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Prompt: http://tintin-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1701.html?thread=201637#cmt201637
Prologue parts 1, 2.1 & 2.2: http://tintin-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1701.html?thread=420517#cmt420517
Tintin in Bruges – CHAPTER ONE
‘Shh! Not a sound!’
Anger.
His first impression was one of anger – vivid, searing sea-green eyes, shadowed over by ginger brows rutted with rage – he held a pistol, and he was pointing it at Haddock’s chest. Unfazed, Haddock returned his eyes to the intruder’s face; it was round, youthful, pink cheeked, and so utterly furious.
Haddock thought he ought to tell him it was wasn’t right for one so fair to sport such an expression, but then he decided the real trouble with this young man was his ridiculous haircut –
First things first:
‘Who-who... who are you?’
‘Someone forced to sail on this vile tub and–’ the young man spoke instantly, his voice far deeper than Haddock would have expected had he been sober; but he was far from it.
‘Vile tub?’ he cut him off, straightening. ‘I... D-d’you know I’m Captain Haddock! And I can have you y-you clapped in irons!’ He swayed, his vision near gone, yet he still registered the way the young man’s arresting eyes took on a hint of disgusted comprehension. A tired part of his brain computed it: the young man thought him exactly the kind of ruined, old sot you could expect to find aboard a beat-up freighter. The whiskey in his veins overrode his grief, clouding his head and taking the reins, while he settled somewhere inside himself, safe and alone.
But the young man was speaking about being taken prisoner, about opium – opium in his hold, and he was woken up to Allan’s treachery. Whiskey. He needed more – he didn’t want to hear any of this, he only wished to be steeped in the darkness drink accorded him – but the young man stopped his arm as he reached for the bottle, saying he must promise to stop drinking, adding something about Haddock’s mother, about her disappointment in him. His mother. He hadn’t thought about her in... months? Years, even – was she still alive? They’d parted on such bad terms, he really should visit Cornwall, it’d been so long since he’d been home –
He found himself crying, sobbing wretchedly into his arms – Allan and Jumbo appeared, and he realised the young man had vanished. Had he dreamt him? Perhaps he’d been an apparition wrought by his mother’s vengeful soul; because if she had passed on, for certain her soul would be a bitter one. Strange of her to cloak herself as a ginger, moon-faced youth, though, considering her own visage had been so intimidating.
‘Here, drink this, you’ll feel better,’ Allan slid a re-filled glass towards him.
Haddock obeyed, knocking back a mouthful – the young man’s eyes flashed in his mind, bright and incensed, and Haddock choked, scoring Allan a deserving one in the eye. There was nothing of his mother in that young man, he decided numbly – because, as the Lord was her witness, Mrs Haddock had never once been able to stop her son from drinking.
‘N-n-no... I... I promised him not to drink... and I won’t anymore!’ Haddock pushed the glass away; it fell, tipping onto its side with a dull thud.
‘Who did you promise that to?’ Allan hissed irritably, wiping his face.
‘The y-young man who... who was here–’
And then Allan was grabbing at him, enraged and yelling. He could be frightening when he tried, Allan – provided Haddock forgot how much of a fop he looked with his collar turned up no matter the weather. Haddock bleated answers to his questions, and Allan rounded on Jumbo, stuffing a pistol into his hand, ordering him to keep watch before storming from the room.
Haddock lay his head on the table. He’d always liked Jumbo. He had an appropriate nickname given his short stature; he was quiet and hard-working, and he was Irish. The Cornish and the Irish always ought to have something to say to each other, and Haddock turned to remind him of this –
‘You!’ Haddock yelped, pointing. The young man had reappeared, and he was standing behind Jumbo, arms raised, two short planks gripped in his hands. Jumbo whirled around, and the young man struck him across the temple. He crouched, checking Jumbo was unconscious, before heaving him onto a chair and binding him with rope.
‘Where did you...’ Haddock began, more than overwhelmed. Whiskey. He needed–
The young man set a hand on his shoulder, his eyes boring in Haddock’s own. His gaze seemed an angelic chorus and hellfire all at once.
‘I prom-promise you I didn’t— didn’t drink,’ Haddock mumbled, awed.
‘Captain,’ the young man appeared not to have heard him. ‘Do you swear to me you didn’t know about the opium?’
‘I... Yes, I swear, I didn’t know... I swear...’ Haddock felt the seriousness of the situation beginning to sober him – and with it came his understanding of the significance of the young man’s question. What faith he must have, to take a drunkard at his word, Haddock thought, his heart sinking.
‘Then come with me. Stay quiet,’ the young man took his arm. ‘I’ll see us out of here, don’t worry, but you must do as I say.’
And just like that, Haddock’s heart lifted.
He followed willingly, wondering if this was what he’d prayed for – because when the depths of drunkenness rolled over him as blackly as they could, Haddock became a praying man. It was a matter of survival, the way he clung to the hope that one day he might finally have tormented himself enough to earn peace.
Admittedly, scrambling up flights of metal stairs wasn’t Haddock’s idea of peace, but trailing this salient young man seemed a damn sight better than rotting away in his cabin.
Something butted into Haddock’s leg; it was warm and it emitted a soft grunt. Haddock looked down.
‘What’s –? Is this... is this your dog?’
The cheerful, scruffy creature looked up at him, mouth open, tail wagging. It was as white as a dove, and Haddock couldn’t help but interpret this as a further omen.
‘Yes, this is Snowy.’
‘A fine place to bring a dog,’ Haddock chided. ‘Ships are... are dangerous places, don’t you know?’
The young man was undoing an intricate knot of rope beside a winch, working over the complex layers like the pattern was familiar to him.
‘I realise that now more than ever, but it’s not my foremost concern,’ he muttered, successfully untying the knot. The winch groaned in protest as he turned it, and Haddock realised they were beside the longboat.
