Part 1 of my annual Halloween fic!

Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse

Affair
Rating: PG13 (for action/danger)
Chapter
summary: After a heavy fog strands Napoleon and Illya at an old lighthouse converted to a bed & breakfast, the duo find themselves in the middle of an otherworldly mystery from a hundred years ago.
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 I: A Foggy Night in Maine

Illya scowled as the fog thickened as he drove along the
cliffside path upon the Maine shores.

“This is exactly what we do not need,” he muttered.  “If it gets any thicker, I would be concerned
of going off the road.”

“That would be a bad thing, given the Atlantic Ocean being
right there,” Napoleon said, trying to navigate with a map and a flashlight in
the front passenger seat.  “According to
this map and feedback from our trackers, we should be approaching Skull Cove.”

“…A welcoming name, it is not,” Illya deadpanned.

“Well it was intentional—the cove was the sight of so many
shipwrecks until the lighthouse was built—some even after,” Napoleon said, now
reading from a tour guide.  “When ships
eventually rerouted to other ports, the lighthouse was closed and fell into
disrepair until about ten years ago, when it was converted to a bed and
breakfast.  …Hey, maybe we can stop here
for the night; I’d rather sit this fog out than try to drive through it.”

“As would I,” Illya said.
“Just where is this lighthouse?’

“Well, offhand, I would say it’s that great big light in
the fog over there,” Napoleon said.  He
paused, marveling at the light—specifically, the bright blue shade of the
light.  “Must be neon or something.”

“Mmh,” Illya grunted, not sounding impressed.  Nevertheless, he was eager for a rest and
drove in the direction of the light.
Eventually, the lighthouse itself came into view; Illya parked alongside
the other cars that had been parked there already.

“Skull Cove Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast,” Illya read off
of the sign.  “I hope they have some sort
of fixings for dinner, as well.”

“If not, we have our rations,” Napoleon assured him.  “And I brought extra–thankfully, I planned
ahead in case we did end up with some unintended delays.”

Illya looked to him in relief.

“I could kiss you.”

“Oh, please do,” Napoleon said, eagerly.

“…You are shameless,” Illya chided.  “But I can’t deny you when you have asked so
nicely.”  He kissed him as they walked
the pathway to the front door.

Napoleon grinned and kissed him back before they entered
the lighthouse.  The main room at the
base of the structure was both a lobby and a dining room, with a kitchen walled
off separately.

“Quaint,” Napoleon commented.

“And I see food,” Illya added, in approval, as he saw a
young man serving salad to two young women, a man in his 30s, and a slightly
older businessman at the table.  The
young man seemed to be trying to chat with the two women; one of them seemed to
be completely uninterested in what he had to say, but the other was clearly
egging him on.

“Junior, leave those ladies alone!” the middle-aged desk
clerk chided him.  “We have new guests,
anyway!”  He looked to Napoleon and Illya
and acknowledged them with a nod.  “Good
evening, Boys.  I’m James Hawthorne,
proprietor of this establishment.  You’ll
have to excuse my son; those two young ladies are fresh off the boat from
Italy, and they’re turning the boy’s head.
Now, then…  I presume you two are
here for a room?”

“That would be why we are here, yes,” Illya said.

“Well, you boys are lucky—you’ve got the last one,” Mr.
Hawthorne said.  “We don’t have that many
rooms here in this old lighthouse—not that we usually need any, since most
folks stay just for a night because of fog banks like this.”

“What do you do in the off-season?” Napoleon wondered.

“We also run a ski lodge in the winter in Colorado,” James
Jr. said.  “Can I take your bags up to
your room?”

“Just this one, please; we’ll keep the rest with us for
now,” Napoleon said, handing over his overnight bag; the rest of their luggage
contained sensitive equipment—things they weren’t going to let out of their
sight for a moment.

The younger Hawthorne shrugged and did as he was instructed
as his father handed Napoleon and Illya the keys.

