By evening Illya was faltering, reaching out for things and missing, stumbling in his step. That morning he had stared into his father's face and marvelled at how he could make out some of the lines in his skin, the smile that creased his cheeks, the tears that glistened on them. He had been able to choose his clothes by looking at them, startling himself as he fitted the feeling of them to the sight. He had stared at Napoleon, wondering when collars and ties had got so wide, when sideburns had become so long; changes that were too subtle to show to his fingertips but were very evident to his eye.

And then they had gone out, and it had been an incredible day of walking around the city. Illya had spent so much time just staring at everything around him in wonder, and then watching Napoleon smiling with glee because Illya couldn't stop himself from uttering exclamations like, 'Oh, the light sparkling on the water! Look, Napoleon, look at the branches of that tree! Oh, birds flying!' What he saw was blurred and doubled, but it was amazing.

But as the day wore on the double vision blurred to triple, then quadruple, and trying to look at things was so confusing. By the time they were walking back from dinner in a restaurant Illya felt exhausted.

'Listen, why don't you wear the patch for a while?' Napoleon asked him softly. 'It's been a long day for your new cornea. Let your eye have a rest.'

Illya gave a grimace. 'I know I should,' he began.

His father spoke in Ukrainian from the other side of him, patting him on the arm, and Illya sighed, murmuring, 'Da, da, tato...'

He felt in his pocket for the patch and slipped it on over his eye.

'I suppose I can't argue with the two of you,' he muttered, but he felt an easing of the tension as soon as the eye was covered. Now it was evening the bright lights of the city were a confusion in his vision, and it was easier to be free of them.

'You'll be able to take it off tomorrow morning,' Napoleon assured him. 'That cornea isn't going anywhere, Illya. It's only going to get better.'

Illya felt in his shoulder bag and drew out his spare folding cane. He had left his regular cane behind, determined to try to manage without it, but Napoleon had insisted he take the folding one just in case, and as it was he had spent most of his time holding on to Napoleon's arm because he was still totally blind in one eye and his vision in the other was unreliable enough that he couldn't easily make out the contours of the ground he walked on.

His shoulders sagged a little as he unfolded the cane and felt himself slipping back into his blind world. Napoleon patted him on the arm.

'It's late, Illya,' Napoleon reminded him again. 'Your eye is tired.'

His father joined in, echoing Napoleon's words in Ukrainian, and Illya smiled.

'All right,' he murmured. 'I know. Tomorrow is another day. And this has been an incredible day.'

He tapped the cane on the pavement, listening to the echoes, feeling the vibrations. He wanted to rip that patch off again even though he knew his sight was worse than useless now. He would go back to the hotel and accept that he would have to wait while his eye rested. The rest of his body could be busy, and he intended to be very busy with Napoleon when they returned. Then he could go to sleep, and wait for the morning, and renewed sight, to come.

((O))

There was a measure of spring in the air. There were still stubborn patches of dirty ice in shaded corners, but the sky was a bleached out blue and there were hints of buds starting to come on the trees. Today was a good day, and close up things were relatively clear and bright.

'How's it going?' Napoleon asked solicitously as Illya got out of the car onto the sidewalk. He was looking very carefully, because half of his field of vision was still useless, and he was afraid of walking into something on that side and jarring the vulnerable right eye, even with his glasses protecting him.

'I'm all right,' Illya said. He had come out with only the folding cane, so he could use it if his eye became tired, but he had it folded neatly in his shoulder bag. He would walk into U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters without help.

He stood there for a moment, just gazing at the familiar little shop with the steps leading down to it and the building rising above. All the lines were softened and distorted, but as a whole he could see it, he could put together what he saw in his mind and fit it with what he remembered.

'Hey, you didn't tell me they painted!' he objected, suddenly noticing the different shade of the paint.

'They – ' Napoleon joined him, sounding puzzled, following Illya's gaze. 'Oh. No, it's been like that for a year and a half, Illya! Remember that July, when you complained the whole street smelled of paint?'

Illya's mouth formed a little O. 'You didn't tell me it was Del Floria's.'

'I didn't even think,' Napoleon shrugged, and Illya watched him shrug. He loved to watch Napoleon's expressive movements. 'You didn't say anything until we were inside and then – oh, something happened, didn't it? Sarah came in with a stack of paperwork, or something. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Why don't you come inside?'

