Chapter Text
Tintin was not out of the hospital for weeks. His morphine drip was eventually turned down and though every motion of his body made him hide a wince, at least he became coherent. The Captain spent every minute he was allowed at Tintin's side, and the young man always reported the same when he saw him coming through the doorway at 4 o'clock - he was bored. Thanks to the traction apparatus he couldn't even sit up, couldn't hold a book in front of his face for long with his one good arm. An impatient scowl was a fixture now, and the Captain got used to being snapped at a great deal, though now and again Tintin would perk up and his behaviour turn repentant. He always said the same thing when the visiting hour was over - "Come again tomorrow, Captain." Haddock always gave his solemn promise to do so.
As Snowy was not allowed to visit (the Captain had been turned out when he'd tried to enter with a wriggling Snowy tucked into his coat), the dog spent most of his hours whining in front of Tintin's bedroom door. "He's running about chasing leaves, getting up to all sorts of mischief," the Captain said, turning to lies after watching Tintin's face fall one too many times when he asked after his dog.
Tintin would get especially close-lipped when Haddock tried to talk about the crash, which Haddock took to mean that Tintin blamed himself. However, a thought had occurred to him the previous night, when he'd been on the patio with a glass of whisky in hand. As he'd swirled the amber liquid his mind had turned to that sunset-lit evening before the crash. The champagne bubbles bursting against Tintin's lips. The lad was not a drinker, but he'd toasted with the Captain, because Tintin had known how much he'd wanted it. There hadn't been a truck with a half-drunk driver involved in the crash, but perhaps drink had played a part: that drink which Haddock had pressed on Tintin. It might be unlikely that a drink at eight o'clock one evening would still affect a body by the next morning, but Tintin was not used to drink. He was small, and everyone knew that a larger body could take more. It might have been enough to put the lad to sleep behind the wheel - Haddock had kept him up past the early bed-time Tintin had planned for, Heavens!
Haddock yanked on his own hair when he'd thought it through. The accident had been unlucky, but there was no doubt that Haddock had weighted the scales against the boy. How was that for looking out for his dear friend?
"Damn FOOL!" he'd shouted to himself.
--
Visiting Tintin after the sleepless night that followed, the Captain shuffled into the room with his head hunched into his shoulders. He'd have to come clean; he couldn't keep the terrible truth from Tintin; it was already torturing him.
There was a bar above Tintin's bed that Tintin could use to pull himself upright and relieve the aches in his back when he needed to, though he was still not allowed to sit up. He was using this when the Captain came in, twisting his upper body this way and that.
"I don't know how much more of this I can take, Captain," Tintin said, by way of greeting. "I've never been more aware of the way my bones poke at my muscles. They must have gone to war with each other."
"It's a rotten bit of business," the Captain said. He came to his usual spot beside Tintin, sitting down heavily and fiddling with the cord on his sailor's cap. "It won't be much longer, old chap."
Tintin huffed. "Weeks, Captain. If that's your definition of 'not much longer' I'd ask you to try being tied to a bed for a day and perhaps you would think again." His face was an aggravated scrunch. He could only use his good arm for lifting himself, so he dropped back to the cushions in order to twist and knead his back. "Argh. I can't reach," he said.
The Captain leaned forward at once. "Your back sore again?"
"It's always sore," Tintin snapped. "Night and day." The Captain's hand joined his, digging his fingertips into a spot beside Tintin's spine. "Lower than that. Do it harder, I can take it," he ordered firmly. Haddock took his orders very seriously. Tintin shut his eyes and gasped, tense and concentrating on the sensation. "The other side, now." He looped his good arm through the bar again and pulled himself up, giving the Captain full access to his lower back. "Yes. Leave your hand like that a moment," he said, while Haddock's fingertips dug in the centre just below his waistline. Tintin lowered his weight back onto the hand, letting a out a tense breath as he did so. He still held the bar, but now Haddock took his weight too, and evidently the new distribution of pressure on his back was a relief. It was no difficulty to keep the position: there wasn't a great deal of weight to hold - where there had once been a band of tight muscle on Tintin's torso, the Captain felt mostly bones and tender flesh. The boy was starting to revert to the wisp of a thing he'd been when he'd first tumbled into his life through that porthole.
Haddock had held his tongue as long as he could, which was not very long, and he could bear not a moment longer of the boy's unfailing faith, which he felt was aptly demonstrated by the act of holding the damaged lad's weight in his hand. Tintin had always put the safety of his body and soul into the Captain's hands without question, an honour that the Captain had always fought not to disappoint. But Tintin must know, must be told, that his faith was misplaced: The Captain was nothing more than a washed up, brine-crusted, whisky-soaked wreck. It was the only decent thing to do: protect Tintin from his own misplaced faith.
