Fic: Man from UNCLE, "The UFO Affair"
Title: The UFO Affair
Fandom: The Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Napoleon/Illya
Rating: R (Language, violence, mild sexuality)
Word Count: 8793
Summary: Napoleon and Illya investigate a rash of crop circles appearing in rural England. Is it extraterrestrials or part of a new Thrush plot?
A/N: Inspired by a hand of the game "Apples to Apples" that included these words: Engaging, crop circles, machine guns, and domestic partners. Muchas gracias a cruelest_month who betaed and put up with my inability to write short sentences. I apologize in advance for ridiculously stereotyping small, rural towns and some of the characters. :)
"Explain to me again," Napoleon demanded, "why we're standing in the middle of a wheat field in the middle of Hertfordshire."
The mid-August day was unseasonably cool. The sky, overcast with thick, dark clouds, forebode of rain and worse. The wind dislodged a lock of Napoleon's hair over his forehead, annoying him, but Illya thought it made him look more roguishly handsome.
That thought and his partner's discomfort made him smile a little. "We are here to investigate the sudden rash of crop circles that have been appearing in the area."
"Crop circles," Napoleon repeated. "Sounds like something the Ministry of Agriculture should be handling, not the UNCLE."
"Poor Napoleon. Our sudden reassignment to England put a damper on your weekend plans?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"She'll keep. And if not, it was never meant to be."
Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Still, flattened wheat."
"The phenomenon of crop circles has dated as far back as 1687 when unexplained circular patterns appearing in fields were attributed to a 'Devil-Mower.'"
"You'd think the Devil would have more important things to do than confound farmers."
"In the past couple years there have been reports coming from Australian marshlands of bent reeds coming about after witnesses claimed seeing low flying objects in the area. The RAF even investigated."
"Their conclusions?"
"Result of natural storm turbulence," Illya said with a touch of incredulity.
"Hmm, and we're no meteorologists. So, I'm thinking we're supposed to look into the mysterious-low-flying-object angle. Some unfriendly, secret organization testing stealth planes?"
Illya shrugged. "That is what we are here to find out. We are to speak to the owners of this farm a..." Illya opened the report folder and struggled to keep the papers from blowing away, "Mr. and Mrs.-" he paused and sighed, "Farmer."
Napoleon's eyebrows shot up. "You're joking." Illya shook his head. Napoleon started laughing. "Don't tell me, their first names are Ma and Pa." At Illya's silence, he stopped laughing. "No."
"Close enough. It's May and Paul."
Napoleon rubbed his forehead as they headed towards the farmhouse. "Please tell me you're joking."
Illya looked over at him, expression apologetic. "In all seriousness? I wish I was."
The Farmers' house was everything an English farmhouse was expected to be: two stories of faded, gray brick in a basic oblong shape, evenly-spaced shuttered windows, all topped with a brown roof. The inside, or at least the living room where Napoleon and Illya were being hosted, was every definition of rustic, quaint, and homey. What furniture and decorations weren't carved were knitted and centered around a cheerfully blazing fireplace.
Paul Farmer sat opposite the two agents while his wife bustled about, serving tea in ancient-looking, delicate cups. Illya wasted no time grabbing small cakes off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth, leaving the questioning to Napoleon. "Tell us about the day the crop circle appeared."
"Oh, it was the morning after the first storm."
"The first storm," Mrs. Farmer confirmed.
"And did you see anything or anyone that night who might've done this?"
"I didn't see no man out there, no sir, don't know what proper man be out on a night like that."
"Night like that," she echoed with a shake of her head while refilling Illya's cup.
"Okay, so you didn't see a person, but you did see something?"
Farmer's face turned grave, his wife retreated behind his chair wearing a similar expression. "What I saw, Mr. Solo, what I saw..."
Illya and Napoleon exchanged looks and in unison leaned forward. "What did you see?"
"Well," he began, voice hushed, causing them to have to lean further just to hear him. "First, I just thought it was the lightning playing tricks with my eyes."
"Playing tricks," Mrs. Farmer whispered.
"But I kept looking out the window a’top of the stairs. There was a big black object hanging in the sky that weren't no cloud."
Mrs. Farmer shook her head. "Weren't no cloud."
Napoleon turned his attention to her. "You saw it, too?"
"No, sir, but if my Paul says it was there, it was there."
"How very trusting," Illya, having run out of teacakes, was obliged to join the conversation.
"Can you describe what you saw?"
"It was black and round and just hovering there, over my field. Lightning flashed a couple times and it was gone!"
"Gone!" Mrs. Farmer.
"I see." Napoleon set his tea down and leaned back.
"I know what it is." Farmer said.
Napoleon and Illya sat straighter, surprised by the pronouncement. "What is it?" Illya asked.
"It's like from those films. One of them flying saucers."
"Flying saucers," Mrs. Farmer said with a decisive nod.
The agents' eyes widened and jaws dropped. This, they were not expecting. Napoleon cleared his throat. "I'm sorry?"
"Aliens," Mr. Farmer said with all sincere gravitas. Behind him, his wife nodded.
They thanked the Farmers for their cooperation and hospitality, but didn't say a word to each other on the walk back to the car. Night was fast approaching, aided by the increasing, black storm clouds. The wind whipped around fiercely. Once in the car, Illya spoke, voicing his concern for the weather. "It's a two-hour drive to the farm in Welwyn. I think we should go back to the village and find a place to stay for the night, wait out the storm."
He started the car and looked over at Napoleon. His brows were pulled together in puzzlement. Illya took his silence as agreement and started towards the village.
"Aliens," Napoleon finally said.
"Little green men from Mars?" Illya smirked. "If extraterrestrial life was trying to make contact with Earth, I find it hard to believe they have chosen to do so by spooking farmers in rural England, just like you said about the Devil-Mower."
"No. But if someone more terrestrial is testing stealth aircraft, and no official military is admitting to it, that is a worry."
They pulled up to a Bed and Breakfast just as the first drops of rain hit the windshield. They managed to grab their bags and make it through the front door just as the deluge began, a clap of thunder announcing the storm's arrival.
Inside, the foyer contained a small wooden counter with a bell and small sign that said "Please ring for service." Napoleon did so, and a door to their left flew open. Out raced a little man with receding brown hair, and a pencil mustache. He waited until he was properly at his station before greeting them. "Good evening, gentlemen! What can I do for you?"
"We were hoping you'd have a room available."
"Oh, thank God, an American!" The man leaned over the desk, making Napoleon and Illya instinctively lean back. "I cannot tell you how long it's been since I've talked to someone who didn't sound like they came from a Dickens novel! Whereabouts are you from?"
"New York."
The man sighed dramatically. "New York," he said wistfully, "how I miss it. London's a decent facsimile, but New York just has that certain flavor, don't you know?"
"I think so?"
"So, what can I do for you gentlemen? Two rooms? One room? Double? Single?" He winked at Illya.
Illya narrowed his eyes and frowned. "A double will be fine."
The man scribbled in the ledger, reached under the desk for a key as Napoleon signed the book. "I'll show you up." They grabbed their bags and followed the man up a narrow, carpeted stairway.
The second floor was one hallway with a small line of doors on either side. Their guide stopped a couple doors down, unlocked it and handed the key to Napoleon. He held the door open for them. "I'm Danny by the way. If you have need of anything, let me know. If you have complaints, ring for Charles. He's the owner. I just work here, as he likes to remind me." He stayed in the doorway, watching them put their luggage down, then as Napoleon started casually checking the room over for security and Illya was staking claim to one of the beds. "If you don't mind me asking, just what brings you to this neck of the woods?"
Illya saw no reason to lie. "We're interested in the crop circles."
Danny scoffed. "I suppose Old Paul told you about the flying saucers? I tell you, people can get some funny ideas out here. Have to entertain themselves somehow, you know?"
"Has anyone in the village seen or heard anything?"
"The only excitement I've experienced in the past five years are all these storms we've been having."
"You don't seem to be very fond of rural life," Napoleon noted. "What made you move out here in the first place?"
"Well, it was Charles' dream to own a little B&B in the country. Who am I to deny him his dream? Besides, I'd follow the lug anywhere. You know how it is. You know, I felt a great deal like Eva Gabor. Good-BYE, city life!" He said with a wave as he turned on heel and closed the door behind him.
Napoleon raised his eyebrows at Illya. "And I'm sure he just adores a penthouse view," he said in an odd mixed imitation of Gabor and Danny's camp accent.
Illya smacked him in the arm. "Behave."
"I am!" Napoleon protested. "Besides, I genuinely admire a man who is confident enough to truly be himself no matter where he is."
Illya looked up from his unpacking. "Are you saying you do not act like 'yourself'?"
"I have my moments. Our line of business doesn't really allow us that luxury, does it?"
There was something about Napoleon’s tone that disturbed Illya. "I would hope that you have always been yourself with me."
Napoleon sat on his bed, bouncing on it a little to test its firmness. He looked up at Illya and smiled. "As I said, I have my moments."
"And what about with your women?"
"If any woman knew the 'real' me, I'd never get laid. You know me better than anyone, would you sleep with me?"
Illya contemplated his response for only a moment or two. "Yes."
Napoleon jumped off the bed like a man startled. "Fuck, Illya, you're not supposed to admit it!" He stared at his partner, wide-eyed.
"You're the one who was just saying you admire a man who can be himself. You asked, I answered truthfully."
Napoleon ran a hand through his hair, mussing further the wind-blown strands. "Yeah, but...this isn't how it's supposed to go, not yet. We're still supposed to be playing. I ask a question like that, you respond with a cheeky innuendo."
Illya sat heavily on his bed and crossed his arms. "I don't want to 'play' anymore."
"You're the one who asked for the room with the two beds."
"Then maybe you should've asked if I wanted to sleep with you before we came in."
Napoleon sat back down on his bed. "I guess so."
There was a tense silence. Illya kept his back to Napoleon. With a sly smile Napoleon shifted himself over to Illya's bed. He reached out his fingers to touch the back of his neck, but Illya jerked away, lying down, his back still to Napoleon. "Not tonight. I have a headache."
Napoleon smacked the mattress. "You little brat!"
"I'd prefer not to try anything when I highly suspect Danny would be outside the door, listening."
Napoleon considered this before deciding that he didn't like the idea so much either and that he wouldn't put it past their host. "Okay, but after the mission. You promise?"
"I promise."
Napoleon gladly accepted, knowing his partner never broke his promises to him. He got off the bed, but not without getting in a consolatory slap on Illya's bottom first, and thanked his UNCLE-honed reflexes that prevented him from getting a foot in the gut.
While the storm continued through the night, the clouds concealed more than just the sky, and the flashes of lightning were not the only lights in the sky.
