Bastien is gone by the time Napoleon wakes up. That's been the norm lately, now that the danger of Napoleon silently slipping away in his sleep has gone down significantly. Usually, there's breakfast waiting for him. Today, there's only a note.

Porridge on the stove when you get hungry. ~B

Napoleon looks at it and he can't help but smile. Because, for the first time in the three weeks he's been here, the giant Belgian has trusted Napoleon to do something for himself. Which shouldn't be such a big deal, but the agent is choosing to take it as a sign that he's going to be ready to head back to London soon. Back to work. Back to UNCLE.

Back to blessed civilization.

And back to his barber.

Bastien, for all of his preparedness, doesn't have a razor. Hasn't any need for it, apparently. He'd offered to sharpen a knife for Napoleon to shave with instead, but Napoleon had politely turned him down. He's had enough close calls involving knives and his face. He would much rather wait until he can sit down at his favorite barber shop and just relax. Even if it means putting up with increasingly long and itchy scruff that is dangerously close to being a beard.

He props himself up on one elbow and runs his fingers over his hairy chin, and then through his long, unruly curls. It's hard to feel like himself under the circumstances. But getting his own breakfast will be a start.

Sitting up fully still hurts enough that he can't help but let out a sharp gasp, but he's able to get to his feet without completely running out of breath. He puts on the clothes that Bastien has left out for him and silently bemoans the fact that the man hadn't left him a pair of socks-the floor is cold, and it's leaching the heat through the soles of Napoleon's feet. He rises onto his tiptoes and hurries into the kitchen, eager to get his breakfast and then get his feet back under a blanket.

He's dishing himself a bowl of porridge when the back door opens and Bastien comes in, carrying a big armful of wood.

"You're back early," Napoleon says. He looks at the large stack of logs beside the stove and then back at Bastien. "Do we need more wood?"

"There is a blizzard coming," Bastien says. "Excuse me."

Napoleon steps out of the small kitchen so Bastien can carry the wood to the pile. "You seem quite sure," Napoleon says, peering out the window. Besides a bit of wind, the weather doesn't look too bad. Not much worse than it has been.

"It is quiet out there. The animals are taking shelter, and they know better than you or I. That, and the wind is picking up. And I've a barometer on my bedroom wall. The barometric pressure has dropped. Any one of these could be a sign of a coming storm. In my experience, all three together mean it's almost a certainty. So I'm preparing now-I would rather not get caught out there when it hits."

Napoleon takes a few bites of porridge before answering. "Hm. Can't say that I blame you. I hate the cold."

Bastien looks over his shoulder at him as he adds the logs to the pile.

"Why's that?"

Napoleon knows the answer to that. The men in Bastogne. But he doesn't want to talk about that, so he does one of the things he does best.

He lies, the most convincing sort of lie. The kind that's buried in truth.

"I was raised in upstate New York," he says, and almost smiles at the memory of the trees in fall. "In a little house on the edge of the woods. There was a pond in those woods. My mother called it Walden Pond. The other boys and I called it the Rink. It froze over every winter and we'd put on our skates and play hockey with brooms and whatever makeshift puck we could find." The lie comes easy. "The snow came early one year. The Rink was frozen by Thanksgiving. The other boys didn't think the ice was thick enough. I was younger than them, smaller than them. Stupider than them, too. I wanted to prove I had guts. So I went out there anyway. And they were right. I fell in. If Georgie the Eagle Scout hadn't've been there, I probably would have frozen to death."

"That sounds scary. I bet your parents were worried sick."

Napoleon can't help but chuckle at that. It hadn't happened, but he knows what his mother's reaction would have been if it had. "She was. She gave me a hug and then went after me with a wooden spoon. I couldn't sit for a week."

Bastien laughs, a low rumble that shakes his whole frame. "She sounds wonderful."

