Illya stood with his palm on the door, suddenly nervous. This was all so familiar to him, but it was so strange. The damp, dusty, stale food scents of the corridor were like a childhood blanket. The light was dim and flickering in his eyes, but in his mind he could see that corridor stretching away, cluttered with junk. He could remember it so well, but it was probable it was very different to his memory. And the door was so – it was so normal, so ordinary under his hand, as if he had never been away. But it was strange. He hadn't been here in years, and now he couldn't see, and on the other side of that door were his parents...

He almost couldn't bring himself to ring. He felt ill. Suddenly the cold and fever and tiredness seemed to have caught up with him again, and he stood there in the corridor, his palm on the door, and leant his forehead against the cool panel.

'Illya,' Napoleon said softly from behind him. 'I don't want to have to sleep in the hall. Is this the right one?'

Illya jerked his head from the wood and tucked his cane between his arm and his body. He ran his hands over the door once more and said, 'Yes, it's the right one. Yes, this is home.'

He found the bell push just where it had always been, and pressed it.

There was a sudden noise from inside, a flustered sound, the door opened, and – oh, the scent was so familiar it made his throat swell – and he was being enveloped in his mother's arms. She was so solid, so real, he could feel the softness and the strength of her. She was just a little shorter than him, she felt so real, she smelt so real. For too long she had just been a voice on the phone.

'Illyushenka, Illyushenka. Oh, baby, oh, my angel...'

He was drawn inside as if by an elemental force, his cane clattered onto the ground, his mother held him and rocked him and kissed him and cried. And then his father's voice; gruff, brief, so very familiar.

'Masha, let him come in, let him take off his shoes, let him sit down. Let his friend come in.'

His mother said, 'Oh,' suddenly, and her arms were gone, and Illya wondered where his cane had fallen and reached out a hand, and then his father's hands were clasped around his and then he was being held in a hard, tight hug that smelt of tobacco and faintly of his father's sweat.

'Tato, tato,' he said, pressing his hands against his father's back, feeling the thin jumper or cardigan and his father's solid body underneath. He felt ill, flushed, he felt like letting tears fall. And then his father let him go and Napoleon was putting his cane back into his grip and putting a hand in a proprietorial way onto his back and saying, 'Let me help you, Illya. It might not be how you remember it.'

Oh, but how could it be different? How could anything be different? The scents were the same, the sounds were the same. But he stepped forward and stumbled against something and realised that of course it wasn't the same, of course things had changed. Napoleon put a hand on his arm and said, 'Illya, let me help you. There's a little hall table here. Come into the living room.'

'Let me take off my shoes. Take off your shoes,' Illya said, reaching out to the right to find that the coat stand was still there in the hall, still with its broad wooden back and the ledge at the bottom for shoes. He took off his coat and it was taken from his hands before he could move to hang it up. He bent and slipped off his shoes and felt the cool parquet floor under his socked feet, and he waited for Napoleon to finish removing his own shoes.

'Okay,' Napoleon said, putting a hand on Illya's arm again. 'Come through into the living room. That's it. Come over to the sofa.'

So Illya let himself be guided through the apartment that he thought he knew and he sat down on the old familiar sofa, and he felt tears sparkling in his eyes.

'Kolya, make the tea, make the tea,' his mother said, and then she was sitting beside him and stroking his fringe from his forehead and saying, 'Oh, Illyushka, your hair has grown so long. You must let me cut it while you're here. Of course, you can't see it, so – '

'No,' Illya said firmly, closing his hand over hers. 'No, mama, I have a very good barber in New York who cuts my hair just as I like it.' Then he explained in English to Napoleon with an amused smile, 'My mother wants to cut my hair, Napoleon. I've told her about Mr Gregor.'

Napoleon came over and ruffled Illya's hair affectionately.

'Don't let her touch a single golden strand,' he said with a grin. Illya wanted to catch Napoleon's hand into his. He wanted to kiss him; but he could not do that in front of his parents. Of course he couldn't.

