Illya wove the boat in and out of turns, cutting through the water like a scythe. The gunfire and engines were loud in his ears, and he distantly felt wood splinters lodge themselves into left side of his neck and strike harmlessly off his coat. He twitched in realization, to his left where Napoleon Solo should have been. He risked a quick backwards glance. Instead of the American, clinging there with his useless sardonic grin, and more useful ability to use a firearm, was only torn up seating and the marred varnish exterior. But notably, no blood spray glinted black in the moonlight. Illya veered the boat tightly again and reached for his own weapon.

A silenced pistol holds only small number of round. Equipped today were hollow roads, not designed for great stopping power, or ricochets off metal, or armour piercing, or anything that would be ideal in this scenario. These were bullets designed to penetrate the body and fragment, and reflect off of bone. Penetration with no exit wounds, no chance for a clean recovery. An assassin's tool, because that was what Illya was, an agent that was more suited to enemy neutralizations, asset acquisition, interrogations, and surveillance, not undercover play acting that he knew he had performed so miserably at today. His slip up at the racetrack, all though he did not feel sorry for the three Italian boys playing at being tough Mafioso's, would compromise the image he had tried to build for himself, the Russian scholar, the architect. An image that had already cost him dearly.

While the watch was considered impressive and in style when his father had purchased it, perhaps, Illya had considered dourly with money laundered away from the Party, it was nothing special, if a well maintained timepiece. A relict of a life that was grander before the fall of his family's integrity. Its loss had removed one of only connections to a man, whose absence Illya guiltily mourned.

All of the evasive driving, and carefully time shots back at the chasing gun boat would have worked better if Solo had not disappeared. The "Cowboy" was off, fulfilling the symbolism of striking it out alone, completely contravening his own strategy to escape. It would be difficult to balance driving erratically enough to throw off the aim of his pursuers, and line up his own shot. He needed enough of a cross angle to effectively hit the gunner with the amount of ammunition limited to that in his firearm. A reload would be deadly. The driver was a secondary target, hidden behind four walls of glass and metal. Illya turned the boat dramatically, appreciated the tighter handling the smaller boat could perform, the only advantage Illya had. He turned to raise his gun, and shot with practised instinct at the mailslot sized hole the gunner used to aim at him. The return gunfire did not cease.

Illya briefly wondered what had happened to the Cowboy, different possibilities had played in his mind. The American had made a break for the shore, or had been shot, or was dead. Being struck by a boat was his personal favourite, though he rated it as more unlikely. But for all Illya's own show boating and defensive driving to impress the American, Illya's efforts did not stop one of the large caliber rounds from striking the gas tank, and another sparking the metal in the engine igniting it. Illya felt the heat of the explosion briefly as he flew through the air. Twisted engine scrap, and glossy wood sprayed into the air around him. And hit him squarely at the base of his skull, and he flopped into the water without style.

Everything stopped. His eyes half-slitted saw nothing, his limbs moved only with the underwater currents and movements caused by the force of the explosion and nearby humming of the remaining motor. His head bobbed listless, and he felt none of it.

It was gray, empty void where he unknowingly waited, until a spark of agony built up and shocked a part of him awake.

The world un-paused. Pain in his chest, and his head filled his world, and he gasped. And inhaled. Cool, slimy water worked its way into his lungs the moment he opened his mouth in an uncharacteristic reaction to the return of his senses. His diaphragm locked then, as if he had been kicked. This tight airless feeling overruled the sting at the base of his skull, and inflamed the ache in his chest into a wildfire. Almost impossibly fast, panic gripped him, and faded away.

He opened his eyes, and could only see his empty wrist floating in front of his face. His watch was missing. He recognised he was still stunned, part of his mind aware enough to know, to feel water pressing down on him, pulling him. The weight of his clothes drew his dense mass even quicker to the depths of the harbour. He knew he should kick, but could not muster the energy to even flail in his own defence. The water pushed against his ears uncomfortably. He saw the stars flickering across his vision almost as clearly as if he were outside in the freezing winter nights doing a training drill near Moscow. The stairs blinked out.

M.F.U.

Pain in his back precluded a pressure in his chest, and water gushed from his mouth. He hung their limply, feeling a vice like grip holding his airway open as he coughed. He coughed again. There was a buzzing in his ears, occasionally thrumming with low dissonance of undeterminable sound. The support on his head disappeared, and he felt something cool envelop his face again.

He was wrenched up again, the night air again blowing the dripping water off of his face. A third impact to his back galvanised him into take a deeper breath. He could hear the wind now, and a low voice spoke into his ear and he sputtered, water rushing again from inside, interfering with his effort to take a full breath.

"Peril, are you with me?" The hand that had just pushed into his shoulder blades snaked around him, holding under his arms.