‘You... you made sh-short work of that knot. Are you... a seaman?’
‘No,’ the young man shoved the boat hard, swinging it out over the ship’s flank. He turned to Haddock and smiled, and his face lit up like starlight. ‘Boy scout,’ he said simply, holding out his hand. Haddock took it, stunned; the young man seemed an entirely different person with a smile.
‘I... you... your–’
‘Come on, Captain, get your foot up.’
‘I don’t... Your name – what’s your—?’
‘Tintin,’ the young man said, pushing Haddock down onto a wooden seat, wrenching back the lock on the winch. ‘Come on, Snowy!’ The dog leapt, landing squarely next to Haddock.
‘That’s not... not a real name,’ Haddock mumbled, only partially aware they were lowering into the ocean; this “Tintin” fellow was far more preoccupying.
‘It’s a nickname,’ Tintin said.
‘Oh? Then what’s your... your–?’
‘Crumbs, this isn’t working – hold on, Captain,’ Tintin sat down, digging his foot under Haddock’s seat and tucking Snowy under his arm. With the other arm he raised the pistol.
‘What are you...?’ Haddock didn’t like this, not at all. Tintin took aim, closing an eye, training the pistol on one of the ropes that held the longboat suspended. ‘Tintin,’ Haddock said anxiously, though he found himself distracted by how satisfying it was to say his name. He realised his real name didn’t matter, his nickname was absolutely delightful –
Tintin fired.
Haddock started, opening his eyes.
He’d been near to dozing off, but no such luck. He hitched his shoulder higher on the ledge of the train window, attempting in vain to get comfortable. He stole a glance at Tintin seated across from him, finding him reading a book entitled The Secrets of the Templars, his expression the same heavy curtain of doom it had been two days running.
Haddock got halfway to thinking Tintin pulling such a face made him appear exactly the same as when they’d first met – but with the images of their first encounter clear in his mind (as clear as the whiskey-soaked memories allowed), Haddock realised he wasn’t the same at all. Several physical changes had transpired since then; his jaw and brow had become heavier, and the way he carried himself now accommodated the small amount of bulk he’d amassed on his chest and shoulders. It had been so gradual, like the wind weathering a stone, Haddock hadn’t properly noticed until now.
Irrespective, Haddock never would have believed he was twenty-four, just as he didn’t believe he was twenty-one when he’d met him. His voice hinted at the truth, however, it was low, mature and educated – but nothing held his age like his eyes. Through them, Haddock had observed as tiny slivers of Tintin’s youthful optimism were chipped away with each blow the world dealt him. It was a natural process, one Haddock had undergone himself, and yet he found it hard to stomach. Tintin was still years away – decades, perhaps – from falling victim to true cynicism; but all the same, Haddock hated to see him hurt.
Haddock looked to his hands in his lap, his eyes lingering on his weathered knuckles. He thought about the grey hairs stealing into his temples, and how he’d managed to keep them at bay through all the years of seafaring and heavy drinking; but the addition of Tintin to his life, it seemed, had finally pushed him over the hill.
In retrospect, Haddock knew Tintin was as much a curse as he was a blessing. Far from bringing peace and removing the dangerous aspects from Haddock’s life, he’d added to them tenfold.
But Haddock doubted the time would ever come when he’d regret this fact. Although he was far from understanding why or how, his life had meant more to him in the last two years than it had in the thirty-five preceding them combined.
Tintin was a mitigating factor in this, of course, but to what extent Haddock wasn’t keen on contemplating. Tintin’s throat still bore the faded mark of Haddock’s miscalculated attempt to better define their relationship.
... God, he hated trains.
Why couldn’t they rock like ships? Their driving, onward momentum unnerved him, never allowing him to relax. Tintin appeared similarly affected, though the train was surely not the culprit. He sat rigid and straight, his eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. Haddock had seen him under the influence of sleep-deprivation before, but it never manifested as anything other than slight sluggishness and stiff limbs. As far as Haddock knew, this cold rigidity was new to Tintin, and he feared the length of its stay.
Beside Tintin, Snowy gave a tentative whine, his tail brushing back and forth over the seat.
‘Shh.’ Tintin muttered.
Haddock sat forward, abandoning the notion of sleep. He rubbed his eyes and scratched his chin, bleakly satisfied when Tintin’s eyebrows furrowed in annoyance over the sound of his fingers working through his whiskers.
‘Is your face not aching yet?’ he asked plainly, ignoring the quiet part of him that wished he could shelve his pride and offer Tintin comfort instead of snark. ‘You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon.’
Tintin sighed, closing both his eyes and his book, his face finally relaxing. Somehow, he made it known that the efforts involved in ignoring Haddock’s jibe were laborious.
Snowy whined again, mulish and edgy, the muscles across his back twitching as he restrained himself from leaping at Tintin’s face.
‘I suppose you want a walk, hm?’ Tintin asked begrudgingly, and Snowy’s ears pricked at the word “walk”. ‘Well, you’ll just have to be patient, I’m afraid. We’ve not even reached Lille. Come now, it’s not a long trip, do your best to relax.’
Haddock only just managed to swallow back a rather classic taunt involving pots, kettles and blatant hypocrisy.
Snowy mewled, forsaken.
‘I won’t say it again, boy – shush.’ Tintin shot him a finite glare.
Haddock bristled, entirely invested in Snowy’s plight: ‘Oh, Tintin, couldn’t you take him for a mosey down the carriage? He’s miserable!’
Tintin kept his eyes on his book as he reopened it, flipping through the pages to find his place. ‘By all means, Captain, accompany him yourself.’
There was a long pause.
Haddock stood. ‘Come on, then, Snowy,’ he said. ‘We’ll let bitter-britches and his spleen alone.’
