Dominoes	 Dominoes by Elijahwildchild  
 

The fire crackled and spat as the elderly drinker coaxed the peat-brick
into place with a hob-nailed boot. He shambled back to his seat. Picking
up his dominoes, he gazed at them for a moment then huffed a curse around
the stem of his pipe. He slapped the bone counters back onto the table-top
and glared at his grinning companions. 

"I'm knockin'," he complained. 

There were hoots from around the fire. 

"'Bout time too," a voice chortled. 

"Give some other bugger a chance." 

He ignored the taunts and took a pull from his pint. The man on his left
nudged him in the ribs almost causing him to splutter. 

"Looks like the next round's yours then, eh?" he said. 

The man hawked and spat into the flames, cloaked in displeasure. 

To Napoleon, drawn deep into the inglenook corner, his swollen ankle
propped up on one of the fire irons, it seemed as though the game had been
going on for days. The men nursed their pints with sly glances at their
neighbours' glasses, desperate not to finish first and so have to stand
the next round. Napoleon and Illya had bought them a couple of rounds
earlier in the week and joined their game once or twice. At first Napoleon
had found its monotony soothing. Now it abraded his nerves. He'd had
enough. 

He sighed and popped his neck, wondering whether a second malt would leave
him pleasantly relaxed or less sharp than he might need to be. Glancing at
the hearth he grimaced at the phalanx of insect life pouring away from the
grate at speed, refugees from the peat inferno. 

When he'd arrived with Illya a week ago, he'd been charmed by the rustic
inn"The Sloop"and its open peat fires. The Russian had smirked but had
said nothing as Napoleon moved to light the one in their room on their
first night. Kneeling on the hearthrug moments later watching his partner
unpack, Napoleon had leapt to his feet only just in time to avoid being
overtaken by the wildlife exodus as the flames caught hold of their former
sanctuary. He clearly needed more practice at his
leaping-to-the-feet-whilstlooking -nonchalant manoeuvre as he'd then
overbalanced and trodden on one of Illya's unpacked boots, going down as
though pole-axed and wrenching his ankle horribly. 

His partner's initial amusement had given way to concern when they
realised just how badly Napoleon had managed to injure the joint. Enough
for them to revise their mission strategy. Illya would now need to be the
one to take out the small boat to monitor the offshore Thrush installation
whilst Napoleon stayed home. 

Over their years together as partners they'd fine-tuned their practice to
play to their strengths. Napoleon sailed, Illya swam. Napoleon was the
strategist, Illya the tactician. Napoleon used his charm to devastating
effect, Illya used his intellect. Sure, they could work from their weaker
areas if necessary, but those missions tended to be less than successful
at best. Occasionally they'd been disastrous. Even post-mission they'd
slipped into a pattern. Napoleon watched girls, Illya watched... well...
Napoleon dismissed the thought and looked at his watch. 

His jaw tightened. Whichever way he cut it, Illya was well overdue for
check-in. 

He caught his breath, belly tightening, as the door began to open. Not his
partner, but the local coastguard entered and threaded his way to the bar.
Napoleon's stomach flopped. The landlord nodded at the man and reached up
for one of the mugs hanging there. The officer shook his head. 

"Sorry, Petroc," he said. "Still on duty..." 

The noise in the bar trickled away to nothing. 

The coastguard looked around the room. "We've a wreck off the rocks by the
harbour," he said. " "The Magpie" . Anyone know her?" 

Napoleon eased himself to his feet and limped towards the bar. 

One of the domino players turned round. "Aye, she's Wilf's," he said.
"He's over at his sister's for the week so she must be out on a rental." 

The coastguard looked hard at the man. "You sure?" 

"What?" 

"That he's at his sister's." 

"Aye, course I am. I ran him over there in the wagon yesterday. Why?" 

The coastguard looked abashed. "There's a body inside." 

There were murmurs from around the room. Napoleon was finding it hard to
breathe. 

"Well whose is it?" said the landlord. 

"We don't know," the coastguard said looking uncomfortable. "It... er...
isn't that easy..." he trailed off, and Napoleon's imagination heaved with
appalling images. 