"Tintin," he began, grey-toned and somber. "I fear I've come to the bottom of the matter about your crash."
Tintin jerked to attention at once, fixing wide eyes on him. The Captain's hand was still in place: they were very close. He could feel Tintin's breath on his face, feel his pulse and the twitching of his muscles in his fingertips.
"What?" Tintin said.
"I fear," said the Captain, and then he dropped his eyes, unable to look as he led Tintin to his conclusion; "I fear that there were factors involved in the accident that we must speak of, or I shall never be at peace."
"F-factors?" Tintin said. He sounded alarmed. "What factors have you thought of?"
"I kept you up all night, my lad. You would have had your forty winks if I hadn't insisted you stay up with me!"
Tintin scoffed. "Hardly all night. That's preposterous. I won't hear you taking any blame. I would have stayed up preparing if I hadn't been with you."
"Oh yes?" The Captain cried, angry to be denied his culpability. "What about this then: I forced that glass of champagne down you. It has a soporific effect, alcohol, everybody knows that!"
"You're insulting me, Captain. I can drink a glass of champagne without coming over all funny."
The Captain bowed his head again, not at all convinced by Tintin's explanations. The lad had a blind spot when it came to him. He'd forgive Haddock things that would cause him to disown anyone else. "Thundering typhoons. I was selfish, my boy. Won't you let me say it plainly?"
"You were selfish, I'm selfish, the whole world's selfish!" Tintin exclaimed. "You mean to tell me you were weaving the strings of fate that night? Perhaps if you'd had any notion of what would happen, then yes, but where were you when I decided to close my eyes while going sixty miles an hour? Maybe we can blame Snowy, he was jumping up and down from my bed in the middle of the night. Treacherous dog!"
"Come now," Haddock chided, a little alarmed at this uncharacteristic attack upon Tintin's most beloved companion.
"You see!" Tintin cried, vindicated. "It makes as much sense - No," he interrupted, "I'm not comparing you to a dog. I'm only saying it was my doing alone, mine."
Haddock subsided. He didn't want to argue with Tintin when he'd made up his mind. The lad had probably already thought about the preceding events to the accident. His thoughts raced streets ahead of Haddock's; of course he'd already solved the case to his own satisfaction.
"A more obvious connection between cause and blame would be my accident meaning that you gave up that voyage to Panama," Tintin muttered. Of course, he'd tried to argue that the Captain should go, but it had been a weak protest. There was no way that Haddock could leave Tintin while he was in this state, and it didn't need saying that Tintin didn't really want him to go.
"Could you - could you go a little lower? Just a sliver?"
Haddock walked his fingers down Tintin's back a little more, and Tintin pressed against him once more.
For eight long weeks Tintin was a resident of that hospital. The traction was taken off after six, but though the bones of Tintin's legs were now correctly aligned, they were far from healed, and the muscles had become atrophied. He was still immobile, his legs cast in plaster. His arm was allowed to come out of its cast, though he was told not to use it to lift himself (Tintin, it turned out, would be the judge of whether he'd use it or not, which the Matron did not like).
A string of august visitors graced the halls with their presence, come to give their well-wishes to Tintin. The reporters of Paris-Flash became well-known faces hanging around the hospital as they waited to get a photo and maybe a few words from some foreign dignitary or international star or other.
"Can't they give a warning when they're set to come swanning up?" Tintin groused, fussing with his blankets and pyjamas as Bianca Castafiore trilled her way out of his room, there and gone without leaving a moment for anyone else to utter a word. "Open the window, it smells like sickness in here," he told the Captain. "Great snakes, I wish the rags had never heard of my blasted accident." The news had been rather sensational, given Tintin's fame. He was practically a household name from here to Tazmania. "I feel like an absolute lemon, laid up like this in my pyjamas. I haven't had a sponge bath since Thursday; don't people have the decency to allow one to suffer in peace?"
"Decency? From that braying Harpy?" The Captain exploded, pent up annoyance with Bianca letting loose.
Even that never-ending time came to an end, and the doctor declared that Tintin's recovery would proceed more expeditiously at home. The Captain was almost skipping as he stole Tintin back, wheeling him in his chair through the front entrance. His leg casts were so bulky that he would be travelling by ambulance, but Haddock had arranged for Nestor and Cuthbert to wait outside the hospital doors with-
"Snowy!" Tintin cried rapturously, and held his arms wide. The dog looked dumbfounded for a moment, before leaping in four directions at once and tumbling over his own paws to reunite with his master.
