When Illya found himself drifting off from the tedium of listening to bugs that mostly told him nothing, Napoleon knocked him on the shoulder and said, 'Take a break, IK. I'll do a shift.'

So Illya slipped the earphones off and stretched his spine and shook his arms a little because he had been reading his Camus as he listened and his fingertips felt odd after so long passing over the pages. He wished he had brought more to read with him, because he was coming to the end of the Camus and wanted to read the rest, and he had read the journal article three times.

He remembered how long it had taken to learn to read the tactile writing in the first place. He had despaired at first, and his tutor had told him that some people just didn't have the sensitivity to be able to do it. But he was relatively young and seemed to have a good touch, and it was likely he would make it. He brought Braille cards home from the school in the evening and sat there running his hands over them, almost crying with frustration because it just made no sense, and Napoleon had sat next to him and laid his hands over Illya's and softly told him to calm down, to take a break, to try again later, tomorrow, another time.

Those had been hard days. At first Napoleon took leave and he was there with Illya whenever he needed him, but by the time Illya was at the school Napoleon was back at work, and although Waverly went beyond the call of duty trying to keep him to jobs that kept him local or in the office, sometimes he just had to be away. So Illya would find himself holed up in the apartment, refusing the help of an assistant or any of his colleagues from U.N.C.L.E. who offered to stay, taking cabs to and from the school and just sitting in the apartment at night with the lights off, listening to the radio and eating take out or leftovers, and practising his Braille.

And he had done it. Slowly he had managed it. He had started to distinguish the letters one from the other, started to read words and then sentences, and then learnt the abbreviations and other symbols. Meanwhile he was spending hours every week learning to walk with a cane, learning how to read the landscape, how to keep himself straight along the sidewalks, what landmarks to look out for, how to cross roads. Sometimes when he got home at night, when Napoleon wasn't there, he just fell onto the sofa, hand aching from holding the cane, brain aching from the fierce concentration, his mind churning on everything he had been taught that day by his instructor, who was just as blind as he was. He would lie there and fall asleep just like that, because it was so tiring adjusting to all these new things. Then his communicator would sound and he would answer it, and Napoleon's voice would almost always lift him up, even when he was at the edge of despair.

'I wonder if they have a Braille library in Cairo,' he mused as he shut his book. He was a pretty fast reader now, even if it still felt frustratingly slow compared to his sight reading speed.

'Hmm,' Napoleon murmured. 'I wouldn't bet on it. I think most of their blind are begging on the streets.'

'I don't think that's quite true,' Illya said a little uncomfortably. 'But I suppose even if they did the chance of there being books in a language I can read and available for me to borrow are...' He shook his head. 'I should concentrate on the task at hand.'

'Not for the next couple of hours,' Napoleon told him firmly. 'Take a break. You'll be a better listener when you come back to it.'

Illya stretched his shoulders and massaged one a little. 'You're probably right. I think I will take a stroll down to the bar and grab a coffee. I could do with stretching my legs.'

He felt Napoleon's reaction. 'Want me to call someone up to take you down? Or I could take five minutes from this – '

'No, no. I counted the doors on the way up. I can manage.'

Napoleon didn't argue with him, and he was grateful for that. He got his cane and checked he had his wallet and communicator, then kissed Napoleon and left the room. Six doors on the left, and then the elevator. The call buttons were triangular, the triangles pointing up and down. He stepped into the elevator when it came, and felt for the panel, which was usually a little above waist height. The buttons were inscribed with their numbers, thankfully. He felt a bell shape on the alarm button, more arrows on the buttons to close and open the doors, and a row of buttons with numbers between 1 and 12. He pressed 1, and waited.

He found his way into the restaurant with relative ease, and stood in the doorway for a moment with his head tilted a little to one side, listening to the sounds. It was a little after lunchtime, so there were plenty of people at the tables, which helped him to orient himself as he walked through the room. The carpet was soft and stole the echoes, which made things a little harder, but he made it across the room and found the step up to the bar, and then stood there for a moment listening before asking, 'Er, excuse me? Is there a seat free here?'