Snowy jumped down from the seat, following Haddock from the compartment into the carriage corridor, and Haddock rolled the door shut behind him. Tintin never so much as blinked.
Haddock sighed, muttering to himself, tucking his hands in his pockets and setting forth down the carriage.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t all that far to the end, Snowy, old boy,’ he looked down, finding Snowy beaming at him never-the-less. Haddock chuckled, though the sound faded in his throat. When they reached the end of the carriage Haddock slid open the nearest window, slipping his pipe and tobacco from his pocket. ‘All this carry on about smoking on trains,’ he mumbled to Snowy. ‘I should invest in snuff.’ Snowy lay down next to his feet, his tail pumping over the carpet, and Haddock stuffed his pipe and patted his pockets for his matches, despairing for a moment that he’d left them at Marlinspike. They turned up in his inner breast pocket, and he thanked the Heavens for reminding him he still had a modicum of luck intact.
He chewed the stem of his pipe, thinking.
He was angry with Tintin, and it confused him. He’d never been angry with him before – well, that wasn’t entirely true, one of Tintin’s foremost talents was driving Haddock up the wall, but it was always benign, never intended. Haddock considered the possibility that he was imagining it, or being over-sensitive, because in light of his weakness for irrationality and Tintin’s infallible calibre, the evidence didn’t exactly weigh in his favour. He simply couldn’t be angry with Tintin – no one was ever angry with Tintin! Unless, of course, they’d committed some kind of international crime and he’d thwarted them. But Haddock wasn’t a criminal (not in the broad sense, anyway; he really wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be smoking in this carriage), he was Tintin’s friend, and Tintin valued his friends, he was never short with them unless he needed to be.
But the fact remained, Haddock had never felt hurt by him before, not until this whole Belgian business had started.
Yes, the Belgian business, Haddock thought, that had a pleasing ring to it. And he would much rather think about that than allow himself to assume (with nauseating and ever-ready panic) that Tintin’s apparent displeasure with him was tied to the events of Monday night.
He moved his eyes fretfully out the window, focusing on the scenery whipping by far too quickly.
God, he hated trains.
Obviously, Tintin hadn’t said a word about what he was getting them into. Not that it was Tintin’s fault Haddock had accompanied him – but Haddock downright refused to take the blame, either.
No, it was most definitely the fault of the Thomson and Thompson.
It was they Haddock had turned to after Tintin’s hasty exit from Marlinspike. He knew no matter how determined and resourceful Tintin was, the consequences of Europe being gripped by total war ensured he wouldn’t get as far as Calais without help from on high – Interpol, to be precise.
After the operator had put him through to Mr Cutts the butcher no less than four blood-boiling times (and Haddock very nearly drove her to tears throughout the process), he finally heard the voice desperation had forced him to rely upon:
‘Yes, hello, this is Thompson, with a “p”, as in “phone”, oh-ho!’
‘Like it makes one blistering bit of difference,’ Haddock muttered.
‘Excuse me? Is the line bad? You do sound rather as if you’re chewing gravel.’
‘It’s Haddock.’
‘Oh, of course! Hello, dear fellow! You’ll be asking after your papers, no doubt?’
‘I – what?’
‘Your papers, for entrance into Belgium. Yours were much harder to produce, what with you not being a native. We’ve said you’re Norwegian, old boy, thought that would suit. They love a good bash at sea, same as you, and of course they’ve hopped right into bed with Fritz, so those cabbage-pickling fiends won’t suspect a thing!’
‘You – Thundering typhoons, what in Neptune’s name have you done that for?! I don’t need papers! I’ve rung to tell you under no circumstance are you to make papers for—’
‘No papers? Have you acquired some already? Because that, of course, would be highly illegal! You may be a friend to us, Captain, but we cannot overlook such transgressions—’
‘Listen to me, would you? Tintin—’
But something had occurred to Haddock, quelling his outburst and seeing to it his anger withered entirely.
‘Did... Did Tintin tell you I was going with him?’
‘He didn’t, no, come to think of it,’ Thompson replied considerately. Disappointment welled in Haddock before he could suppress it. ‘We had simply assumed... Well, after Palestine you two have been quite inseparable! And a good show that was, Captain. You know, you never did end up telling us how you became mixed up in that awful business?’
‘I...’ Haddock’s memory whirred, transporting him back to the desert –
‘But tell me, Captain, you still haven’t explained how you came to be here...’ Tintin had been intent on driving, and Haddock had been so preoccupied by their hot pursuit of Müller that for a wild moment he forgot his terror at the prospect of answering Tintin’s inevitable question.
‘It’s quite simple, really,’ he began. ‘But also rather complicated... First, I must tell you—’
Haddock’s throat had stuck, his fear catching up to him at precisely the same moment their car caught up to the Emir’s horsemen.
It had been a blessed distraction; and, as luck would have it, he’d been distracted every time hence he’d started explaining his miraculous appearance in the desert.
‘That’s beside the point!’ he barked at Thompson. ‘You mustn’t make those papers for Tintin, you cannot allow him to—’
‘Have you illegally acquired papers for him as well as yourself? Look here, I’ll do you the favour of not treating this information as a confession of guilt, provided you travel under the papers Interpol’s put together. Believe me, it’ll be much safer for you! And, of course, Thomson and I are prepared to lend you some stunning examples of traditional Norwegian dress!’
Haddock’s vision stopped registering in his mind for a moment. He saw nothing, only felt his insides shrinking under the weight of his imminent and grave mistake.
‘Yes... yes, of course,’ he mumbled.
God help me, he thought. Frustration ricocheted within him, building momentum –
‘But you can keep your puffed up pantaloons to yourself, Thomson!’
‘No, Captain, it’s Thompson, with “p”, as in–’
‘Porpoise! Popinjay! Pest! Goodbye!’
