Author's Note: I'm admitting it now before someone calls me out on it. I am a writer, not a physician. There is "medicine" involved in this chapter, and to be perfectly honest, I just made it all up. I have no idea if it's actually accurate, it's just sort of how I pictured the scene going. So to all my medically inclined readers, I apologize now. Hopefully nothing is too far from plausibility. Anyway, enjoy it!

"Mr. Waverly, welcome. Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, please come in," the chief physician of UNCLE's medical team said politely, gesturing the three men into the room. "If you would please have a seat, Mr. Kuryakin, we'll begin in just a moment." The doctor mumbled something to a nearby nurse and then both medical persons exited the room.

"Thank you, doctor," Alexander Waverly said, trying to find a place to stand in the small examination room.

"Here," Napoleon said quietly to his partner, grasping Illya by the shoulders carefully maneuvering him until he bumped into the cold examining table, prompting him to sit. Illya scooted onto the table, crinkling the sterile paper underneath him noisily. Once he was settled, he gave a vague nod of thanks to Napoleon, and the dark-haired agent turned to find a place to sit. Finding a fine stool that would do the trick, Napoleon took a seat, feeling as though his heart was about to palpitate right out of his chest. Subtly, Napoleon felt his own pulse. He reminded himself to take a few deep breaths. Overreacting wasn't going to ensure Illya's sight.

After a moment, the door opened and the doctor and nurse returned. "Alright then," he said, forcing a smile. He tried to seem perky, but everyone in the room understood the gravity of this moment. The tension was as thick as stone, and the fact that the Big Man himself was observing didn't make the poor doctor's attempt at bedside-manner any easier. "If I could just, scooch around you here," he said mildly to Napoleon, who was sitting precisely where the doctor needed to be.

Hesitating only long enough for one more nervous glance at his partner, Napoleon got up from his stool, shooting a sheepish "sorry about that" look towards Mr. Waverly. Once the doctor was seated, Napoleon took to standing directly behind him, peering over the man's shoulder in a way that was just shy of looming.

"Right then," said the doctor. "How are we feeling, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya wetted his lips nervously. "In all honesty, doctor, I'm ready to get this over with."

The doctor chuckled, organizing some instruments on a metal tray. "I can't say that I blame you. Well, we're going to get those nasty things off in a jiff. Nurse," he said over his shoulder.

A lovely young woman seemed to appear from nowhere (a trick that made Napoleon wonder if he should have gone to medical school) and turn on a dim light behind Illya. Then she turned around. "Excuse me, sir," she said, politely ushering Mr. Waverly to the side so she could close the door. Then, turning off the overhead lights, she returned to the doctor's side.

"Alright, Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor began, "all of the lights are now off except for one, which is directly behind you. We do this because, after such a suspended time of dormancy, your eyes are going to be extremely sensitive to light. So if, when you open your eyes, everything looks dark, do not be alarmed."

Illya nodded with a subtle gulp, "I understand."

"Okay, now I'm going to start removing the bandages. When I do, I don't want you opening your eyes right away. Your skin will be sore, your lids will be sensitive, so I'm going to apply a cool press to your eyes to give your skin and muscles around the eyes time to adjust. Okay?"

Illya nodded again, "Okay."

"Alright, I'm using scissors, but don't be alarmed." Slowly, the doctor began to cut away the bandages.

The crisp sound of the scissors slicing through that wretched gauze was like music to Illya's ears. He couldn't even count the number of times he had been tempted to just tare those no good, itchy little strips right off of his face. Hearing them be cut through was a significant satisfaction for Illya.

The doctor finished cutting the gauze and then slowly removed it from Illya's face. The bandages had been there for so long that it was almost like peeling off a very old scab. It was a slow—and probably painful process—as the Russian's skin struggled to hold onto the gauze. Finally, the whole clump of dirty bandages came free from the agent's face. After that, two small cotton swabs remained. They were each about the size of a cigarette lighter and there was one covering each eye. These too, the doctor gently removed.

Napoleon grimaced as he saw his partner's full face for the first time since the accident. The skin on much of Illya's forehead and around his eyes appeared very pink and very moist. The skin around the eye sockets themselves was a light shade of maroon. At the moment, Napoleon couldn't tell exactly how much of the discoloration was from the medication on the gauze and how much of it was from the burn itself. But regardless of the cause, it looked terribly painful and Napoleon's gut instantly kicked with more pity for his partner.

To his credit, Illya went a long time before finally allowing himself to wince. "It stings," he said through clenched teeth.

The doctor discarded the bandages and swabs into a nearby trashcan. "Nurse, the press," he ordered; and soon, it was delivered to him. "Alright, now hold on," he said soothingly, applying the cool press to the Russian's face, "Just hold on…this will help."

As soon as the towel touched his face, Illya jumped slightly. His initial reaction was pain, but the longer the compress was on his face, the more soothing it felt.

After a while, the doctor said, "Now…whenever you're ready, Mr. Kuryakin…"

Illya gulped.