For some reason, Illya had always thought that once their mutual attraction was blatantly aired, it would change things. That he'd feel different, or his interactions with Napoleon would be more awkward. Something, anything. That he woke up the next morning feeling perfectly normal, and Napoleon seeming perfectly normal. He was slightly disappointed his world didn't flip over on its own axis, but only slightly. He mentally shrugged as he dressed, watching Napoleon do the same, and deciding that admitting something that all parties concerned already knew wasn't that big a deal. Like when one of the secretaries in HQ had been not successfully concealing a bump for several weeks, and no one was surprised when she announced her pregnancy later.
Maybe Napoleon's eyes gleamed at him in anticipation, and Illya could feel his face pinking when he did so. But those were only the most minute, subtle differences.
Together they went downstairs to find the dining room, discussing their plans for Welwyn and from there which of the affected farms to investigate next. The doors to the dining room were open, inviting, the odors of baking pastries and fried meat even more so. The windows faced east, taking the full effect of the morning sun. Five small tables, each capable of seating four, were covered in pristine white cloths and decorated with the local late-summer flora.
There was a man setting a table. This was more than the likely the Charles whom Danny had spoken of and seemed absent last night. Charles was one of those extremely unremarkable men: average height, average weight, light brown hair, and nothing distinguishing in his features: A police sketch artist's nightmare.
"Oh, hello," he greeted them with a warm voice, an urban accent betraying his displacement as much as Danny's. "You must be the American and 'one with the weird accent.'"
"That'd be us," Napoleon said cheerily, belaying anything Illya could've said about having a "weird" accent.
Illya noted the one table only that had been fully set and was reminded that last night the building was rather quiet. "Are we your only residents?"
Charles nodded. "Things get kind of slow around here this time of year, and all these storms we've been getting haven't really inspired people to be out traveling. Except for you, apparently. Why don't you sit down? I have breakfast starting and I can get that for you. A proper English breakfast, mind you." He set down a coffee carafe and went back to the kitchen.
Napoleon poured himself a cup of coffee and started dropping spoonfuls of sugar into it. "So I've been giving this Unidentified Flying Object thing a thought."
"Really? How industrious of you to be actually thinking about your job."
Napoleon took a flower from the centerpiece and threw it at him.
"Tsk. I don't think Charles would appreciate you ruining his flower arrangements."
Napoleon, too, was relieved that their conversation from the previous night did not diminish the ease of their interactions. Knowing for a fact now that it was requited flirting made it all the more fun. "Seriously, last night I couldn't help but think of War of the Worlds."
Illya nearly choked on his coffee. "Don't tell me you believe in this alien story!"
"No, I was thinking specifically of the hysteria caused by Orson Wells' radio broadcast back in 1938. What if this is an attempt to make people believe there’s going to be an alien invasion, and the perpetrators will use the global panic to grab power?"
"That would be a very silly plan."
"Thrush has had more than its fair share of silly plans."
"True."
Charles returned and set before them plates filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, and black pudding all glistening under a sheen of grease.
"Mmmm....I can feel the impending heart attack from here," Napoleon said, looking down at his plate.
Illya had already started on his breakfast before Charles told them to "tuck in and enjoy!" But at that very moment Danny burst into the room, breathless. "Oh, thank God you're still here!"
Illya and Napoleon immediately jumped from their seats, ready to take action. Charles went over to Danny and helped him keep from collapsing.
"What is it?" Napoleon demanded.
Danny put a hand to his chest and regained his breath. "The whole village is talking about it! It happened again! Those crop things in Farmers’ field! Even the policeman is up there now!" He wilted in Charles' arms.
Both of the agents relaxed, realizing was no immediate threat. "The policeman?" Napoleon asked.
Charles settled Danny in a dining chair and shrugged. "Small town."
"Guess we better go take a look. Put the bacon down, Illya, and saddle up."
Illya ate the bacon he'd picked up from his plate and hurried after Napoleon. They got in the car and headed back to the farm.
"I guess Welwyn and the others will have to wait," said Napoleon.
"It is strange. Until now, the circles hadn't appeared in the same place twice. It was more like it, whatever it is that is causing it, kept moving."
"Maybe it's finally found a place to settle down."
They spotted the single police car parked on the side of road once they neared the Farmers' property. They pulled up behind it, Illya reaching over and pulling the case files from the glove compartment. Napoleon went up to the police car and noticed a line of twine tied to the side mirror and leading out into the field. "I think we'll find our policeman on the end of this."
Unlike the previous day, the sun was out in full force, vaporizing the previous night's rain making the air thick and hot. The soil beneath their feet as they followed the twine was nothing but mud. Napoleon looked down in dismay as his foot sank an inch into the ground. "These are new," he moaned, "and Italian."
"Perhaps you should have thought of bringing your Wellies?"
Napoleon looked down at Illya's feet, also covered in mud. "Where are yours then, Mr. Preparation?"
"My shoes are not Italian," he pointed out, brushing past Napoleon, "and I've managed worse terrain in less." Napoleon was inclined to believe him, watching him move through the mire with ease, whereas Napoleon had to stop with nearly each step and make an effort to pull his foot from the mud.
Just as he was wondering how much longer they were going have to go, Napoleon caught up with Illya in a clearing in the field. The flattened wheat provided sturdier, dry ground, making Napoleon extremely grateful to whatever caused it. The policeman was indeed at the end of the twine, a spool of it stuck in his belt. He was standing with Mr. Farmer.
"Ah, there you are!" Mr. Farmer greeted them. "Knew I'd be seeing you gentleman again. Mr. Solo, Mr...uh..."
"Kuryakin," Illya provided.
"Yes. Meet Mr. Lane, our policeman."
Napoleon and Illya shook his hand in turn.
"Only the one?" Napoleon asked.
"Only one in residence in the village. The proper station is in the next town over. I should be heading there to make my report on this. Mr. Farmer, Gentlemen," he nodded and made to depart.
"Wait a moment!" Napoleon stopped him. "Mind if we could keep that?" He pointed to the spool of twine.
"Not at all." He handed the spool to Napoleon who stuck it in his jacket pocket.
"So, what do you think, gentlemen?"
"We're not sure what to think yet, Mr. Farmer." Illya admitted. "Perhaps you can enlighten us to what happened last night."
"Well, it was all the same, wasn't it? Out from nowhere, during the storm, came the flying saucer! My May saw it for herself this time."
"Where is your wife?"
"Oh, she has the chickens to feed this morning. Flying saucers don't mean we stop our work. But you can ask her later. She saw the lights, too."
"Lights?"
"Lights came out of it. Didn't see them the first time, but then maybe I wasn't looking close enough then. And, hey, you want to hear more of my theory?"
"Nothing would give us greater pleasure," said Napoleon.
"The lights are what's causing the circles, because they're the saucer's what do you call them...Thrusters!"
Illya was shaking his head. "Thrusters would burn your fields, not just flatten them."
Farmer thought on that for a second. "But these are aliens with alien technology. They can have non-burning thrusters."
Illya desperately tried to bring logic back into the conversation. "Accepting that the circles are caused by the 'saucer's' 'thrusters', why aren't all the crop circle formations uniform? If we believe that all the crop circles are being made by the same, or at least similar crafts, why such varying layouts?" He opened the files and showed him the aerial photos of the Hertfordshire crop circles. Each pattern was elaborate and extremely varied.
Farmer studied the photos, flipping through them more than once, considering each thoroughly. "What if..." He had already formed another theory. Illya braced himself. "These designs are symbols, like letters or words, and they're trying to communicate with us? According to these, the circles have been appearing across the county, consistently going northeast. It's like writing a sentence. We just have to decipher the language."
"Oh, is that all?" Illya grabbed the file back none too gently.
"I find it interesting that it seems to have stopped its travel. This is the first time one of the fields has been visited twice," Napoleon noted.
"I guess they're getting to the end of their sentence?"
Sensing that his partner was reaching the end of his rope with Farmer's wild and unfounded theories, and offending Illya's scientific training, Napoleon decided to take control of the dialog. "Illya, why don't you call into London HQ. Report what we have so far and request an aerial photo of this new circle."
Illya frowned, but reached into his jacket and pulled out his communicator. He wandered off to the edge of the circle to make his call. Napoleon turned back to Mr. Farmer. "I was wondering if perhaps you would allow my friend and I to stay here tonight. As we said, this is the first time the crop circles have appeared in the same place more than once. Maybe it is here to stay for a while....and third time's the charm?"
Farmer laughed and gave Napoleon a hearty smack on the arm. "I was going to suggest it anyway. Seeing it for himself ought to stop your friend giving me those looks like I've gone wrong in the head."
"I suppose it would."
Napoleon and Illya followed the twine back to their car; Mr. Lane had thoughtfully retied the end to their mirror. They went back to the village to get their luggage and pay for the room. Danny was quite putout to see them go. They didn't see Charles. Apparently he was out back fixing patio furniture.
At the farmhouse, they were greeted by Mrs. Farmer. "I'm afraid we only have the one spare bedroom. Our son and his wife use it when they come to visit. But the bed's a good size, you shouldn't be uncomfortable." She led them up the stairs to the room. "And you've got a real nice view of the fields from the window there. If it comes back, you won't miss it."
"Mrs. Farmer," Illya said, "I'm expecting some files from London to be delivered here-"
"I'll keep a look out and make sure your friends can find you. You boys just get yourselves settled." She left them then to continue her daily chores.
Napoleon sat down on the quilt-covered mattress. "Oh, fate does mock me so."
Illya had gone to the window and looked out across the fields. From there, the edges of the newest crop circle were visible. "How so?" He asked, turning around.
"Here I am, with you, a nice big bed, and a few hours to kill before nightfall..."
"We agreed, not in the middle of a mission. Besides, I don't like the idea of Mrs. Farmer having to wash our activities from her linens. And of course, as I just told Mrs. Farmer, I'm expecting a delivery. It would do nothing or own reputations at the London offices to be found in flagrante."
"Have I ever told you you're aggravatingly pragmatic?"
"Yes, you have."
"Oh. Well then, I don't mean to be redundant, but you are aggravatingly pragmatic."
"Thank you. If you're truly bored, you could always help Mrs. Farmer feed the chickens or preserve some jam."
There was a knock on the door. Napoleon smiled at Illya, wondering what Mrs. Farmer thought they could possibly be doing that required her to knock. Illya rolled his eyes before opening it.
"Oh, I'd almost forgotten! Paul found this earlier and thought you could use it." She held up an old-fashioned camera, the kind seen carried by trench coat-clad journalists in 1940s films.
"Thank you, but our colleague from London will be bringing surveillance equipment as well."
"Oh." She looked crestfallen, having been excited and thinking she could be helpful to the nice city fellows.
