They had been funnelled into the alley between the two lab buildings, and Napoleon had the horrible feeling that that had been exactly the plan. It had been too easy for them to get into this place, the lab they had broken into had not been guarded well enough. He was certain that when Illya got a chance to look over the papers they had stolen that he would find they were useless. It was a plant. The whole thing was a plant. But why?

He could hear feet pounding. They would be catching up with them soon. A gun fired, and again.

'Look,' he said, nodding towards a drainpipe to the right. 'You get up there and go over the roof. I'll hold them off.'

'Uh-uh,' Illya immediately refused. 'What will happen to you?'

'You'll get out with the plans.'

'Napoleon, I'm not leaving you here,' Illya grated. 'Now come on.'

He ran ahead of Napoleon, and as he did he must have broken some kind of sensor, tripped a tripwire – something Napoleon couldn't see – because a fine spray suddenly hissed out into the air at head-height from the alley wall. Solo rolled to the ground, scooting under the cloud, but Illya was caught full in the face. There was a bitter, acrid scent in the air, and Napoleon held his breath. The Russian kept on running, hacking the scent out of his lungs, but as Napoleon scrambled to his feet on the other side of the cloud of spray he could see that something was wrong. Illya seemed disoriented suddenly. He stumbled.

Napoleon caught up with him just as their pursuers rounded the corner into the alley, and shots burst out again.

'Come on,' Napoleon urged him, grabbing hold of his partner's arm and jerking him onwards. Illya's legs worked fine, whatever the gas had been, and Napoleon ran through the gathering twilight, his heart pounding fit to burst, his fist gripped hard on the fabric of Illya's jacket.

'You okay, partner?' he gasped out as they pelted across the field on the other side of the labs, back towards the hole that Illya had cut in the fence earlier. 'Come on, not far now. What is it, Illya?'

'I don't – I can't – ' He seemed unable to say what he wanted to say. Illya was stumbling, his eyes streaming tears from whatever that spray had been, his free hand coming up as if to rub at his face and then dropping again. Both of them knew that rubbing at something like that could make it worse, no matter how bad the discomfort.

'Come on, down now, under the fence,' Napoleon was talking his partner through it, putting his hand on Illya's back to make sure he was low enough to get his backpack through the gap, before following him through. 'Now the car. The car. Illya, were you hit or was it just the spray?'

He couldn't see blood on him, but the light was failing badly now. He jerked Illya to his feet now they were past the fence, dragged him onward, and the Russian slammed into the car. Napoleon stripped the backpack from his partner's back and threw it into the car. Illya fumbled for the door handle before wrenching the door open and throwing himself into the seat.

'Hold tight, I'll drive,' Napoleon reassured him, shoving Illya over so that he could get into the driver's seat. He turned the keys and the engine roared into life, headlights suddenly making a yellow cut of light across the dirt track ahead. 'Illya, were you hit?' he asked again.

'No,' Illya ground out. 'Just that spray.'

The Russian gave a moan of suppressed pain and coughed the last of the bitter stuff from his lungs. His hand patted at his jacket pocket before pulling out a handkerchief, which he lifted to press delicately to his eyes, sponging the liquid away. Napoleon spared a glance away from the road, but it was hard to see in the darkness of the car, with the dazzle of headlights before them.

'What is it?' Napoleon asked. 'Chemical burn?'

Illya shook his head, and the note of fear in his voice cut through to Napoleon's core. 'I – I don't know. Napoleon, I – don't think I can see.'

Solo almost lurched off the road as he turned to stare at his partner, then he jerked the wheel back again, turning his eyes firmly back to the road ahead. He glanced in the rear view mirror. There was nothing behind them but dead, empty road.

'It's all right,' he murmured. 'No pursuit.'

'They wanted us to get away,' Illya said.

'They what?'

Illya still had the handkerchief pressed to his eyes. 'Think about it, Napoleon. We got in too easily, we got the plans too easily – '

'Yeah, I already figured that.'

'Then they chased us deliberately into that set up. I broke a tripwire just before that spray. If you'd been a bit closer you'd've been caught too. We got away with maybe ten men chasing us, and now there's no one in pursuit? They let us go, Napoleon. They did it on purpose.'

