Illya was there to meet Napoleon at the airport, hoping that Napoleon would see him, because there was no chance he would see Napoleon. The snow had eased a little and the cab journey hadn't taken so long, and a helpful man had taken him through to the arrivals lounge and found out which gate Napoleon would be arriving at, so there should be no problem. He had told Napoleon that he would meet him. The flight was announced, one among a myriad of announcements that filtered through the general hubbub and chatter, and then the noises swelled as people came in, as voices rose in greeting. And then Napoleon was there saying, 'Ah, you're a sight for sore eyes, tovarisch. Thank you for coming,' and Illya smiled and wished that he could kiss Napoleon like any other couple. But he could hug him, and he did, throwing his arms around the chill of his overcoat and squeezing hard and murmuring in his ear, 'I missed you,' and Napoleon said back, 'I missed you too,' not bothering to keep his voice down at all, because that was Napoleon, and he had no shame.

Then he stepped back and asked, 'Do you have your cases?'

'Yeah, I got a trolley. It's just over there.'

But he stood there for a moment with his hands on Illya's shoulders, silent, and Illya asked, 'What's up?'

Napoleon laughed quietly. 'I was just thinking how I love the fact that you are just small enough that your nose is perfectly at the height of my mouth. So I can do this.' And he leant forward and kissed Illya on the tip of his nose.

'Napoleon!' Illya gasped, scandalised. 'There are people watching.'

'They're all too engrossed in their own hellos to care a whit about ours,' Napoleon told him. Illya rubbed his hand over his nose. He felt as if Napoleon's lips had branded him, and suddenly he couldn't wait until they were behind closed doors.

'Come on, let's get a cab,' Illya said. 'Let's go home.'

So they went outside and Illya felt new, thick flurries of snow driving down from the sky, and Napoleon sighed.

'Taxi rank is completely empty,' he said. 'Maybe we lingered too long over our hellos. Illya, let's just get the train. It's freezing cold and by the looks of things the snow's only going to get worse.'

'Oh, Napoleon, we have three cases to carry,' Illya groused, but Napoleon said, 'No, I'm exhausted. I'm not standing here half an hour waiting for a cab that'll get stuck in traffic for hours. At least there's no snow on the subway.'

'Those bits of it which are actually sub...'

'Nevertheless.'

And Illya could tell that Napoleon was set on this, so he sighed and bowed to the pressures of jet lag and weariness, and said, 'All right, we'll get the subway. But please don't slip on the snow and throw me under a train.'

'Never,' Napoleon promised.

((O))

Illya really did hate the subway. Things that had never bothered him before; the turnstiles, keeping hold of his ticket, the platform edge, the crowds, the rushing trains; they all set him on edge. He felt bad that Napoleon was managing all three cases so that Illya could use his cane, because he really hated not to use his cane in a place like that. It was moments like this, standing on the platform waiting for the next train to come in, the snow lashing at his face and shivering against the cold, that made him think it would be all right to push aside all his doubts and fears and embrace Dr Bruner's hope without question. If he could see he would have driven to pick Napoleon up, and they wouldn't be standing here now in the icy wind, and an oncoming train suddenly filling his ears with a rush and a bellow, holding one of the cases now so Napoleon would be able to get through the doors when they opened. Then Napoleon said in a stressed voice, 'All right, Illya, it's stopped. Doors are open. Keep going forward, about two feet. Watch out for the gap. It's just a little step.'

'I don't like the subway,' Illya took the opportunity to mutter, as his cane flicked over the edge of the platform, the gap, the sill of the door. He tried to find his way into the mill of people already on the train, a case in one hand and his cane in the other.

'I know you don't, honey,' Napoleon said with his mouth very close to Illya's ear. At least that meant he was on the train too now.

'Are there any seats?'

'Er – I don't know. I can't see a damn thing, there are so many people...'

Illya resisted a tart comment. He just held the cane close in to his body and held the case in the other hand, and then was almost lurched off his feet as the train started out of the station.