"May I see the body?" he forced himself to say. The coastguard gave him a
doubtful look. "My friend took	"The Magpie"  out yesterday and..." his
throat closed. The coastguard's look turned sympathetic and he nodded. 

"Come on, then," he said and turned for the door, pausing when he noticed
Napoleon's limp. "You okay?" Before Napoleon could answer, one of the
domino group thrust a blackthorn cane at him. 

"Here, Mr Solo," he said gruffly. "You leave it behind the bar wi' young
Petroc when you're done with it." 

Napoleon nodded his thanks and followed the coastguard out. 

Finding himself at the slipway Napoleon was shocked to realise he had no
memory of the journey down from the inn. Under the jury-rigged arc lights
the remains of	"The Magpie"  were drawn up out of the water. Most of her
superstructure was gone and she was badly charred with a gaping hole at
the waterline. A crowd of about a dozen locals was gathered to one side.
As Napoleon and his escort approached, the group parted to reveal a tarp
humped next to the boat. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt...
something. 

Napoleon tried to swallow with a throat that was desert-dry. His mind
rebelled at the task before him. Given the lives they led, neither he nor
Illya were strangers to the desolation and emptiness of believing the
other dead. Each occasion took its toll. Each of them had dealt with it
differently. Napoleon knew that this time all the willing women in the
world wouldn't be enough for him. This emptiness couldn't be filled. 

Feeling the watchers' eyes on him he moved to the edge of the tarp. Two of
the group grabbed a corner each then waited. Napoleon closed his eyes and
nodded once. He heard the tarp flap back at his signal. 

He opened his eyes and the image assaulted them. Clothes and hair had been
burned off. Seared muscles and tendons had pulled the limbs into a foetal
parody. The body was unrecognisable. 

No respite... 

Napoleon's legs suddenly felt weak and he was glad of the excuse of his
ankle to lean heavily on the cane. Wearily he took out his U.N.C.L.E. id
and flashed it at the coastguard. 

"Please see that the body is kept safely until I can arrange for
collection," he said and turned to limp back up the slipway. The
coastguard called after him. 

"Wait a moment, Mr Solo," he said, "'n' I'll drive you back to The Sloop. 

A long, solitary walk was what Napoleon craved but he knew his ankle
wouldn't take it. He sighed and nodded. 

On the way back he called Waverly. 

"Sir, Mr Kuryakin is missing," he paused, "presumed dead." 

There. 

He'd said it. 

And the world continued to turn. 

The rest of the conversation was a blur. He was vaguely aware that the
expected reprimand for carelessness and jeopardising the mission hadn't
come. He agreed to meet the back-up team, dispatched by his boss, the
following afternoon and closed the connection. 

The coastguard dropped Napoleon at the door of The Sloop. "Sorry about
your friend," he said. "Hell of a way for a man to go. Gas tank must have
exploded." 

"That must be it," said Napoleon without expression. "And thank you. I'll
be down in the morning to check over the boat, if I may." 

"Of course. Goodnight." 

Napoleon swung down from the Land Rover and made his way to the front door
of the inn. All was in darkness now, it being past midnight, and he had to
use his key. Arriving at theirhisroom he paused at the door in desperate
hope. But all was as he'd left it, except for the fire glowing in the
hearth and an unopened bottle of single malt on the bedside table with a
note beside it.  "On the house" . From the landlord. He flopped down on
the nearest bed and loosened his tie. Tossing the cane aside he poured
himself four fingers of the malt and knocked it back in one. Illya would
have been proud of his cavalier treatment of the fine liquor. He poured a
second glass and raised it in salute. 

A noise caught his attention and his free hand dived to his shoulder
holster. Setting the glass down carefully, he limped to the door, weapon
drawn, and listened. Someone was on the landing. He flipped off the
safety. There was a soft thud against the door, then silence. 

Napoleon's brain joined the dots and he flung open the door. The next
moment his arms were full of Russian as Illya toppled into the room.
Ignoring the protest from his ankle Napoleon lowered him to the floor and
shut the door. His partner lay in a rubbery heap, wetsuit torn in several
places and blood seeping from a wound in his side. Fingers hot against the
chilled and clammy skin, Napoleon checked for a pulseand found one. 