A kind of cold dread settled in Napoleon's chest and spread out to his extremities. The possibilities for that spray were endless. It could be a corrosive. It could be a slow-acting poison. Illya could be dying beside him right now.

'I'm getting you to an emergency room,' he said.

'Napoleon, we are barely forty miles from New York City,' Illya said flatly. 'Take me to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Napoleon began, but Illya snapped over him, 'Napoleon, do you think a Westchester emergency room will be equipped for whatever Thrush decided to trial on me? Take me to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.'

Illya's lips pressed closed and he rested his head against the pillar of the car, inviting no further discussion. Napoleon put his foot down hard on the gas. He knew his partner was right.

((O))

Napoleon broke all kinds of speed limits on their way back into the city, but it was the early hours of the morning, and the streets were dead. He didn't even see any cop cars, and he thanked god for that, because they would have pulled him over instantly. Fast as he was driving, he kept stealing glances at his partner, kept talking to him to be sure he wasn't slipping away, kept asking him, 'How are your eyes now? Can you see?'

'I don't know,' Illya said tightly each time, and Napoleon wanted to scream at him, 'How can't you know if you can see or not?'

They screamed into the street that ran along outside the long U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, concealed behind the innocent looking façades of the brownstone and whitestone buildings that made up the block. Since Del Floria's was shut at night, Napoleon made for the Masked Club. The exclusive restaurant was open until Del Floria's opened its doors again in the morning, under the guise of admitting cleaning staff even after all the diners had gone home.

Napoleon made no pretence at elegance or politeness. He grabbed both Illya and the backpack from the car and hustled him in through the service entrance to the restaurant, through the kitchen, and out into the dining area, where a single woman was plying a droning vacuum cleaner across the carpets with very little enthusiasm. Of course she was an U.N.C.L.E. employee, and she barely spared a glance for the strange sight of the dark haired man hustling his blond companion into a curtained booth.

Napoleon burst through into the brightly lit corridors of headquarters, noticing with growing dread that Illya barely reacted to the sudden light after the dim of the streets and empty restaurant. The Russian's eyes were still streaming and he was still clutching the handkerchief to his face. All along the virtually empty corridors he kept watching Illya, holding onto his arms as he manoeuvred him left and right, until he got him into the infirmary, where someone was always on duty. Standing there in the bright lights, Illya looked scared, small, bewildered. It wasn't a look he was used to on the Russian, but he could completely understand. He was waiting for Illya to collapse, for his breathing to become laboured, for the skin to start peeling from his face.

The night staff mobilised at once, hurrying Illya to a cubicle, calling the doctor, and that was where he was now, lying on a narrow bed with the doctor leaning over him asking him question after question.

'What was it? the doctor asked, and before Illya could answer Napoleon said, 'It was some kind of spray, caught him right in the face.'

'I do have the power of speech,' Illya cut in, and the ice in his voice silenced Napoleon at once. 'We were at the Westchester Thrush lab,' he continued, 'making an escape. It was some kind of chemical primed to go off at head height. It caught me straight in the eyes. It was obviously designed that way. It was a trap.'

'Hmm,' was all Dr Malhotra said. Napoleon could have decked him. The doctor got out a scope and leant close to the Russian, lifting an eyelid at a time and peering into his eyes. Napoleon crowded in too, seeing that his partner's pupils were barely reacting to the bright light.

'It tasted bitter,' Illya supplied. 'Very bitter. Reminded me of denatonium saccharide.'

'That's one for the labs, but it's not dangerous in itself,' Dr Malhotra murmured. 'Maybe a deterrent additive.'

'I was thinking the same,' Illya replied. Napoleon stood with his hands on his hips, resisting asking what the hell the two were talking about. If the chemical wasn't dangerous it didn't matter. It was the one that was blinding his partner that counted.

'Can you tell me exactly what you see?' Dr Malhotra asked, sounding ridiculously calm.

Illya's blue eyes widened, his head turned to the left and right, and he lifted a hand. 'Some light, there,' he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the strip light on the ceiling.

'Nothing else?'

