The taxi was still there outside the warehouse. Illya had almost expected it to be gone. On the way back to the hotel Napoleon opened up a channel to the local U.N.C.L.E. offices and reported everything that had happened, then called Waverly and repeated it all. Then he sank against Illya's side and groaned and said, 'I think I need to start having early nights.'

'I think you need to stop being shot and needing the cavalry to come to your rescue,' Illya said grimly. 'You need a partner, Napoleon.'

'I have a partner,' Napoleon said, and Illya replied softly, 'A partner who can see.'

Illya didn't want to have this conversation in the back of a taxi with a stranger driving and Dr Bruner in the front passenger seat.

'We will talk about this later,' he said. 'Now, you are sure that you don't need to go to the hospital?'

'I would certainly recommend – ' Dr Bruner began, but Napoleon cut over him, 'I'm fine. I've been all taped up by a real doctor, Illya.'

'Mr Solo, really, I am an ophthalmologist, not a general – ' Bruner began, but Napoleon interrupted again.

'After all, the side of my head is pretty close to my eyes. Ah, Illya, we're home,' he said as the car rolled to a halt, and Illya felt for his wallet. 'No, let me,' Napoleon said quickly, and Illya heard the rustle of notes and the driver's grateful response.

He was glad when they were out of the taxi and walking up into the hotel lobby. He had felt vulnerable all the way back. He wasn't sure if he were guiding Napoleon or Napoleon were guiding him, but Dr Bruner had his hand lightly on Illya's cane arm and steered him a little as they made for the elevator.

'Dr Bruner, I can't express my gratitude enough for your help this evening,' Illya said. 'You won't suffer any repercussions, of course. U.N.C.L.E. will clear everything with the local authorities.'

'I was glad to be able to help,' the man said warmly. 'Now, you must get your partner up to your room and to bed. If he won't go to the hospital the least he can do is rest. Monitor him for nausea or disorientation.'

'Yes, I know,' Illya said, trying not to sound impatient. 'We both have plenty of experience with concussion.'

He just wanted to be back in their room. But then Bruner excused himself by saying he was going to get himself a final drink before the bar closed, and he and Napoleon were alone in the elevator, and Illya breathed out a long breath, then asked, 'Are you really all right, Napoleon?'

He could hear Napoleon's smile in his voice. 'I'm really all right. You brought me a bone fide doctor, Illya. You couldn't do better than that.'

'I could have called an ambulance,' Illya muttered.

'No, you couldn't,' Napoleon said softly. 'You know that. We were to work undercover as far as possible, and you stuck to that. Come on,' he said as the doors slid open. 'Now, who's leading, huh?'

'If we're dancing, that's Cinderella, isn't it?' Illya extended his cane with a smile. 'I'll lead. You hold on to me.'

He wondered as he moved up the corridor with his arm around Napoleon's back whether the residents of the rooms on his right minded the clack of his cane against their doors at this time of night, but nobody came out to remonstrate. When they got through their own door Napoleon started to steer, and Illya found himself tumbling onto one of the twin beds with his arm still around Napoleon. His cane clattered onto the floor, and he came to a rest with a grunt, his body against Napoleon's body, head by his head. He slipped his fingers to the side of Napoleon's head then apologised as he winced.

'I wish I could see it,' Illya said, moving his fingers ever so lightly over the adhesive bandage the doctor had applied.

'I've been checked, Illya,' Napoleon said, and before Illya could say anything more he felt Napoleon's lips against his, one of his hands raking through his hair. Illya sighed and gave in to the feeling for a moment, but then he touched his lips to the side of Napoleon's head, feeling the heat in his flesh close to that bandage.

'It must hurt,' he said. 'Do you need some aspirin?'

'I'll get the aspirin when I want some,' Napoleon assured him. 'At least I can read the label.'

Illya pressed a kiss onto his forehead, another on his cheek. 'Sarah put Braille labels on the contents of the medical kit before we left,' he murmured. 'She had an idea that you might get yourself into trouble.'

'Ah, well Sarah is a very clever girl,' Napoleon replied, but his words were distorted because he had taken one of Illya's hands and was kissing each finger in turn. 'But we don't need Sarah in bed with us, do we, Illya?'

'Oh, Sarah is definitely not in bed with us,' Illya said. He slipped his hands over the supple leather of Napoleon's shoulder holster and unbuckled the straps. He ran his hands over the thin cotton of Napoleon's top, feeling the hard peaks of his nipples under the fabric, then he slipped his hands underneath and felt the heat of his skin, the slight amount of hair, the regular thud of his heart. He pushed the top up and Napoleon struggled out of it and the holster together, and Illya sank his face back down to the naked chest, smelling the musky scent of his underarms, brushing his fingers through the hair there, touching Napoleon's sides and the lines of his ribs and the hollow of his navel.