The English bounced around in his muddled skull, not aided by the feeling of vertigo, as he literally bobbed, supported by frequent kicks. A few gasping breaths passed, before he was able to comprehend the words. He sensed himself moving, and heard the measured breathes of another, and felt the tug on his neck, and the brace of an arm around his chest. The movement was jerky, stop start, but they made slow progress.

"Illya, I need you to wake up." The other voice was growing more breathless now, but still quiet. "Open your eyes, and pick up your head."

Feeling was slowly returning to Illya's arms and legs, strength tightening up into control, a small question in Russian fell out of his mouth, as he peeled his burning eyes open. "What is going on?" And he choked on his words, brine flavoured water spewed again from his chest to his mouth. He took a deep breath and pushed down with his arms, moving them to keep his head up. As the oxygen flowed into his blood and around his body, he felt his legs start to churn, to kick. The hand cupping his chin let go, but the one fisting into the front of his jacket remained.

The hold his rescuer on had on him tightened. "Stay quiet Illya."

A name in his mind seemed fit to cover the man behind him, and his memory started fitting in like jagged pieces. Surprise overcame and he stopped moving for a moment. "Dammit," Napoleon said and reefed on him again.

"No, Cowboy. I'm with you." And Illya moved to follow the American, his rescuer to a ledge at the border of the harbour.

The American pushed him forward to the ladder, insisting he go first. Illya tried to focus his senses, there were no signs that the satellite factory guards had been aware that their demise had been anything less than absolute. "Up you go first, Peril."

Illya agreed, he had spent enough of his life, what would have been the remainder of his life in that damn pond, if not for the American agent. While he was not sure what loyalty the American thought he owed the Russian, Illya deeply appreciated it.

The climb up the edge sapped what precious little strength he had cobbled together since waking up. Illya crouched, and surrendered to his hands and knees to cough again, proceeding to gag up the water he unknowingly drank. A hand, impossibly warm against his cold shoulder gripped him.

"We need to go, if you are quite finished. I doubt this little show will have gone unremarked." The American agent stood now to his side and offered out his hand again. Illya grasped it, and shook it once he stood up. He did not thank the American, whose mouth twitched. He also did not protest riding double on the motorcycle the American had so quickly commandeered.

Solo did not comment when he found Illya again on his knees when he came back with their transport to the hotel.

MFU

Illya set down the radio transmitter feeling conflicting relief that Napoleon had obviously deterred suspicion, and annoyance at the criminal's lack of morals. Women were not toys to be gone through for entertainment. While he knew Victoria was no blushing innocent, she was a married women. As he stood from the hunched over position he adopted to put his receiver away, another coughing episode caught him off guard.

He hacked and bellowed loud enough to his chagrin that the Little Chop Shop Girl had left the bedroom and appeared in front of him. Illya would not meet her eyes as he struggled to draw in air without setting off another spell of coughing and breathlessness. He heard her feet flutter past him on the plush rug, and come back. One of the hotel glasses hovered by his face.

"Here take a sip for your throat." She proffered the glass at him again when he did not reach to take it from her. "It's just water."

Illya swallowed a mouthful, and his stomach nearly rejected it. Gaby pushed him onto one of the plush couches, but she had jumped after hand made contact with him. "Your clothes are wet."

"Cowboy and I went for a swim." Illya looked at her then and read fear and concern at war in her face. The fear made him pause, maybe he should not have left her alone. Perhaps had something happened to her during their diversion to the satellite factory? She appeared well, but he saw nervous dread in her features. "Are you well?"

"You look and sound like you drowned." It did not escape Illya's notice, as muddled as he felt that she had not answered his question. But he could find no new motivation for her not to share any new concerns for her own safety. She had said it herself, Illya and Napoleon were there to keep her safe.

She frowned deeply, "I should make you have a drink, get out of those clothes before you catch a chill. You already sound ill." Her hand reached out to touch his forehead, and he stopped her by quickly standing away from her.

"Go get some sleep, one of use should be fresh for tomorrow." He ordered her, knowing it was likely in vain, and reached to unzip his coat. They were not in public, so the chances she would act like a proper wife were slim, but he hoped. He felt crowded and uneasy with her care. It was nothing he could not provide for himself. Sharing weakness with her would not garner him any advantage, and he had already been exposed to deeply to Solo this evening. Illya was deep conscientious that the American would already been measuring the night's events and using them to his advantage should their objectives pit them against each other again.

Illya walked to the entry closet and hung it, hoping it would drip dry by the time he needed it again. He went into the main bathroom of the suite and began peeling off his soaked shirt and undershirt, rinsing off with a cloth wetted warmly in the sink.

Her voice sounded too close to shut door. "I, uh, got a call from Uncle Rudy, the two of us are meeting at noon."