Haddock's dominion at Tintin's side came to an end: Snowy hated for anyone to get near him, growling his displeasure at anyone who dared. The poor nurse who attended Tintin's bedside at Marlinspike threatened to hand in her notice if the dratted terrior tried to nip her fingers one more time. In a complete turnabout from the days of Tintin's absence, Snowy was no longer a fan of Captain Haddock. The way the dog bristled at him, it was clear he thought that Haddock had been hiding Tintin away from him for all this time and would never be forgiven.
"Snowy, no!" Tintin shouted as Snowy bared his sharp teeth at Haddock for the dozenth time. He reached out from his bath chair and snagged Snowy's collar, bringing him within reach to be lifted into the chair next to him. From there Snowy was all whines and contrition, burying himself as close as he could to Tintin.
"Blue blistering barnacles, that accursed dog is going to leap for my throat one day," Haddock muttered.
Being back in Marlinspike suited Tintin: the boy healed in leaps and bounds. A month later and he was wheeling himself around the house and grounds without a difficulty. Not long after that, he was trying a few painful steps with crutches every day. Tintin's attitude towards physical discipline had always been very strict, and now he turned it patiently to regaining the mobility he'd lost. He was proficient with the crutches very quickly, then he was leaving them behind for a walking stick and an arm through the Captain's as they strolled around the garden. Snowy didn't like it, but allowed himself to be distracted by butterflies and interesting scents they went past.
Sometimes Tintin tried too much and went back to his crutches; often he could be found sprawled on a sofa or off to bed for a nap, exhausted beyond anything.
On Christmas eve, Tintin knocked on Haddock's office door and came in at his beckoning. Haddock was reading a reader's digest and puffing on his pipe.
"There you are, lad. What are you up to?"
"Good afternoon, Captain." He walked over to the Captain's chair very slowly. Haddock spat his pipe out and leapt to his feet.
"Careful, you reckless mudlarker! Where in blue blazes is your stick?"
"No, Captain," Tintin said, squirming his arm out of Haddock's grip. "I don't need a hand. I've been trying to walk without aid."
Practicing in his bedroom, no doubt.
"You'll drive me cookoo one day, watching you pushing your luck."
"You're an inveterate worry-wart and you'll deserve what you get," Tintin dismissed. He walked steadfastly past the hovering captain to a chair opposite, carefully lowering himself down.
"No Snowy?" the Captain asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice.
Tintin gave him a sardonic smile. "Asleep."
"Well, seems to be the perfect time then."
"Oh yes? For what?"
The Captain was pleased that he'd wrapped his gift here earlier, because now he could reach behind his armchair and whip it out in a very suave fashion. He couldn't supress an over-eager grin at Tintin's surprise.
"A present? What is it?"
"That's for you to see. Catch?"
Tintin caught the slim box and looked it over, weighed it in his hands.
"Hurry up and open it."
Tintin loosened the bow, a smirk tossed at the Captain as he noticed the flourish of the expert weave of a sailor’s knot on the ribbon; he parted the paper and lifted the lid off the box within. He paused for a moment to read the document that was revealed. It was a long pause. Long enough that Haddock began to have misgivings.
"Well, you understand, don't you?"
Tintin was still reading the document, apparently. Flicking the pages over, skimming the words of the contract.
"It's a new car," Haddock said, when a reaction failed to materialise.
Tintin smiled when he raised his head at last. "Thank you. It's just what I needed."
The response was rather flat.
"I didn't want you to be without transport when you want to get out of here, eventually."
Tintin still smiled.
"Of course you might not be able to leap into it straight away, but at least when you are able to, it will be waiting and ready for you. It will be driven up here in a couple of weeks."
The Captain rubbed his arm rests and wondered why he should feel disappointed at this reaction. It was hardly the most personal of gifts. Nestor had agreed that it was just the right thing for a man who had most everything but had recently lost a car.
"It's a very thoughtful gift, Captain. I'm sure I shall get much use out of it, though I'm not so concerned about escaping Marlinspike as you're implying."
That was a fuller response, and though Tintin had not been leaping for joy (figuratively) he was satisfied that the lad was pleased enough.
Tintin rang the bell for Nestor and whispered a short instruction to the man under the Captain's curious gaze. Nestor left the room and came back in with his arms laden. It turned out that Tintin had managed to get him gifts too, despite being confined to the house: a subscription to several magazines that all catered to the Captain's tastes, a beautiful silk paisley scarf and a bottle of fancier whisky than his usual Loch Lomond (the Captain would never reveal to him that he preferred Loch Lomond for more than its reasonable price tag). Tintin was a much better gift giver than he was a receiver - his eyes sparkling with barely concealed glee, a blush on his cheeks as he watched him open them. The Captain made sure to leave him in no doubt of his approval.