'Oh, god, Napoleon,' he said. He could have devoured him alive. He felt so good, he smelt so good. He moved a hand up to find Napoleon's face, his lips, and then kissed him hard, so hard, slipping his tongue into Napoleon's mouth and tasting him. He could smell the blood from his head wound and the faintest remnants of the aftershave that Napoleon had washed off before leaving for tonight's mission. He touched his finger over the bump of the mole on his cheek, tickled along the contours of his ear, brushed across his hair, and kissed him again.

'Illya, you are far too clothed,' Napoleon said breathlessly.

So Illya sat back and made swift work of stripping off every inch of clothing. He dropped it haphazardly on the floor and then came back to the bed, and when he touched Napoleon, Napoleon was naked too. Illya laid the length of his body against the length of Napoleon's, stroking his hands feverishly over every contour he could find, until he brushed against the hard length of his cock that was standing up proudly, waiting for him. He touched his mouth to the heat of it, kissing it as if it were the fount of all that was good, and Napoleon arched and gasped and reached out to caress Illya's back, his firm behind, his sides.

'You are beautiful, Napoleon,' Illya murmured. 'You are so beautiful.'

He smelt of the leather of the holster, of gun oil, of sweat and soap. He was just perfect. He didn't have enough hands to take him in, and he ached to be able to see him lying there on that bed. He didn't even know what colour the bedclothes were, whether they complemented the beautiful tone of his skin, his hair, his brown eyes. He moved his hands more, searching out every inch of Napoleon, kissing him and feeling him with his lips as well as his hands, as well as the length of his body. God, he wanted to be all around him and in him and over him. He wanted to be part of him.

'Oil,' he said, and Napoleon laughed.

'Impatient Russian,' he said, and then Napoleon's hand moved down and his fingers curled around Illya's cock, and he gasped at that sudden touch.

'Oil,' he said again. 'Now, Napoleon.'

So Napoleon obeyed, and he pressed a small bottle into Illya's hand, and Illya let the stuff trickle over his hands before shoving Napoleon's legs apart and preparing him with urgent, tender care. He needed Napoleon so badly, and he sank into him, all the way, until his pelvis was hard against Napoleon's muscular ass and he was buried all the way inside that tight, hot channel. And Napoleon groaned out, 'God, Illya,' and Illya made love to him with long, deep, powerful thrusts, Napoleon's legs flung up over his shoulders and Illya's arm wrapped around them and his other hand smooth with oil and tight around Napoleon's hot and yearning cock.

He wanted to see him. He closed his eyes and pretended he could see him, because he had never seen Napoleon like this, never in his life, not there under him, open for him, grunting out his pleasure each time Illya entered him, almost whimpering in need each time he withdrew. And Illya came with a cry, buried deep in the heat of Napoleon's body, feeling the jerking of Napoleon's cock in his hand, hearing Napoleon's own cry of orgasm.

He knelt there, deep in Napoleon, sweat slick between the backs of Napoleon's legs and his own chest, his heart pounding. He turned his head and kissed Napoleon's knee where it lay over his shoulder, and then let his legs down and slumped down to lie alongside him, flinging an arm over Napoleon's chest. Napoleon was breathing hard, and his chest was sticky with his come. When Illya touched his lips to Napoleon's cheek he tasted the salt of sweat.

'I love you,' he said. 'I love you, Napoleon.'

And Napoleon turned his head and kissed him tenderly on the lips, and stroked the hair back from his temple and said, 'Oh, Illya, I love you too, so much. You know I do.'

'I know,' Illya murmured. 'I know.'

He rested his head on Napoleon's shoulder and lay there, just listening to his breathing, listening to the beat of his heart. He felt as if he hadn't a bone in his body. The room was warm and still and all that existed in the world was Napoleon.

'You know, I don't think this was what the doctor had in mind when he told me to rest,' Napoleon commented with a laugh.

'Oh,' Illya said dreamily. He was starting to feel sleepy. 'Well, are you nauseous?' he asked. 'Are you disoriented?'

'Nauseous, no,' Napoleon said. 'But really, Illya, I can't possibly answer the second question after you've just done that to me. I hardly even know what country I'm in.'

'You are in Egypt,' Illya said helpfully, kissing him. 'In Cairo. I think you're facing west.'

'Ah. Well, now I know where I am, at least.'

His arm came to lie over Illya's back, heavy and warm and strong. Illya snuggled closer. This was perfect. It was just perfect. But he wished he could see Napoleon's face, his post-coital flush, the sparkle in his eyes. Sadness welled up so strongly that he had to swallow.

'Napoleon, what if he's right about my eyes?' he asked very quietly. 'What if something can be done?'

'Then we do it, if that's what you want,' Napoleon said instantly. 'Whatever it takes, we do it.'

