In the end, after an exhausting journey, Napoleon took Illya straight home. They had gone through hours of paper checking in Germany and he had been forced to surreptitiously sedate Illya again without being noticed under the eyes of three officials, before he broke down in front of them. It was a terrible strain going through these things with a partner one could not trust to brazen it through, especially knowing what Illya would face were they turned back.

Then they had sat on another plane for almost ten hours before they touched down in JFK. Napoleon hadn't felt that it was safe to sleep and leave Illya to his own devices or even to sleep while Illya slept. He could barely think straight by the time they walked from the plane, and the cab driver had woken him up by blasting the horn when they arrived outside the apartment building. He had fallen asleep with his head on Illya's shoulder.

'Your place or mine?' Napoleon asked, as they stood in front of the building with one small case.

Illya stood staring up at the brownstone edifice as if he could not believe it existed. Napoleon didn't know what he would do if Illya started to panic. He was so tired he was almost falling down, and he didn't want to have to give Illya another shot.

'What time is it?' Illya asked vaguely.

Napoleon shot a look at his watch. It was still on European time. He subtracted the hours and said, 'Er – I think it's five a.m.. But I suppose we feel like it's breakfast time. I – suppose we should get some – No, the stores will be closed...'

In the end it was Illya who took his arm and led him into the building, and chose to go to Napoleon's apartment, saying something about it being more likely there would be food in the freezer. It all felt so odd, so ridiculously normal, to be walking into the elevator and taking it up, then unlocking the door and stepping into a place that had that strange sepulchral air that a home got when one was away for a while.

Napoleon collapsed into bed, incapable of anything more, and woke disoriented from a strange, long sleep some time later to the scent of meat cooking. He sat bolt upright, staring around him, trying to work out if it were morning or afternoon and what his body thought the time was, before suddenly realising that Illya hadn't disturbed him by coming in to sleep, so he must have stayed awake the whole time.

Guilt poured through him for leaving Illya to his own devices for so long. He shot out of bed and through into the sitting room, then he saw Illya through the kitchen door, dressed in his own clothes again, dark slacks and a black turtleneck, with a white apron over the top. He had got rid of the wig Rollin had made for him to travel in. When Napoleon stopped in the kitchen door, catching his breath, Illya turned and smiled, and Napoleon could have cried at how normal he looked.

'I found sausage in the freezer, but the eggs were off,' Illya said. 'I thought I could run out for some bread, now you're awake. The shops will be open now.'

'Oh – er – ' Napoleon didn't honestly know what to say. Illya seemed so normal, but going by his state on the flight home he didn't think he should be going out alone. 'You know, we can manage without bread.'

Illya stared at him incredulously, stripping the apron off. 'Napoleon, we can't just eat sausage on its own. I'll get bread. It's no problem.'

And he picked up Napoleon's keys from the counter, scooped up a handful of change, and left the apartment.

Napoleon glanced at the sausage patties frying in the pan, glanced at the door, and didn't know what to do. Illya seemed fine. But then he had seemed fine before. He had wonderful bouts of normality when it seemed everything was as it should be, and then –

He caught his breath, wondering how long he had been standing there dithering. Despite the sleep he was still muzzy with jet lag. He ran into his bedroom to dress quickly, grabbing his U.N.C.L.E. identification and handgun just in case, yanked the spare keys off the hook, remembered to turn off the gas under the pan, and ran for the elevator.

((O))

He went first to the little bakery a block away, because that was where he would have gone for bread. But then he remembered Illya was always more frugal than that. He would have gone for sliced at the mini-mart two streets away. He jogged all the way and got to the door at the same time as two New York cops, who were met by a balding man Napoleon recognised as the store manager.

'I don't know what he's doing,' the man was saying in a thick Bronx accent. 'He just walks in here and walks around a while, then he stops in front of the bread and – I thought he was just having trouble deciding. We stock a few lines, you know. But he just stands there like a goddamn statue, and then he starts crying. He's putting off the customers, you know. He don't speak no English, neither. I think he's a Ruskie or a Pole or something. Thin guy, you know. Looks like he could use that bread.'

Napoleon caught his breath, but he stepped in front of the officers and slipped his identification out of his pocket, saying smoothly, 'U.N.C.L.E., gentleman. My name's Napoleon Solo. That's my man back there. If you'll allow me to – '

The officers looked at one another, and Napoleon prayed that they would be understanding types, or ones who wanted to save themselves the paperwork, rather than the officious types who resented U.N.C.L.E.'s authority. Thankfully they nodded, and one said, 'If you're sure, mister. Go ahead.'

'Uh, yes, I'm sure,' Napoleon said. He was too worried to smile. He wanted to run to Illya, but he had to play it cool. He waited until the two men had turned back to the door, then made for the bread aisle.

The sight broke his heart. Illya was standing with a loaf in each hand, just sobbing, as if he had no awareness of where he was. When words came through the sobs there were none in English. Customers were staring at him as if he had two heads, an old woman looking as if she wanted to go and comfort him but was too afraid.

Gently Napoleon took the loaves and put them back on the shelves.

'Come on, Illya,' he said, wishing he had one of those syringes in his pocket. He put his hands on Illya's shoulders and gently steered him out of the store. As they stepped outside he suddenly realised Illya must be freezing. There was no more than a thin poloneck between him and the New York winter, and he had no body fat to protect him. He took off his own overcoat and draped it around Illya's shoulders, then stepped to the kerb and hailed a cab.

((O))

He should have taken him straight to U.N.C.L.E. when they got in. He blamed himself for being tired, for not thinking rationally. This was more than he could fix with familiarity and good food.

Illya came back to himself in the cab, but he seemed disoriented and confused, and plucked at the coat around his shoulders obsessively, before turning to Napoleon and saying, 'They had so much bread...'