After that it had simply been a matter of catching up to Tintin before he boarded the train for Dover. Haddock had packed his duffel with expert haste and charged out the door, pausing only to tell a bewildered Nestor to call him a taxicab, and to assure Calculus that his sweater still fit just fine, thank you; and, finally, he’d kissed his cat between her ears.
He’d made it to the station with a whole ten minutes to spare. Locating Tintin only took one of those minutes, and it would have taken half a second had Tintin not been wearing his ivy cap.
Tintin glanced up when Haddock neared him, perhaps recognising the sound of his gait, and for a brief moment his eyes lit up with unguarded gratitude – but then the walls came down, rendering the tone of his greeting as reticent and stiff.
‘Captain,’ he’d said, barely even giving him in a nod.
‘Oh, well,’ had been all the indignation Haddock could summon, too hurt to even rattle off a few trademark curses. ‘At least Snowy’s pleased to see me!’
Throughout the subsequent train trip, ferry ride, and uncomfortably sleepless night spent in a cheap Calais hotel, the situation remained unchanged. Snowy watched Haddock imploringly, eyes beady with intent, and Tintin glowered behind his books all the while, uncharacteristically and ominously ill-tempered.
Haddock inhaled agitatedly on his pipe and gave a hacking cough. He’d finished the tobacco without realising, and its wilted, wet remains shot acrid bitterness straight to the back of his throat.
‘Blistering barnacles,’ he hissed, shoving his pipe irritably into his pocket and marching back down the carriage, tapping his thigh and motioning for Snowy to follow. He was going to talk to Tintin, he was going to give him a piece of his mind. It wasn’t right, him expecting Haddock to enter into this situation blind – this... this bloody, blistering Belgian business just bursting with Boches hell-bent on burning Europe right to the brink; nor was it right for Tintin to be anything other than the optimist! And if he was going to continue in such a foul and unappreciative mood, well, Haddock was just going to turn around at Lille and head straight home to Marlinspike –
Haddock stalled at their carriage door, halted by the sight within.
Tintin was no longer reading; his book sat in his lap, held limply by hands, and his eyes were fixed on the window, glazed as though his focus extended no further than the glass.
He looked absolutely shattered.
The seconds rolled by, long and slow, but Haddock didn’t feel them. Tintin lifted a hand to his throat, closing his eyes and dipping his head with a pained frown, tracing his fingertips over the faint mark above his collar. At that, Haddock took a step backward from the window, and leaned his shoulder against the rocking wooden wall of the carriage.
This was torment. His heart felt swollen and sick, each beat like the clumsy clunk of dated machinery, so out of time with the rhythm of the train.
‘Wretch,’ he cursed himself in a murmur, but it achieved nothing. He set his hand to his forehead, his head aching with a melee of half-formed thoughts he was too confused to address.
At his feet, Snowy peered at him, wanting to catch his eye.
‘Hm?’ Haddock looked to him, warmed by his attention. He crouched down, rubbing his hands over Snowy’s ears. ‘It’s not easy, is it?’ he confided in him. Snowy gave his palm a small lick, sombrely agreeing. Haddock straightened, lifting Snowy and holding him against his hip, saying to him: ‘Those seats are bit high for you to jump, aren’t they?’ as he opened the carriage door, ‘I’ll give you a leg up.’
He felt too ashamed to meet Tintin’s eye as he deposited Snowy next to him. He took his own seat, his gaze lowered, and knitted his fingers together over his knees.
‘Captain, I want to apologise,’ Tintin said softly.
Haddock looked up, having half-expected this. He signalled Tintin to stop. ‘Don’t think on it,’ he mumbled. ‘You’re exhausted.’
‘That’s no excuse for my... my behaviour. I didn’t–’ he stopped, raising his hand to his forehead, brushing his fingers against the creases gathered beneath them. Eventually he emitted a sigh, unable to find the words he needed.
Gently, ever so gently, Haddock’s mind filled in the blanks. Until this moment he’d refused to be conscious of Tintin’s unspoken ultimatum: they could forget the events of Monday night, or they could forgo their friendship. Haddock steeled his heart, grateful that the past two years of budding hope and fervent guilt had finally come to a head, and the decision they amounted to was an easy one.
After all, a life without Tintin was no life at all.
‘Lay down and go to sleep for an hour, would you?’ Haddock requested, his tone gathering strength as he spoke. ‘Here, I’ll take Snowy so you’ve got enough room.’
Haddock collected Snowy without waiting for an answer, setting the dog in his lap. Tintin hesitated, then nodded. He busied himself with folding his coat into a bundle, tucking it under his head as he settled on his side. He watched Haddock for a brief moment, smiling in thanks before he closed his eyes.
Tintin’s face was mapped in Haddock’s subconscious down to the very last freckle, thus gazing at him was not only indecent, it was unneeded. But Haddock couldn’t help himself. Rejection stung through his every nerve, but the pain seemed to register on a plane beneath feeling, placated by a soothing cover of rationality and the grim satisfaction one receives when something undesirable yet entirely expected has come to pass.
Haddock stroked his palm over Snowy’s silken head, and Snowy tucked his muzzle into the crook of his hip. They offered each other as much comfort as they could.
______________________________________________________________________
So, here we are! The second instalment – chapter one! (the first part was a prologue, I suppose :3) Sorry it took so long! ... And that nothing much happened. I am, if anything, slow to write and slow to develop my plotlines.
I also greatly over-use hyphens, as no doubt you will have noticed xD
p.s. ... Is it wrong that I imagine Haddock’s mother looks like Monty Python’s Terry Jones whenever he dressed in drag? xD (i.e. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zjz16xjeBAA ) Sorry for the randomness haha, but any excuse to link to Monty Python is good enough for me xDDD
Hopefully I’ll have more with you soon!