"No need to worry about helping us. After all, we are here to help you...in any capacity. In fact Napoleon was just saying how he would love to offer his services in the kitchen while we wait, weren't you, Napoleon?"
The woman's face lit up. "I was just about to start lunch." She peered around Illya to look at Napoleon expectantly.
Always the gentleman, Napoleon stood. "Madame, nothing would give me greater pleasure."
"I hate you," he growled into Illya's ear as followed Mrs. Farmer out the door.
Illya decided to keep watch outside for their London contact. It was continuing to be a nice day and Illya wanted to enjoy it because if his suspicions were correct, it wouldn't last for much longer. The files and equipment from London didn't arrive until they were in the middle of lunch. It was just as well. May had gone out to find her husband to give him his meal, and Napoleon didn't touch his sandwich.
"Aren't you eating?"
"Her name was Helena."
"Who was?" Illya asked, mouth full.
"The chicken. Her name was Helena. May told me all about her as she cut her up for lunch."
Illya was giving him a look of ...And?
"And I don't care much for eating something with a name."
"Don't tell me this experience is going to turn you vegetarian!"
"No...I'd just prefer not to know my lunch's life story is all. I like keeping my delusions of eating a chicken sandwich, not eating 'Helena' or 'Bessie'."
Illya was about to make an inappropriate joke about Napoleon's "eating" habits, but the sound of tires on the gravel drive took his attention. Lunch was abandoned as Napoleon helped the man from London set up the surveillance equipment in the guest room. Illya immediately started poring over the files he brought, spreading them out over the Farmers' coffee table.
"What've we got?" Napoleon asked, coming into the living room after seeing the London man off.
Illya handed him a glossy page. "The photo of the latest crop circle."
"Nice. Looks like a flower."
"And these," Illya gestured to the spread of pages and pictures, "are the radar imagery and weather information for Hertfordshire over the past two weeks. The storm front follows the same path as the crop circle appearances. And, it stormed each night prior to the circles' appearance in each field."
Napoleon sat next to him on the sofa and picked up one of the radar images. "So we're thinking there's a connection? That our UFO is causing the storms?"
"Or that the craft has been using the storms to shield its presence in the night."
"Chickens and eggs?"
"No, thank you, I had enough chicken for lunch."
The rain started just after sunset. Illya fiddled with their equipment. They had a video recorder, a telescope, and what was reportedly the next advancement in photographic technology. He peered through the lens and made some adjustments. "I don't care if this camera has perfect night-vision. It'll still be an unclear picture with all this rain."
Napoleon was taking off his jacket and tie, already planning on taking the second shift. "Maybe we should have taken May's offer, and spared ourselves the trouble of having to set all of this up."
"It's better than nothing, and trust me, that camera was nothing."
"Ooh, a technology snob." He slid under the quilt and lay down on his side so he could still watch his partner at the window. "Wake me in three hours." He closed his eyes and drifted off to the sound of approaching thunder.
What seemed like only a moment later, he started awake when Illya shouted his name. He was up and out of bed in an instant. At the window, he peered out into the stormy night. "You saw it?"
"Yes!" Illya said, crouched behind the camera. "10 o'clock."
Napoleon shifted his gaze and focused northeast. In the distance, just over a slight rise in the field, lights were moving. In the constant flashes of lightning, a dark round shape could be seen hanging in the air. Illya swore, knocking over the recorder, and drew his gun. Napoleon turned, startled.
"The best visual evidence we'll get is with our own eyes," Illya explained, flinging open the door.
Illya barreled down the stairs, jumping as many steps as he could, Napoleon right behind him. From the top of the stairs, Mr. Farmer called after them, but they didn't hear him, nor Mrs. Farmer echoing her husband's few last words.
The moment they were out the door, they were soaked through. Running full tilt in torrential rain in the dark of night, in the middle of a storm, through a grown field of wheat hardly seemed like a legitimate plan of action. It wasn't long before the partners lost sight of each other. So they kept their focus on heading towards the beams of light coming from the UFO.
They were like spot lights, five of them emitting from the dark shape. They moved in all directions, as if searching for something. Illya dodged the lights, not wanting to be seen. But then they all stopped. Illya found himself less than inch away from where a circle of light touched. All of a sudden his ears popped. The air in front of him vibrated, and the wheat shafts touched by the light were instantly flattened into a perfect circle. Illya jumped back like a startled cat. Somehow above the rain and thunder, he heard Napoleon curse.
The lights started to move again. Illya recovered himself from the shock, and tried to get closer to the body of the craft, trying to determine what it was. But it was futile. The rain pounded his face, water obscuring his vision. The ground was becoming softer under his feet, slowing his movements, making it harder to avoid the roaming beams of light, even though the continued flashes of lightning could already have given away their positions.
The lights switched off all at once. Illya blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his vision to the new darkness. On the craft's side, a hatch opened. He grasped his gun tighter and leveled it at the faint yellow light being revealed as the door rose. In the doorway stood the figure of a man, backlit against the craft's interior. Illya could not make out his features, and had no time to try as the figure raised a machine gun and started spraying bullets into the field. Illya fired his special, but the man on the craft had the advantage. He tried to run out of the bullets' reach, taking cover in the wheat. A sharp pain ripped through his arm and he fell face-down in the mud.
Napoleon was dodging the bullets himself when he heard Illya cry out. The agent gritted his teeth. Dammit, he shouldn’t have allowed them to become separated. He had no idea where his partner was, it was impossible to see and that asshole on the craft was still firing. Several bullets buried themselves in the mud around his feet.
Then everything stopped. The gunfire stopped, the hatch closed, and the craft disappeared into the sky. The storm continued, but the rain lessened slightly.
"Illya? Illya!"
"Fuck!"
Napoleon chuckled in relief. "Keep swearing so I can follow your voice!"
Illya followed orders, and in no time at all, Napoleon found him sitting on the ground, covered in mud and clutching his arm. Napoleon could barely make him out in the dark and made his assessments more through touch than by sight. "How the hell are we supposed to find our way back to base camp? You and your bright ideas," he said affectionately, wiping mud from Illya's face.
The rain was lessening more, the thunder more distant, the lightning less constant. Mr. and Mrs. Farmers' voices called out to them. Napoleon shouted back, helping Illya to his feet, keeping one arm around his waist. A beam of light shone through the stalks causing Napoleon to raise his hand against the brightness.
"Over here!" Mr. Farmer called back to his wife. "What did I tell you?" His smile faded as he took in their appearance and the blood running down Illya's arm. With the Farmers' help, they made it back to the house. Fortunately they had two baths, so no waiting for each other. Mrs. Farmer fussed over Illya the entire walk back and up the stairs. He always did bring out the maternal instincts in women over a certain age.
Not quite so bad off himself, Napoleon washed quickly and was thankful they brought their luggage from the Bed and Breakfast so he could have a change of clothes. Always wanting to be helpful, Mrs. Farmer took their muddied clothes to wash. Napoleon was unable to stop her and explain what "dry clean only" meant.
Dressed in a clean pair of pants and a white shirt, he went through Illya's bags and grabbed a couple of items. The door to the second bathroom wasn't locked, and he didn't bother knocking. "How're you doing?"
"Have you no sense of privacy?"
"No. But you know that." He set the clothes he brought on the closed toilet lid and sat at the edge of the bathtub. "Besides, I thought with that injury, you could use some help." He rolled a sleeve up and reached into the water to touch the wound. Illya hissed and jerked away, sloshing water.
"You call that helping?"
"I thought with your arm hurt, you'd need an extra hand to help wash."
"As you can see, I've managed perfectly well on my own."
Sadly, he had. His hair was even clean and mud-free. Napoleon had to change his tactic. "Well, since you washed, that means I'll dry."
"I'm not a stack of dishes."
"Come on." Napoleon went around the other side of the tub and grabbed Illya's good arm. With a sigh, Illya allowed himself to be helped to a standing position and out of the tub. Napoleon grabbed a small towel and told him to keep it pressed to his wound, which was still bleeding slightly.
Grabbing the larger towel, Napoleon began drying Illya off, starting at the top, rubbing his hair. Illya made a couple splutters of protest for the treatment, but when Napoleon moved on to his shoulders, uncovering his face, Illya was smirking. He moved on to arms and chest and wrapped the towel around his partner to get at his back. Upper-body done, Napoleon knelt and started again at Illya's feet.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
"Oh?" Napoleon asked, working his way up one leg, then the other. "And what exactly am I doing?"
"I think you kno-!" He squirmed away. Napoleon, no longer able to resist the pale skin so close to him, leaned forward and brushed a kiss at Illya's hipbone.
Napoleon laughed. "Did my stoic Russian partner just squeak?"
"No he did not!" Illya insisted, grabbing the towel and moving away from Napoleon. He retrieved the clothes Napoleon had brought him, and was confused as to why there were so few. "It's just my pajama bottoms. Where's the top?"
"Have to bandage your arm first. Which reminds me. We better head down to the kitchen, they're probably starting to wonder what's taking us."
"The kitchen? We have medical supplies in our room, not to mention the rest of my clothes."
"May's insisted we make use of their supplies, and unlike you, I find her to be a woman it's very hard to say no to. Besides, she's also making us a batch of chicken soup to stave off the terrible colds we're sure to get after running around in the rain."
The promise of hot homemade soup was the happiest thought Illya had since the day began. It was what made him behave himself the entire time Napoleon tended to his arm, like a child having been bribed with a sweet if he was good at the doctor's.
"Sure he doesn't need to go to hospital for that?" Mr. Farmer asked, hovering around the kitchen table. Mrs. Farmer was concentrating on her pot of soup.
"It's just a graze, really," Napoleon said, wrapping the gauze bandage around Illya's upper arm. "We've had worse."
"A bullet did that?"
"Yes, fired from a very human man using very earth-based technology." He gave Mr. Farmer a sidelong glance.
Mr. Farmer sat heavily down at the table, running a hand through his graying hair. "But who on earth could make such a thing?"
Napoleon finished the bandaging and patted Illya's shoulder. Illya grabbed his pajama top which Napoleon thoughtfully retrieved for him, and slipped it on while getting up from his chair. "There is, unfortunately, an organization known to us that does have the money, resources, and inclination for 'such a thing.'"
"Were you able to determine what it was?"
"Not exactly, but I do have some theories on those lights and what has been causing the crop circles."
Napoleon decided to help May set the table, having nothing to contribute when Illya started talking science.
"It's a weapon, using pulse energy, but they're still at early testing stages for it. While testing the craft's flight and stealth abilities with this little jaunt through Hertfordshire, they're also testing the strength of their pulse weapons. So far they've only managed to crush nothing stronger than wheat or corn. But imagine if they could make it powerful enough to crush a building or human bones."