'Steady there,' Napoleon said, running a hand down to catch Illya's hand, taking the case and then holding his hand firmly. 'Step forward a little.' Then he raised his voice and said politely to someone else, 'Excuse me. Could I ask you to make a little space for my friend? He's blind, and needs to hold on. Ah, thank you. Illya, step forward a little.' And he moved Illya's hand out to a pole. 'Got that? Hold on, won't you?'

'I hate the subway,' Illya said again in a low mutter. He felt self conscious as always at Napoleon drawing attention to his blindness. 'We should have waited for a cab.'

'Illya, it was freezing out there.'

'Hmm,' Illya said.

'I'll buy your favourite take out when we get back,' Napoleon tried to mollify him. He had his arms on either side of Illya and was holding onto the pole too. Illya couldn't exactly say he didn't like the position, because Napoleon was pressed up against him with the length of his body.

'We are going to have to stand the whole way, aren't we?' Illya asked.

'Well, I could probably get you a seat if you really want one...'

'You are the one who has just come off a transatlantic flight, Napoleon,' Illya said, uncomfortable because he knew Napoleon meant that he could get someone to give up a seat to a blind man.

'You're the one who's complaining,' Napoleon countered.

Illya grabbed the pole a little harder as the train rattled over an inconsistency in the rails, and pressed himself back just a little more firmly against Napoleon.

'I like to complain,' he said. 'It keeps me healthy.'

'Oh, is that why you do it?'

'Well, something like that,' Illya murmured. 'Maybe we could get off at the next stop and try to get a cab from there?'

'I've already paid for two tickets all the way into Manhattan, Illya. We are not getting a cab.'

So Illya sighed and held on to the pole. If they had been in the back of a cab he could have slipped his hand over onto Napoleon's thigh in the dark. They would have been back so much more quickly – although he knew that would not be true, with the snow sending everything to a standstill as it was. But at least here Napoleon could put his hands almost over his own on the pole and press up against him in the guise of trying to keep him steady on his feet as the carriage swayed.

'If I could see, I would have driven to pick you up,' Illya commented, and Napoleon's hands closed a little more firmly over his, and he leant in more closely so Illya could hear his low voice over the clattering of the train and the noise of the passengers.

'You probably would have been stuck in snow.'

'The cab I took didn't get stuck,' Illya said. 'Really, I'm not sure what use there was in me coming for you. I'm only making it harder to get back.'

'Illya,' Napoleon said. 'No Russian broods. I forbid it. It was worth you coming to see your face when I came through the gate. Now, have you thought any more about what Dr Bruner has offered you?'

Illya laughed a quick, short laugh. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Napoleon.' He groaned and shook his head, feeling the side of Napoleon's face against his, he was so close, thanks to the crushing conditions in the carriage. 'I will contact the American ophthalmologist. I have to. Of course I do. I will let him do his tests and if the results are right I will let Dr Bruner put me on his waiting list.'

Of course he would. He had to. He wanted to see Napoleon's face, see his eyes. He wanted to be able to stand on this train with casual ease, his eyes on the other passengers, able to find his own seat and see when the corners were coming by the way the carriages ahead curved away. He wanted to be able to drive so they wouldn't be forced to travel on this train or by cab. He wanted to get onto an aeroplane with Napoleon and go off to far flung places and be his equal, instead of a liability who had to stay in the hotel room. He wanted it all so much that his throat ached and his chest ached, and he wished so hard that they were in private now, because it was hard to hold it all in.

'It will be all right,' Napoleon said, his hands over Illya's, and Illya remembered him saying that two long years ago, sitting by his side in the hospital while his face was afire with the pain of the burns, telling him it will be all right. I'll look after you. You'll be all right. But it hadn't been all right. Then, nothing had seemed all right. He had lain there moaning with the pain, clawing his hands into the sheets, and there was nothing to see any way he looked. They had covered his eyes in bandages, covered half his face in bandages, but even when they removed them to check his eyes there was nothing there but white. All the time they had been irrigating his eyes he had been looking through a cloud, shaking with shock, sick with the pain. And then they had put the bandages on him and they had increased the painkillers. The painkillers made him dizzy, but the pain still crept through, and Napoleon sat there with him, holding his hands, and then holding him bodily, holding him hard in his arms while Illya wept with pain and fear against him.

