Nola - Out of the Vaults

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

I was looking for something else and ran across this.  I know it was written for a PicFic two years ago, but I'm running it again here.  It's a rather heartwarming piece...
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The dingy apartment was a pathetic homage to the man who had lived and died here. Cluttered with old newspapers and other bits of a life lived without any sign of discipline, it reeked of the mismanagement that had marked the sad existence of Norman Sachs.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had followed the low level THRUSH operative through a myriad of failed schemes and disappointing contacts with even lower level personnel. Now, standing in his apartment, they each felt a sense of remorse at the death of this seemingly insignificant man.

Norman Sachs was seated in what was assumed to be his favorite chair; on the nearby table were his glasses and a half empty glass of milk. Illya made an involuntary face as he sniffed the contents, the sour smell foul in his nose.

"Mr. Sachs was not a meticulous man on any level. I wonder how anyone could live in this … " Words failed Kuryakin. Even in his poorest dwelling among others of similar lack, he had never seen a place as unkempt as this apartment.

Napoleon nodded his agreement, all the while being careful to not brush up against anything. He was wearing a new suit.

Sachs had died suddenly, the hole in his forehead the only clue necessary as to how. The puzzle in all of this, aside from who exactly had pulled the trigger, was what Norman Sachs held in his right hand. Gleaming silver and by far the cleanest thing in the otherwise dirty room, clenched in the dead man's fist was a straight edge razor, like the type used for shaving or cutting hair. Napoleon contemplated removing it, deciding it was more prudent to wait for a forensics team.

"Why do you think he had this in his hand?" Napoleon was still puzzling over it.

"A weapon, perhaps… or a quick shave." Illya's sense of humor was dry by the most stringent standards, and Solo suppressed a cackle at the irony of the victim taking time to shave in the midst of his topsy-turvy dwelling.

"Maybe… but I doubt it. I do think he knew whoever it is who killed him. It doesn't look as though he tried to get away, but he was sitting here with a razor in his hand and a glass of soured milk on the table…" Odd. It was very odd.

As Illya continued to search the apartment, Napoleon was deep in thought concerning the oddity of the razor. His eyes were looking for anything, any clue as to why it was there when suddenly he caught sight of something beneath a crumpled newspaper. Leaning over, his fingers grabbed onto what he now recognized as hair; quite a lot of hair and all of it he could see bound on one end by a rubber band.

"Hey, Illya! I've got something,' Napoleon called out to his partner as he pulled the detached ponytail from beneath the newspaper. The blond appeared in the doorway, but not alone. He had the other end of the ponytail: a ragged looking girl whose hair had been recently and very badly cut.

"Whoa, what have we here?" The agent wielding a blonde ponytail held it up, gauging the likelihood that it belonged to the girl now in Illya's grasp. She wriggled and tried to get away, but the Russian's large hand easily wrapped around her lean arm.

"Let me go, you … you…" In a lightening quick movement she kicked Kuryakin in his left shin, quickly backing away from him when he reacted by loosening his grip. Napoleon was there, however, and soon the young girl found herself in an equally solid hold. Still squirming and shouting, Napoleon spun her around and spoke, the Solo charm working its magic even on the rambunctious girl.

"Hey, calm down, we aren't going to hurt you. My name is Napoleon. Will you tell me yours, please?" That seemed to have some effect on the girl and she nodded, mesmerized by the softly hued eyes. She nodded her head, an involuntary smile transforming her from a scared and shaggy little girl into a pretty young woman.

"Nola. And that man,' she pointed to Norman Sachs with a quivering finger and a new fount of tears in her eyes.

"He was going to pay me, but then…" And that's when she broke down and sobbed into the arms of Napoleon Solo and his new suit.
Illya tsked silently, glad that it would only be a dry cleaning bill this time and not an entirely new suit on the expense report. Napoleon was comforting Nola, wondering what she had been about to tell them.

Illya knew. Nola was selling her hair.

"Nola, did Norman cut off your hair and promise to pay you for it?" The girl extricated herself from the warmth of Napoleon's embrace to look at the other man, the blond. She liked his accent, and looking at him now she was sorry to have kicked him.

