In San Francisco
Illya walked slowly into his small rented room and dropped the knife bag on a nearby bureau. The room wasn't large enough for much more than the dresser, a scarred chair, and a rusty iron frame bed. Still it was clean, fairly quiet and cheap. At the moment, Illya didn't need much more than that.
He toed off his shoes and limped to the bed. His days with UNCLE had been hard and demanding, but they couldn't hold a light to that of the culinary world. After twelve hours on his feet, he was ready to drop.
Slowly he lowered himself to the mattress and leaned back with a sigh. At least the ache in his feet and back took away from the pain in his heart. He was so tired that he was now able to sleep a few hours in between bouts of anger and depression. Illya attacked his classes and assignments with so much vigor that his professors would only shake their heads and wonder what demons chased him.
Absent-mindedly, one of Illya's fingers found its way to his mouth and he gently sucked the cut on the tips of it. He had so many cuts, nicks, and bruises that they all seemed to meld into one. Why was it he could kill a man is seventeen different ways, but he struggled to master simple knife skills?
Without wanting to, his mind drifted back, remembering the way he'd built himself a home in Napoleon's arms, knowing the man's love was eternal. Strangely enough, eternity only lasted a couple of years. He came home early and found Napoleon with a woman. That had been enough. In one moment, one breath, one heartbeat, all that Illya had counted on was gone. His other hand found the metal headboard and grasped it convulsively, desperately trying to hold the past at bay.
Still, he remembered Napoleon's voice, soft with love and need, his hands strong and just what Illya wanted. Napoleon's mouth, his smell, his …. A knock broke him from his thoughts and he sat up, releasing the metal frame and wiping the tears from his face.
"Who is it?"
"Matthew Tovay."
It took Illya a moment to match the voice to a face. Matt had sought Illya out after their first class, offering Illya help and advice when it was apparent Illya needed both. How he knew where Illya lived, that was a mystery, but Illya had a feeling there was more to the young man than he realized.
Illya got slowly to his feet, wincing at the pull in his back, and walked to the door. He opened it and smiled at the redhead.
"Yes, Matt, what can I do for you? Do you want to come in?"
Matt looked over Illya's shoulder and grinned. "Somehow, Cara, I think this room wouldn't fit us both. I have a problem and I am hoping you can help. My roommate, he has gone and I can't afford the rent myself. I wondered…?"
In New York
Napoleon stared at his glass of scotch, a blanket of depression settling over him the way stink settled over a New York landfill. Even though he'd moved into Aunt Amy's place, he still couldn't believe she was gone. Amy had been a shoulder to cry on after Illya had left him. She'd made Napoleon tea and listened patiently as Napoleon paced, raged, and cried. He hadn't stopped to notice how tired she looked or how quietly she sat.
Then the word that his father had suddenly passed away rocked Napoleon's world. He immediately headed home to work through it all. He pushed aside his loneliness and focused upon his mom. He was too numb too feel and for three long months he waded through all the paperwork and the legalese, thankful for the distraction.
He crawled back to New York and hid in the familiar corridors of UNCLE, but that offered no solace. Everywhere he looked, he saw Illya. Everyone Napoleon spoke with reminded him of just how alone he was. He started drinking a little more than normal, started staying in, refusing to answer his phone or his door when unfamiliar people came calling. After all, that's how it had started. He answered the door and let a stranger in. That stranger cost him everything. Never again.
Finally, at work, there was a call, brief and brittle. Napoleon had been buried so deeply in his own misery that he hadn't missed Amy until it was too late. She'd passed away, quietly and surrounded by her friends, but not her nephew.
More guilt, so much so that Napoleon felt he would surely collapse from the burden. He went immediately to her grave and grieved. But even that wasn't enough to wipe Illya from his thoughts.
Then the letter came from Amy's attorney telling him that she'd left Napoleon everything, making him a man of substantial means. Napoleon knew she'd done it so that, in part, he could keep looking for Illya. So charged, he left UNCLE and threw himself heart and soul into the search, but now Napoleon had pretty much run out of places to look.
The last report from the agency he'd hired sat on the coffee table. This agency supposedly beat all the others. It had a 90% recovery rate. It had thousands of employees, all prepared to do what they needed to find anyone. Napoleon hired them with a hopeful heart and waited… and waited… and waited. Finally they sent him a report, complete and extensive, full of explanations and excuses, but in the end, it was the same as all the others. Subject was unable to be located.
Napoleon sipped the drink and stared at his knee. Why he thought they could have succeeded when UNCLE couldn't was beyond him. He needed just one break, but it would appear that Napoleon's luck had finally run dry.
He suddenly flung the glass across the room and snatched up the phone. He'd be damned if he'd give up. Hell, he already was. Angrily, he punched a number and waited for someone to answer.
He only half heard the greeting and waited for the person to stop talking before demanding. "This is Napoleon Solo. Find him!"
He hung up and went to the window to watch night settle on New York. "If you are out there, Kuryakin, I am going to find you and I'm going to do whatever it takes to make this right."