Bastien's plan, it turns out, was a good one.
The first time, they only make it a few miles before Napoleon is out of breath and he hurts so bad he can hardly think, and it's a miracle he makes it back to the cabin. But he exercises a little every day (a regime carefully set by Bastien that's mindful of Napoleon's wound and limitations, while still pushing him) and the next time he makes it a little further, and the next time, even further. On the in-between days, he does his exercises and helps Bastien with his daily tasks and he grows stronger.
It's on the fifth attempt that Bastien slows wordlessly to a stop.
"What is it?" Napoleon asks in a low voice. He's hardly even winded, and is certain that he could make it a great deal further. "Is there something out there?"
Bastien shakes his head once.
"I could keep going. I feel good."
Bastien finally turns to him and there's a smile in his eyes. "You see that tree up ahead? The one with the split trunk?"
Napoleon follows his gaze. "I do."
"Do you know what that is?"
"Uh…" Napoleon looks at it for a long moment. "European beech?"
The man lets out a laugh. "Well, yes. You're right. But it is more than that. That, Solo, is the halfway point. If you make it back to the cabin in good health, then we will know you are ready to go to Bürlingen. Then tomorrow we can rest and gather supplies, and the day after that, walk to town. From there it is just a ferry and a train ride back to London."
The rush of feelings that comes with Bastien's words is unexpected and overwhelming, and far too fast for Napoleon to prepare for, hitting him so hard that it causes a physical reaction-He's suddenly lightheaded, his legs turning to jelly and his knees buckling. Before he knows it's happening, he's leaning heavily against the nearest tree, narrowly avoiding ending up ass-down in the snow.
"Herr Solo?" Bastien says in alarm. "Are you alright?
Napoleon looks up at him and nods with a wide-eyed stare. He blinks a few times and straightens up. "Yes, thank you, I'm alright just…It's been so long." Then, as he has so many times before, he finds himself bearing his soul to the stranger (though he's somewhat less of a stranger now) before him. "I've been waiting to go back for so long. And now it's almost here and, I...I'm ready, Bastien, I'm so ready, but I'm also afraid. Afraid that they've moved on."
Afraid that they don't miss me they way I've been missing them, that they don't need me anymore…
"Don't be silly," Bastien says, interrupting Napoleon's spiral of worst-case scenarios. His expression is warm and knowing and Napoleon almost wonders if the man is secretly Santa Claus or something. "Come, we must be getting back if we're to make it before dark."
He doesn't wait for Napoleon to respond before he turns around and starts walking back the way they came.
Napoleon looks at the forked tree for a few moments longer before he turns and follows Bastien back to the cabin.
xxx
He lays awake for hours, the anticipation of his impending journey home rendering him sleepless. Excitement mixes with nerves as his mind cycles through varied scenarios. He isn't sure how much time has passed with him staring at the orange glow of the embers dancing on the ceiling, but he sees the dark outside just beginning to lighten before he finally drifts off.
There's faint gray light coming in through the window when Napoleon is awakened by the sound of Bastien crying out, followed by a long string of swearing the likes of which he has never heard. He hears at least four different languages-wait, five-including some especially creative expletives that he tucks away for future use even as he scrambles to his feet and runs for the back door, grabbing one of Bastien's coat as he goes and pulling it on before bursting out into the early morning.
He doesn't even notice the cold snow on his bare feet.
"Bastien!"
The Belgian is sitting in the snow, holding his booted left foot. There's blood on his hands and his foot and in a dark red patch in the snow. He stops swearing as Napoleon approaches and looks up at him.
"You could have put your shoes on first," he says. "It is only a small cut, Solo, I'm not dying!" His voice is taut with pain, his face pinched even as he tries to smile.
Napoleon doesn't have time to panic before he kicks into spy mode, all of his first-aid training rushing to the front of his mind. He's at Bastien's side before he realizes he's started moving, and then he's kneeling in the cold, white powder. It's hard to tell with all the blood, but after a cursory examination it doesn't appear to be too severe of a wound and no part of the appendage seems to be detached. Whether it really is just a nick remains to be seen.
"Will you be able to walk to the house?"
Bastien manages a laugh and raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to carry me?"
