Notes: The characters aren't mine, and the story is! This is a fic for the Halloween Fic Exchange on LJ. There are some supernatural themes in this one.
Side note: I think I enjoy writing for loopy!Illya way too much…

Napoleon tightened his black longcoat as the autumn breeze whipped up around him. This was the one part about fall that he did not enjoy—the cold evenings. Well, ordinarily, if he was in front of the fire with a drink in one hand and his other arm around his partner, the evenings would be ideal, but being out on a mission in the cold was something that made him long for the summer nights that had just passed by and would not return again for another eight more months.

Illya, of course, relished the chilly weather; Napoleon could see in his eyes that he was more than ready for the approaching winter. And as the breeze whipped up around him, the Russian sighed in contentment, and Napoleon found it impossible to be annoyed. Illya had such simple pleasures, and Napoleon found that a smile from a happy and contented Illya was just as warming as a cozy fireplace—if not more so.

Napoleon glanced back at his partner as they walked through the old cemetery. Lit candles on and around the graves bathed everything in a dim light, and with Illya wearing his black turtleneck and matching dark trousers, only his face, hands, and hair were illuminated in the glow. Napoleon shook his head in wonder.

"What?" Illya asked, seeing his partner's expression.

"The way the light falls on you… It's like you're from another world."

Illya rolled his eyes now.

"I would say something witty in reply were it not for the fact that we have had some baffling incidences in some of our recent affairs."

Napoleon blinked, remembering what happened during their stopover in Moonlit Gulch, and then the night they had spent in a house with a cursed mirror.

"…I didn't mean…"

"I know, Napoleon," Illya said, softly. "You were just being poetic—and I do appreciate it. The lighting here does, indeed, set a mood apropos of a place where the dead are to be consigned."

"Yeah," Napoleon scowled. "And that's why we have to put a stop to whatever it is that THRUSH is planning here."

Illya mirrored the look on his partner's face.

"Da. The word on the street is that they are experimenting with a new kind of hallucinogen and are using this cemetery to find test subjects. And only two kinds of people visit cemeteries—mourners, and overly brave youngsters." His eyes flared, recalling the most recent witness—a frightened teenager who had stammered to them about the things he had seen, real and otherwise.

"We'll stop them, Tovarisch." Napoleon sighed to himself. He had to suppose it was a relief, at least, that the strange happening in the cemetery had a rational explanation this time. He checked his watch. "The cemetery closes to the public in about fifteen minutes; THRUSH will probably double their efforts with any overly brave youngsters that sneak in, as you call them. Of course, we're here, too."

"And we will present a more tempting target than any thrill-seekers," Illya added. "Be careful, Napoleon."

"That goes for you, too," Napoleon said. "We know that the drug is administered by dart, so they can effectively snipe us from anywhere."

"They must have some sort of base of operations here in the cemetery—somewhere secluded, but in a position that will allow them to observe a large area of the cemetery and administer the hallucinogen as and when they wish," Illya added.

"And the places that best fit that description are any of these mausoleums," Napoleon said. "We'll have to…" He trailed off, and suddenly aimed his Special at a tall, stone obelisk. "Whoever's behind there, you've got five seconds to get out here."

"…Corporal Solo?" a voice asked.

Napoleon's eyebrows arched and he lowered his weapon slightly as a man appeared from behind the obelisk. Illya, on the other hand, kept his Special trained on the newcomer, puzzled at him addressing Napoleon as "Corporal."

Napoleon suddenly grinned as he recognized the man.

"Simmons!"

"I take it you know each other," Illya observed.

"You bet we do," Napoleon said. "This is PFC Joe Simmons—we were in Korea together, under Colonel Morgan. Simmons saved my life!"

"Oh, yes?" Illya asked, now looking at Simmons with interest. "You were a magnet for trouble then, too, Napoleon?"

"Well, it wasn't that much," Simmons said, sounding embarrassed. "The corporal here nearly busted his gut, so I drove him to the nearest aid station."

"You nearly what?" Illya asked, turning to Napoleon now.

"Appendicitis," his partner translated.

"Oh, so that's when you had your appendix removed."

