There are too many sounds of car horns, the sun through the window is too hot, it's too busy and too clamorous. Illya flaps his loose collar to get some air, glad that he's dressed for the part, in a light linen top, light trousers, flip-flops. He could do without the beads, but he needs the beads, really, and they give him something to fiddle with, at least. The flower behind his ear looks like an inspired touch, but that's Napoleon's fault. It was Napoleon who plucked it from a flower vendor, flipped the man a quarter, and pushed the big coloured daisy behind Illya's ear. His tinted glasses hold it in place wonderfully.

A woman on the bus is eyeing them suspiciously. Illya eyes her back, but without letting her see that he is watching.

'I think the man in the gabardine suit's a spy,' he hears her say in a low, laughing voice.

Her companion chuckles, looks across the aisle, then looks back at the woman and says playfully, 'Be careful. His tie's probably a camera.'

They share their little moment of humour, and Illya looks away, glancing at Napoleon.

'I told you not to wear the suit to something like this,' he says.

The bus is caught up in traffic. They'll be late, he is sure. They'll be late, and really, Napoleon is ridiculously dressed. He'll stand out like a sore thumb.

'We should stop off somewhere and get you a change of clothes,' Illya murmurs.

Napoleon straightens his tie fussily.

'I bet you I won't be the only guy there in a suit. I'd look more suspicious dressed like you. I just don't look the type, Illya. You do.'

At last the bus stops at a designated stop, and the doors slip open. It's cooler outside, but just as clamorous. It's good to get out into the air.

'What do you mean, I look the type?' Illya objects as they weave their way down the sidewalk through the milling people. They must look an odd pair, he in his light, loose clothing and Napoleon dressed as if he has just stepped out of the office for lunch.

Napoleon eyes him without comment. Illya pulls out the flower from behind his ear and puts it behind Napoleon's, and Napoleon grins. Together they make their way into the park.

It is a riot of colour and sound, but this is a gentle riot. There's music coming from somewhere, different music from somewhere else. Someone is singing out, 'Love, love, love…' Helium balloons float above the crowd, bobbing on their strings. There are placards against the war, against nuclear weapons, for love, more love, and more love. Illya isn't sure whether to feel uncomfortable or at ease. He agrees with most of the sentiments, but this is too much chaos. The chaos of a jazz club is just enough for him. At least that's kept within the walls. This goes on forever.

They move through the milling crowd. People are standing, sitting, lolling with picnics. There are so many different types of music coming from so many angles. Illya is scanning the crowd through his tinted glasses, searching for the face he has only seen in a bad black and white photograph. Napoleon is doing the same. They are moving in a kind of practised ballet, each covering the spaces the other hasn't looked over.

'It's hopeless,' Illya says after a while. 'How are we supposed to find one man in this chaos?'

'Well, we have to find him, Illya,' Napoleon says grimly. 'Otherwise this won't be remembered as a fun day in the park. It'll be remembered as a massacre.'

Illya growls. 'He is supposed to be down at this end, isn't he?'

'Supposed to be,' Napoleon nods.

Illya sighs and slips off his flip-flops.

'Hold these,' he says to Napoleon. With a second thought he unstrings the beads from his neck and puts them around Napoleon's. It wouldn't do to get strangled.

'Ah, thanks,' Napoleon says dubiously. 'But I don't think they suit me.'

But Illya isn't listening, because he's making for the nearest tree. He has always enjoyed climbing trees. There are already people in the trees, long-haired women, men with sunglasses. He chooses his own tree and hears a whoop of approval as he swings himself up into the branches. He can smell the sickly, sweaty scent of marijuana in the air and he tries not to take deep breaths. Now is really not the time to get stoned.

'Ahoy, sailor!' Napoleon calls from down below.

Illya looks down briefly, and smiles. Then he focusses on climbing again. The bark is rough against his bare feet. The scent of wood and nature is all around him. It's a good scent, a good feeling.

'See any ships?' Napoleon calls up.

Illya gets himself in a better position, wedges himself against a branch, and looks. He lets go to shade his eyes over the top of his glasses. He does feel like a sailor in the crow's nest, looking out over a sea that's made not of water, but of people. There are people everywhere. He can hardly see the grass for people's faces and bodies, balloons, picnic blankets.

Then he spots him. He jumps out like a dark sheep in a field of light. He just looks like he doesn't belong.

'Napoleon,' he shouts down. 'Seven o'clock. Thirty yards. Red jumper, white stripe.'

