the mad mad tea party affair

And Illya should be back by now. 

If he’s coming back.

Which he better fucking be, because death by drowning is not on the list of Napoleon’s ideal ways to go out. Not unless it was preceded by an epic fight at the top of a waterfall that ended with him taking his mortal enemy over the edge with him, like Sherlock Holmes. 

That would make Kuryakin my Watson, he thinks. It almost makes him smile.

Time passes. He’s contemplating trying to float again, just to give himself a bit of rest, when things go from bad to worse in the form of a muscle cramp, deep in his upper calf. The abrupt sharp ache catches Napoleon off guard and he barely has time to swear before his head goes under, the steady rhythm of his arms and legs suddenly disrupted. He comes up coughing and sputtering and hissing in pain as he tries desperately to stay afloat. 

Panicking would be the worst thing for him to do right now. Unfortunately, Napoleon is rarely the kind to do things halfway, and his already aching chest begins to tighten, his frantic movements doing nothing to keep him from going beneath the surface of the water again.

He’s under longer this time before he makes his way, flailing, to the surface again. He manages to stay up long enough that he can stretch his leg a bit, pointing his toes toward his knee and gritting his teeth against the pain until it subsides. He even manages to get his rhythm back and start treading water again.

But the damage is done. His already low energy reserves are all but depleted. He’s running on fumes now. His limbs ache from trying to stay afloat, his head pounds from coughing, his chest hurts from…everything. Mostly he’s exhausted, the kind of bone-tired that covers one’s brain in layers of cotton wool and makes eyelids grow heavy. The kind of tired that doesn’t care how much Napoleon Solo doesn’t want to drown.

And the kind of tired that doesn't hear the distant motor of a boat headed directly toward him. 

xxx 

It’s been close to three hours since Napoleon fell off the back of the yacht, and Illya is close to panicking. He and the back-up team that had finally arrived have spent half of one of those hours searching for Napoleon. 

“Agent Kuryakin,” one of them begins in his Australian accent. Illya knows what the man is going to say so he holds up a hand, not looking away from the binoculars he’s holding.

“We keep looking until I say so. Waverly told you I am in charge, yes? Then these are my orders.”

The man lingers by his elbow for a moment before muttering, “Yes, sir.”

Illya continues his slow sweep back and forth, watching desperately for any sign of his cowboy. Any other day, the clear blue sky and the equally blue, sparkling water might be beautiful. On this day, though…It looks like an endless, watery graveyard, stretching in every direction, interrupted by nothing, nothing, more nothing, except a single tiny black shape--

He turns, pointing, to the man driving the boat. “There! I see something!”

The boat turns and speeds up and Illya raises the binoculars again as they get closer to the black spot that’s beginning to look more person-shaped, and his heart leaps. 

“It is Agent Solo! Hurry!” 

It isn’t long (though it doesn’t feel that way) before he doesn’t need the binoculars to see his partner. He hasn’t seemed to notice the boat’s approach, and that makes Illya worry.

“Can you go faster?” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Nah, mate,” the man at the wheel yells back. “She’s already at her top speed.”

Illya hums in annoyance. They’re getting close now, and Illya can see that the American seems to be struggling, his arm movements sloppy and uncoordinated. His head briefly dips under the water and Illya’s heart jumps. 

“We’re getting close, I’m gonna slow the engines. Don’t wanna risk him getting caught in the propellers,” the driver says.

Illya barely hears him because at that moment, Napoleon’s head dips under the water again, and this time it doesn’t come back up. 

“Bozhe moi!”

His body is moving before he has time to think about what he’s doing, and he dives off the back of the boat, ignoring the shouts of the Australians as he swims toward where he’d just seen Napoleon disappear. He’d hated learning to swim as a child, and despised the exercises he’d endured as a young soldier, forced to swim the frigid waters of Lake Valdail in full gear.

He’s grateful for it now.

He’d been the fastest in his division. Even when the others removed their gear to give themselves an advantage, they had a hard time keeping up with him. So here, in this tropical water with no heavy pack on his back and much more at stake than his pride, Illya Kuryakin is more than just fast.

He gets to the place where Napoleon had been moments before, takes a deep breath, and dives. 

When he surfaces a few moments later, his arms are full of a frighteningly motionless American. 

“I have him!” he shouts hoarsely, swimming himself and Napoleon toward the boat. Two of the men are waiting with outstretched arms, and between the three of them they wrestle Napoleon onto the boat. 

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” one of them says, while the other helps Illya clamber aboard. 

“Move!” Illya pushes the one that had just spoken to the side, then falls to his knees next to Napoleon’s pale, unmoving body. A steady stream of every Russian swear word he can think of flows from his mouth as he feels for breath and finds none. He places one hand over the other and laces his fingers, then puts the heel of his palm in the center of Napoleon’s chest and pumps.

Raz, dva, tri…He counts to thirty and then tilt’s Napoleon’s head back, pinching the American’s nose shut before placing his mouth over Napoleon’s and trying not to think about how wrong this feels (he’s never known the cowboy’s lips to be so cold and uninviting) before doing two breaths.

There’s no response.

“Come now, Solo,” he mutters, starting compressions again. He does another rescue breath, and is getting ready for a second when a tremor runs through Napoleon’s whole body. Illya leans away just in time to avoid being hit by the violent expulsion of water and bile that erupts from Napoleon.

“Get him on his side!” someone yells, but Illya is already moving, rolling Napoleon onto his side and holding him as he chokes and gasps, his body trying to rid his lungs of sea water and fill them with air all at once.

“There you go,” Illya says quietly, patting Napoleon on the back and trying not to wince at the painful barking sounds of his coughing. “We need to get him back!”

“On it,” the driver calls, and the engines are turning over a second later. 

The man who had so helpfully pointed out Napoleon’s lack of breathing earlier disappears into the  cabin and returns with a blanket, which Illya accepts gratefully, draping it over the American.

The coughing finally dies down and Napoleon takes a long, deep breath, dark lashes fluttering, and then he grimaces, one corner of his mouth lifting as his brow furrows. His shivering arms tighten against his chest.

“Kuryakin?” His voice is low and raw and damaged sounding, but right now Illya wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Like you broke my ribs. Hey, listen…” He opens those lovely, lovely blue eyes and twists his head to look at Illya.

“Yes?”

“Do you think…do you think maybe…”

Illya’s heart thumps. “What is it, Solo?”

“Do you think you could dive down there and get my boots?” He grins broadly, his stupid teeth chattering slightly, and Illya rolls his eyes, reaching down to the blanket it and throwing it over Napoleon’s face with a flick. He lets out an indignant “Hey!” in response.

“I should have let you drown,” Illya says, knowing full well that he would rather drown than lose the irritating, cocky, devastatingly handsome American.