"My God..." Mr. Farmer went ashen. At the stove, Mrs. Farmer gasped and looked as if she may fall into her pot if Napoleon hadn't been right there to support her.
"I am also given to suspect that its repeated appearance here has to do with our arrival. Someone in Thrush knew we were investigating, and sought to lure us out to not only prevent our meddling, but to test their pulse weapon's effectiveness on humans."
Mrs. Farmer, having fully recovered herself, started ladling the soup into bowls, and set them down on the table. Illya immediately dove in. She smiled at his enthusiasm, then asked, "But how did they know who you are and that you were here?"
Napoleon sat at the table and shrugged. He hesitated eating, unsure if the chunks of chicken were known to him or not. "They must have some kind of base nearby to hide that thing in the day and still be able to visit this farm two nights in a row. They could have surveillance on the town."
"Or someone in the town is reporting to them," Illya suggested.
"Surely you don't think anyone around here could be a bad guy. It's a peaceful village. They've been our friends for years."
"Well, then maybe they're just observing the area from some nearby base. There has to be a few unused barns large enough to tuck their UFO away in."
Farmer rocked back on the legs of his chair, arms crossed, thinking. "When Old Carter died, there was no one to keep the farm going. Land was sold to some property developers, wanted to build houses or some shopping center. That was over five years ago, far as I know nothing's come of it."
Illya dropped his spoon in his empty bowl and ran up the stairs. Mrs. Farmer took the opportunity to refill it. He came back down and spread the areal photos of the region in front of Mr. Farmer. "Show us this abandoned land."
Farmer slipped a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and studied the photos. "All this here was Joseph Carter's land. And this here," he tapped a gray rectangle on one of the photos, "was his main barn. Ought to be big enough to hold your UFO."
Napoleon and Illya nodded at each other, silently agreeing on the next stage of their mission. Napoleon said, "Thank you both very much. You have been remarkably helpful. But now I think we all deserve some sleep."
After reporting in to Waverly about their encounter, their theories, and their plans for the next day, it was almost three in the morning before Illya finally laid down. He shifted on his side, his good arm pressed to the mattress. Napoleon stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts before sliding in behind him. Napoleon moved right up against Illya's back. He slid an arm around Illya's side and rested his hand on his stomach.
"Napoleon..."
"Don't worry," he smiled and press a kiss between Illya's shoulder blades. "I just sleep better when I have something to snuggle."
"Remind me to buy you a teddy bear."
"No need," he tightened his arm. "Brought my own."
Illya couldn't even find the strength to retort. They were sore and exhausted from the night's events. Warm and comforted, they fell asleep.
The next morning, Napoleon was disgusted to discover that roosters did, in fact, crow at the break of dawn. He found it a ruder awakening than any alarm clock. He had wanted at least one more hour in bed with his partner, but Illya had other ideas, and none too gently extricated himself from Napoleon's grasp. "What's the rush?"
"This mission is coming to a close. The sooner we leave, the sooner it's finished, the sooner you and I can make good on that after-mission promise."
Napoleon practically jumped out of the bed.
They geared up, stuffing extra ammo and small explosives in their pockets.
"How's the arm?"
"Sore. But it will not hinder me." Napoleon had no reason to doubt him.
They stood facing each other, only a couple inches apart. "How about a kiss for luck?" Napoleon suggested, tilting his head to one side.
Illya reached up, grabbed the back of Napoleon's neck and pulled him down. The kiss was dry, closed mouth, just a press of lips to lips. Anything else, Illya feared, and they would be setting out later than he planned.
Mrs. Farmer tried to get them to eat a full breakfast, but they declined grabbing only a quick coffee and a couple pieces of toast. The Old Carter farmland was adjacent to Farmer's, but the distance between the Farmers' house and the suspicious barn was about 5 miles. Illya pulled off to the side of the road when they were still a mile away from the barn, and intended for them to make the rest of the way on foot through the untended fields.
"What if it's full of booby traps?"
"Well, we can't just drive up through the main gate, can we? I'm sure we have nothing to worry about except bugs, biting animals, poisonous weeds, and tripping into holes made by burrowing animals."
"Nature's booby traps? Thanks, I feel so much better."
They trudged on through the field, Napoleon wishing he brought a machete with him. Instead, he placed his trust in his partner's sense of direction while simultaneously hoping it wouldn’t involve stepping into some wild animal's nest. Cautiously, they peered out from the tall grass and weeds. Napoleon had expected to see a guard or two patrolling the barn, and was confused when he didn't. "Maybe we're wrong, and it's not here."
Illya stepped out. "Only one way to know for sure," he said, heading straight for the door. Napoleon followed, keeping an eye on the nearby house for any sign of movement. Illya unholstered his gun and carefully opened the door. As he slowly revealed the interior, he became more and more satisfied there were no guards or any person to hinder them. But he was also satisfied that they were correct, and that this was the UFO's hanger, for lack of a better term.
Where there should have been rows of stalls for cattle or horses along the walls, there were rows of computer banks. In the barn’s center sat the craft, resting on four landing gears. Oddly enough, the floor was still covered in hay.
"The lack of security concerns me," Illya said, looking around.
"They probably depended on the remote location and people's paranoia of aliens to keep anyone from looking too close to home."
For the first time since looking in to the crop circles, they had an up-close, unobstructed look at the source of all the trouble. The craft was black, smooth, shaped like an oversized skipping stone, and big enough to carry at least two men. On its top was a set of large rotating blades, much like a helicopter's. Illya's brows knitted, looking at them. "Those allow for the appearance of hovering, but the shape of the craft would make it impossible to actually maneuver with just blades. The physics just don't-"
"Unfortunately you won't have the opportunity to study this ‘ship’ any further. Waverly's orders were clear. We’re to destroy it, not examine it."
"Both!" Illya shouted with a snap of his fingers, having a massive "a-ha!" moment.
Napoleon frowned. "No, we can't do both. We just blow it to smithereens and get out."
"No, the chicken and the egg!"
"Huh?"
"The thunderstorms, Napoleon. This craft has been following the line of a naturally-occurring storm front. But the massive amounts of electric energy needed to power the craft and its weapons combined with the powerful wind conditions these blades must cause, must have aggravated the atmospheric conditions to a greater severity than the storms would have been. Thus, they created better cover for their movement, and masking the sound of the blades we would otherwise have definitely heard."
Napoleon started piecing together bits from his pockets that once combined would make a small, but powerful explosive. "Sorry, you won't be able to test your theories, but it's time to crack this thing open and throw in some military-grade firecrackers."
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."
They turned around, raising their hands and eyebrows at the gun being leveled at them then at the man holding the gun: Danny from the B&B.
"You're the Thrush spy?" Illya said.
"Guil-ty," he singsonged.
"Napoleon clicked his tongue. "What would Charles think? Or is he in on this, too?"
"Charles? Please, the man's so boring. Why do you think I started helping Thrush in the first place? A little excitement, please. But what he lacks in personality is made up in...other attributes, or I'd have ditched him years ago."
"This is more than a little excitement," Napoleon pointed out. "This is a global, criminal conspiracy."
"I know! I scouted this location for them and told them about Old Carter's farm. I was instructed to keep an eye out for UNCLE agents, but we thought they'd just send a couple London boys. Imagine my surprise when the best of Northwest waltzed through my door!"
"I'm sure we can imagine," Illya groused. Keeping his arms up wasn't easy with the bullet wound, and he could tell from experience that their captor was in full-exposition mode.
"I thought firing few shots off at you last night would give me some kind of accommodation, but killing you? Oh, I'm sure I'll get much more that just a promotion!" Danny smiled and pulled the hammer back on the pistol.
"You think you can kill us both with that gun? You pull that trigger and whomever you weren't aiming at will be on you in an instant. And I think I can speak for myself and Illya when I say that neither of us will be very merciful to the man who killed our partner."
"I'll just have to take my chances." He pointed the gun at Illya and fired.
"No!" Napoleon leaped at Illya, to shove him out of the way, and got a bullet in his shoulder for his trouble.
Illya spun away from Napoleon, and grabbed the gun from Danny, who was too surprised from the turn of events to move. The UNCLE agent elbowed the Thrush agent in the nose, sending him to the ground. Then Illya turned the gun around in his hand to smack Danny in the head with the handle, just to make sure he'd stay down. Satisfied that the threat was eliminated, he went over to Napoleon and knelt at his side.
"I don't think the Farmers' first aid kit can take care of this," Napoelon hissed through gritted teeth. His hand was pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.
Illya took off his jacket and gave to his partner to help staunch the blood. A whirring noise behind him made Illya turn around, bringing Danny's gun up. The hatch of the craft was opening. A skinny man in a white coat with wild gray hair and thick glasses looked out. "What's going on, I heard... Oh, my!" He saw the two men on the ground, the blood, and the gun Illya was pointing at him. The scientist raised his hands. "I surrender!"
Illya sighed, lowering the weapon. "Help me get these men out. You have a car nearby?" The scientist nervously nodded. "Good, then we're going to come back in here and blow everything, the craft, the barn, up."
"But-but, my work!" He protested.
"You can tell us all about it back at UNCLE headquarters." He gestured with the gun that the scientist needed to get a move on.
"Y-Yes, of course."
On the plane back to the United States, Illya read through the reports from the Thrush scientist's interrogation. Next him, Napoleon gazed forlornly out the window, his left arm in a sling. Illya finished another page, and starting the next one, he shook his head. "He's insane. These equations...they're impossible! And yet we saw them put into practical application."
Napoleon looked down at the papers in Illya's lap. The numbers, letters, and symbols might as well have been an alien message. "I find in this business, all geniuses we run into are the mad kind. Makes me wonder about you."
"Hmm?" Illya asked, having not really paid him any attention.
"You're a genius, so you must be mad."
"I take it you must have never heard of false syllogisms?"
"No."
Illya gave him a sidelong look of smug intellectual superiority, and went back the report. "He may have been mad, but he wasn't really bad. He very willingly told us all about the project and gave us the destination of their little jaunt across Hertfordshire: the location of Thrush HQ in England. I think he only worked with them because they were all crazy enough to give him funding if he could build them a weapon."
They sat quietly for a few minutes, but Napoleon broke the silence. "I should never have agreed to your stupid rule," he grumbled.
Illya closed his eyes and set the report down again. "What?"
"The whole 'not during a mission' thing."
"I recall you were the one who first said 'after the mission.'"
"Semantics. But we waited and look where it got us. 'No engaging in strenuous activity' indeed."
"You cannot engage in strenuous activity. I didn't even need stitches. I can engage in the all the strenuous activity I want."
"Great. How does that help me?"
"Just wait until we get back to New York. I'll show you."