"Well it wasn't for cosmetic reasons," Napoleon smirked. "It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Yeah, he got a medical transfer and got sent home," Simmons said, dryly.

"That wasn't it—though I didn't complain," Napoleon said. "It's no secret that I didn't want to be there; you know me—I prefer preventing wars, not fighting in them, but I was drafted right out of high school. But while I was recovering in that aid station, that was when I met Mark Slate, who was there because his partner at the time had been injured and was recovering there. That was how I found out about U.N.C.L.E., and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life."

"Yeah, and we never heard from you again," Simmons said, somewhat bitterly.

Napoleon glanced back at Simmons, biting his lip as he struggled to think of something to say.

"Speaking of U.N.C.L.E.," Illya said, breaking the awkward silence. "Napoleon and I are here on a mission, and you'd best leave this place. THRUSH is likely to make an appearance, and I am sure Napoleon would prefer you to be out of the line of fire when that happens. You can reminisce some other time."

"Illya's right," Napoleon said. "Maybe we can get together for a drink after this is over."

"What did you say his name was?" Simmons asked, glancing back at Illya with an unreadable expression.

"Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon said, and then the light bulb went off over his head. "Look, U.N.C.L.E. is an international organization-"

"He's a Russian!" Simmons said. "All that time we spent fighting the spread of communism, and now you're-"

"Look, Simmons, Illya is my partner, and the both of us are working very hard to make sure that people aren't forced to go and fight in wars like we were," Napoleon said, his voice becoming noticeably sharper. "We're trying to prevent death and destruction. And he's right—you should go now."

"Solo-"

"Go," Napoleon ordered.

"You think you know everything, Solo!?" Simmons shot back. "You don't. You left! You forgot all about us once you found out about U.N.C.L.E.! You weren't there when the squadron got attacked by enemy snipers-communists like him! And now you're fraternizing with the enemy!?"

"Illya is not the enemy!" Napoleon shot back.

"I do not condone what those snipers did to your brothers in arms," Illya said. "I abhor war as much as Napoleon does, and work at U.N.C.L.E., and with Napoleon, to prevent it, so that the innocents of this world, whether in the West or East, can live in peace. And like Napoleon, I am also concerned for your safety. Please, leave before THRUSH makes their move."

Simmons ignored him, glaring at Napoleon.

"So long, Corporal," he said, pointedly, and he headed off down the darkened pathway in the cemetery.

Napoleon exhaled, looking just as angry.

"Et tu, Simmons?" he muttered. "I'm beginning to think I'm better off not running into old friends."

"My apologies, Napoleon."

"For what!?"

"It is clear that you are burning bridges because of me. This was not the first incident."

"Look, Illya, if it's a choice between you and them, I'll gladly take you," Napoleon insisted.

"Simmons did save your life," Illya pointed out.

"Yeah, that's true," Napoleon said. "But you have him beat in that department. How many times have you saved my life?"

"I lost count after the first dozen times."

"I rest my case," Napoleon said. "Now, then… We have work to do."

"Right…" Illya murmured. He tightened his grip on his Special, following behind his partner as they headed deeper into the cemetery.

Napoleon got out a flashlight and quickly aimed it at the nearest mausoleum.

"Well, it's not this one," he said. "Those doors haven't been opened in a long time, and there isn't any evidence of foot traffic near it."

Illya suddenly let out a quiet yelp as he felt something small but sharp pierce his shoulder in back of him.

"Illya?" Napoleon asked, concerned.

"The mausoleum we are looking for… it's that way…" the Russian said, pointing in the direction directly behind him.

"…How do you know?" Napoleon asked, dreading the answer.

Illya reached behind him, pulled out the dart, and held it up. He gave his partner an apologetic shrug.

"…'m sorry…" he said, his voice already beginning to slur. "Not fast 'nough…"

"Illya… Illya, no…!" Napoleon said, gently gripping the Russian by his shoulders. "Illya, look at me! Focus!"

Illya was certainly trying, but his blue eyes were slipping more and more out of focus, the pupils dilating.

"Illya! Illya, you can't go tripping out on me now! I need you!"

