He woke with his arm flung over Napoleon's chest and his legs tangled over Napoleon's legs, and the warm scent of him rich in his nostrils. He wondered briefly what time it was. The curtains were closed and the light was dim, but it definitely wasn't dark. He had left his watch on the nightstand and he didn't even know where the nightstand was since Napoleon had rearranged the furniture, and besides, Napoleon was asleep, and he didn't want to move and wake him because lying here like this listening to his lover's slow, easy breathing was so beautiful. It was warm in the room and he was sure that it couldn't be terribly early. Perhaps they had missed breakfast. But never mind. They would order it to the room, and it would be wonderful.

He inched his arm up so his fingers were on Napoleon's neck, just touching where his pulse fluttered under his skin. His heart rate was good, a slow, steady beat indicative of natural sleep. His breathing was easy. He didn't sound as if he were in pain. He felt a little easier then. Napoleon didn't seem to be suffering from the head wound. Then Napoleon made a little noise, which became a yawn, and Illya felt him stretching under his arm. His lover felt like such a powerful creature when he moved like that, every muscle hardening and then relaxing again. He brought his fingertips to Napoleon's face and traced them over his cheekbones and his lips. Oh, he felt so beautiful. He remembered how those lips had used to look, like an opening rose, and the expressions he had managed in his chocolate eyes. How he had loved Napoleon's eyes.

'Are you awake?' he asked softly.

'Mmmhmm, just about,' Napoleon replied, and he kissed Illya's fingers as they moved over his lips.

'You know what time it is?'

'Er...' And Napoleon twisted his head and Illya's fingers moved with it, then he said, 'Christ, it's almost eleven, Illya.'

Illya smiled sleepily. 'Well, I think it's safe to say we missed breakfast. How's the head?'

'Sore,' Napoleon said, 'but it's all right. I've had worse.'

'An inch to the left and you never would have had worse again,' Illya mused.

Napoleon turned a little and deposited a kiss on Illya's temple. 'That's the famous Solo luck,' he said. 'Never question it. I'm here this morning, and that's enough.'

Illya ran his hand down over Napoleon's body. It was hot under the blankets. He felt so soft and strong and alive.

'What'll we do about breakfast?' he asked, bringing his hand back up to Napoleon's face and laying it on his cheek. He felt Napoleon's smile.

'I know what I want for breakfast,' his partner said.

Illya kissed his shoulder. 'You are insatiable.'

'Well, Illya, have you seen the temptation?'

'Not recently,' Illya said, and Napoleon growled at him and rolled over and pinned him down so he could kiss him thoroughly.

They spent an hour lying in their tangle of blankets, and Napoleon took the sweet smelling oil and massaged it gently into the dusky hole between Illya's buttocks and made love to him softly, his body over Illya's, Illya's legs splayed either side of him. Afterwards he rested himself down over Illya's chest and kissed him and stroked his face and said, 'That was breakfast. Now, how about a shower, and then we can order brunch?'

A communicator warbled, and Illya sighed.

'I don't even know where half the bedroom furniture is, so you better get that,' he commented.

Napoleon groaned and rolled off his lover and asked, 'Do you think we should tell Waverly just what we were doing when he called?'

'I'd rather not be responsible for him having a heart attack,' Illya commented dryly.

So Napoleon found the communicator and said lightly, 'Solo here. Good morning, New York.'

'Afternoon in Cairo, I should say,' Waverly's rather disgruntled voice replied. 'Mr Solo, did it occur to you at any point this morning to check in?'

'Er,' Napoleon faltered, then he said gamely, 'Well, with the time difference, sir, I didn't want to call in too early. I don't like to bother the night staff.'

Waverly made a tutting sound, and Illya grinned. He wondered, not for the first time, if the Old Man ever slept.

'I trust the head wound isn't too bad, Mr Solo, and that Mr Kuryakin is looking after you?'

'It's barely a scratch, sir,' Napoleon said, and Illya wondered how true that was. It had been a blow hard enough to send him into unconsciousness.

'Well, that's good. That's good. Because I want you on the evening flight.'

'Back home, sir?' Napoleon asked, and the disappointment that Illya felt was echoed in his voice.

'No, indeed, Mr Solo. I want you to go to Ireland and sort out this nest of intrigue that's allowing Thrush to smuggle large quantities of drugs into and out of the country.'

Napoleon sighed, and reached out to lay a hand over Illya's.

'And me, sir?' Illya asked rather tentatively.

'Well...' Waverly said. 'Mr Kuryakin, while I'm sure you're capable of making your way home alone with the help of airport staff, I think I'd rather have you under your partner's watchful eye, considering the price that Thrush may have on your head. Tag along with Mr Solo, please. But please, Mr Kuryakin, keep your head down. U.N.C.L.E. invested a great deal of money in your training, you know.'

'Yes, sir,' Illya said. He wanted to argue that he would be quite capable of getting home alone, and that Thrush were unlikely to target him now he was blind, but he couldn't be sure of that, and anyway, he wasn't going to argue with something that would keep him in the field for a little longer.

'And, Mr Solo, please find a hotel room in Ireland that's rather less expensive than your current exorbitant location.'

'Yes, sir,' Napoleon said.

He closed the communicator and turned to Illya, brushing a hand down his cheek.

