Notes: the characters aren't mine, and the story is! I wrote this for a tumblr friend, who made an amazing gifset where Napoleon and Illya face the Weeping Angels and get sent back in time, and then this plotbunny just sprung from it. This is post-season 4 for Napoleon and Illya, and during season 6B for Two and Jamie; also, for Two and Jamie, this takes place after my "Smith and McCrimmon" duology, and briefly references it.

"Tell me something, Jamie," a man in a rumpled set of loose-fitting clothes said, as he glanced at the young man wearing a jumper and kilt, walking along beside him. "Why do you always insist on coming to New York for our holidays?"

"Aye, well, fer one thing, there's so much t' see here. Secondly, it's one of the few places ye can get the TARDIS t' go t' on purpose," Jamie said.

The older man frowned.

"Oh, really—"

"Och, ye know I'm just kidding, Doctor," Jamie grinned. "I like it here mainly fer the food and the pubs!"

"It's always about food and pubs with you!" the Doctor scoffed. "Just once, won't you admit that the vast expanse of this city gives many opportunities for you to expand your mind, and that you secretly enjoy that?"

"If I did, it wouldnae be a secret, aye?"

"Ohhh!" the Doctor fumed. "You've been in a facetious mood ever since we got here!"

"I'm still laughing at how ye got stuck in that ventilator shaft on the space station just before we got here," Jamie admitted.

"Harrumph! I am a Time Lord, and, as such, I do believe I maintained my grace and dignity throughout that entire ordeal." He frowned as Jamie snarked loudly in response. "I shall ignore that."

"Och, it doesnae matter; there was nothing in that space station, and we have some time t' spend before we have t' leave—"

He was cut off by the sound of a newsboy holding out a copy of the evening paper.

"Extra, extra! Another mysterious disappearance in the Adelo House on Long Island! Extra, extra! Home by the Sea claims another victim!"

Jamie blinked, his good mood vanishing as the implications of the headline sunk in. He turned back to the Doctor, pointing at the paper.

"Doctor!" he exclaimed, quietly. "That's that demon house he's talking aboot!"

"Yes, Jamie, so I see…" the Doctor murmured. He dug in his pockets for some change and bought a paper from the newsboy.

"But that cannae be!" Jamie said, as they walked along, as the Doctor read from the paper. "We broke the curse on that house—that temporal disturbance in the cellar! That was what was causing all the trouble!"

"That well may be, Jamie, but that was in 1980 when we put an end to the temporal disturbance," the Doctor reminded him. "And time is relative, remember?" He pointed to the date on the paper. "It's 1968 now. As far as this city and that house are concerned, we won't rid it of the temporal disturbance for another twelve years—so, until then, people who wander near it will vanish."

"Aye, by the doing of that statue," Jamie said, with a shudder. "That statue of the angel—the one that sent me back in time…"

"Yes, I do wonder about that statue…" the Doctor murmured. "I know you described it to me, but I've never seen or heard of anything like it—and there's nothing about it in my 500-Year-Diary, either. Still, you may be quite right about that statue being responsible for the disappearances. We must look into it."

"What!?" Jamie squawked. "Go back to the demon house!? Och, as far as I'm concerned, we did all we needed t' do in that house! I'm nae going back in there!"

The Doctor sighed.

"I understand why you feel the way you do," he admitted. "I'm in no hurry to be going back there, either." He glanced back at the paper. "Ah, oh dear."

"What?"

"The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement will be looking into the disappearances this time, according to this article," the Doctor relayed. "Apparently, there have been enough of these strange vanishings this time to cause them to be concerned. It must be quite serious…"

"Aye, then it's settled—it's nae our problem!" Jamie said, nodding in approval. Let these United Network chappies handle it!"

"But if it is that statue involved, they simply won't know what they're dealing with."

"We don' know what we're dealing with!" Jamie countered.

"Well, yes, that's true…" the Doctor admitted. "But we know more than they do—we know that whatever it is that makes the statue dangerous can be neutralized if something is looking directly at it—this thing is quantum locked."

"Aye, I'm sure they'll figure it oot; I did, after all," Jamie said. "Doctor, I don' want t' go back t' that place! If that statue touches me again, I'll be back dealing with Redcoats again, just like last time! I'll have no part of it!"

"Jamie, believe me, I perfectly understand…" the Doctor began, but he trailed off as they passed by the alleyway where they had left the TARDIS. The TARDIS was still there, but, sticking out between her front doors was a piece of paper. "Hello, what's this?"

Jamie reached the TARDIS first, pulling the paper out.

"It's a telegram," he said. "'To Doctor John Smith and Mr. James McCrimmon. Stop. …Stop what?"

