crossoverfic | The Northstar Affair Man From UNCLE/Meatballs PG

Title: The Northstar Affair
Author: Spikesgirl58
Fandoms: Man From UNCLE, Meatballs
Rating: PG
Warnings: none

Summary: Illya Kuryakin is assigned as a bodyguard to a scientist's young son as he attends Camp Northstar. But who is going to safeguard Illya?

Illya Kuryakin paused in the dark and looked cautiously about. After a long moment, he gestured forward and crept on, closely followed by a group of enthusiastic if inexperienced troops.

Carefully, Illya approached the door and eased it open. Warning squeaks stopped him and he held out a hand. Immediately, an oil can was slapped into it. Two quick gollops and he passed the can back. He again attempted opening the door. This time it moved quietly and Illya nodded.

He navigated his little band past the slumbering form of a woman, who even asleep clutched a meat cleaver to her ample chest.

Grinning, Illya pointed to some shelves and reached for a pillowcase he had draped around his neck. Camp Survival 101 – go for the good stuff first.

Chapter One - ARE YOU READY FOR THE SUMMER?

Illya Kuryakin looked into the cup of candy red liquid and shook his head. “This must have cost all of two cents a gallon,” he muttered and a young boy across the table snickered. Illya winked at him and went gladly back to his coffee and wondered how the kids managed drinking it.

His thoughts trailed off as the head counselor rose and cleared his throat.

"May I have your attention, please?"

"Sure, Mickey!" a barrage of voices shouted.

"That's Morty," the bespectacled man yelled back. "It has been brought to my attention that the pantry was raided last night. Besides a chocolate cake and the cook's private reserve of soda, the camp's entire supply of spinach has vanished. If the guilty party or parties... "

He was drowned out by cheering and Illya decided it was coincidence that Morty happened to be looking straight at him while addressing this problem. For the sake of brotherhood, he joined his table's shouts of approval and smiled at the nearest boy. Yes, that raid had been a most successful affair.

Illya never let his attention stray from the sole purpose for his being here. The scrawny, overactive, brown haired boy was the son of an imminent scientist. Along with be the foremost researcher in the field of astrophysics and atom splicing, he was also the current target of THRUSH. When the young boy insisted he be allowed to attend summer camp, it was decided that it would be with a bodyguard.

Neither UNCLE nor Mr. Waverly could be sure THRUSH would put any moves on the boy, but neither did they believe in taking chances. If THRUSH tried anything, Illya was here to stop them. If not, Illya got to spend six supposedly restful weeks at Camp Northstar, surrounded by pines, bright red ‘bug juice,’ and a head counselor who resembled Bullwinkle the Moose.

Illya put down his coffee mug and toyed with the uneaten portion of his breakfast. He’d eaten worst things in his career as an UNCLE agent, but not much. With any luck, when the parents arrived for the upcoming Parents Day, someone would bring real food.

In the meantime, Illya bade his time, instructing his campers the subtle art of practical jokes. These included how to remove a door from its hinges, the Russian version of short sheeting beds and, most importantly, the correct way of disposing of canned spinach.

For his part, his charge seemed blissfully unaware of being a possible target for THRUSH. He saw nothing more than a promising summer with a less-than-conventional counselor in training and many adventures.

Morty had stormed from the dining hall and Illya signaled his group to move out. Today was special. Today was Parents Day and that was a major event.

Some of these kids were away from home for the first time and anxious to see their parents. Illya was also looking forward to today, for not only it would bring Professor Byrne, but also his bodyguard and Illya’s partner, Napoleon Solo, to Camp Northstar.

Illya missed his partner more than he'd admit to himself. He blamed the feeling on the lack of contact with the outside world. Illya’s only brush with a radio was owned by a female counselor who wasn’t into sharing. Rather than draw any more attention than necessary, Illya chose to remain uninformed.

He followed his boys out, watching them scatter, all getting into position for the arrival of the first cars, his attention never straying very far from the boy. Yet it wasn’t like Eric strayed very far from him. The boy enjoyed his status of being on Illya’s inner circle. It gave the boy prestige and admiration, something Illya doubted he’d ever had before.

“Illya?” Eric toed the dirt, drawing a line with his shoe.

“Yes, Eric?” Illya brought the fingers of one hand to his mouth and whistled sharply. The two boys attempting to balance on the split rails of the fence looked over at him and Illya pointed downward. They jumped off.

“If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

“That is a correct assessment.”