“You can sit down and have dinner with the rest of the
guests,” he said, indicating the small, circular table.  “The ladies and Mr. Fusco are passing
through, like you.”  He indicated the
businessman, who was grumpily eating, clearly wanting to be elsewhere, but had
been stranded by the fog.

“And what about that gentleman?” Illya asked, indicating
the man in his 30s, who was eating with one hand and perusing through an
untidily-scribbled notebook with the other.
“What’s his story?”

“That’s Lawrence Schuler, self-proclaimed ‘Chronicler of
the Unexplained.’  He’s… an eccentric
feller,” Hawthorne said, diplomatically.
“He’s been here for a few days now, eager to catch a glimpse of the
ghost ship and write about it.”

Illya froze, his expression fixed upon his face.

“I’m sorry—the what?” he asked, as Napoleon let out a sigh.

“One hundred years ago, before this place had electric
lights, a particularly bad storm doused the light in the lighthouse tower on
Halloween night, and a merchant ship went down off the coast, taking most of
the hands with it,” Hawthorne said.
“They say that ghostly activity increases around this time of year—and
it culminates with a sighting of the ship, the captain, and the crew that
perished that night on Halloween.”

“…Halloween starts tomorrow at midnight,” Napoleon realized.  “Well, thankfully, we’ll be on our way by
then.”

Illya exhaled and nodded, decidedly against dealing with
the unexplained and otherworldly after the few run-ins with them that he and
Napoleon had in the past.

“It’s quite a sight, I’m told,” Hawthorne said.

“I, ah…  You haven’t
seen it?” Napoleon asked.

“Well…  To tell you
the truth, I’m a mite nervous about seeing it,” Hawthorne admitted.  “My son and I usually don’t stay the
night.  Even if Schuler will be here, we
won’t be.  The place already has a chill
tonight.”

“Well, maybe we can go up to the light and warm up there,”
Napoleon mused, as he signed the register.

“The light?” Hawthorne asked.  “That light hasn’t worked in years; they
don’t make wirings like that anymore—been meaning to have a new one installed
for the aesthetic, but we never seem to get around to it.”

Illya slowly facepalmed as Napoleon’s eyes widened,
recalling the light he had seen outside.

“But… I could have sworn I saw…”

“Was it a bright blue light?” James Jr. asked, coming back
down the stairs.

“Yes, it was,” Napoleon said.  “I don’t suppose–”

“You saw the ghost light, Mr. …Solo,” the young man said,
quickly glancing at Napoleon’s signature on the register to get his name.

“Who saw the ghost light!?” Schuler asked, looking up from
the table.

This prompted the two Italian girls to roll their eyes as
Fusco determinedly ignored the nonsense as Napoleon gave a sheepish wave to
Schuler.  Schuler immediately got up,
drew a chair to the spot between him and one of the Italian girls, and practically
begged Napoleon to sit there and talk about what he saw.

Illya grumpily sat down opposite Napoleon, between Fusco
and the other Italian girl; though he ate the food, he was still vexed at
Schuler grabbing Napoleon’s attention away from him.

“Is there even a point to this discussion?” he asked.  “Napoleon likely was merely seeing things in
the fog—it is late, and we are tired after a long day.”

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said.  “I really don’t know what I was looking
at—come to think of it, I’m questioning if I saw anything at all.”

“Illya?” Schuler said.
“A Russian name?”

“Yes, I was born in Moscow—but I grew up in Kiev,” Illya
replied, glad to turn the conversation away from ghosts.  “My mother’s side was Ukrainian.”

Schuler stared for a moment and took out another book of
notes.

“What year were you born?”

“I was born in 1933.
Why?” Illya asked, his eyebrows arching suspiciously.

“Hmm… a stretch, but it could work if she had married and
had a child late!  That means you’d be
the perfect age!”

“…For what…?”

“To be the son of the lost Grand Duchess Anastasia
Romanov!” Schuler said.  “One of the many
theories is that, after her family was executed, she escaped and lived the rest
of her life incognito—perhaps even in Ukraine!
You could be a Romanov!”

Both Napoleon and Illya stared at him now.

