Summary: Part 1 of 2. Though the Summit Five Affair is behind them, Strothers’s former partner, aiming to replace Beldon, is determined to make Napoleon pay for discrediting Strothers.
Cross-posted to AO3
Napoleon was charismatic and charming—being able to get
people to like him was second nature to him.
While people would be wary of Illya, who presented himself deliberately
as cold and aloof, Napoleon never faced any of that.
But the Summit Five Affair had changed things—changed how
people looked at Napoleon. Accused of
being a traitor—and tortured until he confessed, the fair-weathered crowd had
begun to see Napoleon in a different light.
Even when the true traitor had been eliminated and Napoleon’s name
cleared, it only slightly reduced the whispers and pointing when he and Illya
had returned to New York.
That was the extent of most of it, however; Napoleon didn’t
pay much attention to that, anyway, just like how Illya had been ignoring his
detractors all this time, as well. And,
overall, it didn’t seem to bother him; he had Illya’s support through the whole
thing, and that was all that mattered.
But old wounds were reopened, however, several weeks later,
when a visitor from U.N.C.L.E. Berlin had arrived for a meeting with Waverly,
as he had applied to take over Harry Beldon’s position as the head of the
Berlin branch, and had to meet with the other four U.N.C.L.E. heads
individually for an interview, who would then discuss on whether or not he
would be accepted as the fifth member of the Summit Five. He had passed his other three interviews, and
only needed to complete the one with Waverly.
What no one had realized at the time was that the man had
been Strothers’s partner, and subsequently his very close friend—he had been
out of town during the entire fiasco with Strothers and Beldon, and had only
come back for the figurative (and literal, in the case of Beldon)
post-mortem—that his partner had been unceremoniously sacked after allegedly
torturing an apparently innocent agent from the American branch.
He didn’t buy this—as far as he was concerned, Strothers
had been innocent, and the smug American agent had to have been guilty after
all, but succeeded in worming his way out of things. He got the name he had been searching
for—Napoleon Solo—and kept this information to himself as he headed to New York
for his final interview.
Strothers’s former partner was more than a bit confident
about getting accepted as Beldon’s replacement, and so, on his way to meet with
Waverly, found Napoleon in the hall and dragged him to the nearest dimly-lit
room.
“Just listen to me now, Solo,” he hissed. “I don’t care if you were found innocent or
not; when I become head of U.N.C.L.E. Berlin, I will see to it that you are ousted
from your position with as much pain and humiliation as I can see you get!”
He left immediately, and Napoleon stood in stunned
confusion—so stunned, that he was completely unaware that the dimly-lit room
that the unpleasant fellow had dragged him to was none other than the
U.N.C.L.E. autopsy room, and that Illya had been putting things away in a
darkened corner of the room—and had heard and seen the entire thing.
As Napoleon left the room, still looking stunned, it was
clear to Illya that Napoleon would not be likely to inform Waverly.
He would take it upon himself, for no one—but no
one–threatened Napoleon Solo in his presence and got away with it.
Affair Rating: PG13 (for action/danger) Chapter
summary: Napoleon and Illya’s investigation reveals a ghostly set of footprints in the fog–and more questions than ever before Notes:
This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is light slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net.
Act II: Footprints
The fog was still quite thick as Napoleon and Illya stepped
back into it, trying to find out who or what was behind the odd happenings
inside. The alleged ghost light that had
been in the top of the lighthouse was no longer there, but something else was—a
trail of glowing footprints coming down from the top of the lighthouse to the
ground, as though someone had walked sideways down the structure, unimpeded by
gravity, and then continued across the lawn, heading deeper into the fog.
“…How…?” Napoleon began, gesturing to the footprints. He turned to Illya, his arms out in a shrug
of utter confusion.
“If this is a Halloween prank, it’s a highly elaborate
one—my compliments to the ones with the gumption to pull it off,” Illya said.
“…Is it a prank, though?”
Illya sighed deeply, shaking his head in desperation.
“I want it to be,” he said, sincerely. “You have no
idea how much I want it to be just a prank.
…Well, perhaps you do have an idea.”
“I do,” Napoleon said, gently squeezing Illya’s hand. “You’re afraid of losing me to something from
beyond.”
“My fears are not unfounded, given what has happened to us
before!” Illya exclaimed. “Last year,
facing off against Stingy Jack…!”
“We got through that, and we can get through this,”
Napoleon said.
“But why must we go through this at all!?” Illya
asked. “That is also what I wish to
know—what have we done to deserve the constant attention from otherworldly
things!?” He sighed, looking at the
footprints. “I suppose I should be
grateful that this is all we’re dealing with right now…”
He trailed off as a voice echoed around them on the
wind. By reflex, Illya seized Napoleon’s
arm.