Napoleon had felt so good then. It had been like finding an island after being lost at sea. He had felt Napoleon's suit jacket against him, the bulge of the knot in his tie, his head pressed against Illya's head. He hadn't wanted to let go, even when the nurse came in and said Napoleon would have to go now because it was far too late and Illya needed sleep. He couldn't imagine sleeping. It was terrible to have Napoleon let go of him and walk away and leave him there in that foreign hospital. He was clear-headed enough now to just about understand the language at least. He certainly understood when they spoke to him in English. But, oh, he had wanted Napoleon to stay so badly, and Napoleon had whispered in his ear, 'I'll be as close as I can. I'll be back first thing in the morning, I promise. You'll be all right.'

He couldn't plead. No matter how much he wanted to he couldn't let himself plead. So Napoleon had left and Illya had fallen back onto his pillows, and the nurse had tried to introduce some normality, to offer him tea and something to eat, a meal that had tasted like ashes in his mouth, tea that tasted of nothing at all. He had felt as if he were floating somewhere very far away, somewhere in an unreal world. He hadn't imagined being able to sleep, but perhaps they had given him a sedative or perhaps he had just succumbed to the exhaustion of shock and pain, because some time after that meal he had drifted away, and when he woke up again Napoleon was already there at his bedside, ready to hold his hands and promise him that everything would be all right.

But they had unwrapped the bandages to check on the burns while Napoleon sat there, and he had heard Napoleon hiss at the sight. The doctor had thumbed his eyes gently open and shone a light at his pupils, and still there had been nothing to see but a thick haze. He had almost panicked then. He remembered saying, 'I can't, I can't. Napoleon, I can't do this. I don't know what to do. I can't do this,' and his heartbeat had been hissing in his ears and his breath had come short, and Napoleon had held his hands and stroked them and said, 'Calm down, Illya. Calm down. You don't have to do anything. Just try to calm down. I'll look after you. It'll be all right.'

How many times had Napoleon told him that over the first few weeks? Even when Illya had been screaming so hard it made his throat raw and throwing Napoleon's china across the room Napoleon had taken hold of him and told him it would be all right. Even when he had spent all day lying face down in bed, too low even to cry, not even moving for food or the toilet, Napoleon had told him it would be all right. Illya hadn't believed him, not once. He had believed utterly that Napoleon would take care of him. Of course he would. That was the type of person Napoleon was, caring right down to the core. But of course it wouldn't be all right. How could it be?

And then gradually it had become a little more all right. Very slowly there had been short spells of time when he had felt all right. There had been the fourth, or was it fifth, time that Napoleon had persuaded him to come outside, and Illya had held on to his arm, walking very carefully in his opaque world.

'No pressure,' Napoleon had said. 'Just a walk. We can wrap up warm and walk down to the park.'

'I must look so terrible,' Illya had replied. He knew he must, with his still healing burns and his damaged eyes, holding on to Napoleon's arm like a child learning to walk.

'You look like someone who's suffered recent burns,' Napoleon said honestly. 'You look injured. You don't look terrible. Anyway, you need to get out. You've barely been out of the apartment except for – '

Except for the visits to the hospital in Napoleon's car, Illya knew. Except for those other few times that Napoleon had tried to persuade him to come for a walk, just to get some fresh air, and he hadn't been able to make it further than the lobby of the apartment building or the corner of the block. It had been winter then too, and the air had been shockingly cold and it had pinched and stung on his ravaged face. It had hurt his sensitive eyes and made tears run down his cheeks. But he tried so hard that time, walking with Napoleon, holding his arm, his head tilted down as he tried to trust in Napoleon's guidance.

He had felt like a shuffling cripple. He had stumbled on the first kerb they had come to, and he had hated crossing the first busy road without being able to see the cars. But he had trusted Napoleon. It would be all right. He had trusted him and walked with him all the way to one of the small local parks, and sat on a bench in the chill winter wind, and almost laughed because he had made it. It had been so weird sitting there, hearing the wind in leafless branches, hearing the traffic, hearing children playing and a dog barking, all those daytime noises with no visual accompaniment. He had clenched his hands in his warm winter gloves and sat there feeling like this was some kind of weird dream, while Napoleon tried so hard.

