I finally saw The Man from U.N.C.L.E. this week and am officially obsessed. Seriously, a world-endangering plot, cool spy tactics, and two beautiful men with some serious bromance chemistry? What's not to love?

Anyhoo, on to the fic! I'm not entirely sure I got Solo's tone right so, as always, constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: These gorgeous boys are not mine...

Illya finds Solo in the clutches of Uncle Rudi.

The tired, underpaid guard never saw it coming. Illya struck swiftly and silently, striking the man at the junction point between his neck and head with the edge of his hand. The man didn't even grunt, just dropped like a stone.

Stepping over the crumpled body of the guard, Illya peered through the grimy window into the adjacent chamber. A beat later, he could feel his face hardening into a frown.

Napoleon Solo, that arrogant son-of-a-bitch American, was secured to a battered-looking metal chair by leather straps across his forehead and around his wrists. And yet Illya found himself vaguely grateful for the restraints as he watched as Solo's body convulsed and jerked uncontrollably. They were probably all that was keeping the man from falling onto the floor. Illya watched as blood dripped from Solo's nose, the air around him crackling with electricity. The faint smell of smoke reached the Russian's nose.

Illya could feel the world around him fading out of existence, replaced only by the thrumming of his own pulse in his ears. His hands clenched into fists and his vision tunneled around the little man with glasses and a receding hairline that sat to the side, watching Solo's torture with a little too much glee. One finger tapping against this leg, Illya knew he wanted to kill this man.

Not because the American meant anything to him, of course. No, Illya didn't have friends and, even if he did, Solo certainly wasn't one of them. But the American had saved his life and Illya always repaid his debts.

Unleashing his fury, Illya burst through the swinging doors, startling little Uncle Rudi. The old man looked up at the massive Russian in sudden fear just half a second before Illya's fist collided with his jaw, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor. Rudi yelped pathetically when Illya reached down, picked the smaller man up by the shirt collar, and pinned him against the wall with a massive forearm pressed against his throat.

"Please," Rudi gasped, his voice tight and high from the strain. "You don't need to use threats or pain with me. I'll tell you anything you want!"

A madman and a weasel. Illya's lip curled upwards in disgust and he forcefully slammed Rudi's head backwards into the wall. The old man sagged forward against his arm, unconscious. "I deal with you later."

Only now, with the torturer down for the count, did Illya's pulse start to slow and the rest of the world start to come back into focus. Now he became aware that Solo had not stopped convulsing and the chair he was strapped to was still coursing electricity through his body, even without its operator. Illya stepped closer and, ignoring the blood now pooling on Solo's upper lip, turned his attention to the massive tangle of cables on the floor around the chair. What a mess. It was impossible to distinguish which wires were essential to the chair's functionality and which were not.

So Illya did what any resourceful agent would have done. He gathered the mass of wires in both of his large hands and with one swift yank pulled all of them out of their various connections.

It seemed to work, because the electrical tension in the air dissipated and Solo's convulsing slowed to a sporadic twitch. Satisfied, Illya kicked the wires to the side and tapped Solo on none too lightly on the face before getting to work on the restraints. "Oi, Cowboy, are you with me?"

Solo didn't show any sign of response, his eyes closed and his face oddly slack. Illya slapped him again, putting a little more force behind the blow. "Cowboy?"

The force of Illya's blow had Solo slouching farther down in his seat now that he was freed from his restraints. There was something boneless and lifeless about the movement that had Illya inching even closer to press two fingers against the American's carotid.

After five beats of silence Illya was forced to admit that there was no beat beneath his fingers.

Cursing violently in his native tongue, Illya maneuvered the bulky American onto the ground where he laid him out flat. As he laced his fingers together and began to pump Solo's chest over his heart in a steady rhythm, Illya noticed the dirt and grime that covered the floor clinging to the crisp white of Solo's dress shirt. Had Solo begin conscious - no, alive - this would have bothered him greatly. The thought made Illya strike Solo's chest one last time with desperate frustration.

And just like that, the stubborn American gasped and then, choking on the musty bunker air, broke into a harsh coughing fit. Illya rolled Solo onto his side even as he checked his pulse again. There it was, a bit thready and a little too fast, but still there. Illya let his own head sag against his chest in relief.

"Napoleon, that was too close. You - " Illyah cut himself off sharply, biting back the words he'd been about to say. You had me worried. Illya was actually surprised to find this was true. When had that damn American slipped past his defenses so entirely?

Thankfully, Solo didn't seem to notice. He mumbled something, his words slurred and hard to distinguish. "...mother…"

"What?" Illya asked, brows knitting in concern. Maybe Solo had been gone for too long, the electricity had scrambled his brain…

Solo coughed once more and tried again, his blue eyes fluttering open. "Only my mother calls me N'pleon."

"Cowboy, then," Illya replied, letting a little sigh of relief escape out his lips. "Can you move?"

Solo gave a short nod and grasped the Russian agent's hand, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. Once he was up, Solo sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut, dizzy from the change in elevation. "Peril, why does it feel like an army has marched across my chest?"

Illya simply shrugged, ducking under the shorter man's shoulder to keep him steady as he swayed slightly. "You were being stubborn."

Solo spared his companion a glance, alerted by something the Russian's tone. Illya saw respect and gratitude shining in that blue gaze. Suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Illya fished a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. "Your nose bleeds."

"Hm." Illya could feel the rumble of Solo's voice as it vibrated through the smaller man's body and into his own. Solo mopped at the blood on his upper lip and glanced around the dim torture chamber. "And what did you do with our Uncle Rudi?"

Illya didn't say anything, instead gesturing to the motionless old man sprawled on the floor by the door.

Now it was Solo's turn to frown. "He hit his head, I presume? That's a shame. I'm sure he could have shared some interesting information with us."

As if on cue, Rudi groaned and shifted slightly, working his way towards wakefulness. Solo's otherwise pale face brightened. "I stand corrected. Now, whatever shall we do with him?"

Illya turned to his enemy-turned-partner, a deadly smirk pulling at his mouth. "I think I have an idea."