Illya stood still for another moment, suddenly nervous. They had flown back from Germany two days ago, after a week in Munich. It had been such a strange and emotional time, saying goodbye to his father, boarding an aircraft and making the long flight back to the States, being able to rest his forehead against the cool glass of the aeroplane window and look up at brilliant blue sky and down at grey sea or billows of cloud. It had all felt unreal.

'Come on,' Napoleon nudged him again, so Illya walked, letting Napoleon keep a hand on his arm, watching very carefully where he put his feet because it was still hard to make out the edges of steps and level changes, and it felt so very odd to be walking around like this. It would be stranger still when the call came through for his left eye to receive a transplant. Stranger still if that transplant worked. And then perhaps he would be able to drive again, he could have his gun again. He would not be able to go on active missions, but he would be so much closer to his old life.

Del Floria threw up his hands when Illya walked in to the small shop, saying joyfully, 'Ah, Mr Kuryakin! Ah, you are looking wonderful!'

Illya looked at him, taking in the changes in him, the way he was a little more bald and a little more stout. He saw how the walls were the same colour but a little more shabby than they had been, and how the pressing machine had been replaced with another model. He smiled rather dazedly at Del Floria and took his hand when the man reached out to shake his, and then he walked into the changing cubicle and touched his fingers to the so-familiar feel of the coat hook handle on the wall. He stood there a little too long, just feeling the hook under his hand, and Napoleon put a hand on his waist and said close behind him, 'People will think we're strange if we just stand in here for a while then go out again. Aren't you going inside, Illya?'

'Oh.' Illya turned the handle then and the heavy door swung open, and then – a woman was coming towards him, her smile broad on her face, and Illya stepped back momentarily, closing his eyes and catching the scent of her perfume, and he opened his eyes again to a round, pretty face, sleek brown hair and brown eyes and that wonderful smile, and he said, 'Sarah! So that's what you look like, is it?'

She put her arms around him, pulling him into a gasping tight hug, apparently brimming over with joy. He received her hug, breathing in that scent of her and reconciling it with this woman that he saw before him. He hardly knew what to say, and as he eased himself from her grasp he said rather awkwardly, 'I suppose I've messed up your career. I'm sorry, Sarah.'

Napoleon patted him gently on the back and Sarah said, 'Oh, don't be silly, Illya. I'll be staying on for as long as you need me, and when you're back to full speed Mr Waverly has promised there'll be work for me here, if I want it.'

Illya eyed her suspiciously. 'If you want it?'

She touched a hand to his arm and said, 'Well, Illya, I work with the blind. You know that. I'm a very good secretary, but my skills are tailored towards helping people who can't see. And if you can see, then there are a hundred other secretaries out there who can look after you.'

'Oh,' Illya said. He felt rather deflated. He moved over to the reception desk and accepted his badge, and looked at the bright yellow of it that went with the hard, angular feeling as he slipped it onto his breast pocket. 'Well, I suppose it's obvious you'd move on,' he said, walking between Sarah and Napoleon into the corridor beyond the reception. 'I'm sorry. Of course you would. But it's going to be a while before I can work with complete independence. My eye still gets tired and it's very variable, and I have to wait a while before the other can be done.'

She smiled and rubbed his arm. 'Illya, is that your way of saying you want me around?'

He shrugged awkwardly, rather glad that he couldn't see her properly because she was on his left side. 'Well, you're useful, and I quite like you.'

'And that's the biggest compliment you'll get from Illya,' Napoleon commented from the other side of him.

'Well, I'll take it,' Sarah replied with a smile still in her voice. When Illya turned his head he could see that smile curving her lips and creasing her cheeks. It was so wonderful to see people smiling. 'Anyway, Illya,' she continued, her voice all business. 'I have a whole pile of reports to pass on to you and I need to know whether to print them in Braille or large print or normal type – '

'Oh, Braille, I think,' Illya told her. 'I can't focus so well, so print is very tiring.'

'All right, Braille,' she nodded. 'Well, then, I have two mission plans for you to look over and give input on. Nehru has been outlining a possible surveillance situation that you might be able to help with, and Mr Waverly wants to see you and Mr Solo together at half past ten.'