'Oh, er – ' It was a man's voice, slightly accented. 'Yes, yes, there is a seat right here, just in front of you.'

So Illya felt out with the cane and found the stool and hoisted himself up.

'You're – excuse me asking – are you here for the ophthalmological conference?' the man asked.

Illya frowned a little. 'I'm sorry?'

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' the man said. 'I'm sorry. I see a lot of blindness in my line of work and sometimes at these conferences a patient will come along either as a speaker or as an interested listener. You're not here for the ophthalmological conference?'

Illya shook his head. 'No, I am merely on vacation. It must be a coincidence. I didn't know about any ophthalmological conference.'

'Ah, well I apologise for my mistake. May I buy you a drink, Mr – '

'Kuryakin,' Illya supplied, but his natural caution kicked in. 'Er – excuse me asking, but do you have any way of proving your identity? I assume you're a conference member?'

'Ah, yes, I am an eye surgeon, Mr Kuryakin. Most of us here are. My name is Dr Bruner. I do have an identity card but I'm afraid it will mean very little to you if you have no sight, and by the appearance of your eyes I would assume – '

'Yes, I wouldn't be able to read a card,' Illya smiled slightly apologetically.

'Perhaps a display of expertise?' the man asked. 'If you do not mind. By the appearance of your eyes and the faint degree of scarring in the surrounding tissue I would say that they were burned by acid or alkali. More likely acid, I think, and I would guess that you did not irrigate the eyes in time. Am I correct?'

Illya dropped his head and fiddled momentarily with his cane. 'Well, yes, that is what happened,' he murmured. The memory always made him feel a little nauseous.

'Now, about that drink?'

'Oh, only a coffee, please, Dr Bruner,' Illya smiled. 'Espresso.'

'Of course,' the man replied, and passed the order on to the barman. 'Myself, I'm afraid my weakness is the occasional pint of lager. Only when off duty, of course.'

'Ah, well,' Illya said. He had never been very comfortable holding conversations with strangers, and he couldn't help but feel that this man's interest in him was more medical than personal.

'I wonder, Mr Kuryakin, why you haven't been considered as a candidate for corneal transplant,' the man mused as Illya received his coffee. 'If it's not too personal a question, of course. I understand there can be many factors… But looking at the amount of healing that's gone on with the burns on your face, I assume you've been blind for a few years now?'

It did feel like too personal a question. This whole conversation was too personal. Illya rotated his tiny cup of coffee in his hands and inhaled the scent. It was rich and strong and made his eyes a little wider even before he had tasted it.

'Two years,' he said into the cup. Then he shrugged. What was the harm in talking about it? 'The damage was considered too bad. I consulted a number of ophthalmologists in New York and none of them were willing to take on the case. They said the corneal graft would not take. So that was that.'

'I see,' the man nodded.

Illya felt rather weary of this discussion, and decided to turn it to his own advantage. 'I don't suppose, doctor, that you know of anywhere local where I could procure Braille books? I read quite a few languages, English, French, and Russian, of course, and a number of others with a little less fluency. I am a third of the way through Camus's L'Étranger and I left the other two volumes in New York. It is very frustrating running out of reading material.'

'Ah, well, I'm afraid I certainly don't have anything like that in my possession,' the man said with an apologetic chuckle. 'I could make enquiries. Some of the local men may have an idea. If I find anything out – '

'You could leave a message at reception,' Illya smiled. He didn't want to give out his room number. 'Thank you, doctor. That's very kind of you.'

He finished his coffee and pushed the cup a little further on to the bar, then nodded in the doctor's direction.

'Thank you, Dr Bruner,' he said again, 'for the drink, and for your help.'

'Oh, of course,' the man replied.

He slipped down from the stool, and then tilted his ear at what seemed like familiar footsteps.

'Napoleon?' he asked curiously.

