It’s Christmas Eve and I’m waiting for my Duckman to come home. It’s our first Christmas together after his mother died. I have the mulled wine ready and dinner is prepared, but not cooked. I know NCIS work hours are not like other work hours. I’ve ruined enough meals in our time together.

I draw a cup of the hot, spicy wine and pick up a gingerbread man from the wooden bowl on the kitchen table and walk into the living room. The best word I can use for the room is dignified. The old Christmas ornaments Ducky brought with him from his childhood home is interspersed with antique items we have collected over the years. They all blend well with Ducky’s collection of antiques. I can’t abide those tacky plastic decorations, my dear, Ducky had told me when we were shopping one Christmas, and that was it. I had put the brightly colored elf back on the shelf, giving it a last, longing gaze.

The log fire is burning brightly now, I lit it before preparing the wine. I sit down on the comfortable sofa and watch the flames dance with yellow, red and white flickers. On the mantel Ducky has placed his favourite, Victorian, nativity set, surrounded by twigs of pine, junipers, and holly. Amongst the sheep my plastic elf stands guard over the holy family. The scents from the fire mingle with the fresh greenery. I sip my spicy wine and the only sense not satisfied is touch.

I yearn for Ducky - my Donald – I wish he would wrap up his latest autopsy, give it to his assistant Jimmy or whatever, and come home. This evening I can’t feel the slightest remorse for us being together despite all the trouble and heartache it has brought us.

I lean back, reminiscing…

^*^*^*

I clearly remember the very moment Donald’s need and love for me became more important for him than his disgust at what I was: a con artist. That he loved a man, he had quickly accustomed himself to. He has always been accepting of his own oddities as well as other people’s.

I could see his decision in his expressive eyes; yes, his whole body told me the moment we met. He had long ago stopped trying for a conventional life with a private practice in Harley Street, an ordinary social calendar, and a wife.

I suspected he had already given up trying before that memorable time I had to hide out in his flat in Edinburgh during the first year of his studies. But I had left him as soon as I could, hoping he would forget me. I was young and didn’t yet understand the depth of our feelings for each other.

We had, despite everything, kept in contact during the years. Sometimes we shared a bed, sometimes not. It hurt to meet, but it also hurt not to meet. So we talked over the telephone, we sent letters, we shared a coffee if we were in the same city, and it was all polite and superfluous. I hated it.

It happened in Paris, one morning in April. I was checking my post, I had it forwarded from my London address, since I planned on staying the whole spring. I had booked into a small hotel on Rue de Rivoli, where all the rooms were special, and the breakfast wonderful. This strange hotel had a soul, and it was run by two elderly, colourful ladies. They were open-minded, and when they commented on my unusual hours, it was to make sure I was eating and sleeping enough for a grown monsieur.

I was riffling through the post, the usual mix of salesmen’s offers, bills and reminders, when it fell out. A letter from him. I could tell without checking the handwriting because he always used this creamy, thick, hand-made paper, with a small oval stamp in the corner.

The letter only gave a date, a time and a place. Lunch at Le Bar à Huitres. It should already have crossed my mind to be suspicious at the mention of oysters. However my only thoughts were that I was soon to see Ducky again, and that it would be a nice walk, since it wasn’t too far from my hotel.

Donald had recently returned from Vietnam, it had cost me to make sure he was guarded and as safe as possible during his service there. I was worried about his state of mind though; my Ducky was always so compassionate and easily moved. A period of service in hell on earth must have taken its toll on him.

Receiving a letter from him should have made me elated. Instead it made me sad, so very sad. My Ducky deserved someone better than me - a simple con man. Besides, I was so selfish that I didn’t want to be the reason for him tearing himself apart and fighting with his conscience over living with a criminal for the rest of his life. I didn’t want to drag him down to my level. There had been a time I would gladly have filled him with my darkness, but that was before I knew he had none of it himself. It was also before I admitted how much I loved him.

