'All right, Mr Kuryakin. Are you feeling okay?'

Illya blinked into the white haze around him and smiled at the voice of Dr Bruner. He felt pleasantly relaxed and sleepy. There was a cannula in the back of his hand and the pre-med was already in his system. He had been so wound up before that his hands were shaking, but now everything felt just fine.

'Oh, yes, I'm very good,' he murmured. 'Good morning, Dr Bruner.'

The man's hand touched his shoulder and shook it in a friendly way. 'Good morning, Mr Kuryakin. I see you're feeling nice and relaxed. Well, I've just come in to check on you, and I'm going to put a mark on your skin above your right eye, to be sure that we know what we're doing. Just hold still a moment.'

And his hand touched Illya's forehead, and there was the cold wet of a marker pen drawing what felt like an arrow on his skin, and that made him feel like laughing.

'Don't take out the wrong eye,' he murmured.

'Of course not,' Bruner reassured him. 'Now, I'm going to leave you with the nurse and go down to theatre to scrub in. You'll be down with me in a few minutes.'

'Thank you,' Illya said, smiling rather dreamily. 'You're very kind.'

He listened to the man leaving the room and listened to all the other little sounds around him. The scent of the room was all antiseptic. The sounds were the sharp little taps and clicks of hard floors and hard surfaces. He wondered vaguely where his cane had been put, and wondered if he would need it afterwards. He pressed the palms of his hands and his fingers against the cotton of the sheets and felt how clean and firm the bed was underneath him. He felt as if he were floating.

He turned his head to listen to a slight rustle of fabric, and asked, 'Tato?'

'I'm still here, Illyusha,' his father said. There was a quick movement and then his father's fingers curling into his. Illya squeezed on those fingers, feeling their warmth, feeling the slight roughness of his father's fingertips and the strength of his hand. A little surge of longing rose in him, a regret that those weren't Napoleon's fingers in his.

'Tato, can I have my communicator?' he asked, and his father pressed it into his hand.

Illya assembled it clumsily and opened up a channel. 'Napoleon?'

The response was immediate. 'Illya? Are you okay?'

'Mmm-hmm,' he replied. 'I'm about to go down, Napoleon. I wanted to call...'

'Oh, well I'm – about twenty minutes out of Munich, Illya,' Napoleon said quickly. 'I'm very close.'

'Tired?'

'Very, but I'm all right. I grabbed bits of sleep on the plane. I'll be there when you wake up, Illya. I'll come straight to the clinic, and I'll be there when you wake up. Okay?'

'Okay,' Illya said, and became aware of a woman's voice, her hand touching his arm. She was speaking to him in German, and he said, 'Oh, Napoleon, they're about to take me down and I have to give this back to tato.'

'Keep me on the channel, Illya,' Napoleon said. 'Give it to your father but keep me on, okay? By hook or by crook I'll be there.'

So Illya handed the communicator over and told his father sleepily to keep it open, and how to close it once he was in surgery. His father's hand closed around his again and he lay still as he was transferred onto a gurney. The thing began to rumble across the floor, the vibration pushing up into his back and legs and the back of his head, and he watched the flicker of lights on the ceiling above him.

'Tato,' he said, but his father's hand was still there. It was there until doors clattered, and then the gurney stopped for a moment and his father's lips pressed onto his forehead, and Illya smiled. 'Thank you, tato,' he said. 'Thank you, Napoleon. I love you both, you know.'

He wasn't sure if he were speaking in English or Ukrainian or perhaps even German, but he heard Napoleon reply, and his father stroked his hand, and then he was being taken through the doors and the anaesthetist was speaking very clearly to him in German and asking him to count backwards from a hundred, and he began to count and –

– he was waking up, and his throat felt sore and his eye felt weirdly numb. He was nauseous and everything seemed odd. He made a strange, rasping noise, and Napoleon's voice said, 'Hey, Illya. It's about time you woke up. How're you feeling?'

