MFU-NCIS Crossover

Sequel to

BURIED IN THE PAST AFFAIR – fanfic

and

SPOILER – NCIS episode Newborn King – 12-13-11

I'LL BE HOME FOR AN NCIS CHRISTMAS

During a tense crisis at NCIS, Napoleon and Illya settle on a course for the future after their long separation.

December 24, 2011

"I propose we celebrate the season in grand style. A visit to the National Christmas tree. Followed by a production of the Nutcracker at the Kennedy Center."

"Sounds good."

Illya Kuryakin stared over the rim of his coffee cup to study his friend on the other side of the table. Exactly a month ago Napoleon Solo had reappeared in his life, a resurrected spirit from Christmas past, returned to the flesh. The emotional upheaval of shock and stunned amazement, anger, joy, had settled over the last four weeks to a state of pleasant contentment. It was a realm beyond happiness and gratification. He dwelled within the comforting swath of pure serenity. Scarred by the past, he kept at bay any speculation of the future, or dwelling on the might-have-beens of the years that could not be changed. Now he lived in the present. A lesson learned well from Ebenezer and his plight with the visiting spirits. Each moment, each day with his reunited friend was a treasure to be cherished. No one knew what would happen in the next day, or year. Live for the moment had never been his motto until now.

"You do not sound enthusiastic."

"No, I think it's a fine idea," came the reply, a slight twitch of a nod, a habitual show of acknowledgement that had been a Solo trademark for as long as Kuryakin had known his friend. "I just hope the weather cooperates."

Glancing out the kitchen window, Illya grimaced. Flakes were falling, large and slow, the morning still grey with a groggy sun trudging through a thick sky. While he did not appreciate the cold, he was willing to dare the freezing temperatures for a chance to enjoy the season.

Before his friend's reappearance last month, he had viewed his past in two separate time zones. Before Solo's 'death' and after Solo's 'death'. In the A-S-D period, he had disliked celebrations and recognition of the season. Until Napoleon had finagled his way into his life, recognizing birthdays and Christmas and New Year's and other events. Then, when he was robbed of the festivities, he had missed the commemorations. He had missed Napoleon. It was painful recalling all the years he decried holiday sentiment. More because they were a mark of the pre-Solo period when he took so much for granted. Then without his partner and all that Solo meant to him, if was difficult to see a cheerful world revolve in happiness when he was miserable. Now that Napoleon was back in his life, he would value that time like never before.

Was his enthusiasm getting the better of him? Napoleon had been injured in the escapades of last month when old enemies came to assassinate him. [Buried in the Past Affair – fanfic] Did his friend feel up to the event? Solo still limped from an old knee injury. And arthritis – for both of them -- was a continued hindrance, made worse by the abominable temperatures.

"We will hire a car to deliver us close to the tree. And right to the front steps of the Kennedy Center."

The brown eyes narrowed, expressing with just a flick of a motion, the displeasure at the statement. Amazing that after all these years, with added wrinkles and distance and time, the silent communications were as perfect as they were in their prime days in UNCLE. No amount of separation could diminish what they had always shared.

"I am not suggesting you are incapable –"

"I would never think of depriving you of driving your Morgan around town." The flash of a grin was amusement and tight control of something more elusive in the expression. "But your idea is a good one."

A song playing from the stereo in the other room caught his attention. "That song used to be unutterably depressing. Now, I think it's my favorite."

Kuryakin cocked his head, listening. Smiling, he started singing along as he cleared the dishes.

"I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love

Even more than I usually do

And although I know it's a long road back

I promise you

I'll be home for Christmas

You can count on me

Please have snow and mistletoe

And presents on the tree

Christmas Eve will find me

Where the love light gleams

I'll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams."

At the last line his voice choked up and he cleared his throat, leaning on the counter.

"That was very nice. I've missed your singing."

"It is unfairly emotional," the Russian countered in a growl. He turned, warmly smiling. Patting his friend on the arm, he confessed, "But completely appropriate now. Thank you for coming home for Christmas."

"You know what I mean when I say I am as happy as you are to be here."

