Napoleon could see the frustration building in his friend as he sat through his examination in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. The resident doctor had brought in an eye specialist from outside, but even he could say nothing reassuring. As Illya sat in the examination chair apparently working harder and harder to control the temper that was boiling under the surface, a nurse touched Napoleon's arm and asked quietly if she could have a word.

'Yeah, sure,' he nodded. 'Illya, listen, I just need to pop out for a minute, okay?'

'I'm going nowhere,' Illya replied darkly, and Napoleon exchanged an apologetic look with the frustrated ophthalmologist.

'Okay, Sandy, what is it?' he asked as he left the room with the perky young nurse. A few days ago he would have given her his undivided attention and probably wound up asking her out on a date, but right now it seemed that all he could think of was Illya.

'Just a few tips,' she told him with a gentle smile, as if he had been added to some kind of extended rank of the disabled because of Illya's injury. 'You're the one looking after him full time, right?'

'Yeah, I – guess,' Napoleon nodded, feeling rather awkward at that designation.

'Well, I took the liberty of getting a few leaflets for you from various organisations,' she said, grabbing a thin stack of folded paper from the admission desk behind her. 'You might want to have a read through. They just give you some basic guidance on how to deal with – well – '

'The blind,' Napoleon supplied dryly. 'Thanks, Sandy. I'll cast an eye over them.'

'May as well do it here and now,' she told him. 'I'll get you a coffee.'

'Thanks, Sandy,' he said again, but he was already looking at the leaflets. It didn't take him long to discover he had been doing it all wrong by grabbing Illya's elbow to guide him, and that was just the start. He sat down, leant back, and settled himself for a long and enlightening read.

((O))

Illya looked pensive when he came out of the examination room, and Napoleon's heart sunk a little at the expression on his pale face. The ophthalmologist was guiding him just as the leaflets had said to, with Illya's hand closed on his arm just above his elbow, but just through the door the doctor raised his hand to Solo and said, 'Ah, I'll hand you over to your partner now, Mr Kuryakin. I need to go discuss my findings with Dr Malhotra. I want you back in two days. Be assured I'll pass on my full report both to you and your superior.'

'Thank you,' Illya said tightly, and Napoleon saw it as a bad sign that the Russian had not snapped a query as to how he would be expected to read the report.

'Right here, comrade,' Napoleon murmured, shoving the leaflets into his jacket pocket and coming over to his friend.

'Must you always call me that?' Illya asked irritably. 'You do realise friends don't call each other that?'

He sighed. He knew that and Illya knew that he knew. He also knew that Illya understood the affectionate humour in the term; or at least, he understood it when he wasn't in such a wretchedly bad mood. He took Illya's hand and transferred it to his own arm, patting his fingers lightly as they curled closed.

'You can talk to me in the elevator,' he murmured.

'I'll pass on everything he said to Waverly in a few minutes. Can't you wait until then?' Illya asked, and Napoleon didn't know whether to be pleased or dismayed at the irritation in Illya's tone. He supposed it was better than apathy, if a little harder to live around.

'I can,' he conceded. 'But I thought you might like to – '

'Really, it is very wearisome to have to go through the details over and over,' Illya cut across.

Napoleon bit his lip over his retort and said, 'Okay, I'll hear it with Waverly.'

Illya continued to be silent and pensive as the elevator hummed upwards, and he followed Napoleon without a word out into the corridor beyond, the crooked cane held rigidly in his right hand.

'Ah, gentlemen,' Waverly greeted them as they came through the door into his office. 'Mr Kuryakin, how are you – ' He drifted into silence as if understanding a platitude such as asking how Illya was feeling would be of no use at all. 'Well, sit down, sit down,' he blustered, and Napoleon moved forward to the table, remembering the tips he had read and putting Illya's hand to the back of the chair in front of him. Perhaps it was instinct that prompted Illya to slide his hand down the back to the seat, because he certainly could not have read the leaflets. Perhaps the ophthalmologist had given him some quiet advice.

Napoleon seated himself next to his partner and looked between Illya and Waverly as Waverly sat down and occupied himself in packing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

'Well, Mr Kuryakin,' Waverly said as a match flared. Napoleon's eyes narrowed as he saw Waverly's gaze on Illya's face, wondering if he were trying to gauge if the Russian had any reaction to the sudden light. 'What did Dr Peterson have to say?'

Illya clenched his hands before him on the table, dropping his head a little, and Napoleon waited to hear what he had to say. Apparently he remembered the sunglasses that he had taken off for his examination, because he pulled them from his breast pocket and returned them to his face, perhaps in response to Waverly's trick with the match. The pipe was still unlit.

'The labs have got no further in developing any kind of antidote to the chemical that was sprayed on me,' the Russian began. 'It seems to be some kind of calcium based polymer which reproduces itself using the vitreous humour as nourishment. They don't know how to combat it. Furthermore, it has increased its opacity as time has gone on. I can see less today than I could yesterday.'

Napoleon looked at Illya in shock. 'You didn't mention – '

'It's a negligible increase,' the Russian shrugged wearily. 'I hadn't noticed the slight increase until I was sitting in that same room with the same light above me, but it will continue to increase gradually as time goes on.'