'Yeah, well, that's kinda their job, Illya,' Napoleon said dryly.

The cab dropped them outside the tailor's shop, and as they went down the steps Illya stopped suddenly and said, 'Napoleon, I have sausages cooking!'

'I turned off the gas,' Napoleon told him gently, and tugged him down the stairs to the door. He felt as if he were betraying his best friend.

They went through the back of the shop and into the reception, where the girl behind the desk exclaimed and said, 'Why, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin! I was almost afraid we'd lost you.' Then she gasped. 'Mr Kuryakin, what happened to your hair?'

Napoleon glared at her. Her eyes travelled down Illya as she suddenly noticed the gauntness of his cheeks and how his shirt hung loose on his body. Illya reached a hand up to stroke the fuzz on his head, looking around as if hoping someone else would answer, and the coat fell off his shoulders. Then he said with something of a half-smile, 'Everyone kept telling me I needed a haircut.'

The receptionist didn't seem to know how to react. She looked stricken, and glanced at Napoleon as if in hope of answers. He shook his head subtly, so she just smiled and handed out the badges. Illya fiddled with his anxiously. There was nowhere to clip it on a poloneck. Napoleon picked up the coat and they walked further into the maze of metal corridors. Napoleon could see Illya seeming to shrink smaller and smaller with each step.

'Did Waverly call us in?' he asked. He seemed to be fighting to hang on to normality. Napoleon was on tenterhooks, waiting for him to go again. It was only a matter of time. He felt as if he were steering a bomb through the halls.

'Uh, no, Illya,' he said. He pushed open the door to the infirmary and Illya suddenly registered where they were.

'Oh – no, Napoleon,' he suddenly said, backing away. 'No, I want to go home. I'm all right. I just need some rest.'

Napoleon grabbed him. Illya had backed against the wall, and a stack of kidney bowls fell to the floor with a crash. That sound conveniently alerted the on-duty nurse, and she came hurrying out asking, 'Do you need a doctor?'

'Psych,' Napoleon said shortly, and she nodded and hurried away.

'Oh, Napoleon, no!' Illya protested again. 'No, just let me go home. Please. I can't go through it all again! I can't – '

He sank down the wall, and Napoleon followed him, kneeling in front of him.

'Illya, calm down,' he urged him. 'Illya, honey. No one's going to lock you away, but you know you need help. You know you do. Please, love, listen to me. You know I love you, but you need help.'

Illya's eyes were out of focus, his breath was coming fast and short. Napoleon hated himself. He put a hand on Illya's cheek, tried to reach him, then took hold of his hands.

'Illya, love, love, listen to me. They're not going to keep you here. You just need to talk to someone. Illya, my love...'

A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned crimson, recalling just how public an arena this was. It was one of the psychiatrists, Dr Bainbridge, crouching down beside them both. To his credit, he made no reaction to Napoleon's unguarded words.

'Mr Kuryakin,' he said clearly. 'Can I talk to you?'

Illya's eyes squeezed shut. 'I'm all right,' he said, obviously making an enormous effort to control his breathing, but his hands were like vices on Napoleon's.

'I've been giving him shots of dextraline all the way home, doctor,' Napoleon said. 'They seem to help.'

The doctor turned his pale blue eyes on Napoleon. 'All the way home from where, Mr Solo?'

Napoleon faltered. 'I can't tell you,' he admitted, 'but if you have any of that – '

The doctor looked round to the nurse who was hovering nearby, and nodded. She disappeared for a moment, and returned with a familiar looking syringe.

'You know, this shouldn't be used for a prolonged period,' Bainbridge murmured, pushing up Illya's sleeve and looking for a vein. He tutted at the thin arm with its healing scratches and fading bruises. 'I should learn to stop asking what you agents have been up to, shouldn't I? But I'm going to have to know something, Mr Solo. This man shows signs of both external and self abuse, he is almost dangerously thin, and he's obviously suffering from some kind of psychosis. Going by the haircut I'll assume he's been incarcerated somewhere rather than held at the hands of your average Thrush lunatic. At some point during the process of fixing him he will have to tell me about it, so why don't you help both him and me by starting it off?'

Fixing him. Those words filled Napoleon with an incomparable relief. Illya could be fixed...

Illya looked a little more relaxed now. His iron grip on Napoleon's hands had lessened. He looked between Napoleon and Bainbridge and smiled.

'He's right, you know,' he murmured. 'I'll have to tell him something. So why don't you tell him the worst of it first?'

Napoleon stared at him, then asked rather bleakly, 'Which worst?'

'Mr Kuryakin, if you feel able to walk, we'll go to a private room,' Bainbridge suggested. Illya nodded, and Napoleon helped him up.

'He's committed to privacy, you know,' Illya said in a confidential tone to Napoleon as they walked. Napoleon was struck by how ridiculous it was that having just run around Manhattan searching for him to find him sobbing over two loaves of bread, it was Illya reassuring him.

'You want me to tell him the worst?' Napoleon asked, and Illya nodded. So as soon as Bainbridge had closed the door of his large, cosy office, Napoleon said in an unnaturally stiff voice, 'Mr Kuryakin has been a prisoner of the Soviet state labour camps for over two months. While he was there, in addition to the expected – er – privation, he was repeatedly gang raped.'

Illya startled him by giving a strangled laugh. Then he stepped carefully away from Napoleon and deposited himself full length on the psychiatrist's black leather couch.

'So, you see, Napoleon,' he said, a slight tone of hysteria colouring his voice. 'I'll be well in no time.'

((O))

When Bainbridge told Napoleon to leave Illya with him he didn't know whether to be reluctant or relieved. Illya's eyes followed him as he moved to leave the room, and he wanted desperately to kiss him. In the end he settled for crossing to the couch and pulling his partner into a tight hug, squeezing so hard that in the end Illya gasped and actually laughed. Napoleon rubbed a hand fondly over his head, all the while with an uncomfortable feeling between his shoulder blades at being watched by a psychiatrist in what half the world thought was a perversion.

