Another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary: Napoleon and Illya had to deal with worse lodgings in their younger years, but now, two old spies contend with a motel room that makes a THRUSH cell seem almost inviting. [Inspired by last week’s NCIS episode where Ducky complained about his motel room bed–and, as we all know, Ducky is totally Illya]

Notes: this is light slash; gen version is on dreamwidth.

This version crossposted to AO3.

“Well,” Napoleon sighed, as he opened the door to the motel
room. “It’s not exactly the luxury
suites that we’ve been in since retirement, but it’s… something.” His expression was one of disapproval as he
saw how barely put-together the room was; the room was a bland, powder-blue,
with a beaten-up TV on an equally beaten-up stand, and a bed that looked like
it was made of lumps. Baba Yaga was now
prowling around the room with an air of a cat that was on the trail of
vermin. “I’m beginning to think we
should have opted for an actual hotel and a luxury suite. Look
at this dump…!”

“It’s closest to the airport; we couldn’t have planned on
the flight getting cancelled,” Illya responded.
“And everywhere else was full; it’s pointless to find somewhere
else. And anyway, we’ve had worse
lodgings in decades past, courtesy of THRUSH.”

“…I don’t know, I think some of those THRUSH cells just
might have been an upgrade compared to this,” Napoleon said.

“Well, it’ll do just fine for tonight,” Illya said. “We’ll catch the first flight out in the
morning and be on our vacation before we know it.”

“Mmh,” Napoleon grunted.
He placed his suitcase aside and sat down on the bed to take his shoes
off—and then yelped as he sunk down into it.
“What the–!?”

“What’s the matter now?
Something wrong with the bed?”

“This isn’t a bed—it’s a quicksand pit!”

“Oh, really…” Illya said, rolling his eyes. “You still have that old habit of exaggerating—good Lord…!” He was cut off as he sunk down into the
mattress upon sitting down on it, crashing onto Napoleon. “…Right, maybe you weren’t exaggerating.”

“…You think…?” Napoleon said, his eyes now barely an inch
from Illya’s.

Illya gave a slight shrug.

“Perhaps we have put on some extra pounds in our older
age–”

“I’m pretty sure the mattress has malfunctioned,” Napoleon
said.

“Right, and those old silk pajamas of yours still fit,”
Illya said, sarcastically. “Don’t think
I didn’t know that you ordered some in a larger size.”

“…What are you saying…?”

“That we are now showing the effects of those gourmet meals
of yours.”

“Strange, you never showed any regrets when you were eating
them…”

“Well, they were good,” Illya said. “And they seem to have some property that has
extended the life of our cat—whoever heard of a cat living 58 years?”

“Bastet might have something to do with that more than my
cooking did,” Napoleon said. “…But, ah,
we need to figure out a plan to escape this pit that we’ve seem to have gotten
ourselves into…”

It wasn’t easy, but the two of them slowly managed to
extricate themselves from the mattress.

The moment they had managed to escape, Baba Yaga leaped
onto the bed—and meowed loudly in confusion as she sunk down in it, too.

“See, there’s the problem,” Napoleon said. “It can’t even hold a cat!”

“Oh, leave it be, Napoleon; I still say we’ve had worse to
contend with.”

“…We were younger then.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Illya chided. “A night on the floor using the comforters as
cushions will be fine, even at our age.”

“Great, and how do you intend to keep warm if we’re using
our covers for a mattress?”

“Well, I assume that, even after all these years, you are
still my ‘little comforter,’ hmm?” Illya asked, smirking.

“…Okay, you win.”

And so, they set themselves up on the floor, which,
compared to the hideous excuse of a mattress, proved to be comfortable. Baba Yaga managed to find a corner of the
mattress that didn’t sink as much and made herself at home there.

“You remember the last time we had to do this?” Illya
mused.

“Yeah, the Girls of Nazarone Affair when we found those
poison needles in our beds,” Napoleon said, smirking at the memory. “Can you believe that was 53 years ago?”

“Truly remarkable,” Illya agreed. “But here we are—still here. Still together.”

“I’ve enjoyed every moment of it,” Napoleon said, drawing
him into a hug.

Illya returned the hug.

“So have I,” he said.

They looked into each other’s eyes again, and then kissed.

A little snafu in their itinerary was but a small obstacle
after everything they’d faced—but, like everything else, they would face it
together.

MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary: Fact 1: Napoleon Solo hates being underwater. Fact 2: He will do anything to save Illya Kuryakin. Fact 3: Fact 2 overrides Fact 1, always.

Notes: this is light slash; gen version is on dreamwidth, though the only difference is literally one less kiss.

This version crossposted to AO3.

If there was one thing that Napoleon hated, it was the
sensation of having his face submerged underwater–it felt as though power was
taken away from him. In a way, it
was—the ability to breathe was what powered the body; take that away… and you
were powerless. And oh, how he hated
that feeling!

His swimming skills weren’t the greatest, either—further
reason to avoid a situation that would cause him to be submerged. Somehow, he had slipped through Survival
School without getting his swimming skills tested—some sort of trickery and
subterfuge that he no longer remembered, no doubt.

He suspected the day would come when it would come back to
bite him with a vengeance—he had been dumped in the water several times, but he
still made it out of those with relative ease thanks to his partner, who
refused to betray his weakness.

Nevertheless, he knew, in the back of his mind, that the
day would come when he would regret the deception—and the day came when, after
keeping watch from the motorboat that he and Illya had been using in order to
get Illya aboard a THRUSH freighter, he saw, with horror, two THRUSHies toss an
unconscious Illya overboard the vessel, bound hand and foot—and with a barbell
tied to a rope around his waist.

Illya hit the water and did not resurface, and Napoleon
knew that he had to act quickly if he hoped to save his partner’s life.

There was no question about what he would do, of
course—while he hated the sensation of having his face submerged, the thought
of losing his partner was the one thing he hated most of all.

He leaped out of the motorboat and let himself sink; he
forced himself not to panic and use up his oxygen as he used a knife to free
Illya from the ropes.

That was the easy part; now he had to get him to the
surface—and to safety.

THRUSH would be watching the water; they would have to get
away. Fortunately, they weren’t too far
from shore; Napoleon dragged Illya along as he made his way in an ungainly
manner, bounding off of the floor of the bay until the water was shallow enough
to allow Napoleon’s leaps to break the surface of the water. He gasped for breath and pulled Illya up with
him. But Illya did not gasp for breath,
and it made Napoleon’s blood run cold.

“No…” he said, now dragging Illya onto the shore. “Illya, please…”

He pulled the soaked, black turtleneck off of his partner
and put his ear to his chest; yes, there was a heartbeat but… he was clearly
not breathing, and his face was starting to take on an ashen hue, having taken
in water while being unable to hold his breath while unconscious.

Napoleon got to work, breathing for his partner while
trying to get the water out of his lungs.
After what seemed like an eternity of artificial respiration, Illya now
coughed as he began to breathe again on his own—and despite that this was
followed by some unpleasant-looking, painful retching from the unfortunate
Russian, it was a relief for Napoleon to see.