Spot any other typos, let me know. Would like 'em caught before posting to muncle later.
Fandom: The Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Napoleon/Illya
Rating: R (Language, violence, mild sexuality)
Word Count: 8793
Summary: Napoleon and Illya investigate a rash of crop circles appearing in rural England. Is it extraterrestrials or part of a new Thrush plot?
A/N: Inspired by a hand of the game "Apples to Apples" that included these words: Engaging, crop circles, machine guns, and domestic partners. Muchas gracias a cruelest_month who betaed and put up with my inability to write short sentences. I apologize in advance for ridiculously stereotyping small, rural towns and some of the characters. :)
"Explain to me again," Napoleon demanded, "why we're standing in the middle of a wheat field in the middle of Hertfordshire."
The mid-August day was unseasonably cool. The sky, overcast with thick, dark clouds, forebode of rain and worse. The wind dislodged a lock of Napoleon's hair over his forehead, annoying him, but Illya thought it made him look more roguishly handsome.
That thought and his partner's discomfort made him smile a little. "We are here to investigate the sudden rash of crop circles that have been appearing in the area."
"Crop circles," Napoleon repeated. "Sounds like something the Ministry of Agriculture should be handling, not the UNCLE."
"Poor Napoleon. Our sudden reassignment to England put a damper on your weekend plans?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"She'll keep. And if not, it was never meant to be."
Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Still, flattened wheat."
"The phenomenon of crop circles has dated as far back as 1687 when unexplained circular patterns appearing in fields were attributed to a 'Devil-Mower.'"
"You'd think the Devil would have more important things to do than confound farmers."
"In the past couple years there have been reports coming from Australian marshlands of bent reeds coming about after witnesses claimed seeing low flying objects in the area. The RAF even investigated."
"Their conclusions?"
"Result of natural storm turbulence," Illya said with a touch of incredulity.
"Hmm, and we're no meteorologists. So, I'm thinking we're supposed to look into the mysterious-low-flying-object angle. Some unfriendly, secret organization testing stealth planes?"
Illya shrugged. "That is what we are here to find out. We are to speak to the owners of this farm a..." Illya opened the report folder and struggled to keep the papers from blowing away, "Mr. and Mrs.-" he paused and sighed, "Farmer."
Napoleon's eyebrows shot up. "You're joking." Illya shook his head. Napoleon started laughing. "Don't tell me, their first names are Ma and Pa." At Illya's silence, he stopped laughing. "No."
"Close enough. It's May and Paul."
Napoleon rubbed his forehead as they headed towards the farmhouse. "Please tell me you're joking."
Illya looked over at him, expression apologetic. "In all seriousness? I wish I was."
The Farmers' house was everything an English farmhouse was expected to be: two stories of faded, gray brick in a basic oblong shape, evenly-spaced shuttered windows, all topped with a brown roof. The inside, or at least the living room where Napoleon and Illya were being hosted, was every definition of rustic, quaint, and homey. What furniture and decorations weren't carved were knitted and centered around a cheerfully blazing fireplace.
Paul Farmer sat opposite the two agents while his wife bustled about, serving tea in ancient-looking, delicate cups. Illya wasted no time grabbing small cakes off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth, leaving the questioning to Napoleon. "Tell us about the day the crop circle appeared."
"Oh, it was the morning after the first storm."
"The first storm," Mrs. Farmer confirmed.
"And did you see anything or anyone that night who might've done this?"
"I didn't see no man out there, no sir, don't know what proper man be out on a night like that."
"Night like that," she echoed with a shake of her head while refilling Illya's cup.
"Okay, so you didn't see a person, but you did see something?"
Farmer's face turned grave, his wife retreated behind his chair wearing a similar expression. "What I saw, Mr. Solo, what I saw..."
Illya and Napoleon exchanged looks and in unison leaned forward. "What did you see?"
"Well," he began, voice hushed, causing them to have to lean further just to hear him. "First, I just thought it was the lightning playing tricks with my eyes."
"Playing tricks," Mrs. Farmer whispered.
"But I kept looking out the window a’top of the stairs. There was a big black object hanging in the sky that weren't no cloud."
Mrs. Farmer shook her head. "Weren't no cloud."
Napoleon turned his attention to her. "You saw it, too?"
"No, sir, but if my Paul says it was there, it was there."
"How very trusting," Illya, having run out of teacakes, was obliged to join the conversation.
"Can you describe what you saw?"
"It was black and round and just hovering there, over my field. Lightning flashed a couple times and it was gone!"
"Gone!" Mrs. Farmer.
"I see." Napoleon set his tea down and leaned back.
"I know what it is." Farmer said.
Napoleon and Illya sat straighter, surprised by the pronouncement. "What is it?" Illya asked.
"It's like from those films. One of them flying saucers."
"Flying saucers," Mrs. Farmer said with a decisive nod.
The agents' eyes widened and jaws dropped. This, they were not expecting. Napoleon cleared his throat. "I'm sorry?"
"Aliens," Mr. Farmer said with all sincere gravitas. Behind him, his wife nodded.
They thanked the Farmers for their cooperation and hospitality, but didn't say a word to each other on the walk back to the car. Night was fast approaching, aided by the increasing, black storm clouds. The wind whipped around fiercely. Once in the car, Illya spoke, voicing his concern for the weather. "It's a two-hour drive to the farm in Welwyn. I think we should go back to the village and find a place to stay for the night, wait out the storm."
He started the car and looked over at Napoleon. His brows were pulled together in puzzlement. Illya took his silence as agreement and started towards the village.
"Aliens," Napoleon finally said.
"Little green men from Mars?" Illya smirked. "If extraterrestrial life was trying to make contact with Earth, I find it hard to believe they have chosen to do so by spooking farmers in rural England, just like you said about the Devil-Mower."
"No. But if someone more terrestrial is testing stealth aircraft, and no official military is admitting to it, that is a worry."
They pulled up to a Bed and Breakfast just as the first drops of rain hit the windshield. They managed to grab their bags and make it through the front door just as the deluge began, a clap of thunder announcing the storm's arrival.
Inside, the foyer contained a small wooden counter with a bell and small sign that said "Please ring for service." Napoleon did so, and a door to their left flew open. Out raced a little man with receding brown hair, and a pencil mustache. He waited until he was properly at his station before greeting them. "Good evening, gentlemen! What can I do for you?"
"We were hoping you'd have a room available."
"Oh, thank God, an American!" The man leaned over the desk, making Napoleon and Illya instinctively lean back. "I cannot tell you how long it's been since I've talked to someone who didn't sound like they came from a Dickens novel! Whereabouts are you from?"
"New York."
The man sighed dramatically. "New York," he said wistfully, "how I miss it. London's a decent facsimile, but New York just has that certain flavor, don't you know?"
"I think so?"
"So, what can I do for you gentlemen? Two rooms? One room? Double? Single?" He winked at Illya.
Illya narrowed his eyes and frowned. "A double will be fine."
The man scribbled in the ledger, reached under the desk for a key as Napoleon signed the book. "I'll show you up." They grabbed their bags and followed the man up a narrow, carpeted stairway.
The second floor was one hallway with a small line of doors on either side. Their guide stopped a couple doors down, unlocked it and handed the key to Napoleon. He held the door open for them. "I'm Danny by the way. If you have need of anything, let me know. If you have complaints, ring for Charles. He's the owner. I just work here, as he likes to remind me." He stayed in the doorway, watching them put their luggage down, then as Napoleon started casually checking the room over for security and Illya was staking claim to one of the beds. "If you don't mind me asking, just what brings you to this neck of the woods?"
Illya saw no reason to lie. "We're interested in the crop circles."
Danny scoffed. "I suppose Old Paul told you about the flying saucers? I tell you, people can get some funny ideas out here. Have to entertain themselves somehow, you know?"
"Has anyone in the village seen or heard anything?"
"The only excitement I've experienced in the past five years are all these storms we've been having."
"You don't seem to be very fond of rural life," Napoleon noted. "What made you move out here in the first place?"
"Well, it was Charles' dream to own a little B&B in the country. Who am I to deny him his dream? Besides, I'd follow the lug anywhere. You know how it is. You know, I felt a great deal like Eva Gabor. Good-BYE, city life!" He said with a wave as he turned on heel and closed the door behind him.
Napoleon raised his eyebrows at Illya. "And I'm sure he just adores a penthouse view," he said in an odd mixed imitation of Gabor and Danny's camp accent.
Illya smacked him in the arm. "Behave."
"I am!" Napoleon protested. "Besides, I genuinely admire a man who is confident enough to truly be himself no matter where he is."
Illya looked up from his unpacking. "Are you saying you do not act like 'yourself'?"
"I have my moments. Our line of business doesn't really allow us that luxury, does it?"
There was something about Napoleon’s tone that disturbed Illya. "I would hope that you have always been yourself with me."
Napoleon sat on his bed, bouncing on it a little to test its firmness. He looked up at Illya and smiled. "As I said, I have my moments."
"And what about with your women?"
"If any woman knew the 'real' me, I'd never get laid. You know me better than anyone, would you sleep with me?"
Illya contemplated his response for only a moment or two. "Yes."
Napoleon jumped off the bed like a man startled. "Fuck, Illya, you're not supposed to admit it!" He stared at his partner, wide-eyed.
"You're the one who was just saying you admire a man who can be himself. You asked, I answered truthfully."
Napoleon ran a hand through his hair, mussing further the wind-blown strands. "Yeah, but...this isn't how it's supposed to go, not yet. We're still supposed to be playing. I ask a question like that, you respond with a cheeky innuendo."
Illya sat heavily on his bed and crossed his arms. "I don't want to 'play' anymore."
"You're the one who asked for the room with the two beds."
"Then maybe you should've asked if I wanted to sleep with you before we came in."
Napoleon sat back down on his bed. "I guess so."
There was a tense silence. Illya kept his back to Napoleon. With a sly smile Napoleon shifted himself over to Illya's bed. He reached out his fingers to touch the back of his neck, but Illya jerked away, lying down, his back still to Napoleon. "Not tonight. I have a headache."
Napoleon smacked the mattress. "You little brat!"
"I'd prefer not to try anything when I highly suspect Danny would be outside the door, listening."
Napoleon considered this before deciding that he didn't like the idea so much either and that he wouldn't put it past their host. "Okay, but after the mission. You promise?"
"I promise."
Napoleon gladly accepted, knowing his partner never broke his promises to him. He got off the bed, but not without getting in a consolatory slap on Illya's bottom first, and thanked his UNCLE-honed reflexes that prevented him from getting a foot in the gut.
While the storm continued through the night, the clouds concealed more than just the sky, and the flashes of lightning were not the only lights in the sky.
