After several hours not falling asleep, he rolls out of bed. It's time for a change of scenery. He pulls on a pair of trousers, slides his gun into the waistband, and heads for the roof. The metal fire stairs are lovely and cool under his bare feet. Not that his apartment was overheated, exactly - just small, enclosed, and oddly stale.
He steps through the fire door, looks up, and draws a sudden breath. The stars have made a brilliant effort against New York light pollution tonight; the city itself gleams no brighter than the sky over Illya's head. Low in the west a crescent moon hangs above New Jersey.
Traffic rumbles on the streets below him, overlaid with the soft whoosh of the ventilation system, punctuated by the wail of sirens as police respond to a late-night call. He turns slowly around, taking in the skyline – the taller illuminated skyscrapers to the north; the darker streets toward the Narrows and the open sea; over above Long Island, the reflected gleam of airport lights against the sky.
A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair, making him shiver just a little in delightful anticipation of cooler days to come. It brings with it a scent from the East River – rotting seaweed and fish – and his nose wrinkles.
He sits down against the north parapet of the apartment building, wrapping his arms around his knees, snuggling back against the lumpy facing, and begins to count the stars.
"Beta Tauri," he mutters softly to himself. "Theta Aurigae. Beta Aurigae..."
Somewhere near the Andromeda Galaxy, counting east to west, his voice trails off. His blond head nods forward onto his knees, and the chilly dew settling thickly on his shoulders doesn't even disturb his breathing. Illya Kuryakin is fast asleep.