"She is," Napoleon answers, and maybe it's the fact that he's been in near-isolation for weeks, or his weakened state, but he's suddenly filled with a longing for home that he hasn't had since he left it.

Luckily, Bastien is done stacking the wood he'd brought in. "I'd love to hear more about her. But for now, I should bring in more wood."

"Oh!" Napoleon shovels the last of his porridge into his mouth. "Let me help."

Bastien chuckles as he walks toward the door. "I don't think so. But thank you."

Napoleon trails after him, setting the bowl on the counter as he passes it. "You can hand me the wood and I'll stack it."

"I think it would be faster to do it myself-"

"Please, Bastien!" It comes out more desperate than he'd intended. But the seemingly small action is another step toward getting his strength back. And himself back. And just getting. Back. "I just-I want to help."

Bastien looks at him for a long moment, then nods toward his feet. "You'll need your shoes, then. I tucked your socks inside, but they don't look very warm. I've extras in my top bureau drawer, if you would like. Wool."

"Thanks," Napoleon says. Bastien waves a hand and then heads back out into the snow. Napoleon watches him pull the door closed behind him before he turns and walks to Bastien's room. He hasn't set foot in there, or even seen inside, in the time he's been here.

Not that he hasn't wanted to. His keen awareness of the debt he owes has precluded his innate nosiness. Now that he's been invited, however, he's interested to see what's behind the bedroom door.

There's a fireplace on the left hand side, a gentle flame crackling inside. That combined with the white, snowy daylight outside the window opposite the door is enough to light the small space. The first thing that draws Napoleon's attention is the bedframe, which is plain but neat and sturdy-looking. That sets the tone for the whole room, really-the dresser and vanity, the curtains, the quilt on the bed-are all simple, but well made. There's a sparseness to the space, but the handmade nature of it keeps it from being cold or sterile.

It reminds him of Illya, though it's the Russian himself that keeps his immaculate space from becoming frigid.

Speaking of frigid, Napoleon suddenly remembers the coldness of his feet, and he crosses the room to the small dresser next to the window. There's not much on top of it, just an ushanka-hat and what appears to be a roll of lamp wick. Nothing that reveals anything about Bastian that Napoleon doesn't already know.

The contents of the top drawer are slightly more interesting. Besides several pairs of the promised wool socks, there are also medical supplies-not surprising, as a man living alone in the woods is bound to need the occasional patching up. What is surprising is the fact that a lot of the supplies-sulfa powder, iodine swabs, gause and triangular bandages-all appear to be military issue. He's not sure what that means, exactly, but he stores the knowledge away. He grabs a pair of the wool socks and shuts the drawer again, then turns to leave. And stops dead in his tracks.

"My god," he murmurs.

There's a mirror hanging above the vanity next to the door. It's the first time Napoleon has seen his reflection since Bastien found him those weeks ago. He takes a few reluctant steps forward, raising a hand to touch his bearded face. He barely recognizes himself as he turns slowly and takes in the sight of himself. It isn't just long curls and the hair on his face. He's lost some weight, too, enough that his eyes and cheeks look sunken and his sharp features have become even more prominent, harsh even. He looks at the face in the mirror for a long time, and it's oddly difficult to think of the ragged man staring back at him as himself.

It's a far cry from the version of himself he's crafted so carefully these last decades. From the day he enlisted, he knew he wanted to be a wealthy man, and he'd done what he had to to get there. Even though the spy thing hadn't been a part of the plan, he's grown to love it. Napoleon Solo, clean-cut and well dressed and a perfect gentleman except for when it suits him to be otherwise. He can charm most anyone with a wink and a smile and a few carefully chosen words.

The man he sees in the mirror (That's me, he reminds himself) couldn't charm the pants off a habitual flasher.

He isn't sure how long he stands like that before his attention finally shifts to what's in the corner of his vision, and he looks down.

