"You wanted to see me, sir?" Napoleon said, entering the office of Number One of Section One and closing the door behind him.

"That I did, Mr. Solo. Do you have that report for me?" Alexander Waverly asked.

"Yes sir." Napoleon advanced towards the desk and handed the yellow file to his chief. "Here it is."

The older man took it, his bushy eyebrows rising to read the label on the front. "Very good. I trust all the proceedings are adequately detailed, Mr. Solo; not like your last report."

Napoleon looked properly chastised, "Yes sir. Everything has been properly included, I assure you."

"Good. And I shall have you know, Mr. Solo, your tardiness in this matter has not gone unnoticed. However, considering the resent state of your partner, I am pardoning your breech in protocol; but only for these unique circumstances. Do not be misled to believe you can count on such generosity in the future."

"I understand, sir."

"Good. You're dismissed." The man turned his attention away from Napoleon and back onto something resting on his desk.

But Napoleon didn't leave the office right away. He stayed and watched Waverly for a few moments. He wondered if Waverly already knew Illya was at work, and if he had approved it. It was possible that the Russian had come in to work on his own volition, not consulting Mr. Waverly on the subject at all. In fact, knowing Illya, Napoleon was almost certain this was exactly what happened. So now the question was, should Napoleon inform Mr. Waverly of Illya's presence or should he just let his partner go on like he would any other day? Before Napoleon had made up his mind, the old man's eyes lifted from the file and stared squarely into his own.

"Was there something else, Mr. Solo?"

Well, he had to say something now. "Oh, nothing too important, sir. Just a small matter of personnel."

"Yes? What kind of matter?" Waverly started busily flipping through some loose pages.

"Well…" now he was committed. He had to tell Waverly about it now. "Well," he began again, "were you aware of Illya's return, sir?"

Picking up a pen, the old man started signing his name on the appropriate pages. "Return to where, Mr. Solo?"

"To here, sir. Illya's come back to work today."

Waverly looked up. "Mr. Kuryakin is here at Head Quarters? I wasn't aware medical had approved his bill of health."

Napoleon uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm, uh, not sure that they have, sir. But he's come to work all the same."

"Well, that's absurd," the chief scoffed, "He must be returned home at once. We cannot have a blind man bumping his way about the halls while there are people trying to get work accomplished."

Immediately, Napoleon regretted mentioning it. He felt like a tattletale, snitching on Illya to the principal. Obviously, his poor friend was getting bored out of his mind stuck in his apartment and he seemed desperate for something to do. Napoleon hated the thought of dashing his hopes and making him go all the way back home again. Out of loyalty to his friend, Napoleon spoke up, "Actually sir, I was wondering if we couldn't find something for Illya to do; I mean, so long as he's here. It seems an extra pair of hands is always a nice thing to have around the place."

"Mr. Solo, your friend is blind. This is a highly organized, extremely detail-sensitive environment. Surely you can realize how impossible it would be for Mr. Kuryakin to function in such an atmosphere."

"It wouldn't be the first time Illya's defied the odds, sir. He navigated his way to Head Quarters entirely on his own. His journey here alone should be proof enough of his competence, even despite his current state. Surely there is something he can do around here to help."

Waverly looked pensively at his desk. "It was rather resourceful of him to make it all the way here, I suppose. And it's clear you place a great deal of confidence in his abilities. Very well, Mr. Solo. If you want him here, you shall have him. But I leave it to you to find appropriate work for him. I don't want operations to suffer because of his disability, so be judicious in your choice of tasks for him."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Napoleon said, relieved with his chief's decision. Turning on his heel, he headed out of the office.

Surprisingly enough, Illya had actually stayed in the office the whole time Napoleon was away. He just sat in his desk-chair and listened to the seconds tick by; essentially, the very same thing he was doing back home. And yet, Illya was grateful for the change of scenery. Though his eyes could not suggest any difference between the two environments, his other senses, which had become heightened the past two weeks, picked up on the subtle differences keenly. The scents in each respective room were drastically different, though each held a particular sense of familiarity to the Russian. His home had a deep, wooden sort of smell accented by hints of vodka and gunpowder. The office that he shared with Napoleon smelt of paper, ink, cologne and a faint layer of dust. He regarded each blend of smells with a certain air of comfort; a comfort that allowed his mind to reach its rare and still rather mild state of relaxation…temporarily free of care or worry regarding danger.

His hearing was also growing increasingly sharp. Illya could listen to the coming and going of people in the hallway and determine precisely when they passed his door. And, depending on the tone of the footsteps, he fancied he could guess whether it was a male or female passing. In some cases, he was even certain he could tell the person's very identity based on the style and pace of their stride. That said, he recognized immediately the sound of Napoleon's approaching footsteps. Illya hurriedly fumbled his way to a familiar drawer to retrieve a prop.

When Napoleon entered the office, he saw Illya reclining in his desk-chair, a book opened in his hand, apparently staring at the pages. Napoleon smirked, "Very funny."

Illya snapped the book closed with a faint smile, "Yes, I thought it was."

Napoleon nodded towards the door, though the gesture obviously went unnoticed. "Come on," he said.

The face of the pessimistic agent fell softly. "I'm to go home," he stated dolefully.

Seeing the dread on his partner's face pulled at something within Napoleon. He was indeed grateful that Waverly had changed his mind. "No," he answered, "You're to get to work right away."

Illya's brow furrowed and he straightened in his seat. "Doing what?" he asked.

"Well, if you'd follow me instead of question me, I'd be able to show you. Now, come on!"

Without needing further stimulation, Illya quickly rose from his chair, retrieved his cane, and followed Napoleon out the door.

To be continued…

I know it was short, but I still hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free to review!

--Monker