He wandered out into the halls of the main building, and unsurprisingly it wasn't long before he was accosted by someone. Lynda Belson from Weapons came around the corner and grabbed hold of his arm, her eyes wide.

'Napoleon Solo! It's been two months since I've seen you here, and now Susie says you came in with Mr Kuryakin looking terrible, and all his hair shorn off. I told her she must be seeing things, because I know what Mr Kuryakin's like about his hair, but she swore to me it was true.'

Napoleon regarded her with a steely gaze. He didn't have the patience for this. 'Miss Dearborn has been gossiping in the commissary, has she?' he asked coldly.

She faltered at his expression. 'Oh, no, I'm sure! She's still on duty at the front desk. I just happened to come past and she happened to – '

'Miss Belson,' Napoleon said in a low voice. 'Do I need to remind you about U.N.C.L.E.'s policy on gossip?'

She gaped, and he relented a little and touched his hand to her arm.

'Don't pass this on,' he said firmly. 'Do you understand?'

'Why – yes, sir,' she said, her voice suddenly extra-professional.

Napoleon nodded, and carried on down the corridor. He took a quick detour to the front desk to give Miss Dearborn a severe dressing down which left her almost in tears, and then went straight to Waverly's room. He entered the large room with mixed feelings. Stepping in here felt like coming home, but leaving Illya behind in Psych reminded him how wrong everything was.

'Ah, Mr Solo, it's good to see you back,' Waverly said with a smile as the doors shut behind him. 'No Mr Kuryakin, eh? A touch of travel fatigue?'

Napoleon smiled wanly and seated himself in one of the high-backed leather chairs without waiting to be asked. He felt enormously tired.

'Er, not quite, sir,' he said rather awkwardly. He had no idea how he was going to broach this subject with Waverly. 'Illya isn't exactly well.'

'Well, I do hope he'll get over whatever ails him soon, Mr Solo,' Waverly huffed, shuffling some papers and then dumping them in an out tray. 'It's getting on for two and a half months of your services that I've lost to the IMF. I was looking forward to having you back on active missions. But never mind. Can I get you some coffee? You look rather fagged.'

'Mr Waverly,' Napoleon said, and the gravity in his voice made the old man look up immediately.

'Well, well, well,' he muttered. 'It's like that, is it?'

He walked slowly over to a cabinet in the wall, opened it up, and poured two servings of whiskey into two bulbous bottomed glasses. Putting one in front of Napoleon, he sat down at the table himself, and started to pack tobacco into his pipe.

'Well, go on, man,' he said impatiently, waving a hand vaguely in Napoleon's direction.

Napoleon took a mouthful of whiskey. As he had expected, it was so mellow that it seemed to melt down his throat. Waverly only ever bought the best.

'Sir, Illya's in Psych,' he said plainly. 'I just brought him in now.'

Waverly's eyes widened. He put down his just-lit pipe on the edge of an ashtray.

'In Psych, you say? Mr Kuryakin? Really?'

'I had to bring him in, sir,' Napoleon said, feeling unaccountably guilty. 'He couldn't function.'

He wanted to talk and talk and talk about it, to tell Waverly how he had found Illya crying over bread, how he had tried to rake his skin off with his fingernails, how he had almost scurried under a desk at German customs, how he could be fine one moment then apparently away on another plane the next. But he couldn't. There was a lump in his throat so hard that no words would come.

Waverly came to his feet and walked stiffly to Napoleon's chair. To Solo's astonishment the old man's hand descended to pat his shoulder a few times, and he said awkwardly, 'There, there, Mr Solo. I'm sure he'll be all right. They're fine men in our Psychiatry Department. Very fine men.'

'Yes, sir,' Napoleon said. The lump had finally shifted. 'Thank you, sir.'

He discreetly pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Waverly patted him on the shoulder one more time, then regained his seat. Napoleon took a large mouthful of the whiskey, and let it warm his stomach. He thought about the sausage that Illya had been cooking, and realised how hungry he was. Probably shouldn't drink too much of this stuff, he thought, but he took another mouthful.

'Mr Solo, your mission was successful, I assume?' Waverly asked. 'I've had it through radar that Dr – er – Permyakov returned a day ago, but I haven't had official word from Mr Phelps.'

'Ah, well, Mr Phelps might not be back yet,' Solo explained. 'We took different flights in small groups. I don't know his exact schedule. But yes, it was successful. Permyakov was extracted successfully, thanks to Illya.'

'And Mr Kuryakin is with Psychiatry,' Waverly prompted.

'Well, yes, he is.' Napoleon stared down at the circular table, trying to work out how to word this. 'He was – affected – by the imprisonment.' He looked up again suddenly. 'How much do you know about the mission, sir? You knew about Permyakov.'

'Mr Phelps let me in on the bare bones – just the bare bones, you understand, Mr Solo. That Permyakov was in need of extraction from a Soviet forced labour camp, and that Mr Kuryakin was the man to do so. That is all.'

He sounded disgruntled, and Napoleon couldn't blame him. It couldn't be easy to let your agents go for such a sketchy assignment.

'Well, Mr Kuryakin took the place of another man destined for the camps, sir,' Napoleon explained.

Waverly sucked in breath. 'Hmm. Unpleasant, Mr Solo. I've heard enough about those places to make my blood run quite cold.'

'Yeah, well, Illya was – quite badly damaged by the whole ordeal,' Napoleon said carefully. He didn't know how much to reveal, what would be an invasion of Illya's privacy. Psych were bound to confidentiality but it was almost certain that Illya would be pressured to let the details be known at least to Waverly before he could come back on duty. But that would be Illya's revelation to make, not Napoleon's.