As life began to return to normal, and the terrible accident receded from dominating the Captain's thoughts into a consideration of Tintin's limitations, into beginning to be a memory.
One feature did not return to the way things had, and it had to do with the Captain's Christmas present to Tintin.
The smart red vehicle had pulled into the drive in early January, and everyone came out of the house to admire it and agree it was a beautiful object and compare it to everything under the sun. It was unquestionably superior to the old car, and much safer. Tintin had nodded along and peered at the interior and the shiny hubcaps and grille. The was no question that he would drive it then. He couldn't even manoeuvre himself into a car seat without pain.
But then it was April, and then May, and the car was still sitting in all its chrome-plated glory in the Captain's garage. Nestor took it out on his days off to 'keep it ticking over'.
When Tintin left Marlinspike by road, he never went alone. His little motorbike was also neglected, and when the Captain noticed it was missing from its usual spot one day, Tintin told him he'd sold it to the butcher's boy. Haddock didn't mind playing chauffer to Tintin, not at all; but the Tintin he knew had taken so much pleasure from getting anywhere under his own steam. After a few subtle enquires as to when Tintin thought he'd like to try out his new wheels, he felt bad about pestering him over it, and let the matter go.
Tintin had taken a break from reporting, and Haddock had returned to retirement. There was something playing on Tintin's mind, and Haddock wanted to ease his worries but wasn't sure how, when he didn't know the cause. He could guess at the cause: trauma, like those chaps coming back from getting blown to bits in battle. Tintin was having trouble bouncing back psychologically, Haddock decided. He didn't give a fig if Tintin never went sniffing about for a story again; it's not as if they needed the money and if anyone could argue that the first man on the moon needed to pull up his socks and contribute a bit more to society, Haddock would happily feed them their own winter coat. it was only: Haddock wasn't sure whether Tintin wanted to get back to the way things had been or not, and if he wanted for Haddock to give him a little push. It might be that he was happy with the way things were, at this slower pace of life that he had surely earned. Maybe Tintin had realised his mortality; maybe he'd just left adolescence and grown up. The trouble was, the Captain wanted to know one way or the other. There was a gap in their communication that Haddock felt keenly.
A telegraph arrived one morning while Tintin was on his jog around the grounds. Haddock went out into the garden in his slippers and waited to spot the boy. To his surprise, Tintin came up the drive from the front gate at a sedate pace, Snowy trotting along beside him.
"Ahoy there. You're expanding your route now, is that right?" Haddock called around his pipe. Tintin kept his pace up until a few paces from Haddock, when he slowed to a walk, panting. The redness of his cheeks had taken over his face, and even his bare legs were pink with exertion. White surgery scars stood out starkly against the colour.
"Good morning, Captain," he managed to gasp.
"Good morning, Tintin." He waved the telegraph and held it towards him. "You've had a missive."
"I'm all sweaty," Tintin said, stepping back. "Why don't you tell me about it while we go the kitchen? I'm parched."
They turned towards the house, going through a side door that led quickly to the kitchen.
"The Syldavian embassy are holding a gala, attended by King Muskar's retinue no less," Haddock reported. He cleared his throat for the next part: "'Sir. Tintin, Knight of the Order of the Golden Pelican, is invited to attend as Guest of Honour by the personal request of King Muskar and Queen Idma'. How about that, hey, Sir Tintin? Guest of honour at a sparkling gala. That'll be the golden ticket all month, you can bet."
Tintin, as always, did not look the least impressed at the thought of pomp and glory. He finished a long drag of water, and ran the tap to splash his face, looking like any young ruffian after a game of rugger.
"I wouldn't be surprised if they've invited the crown princess herself; but our Tintin is the guest of honour. We'll need to make sure your black suit still fits you: I could swear having your legs stretched out in that traction contraption put half an inch on you."
Tintin gave him a bit of a grin as he dabbed water off his face. The Captain was sure Tintin knew his measurements before and after, but that grin was saying nothing.
"You'll look rather alright showing up in your new car; that dusty old banger from before would never have done."
Tintin wafted the hem of his airtex shirt, billowing air up it. The smell of sweaty boy grew a tad stronger.
"Royal galas aren't all they're talked up to be, Captain," he said at last. "You can't talk to anyone until you've been formally introduced to them and heaven help you if you forget where someone lies on a family tree. There are a dozen family feuds being talked of in code on top of each other, and then there are loud celebrities who don't notice any of that but once you get within range of them you'll be a hostage until the end of the night."
Haddock threw back his head and laughed at that cynical assessment.
