Author's Note: Okay friends, read this one slowly because I'm afraid it will have to last you a little while. I am going out of town soon and won't be able to post for a while. So please read this and enjoy it. I do intend to bring this story to a conclusion, but you may need to be patient with me. I will pick it right back up again as soon as possible, I promise. But please feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think so far! I would love to hear from you!

Okay, deep breath in...deep breath out...here we go!


Illya entered his apartment and left the door open, knowing his partner would follow behind him. "What are you doing here anyway?" he asked, locating a small table with his cane and depositing his wallet, keys and sunglasses atop it. "I thought you had a rendezvous with Miss 'Lovely-in-blue' Sutton."

"Well, there's a funny thing about girls, tovarich," Napoleon observed as he entered the familiar apartment, flipping on the light switch the way his friend neglected to do. "They're like fruit, you see."

Illya removed his jacket and draped it over his arm. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?" he asked, undoing his tie. He pulled it from around his neck and then held it in front of him, clenching it in a fist. "Where are you?" he asked simply.

Napoleon clapped his hands twice and then prepared himself for the catch.

Illya returned the neck tie to his partner with a well aimed toss. "Thanks for that, by the way," he mumbled.

"Don't mention it," Napoleon replied in a low tone. Then raising his voice, he addressed Illya's earlier question, "It means, dear Illya, that women—like fruit—require time to ripen. If you pick them too early, you do yourself a disfavor. You must give them time to grow and mature into the sweet, ripe fruit you want them to be."

Illya shook his head in dismay at his friend's foolish interpretation of women. He wondered how it was that so many women seemed to be so willing to fall victim to Napoleon's strange version of charm. He turned away from his partner, heading into the main living area. "It's fortunate for you that women don't appear to use the same method of 'harvesting'. Otherwise, they'd be waiting on you for an eternity," he muttered in a low voice, but purposely loud enough for his friend to hear.

Napoleon cocked his head, following his partner into the living room. "What was that?" he asked.

"Forget it," Illya replied with a smug smile. "It still doesn't explain what you're doing here instead of at your own house."

Napoleon walked further into the living space. The apartment was small and had a minimal amount of furnishings. It was another glaring difference between Napoleon and his partner. The American was used to lavish living, and enjoyed all the luxuries he could afford. But the Russian was neither accustomed to nor envious for such commodities. Illya was content with a roof, bed, some food, and some books.

However, the western life-style must have been rubbing off on the stoic agent too some extent, for slowly but steadily the Russian's taste had been expanding and his apartment had been increasing subtly in décor. Napoleon had been quietly working for some time now at improving the style of his partner. Already, the blonde agent had been dressing in finer clothes and buying nicer shoes; Napoleon prided himself in that fact. It was a work in progress, but Illya still had a long way to go before he would purchase a television or go to a Yankees game.

Napoleon headed to the kitchen and addressed his friend's comment. "Why? Don't you want me here?"

Illya followed the sound of his partner's voice, "As a matter of fact- " he hinted.

"What is all this?" Napoleon interrupted with surprise.

Illya tilted his head, "What is what?"

"All this cereal! My word, look at this! You have half a dozen boxes here, at least!" Napoleon exclaimed in amusement. He hadn't really pegged his partner as a Wheaties sort of man.

Illya swiftly moved to join his friend. He reached out and touched each of the boxes to confirm their locations. "Yes, and please don't get them out of order," he said with controlled irritation, pushing the boxes farther back on the counter.

"Are you telling me you've had nothing to eat but cereal all this time?" Napoleon asked.

"As if it's any of your concern—which it's not—I have been eating cereal and other dry foods primarily, yes. I've thought it prudent to stay away from the stove recently. I'm not anxious to see my home burn to the ground…so to speak."

"Ah, well," Napoleon said, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. "Now I'm here, so I can cook us something."

Illya placed a hand on his friend's chest and gently pushed him back. With his other hand, Illya closed the refrigerator door. "I don't need a cook, Napoleon," he said, slowly pushing the other agent out of the kitchen.

Walking backwards, Napoleon's shoulder hit the door frame as Illya pushed him further and further out of the room. He glanced around and his eyes landed on his partner's bookcase. "Well I could read you something. I'm sure you've been missing your books."

That was actually very true. His mind had been craving his books like a drowning man craves air, but Illya wasn't very keen on being taken care of. "I don't need a governess either," he said. Knowing that they were in the living area now, Illya stopped pushing against his friend and removed his hand.

Napoleon glanced around before running a single finger across the surface of a nearby shelf. Small bundles of dust clung to his finger as Napoleon raised it for inspection. He rubbed his thumb over his finger to clean away to dust. "Looks like you could use a maid, though," he muttered.

