#@ people who know mfu better than i do - do we know anything about illya & keys??

[itwoodbeprefect]

okay, i'm going to copy my tags into the body of the post, because they've become important context as i've worked this out in a highly scientific way:

#leaves one to wonder where h50's danny rates on this scale #we know he has a key to steve's house at least. so i guess that would put him closer to ray for. you know. having keys on him at all #i know the camaro keys are a big mystery but i would assume that he's not in possession of them very often #there's the one episode where he and steve do therapy and he gives steve a guitar and then steve ceremoniously hands him the keys #to let him drive. so maybe danny is the perfect middle? #danny WANTS keys but he doesn't have them. steve is danny's top of the doorframe #do NOT read that without the last three words i was NOT making a joke this is extremely serious media analysis

so, keeping that in mind, here's the BPOACDKCAC (Blond Part Of A Copaganda Duo Key Carrying Alignment Chart):

and obviously, now the follow-up questions to fuel further research are... who is our missing mystery man blond part of a copaganda duo who is just so Perfect, just so Content, just so Well-Organized and on top of extremely pedestrian home security measures (i won't name names, hutch), that he fills our much-desired carries keys / has enough keys square? does such an exemplary man exist (on television fictionally in a buddy cop show with blond hair)??

some combination of @actingcamplibrarian's advent calendar fic (hidden in plain sight) and @redgoldblue's recent due south watch has got me thinking about starsky and hutch's hutch canonically not carrying the key to his own apartment but hiding it on top of the doorframe vs. due south's rayk in mountie on the bounty naming the whole bundle of keys he's carrying, telling fraser that the ones he's holding up are, in order, the keys to his old car, to his apartment, to his old apartment, to his locker, and "don't know. ... don't know", meaning that at any time he has at least six keys on him of which four are either obsolete or entirely a mystery, and that's while they were looking for a seventh key (to ray's handcuffs). i don't have a point here except i guess. the blond part of a buddy cop duo. he'll either carry zero keys (bad) or ALL the keys (also unfortunate).

[rose-of-pollux]

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

[rose-of-pollux]

The Beast of Broadway Affair (MFU fic), part 1/5

Expanded version of an idea I tested with a couple drabbles a few weeks ago that garnered some interest.  Here is the full version of chapter one, and expanded version of this drabble.

Title: The Beast of Broadway Affair Rating: PG13 (for action/danger) Chapter summary: For two weeks, sightings of a monstrous beast in Midtown Manhattan have filled the news.  After being rescued from THRUSH, Napoleon has reason to believe that he is the one transforming into the creature.  Faced with this unfamiliar situation, Napoleon now turns to Illya to find out just what happened to him during his two-week captivity, as well as helping him stay human. Notes: This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net, but I can’t link to it with tumblr’s new linking restrictions

                                             Act I: Ever a Surprise

It was always a nerve-wracking moment, raiding a THRUSH stronghold to recover an imprisoned partner.  There was no way of knowing what to expect—what condition the partner would be in.  For Illya, it had been two weeks since Napoleon had been captured, and the Russian had spent every hour thinking only of finding him again.

Now, he had found where he had been held; THRUSH had flown the coop and hadn’t bothered to take prisoners with them.  As other U.N.C.L.E. agents freed the other prisoners, Illya looked in each cell for Napoleon until--

“Hey, glad you could make it!”

Illya paused, looking into a cell to see Napoleon, reclining on a cot and propping himself up with one arm, looking at him as he used his free hand to wave to him.  He was dressed in a THRUSH prisoner’s uniform, like all the other captives, but he seemed be unharmed and in high spirits.

“Are you alright?” Illya asked, as he unlocked the cell door.

“Well, I’ve been bored out of my mind, but, otherwise, I’m fine,” Napoleon said.  “Well, that and… the fact that I’ve missed you.”

He drew in for an affectionate, private greeting, but Illya reluctantly grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Others are here to help the other prisoners,” Illya explained.

“Ah…” Napoleon said, disappointed.  “I don’t suppose you managed to recover the clothes THRUSH took from me?  They were very determined to ensure that I didn’t have access to any secret pockets that I could have hidden things in…”

“Sadly, Napoleon, they searched your suit for hidden pockets—very, very thoroughly,” Illya said.

Napoleon let his face fall.

“Say it isn’t so--!” he exclaimed, holding his arm up to his forehead for a melodramatic effect.

“Shredded,” Illya finished, apologetically.  “But cheer up, Dorogoy.  I am sure you will be reimbursed, since the damage was clearly done by overzealous THRUSHies.  Your wardrobe will recover.”

“I suppose I can live with that,” Napoleon said, with a mock sigh.  “Now let’s get out of here; I want to go home and put my feet up.”