'The one and the same,' Napoleon replied in his smooth, beautiful voice. 'Our friend is having a siesta,' he explained, 'so I thought I'd come find you.'

'Ah, of course,' Illya nodded, then a thought struck him. 'Napoleon Solo, this is Dr Bruner. Dr Bruner is attending an ophthalmological conference at the hotel, Napoleon.'

'Ah, so that explains all of the men with little black bags,' Napoleon said in a jovial tone. Illya recognised it so well. It was Napoleon's way of putting people off their guard, of making them underestimate him.

'Of course, I couldn't check his card, but – ' Illya continued.

'Ah,' Napoleon said, and then the doctor added in a slightly embarrassed tone, 'Of course I understand your hesitation, Mr Kuryakin. After all, it doesn't do for the blind to trust everyone who speaks to them.'

'No,' Illya said a little awkwardly.

'Here, Mr Solo. My card,' the man said, and Illya heard the sound of him getting something from his wallet.

'Dr Georg Bruner, Munchen,' Napoleon murmured. 'Well, that's fascinating, Dr Bruner. You don't mind if I keep this? No?' And Illya heard him slip the card into his pocket. 'I'm sure you had a lot to talk with Illya about.'

'Well, just a little,' the man replied.

'Illya, I thought you might like to take a bit of a stroll around,' Napoleon said, and Illya tried not to show his relief. As he took his leave of the doctor the man said, 'Mr Kuryakin, I'd like to take a closer look at your eyes at some point, if I might. Corneal transplant is something of a speciality of mine and, forgive me for saying so without a proper examination, but I don't think your case seems beyond hope.'

Illya clenched down on that sudden spark of hope that threatened to erupt inside him. He waited a moment before speaking, then said very carefully, 'Well, I would be happy to let you take a look. Perhaps tomorrow, doctor.'

'Tomorrow,' the man echoed.

Illya closed his hand so hard on Napoleon's arm that Napoleon hissed as they walked away.

'Sorry,' Illya said. 'Sorry, Napoleon. I didn't mean to hang on so hard.'

'Well, I don't blame you,' Napoleon said in a strange voice. 'You heard what he said.'

'Yes...'

They walked out into the heat of the Egyptian afternoon.

He heard Napoleon uncap his communicator and say, 'Open channel D,' and at a soft woman's voice he said, 'Ah, Susan. Good morning, Susan. Or is it evening? I want you to check out a name. Dr Georg Bruner of Munich. Supposed to be an eye surgeon.'

'Of course, Mr Solo,' the woman replied immediately. 'It will just be a moment.'

So Illya walked on, and a few minutes later the woman came back on and said, 'Yes, Napoleon. He's a surgeon in Munich. He's registered with all the correct organisations. He's real.'

'Thank you, cherie,' Napoleon replied, then slipped in, 'I'll be thinking of you in the New York winter as I stroll the streets of sunny Cairo. Well, Illya,' he said as he put the pen away. 'He's real, at least.'

'He's real,' Illya echoed.

The sun was bright against his eyes and he slipped out his sunglasses and put them on, then sighed as the light level dropped. That little spike of hope rose again and he clenched down on it furiously.

Napoleon took that moment to say, 'You know, I miss those tinted reading glasses you used to wear. I always thought you looked so cute when you put them on, or when you sat there with the arm just in your mouth, biting on the end.'

'Well I don't read with my eyes any more,' Illya said, flexing his fingers, and then wondered why he had spoken so viciously. 'I'm sorry, Napoleon,' he said.

He felt so deeply uneasy. He was used to his blindness now. He was used to all of it. He swung his cane in front of him as he walked. Left foot forward, tap right, right foot forward, tap left. The cane knocked against the concrete sidewalk and the taps it made provided him with echoes, and the echoes told him a little about what was around him. He could hear the high wall of the hotel to his left, and to his right he could hear the parked cars blocking the sound from the street and then letting it through again every time there was a gap, like light flickering through a rail fence. He could tell what the sidewalk was made of, and if he hadn't been walking with Napoleon he could have let the stick tap on the side of the building or the edge of the sidewalk to keep himself straight. It told other people that he couldn't see, and they got out of his way or restrained their children.