Illya's eyes narrowed now as if he were trying desperately to focus. 'It's all a blur. Some colours, a kind of grey and some yellow. And the general direction of the light. That's all.'

'I want to try to get a sample of this chemical,' Dr Malhotra told the Russian. 'Now, I'm going to scrape a little at the skin on your cheek, okay? I'll send that handkerchief off too.'

Napoleon paced as Dr Malhotra did his work. No wonder Illya hadn't been sure what he could see. In the dim of the car, the night all around them, he had only been able to perceive the blur of bright lights in the darkness. Now, in the brilliantly lit U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, it was quite obvious that he was blind.

'We will irrigate the eyes,' the doctor was saying, 'and cleanse all of the skin around. Do you feel any irritation or pain?'

'Not now,' Illya said flatly. 'At first there was a stinging sensation.'

Napoleon kept pacing. He didn't know how to look at his partner because every time he looked at him he saw blind, blue eyes and an unaccustomed look of fear that the Russian was desperately trying to mask. He picked up the backpack he had brought in with them and opened it up, pulling out the papers that they had taken from the safe. Had that safe-cracking been Illya's last job with U.N.C.L.E.? Was this it?

He bit down on those thoughts, spreading the papers on a cabinet at the side of the room. Illya's head jerked at the noise.

'Napoleon? Are those the papers?' he asked.

'Yeah,' Napoleon muttered, scanning his eyes over the figures before him, rustling through the layers and reading snippets.

'It's as we thought?' Illya asked, his voice hardening.

'Yeah,' Napoleon replied again. He only just stopped himself from throwing the whole lot to the ground. No matter what he thought of them, Cryptography would have to go over them, just in case. 'It's garbage, Illya. Nothing but garbage.'

The silence filled the room. They had been acting on a tip-off when they went to retrieve the papers. They knew the Westchester lab was a front for Thrush. They knew that the enemy agency was developing something new, something that was causing a stir in the right circles. The tip-off had come at just the right time, telling them when the place was least guarded, and just where the papers were kept.

Napoleon hurled a kidney bowl to the floor. The doctor turned and gave him a reproving look.

'Mr Solo, if you feel like destroying things, please do it outside of my infirmary,' he said.

'I – er – I'm sorry,' Solo said guiltily, picking up the dish and putting it carefully back where it came from. 'Look, have you finished with Illya?' he asked.

The doctor looked between the two men. 'As I said, I want to send off these samples for analysis. I'm going to get a nurse to irrigate the eyes thoroughly. And then I want Mr Kuryakin to have a shower to make sure there are no traces of that chemical on his skin surface. You will be staying here overnight, Mr Kuryakin, to be sure there are no complications.'

Napoleon recognised the prickly look as Illya shifted on the bed. More than anything, Illya hated to be in the infirmary. He almost thought he would rather be tortured than treated for said torture afterwards.

'Is that really necessary?' the Russian asked, pushing himself up on his elbows as if to prove there was nothing wrong with him.

'Er, Illya, I think this one time – ' Napoleon began, coming across the room to his partner.

'Now really, Mr Kuryakin. It's four o'clock in the morning. Will it make that much difference for you to sleep a few hours here instead of in your own bed?' the doctor chimed in.

Oh, Napoleon thought silently, to Illya it makes all the difference in the world. Illya could have slept on a park bench, on the back seat of a car. It wasn't about sleeping in his own bed, it was about sleeping anywhere that wasn't a hospital bed.

'Illya,' Napoleon said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Illya flinched minutely as if he had not been aware that he was so close. 'The doctor's right. We don't know what that spray was. It might start affecting your nervous system, your respiratory system. I need to take those papers up to Cryptography and I need to type up a report for Mr Waverly. You just go to sleep, and it'll be morning before you know it.'

Illya was very silent. He just lay there, propped up on his elbows, his head slightly lowered. Then he asked, 'How will I know that it is morning?'

Napoleon took the risk of ignoring the dark tone. 'Because I will be at your side with coffee and pastries,' he promised. 'I'll get my report done and I'll sleep in one of the beds here. And maybe in the morning – '

He didn't say it. He wanted to say it. Maybe in the morning your eyes will be fine. But he didn't say it, because he didn't believe it was true.

