Napoleon was as good as his word. He had spent a terrible, almost sleepless, night in one of the small rooms in Headquarters designed for agents to retreat to in times of need. Of course there hadn't been much night left after taking the documents to Cryptography and making his report. He didn't type as fast as Illya. He woke just after eight, having gained barely three hours sleep, and although he knew he could probably push for another hour he just couldn't make himself do it. Instead he got up, re-donned his dishevelled clothing of last night, and strolled out to the local bakery.

The morning sunlight seemed very bright, the streets almost painfully beautiful with trees in spring leaf, bits of garbage blowing along in the wind, the occasional car or cab rolling by. The sky was piercingly blue, the skyscrapers a few blocks away glittered in the sun. He stood for a moment outside the bakery just looking at what was around him, knowing that the swelling pain in his chest was because Illya could not do the same.

No. He shook himself out of that. For all he knew, when he got back in to the infirmary Illya would be sitting up in bed absolutely fine, chomping to be released. They would be back on another mission that day, running the gauntlet of danger again, together.

He stepped into the bakery and gave his most charming smile to the man behind the counter.

'And what will it be this morning, Mr Solo?' Luigi asked magnanimously. 'Pain au raison? Cinnamon Danish?'

Napoleon rubbed his chin, noticing absently that he needed to shave. 'Something makes me think I come here too often.'

Luigi shrugged expansively. 'I make the best pastries, you buy the best pastries. Is there anything wrong here?'

Napoleon smiled, in the full knowledge that his smile could light up a room. It certainly reflected well on Luigi, who mirrored the smile and picked up long metal tongs.

'You are buying for Mr Kuryakin too, huh?' he asked, and at Napoleon's nod he said, 'Well, I give you one of these, one of these, two bear claws, yes – and these two I give you for free.'

Napoleon thanked the man profusely and tried to pay him for the six pastries, although Luigi insisted on only taking money for the four. He left the shop thinking that he and Illya really did come here too often, if the man could pick out all their favourites just like that. Then he wondered if Illya would come to buy pastries here again, and his heart lurched.

He hurried back to Headquarters then, suddenly switching from a subconscious desire to put off seeing Illya to a need to see him straight away. He stopped only long enough to pick up two black coffees, and then barged straight into the infirmary, a coffee in each hand and the bag of pastries under his arm. He looked around and caught the eye of a nurse, who smiled brilliantly at him.

'Lucette, I'm after Illya,' he said. 'Is he in a private room now?'

She nodded down the corridor. 'First on the right,' she told him, adding as he walked away, 'Better take a chair.'

Napoleon looked back, startled. 'They already have chairs in there, don't they?'

Lucette gave him an apologetic smile. 'I meant like a lion tamer,' she clarified.

Napoleon's mouth formed a silent oh. He understood that only too well. Illya hated the infirmary, and was apt to act like a cornered beast. He found the door, pushed it open with his hip, and swung himself into the room.

Illya was sitting up in bed in borrowed blue pyjamas. His holster was hanging over the visitor's chair. His gun and communicator were on the night stand. And Illya was directing brilliant blue eyes towards the door. Napoleon took a step forward, grinning; but then the illusion was shattered.

'Doctor, surely I've been poked and prodded enough,' Illya said irritably. 'Even prisoners are given breakfast before their day's torment starts.'

'Er – it's me, Napoleon,' Solo said awkwardly, coming further into the room. 'How are you feeling this morning?'

Illya's head jerked up. He looked as if he had been caught getting something terribly wrong, and Napoleon's throat tightened. The phrase blind as a bat passed through his mind, and he thrust it away angrily.

'Come closer,' Illya murmured, and when Napoleon did his nose wrinkled and he said, 'Ah yes, I can smell that terrible aftershave you wear.'

Napoleon bit back the retort he wanted to make. Since he had not had the chance to shave this morning, he definitely hadn't applied aftershave.

'I promised you pastries and coffee,' he said, keeping his voice light and cheerful. 'Now, if I can scrounge a couple of plates...'

As he spoke Lucette, the nurse from outside, poked her head in and passed Napoleon a couple of paper plates. 'I saw your bag and thought you might need these,' she said.

'You are an angel. You read my mind,' Napoleon said with his most winning smile.

'Can you stop flirting even for one minute?' Illya asked acidly as the door closed again.

Napoleon sighed and came over to sit by the bed, relaxing his spine into the utilitarian chair. 'Illya, can you play nice?' he asked. 'I've had very little sleep.'

Illya closed his eyes, and suddenly he just looked very small, very tired, and very vulnerable. It was not often that he permitted anyone to see that side of him, and Napoleon knew just how privileged he was that he was one of the few who ever did. He decided to try to be understanding of Illya's foul mood, that was obviously coming from his deep distress.

'Here,' he said, putting three of the pastries on a plate and depositing it on Illya's lap. 'Some of Luigi's finest pastries. One of them was gratis, out of the kindness of his heart.'

'You told him what happened?' Illya asked, his head jerking up.

'If you become any more prickly, my little Russian, you will turn into a cactus,' Napoleon warned him. 'No, I didn't tell him anything. Now, do you want your coffee?'

