The air was so full of wholesome scents that when Illya opened his mouth he could taste them on his tongue. The cinnamon and mixed spice were filling the air with their fragrant dust, and the dried fruits gave out a rich, dark scent. The grated lemon zest was tangy on his fingertips when he licked them. He cleaned his hands off and ran them over the recipe again, checking the method. He had already mixed the fruit, flour, and spices. He needed to cream the butter and sugar, and add lemon zest and eggs.

He was late making the Christmas cake, with only a week to go until Christmas, but life had been so busy recently, with his work at U.N.C.L.E. on one side and his home life on the other. Later, they would celebrate New Year as he had back in Ukraine, but he wanted to make Christmas like the ones he had grown used to in Cambridge.

'Papa, papa, papa!'

Little hands tugged on the hem of his apron. He sighed and crouched down, putting his hands on soft, bare arms. He stroked his fingers over the light, delicate hair on the boy's head.

'Nikolai, didn't daddy tell you not to come in the kitchen while papa's cooking?' he asked in Ukrainian, trying not to sound impatient.

He ran through where everything was in his head. The ingredients were well back from the edge of the counter top. The knives were well away from the edge too. The oven was heating up, but the boys knew well not to touch the oven. The bowl with the flour and fruit in it –

'No, Kolenka,' Illya said quickly, as the little boy tried to tug away from his hands.

'Want raisins!' his son said, trying to pull free. 'Papa, want raisins!'

'I'll give you some raisins,' Illya promised, picking him up and settling him on his hip. 'No, not the ones in the bowl. They're covered in flour. I'll give you some from the packet.' He reached out, feeling, and found the mixed fruit. He took a little handful and opened his palm to the child. 'There, Kolenka,' he said. 'Have you got them? Okay.'

He put him back on the floor and held out a hand.

'Take me to daddy, now. Is Pasha with daddy?'

'Pasha sleep,' Nikolai told him, and tugged at his hand. 'C'mon, papa.'

'All right,' Illya said, following. 'All right, Kolya. Remember papa can't see.'

'Papa can't see,' Nikolai parroted.

Illya had been telling him and Pasha that for as long as he thought they might have a hope of understanding, but they still couldn't quite connect the fact of his blindness with his actual inability to see. They still tried to show him things on the television, or pictures they had drawn. Sometimes he reminded them, papa can't see, but sometimes he smiled and told them what a beautiful picture it was.

Illya followed his son out of the kitchen and into the other room, and asked, 'Where's daddy, Kolya?'

'Daddy sleep,' Nikolai said, tugging him across the room.

Illya put out a hand.

'Where's daddy? Is he on the sofa?'

'Yes, daddy sleep on sofa. Pasha sleep on daddy.'

'Ahh,' Illya smiled. He moved carefully to the sofa, and his leg nudged Napoleon's. He put his hand on Napoleon's knee and shook it gently. 'Hey,' he said, switching to English. 'Napoleon. Napoleon.'

There was a slight coughing noise, then Napoleon said in a slurred voice, 'Not 'sleep. I'm not asleep, Illya. It's okay. I'm – '

'Is Pasha on you?' Illya asked, touching the sofa before sitting down. 'Nikolai says Pasha is asleep on you.'

'Uh – yeah,' Napoleon said then, still sounding dazed with sleep. 'Yeah, I'd just gotten him off. I must have drifted off too. Sorry, Illya. I was supposed to be keeping them out of your way, wasn't I?'

Illya leant in and gently kissed Napoleon's cheek. He felt Pasha on his chest, slumped and soft and warm in sleep, breathing slowly. He left his hand there, just feeling the soft rise and fall and the fast beat of his heart.

'You had a long night with them,' he said. 'It's all right. Kolya just came into the kitchen and asked for raisins. I think he was bored.'

'Should stick the television on,' Napoleon suggested, and Illya shook his head.

'You know I don't like using it as a babysitter. Don't worry. As long as I know he's running loose I'll keep an ear on him. I had everything well out of the way, anyway.'