"…'m trying, 'Poleon…" Illya began, but he trailed off with a giggle. "The flames are floating! So many different colors! I can probably touch them!"

"Illya!"

"Oh, but of course; they are still hot. You are so smart, 'Poleon!"

"Corporal Solo!?"

Simmons was back.

"I thought I told you to get out of here!" Napoleon said, now at his wits' end; the last thing he needed was Simmons getting darted and hallucinating, too.

"I heard you shouting; I thought you were in trouble…" Simmons trailed off as Illya started shaking his finger condescendingly in his face.

"Oho, 's'you again!? Narrow minded rapscallion-!"

Napoleon quickly covered Illya's mouth.

"He's been hit with a dart that was laced with a hallucinogen," Napoleon explained. "Look, Simmons, just get out of here before you're next!"

"They might get you, too!" Simmons pointed out.

Illya yanked Napoleon's hand away from his mouth.

"I'll help 'Poleon! 'S'my job now!" he said, firmly gripping Napoleon's shoulder. "See!? Look out for the flames!"

Napoleon squawked in protest as Illya dragged him down, but as he did so, a second dart sped by, narrowly missing Napoleon as it struck the ground. The three of them stared at it, and Illya picked it up.

"…Wow…" he said. "Look, 'Poleon!"

"Yeah, thanks," Napoleon said, now aiming his Special in the direction of where the dart had come from. "Look, Simmons, do you see now why you've gotta get out of here? …Actually, wait… THRUSH might get you on your way out. Okay, stay right behind me and keep your eyes open."

Napoleon held onto Illya's arm as Simmons got behind them. Illya gave him a glare and gripped more tightly to Napoleon's arm, as well.

"I know y'don't like me," he slurred at Simmons. "Well, I don't like you, either."

"Illya's normally quiet, but he doesn't mince words when he does talk," Napoleon sighed.

Illya continued to hold onto Napoleon as they got to their feet and headed towards the mausoleum that Napoleon had determined was the direction from which the darts had come from.

"…'Poleon… 'Poleon, the flames are getting larger…"

"It's alright, Illya," Napoleon said. "They won't hurt you. I promise. I'll look after you."

"Really?" Illya asked. "How kind of you, 'Poleon. You are so good. So caring. And I'll look after y'too." He looked behind him and gave Simmons a smug look.

"Get down!" Napoleon suddenly yelled.

"The flames-!?" Illya yelled, but he dived as Napoleon pulled him down. He had still been facing Simmons, and the Russian now stared, wide-eyed, as the next dart sped right through Simmons as though he hadn't even been there. "…'Poleon!?"

"Hold on!" Napoleon said, firing his Special at their assailants, who had now stepped out of the mausoleum to get a better shot at them. "I can see them!" A dart narrowly missed him, and he yelped out of reflex.

Napoleon's yelp was enough to get Illya to forget about the flames and Simmons's apparent imperviousness to darts and focus on protecting his partner instead. Though the hallucinated flames were dancing and swirling around him in many colors, he could see the real THRUSHies in the distance, as well. As if on autopilot, Illya scrambled ahead of Napoleon to shield him, drew his own Special, and fired at their assailants, too.

Between the two of them, the THRUSHies had been successfully tranquilized, and Napoleon finally breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Are you alright, 'Poleon?" Illya asked, turning back to him with his wide eyes filled with concern.

"Never better," Napoleon assured him, and he blinked as Illya suddenly hugged him. It was always… interesting how getting drugged turned Illya into an emotional person, quite unlike his usual reserved self. The American gently patted his partner on the back before returning the hug. "You did good, Illya."

"I try to give you my very best."

"I know. You always do."

"I will protect you from the flames, too."

"I know you will. But we'll call for backup to take these guys in. And you need to go to Medical and sleep this stuff off."

"Can't protect you in Medical," Illya grumbled.

"Well, Medical still needs to take a look at you. If they say yes, you can sleep it off at home."

Illya sighed and mumbled something in Russian, and Napoleon now looked up at Simmons, who was watching them both with an unreadable expression.

"If you've got something to say, Simmons, say it," Napoleon said, coldly.