'Will it spread?' Waverly asked, and even that staunchly businesslike voice was tinted with deep concern.

Napoleon felt a chill run down his spine. What if it did spread? What if it crept down the optic nerve into the brain?

'They think not,' Illya shrugged. 'It seems to find the interior of the eyeball a peculiarly hospitable environment.'

'But this is all stuff Dr Malhotra could have told you,' Waverly said impatiently. 'What about Dr Peterson? We called him in at great expense.'

'Dr Peterson tested the extent of my sight loss and the pressure in both eyes, among other things. He says there's no increased pressure, which is apparently good. He wants to keep checking the extent of sight loss every two days to see how much the opacity is increasing, and to make sure no pressure builds up. There was very little more he could do, but he is staying on to discuss the situation with Dr Malhotra,' Illya said rather stiffly.

'Then there is no positive prognosis?' Waverly asked, rubbing the bowl of his pipe against his lip and lightly sniffing the unlit tobacco inside.

Illya smiled rather bitterly. 'No. According to Dr Peterson, that's a conundrum for the labs. This is not within his experience.'

Napoleon found himself looking at his partner with a feeling of sadness thickening his throat. He itched to do something about the situation but Illya was the scientist in the partnership, and he, Napoleon, just didn't have the expertise. He doubted Illya had the expertise either, since his PhD was in quantum mechanics, not biology or chemistry.

'Sir, you mentioned yesterday that you expect us to look in to the situation ourselves,' Napoleon said rather hesitantly.

Waverly turned to the sideboard that ran along the edge of the room, picking up a sheaf of files and slapping them down onto the circular table.

'Yes indeed, Mr Solo,' he said. Illya jerked his elbows from the table as Waverly spun it so that the stack of files ended up just in front of Napoleon's position. 'The birds have flown from the Westchester lab and they've taken a lot of their records with them, but these are all the files we could compile on the place. I suggest you take them away and study them fully. Go through them with Mr Kuryakin. I want him just as conversant with the contents as you are. There's a plan of the complex and biographies of all the known personnel. One of them may have been responsible for developing that chemical. He may also have developed an antidote.'

'Sir – ' Napoleon hesitated, then ploughed on, 'Sir, you must have other teams working on this. More – um – '

'More able teams,' Illya cut across him. 'Teams of two men without an average of one eye each.'

Napoleon winced, but Waverly didn't seem to notice Kuryakin's cutting tone.

'Yes, yes, we have Dancer and Slate working on it, but you have – how shall I put it? You have an added incentive, don't you?'

'An incentive?' Illya sounded flabbergasted. 'If you think – '

He stood up from the table, pushing his chair back as if he intended to walk away. But then he just stood there, mouth working, until Napoleon stood too and put his hand on Illya's arm.

Waverly's voice was like a whip. 'Mr Kuryakin, I understand you're not on top physical form but there's nothing wrong with your mind – and you know that insubordination will not be tolerated.'

Illya's hands worked in and out of fists at his side. He seemed to not know what to say or do. Finally he reached out for the chair behind him and reseated himself, mumbling, 'I'm sorry, sir.'

Under the table, Napoleon reached out to touch the Russian's thigh in a gesture of reassurance, since he couldn't do the same with a look.

'I think what Illya meant to say,' he began, but Waverly cut him off.

'Oh, I completely understand Mr Kuryakin's position,' he said coolly. 'That is why I'm giving him something to focus the mind. Rest assured that Dancer and Slate are doing all they can for your case, Mr Kuryakin. But I want your mind on it too – both of you. Now, take those files away and do what you can with them.'

((O))

Illya was still seething when they sat down in the small office that he shared with Napoleon. Waverly was right about one thing, though. He did have something now to focus his mind, something that wasn't dwelling on the constant dim fog that he moved in, that was cut to almost nothing by the dark glasses. He preferred the darkness. It was less distracting, less confusing. And the longer Napoleon spent diligently reading each page of the file of information aloud the smaller the ball of seething anger grew, until it was just a niggle at the back of his mind.

He sat in his chair with his feet up on the desk, but his mind wasn't entirely focussed on Napoleon's words. The hangover wasn't helping, and he was noticing small things; that he could smell the soil and the strong geranium scent of the potted plant on the filing cabinet, something one of the secretaries had given to Napoleon and promised to keep watered when he was away. He could hear the rustle of Napoleon's suit material every time his sleeve rubbed against his body. He could hear the hum of the air conditioning and outside, slightly softened by the intervening wall, he could hear the footsteps of other U.N.C.L.E. employees going about their day.

'Shall I go back to the top?' Napoleon asked him.

Illya rubbed a hand over his forehead. 'Yeah, do,' he nodded. Start at 'Miss Sophie Winslip.'

Napoleon cleared his throat. 'Uh, Miss Sophie Winslip, born 10 10 43, graduated MIT at the top of her class in molecular chemistry. Worked at Unilever before quitting her job with a month's notice and – ' Napoleon paused and said, 'What would you say to coffee and a handful of aspirin?'

Illya jerked his feet back to the floor and asked, 'What time is it?'