'Are you sleepy, Kolya?' Napoleon asked hopefully.

'No,' Kolya said firmly. Illya knew that tone so well.

'All right, Kolya,' he said. 'No, Napoleon, there's no point trying to get him to sleep when he's not tired. You know they take turns at sleeping.'

'I remember a few Thrush torturers like that,' Napoleon said grimly, and Illya hushed him. There were some things about their lives that he didn't want the children to learn; at least, not yet.

'Come with me, Kolya,' he said, holding out his hand to the child. 'Come with papa into the kitchen. D'you want to help me make a cake? Would you like that? Let's let daddy sleep.'

He took Kolya back into the kitchen, and considered how it would be easiest to bake with him.

'Look, let me get your highchair,' he said, putting the boy on the floor.

He went over to the table, where two highchairs stood next to each other. He brought one across to the counter and put it down.

'Kolya,' he called, opening his arms. 'Come here. I'll put you in.'

Kolya toddled over to him, and Illya scooped him up.

'Here,' he said, strapping him into the chair. He pushed him a little closer to the counter, and got another handful of raisins to put in front of him. 'You eat those. That's it. You're in charge of those raisins.'

'Glassy cherries!' the little boy suddenly cried needfully, and Illya sighed. They must still be out on the counter.

'If I give you glacé cherries you'll be sticky all over,' he said.

'Glassy cherries!' Kolya insisted, so Illya found the pot and gave him a couple.

'Just two,' he said. 'No, Kolya. Just two. They're too sticky.'

He licked his fingers and turned himself back to his baking. He had the butter and sugar already combined in a bowl, so he took a wooden spoon and began to cream the ingredients together.

'This is called creaming, Kolya,' he said instructively, turning the bowl so the boy could see. 'We mix the butter and sugar together with the back of a wooden spoon, just like this.'

By the time he thought the mixture was properly creamed his arm was aching. He put the spoon down and picked up an egg. Each time he cracked one, Kolya laughed, then laughed again as he beat them into the mixture.

'How does that look?' Illya asked tilting the bowl, and Kolya said, 'Ugh.'

'It is ugh,' Illya nodded gravely. 'It's raw egg. You don't touch raw egg. But, now, I need to put the lemon in.' He found the grater, and drew out the container underneath that held the grated lemon zest. 'Do you smell that, Kolenka? Nice. No, don't taste it. It's sour. But it smells nice.'

Kolya started to spit, and Illya laughed.

'You tried it, didn't you? Was it sour? Bitter?'

'Ugh,' Kolya said.

Illya poured him a little cup of water, and gave it to him. 'Have a drink. Wash it out of your mouth.'

He heard the door buzzer then, and he turned his head.

'Napoleon,' he called, wondering if Napoleon was awake.

'I'm going,' his partner replied in a sleepy voice from the other room.

Pasha made a little crying noise as he was disturbed, then the crying grew as Napoleon left him to go to the door. Neither of them would ever carry one of their children with him to the door. You could never be certain of unexpected callers.

Illya listened while he found the bottle of brandy and poured some out into a cup, then dipped a bent measuring spoon in to get the right amount. He could hear Napoleon talking normally in the distance. It was just an ordinary visitor, nothing suspicious. A lot of people dropped by this near Christmas.

'This is brandy,' he told Kolya, letting him sniff the drink. 'Not for little boys. I'm using it to flavour the cake.'

The mixture was heavy as he folded the flour and dried fruit into the wet ingredients. It felt satisfyingly rich. He scraped it all carefully into the cake tin and shook it a little to level it off.

'What do you think, Kolenka?' he asked. 'Is that flat?'

'Lumpy,' Kolya said, and Illya laughed as he spread the back of his spoon over the top of the mixture, flattening it out more.

'It is lumpy,' he agreed, 'but it'll taste good. Now, the oven. You remember the oven's hot, don't you, Kolya? You never touch the oven.'