He tried to speak, and coughed, and Napoleon said, 'You can have a little water, Illya. Just a little, okay? They don't want you to throw up.'

Illya sipped at the cup that Napoleon put to his lips and smiled. 'Thank you,' he said. 'I don't think I'm going to be sick.'

'Well, just in case. We don't want you straining the stitches.'

And then Illya blinked and realised that he was looking into the familiar white blur on one side, but his right eye was totally dark. It was covered with something. He lifted a hand vaguely and Napoleon caught hold of it and said, 'No, don't touch. The doctor will check it tomorrow. You're not to remove the patch.'

'I know,' Illya murmured. He remembered all of the pre-op literature, but tomorrow seemed so long to wait. 'Does he know how it went?'

'He's very pleased,' Napoleon assured him. 'It took a little longer than expected but it all went well. He told you that in the recovery room, remember?'

'Oh.' Illya had no memory at all of the recovery room, just of waking up here. 'Is my father here?'

'He's here, Illya,' Napoleon assured him. 'He's just not paying attention because we're speaking English.' Then he said in a louder voice, 'Er – Nikolay Ivanovitch.'

'Tato,' Illya said, reaching out a hand, and he heard footsteps on the hard floor and then his father's hand closed around his.

'Illyushenka, how do you feel?' his father asked, and Illya smiled.

'Groggy, but I'm all right.' He pushed his hands against the mattress, trying to sit up a little, and said, 'I just want to get out of here now.'

He had spoken in Ukrainian, but his actions were quite plain, and Napoleon pressed a hand onto his shoulder, saying, 'Hey, you stay lying down for now. You've got a cannula in your hand, don't forget. I'll go fetch the doctor, okay? He'll be able to tell you how the surgery went and when you're going to be able to go home. It will probably be tomorrow. You just lie there.'

Illya rested his head back against the softness of the pillow, rather grateful for that softness, because it was very disorientating recovering from anaesthetic without sight to steady him. Perhaps it was better to lie still for now. He listened to Napoleon's footsteps leaving the room and he turned his head towards his father.

'Tato, thank you for being here,' he said.

His father's hand squeezed on his. 'Of course, Illya. Of course I would be here with you.'

Illya didn't quite know what to say. He felt ridiculously emotional all of a sudden, and he moved his other hand to press it over his father's, then said, 'Tato, why don't you go and telephone to mama? Tell her how the surgery went. She must be so worried. Don't worry about the cost. You can use my credit card.'

His father's hand moved a little under his and then he stroked the hair back from Illya's forehead with great tenderness. Illya felt a kind of silent understanding. Then his father said, 'Yes, Illya, I'll go and phone her. She asked to know.'

So then Illya was left in the room alone. He had the strangest feeling that he was going to cry, and he didn't want anyone to see him being so stupid. He lay there and bit his lip and tried to control that ridiculous urge, and at last he moved his hand tentatively to touch the hard plastic shield and tape that covered his eye. It was a strange, tremulous feeling. Underneath there was his new cornea, harvested from someone who had died, probably some poor German person who had died too young. Man or woman, someone who had lost their life suddenly, unexpectedly. The thought made that stupid urge to cry rise again.

Perhaps when that shield was removed he would see. Perhaps he would be able to look in a mirror and actually see his own eye, his own face. He felt sick at the thought of it. His stomach lurched. It was so strange, so odd, so much to hold in his mind. He was glad that he was alone, because he felt as if he were whirling, falling. He hardly knew what he felt, and he didn't want anyone to see him falling apart when he should be so happy. He didn't know what would happen when that shield was removed, and he was still so scared.

((O))

'There now, Mr Kuryakin. We're very pleased with your progress,' said the voice of Dr Bruner as Napoleon led Illya to a chair. 'Yes, sit down there, and we'll get that shield off your eye, and we shall see what you can see, yes?'