Illya gave an exasperated sigh, "Napoleon, please. I don't need any-"

"How about company?"

Illya halted in mid-sentence at his partner's words.

Napoleon continued, "Do you need any of that?" he asked in a softer, sincere voice. He studied his friend's expression closely, reveling in the blatant emotions betrayed there. Despite having his eyes covered, Illya's face distinctly fell at Napoleon's words. The cool agent was usually so guarded with his emotions, but somehow, those bandages seemed to lower the defensive walls Illya had built to conceal and protect his most private emotions. The Russian's face told stories of lonely days and boring nights, and Napoleon unabashedly took in the tales with genuine interest and concern.

Illya turned away from his partner and sighed, "Look, Napoleon, I'm doing fine alone. I don't need someone to look after me. I'd really just prefer it if you went home."

But Napoleon was too perceptive to be fooled. Over the years, he and Illya had developed this uncanny ability to decipher through each other's poorly attempted lies. That said, Napoleon knew that the last thing Illya wanted was to be left alone again. But he also knew that he had obviously really irritated his friend by following him home.

It wasn't the first time Napoleon had been inside the other man's home. But nevertheless, it was clear that Illya felt he was being intruded upon. The uncomfortable edge to Illya seemed to be creeping up the back of his neck with ever passing moment. Napoleon wondered why his presence in this apartment was suddenly so irritating Illya.

Perhaps it was because Napoleon had followed him secretly. It was a foolish thing to do, he knew that. But Napoleon had been worried about his friend. All of the other times Napoleon had come to visit Illya, the blonde agent had been safely within the confines of his home. Perhaps he was being overprotective, but Napoleon felt he had to see his partner make it safely back to his apartment. But, at the same time, he didn't want Illya to think he was being a mother hen either. So, when he dropped Illya off at the curb, Napoleon had decided he would follow the other agent and make sure he didn't run into any trouble. After all, THRUSH was nefarious enough to order its agents to ambush a defenseless blind man without a blink of hesitation.

The only trouble was, Illya had noticed him. Napoleon hadn't expected Illya to linger so long in the lobby. By the time Napoleon had parked the car and made it inside the building, Illya was still standing by the elevators. Napoleon knew he had been detected, but still didn't want to reveal his identity; so he remained frozen in the lobby, hoping Illya would dismiss the incident and continue along his way. But his suspicious partner's attention had already been alerted and there was nothing Napoleon could do to calm it. Illya had grabbed hold of his gun and Napoleon's eyes widened. He had to do something before his friend got too trigger-happy and started shooting at what he couldn't see. So, in an effort to dissolve the situation, Napoleon had opened and closed the door again, hoping Illya would think whoever it was had just turned around and left the lobby. Then Illya had called out, and Napoleon wondered if he should just give himself up…but he didn't. He remained silent and eventually, Illya continued on his way towards his apartment.

Napoleon waited a few moments before following his partner through the stairwell. This time, he tried to keep his distance so that Illya wouldn't detect him again. He was very conscious of the noise he was making as he then tiptoed his way down the hall. But then, something terrifying happened. Napoleon had turned the corner, and Illya had not been by his apartment door as anticipated. He had lost him.

Napoleon then advanced swiftly to the door, his hand reaching inside his suit jacket to grab hold of his gun. He jiggled the handle to find the door was locked. He knocked on its hard surface. "Illya?" he had called. There wasn't an answer. "Illya, it's me. If you're in there, open up!" He was starting to panic now. Where had he gone? How could he have lost him so quickly? Visions of THRUSH agents knocking his partner out and dragging him off somewhere had flooded into Napoleon's head with frightening clarity.

Roughly, Napoleon had shoved himself away from the door and spun around quickly, glancing frantically down both lengths of the hallway. He cursed himself under his breath for letting Illya out of his sight. His mind rushed to come up with a solution. Was it more likely that they would have taken Illya to the roof, or back down to the lobby? Or had they just dragged him into one of these other apartments? Napoleon knelt in the hallway and combed the floor with his eyes, searching for footprints or anything else that might tell him where his partner was. But the carpeting was too old. It had been tramped down my countless footsteps to the point where no shoe could leave a print in it anymore.

After a few more frantic moments, Napoleon's panic had been put to rest when his friend had suddenly appeared at the end of the hallway, alive and unharmed. Napoleon positioned himself against a wall so that he would be sure to stay out of his partner's way. But Illya didn't go straight into his apartment as expected. He hesitated a few moments, and then startled Napoleon when he spun around to face him.