"Sounds like a hoot!"
"Trust me, it's not," Tintin said, slipping away on legs that had not quite gained their former bounce. "And you can't get roaring drunk unless you want to be blacklisted all over the globe," he threw behind him.
Haddock grinned that Tintin had included him as his hypothetical guest, though he seemed to be intending to turn the invitation down.
"You're the guest of honour, lad. You have to have a bally good excuse to turn your nose up at a royal invitation." He followed Tintin further into the house, into a back hallway with the servants' staircase. Tintin started the trudge upwards, making use of the bannister to support stiff knees. "I thought King Muskar was a friend of yours, anyway. Don't you think he'd be pleased to see a loyal face in that sea of sharks?"
"I don't know why you care so much," Tintin said. "We could just as soon share three bottles of Veuve Clicquot and put on the record player and have twice as much fun."
Haddock did not miss that Tintin was baiting him with the promise of an excess of alcohol. He'd become aware of the boy manipulating him with his vice at some point and now he made an effort to spot an attempt. He was surprised that even pointing out King Muskar's disappointment had not given Tintin more pause. The boy was usually loyal to a fault and put up with a lot of nonsense for his friends.
The Captain rested an arm on the newel post as he watched the young man carry on up the stairs, and caught the tense line of Tintin's mouth when he turned on the next landing to carry on up the next flight.
"I'll see you at lunch," Haddock called. "The telegram will be on the hall table. You can deal with it later."
The Captain could not have said what had happened, but between that firm negative on the day of the telegram’s arrival, and this moment – that is, a muggy, overcast day at the end of June with nothing to give it significance – Tintin had completely changed his mind and decided that they would be going to King Muskar’s gala. Some might have thought twice about dithering on a reply to a King, but Tintin wasn’t like most. Haddock caught him on the tail end of his call. Tintin held up one regal finger to keep the Captain at bay while he finished his communication (Tintin had kings hanging off his whims, what was Haddock to that?).
Tintin had a firmly set jaw as he turned to regard the Captain.
“I’m feeling a lot better than I thought I would. I thought about what you said about King Muskar, and you’re right. I don’t know him well but he is a good man, unfortunately surrounded by a court of backstabbers and boot-lickers. If I’m feeling as well next Tuesday as I do today, we’ll go.”
“That’s smashing!” Haddock cried, throwing up his hands.
“What are you doing with a golf club?” Tintin asked, as said article cracked against the moulding around the dining room door frame and chipped a bit off.
“Ah - this – thought I might make a little golf course in the garden – never mind that – do you think I should wear my kilt? Ancestral MacArthur family tartan? My mother’s side.”
“You can wear knickerbockers on your head if you want,” Tintin replied dryly. “I don’t think my legs are up to wearing kilts any more or I might have joined you.”
“Aye,” Haddock said in a tone of commiseration, “With how stretched-out your legs are now you’d probably give the assemblage more of a show than you’d want.”
Tintin’s face contorted into a smile which he paired with a scandalised frown. He turned down to Snowy, who was lying on the marble floor, panting like he didn’t like this stuffy weather at all.
“We’ll have to pick your bow tie, won’t we Sir Snowy? How about a nice golden one, for a guardian of the sceptre?”
Snowy gave a yip in delight at the attention.
Snowy’s accessories had their own wardrobe. Haddock had seen it once, idly poking around Tintin’s room to see if he could bring anything that would divert the boy while in hospital, and had been rather taken aback at the size of the collection of little outfits.
“I thought we should stay at Hotel Metropole and come back the day after,” Tintin said in that polite way of his that meant that it was already decided.
“As you wish, as you wish.” The Captain used his golf club as a stick to lean against. “I suppose I’ll be driving.”
“You don’t mind, do you? Call it payment for insisting I attend.”
“Your payment will be in the form of me seeing off all the scallywags and brigands who try to reel you into some adventure or another.” The golf club now became a cutlass, flick-swishing through the air. “But I shall undertake to drive you, gratis.”
So it was decided, and the Captain let Nestor know that the crate of Veuve Clicquot would not need to be ordered, and stopped fretting about what record he should play first to begin their evening of partying at Marlinspike (he knew Tintin had spoken in jest, but he’d thought it might tickle the lad find the Captain had made his jest a reality).
Though Tintin had spoken decisively about going to the gala, in the days approaching the event, the Captain sensed his nervousness increasing. Tintin was quieter than usual, seemingly preoccupied, and though he was always active, he wasn’t attacking his pursuits with any of his usual concentration. Snowy was a firm indication that something wasn’t right. He would start whining and pawing at Tintin on and off when Tintin’s eyes went distant and his fingers gripped too tight on his book or his arm chair or the chess pieces he was setting up.