Illya felt sick. The drugs had left his system after a long day and night in the clinic, so he could no longer blame them for the way that he felt. His eye felt odd still, a little sore, as if there were grit in it, but he could manage that pain. He was just so nervous of what would happen when Dr Bruner removed the shield. Napoleon and his father were both standing there waiting to know, and he could hardly control his fear.

'Now, you know not to expect a miracle, Mr Kuryakin,' Bruner told him, pressing a hand over Illya's where it lay on the arm of the chair. That kind touch made Illya smile, just a little. 'There is not going to be a let there be light moment. Your cornea was so occluded that there will be a difference, but you won't be playing tennis today, yes?'

'Yes, I know,' Illya said, painfully aware that his voice was rather shaky. 'I understand.'

He heard Napoleon step a little closer, and then Napoleon's hand was on his arm.

'All right,' Bruner said, leaning in. 'A little pull on this tape. Yes, that's the worst bit, isn't it?' he asked as Illya winced. 'Nothing compares to tape on hair. But now – yes – '

And he lifted away the patch, the darkness was taken away, and Illya gasped.

'Illya?' Napoleon asked.

'Well, it looks clean and clear,' Bruner said, swabbing lightly at the corner of Illya's eye.

'Illya?' Napoleon asked again.

Stiffly, Illya turned his head to Napoleon's voice. He didn't know what to say, because there was – oh god, there was colour in front of him, and shapes, and – god, he looked up and there was the pink shape of Napoleon's face, dark smudges for his eyes and lips, the dark of his hair. He reached out a hand tentatively, touched it to Napoleon's cheek, felt what he could see. And he was crying. He couldn't stop himself from crying. He sat there and wept, and felt Napoleon's hand in his and his father's hand taking his other, and he jerked out, 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...'

Dr Bruner stayed very quiet, and Illya appreciated that moment of near privacy. He struggled to choke back the sobs and blinked his eyes open and closed and reached for a handkerchief. Then Napoleon grabbed his wrist and said, 'Don't rub that eye, Illya.'

He let Napoleon pat away the tears, and he swallowed and accepted a little glass of water, then he cleared his throat because he knew there was a small audience waiting so eagerly, and he said, 'I can see colours and shapes. There's – It's very blurred. Milky.' He blinked again and looked around. 'I – I can see shapes in the room. I can see where everyone is standing. It's – it's amazing.'

'That's very good, Mr Kuryakin,' Bruner said in a tone of deep satisfaction. 'Now, if you're ready I'd like to run you through a few tests just to check the extent of your vision. Remember it will fluctuate day to day as it heals. I would expect significant improvement from what you're seeing now, but some days will be better than others. You'll probably find that eye quite sensitive to light for a while, and I want you to wear glasses in the day time to protect it from any blows. At night you must continue to wear the shield. So, are you ready for my tests?'

Illya drew in a deep breath, and nodded.

((O))

Napoleon found himself just staring. They had gone back to the hotel and Illya's father had excused himself in a wonderful moment of tact, so he and Illya were alone in their room. Illya had taken off his sunglasses, and Napoleon was just staring at his eye. It was so strange, so amazing, to see the blue of his iris after so long. So amazing to see the dark hole of his pupil, a wonderful dark hole that would let in light and colour. He just stared at the vibrant blue licks of flame that he had missed for so long, and marvelled at the beauty. He could see where the new cornea abutted the old because the remaining parts were still milky and damaged. He could just make out the tiny stitches, almost invisible little dashes around the circumference of the graft. Illya's eye wasn't just as it had been before all of this, but it was something like his eye again instead of a milky pearl. It was incredible.

He reached out a hand to stroke Illya's cheek and Illya's eye tracked the movement. It was amazing. He found himself speechless.

'Well, are you just going to sit there and stare at me?' Illya asked after a while.

Napoleon shook his head. 'No, I – I just don't know what to say. How is it now? How much can you see?

Illya's mouth contorted a little. 'It's blurry, milky. I can see where you are, I can see colours. It's – Well, I know it's not 20/20 vision, but I never expected that. I can tell where the window is. I can tell where the door is because it's a dark colour against light.'