"Right. Let's get you inside," he says, bending down and pulling Bastien's arm around his shoulders. "I'm going to stand. Try not to put any weight on it."
He straightens, to let Bastien get his good leg beneath him and trying not to grunt under the large man's weight. It's the most strain he's put on his abdominal muscles in a good long while, and if he weren't so wrapped up in the current medical emergency he might be excited about the fact that all he feels from the site of the wound is a distant, dull ache. Bastien moves well despite his injury, and they make it into the cabin without much incident, Bastien remaining stoically quiet except to make a small remark about more blood on the floor. Napoleon briefly considers guiding him to the bedroom since it's closer and the medical supplies are in there, but the front room has better lighting so he makes the decision to keep going, down the hall a few more yards until he can finally lower Bastien gracelessly into his chair.
"Danke," Bastien says softly, and there's sweat beading his forehead.
Napoleon catches his breath for just a moment before saying, "Don't wander off." Bastien lets out a short bark of sarcastic laughter at that, as Napoleon doubles back and goes to Bastien's dresser where he knows the medical supplies are. He finds the bandages and iodine easily enough. It takes him longer to find a needle and thread, which he finally discovers tucked into an old tobacco tin. He grabs everything and returns to the front room.
"Danke," Bastien says again, leaning forward to unlace his shoes. "I will take it from here."
"No you won't," Napoleon responds, hurriedly setting everything on the ground and then swatting Bastien's hand away. "It's my turn to take care of you for a change. I've done enough field medicine to handle this. Can you wiggle your toes?"
There's a pause, and Bastien grimaces but nods. "Yes."
Napoleon tries not to let it show in his face just how relieved he is to hear that; if Bastien can move his toes, it's likely the tendons and bones in his foot are still intact. Which means that his first-aid training and field experience really should be enough. He doesn't say any of this. Instead he simply replies, "Good," as he loosens the laces on Bastien's boot. He removes it as carefully as he can.
The thick, wool sock underneath is dark and soaked through with blood, and as Napoleon removes it Bastien makes a sound, and Napoleon immediately stops moving.
"Did I hurt you?"
Bastien shakes his head once, and he looks embarrassed. "These are my best socks," he says.
Napoleon snorts and pulls the sock the rest of the way off. The gash is just at the base of Bastien's big toe, and pretty deep, though thankfully not too long. Napoleon isn't very good at stitches, and the fewer he has to do, the better.
"It isn't too bad," Napoleon says, looking up at Bastien. "Once I clean it and give you a few stitches it should be okay." As he continues, there's a sinking feeling. "But you're going to have to be careful of that foot at least until the stitches are ready to come out. In fact, it would be better to avoid standing on it altogether. Where do you keep your liquor? I need to clean this."
"In the cabinet beneath the counter."
Napoleon moves slower than he should, but he needs a few moments to process the disappointment. With this new development, he can't, with a clear conscience, walk to town tomorrow. Not just because Bastien won't be able to guide him the rest of the way through the woods, but because Napoleon can't leave him to and fend for himself, injured as he is.
Napoleon owes him at least that much.
Napoleon owes him his life.
He won't begrudge the man a week or two, as much as it hurts him to have to put off his reunion with his fellow UNCLE agents any longer than he already has. So he lets the sadness wash over him, and then he returns to the front room with a bottle of spirits and his usual coy expression arranged carefully on his features and gets started, pouring the alcohol over Bastien's foot. The man hisses in pain, his foot jerking slightly, and Napoleon murmurs an apology.
"It will need stitches," the Belgian says in response, leaning around to get a look at the wound.
"I'd say about six or eight," Napoleon responds. He looks up. "Would you agree, doctor?"
Bastien narrows his eyes at the wound and then at Napoleon. "I suppose that would do it, yes."
Napoleon grins and pulls out the suture kit.
"Have you done this before, Solo?" Bastien asks. He sounds nervous, and his expression is unsure.
"A few times. And I used to help my mother tailor clothes as an adolescent. I've become quite adept with a needle and thread."
"I am not a pair of trousers."
Napoleon lets out a laugh at that. "You had better be careful, Bastien. You make a joke like that while I'm stitching you up and I may put a stitch in the wrong place."
"I was not joking," Bastien mumbles. Napoleon pretends not to hear.
"You need a drink before I do this?" he asks.