"We can take this off, and you can open your eyes. You just let me know when you want that to happen."

Another gulp. Illya's body was starting to tremble subtly but he struggled to stay in control of it. 'This is it,' he told himself, '…this is it.' A few seconds later, Illya nodded. "Okay," he said, "I'm ready."

Napoleon bit his knuckle and pinched his eyes tightly shut for a brief prayer. When he heard the doctor respond with a quiet, "Okay," Napoleon opened his eyes again.

Slowly, the doctor removed the compress. "Whenever you're ready," he said.

Illya bowed his head and his hands clutched tightly at his knees. Napoleon slumped forward in an effort to see his friend's eyes. He watched as Illya struggled with great effort to get his eyes open. His lids were coated in some sort of crust which had virtually sealed them shut. Napoleon was just about to suggest they get something to wipe the eyes with first when Illya suddenly managed to pry one eye open.

Napoleon crouched lower, hoping to make eye contact with his friend. Even in the dim light, Napoleon could make out the striking blue ring of his partner's bloodshot eye. A moment later, Illya had both eyes open, but was blinking rapidly, his face twisted into a strained grimace. Napoleon held his breath. A few seconds ticked by as Illya continued to struggle to keep his eyes open. The room was completely silent. Everyone waited to know what Illya saw.

"Are…" Illya panted out, "are they opened?" he asked desperately.

Napoleon's heart dropped to the ground with an all but audible thud. 'He can't tell the difference,' Napoleon thought brokenly.

No one answered the Russian's question. No one could find any words to say.

"Napoleon?" Illya called, his eyes glancing aimlessly around.

Tears welled up in Napoleon's eyes. "They're opened," he choked out.

Fear struck Illya's face, but he couldn't keep his eyes open a moment longer. It hurt too much. Shutting them tightly, he tried to force the tears back down, but he couldn't…much to his chagrin. It wasn't just a matter of pride. The salty tears stung his eyes, catching them aflame with intense pain. "Ahh, Чёрт!" he cursed. "It hurts!" The more it stung, the more his eyes watered, and the more he cried, the more intense the pain became.

He frantically waved his hands around in front of him. "Where's the towel?" he demanded. Within milliseconds, the compress was back on his face and the pain was slowly subsiding.

After a few moments, the doctor finally asked the question that everyone had already answered in their heads. "Well? Could you see anything?"

Panting softly, Illya shook his head, "No…I don't know. I-I can't be sure. It just stung to have them opened."

The doctor nodded. "That's understandable," he said, "Give it a moment and you can try again if you want to."

It took a few minutes before Illya felt ready to try again, but finally, he removed the towel from his face and gulped once more.

"Ready?" the doctor asked.

Illya nodded, bowing his head again. He opened his eyes…and then quickly shut them again, cursing quietly and dabbing his lids a few times with the cool towel. He tried again, this time with more determination. He blinked hard a few times but struggled to keep his eyes open for longer periods of time.

"Well?" Napoleon asked anxiously.

Illya held his eyes open and stared downward. His breath came out in shaky huffs and he concentrated with all of his might to form a picture. "All…all I see is red!" he said with frustration.

"Red?" Napoleon exclaimed. "Well that's something, right? That's a good sign?" he asked the doctor desperately.

The doctor didn't answer. Instead, he leaned a little closer to Illya. Waving his hand in front of the Russian's face, he asked, "Is that all you see?"

Illya was now visibly trembling with frustration, his eyes never focusing on the moving hand in front of him. "Yes," he said. "Only red. Slightly orange, I guess, but…."

Illya's words would have been more comforting if he had held in his hands something red. But the truth of the matter was, other than the pink tone to Illya's skin, there wasn't a mildly red object in the room.

"Does it look like a red filter? A fog?" the doctor pressed.

Illya clutched the towel angrily. "It's just red! I can't describe it, really. It's just…just…" Illya's words trailed away and he heard the doctor lean back in his seat.

Realistically speaking, even that vague tone of scarlet was welcomed to Illya, who had questioned whether anything could possibly penetrate that suffocating blackness he had lived in for the past month. That single color was a feast for Illya's desperate eyes. But now that he could at least see that, it frustrated the agent to no end that he could not see past it.

It wasn't really a filter, and it wasn't much of a fog really either. The redness was like an enormous blanket that was stretched out before Illya. It was wide enough to cover every inch of his peripheral vision, but too close for it to appear in focus at all. It was just red. Well, red with a slight patch of pink in the middle. It was a light pink, almost white. As a matter of fact, the red itself was more of a brown tone actually. And there were two patches on the pink part that appeared brown as well.

Illya sighed hopelessly. Then his brow furrowed. 'That was odd,' he thought. When he sighed, it almost seemed like…Illya made himself sigh again. Wait a minute! The patch! The pink patch! It moved! Illya started moving his hands back and forth and the pink patch continued to dance around in his vision.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, his attention trained on the peculiar movements of his partner.

