The phrase Stygian dark kept running through Napoleon's mind. It was funny how the mind could lock onto things. Pitch black, Stygian darkness, blind as a bat… They were all true. Well, the last one wasn't true, he thought. It was utterly dark here, but he wasn't blind. He just couldn't see anything. His wrists were tied so tightly behind his back that he could no longer feel his hands, his feet were tied firmly to the legs of the chair he was on, and he was so tired that in a way the utter darkness was a relief.

They had spent quite a long time beating him up, but he didn't know how long. After a while you turned your mind off, turned in on yourself, stopped listening to the outside world. And of course he hadn't said anything. How could he? They were talking to him in Russian and while he knew a certain amount, he didn't know enough to be able to respond accurately under interrogation. Then they had tried English, but he hadn't responded to that, either. They knew who he was and why he was there, so what else was there to say?

He did wish he knew where the rest of the team was. He suspected they were all being held individually like him. He was almost certain they were being held by Thrush but there was that tiny sliver of suspicion, the suspicion that always lingered in matters with the Soviet Union, that made him wonder if they were KGB. It wouldn't have surprised him if the two had ties.

He closed his eyes and felt the throbbing of his head and ribs and ankles where they had beaten him, and he thought of Illya. He had left Illya in bed, and he was never more glad of that, because if somehow Illya had wheedled his way along, even just to sit in the car outside the warehouse, he could have been in the same situation now. And Illya was so good at manipulating his way into things. He was so glad he was out of it.

He sat there and stared into the utter blackness and wondered what time it was. There was no way of knowing if it were morning, afternoon, evening. He had spent some time unconscious, so he had lost all sense of how much time had passed, and there were no visual cues.

Oh god, Illya… He felt so strongly for Illya's condition right now. He should be thinking of his injuries and his immediate future, but he was thinking of Illya, who had spent the first few days after his blinding in a similar condition, his eyes carefully covered with shields, and bandages over the top to protect the burns on his face.

'You're lucky,' they had told Illya in the hospital. Lucky there had been so little acid in the beaker, lucky it had only splashed parts of his face rather than drenching it. Napoleon had seen victims of deliberate acid attacks and he knew how very lucky Illya was to be left with his face, his lips, to be left almost entirely unscarred apart from his eyes. But, oh God, his eyes... What a mess they had been. On that second day when they had unwrapped the bandages and taken away the shields to reveal Illya's eyes Napoleon had almost gagged. His eyes had looked terrible, an awful mixture of clouded whiteness like a cooked egg white, terrible redness, weeping. He had needed to press his hand over his mouth to suppress the noise he wanted to make, because the last thing Illya would need was Napoleon making sounds of horror or disgust.

'I think these surrounding burns will heal rather well,' the doctor had said, probing at the wounds around Illya's eyes. 'You are lucky, Mr Kuryakin. We're not entirely sure what the acid was yet but it hasn't damaged the skin too badly. It seems to have reacted more virulently with the eyes.'

Lucky… To Illya's credit he had controlled himself all through the examination and while the nurse rebandaged the wounds, but as soon as they had left the room he had said in a wavering voice, 'Napoleon...'

And Napoleon had held him as he sobbed, trying to work out what the hell they were going to do, how they were going to move on from here. His mind spun on the huge, unknowable future. They hadn't even known then whether Illya would recover any useful sight but the doctors thought there was very little hope. So what would they do? As Illya sobbed he held him and thought through the immediate future, about what would happen when Illya was discharged from hospital. Getting him on a plane, helping him all the way back to New York, taking him home… Home. Illya couldn't look after himself. So would he stay with Illya or would Illya stay with him? Illya needed to be somewhere familiar, but his apartment was too small and too poorly furnished to have a semi-permanent guest. So Illya would stay with him and – and the future had felt like a vast, uncharted sea.

Napoleon rocked his chair a little in the darkness. There was no point in sitting here dwelling on the past. He had to shake off the torpor of having been hit too hard around the head and get out of here. He thought of Illya back at his parents' place, maybe still in bed, all warm and luscious with sleep. Now there was an incentive to get free, if ever there were one. He wanted so badly to return to Illya's sweet body and his incredible mind.