'There are sparrows pecking around on the path,' he had said. 'I think someone must have dropped some crumbs. They look starved, poor things. Maybe next time we come out I'll bring some bread. The grass is starting to die off. It all looks a little brown, lots of mud coming where the children run around. There's a couple of little kids over there, brother and sister, I think, all bundled up. She has a red bobble hat and scarf and gloves and he has blue. I think they must be about five and three. They're running about having a whale of a time. Can you hear them screaming?'

So Illya had nodded. Yes, he could hear them. He couldn't hear the sparrows and the grass might as well not be there, but the space was defined by those little kids screaming, their thudding footsteps moving from soft ground to hard and back again, and the occasional calls of their mother. The park was bounded by the sound of traffic and defined by a damp, earthy scent that was better than the car exhaust smell of the streets. He had started to have his first inkling that he could understand the space around him with more than just sight. And Napoleon, bless him, had been so wonderful, telling him all he could see and asking him if he were all right, and then deciding just as Illya was starting to feel he had had enough that it was cold and time they were walking back. He didn't know what he would have done without Napoleon.

Standing there on the subway train with his hands around the chill metal pole and Napoleon's hands over his, he smiled and said, 'Maybe it will be all right. Maybe you're right. We can give it a go.'

((O))

Illya followed Napoleon's guidance up the long, long sets of steps from the subway platform, in Manhattan at last. Someone had offered to help carry the cases and Napoleon had actually agreed, no doubt giving the man a case that only contained clothes and shoes, not the precious cases of U.N.C.L.E. surveillance equipment and sensitive documents. It was a great help, though, because it meant Illya could hold Napoleon's arm and use the cane, which he really felt he needed to do on the busy subway leading up to an icy street.

The air was biting when they reached ground level, and a flurry of sand-like freezing snowflakes whipped against Illya's face. He shuddered as the snow started to go down his collar.

'I'd ask if there were any cabs here, but I suppose they're all taken or nonexistent?' he said.

'I'm afraid so,' Napoleon said, 'but it's not far now. Er, thank you, sir, for carrying that case but we can take it back now. Illya, will you be okay not using the cane?'

'I will have to be,' Illya shrugged, pushing the cane under his arm and taking one of the cases. He held Napoleon's arm with a slightly firmer grip as they walked, wary of ice on the sidewalks. He really hated walking in this weather, but he felt sorry for Napoleon, who had to keep his head up to the wind to see where they were going.

They finally pushed in through their apartment door half an hour later, and Illya dumped the case right where he stood.

'God, Illya, you've been pouting since we stepped out of the airport, and you don't know how hard it's been resisting your gorgeous mouth all that time,' Napoleon said fervently. His arms slipped around Illya and Illya tilted his head up a little to let Napoleon kiss him at last. His lips were cold at first but they warmed fast, and Illya moaned a little, falling into the sensation, because if there was one thing Napoleon could do like an expert, it was kiss. Never too much pressure, never too fast. If he were rough it was a beautiful roughness built on passion, and if he were soft it was a softness of such tenderness that Illya felt ready to melt. He lost where he was for a while, because all there was in the world was Napoleon's lips against his, his hot tongue seeking entry to Illya's mouth, his hands pressing hard against his back. He could feel Napoleon's arousal against him, pushing against the thin fabric of his suit trousers, pressing against Illya's corresponding hardness. Illya's pout had been real, but his disgruntled mood was flooded away by the sheer force of Napoleon's love.

'You're freezing,' he said, eventually breaking from the clinch.

'We're both freezing. I'll light the fire,' Napoleon said.

'I'll light the fire. You call for take out.'

'All right,' Napoleon said, but he grabbed Illya by the hands and tugged at him and said, 'We'll do all of that, but first, Mr Kuryakin, I am going to fuck you soundly.'