He would still require hospitalization and medical
supervision, but as Illya opened his eyes briefly and looked at Napoleon with a
mix of surprise and gratitude, Napoleon knew that his partner would, in time,
recover with the proper care. After a
quick call for backup, Napoleon returned to reassuring Illya.

“Help is on the way,” he promised, kissing him gently on
the cheek.

Illya managed a weak nod, and then clutched at Napoleon’s
hand as he continued to try to catch his breath. He couldn’t talk now, but he would make it
clear later as to how much it meant that Napoleon faced his deepest fears and
risked his life for him.

To know the depths of his love and loyalty made the whole
thing almost worthwhile.

Yet another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary:
In which Napoleon notices that after living for five years in the US, Illya’s accent has changed.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.

Illya could tell that Napoleon was in deep thought as he
arrived at the breakfast table to see his partner with his chin on his hand,
ignoring the glass of orange juice in front of him and the many dishes of
breakfast foods. Baba Yaga was helping
herself to a piece of bacon, with Napoleon oblivious to the theft in
action. The cat looked at Illya as he
approached, but knowing that he would let her get away with anything, she
continued to indulge in her plunder.

“Morning,” Illya offered to Napoleon, gently petting the
cat. “What’re you so focused on?”

“You,” Napoleon said, glancing at Illya. “Your accent is gone.”

Illya, who had now been in the process of piling potatoes
onto his plate, paused with the serving spoon in midair.

“…I realize THRUSH has been mostly inactive and our work
has been unusually slow as of late,” he said.
“But has it come to the point that you’re pondering over things like
this?”

“See? See right
there?” Napoleon pointed at him. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You’ve lost me,” Illya said, resuming serving himself the
potatoes. “I haven’t really noticed my
accent having changed—though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I have
lived here for five years now, after all, listen to you talk and talk and
talk…”

“I didn’t notice it either until I realized that you’ve
started stressing syllables differently—and you’re using contractions a whole
lot more,” Napoleon said.

Illya, now serving himself bacon and eggs, considered this,
and nodded.

“Guess you’re right,” he said. “Well, if it means I won’t draw any
suspicious stares from passersby who think I’m a Soviet plant, then why should
I mind? I don’t plan to go back to
Russia—you know I’m working on getting my American citizenship.” He smiled.
“It’s more official now, isn’t it?”

Napoleon smiled.

“Guess so,” he said.
“I’m just trying to figure out how I didn’t notice until now?”

“Same way you never notice that your hair is getting too
long, and, before you know it, it’s time for a trim.”

“…Not that you’d know anything about getting a trim,”
Napoleon teased.

Illya smirked, running a hand through his growing, blond
hair.

“So you noticed that I’m growing it out?”

“That, I did notice,” Napoleon grinned. “…Looks nice, by the way.”

“Spacibo,” Illya
said, deliberately, prompting Napoleon to chuckle. “There’s no need to worry, Napoleon—my accent
may have changed, but who I am and what you mean to me never will.”

Napoleon smiled.

“And I don’t foresee my accent ever changing, but even if
it did, the same would apply to me, too,” he promised.

“I never doubted it,” Illya said. “Now, if you are through pondering, let’s
eat.”

“…At least that hasn’t changed…”

And they enjoyed their breakfast together.

The Shakespearean Riddles (MFU oneshot)

Title: The Shakespearean Riddles
Rating: G
Summary: A mysterious message sends Napoleon on a Shakespearean scavenger hunt with his partner by his side.
Notes:

This is my usual yearly fic in honor of what would have been Robert
Vaughn’s birthday!

Cross-posted to ff.net and AO3 if you prefer reading there, can’t link due to the new linking restrictions…

Napoleon smiled in satisfaction as he glanced at his reflection
in the mirror. Another year older, and
yet, there was not a single wrinkle or gray hair to betray that fact—much to
his satisfaction.

“Ponce de León, eat your heart out,” he murmured.

The smell of pancakes and syrup finally succeeded in
drawing him away from his reflection; though Illya was not as accomplished a
chef as Napoleon was, pancakes were among the things he could make, and since
it was Napoleon’s birthday, naturally, he wanted to prepare breakfast that day.

Illya already had the plates set up—one for each of them,
plus one more for Baba Yaga, who had already started on her pancake.

“Happy Birthday, Napoleon,” Illya greeted him.

“Thank you, Tovarisch,” Napoleon grinned.

The two of them feasted on the pancakes.

“So, when are Ma and Dad coming over?”

“Evening,” Illya said.
“I figured I would treat us all to a dinner in your honor—your choice of
eatery, naturally.”

“I’ll mull my choices over and let you know–” Napoleon
began, but he was cut off by an odd sound on their apartment door. “What is that?”

Baba Yaga perked her ears up and looked in the direction of
the door, but, otherwise, didn’t react, prompting Napoleon to get up and open
the door. There was no one at the door,
but as he turned, he stared as he saw a piece of paper taped to the door.

“Illya! Look at
this!”

Illya got up from the table and headed over to Napoleon as
he removed the paper from the door.

“What is that?”

“A message that was intended for me, by the looks of it,”
Napoleon said, glancing from the paper to his partner. “Hang on, it’s a poem—a riddle of some
kind… Look at this…”

He held up the paper so that Illya could read it; the note
was typewritten to avoid having the handwriting traced–

Greetings, Mr. Solo; will you play my game?
The average man would find this quest hard.
But I wish to match wits with you, Mr. Solo–
How well do you know the one and only Bard?

First, I refer to The Winter’s Tale,
And the beast that saw Antigonus depart.
Go to where the beast now battles–
Against another beast in the city’s heart.

“A battle of wits…?” Napoleon mused. “With Shakespeare as the theme? I don’t know who’s behind this, but I will
not lose!”

“I have every ounce of faith in you,” Illya said. “But be careful—it could be a THRUSH trap.”

“I don’t think so; they don’t really know of my love of
Shakespeare. But of course, we’ll be
vigilant. Now, then, this riddle…. Well,
the first half of the clue is easy enough.”

“Is it?” Illya asked.

“Sure—The Winter’s
Tale? Antigonus and a beast? This is obviously referring to Antigonus’s
fate, summed up in a famous stage direction–‘Exit, pursued by a bear.’ But where would a bear be fighting another
beast in ‘the city’s heart?’ Pretty sure
bear fighting is against the law.”

“To say nothing of the fact that urban-dwelling bears are
not that common… At least here. I could tell you some stories from Russia…”

“I’d believe them,” Napoleon said, and he went back to
pondering. “Let’s see… Not the Bronx Zoo—they wouldn’t let their
bears fight.”

“I think not,” Illya agreed.

“Maybe it’s metaphorical…” Napoleon mused. “Bears are used in a lot of symbolic
things—bear markets, for instance, or…”
He trailed off. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“The two beasts in battle in the heart of the city—the bear
and the bull! The Stock Exchange,
Illya!”

“…Yes, of course.
Well, that’s it; you’ve solved it.”