There are two black and white photographs tucked between the wood and the glass. One is of a woman in her mid-twenties, with brown wavy hair down to her jaw, wearing a flowing dress and looking over her shoulder at the camera with a coy smile on her face. She has a book clutched to her chest with one arm, and there's no doubt in Napoleon's mind that this is Delma.

The other photograph proves more puzzling. It's a young couple, just kids, and neither of them is Delma or Bastien. More puzzling still is the dark stain on one corner. It's hard to tell in the light, but he thinks it may be blood.

The sound of the door opening reminds Napoleon of his task, and he hastily pulls the socks on before stepping out of the bedroom and heading toward the kitchen, where Bastien has just walked in with an armful of wood. He walks in a few steps before dumping the freshly cut logs on the floor in front of the fireplace.

"There," the Belgian says, red-faced and out of breath. "You can stack while I cut more?"

"Yes!" Napoleon says, too eagerly. He clears his throat. "Yes, I can do that."

"If it feels like anything is starting to open up or hurt too much, you're to stop and go sit down, yes?"

"Understood," Napoleon says with mock seriousness. Bastien narrows his eyes at him before shaking his head and turning to the door with a grunt that's somewhere between irritation and resignation.

The work, while not particularly difficult, is embarrassingly taxing and it isn't long before Napoleon finds himself working up a sweat. But it's infinitely better than the restless pacing that has been his exercise for the last three weeks, and not as painful as that time he decided to wield an ax two weeks after a bullet decided that through his side would be the best way to get from point A to point B. Then there's the added bonus of actually being somewhat useful. And, if he's being honest, he actually enjoys this kind of physical work. It reminds him of his roots. There's a humbleness to it that he rarely allows himself to experience, and it makes him happy in a way that feels real. Happy in a way that no amount of lavishness can achieve.

It's closer to the happiness that people bring.

Especially one person in particular.

Basien brings in four more loads of wood, and Napoleon is exhausted by the time they've completed the task.

"Why don't you go sit?" Bastien suggests, absently tugging at his beard as he inspects the pile of wood. "I'll make us some tea, and rustle up something to eat. I don't know about you but I have worked up an appetite."

"That actually sounds wonderful," Napoleon says, already turning to go sit down. He collapses into the chair and leans his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes as he lets his body relax. Now that he's not distracted by his work, his attention is drawn to the tenderness of his new scars and the throbbing ache of the crudely carved path that connects them like a tunnel through his body.

"How are you feeling?" Bastien calls, as eerily impeccable with his timing as ever.

"Fine," Napoleon says.

"Really?"

"A little sore," the American admits. "Nothing too serious. You didn't have to pick me up off the ground this time, so I'm taking that as a good sign."

"That is a good sign," Bastien agrees, entering the room with a cup of tea in hand. "Here. I've stew on the stove. The potatoes need to soften so we will have to be patient just a little longer."

Napoleon accepts the tea with a thank you and sips at it. He still doesn't like the stuff, but he's grown to tolerate it in his time here. As he sets the cup down, the wind starts to pick up outside, until it becomes a loud, low whistle, and he looks outside to see what can only be described as, well, a blizzard.

"It seems you were right," Napoleon says, turning away from the window. The second he's facing the kitchen, an aroma floats in that instantly has Napoleon's mouth watering.

It isn't that Bastien's cooking is bad. It's not, and it's certainly not the worst that Napoleon has had. It's just that it's been somewhat...bland. What Napoleon is smelling now is not bland by any stretch of the word. He can smell meat cooking, and sage, rosemary, garlic...It reminds him of his kitchen back home.

"What are you making?" he calls.

Bastien pokes his head around the corner. "Venison stew. It's my schneesturm tradition! This time of year I begin to run low on many ingredients, so I save them for special occasions."

"And snow storms count as a special occasion?"