Waverly harrumphed and picked up his pipe, which had gone out. He set about studiously relighting it before saying, 'Well, as I said, Mr Solo, I know a little too much about those camps. Horrific. Yes, utterly horrific. Chills one quite to the marrow. It's a blasted nuisance, though, isn't it? How soon do you think Mr Kuryakin will be back on duty?'

Napoleon took another huge mouthful of his whiskey, and Waverly looked shocked.

'I say, now. Steady on, Mr Solo,' he remonstrated. 'That stuff's fifty years oak matured, you know. In the Highlands of Scotland, too. It's not just any old swill. It must be savoured. It's seen two world wars, which is more than you've done, by God.'

'Oh, I'm savouring it, sir, I promise you,' Napoleon said earnestly.

He swirled the liquor around in the glass and brought it to his nose, inhaling it appreciatively. Napoleon was no smoker, but the scent of Waverly's pipe smoke blended perfectly with the whiskey to give the room the cosy feeling of a gentleman's club.

'Sir, I don't know when Illya will be back on duty,' he said after a long moment of just staring into his drink. 'He's – well – he's all broken up, sir. He'll need time to recover physically, too. We estimated he's lost over two stone in weight, and he wasn't exactly packing spare pounds to start with.'

'I might never have let Phelps have him if I'd known this would be the result,' Waverly grumbled.

If it had been anyone else, Napoleon would have had the urge to punch his lights out, but he knew Waverly. Grumbling was just his way of expressing his concern. Emotions of affection were just not something one aired in public.

'Well, all right, Mr Solo,' the old man said eventually. 'Thank you for reporting in. I'll have you put down as on two weeks of leave from tomorrow. Will that be all right?'

Napoleon stared at him, uncertain what to say. He had expected to be pencilled in for duty straight away.

'Er – thank you, sir,' he said eventually. 'I appreciate it. It was a tough assignment.'

'Well,' Waverly muttered, covering his feelings again in bluster. 'No point in burning out one of my best agents. Just see that you look after Mr Kuryakin, won't you? I want him back, too.'

((O))

The two private rooms for patients in the psych department were cosy, at least, but they were still hospital rooms. Illya moved restlessly about Room 2, touching the furnishings, twitching at the bedding. This place was going to be his home at least for the next few days, and he wanted so badly to be in his own home; either in his or Napoleon's apartment. Worse, Dr Bainbridge had insisted that he must submit to a physical examination later, and the idea of that made him feel sick. Bainbridge had told him he could have it under light sedation, but he hated that idea too. He didn't want anyone ever touching him there again, and he didn't want to be drugged out of his senses when he was.

He kicked lightly at the armchair in the corner, turned on the television, turned it off again, feeling like an animal in a zoo. He wasn't exactly being held here against his will – the door wasn't even locked – but Dr Bainbridge had been so firm about him staying that it felt like an order. He hated hospitals, and this was just as much a hospital as any other. It was worse, because he was here because he was mad.

Not mad, traumatised, Bainbridge had said. You are suffering from gross stress reaction, Mr Kuryakin, and you need time to recover.

Those words seemed so clinical, as in fact they were. Did 'gross stress reaction' explain why sometimes the room shrank away and left him in a void? Why sometimes his body didn't seem like his own? Why he see-sawed and expanded and contracted until he felt like a floating balloon? Why colours faded into white and grey and nothing was real? Why when the memories came they weren't memories at all, but reality?

The injection had been helping, but it was wearing off, and Bainbridge had told him that it must be the last. He would be started on a course of pills later. The dextraline was addictive if used over prolonged periods, and with that news instantly Illya felt revolted at it. He hated the idea of any kind of addiction. He needed to be able to rely on himself, not to be dependant on outside forces.

He paced the room a few more times, and then backed himself into the armchair and sat down, trying to control the obsessive urge to be moving. He found himself tapping his foot, and fought to stop himself. Then his fingers started to tap. When he clenched his fists and there was no rhythm to distract him his mind started to jerk like a needle on a scratched record, showing him flashing moments from the zona, flashing seconds of physical assault. He couldn't sit here like a mad person tapping out rhythms, rocking in the chair, but the memory was on him like an express train then, rushing over him, making his lungs freeze. He tried to wail, to call for help, but there was no air. He couldn't breathe out without first breathing in, and the men were on him, and – oh – oh –

The scent of perfume was the first thing that got through. Then the voice, a woman's voice. There were no women's voices in the zona.

'Mr Kuryakin! Mr Kuryakin!'

There was a woman close against him. Her fabric covered breast pressing against his cheek. Her hand rubbing slowly up and down his back. He felt as if he were being strangled, and then she pressed something paper over his mouth and said, 'Try to breathe, Mr Kuryakin. Try to fill the bag. Come on. You can do it.'

He concentrated on the crackle of the paper as he fought to make his lungs obey. In and out. In and out. How strange that all life boiled down to the in and out of breath, the in and out of blood from the heart. That reciprocal action was everything. In and out, like – like –

He mustn't think of that. He tried to breathe.

'That's it,' she said. 'Another breath.'

And he watched the bag inflate in front of him like another pair of lungs, then suck hollow as he drew breath in.

'That's it,' she said again.

He lifted his eyes from the sucking and inflating bag. Red-brown hair. Magenta framed glasses. Brown eyes. He had seen her before but he hadn't know she was a psych nurse. He didn't know her name.

'Do you feel a little better now?' she asked him with a smile. He made to lower the bag, but she stayed his hand. 'No, keep on breathing into it for a while. Just concentrate on in and out.'

He tried to say, 'But how can I answer you if I'm breathing into a bag?' but it came out muffled and crackling.