Illya nodded, though she could not see that. The door opened a crack, and her delicate wrist appeared, holding his pajamas. He grabbed them from her.

"Good night Illya."

He continued changing into dry night clothes, and did not look forward to another night on the couch, keeping himself half aware to keep watch. The unfinished chess scenario beckoned to him from the coffee table. She was in bed, at least making a passable attempt at sleeping when he emerged.

Illya sat on the couch and closed his eyes trying to forget the sensation of the water pushing in on him, and pulling him down. He winced when the back of his head glanced the sofa.

MFU

The three of them stood on the boat, together surrounded by Naval personnel, and the harbour master, and Waverly. Gaby stood listening intently after she made her way back to the deck after talking the scientist into setting off the coupler device. Her memory and technological expertise was an asset to the mission. Illya watched characteristically quiet during the rapid-fire English exchange Napoleon conducted, Victoria at the mercy of his own web of malice and charisma, inadvertently giving up her location, dooming her and the remaining computer disk to destruction.

Illya, who did not let his personal feelings get in the way of orders, had an unspoken preference that no country get the upper hand in war that wanted to use the weapons deployed on the Japanese cities. Purposively harming civilians in combat was a low, a disservice to the uniform of any country or ideal.

The fatigue that gripped Illya since the beginning of the mission was quickly becoming a test of his resolve. He committed not to founder first, knowing that Gaby and Solo were both injured, having been taken captive and abused worse than he. Illya alone had remained free, but knew the roll he had taken down the hill had done him no favors. Nor did he feel himself since that dip in the harbour two nights prior. Outrunning the dogs had almost given Illya cause for concern with his own performance.

Changing into the dry clothing had revealed the makings of some truly spectacular bruising. He had taped a few gauze pad to spots that oozed blood that he could reach. Minor injuries resulting from the pinch of the motorcycle and hillside biting into his back and chest. That was all he had time to consider before Solo and Gaby had come to collect him for the final stage of the plan.

While he disdained using alcohol during a mission, he longed for something to control the pain wrapping its way around his lungs, and squeezing with his every breath. He used his not inconsiderable self-control and pushed it away. It was likely that there were fractures, a stress that he had dealt with before. It must have been the fatigue that was causing the shortness of breath to feel exacerbated. The chill that gripped him, since coming to in the mud had not left either, even standing in the warm Italian sun.

Illya noted that Solo, whom Illya had found being tortured, then watched being beat with steel bar had not faltered since pushing himself up from the hillside. The American had grit and tenacity to spare. His charm and persuasive wit were as dangerous as ever.

Gabby, showered and changed into a naval jumper was on point, sharp and her observational skills were on key. Strong and capable the Little Chop Shop Girl was. Her abilities were welcomed but not surprising to the Russian. Illya had worked with many female KGB agents who were deadly masters of their crafts, and never looked twice at the women during the war who fought the Germans.

He admired Gaby's resolve and her ability. Illya now reflected what her nervousness was that morning, her fear for him and the Cowboy, as she prepared to hand them over to their enemies on orders from the Brit Waverly.

The debriefing for the mission was conducted quickly. By noon, another helicopter had deposited them back in Rome, and a car on standby had taken them back to their hotel to pack. Illya had noted that even Solo appeared to be shaky when he stood up from the car that had pulled up to the hotel. But the man admitted nothing and made no excuses, so Illya likewise said nothing.

They had all freshened up first, and the steam had relieved some of the discomfort in his lungs. He packed his belongings up slowly, the movement aggravating everything that he had catalogued as being damaged in the hotel bath. A sprained shoulder, minor cuts and abrasions not worth stitching, and several bruised if not lightly fractured ribs needed about a week to heal sufficiently to be at optimal efficiency. However, that persistent chilled feeling was not even relieved in the warm bath of the hotel. He caught himself to cough softly, trying to stifle the sound.

Illya was pleased that it was the end of the mission, and he was far from base. It would allow him some recuperation away from the eyes and condemnation of his superiors. For all he remarked that Napoleon Solo's balls were on a long leash, he only had one misstep to make before he and his mother were sent to Gulag, or judged worthy of wasting ammunition for his firing line.

The tightness in his chest when Gaby pulled away from him when the bellhop entered in the room had nothing do with physical weakness, nor did it when his orders came in from his superior in the KGB allowing his Gaby to slip out the door without saying goodbye.

Illya did not remember passing the frightened bellhop in the hall who glanced into the Russian's room after as he left. Illya remembered nothing until Solo gave him back his father's watch.

Relief untwisted part of the knot in his chest. The item that gave him so conflicted a comfort, fit neatly again on his wrist. He took a drink from one of the glasses he poured, and handed the other to Napoleon. Napoleon gave him a genuine smile.

