The blond came topside amidst the onslaught of rain and wind, hoping to find some relief from the agony that had assaulted him from within the cabin below. It was not surprising to find his friend still handling the rigging as he attempted to lessen the stress on his boat, lowering the sail that hung so tenaciously in the ripping winds.

"Napoleon, do you need my help?" He yelled across the top of the cabin roof, his voice nearly lost in the crashing of waves and the howling, rain soaked wind.

"Ah, you look awful. No, I can handle it". And so he could. Napoleon Solo was a sailor by birthright and choice. He loved this little boat, and a nasty little storm would not defeat him nor rob him of the pleasure he took in sailing…even in this weather.

Illya surveyed the surrounding water, hoping the tumult would subside soon. Even as an officer in the Russian Navy, he had never mastered the open seas, grateful even back then for his service aboard a submarine. Seasickness was his curse, the profound dictum, perhaps, of his gypsy heritage. He was not born for open waters, in spite of his usual enjoyment aboard his friend's small craft. He endured it, and sometimes even appreciated it for the sake of their camaraderie. At times like this, however, he doubted ever doing it again.

"Illya, I believe it's calming down. You may get a respite after all". The smile broadened, the challenge of the seas always a beckoning call to the dark haired man. Brown eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the break and, spotting a ray of sunshine through the clouds, called out again to his Russian friend.

"Hey, there it is. You are in luck, tovarisch".

"Yes, I see it. Perhaps now we can look forward to a proper journey". He had to agree, the prospect of the weekend aboard the craft did evoke fond memories, and better yet, good times ahead. There were, after all, the ladies who waited in a distant port.

"You look a bit worse for it though. What color were you going for with that complexion of yours?" He smiled again, immune to the effects of nausea that plagued the Russian.

"Oh, don't you call it pea green?" Just the words made him feel sick again, the image of the substance…

"Uh, no…I was thinking more Sea Green".

"Very well, Napoleon. Do you think we can shove off, I think it's safe to leave the dock now". Illya smirked in the direction of his seafaring friend, confident that as the sun broke through and the winds subsided, the journey would be good as long as they had smooth sailing in their futures.