'Just a normal day, then,' Illya said with a grin, taking in the sight of the gunmetal grey corridor that hadn't changed at all, the faces of other employees they passed, the colours of the women's clothes and the glossy waves of their hair. He bumped his shoulder lightly against Napoleon's, glad to have him there. It had been such a long journey to get to this point, and he couldn't imagine having walked it without Napoleon at his side.

'Just a normal day.' Sarah insinuated herself between the two of them, kissed Illya on his cheek, and then Napoleon, and said, 'Go to your office, you two. You'll find a beautiful selection of pastries on your desk, courtesy of the girls in Communications, and I'll go and scare up some coffee to go with it. And then I'll leave you alone for a while, and hope you actually get some work done.'

1 Year Later

'I still can't believe it,' Illya said softly. 'I can hardly believe it...'

Napoleon laid an arm around his shoulders and squeezed lightly. 'Believe it,' he said, low and firm in Illya's ear. 'Believe your eyes. They're finally telling you the truth.'

The second transplant had been performed a week ago, a little over a year after the first, which had settled enough now that Illya could be prescribed corrective lenses which gave him good sight in that eye, although the doctors estimated another six months before his vision was as good as it was going to be. The second eye was going through the same fluctuations that the first had, but the hope was that it would settle in the same way, and with adjustment of the stitches and finally with corrective lenses his sight would be very good.

It was morning, and they were fresh off the plane back from Munich. They had flown first class and Illya had slept amazingly well on the overnight flight, and his eye was fresh and seeing well. He stood in the parking lot outside the airport just staring at the familiar silver Dodge that was neatly parked in front of him.

'Go on, then,' Napoleon said with a grin, holding out a set of jangling keys.

Illya stared at them for a moment, then at Napoleon, then at the familiar car that was parked a few feet away.

'Are you sure?' he asked.

'Go on,' Napoleon urged him, pressing the keys into his hand. 'I want to get back home, and I need to get these cases in the trunk.'

Illya stared for a moment longer at the car, then back at Napoleon again, and then he grinned. He hadn't sat behind the wheel of a car in such a long time, after that one amazing time when Napoleon had taken him to an empty parking lot and let him drive blind. He felt a momentary flutter in his stomach, but he quelled it and walked to the car and unlocked the doors.

'Really?' he asked.

'Really,' Napoleon nodded, smiling. 'I spoke with Dr Bruner yesterday. Your eye exam checks out. You can see enough to drive.'

So Illya slipped into the car. The red leather of the seat was soft and giving beneath him. It had been so long since he had driven this car that the seat had conformed to Napoleon's shape. He had watched Napoleon driving with longing, but he had never taken his place. Now Illya settled himself in and put the key into the ignition. The feeling of the engine roaring to life as Napoleon slipped in next to him was amazing. He had sat in so many cars and felt the engine thrumming beneath him, but it had been so, so long since it had been under his control. He checked the mirrors, and moved off.

He had sat in the passenger seat many times over the last year and watched the road moving beneath the car, watched the motion of other vehicles, watched the movement of pedestrians. He had imagined driving, had itched to drive, but had promised himself he wouldn't risk it until he had stereo vision. And now here he was, the road moving smoothly past, the dark, slim trunks of trees flickering by, the fronts of buildings slipping away. It felt amazing to be in control of a vehicle at last, to be in control of his own progress through the streets. It was amazing to drive this route that he knew so well, to cut onto the Brooklyn Bridge, to come down into the streets of Manhattan and drive all the way back to their apartment and pull in at the kerb.

He turned the engine off and just sat there, breathing deeply, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.

'Well, you did it,' Napoleon said gently.

'I did it,' Illya echoed, 'although my eye is so tired now. All of me is tired now. And I can't wait to do it again.'

Napoleon looked around at the empty, early-morning street. On European time it was almost ten in the morning, but here it was five, and there was no one to be seen. So Napoleon leant across the car and touched his fingers to Illya's jaw to turn his head, and kissed him.

'You will do it again,' he promised. 'And again and again and again. Maybe when your left eye is as good as your right you'll be able to fly again too.'

'I can already do so much,' Illya said, and it was true. He hadn't used the cane in over half a year. He could read normal text again. He needed no help at all in the office, and Sarah had moved on to somewhere else. There were no active missions for him, and he didn't expect there to ever be, but he and Napoleon were both moving towards the age where they would expect to retire from the field anyway. He looked forward to spending time in the labs, to going on more 'safe' missions, limited to surveillance or investigation. He looked forward to life.