Bastien responds by sticking his hand out, and Napoleon hands him the bottle, chugging a bit before setting the empty bottle on the little table beside him. "Alright."
There are a few minutes of silence as Napoleon carefully stitches the wound. Bastien stays very still and very quiet through the procedure, but the air is thick between them. It's been awhile since Napoleon stitched a person, and he finds it oddly calming-not the circumstances, but the familiar repetitive motion. He really had spent years of his youth helping his mother sew, and before he had made a name and small fortune for himself, he would tailor his own suits. It's another of those few special activities that reminds Napoleon of his humble roots. But even as his mind wanders, it keeps making its way back to what he has to do. He waits until he's finished tying off the last stitch before he speaks.
"Bastien-"
"No," Bastien interrupts, much to Napoleon's astonishment (though at this point he shouldn't be surprised).
"I-"
"You are not staying," Bastien says firmly.
Napoleon draws his mouth into a thin line as he rips open a package and pulls out the bandage inside, then tapes it carefully to the top of Bastien's foot.
"I can't leave you here like this," he says. "I owe you my life. And I don't like owing people."
"Consider your debt repaid," Bastien answers. "Those are some very tidy stitches. I don't know that I could have done better myself! I have already packed most of the things you will need. You need to go tomorrow."
"I can wait a few more days. I'll at least stay until the stitches are out. Besides, if I'm to make it to Bürlingen I'll need someone familiar with these woods to guide me. You're certainly not going to make it all the way there in one day on that foot."
"You're a good liar, Solo." Something in his voice gives Napoleon pause, and he has the distinct impression that Bastien sees more of Napoleon than Napoleon thought he was letting show. "And you've concealed nearly everything about yourself, and very well. But I know how smart you are. I saw it from the first moment you were awake. Standing there-" He gestures at the corner of the room. "-with my knife in your hand. I could see how you observed the room. And that was before I knew how many languages you speak, how well read you are. How skilled. If you tell me truthfully that you could not go out there and find the forked tree on your own, then I will drop the matter and you can stay as long as you like."
Napoleon doesn't answer. He could, of course. Between his keen sense of direction and his sharp memory, he knows he could easily make it back to the tree, following the exact route they'd taken yesterday. He considers lying, but he doesn't think Bastien would buy it.
"What about after I get to the tree? I don't know the way from there."
"I've a compass. Once you get to the tree, go northwest until you reach it. It is really very simple."
Napoleon sighs. "Bastien, I appreciate it. I do. But I can't in good conscience-"
"You have to," Bastien says. His face and tone are more serious than Napoleon has seen him. "The ferry that leaves the day after tomorrow is the last of the season. If you don't go tomorrow you will have to stay here until April."
Napoleon's heart sinks. A few days, weeks even, he could do. But months…
"I will be okay, Solo." The Belgian's voice is soft. "I have survived worse. I have lived alone here all of these years. As much as I have enjoyed your company, when you aren't a complete nervensäge, if I keep you from your Illya any longer then it will be I who owes you a favor. And that is something I dislike even more than you do."
They're both quiet for a long time. Napoleon looks down at the floor, and he can feel Bastien's eyes drilling into him. He finally lifts his gaze.
"Thank you."
"Bitte. Now go get your bag from my bed, we should make sure you have what you need. You must be ready for your journey tomorrow. And put on some socks, your feet are making me cold just looking at them."
Napoleon does so, pulling on his socks before padding over to Bastien's room and grabbing the pack that's sitting on the foot of the bed. It's heavier than he expects, and he realizes he has no idea what's inside it. Or when Bastien even packed it, for that matter.
He brings it up when he enters the front room. "When did you do this?"
"I started getting things together after the first walk into the woods," Bastien replies.
"Couldn't wait to get me out of here, huh?"
Bastien chuckles. "Precisely."
Napoleon opens the bag and starts pulling items out to take inventory, setting them on the empty chair. There's a muslin sack on top that contains a waterproof case of matches, hardtack and venison jerky, several pairs of wool socks, and a nightshirt which is too big for Napoleon but which will do fine for one night. It's when he removes that that he sees what must be contributing to the heft of the bag.