Illya held out a hand silently and Napoleon put the tall cup into it. Then he sat back and stayed quiet while Illya launched in to his food. He had an appetite completely belied by his slim stature, and after a mission like last night's he always seemed extra hungry. Silently, Napoleon slipped one of his own pastries onto Illya's plate.

'Did the doctor say when you could get out of here?' Napoleon asked when Illya was finally brushing the last flakes of pastry from his fingers.

'Was that all the pastries you got?' Illya asked, laying his hand flat on the paper plate to be sure it was empty.

'Your appetite is legendary, tovarisch,' Napoleon said, making an auditory display of screwing the bag up in his hand and tossing it into the trash. 'Yes, that was all I got, and you've had four to my two. Now, what did the doctor say?'

Illya sighed and pressed his lips together, and Napoleon started stitching together scenarios in his mind. None of them ended with a happy Kuryakin.

'The doctor said that there is nothing he can do,' Illya said eventually.

'N-nothing? Nothing?' Napoleon echoed. Those words seemed so final.

Illya's voice became very formal. 'The chemical went to the labs but they had only a very small amount and it was contaminated by my perspiration and tears. They have been working on it overnight but they have no conclusions as yet. The doctor has ascertained that somehow the vitreous fluid in my eyes has been made opaque but there is nothing he can do about it. Physically, there is nothing else wrong with me. I have been subject to peak flow tests, skin sensitivity tests. They've even checked my hair isn't falling out. There are no ill effects from that spray – apart from the obvious.'

Napoleon sat silent, digesting those facts. 'Illya – what are you going to do?' he asked finally, not really expecting an answer. He was at a complete loss.

Illya answered him by draining the last of his coffee and putting the cup on the night stand, then pushing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

'I am going to go home,' he said in a level tone.

'You're – what?'

'I am going to go home,' Illya repeated, and Solo recognised the dangerous tone in his voice.

'And – er – how are you going to do that, comrade?' he asked very softly.

Something very like a growl sounded low in Illya's chest.

'You are going to be courteous enough to not make me beg,' the Russian replied. 'You are going to give me my clothes, and we are going to walk out of here.'

'Illya, you're – you're blind.'

There. That was the first time he had said it out loud. The word felt like poison on his tongue. Illya actually flinched, but he composed himself immediately and stood up, feeling for the night stand by the bed, slipping his hand down to the drawers and opening them to feel for his clothes.

'Where are they, Napoleon?' he asked when his hand encountered nothing.

Napoleon spread his arms wide in an expansive shrug. 'How do you expect me to know? I wasn't here when you were brought to this room.'

Illya closed his eyes and Napoleon could almost see him creating a mental picture of the room. Then, very carefully, the Russian began to step across the floor, aiming almost straight at the small wardrobe on the other side of the room.

'You're a mite off,' Napoleon said in a soft voice. 'You need to go about two degrees left.'

Illya straightened his shoulders and turned to the left, holding out one hand until it touched the wardrobe doors. Inside he found his shirt, tie, dark jacket, and trousers. He took out the clothes and, heedless of Napoleon watching him, stripped off his pyjamas and started to dress.

'Illya, the doctor is not going to like this,' Napoleon warned him.

Illya turned to him, in the act of trying to button up his shirt.

'It's inside out,' Napoleon said helpfully. 'Someone obviously didn't hang it carefully.'

The Russian stripped the shirt off in disgust and began again. He didn't button it all the way or bother with his tie, but left the collar open, and moved back carefully to the bed to fetch his holster.

'I do not care if the doctor does not like it; he has no medical reason to keep me,' Illya said in a very controlled, very careful voice. 'I am going home.'

'And – er – who's going to nursemaid you?' Napoleon asked, going over to him to help as he tried to strap on his holster. Those things were devilishly confusing in the dark.

Illya stiffened. 'I don't need a nursemaid. I know my apartment like the back of my hand.'

'Right,' Napoleon said softly. He waited a moment, then said, 'Come on, let's get you signed out, then we'll get a cab.'

'I suppose I should check in with Mr Waverly first,' Illya commented, but he didn't sound enthusiastic about the prospect.

'Mr Waverly's not in yet. I called up earlier and his secretary said he's in a meeting across town until lunch. So come home and you can call him later, okay?'

Illya was quite right about one thing. The doctor tried to quote all the regulations that he could think of, but Illya countered him with a better, deeper knowledge of all the rules. He was not still under treatment. He was not in need of being confined to bed. He did not need any ongoing medication. Eventually, having given a promise to return next day for a check up, Illya was at the front desk putting a straggling signature on the discharge form where Napoleon placed the pen.

'Mr Kuryakin, I'll – have to ask you to hand in your gun,' the on-duty doctor reminded him quietly.

Illya stiffened. Napoleon knew just how he felt. Even if he should not, could not use the gun, he needed to have it there, nestled against his ribs. As agents, their guns were almost another extremity. Napoleon patted Illya's arm and reached in under his jacket, removing the revolver.

'I'll take care of his gun,' he promised.

The doctor could hardly argue in the face of the CEA of U.N.C.L.E.. It would be Napoleon's responsibility to process the handed-in weapon anyway, being the senior one in their partnership.

'You are going to give that back to me,' Illya said in a very dark voice as soon as they had exited the infirmary.

Wordlessly, Napoleon put the gun against Illya's hand, and he took it and slipped it back where it belonged.