Napoleon smiled. Illya was right. It was nothing like 20/20 vision, but it was so much more than he had possessed before.

'Well, we should do your steroid drops and your antibiotic drops, and then I guess we should go get some dinner, yes?'

Illya donned his sunglasses, but then he reached out to stroke his fingers lightly down Napoleon's cheek, then leant forward to kiss him softly on the lips.

'Can't we just do this?' he asked. 'Lots of this?'

Napoleon gently caught his hand.

'Not too much of this, no,' he said ruefully. 'No bending, no heavy lifting, no strenuous exercise, remember?'

Illya sighed. 'Would it really have to be so strenuous?'

'I'm not risking it,' Napoleon said firmly. 'Besides, how on earth would we explain to Dr Bruner if anything happened?'

Illya sinuously moved his fingertips down Napoleon's cheek again, onto his neck, flicking open the top button of his shirt and tickling across his collarbone. He followed his fingers with his lips, kissing delicately along that prominent bone.

'Are you sure?' he asked, his voice dark and rich with need.

'I – I'm sure,' Napoleon said, but his voice was wavering.

Illya opened a few more buttons, swirling his tongue into the sparse hair about one stiff nipple, lightly tracing his fingers over Napoleon's face again.

'Illya… Oh – god...'

Illya was gently drawing the shirt from his shoulders, nudging his nose against Napoleon's chest. He ringed his fingers about Napoleon's wrist and lifted one arm, moving feeling fingers down the underneath of his arm to brush through the hair of his armpit. Napoleon sighed.

'You smell so good,' Illya said. 'You always smell so good, Napoleon. How can I be expected to help myself when you are such a palette of wonderful scents, when your skin feels like this? Even when I'm not touching you I can smell you. Do you know that sometimes when I'm sitting near you I imagine you're wearing nothing at all, because I can't see your clothes, I can just smell you and hear you.'

'Illya,' Napoleon said warningly. 'No bending. No strenuous exercise. No – Jesus...'

Illya had flicked open his fly and slipped his hand in and he was touching him, touching him with those incredible, firm, confident fingers, and Napoleon was already growing hard. He couldn't do anything but grow hard with Illya touching him like this.

'All right,' he said suddenly, firmly, catching Illya's wrists and lifting them away from his body. 'All right,' he said more softly. 'You win, but on my terms.'

He held Illya's wrists firmly and surprised him with a kiss on the nose. Illya couldn't see half so much with the dark glasses dimming his small amount of restored vision.

'Will you sit still nicely and behave?' he asked.

'What are you going to do?' Illya asked suspiciously.

'I'm going to undress you,' Napoleon said, knowing Illya didn't like to be kept in the dark literally or figuratively.

'Well, I can undress myself,' Illya said pragmatically, trying to pull his wrists from Napoleon's grip. Napoleon didn't relent.

'You can, but I'm going to.'

So he pushed Illya's hands gently to his sides and began to work on his clothes, unknotting his tie and tossing it aside, opening the shirt button by button, teasing the Russian just as seductively with tongue and fingers as Illya had done to him. He undid his trousers and pulled them down together with his underpants, and smiled at the burgeoning hardness there.

'Lie down, dear,' he said. 'Lie down and relax.'

He kissed Illya's forehead, smiling at the slightly mutinous look that softened when he lightly brushed his fingers over Illya's cock.

'Well, if I must be so passive,' Illya grumbled after a moment, and lay back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head and looking, although Napoleon would never say it aloud, like a rather disgruntled angel.

'All you're missing is a tilted halo,' he murmured, and Illya asked, 'What?'