Then his mother put her hand on his cheek and turned his face a little, and she said tearfully, 'Oh, your eyes, Illyushenka. Your beautiful blue eyes. Oh, my baby.'

And she enveloped him in her arms again, and cried.

'Mama, it's all right,' he promised her. 'It's all right. No, don't cry. I'm fine.'

'But you're blind,' she sobbed. 'My beautiful baby. Your beautiful eyes. You can't see. Oh, Illyushenka. Oh, my darling. I've been so afraid for you working for that terrible organisation, and now you're blind, and – Oh...'

'Masha, the tea,' his father broke in. 'Illyusha, the tea is ready. And please, your – friend – ' And there was something in the way he said friend that made Illya wonder. 'You haven't yet introduced your friend.'

So Illya disentangled himself from his mother and stood up and reached out, asking, 'Napoleon?'

'Right here, Illya,' Napoleon said, touching his hand.

'Napoleon, these are my parents. My mother Marya Petrovna, and my father Nikolay Ivanovitch,' he said in English, then switched to Ukrainian to say, 'Mama, tato, you know all about Napoleon. He is my partner at U.N.C.L.E., and I have lived with him since the accident. He is my mainstay, my saviour. I would love for you to treat him as one of the family.'

'Oh, but what can I do with a name like that?' his mother asked laughingly, then she said haltingly in English, 'Napoleon, please, sit with Illya. Will you have tea?'

And Napoleon replied in his most charming voice, 'Thank you, Marya Petrovna. I would love to have tea.'

'Mama, where are we sleeping?' Illya asked, listening to the tea being poured, revelling in the wonderful scent of tea being poured, at home, no doubt being mixed with hot water from the old samovar. They must be using the old samovar. He could smell the burning coals. The tea would be so good, it would be sweet with jam and so strong.

'Here, Illyusha, here is your tea,' his mother said, taking his hand and carefully pressing his fingers to the handle of the cup. 'There. It's not too full. Take care.'

Illya smiled. 'Mama, I have been blind for two years,' he said patiently. 'I have drunk a lot of tea. I can even make my own, you know. Napoleon gave me a beautiful samovar for Christmas.'

But she just replied, 'Oh, Illyusha,' then said, 'Your father and I have been talking about where to put you two,' and by that Illya read arguing, 'and we see no choice but to let you have our bed.'

'Mama,' Illya began in a tone of protest, but she touched a hand to his forehead and said, 'No, Illya. You aren't well and you are blind and you need order, don't you? If you sleep out here we will have to tidy away your bed every morning and things will be moved. Your father and I will sleep out here and you and your friend will be happy sharing the bed. I am not going to argue.'

Illya lifted his head a little and asked, 'Tato, is it all right for us to use your bed?'

His mother made a grumbling noise but then his father said, 'Of course, Illya. Of course it is. You need to sleep well. Your mother and I will be fine out here.'

Illya could feel Napoleon close beside him, his thigh along Illya's thigh. The sofa was small and they were squeezed on it with his mother on the other side of him. It was so good to be home, but it would be better to be in privacy with Napoleon, close to him in bed. And he wondered again what his parents knew or thought about their relationship.

'You two must be hungry,' his mother said after a silence that was filled only with the sounds of drinking tea. The tea tasted wonderful. 'I have dinner cooking. All your favourites, Illyusha. Will you need me to cut your food?'

Illya resisted the bridling feeling that rose in him. 'No, mama, of course not. I just need to know where things are on my plate. Napoleon will tell me.'

He felt Napoleon's minute reaction at his name and explained, 'We are talking about dinner.'

'I know,' Napoleon replied. 'I'm following some of this, I'll have you know. I'm sure my Ukrainian will be excellent by the end of this two weeks.'

((O))

When Illya's mother went back into the kitchen Napoleon patted a hand onto Illya's thigh and then got up to follow her, ostensibly to carry his cup back to the kitchen, but mostly just because he wanted to see the place. He had been surprised at how colourful the apartment was. He wasn't sure exactly what he had expected; some sort of uniform Soviet gloom, perhaps; but there was colour everywhere, pictures and fabric hangings on the walls, what looked like crocheted or tatted covers on the arms of the chairs, colourful rugs on the wooden floors. It was small, and he understood what Illya meant about how different his apartment in New York had felt, but it was so homely that he knew exactly why Illya felt so strongly about coming back here.