“Not for nothing, Tovarisch, but I think you just jinxed
it…” Napoleon said, placing his other hand on Illya’s. He frowned, trying to discern what the voice
was saying. “It sounds like… ‘Wind hates
me.’ …What does that even mean? It makes no sense—why would the wind hate
him?”
“…I am not so fond of this voice myself,” Illya intoned.
“If it’s the ghost ship, does he mean the storm that caused
it to go under?” Napoleon wondered aloud.
He tried to peer through the fog bank.
“Let’s see if we can follow these footprints and find out where they lead.”
“I would be careful, Napoleon,” Illya warned. “You can’t see very far in this fog, and
don’t forget, we are on a cliff!”
As Illya had predicted, the footprints led to the edge of
the cliff; standing back, they peered down, and it was clear that, as with the
lighthouse itself, the footprints continued vertically down the cliff, where
upon they resumed horizontally along the sand and into the water—the blue glow
of the footprints were visible in the shallows.
“So, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Napoleon said. “We have a ghost that glows where the
lighthouse should have been emitting its light, and after he’s done with that,
he walks down the lighthouse, across the lawn, down the cliff, and into the
water, complaining about the wind hating him.”
“…A sentence I never expected to hear in my lifetime, but
here we are,” Illya deadpanned.
“Here we are,” Napoleon agreed. “…And I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense–”
He was cut off as a bright, white light flashed behind
them; the duo turned around, trying to see where the light was coming from in
the fog. Another bright light lit up
part of the fog for a moment; it was back at the lighthouse, and the two headed
back to it as a third light briefly flashed again…
There was a yelp as Napoleon crashed into someone.
“Watch out! My
camera!”
Napoleon, who had unintentionally bowled him over, got back
up, confused.
“Schuler!?” he exclaimed.
“Yeah,” the paranormal investigator said. “You two were taking a long time, so I
figured it must have been something—I took a look outside and saw the
footprints on the lighthouse. Have you
ever seen footprints like these!? This
is the real deal—pure, genuine ectoplasmic residue!”
He held up his camera and took another picture; a Polaroid
dispensed from the camera, which he carefully put in his bag with the others.
“Was there anything else?”
“Other than the footprints?” Napoleon asked. “Something about the wind, but it makes no
sense at all.”
“…What?”
“If I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” Napoleon said.
“Okay, same here,” Schuler said, and he continued to
inspect the footprints.
Illya just shook his head again and followed Napoleon
inside.
“Did you find out what it was?” Hawthorne asked.
“No,” Napoleon admitted.
“Something strange is going on, though; there’s no explanation for the
weird footprints out there. And I think
I heard a voice, but only just for a moment.”
“Then there is truth to what Signore Schuler was saying?”
Gina asked, her eyes wide, no longer flirting with James Jr.
“Until we find an explanation for it, anything is possible,
I guess,” Napoleon said, with a shrug.
Gina murmured something under her breath, and Lotte
immediately made the sign of the Cross.
“It could also be nothing,” Fusco grunted, not even looking
up from some papers he was going over.
“If you ask me, that’s all it is.
You can stick around and play mystery-solvers all you want; I’m getting
a good night’s sleep and getting out of this madhouse first thing in the
morning!”
He got up from the table and headed upstairs to his room.
“…And here I thought I was the antisocial one…” Illya
commented.
“Perhaps you were–a long time ago,” Napoleon mused. “I think I’ve rubbed off on you since those
days.”
“Just my luck…”
Lotte watched the two of them bantering for a moment and
smiled, but then turned to Hawthorne.
“You will forgive us, but I think Signore Fusco is right
about being refreshed and ready to leave in the morning. Gina and myself, we must get to our new place
in Brooklyn—where was it again, Gina?”
“Flatbush?” Gina asked.
“Something like that.”
“That’s it,” Napoleon said.
“Ah, grazi,”
Lotte said. “We will make our way there
by train—call for a cab in the morning.”
“And we should be getting back to Manhattan ourselves,”
Napoleon added, looking to Illya. “We’ve
got work to catch up on.”
“And a cat to feed,” Illya added; idly, he wished that Baba
Yaga was here in Maine with them, seeing how she had proven to be quite a help
against Stingy Jack’s supernatural army the year before.
“Well, I’ll be sorry to see you all go, but I can’t blame
you,” Hawthorne said. “Everything should
be ready for you boys upstairs; let me or Junior know if you need anything
else.”
“We will,” Napoleon promised. “Thanks a lot.”
The two of them headed upstairs to their room, and the
sisters headed to their room, as well.
Upon reaching the room, Napoleon looked through the window.
“Nothing out there except Schuler and the footprints,” he
said. “He’s still inspecting them; he’s
out there in the fog with a tape measure, measuring footprints and the space
between them.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s keeping himself entertained,” Illya
said.
They changed and got into bed. Illya was happy to relax at last; aside from
the incident at dinner and the voice outside, there didn’t seem to be any other
issues, apart from Schuler going nuts over the ghost footprints.