'Nothing at all,' Napoleon promised him, and he straddled Illya's slim hips and started to cover his beautiful torso in soft kisses, moving downward ever so slowly until his lips were brushing stiff hair, and then kissing and licking up the hard length of his cock, and swallowing him into his mouth. Illya moaned aloud and Napoleon laid a hand softly on his chest, removing his mouth long enough to say, 'Nothing strenuous, dear.' He kissed the cherry tip of Illya's cock and flicked his tongue over the slit and Illya sighed, and Napoleon smiled. 'That's it. Gently, softly, and – '

And he took Illya into his mouth again, sucking him, lacing his fingers over the cool skin of his balls, stroking his thighs, and all the while taking Illya's length deep into his throat, feeling the suppressed energy in Illya's muscles like a horse waiting to race, sucking and compressing and manipulating until Illya's hips were trying to buck under Napoleon's restraining hands, until he came with a juddering cry and then sank back onto the bed with a long, satiated sigh.

Napoleon swallowed and waited until Illya's cock softened and slipped from between his lips, then he kissed his lover softly on the cheek and went into the bathroom to deal with his own hard and needful erection. When he returned Illya was still lying splayed on the bed, a picture of debauchery with his legs loose and wide and his arms above his head and a smile on his face.

'You feeling okay?' Napoleon asked, coming to sit back down on the edge of the bed by Illya's hip. 'How's that eye?'

'I'm feeling just fine,' Illya said with that grin still on his face, 'and the eye feels fine too.' He lifted his sunglasses and blinked and asked, 'Care to take a look?'

Napoleon bent close to inspect the eye and the new cornea and the tiny stitches. Illya's pupil was beautifully contracted in the light, his iris was blue, and although there was a little redness in the white of his eye it was no different to before.

'It looks perfect,' he said. He stroked his hand over Illya's eyebrow and forehead then pushed his sunglasses back down and kissed him on the cheek. 'So now I will sort out your eye drops, like I meant to in the first place, and then we will go get dinner.'

((O))

Illya spent the night trying to sleep through the maddening itch and the sensation of sand in his right eye. His hand kept moving reflexively to itch, and then either Napoleon would catch it or he would touch the shield protecting the eye, and he would grit his teeth and just try to bear it. When Napoleon woke with him he kissed Illya and stroked his cheek to distract him from the feeling until he slipped back into sleep, but when Napoleon slept through his discomfort Illya just lay there grinding his teeth or slipping his fingers over the pages of a book, trying anything to take his mind away from the feeling. Eventually Napoleon went out to an all-night chemist's and brought him back allergy medicine, and the sweet, bitter liquid helped soothe him into a proper sleep.

He woke gently to the sensation of Napoleon's hand lightly stroking his shoulder and arm, and he blinked against the gritty, sticky feeling in his eye and mumbled something, before reaching up to touch the eye shield.

'Well, I made it through the night, just,' he said rather grimly, and Napoleon kissed his shoulder where his fingers had been just a moment before.

'Just,' Napoleon murmured. 'It's almost ten a.m., Illya. I thought you'd appreciate sleeping in, but you need your eye drops before it gets too late.'

Illya blinked again a few times and pushed himself up in bed against the pillows, yawning.

'And how's little Fritz this morning?' Napoleon asked stroking his fingers near Illya's eye shield.

Illya grimaced. 'Napoleon, I have told you, you cannot name my new cornea. It's – it's morbid.'

He had dealt with death frequently as an active agent, but this was different. He didn't want to keep thinking on how someone had died, how he was looking through this dead person's cornea. He wanted to move forward with his own life now that it had changed so much.

'All right,' Napoleon conceded, stroking him again. 'Then, how's the eye? Let's have a look.'

Illya squeezed his hand and kissed his knuckles, then he let go and pushed up the eye shield. As the light flooded in he gasped.

'Illya, what is it?' Napoleon asked instantly.

Illya turned his head towards his lover's voice and a world of light and colour moved before him. It was astonishing. Yesterday's milkiness had cleared, and he was looking straight at Napoleon's face.

'I – I – ' Illya began. He didn't know what to say. He just stared.

'Illya, are you looking at me?' Napoleon asked tentatively.