There were curtains hanging ceiling to floor on one side of the small living room, probably covering the door to the balcony Illya had spoken of, and that balcony must be a relief in such a small place. He wondered how it would have been had Illya had siblings. Where on earth would they have slept?

He pushed open the door to the kitchen, and blinked in a billow of steam. The room was tiny, barely big enough for one person to stand and cook, but somehow Mrs Kuryakina had managed to pile up pots of food and was preparing more.

'Er, my cup,' he said in hesitant Russian, holding it out. He had always been more confident reading Russian than speaking it.

The woman turned and smiled and took the cup, and Napoleon smiled back, just looking at her. Her hair was grey, but he could see some of Illya in her face. Her eyes were blue just as Illya's had been, and looking into them he felt a welling of sadness for Illya's eyes. It had been so long since he had seen them, and he had been hoping that soon the white opacity would be removed and he would be able to see them again. He felt a furious surge of hope that this delay wouldn't be a long one.

Illya's mother was looking at him questioningly, and Napoleon smiled again and patted her cheek and said carefully in Russian, 'You have Illya's eyes.'

Tears welled in those eyes then, and he felt sorry for provoking such a reaction. But she smiled and shook her head and wiped the tears away with her sleeve, murmuring something that Napoleon couldn't catch, that he thought was probably Ukrainian, not Russian. Then she said in English, 'You look after my Illyusha, yes?'

'Oh, yes,' Napoleon said fervently. 'Yes, Mrs Kuryakina. Yes, it is my joy to look after him.'

She smiled again and said, 'Marya Petrovna, Napoleon. Yes? No Mrs Kuryakina. You call me by my name.'

He nodded. 'Marya Petrovna. Yes. I look after Illya, and he looks after me.'

She glanced at the door, reached round Napoleon, and pulled it properly closed, shutting them both in the tiny space that was full of the scents of food.

'He is – oh – ' Her forehead wrinkled in exasperation as she grasped for words. 'He is well?'

'Well, he has a cold,' Napoleon began, but she shook her head.

'No, no. He is – Illya is well with his blindness? He is happy? Is Illya happy?'

Now Napoleon didn't know what to say. Illya's emotions were so complex; they always had been; and often Napoleon didn't really know exactly what was going on in his mind.

'He's all right,' he said at last. 'Sometimes happy, sometimes sad. More happy than sad now. And soon he'll have the transplant. The operation.'

'Yes, the operation,' she echoed wistfully. She nodded towards the pots on the small stove. 'I will feed him and make him well. We will make him strong. He will have his operation.'

'Perhaps in the summer,' Napoleon hazarded. 'There are less illnesses in the summer. It really depends on when another cornea becomes available.'

He could see that he was losing her a little, and he smiled again and put a hand on her shoulder.

'He will have his operation,' he said. 'We'll make him well.'

She stood and looked at him then, regarding him as if she wanted to ask him something. But then she shook her head minutely and turned back to the stove to stir one of the pots. She picked up the cup he had brought in then and said, 'You drink more tea, yes? Drink with Nikolay Ivanovitch. Rest. Yes?'

He took the cup and turned it in his hands. It was a delicate china. It looked old, like the beautiful samovar and the teapot on the table out there. So he smiled at the woman again and went back into the cramped living room, where Illya had opened his suitcase and brought out a Braille book and was showing his father the tactile writing.

'Napoleon?' he asked as Napoleon closed the door behind him.

'The one and only,' Napoleon replied. 'I've come for more tea, Illya. Your mother insists.'

Illya reached out a hand towards the table, saying something in Ukrainian to his father, but his father put his hand on Illya's to stop him reaching the teapot and replied gruffly.

'Give him your cup, Napoleon,' Illya said in a wearied tone. 'He'll pour.'

