Notes: First specks of slash coming through.

Disclaimer: I do not own Man From U.N.C.L.E., and make no profit from this work.


In The Blink of an Eye

Chapter Two

Napoleon wasn't completely sure what he had expected, but the hospital room was the same as always. After endless discussions with the doctors, about what was happening in Illya's brain, about new chances, about miracles and the like, he had dismissed them and come here.

It was the same as it had been seemingly forever. Quiet and well-lit and filled with that faint, low beep that Napoleon had come to love. The noise that told him that no matter what he dreamed, Illya hadn't left him yet.

He took up his usual seat, on the right side of Illya's bed, and slide his fingers around those lax, pale digits. He squeezed hard – properly harder than the nurses would like, if they saw it, but Napoleon didn't care. If it hurt, and that woke Illya up, then he wouldn't feel guilty about the brief pain.

"They said you woke up earlier," he murmured to the still form. He looked no different – no different at all. And even though he had woken up, those injuries...he was quite likely not the same man at all. He was quite likely mentally retarded, permanently damaged, ruined.

And deep down, Napoleon knew he was doomed because he didn't even care about that. At this point, all he wanted was some proof of life. Proof that the bullet hadn't killed him, as it should have done.

"I know you're antisocial," he continued softly, his voice the only warm thing in the sterile room, "but it's incredibly rude, you know. Just going off back into that little world in your head and ignoring me again after demanding I came. You knew I'd come if you pressed that button."

Gingerly, he lifted his hand and stroked the very edges of Illya's hair, where it cupped the top of his ear. He had only gotten to this point a few months ago – only now dared to touch anywhere near Illya's head. The wound had long-since healed – if he sifted through the blond hair to look, there would only be thin white scars, flat and unimpressive – but he couldn't help but remember the horror of it, and he was still terrified of hurting Illya's head further with his touch.

"There's nothing physically wrong with him," the doctors had said – an age ago now – but that just didn't sink in.

Napoleon knew that without Illya's reassurance and permission, it never would.

"You obviously wanted some reaction, and you got it. Terrified the life out of Nurse Richards, you know," Napoleon continued, stroking Illya's strong fingers absently. "You'll be lucky if she ever comes back in here. She's about the only nurse here who thinks you're an easy patient to care for. Mind you, she's only been here six months, so she doesn't really know you, does she?"

The banter had come very gradually. When Illya had first been admitted, Napoleon had been able to do nothing but cling to his hands and try not to cry or shake him in frustration. As the days, weeks, months passed, that sheer panic had faded into a depression: a terrible, gnawing pain that was the incomplete loss of his partner, coupled with the desperate, just-about-possible hope that he would come back.

Now, he talked or read. Everytime he came, he filled the air with noise, hoping that somewhere inside Illya's locked-down mind, it was making a difference. If nothing else, soothing him. If Napoleon couldn't bring him back, he could at least hope that wherever Illya was, he wasn't afraid.

"I know it's not my usual time," Napoleon said. "I'll come back tonight after work anyway. You wouldn't complain about extra time, would you? Especially not if I promise to bring the latest science journal for you. Dr. Michaels has started flicking through them himself, you know. You're educating the masses even from your bed. Nice job if you can get it."

He stopped dead, listening.

Had Illya sighed?

His breathing and heart rate remained steady and shallow, as they had been all the way through this hell, but Napoleon was sure that he'd heard one of those breaths released with more force than usual.

"Illya?" he breathed, hardly daring to hope. "Illya, can you hear me?"

He leaned forward, leaned over that slack face and moved one hand to his cheek, tapping lightly.

"Illya, wake up," he crooned. "It's time to wake up, Illya. It's not Sunday – we can't sleep in today."

His heart leapt – felt like it literally bounced in his chest – when the hand in his suddenly curled around his fingers like a slow, weak trap. Some kind of tension boiled in the muscles of his face, before Illya's eyelids flickered and Napoleon was rewarded with a flash of blue.

That blue held Napoleon's world. He hadn't seen that blue – that exact blue – for a long time, and had almost forgotten what it looked like. His photographs didn't do it any justice at all, and he hadn't dared exert the pressure near Illya's eyes enough to peel back his eyelids. That flash of blue tilted Napoleon's world on its axis, and the breath he released was distinctly shaky.

"Oh," he whispered, his voice dangerously close to cracking. "Oh, Illya..."

His spare hand fluttered around Illya's face, unsure what to touch, unsure what to do. He should, he knew, call the doctor, but he was determined not to have this interrupted. It could be, after all, his only chance. He knew nothing about comas – knew nothing about how they could or did end. For all he knew, this conciousness was nothing but a brief respite, or a prelude to death.

He squeezed those fingers back and offered Illya a trembling smile that felt too wide for his face. In response, the edges of Illya's mouth twitched briefly upwards for a moment before those slits of blue vanished again when he closed his eyes.

"Tired," and the word was more a breath than anything requiring vocal cords, but Napoleon could have cried at the precious sound all the same.

"Then sleep, sweetheart," he murmured, not caring what Illya thought of the endearment. He probably wouldn't notice. And even if he did, Napoleon would be damned if he was supposed to apologise for it. Not today. "Go to sleep, and I'll wake you again in a little while."

"You...alright?"

"I'm fine, Illya, I'm fine," Napoleon breathed, realising that Illya would have no clue how long it had been - would probably think that the mission was barely over. "I'm fine now that you're awake. It's all going to be fine."

He was given one last tiny pressure from Illya's long-disused fingers before they – and his face – went slack again and he was gone, swept under by that strange exhaustion.

Napoleon, with nobody to witness it, leaned forward and pressed his face into the hollow of Illya's neck, burying his nose in the warm flesh and feeling that steady pulse thumping in the carotid. He let out several long, shaking breaths, but he obstinately did not cry.

It was not a day for tears.