"Of course! I don't know how many days I-we-will be stuck here. At least I will eat well! And then when the snow begins to melt, I will head to Bürlingen and stock up on flour, spices, and-"

"Wait," Napoleon says. He hadn't thought about it until now, but remembers seeing a town called Bürlingen on the map. If he's right about where he was when he made Illya go on with the child, and based on how far Bastien could have carried him… "It must be some thirty miles from here! Surely that's farther than you could make it in a day."

"Thirty-two miles," Bastien corrects. "And that is only if you go by road. I go through the woods. It is just under twenty miles that way."

Napoleon's mind races. This changes everything. He'd been thinking that the nearest town would be at least two days' journey, with a night spent in the woods, which is something that even he would admit he isn't ready for yet. But under twenty miles? If he left at sunrise, he would make it to the town by dark.

"I could do that," he says aloud.

Bastien snorts, stepping into the room with two bowls in hand. "Perhaps. For now, enjoy your stew."

Napoleon wants to talk about the town more, and the walk there, but the smell of the meal is enough to convince him to eat. After the average meals he's been having the last several weeks, the rich, flavorful stew is almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, and for a few moments it's all he can think about.

But then the meal is over, and Napoleon and Bastien are once again sitting in front of the fire as the storm rages outside.

"I have to get back to London," Napoleon says.

"I know," Bastien says. "You mustn't go before you're ready. If you get caught in the woods after nightfall, you will likely not survive to see morning. Once the storm clears, I will go with you and we'll see how you fare. If you are not ready then, we will try again in a few days, and again until you are well enough to make it. Hört sich das gut an?"

Napoleon would almost rather just try and make it to town as soon as the storm is over, but he knows Bastien is right, so he just nods. "Yeah. That sounds good."

xxx

Napoleon is sure it's the longest blizzard in history. It's been two days, now, and the storm has barely let up. Not that it would matter if it did-he's fairly certain that they're snowed in at this point.

He has no idea when he'll get out of this damned cabin.

He's done a lot of reading. They've played cards, and chess, and swapped war stories. Napoleon has cooked a few meals, much to Bastien's delight.

But it's a long time to be stuck in a small space with one person, and as he sits half-reading Rapunzel, Napoleon is finding it difficult to resist the urge to cave into his nature. He likes to pick at people's brains, to find what makes them tick, to needle and pry and see what comes out, all the while speaking calmly and wearing a smile. He's been pushing back that part of him, because Bastien is a kind man and Napoleon owes him his life. He isn't sure what it is, whether it's the tedium of reading the familiar story or if it's just that this is the most time he and Bastien have spent together, but suddenly he can't take it anymore and he puts his book down.

"You're hiding something," he says, and Bastien looks up from his whittling in surprise. "I haven't pushed it because you have been nothing but good to me, but I'd really like to know what it is. And seeing as we're going to continue to be stuck here together for a while, since you can't got out on account of the blizzard to hunt or chop firewood or whatever else it is you do when you want to avoid my questions, I think now is a good time for it."

He watches Bastien's face, gauging his reaction. He's hard to read, but Napoleon doesn't spot any obvious signs of anger-no tightening of the jaw or thinning of the lips, no flicker behind his eyes, no furrowed brow, even for a second, no stiffening of the posture. In fact, for a long time he doesn't move at all.

And then his shoulders sag, rounding forward, and he puts his head in his hands, and for all of Bastien's stature it makes him look small.

"You are sharp, Solo," he says eventually, lifting his head. "Often too sharp for your own good, I'm sure. And you are right. I...I have not been forthcoming with you, and in doing so have let you believe something which isn't the truth."

Napoleon can tell the man is stalling. "That's a lot of fancy words to tell me you lied to me," he says. Bastien's face pinches and the sadness there fills Napoleon with guilt. He continues in an attempt to smooth things over. "It's alright. I'm a complete stranger. You lied to me. It happens."

"I did not mean to deceive you, Herr Solo. Only, I didn't want you to think less of me." He lets out a small, mirthless laugh. "I did not want you to think me a coward, and so I acted with cowardice. Man is funny that way, hm?" The smile fades, and with it any remnants of that happy facade Napoleon is so used to. What's left is misery and weariness.