Napoleon passed over his cup and sat down by Illya again, glad that the small sofa forced such closeness.

'How are you doing, honey?' he asked quietly while Nikolay was focussed on pouring the tea, and Illya smiled rather wanly.

'Just a little tired,' he said. 'This wretched cold. And – ' He waved his hand vaguely, and Napoleon said, 'I understand.'

He did understand, he thought. He understood how strange it must be for Illya to be sitting here in his old home, with his parents who were seeing him as a blind man for the first time, when he had been blind for so long. It must be frustrating for him to have to go through convincing his parents that he wasn't entirely helpless.

'We'll have dinner, and then maybe you can beg off and get some rest. It's been a very long day.'

He took the cup that Illya's father held out to him and thanked him, then sipped at the strong tea.

'There are some good smells coming from that kitchen,' he commented. 'Your mother must be a good cook.'

'The best,' Illya smiled. 'When she can get the ingredients she's the best cook.'

'Do your parents work?' Napoleon asked, and Illya nodded.

'Yes, still. Mama is a chemist. Tato too, although he was a soldier during the war, of course.'

'Your father fought?'

Illya nodded. 'Yes, he was a very brave man,' he said with pride. Then he spoke in Ukrainian to his father, who smiled and patted Illya's knee. 'I was showing tato my Braille book,' Illya said then, with a grin. 'He doesn't understand how I can read it either.'

'The simple answer is that you're a genius,' Napoleon said affectionately.

Illya shifted uncomfortably, then said, 'All this tea. Too much liquid. Where's my cane?'

'Here it is,' Napoleon said, handing it to him. 'Need help?'

Illya shook his head. He said something to his father and then sighed as the man stood up, apparently not listening to Illya's protests that he could manage, and took his hand to help him to the bathroom door.

((O))

It felt like a very long time until Illya was granted the luxury of lying down in his parents' small double bed, but at last he and Napoleon were alone. Napoleon had swept the apartment very thoroughly for bugs and now he dropped a little clattering handful into Illya's palm.

'That's our little haul,' he said, pressing Illya's fingers hard around the bugs to muffle them. He put a glass of water in his other hand. 'Do you want to do the honours?'

So Illya grinned and dropped the handful into the water, and imagined the chagrin of the agents at the other end as one by one their bugs went dead.

'I take offence at them bugging my parents,' he said.

'Well, that's the last until they get a chance to sneak in again,' Napoleon said in a satisfied tone. 'They weren't very imaginative with their placement – and, yes, I did check the imaginative places too. I guess they'll up the game next time.'

'Well, at least for tonight we're alone.'

Illya lay back on the rather lumpy mattress, his head aching and a little feverish, but full of good food and surrounded by the strange combination of the scents of his old bedroom and Napoleon's musky aftershave. He turned over onto his side and reached out a hand to stroke Napoleon's cheek, finding his lips with his fingertips and then bringing his face closer to kiss him gently. His mouth tasted so good. Despite feeling unwell he was overtaken by the urge to press himself hard against Napoleon's body and take things further. Napoleon's hands began to roam over Illya's sleek back, massaging the muscles, and Illya groaned softly.

'Oh, I wish we could,' he murmured, stroking the soft length of Napoleon's back, feeling their cocks growing hard together. 'But even if you have got rid of the bugs, we're in my parents' bed, Napoleon. The walls are paper thin and we would have to walk through the living room where they're sleeping to get to the bathroom.'

'I'd be very quiet,' Napoleon promised silkily.

'You're never quiet,' Illya contradicted him. 'You are an exhibitionist.'

'Humph,' Napoleon said. 'You're a fine one to talk.'

'We cannot make love in my parents' bed, Napoleon,' Illya said sternly. 'And that is the end of it.'

'Oh god, Illya,' Napoleon whispered, closing his strong fingers around both their cocks. He didn't move his hand, just held it there, holding them together, and it felt so right and Illya so wanted him to stroke with his strong hand. 'Two weeks... I won't survive.'