For some reason, Illya had always thought that once their mutual attraction was blatantly aired, it would change things. That he'd feel different, or his interactions with Napoleon would be more awkward. Something, anything. That he woke up the next morning feeling perfectly normal, and Napoleon seeming perfectly normal. He was slightly disappointed his world didn't flip over on its own axis, but only slightly. He mentally shrugged as he dressed, watching Napoleon do the same, and deciding that admitting something that all parties concerned already knew wasn't that big a deal. Like when one of the secretaries in HQ had been not successfully concealing a bump for several weeks, and no one was surprised when she announced her pregnancy later.
Maybe Napoleon's eyes gleamed at him in anticipation, and Illya could feel his face pinking when he did so. But those were only the most minute, subtle differences.
Together they went downstairs to find the dining room, discussing their plans for Welwyn and from there which of the affected farms to investigate next. The doors to the dining room were open, inviting, the odors of baking pastries and fried meat even more so. The windows faced east, taking the full effect of the morning sun. Five small tables, each capable of seating four, were covered in pristine white cloths and decorated with the local late-summer flora.
There was a man setting a table. This was more than the likely the Charles whom Danny had spoken of and seemed absent last night. Charles was one of those extremely unremarkable men: average height, average weight, light brown hair, and nothing distinguishing in his features: A police sketch artist's nightmare.
"Oh, hello," he greeted them with a warm voice, an urban accent betraying his displacement as much as Danny's. "You must be the American and 'one with the weird accent.'"
"That'd be us," Napoleon said cheerily, belaying anything Illya could've said about having a "weird" accent.
Illya noted the one table only that had been fully set and was reminded that last night the building was rather quiet. "Are we your only residents?"
Charles nodded. "Things get kind of slow around here this time of year, and all these storms we've been getting haven't really inspired people to be out traveling. Except for you, apparently. Why don't you sit down? I have breakfast starting and I can get that for you. A proper English breakfast, mind you." He set down a coffee carafe and went back to the kitchen.
Napoleon poured himself a cup of coffee and started dropping spoonfuls of sugar into it. "So I've been giving this Unidentified Flying Object thing a thought."
"Really? How industrious of you to be actually thinking about your job."
Napoleon took a flower from the centerpiece and threw it at him.
"Tsk. I don't think Charles would appreciate you ruining his flower arrangements."
Napoleon, too, was relieved that their conversation from the previous night did not diminish the ease of their interactions. Knowing for a fact now that it was requited flirting made it all the more fun. "Seriously, last night I couldn't help but think of War of the Worlds."
Illya nearly choked on his coffee. "Don't tell me you believe in this alien story!"
"No, I was thinking specifically of the hysteria caused by Orson Wells' radio broadcast back in 1938. What if this is an attempt to make people believe there’s going to be an alien invasion, and the perpetrators will use the global panic to grab power?"
"That would be a very silly plan."
"Thrush has had more than its fair share of silly plans."
"True."
Charles returned and set before them plates filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, and black pudding all glistening under a sheen of grease.
"Mmmm....I can feel the impending heart attack from here," Napoleon said, looking down at his plate.
Illya had already started on his breakfast before Charles told them to "tuck in and enjoy!" But at that very moment Danny burst into the room, breathless. "Oh, thank God you're still here!"
Illya and Napoleon immediately jumped from their seats, ready to take action. Charles went over to Danny and helped him keep from collapsing.
"What is it?" Napoleon demanded.
Danny put a hand to his chest and regained his breath. "The whole village is talking about it! It happened again! Those crop things in Farmers’ field! Even the policeman is up there now!" He wilted in Charles' arms.
Both of the agents relaxed, realizing was no immediate threat. "The policeman?" Napoleon asked.
Charles settled Danny in a dining chair and shrugged. "Small town."
"Guess we better go take a look. Put the bacon down, Illya, and saddle up."
Illya ate the bacon he'd picked up from his plate and hurried after Napoleon. They got in the car and headed back to the farm.
"I guess Welwyn and the others will have to wait," said Napoleon.
"It is strange. Until now, the circles hadn't appeared in the same place twice. It was more like it, whatever it is that is causing it, kept moving."
"Maybe it's finally found a place to settle down."
They spotted the single police car parked on the side of road once they neared the Farmers' property. They pulled up behind it, Illya reaching over and pulling the case files from the glove compartment. Napoleon went up to the police car and noticed a line of twine tied to the side mirror and leading out into the field. "I think we'll find our policeman on the end of this."
Unlike the previous day, the sun was out in full force, vaporizing the previous night's rain making the air thick and hot. The soil beneath their feet as they followed the twine was nothing but mud. Napoleon looked down in dismay as his foot sank an inch into the ground. "These are new," he moaned, "and Italian."
"Perhaps you should have thought of bringing your Wellies?"
Napoleon looked down at Illya's feet, also covered in mud. "Where are yours then, Mr. Preparation?"
"My shoes are not Italian," he pointed out, brushing past Napoleon, "and I've managed worse terrain in less." Napoleon was inclined to believe him, watching him move through the mire with ease, whereas Napoleon had to stop with nearly each step and make an effort to pull his foot from the mud.
Just as he was wondering how much longer they were going have to go, Napoleon caught up with Illya in a clearing in the field. The flattened wheat provided sturdier, dry ground, making Napoleon extremely grateful to whatever caused it. The policeman was indeed at the end of the twine, a spool of it stuck in his belt. He was standing with Mr. Farmer.
"Ah, there you are!" Mr. Farmer greeted them. "Knew I'd be seeing you gentleman again. Mr. Solo, Mr...uh..."
"Kuryakin," Illya provided.
"Yes. Meet Mr. Lane, our policeman."
Napoleon and Illya shook his hand in turn.
"Only the one?" Napoleon asked.
"Only one in residence in the village. The proper station is in the next town over. I should be heading there to make my report on this. Mr. Farmer, Gentlemen," he nodded and made to depart.
"Wait a moment!" Napoleon stopped him. "Mind if we could keep that?" He pointed to the spool of twine.
"Not at all." He handed the spool to Napoleon who stuck it in his jacket pocket.
"So, what do you think, gentlemen?"
"We're not sure what to think yet, Mr. Farmer." Illya admitted. "Perhaps you can enlighten us to what happened last night."
"Well, it was all the same, wasn't it? Out from nowhere, during the storm, came the flying saucer! My May saw it for herself this time."
"Where is your wife?"
"Oh, she has the chickens to feed this morning. Flying saucers don't mean we stop our work. But you can ask her later. She saw the lights, too."
"Lights?"
"Lights came out of it. Didn't see them the first time, but then maybe I wasn't looking close enough then. And, hey, you want to hear more of my theory?"
"Nothing would give us greater pleasure," said Napoleon.
"The lights are what's causing the circles, because they're the saucer's what do you call them...Thrusters!"
Illya was shaking his head. "Thrusters would burn your fields, not just flatten them."
Farmer thought on that for a second. "But these are aliens with alien technology. They can have non-burning thrusters."
Illya desperately tried to bring logic back into the conversation. "Accepting that the circles are caused by the 'saucer's' 'thrusters', why aren't all the crop circle formations uniform? If we believe that all the crop circles are being made by the same, or at least similar crafts, why such varying layouts?" He opened the files and showed him the aerial photos of the Hertfordshire crop circles. Each pattern was elaborate and extremely varied.
Farmer studied the photos, flipping through them more than once, considering each thoroughly. "What if..." He had already formed another theory. Illya braced himself. "These designs are symbols, like letters or words, and they're trying to communicate with us? According to these, the circles have been appearing across the county, consistently going northeast. It's like writing a sentence. We just have to decipher the language."
"Oh, is that all?" Illya grabbed the file back none too gently.
"I find it interesting that it seems to have stopped its travel. This is the first time one of the fields has been visited twice," Napoleon noted.
"I guess they're getting to the end of their sentence?"
Sensing that his partner was reaching the end of his rope with Farmer's wild and unfounded theories, and offending Illya's scientific training, Napoleon decided to take control of the dialog. "Illya, why don't you call into London HQ. Report what we have so far and request an aerial photo of this new circle."
Illya frowned, but reached into his jacket and pulled out his communicator. He wandered off to the edge of the circle to make his call. Napoleon turned back to Mr. Farmer. "I was wondering if perhaps you would allow my friend and I to stay here tonight. As we said, this is the first time the crop circles have appeared in the same place more than once. Maybe it is here to stay for a while....and third time's the charm?"
Farmer laughed and gave Napoleon a hearty smack on the arm. "I was going to suggest it anyway. Seeing it for himself ought to stop your friend giving me those looks like I've gone wrong in the head."
"I suppose it would."
Napoleon and Illya followed the twine back to their car; Mr. Lane had thoughtfully retied the end to their mirror. They went back to the village to get their luggage and pay for the room. Danny was quite putout to see them go. They didn't see Charles. Apparently he was out back fixing patio furniture.
At the farmhouse, they were greeted by Mrs. Farmer. "I'm afraid we only have the one spare bedroom. Our son and his wife use it when they come to visit. But the bed's a good size, you shouldn't be uncomfortable." She led them up the stairs to the room. "And you've got a real nice view of the fields from the window there. If it comes back, you won't miss it."
"Mrs. Farmer," Illya said, "I'm expecting some files from London to be delivered here-"
"I'll keep a look out and make sure your friends can find you. You boys just get yourselves settled." She left them then to continue her daily chores.
Napoleon sat down on the quilt-covered mattress. "Oh, fate does mock me so."
Illya had gone to the window and looked out across the fields. From there, the edges of the newest crop circle were visible. "How so?" He asked, turning around.
"Here I am, with you, a nice big bed, and a few hours to kill before nightfall..."
"We agreed, not in the middle of a mission. Besides, I don't like the idea of Mrs. Farmer having to wash our activities from her linens. And of course, as I just told Mrs. Farmer, I'm expecting a delivery. It would do nothing or own reputations at the London offices to be found in flagrante."
"Have I ever told you you're aggravatingly pragmatic?"
"Yes, you have."
"Oh. Well then, I don't mean to be redundant, but you are aggravatingly pragmatic."
"Thank you. If you're truly bored, you could always help Mrs. Farmer feed the chickens or preserve some jam."
There was a knock on the door. Napoleon smiled at Illya, wondering what Mrs. Farmer thought they could possibly be doing that required her to knock. Illya rolled his eyes before opening it.
"Oh, I'd almost forgotten! Paul found this earlier and thought you could use it." She held up an old-fashioned camera, the kind seen carried by trench coat-clad journalists in 1940s films.
"Thank you, but our colleague from London will be bringing surveillance equipment as well."
"Oh." She looked crestfallen, having been excited and thinking she could be helpful to the nice city fellows.