He opened the oven and heat radiated out against his skin. He carefully slipped the tin in, shut the door, and set his timer.

'I think I'll let daddy clean up,' he told Kolya with a grin.

He got a cloth and carefully wiped the toddler's hands clean of sticky syrup, then took him out of the high chair and hugged the boy against his chest, breathing in his scent. Sometimes his heart felt so full of love for his boys that he couldn't bear it. Kolya wriggled against the hug, though, impatient to be moving. He always wanted to be moving. Now he could walk, he was always where Illya didn't expect him to be, getting his hands into things he shouldn't be touching.

'All right,' Illya said. 'That cake's got a while. Shall we go and see who was at the door?'

'Down!' Kolya insisted. 'Me down!'

Illya held onto him for a moment as he went to the kitchen door. 'Napoleon?' he called through cautiously. 'Who is it?'

'Just Mrs Percival with a card,' Napoleon called back. 'You can let Pasha out of his cage.'

With a feeling of relief, Illya put his struggling child down, and went through into the living room to find Pasha in the play pen and set him free. He walked carefully, as he always did, because now there were two small children in the apartment there was often attendant chaos; bottles or beakers dropped on the floor, building blocks that were particularly painful underfoot, books or bits of clothing. Things had been relatively controllable until first Pasha, and then Kolya, had learnt to walk. He could see some contrast and colours in his good eye, but not enough to pick out a dropped item on the floor most of the time.

Pasha was still crying from being woken up, and Illya picked him up and held him against his chest, rocking him and shushing him gently, murmuring to him in Ukrainian. He spoke to them in his native tongues as much as he could, determined they would grow up fluent in Ukrainian and Russian as well as English. People told him he would confuse them, but he knew how important it was to learn languages early. People told him and Napoleon all sorts of things that he dismissed as bunkum, because they didn't imagine that two men would ever be capable of raising a child.

Outside the walls of their apartment most people thought the Russian-named boys were Illya's, conceived from some liaison, and that he was valiantly struggling to raise them without the help of their absent mother. It was his name on the birth certificate as their father. He and Napoleon were very careful not to let people know about their relationship unless they trusted them fully, so to most acquaintances Illya was a noble single father, and Napoleon was his amazingly giving friend, who was willing not only to look after Illya in his blindness, but also his children. It was easier that, than to tell them the truth, and risk the authorities coming in and tearing their family apart.

'Illya, come say hello to Mrs Percival,' Napoleon insisted.

He sighed quietly, his mouth against Pasha's dark hair. Socialising and trying to pacify an upset child didn't really go together.

'Oh, don't you worry, Mr Kuryakin,' Mrs Percival called from the doorway. 'I can see you're busy. You put that little boy down to sleep. Don't worry about me.'

'Thank you, Mrs Percival,' Illya called back with a smile. 'Merry Christmas to you, too.'

'Merry Christmas, dear,' she called back.

Nikolai was tugging at his apron again. He'd forgotten he still had that on.

'What is it, Kolya?' Illya asked. Pasha was still whimpering against his ear. He was starting to feel stressed.

'Want bottle,' Kolya asked plaintively, and immediately Pasha chimed in, 'Bottle! Bottle!'

He felt a little as if he were going to explode. He liked cooking, but it always left him stressed trying to cook when the children were allowed to bother him. He loved the children, but when there were two sets of crying going on at once, hands tugging at him, and the knowledge that there was someone in the doorway watching it all, it made his mind spin.

He took Pasha back to the sofa, trying to walk carefully with Kolya pushing at his hip and babbling in Ukrainian, 'Papa over here. Here, papa. Papa sit down.'

It was so sweet of Kolya to try to guide him, but it would be easier at times to be left to his own devices. He sat back on the sofa and jogged Pasha on his chest, and prayed for Napoleon to finish at the door. Kolya clambered up onto the sofa and started to pull his hair, and he thought again about getting it cut shorter despite the current fashion and the way Napoleon loved to run his fingers through the strands.