“There’s more to this than just one clue,” Napoleon said, a
spark of intrigued determination igniting in his eyes. “A battle of wits means that there’ll be more
clues—most likely, we’ll find the second one at the Stock Exchange! I’m going to head over there; you coming?”

“Of course; I relish the opportunity to stand back and
watch how your mind works…” Illya mused.

Baba Yaga let out a “mrrah” and followed them out the door,
dragging a pancake along with her.

************************

Arriving on Wall Street amidst the usual hustle and bustle
of the crowd, Napoleon couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary—at least, not
until a paper airplane flew out of nowhere and smacked him in the face,
prompting Illya to chuckle and Baba Yaga to leap up and swat at it.

“Well, at least we know it isn’t a THRUSH plot; they
wouldn’t be throwing paper airplanes,” the blond mused.

“Hmm,” Napoleon replied, scanning the crowd to see if he
could spot who had chucked the paper airplane at him. Finding no likely suspects, he unfolded the
airplane to read the clue, which had been typewritten like the last one–

Well done solving the first clue;
Find the next one, should you choose to play,
Where the Bard’s tale of star-crossed lovers
Was set, in film, in the modern day.

“Well, Romeo and
Juliet, of course,” Napoleon said.
“…Unless this is referring to the play-within-a-play about Pyramus and
Thisbe in A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
but I doubt it—Romeo and Juliet is
what everyone thinks about when you use the phrase ‘star-crossed.’ And the modernized film adaptation, of
course, must be West Side Story! So, the Upper West Side is where we need to
go!”

“…You do realize how big the Upper West Side is?” Illya
said. “We could be there all day looking
for another paper airplane.”

“…Right…” Napoleon said, staring back at the paper. “Well, the specific location in the movie is
Lincoln Square…”

“That narrows it down somewhat…”

Napoleon suddenly snapped his fingers.

“San Juan Hill! I
think some of the on-location filming for the movie even took place there!”

They got in a cab and were headed there; Napoleon seemed
deep in thought as they rode on the way.

“What are you thinking about?” Illya asked. “Having second thoughts about the location?”

“No, I’m confident about that,” Napoleon said. “I’m just trying to figure out who is doing
this, and why. Is it someone trying to
dethrone me as the reigning Shakespeare trivia champion at the office?”

Illya shrugged.

“I suppose we’ll find out once we follow all the clues…”

“…Guess so…” Napoleon replied, but it still didn’t stop him
from being in deep thought about it.

Nevertheless, they had barely gotten out of the cab at San
Juan Hill when Napoleon found himself taking another paper airplane to the side
of his head. Once again looking around
and seeing no one who stood out, he held up the next clue for Illya to read.

Clue three harkens to a Danish prince,
And two he once considered friends.
From Avon to Broadway, an untold tale
Now chronicles their unfortunate ends.

Napoleon’s grin had grown even further.

“It’s Hamlet,” he
said. “Well, to be more specific, it’s
referring to the unofficial spinoff-and-pastiche that was just brought over to
Broadway—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are
Dead. I’ve been meaning to see that,
you know?”

“…Now why did I not think to get you tickets to it for your
birthday?” Illya chided himself.

“I’ll take a rain check,” Napoleon said. “But, at any rate, I know where the next clue
is—the play is at the Alvin Theatre on Broadway, so that’s where we need to go!”

He was so excited, he was about ready to take off down the
street before realizing that it would be a long trek on foot; he gathered Baba
Yaga in one arm and hailed a cab with the other, and Illya just shook his head
in amusement.

****************************

Napoleon spent a few minutes admiring the marquee of the
Alvin Theatre, clearly wishing he could see the show; he was pulled from his
dreaming by Baba Yaga pawing at a paper that had been stuck to the door of the
theatre.

“I think she is eager to continue with this quest, as
well,” Illya observed, taking the cat from Napoleon as he removed the
paper. “Is that the next clue?”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Napoleon mused. He held up the clue for Illya to read again—

In halls where treasures are on display,
And time, across centuries, does span,
Find the statue of the unfortunate king
Who was slain at the hands of an honorable man.

“Well, the play is easy enough,” Napoleon said. “Julius
Caesar. Brutus, who orchestrated his
assassination, was repeatedly—and sarcastically—referred to as an honorable man
in Antony’s speech. Obviously, the hall
of treasures is a museum… except that there are an almost endless supply of
museums here in New York.”

“While that is true, I am sure that the museums which would
have anything of Caesar’s on display would be limited,” Illya said. “I think we can rule out the Guggenheim, for
instance—one would not find statues of Roman rulers in a gallery full of modern
art and other inexplicable pieces.”

“You’re still sore about the Pop Art Affair?”

“…Wouldn’t you be?”

“…Yeah, I would,” Napoleon admitted. “Okay, let’s get back to this, then. Now that I think about it, you’re right – we
can narrow it down to two museums: the Natural History Museum, or the Met.”

“That sounds about right,” Illya assessed.

“And the Natural History Museum, though it does have stuff
on ancient civilizations, probably wouldn’t be the place for a statue of
Caesar, either; they tend to focus more on everyday life. So… It
has to be at the Met! Hey–!”

Napoleon looked around furiously as a paper airplane flew
out of nowhere and smacked him in the face again. Opening it, he saw that it was blank—but two
tickets to the Met fell out.

“Really!?” Napoleon called.
“I solved the clue—you’re still going to make us go all the way to the
Met to get the next one?”

There was no response, of course, and Napoleon sighed,
shaking his head as he glanced at the tickets.

“You’re still going to go, aren’t you?” Illya asked.

“Well, of course; I’ve got my honor as a Shakespeare buff
to defend! Once more, unto the breach,
Tovarish!”

It was now Illya’s turn to shake his head, but,
nevertheless, he followed his eager partner to the Met.

In order to make sure that the tickets didn’t go to waste,
the duo spent some time looking around at some of the exhibits. Illya had managed to conceal Baba Yaga in his
sweater, wearing a coat loosely over his sweater to prevent the cat-shaped lump
from standing out. She behaved herself,
though there were a couple of times in the Egyptian exhibits where she peeked
out to look at some statues of Bastet.

“She’s getting restless, Napoleon; we should find Caesar
and the next clue and go,” he said.

“I still say it’s because she knows that’s her Ma, but
sure,” Napoleon insisted. At any rate,
he was eager to get the next clue.

Sure enough, they found the statue head of Caesar, and
though Napoleon was on the alert, he was still blindsided by another paper
airplane.

“…I must admit, I am impressed at our riddlemaster’s
ability to elude my spy instincts,” he said, as a quick scan around the gallery
yielded nothing.

Cross a bridge for this final clue,
And you will have won the day.
Recall where Falstaff met his match,
When he thought himself besieged by fae.

“…So, the last one—naturally, the trickiest…” Napoleon
mused, as they now left the Met and Baba Yaga emerged from hiding and stretched. Napoleon absently gave her some ear scritches
as he pondered over the clue. “Let’s see… Falstaff first showed up in Henry IV, Part I and then Part II.
By Henry V, he had died. Legend has it, though, that the queen
requested Shakespeare for another play with Falstaff—and the end result was,
supposedly, The Merry Wives of Windsor. The fae weren’t in the historical plays, so
it has to be Windsor. …Of course, it
wasn’t really fairies in Windsor,
either; it was a trick, and they were fake, but he thought they were real.”