"Yes,' her reply was quiet, like a whisper. "I'm sorry I kicked you, but I was scared. I thought you were with that other man, the one who shot Mr. Sachs." It was Illya's turn to nod. He had been very abrupt.

"I apologize as well; I did not intend to frighten you. We will protect you.' Instinctively the Russian knew she was alone. "Do you have a family?" That brought a sullen expression and then a softer, resigned sigh that confirmed what Illya had surmised.

"No, I … uh, I live downstairs.' At the looks on the men's faces she added, "In the basement. No one really pays attention to me down there, and Mr. Sachs used to help me out sometimes." Napoleon was getting the picture now of how this had been, how desperate some people were in life.

"You mean like paying you for your…' he held up the ponytail. "Did he pay you?" Nola teared up again as she shook her head. "No, he didn't get a chance. He had just cut it off, with that razor. Someone knocked on the door and he told me to go into the bedroom, so I did." Napoleon and Illya had a pretty good idea what had happened next, but they let the girl continue her narrative.

"I went in there,' she pointed to the bedroom where Illya had found her. "Norman said 'come in' and a man came inside. I peeked to see him, but he didn't see me. Anyway, Norman said something to him, sort of low so I couldn't really hear it. Then the man shot him. It was so fast, and it didn't make any noise, just sort of pfft. And then he started searching for something, and that's when I hid under the bed." Illya wondered if that accounted for the mess in the apartment.

The UNCLE agents knew there was no alternative to taking Nola back to Headquarters where she could be questioned and given a safe place to stay, at least for a while. Neither man could fathom sending her back to the basement of this building to fend for herself.

"Nola, we want to take you to our Headquarters. We work for a law enforcement agency, and we can protect you. The people who are responsible for killing Norman might come after you,' Solo brushed a strand of hair off of her forehead… "and we can't let that happen. Okay?" Nola was helpless to object.

Illya had been in contact with Waverly who in turn was sending a crew to liaison with the police on this unfortunate situation. For the time being it was decided to bring in Nola and her ponytail, leaving the crime scene intact for the forensics teams, both NYPD and UNCLE.

Upon arriving at UNCLE Headquarters Napoleon enlisted the aid of Heather McNabb to take Nola and get her situated in one of the available sleeping quarters. He also suggested she find some suitable clothing for the young woman. The same had been done for others in less dire circumstances, and Solo's heart went out to the girl who had sacrificed her hair in order to make a little money. Now she had neither the money nor her hair.

Illya was observing the situation, watching Nola and very aware of how easily she had melted into his partner's arms. What fascinated him more, however, was how easily Napoleon capitulated to this kind of tenderness. The contrast between that and his well documented role of reigning Casanova here in New York's office seemed somehow disparate in character. Illya was himself very empathetic to the girl's situation, his own past a patchwork of both poverty and substance, memories of both isolation and family. This girl was as he had once been, and it tore at something within him that was usually held in reserve, beyond reach of the casual observer.

Nola was led through the peculiar chrome colored corridors like Alice entering Wonderland. It was at once both fantastic and terrifying, making her feel as though she might be in the bowels of some alien ship. Once she was situated in the sleeping quarters, Heather suggested a shower before ordering dinner from the Canteen. It felt good to stand beneath the water, and shampooing her newly shorn head was less trouble than usual. The dim basement seemed very far away by now.

Wrapped in a comfy white terrycloth robe, the girl was not too embarrassed to admit she hadn't eaten yet today. While the guest of UNCLE launched into a hearty meal of chicken noodle soup and freshly baked bread, Heather had one more surprise: an armload of clothes that would turn out to be a perfect fit for the girl.

"Why are you all doing this for me? You could have just turned me over to the cops… er, the police. Why didn't you?" Nola was nearly unbelieving as she picked up each piece of clothing, giddy at the treasure trove before her.

"Mr. Solo was very concerned about your safety. Both he and Mr. Kuryakin felt you might be in danger anywhere else but here. They're the good guys, Nola. They will keep you safe; you can trust them." Nola nodded, understanding and believing what Heather told her.