'Almost one. Coffee, aspirin, and lunch? I can grab a sandwich from the commissary?'

Illya grumbled. 'And have it come back slathered in mustard? I'll come with you.'

'I'll bring the files,' Napoleon decided. 'Call it a working lunch.'

Illya gave a small smile of acknowledgement. He knew that he was being a terror; he would be the first to admit it. He was glad of Napoleon's light insouciance in response to his decision to come to the commissary. Napoleon probably expected him to hole up in the office all day, and truth be told that was what he wanted to do, but he knew that getting out of the chair, getting a little exercise, and moving on relentlessly as if everything were normal was probably the best way to go about things. He had no desire to expose himself to the pitying eyes of the secretarial pool and all of the hale and able-bodied agents, but it would have to happen sooner or later, and he would rather it was on his terms. At least, he consoled himself dryly, he wouldn't be able to see their pitying stares.

He stood with Napoleon in line to get the sandwich, still under the pretence that he was protecting his sandwich from applications of mustard and ketchup. Really he just didn't want to be seen waiting at the table like a cripple while Napoleon did everything for him. He carried the tray with the sandwiches and Napoleon carried the drinks. It was a small piece of independence, and although he was holding onto Napoleon's arm all the while, it was something.

'All right, want to get back to the reading?' Napoleon asked once they were settled at the table.

Illya held out his hand. 'You promised me aspirin. Give.'

'Ah, yes.' Napoleon put a couple of tablets into the palm of his hand. 'Water?'

'Please.' He took the glass Napoleon touched to his fingers, swallowed the tablets, and nodded. 'Now you can get back to the reading.'

Napoleon's voice droned on, interrupted occasionally by the sound of biting, chewing, and swallowing. Illya attacked his own sandwich diligently, wondering if perhaps sandwiches were the way forward: manageable finger food where all of the fiddly bits of meat and salad were trapped between two slices of bread. Napoleon reached over the table to dab at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and Illya batted his hand away.

'I can wipe my own mouth, thank you,' he said icily, although he wasn't sure where his napkin was. He trusted that Napoleon had completed the task, and started feeling for his coffee cup with tentative circles of his hand on the table.

'What about this map of the complex?' Napoleon asked him. 'You studied it before we left that night, yes?'

'I studied it,' Illya nodded, 'but I don't have perfect recall of it any more. I put these things out of my mind once I think I won't need them any more – make space for new things. Do you think it'll help us at all?'

Napoleon made a noise of consideration. Illya listened as he spread the paper out on the table top and, he thought by the sound, weighted the corners with salt and pepper shakers, perhaps with the glasses of water, too. 'Well, it could do. Look, here's the alley we were trapped in...'

'Looking is my current weak spot,' Illya remarked blackly.

He could almost feel the cogs turning in Napoleon's head. Then the American got to his feet, clicking his fingers. 'Hey, Elsbeth, you going back to the office? Be an angel and bring me some glue, huh? The quick-drying stuff.' Napoleon's footsteps snapped across the floor of the commissary and he called, 'Freddie? Yeah, have you got a box of matches there? Can I borrow it? Yeah, and a steak knife?'

'What on earth do you have in mind?' Illya asked as Napoleon returned to the table.

'A map that you can use,' Napoleon said with glee in his voice. He tapped his fingers on the table and then rattled the box of matches. Illya heard card slip against card and the rattle of matchsticks being poured out. The sharp scent of phosphorus filled the air, and he caught the tiny sound of the thin sticks being snapped.

'On my table too!' came the irate voice of Freddie, one of the kitchen cooks. 'Only Section 2 agents… Mr Solo, here, use this.'

Something slapped onto the table and Illya sat resisting questions. Perhaps it was a chopping board. He thought that Napoleon had started cutting the matchsticks with the steak knife right on the formica surface.

'Napoleon, you wanted some glue?' the soft voice of Elsbeth Higgins from the Weapons Research asked, and there was a soft smack as something landed in Napoleon's palms. 'Illya, I – '

'Yes, thank you,' Illya forestalled her, immediately growing taciturn. He hated professions of sympathy.

'No, really,' she insisted. 'All of us in Weapons Research were horrified. If there's anything we can do – '

'Tell Sandy Williams to stop blaring popular music out into the corridors,' Illya said with stone-faced seriousness. 'That will be to the benefit of the entire organisation. Unless you want to persuade him to take his radio to the closest Thrush listening station and ruin their eardrums for a bit?'

'Uh – I'm sorry, Elsbeth, I'll be sure to keep him on a shorter leash next time,' Napoleon said in the silence that followed. 'He gets ratty when he's unsettled and I should know better than to take him to the park with the other doggies.'

Illya picked up his coffee and ignored everyone around him until it seemed that he had been left alone. Then he sat listening as Napoleon hummed softly to himself, filling the air with the scent of glue and cutting more matchsticks. After a while he asked rather impatiently, 'What are you doing with glue and matchsticks, Napoleon?'

'Give me your hand, your right hand.'

Illya held out his hand, but then a flood of self consciousness flushed over him.

'Let's take it back to the office,' he said said quickly, closing his hand into a fist. 'It's a better place to be discussing this than here.'