“And the clue refers to the location where this occurred,”
Illya said.

“Yeah, and that’s where it gets confusing,” Napoleon
said. “This took place by an oak tree in
Windsor Forest; Falstaff was dressed as Herne the Hunter, and the tree came to
be known as Herne’s Oak after the play made it popular. Except… the real-life tree is long gone—and
it would have been in Windsor Great Park, since the forest had been
renamed. And there was no bridge in the
play, like the clue is referring to. It
can’t be that we have to go all the way to England!”

“That would seem a bit excessive,” Illya intoned.

“No kidding…” Napoleon said. “It must be some sort of parallel to Herne’s
Oak that we have here in New York…” He
trailed off, looking at Central Park all around them. “…I guess you could compare Central Park to
Windsor Great Park… But that still
doesn’t tie the bridge in to anything.”

“So you are admitting defeat?”

“Never,” Napoleon insisted, grabbing a map from one of the
information kiosks nearby, pouring over it.
“I don’t know of any notable oak trees near bridges…”

“Nor do I,” Illya mused.

“There was a Shakespeare Garden in the park, but it’s gone
to seed over the years, so that can’t be it…”

“Was that pun necessary…?”

“Absolutely.”

Illya shook his head again as Napoleon suddenly froze,
still staring at the map.

“…I think I found it…” he said. “Oak Bridge!
This has to be it—and it’s just a ten-minute walk!”

He took off down the pathway, prompting Illya and Baba Yaga
to chase after him.

They soon found the bridge, and Napoleon paused as he
crossed it, finding a large picnic lunch spread on a blanket by the lake side.

“…The clues led to here?” he asked, baffled. “A picnic?”

“Yes, a picnic,” Illya said, and he smirked. “Happy Birthday, Napoleon.”

Napoleon turned to face his partner as it sunk in.

“You mean you…? The
clues…?”

“I got to thinking, what could be something meaningful I
could give you for your birthday?” Illya said, smiling. “Buying things… Well, anyone can do that—and you know I tend
to balk at that as the default option for occasions such as these. And then I realized—a way for you to have an
experience you would truly enjoy, by using your skills and knowledge of
Shakespeare! And I was right—you have
been enjoying yourself thoroughly all morning; I chose well.”

Napoleon let out an impressed, surprised chuckle.

“Well, thanks,” he said, once he managed to speak again. He hugged Illya in gratitude, but then paused
and let go. “Hang on…. You were with me
the entire time—how did you get the paper airplanes rigged to get me without them
being disturbed by passersby?”

“Ah, well, I had a couple of accomplices to toss the paper
for me…” Illya smirked, and he gestured as Cora and Leopold Solo came out of hiding,
bringing the last of the food. Baba Yaga
meowed and greeted the two of them, purring.

“Ma? Dad?” Napoleon
asked, stunned. “Illya, you told me they
were coming in the evening!”

“I never specified which
evening—it just happened to be yesterday.”

“…Sly Russian…”

Cora hugged Napoleon as Leopold clapped him on the back
with one hand while holding Baba Yaga in his other arm.

“Happy Birthday, Son,” Leopold said.

“Thanks,” he grinned.
“Well, I have to admit, I didn’t expect this present…”

“Oh, there’s more,” Cora said, taking four tickets out of
her purse. “Tickets to tonight’s showing
of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.”

“Ah, that’s why I didn’t think to get them for you…!” Illya
said, in a tone of mock surprise.

Napoleon shook his head in amusement again.

“Well, shall we continue this discussion over lunch?” Cora
offered.

The men were all in agreement.

And as Napoleon sat down to eat, he had to reflect on how
the picnic and the tickets were just the icing on an already blessed cake—for here,
right now, he had everything he ever could have wanted.

The End

And another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary:
In which Napoleon prepares a disguise for an extremely stuffy, high-class party.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.

Disguises were always an intriguing part of the job with
U.N.C.L.E.; the process of becoming someone else was a fascinating
metamorphosis. Clothes made the man,
most of the time—but, often, another touch or two was required.

Napoleon glanced at his reflection as he ran some gray dye
through his hair with the bristles of a hairbrush. It was as though he had aged ten years in ten
seconds—though the result wasn’t as bad as one would expect.

He chuckled to himself as he glanced at his reflection.

“What’s so amusing?” Illya asked, preparing the
communication equipment he’d be using to keep in contact with Napoleon. He was determined to avoid the party
scene—the fancy do that Napoleon would be attending would be even stuffier than
the ones he usually attended in his spare time, and it was therefore something
he didn’t want any part of—wasteful extravagance, like gold-dusted foods… He cringed at the very thought. And even Napoleon found gold-dusted food
excessive, though his mind was, at the moment, still on his appearance.

“I just can’t help but think that if this is how I’m going
to look ten years from now, then I’ll have aged magnificently.”

Illya rolled his eyes at his partner’s vanity.

“Well, as long as you’re happy…” he said. “But while your mind wanders to the future,
don’t forget to focus on the here and now.
Speculation is fine, but not to the point of distraction.”

“Duly noted,” Napoleon said.

“…You do look quite dashing, though,” Illya admitted.

“High praise,” the American grinned. “Well, I’ll see you in a bit—I’ll be in
touch.”

Illya was right; he would have to keep his wits about
him—for as amusing as looking old was, he knew the end goal was, always, to
actually grow old.

Still, with his partner watching his back, he knew his
chances were excellent indeed.

…Don’t ask me what I was thinking when I came up with this, because I have absolutely no idea.

Another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary:
In which yet another renegade fed thinks he can bribe Napoleon into handing over Illya. Will they ever learn? …Probably not.

This version is light slash; gen version is available on my Dreamwidth.

Not cross-posting this because this might be expanded upon in the future.

“Every man has his price, Solo,” the renegade fed
boasted. “And we know you like to live
large in luxury. You, too, have a
price—and we’re offering to pay it. Just
one word from us, and you will live in luxury for the rest of your life. All you have to do is hand over that
yellow-headed Russian to me.”

The man was either extremely confident or lethally stupid,
for the piercing glare on Napoleon’s face would have sent most people running
for cover as he stood in the doorway of the U.N.C.L.E. safehouse, blocking the
fed from entering. Yet, the man kept at
it.

“I know that you and Kuryakin have been pursued by THRUSH
for days—and that Kuryakin was wounded in the leg. He is a liability to you at this point. I can–”

“I already know what’s been going on,” Napoleon said. “I know that there is a bounty on Illya by
renegade Bureau agents to get the information of the Soviet launch codes from
him. You’re not the first.”

“But I am willing to pay more than the others!” the man
said. “You see, money isn’t important to
me—it’s the prestige. No price is too
great!” He smirked. “I understand that the last offer made to you
was a mere one million dollars? I have
access to a vault filled with five million dollars. What do you say?”

“No,” Napoleon said, firmly.