"And tomorrow we'll get you that haircut. I'm afraid the razor really did a number on your hair.' Heather wondered how attached the girl was to her hair, or if she even cared that it was all gone now. "Are you going to be sad, to have short hair?" Nola smiled now, and Heather was struck at the girl's natural beauty.

"No, I love short hair. I want to look like Twiggy!" And suddenly Heather saw it, the big eyes and the waifish appearance of the girl. She did have that London look that was so popular. It wasn't a look that she could pull off, but Nola had it.

Heather left her young ward in a blissful state, admiring her new clothes and looking forward to the next day's activities. Her dreams tonight would be of dark eyes and softly spoken words.

The next morning, Heather arrived at Nola's room to take her to get a haircut. The night had been such a relief to the girl who lived in a basement; it was luxurious by her standards. Most of all, she hadn't been afraid. As she peeked out the door at Heather a smile greeted the older woman, sheer pleasure at what was coming next.

As Nola sat in the stylist's chair she was scrutinized by George Previn, hairstylist to many of New York's top models. Napoleon had called in a favor from a friend who was herself a famous face. It had become a personal thing for the Chief Enforcement Agent; this girl deserved more from life and it was in his power to help her find it, whatever that might be.

Illya walked in on the session as Nola's uneven locks were being molded into a style designed for her special features. He was struck by the difference in her, the ease now with which she was interacting with George and Heather. Napoleon was visibly pleased, and Kuryakin had to wonder why this young girl had captured his attention so completely.

"I almost expect photographers to show up; it's as though you are grooming her for a new career.' The Russian's expression reached beyond the scene for an explanation from his friend. "Are you? Grooming her, that is."

Napoleon took in a stuttered breath, the realization of what he was doing suddenly hitting him. He hadn't really figured on anything in particular, had simply wanted to do something for this virtually homeless girl. She had touched something in him, something in need of nurturing; for her and for his own sense of well being.

"I don't honestly know, Illya. I just had to do something, and this was within my ability to do. I knew the right people to call and … she deserves it." Illya was studying his friend, not disagreeing but still perplexed by the vehemence with which Solo had jumped into this project. No matter, it was the right thing to do. She had been exposed to an unspeakable horror with the murder of Norman Sachs, and she would still need protection until the killer was found.

"Very well, my friend. I do not disagree, and the results may be exceptional." George Previn was consulting with the make-up artist he had brought with him, huddling together so that Nola wasn't visible to the interested onlookers. After hair and make-up were finely tuned the two professionals stepped away from the chair to reveal the results.

Everyone was captivated by the new Nola. As she looked in the mirror she was overcome by emotion at the transformation she had undergone. Her strawberry blonde pixie cut was magical, the make-up a subtle reinvention of the current styles. Nola was a discovery, the product of serendipity. George Previn was making mental notes about who to call for introductions and bookings.

Napoleon was grinning, completely charmed by this girl who now had the look of someone from the cover of a fashion magazine. Solo's luck had paid off for someone besides himself, and that was the best feeling he'd had for a long time.

By the end of the morning arrangement had been made for the budding ingénue to stay with Napoleon's model friend. Like so many serendipitous events, a fast track was in motion and just like that Nola was being touted as a New Face. Solo's friend assured him that the girl was a natural, and with fashion being what it was, there was no sense waiting for another opportunity. You took the ones that came and held on for dear life.

Nola had no reason to not jump on and ride. Within a few days she was well on her way to a new life among a crowd she would easily embrace. The man responsible for Norman Sach's death was arrested; a gambling debt had been the man's demise.

"It is very ironic that a man who worked for THRUSH should perish at the hands of a loan shark. And we followed that man all over New York for what? It was a total waste of time." Illya was grousing over his lost time, but Napoleon knew there had been a purpose to all of it.

"I think we were meant to find Nola. That's why we chased around after Sachs, so we could take her out of that basement and give her a new start in life." Napoleon said it with such conviction, there was no point countering it.

Illya didn't even try.