A cough ripped its way out of Illya's mouth, and Napoleon raised his head sharply and a flinch followed, escaping the American's control. Illya's subconscious categorised that reaction, but a lightheaded feeling overtook him. The carpet was soft beneath his knees. Solo took the glass from his hand.

"Gaby told me you refused to drink with her earlier, but I did not believe it possible for one drink to put a Russian under the table." Napoleon's voice was nothing like concern, but his face had a different cast to it.

Sweat dripped down Illya's reddened face. He chose not to reply. Either he play against the stereotype and pretend he was lush, but it was an obvious lie. The alternative was to admit to the Cowboy how poorly he felt. For his injuries, it was an unreasonable weakness - it was too much, too intense of a feeling of discomfort for a few broken ribs. It almost felt like he had a chest infection or worse a pneumonia brewing. Something he did not have time for.

Napoleon settled on his haunches before Illya, and another expression of pain rippled across the American's features. "Well I don't know about you Peril, but I believe I could do with a few days off. And maybe the gentle affections of a kind hearted nurse."

Solo rolled his shoulders. "Ready to get up?" Illya forced himself to his feet at that, refusing the offer of help, and swayed. Sparks of light ignited at the corners of his vision. Illya ignored the hand that held him steady, and disappeared after a minute.

The American nodded and gestured at the computer disk. "It would be a shame if it was too damaged for either government to use, wouldn't it." Illya grinned at that and pulled out a lighter.

Solo walked shoulder to shoulder with him, and Illya felt him tremble as well. They both watched the film catch fire, and caught each other's eyes with a strange sense of common satisfaction. Napoleon rubbed his neck.

Waverly and Gaby approached.

MFU

Illya grimaced as the nurse pushed a shot of penicillin into hip. Napoleon lay on the next stretcher, the doctor listening to his heart, and poking and prodding at the muscles in his neck and the bones in his forearm.

Gaby paced behind the curtain, already having been cleared by Waverly's medical staff. Her shoes clicked loudly. She had been furious when she had brushed up against him out on the veranda and noticed his fever. And been even more astounded when Napoleon had 'offhandedly mentioned' how Illya had drowned. But Napoleon's bravado had failed him when after he tried to stand from his chair, he had sat back abruptly, pale as ghost and murmured about how it felt like his heart had skipped a beat. Gaby had grabbed Solo's arm, causing him curse, and inspection of the limb revealed a nearly black, swollen bruise.

The aspirin that the nurse had handed to him had gone down bitterly after she had checked his temperature. Another orderly brought up several sets of x-rays and hung them on the lamp for the doctor to peruse. Illya could see the white cloud at the bottom of his lungs from where he lay against the inclined bed, propped up with additional pillows making it possible to breath. After focusing his eyes, he noted black cracks across two of his ribs. Solo's wrist looked fine.

The doctor proclaimed them both on bedrest until the antibiotics kicked in for Illya, who had narrowly escaped being placed on an oxygen mask, and Napoleon's heart rate remained at baseline at rest for twenty four hours, whatever that meant.

Gaby entered from behind the curtain, her soft brown eyes sweeping both her partners, and sat at the end of Illya's bed. "If either of you attempt to conceal injuries like these again from each other and myself…" Her voice trailed off. The implied threat was felt.

Napoleon nodded solemnly, and then beamed at her. "Nearly all of my missions don't end in the infirmary." He attempted to reassure her. She stared him down.

"Just the one's where he is made a fool by the black widow." Illya put in, and his breath caught funny in his chest. Gaby's laser sharp gaze scorched him instead.

"I swear to be honest with you, my partners." Illya amended.

"I will not promise honestly, but I will never say or withhold anything that will hurt you." Napoleon vowed.

Gabby surrendered a smile to that. "I'm new to this espionage business, but I promise that I will be loyal to you both."

Napoleon cut in, "We know you were acting on orders, and there is nothing to be ashamed..."

She stiffened at these words, and Illya fought the urge to grab her hand in comfort. She stood, and pulled a parcel from off a chair across from the beds. "I saw you played chess, perhaps you could teach me."

"It would be a pleasure," Napoleon cut in, just as Illya started to say the affirmative, "Ja…"

Gaby smiled. "Well I suppose we all have something to learn from each other."

Please let me know what you think. I was trying to stay to true to tenuous nature of the character's trust, and budding loyalties.

I haven't been able to write creatively in years, but the Man from UNCLE sprung loose my writer's block. The characters were so genuine and charismatic. Now that I have this down, I hope to finish my next work related article, and maybe tackle a different POV, or a new adventure. Looking for all comments with one, please let me know what you thought, I want to evolve as a writer.

Also this little bit will serve as the basis for my ongoing series Intentionally Misfiled Reports. But I will ensure that all stories may be read independently.