“Still not enough?
No worries—I can go higher. Just
tell me, what do you want from me?”

Napoleon glared daggers at him.

“To drop dead.”

The renegade’s smug look faded, and was then replaced with
utter fear as Napoleon drew his Special.

“No! No, please–!”

BANG.

It was just a tranquilizer, of course, but it was still
satisfying to see the man drop. Napoleon
quickly contacted the backup he had requested to hide in the forest surrounding
the safehouse and, within minutes, they had arrived and carried the prisoner off.

“Are you sure you don’t want Medical to take Mr. Kuraykin
in, Sir?” one of the agents asked.

“Yes, Illya has made it very clear that all he has is a
flesh wound, and he wants no fuss made over it.” It was true; Illya was more annoyed at his
misfortune in not going unscathed than anything else. He ate, rested, and complained—all signs for
Napoleon to be reassured that he would be fine.

“Okay; we’ll be in touch again in case either of you change
your minds…”

That wasn’t likely, especially with the promise of more
renegade feds running around—Napoleon figured that he and Illya were better off
here, in the middle of nowhere. They had
only had one intruder thus far—one who, out of greed of collecting the bounty,
would not have told anyone else about his location.

Napoleon now returned to the bedroom where Illya was
resting, sound asleep by the look of it.
He smiled, brushing some strands of hair out of his partner’s eyes
before changing and getting into bed with him.

“I should be insulted, the way they think I’d sell you out
for money…” he murmured, drawing an arm around him. “They could never understand that what I have
with you is far more valuable than any cash hoard or treasure in existence.”

He sighed, pulling Illya to him protectively before
drifting off to sleep.

Illya had been awake, it turned out, and had heard the
entire exchange. It wasn’t the first
time he’d overheard Napoleon turning down large sums of money for him—and he
had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

Still, it was almost worth it to know just how deep and how
true Napoleon’s love and loyalty ran.

Illya gently kissed Napoleon on the temple and then cuddled
up in his hold, drifting off to sleep, as well.

“Good night, Dorogoy,” he whispered, before slipping into
slumber. “And thank you. You are my greatest treasure, as well.”

It was a treasure that the both of them would hold dear
forever.

MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary:
In which their return to New York in 1986 and seeing the latest trends leads Napoleon and Illya to muse about fads and trends from their carefree younger days.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn. As always, the Return movie is not a part of my timeline.

Aside from the few, white clouds in the air, it was a
beautiful fall day in Manhattan—just as Napoleon and Illya had remembered
them—they had, after all, left U.N.C.L.E. after Napoleon reached 40 that fall
day in 1972, and disappeared to Hawaii for 14 years. But times had changed—and so had the
rules. The new management saw the folly
of forcing clever, resourceful, and well-accomplished agents to leave their
positions when they still had so much to do.

After much pondering as to whether or not they should
return to the dangerous lifestyle they had left behind, the duo realized that
the duty of care they’d had in 1972 had never truly left them. And so, here they were, traversing familiar
streets with their cat, Baba Yaga, who was eagerly sniffing the air at the
smell of fish markets and seafood restaurants—the tastes she had grown up with,
though that wasn’t to say that the tropical fare hadn’t been pleasant, either.

But quite a lot had changed—though Napoleon and Illya had
seen some of the new styles and trends in their time as private eyes, seeing
the crowds decked in ‘80s fashion made them feel very old and overdressed
indeed—to say nothing of some of the conversations they were overhearing.

“…That’s the fifth person I’ve heard saying to ‘gag them
with a spoon,’ and I really, really hope that’s just hyperbole and not some
crazy trend,” Napoleon said.

“You think it might be?” Illya asked.

“Well, our generation was the one where we tried to stuff
ourselves into phone booths, after all, remember?”

“…No,” Illya said, staring at him. “What on Earth–?”

“…Guess that fad never hit Russia,” Napoleon shrugged. “What about the Greasers? Did you know about them?”

“Oh, I knew about them, alright. In fact, I…”
Illya trailed off. “Well, never
mind…”

“No, no—please, continue,” Napoleon said, with a smirk.

“Let’s hear about you trying to squeeze into phone booths,”
Illya said.

“There’s not much to say about that—this, on the other
hand…”

“Oh, alright,” Illya grumbled. “I was 18 when I arrived in Cambridge, and
was in a considerable more lax environment than Russia would have been. I saw an American film and, very briefly,
wore a leather jacket and slicked my hair back.”

Napoleon stared at him with a grin.

“Are there pictures?
Please tell me there are pictures!”

“I did not keep any,” Illya insisted.

“Fine, I’ll just get in touch with your graduating class
from Cambridge—I’ll have access to the U.N.C.L.E. files again once the
paperwork goes through.”

“You wouldn’t…!”

And as they continued to banter as they walked, it was
beginning to feel as though no time had passed at all as the Manahttan streets
once again welcomed them home.

The Skull Cove Lighthouse Affair (MFU fic), part 4 / 4

Title: The Skull Cove Lighthouse

Affair
Rating: PG13 (for action/danger)
Chapter
summary: Napoleon and Illya solve the mystery–but a malevolent spirit has reason for them not to reveal the truth.
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 IV: The Insatiable Greed

It took them some time to get back down the stairs and
outside to where the others were gathered, but, as they arrived, Fusco’s car
was already being gently laid back onto the ground. Despite this, Fusco scrambled out of the
vehicle, still staring at it with a mix of horror and frustration.

“What happened!?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know!” Fusco bellowed. “I was trying to get through the fog, and,
all of a sudden, the car started floating!”

“Look at where the car is pointed, though,” Napoleon
indicated. “Right towards the
cliff. You’d have ended up a ghost
yourself if this one hadn’t intervened!”

Fusco grumbled something under his breath; Napoleon ignored
him and turned to Hawthorne.

“We didn’t really find anything up at the top; there is one
other place I wanted to look at, and that was at the bottom of the cliff—is
there a trail that leads down there?”

“There is,” Hawthorne said.
“But I’d advise against it in the fog, too—it’s pretty steep, even on
the trail.”

“I say we forget that, Napoleon,” Illya said. “We’d be just as foolish as Fusco if we
knowingly attempted that.”

Fusco glared at him, but Illya ignored him; Napoleon, of
course, agreed with Illya, and then changed his inquiry.

“Do you happen to know the exact spot where the ship went
down?” he asked.

“I do—not that it matters on a day as foggy as this, though—you
won’t be able to see a thing,” Hawthorne sighed. “But on clear days, you can actually see the
shipwreck under the water from the top of the lighthouse. …It’s a humbling experience—especially when
the ghost ship rises from the spot, according to the thrill seekers.” He sighed.
“And it doesn’t look like Junior and I will get away like we usually
do—so we’ll be around with you when the ghost ship rises again.”

“So the ghost ship…” Illya began. “It rises on Halloween and… goes back down
again by morning?”

“Just before dawn,” James Jr said, with a nod. “Apparently, at exactly the same time it sunk
a hundred years ago.”

Lotte shuddered.

Schuler attempted to look through the fog, but gave up.