"After the invasion of Bruges, after my wife...I escaped to England and joined the British army. All I wanted was to help, to...to fight. But…" He stiffens, and there's a change in his eyes. Napoleon has seen it time and time again in the faces of men recalling the war. He looks lost and hardened and remorseful, all at once. "My books and meager studies did very little to prepare me for the horrors of battle. Men shot full of holes, blown to pieces, losing limbs...I tried. I did. You have to believe me when I say that I tried." His voice is shaking now, and his hands.

"I believe you," Napoleon says, knowing that in this moment offering comfort is more important than whether he actually does.

Bastien swallows and sniffles before continuing. "I and another-his name was Pieter-we were separated from the rest of the men, behind enemy lines. We waited until nightfall to try and make our way back, but we were spotted and Pieter was hit. I acted on instinct. I put him over my shoulder and I ran and I ran until I couldn't run anymore. It wasn't until I put him down that I realized…" He looks down, swallowing hard. "His belly had been opened by the bullets. My…" He reaches back and pats his shoulder, eyes vacant. "My body had been holding everything in. I don't know how he was alive, but he was, and he awoke the instant I put him down. He moaned in agony. He hadn't the strength to scream, you see. He laid there, with his insides in his hands, crying. And he begged me. He begged me to end it."

This isn't the first story like this that Napoleon's heard. He was lucky, really, in his time in the war. While he certainly saw some horrific things, he hadn't had to witness firsthand the kind of carnage and suffering that was known to drive men halfway to madness.

"It was the merciful thing to do," Napoleon says. "Anyone in your place would have-"

"But I didn't," Bastien says, voice barely a whisper. "I didn't do it. I couldn't. He was just a boy, and I had a gun, bullets, but I couldn't...I sat and I listened to him beg until he couldn't speak anymore. I listened to the groans and whimpers fade to the sound of him gurgling, filling his lungs with his own blood. It lasted...hours. Hours, and I just sat in the dark with my hands over my ears humming lullabies. It was daybreak by the time he finally…"

He trails off, staring at the fire. Finally he moves, looking over at Napoleon.

"There is my secret, Solo. That is why I couldn't leave you out there in that snow and why I am so determined not to let you die while you're under my care. My conscience would not allow it." One corner of his mouth twitches up and he looks down, blinking away tears, chin wobbling. "After he breathed his last, I fled and I did not look back. I barely lasted eight weeks. I am not a soldier, or a doctor. I'm a deserter. I'm a coward."

They sit in silence for a long time. The air between them is thick. Bastien has returned to his whittling, but his movements are slow, distracted, and his expression is tense. It's obvious that he's worried about Napoleon's reaction. His opinion. Napoleon feels bad for making him wait, but he wants to say the right thing and for once, the right thing isn't obvious to him. So he says what he thinks is the merciful thing.

"War makes cowards of anyone who sees it, Bastien. Of one sort or another. Anyone who says otherwise is lying."

"What sort are you?"

Napoleon smiles. He should have seen that coming. "The sort that makes up charming stories to explain why I don't like the cold."

Bastien nods, once. The agonized expression has left his face. He'd always seemed at ease before, but Napoleon knows now that he'd been holding tension within him. He knows because that tension has drained from the large man's face, and he seems genuinely at ease. Peaceful even.

It all makes sense, now. The picture on the mirror. The medical supplies in the drawer. The dodging questions, and Bastien's decision to live alone in the woods. The solitude is something that, at one point, Napoleon would have envied.

It's funny how one person can change every carefully laid plan.

As he watches Bastien whittling away, looking somehow lighter just for having spoken a few carefully guarded words, Napoleon has a realization.

He has some carefully guarded words of their own, words that he now realizes need to be spoken. Words that he is determined to speak the moment the right person is there to hear them.

xxx