Haddock waited for Tintin to voice his concerns, or to cancel the trip altogether. But Tintin said nothing, so the Captain let him work through his difficulties by his own means.
Tintin would emerge again from his mild catatonia and comfort Snowy (it always took a while to calm the dog back to silence), and sometimes he would give the Captain a furtive look through his eyelashes, and Captain would cough and shake out his newspaper or talk about whether they ought to repair the fountain or look at the clouds and grumble and pretend that he’d noticed nothing amiss.
It was to be an unforgettable night; Haddock knew if from the start, when he saw Tintin follow Snowy (in his gold bow-tie) down the stairs in his suit and knew that the sight would be forever emblazoned on his memory. The tailor's quick adjustments had pulled the old cut into a crisp silhouette that accentuated Tintin’s diminutive but perfectly-formed figure; his trim waist, upright back and his graceful limbs, his slender neck, circled by a pale blue bowtie. Haddock managed to get his jaw off the floor in time (he hoped) not to be caught gawking.
In his formal black jacket and MacArthur tartan kilt, both of which could have done with their own tailoring (a little loose now around the waist), the Captain felt downright shabby. The feather decorating his beret had a broken shaft and stuck out in a daft fashion, and his pocket square wouldn't fold right. The woollen kilt was making his thighs itch, a pox on ridiculous national dress.
“Tintin,” the Captain breathed, much too reverently. The boy’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.
“What?” He asked, all concern and confusion.
“You look a sight,” Haddock said, voice gagged with emotion.
“I do?” Tintin said, hand going to his bowtie in alarm.
“No, no, boy,” Haddock quickly reassured, brushing Tintin’s hand back down. “I meant a good sight. A sight for sore eyes. You look like a butterfly that’s burst from its chrysalis of plaster and bandages and flown out looking a dream.”
Tintin stared up at him, mouth agape, and their usual closeness seemed closer than ever to the Captain.
“Only right for the guest of honour,” the Captain said, when Tintin only blushed and fiddled with his cufflinks.
“I’m just sorry I can’t be a rosy-cheeked debutante to give your entrance the finishing touch. Well,” The Captain said, his voice back to a penetrating volume that belonged better in a howling nor’easter on the Atlantic. “Let’s be off to the royal ball, then - the prince charming and his pretty dog and the battered fisherman in his itchy wool skirt who’s destined to be escorted out by the end of the night.”
“You’re full of poetry tonight, Captain,” Tintin said, taking Haddock’s arm to descend the front steps, as that particular movement still jarred his legs. “But you look far from a fisherman. You’re a Lord of the Manor, and that’s what you look like.”
Nestor bid them a wonderful evening as he closed the door behind them.
---
They went straight to the gala after leaving their overnight bags at the Hotel Metropole. Their taxi dropped them by a very glamorous line of people who were making a point of failing to form an orderly queue up to the Syldavian embassy’s huge, gold-coloured doors. The crowd tended to the mature end of the scale, the ladies corseted and coiffed and earlobes dragged long with a lifetime of heavy jewellery; the gents moustachioed and murmuring pointed comments behind each others’ backs. Tintin might have been the youngest one there. It was not quite the glitzy, happening affair that Haddock had envisaged, but, still, he was here with Tintin, and Tintin had him and they would leave as soon as Tintin gave the least sign.
Tintin’s movements stiffened as they climbed the steps to the doors. Snowy was making his usual fuss, whining sorrowfully and drawing many an eye.
“Easy, Tintin; easy, lad. No need to rush,” Haddock said lowly, taking Tintin’s weight with a hand under his elbow.
“I’m alright, Captain,” Tintin said, though he leaned into the support.
The hall in which the gala was happening was gilt-crusted and dripping with crystals that sparkled in the electric lights, and the walls were covered in murals in the charming Syldavian style, lending an honest, folksy bent to the decadence. The attendants knew Tintin at first sight, and bowed to him as they had to no other guest that Haddock had seen; immediately, they were whisked off to be presented to King Muskar and Queen Idma, where a line of guests – probably those more important than the rest - were being slowly ushered past the royal couple.
“Captain,” Tintin said quietly as they joined the queue. “I hope you don’t mind if we make this a short affair.”
“It’s as long as you want it to be,” Haddock murmured back.
“It’s just, I’m not sure I’m up to this sort of thing.” His voice came out in a rush.
“Hey, hey now,” Haddock said, realising then that he should understand ‘short affair’ as ‘abandon vessel post haste’, so Haddock would help him through the least of their duties and get them out. “Just a little further. We’ll say a quick hello to the royal whatsits but we’re not going to stay. We’ll be out of here in a minute, set yourself at ease, my boy.”