"No need to worry about helping us. After all, we are here to help you...in any capacity. In fact Napoleon was just saying how he would love to offer his services in the kitchen while we wait, weren't you, Napoleon?"
The woman's face lit up. "I was just about to start lunch." She peered around Illya to look at Napoleon expectantly.
Always the gentleman, Napoleon stood. "Madame, nothing would give me greater pleasure."
"I hate you," he growled into Illya's ear as followed Mrs. Farmer out the door.
Illya decided to keep watch outside for their London contact. It was continuing to be a nice day and Illya wanted to enjoy it because if his suspicions were correct, it wouldn't last for much longer. The files and equipment from London didn't arrive until they were in the middle of lunch. It was just as well. May had gone out to find her husband to give him his meal, and Napoleon didn't touch his sandwich.
"Aren't you eating?"
"Her name was Helena."
"Who was?" Illya asked, mouth full.
"The chicken. Her name was Helena. May told me all about her as she cut her up for lunch."
Illya was giving him a look of ...And?
"And I don't care much for eating something with a name."
"Don't tell me this experience is going to turn you vegetarian!"
"No...I'd just prefer not to know my lunch's life story is all. I like keeping my delusions of eating a chicken sandwich, not eating 'Helena' or 'Bessie'."
Illya was about to make an inappropriate joke about Napoleon's "eating" habits, but the sound of tires on the gravel drive took his attention. Lunch was abandoned as Napoleon helped the man from London set up the surveillance equipment in the guest room. Illya immediately started poring over the files he brought, spreading them out over the Farmers' coffee table.
"What've we got?" Napoleon asked, coming into the living room after seeing the London man off.
Illya handed him a glossy page. "The photo of the latest crop circle."
"Nice. Looks like a flower."
"And these," Illya gestured to the spread of pages and pictures, "are the radar imagery and weather information for Hertfordshire over the past two weeks. The storm front follows the same path as the crop circle appearances. And, it stormed each night prior to the circles' appearance in each field."
Napoleon sat next to him on the sofa and picked up one of the radar images. "So we're thinking there's a connection? That our UFO is causing the storms?"
"Or that the craft has been using the storms to shield its presence in the night."
"Chickens and eggs?"
"No, thank you, I had enough chicken for lunch."
The rain started just after sunset. Illya fiddled with their equipment. They had a video recorder, a telescope, and what was reportedly the next advancement in photographic technology. He peered through the lens and made some adjustments. "I don't care if this camera has perfect night-vision. It'll still be an unclear picture with all this rain."
Napoleon was taking off his jacket and tie, already planning on taking the second shift. "Maybe we should have taken May's offer, and spared ourselves the trouble of having to set all of this up."
"It's better than nothing, and trust me, that camera was nothing."
"Ooh, a technology snob." He slid under the quilt and lay down on his side so he could still watch his partner at the window. "Wake me in three hours." He closed his eyes and drifted off to the sound of approaching thunder.
What seemed like only a moment later, he started awake when Illya shouted his name. He was up and out of bed in an instant. At the window, he peered out into the stormy night. "You saw it?"
"Yes!" Illya said, crouched behind the camera. "10 o'clock."
Napoleon shifted his gaze and focused northeast. In the distance, just over a slight rise in the field, lights were moving. In the constant flashes of lightning, a dark round shape could be seen hanging in the air. Illya swore, knocking over the recorder, and drew his gun. Napoleon turned, startled.
"The best visual evidence we'll get is with our own eyes," Illya explained, flinging open the door.
Illya barreled down the stairs, jumping as many steps as he could, Napoleon right behind him. From the top of the stairs, Mr. Farmer called after them, but they didn't hear him, nor Mrs. Farmer echoing her husband's few last words.
The moment they were out the door, they were soaked through. Running full tilt in torrential rain in the dark of night, in the middle of a storm, through a grown field of wheat hardly seemed like a legitimate plan of action. It wasn't long before the partners lost sight of each other. So they kept their focus on heading towards the beams of light coming from the UFO.
They were like spot lights, five of them emitting from the dark shape. They moved in all directions, as if searching for something. Illya dodged the lights, not wanting to be seen. But then they all stopped. Illya found himself less than inch away from where a circle of light touched. All of a sudden his ears popped. The air in front of him vibrated, and the wheat shafts touched by the light were instantly flattened into a perfect circle. Illya jumped back like a startled cat. Somehow above the rain and thunder, he heard Napoleon curse.
The lights started to move again. Illya recovered himself from the shock, and tried to get closer to the body of the craft, trying to determine what it was. But it was futile. The rain pounded his face, water obscuring his vision. The ground was becoming softer under his feet, slowing his movements, making it harder to avoid the roaming beams of light, even though the continued flashes of lightning could already have given away their positions.
The lights switched off all at once. Illya blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his vision to the new darkness. On the craft's side, a hatch opened. He grasped his gun tighter and leveled it at the faint yellow light being revealed as the door rose. In the doorway stood the figure of a man, backlit against the craft's interior. Illya could not make out his features, and had no time to try as the figure raised a machine gun and started spraying bullets into the field. Illya fired his special, but the man on the craft had the advantage. He tried to run out of the bullets' reach, taking cover in the wheat. A sharp pain ripped through his arm and he fell face-down in the mud.
Napoleon was dodging the bullets himself when he heard Illya cry out. The agent gritted his teeth. Dammit, he shouldn’t have allowed them to become separated. He had no idea where his partner was, it was impossible to see and that asshole on the craft was still firing. Several bullets buried themselves in the mud around his feet.
Then everything stopped. The gunfire stopped, the hatch closed, and the craft disappeared into the sky. The storm continued, but the rain lessened slightly.
"Illya? Illya!"
"Fuck!"
Napoleon chuckled in relief. "Keep swearing so I can follow your voice!"
Illya followed orders, and in no time at all, Napoleon found him sitting on the ground, covered in mud and clutching his arm. Napoleon could barely make him out in the dark and made his assessments more through touch than by sight. "How the hell are we supposed to find our way back to base camp? You and your bright ideas," he said affectionately, wiping mud from Illya's face.
The rain was lessening more, the thunder more distant, the lightning less constant. Mr. and Mrs. Farmers' voices called out to them. Napoleon shouted back, helping Illya to his feet, keeping one arm around his waist. A beam of light shone through the stalks causing Napoleon to raise his hand against the brightness.
"Over here!" Mr. Farmer called back to his wife. "What did I tell you?" His smile faded as he took in their appearance and the blood running down Illya's arm. With the Farmers' help, they made it back to the house. Fortunately they had two baths, so no waiting for each other. Mrs. Farmer fussed over Illya the entire walk back and up the stairs. He always did bring out the maternal instincts in women over a certain age.
Not quite so bad off himself, Napoleon washed quickly and was thankful they brought their luggage from the Bed and Breakfast so he could have a change of clothes. Always wanting to be helpful, Mrs. Farmer took their muddied clothes to wash. Napoleon was unable to stop her and explain what "dry clean only" meant.
Dressed in a clean pair of pants and a white shirt, he went through Illya's bags and grabbed a couple of items. The door to the second bathroom wasn't locked, and he didn't bother knocking. "How're you doing?"
"Have you no sense of privacy?"
"No. But you know that." He set the clothes he brought on the closed toilet lid and sat at the edge of the bathtub. "Besides, I thought with that injury, you could use some help." He rolled a sleeve up and reached into the water to touch the wound. Illya hissed and jerked away, sloshing water.
"You call that helping?"
"I thought with your arm hurt, you'd need an extra hand to help wash."
"As you can see, I've managed perfectly well on my own."
Sadly, he had. His hair was even clean and mud-free. Napoleon had to change his tactic. "Well, since you washed, that means I'll dry."
"I'm not a stack of dishes."
"Come on." Napoleon went around the other side of the tub and grabbed Illya's good arm. With a sigh, Illya allowed himself to be helped to a standing position and out of the tub. Napoleon grabbed a small towel and told him to keep it pressed to his wound, which was still bleeding slightly.
Grabbing the larger towel, Napoleon began drying Illya off, starting at the top, rubbing his hair. Illya made a couple splutters of protest for the treatment, but when Napoleon moved on to his shoulders, uncovering his face, Illya was smirking. He moved on to arms and chest and wrapped the towel around his partner to get at his back. Upper-body done, Napoleon knelt and started again at Illya's feet.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
"Oh?" Napoleon asked, working his way up one leg, then the other. "And what exactly am I doing?"
"I think you kno-!" He squirmed away. Napoleon, no longer able to resist the pale skin so close to him, leaned forward and brushed a kiss at Illya's hipbone.
Napoleon laughed. "Did my stoic Russian partner just squeak?"
"No he did not!" Illya insisted, grabbing the towel and moving away from Napoleon. He retrieved the clothes Napoleon had brought him, and was confused as to why there were so few. "It's just my pajama bottoms. Where's the top?"
"Have to bandage your arm first. Which reminds me. We better head down to the kitchen, they're probably starting to wonder what's taking us."
"The kitchen? We have medical supplies in our room, not to mention the rest of my clothes."
"May's insisted we make use of their supplies, and unlike you, I find her to be a woman it's very hard to say no to. Besides, she's also making us a batch of chicken soup to stave off the terrible colds we're sure to get after running around in the rain."
The promise of hot homemade soup was the happiest thought Illya had since the day began. It was what made him behave himself the entire time Napoleon tended to his arm, like a child having been bribed with a sweet if he was good at the doctor's.
"Sure he doesn't need to go to hospital for that?" Mr. Farmer asked, hovering around the kitchen table. Mrs. Farmer was concentrating on her pot of soup.
"It's just a graze, really," Napoleon said, wrapping the gauze bandage around Illya's upper arm. "We've had worse."
"A bullet did that?"
"Yes, fired from a very human man using very earth-based technology." He gave Mr. Farmer a sidelong glance.
Mr. Farmer sat heavily down at the table, running a hand through his graying hair. "But who on earth could make such a thing?"
Napoleon finished the bandaging and patted Illya's shoulder. Illya grabbed his pajama top which Napoleon thoughtfully retrieved for him, and slipped it on while getting up from his chair. "There is, unfortunately, an organization known to us that does have the money, resources, and inclination for 'such a thing.'"
"Were you able to determine what it was?"
"Not exactly, but I do have some theories on those lights and what has been causing the crop circles."
Napoleon decided to help May set the table, having nothing to contribute when Illya started talking science.
"It's a weapon, using pulse energy, but they're still at early testing stages for it. While testing the craft's flight and stealth abilities with this little jaunt through Hertfordshire, they're also testing the strength of their pulse weapons. So far they've only managed to crush nothing stronger than wheat or corn. But imagine if they could make it powerful enough to crush a building or human bones."