He sees Napoleon's acknowledgement and is already slipping down the tree before Napoleon moves. By the time he's down Napoleon is gone, and Illya plunges after him, not worrying about the flip-flops. He's faster without them. He is pushing through the crowd, more following the trail of disturbed looking revellers than anything else, because he can't see Napoleon or their target through the milling bodies. By the time he has caught up, Napoleon has the man on the ground, arms twisted behind his back.

'Does he have it?' Illya snaps, and Napoleon nods towards an ordinary shopping bag that is lying on the floor.

Illya takes one careful look inside. For a moment he is baffled. There is something black and plastic-looking in the shape of a nest. Sitting in the nest is a little egg shaped kitchen timer, emblazoned with the Thrush logo. Then he realises, of course, that the nest is made of explosive. Let no one say Thrush doesn't have a sense of humour, to package a bomb like this, at Easter tide.

If he warns people, he could start a panic, that would start a stampede, which would start a crush, which could harm as many people as the bomb. Instead, he calmly picks up the bag and says, 'Have you got him, Napoleon?'

'I've got him,' Napoleon says, because he has just taken out his gun and pointed it at the man.

A gasp rises from the crowd around. Someone calls out, 'Hey, man!'

'It's a tranquilliser,' Napoleon says in a very calm, rational voice. He's not going to start executing captives in a crowd like this.

He points the gun at the man's chest, fires, and the man slumps.

'See,' Napoleon says, still in that very calm voice, because a panic now would be so dangerous. 'You, come here,' he says, beckoning a young man with a thick afro. 'Come on. You feel his pulse.'

The man looks nervous, but doesn't refuse. He touches the unconscious man's neck, then puts a hand in front of his mouth, then breathes out a long breath and says, 'Yeah, he's still kicking.'

Napoleon looks up at Illya then.

'What are you going to do with that?'

For a moment Illya isn't sure. They are surrounded by hundreds of people. The streets outside the park aren't much better.

'The lake,' he says after a little thought.

The timer is ticking all the while. It's a terrible noise, so benign and domestic, ticking down what might be the remaining seconds of his life.

'Go,' Napoleon says.

Illya goes. He runs through the crowd, yelling, 'Coming through!' as he barrels towards people, and hoping they will listen. Mostly they do. He is running, running, running, finally out of the crowds, into rougher land which is clearer of people but more likely to make him stumble. He focusses only on the running because he doesn't have much time left. He doesn't know how much time he has.

Then the lake is there in front of him and he hurls the bag, bomb and all, in an arching trajectory over the water. There is a split second blaze of light, a sound so loud it feels as if his eardrums have burst, and a blow like a sledgehammer. He tumbles backwards, and –

((O))

His head aches so badly. He blinks, and the light is too bright. He's lying on something firm, looking up at blueness. Above him is all blue. He feels cold, and a little sick.

Then there's a face blocking out the blueness, looking down at him. Napoleon's face, looking down at him, with an expression of terrible worry. His lips are moving but all Illya can hear is a high-pitched whine.

'I can't hear you,' he says.

Napoleon carries on talking, and it's immensely frustrating. It's obvious he's raised his voice but there's still just a shrill whine and nothing else. He starts to try to move and Napoleon presses him back down, shaking his head. So he lies there, feeling dazed, and very odd, as if he were floating somewhere in a dream with ordinary life going on all around him.

It's only when they lift him onto the stretcher that things start to hurt. He can still only hear the high-pitched whining, but Napoleon is sitting by him in the ambulance, talking to the medic, so he just lies there and lets him do his job. The medic is touching him and asking him things, but he can't hear what he's saying. It is immensely frustrating. He tries to shake his head and the medic immediately stops him, saying something again that he can't understand. His spine, it must be. They must be worried about damage to his spine. He has been through this before. He should lie still.

The medic touches his ribs, and he cries out in pain. He knows he's crying out, but it doesn't get through the whining noise. It feels very surreal.

By the time he's being pushed in through the hospital doors the voices around him are odd, muffled things, fighting with the whining to make themselves heard. He lies in the emergency room while they look him over and ask him questions he can't understand. Then someone gets a pad of paper and at last he knows what they're asking. Does it hurt here? Here? He answers aloud and his voice is a thick, formless sound, but they can obviously tell what he's saying. His words make sense to them. Then there are x-rays, and a note on the paper to say he has two broken ribs and a fractured skull, and he will need to stay in.