He sighed, contentedly, cuddling up to Napoleon, who
responded by wrapping his arms around him.
“You know… When that
fog clears in the morning, I’ll bet the view here is going to be so romantic,”
Napoleon murmured.
“Perhaps,” Illya said.
“Though I have to agree, this would be a cozy place, were it not for the
odd goings-on.”
“Yeah, well…. We have
seen worse.” He gently kissed
Illya. “But we can make things much
better now.”
Illya smiled, tempted, but gave him a slight nudge.
“We have a nine-hour drive tomorrow, Napoleon; we need to
be rested.”
“Oh, good point,” Napoleon sighed. “Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Napoleon.”
The two of them soon drifted off to sleep, a rest that was
surprisingly peaceful… Until an agonized
scream filled the lighthouse a few hours later.
The two of them sat bolt upright, utterly confused for a moment before
jumping into action, running in the direction that the scream had come from.
They were joined in the hall by Hawthorne, his son, and the
Rigassi sisters; Fusco stuck his head out of his room grumpily, saw them run
past, and withdrew back into the room.
They ended up outside Schuler’s room, which was left ajar. Hawthorne slowly opened it, revealing Schuler
in his bed with a half-frightened, half-elated expression—and glowing blue
footprints all around the floor.
“It was another light!
Another ghost light!” he stammered, pointing at the footprints. “It woke me up—the glowing. That was when I saw it, and it fled when I
screamed…” His face fell. “It stole my Polaroids!”
“…What?” Napoleon
asked.
“The pictures I’d taken of the footprints outside—the ghost
light was making them hover right out of my bag, and it took the pictures with
it when it vanished.”
“Perhaps it didn’t appreciate you taking pictures of its footprints
outside,” Illya said, sarcastically.
Schuler missed the sarcasm, and stared at the ones on the
floor.
“These are different footprints,” he said. “I should know—I spent hours measuring the
ones outside…” He crawled out of bed,
taking his tape measure again, and his notebook. “See?
The prints outside were a size 13—these are a size 10!”
Napoleon frowned as he glanced at the footprints.
“…You know, he’s right—these ones are smaller than the
other ones,” he said, kneeling beside them.
He flinched. “And for some
reason, these ones… give me a bad feeling.”
“What do you mean?” Illya asked.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Napoleon said. “But I didn’t feel that the ones outside were
anything to be worried about. These ones
give me an uneasy feeling. I don’t know
why; maybe I’m just tired.”
Illya didn’t say anything; as much as he wanted to dismiss
this whole thing, he knew that, as enforcement agents, their instincts had to
be always honed to perfection, even when tired or sleep-deprived. If Napoleon had a bad feeling about these
footprints, then, as much as Illya hated to admit it, perhaps there was
something malevolent afoot.
“…Do you think there’s something to this after all, Dad?”
James Jr. asked, sounding nervous.
“I don’t rightly know,” Hawthorne said. “This has never happened before—usually, the
stuff with the coming inside the rooms happens after we’ve left for
Halloween. Something must be drawing things
out a night early.”
“And the fog only keeps getting thicker out there,” Illya
added, frowning as he gazed out the window.
“Is this normal?”
“…For Halloween night,” James Jr. said. “Like Dad said, something seems to be setting
things off a day early.”
“Well, it is a
Leap Year,” Napoleon mused. “Maybe
they’re a day off because of that…?”
“No, these ghosts would be from a century ago—they’d know
about Leap Year and wouldn’t be confused,” Schuler said, shaking his head. “Sometimes, spirits can become more active by
being around the presence of mortals who have had experience with the spirit
world before.”
Both Illya and Lotte paled, but Illya shook his head. Sheer nonsense! Anyone who would believe that he, Illya, was
a descendant of the Romanovs had to be speaking only nonsense!
…And yet, he had been right about the sizes of the odd
footprints…
“Gina, we are leaving,” Lotte suddenly announced. “We will take a night train to Brooklyn.”
“Now?” the younger sister asked. She glanced at the footprints and
reconsidered. “Si…. Perhaps that is best…”
“Ladies, I know I can’t force you to stay,” Hawthorne
said. “But with this fog getting
thicker, it’s too dangerous.”
“He’s right,” Illya said, quietly. “I do not like this anymore than you do, but
we will have to wait until it clears to go.
If I had my way, I, too, would wish to leave this instant.”
“We’ll look out for everyone here,” Napoleon offered.
“Against what seems to be two ghosts—at least?” Schuler
asked. “There’s only so much mortals can
do against them–”
Napoleon and Illya hastily shushed him as the sisters exchanged
worried glances.
“Junior, perhaps you’d better escort them back to their
room,” Hawthorne said.
“Right, Dad,” he said, moving to take Gina by the arm until
Hawthorne cleared his throat, glaring at him.