So he rocked the chair again, and then again. He managed to work up a rhythm, to get it slowly moving backwards. He sung in his head to give himself something to move to. He thought of Illya. And after a long, painful time his hands touched a wall behind him, and he started moving himself along that wall, searching for something he could use to get himself free.

((O))

The intercoms and external communications almost never stopped in the little comms room in the Kyiv office. It was well past lunch time and there had still been no direct news of Napoleon, but one of the local agents had returned, badly beaten and dazed, with a tale of how he had been tied up but had managed to get free and clamber from a first floor window down a drainpipe to the ground. Illya had hardly been able to hold in his impatience.

'And the other agents? You tried to find them? What happened to them?'

But the man had been too confused and exhausted, bleeding profusely from a head injury, Illya gleaned, and he couldn't say what had happened to the three other men. They had completed their sabotage of the equipment. Napoleon himself had set a light to all the paperwork referring to the formula and how to produce it. Another man had destroyed the building's generator. But one of the enemy had managed to get through a call for backup and Thrushes had swarmed the building, and everyone had been taken.

It was utterly maddening. Illya wanted with every fibre of his being to go out on the hunt for the agents, and he had to sit here with the communications women and do no more than make suggestions and hope.

And then Illya's pen communicator sounded and he slapped his hand to his pocket, assembling the thing and answering, 'Napoleon?'

'Oh, no, sorry, Illya.' He breathed out hard. It was Sarah. 'Listen, the clinic in Munich have been trying to contact you. They have another cornea, and if you're over that cold – '

Illya sat up straighter in his chair. 'What? Say again?'

'Illya, they have another cornea. You need to go to Munich. You need to be there tomorrow.'

Illya floundered. 'But I – ' He didn't know what to say. Napoleon was missing. But he couldn't miss this chance, not another chance. He flexed his fingers then said, 'Thank you, Sarah. I'll get onto them as soon as possible.'

When he put his communicator away he had the urge to laugh hysterically. How completely absurd. What ridiculous timing. He sat there, very still and silent, until someone put their hand on his shoulder and asked, 'Tovarisch Kuryakin? Are you all right?'

'Er, yes,' he said slowly, then more firmly, 'Yes. I need to use a telephone. Can you show me to a telephone?'

'Yes, of course,' the woman said quickly. 'There's a private room you can use. If you'll come with me.'

So Illya stood and slipped his slate and paper back into his bag, then reached out for her arm, and let her guide him out of the room and a short way down the corridor. She took him into another room which sounded very small, and she said, 'Look, here's a chair. Sit here, and the telephone is – '

He reached out, she guided his hand to the back of the chair, he slid his hand down to the seat and sat down.

'The telephone?' he asked, reaching out in front of him to feel a desk surface, sheets of paper, a pen.

'It is right here,' she said, moving the instrument to the centre of the desk. 'Do you need help to dial?'

'No,' he said. 'No, not at all. Thank you.'

'I'll give you some privacy,' she told him. 'If you need someone to help you back to the communications room just use the phone again for an internal line and let us know.'

'Thank you,' Illya said again.

He waited until she had left the room, then he moved his fingertips over the telephone, understanding its contours, bringing an image of the model into his head. And then he just sat there. It was stupid to dither, but he was dithering. Napoleon was out there somewhere, in danger, held by Thrush. He had no way of helping him himself, but he hated the thought of just leaving. He had imagined Napoleon being at his side through this journey. What if Napoleon never came back to his side?

He had to force himself to stop that thinking. He and Napoleon had both faced danger so many times, and they had got themselves out of it every time. He had to have confidence in his partner, and he had to act on the call from the clinic.

He had the work numbers for both his parents memorised and he dialled the number for his father. The phone seemed to ring for a very long time, and then it took more time still to bring his father to the phone. But eventually he heard that familiar voice asking, 'Illya? Is everything all right at home?'