He had spent so long learning these things, not just with an instructor at his side, but afterwards, every day, every time he walked somewhere. Every time he set out from the apartment he looked out for the landmarks that told him where he was. The broken step on the stoop three doors down that always caught on the cane when he swung it that way. The two potted plants outside the deli on the next block. The scent of washing powder that came from the laundromat even when it was closed, telling him that he was almost at the end of that block and if he wanted to cross the road he had to be careful because the kerb was crooked and if he set off at right angles to it he wouldn't hit the kerb on the other side. He knew all that, he had learnt all that. He had grabbed back his independence inch by painful inch, and he was proud of his progress.

It wasn't just in walking with his cane, either. Every time he opened a Braille book he learnt a little more about how to read. He could tell some tins of food apart by the way the contents shifted when he shook them. Every day at work he got a bit better at finding his way about the office, about the corridors that all sounded the same. Everything he did made him a little better at being blind, a little better at being a blind person. And he could live like this. He missed his past life, but he could live like this. He had made his peace with the ghosts of hope. He understood that there was nothing that could be done. He would live like this and he would die like this. He never expected to see another sunrise or another blue sky. He never expected to see Napoleon growing old. Napoleon would always be just as he remembered him. Perhaps the feel of his body would change, but in his mind Napoleon would be young, black-haired, beautiful. That was a tiny gift of blindness.

He had understood when Napoleon called him over to that bronze diorama of the pyramids that that would be his way of experiencing them now. He had his memories and he could perhaps experience the sounds of the great structures, but he didn't expect any more. He didn't expect to stand there at his leisure and watch the sun go down, illuminating their ancient sides. The last time he had seen them he had hardly had time to appreciate it. He had been chasing a criminal, and more focussed on holding on to his life, and Napoleon's, than sight-seeing. Perhaps if he had known that less than a year later he would be blind he would have looked more carefully, but then maybe that moment of carelessness would have killed him.

No. He ground his teeth in frustration. He didn't know what to think about it all.

'I'm walking us towards the pyramids,' Napoleon said then. 'I hope you don't mind.'

'Mind?' His head jerked up. He had been so lost in thought that he had let go of all his awareness of where they were. 'Why would I mind?'

Napoleon faltered. 'Because you're a man and you have opinions, Illya, and I didn't ask you where you wanted to go,' he said softly. 'Do you mind walking towards the pyramids? I wanted a chance to see them up close. You know, without chasing a desperate man around in the sand.'

Illya should have laughed, but he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't work out how to give a correct emotional response, because instinctively he just wanted to give a biting, cutting reply to everything that Napoleon said, and that was ridiculous, because he wasn't angry at Napoleon, not at all. So instead of laughing or even replying he ended up making a strange noise that was half hysterical, and Napoleon stopped walking and faced him and put a hand on either side of his face, and thank god he didn't kiss him, not here, on the edge of Cairo, under everyone's eyes.

'Illya,' Napoleon said. 'It's all right. Come here. Come right over here and sit down. It's a wall, a half-built wall. Half the area around the hotel is a building site. It's not the most picturesque location, but sit down.'

So Illya sat on the rough and dusty wall and planted his feet solidly on the ground and held his cane between his out-flung knees, jittering it up and down on the concrete underfoot.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I just – I don't know what to think.'

'Illya, we're on a mission,' Napoleon said quietly, and Illya's head jerked up.

'I know that.'

'Will you be able to focus when we get back?'

He groaned. 'Yes. Yes, of course I will, Napoleon. I can focus now. We're walking to the pyramids, yes? Of course I don't mind that. I want for you to see them without ridiculous distractions. Come on. Let's walk, so that we can get there and back before Mr Sharif finishes his siesta.'

