Despite being as large as he is, and despite being confined to the relatively limited area of a boat on the open Mediterranean, Illya Kuryakin is a damned difficult man to find. Napoleon is almost impressed. Still, when he finally locates him, it's easy to see how the agent has been so effectively overlooked. He's towards the stern of the boat, camouflaged against a dun pile of coiled rope, arms round his legs, face pressed tightly against his knees. Napoleon hadn't thought that someone built like Kuryakin could possibly take up so little space.
No response. He gives the man's shin a careful prod with the toe of his wingtip. When Kuryakin finally looks up though, his gaze is clear enough, if a little glassy and faintly irritated. There's no indication that he's experiencing any sort of episode.
"You okay there?"
"Fine." Peril grunts, restores his head to his knees.
"Are you sure?" Napoleon looks him over, thinks through the day they've had, "No symptoms of concussion? Any dizziness? Nausea?"
Peril's response is somewhat muffled, "How would I tell?"
Napoleon looks down at the super-spy huddled at his feet, looks out at the shimmering blue waves. Oh.
"No," he says, "you can't be serious."
There's a motion that might be a nod.
"But… I've read your dossier; you were some kind of boating champion."
A sigh emanates from somewhere within the pathetic knot of arms and legs. "Was on lake. None of this…," the figure uncurls slightly, holds out a hand, palm down, rocks it back and forth with a grimace.
"Well, Waverly's looking for us, and you know what they say, time and," he smirks, "tide don't wait." He grabs Illya's hand, hauls him to his feet. "Buck up, you can always be seasick once we've finished saving the world."
"I hate the sea. It's too big, too wet, too salty." - Illya Kuryakin, The Shark Affair, 1964