((O))

Illya lay on the bed in silence after Napoleon left. He had been in many situations since joining U.N.C.L.E. that had made him feel helpless. He had been strung up from his wrists, staked to the ground, drugged, imprisoned. But nothing came close to this. No one was holding him down. No one had tied him up. But he felt tied. He felt as if he could not move from the bed.

The doctor supervised the irrigation of his eyes, which made them sting all over again, and then left him. A few minutes later someone entered the cubicle, and he had to hold every muscle in his body to prevent himself from reacting defensively. It was one of the nurses, he was sure, and when she spoke he knew.

'Mr Kuryakin, I've come to help you with your shower,' she said in a soft, sympathetic voice that made him want to vomit.

'I do not need help to shower,' he said darkly. 'I take a shower every day.'

'Now, Mr Kuryakin,' she said in a pacifying tone.

She had a slight southern accent that grated on Illya's ears. He thought he remembered her from another time in the infirmary, a strawberry blonde that Napoleon had flirted with shamelessly, but he couldn't be sure. It irritated him that he could not positively identify her from her voice.

He pressed his lips together, hard. But he knew he needed help. He knew where the showers were in the infirmary; he had used them before. But he did not know which cubicle he was in, which way he was facing. He didn't know what might be in the way. He couldn't get to the damn showers alone.

'Do you have a robe?'

'I beg your pardon?' she asked, sounding distracted.

'Do. You. Have. A. Robe?' he repeated, his tone of voice murderous.

'Er – well yes, I have a robe for you right here,' she told him.

'Give it to me and step outside,' he told her.

She hesitated, but perhaps something about his tone indicated this was the only cooperation she would get. She deposited a fluffy heap of towelling into his arms, and he heard her footsteps retreat and the curtain hooks scrape back along the rail.

He couldn't tell if he were being watched. He hated that. He knew he was in U.N.C.L.E. medical and the only people to watch were medical staff, but he hated the sense of vulnerability. He shrugged it off, though. He had to. There was enough to be suspicious of in the outside world without suspecting people here in the safety of headquarters.

Meticulously, Illya removed his jacket, then his holster and gun. He felt by the bed, looking for a surface; but of course this was just an examination cubicle. No night stands here. So he carefully laid his gun and communicator pen together on the bed, then removed the rest of his clothes and laid them down. He shrugged on the robe, belted it, then said in a dark voice, 'You may come in now. I have put my gun and communicator on the bed. I expect them to be there when I return.'

The curtain scraped aside again.

'They'll be there, Mr Kuryakin. Don't you worry.'

Her kindness was starting to sound forced. She took hold of his arm and he almost shook it off, but then acquiesced and let her lead him to the shower. With a surprising amount of consideration she handed him a bottle of liquid soap, turned on the water, and then left him to it.

Illya stood under the hot spray, breathing very slowly, in and out. After a while he unscrewed the lid of the bottle and shook some of the soap into his hands. It smelt medicinal, disinfectant-like, but if it would remove this stuff that had sprayed over his face and hair then he supposed it was good. He tried to find the little shelf he knew was in there to put the bottle on, and failed, so he simply dropped it on the floor. Then he stood scrubbing at himself until he realised that the motions had become obsessive. He couldn't rub the soap into his eyes, and he was compensating by trying to remove his top layer of skin.

He turned his head up to the water and let it stream over the planes of his face. He opened his eyes wide and hissed at the sting as hot water hit his naked eyeballs. He blinked and blinked again, but nothing changed. When he rubbed the water out of his eyes he was still surrounded by a dim blur. When he held his hand in front of his face he could tell it was there only by a flicker in the light.

He stood there for so long that eventually the nurse outside became worried. A tap on the door became a louder thud, and then her voice asked, 'Mr Kuryakin? Are you okay in there?'

'I am just fine,' he replied irritably, reaching out to turn the shower off. He found the knob, turned it, and the water suddenly became freezing. Giving up, he stepped out of the cubicle with the water left on, and found his robe where he had left it. Shrugging it on, he took a deep breath and said in a very controlled voice, 'I have finished. Could you help me back to my bed?'