"Yes."

"I don't see a guitar around."

Illya had always had a good voice and his singing was one of his many quiet talents that only he benefited from with any frequency.

"It was part of my past. Perhaps I will take it up again in my retirement."

"Hmm." Solo stared into his coffee cup and made an ordeal of stirring the black liquid.

There was something amiss, but Illya couldn't define it at the moment. He would ponder it and it would come to him. Something about Napoleon's attitude. For now he would plan on the merry events of tonight. He glanced at the wall clock and took a last sip.

"I must leave for work. Come by for lunch and we will further discuss the evening."

Solo raised his coffee cup in a salute. "I'll see you then."

***

Clearing the dishes into the dishwasher, Solo limped into the front room where a full and bushy Christmas pine stood near the window. Decorated with tasteful ornaments and lights, it had been a bachelor-styled attempt at celebrating the holiday. Napoleon had insisted, and Illya had agreed, that they commemorate the time with a full array of overt decorations. Including filling the house with trimmings.

The excesses might seem strange for two old, worn spies, but at their core they had always harbored sentimentality about celebrations. When their partnership started it was the stressed days of the Cold War. A Russian and an American working together was strange – even unpatriotic to some on both sides. Ignoring the rhetoric, concentrating on the fact that they fit well together and each had saved the other's life, their working relationship quickly altered to a familial dependence and affection. That first Christmas they had exchanged presents. The beginning of many holiday, birthday, thanks-for-saving-me-again, and other gifts. Those included a prized pinky ring of platinum with an inset of an iolite gem and a homing chip. That was one of Illya's cleverest inventions. And most practical. That was his first present from Illya, he fondly recalled, absently rubbing his little finger, even though the ring had been absent for twenty years.

His past gifts had included a new Walther – initialed so his friend wouldn't misplace his pistol so often. A St. Christopher medallion – touchingly Illya still wore it! After an assignment that took them to Disneyland he had presented Illya with the small statue of a knight, and a picture of them by the castle at the Park. The same photograph had sat on his mantle in London. Before he never went home again. Sentimental trinkets that were all gone now. But the emotion remained.

Well, this was his home now. Where ever Illya was. The place, the structure, the trappings were irrelevant. It had been about the two of them for over forty years. And it remained so now.

There was one present under the tree. He smiled in anticipation of Illya's surprise and joy when he opened the rectangular gift. And he knew there would be a present for him, also. The mysterious Russian was taking his time, being cryptic and playing a game. The expectation was half the fun!

This year, Illya was more focused on the festivities of the season. Around DC there were abundant things to do. Illya preferred merry activities like the theatre and sightseeing, concerts and gallery presentations. Slightly limited because of his recovery status, Napoleon was game for the social swirl. It was as if the old partners were burning up the varied possibilities to make up for lost time.

Moving to the doorway to the next room, Napoleon leaned on the wall and stared into the snug office that had been converted to a temporary bedroom for him. It was better than most places he had been forced to camp in, but a futon and narrow closet were less than he wanted for an abode. It was decent of Illya to allow him to stay here. Of course, by mutual approbation they agreed – without discussion – to stay together. Twenty years of separation was far too long. Under the same roof – until they got on each other's nerves – was suiting them just fine.

Illya had mentioned his intent to sell the one-bedroom townhouse and rent a house. Perhaps in the area near his friends, but not necessarily. Maybe in a more temperate clime. The big question on Solo's, and the NCIS team's minds, was what Illya would do in the New Year. He had tentatively decided to retire. There was no arguing with the stubborn Russian, but Napoleon felt an intruder – forcing his friend out of a comfortable, new residence, and the nest of loyal friends. Still, he acquiesced, pliable in the little details of their reunion. Whatever Illya wanted to do. Solo felt the shadow of guilt that his blunder in Hungary and his pursuit of Karkov – like Ahab and Moby Dick – had cost precious years. It was not his place to sway Illya in what to do with his future – their future.

Was that why he felt something was amiss? A thread of discontent wavered around in the shadows of his mind. What? He didn't know. As he watched the drifting snow stick and build on the windowsill, an inkling formed in his mind.