For that was what it would be…forever. Or nothing at all. I knew that. Our love was such that if we gave in to it, we wouldn’t be able to go back. We believed that to be a fact. That was one of the reasons we had tried to stay apart.

--

But not anymore, if the look Ducky shot me when I sat down at his table was anything to go by.

“Donald Mallard,” I tried. I had to try.

“Oh, no, Albert Stroller, you don’t.” He waved his hand at me.

And that was basically it, as young people say. The philosophical reasoning about life being short, carpe diem and all that, would come later.

Our lovemaking had always been intense, this time the emotional output nearly undid me. We collapsed in a heap on the rumpled bed, Ducky’s warm and exhausted body was a comforting weight pressed against me.

Ducky only raised himself up to lean on his elbow, his other hand stroked the wetness on my cheeks. He said softly but decisively, “See, Bertie? This is right.”

And it was, of course. Ducky was correct - as always.

Sitting in bed later, a tea tray between us, Ducky asked me to come back to the States with him. “It’s high time that you returned, Bertie. How long has it been since you’ve been back now?”

Longer than I cared to think about. I had run away, escaping both my own actions and others’ neglect. “Years, Ducky.”

“Enough years?” The look he shot me was assessing. “Yes, I believe so.” Ducky answered his own question; it was one of his many quirky habits.

I traced my fingers over his face as he leaned over me. There were lines there; too many, and I suspected I was the reason for some of them.

“Bertie?” He sounded unsure. I realised I hadn’t answered his question yet. But could I give him the life he wanted?

“Y…” I tried.

Certainty and happiness seeped out of Ducky’s expression. I knew he could see the doubt in my face. But he had got it wrong. “Donald,” I hurried on. “It’s not that I don’t want to, living near you is what I want more than anything. It’s just that I’m still not sure it’s the best thing for you.”

Ducky closed his eyes, which was not a good sign. It usually meant he was thinking deeply, even more so than usual, that was.

“All right, Albert.” He kissed me, sweetly, as only he could. “Then I will come with you, wherever you go.”

I swallowed my first reply, which would have been an assorted selection of the swear words I knew he disliked. I was trapped, well and truly had. I recognised the feeling some of my victims must experience when they realised they had been conned. I sighed. Bloody hell, all right.

“The United States of fucking America it is then.”

We left the next day. He has never told me why he was in Paris in the first place.

^*^*^*

I blink and sit up. I must have closed my eyes for a moment. The logs are burning low with only a dull, red, glow. My hip, the one I injured in a fall trying to escape a furious…well that’s a story for another time…my hip aches like it does in freezing weather.

I swallow down the last of the now cold, spiced wine and prepare to stand up and go to the kitchen; dinner must be cooked now, if the wonderful smells wafting to me are anything to go by. But there’s a soft afghan over my lap, a woollen beauty in dark reds and browns. I can’t remember putting it over my lap, is my mind wandering in my old age? I can’t recall switching on the stove, either.

I jump up, afghan falling to the floor, and rush out into the kitchen.

“Bertie! You’re awake and looking like a lost puppy!” There’s smiling, lovely, Ducky in his Santa apron and matching red bow tie.

Ducky enfolds me in his safe arms and rubs my hair, which must be standing up in all directions. Something only he is allowed to see and you to know about, dear diary.

“When did you get home?” My voice is muffled against his neck and I can’t resist pressing my mouth to his soft skin, the scent is so delicious.

Ducky laughs, the vibrations tickle my lips. “Two steaks’ cooking time ago, Bertie. You were asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Was not.” I mumble, my lips still on his skin. “Was thinking.”

“Thinking sleepy thoughts, my dear.” Ducky hugs me and lets me go. “Dinner is ready; shall we eat before it becomes dry and hard?”

“I can imagine other things that are hard,” I give him my seductive leer. It can’t be totally successful, because he only pats my shoulder and turns to the stove. “Later Albert. You need your proteins first.”

Well, he’s the doctor, who am I to doubt his words?