“…Well, it is a stretch, as I said,” Schuler admitted.

“Stretched so far, it snapped,” Illya said, darkly.  “Is this what you do for a living?  Going around writing your own stories about
unexplained incidents?”

“Oh, this stuff sells,” Schuler said.

“I’ll bet it does,” Napoleon mused.

“But all of this research I’ve done—all the hours spent
doing interviews and reading old accounts…
It’s time I witnessed a bizarre happening firsthand, and here is my
chance to do so at last!” Schuler said.
“Mr. Solo, you have to tell me what it is you saw!”

Napoleon shrugged and continued to explain that he could
have seen just about anything—or nothing—in the fog.  Illya just shook his head and resumed eating,
content knowing that they would be out of here in the morning and could
distance themselves from this oddball.

“Mi scusi, Signore…”

Illya looked up, glancing at the Italian woman next to him.

“You said you are from Russia and the Ukraine?” she asked,
her accent thick.

“Yes, but I will state here and now once again that I am
not a Romanov,” Illya insisted.

“No, I didn’t
think you were,” she said, through a laugh.
“I wish to ask a question.  You
have been in America… how long?”

Ah, so that was it—a new immigrant, seeking advice from a
fellow immigrant.  Illya was sympathetic
to that.

“I was in the UK first,” Illya said.  “I attended Cambridge.  And then I worked in Berlin for some time; I
was transferred to New York in 1960.  So,
I have been here ten years.”

“Ah,” she said.  “…Do
you miss it?  Russia and the Ukraine?”

Illya paused.  He
glanced across the table at Napoleon, who had zoned out listening to Schuler’s
ramblings, his chin propped on his hand as he looked very, very bored
indeed.  Despite himself, Illya smiled.

“Not anymore.”

The young lady smiled.

“Your amore?”

Illya nodded, blushing slightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Si.  My little sister and I could see it as you
came in,” she said.  She indicated the
other young woman, who was now flirting with James Jr. again.  “I am Lotte Rigassi—that is my sister, Gina.”

“Illya Kuryakin,” he introduced himself.  “And that is my partner, Napoleon Solo.”

Lotte did a double-take at the name.

“Is he supposed to be named after–?”

“Yes,” Illya smirked.
“When I was transferred 10 years ago, it was to help him on an
assignment.  It was meant to be
temporary, but…”

“Amore?”

“Amore,” Illya
agreed.  “I ended up staying just to be
with him, and I never once regretted it.”

Lotte nodded.

“Gina and I, we have not been here long enough to find our
Special Ones yet,” she said.  “We were
born in Sicily just after the war; very little was there for us.  My parents, they encouraged us to come
here—instructed me to look after Gina.”
She sighed, shaking her head as Gina continued to flirt with James
Jr.  “She wants a Hollywood romance like
she sees in the movies.  Trying to
convince her to be realistic does nothing.
Perhaps she is afraid of not finding someone.  …Sometimes, I am, too.”

“I had resigned myself to living the rest of my life alone,
as well,” Illya said.  “But then I met
Napoleon.  There’s hope for you yet—both
of you.”

Lotte nodded.

“Grazi,” she
said.  “For your kind words of
encouragement.  I will have hope–”

She was cut off as the windows in the lobby and dining area
suddenly burst open, sending a chill wind through the rooms—and in the wind, a
ghostly wail was carried through the air.
And the mist from outside inexplicably began pouring in through the
windows, creeping across the floor and refusing to dissipate as fog normally
would.

“What was that!?” Napoleon demanded, getting to his
feet.  He then indicated the bizarre
behavior of the fog.  “And what is
this!?”

“Ghostly activity,” Schuler said, his eyes positively
shining.  “This is it—this is exactly
what I came here for!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Illya said.  “But it could very easily be some local
teens’ idea of a prank to try to get some laughs.”

He felt his pocket for his Special out of habit; Napoleon
also did the same, and the two partners headed out the door, aiming to
determine exactly what the source of this bizarre problem was.