'I'm not at home, tato,' he said quickly. 'I am at headquarters. Listen. I have had a call from the clinic in Munich. They have another donor cornea and are offering me another chance at transplant. I must be there by tomorrow. But Napoleon is still – unavailable,' he altered his words at the last moment, very aware that anyone could be listening on the line. 'Tato, to be able to get ready and leave in time I would very much appreciate your help. Is there any possibility you can be released from work?'

'Of course, Illya,' his father said instantly. 'Of course there is. If you are at headquarters do you need me to come and fetch you?'

'Yes,' he said quickly. 'Yes, please. I will see if I can get the people here to arrange my flight, but the sooner I can get home the better. I must be on a plane very soon.'

'Our flights,' his father said very firmly, and Illya faltered.

'Our? Tato, there isn't time for – '

'Illyusha, you are not doing this alone. If you can, please get your people to arrange flights for both of us. They have considerable diplomatic leeway, don't they? If anyone can arrange for my travel documents to be ready in time, I am sure they can. Please do this thing for me. I will be at the front entrance for you as soon as I can make it over there.'

And the line went dead. He was leaving his son no room to argue. Illya sat there for a moment with the receiver in his hand. He put it down slowly and smoothed his fingers over the hard plastic, wondering what colour it was. And then he shook himself and picked up the phone again and called the communications room, and with his most endearing and persuasive tone he spoke to one of the women there about securing emergency travel documents both for himself and for his father. He would never have asked either of his parents to come with him. He was confident that he would be able to travel alone with the help of people around him. But he was glad that he would not be alone.

((O))

There was an edge there. Something in the darkness. He could feel it against his numb hands. Perhaps it was a pipe, or something jagged in the wall. It didn't matter. It was there behind his hands, and he pushed the ropes against it and he started to rub.

He didn't know how long it might take to get through the ropes, but it was his only option in this dark room. He thanked God that they hadn't tied him with metal rope or chain. That would have been impossible. But perhaps, if he worked long enough, he could get his hands free.

God, he was tired, and so thirsty. His bladder was bursting, but he refused to let it go. He refused to let them come in here and find him having pissed himself on the chair. No. He held it and he tried not to think of water in any form, and he kept rubbing his tied wrists on that ragged edge.

He thought about Illya. What would Illya be doing now? He was sure it must be daytime by now, or even that a whole day had already passed and it was the next night. By now Illya would know that they were seriously overdue. He would be worried, of course. Would he be sitting in his parents' apartment, worrying? No. He knew Illya. At the first sign of trouble he would have got himself somehow to the Kiev headquarters, regardless of whether he could be any help. He wouldn't be able to sit back and do nothing. So what was Illya doing now? He visualised him in that headquarters, perhaps talking to other agents, perhaps – No. He had imagined Illya poring over maps, trying to locate exactly where the team was being held. That was an Illya he hadn't known in two years. He would be going mad right now because he couldn't pore over maps, he couldn't go out on his own and tread the ground and make his own search. Poor Illya. His heart ached for him. He felt worse for Illya's helplessness right now than he did for his own.

He rubbed harder at the rough edge. Just the thought of Illya out there eating himself up with his helplessness made him work harder. They had been on such a long journey together over the last two years and he refused to have it end here at the hands of Thrush.

His mind cast back to memories of Illya before all this had happened. How blue his eyes had been. How marvellous he had looked. He had moved like a cat. Watching Illya sneaking about a Thrush building in the dead of night was like watching a cat. He could move utterly silently, he could climb anything. Napoleon would look at a sheer face and wonder how in hell to scale it, and then Illya would be at the top, pulling a knotted rope out of the back of his trousers and throwing it down to Napoleon like Rapunzel in the tower. He had always paused for a moment as his hands first touched that rope, feeling the warmth of Illya's body in the soft fibres, a warmth that was there so fleetingly, and then cooled. Why hadn't he realised all that time ago that he was meant to be with Illya in a much more profound way than just as partners? That they were meant to be partners in everything? He had wasted so much time.