Napoleon had held up his hands in surrender the moment Illya had turned the gun on him. It was a physical expression of surrender that was a totally useless gesture to make towards a blind man, but it was also a natural position to instinctively assume when one had a gun pointed at them. He didn't have his hands up for long, however, before he realized how silly that was and sheepishly lowered them, grateful that his friend couldn't see his foolish mistake.

After that moment, Napoleon had been caught and Illya had been noticeably irritated with him. He hadn't meant for Illya to notice him. He only wanted to make sure his friend was safe. But now Napoleon wondered if it had been worth it. Illya was acting slightly offended by the intrusion of being followed. Perhaps just leaving him alone would be the best thing to do.

Now, Napoleon watched Illya start to undo his shoulder holster. Napoleon still knew that his friend must be getting bored from being alone constantly. But considering how much he had already aggravated the man, perhaps it would be best to just leave him alone. "Well," Napoleon started, "If you're sure that's what you want."

Illya removed the holster from his arm, "I'm sure."

"Well, okay then…" Napoleon said with remaining uncertainty.

Illya nodded as he turned to head into his bedroom. "Right then, I trust you can show yourself out." Illya heard a distant, "right" from his partner before he closed his bedroom door.

Safely inside his room, Illya sighed. Truth be told, he did wish Napoleon would stay. As strange as it seemed, the agent had been intensely craving human interaction for the past few weeks. Napoleon had been his only link to the outside world until today, and even then, the senior agent only visited Illya for a few short hours each day. Illya was sick of being alone. And the darkness of his mind seemed to make the loneliness of his surroundings even more hollow.

Illya grunted in frustration as he tossed his jacket where he knew his bed was. What was wrong with him? He never got this lonely before! Prior to the explosion, he could go hours upon hours and days upon days without seeing people, or wanting to. He would seek solitude. How many times had he turned Napoleon and the other agents down for some social event in favor of going home for personal time spent reading or listening to his music? How many other days had he spent his free time at UNCLE in a secluded corner of the laboratory, working on an experiment he hoped would prove his latest theory? Illya Kuryakin was anything but a social butterfly, and now all of the sudden he was aching for companionship. For goodness sake, he was even grateful for the attention of those silly girls in Records, as much as he hated to admit it! He craved conversation, interaction, and physical touches with an intensity he never had before! How could his sight (or lack thereof) make such a drastic difference in his very personality?

He didn't know, but it was driving him mad. He hated how much this stupid injury had changed him. More and more, he was failing to feel like himself. He was becoming a different person, a stranger to the man he had lived as his whole life. All of the sudden, he was depending on other people for the tiniest of things. He couldn't find his own cab fare. He couldn't match his own clothes. He couldn't do his own job. He couldn't even straighten his own bloody tie! He was becoming a hopeless invalid! And that thought both infuriated and terrified Illya.

Yes, he was scared, scared to death. What would happen if his sight didn't return? What if the doctor removed his bandages next week to find that the medication had done nothing, and the scaring on his eyes was too severe to recover? How long would they let him remain an UNCLE agent? He would undoubtedly be replaced as Napoleon's partner, and most likely be reassigned to that Records room, or somewhere like it, until he wore out his welcome or retired. And what came after that? Sitting at home alone as he did now? Waiting for the day when Napoleon would eventually stop coming and the darkness would be able to swallow him completely, the way it tried to do now?

Illya shivered. He didn't want to think about it anymore. He walked into his small bathroom and splashed some water on the lower half of his face. The blonde agent flattened both of his hands against the cool surface of his countertop and leaned against them, feeling the water stream down his face and dive off his chin. He imagined starring at himself in the mirror, his eyes connecting with their solid blue reflection. For a moment, Illya tried to pretend that life was normal again.

He left his room and headed into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. He knew he was already sufficiently depressed, but he still couldn't resist the glass of vodka he prepared. Then he moved into the living room and allowed himself to drop onto his couch. His feet felt heavy as he propped them up on a small stool. He sipped his vodka and sighed, relishing the harsh sting it left behind as it slid down his throat. Illya leaned his head backwards and rested it on the back of the couch. But his head sprung forward again when he heard…

"Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stevenson."

Illya was startled to hear his partner's voice, and almost protested. But after a moment of consideration, Illya simply sighed in relinquishment and returned his head to its reclined position, surrendering to the story.

"Chapter One…" Napoleon began, noticing the small smile that tugged at the corner of his friend's lips.

To be continued…


Author's Note: I chose Robert Louis Stevenson's Kidnapped for two reasons. One, I really enjoy that book and I'm all about including my personal favorites into my stories. And two, David McCallum played Allen Breck Stewart in the miniseries version of Kidnapped shot for British television in the late 70's, and I thought it would be fun to give him a shout-out for that terrific performance.