Illya ignored him. He struggled and forced his eyes to concentrate. Slowly, his eyes began to focus and the pink wasn't actually pink at all. He held it close to his face. It was white! It was the towel! Illya was looking at the towel! He rubbed it with his fingers and watched the thick brown patches move around and morph into his thumbs. "This towel…" he said, almost dazed.

Within an instant, Napoleon was kneeling at his side. He placed an urgent hand on his partner's shoulder, imploring Illya to look up.

Illya lifted his eyes and began searching Napoleon's face. He blinked a few times, begging his eyes to focus and give him a clear picture. Finally, the image registered and Illya could distinctly make out the shape and familiar features of his partner's face in the dim light. Immediately, Illya's eyes locked on to his partner's and their gazes collided. His hand instinctively grasped Napoleon's shoulder the very same way he was grasping Illya's. "Napoleon," Illya identified, letting a slightly unbelieving smile tug at his lips.

Napoleon hesitated a moment, reveling in the feel of having Illya stare him in the eye again. Then, once the shock had finally settled down a few moments later, Napoleon beamed at his partner and gasped out a guffaw of laughter, tugging Illya sharply into a firm hug.

The two agents embraced and laughed and patted each other's backs heartily. It was the outcome they are always wanted, but secretly both had doubted. Now that it had actually occurred, neither one really knew what to do with themselves. They had worked so hard at preparing themselves for the worst scenario that they hadn't really planned how they would react if the worst didn't happen. They didn't know what else to do than to just hug and laugh.

When they finally pulled apart, Illya received another smile and a handshake from his partner.

"Welcome back, Illya!" Napoleon said.

Still slightly stunned, Illya couldn't even respond past a smile. He turned his attention away from his partner and started peering around the room. His gaze finally landed on a form standing by the door. As his eyes focused in the dim light, Illya realized it was Mr. Waverly.

The man stepped forward with a small smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, offering his hand.

Illya accepted the hand and shook it respectfully, "Thank you, sir." Then Illya noticed the doctor for the first time.

He slid slightly closer in his stool. "I can see your vision is starting to come along, Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor observed. "But let's just run a few quick tests to assess your recovery to date." As he spoke, the doctor pulled out an eye chart.

"Well," Napoleon said sometime later, "I'd say that went pretty well."

Illya nodded as he soaked up the beauties of New York through the car window. Even though he wore his sunglasses, he had to squint his eyes against the bright sun. But he wasn't about to start complaining now.

"The doctor says your sight is already fairly strong considering. He says that with some work, he expects your vision could make a substantial recovery."

Illya turned and looked at his partner. "Good enough for UNCLE's standards?"

Napoleon kept his eyes on the road. "Well," he shrugged with a contemplative nod, "I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

Nodding, Illya returned to staring out the window. The world seemed bigger, better somehow. Illya reveled in experiencing as sounds were once more coupled with sights. Nothing was too small to be noticed. A wadded up newspaper lying by a trashcan, a beam of sunlight as it reflected off a store window, the mere speed of New York as it zipped by Illya's window, all of these things thrilled the Russian inexplicably. The light seemed so much brighter when it followed a darkness. Once again, Illya wondered at the change it brought to him. The simple ability to see casts everything related to life in a completely different light.

He remembered how oppressive the blindness was, how hungry it was to consume him. It was like he was a different person when he was without his vision. Without sight, he was without hope, without purpose. It was a horrid experience, one he wouldn't even wish on his enemies. But it served to teach him so much about everything; his view on life, his world, the people who actually meant something to him...everything that really mattered. He observed things in a way that he never would have been able to with his sight as a distraction. He learned things about himself; confronted ghosts that dwelled so deep within him, he didn't even know they existed. He was challenged and humbled on countless levels and introduced to a side of himself he had never known. As cliché as it sounded, somehow through this whole affair, something was transformed at Illya's very core. It was something he could not explain readily…but the change was there.

Illya shook his head in wonder. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that were the case, then it was truly stunning to see how much of that soul could be revealed…through closed windows.

THE END

Oh wow. To think this whole thing got started by me randomly trying to organize an outfit with my eyes closed. (For the record, it turned out rather well. You'd be amazed how many articles of clothing are recognizable just by location and texture. I did, however, have the same problem as Illya in chapter three. I hadn't threaded my belt through the buckle perfectly.) Now I have a pretty little story to my name and a fascinating insight into Napoleon and Illya's characters. Truly, this was a joy to write. I know I took my time writing the whole thing, but I can honestly say that it was one of the most challenging and emotionally trying stories I've ever written. I wanted to write something for MFU that would help me get to know the characters more, see them in different and complicated situations and see how they might react. I don't know if I kept them (especially Illya) completely canon, but I like to pretend that I did. And I have really enjoyed writing this for you readers and hearing your great feedback. This was a lot of fun and I hope to write more UNCLE pieces in the future. Once again, thanks for being so terrific! You are the best!

God bless,

Monker