Prologue parts 1, 2.1 & 2.2: http://tintin-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1701.html?thread=420517#cmt420517
Tintin in Bruges – CHAPTER ONE
‘Shh! Not a sound!’
Anger.
His first impression was one of anger – vivid, searing sea-green eyes, shadowed over by ginger brows rutted with rage – he held a pistol, and he was pointing it at Haddock’s chest. Unfazed, Haddock returned his eyes to the intruder’s face; it was round, youthful, pink cheeked, and so utterly furious.
Haddock thought he ought to tell him it was wasn’t right for one so fair to sport such an expression, but then he decided the real trouble with this young man was his ridiculous haircut –
First things first:
‘Who-who... who are you?’
‘Someone forced to sail on this vile tub and–’ the young man spoke instantly, his voice far deeper than Haddock would have expected had he been sober; but he was far from it.
‘Vile tub?’ he cut him off, straightening. ‘I... D-d’you know I’m Captain Haddock! And I can have you y-you clapped in irons!’ He swayed, his vision near gone, yet he still registered the way the young man’s arresting eyes took on a hint of disgusted comprehension. A tired part of his brain computed it: the young man thought him exactly the kind of ruined, old sot you could expect to find aboard a beat-up freighter. The whiskey in his veins overrode his grief, clouding his head and taking the reins, while he settled somewhere inside himself, safe and alone.
But the young man was speaking about being taken prisoner, about opium – opium in his hold, and he was woken up to Allan’s treachery. Whiskey. He needed more – he didn’t want to hear any of this, he only wished to be steeped in the darkness drink accorded him – but the young man stopped his arm as he reached for the bottle, saying he must promise to stop drinking, adding something about Haddock’s mother, about her disappointment in him. His mother. He hadn’t thought about her in... months? Years, even – was she still alive? They’d parted on such bad terms, he really should visit Cornwall, it’d been so long since he’d been home –
He found himself crying, sobbing wretchedly into his arms – Allan and Jumbo appeared, and he realised the young man had vanished. Had he dreamt him? Perhaps he’d been an apparition wrought by his mother’s vengeful soul; because if she had passed on, for certain her soul would be a bitter one. Strange of her to cloak herself as a ginger, moon-faced youth, though, considering her own visage had been so intimidating.
‘Here, drink this, you’ll feel better,’ Allan slid a re-filled glass towards him.
Haddock obeyed, knocking back a mouthful – the young man’s eyes flashed in his mind, bright and incensed, and Haddock choked, scoring Allan a deserving one in the eye. There was nothing of his mother in that young man, he decided numbly – because, as the Lord was her witness, Mrs Haddock had never once been able to stop her son from drinking.
‘N-n-no... I... I promised him not to drink... and I won’t anymore!’ Haddock pushed the glass away; it fell, tipping onto its side with a dull thud.
‘Who did you promise that to?’ Allan hissed irritably, wiping his face.
‘The y-young man who... who was here–’
And then Allan was grabbing at him, enraged and yelling. He could be frightening when he tried, Allan – provided Haddock forgot how much of a fop he looked with his collar turned up no matter the weather. Haddock bleated answers to his questions, and Allan rounded on Jumbo, stuffing a pistol into his hand, ordering him to keep watch before storming from the room.
Haddock lay his head on the table. He’d always liked Jumbo. He had an appropriate nickname given his short stature; he was quiet and hard-working, and he was Irish. The Cornish and the Irish always ought to have something to say to each other, and Haddock turned to remind him of this –
‘You!’ Haddock yelped, pointing. The young man had reappeared, and he was standing behind Jumbo, arms raised, two short planks gripped in his hands. Jumbo whirled around, and the young man struck him across the temple. He crouched, checking Jumbo was unconscious, before heaving him onto a chair and binding him with rope.
‘Where did you...’ Haddock began, more than overwhelmed. Whiskey. He needed–
The young man set a hand on his shoulder, his eyes boring in Haddock’s own. His gaze seemed an angelic chorus and hellfire all at once.
‘I prom-promise you I didn’t— didn’t drink,’ Haddock mumbled, awed.
‘Captain,’ the young man appeared not to have heard him. ‘Do you swear to me you didn’t know about the opium?’
‘I... Yes, I swear, I didn’t know... I swear...’ Haddock felt the seriousness of the situation beginning to sober him – and with it came his understanding of the significance of the young man’s question. What faith he must have, to take a drunkard at his word, Haddock thought, his heart sinking.
‘Then come with me. Stay quiet,’ the young man took his arm. ‘I’ll see us out of here, don’t worry, but you must do as I say.’
And just like that, Haddock’s heart lifted.
He followed willingly, wondering if this was what he’d prayed for – because when the depths of drunkenness rolled over him as blackly as they could, Haddock became a praying man. It was a matter of survival, the way he clung to the hope that one day he might finally have tormented himself enough to earn peace.
Admittedly, scrambling up flights of metal stairs wasn’t Haddock’s idea of peace, but trailing this salient young man seemed a damn sight better than rotting away in his cabin.
Something butted into Haddock’s leg; it was warm and it emitted a soft grunt. Haddock looked down.
‘What’s –? Is this... is this your dog?’
The cheerful, scruffy creature looked up at him, mouth open, tail wagging. It was as white as a dove, and Haddock couldn’t help but interpret this as a further omen.
‘Yes, this is Snowy.’
‘A fine place to bring a dog,’ Haddock chided. ‘Ships are... are dangerous places, don’t you know?’
The young man was undoing an intricate knot of rope beside a winch, working over the complex layers like the pattern was familiar to him.
‘I realise that now more than ever, but it’s not my foremost concern,’ he muttered, successfully untying the knot. The winch groaned in protest as he turned it, and Haddock realised they were beside the longboat.