He remembered that first day when he had realised he loved Illya so much more deeply than before. He had known that he loved him, of course. He loved him as a friend, as an amazing, scintillating, brilliant individual. But then everything had changed on one cold morning in his apartment. He remembered the bright light coming in through the window, reflected from a fresh fall of snow. He remembered the heat of the room, the crackle of the fire that he had just lit, the bright orange of the flames. And Illya sitting on the sofa in his sitting room, just sitting there, unable to see the snow or the flames or even the sun. Unable to see his hand in front of his face.

Napoleon had turned around from the fire and looked at Illya and realised that he was crying. He wasn't making a sound. He had been all right until then. Napoleon had gone into his room that morning and helped him as he got up, helped him in the bathroom, taken him into the kitchen and made him toast and tea. He had tried to make light conversation as he always did, talking about news from headquarters, about news from the wider world, about the snow and the weather forecast. He often felt that Illya wasn't listening, but he talked anyway.

And then he had taken him back to his little bedroom, helped him to get dressed, led him to the sofa in the living room, and crouched down to light the fire. It was already warm from the central heating, but a fire was pleasant with snow outside. Illya just sat there on the sofa, listening to what he was doing, twisting his fingers together as the only sign of his distress. And then Napoleon had glanced round again and seen how close Illya was to breaking down. He had got far too used to Illya's face suddenly seeming to collapse and him losing his battle to stay composed.

'Illya,' he had said softly, and Illya didn't respond at all. So he went over to the sofa and sat down next to his friend, and a kind of hiccup suddenly pushed its way from Illya's mouth, and then a real sob, and his cheeks were wet with tears, the scabs of the acid burns shining with tears. So Napoleon had gently touched Illya's face, gently swabbed away some of those tears. And Illya had turned his head towards him a little, such a terrible look of despair on his face, and Napoleon had stroked more of those tears away and then – he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop himself – he leant closer and ever so gently touched his lips against those salt wet trails. And Illya had sighed; a tiny, soft sigh in between those sobs. So Napoleon had kissed his cheeks again, kissing away the tears, feeling such a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, a fluttering need down there that made him want to be all around Illya, be in Illya, be part of Illya. And he caught Illya's lips which were salty with tears too, and kissed them softly and gently, and Illya's response, his naked, desperate response, had made Napoleon kiss him again, harder, needfully. His arms had gone around Illya's body, feeling the solidity and warmth of his back through his thin shirt, his fingers stroking into the hair at the back of his head. And he had kissed him and kissed him until he seemed to be drowning in Illya, and Illya was still crying, but kissing back with such need, his tongue darting hotly into Napoleon's mouth, tasting him, touching his teeth. He made little gasping sounds around the sobs, around the kiss, and he put his own arms around Napoleon and clung to him so hard. And then the kissing had stopped and they just held each other, Napoleon held Illya in his arms and Illya held on to him as if he were being carried from a burning building, and he sobbed.

In the darkness of that room in Kiev Napoleon pushed his wrists harder against the rough projection and rubbed and rubbed again. Every now and then he rested, he tried to pull his wrists apart, he sat there and closed his eyes and tried to process and shut away the burning pain in his skin wherever the rope sat and the projecting metal rubbed. And then he started again, rubbing, rubbing, until eventually a strand broke with a jerk, and then another, and then he was stripping the ropes from his stinging, aching wrists and his fingers were starting to tingle unbearably as blood rushed back into his hands.

He sat there for just a few minutes, catching his breath, controlling that pain, waiting until his fingers were more than frozen sausages dangling on the ends of his arms. And then he started to tackle the ropes that bound his ankles to the chair, and then the rope around his waist, and then he was free.

He stood, swaying a little, head aching, eyes blinking blindly in the darkness. Then he threw caution to the wind and stepped over to the wall and he opened his trousers and relieved himself at last. That felt so good, better even than the moment when his wrists had come free. And then he started to feel about the room, searching for a light switch, the door, anything to help him out of here.

He found no switch, but he discovered that the room was small, box-like, cluttered with shelves on one side. At last he found the door, and he put his hand on the handle and turned it. His heart seemed to flop over. They must have been certain of the ropes, because the door wasn't locked. Napoleon opened the door a crack and the light from the corridor blinded him, dim as it was. He had spent so long in darkness. He stood there blinking until he could properly see, and then he crept into the corridor outside.