Almost sobbing with relief, he rolled his partner and unzipped the
wetsuit, peeling it off as gently as he could to expose the wound. A clean
eight-inch slash ran along Illya's ribs on the left. It would need
stitching and the sooner the better whilst his partner was still
unconscious. Dragging him closer to the fire, Napoleon removed the wetsuit
entirely. He found several purpling bruises but no other open wounds. He
grabbed a pillow and blanket from one of the beds, the field kit from his
suitcase and set to his grisly work. 

He was just over half-way through when Illya began to moan. As the needle
went in for the final stitch, the Russian began to struggle weakly. 

"Easy partner," Napoleon murmured. "You're safe. It's me. I've almost
done." The blue eyes opened then shut against the pain. The Russian began
to shiver. Napoleon tried to ignore his partner's gasps as he finished his
task. "There," he said taping a dressing in place. "Any quilting circle
would be proud to have me." Without thinking, he dropped a kiss to the
damp hair and sat back on his heels. Illya made a face at him. Napoleon
handed him a couple of pain pills. "Here," he said. "These'll take the
edge off." Illya looked at them sourly. 

"Do I have to swallow them dry?" he complained. Napoleon sighed and passed
him the glass from the bedside table. His partner grinned and handed him
back the pills. "Nazdarov'ye," he said, raising the glass in salute and
tossed back the golden liquid. He gasped and wiped his mouth then held the
glass out for a refill. 

The bottle rattled against it as Napoleon poured and his partner looked at
him intently. Napoleon put the bottle carefully on the bedside table and
looked away. Putting the glass next to the bottle, Illya leaned towards
his partner. 

"Tell me," he said. 

With an effort, Napoleon kept his tone dead flat. "I thought it was you...
in the boat." 

"Ah," said Illya. "The Thrush lookout." He frowned. "He would not be
pretty. I'm sorry." 

"When you hadn't checked in..." 

Illya shrugged. "I lost my communicator overboard in the scuffle. I'm
sorry," he said again. 

The silence lengthened. 

Eventually Napoleon scrubbed his hands over his face. He muttered half to
himself, "This is getting old." After a moment his partner moved closer to
him. 

"You will be fine, my friend," Illya said, encircling Napoleon's shoulders
with his unimpeded arm. "There must be some unattached women in this
place. You will take one on a date this evening and in the morning you
will have forgotten this,  da?" 

"What if I don't want to?" 

"What... forget it?" 

"No. What if I don't want to take... a woman on a date?" 

Illya looked at him guilelessly. 

At length he said with infinite care, "Don't you think that you and I are
past the dating stage?" 

Napoleon met the Russian's gaze and allowed himself the indulgence of
holding it, watching the pupils dilate into the blue, noting Illya's
breathing shorten, feeling the loose grasp around his shoulders become
firmer. Something that had been knotted inside him for years finally
unravelled. He smiled slowly. 

"Long past that," he said reaching up a hand to ruffle the salt-stiff
hair. "More like an old married couple." 

"Less of the old." Illya winced. "Although right now I feel about sixty."
He moved to stand up but Napoleon grabbed him. "Ow! Let go," Illya
grumbled. "If we're going to do this I want to be comfortable." 

"If we're going to do this...?" Napoleon blinked and wondered when he'd
lost the advantage. "Wait! Illya... I need..." 

"What?" His partner's voice was tinged with impatience. 

"I need... to tell you..." 

Illya gave Napoleon one of his half smiles. "After all this time, did you
think I might not have noticed?" He shook his head. "You need to work on
your obfuscation." 

"I just needed to be certain," said Napoleon. Rising to his feet and
offering his partner a hand up, he pulled the Russian into his arms,
petting his hair. "In case we have to go through this again." Illya
reached for him and Napoleon's breath caught. 

"And I'll probably need to tell you too... at some point," Illya said. "In
case you were wondering." 

"Probably...?" 

"Definitely." 

"Smart Russian," said Napoleon with his remaining breath.  


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