‘You... you made sh-short work of that knot. Are you... a seaman?’
‘No,’ the young man shoved the boat hard, swinging it out over the ship’s flank. He turned to Haddock and smiled, and his face lit up like starlight. ‘Boy scout,’ he said simply, holding out his hand. Haddock took it, stunned; the young man seemed an entirely different person with a smile.
‘I... you... your–’
‘Come on, Captain, get your foot up.’
‘I don’t... Your name – what’s your—?’
‘Tintin,’ the young man said, pushing Haddock down onto a wooden seat, wrenching back the lock on the winch. ‘Come on, Snowy!’ The dog leapt, landing squarely next to Haddock.
‘That’s not... not a real name,’ Haddock mumbled, only partially aware they were lowering into the ocean; this “Tintin” fellow was far more preoccupying.
‘It’s a nickname,’ Tintin said.
‘Oh? Then what’s your... your–?’
‘Crumbs, this isn’t working – hold on, Captain,’ Tintin sat down, digging his foot under Haddock’s seat and tucking Snowy under his arm. With the other arm he raised the pistol.
‘What are you...?’ Haddock didn’t like this, not at all. Tintin took aim, closing an eye, training the pistol on one of the ropes that held the longboat suspended. ‘Tintin,’ Haddock said anxiously, though he found himself distracted by how satisfying it was to say his name. He realised his real name didn’t matter, his nickname was absolutely delightful –
Tintin fired.
Haddock started, opening his eyes.
He’d been near to dozing off, but no such luck. He hitched his shoulder higher on the ledge of the train window, attempting in vain to get comfortable. He stole a glance at Tintin seated across from him, finding him reading a book entitled The Secrets of the Templars, his expression the same heavy curtain of doom it had been two days running.
Haddock got halfway to thinking Tintin pulling such a face made him appear exactly the same as when they’d first met – but with the images of their first encounter clear in his mind (as clear as the whiskey-soaked memories allowed), Haddock realised he wasn’t the same at all. Several physical changes had transpired since then; his jaw and brow had become heavier, and the way he carried himself now accommodated the small amount of bulk he’d amassed on his chest and shoulders. It had been so gradual, like the wind weathering a stone, Haddock hadn’t properly noticed until now.
Irrespective, Haddock never would have believed he was twenty-four, just as he didn’t believe he was twenty-one when he’d met him. His voice hinted at the truth, however, it was low, mature and educated – but nothing held his age like his eyes. Through them, Haddock had observed as tiny slivers of Tintin’s youthful optimism were chipped away with each blow the world dealt him. It was a natural process, one Haddock had undergone himself, and yet he found it hard to stomach. Tintin was still years away – decades, perhaps – from falling victim to true cynicism; but all the same, Haddock hated to see him hurt.
Haddock looked to his hands in his lap, his eyes lingering on his weathered knuckles. He thought about the grey hairs stealing into his temples, and how he’d managed to keep them at bay through all the years of seafaring and heavy drinking; but the addition of Tintin to his life, it seemed, had finally pushed him over the hill.
In retrospect, Haddock knew Tintin was as much a curse as he was a blessing. Far from bringing peace and removing the dangerous aspects from Haddock’s life, he’d added to them tenfold.
But Haddock doubted the time would ever come when he’d regret this fact. Although he was far from understanding why or how, his life had meant more to him in the last two years than it had in the thirty-five preceding them combined.
Tintin was a mitigating factor in this, of course, but to what extent Haddock wasn’t keen on contemplating. Tintin’s throat still bore the faded mark of Haddock’s miscalculated attempt to better define their relationship.
... God, he hated trains.
Why couldn’t they rock like ships? Their driving, onward momentum unnerved him, never allowing him to relax. Tintin appeared similarly affected, though the train was surely not the culprit. He sat rigid and straight, his eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. Haddock had seen him under the influence of sleep-deprivation before, but it never manifested as anything other than slight sluggishness and stiff limbs. As far as Haddock knew, this cold rigidity was new to Tintin, and he feared the length of its stay.
Beside Tintin, Snowy gave a tentative whine, his tail brushing back and forth over the seat.
‘Shh.’ Tintin muttered.
Haddock sat forward, abandoning the notion of sleep. He rubbed his eyes and scratched his chin, bleakly satisfied when Tintin’s eyebrows furrowed in annoyance over the sound of his fingers working through his whiskers.
‘Is your face not aching yet?’ he asked plainly, ignoring the quiet part of him that wished he could shelve his pride and offer Tintin comfort instead of snark. ‘You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon.’
Tintin sighed, closing both his eyes and his book, his face finally relaxing. Somehow, he made it known that the efforts involved in ignoring Haddock’s jibe were laborious.
Snowy whined again, mulish and edgy, the muscles across his back twitching as he restrained himself from leaping at Tintin’s face.
‘I suppose you want a walk, hm?’ Tintin asked begrudgingly, and Snowy’s ears pricked at the word “walk”. ‘Well, you’ll just have to be patient, I’m afraid. We’ve not even reached Lille. Come now, it’s not a long trip, do your best to relax.’
Haddock only just managed to swallow back a rather classic taunt involving pots, kettles and blatant hypocrisy.
Snowy mewled, forsaken.
‘I won’t say it again, boy – shush.’ Tintin shot him a finite glare.
Haddock bristled, entirely invested in Snowy’s plight: ‘Oh, Tintin, couldn’t you take him for a mosey down the carriage? He’s miserable!’
Tintin kept his eyes on his book as he reopened it, flipping through the pages to find his place. ‘By all means, Captain, accompany him yourself.’
There was a long pause.
Haddock stood. ‘Come on, then, Snowy,’ he said. ‘We’ll let bitter-britches and his spleen alone.’