She smiled. 'It's all right. Don't worry about talking. Now, see here – '

Mutely, Illya followed her arm with the bag still over his mouth, to see her pointing at a cord with a red pull on it.

'This is the emergency cord,' she told him. 'You can pull it any time, if you feel like you need someone. You mustn't hesitate to call someone. Day or night, we're happy to come. And emergency doesn't mean a heart attack or an open vein. It means if you're panicking, or you're afraid you're going to hurt yourself, or just really need someone to be with you.'

Illya gazed at the cord, wishing he could have a similar one to summon Napoleon. He needed Napoleon, but he hadn't felt able to ask for him. He wondered if he could have Napoleon at the physical exam, or if he even wanted him to witness that. He mustn't think about the physical exam. His need for Napoleon surged.

'Mr Solo will be in very soon,' the nurse said, and Illya stared at her, the bag suddenly deflating as he drew in breath, wondering if he had spoken aloud. 'He's going to come have lunch with you,' she continued, 'but then I want you to have a sleep, since you're just back from a transatlantic flight. You look exhausted, anyway.'

Finally Illya lowered the bag. 'I slept a lot on the plane, Miss – '

'Sandra Hudson,' the nurse smiled, 'but you can call me Sandy.'

'I slept a lot on the plane,' he repeated. 'I'm really not – '

He trailed off at the expression on her face, realising this was not an argument he was in any frame of mind to win.

'Can I get you a cup of tea?' she asked.

Illya relaxed a step further. He almost laughed. That took him right back to Cambridge. Tea, the cure-all.

'Strong. Milk. No sugar,' he said with a grateful smile.

She turned briefly at the door. 'You'll be all right? I won't be more than five minutes, but you know where the cord is.'

Illya looked at the cord. 'I know where it is,' he nodded. 'I'll be all right.'

She smiled, and left. Illya followed her to the door and stood looking out into the corridor. The Psych section wasn't exactly separate from the main infirmary, but it was set around a right angle at the end of the block, so it was both discreet and isolated from the physical medical challenges of the rest of the place. The walls were painted buttermilk yellow instead of plain white, and there was carpet. It was meant to be homely, and it was as homely as a medical institution could be. But it was not home.

He turned back into the room and sank into the armchair again. He wished there were books in the room. He would have to remember to ask Napoleon to bring books… He wondered how long he would be here, and then he started to wonder if he would ever be able to leave, and his chest started to tighten again. He glanced at the red emergency cord and just the knowledge that he could pull it helped a little.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing in, slow and steady. In and out. In and out. And his feet remembered being wrapped in rags and clad in valenki, and the cold still pushing through to make the joints in his toes and ankles ache. He remembered struggling to put one boot in front of another through foot deep snow, struggling to pull a saw through unwilling wood, pulling and pushing until his wrists and elbows and shoulders and neck and back all cried out with the effort and sweat was running into his clothes despite the cold. And not being allowed to stop. Being able to pause momentarily to readjust his grip, but always, always having to get back to work before he was punished. He remembered bread, black bread, crumbling in his fingertips, his stomach never, ever being full enough, that tight, aching feeling of always being too cold and too hungry and too tired, and knowing that each day would just be a cycle, identical to the last.

He opened his eyes, and the sight of the warm room was like a slap to the face. His feet were warm. His arms were hugged around himself, his fingers clenched tightly into the thin fabric of his sleeves so that the sore scrapes beneath burned. Nurse Hudson had put down two cups of tea on the nightstand and was sitting on the bed, saying something. His face was wet with tears. Nurse Hudson stroked his arm and smiled at him, and he smiled back through the tears.

'If you want to talk,' she said, 'I'm here.'

((O))

What Napoleon hadn't expected was that he would spend so long on the psychiatrist's couch himself. He thanked god that they didn't keep his partner in after the first week, both for Illya's sake and his own, because lying at home worrying about him was terrible, and he couldn't get any sleep in the little rooms at headquarters designed for exhausted agents to take their rest. But Dr Bainbridge spent long hours talking with Napoleon about 'gross stress reaction,' giving the reasons for Illya's response to his trauma, what his likely outcome was, how to deal with him and support him at home. He talked frankly with Napoleon about his relationship with Illya, and it was a relief to be able to unburden himself about that with someone sworn to confidentiality.

He sat on the sofa watching Illya a few days after he came home, feeling blessed just to be able to have him there. But it was strange, so strange, dealing with this small Russian who had always been so strong, but now seemed so fragile both physically and mentally. He was so thin Napoleon was afraid of breaking him, and mentally one moment Illya appeared completely fine but the next had drifted away into another place. Although the two weeks Waverly had given Napoleon were ostensibly vacation, he didn't think he would feel rested at any point.

Right now Illya was tucking heartily in to a meal on the tray on his lap, wearing slacks and a tieless shirt, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up because Napoleon had the heating on high, determined that his partner should never be cold again. But he was just as likely to be triggered into a panic attack by something Napoleon wasn't even aware of, or to drift away into a kind of catatonia which he had tried to describe to Napoleon variously as non-being or non-existence, or floating in a void, and Napoleon didn't know how to process that at all. It was exhausting always having to be ready to react, to talk or hug him out of panic, to anchor him when he felt he was dwindling into non-existence. Evenings and night times were worst of all, because the growing chill and evening light reminded him of horrors to come, and sleep gave him nightmares.

The television warbled away, and that was an oddity in itself. They hardly ever turned the screen on when they were together, unless there was a concert or play or movie that Illya particularly wanted to see. On the screen now was a British wildlife documentary with a young and earnest presenter, and Illya seemed glued to the screen, smiling in delight at the array of animals. His lips were slightly parted, his fork hovering in the air, and the abstracted expression of fascination on his face was straight from the past. Napoleon could see through the thinness and the fuzz of dark gold hair and the scratches old and new on his forearms and remember how he had been before all of this.