“Well, the ship will be visible through the fog, I’m sure,”
he said. “Guess there’s nothing to do
but sit around and wait for dark.”

Lotte turned and ran back inside, much to the concern of
her sister, who followed her. Napoleon
and Illya also went inside.

“Are you alright?” Napoleon asked.

“No. I wish to leave
this place,” Lotte said.

“If it is a small consolation, the spirit of the lighthouse
keeper is not a malevolent one,” Illya pointed out. “As you saw, he saved Fusco from his own
stupidity.”

Lotte sighed and nodded; she had to agree with that.

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said. “We’re perfectly safe in the lighthouse; this
place is as solid as a rock–”

To demonstrate, he struck the central support column with
his fist, which the stairwell was wrapped around, and was startled and
distracted by a hollow clank. Illya and
the sisters also stared at the column in confusion.

“…Well, maybe not as solid as I thought,” Napoleon said.

“Why would this central column be hollow?” Illya wondered
aloud.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Napoleon said. He turned to the Rigassi sisters. “Ladies, I highly recommend staying in your
room if you want to feel safe; we’ll investigate the mystery behind this
central column.”

The girls nodded and went back to their room as Napoleon
and Illya inspected the central column as they ascended the spiral staircase.

“There’s only one reason why a central column would be
hollow, Napoleon,” Illya said. “And that
is to conceal something within it.”

“And if there’s something hidden in it, there has to be
some way to get to it,” Napoleon agreed.

If there was something hidden, then it was well-hidden,
however; as the duo continued to ascend the staircase, there didn’t appear to a
way into the column, and soon, they were back at the light at the top—and the
column did not continue into it.

“…Well, that didn’t make any sense at all…” Napoleon
said. “Were we wrong?”

Illya paused for a moment, mulling things over. Absently, he kicked at the old, dusty carpet
that covered the floor. Napoleon
wrinkled his nose as dust filled the air, and he was about to say something
when he looked down and noticed something through one of the threadbare patches
of the carpet.

“Hang on…” he said, kneeling down in front of the
spot. He frowned for a moment, and then
knocked on the floor.

It, too, gave out a hollow sound; his eyes widened as he
exchanged a glance with Illya, whose eyebrows arched in surprise.

Without even needing to say a word, the two of them pulled
the carpet back, revealing a thinly-cut trapdoor in the floor.

“There is the entry,” Illya said, as he pried it open. He shined a flashlight down into the open
pillar—sure enough, it was hollow all the way through. Moving the flashlight around revealed a
series of metal rungs built into the side of the pillar.

“This must go to some sort of secret cellar down there,”
Napoleon said. “I think I want to climb
down and take a look…”

“I would advise against it,” Illya said. “But if you must, I wouldn’t trust this old
ladder that is built into it; I have an extendable grappling hook in our
supplies. I suggest we use that to climb
down.

Napoleon considered this for a moment, and then nodded.

“Good idea,” he said.
“But let’s act nonchalant—we don’t want the other guests realizing what
we’re up to.”

“…How nonchalant can you look carry a grappling hook?”

Fortunately, they didn’t run into the other guests—the
sisters were in their room, and the others were still trying to figure out what
had happened to Fusco’s car outside.

Using the grappling hook, Napoleon clambered down into the
hollow central column; he was keeping track of the floors, and paused once he
realized they had certainly gone below the ground floor.

The central passageway continued for another 20 feet before
Napoleon’s feet hit the ground; looking around with a flashlight, he saw that
there was an underground tunnel that led downward, further into the cliff.

“Hey, Illya, it looks like we’ll be able to get to the bottom
of the cliff after all!”

“Why do I get the feeling that this isn’t coincidental?”
Illya replied, as he joined Napoleon and saw the tunnel.

“Because I’m sure it isn’t, too,” Napoleon said. “I think we may have found the key to this
whole thing…”

The tunnel looped around and continued downward into the
cliff; it was almost a half hour before it began to level off—and water soon
was covering the floor of the tunnel.

“The tide affects the water level,” Illya realized,
checking his watch. “See? The tide is coming in now—would you rather
come back later, Napoleon?”

Napoleon frowned.

“Let’s see how much deeper it gets,” he said. “I think I’m okay for now–”

No sooner had he said that than he tripped over something
and fell on his face into the water. Illya
hastily helped him up as he gasped for breath.

“Okay, nevermind, let’s go back,” Napoleon sputtered. “Ugh…
Well, here’s another suit for the laundromat.” He scowled at the wet mud and sand that now
covered him.

Illya gave him a sympathetic look and glanced down to see
what exactly Napoleon had tripped over.

“Napoleon!”

He aimed his flashlight in the water, showing what was once
a small, wooden boat—now no more than chunks of rotten wood.

“Someone had been using this tunnel,” Napoleon said,
forgetting about his muddy clothes in an instant. “But I wonder…” He trailed off as his flashlight caught the
remains of letters carved into part of the wooden boat. “‘W…y…v…’”

“The Wyvern!?”
Illya exclaimed.

“It’s the lifeboat that Purser Smith must have taken!”
Napoleon said, continuing to shine his flashlight around the pieces of the
lifeboat. “Huh… What were the odds that the storm would send
his lifeboat right into this cave…?” He
trailed off again as his flashlight beam caught something else in and amongst
the rotten wood—something mostly buried in the silt and mud, but still giving
off an unmistakable shine…

Napoleon reached into the muck and pulled out a gold bar,
covered in the gunk, but still very much a treasure. Illya’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“The odds of the storm sending the lifeboat here by chance
are not as likely now,” he said. He
snapped his fingers. “Napoleon, do you
remember Adams’s log? ‘I pray they will
be able to make it safely, especially with that heavy cargo.’ Gold, Napoleon—they were carrying gold!”

“No wonder they
were willing to risk the storm to bring it in,” Napoleon said. He then frowned. “Then… that means that… Lying just off of the coast here is possibly…”

“…A fortune in century-old gold,” Illya finished. His eyes widened. “Napoleon, can I speculate on a possible
scenario?”

“Speculate away…”

“Whenever merchant ships were carrying gold, there were,
generally, very few people who knew about it—for reasons of safety.”

“Obviously,” Napoleon agreed. “In a case like this, the less who would
know, the better.”

“Exactly,” Illya said.
“The captain would know—and he would trust his first mate with this
information, too. Keeper Adams seems to
have known, as well, given the log entry, plus the fact that the shipping company
would have been questioning him about the wreck later in order to find out what
happened to their gold—unless the gold was off the ledgers, but, even so, Adams
knew the captain well enough to be privy to the contents of the cargo. Other than the three of them, there would be
no one else who would know in the event that things on the voyage go smoothly.”

“…But things didn’t
go smoothly; most of the crew got sick, including the first mate,” Napoleon
recalled. “I see where you’re going with
this—Captain Sturges had to let Purser Smith in on the secret of the cargo…”

“…And, somehow, Purser Smith becomes the sole survivor of
the crew,” Illya finished. “With gold in
hand, apparently, right into this tunnel.”

“And this tunnel goes all the way to the top of the
lighthouse…” Napoleon realized.