Simmons just shook his head.

"He stuck out his neck for you without even thinking about it," he said. "He's drugged out of his mind, though. …Is he like that when he's sober?"

"When he's sober, he sticks out his neck for me twice as far," Napoleon said, plainly. He smiled as Illya looked up at him and said something in Russian again, very intently, and then squeezed his shoulder.

"Guess you were right," Simmons said. "He really is one of the good ones."

"There are a lot more 'good ones' than there are 'bad ones,' Simmons—and that goes for anywhere in the world you go. The bad ones just make a lot more noise, so you notice them." Napoleon sighed. "I'm really sorry about what happened to you and the others, Simmons. You're right about one thing—that I don't know what you went through. But whatever it was, I don't want anyone else to have to go through it, either. That's what I fight for now."

"…Yeah, I guess I wouldn't wish what happened to me on anyone else—even the enemy… even if I tried to convince myself that's what I wanted," Simmons admitted. "Look, Solo… I'm glad I ran into you again." He glanced back at Illya now, who was still focused on Napoleon. "Both of you. You keep on making sure that those wars don't happen."

"We'll do our best," Napoleon said, and Illya hummed something in agreement.

Simmons now turned and headed deeper into the cemetery, leaving Napoleon to help Illya up, handcuff their tranquilized prisoners, and call for backup to help pick them up.

"What a night," Napoleon sighed, as Illya looked around, still seeing colorful flames floating about as other U.N.C.L.E. agents gathered up the THRUSHies. "I'm glad it's over—for the most part. Though since that witness recovered, so you should, too."

"Da, very good…."

"And I owe you for making sure that I didn't get hit myself," Napoleon added. "And it's a lucky break that Simmons didn't get hit."

"He did!"

"Huh?" Napoleon asked, looking to Illya.

"He got hit—sort of," the Russian said, and he used his hand to imitate the direction of the dart. "Went riiiiiiiight through him!"

"Illya, that's not possible."

"But I saw it, 'Poleon!"

"And while I normally trust your eagle eyes, you are still under the influence of a hallucinogen…" Napoleon trailed off. "Hey, wait a minute; the cemetery exit is that way. Why did Simmons go the other direction?"

"Be careful, 'Poleon; there are flames over there! Here, let me…" He took a flashlight from his own pocket and stumbled ahead. As Napoleon steadied him, Illya's flashlight beam caught a nearby headstone—causing the both of them to freeze in their tracks.

PFC JOSEPH SIMMONS

1934-1953

"…'Poleon…? Am I still hallucinating…?"

"If you are, then I am, too…" Napoleon said, staring at the stone. "How can this be? We were both talking to him, and I wasn't hit by a dart…" He checked himself to make sure, and, indeed, Napoleon had made it through the night unscathed. "Maybe it was some sort of mass hypnosis, or…"

"You are thinking about Moonlit Gulch and the mirror house again," Illya surmised, seeing his face. "You are thinking we really saw a ghost."

"I don't know what to think; I know we keep saying that, but I really don't know," Napoleon said, looking back at the grave. "According to this stone, he died in the sniper attack that he had been talking about."

"Well, no wonder he was bitter about it," Illya said, drunkenly nodding in understanding. "If I died somewhere, I'd be bitter about it."

"Let's not entertain that idea," Napoleon said. He suppressed a shudder. "Just think, that could've been me caught in that sniper fire, too."

"…'Poleon, I mean this in the best possible way, but I am so very, very glad that you had appendicitis."

"I know. So am I, actually." He sighed again and drew an arm around Illya's shoulders to keep him from wobbling on his feet. "And you need to get yourself to Medical."

"Nyeeeeeet," Illya groaned.

"I'll do my best to convince them to let you rest at home," Napoleon promised. "That's the best I can do."

Illya grumbled, but was too loopy to resist as Napoleon now began to guide him back to the U.N.C.L.E. vehicles at the cemetery entrance. As they walked down the path, Napoleon took one more look back at Simmons's headstone.

Rest easy, Simmons. I promise, Illya and I will keep fighting for peace.

And he continued guiding his partner back, grateful that the two of them had made it through another mission once again.