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Napoleon would have laughed at him, amused by what he'd become. That was something Illya knew without even giving it a second thought. But that laughter had been part of his old life, before he reinvented himself at UNCLE's behest. He'd done as he was told, shedding Russian accent for an English one that wasn't all that different, taking on both a new name and a new identity as easy as putting on one of Solo's ridiculously-priced suits. He'd moved down the coast, far enough away to minimise the chances of unexpectedly bumping into people he didn't want to see. Not that he ever expected anyone to recognise him now - his hair had grown darker as he aged and the air of mystery he'd once worked so hard to cultivate had all but dissipated under the weight of his new responsibilities. He'd even managed to acquire a mother, taking on the unwanted relative of a friend he'd long since lost touch with, smuggling her out of the nursing home without anyone even realising she was gone. She was a good touch; the requisite domestic arrangements were the crowning detail to a new life, annoying dogs and all. He shook water from the umbrella as the doors of his most recent workplace slid open - it was folded before he reached the elevators. The curve of the wood was familiar in grip, polished by the friction of his hand a thousand times before. In his former life, there'd been no time for umbrellas. No opportunity to stroll along anywhere, even partially protected from whatever the elements might throw at him. Unless that umbrella also had the facility to deal out poison gas, or sleepdarts, every gadget a bad remembrance of those movies his partner loved so much. Illya couldn't see the point of them himself, but Napoleon had always laughed at his comments and said that watching them was a busman's holiday - it had been years before he'd bothered to look up the term, years before he'd needed to understand just what his partner saw up there. That everything worked out fine in the end, as the hero triumphed and good vanquished evil till the next blockbuster rolled around. Their lives, their missions, had never been so formulaic. He'd also had an affinity for water. Water and dirt, not necessarily at the same time, but that was often the case. That was another bone of contention between them, how often he ended up dirty or wet, or dirty and wet, while Napoleon stayed immaculate, right down to the crease in his pants. Illya could laugh at it now, but at the time it had caused some friction between them, particularly when Waverly was feeling more parsimonious than usual, a tendency that sadly coincided more often than not with a claim for damaged clothing on Illya's part. In his new line of work, coveralls and surgical scrubs helped immensely with his now fastidious nature. He wasn't called upon often to the actual dirty work any more - there were able and much younger assistants whose job it was to do that sort of thing. One of the few perks of being his own boss, the right to make someone else's life more miserable than his own. Not that any of them seemed to mind that much - or they just didn't air their grievances anywhere that he could hear them. One area he'd always been fortunate in, the loyalty of his co-workers. Even when he hadn't understood or sought it, he'd somehow managed to earn himself a place among them. In this case, it was the ones he'd least expected who were now his closest confidantes, as much as he allowed himself that luxury. That was something he still missed - a partner he could tell any secret to, if he still had secrets to tell. Apart from the obvious one, of course. And that wasn't completely his secret to tell. When he'd picked up the umbrella that morning, shouting his usual goodbyes to mother as he headed out, his hand had stopped for a moment over the other things he kept there, as it often did. Sentimental foolishness, really. Unnecessary weakness but he couldn't seem to free himself from it, even if he wanted to. The stick was a reminder how close he'd come. His hand knew that grip too, knew it too well from the months of therapy after he'd been betrayed, after he'd crawled his way out of what was then Yugoslavia back to what might be considered civilisation by some. He'd forced himself to make progress, forced his reluctant body to regain its former strength when all the time he'd known his previous occupation was now a thing of the past. Napoleon hadn't said as much, but he hadn't needed to. That was the other side of the coin with having a partner - you knew each other too well to lie effectively when the need arose. He'd soon figured out that particular aspect of his life was over too, whether he liked it or not. The other umbrella wasn't his - he could never bear to touch it. The movers had packed it up, along with everything else. He'd only discovered their mistake - his partner's mistake - when it was much too late. At least Napoleon had the decency to tell him face to face, not let some doctor pass on the news. They'd owed each other that much, but that didn't make the end of his former life any easier to hear. That had been the last time they'd seen one another. His last encounter with a man who couldn't even bring himself to say goodbye, who'd just left without a word when it was clear Illya also had nothing to say. Later, unwanted news had come to him by a roundabout way, but by then it was too late to attend the funeral. And people wondered why he talked to the dead.
- fin -
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