'Napoleon,' he called.

He was immensely relieved to hear the front door closing.

'I'll get them their bottles now, love,' Napoleon told him, hurrying through into the kitchen. 'Pasha, Kolya, stop hollering. Daddy's getting you bottles now.'

Illya leant his head back against the sofa and tried not to snap at Kolya for pulling his hair, or to snap at Napoleon for not getting the bottles fast enough, or at Pasha for bawling so loudly.

Then Napoleon came with the milk, and pressed a bottle into his hand.

'You take Pasha, I'll look after Kolya,' Napoleon told him over the racket.

'Thank god,' Illya murmured.

He shifted Pasha carefully until he was in a better position, and let him take the bottle. The crying instantly dimmed, becoming muffled by the rubber teat, and then hushed to the sound of sucking, and occasional hiccups.

'We should have weaned them off these months ago,' he worried.

'No, we shouldn't,' Napoleon told him firmly, settling down beside him, close enough that his side was pressed against Illya's. 'You remember what Beth told us? When you have twins, you do whatever you need to do to keep the peace. They'll be weaned. They won't use pacifiers for the rest of their lives, either. But we do what we need so that they sleep and we sleep.'

'Do you think they'll ever sleep?' Illya asked rather plaintively.

'They will,' Napoleon said. 'There you are, Kolya. No, don't snatch it. Look, why don't you – ' He sighed. 'I was hoping he'd settle on me. He's gone over to sit under the Christmas tree.'

'I suppose the Christmas tree is a wonder to him. He won't remember last year's,' Illya smiled, looking over towards the medley of lights on the tree.

He brushed his fingers through Pasha's hair. Pasha was dark like Napoleon, and Kolya was fair like him. He could make out the darkness and the fairness through his good eye. He rarely wished to be able to see nowadays, but he did wish he could see how his and Napoleon's genes had come together to make these amazing boys. It had been a medical miracle that they existed at all. The scientific advances that had been made in the U.N.C.L.E. labs probably wouldn't see the light of day for decades, but they had allowed them to combine their genetic input inside stripped out human eggs, and they shared parentage of their children. It was an incredible thing that he still found hard to believe. The one thing they had not been able to do was carry their children inside themselves, but as soon as the newborn babies had been put in their arms, he had fallen in love.

'Is Pasha sleeping?' Illya asked.

The toddler had gone very soft and limp against his side, although every now and then he still sucked, and still made little hiccups, the leftover remains of his crying.

'Yeah, I think so,' Napoleon said softly.

'What's Kolya doing?'

'Just sitting under the tree, holding his bottle, looking up at the lights,' Napoleon said. 'I wish I had my camera. He's getting sleepy, though. His head keeps dropping.'

'Move up a little, won't you?' Illya asked, and Napoleon shuffled away from him on the cushions.

Illya gently eased Pasha down, edging away from him so slowly that the toddler hardly reacted. He brushed a hand over him, making sure that he was safely on the cushions and not near the edge, and took the bottle and set it on the floor.

'He's settled?' Illya asked quietly.

'Sleeping like the proverbial,' Napoleon told him.

Illya went over to the pine scent of the Christmas tree and knelt down on the floor.

'Kolenka,' he said, reaching out. He could hear the little boy sucking on his bottle. 'Are you looking at the lights? Can you see lots of pretty things on the tree?'

'Pretty lights,' Kolya said, grabbing at his hand. Illya could tell that he was sleepy by his voice. 'Papa look lights.'

He moved Illya's hand to the lights, and his fingers touched one of the hot bulbs.

'Ouch!' he said, more dramatically than he would normally, but he wanted Kolya to understand the lights were hot. 'Yes, they're pretty lights, but they're hot, Kolya. We don't touch them. Kolya, will you show papa where the sofa is? I lost it again.'

'Silly papa,' Kolya said, and Illya echoed, 'Silly papa. Show me where the sofa is.'