'Sometimes – ' and Illya felt so strange and confused expressing this thought, a thought which should be anathema, he thought, to any sane man ' – well, I almost feel like I don't need to see. Sometimes I feel absolutely content as I am, as we are. I have adapted. I do well.'

And he stopped, feeling as though he had said something terrible, something he never should have said aloud.

'You do so well,' Napoleon told him, caressing the side of his face. 'You do amazingly.'

'Yes, I'm the very image of the cheerful, well-adjusted blind man,' Illya said very dryly.

'But – ' Napoleon said.

'But,' Illya echoed.

And there was the but. He had got used to his mundane life, even if he didn't always like it. Now everything had been shaken up again. He had been reminded of what he used to do, of what he couldn't do now. He remembered sitting in that hotel room in Paris monitoring the Van Schreetens' conversations, Napoleon coming in, meeting his eyes with a sparkle in his own, with that beautiful grin. Remembered Napoleon tossing a baguette over to him and him catching it with thoughtless ease. Oh god, he remembered then that tussle they had staged on the balcony outside the Van Schreetens' room, how he had arched back against Napoleon and Napoleon had held him with an iron gentleness. That performance they had put on for that Dutchman… They had laughed about it so hard afterwards, walking back through the Paris streets, Napoleon's arm around his shoulders, and the city had glittered in the evening lights. How long had it been since they had shared something like that? They had shared so many other things since, but they had lost that beautiful edge of knowing that they walked a tightrope of danger and could fall at any time.

He sighed, stroking his fingertips over Napoleon's chest, feeling the light hairs there, feeling his heartbeat. Napoleon felt so good. He had touched him so much since they had come together that he thought he would be able to reproduce him in clay, every contour. And he had never seen him, not like this. He had seen Napoleon naked many times, but never since their relationship had taken this incredible, intimate turn. He wished he could see him now. He really did.

'These days in Cairo, they are a taste of what I used to have,' he said slowly. 'If I could get that back...'

'You're worried about building up false hopes,' Napoleon guessed.

Illya was silent for a while, then he said, 'Yes. I spent so much energy on hope, and it got me nowhere. I learnt that to be happy I must let go of such foolish ideas. I must learn to live as a blind man, and to be happy. And I have been happy. But if this man is right, if he can give me my sight, if I can be back in the field, Napoleon, with you...' He groaned, and rubbed a hand over his face. 'You should have had a partner today who could help you.'

'I did,' Napoleon reminded him. 'That's why I'm here now.'

Illya shook his head impatiently. It was so frustrating sometimes when people, even Napoleon, tried to convince him that he was just as capable as he had been when he had his sight. He knew he wasn't. He was more capable than he had ever believed he would be, but he knew his limitations.

'You know what I mean, Napoleon. That was almost pure luck. Running into Dr Bruner in the elevator, his deciding to come along. If I'd been alone I wouldn't have been able to – Well, I probably wouldn't have found you, wouldn't have been able to assess your injuries. I would have been useless.'

'No,' Napoleon said. 'Never useless, Illya. If you hadn't run into Dr Bruner you would have found someone to help. The cab driver, or someone on the street, or you would have called the local U.N.C.L.E. outlet and they would have sent help. You would have done something.'

Napoleon started to sit up, and Illya did too, feeling the cooling and sticky come that was smeared between their bodies. It had been sweet and erotic in the post-coital flush, but now he just felt grubby.

'Napoleon, do you feel up to a bath?' he asked, touching his fingertips lightly to his chest.

Napoleon chuckled. 'I think I need one, regardless. Stay there, honey. I'll go run it. It's a big tub. We'll both fit in.'

((O))

It was deliciously warm in the bathtub, and Illya leant against the smoothness of the enamel with Napoleon lolling back against his chest. His legs were splayed either side of Napoleon's hips, and he loved the delicious heavy weight of Napoleon against him, the feeling of his legs against Illya's own legs. He reached around Napoleon's body with his arms, sudding a sponge in slow whorls over his chest. Napoleon was tired. He could feel it in every inch of him. No doubt the head wound hurt like hell, although he had made sure that his partner had taken painkillers before they got into the bath. Napoleon was still and drowsy against him, and every now and then Illya spoke to him to make sure he was just tired, not succumbing to concussion, but mostly he just sat and thought.