'Oh, you're going to fuck me?' Illya asked archly, but he followed the pull of Napoleon's hands like a beacon, into the bedroom, where the smaller room was pleasantly warm from the central heating, where Napoleon tumbled Illya onto the bed with a growl and said, 'I thought you were going to be wearing my cashmere sweater and nothing else.'

'You've hardly given me the chance to change,' Illya responded tartly. 'Anyway, do you really want me with clothes on?'

'I want you without a single thread sullying your beautiful body,' Napoleon said fervently, using his nimble fingers to achieve just that end. But he didn't undress himself, just stripped Illya bare and came over him, knees on either side of his thighs, bending down to kiss Illya's mouth, his neck, his shoulders. He grazed his teeth over Illya's nipple, and Illya arched, gasping aloud, saying, 'All right, Napoleon, all right, I give in. You fuck me. Now. Right now.'

He flung his arms back in surrender, rejoicing in his own nakedness as Napoleon's harsh and chill clothing pressed against him, as Napoleon's still clothed erection pressed against the incredibly hot and naked length of his own.

'You are beautiful,' Napoleon said. 'Illya Nickolaivitch Kuryakin, you are so beautiful. And it is so good to be home, to be with you in our own bed.'

All the while he was laying kisses all over Illya's torso, studiously ignoring his weeping erection, dropping kisses on his flanks and the upthrust bones of his hips, pushing his thighs apart and moving his lips up that soft inner skin, and Illya cried, 'God, Napoleon, please, please...'

So Napoleon caught Illya's wrists in his hands and brought them down to hold them hard against his sides, and Illya lay there staring into the white haze and the brightness of the bedroom light, feeling as if he were looking into heaven. And Napoleon's mouth came down over him at last, sheathing himself over the hot, aching length of Illya's cock, his hands holding Illya's wrists pinned to the bed as he arched and lifted his hips. He gasped at the sensation of Napoleon's incredibly talented tongue gliding up his length, swirling around the head, around the exquisitely sensitive rim, then taking him in again, the whole length of him, deep into Napoleon's throat. He could hardly hold himself, he couldn't, and he rocked his hips forward again, thrusting himself back into Napoleon's heat every time he withdrew his beautiful mouth, trying to move his arms so he could lace his fingers into Napoleon's hair and push him down harder, but unable to move against the pressure of Napoleon's hands.

And then Napoleon withdrew his mouth entirely, and Illya's cock was left bereft, bobbing, hot and slick with Napoleon's wet, and Napoleon said, 'Now, Illya. You are a very impatient little man. Do you know that?'

'Napoleon!' Illya half growled, half sobbed. He shuffled his hips, trying to angle himself towards Napoleon's mouth again, feeling the heat of his breath. Napoleon came up to his face for a moment, pressing a kiss hard onto his lips with a mouth that tasted of Illya's cock and pre-come, and then went back again, engulfing Illya again to the root, sucking and licking with his mouth, tracing his fingers delicately over Illya's balls with his hand at last, so that Illya could move his own hand, grasp Napoleon's head by the hair, stopping him from withdrawing his mouth entirely and thrusting up over and over into that wonderful heat.

'Oh, Napoleon, I – ' he said, but then he was coming so hard, his mouth open in a formless bellow of pleasure, his pelvis pushed off the bed, hard against Napoleon's mouth. Some kind of atomic explosion billowed outwards through his mind.

'Oh... god, Napoleon,' he said at last.

'Ah, now,' Napoleon said breathlessly, and he knelt over Illya again, taking his hand and moving it to the rock hard length of Napoleon's cock. Illya closed his hand about it, feeling its heat, feeling the blood pulsing through thick veins. God how he wished he could see that. He so wanted to see Napoleon's cock. He was sure it would be the most beautiful thing in the world.

Napoleon made a sound of pleasure as Illya's hand pumped on him, and then he gently uncurled Illya's fingers and laid a kiss on his soft belly, and moved away for a moment.

'Oh, bring it back,' Illya pleaded.

'Patience, you impetuous little Russian,' Napoleon said, his voice a purr.