“You have earned it,” Illya said.  “But are you certain you are well enough?”

“I feel fine,” Napoleon insisted.  “They didn’t try anything while I was here—surprisingly.  They just kept me around in this cell.  To be honest, I was beginning to wonder why I was even here, if they weren’t going to even try to interrogate me.”

“They didn’t question you at all?  About anything?”

“Nope—not a thing,” Napoleon said, as he and Illya exited the cell.  “Were they making a ransom or trade offer for me?”

Illya shook his head.

“How odd…” the Russian then mused.  “You are C.E.A., after all.  As you said, one would expect them to have at least tried to question you.”

“Yeah, you’d think…” Napoleon said.  He held out his arms, and, sure enough, there wasn’t a mark on them—not even a bruise.  “Huh. Well, as long as I get my suit reimbursed, I can’t complain.  Are we going home?”

“You are certain you don’t want to stop at Medical first and make sure there is nothing wrong?”

“I feel perfect,” Napoleon said, with a shrug. “Just let me kick back and relax—that’s all I need.  Maybe we can spend the rest of the day relaxing.”

“Very well,” Illya said.  “But you appear to have lost your sense of time being cooped up here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s past suppertime; there is no ‘rest of the day,’ Napoleon.”

“…You gave up a meal for me?  Wow, you really do love me!”

Illya smiled.

“Of course I did.  With my worry, I have barely had an appetite these past two weeks. Come; let’s help the other prisoners—if you are certain you are up to it.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Napoleon insisted.

Satisfied, Illya nodded.

They spared a bit of time to help the other prisoners (most of them independent scientists and THRUSH defectors rather than U.N.C.L.E. agents like Napoleon), after which Illya was insistent that Napoleon get some proper nutrition; they headed to U.N.C.L.E. HQ for Napoleon to change and for them to grab a quick supper at the commissary.  They then quickly met with Waverly, who noted that it was good to see Napoleon back, and that he could take a few days’ rest before coming back to work.  Napoleon nodded and opted to take him up on the offer, but denying that he needed to see Medical.  Waverly knew better than trying to coax either of the two partners into seeing Medical, and so, he let the matter drop, trusting Illya to look after Napoleon.

The two partners made it home to the apartment soon after, and Baba Yaga the Egyptian Mau greeted the two of them warmly—Napoleon especially, as she hadn’t seen him in two weeks.

“I see you snuck her back home,” Napoleon said, gathering the cat in his arms.  Baba Yaga purred in response, pleased.

“Da,” Illya said, through a loud yawn.  “She has been worried about you, too; it made sense for us to worry together.”

Napoleon chuckled slightly and cooed to the cat for a while before setting her down on her basket and changing to his purple silk pajamas.

Illya was already in bed in his blue pajamas, and Napoleon took a moment to enjoy the feeling as he relaxed in the familiar comfort of their bed at last.

“You know, Tovarisch, I haven’t properly thanked you for rescuing me.  Even if THRUSH wasn’t doing anything to me, it wasn’t fun being cooped up in that cell.  So, I’d like to show you my appreciation…”

Napoleon trailed off as the response he got from his partner was a drawn-out snore, and he suddenly realized that this was Illya’s first night sleeping soundly, too—not just his.  He managed a wan smile.

“…Tomorrow then,” Napoleon sighed, good-naturedly.

He wrapped his arms around his partner and fell asleep soon after that, as well.

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

Initially, Illya hadn’t thought much of finding that Napoleon wasn’t in the apartment the next morning; Napoleon often ducked out early if he found that they needed some groceries, or if he was in the mood for a jog—and, more than likely, after being cooped up for two whole weeks, Napoleon was pretty much expected to be stir crazy and would have welcomed the chance to exercise his restless legs by taking a run in Central Park.  And so, Illya was mostly unconcerned about Napoleon’s absence in the apartment as he read the morning paper and drank his morning tea, repeatedly shaking off the insistent nagging voice that always seemed to accompany a recent rescue.

He clicked his tongue as he read a report about another monster sighting in Midtown Manhattan—a bipedal, black-furred creature known as the Beast of Broadway, as the papers had called it since the sightings had begun—also around two weeks ago.  But Illya had been so preoccupied with finding Napoleon, he hadn’t bothered to pay any attention to the wild claims.  Now that he had the opportunity to relax, he proceeded to read about the sightings and scoff at them.

“Beast of Broadway,” he muttered to Baba Yaga, who was loafing on the coffee table.  “More like Beast of Bourbon.  Or something else they have been drinking…”

He trailed off as Napoleon suddenly ran into the apartment, slamming the door behind him, gasping for breath.  His face was very red, as though he had run all the way here, but what concerned Illya most was that his partner was still dressed in his purple silk pajamas—or, rather, what was left of them, as they were now in tatters around Napoleon’s frame.  Napoleon had, clearly, tied a some of the strips of cloth from his shirt and pant cuffs around his waist to help preserve his dignity on the way back to the apartment.