Illya reached out a hand towards Napoleon's face, misjudging the distance for a moment because he didn't have stereo vision. But then he caught Napoleon's cheek, traced his fingers over the red of his lips; saw his own fingers tracing over Napoleon's lips. Everything was unfocussed. He was seeing an odd, wavering double image. But there was Napoleon's mouth, there were his eyes, there was the dark of his hair, and he could even make out the way it fell in strands across his forehead.

'Oh – Bozhe miy,' he said. 'Oh, Napoleon...'

'Illya, are you looking at me?' Napoleon repeated, but Illya dropped his hand and turned towards the side of the bed. He looked down at the coloured covers, at the beige carpet. He stood and turned his head, seeing the window with its long patterned drapes, and he moved towards it, holding a hand out because he couldn't quite believe that what he was seeing was real. His fingers hit the curtains, pushed them aside, and he winced at the bright light from outside.

'Illya, your sunglasses,' Napoleon said, coming to him quickly. 'Put your sunglasses on. It's a sunny day.'

'I – know,' Illya said in amazement, turning his head up, down, left and right.

He could see a street out there, the shapes of cars, the tallness of trees with dark, bare branches. He could see the blue of the sky, and in it a painfully bright centre of burning light. He pressed his fingertips to the glass which had been warmed by the sun and for a moment he felt as if he were falling as the close sense of the solid glass vied with the deep and wide world he could see on the other side of what had used to be an impenetrable barrier. He was overcome by the curious feeling that he had to touch it all to know that it was real. It was real, he knew it was real, but still his hands itched to touch what he saw.

'Illya, your glasses,' Napoleon said, pressing them into his hand, and Illya slipped them on, sighing with some relief as the glare of the sun lessened.

'I can see the sun, Napoleon. I can see the sun!' he laughed in amazement, lifting a hand and feeling the heat in the concavity of his palm. 'Let's get dressed, Napoleon. Let's go outside. I want to go out and see Munich. I want to see everything.'

Napoleon laughed from somewhere behind him. 'You will see everything,' he promised. 'First your eye drops. Then breakfast. Then we will go and see what you can see.'

Illya turned away from the window and stepped back across the room, taking great care, staring at everything. Napoleon's wallet was a dark lump on top of the chest of drawers and he picked it up and opened it. He drew out the bright yellow U.N.C.L.E. card and brought it close to his face. The black letters were little spiders that crawled over the front of the card, but he brought it closer to his eyes and gaped as recognisable letters wavered into view.

'I – I can read,' he faltered. He stared. It was incredible. Those letters were like loved friends he hadn't seen for many years. He touched his fingertips to the black shapes. 'Napoleon, I am reading your name. I couldn't manage a normal book but I can read your name!'

'Well, you can get large print books, you know,' Napoleon told him, coming over to him again, sounding as if he were laughing and trying not to cry all at once. He put his hands on Illya's shoulders from behind, kissed the tip of his ear, and then just held him as Illya continued to stare in wonder at those letters.

'Illya,' Napoleon said. 'Illya.'

His voice drifted to Illya as if from far away, he was staring so intently at those letters. But he put the card down and let Napoleon turn him around, and he looked into his face as Napoleon bent just a little to kiss him on the lips. It was so amazing, so strange. He let himself fall into the kiss, let himself feel the wonder and the softness of Napoleon's lips against his.

'Illya,' Napoleon said as they came apart at last.

He laid a hand on Illya's cheek, stroked him from temple to jawline, and Illya watched the minute movements in his expression, looked into the beautiful brown of his eyes, saw his nose, and his lips flushed by kissing.

'So you can see the sun, huh?' Napoleon asked softly. 'You can read my name?'

'Yes,' Illya said with such deep feeling. 'And you,' he continued, looking straight into his lover's eyes, lifting his hand to touch Napoleon's face again. 'Yes, I can see your face, my dear Napoleon. Yes, I can see everything I need to see.'