'Well, it could be worse. A little Irish pub with rooms upstairs. A quaint brass framed double bed, and you, and me – '

'And Thrush,' Illya appended.

'Not in our room.'

Illya grunted. 'I certainly hope not, but you never can tell. I don't think we're going to see the pyramids this trip, though, Napoleon.'

'Ah, well,' Napoleon sighed. 'I didn't really expect to. We can leave that to a leisure trip. But there is one thing you're going to see today.'

'Huh?'

'Your Dr Bruner. He said he'd look your eyes over, and he's going to do that before we leave, okay?'

Illya smiled a rather pale smile. 'Okay,' he said. 'As soon as we've had breakfast.'

He felt Napoleon becoming very serious. 'Illya. I know you've been burned by your previous experiences, but really, I think this man is worth listening to. I had one of the girls at HQ dig into his history. He's at the top of his game.'

Illya closed his eyes and sighed. There was a roiling ball of emotion in his chest. He had worked so hard at moving on from false hope to acceptance. But he knew Napoleon was right. He would have to take this chance.

'All right, Napoleon,' he said. 'I will see Dr Bruner. But only after we have breakfast.'

((O))

'You understand, Mr Kuryakin, that even if the examination is favourable, I can guarantee nothing,' Dr Bruner said.

'Yes, of course,' Illya said uncomfortably.

He was sitting on the sofa in Bruner's suite, a place that felt and smelt so much like their own that it was almost as if he hadn't left his room. The lingering scent of aftershave was different, though, and there were other small differences. He had learnt well how to read rooms.

There was a knock on the door, and Bruner said, 'Ah, that will be Morell. There are two men in the world, Mr Kuryakin, who are at the top of this speciality. I am the foremost authority. Dr Morell is just a little way behind. As luck would have it, I have managed to get together the equipment I need to give you a proper examination, from samples brought by the conference participants.'

Illya rose as Bruner let the man in, and Napoleon murmured in his ear, 'I've seen him down in the restaurant. Talks a lot with Bruner.'

'Now, Mr Kuryakin,' Bruner said. 'This is Raphael Morell. Raphael, Illya Kuryakin, the man I was telling you about over breakfast. He has been told that there's no hope of a corneal transplant, but I'm not so sure.'

Illya held out his hand awkwardly, and a rather cold hand clasped around his with a strong grip.

'Pleased to meet you, Kuryakin,' the man said. He was rather taller than Illya and had an accent that sounded like a confusion of Spanish and something Illya couldn't place.

'Now, if you'll sit back down, Mr Kuryakin, we'll take a look. You may find the light very bright and a little uncomfortable, but it's necessary to properly see the damage to your eyes.'

So Illya sat there very still and did as the doctor directed him and listened to the man muttering to his colleague. He heard words that he had heard before in those previous examinations and memories welled up of those awful consultations when he had walked in clinging to Napoleon's arm and sat there as men came close to his face and hummed and hawed and then told him that he must accept there was nothing that could be done. He had been through all of that. He had done it. It had been so hard. He couldn't believe he was doing it again.

He became aware that tears were starting to prick in the corners of his eyes, and he swallowed hard. It was the bright light, of course, making his eyes water. He couldn't be crying. But he wanted to get up and walk out of here and fold all that hope down again into a tiny thing that took up no space. It was ridiculous to go through all of this again.

He heard Morell muttering, 'Really, Georg. You see the damage to the sclera here in the left eye. I can't imagine – '

But Bruner said, 'You always were a pessimist. Now, I'm almost certain this is entirely superficial...'

And then finally Bruner turned off the bright light and Illya blinked and rubbed a hand over his eyes, and the doctor said, 'Well, my pessimistic colleague isn't so sure, Mr Kuryakin, but I think there's a good chance that a corneal transplant will sit. The right eye, I am certain about. The left, perhaps it is a little more damaged, but I still think that a great deal of healing has gone on since you last consulted anyone about this. It will be worth an attempt.'

Illya clenched his hands so hard on the edge of the sofa cushion that his knuckles ached. He steadied himself, and asked, 'Then what do I do now, Dr Bruner?'

'Well, I would like you to see an ophthalmologist of my acquaintance in the United States so that he can note down all of the details that I cannot take today. Then I would suggest putting you on the waiting list for donor corneas,' Bruner said. 'When suitable ones are acquired, I would be able to operate. I do have to ask, though, if you have the funds for such an operation.'

Illya hesitated. U.N.C.L.E. would surely pay. They had been willing to pay had those first three consultations been positive. But before he could say anything, Napoleon said, 'Yes, we have the funds.'

Illya bit back any reaction. He knew that Napoleon was well off. He had a wealthy family. And if U.N.C.L.E. declined to pay then he wasn't sure there was anything he could do to prevent Napoleon from doing so, short of simply disappearing out of Napoleon's life, and he had no intention of doing that.

'Well then,' Bruner murmured. 'The conference finishes on Friday. I will be back home by the following Monday. Mr Kuryakin, I am giving Mr Solo a card with the number of my appointments secretary on it. All you have to do is call and she will pass on the details of my American friend, and take the necessary details from you. It does take time, of course, for donor corneas to appear. The waiting list is long and few people choose to donate, unfortunately. But there is hope for you, Mr Kuryakin. There is definitely hope.'