And he stood up and held out his hand, and after a moment Napoleon let him take his arm, and carried on walking.

'It's just I've fought so hard to get where I am now,' he burst out suddenly.

'I know,' Napoleon said.

'And then this man, this man at a bar, tells me he thinks that New York's most eminent ophthalmologists are wrong. I mean, who does he think he is to tell me that? He hasn't even looked at my eyes, not properly. How dare he – '

He broke off, shaking his head, trying to rein himself in again.

'It's too warm for trekking out to the pyramids,' Napoleon said abruptly. 'It's too far. I'm sorry, Illya. We won't get there and back in time. Let's just go back to the hotel.'

'Oh, Napoleon, I am so sorry,' Illya said, contrite. 'I am like Jekyll and Hyde because of that man. Yes. Let's go back to the hotel. Let's go and see the pyramids when we have time for you to appreciate them properly. If you don't get a chance this time, we will make the time, take a proper holiday. Do you remember that holiday in Rome?'

He allowed himself to drift back to that warm memory, those first few halcyon days before Napoleon's old flame had stepped in and ripped it all apart. It had been a good holiday, happy and warm. Even though they hadn't yet discovered their true feelings about each other they had been close and happy, and looking back Illya understood the jealousy he had felt when Clara came on the scene, how relieved he had been when he realised she was married and loved her husband, how he had inwardly seethed at her using Napoleon's feelings for her to get him to help him.

'Ah, that was a good vacation,' Napoleon said beside him. 'Yes, it was good. But we never did find that restaurant...'

'Well, that will be our next holiday. Egypt first, then Rome. We have years ahead of us, Napoleon. I want to enjoy them.'

And he realised that he did see that. That if, god willing, Napoleon survived his career they would have years and years together. They would holiday together and live together and sleep together, and they would be happy. It didn't matter if he could see, because the world was so rich anyway, and he was walking through it with Napoleon.

((O))

Back in the hotel room Illya insisted on taking over the surveillance from Napoleon. He needed something to focus his mind. So he sat at the little table and slipped the earphones on, and listened to that man sleeping. He flicked between bugs. One, two, three, four, five. There was nothing of note on any of them. He rubbed his eyes and felt the very slight scarring that was still there on the surrounding skin, the scarring that the doctor had seen. He palpated it with his fingertip, and asked, 'Napoleon, is the scarring very obvious?'

'Huh?' Napoleon sounded startled, almost as if he had been woken from a doze. 'I'm sorry, honey? What?'

'The scarring,' Illya repeated. 'My face. Is it very obvious?'

'Oh – er – ' Napoleon was taking a little while to come awake. Then he said, 'No, Illya. No, I wouldn't say it was that obvious at all. It's faded so much from what it was at first. You wouldn't be able to tell at a glance. It's only when you get up close, when you really look.'

'Is that true?' Illya asked. He brushed his fingertip over a slightly rough place on his cheek, where there must be some sort of a scar.

'That?' Napoleon asked, coming to him and moving Illya's finger aside to stroke over that place himself. 'I can feel that, Illya, but I can't see it. The skin's maybe a very little shinier, but such a small amount. And around your eyes. No.' He brushed his thumbs under Illya's eyes. 'No, I can feel it a little, and I suppose when you crease the skin it's more noticeable, but it's nothing, really. The kind of thing you only see if you've been told about it.'

'But my eyes – '

'Well, yes. Yes, it's obvious there,' Napoleon said. 'You know that. There's a cloudiness over the pupils and it spreads over your irises. But still, your eyes look so much better than they used to as well. At first they were so red and sore. They're better now.'

And he stroked his fingertips over Illya's eyebrows and then kissed him softly.

'Don't think about it, Illya,' he said. 'Not at the moment.'

Illya smiled dryly. 'I'm doing my best,' he said.

He turned his attention back to the bugs. One, two, three, four, five… Five. There was something on five.