'I don't think you'll be able to catch the end,' he mentioned.

They were going to Phelps' apartment later for the mission debriefing. Napoleon was in two minds as to whether Illya should go, but Illya had been determined. Dr Bainbridge had told him to try to live as normally as possible, and Illya had interpreted that as needing to force himself past what he had decided was the rank foolishness of his brain, and never decide to be easy on himself.

At Napoleon's words, Illya's hands tightened on his cutlery, and his knuckles whitened. He swallowed what was in his mouth, then he put his cutlery down and said with forced ease, 'Well, I've seen this before anyway.'

Napoleon regarded him. Illya was still looking at the screen, deliberately not looking at Napoleon. His cheeks still looked hollow after almost two weeks of good food, and he was still rather pale. His shoulders looked much more angled than usual under his white shirt, and the vertebrae of his neck were visible, leading down like a string of beads under his collar. His right hand idly moved to his left arm and he started to scratch at an undamaged place between the crusted scabs of his previous self-inflicted wounds.

'Illya, are you sure you want to go?' Napoleon asked him. He had been doing pretty well the last few days, after his daily counselling sessions with Dr Bainbridge, but today he had been very much on edge, and Napoleon was sure it was in anticipation of tonight's meeting. He didn't want to see him start harming again.

Illya's hand snapped into a fist, and he dropped it to his lap. He rocked slightly. Napoleon put his own meal aside and slid closer to Illya on the cushions, nudging his right arm up against Illya's left. He slipped his arm around Illya's shoulders, and hugged him.

'You'll spill my dinner,' Illya said.

Napoleon sighed. Illya accepted hugs, and even kisses, but he had to tread very carefully, because any touch below the waist, even accidental, made him freeze. He had read the doctor's report after Illya's physical, at Illya's insistence, and had been sickened by the implications in that neat slanting handwriting about the violence and frequency of the rapes. Dr Bainbridge had made it very clear that penetration would be out of the question for some time, but that in any case Illya would almost certainly heal physically before he was ready mentally for such a step. Napoleon couldn't stand the thought of it anyway. He couldn't imagine ever submitting Illya to that after what he had suffered.

'Oh, Napoleon, look at those marmosets!' Illya exclaimed, pointing at the screen, and Napoleon looked, and smiled because Illya was smiling. But he still wasn't sure how Illya would take to visiting Jim's apartment.

Illya started scooping the last of his meal into his mouth again. Napoleon got up and went over to the sideboard, where a small array of bottles stood. He picked them up and looked at them, and shook out a number of pills. Antibiotics, vitamins, a sedative, and an antidepressant were among them. He glanced at the chart he had pinned to the wall to be sure he had the right tablets, then brought them over to Illya with a glass of water just as the Russian scraped up the very last scrap of food on the plate and put the tray aside.

'All right, time for your cocktail,' he said with a smile, crouching down in front of Illya. The Russian's face registered dismay.

'Again? Must I?'

'You must,' Napoleon said firmly.

Illya grimaced. 'This,' he said, picking up the antidepressant, 'makes my mouth dry and it makes my vision blurry,' he complained. 'I hate it.'

'You still need to take it,' Napoleon insisted.

'Did you read the list of possible side effects?'

Napoleon smiled tolerantly. 'Yes, my love. I read the accompanying literature for every single one of your medications, including the vitamins. I know the possible side effects. But they're going to help you.'

Illya shook his head and turned away a little, looking mutinous. Napoleon waited patiently. He knew all about the side effects, and had spoken earnestly with Dr Bainbridge about them. It was for that reason that he spent so much time watching Illya, because on rare occasions the pills could make a patient more inclined to be suicidal in the early days. That seemed bizarre to him, for an antidepressant, but he had trusted Bainbridge's reassurances, and knew Illya needed to take the pills.

'Let's do this bit by bit,' he said. 'Look, here's your painkiller and your vitamins and iron. Will you take those first?'

Illya took the pills.

'All right, now the antibiotic and the laxative. You know how important they are.'

One of the side effects of the antidepressant was constipation, and it was important to avoid that considering the rectal damage Illya had suffered. Illya plucked the bullet-like tablets from Napoleon's palm and swallowed them too. Then Napoleon held out the sedative and the antidepressant.

'All right. Now you're going to take these ones. I'm not having any arguments. That was the first condition of your release from the infirmary, remember? That you would take your medication.'

Illya grimaced again, but he swallowed the tablets, then made a lip-smacking sound as he moved his mouth in disgust.

'I feel like I've got a desert in my mouth. A bad tasting desert.'

Napoleon rose up on his toes and leant forward to kiss Illya's forehead, and was gratified that he didn't flinch away from the touch.

'Well, how about I replace the desert with dessert?' he asked, pushing himself to his feet. He went into the kitchen and came back with a jug of pouring cream and a luxurious chocolate torte that had cost him a fortune in the patisserie three blocks away. He was determined to feed Illya with the best food he could lay his hands on until his weight was back to normal. Illya had picked up a journal and slipped on his reading glasses by the time Napoleon got back, but his eyes widened as he set the torte down on the coffee table.

'Napoleon, do you think we can eat all of that?' he asked.

Napoleon grinned. 'We can darn well try,' he said, cutting an enormous slice for Illya and slipping it onto a plate. He poured a small flood of cream over the top and passed it over with a spoon.

The sight of Illya eating something like that usually sent him over the edge, since his partner invariably ended up sucking stray bits of sticky chocolate from his fingertips and licking it from his lips. He watched Illya now, and he started to feel that shiver of desire the first time Illya sucked a finger into his mouth and the pointed end of his tongue just came out to slip over the tip. But then he remembered everything that had happened, and it was like cold water dousing him. Damn it. Bainbridge had suggested that Napoleon would probably need more of his own counselling sessions, and he feared he was right.