Twenty years had passed since Solo had considered anything but revenge for Christmas. It was difficult to turn his mind to the popular trappings. But not the emotional. Last night had been the NCIS team's intimate gathering here at the townhouse. Hosted by Illya, it was a nice affair of a good meal, good wine, and presents. It had been in the planning for two weeks. And Napoleon had spent that long trying to come up with gifts for the good, loyal friends who had extended their affection for Illya, and him. The distraction helped get his mind off the slow recovery from injuries sustained at their Thanksgiving reunion.

Now one more day on the job and they would separate for different activities. It might have been arranged -- Napoleon sensed that the rest of the team had made other plans. They seemed to feel it was right for the old partners to have this reunion Christmas together without the rest of the group.

It also drove home the anxiety over Illya's non-committal course for the immediate future. Napoleon's return to his life had altered Kuryakin's plans dramatically. Now, Illya wanted to retire and spend as much time as possible making up for the years the partners had been robbed of sharing.

Easing into a plush chair, his wounds still tender from the battle weeks ago, Solo stared at the tree, at the blur of snow past the window beyond, and pondered. This was the holiday of miracles and forgiveness. Of good will toward all and hope. Faith in something stronger and bigger than one's self. It had been a long time since he felt any of that, but now embraced it. Thus, it brought on a wave of sadness to think Illya was giving up his NCIS family to focus on their reunion. Formerly a rather self-centered person, Solo now was disappointed his and Illya's joy would diminish the good team of friends Mallard – Illya's alter ego – had acquired.

From the side table he picked up the remote control and clicked on the CD changer and speakers. Illya had a top notch sound system for his vintage vinyl albums, 45 records, and CDs. The machine was stacked with nostalgic Christmas music from a bygone age. Crosby and Martin, Sinatra and Bennett, and a new kid named Buble' filled the comfortable room. A mellow, sentimental version of I'll Be Home For Christmas gave his heart a thump of emotion. He had not dared dream to live this kind of cozy life again. Touched by security and friendship, surrounded by new friends and safe unity, he was truly in his element now. As background to the Christmas music, the fire crackled in the grate, spreading the warmth of hearth and home to fight the frost of the outside world. The symbolism was unmistakable.

I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love

Even more than I usually do

And although I know it's a long road back

I promise you

I'll be home for Christmas

After too long as a hunter, he was home. It didn't fit right yet. Dropping into Illya's already established life was not a smooth transition. Yet. But with each day it grew a little more natural. It wasn't his life. Yet. As he sat sipping coffee and listening to the tunes of cheer, and a few of longing, he formulated a plan. Drifting was never his style. Action and goals were how his life had been defined for as long as he could remember. Well, he had a ready-made target only one day away.

***

Most NCIS teams had the day off. Gibbs believed in working to the very end. In past years, Illya appreciated the idea. There was escape and comfort in the forgetfulness of work. It had kept him sane for two decades after he thought Solo dead. Palmer was off so he could give his future father-in-law a tour. Hmph. He wouldn't give that more than a moment of his thoughts. And Gibbs had just called to report the team was on the move to investigate the murder of a Naval officer. Ho, ho, ho.

Distracted during the drive through the gathering snow this morning, Illya pondered the earlier conversation with Napoleon. There was something – a disconnect – but he couldn't pin down the cause. Something about the plans tonight. Was he rushing too fast into activities? Involving his recovering friend into too much too fast? Why wouldn't Napoleon just say so? There was never any hesitation on the part of the American in the past about voicing his opinion, certainly. That was twenty years and many miles and injuries ago.

***

When the automatic doors of the morgue parted, Illya expected to see Gibbs. Glancing up from his task of pushing the cold drawer closed, he smiled. Napoleon. A quick look at the clock and he noted it was past noon.

"Sorry. I neglected to call and mention I might be a little late."

Shrugging, Solo sat in the chair at the desk. "That's all right. Work comes first."

"Yes." Illya was finished with the autopsy, and had literally closed the door on the case as far as his work was concerned. "I should spend less time at work. You must be bored to death at the house."