Snowy’s continuous stream of whining made for a bit of a racket. The gathered dignitaries showed their impeccable breeding by not even fluttering an eyelash, but an attendant bowed up to them to ask in very accented Syldavian whether the doggy wanted to take some refreshments in the next room.
“The doggy stays with us,” the Captain growled. “The doggy is a personal friend of his royal highness.” The attendant bowed again, so deeply that his cap fell off.
Tintin was very quiet beside him. Haddock held the boy tighter, one arm threaded securely under his and the other hand wrapped around his upper arm.
“Come on, lad,” Haddock said lowly, keeping the concern he felt out of his voice. It felt as if Tintin had given over all of his control, as if Haddock was his puppet master. The line moved on, and Haddock moved their little group on with it, almost tripping over Snowy, who was pacing back and forth in front of his master and getting up on his hind legs. His paw brushed over Tintin’s hand and his fingers did not so much as twitch.
Tintin’s head was tipped slightly down, and Haddock couldn’t see his expression.
“Are you with me, sailor? Tintin?”
Snowy’s whines escalated into shrill barks, which were impossible to ignore.
“To his Majesty King Muskar and her Royal Highness Queen Idma of Syldavia; I submit to you Sir Tintin of the Order of the Golden Pelican, Captain Archibald Haddock; and most esteemed guest Snowy the dog,” a strident voice proclaimed. Looking up, the Captain came face to face with Queen Idma.
“It’s an honour to see you again, dear Tintin,” she said, though she looked concerned.
“Tintin?” Said the King. Haddock could hardly hear himself think with Snowy’s frantic barking. “Whatever is the matter with him, sir?" The King demanded of him. The boy was getting heavier in his grip.
“I - oh – Tintin, what’s going on?” Haddock said, trying in vain to see into a face that dipped lower and lower.
“A doctor, we must have a doctor here!” The queen called, and then Tintin’s legs gave out and at once he was twitching and jerking as he dangled by his arm from the Captain’s grip. Even if he’d tried, Haddock could not have stopped the animal noise of terror that escaped him to see the boy’s body spasming uncontrollably – legs kicking out, back muscles jumping and lifting him off the floor. His mouth hung and his eyes sought a point above the top of his head. Haddock dropped down and pressed Tintin’s flailing wrists to his own chest, amazed at the strength of the spasms that tensed his body in a random beat. From so close, he could hear the faint bubbling of saliva in the boy’s throat. Haddock transferred his wrists into one hand and shoved the other under Tintin’s banging head. He could barely keep control of him; the spasms seemed to be the work of an invading, alien strength far beyond what was normal.
Snowy was going wild with fear, and snapped at anyone who attempted to calm him with teeth that were ready to rip flesh from bones. A doctor had quickly been found, but Snowy would not let the man close.
“Captain Haddock,” The King called. “Can you control Tintin's dog? We cannot get close to him.”
Haddock looked up to see the ring of spectators, driven far away by Snowy. The doctor must be the man who was attempting to inch closer to them.
“Yes, I’ll get the dog,” Haddock said. His voice did not sound as shattered as he felt. Snowy would not like this, but the doctor had to get through his line of defence.
“Here, Snowy,” the Captain said, with no expectation to be obeyed. Plan B was simply to reach out and capture Snowy’s collar as he passed, which he managed, as Snowy’s attention was on keeping the rest of the crowd as far away as possible. “Quickly, take Tintin,” Haddock cried, taking hits from his flailing fists once more. Snowy twisted like an eel and sank his teeth into Haddock’s hand, but even the pain of that felt distant. He pulled away from Tintin and watched the doctor rush in, calling out instructions for some of the attendants.
“Here, Captain,” said the attendant who had offered a refreshment for Snowy. “This way.”
The Captain followed numbly and Snowy released his hand to struggle frantically, dangling by his collar, unhappy to be getting further away from Tintin. The room the attendant showed Haddock into was an antechamber near the kitchens with nothing much in it but sacks of potatoes and huge metal drums of cooks’ oil.
“I suggest we leave it in here for now,” the attendant said, not unkindly.
Haddock had not much choice but to let the man shut the door hurriedly after he tossed Snowy gently through the entrance. His hand was bleeding profusely, and moreover he needed to get back. He turned back to the hall but the attendant got in front of him and insisted that they see to his wound; Haddock was intending to ignore him when one of the kitchen staff came out and shrieked when she saw the blood. There did seem to be a ludicrous amount painting the tiles, Haddock realised when he looked down.