Illya glanced up over his tinted glasses and smiled ruefully.

'Dr Bainbridge said it would probably take a long time for both of us,' he said, accurately reading Napoleon's expression. 'But it will be all right in the end.'

Napoleon laid a hand over his lover's, then leant in to kiss his cheek, satisfied with just the sweet chocolatey scent of his partner's breath without having to press anything more on him.

((O))

The New York winter air was bitter by eight p.m., and small, dry flakes of snow were falling to dust the roads and sidewalks when Napoleon and Illya walked to the car. Illya was glad of the fur-lined hat that Napoleon had bought for him, a surprise gift on his release from the infirmary. The rabbit fur was exquisitely soft against his shorn head, and warm too. His hands were protected by soft leather gloves, and Napoleon had bought him a dark knee-length winter coat too, which was a little too large, but would fit perfectly once he had regained weight.

'You look wonderful,' Napoleon had said just before they left the apartment, and he had said it so sincerely that Illya believed it despite the whispering voices of self-loathing in his mind. When Napoleon looked at him like that he felt clean.

Napoleon held the car door open for him, and he slipped into the passenger seat. It was cold in the car too, and there was not a hint of moisture in the air to distort the lights that shone from Manhattan's towering giants a few blocks away. New York always did look beautiful on crisp winter nights. It took his breath away, made him feel small, but in a good way.

'You have your pills?' Napoleon asked, glancing across at him from behind the wheel.

Illya patted his pocket and the bottle rattled. He could take a couple more sedatives tonight if necessary. He hoped it wouldn't be necessary.

Napoleon put the car into gear, and moved off. Illya closed his eyes and let the vibrations travel through his spine and into the base of his skull. It was almost unbelievable that this was reality. Maybe that was why he kept slipping back into sordid memory. How could this comfort and luxury be true for him? How could any of it be real?

He clung to the arm rest on the door to try to anchor himself against the flashbacks. He opened his eyes and stared at the lights against the blue-black sky, at the walking pedestrians huddled against the cold. He felt nauseous, and his chest was tightening. It was all so much... He didn't know if he could hang on...

Napoleon was opening the car door and offering his arm. When Illya took it and stood, Napoleon wrapped him in a hard hug.

'Are you all right?' he whispered in Illya's ear.

Illya nodded, his head against Napoleon's neck and shoulder, breathing in the real scent of him. Napoleon was the most real thing there was.

'I'll manage,' he said. He didn't want to let go, but he did. They walked into the lobby of Jim's building and the doorman touched his cap and waved them to the elevator. In the elevator Illya turned his back on the mirror and held onto the rail that ran around the small cubicle, trying to feel grounded. Napoleon's eyes stayed on him, anxious and caring, and when the doors opened he put his arm around Illya's shoulders to walk him across to Jim's door.

They were all there, Jim and Rollin, Cinnamon, and Willy and Barney. But what struck Illya first was the towering real pine Christmas tree up near the balcony doors, glittering with baubles and other sparkling things. Illya had forgotten how close it was to Christmas, or to the Western Christmas, at any rate.

'Oh,' he said with startled softness at the beauty of it, and Jim Phelps smiled and ushered them into the room, taking their coats and pressing drinks into their hands. Illya opened his mouth to mention that he couldn't have alcohol, then realised that his glass contained grape juice. 'Thank you,' he said.

'That reminds me, I should get my tree up,' Napoleon smiled at Illya. Illya enjoyed taking over the decorating of the tree every year, and doing it with precise perfection, since to him Napoleon's way of decorating seemed akin to throwing the box of ornaments at it and hoping for the best. Every year Napoleon insisted on celebrating Christmas on two days, December 25th and the Russian Orthodox January 7th, and although that seemed excessive Illya never argued because it meant two good meals, and for the second Napoleon always cooked Russian food.

'Illya, how are you feeling?' Jim asked, putting a warm arm around his shoulders and taking him towards the sofa.

'Oh – I – ' He looked at the floor, not sure how to answer honestly. The situation was so incredibly complicated, and he was being assailed with conflicting thoughts as he saw all these people gathered here who had meant so many different things to him while he had been in the Soviet Union on the mission. 'I'm fine,' he faltered.

Jim's arm squeezed his shoulders, and Illya thought he probably understood, as far as he could. Illya sat on the sofa and tried to attend to proceedings as if he weren't mad. Jim strolled about the room summing up the case and doling out individual praise to each operative in a way that would have made Mr Waverly tut at American excess. When it came to his praise of Illya, which was glowing, Illya looked just past him instead of at him and tried to respond correctly, but he felt as if his chest were being compressed by iron bands, the memories rushing in, in a kaleidoscope of uncontrollable images. He wished that he had one of those red emergency cords constantly dangling at his side, because he couldn't speak. Then he jerked precipitately to his feet and managed, 'Toilet,' before making for the bathroom, where he sat on the closed toilet and rocked and fought not to dig his fingers into his arms.

After a minute Napoleon entered the room. Illya was fighting to hold on to reality, moans forcing themselves through his closely pressed lips. Napoleon spoke to him clearly and gently, trying to bring him back. Illya wrenched his eyes open and fixed on Napoleon, fighting hard for control.

Napoleon slipped a little white pill between his lips, and lifted a glass to his mouth.

'Come on, now, swallow it down. And try to breathe, huh?'

Illya managed a smile. 'I'm breathing,' he said, 'or I'd be cyanotic.'

Napoleon took hold of Illya's hands and massaged the palms, which helped with the urge to scrape at himself.

'We can go home if you like.'

Illya shook his head stiffly. 'No. I have to learn to control this.'

'It's still so early, love. You don't have to. This is the first attack you've had today. You're doing so well.'