"No. I've had plenty to do. Getting settled. Christmas shopping for your team. That took a lot of tactical planning and execution."

Illya's lips twitched. "They are your team now, too."

"Until next week."

"Ahhh." His eyes never leaving his friend's. "Something's been troubling you. I AM at work far too much. That is about to change."

"No. I was just thinking I shouldn't interfere with your work. What you are doing for the team is important. Donald."

He sputtered a laugh at using the unfamiliar, but necessary nom de plume. Outside of the house it was vital they never break their roles as Doctor Donald Mallard ME and his cousin, Sebastian Fox, retired financier. In their former careers as espionage operatives they had worn many masks in the business of deception and cunning. One more was not difficult, but came as second nature.

"But you are part of the team. Sebastian." His lips quirked a soft smile, then he grew serious. "My family. Cousin." He studied his friend, leaning on the cane, seeming just a step out of pace. The answer came to him suddenly, and he was amazed he had not understood before. "You are finding retirement – difficult."

With a nod he agreed, "You know me."

In their past employment with UNCLE, then free-lance as spies, it had been, nearly from the beginning of their partnership, a matter of fusion. The job melded so intently with the heated intensity of the partnership that soon there was no separation from the personal side or the business side – all was blended into one.

"Yes. You are a lot of trouble, cousin," Illya joked. "The holidays are usually a lull time. Then in the new year we will go in a different direction."

"Then you've decided to retire." It was a flat statement.

Illya shrugged. "I prefer spending as much time as possible making up for the lost twenty years."

Solo gave a non-committal nod. "If you stayed here perhaps I could start coming in with you occasionally. Be a little more involved in the team."

He didn’t want to intrude in the life his friend had carved out for himself. A respected medical examiner and forensic psychologist, Illya's career now was as important as it had been in the UNCLE days. Back in the 60s, his role in counter intelligence had helped saved the planet and it's population several times. While the work wasn't quite so grand in scope now, in his persona as Mallard, Illya saved lives and made a difference. He was part of a unit. But Illya was right that preceding the other experiences they had separately lived through in the past two decades, the two of them were still family.

A thin smile spread across Kuryakin's face. "Your addition to the team would make for some variety. If I stayed."

"If you stayed."

***

As it always did, crisis came upon them suddenly. Gibbs, Ziva and a Marine in danger – who happened to be nine months pregnant! – were on the run from killers. Snow was again heavy – almost as bad as it had been at Thanksgiving. Ineffective communications, threats, life and death. There was little for Illya and Napoleon to do. The younger agents were taking the brunt of the action.

Too anxious about their friends to leave, the older men remained at the office. There was one way Napoleon thought he might be able to help. Taking up station at Illya's computer in the morgue, he searched old files. He had few informants or little experience in the Middle East, but something about the methods of the killers gave him an idea.

Sitting beside him, Illya asked, "What are you thinking?"

"Doesn't the methodology of the murder of the Navy captain sound familiar?"

Illya shrugged. "A typical assassination."

"Two different caliber weapons, with silencers. Doesn't it strike you as an odd MO for Afghan tribesmen?" He opened files with pictures of mean, scarred thugs. "You know who has made a strange alliance with their former enemies? Russian mercenaries."

"Hired by Afghans? They killed each other fifteen years ago."

Solo hit a few keys and leaned back, facing his friend. "I sent the information to McGee. If they ask, I can provide further links for data. It may only cloud the issue." He winked. "On the other hand, I do know my Russians." His smile was smug.

"Touché." Gesturing to the cold storage, Kuryakin offered, "Your deduction is sound. Our Naval officer's hit was clean and quick. Not the usual Afghan attack." He sighed and swept the concern from his expression with a warm smile. "It is good to be working together again, isn't it?"

"Very. It's in the blood to meddle in the action I suppose." He tapped Illya's chest. "Something you should consider if you really want to retire. You would miss all of this almost as much as your friends would miss you."

Backing away, Illya shook his head. "I don't want work to interfere with you." Standing, he reached for his coat and hat. "At any rate, we should be on our way. The National tree and the Nutcracker await."