"My God..." Mr. Farmer went ashen. At the stove, Mrs. Farmer gasped and looked as if she may fall into her pot if Napoleon hadn't been right there to support her.
"I am also given to suspect that its repeated appearance here has to do with our arrival. Someone in Thrush knew we were investigating, and sought to lure us out to not only prevent our meddling, but to test their pulse weapon's effectiveness on humans."
Mrs. Farmer, having fully recovered herself, started ladling the soup into bowls, and set them down on the table. Illya immediately dove in. She smiled at his enthusiasm, then asked, "But how did they know who you are and that you were here?"
Napoleon sat at the table and shrugged. He hesitated eating, unsure if the chunks of chicken were known to him or not. "They must have some kind of base nearby to hide that thing in the day and still be able to visit this farm two nights in a row. They could have surveillance on the town."
"Or someone in the town is reporting to them," Illya suggested.
"Surely you don't think anyone around here could be a bad guy. It's a peaceful village. They've been our friends for years."
"Well, then maybe they're just observing the area from some nearby base. There has to be a few unused barns large enough to tuck their UFO away in."
Farmer rocked back on the legs of his chair, arms crossed, thinking. "When Old Carter died, there was no one to keep the farm going. Land was sold to some property developers, wanted to build houses or some shopping center. That was over five years ago, far as I know nothing's come of it."
Illya dropped his spoon in his empty bowl and ran up the stairs. Mrs. Farmer took the opportunity to refill it. He came back down and spread the areal photos of the region in front of Mr. Farmer. "Show us this abandoned land."
Farmer slipped a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and studied the photos. "All this here was Joseph Carter's land. And this here," he tapped a gray rectangle on one of the photos, "was his main barn. Ought to be big enough to hold your UFO."
Napoleon and Illya nodded at each other, silently agreeing on the next stage of their mission. Napoleon said, "Thank you both very much. You have been remarkably helpful. But now I think we all deserve some sleep."
After reporting in to Waverly about their encounter, their theories, and their plans for the next day, it was almost three in the morning before Illya finally laid down. He shifted on his side, his good arm pressed to the mattress. Napoleon stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts before sliding in behind him. Napoleon moved right up against Illya's back. He slid an arm around Illya's side and rested his hand on his stomach.
"Napoleon..."
"Don't worry," he smiled and press a kiss between Illya's shoulder blades. "I just sleep better when I have something to snuggle."
"Remind me to buy you a teddy bear."
"No need," he tightened his arm. "Brought my own."
Illya couldn't even find the strength to retort. They were sore and exhausted from the night's events. Warm and comforted, they fell asleep.
The next morning, Napoleon was disgusted to discover that roosters did, in fact, crow at the break of dawn. He found it a ruder awakening than any alarm clock. He had wanted at least one more hour in bed with his partner, but Illya had other ideas, and none too gently extricated himself from Napoleon's grasp. "What's the rush?"
"This mission is coming to a close. The sooner we leave, the sooner it's finished, the sooner you and I can make good on that after-mission promise."
Napoleon practically jumped out of the bed.
They geared up, stuffing extra ammo and small explosives in their pockets.
"How's the arm?"
"Sore. But it will not hinder me." Napoleon had no reason to doubt him.
They stood facing each other, only a couple inches apart. "How about a kiss for luck?" Napoleon suggested, tilting his head to one side.
Illya reached up, grabbed the back of Napoleon's neck and pulled him down. The kiss was dry, closed mouth, just a press of lips to lips. Anything else, Illya feared, and they would be setting out later than he planned.
Mrs. Farmer tried to get them to eat a full breakfast, but they declined grabbing only a quick coffee and a couple pieces of toast. The Old Carter farmland was adjacent to Farmer's, but the distance between the Farmers' house and the suspicious barn was about 5 miles. Illya pulled off to the side of the road when they were still a mile away from the barn, and intended for them to make the rest of the way on foot through the untended fields.
"What if it's full of booby traps?"
"Well, we can't just drive up through the main gate, can we? I'm sure we have nothing to worry about except bugs, biting animals, poisonous weeds, and tripping into holes made by burrowing animals."
"Nature's booby traps? Thanks, I feel so much better."
They trudged on through the field, Napoleon wishing he brought a machete with him. Instead, he placed his trust in his partner's sense of direction while simultaneously hoping it wouldn’t involve stepping into some wild animal's nest. Cautiously, they peered out from the tall grass and weeds. Napoleon had expected to see a guard or two patrolling the barn, and was confused when he didn't. "Maybe we're wrong, and it's not here."
Illya stepped out. "Only one way to know for sure," he said, heading straight for the door. Napoleon followed, keeping an eye on the nearby house for any sign of movement. Illya unholstered his gun and carefully opened the door. As he slowly revealed the interior, he became more and more satisfied there were no guards or any person to hinder them. But he was also satisfied that they were correct, and that this was the UFO's hanger, for lack of a better term.
Where there should have been rows of stalls for cattle or horses along the walls, there were rows of computer banks. In the barn’s center sat the craft, resting on four landing gears. Oddly enough, the floor was still covered in hay.
"The lack of security concerns me," Illya said, looking around.
"They probably depended on the remote location and people's paranoia of aliens to keep anyone from looking too close to home."
For the first time since looking in to the crop circles, they had an up-close, unobstructed look at the source of all the trouble. The craft was black, smooth, shaped like an oversized skipping stone, and big enough to carry at least two men. On its top was a set of large rotating blades, much like a helicopter's. Illya's brows knitted, looking at them. "Those allow for the appearance of hovering, but the shape of the craft would make it impossible to actually maneuver with just blades. The physics just don't-"
"Unfortunately you won't have the opportunity to study this ‘ship’ any further. Waverly's orders were clear. We’re to destroy it, not examine it."
"Both!" Illya shouted with a snap of his fingers, having a massive "a-ha!" moment.
Napoleon frowned. "No, we can't do both. We just blow it to smithereens and get out."
"No, the chicken and the egg!"
"Huh?"
"The thunderstorms, Napoleon. This craft has been following the line of a naturally-occurring storm front. But the massive amounts of electric energy needed to power the craft and its weapons combined with the powerful wind conditions these blades must cause, must have aggravated the atmospheric conditions to a greater severity than the storms would have been. Thus, they created better cover for their movement, and masking the sound of the blades we would otherwise have definitely heard."
Napoleon started piecing together bits from his pockets that once combined would make a small, but powerful explosive. "Sorry, you won't be able to test your theories, but it's time to crack this thing open and throw in some military-grade firecrackers."
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."
They turned around, raising their hands and eyebrows at the gun being leveled at them then at the man holding the gun: Danny from the B&B.
"You're the Thrush spy?" Illya said.
"Guil-ty," he singsonged.
"Napoleon clicked his tongue. "What would Charles think? Or is he in on this, too?"
"Charles? Please, the man's so boring. Why do you think I started helping Thrush in the first place? A little excitement, please. But what he lacks in personality is made up in...other attributes, or I'd have ditched him years ago."
"This is more than a little excitement," Napoleon pointed out. "This is a global, criminal conspiracy."
"I know! I scouted this location for them and told them about Old Carter's farm. I was instructed to keep an eye out for UNCLE agents, but we thought they'd just send a couple London boys. Imagine my surprise when the best of Northwest waltzed through my door!"
"I'm sure we can imagine," Illya groused. Keeping his arms up wasn't easy with the bullet wound, and he could tell from experience that their captor was in full-exposition mode.
"I thought firing few shots off at you last night would give me some kind of accommodation, but killing you? Oh, I'm sure I'll get much more that just a promotion!" Danny smiled and pulled the hammer back on the pistol.
"You think you can kill us both with that gun? You pull that trigger and whomever you weren't aiming at will be on you in an instant. And I think I can speak for myself and Illya when I say that neither of us will be very merciful to the man who killed our partner."
"I'll just have to take my chances." He pointed the gun at Illya and fired.
"No!" Napoleon leaped at Illya, to shove him out of the way, and got a bullet in his shoulder for his trouble.
Illya spun away from Napoleon, and grabbed the gun from Danny, who was too surprised from the turn of events to move. The UNCLE agent elbowed the Thrush agent in the nose, sending him to the ground. Then Illya turned the gun around in his hand to smack Danny in the head with the handle, just to make sure he'd stay down. Satisfied that the threat was eliminated, he went over to Napoleon and knelt at his side.
"I don't think the Farmers' first aid kit can take care of this," Napoelon hissed through gritted teeth. His hand was pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.
Illya took off his jacket and gave to his partner to help staunch the blood. A whirring noise behind him made Illya turn around, bringing Danny's gun up. The hatch of the craft was opening. A skinny man in a white coat with wild gray hair and thick glasses looked out. "What's going on, I heard... Oh, my!" He saw the two men on the ground, the blood, and the gun Illya was pointing at him. The scientist raised his hands. "I surrender!"
Illya sighed, lowering the weapon. "Help me get these men out. You have a car nearby?" The scientist nervously nodded. "Good, then we're going to come back in here and blow everything, the craft, the barn, up."
"But-but, my work!" He protested.
"You can tell us all about it back at UNCLE headquarters." He gestured with the gun that the scientist needed to get a move on.
"Y-Yes, of course."
On the plane back to the United States, Illya read through the reports from the Thrush scientist's interrogation. Next him, Napoleon gazed forlornly out the window, his left arm in a sling. Illya finished another page, and starting the next one, he shook his head. "He's insane. These equations...they're impossible! And yet we saw them put into practical application."
Napoleon looked down at the papers in Illya's lap. The numbers, letters, and symbols might as well have been an alien message. "I find in this business, all geniuses we run into are the mad kind. Makes me wonder about you."
"Hmm?" Illya asked, having not really paid him any attention.
"You're a genius, so you must be mad."
"I take it you must have never heard of false syllogisms?"
"No."
Illya gave him a sidelong look of smug intellectual superiority, and went back the report. "He may have been mad, but he wasn't really bad. He very willingly told us all about the project and gave us the destination of their little jaunt across Hertfordshire: the location of Thrush HQ in England. I think he only worked with them because they were all crazy enough to give him funding if he could build them a weapon."
They sat quietly for a few minutes, but Napoleon broke the silence. "I should never have agreed to your stupid rule," he grumbled.
Illya closed his eyes and set the report down again. "What?"
"The whole 'not during a mission' thing."
"I recall you were the one who first said 'after the mission.'"
"Semantics. But we waited and look where it got us. 'No engaging in strenuous activity' indeed."
"You cannot engage in strenuous activity. I didn't even need stitches. I can engage in the all the strenuous activity I want."
"Great. How does that help me?"
"Just wait until we get back to New York. I'll show you."
Spot any other typos, let me know. Would like 'em caught before posting to muncle later.