Illya almost groaned at the tight grip around his cock, at Napoleon's heat against him. He wanted to make love, he really did. He wanted to have Napoleon inside him, to have Napoleon's hand pumping him, drawing him up to a crashing climax. It would be so easy to relent; but if they were discovered by his parents it would be terrible.

'You will survive, idiot. This was your idea,' he told Napoleon. 'But anyway, they will both be out at work tomorrow, lyubimy, and the apartment will be ours.'

He could almost feel Napoleon's glee at that thought.

'Did you ever bring girls back here?' Napoleon asked. 'Or boys?'

Illya grinned, and stroked his fingertips over Napoleon's hair. 'That would be telling.'

He pressed his mouth against Napoleon's cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble on his lips, then moved to nibble along the edge of his ear, delighting in the salty taste of the soft flesh. He wanted to whisper all sorts of endearments into that ear. He wanted to kiss and be kissed. Then he sighed, suddenly overcome with a flash of nostalgia for all those times in hotel rooms around the world, all the gritty, dangerous times when he had slept with Napoleon not as a lover, but as a partner, before facing danger or after it, always sharpened by the adrenaline in his system, always so alive. He had been blessed with a small taste of that again in recent months, but it was not quite the same when he couldn't go out with a gun in his hand and face death head on.

'Have I got soft, Napoleon?' he asked, drawing his mouth away from Napoleon's skin.

Napoleon's fingers palpated strongly around his hard cock. 'I wouldn't say so, honey,' he said with a smile in his voice.

'I don't mean that,' Illya said rather impatiently. He groaned softly. He didn't need this now, didn't need that touch. 'I mean, have I changed? Has being blind made me soft? Have I changed so much?'

Napoleon stroked his fingers down Illya's cheek and said, 'Illya, we've both changed. We've both changed because you're blind and we've both changed because of this too. Because of this love.' He laid a kiss on Illya's lips. 'Of course we've changed. But no, you haven't gotten soft. Not at all. You are stronger than you've ever been. You fight every day. Maybe not men with guns, but you fight for everything you do. You've never pretended this was easy. I can tell it's not easy. Even now it's not easy. No, you haven't gotten soft. And if in a month, two months, five months, however long it takes, if this operation makes you see again, you will still be strong. I know your sight might not be as good as it used to be, I know you've been told you can't go back in the field, but you'll be just as strong as you always were. We've always taken care of each other in the field, as partners if not as lovers. No, you're not soft.'

Illya smiled and stroked a hand down Napoleon's arm, feeling the muscles just beneath the skin. He knew that he had changed. He had put on a little more weight than he had used to have because although he worked out in the gym and went running with Napoleon, his life was more sedentary day to day. His hair was a little longer because Napoleon liked it longer and because the barber assured him that that was how the fashion was now. The women at U.N.C.L.E. still complimented him on his looks and on his hair, although they no longer made comments about his blue eyes. He wondered idly what had happened to fashions while he couldn't see, what clothing would look like, what hairstyles would be. He had not imagined anything changing, but things always changed. He suppose his parents must look a little older. Napoleon must look a little older.

He thought about the operation, the operation he should have had by now. He should have been lying in the clinic in Munich getting over it. Perhaps he would be opening his eyes and seeing something. The doctors had been very realistic about it all. His right eye would be done first because that one had the greatest chance of success, and the left would have to wait. There was no chance that he would come out of the operation with perfect vision. Perhaps he would never have that, and at first at least things would be very blurry; but blurry would be better than a white haze. Perhaps he would be able to read large print, perhaps he would be able to see objects in his path. At first he would still need the cane, he would still need help, but gradually, hopefully, things would grow better, and perhaps at last he would have useful sight.

He snuggled closer to Napoleon and rested his head against his shoulder. There was nothing to be done about that but wait. The disappointment about the cancelled operation had been displaced, or at least obscured a little, by the wonder of being here at home, with Napoleon at his side. He needed to get over the nasty lingering sore throat and fever and sneezes and just wait for another opportunity to come up.