Illya thought of the other times he had so nearly succumbed today, but he supposed that the fact Napoleon had never known was a success in itself. He stood up, breathing in and out very deliberately, anchoring himself in the here and now by looking into Napoleon's eyes. Napoleon must have read his determination in his gaze, because he patted his shoulder and nodded.

'All right. Are you ready to go back down?'

Illya glanced at the door and smiled wanly at the thought of re-entering the room. 'They must think I'm insane.'

Napoleon shook his head quickly. 'They don't,' he promised. 'They know what you went through. Everyone understands.'

They didn't really understand. Illya knew that. They sympathised and they felt terrible for him, but they didn't understand. Napoleon was probably one of the closest to understanding in the world; Napoleon and Dr Bainbridge; but even they hadn't been through what he had been through. But they tried. That was the main thing. They were a net around him, waiting to catch him when he fell.

He nodded at Napoleon's words, and got up stiffly. Napoleon kissed him on the forehead, and then Illya walked back down the stairs independently, holding the rail and keeping his head up. The others were talking together, and although they looked up as he returned there was no fuss and no solicitous questions. Illya chose a rather more out of the way seat this time, between the fire and the Christmas tree, and just sat there while the conversation ebbed and flowed, happy to be out of the action but still present. He was glad he hadn't let Napoleon take him home, glad he had come here to sit by the crackling fire and smell the fresh pine scent and watch the snow drifting onto the balcony outside. The sedative was starting to take effect, calming the tightness and the urge to fidget and he just sat and watched the people around him.

((O))

Jim turned from his subtle scrutiny of Illya and took Napoleon by the elbow, leading him casually out onto the balcony, where the air was cold enough to take the breath away. He noticed that Illya's eyes watched them all the way out through the glass doors, and lingered on them as they stood there. He lit a cigarette, and looked out at the sparkling lights that penetrated the thickening droves of snow. The buildings on the other side of the river were almost invisible now. A few lights shone from boats out on the water.

'I wouldn't fancy it in this weather,' he commented, nodding towards the boats.

Napoleon looked at him appraisingly. 'You're a navy man, aren't you?'

Jim nodded economically.

'Do you keep a boat?'

'Yeah, a twenty-footer. Sailboat.'

Napoleon smiled, moving closer to the wall of the balcony to look out over the river, although he was shivering. Jim opened up a locker and handed the man a blanket, which he put gratefully around his shoulders.

'I've got a thirty foot sloop out on Long Island,' Napoleon commented. 'The Pursang. I don't get the chance to sail her much these days, but I can't seem to let go.'

'Well, it's hard to let go of freedom like that. Of the water,' Jim murmured.

'I'd like to take Illya out on her again,' Napoleon said. His eyes stayed on Jim as if making a challenge of the statement. 'You know, he was a navy man himself. Other side, of course.'

'Of course,' Jim smiled. 'You should take him when the weather's better. He'll enjoy it.'

The slightly defensive posture relaxed from Napoleon's shoulders, and he said laughing, 'Only if it's calm. He gets seasick.'

Jim grinned. But then he looked directly at Napoleon and sobered. 'You know, I always feel that a mission that damages an agent too far is a mission failed. How is he, Napoleon?'

Napoleon glanced in through the door. Barney had seated himself near Illya and was speaking to him. Illya was smiling and replying, gesturing with both hands, and for a moment Jim saw just what it was that entranced Napoleon about him. There was no one more heterosexual than Jim Phelps, but Illya had a certain fire and intensity and exotic delicacy about him that was certainly alluring. At least, he could see how someone that way inclined could be attracted to him.

'I don't think you have cause to feel the mission failed. Permyakov's out, isn't he?' Napoleon said, keeping his eyes on his partner, as if his gaze were a kind of shield against harm. 'Illya did his job.'

'Yeah, Permyakov's out, and he's already been of great help to our scientists. And Lagoshin and his friend are settled up in Chicago. They're taking English lessons and the friend already has a job. Janitor, I think. They'll work their way up as they adapt. But I'm sorry that Illya had to be exposed to so much. How is he?' he asked again.

Napoleon shrugged. He still didn't take his eyes from his view of the Russian through the door. 'He's getting there,' he said. 'A week and a half of counselling has helped. That was the first episode he's had today. Earlier on he was having five or ten a day – and night.' He rubbed a hand tiredly over his forehead, obviously remembering with a good deal of weariness. 'The psychiatrist is confident that he'll be able to get back to the job eventually.'

Jim relaxed a little. He had hated to think that he had destroyed one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best agents, and such a man as Illya Kuryakin. 'How long?' he asked.

'That depends on Illya. He might be back in the office part time in a month. They'll assess for fieldwork regularly after that time. But I've never known anyone stronger than Illya. I'm confident he'll make it.'

Jim glanced again at the thin figure in the cosy arm chair. Illya had hitched his legs up under him and was still talking to Barney intently about something. The pair were a good match, with their shared interests in science and engineering. Silently he agreed with Napoleon. He couldn't imagine another man who would have been strong enough to volunteer for that duty and go through that experience and come out successful, even if he did bear terrible scars. It was a huge relief that he probably hadn't ruined one of Waverly's agents for life.

'I'm sorry, Napoleon,' he said, putting his arm around the man's shoulders and squeezing. He had apologised to Illya, but he felt Napoleon deserved the same, considering the nature of their relationship. 'I'm sorry for all the pain this has caused you, the two of you, I mean. I hope you both come through this.'

'We will,' Napoleon said, and there was fire in his voice. 'We will come through it. I'll get the Illya I know back.'

Jim patted him on the back, then took the stub of his cigarette from his mouth and crushed it into the thin drift of snow on the corner of the balcony.

'Come on back inside,' he said, recovering the blanket and putting it back in the locker. 'It's freezing out here.'

Napoleon grinned. 'I thought you'd never ask.'