I never realized until that moment that I loved Napoleon.
Which, considering I was in the process of telling him that I was leaving U.N.C.L.E., was perhaps not the most fortuitous time to have an epiphany.
Not that I could help it.
Napoleon was eminently lovable, after all—if one could overlook his tendency to flirt with anything that walked on two legs. And his expensive taste in clothes. And his inability to ignore beautiful women who threw themselves at him.
Not that it had been more than a nuisance until now—I think I knew subconsciously that he'd always come back to me in the end.
But today there was a different tenor to our conversation.
Because I was going to walk out of Del Floria's door for the last time soon and never come back. And then there wouldn't be any reason for us to see each other on a regular basis.
"Why?" he asked, oh, so softly.
"I'm tired. And I feel old. I'm too young to feel this old."
A tiny smile quirked his sculpted lips, ruefully acknowledging truth of that. I'm only forty—much too young to feel I've seen and done everything.
"And the world has changed so much. It's not what it used to be—not what it was when we started this."
"No, it's not," he agreed.
We sat in silence for a few minutes—not an awkward silence, as one might have expected, given my unexpected announcement—but a comfortable one, well-worn and broken in, like Napoleon's favorite pair of Italian loafers.
I watched him as he watched his hands fuss with his pen on the blotter—doodling something I couldn't see from my seat, until he realized he was fidgeting and carefully set the pen down then looked up at me.
His brown eyes were so serious and almost—sad?—as he looked at me from across the desk.
"What are you going to do?"
"I thought I'd travel the world and actually see it this time."
A broader grin appeared on his familiar face this time. "Yes, that would be nice, wouldn't it?" The smile faded slightly and he glanced down at the desktop for a moment, swallowing determinedly before raising his eyes back to mine.
"Do you think there'd be room for one more person in your travel plans?"
I cocked my head to the side, taking in the flush that dusted his stubble-roughened cheeks and the uncharacteristic hesitancy that gilded his question.
"Why?" I asked gently.
"Because I'm tired, too."
I smiled, hearing in that simple statement exactly what he wanted me to hear, something I hadn't seen before—that we were going to move easily from being partners and best friends to something even more rewarding.
"There's always room for you, Napoleon."
I never saw it coming.
As he sat in front of me, so calm, so still, and told me he was quitting I had the damnedest thought go through my mind.
How could he leave me?
Not U.N.C.L.E., not Waverly—me.
An entirely selfish thought, of course, but it shook me to the core. Because somehow, the one bedrock belief I held beyond all others was that Illya would always be at my side. The women could come and go but Illya—my Illya—would never leave me.
There was a pause and I realized he'd finished speaking and was looking at me expectantly with those piercing eyes, eyes that saw more of me than anyone else ever had.
My throat was dry. "Why?"
"I'm tired. And I feel old. I'm too young to feel this old."
I had to smile a little at that, despite the cold panic churning inside me. He was barely forty and looked thirty, if that. He would grow old beautifully, I thought wistfully, suddenly consumed with sadness that I wasn't going to be given the opportunity to watch it happen.
"And the world has changed so much. It's not what it used to be—not what it was when we started this." He was watching me carefully, trying to gauge my reaction.
"No, it's not," I answered quietly.
He was still watching me as I idly picked up my pen and started drawing abstract shapes on the blotter. I lowered my eyes and considered what he'd said. He'd spoken of feeling tired, old. I felt a corresponding ache in my own body, a weariness that pounded at me these days with disheartening regularity. With a start, I realized that the only true joy I received from the job anymore was the time I spent with the man sitting across from me.
The man I loved.
The man who'd just told me he was leaving me.
A wave of grief crashed through me and I laid the pen down, strangely proud my fingers weren't shaking in light of what could only be described as an epiphany. Swallowing, I forced myself to meet Illya's eyes and asked him what he was going to do.
"I thought I'd travel the world and actually see it this time."
That was pure Kuryakin—the dry tone, the raised eyebrow. It had me smiling in spite of the pain that threatened to break through at the thought of Illya being out in the world—without me.
"Yes, that would be nice, wouldn't it?" I replied, seeing an answering smile in his eyes—and something else. For the first time since he'd walked in and made his simple declaration I really looked at him. He looked back calmly but I wasn't fooled—he was tightly strung and his eyes were a little too bright. I glanced down at my desk and came to a quick decision.
"Do you think there'd be room for one more person in your travel plans?" I asked carefully, praying I hadn't misread the situation.
He tilted his head and I held my breath as he considered my question.
"Why?"
I exhaled softly, hoping to see my future in those blue, blue eyes.
"Because I'm tired, too."
For the briefest instant Illya held still. Then he smiled at me, a smile I'd never seen before. It was full of tender promise and I found my heart beating faster as I saw all he was prepared to give to me. Now it only needed the words.
"There's always room for you, Napoleon."
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