hand through his hair and began again. "I think you're beautiful."

"Do you mind saying that again?"

"You're beautiful."

She sighed softly as she gave him a dreamy look. "And therein lies the problem. If you end up on someone else's team, I don't know when I'll see you again. But if you're on mine . . ."

"How good a spy are you?" He asked abruptly.

"Pretty good," she admitted cockily.

"So . . . . let's say . . . if you had to hide something . . . from the members of your team, could you do it?" He gave her a devious grin.

"Probably."

He took her hand. "Then, let's go be the best spies ever."

She squeezed his hand and gave him an impish grin. "I like the way you think."

He leaned over, brushing his lips lightly against hers. "Merry Christmas."

Author's Notes- I hope you've enjoyed this Christmas fic!

There is a real Church of Sweden on 48th Street in New York. Their website is in Swedish, but with the help of Google Translate, I was able to navigate it *fairly* well. They seem like a lovely congregation and I would love to visit that church one day.