Snowy jumped down from the seat, following Haddock from the compartment into the carriage corridor, and Haddock rolled the door shut behind him. Tintin never so much as blinked.
Haddock sighed, muttering to himself, tucking his hands in his pockets and setting forth down the carriage.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t all that far to the end, Snowy, old boy,’ he looked down, finding Snowy beaming at him never-the-less. Haddock chuckled, though the sound faded in his throat. When they reached the end of the carriage Haddock slid open the nearest window, slipping his pipe and tobacco from his pocket. ‘All this carry on about smoking on trains,’ he mumbled to Snowy. ‘I should invest in snuff.’ Snowy lay down next to his feet, his tail pumping over the carpet, and Haddock stuffed his pipe and patted his pockets for his matches, despairing for a moment that he’d left them at Marlinspike. They turned up in his inner breast pocket, and he thanked the Heavens for reminding him he still had a modicum of luck intact.
He chewed the stem of his pipe, thinking.
He was angry with Tintin, and it confused him. He’d never been angry with him before – well, that wasn’t entirely true, one of Tintin’s foremost talents was driving Haddock up the wall, but it was always benign, never intended. Haddock considered the possibility that he was imagining it, or being over-sensitive, because in light of his weakness for irrationality and Tintin’s infallible calibre, the evidence didn’t exactly weigh in his favour. He simply couldn’t be angry with Tintin – no one was ever angry with Tintin! Unless, of course, they’d committed some kind of international crime and he’d thwarted them. But Haddock wasn’t a criminal (not in the broad sense, anyway; he really wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be smoking in this carriage), he was Tintin’s friend, and Tintin valued his friends, he was never short with them unless he needed to be.
But the fact remained, Haddock had never felt hurt by him before, not until this whole Belgian business had started.
Yes, the Belgian business, Haddock thought, that had a pleasing ring to it. And he would much rather think about that than allow himself to assume (with nauseating and ever-ready panic) that Tintin’s apparent displeasure with him was tied to the events of Monday night.
He moved his eyes fretfully out the window, focusing on the scenery whipping by far too quickly.
God, he hated trains.
Obviously, Tintin hadn’t said a word about what he was getting them into. Not that it was Tintin’s fault Haddock had accompanied him – but Haddock downright refused to take the blame, either.
No, it was most definitely the fault of the Thomson and Thompson.
It was they Haddock had turned to after Tintin’s hasty exit from Marlinspike. He knew no matter how determined and resourceful Tintin was, the consequences of Europe being gripped by total war ensured he wouldn’t get as far as Calais without help from on high – Interpol, to be precise.
After the operator had put him through to Mr Cutts the butcher no less than four blood-boiling times (and Haddock very nearly drove her to tears throughout the process), he finally heard the voice desperation had forced him to rely upon:
‘Yes, hello, this is Thompson, with a “p”, as in “phone”, oh-ho!’
‘Like it makes one blistering bit of difference,’ Haddock muttered.
‘Excuse me? Is the line bad? You do sound rather as if you’re chewing gravel.’
‘It’s Haddock.’
‘Oh, of course! Hello, dear fellow! You’ll be asking after your papers, no doubt?’
‘I – what?’
‘Your papers, for entrance into Belgium. Yours were much harder to produce, what with you not being a native. We’ve said you’re Norwegian, old boy, thought that would suit. They love a good bash at sea, same as you, and of course they’ve hopped right into bed with Fritz, so those cabbage-pickling fiends won’t suspect a thing!’
‘You – Thundering typhoons, what in Neptune’s name have you done that for?! I don’t need papers! I’ve rung to tell you under no circumstance are you to make papers for—’
‘No papers? Have you acquired some already? Because that, of course, would be highly illegal! You may be a friend to us, Captain, but we cannot overlook such transgressions—’
‘Listen to me, would you? Tintin—’
But something had occurred to Haddock, quelling his outburst and seeing to it his anger withered entirely.
‘Did... Did Tintin tell you I was going with him?’
‘He didn’t, no, come to think of it,’ Thompson replied considerately. Disappointment welled in Haddock before he could suppress it. ‘We had simply assumed... Well, after Palestine you two have been quite inseparable! And a good show that was, Captain. You know, you never did end up telling us how you became mixed up in that awful business?’
‘I...’ Haddock’s memory whirred, transporting him back to the desert –
‘But tell me, Captain, you still haven’t explained how you came to be here...’ Tintin had been intent on driving, and Haddock had been so preoccupied by their hot pursuit of Müller that for a wild moment he forgot his terror at the prospect of answering Tintin’s inevitable question.
‘It’s quite simple, really,’ he began. ‘But also rather complicated... First, I must tell you—’
Haddock’s throat had stuck, his fear catching up to him at precisely the same moment their car caught up to the Emir’s horsemen.
It had been a blessed distraction; and, as luck would have it, he’d been distracted every time hence he’d started explaining his miraculous appearance in the desert.
‘That’s beside the point!’ he barked at Thompson. ‘You mustn’t make those papers for Tintin, you cannot allow him to—’
‘Have you illegally acquired papers for him as well as yourself? Look here, I’ll do you the favour of not treating this information as a confession of guilt, provided you travel under the papers Interpol’s put together. Believe me, it’ll be much safer for you! And, of course, Thomson and I are prepared to lend you some stunning examples of traditional Norwegian dress!’
Haddock’s vision stopped registering in his mind for a moment. He saw nothing, only felt his insides shrinking under the weight of his imminent and grave mistake.
‘Yes... yes, of course,’ he mumbled.
God help me, he thought. Frustration ricocheted within him, building momentum –
‘But you can keep your puffed up pantaloons to yourself, Thomson!’
‘No, Captain, it’s Thompson, with “p”, as in–’
‘Porpoise! Popinjay! Pest! Goodbye!’