Solo remained seated. "You know you wouldn’t be happy leaving when there's a crisis with your team."

Grimacing, Illya was annoyed. "I'll go upstairs and check the status. But there is nothing practical we can do here."

Solo returned to the computer, chatting online with McGee. Just finishing a message, he turned at the opening of the glass doors. His eyebrows rose when Illya returned with Abby on his arm.

"I couldn't leave either," she confessed and took a perch on the corner of the desk. "I'm going out for dinner and bringing it back for all of us."

"The weather is abominable, Abigail," Kuryakin countered. "Why don't you stay until the roads clear? Certainly we can manage to find food here. Perhaps Anthony's desk?" he joked.

Shaking her head, she insisted she needed something to do or she would go crazy. There was a place up the road that she had called ahead for an order. Momentarily, her face creased into a frown.

"They'll be okay, right? It's Christmas Eve. Gibbs and Ziva will come back all right."

It was a weak statement, the uncertainty and anxiety clear.

Illya hugged her, and she hugged him back with a hunger for the warmth and security. "They will be fine. They have survived much more danger than this," he assured.

"You're right." She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then dashed over to deliver a hug and kiss to Solo. "I'll be right back with dinner."

"Hmm," Napoleon breathed out after she rushed away. "Maybe I should spend more time around your office. The atmosphere here is so friendly."

Work always comes first was his silent, serious rejoinder. This team, born out of the business, was no exception. They would not exist without the crimes. So much like it had been with the two veterans and UNCLE.

The job had brought them together – bound them as brothers those many years ago. They had needed it as survival as partners. As their link deepened, the spy trade became an excuse, sometimes a burden. Always a double-edged sword of keeping them together, but stressing, wounding and nearly killing them. And for twenty years it separated them. Now, it was part of their cover. It was also something Illya still enjoyed.

For Gibbs, well, he used it as a lifeline for survival after the death of his family. DiNozo and Ziva used it as shields to protect them from commitments and what they were afraid to admit deep inside. Abigail used it to be included within a family.

Now, Illya – Ducky – did it for the duty. It was not first in his heart anymore. But it was a close second. On the other hand, Mister Palmer had a job offer to work at his future father-in-law's mortuary. Illya was distressed at losing Palmer, yet he was leaning toward retirement himself. Moving on – it felt like a betrayal. Torn, he didn't want to leave, but his greatest commitment was to Napoleon.

Without prompting, Illya chose to stay at the office, waiting for word on his team mates, Solo with him. Abby returned with food for everyone and they set up in the lounge. Tony and Tim coming in when they could to grab quick bites of food, then returning to the computers or interrogation room to solve the case.

"So what are your Christmas plans?" Abby asked Illya and Napoleon.

"Nothing special," Illya admitted. He glanced to his friend, who also shrugged. "We have discussed options of dinner somewhere." He smiled. "Something a little more traditional than our Thanksgiving here at NCIS."

"But that was a winner!" she defended.

"My best ever," Solo agreed. "And you, Abby?"

She blushed. "I'm going to spend it with Tim's family. Just cause."

Illya nodded. "Certainly."

While they were eating dinner in the break room word came that the rest of the team was safe. Relieved, Illya felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. Christmas wishes did come true. Glancing at his friend, smiling, he knew no better present could be given him. That all his friends were safe and able to celebrate another Christmas together. Home for Christmas.

***

Kuryakin and Solo made it late to the Nutcracker. Afterward Illya parked the Morgan as close as possible and they walked a short distance to study the grand tree at the White House. Stopping for coffee at a small restaurant near the townhouse, they watched the drifting snow cover the streets in white.

When they returned home the antique clock on the mantle chimed the final echoes of the last of the twelve bells of midnight. Solo remained in the entryway watching his friend. There had been an altering of attitude tonight. He hoped Illya would explain it. But then, words were almost unnecessary between them.

"You've made a decision about retirement."

"Yes." Illya's amusement turned to a grin. "You already knew."

Shrugging, Solo returned a slow grin. "I do know you well. The crisis brought it home. As they always do."