Suggesting Kolya come back to the sofa to sleep would be a perfect way of making him rebel, he knew. But Kolya loved to help his father, and he took Illya's hand and led him across the room.

'Show me where daddy is, Kolya,' Illya told him. He lifted him up when he reached the sofa, feeling the warm weight of the boy's nappy against his hand. 'They're going to need changing when they wake up,' he said aside to Napoleon.

He sat down with Kolya and held him as he drank his milk, rocking him gently, feeling him become heavier and heavier. Eventually he managed to slip him onto the cushions next to his brother, and he exhaled softly in relief. He laid his palm down, feeling the fat, soft warmth of both of the boys under his hand, relaxed in sleep.

'Good work, Agent Kuryakin,' Napoleon said with soft warmth, and when Illya turned his head he kissed him. Napoleon's mouth was warm, and his lips were so soft, but Illya could feel the need to sleep washing over him as strongly as it had come over the boys.

'I think I might join them,' Illya said, 'but I have a cake that needs taking out of the oven in an hour.'

'You set your timer?' Napoleon asked.

'Of course I set my timer. I have it in my pocket.'

'Then it'll wake us up,' Napoleon said, leaning in a little closer so he was snuggled against Illya's side. 'Who says we can't sleep too?'

'I am exhausted,' Illya admitted.

'I feel like I haven't slept for eighteen months,' Napoleon murmured. His head was heavy and warm against Illya's cheek, the softness of his hair tickling him lightly.

'Sleep on me, then,' Illya said.

Napoleon stroked fingers over his shoulder. 'We could not sleep,' he suggested. Opportunities for intimacy had become few and far between in recent months.

'We could,' Illya agreed, laying a hand over his and stroking the skin of his knuckles. 'But we're both almost as tired as the boys. And I can't think of anyone better to sleep with than you.'

'You have the best chat up lines,' Napoleon replied jokingly. Then he said, 'Kiss me, Illya.'

Illya did. It was so good to just sink into the kiss, tasting his mouth, stroking his hair and the skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of his breath. It was good to be able to touch him like that without waiting to be interrupted by a little voice or the tug of a hand.

'I love you,' Napoleon said when they finally broke apart, stroking his hair softly, twining his fingers through the soft strands. 'I love what we created. They're so beautiful, Illya. I wish you could see them.'

'I don't need to see them,' Illya reassured him. 'Really, Napoleon. I don't need to. They're everything to me that they are to you. I know they're beautiful.'

Napoleon kissed his cheek, and stroked it with his fingertips.

'This will be a good Christmas,' he said. 'The first the boys will really be aware of. I can't wait to see their faces on Christmas morning, with the presents under the tree.'

Illya smiled, thinking of the squeals of joy he would hear, the sound of ripping paper, the boys' delight as they discovered their new toys and books. He had never understood before the boys were born quite what it was to be a parent. He had never understood that odd, unbounded joy that parents seemed to have in their children despite all the hardships and troubles of raising them. Now he felt as though he would walk through fire to hear Kolya and Pasha laugh. It took his breath away to lift them up and smell the clean scent of their hair and skin, and to think that he and Napoleon, together, had created these miracles. It had been something he had never imagined having in his life.

He rested against Napoleon, the warm body of one of the toddlers pressed against one side of him, and Napoleon against the other. He could feel Napoleon's heartbeat through his chest, slow and steady. Under his hand on the other side, Pasha's heart was beating faster, but just as steadily. He didn't spend as much time as he wanted to with any of his loved ones, with U.N.C.L.E. always there like another child, demanding attention, but at least he had managed to secure a few days over the Christmas period, and he intended to make the most of it when the holiday began. He was doing what he could in his time off before then, making the Christmas cake, helping Napoleon to decorate the tree, and playing with the boys while Napoleon saw to the rest of the decorations. They had been out shopping for gifts while Napoleon's sister looked after the boys, and he had helped to wrap them in the moments when both boys happened to be asleep. He was going to make the most of every minute that he could of this Christmas.