“Am I doing you any favors?”

“I have exchanged the congestion and heat of the city for a cool lake and the smell of pine trees. Yes, Eric, you’ve done me a great favor.”

It was not long afterwards before a vehicle drove through the camp gates, followed by another and another after that, until the fields were packed with cars and trucks.

A dark sedan pulled in and Illya grinned with relief at the familiar visage of his partner, Napoleon Solo, maneuvering the car into an impromptu parking space.

"Eric!" Illya shouted to the boy and pointed. That was all Eric needed; he was off, barely permitting the car to come to a stop. Professor Byrne seemed nearly as excited and bolted from the car to scoop the boy into his arms. Napoleon lagged behind, permitting the two a moment alone.

"Anything?" He nonchalantly posed the question to the blond Russian as he studied the surrounding area.

"Nothing of any consequence. We’ve had to make our own excitement." Illya crossed his arms over his 'Camp Northstar' shirt and studied his partner. Napoleon had a fading bruise on one cheek. “You, on the other hand, seem to have had some trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Have you had any likely bird sightings?”

"There is nothing going on here that suggests THRUSH is even aware of Eric’s presence here. The villains at Camp Mohawk are another story all together." Illya snapped his fingers. "I need you to do me a favor, since you have a vehicle. About five miles back up the road, there’s the turnoff for Camp Mohawk."

"I remember it."

"If you follow it about a mile, you'll come to a wide spot in the road. There is a small path that leads to a shallow cove."

"Yes?"

"So, if you check under the bank on the right side, you'll find 100 pounds of prime rib."

"Prime rib?" Solo repeated a bit too loudly for Illya's taste.

"Shh,” Illya warned, looking over his shoulder for Morty. "It was the fruits of our labor after one of our more successful raiding parties."

"You’re teaching these young kids how to steal, Illya?"

"I’m teaching them how to survive in a hostile world, Napoleon. You stick around here for a few meals and you’ll be prepared to engage upon a life of crime as well. Believe me when I say that the act was born out of desperation. Just tell Morty that it’s a gift from Eric’s father. He’ll never know the difference."

"It's still stealing. One hundred pounds..."

"...and five cans of caviar," Illya added, shading his eyes to watch his campers. “Your payment for hauling it back here.”

"Five?"

"Bulgarian. Very good stuff, I kept a can for myself." Illya shrugged his shoulders. "Still, if you’re not interested.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

"I can't. He doesn't trust me."

"He's not the only one. Where did you learn such subversive tactics?"

"My partner taught me well." Illya smiled and then straightened at the sight of Eric dragging his father towards them. Behind them hovered a pair of younger men and the Russian eyed them warily.

"Who are the tailgaters?" He posed the question casually to Napoleon.

"Ours. Mr. Waverly didn't think I could handle this all by myself."

Illya reached out and touched the bruise on Napoleon’s cheek. “Probably a good idea. You are getting on in years, after all." He was spared Solo's comeback by Eric’s arrival.

"Papa, this is Illya, our counselor in training. He's so much fun! He's teaching us all sorts of useful crafts."

The scientist studied Illya as he held out his hand. "I have heard a lot about you during the past ten minutes, Mr. Kuryakin. It’s been ‘Illya this’ and ‘Illya that’. You have made quite an impression upon my son, young man. Thank you for taking the time to watch out for him. This was a new experience for him."

"For me as well, sir.” They shook hands and Illya turned his attention to the hovering boy. “Eric, why don't you escort your father to the craft hall? You can show him what you made yesterday."

"Right! You’ll love this, Papa, and you said I wouldn't be any good with tools. Everyone else was making bookends. I made a guillotine!" The boy grabbed his father’s hand and was off, all enthusiasm, leaving behind a satisfied Russian and an interested Napoleon.

"You taught a nine year old how to make a guillotine?” Napoleon asked, nonplussed.

“Who needs yet another set of bookends? This one will trim cigars nicely, which Eric tells me his father is quite fond of.”

“And don’t I know it? He’s as bad as Waverly and his pipe”

“I thought that aftershave wasn’t quite you.” At Napoleon's sour look, Illya chuckled. "Just kidding, Napoleon. Would you like me to show you around?"

Napoleon's eye was caught by a passing woman counselor. "No, I think I'll just poke around."

"Good poking. Just remember to ask their age first." he murmured as Napoleon walked away and he returned to his campers.

Chapter Two - ARE YOU READY FOR THE HOT NIGHTS?