Somberly, Illya confirmed, "You never know how important someone is until you lose them. I have you back. I don't want to lose my friends here. So if you think you won't be too bored with an occasional consultation with NCIS – yes – I'm not retiring. Yet."

"Good." Solo patted him on the arm.

"Happy Christmas, moi brat," Illya told him after he hung his coat on the hall tree.

Napoleon gave a slight bow. "The same to you, tovarich." He limped over to the tree and retrieved the rectangular package. Illya was beside him, pulling out of the back branches a square box, brightly wrapped in red and green bows.

Complimenting his friend on concealing the present all this time almost within sight, he laughed. "Presents on the tree. Very sentimental."

"It seemed appropriate."

Solo presenting his gift as if presenting a sword to a knight. Resting it on his forearm, he gave a neat bow. "Merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Something for the brother who has everything."

Illya held it on one side for a moment, but did not take it. As they touched each end of the gift, his eyes twinkled with emotion and affection. "Yes, I could not possibly ask for more. There was nothing I wanted more. Your return was the unexpected miracle of the season. Thank you for being home for Christmas."

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else." With a wink and an affectionate grip of his friend's neck, he released the thin package. "Then this will just be something a little extra."

Reading the small note, Kuryakin smiled, his eyes swimming with emotion. Removing his wire-rimmed glasses, he wiped his eyes. Then he pocketed the card that had the lines of a song scribbled within:

Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

Opening the box with unsteady hands, Illya quietly gasped as he held two airline tickets in his palm. "Naples." He thumbed through more leaflets. "The little hotel . . . ."

"Yes. Amalfi for us, dear friend, for a wonderful week on the Mediterranean. And the quaint hotel with the best Italian food in the world! No one around there anymore to remember us, so it should be completely safe –"

"That incredible parmigano regiano!"

"Of course."

Kuryakin studied the documents more closely. "Our stopovers include London and Zurich. Not coincidence," he noted flatly. "To visit our old accounts?"

"Yes. I thought it was time to close out some of our safety nets." Sadly, he added, "I never dared visit any of them when Karkov was alive. Besides, they were yours to use if you wanted to take the risk."

Lip twitching with a lance of remembered pain, Illya shook his head. "I couldn’t touch anything that had been yours." He gripped Napoleon's arm. "It doesn't matter now. That is the past. We move on now to the future."

"Agreed."

Illya nodded at the present in his hand. "Open yours."

The ribbons and wrapping came away easily, revealing folded. Inside was the real estate page copied from a web site. It showed a respectable, old brick house with a tree lined drive. Three bedrooms, three baths, with an office, billiard room and three car attached garage.

"I found this today on the internet while you were searching for Russian assassins." At Solo's raised eyebrows, he elucidated. "I'm not retiring. I'm – we're – staying close. For now."

Laughing, Napoleon felt he could not be any happier. "I'm glad."

There was a second note. It urged him to go to the office turned into his temporary room. "A scavenger hunt?"

The blue eyes were bright with anticipation. "I thought it would be more interesting."

Limping to the office, Illya at his heels, he flipped on the light. He noticed it right away. On the otherwise empty mantle were a framed picture and a small silver ring with a sparkling blue stone. Stepping over, he laughed and cried at the worn picture of Kuryakin and him wearing silly Mickey hats and shirts, posing in front of a castle on a sunny day in a fantasy land in California.

"Where –" he barely breathed.

"I had a copy of that along with some other important items hidden in a safe in Canada. I had them sent down last week. There were some things I could not live without in case . . . ."

Solo nodded. In case the worse happened. And it had. With an unsteady hand he picked up the ring.

"In the event you ever wander again, this ring contains a homing chip like your old one. Known nowadays as a GPS."

Laughing and crying, he gave his friend a hug. "You are always a surprise, Mister K."

"So are you. As is your gift."

"Da, da. Only the best that money and sentiment can buy this Christmas for you, Illya. Always."

"For you as well, my friend. Happy Christmas."

"You, too."

MERRY CHRISTMAS 2011

AND

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2012!!