'He's talking,' he murmured, his focus suddenly intense. He felt about with his right hand, asking, 'Where's my brailler?' and Napoleon pushed the Braille typewriter closer. 'Thank you.'

'Who's talking? Sharif?'

'Michea. He's – ' But he couldn't talk and concentrate on what he heard, so he pulled the brailler closer still and laid his fingers on the seven keys, and started to transcribe.

He could feel Napoleon very close behind him. By this time Napoleon was familiar enough with the dot combinations that he could usually work out what Illya was writing, but he often had to wait until the paper was fully pulled out and he could look at it in the right orientation to read it more fluently. Illya shut his mind down to Napoleon's presence and just listened to Michea. He was talking to someone else, another American, discussing the evening's plans. They were drinking. Illya could hear the clink of the bottles and a very slight slur in the second man's voice. The room was small and there were no other voices, and both men were relaxed. He almost didn't consciously take in what they were saying, just kept an awareness that allowed the words to flow through him into his fingers. He typed as they spoke, the keys pressing the dots down into the paper in the right combinations.

'Michea's colleague,' he murmured in a quiet spell. 'Sounds big. I mean, large, not fat. He's called Rory. He's American too.'

Then they started speaking again, and he held up a hand briefly to shush Napoleon, and carried on typing. They were discussing Sharif, talking about how low a price they thought they could talk him down to. Illya wondered briefly if they were going to arrange a double-cross, but he dismissed that thought. Thrush relied on this as a regular trafficking route. If they betrayed Sharif they would cut off their source.

'Paper,' he muttered to Napoleon as he reached the bottom of the sheet, and Napoleon instantly handed him a new piece. He wound it in and typed quickly to catch up.

Finally goodbyes were exchanged, the voices grew silent, and Illya leant back in his chair and rested his fingers and closed his eyes. Then he drew the last piece of paper out and slipped it onto the top of the pile, then turned the sheets over and started to run his fingers over them. He had got it all down with very few mistakes.

'Want to read?' he asked Napoleon, 'or shall I just condense it?'

'Oh, condense it,' Napoleon told him, because he always avoided struggling through the Braille if he could.

'Well, they didn't specify where the warehouse is. You'll still have to follow Sharif. But I got details about the airfield where they're planning to ship the stuff out. There's a pilot called Hansen who has a private jet, and he'll be taking the stuff over to Southern Ireland, fly in during the night. Then they'll take it from there to the US, to a recipient in Boston.'

'Well, you have been a busy bee, haven't you?' Napoleon said approvingly.

'All the names, details, they're all in there,' Illya said, touching his hand to the paper. 'I'll call it through to HQ and they can alert the Ireland offices, and Boston.'

'Okay, I'll take over the listening again,' Napoleon told him, then poked him in the thigh. 'Come on, shift.'

Illya grinned. 'I think my behind is welded to the chair,' he said. 'Are you sure you want to listen? You could call in if you want to and I'll carry on here.'

'No, listening gets sloppy after too long. You need a break,' Napoleon said firmly. He patted his shoulder. 'Go on, move. Call it in. Let me have a go.'

So Illya grunted and grabbed the sheaf of paper and moved over to the sofa. He opened his watch and felt the time. Almost nine. So back in New York it would be – he subtracted the hours and worked out that Sarah should be awake and in the office, so he opened a channel and requested to be put through to her. He could have passed the details on to any of the U.N.C.L.E. people in the right department, but there was always that odd tone in the voice of so many of U.N.C.L.E.'s women when he spoke to them, like that air stewardess on the flight to Paris, as if internally they were saying, he's such a doll. What a shame.

'Oh, Illya, it's wonderful to hear from you!' Sarah's voice replied. 'How's Cairo?'

'Hot,' Illya said economically. 'At least compared to New York. I want you to transcribe some notes and do the background research, pass the information on to the relevant U.N.C.L.E. outlets, and copy to Mr Waverly.'