Napoleon Solo picked his way through the underbrush and sighed. He was certain Illya meant this particular bend. Yet he could see nothing of the package his partner had described. So intent was he in his search that he drew up a second too late at the sound of a twig breaking.

"Grab 'em!” The voice came out of nowhere and he tried to struggled, but was out‑ numbered. A sack was pulled over his head. Warm, dusty darkness replaced the cool crisp mountain air and he coughed as the dust filled his mouth and nose. His arms were bound behind him and he was pushed forward.

The sounds of laughing kids told him they were close to camp grew nearer and he was gently led up a flight of stairs. When he was pushed down onto something lumpy, he guessed it to be a mattress. Suddenly, Napoleon became aware of giggling and he struggled to sit up.

"What's going on here?" Napoleon jumped as the sack was jerked from his head. Napoleon made a face at the fading sunlight. Gradually, his eyes adjusted and he saw several girls, all very young, and an obviously upset woman. He guessed it was their counselor.

"Another sex slave, girls? You can't just go hauling men back to your cabin.”

“We were trying for Illya, but he’s too fast for us.”

“Fast?” There was a high-pitched squeal of delight and Napoleon winced.

“How else are we going to get some to do our stuff for us?”

“You’ve got to stop trying to kidnap people. You need to learn to do your own… chores.”

“But my governess said that would make me go blind.”

“Or get hairy palms.”

“Or have to wear glasses.”

“Illya wears glasses… ”

Napoleon shied away at another onslaught of squeals and laughter.

The female counselor pointed. “Go! Now! Back to the lodge, but before you go, apologize to the nice man… who hopefully won’t be filing a complaint against all of you."

The young girls filed past Napoleon, each mumbling an apology.”

“We’re sorry, mister.”

“We really did think you were Illya.”

“Don’t tell my parents, please?”

Once the counselor was satisfied, she pointed to the door. There were several protests, dragging of feet, but the young girls all eventually departed.

"I'm really sorry this happened, Mr...?"

"Solo, Napoleon Solo." He smiled at her and immediately, he reached up to smooth his hair into place. "No harm done. Sex slave, huh?"

"They got the idea from one of those horrible romance novels they read. My name is Andi Burke, long suffered counselor of Cabin Ten.”

“I’m pleased to meet you. Do they do this often?”

“You are the fourth or fifth one they managed to drag back here. Thank the heavens, Mick… Morty hasn’t stumbled in on them. I'm just surprised it wasn't Illya. He's practically all they’ve talked about since they caught sight of him in his swimming trunks. God help him if they grab him and I’m not around to save his… virtue."

“Mr. Kuryakin is a very good friend of mine and I assure you your girls would be safe with him.”

“It’s not the girls I’m worried about. One more wistful comment about his butt and I'll scream."

Napoleon's grin nearly wrapped itself around his ears. He rose and held out a hand. "Well, thank you for my timely rescue."

“What were you doing down there?”

“Illya sent me to look for something for you.”

“The meat? We found it this morning when Helen fell in during a daybreak hike. We turned it into M… Morty.”

“Everyone seems to have trouble with his name.”

“It’s an old joke. Mr. Solo. Are you staying tonight?"

"I hadn't planned to. Why do you ask?"

"Nearly everyone who isn’t staying has left. It's almost eight."

"What? Illya will be wondering where I got to. Could you show me the way to the main lodge?"

Chapter Three - "BIRDS AND BEES AND APPLE TREES"

To Napoleon's great disappointment, Andi wasn’t as romantically inclined as her girls ‑. Even the patented Solo charm failed to warm the lady's heart and Napoleon suddenly found himself alone, in the moonlight, by the lake, with no one but himself for company.

He sighed, reflecting upon the twist of fate when a movement on the lake drew his attention. He squatted and stared long and hard. Then, quickly he made his way back to the camp.

Illya Kuryakin lounged on his cot, reading over a comic book one of his kids had loaned him and listening for any suspicious noises. After last night’s raid and today’s excitement, most of his campers were asleep before 'lights out' was sounded.

A noise startled him, bringing him upright, pistol at the ready, as Napoleon barged in.

"So, there you are," Illya said tucking the weapon away. "I thought Mr. Waverly might have called you back to New York. “Where did you get to?"

"I got captured as a sex slave and then trotted down the garden path and this is the welcome I get?"