The two exchanged glances.

“The light that went out!” they exclaimed, in unison.

“…Bozhe moi…”
Illya gasped. “Then it wasn’t Adams’s
fault at all—Purser Smith sabotaged the lighthouse out of greed!”

Napoleon nodded.

“He grabbed some of the gold and took off in the
lifeboat—probably couldn’t take as much as he wanted since it would be too
heavy,” Napoleon theorized. “Either he
knew about this tunnel, or just ended up in it by happenstance from the
storm. Regardless of how he got here and
found out where it led, he decided to take advantage of it.”

“He probably did not intend to have the ship sink,” Illya
said. “At least, I would hope that was
the case—perhaps he just wanted to run it aground, so that he could retrieve
more gold later…”

“But the ship sank; it would have caused quite a stir—so
many people milling around, including press and investigators…” Napoleon
said. “Smith wouldn’t have had a chance
to dive for the gold, Adams probably stuck around for long hours out of guilt,
and the new keeper probably stayed extra hours, too, just to be vigilant and
make sure nothing happened on his watch.”

“But then the place was abandoned,” Illya said. “Why did he not go for the gold then?”

“Maybe whoever ordered the shipment hired divers to collect
it before Smith could,” Napoleon suggested.
“But I feel like that would have been mentioned in the logs… Maybe Smith did go for the gold afterwards,
who knows. At any rate, at least Adams
has been vindicated…” Napoleon trailed
off, slapping his forehead. “Vindicate! It wasn’t about the wind at all!”

“What?”

“What I thought I heard Adams say—he wasn’t saying ‘Wind
hates me,’ he was saying ‘Vindicate me!’
He goes to visit Captain Sturges’s ghost at the shipwreck—Sturges
probably told him about Smith’s betrayal!”

Illya paused.

“Then… do you suppose that the spirit who took Schuler’s
camera and polaroids of Adams’s footprints was Smith—trying to keep us from
finding out the truth?” he asked, putting the pieces together.

“That must be it; there’s no one else who would benefit
from Adams taking the blame for the shipwreck,” Napoleon said. “But why would Smith be haunting this place
if he eventually got his gold?”

They glanced at the gold bar in Napoleon’s hand, and then
out the tunnel—towards the cliffside and the ocean.

“Perhaps he did not get the gold,” Illya said. “Perhaps he never got the chance—or perhaps
he drowned trying to get it. Regardless
of the reason, Smith never got to enjoy the gold.”

“That must have driven him crazy—in life, and after,”
Napoleon mused. “Well, there’s nothing
we can do about that—let’s get back up there and let everyone know the
truth. Maybe then, Adams will finally be
able to cross over once the truth of his story is out.”

Illya nodded and moved to follow Napoleon back the way they
had come, but a sudden gust of wind that was abnormally chill-inducing blew
back at them with such a force that they could not proceed down the tunnel.

“What’s going on!?” Illya demanded.

“I don’t think Purser Smith appreciates the truth getting
out,” Napoleon scowled, and he furiously addressed the spirit. “Hey!
It’s over! It’s been a hundred
years—and everything you did was for nothing!
Let this whole thing go, and let Adams and the rest of the Wyvern crew cross over!”

The chill wind blew with a greater force, sending Napoleon
flying backward into the rising water.

“Napoleon–!”

Illya swam after him, helping him stay afloat.

“What now…?” Napoleon said, looking at rising water with
concern. “We can’t go back—and the tide
is coming in…”

“…He means to drown us…” Illya said, going pale; Napoleon
followed suit. “So many deaths are on
his hands already—two more mean nothing at this point.”

“Should we try and rush past him again and try to get back
up the tunnel?” Napoleon asked.

“It is not a force from this world; we’ll never make it,”
Illya said. He looked behind him, at the
exit to the sea that was rapidly being closed off by water. “We shall have to swim for it, Napoleon; it’s
our only chance.”

Napoleon exhaled, cursing his weak swimming skills.

“I will help you,” Illya assured him, giving him an
encouraging kiss.

Napoleon nodded, kissing him back, and the two of them
swam—against the rising tide, out into the water.

Illya was, of course, true to his word, refusing to let go
of his partner. A few times, they did
end up, briefly, underwater, and they saw a glimpse of the wreck of the Wyvern off in the distance. Once they finally made it to the shoreline,
they glanced at each other, both of them exhausted from their efforts—as well as
the grim truth of what had happened that night a hundred years ago.

So much death and devastation, and for what? Bars of yellow metal? Were they really worth the lives of so many
innocent men? And yet, this was just one
example—gold and the greed it caused had been the motive for plots upon plots
throughout the course of history—and would likely continue for centuries to
come.

After catching their breath, Illya spoke again.

“We need to make our way up the cliffside path; the tide
will continue to rise,” he said.

“Smith will try to stop us,” Napoleon realized. “You heard what Hawthorne said; in this fog,
the trek is going to be dangerous.”

“At least we have some amount of daylight,” Illya sighed.

No sooner had he said that than the entire area around the
lighthouse and the cliff was surrounded in darkness.

“What!?” Illya
exclaimed in frustration. He aimed a
flashlight at his watch. “It’s only noon!”

“His powers will be stronger in the dark,” Napoleon
realized. “He’s giving himself an edge!”

“He can do what he wishes—we are not going to drown here!”
Illya fumed. “I vowed after last year—I
will not let anything from the
supernatural world take you away from me!
My love—our love—is stronger than his greed!”

He kissed Napoleon again, and the darkness around the
immediate area around them lifted slightly.

“…I think you’re on to something here, Illya,” Napoleon
said, after they broke apart.

“You aren’t just saying that to kiss me again, are you?”

“No… well, mostly no,” Napoleon admitted. “But look; our kiss did this—lifted the
darkness a bit. I think even part of the
fog has thinned around us, too…”

Illya nodded.

“Let’s go, Dorogoy.”

It was a slow journey up the cliffside path—Smith sent
everything he could at them to stop them, or send them tumbling down the
cliff—darkness, wind, fog, and rain. But
they stuck together, reaffirming their trust and love, and these acts of true
love were enough to lighten the area and clear it of the malice-infected
elements.

It was as they were nearly two-thirds up the hill that they
paused; coming at them from the opposite end of the path was the blue ghost
light Napoleon had seen in the lighthouse when they had arrived the night
before—and following the light were Schuler, the Rigassi sisters, Hawthorne,
his son, and even Fusco.

“I see them!” Lotte cried, pointing at Napoleon and Illya.

They hastened down the path as quickly as they could.

“What’s this?” Napoleon asked.

“You never came back from inspecting the pillar,” Lotte
said, a slight quiver in her voice. “And
then everything was covered in darkness.
Gina and me, we told Signore Hawthorne and Signore Schuler for help—and
then this appeared…”

She indicated the ghost light.

“We remembered what you said about this one not being
evil,” Gina added. “So we all agreed to
follow him, in the hopes he would lead us to you.”

“Yes, this is the ghost of the lighthouse keeper,” Napoleon
said. “Who wrongly thought that he was
responsible for the wreck of the Wyvern…”

The wind and darkness howled around them again, and Napoleon
glared furiously at the greedy spirit.