There's a book, a plain brown hardcover. He pulls it out and turns it over in his hands. On the spine printed in gold, are the words Walden oder Leben in den Wäldern. He traces his fingers gently over the letters and then looks up at Bastien.
"I can't take this," he says.
"Do you know what Walden means?"
"It's a surname. Anglo-Saxon, I believe," Napoleon answers.
"Mmhm. But do you know what it means?"
Napoleon shakes his head.
"It means 'foreigner from a wooded valley,'" Bastien says. "Perhaps you could take it home with you, and read it at your own Walden Pond."
"I…" Napoleon is at a loss for words. He doesn't know what he did to deserve this man's generosity, or his kindness, or his German translation of Walden, but he's overcome by emotion that makes it impossible to speak. When he finally finds his voice, all he can think to say is, "I have a collection."
"That does not come as a surprise, Solo."
"But I can't, Bastien," Napoleon says at last, speaking firmly. "You have already given me too much. This would-this would be far, far too much. But thank you."
"Very well," Bastien says. "There are still a few more things to be packed. Your wallet is on the mantle, and you'll need to get my compass from there as well, and the hunting knife. And before you argue I have another compass, which I don't need because I know these woods very well, and another knife which is better than that one anyway. And a hunting rifle. I would be very upset if I nursed you back to health only for you to get lost in the woods and, defenseless, be torn to bits by wild animals."
"There must be some way I can repay you for what you've done," Napoleon says as he pulls the items down from the mantle. He opens his wallet and pulls out the cash he has there for emergencies. He holds it out to Bastien. "Here. It's not much, and some if it is dollars and pounds instead of francs, but maybe-"
Bastien gently pushes Napoleon's hand away. "You will need it to pay for lodging and travel." He takes a deep breath and lets it out, and as he does his shoulders relax. "I came out here after the war to hide. To hide from what I had done. I thought that living a simple life would, how would you say...reinige mich."
"Purify you? Or...Cleanse you?"
Bastien nods. "Cleanse me, yes. But it did not. My life is peaceful, but I did not find peace. Even in this private serenity, this soul of mine is...restless. There is a hole that was ripped open when I pulled that trigger. Then I found you in the woods. I did what I felt I had to do, for no reason other than that. But then you woke, and you told me of the people waiting for you, and I realized that more than just keeping you alive, I could help you get home to them. I could do for you what I could not do for him. I don't know how you ended up here, in such a state. I don't know who you are outside of this cabin. Honestly I can say that I prefer it that way. The point is, whoever you are, I think you ended up here for a reason. You mended my soul, Herr Solo. The hole is still there, but it is not so gaping and it does not hurt so much." He stares at Napoleon, and the agent could almost swear there are tears in the big man's eyes.
He finally looks away, laughing a little. "Forgive me. I am talking nonsense. Too many books! And too much alcohol."
"No," Napoleon says, not mentioning the fact that he's fairly sure the amount of alcohol left in that bottle would have come nowhere close to making the big man drunk. "No, not at all. Truthfully, I wish I could speak the way you do, but anytime I try all that comes out is...insolence and teasing."
"The words are there, Solo. I have heard them. They want to be spoken. You just have to let them."
Napoleon looks down and begins returning the items to the bag, speaking as he does. "I've never met anyone that sees through me quite the way you do. And you always know just what to say. I have to ask." He looks up at Bastien and locks eyes with him, making sure his expression remains serious. "Are you Saint Peter?"
Bastien bursts into laughter, loud and boisterous, and Napoleon can't help but let out a chuckle himself. The Belgian finally settles down, wiping at his eyes.
"I see you read Kinder-und Hausmärchen! I didn't think you were a fan of fairy tales."
"I'm not, until all other options are exhausted."
Bastien smiles and sighs. "No, I am not Saint Peter, or Saint anyone. I am simply a man who spends far too much time reading."
"Personally, I don't think it's possible for one to spend too much time reading," Napoleon says. It's at that moment that his stomach growls, loudly enough for Bastien to make a face, and he clears his throat in embarrassment, and to try and cover another rumble. "How about I rustle us up some lunch?"
Bastien makes a noise and pats his stomach. "Rustle away!"
As Napoleon walks to the little kitchen and starts pulling out ingredients, it occurs to him that after this, the next meal he cooks will be in his own kitchen. The thought makes his heart glow.
xxx