"It means a full stop, Jamie—punctuation."

"Oh, aye. 'Requesting your aid at the Adelo House. Stop. Assistance required 6 May, 1923. Stop. Beware of the stone angel. Stop. INK."

"Ink?"

"Aye, in all capital letters."

"Sounds like initials, not 'ink.' But, nevertheless, you know what this means…"

"Aye," Jamie sighed. "Someone got sent back t' the past by that statue and is asking for our help."

"Yes…" the Doctor said. He looked into the Scot's eyes. "Jamie, I know you don't want to go back there, and you don't have to. But I cannot turn down a plea for help—you know that. I don't expect—"

"Aye, I'll go with ye, Doctor," Jamie sighed. "I hate that place, but I hate the thought of ye going alone there e'en more."

The Doctor smiled, ruffling the piper's hair.

"You're a rare sort of human," he said, fondly. "Off we go, then."

And they headed inside the TARDIS, heading for the date on the telegram.

Meanwhile, two U.N.C.L.E. agents were making their way through the centuries-old Long Island house—the Adelo House, it was called, but it was better known as the Home by the Sea. Alexander Waverly had decided to send his two best men to investigate the disappearances—an American named Napoleon Solo, and his Russian partner, Illya Kuryakin.

"You know, they say this house is haunted," Napoleon mused. "Ghosts come out at night and statues move of their own accord."

"How intriguing," Illya deadpanned. "I suppose next you'll tell me that a witch lived here?"

"Well, you never know," Napoleon said. "This house has been here since before the Revolutionary War—ours, that is."

"Yes, I surmised you were referring to yours and not the Russian Revolution…. Anyway, it doesn't matter how old this place is; with all of the mysterious disappearances in this area lately, there's a chance that THRUSH might be using this house as some sort of base of operations."

"And in the event that it isn't THRUSH this time, we still need to find out who is making those people disappear," Napoleon said, as he led the way to the drawing room of the old house. The American stopped to arch an eyebrow at a large angel statue in the middle of the room, its hands over its face, gleaming as the sunlight from outside poured on it through the window. "Odd place for a lawn ornament…"

Illya frowned at it.

"Looks too large and bulky to be of use as a lawn ornament. It's sort of the thing you find in hedge mazes."

"So why put it in the middle of the living room?" Napoleon wondered.

"Perhaps some young idiots put it there as a dare," Illya said, with a shrug. "Though I imagine it must have taken a whole crew of them to move it." He knocked on the statue with his fist. "It's solid stone."

"Well, let's leave her to play her game of hide-and-seek," Napoleon said in dismissal. "We've got other things to worry about."

"Right," Illya agreed.

He moved to follow Napoleon out of the room, pausing to glance back at the drawing room—and froze.

"Napoleon?"

"Hmm?"

"Didn't that statue have its hands over its face?"

"Yeah—why else would I make that hide-and-seek crack?"

"Look."

Napoleon glanced back, blinking as he saw that the statue's arms were lowered, and that he could see the winged woman's face.

"It's got to be a trick…" he said, simply.

He walked back towards the statue and pushed on one of the stone arms, expecting it to move. It didn't, prompting the American to frown, deeply.

"Didn't you say that the stories were that the statues moved of their own accord?" Illya reminded him.

"I didn't actually believe that."

"Neither did I," Illya admitted. "Napoleon, let's just leave this thing here and move on."

"I'm with you, Tovarisch; I'm getting a bad feeling from it," Napoleon agreed.

He headed out of the drawing room, while Illya lingered behind, staring at the statue for a moment. He, too, then turned to go, but froze as he glanced out of the corner of his eyes and saw that the statue had now turned 180 degrees, facing him.

"Napoleon…?" he called.

"What?" the American called back from the direction of the kitchen.

"The statue is definitely moving!" Illya said.

"…What!?"

"I said—" Illya turned to face the kitchen, but immediately looked back as he felt a flurry of movement—and saw the statue now inches from himself, its fanged mouth open.

By reflex, the Russian stumbled backwards, drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special, and fired twice at the statue. This achieved nothing; the bullets zinged off of the statue without even leaving a mark on it.

The gunshots had, however, drawn Napoleon back from the kitchen; he had drawn his U.N.C.L.E. special, as well, and stopped in his tracks as he saw the statue's new position—and expression.

"Napoleon, I swear it—every time I look away, it moves closer to me!" Illya stated. "I wouldn't believe it, except it's happening!"

"Then let's just back away slowly," Napoleon said, using his free hand to grab Illya's arm and guide him backwards out of the drawing room and into the hallway.

The Russian finally breathed a sigh of relief.

"Glad to be away from that," he sighed. "Thank you, Napoleon."