“Look, I told you—it’s over! The power of love that Illya and I have is
stronger than you can ever handle! And
it’s not just the two of us—look around you, Smith! Look at these people who came to help us,
when they haven’t even known us for 24 hours yet! They didn’t do this out of greed—this is a
goodness that your dark heart can’t touch!”

For a brief moment, a dark, shadowy mass appeared, which
then formed into the shape of a person—features were visible in the shadow: a
face, bearing a furious expression.

“It’s over, Smith,” Napoleon said, again. “And your time is up.”

“Do svidaniya,”
Illya said, nodding, holding Napoleon’s hand.

Smith let out a frustrated, angry roar, leaped into the
air, and plunged into the water—in the direction of the shipwreck, bound by his
greed for gold.

The darkness around them dissipated—and then the fog
lifted, too. The weather was a clear,
fall morning, just as pleasant as could be.

The ghost light now also took a human shape—Adams, as he
had looked in life.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said. “For clearing my name. It happened as you suspected—Smith betrayed
Sturges and the crew, and led me to think that I had been responsible for the
shipwreck. Sturges and the others never
let him claim the gold in life—and now, he will continue in death to claim it,
but in vain.”

“It seems to me a fitting punishment,” Illya said. “He will not be able to cross over until he
finally learns to curb his greed.”

“But what about you?” Napoleon asked Adams.

“Now, I may finally rest—but I will wait until tonight, for
when my good friend Sturges raises the ghost ship, I will join him—for they,
too, were bound to this place until the truth came out.” He managed a weary smile. “I would be honored if you stayed here until
tonight to see us off.”

Napoleon looked to Illya with a questioning look; the blond
sighed, but managed a wan smile.

“Very well,” he said.
“It can’t hurt.”

“Si… We, too, will stay,” Lotte said, causing
everyone to look at her in surprise.
Gina looked thrilled, exchanging a glance with James Jr.

“Well, you bet I’m staying!” Schuler added. “Hey, think I can get an interview with you,
Mr. Adams? Sir? It’d be my first ghost interview–”

“Look, I really have places I need to be, so I’m going to
have to turn down this little invitation,” Fusco said, gruffly. He looked back at Napoleon and Illya, and
managed a nod. “You two did good,” he
admitted, and then went back to his car and drove off.

“…He’ll never admit it,” Hawthorne said. “But I think he really was worried about you
boys when you went missing.”

“Well, I do grow on a person,” Napoleon boasted.

Illya just rolled his eyes.

***********************

There was little ceremony or fanfare that night; Adams had
regaled them with tales from a century ago until Captain Sturges and crew
emerged from the water on a ghostly version of the Wyvern.

Adams thanked them again and walked out to join them,
embracing Sturges’s spirit in joyous relief.
And then, as the crew on board waved farewell, they vanished, ship and
all—their souls at rest, at last.

By morning, they had gone their separate ways—the Rigassi
sisters were on their way to Brooklyn by train while Napoleon and Illya headed
to Manhattan by car, aiming to have U.N.C.L.E. track down the rightful owner of
the gold and eventually return it to them; Schuler had extended his stay at the
bed and breakfast to write out his next book on the story of the Wyvern while everything was still fresh
in his mind.

“You know,” Napoleon
said, as they sailed along the highway.
“Aside from the part where we almost got stuck in that tunnel with the
tide coming it, it wasn’t a horrible adventure after all.”

“…I have to agree,” Illya admitted. “Stingy Jack was far worse. Most of the spirits were blameless, and the
one malevolent one never stood a chance against us.”

“I wonder if he’ll ever let go of his greed…” Napoleon
mused. “Well, even if he does, his fate
isn’t so great—with all the lives he took and his lack of remorse, even if he
did cross over, he’d end up with old Mr. Zero.
He’s probably best off where he is—as an example of what happens when
greed consumes you.”

Illya nodded.

“Very true,” he said.
“You know I have always opted for living a simple life.”

“Well, comfort and luxury aren’t inherently bad things.”

“Of course not,” Illya agreed. “I will not look gift horses in the mouth—but
I would be sure that others less fortunate than myself would get a chance to
benefit from them, as well. And while I
may roll my eyes at your penchant for the luxuries of life, I know that your
heart is pure and will not be tainted by greed, for you put human lives ahead
of riches—that was where Smith went wrong.”

“Everything I have, everything I have a birthright to… I’d give them all up in a heartbeat for you,”
Napoleon promised.

“I know you would,” Illya said. “And I do not take that lightly.” He smiled.
“You know I do not wear my heart on my sleeve, but I must say this–I do
love you very much, Napoleon, and I know I am a wealthy man solely because I have
you in my life.”

“Likewise, Illya,” Napoleon said, smiling back. “I love you, too.”

A partnership and love as strong as theirs was truly the
most valuable treasure that could ever exist.

The End

Inktober for Writers, h/c edition, Day 31

Prompt: Tucked In

Summary: It’s been a long and tiring mission, but at the end of the day, they will always have each other.

Cross-posted to AO3. Slash; there is no gen version

It was impossible to retain a boundless energy for 100% of
the time, especially in their line of work.
This was obviously true for Illya, who, on any given day, was content to
relax quietly in a chair, reading a book with one hand and petting the cat with
the other.

Napoleon had always been the social butterfly, so to
speak—even after a long day of work, he was always up for a night on the
town. But, even for him, there were days
when the lure of the comfort of the bed was far greater.

They had rubbed off on each other—Illya had learned to
enjoy going out on the town, just as Napoleon had learned to enjoy sitting
around doing nothing.

And they enjoyed each other’s company, for their love for
each other was strong and was the most important thing—more important than
whether or not they went out or stayed in.

And so, after a long, exhausting day with the promise of a
weekend off (a rarity they both relished), they were both beneath the covers of
the bed, ignoring the cold autumn rain that the wind was blowing upon the
windows.

Inside, they were warm and safe—and together. Napoleon had a protective arm around Illya
and had fallen asleep like that; Illya stayed awake for a little while longer,
lulled to sleep by the comfort of his partner’s touch and the familiar smell of
the bay rum he wore.

Aside from the wind and the rain, the only other sounds
were from the cat, Baba Yaga, prowling around in the living room, keeping a
sharp lookout to ensure that nothing—be it a bug or a THRUSHie–would invade
the apartment while she was on alert.

Illya gave a quiet, contented sigh and nuzzled up against
Napoleon; Napoleon awoke slightly as the blond hair tickled his chin, but he
smiled, kissed him gently, and readjusted his arm around him. As much as he would have liked to suggest
something more intimate, he knew they were both in need of sleep more than
anything. And, anyway, there was always
tomorrow morning. With this in mind,
Napoleon was soon asleep once again.

Illya was generally not one to make wishes—he usually
didn’t believe in that sort of thing, after all.

But as he, too, found himself drifting off to sleep in the comforting
warmth of his partner’s embrace, he found himself wishing that this would be
something that the two of them could enjoy forever.