He was doing something on the other side of the room, and then he came back to Illya and knelt between his thighs. Illya drew his legs up and then Napoleon was pouring sweet smelling oil and he trailed his finger down Illya's flat perinaeum and then circled a single fingertip around that gaspingly sensitive opening there. Illya moaned, long and low and needful. Napoleon kept circling, pressing a little harder with each pass, until slowly his finger sank into that tight ring of muscle and Illya cried out at the feeling of Napoleon's touch inside him.

'God, please, more,' he begged, letting his legs drop further apart, splaying himself on the bed.

'Turn over,' Napoleon said gruffly, and his finger slipped out, and Illya turned himself, drawing his legs up under him, ready to do anything so that Napoleon would touch him again.

'There, that's it, sweetheart, that's it,' Napoleon said, low and soft, leaving sweet kisses on Illya's buttocks, putting a hand flat on the small of his back, putting his other hand back to stroke about Illya's tight ring, to slip a finger in, and then another finger. Illya pushed backwards, impaling himself on the digits, longing for them to go deeper. He needed more in there. He needed all of Napoleon's hardness inside him.

'Please,' he whispered.

And then the fingers withdrew, and there was the perfect heat of Napoleon's cock pressing against him. Napoleon was still wearing his shirt. God, he was wearing his shirt, and when Napoleon's feet twisted over Illya's he could feel his socks. And his cock was there at the centre of everything, so soft and hot, until Napoleon pressed forwards and made his hardness felt. Illya felt himself stretch, deliciously, an almost painful pleasure as the head of Napoleon's cock slipped through the tight ring of muscle. He pushed his forearm against his mouth and moaned and pressed back, unwilling to wait.

'Gently, tovarisch,' Napoleon chided him. 'Softly, softly. I don't want it to all be over before it's begun.'

So Illya bit the flesh of his forearm and held himself still as Napoleon inched forward, slipping in so gently, further and further, until Illya was stretched and filled and Napoleon's cool, tight balls nudged against his body. There Napoleon was, filling him to the root, all of him, so hot and hard in Illya's clenching body.

'Napoleon, please,' he begged. He wouldn't be able to keep himself from moving for much longer.

Napoleon kissed the centre of his back and put his hands on Illya's shoulders and caressed his neck. He just stayed like that, so hard and full in Illya's body. And then he started to move, easing out until Illya was almost empty, then slipping back in just before Illya could move his hips to impale himself again. It was such an intense, slow, drifting pleasure, and Illya was sure there would be bruises on his arm where he was biting himself to keep from forcing Napoleon to go faster and harder.

Napoleon eased himself in and out for what felt like a long time, kissing Illya's back and sides, stroking him, reaching beneath him to fondle his stiffening cock. Illya pressed his face into the bed and angled his backside upwards, spreading himself shamelessly. And then finally Napoleon started to move with more force, rocking himself away and then in again, again, again, setting up an ever accelerating rhythm. Illya moved a little again and then suddenly each glide was pressing over his prostate, and he was dizzy with the feeling of it, losing all higher reasoning, intent only on pushing himself back onto Napoleon's cock, forcing him to go harder and faster, until the room was filled with the creaking of the bed, Illya's low moans and Napoleon's grunts, and the sound of Napoleon's hips and belly slapping against Illya's rounded behind. Illya couldn't hold on. Napoleon's grip was so hard around his cock, pumping mercilessly, and he came with a cry, his climax splattering his chest and the bed and making him clench down on Napoleon's hardness inside him.

And then Napoleon was coming with a gasping cry, holding Illya's hips so hard in his hands that it hurt, pushed right against Illya's body, fusing them into one.

'Jesus Christ,' Napoleon whispered. 'Jesus Christ.'

He held there for a moment, his hands on Illya's hips, panting. Illya could feel the bottom of his shirt between them, tickling at the tops of his buttocks. Napoleon's socked feet were still locked over Illya's ankles. And then as his cock started to slip from Illya's body he sank down to lie over him, breathing hard, sweat soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt from both men's bodies. Napoleon kissed him softly on the neck, and Illya turned over then and drew Napoleon down onto him again and just held him, delighting in the scent of him and the feel of him so real and there in his arms.