“What happened to you!?” Illya asked, as Baba Yaga stood up and meowed in concern.  “Were you mugged!?  And why were you out and about in your pajamas!?”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon said, shaking his head in utter befuddlement.  “I think I must have been sleepwalking.  Do you have any idea what time I left?”

“I felt you getting out of bed around 4—I thought you wanted to get an early start to the day for whatever reason, so I went back to sleep.”

“When Waverly gave me the day off after my rescue from THRUSH?  I was planning to stay in and see if I could have breakfast in bed,” Napoleon muttered.  “Sleepwalking.  I haven’t done that since I was five!”

“Yes, I remember Mother saying she used to tie your foot to the bed…” Illya mused, referring to Napoleon’s mother—and for all intents and purposes, Illya’s mother-in-law.

“…She told you that!?”

“She tells me everything,” Illya replied, without missing a beat.  “At least you had the foresight to take the apartment key before you sleepwalked out the door.  Though it’s not at all uncommon for people to take their keys and even drive whilst asleep. Hmm… perhaps I should take a leaf out of Mother’s book and start tying you to the bed again… for your own safety, of course.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

“In all seriousness, I don’t want you wandering around or driving around Manhattan traffic,” Illya said. “Something has already happened to you. Do you remember anything?”

“Nope,” Napoleon groaned. “Woke up somewhere on 42nd Street. I must have come across as a very bizarre vagrant in tattered silk pajamas…”  He winced and looked at what remained of them.  “These were imported…!”

“Be grateful that nothing worse happened,” Illya said.  “Where did they hurt you?”

“Well…  Right around…” Napoleon trailed off, looking at his skin that was visible among the tatters.  “Um… nowhere.”

“What?”

“There isn’t a mark on me,” Napoleon said, trying to get a look at his back.  “I’m not hurting anywhere, either.”

“Well, your pajamas didn’t just rip themselves!” Illya scoffed.  “Someone did that!”

“I’ll figure that out later,” Napoleon muttered.  “Right now, I just want to change and get something to eat.”

Illya murmured a sound of assent, and continued reading the article about the Beast of Broadway as Napoleon moved to leave the room—and then spat out a mouthful of tea, causing Napoleon to stop.

“What?” Napoleon asked.

“…Nothing,” Illya lied.

“…Give me the paper.”

“Nyet!”

“Give. Me. The. Paper.”

They wrestled for it; more strips of purple silk went flying and Baba Yaga watched in concern as, finally, Napoleon tore off the page that Illya had been trying to conceal.

“Beast of Broadway?” he asked.

“Sightings have been going on for two weeks—must be drunkards,” Illya said hastily.  “You can give that back--”  He cringed as Napoleon paled upon reading what Illya had read moments ago.

“…‘The black-furred Beast was spotted early this morning on 42nd Street, wearing the remains of what seemed like purple silk…’  …Oh, God, no…”

“Napoleon…” Illya said, getting up and gently grabbing him by the shoulders.  “Napoleon, I am certain there is an explanation for this--”

“Of course there is—I’m turning into a were-beast!” he practically yelled.  “Illya, what am I gonna do!?  What--!?”

“First, Dorogoy, you must remain calm,” Illya whispered, now placing his hands on Napoleon’s face.  He could feel Napoleon tremble.

“How am I supposed to remain calm!?” Napoleon asked, his voice cracking.  “How are you staying so calm when I could transform again right here and attack you!?”

“Because I love you, and I have the utmost faith in you,” Illya said, gently kissing him. “Whatever is happening, we are going to get to the bottom of this.  Trust me. And trust yourself, as I trust you. Now, breathe with me.”

He held Napoleon close, inhaling and exhaling.  Napoleon matched his breathing, and Illya could feel him calm down as his shaking subsided.

“Thank you,” Napoleon whispered.  “But what happens now?”

“Now, you will change and we will have Medical take a look at you.  We won’t tell them anything; we’ll just say we want them to see if there is anything out of the ordinary.”

“R-Right…”

“And then,” Illya continued.  “We will find out exactly what happened while you were a prisoner of THRUSH.  These Beast of Broadway sightings started just after they had captured you.  It could be that, rather than interrogate you, they experimented on you instead. But whatever it is they have done, we will find a way to reverse it.  You are the love of my life, Napoleon.  Believe me—I will find a way.”

Napoleon swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

If anyone could figure this out, it would be his loyal Illya.  Of that, he had the utmost faith.