The American was about to reply when he noticed a stone hand sticking out of the doorway, reaching toward them.

"Don't thank me yet, Tovarisch—run!"

He was still holding onto Illya's arm, and so Napoleon turned and ran towards the kitchen. He heard Illya's footsteps behind for a few moments, but then, they stopped—just as Illya's arm vanished from Napoleon's hold.

Napoleon paled and turned around. Illya was gone—vanished into thin air. And standing just behind the spot where Illya had been was the stone angel—a smile of triumph now on its face.

"…What did you do to him?" Napoleon hissed, aiming his U.N.C.L.E. Special at the statue. "What did you do to him!?"

The statue didn't reply; it continued to stand there, smiling—mocking Napoleon and his pain. Furious, Napoleon shot three bullets at the statue; like Illya's bullets, they bounced off of the statue without harming it at all.

"Where is he!?" Napoleon demanded. "Where did you send him!?" Illya had to have gone somewhere—the prospect of him vanishing out of existence altogether was a thought that Napoleon could not bear to accept.

Still, the statue remained silent and mocking. And Napoleon lowered his weapon in defeat, pulling out his communicator.

"Open Channel F," he said, still keeping his eyes on the statue. There was silence. "Open Channel K. Illya? Illya, can you hear me!?" More silence. "…Open Channel D. Put me through to Mr. Waverly, please."

A moment later, Napoleon heard his superior's voice.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, go on."

"Sir, I'd like to report that I've found the source of the disappearances—but at a cost."

"…They got Mr. Kuryakin, didn't they?" Waverly asked, able to tell from Napoleon's tone of voice.

"Yes, Sir," Napoleon admitted. "I have no idea as to where the missing people have been taken to. I was planning… Well, that is to say, I was hoping you would approve…"

"Of you allowing yourself to be captured by these nefarious fellows?" Waverly finished. "I must say that I don't personally approve of that. However, if you feel it is the best method of recovering Mr. Kuryakin and the others, make certain that your tracking devices are activated before you attempt anything of the sort."

"Understood, Sir," Napoleon said. He paused. "Thank you."

"Do be careful, Mr. Solo."

The channel closed, and Napoleon put his communicator away and activated his tracker, still staring at the statue.

"Alright, I get it," he said, quietly. "If you won't bring him back, then you can, at least, send me to wherever it is you sent him." Remembering what Illya said about the statue only moving when he wasn't looking, Napoleon sighed and shut his eyes.

He felt something touch his shoulder, and then he felt a sudden jolt, as though he suddenly crossed a great distance in the fraction of a second. He wobbled on his feet, unsteady for a moment, and then fell over onto what felt like a mattress.

"…Napoleon!?"

The American's eyes snapped open as he heard the Russian's voice again. He still appeared to be in the Home by the Sea—he had fallen onto a bed, and as he turned to his right, he saw that Illya was lying there, too, just as dazed.

"You're alright!" Napoleon exclaimed, relieved.

"I suppose…" Illya said, baffled. "But… the statue got you, too?"

"Well…" Napoleon trailed off, and Illya soon figured out what had happened.

"Oh, you fool…" the Russian groaned. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"Oh, be quiet; this was a smart move," Napoleon insisted. "Regrouping so that we can get out of this together—it was a tactical decision."

"It was a sentimental decision, and getting out of this isn't that simple, Napoleon," Illya said, quietly. "Look out the window, and tell me what you see."

Napoleon leaned over to look out the window next to the bed.

"People walking down below. Wait…" the American said, pausing as he noticed a group of oddly-dressed young women. "…Flappers? But that means…"

"We've gone back in time to the 1920s—as impossible as it sounds," Illya said. "And you're stuck here with me now because of your foolish sentimentalism!" The Russian swallowed a growing lump in his throat. "Thank you for that…"

Napoleon managed a wan smile and gave Illya's shoulder a squeeze.

"Well, you're the quantum physicist," he said, getting off of the bed and helping Illya off, as well. "If there's anyone who can get us back to the '60s, it's you."

"This may be beyond me, Napoleon," Illya said, as they moved towards the door of the room. "We would need access to technology that humankind has yet to develop…"

Illya trailed off as he opened the door of the room; he and Napoleon both stared as another two men stared back at them from the other side of the door—a short, shabbily-dressed man in a bow tie and another short man in a kilt.

They started talking over each other in confused unison—English and Russian mixing with Gallifreyan and Gaelic—until the man in the bow tie cleared his throat for quiet.

"Well, Gentlemen, it appears we have quite a few stories to exchange as to why all four of us are in the wrong time…" he said.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged baffled glances. Neither of them had any idea what was going to happen now—but, at least, whatever it was, they'd be facing it together.