'What about my hearing?' he asks, and still can't hear.

From the explosion, the doctor writes in terrible handwriting. I will send you to the audiologist.

He doesn't really want to go anywhere else, because he's in pain and he has a killer of a headache, a headache that makes him want to throw up. Napoleon is still there, looking down at him, and he puts a hand on Illya's shoulder reassuringly. He's saying something. 'Don't worry,' he thinks it is. 'Don't worry, Illya.'

For a moment he can see Napoleon twice over, and then he is sick.

((O))

He hadn't realised he was asleep, but now he's waking up. His head still aches and there's still a whining somewhere in his ears, but the first thing he notices is someone's voice. It is Napoleon, talking. Napoleon. He can hear his words.

' – then you think the concussion is – '

He opens his eyes, blinking against the light. Everything still seems very bright. There's a strip light in the ceiling, right above him. It seems like a stupid place to put a light. His head aches enough as it is.

'Napoleon,' he says, and he can hear his own voice. It's wonderful to be able to hear his own voice.

Napoleon comes across the room immediately, a doctor at his side. He starts to write something on a notepad, and Illya says quickly, 'You don't need that any more.'

Napoleon's face lights with joy.

'Illya, you can hear me?'

'Trampling around the room like an elephant. Of course I can hear you,' Illya says gruffly. 'You're the one who woke me up.'

Beneath the thin skin of gruffness is a great happiness. It's wonderful to be able to hear Napoleon's voice, and the sound of his footsteps in the room.

'Well, I see you're all better,' Napoleon says in a mock-injured tone. 'Trying to do the audiologist out of a job?'

Illya lifts a hand and rubs his ear. It's like having a mosquito in there.

'Not quite out of a job, no,' he admits. 'But I can hear you.'

There's a bandage on his head. He prods it carefully, and something underneath sears.

'Hey,' Napoleon tells him. 'Don't do that. You have stitches under there. They had to cut a little door in your skull, to let the demons out.'

Illya frowns. Maybe he hadn't been asleep, then.

'Demons?' he asks. 'Napoleon, what – '

The doctor steps forward. 'Just a little sub-cranial bleed, Mr Kuryakin. We operated to relieve the pressure, and the pressure is now relieved. You're going to be fine.'

Illya exhales.

'I suppose I'm going to have to stay in,' he says grudgingly.

Napoleon laughs. 'After having your skull cut open? Yes, IK, you are going to have to stay in. But don't worry.'

He picks up something from the floor. It is a wicker basket wrapped up in cellophane, tied with a gaudy yellow ribbon. Inside Illya can see the face of a huge chocolate bunny, staring out through the crinkled cellophane like a child peering through a window. The bunny seems to be surrounded by chocolate eggs, like a peculiar bird on a nest.

'I bought you this to tide you over,' Napoleon tells him. Then he pokes Illya's stomach through the blanket. 'Uh, better share with me, though. You won't be let back on duty if you come back ten pounds heavier.'

Illya grunts. 'You think they'll let us back if we're both five pounds overweight? Maybe I should share it with the nurses.'

Napoleon gets a glint in his eye.

'Ah, now, the nurses – ' he begins, and Illya sighs.

'Take the chocolates and use them to woo the nurses, if you like,' he says, and he can't keep the tone of weariness from his voice.

Napoleon sits down on the chair by the bed. 'You're not getting rid of me that easily, I'm afraid.'

He pulls open the garish yellow ribbon that is holding the cellophane together.

'Would you like the left ear or the right ear, or the wild frontier?' he asks.

Illya looks at him quizzically, and Napoleon grins.

'Ah – joke. I guess you haven't come across that one yet?'

'I'll take the head,' he says, because, with the enormous ears, the head is somewhat larger than the rest of the creature. 'You can have the body. That seems more like our usual, doesn't it?'

'You wound me, mon ami,' Napoleon says, but he breaks off the head of the hollow rabbit and passes it to Illya. Then he regards the tail, which is made of white chocolate, giving it an appraising look. 'Ah, well, maybe I am a rump man.'

The chocolate is sweet and rich, and it tastes good. Napoleon is eating the rabbit's rear end with relish, and Illya shoves the two ears into his mouth, wondering if eating a pair of ears will symbolically repair his own. He supposes he won't be back on active duty for a while, anyway. Any extra chocolate pounds can be worked off later, so he might as well embrace the chance to indulge. It's been a long time since he's had Easter off.