"Sex slave, huh? Must be Cabin Ten ‑ the jail bait cabin. They're all dressed up with no place to go, if you know what I mean."

“I know exactly what you mean. They were ready to take me for a spin, only slightly disappointed that it wasn’t you, but that's not why I'm here. I saw something out on the lake, and it's coming this way."

"What sort of something?"

"A boat, I think. Perhaps THRUSH has decided to make its move."

Illya grimaced and stood, stiff from one too many games of baseball and slightly sunburned. He dug a pair of infra-red binoculars out of his dirty clothes and gestured. "Lead on."

He followed Napoleon down to the landing and used the binoculars to peer out over the black water.

"Not THRUSH, Napoleon, Indians.”

“Indians? In this part of the state?”

“Mohawks, campers from across the lake. We've got a raiding party on our hands and they’re bent on a little revenge I would say." Illya started to leave and Napoleon hesitated.

"Where are you going?"

"Reinforcements. If Custer had only waited, it would have ended better for him.”

Chapter Four - AND A WHOLE LOT OF MESSING AROUND.

Napoleon Solo hid in the low brush that skirted either side of the landing dock and waited. His attention split between the approaching canoes and the four kids who were half submerged in the water.

As soon as the canoes beached and the occupants had fled silently up the embankment towards the slumbering camp, Napoleon gestured to the boys. "Okay, move out and make sure you make the holes just above the water line."

"Gee, Mr. Solo, you're nearly as good at this as Illya is."

"Who do you think taught him? Once you are through. Head back to your cabin and await further instructions." He waited for all of them to nod before trailing after the raiding party

He kept a fair distance between himself and the others, his mind not even attempting to contemplate what his partner was up to. He hadn’t seen Illya quite this creative in a long time. Obviously, Waverly’s decision to send the agent off with the boy had been a good one. Illya was rested, relaxed, and apparently well in touch with his inner child… well, inner juvenile delinquent might be closer.

Napoleon stopped and dropped behind a garbage can.

"I think we should shoot for Blondie and forget trashing the mess tent. He's the problem. Besides, what could we possibly find over here that's remotely edible?"

There was some discussion, but the first speaker was overruled and the party once again moved out, this time in the direction of the mess hall.

Discreetly, Napoleon watched the group as they entered the hall. He peered around the door jam, eyes squinting to make out the figures in the low light.

"Boy, these guys are slobs. This floor is as sticky as glue."

"Close, very close.” Napoleon heard Illya murmur and he realized his partner was standing right beside him. Illya leaned in and flipped on the lights

The Mohawks realized they were standing in a thick pool of molasses. Before they could react, they were hit by water, a lot of it. The water was followed by a shower of flour, all delivered by several very determined Northstar campers.

“Disappear, Napoleon. I’ll meet you back at the cabin.” Illya followed after his camper.

The Mohawks yelled and clambered from the cookhouse, running helter-skelter towards their canoes. One was tackled and his shirt ripped from him. A sharp whistle called off the attack and the Northstar boys disappeared into the woods as the camp began to wake to the commotion. Napoleon stayed in the shadows and laughed.

****

Morty slammed into cabin. Napoleon and Illya, sitting at small table, looked up from their card game.

"Hey, Morty, what's happening out there?” Illya lifted a bottle of beer in a salute to him. “Why are you doing up at this time of night?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Morty pushed his glasses up on the nose.

"I'm playing cards with my friend here."

“Were you two responsible for that ruckus?"

"I've been here all night, Morty. Ask Mr. Solo. He'll vouch for me."

"And your campers?"

"Sound asleep. Check on them if you’d like."

"I...have." Morty made a 'what's the use?' motion and snatched the bottle of beer from Illya. “Alcohol isn’t permitted on the premises,” he snapped and stormed out of the cabin.

"So," Napoleon said as Illya let out a sigh "What do you do around here for excitement?" Silently, Illya reached beneath his mattress and pulled out a can of caviar. He held it up for Napoleon’s inspection. “With beer? You really are part Cossack, aren’t you?”

Illya laughed and pointed. “There’s vodka in my shaving kit. A Cossack, never. A Gypsy, perhaps.”

*****

Illya Kuryakin watched his friend drive off and waved at the back of the car, taking a moment to glance up at the Mohawk tee shirt that waved merrily in the breeze from the flag pole.

Only two more weeks and he'd have to go back to the sweltering heat of the city, the paperwork, and rush hour traffic.

A man could get fond of this, he decided. Then a sack was thrown over his head.