After that it had simply been a matter of catching up to Tintin before he boarded the train for Dover. Haddock had packed his duffel with expert haste and charged out the door, pausing only to tell a bewildered Nestor to call him a taxicab, and to assure Calculus that his sweater still fit just fine, thank you; and, finally, he’d kissed his cat between her ears.
He’d made it to the station with a whole ten minutes to spare. Locating Tintin only took one of those minutes, and it would have taken half a second had Tintin not been wearing his ivy cap.
Tintin glanced up when Haddock neared him, perhaps recognising the sound of his gait, and for a brief moment his eyes lit up with unguarded gratitude – but then the walls came down, rendering the tone of his greeting as reticent and stiff.
‘Captain,’ he’d said, barely even giving him in a nod.
‘Oh, well,’ had been all the indignation Haddock could summon, too hurt to even rattle off a few trademark curses. ‘At least Snowy’s pleased to see me!’
Throughout the subsequent train trip, ferry ride, and uncomfortably sleepless night spent in a cheap Calais hotel, the situation remained unchanged. Snowy watched Haddock imploringly, eyes beady with intent, and Tintin glowered behind his books all the while, uncharacteristically and ominously ill-tempered.
Haddock inhaled agitatedly on his pipe and gave a hacking cough. He’d finished the tobacco without realising, and its wilted, wet remains shot acrid bitterness straight to the back of his throat.
‘Blistering barnacles,’ he hissed, shoving his pipe irritably into his pocket and marching back down the carriage, tapping his thigh and motioning for Snowy to follow. He was going to talk to Tintin, he was going to give him a piece of his mind. It wasn’t right, him expecting Haddock to enter into this situation blind – this... this bloody, blistering Belgian business just bursting with Boches hell-bent on burning Europe right to the brink; nor was it right for Tintin to be anything other than the optimist! And if he was going to continue in such a foul and unappreciative mood, well, Haddock was just going to turn around at Lille and head straight home to Marlinspike –
Haddock stalled at their carriage door, halted by the sight within.
Tintin was no longer reading; his book sat in his lap, held limply by hands, and his eyes were fixed on the window, glazed as though his focus extended no further than the glass.
He looked absolutely shattered.
The seconds rolled by, long and slow, but Haddock didn’t feel them. Tintin lifted a hand to his throat, closing his eyes and dipping his head with a pained frown, tracing his fingertips over the faint mark above his collar. At that, Haddock took a step backward from the window, and leaned his shoulder against the rocking wooden wall of the carriage.
This was torment. His heart felt swollen and sick, each beat like the clumsy clunk of dated machinery, so out of time with the rhythm of the train.
‘Wretch,’ he cursed himself in a murmur, but it achieved nothing. He set his hand to his forehead, his head aching with a melee of half-formed thoughts he was too confused to address.
At his feet, Snowy peered at him, wanting to catch his eye.
‘Hm?’ Haddock looked to him, warmed by his attention. He crouched down, rubbing his hands over Snowy’s ears. ‘It’s not easy, is it?’ he confided in him. Snowy gave his palm a small lick, sombrely agreeing. Haddock straightened, lifting Snowy and holding him against his hip, saying to him: ‘Those seats are bit high for you to jump, aren’t they?’ as he opened the carriage door, ‘I’ll give you a leg up.’
He felt too ashamed to meet Tintin’s eye as he deposited Snowy next to him. He took his own seat, his gaze lowered, and knitted his fingers together over his knees.
‘Captain, I want to apologise,’ Tintin said softly.
Haddock looked up, having half-expected this. He signalled Tintin to stop. ‘Don’t think on it,’ he mumbled. ‘You’re exhausted.’
‘That’s no excuse for my... my behaviour. I didn’t–’ he stopped, raising his hand to his forehead, brushing his fingers against the creases gathered beneath them. Eventually he emitted a sigh, unable to find the words he needed.
Gently, ever so gently, Haddock’s mind filled in the blanks. Until this moment he’d refused to be conscious of Tintin’s unspoken ultimatum: they could forget the events of Monday night, or they could forgo their friendship. Haddock steeled his heart, grateful that the past two years of budding hope and fervent guilt had finally come to a head, and the decision they amounted to was an easy one.
After all, a life without Tintin was no life at all.
‘Lay down and go to sleep for an hour, would you?’ Haddock requested, his tone gathering strength as he spoke. ‘Here, I’ll take Snowy so you’ve got enough room.’
Haddock collected Snowy without waiting for an answer, setting the dog in his lap. Tintin hesitated, then nodded. He busied himself with folding his coat into a bundle, tucking it under his head as he settled on his side. He watched Haddock for a brief moment, smiling in thanks before he closed his eyes.
Tintin’s face was mapped in Haddock’s subconscious down to the very last freckle, thus gazing at him was not only indecent, it was unneeded. But Haddock couldn’t help himself. Rejection stung through his every nerve, but the pain seemed to register on a plane beneath feeling, placated by a soothing cover of rationality and the grim satisfaction one receives when something undesirable yet entirely expected has come to pass.
Haddock stroked his palm over Snowy’s silken head, and Snowy tucked his muzzle into the crook of his hip. They offered each other as much comfort as they could.
______________________________________________________________________
So, here we are! The second instalment – chapter one! (the first part was a prologue, I suppose :3) Sorry it took so long! ... And that nothing much happened. I am, if anything, slow to write and slow to develop my plotlines.
I also greatly over-use hyphens, as no doubt you will have noticed xD
p.s. ... Is it wrong that I imagine Haddock’s mother looks like Monty Python’s Terry Jones whenever he dressed in drag? xD (i.e. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zjz16xjeBAA ) Sorry for the randomness haha, but any excuse to link to Monty Python is good enough for me xDDD
Hopefully I’ll have more with you soon!