He had fought so hard against his blindness in the early days, as if fighting against it would make it go away. He had raged and wept. There had been a renting of clothes and a gnashing of teeth of biblical proportions, as Napoleon was fond of reminding him at times. He sat in the bath now remembering when he had taken a bath a few days after returning home from his stay in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. He had noticed how his whole body smelt of the infirmary. He smelt of antiseptic, and of the cream that he had to rub into the burns on his face to try to heal them without scarring. He had been afraid then that he would be left a monster as well as blind. He had seen the damage that acid could do, and in those early days he had touched the rough burns on his face and felt a strange melange of emotions. It wasn't really fear. He was too caught up with the enormity of his sight loss to give his facial burns the emotional attention he would have otherwise. But he had felt so broken. He had felt as if he were sinking slowly to the bottom of a dark, deep bog, a quiet, heavy place where it would take more strength than he had to even lift an arm. He was trapped in a well of darkness, blind, disfigured, ruined.

And he had lain there in the hot water, eyes closed, eyes that were no longer bandaged but were just as useless to him. When he opened his eyes he could have been looking through bandages still, because there was just a dim white blur where previously he had been able to see at distance with perfect clarity. He had relied on reading glasses for a long time, but he wouldn't be reading anything again.

Then there was a soft tap on the door and Napoleon had asked, 'May I come in?' and Illya had grunted, 'Yeah,' because he felt tired, too tired to refuse, too tired to say anything else. So Napoleon had come in and Illya heard him sit on the closed toilet, which seemed to be in a different place to where he had expected. For a moment that had startled him because he had forgotten where he was, thought he was in his own apartment still instead of lying in Napoleon's bath, in Napoleon's bathroom. He had agreed to Napoleon's plan early in the first week without really thinking about it. Don't worry, Illya. I'll take care of you. Hey, why don't you move in with me, huh? I can help you until you're back on your feet, and we'll both save on rent. Napoleon had wheedled at him and he hadn't needed to, because Illya had just wearily said, All right, Napoleon. Anything. You see to it. He hadn't been able to think of anything, lying there in an infirmary bed, but the fact that he was blind and always would be, and his life was ended.

He had forgotten that he was lying in Napoleon's bath because he couldn't see, and his thoughts were so far away, so far down in that dark hole. Then Napoleon came in and sat down and said, 'I forgot you might have trouble with the bottles in here. I didn't want you to pick up bubble bath instead of shampoo or something.'

'Oh,' Illya had said listlessly, not moving, not really listening. Then Napoleon said, 'You're tired, I know. Look, Illya, let me help you.'

So Illya had asked, 'Help me?' and fingered over the scabs under his right eye and leant his head back, and then Napoleon had begun washing him, softly and gently, and Illya hadn't argued. It had just felt nice lying there, feeling the cloth moving over his body, over his arms and legs. Napoleon had been so quiet and soft in his movements. At the end Napoleon had said, 'Tip your head back,' and he had shielded Illya's face with his hand and poured water through his hair and massaged shampoo in with strong fingers, then he washed it all out and asked, 'Better?'

It had felt better. He had been neglecting himself over that past week, especially since he hadn't been able to wash his hair while the bandages were on, and he hadn't let the nurses bathe him and hadn't bothered himself. He had been able to muster a wan smile and thank Napoleon, but he had felt so tired and so miserable that even Napoleon's tender care had failed to lift him up.

Here, now, in this big bath in Cairo, Illya sighed, and Napoleon asked him, 'What's going through your mind, Illya? You're miles away.'

Illya realised he was just holding a soapy sponge against Napoleon's chest and sitting there in the water, lost in memories.

'I must be tired,' he murmured. 'How's the head? I should get you to bed.'

'Separate beds again,' Napoleon said with a sigh. 'Makes me long for a tiny place with a double and bed bugs.'

He sloshed in the water and groaned a little and said, 'Wait there, Illya. I'll get your robe.'

'No, Napoleon, you're injured,' Illya protested, but he did so weakly.

'I'm on top of you. Let me get your robe.'

So Illya lay there as Napoleon got out, and by the time he had climbed out of the tub himself Napoleon had the thick bathrobe ready to wrap around him, and he took Napoleon's arm and followed him out of the room, inhaling the scent of wet skin and hair and thinking how soft Napoleon would feel now.

'Now, you sit there for a minute,' Napoleon said, guiding Illya to the deep armchair that sat in the corner of the room, and Illya sat, but he asked, 'What are you doing, Napoleon? You should lie down and rest.'

'A minute, mon cher,' Napoleon said, and Illya heard him grunting and the sound of pushing, and he said impatiently, 'What are you doing?' because much as Napoleon loved to titillate him, it was so frustrating not being able to just see.

'I am making us a double bed, my love,' Napoleon said, and he took Illya by the elbow and guided him back to the bed, and he found that Napoleon had pushed both the beds together into one.

'There'll be a seam,' Illya said prosaically.

'Trust you,' Napoleon muttered, but he pulled Illya close and Illya snuggled in against his lover's body and touched the side of his head lightly to check the dressing and said, 'You should sleep now, lyubimy. Rest your head. I'm sure Waverly will want you to call in fifteen different kinds of reports in the morning.'