“And come back in five minutes,” his father added.
Gina did seem slightly amused, cheering up slightly, but
Lotte remained pale and worried—and unamused.
“Well, so much for sleep tonight,” Schuler sighed, reaching
for his bag. “What the…? The spirit took my camera, too! It took the pictures and the camera!”
He wordlessly showed them the bag, which was empty, aside
from notebooks, writing implements, and measuring devices.
“This is a bizarre haunting,” Napoleon said. “We have one spirit outside, complaining
about the wind, and now another spirit inside, trying to get rid of all
photographic evidence of the spirit outside.”
“Yeah, this is a new one, even for me,” Schuler said. “I’m not even upset about the camera—it was a
cheap one. I’m just puzzled about why
this spirit doesn’t want us knowing about the other one.”
“I wonder if it has anything to do with the shipwreck and
the ghost ship,” Hawthorne mused. He
glanced back at his son as he returned.
“Junior, do we still have the logs of the lighthouse keepers?”
“In storage, yeah,” James Jr. said. “Do you think we’ll find something useful in
those old logs?”
“Maybe,” Napoleon said.
“If it helps us understand what exactly is going on here, I’d call that
useful.”
“Give them the key and show them where to go,” Hawthorne
instructed his son,
He turned to Illya.
“You want to come along and look through them? Or would you rather stay out of it?”
“And leave you alone with spirits possibly about? Not likely,” Illya returned, without
hesitation.
“I’ll keep making measurements of these footprints and join
you later,” Schuler said. “Keep an eye
for my camera, huh?”
“Right,” Napoleon said.
“You two take care,” Hawthorne said. “After he shows you to the storage area,
Junior and I will be patrolling the halls and making sure Mr. Fusco and the girls
are alright. Let one of us know if you
need anything.”
Napoleon and Illya nodded in agreement.
Hopefully, they would get to the bottom of this—before
anything else happened.
Summary: [Early days] In which Napoleon learns the hard way that falling off of a waterfall has repercussions, even if you think you’ve recovered.
Cross-posted to AO3
As much as Napoleon wanted to admit that falling off
Niagara Falls was something that he had easily moved on from, it simply wasn’t
the case. It had been embarrassing
enough when, just a couple of months later, he had fainted at the sight of
Angel Falls in Venezuela. And it had
been frustrating as well to know that this was a weakness now. He could only hope that THRUSH would never
find out about it.
Illya was calm and understanding through all of it,
reassuring him that it was to be expected that he have this aversion towards
waterfalls after what he had been through.
He thought nothing less of him.
However, the slow road to recovery from this ordeal soon
had to be abandoned as THRUSH gave chase while they were running through the
jungle.
“There is a cave behind these particular falls—we can use
it to hide from THRUSH,” Illya said.
“The tunnel goes deep enough that we can escape through the side of the
mountain. We can outdistance them if we
hurry!”
And Napoleon had stopped as they approached, his breathing
tight and sweat pouring down his face as he stared at the cascade of water.
“Napoleon…” Illya said, gently but firmly. “I would not insist upon it if we had no
other choice. THRUSH grunts are coming
at us from all sides—there is no other way of escape but through the water.”
“…Go without me,” Napoleon said, after a moment.
“…What…?”
“I can’t ask you to put yourself in danger because of my
cowardice,” Napoleon said. “You go on
ahead through the falls; I’ll try to hide out here.”
Illya’s expression softened—but only slightly, given the
dire circumstances.
“I have known you for over a year now, Napoleon. Trust me when I say that you are not a
coward. You do have a phobia, brought
about by your trauma—and it is a fear you must face, for THRUSH will not be
merciful after you dispatched of their leader last year. And I will not abandon you to their
wrath. Either we go through the water
together, or we both take our chances out here together.”
“I can’t let you do that!”
“And I cannot let you face THRUSH alone,” Illya
responded. “I will go with your
decision, whatever it may be—but we will face it together. It is how we defeated the Baron of THRUSH
last year, after all—and why our partnership worked out so well, in spite of
our being so different.”
Napoleon considered this and nodded; he looked back at the
falls, trying to unlock the knot forming in his chest. And gunshot rang out from the opposite
direction, and then another—THRUSH was coming.
Napoleon stared at the water once more, looked back to
Illya, and gave a shaky—but determined—nod.
“We’ll take the falls.”
Illya nodded back in approval; he seized Napoleon’s hand,
and the two of them jumped through the veil of water and into the cave.
Napoleon exhaled the breath he’d been holding,
relieved. He looked back at Illya with a
smile.
“Well done, Napoleon,” Illya said. “But we cannot stay; we need to keep going
down these tunnels.”
Napoleon nodded and led the way, the two of them heading onward
together.
Only Seven Acres of Rose of Pollux's Musings & Daydreams 