'Of course,' she replied instantly, and he knew that she would be already seated at her desk, typewriter ready with the correct carbon paper forms and her fingers over the keys. He smiled. It was so reassuring to have such a reliable assistant. So he put his sheaf of paper on his knee and tucked his communicator into his breast pocket so both hands were free, and relayed the information. He could hear the clack of her typewriter keys and the creak of her chair as he spoke, and he could almost smell the office with its coffee scent and the plants that trailed over the filing cabinets.

'You have all that?' he asked as he reached the end of the final sheet.

'Every word, Illya,' she promised him. 'I'll copy to the relevant departments and pass it on to Mr Waverly.'

'Thank you, Sarah,' he smiled.

'You tell Napoleon to take care of you, won't you?' she asked. 'And you take care of him.'

'I always do,' he promised. 'Enjoy your day.'

And he capped the communicator and slipped it back into his pocket, and just sat there with his fingers lightly rubbing over the letters on the paper. Napoleon was utterly silent apart from the little clicks as he switched between bugs. Illya's mind wandered, thinking about the doctor he had met in the bar. He told himself he was thinking about whether he had found out anything about Braille books in Cairo, but he wasn't. He knew that he wasn't. He was thinking about that man saying his case did not seem beyond hope. He couldn't stop thinking about that.

He jerked himself to his feet and walked over towards the balcony with his hand held out before him. His fingers touched thick curtains, and he spent a moment trying to find the gap so that he could push through them and open the balcony door. Then he stood out there, shivering a little in the cooling night air, staring into the dark void. There was a small amount of light there, something that he imagined was the lights of the city blazing against the vast night. When he moved his head the light fluctuated. Off to the left, towards the pyramids and where the desert started, all was dark. Straight ahead and to the right there was that soft sheen of light.

He closed his eyes and touched a finger to his closed eyelid, wondering what his eyes really did look like. He trusted what Napoleon said, but still that wasn't the same as seeing something. Napoleon had tried to describe it in various ways. He had spoken of white mother-of-pearl, of milkiness, an almost opaque film. That conjured images in his mind, but he didn't know if they were accurate. He had lost the blue of his eyes but he didn't look like a monster. He could tell that much from the way women still reacted to him. He had never rated his looks highly, but they had described him as cute before and they still did. They just wanted to mother him so much more now.

And now there was this doctor, this man who had looked into his eyes for the briefest time, and told him that there might be hope. Did he want hope? He had hoped so hard at first and he had been told three times that there was no hope. That third consultation had been enough. He had gone out from that shaking, holding onto Napoleon's arm and shaking, because it was just too much. It was too much to get that hope up and then have it shattered each time. He had got into Napoleon's car and drawn his knees up to his chest and sunk his head on to them, and they had sat there for a long time, Napoleon talking softly to him, Illya just sitting there, trying to take every bit of hope he had ever had and stamping on it, stamping on it so hard that it would never come up again. They had gone home and Illya had not known where to turn, what to do, and in the end Napoleon had taken him in his arms and kissed him. Illya had taken all of those vibrating and unspent emotions and channelled them into a furious need, and he had fucked Napoleon so hard, and Napoleon had let him do whatever he liked to him, whatever he liked, for as long as he liked.

Napoleon was his saviour. He thought he could come through anything as long as Napoleon would be there. But what if one day Napoleon wasn't there any more? Then what? Then he would be a blind man living alone in New York, going every day to the empty office and typing empty facts onto blank paper. How terrible that would be. The thought made the bottom drop out of his stomach.

He turned back to the room, away from the chilly night air, and listened to where Napoleon was still sitting with the monitoring equipment.

'Napoleon, be careful tonight,' he said, and Napoleon said urgently, 'Shush.'

Illya understood. His plea had been deep, heartfelt, but Napoleon was listening to the bugs, and he shouldn't have spoken at all. He stepped back out onto the balcony and just stood there. Was it all right to have a little hope? Would it do him any harm?