“Please, the young man will be alright, Captain; the doctor will help him. We do this quickly,” said the attendant. Haddock hesitated, then let the kitchen woman press him over to a table, where she took down and opened a first aid kit. Snowy had done a thorough job: Learned from his master never to do things in halves, no doubt. Tintin, Tintin- the name ricocheted endlessly in his mind, overlaying everything else. Out there, alone, surrounded by strangers-
“I think it need stitches,” said the woman, also a Syldavian from the accent.
“To Hell with it then!” Haddock shouted, frustrated, taking his hand back.
“No, no, we wrap it up,” the lady said. The attendant was just behind Haddock, ready to strongarm Haddock back to the table. Haddock realised it would be quicker just to allow the thing to be done.
“Suffering Sun-blind Rhizomes,” the Captain muttered and gritted his teeth. He still felt no pain as the woman worked, wrapping his hand firmly in bandages. Blood bloomed through the layers almost at once, but it would be awhile before the bandage would be soaked. Haddock snatched his hand away as soon as she’d closed the safety pin.
“Now, let me through,” he barked, daring the attendant to object with his deepest scowl. “Quiet, Snowy!” There was no silencing the dog. The poor thing seemed to be throwing himself against the door, but Haddock could only deal with one problem at a time, and now he could finally see to the most important one.
Back in the royal reception area, attendants were directing a few gossiping stragglers back to enjoy the rest of the party, but Tintin, the doctor, the royal pair and the circle of onlookers had all disappeared. An official man started when he saw the Captain – the one who had announced them, he thought.
“Ah, Captain Haddock; please, your companion has been taken to a bedroom upstairs,” he said, coming over. He called someone over to show Haddock upstairs, and the Captain followed. There was no point asking questions: he would only believe the truth of Tintin’s condition when he could behold him with his own eyes.
---
The doctor had answers for them.
The Captain sat at the edge of the cushioned chair next to the bed Tintin had been placed in, legs planted firmly apart, leaning forward and resting his lips on his fisted-together hands, to stop himself from bursting out with anything. He was just glad to finally be next to Tintin.
Queen Idma herself had forbidden the Captain from going into the room when he'd arrived, standing regal and beautiful before the door and insisting that he follow ‘doctor’s orders’.
“Titin is recovering: he opened his eyes and he was speaking, but he was confused, and the doctor insists upon quiet and darkness in the room,” she'd said. “Please take a seat out here if you wish, or you may return downstairs with me and wait for somebody to call you up.” There had been no question of that. No question of sitting, either. He’d worn a circuit into the rich carpet outside until the doctor had opened the door and told him he could come in.
They’d taken off Tintin’s jacket and tie and loosened his shirt. He looked pale and bleary-eyed, and a red scratch decorated his cheek. He had quickly said “I’m alright, Captain”, when Haddock had entered, but the doctor had still been busy checking him over and asking him about how he felt, so the Captain had kept a lid on his compulsion to crowd in immediately. Warring feelings of overwhelming relief that the lad seemed to have recovered mixed with the terror of knowing that something was wrong with him.
Now Tintin lay against his cushions, hands limply folded over his middle, and he did not look the Captain’s way.
“You will have to undergo further examinations, of course, but I can tell you that from my observation, you experienced a grand mal seizure. There are my causes that we know of for such an event: mostly they are seen in patients who have recently received a head injury or been deprived of oxygen.”
Tintin was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t had a head injury recently.”
Haddock had to speak up: “You were in a car crash! I’d say that gave your noggin a bounce.”
Tintin still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t think that was it.”
“Come now, Tintin – don't you think that’s a reasonable connection to make?”
Tintin’s jaw went tight. “Doctor, is it normal for grand mal seizures to recur?”
“Hm. That depends. In a lot of patients; most, I might say, it will be a singular event, that they won’t experience again; but it is perfectly normal for other patients to experience the seizures frequently. These patients suffer from a condition called epilepsy. Some may recover from the condition, but a good number will be affected for the rest of their lives. The only way to know whether epilepsy is the cause is to wait and see if another seizure occurs.”
“Epilepsy!” The Captain had heard of it. He’d heard of it connected with people locked away in straightjackets, or hidden like dirty secrets in the attic, heard the sordid whispers that followed those unlucky ones - ‘touched’, ‘insane’, ‘hysterical’.
“Ah - now, come on,” he cried, “He’s just confused. It was that blistering car crash, it wasn’t so very long ago. Tintin hasn’t got e- that – that thing!”
“This wasn’t the first time.”
The small voice cut through Haddock’s blustering, leaving the room ringing with silence.
The doctor sat forward. He spoke carefully. “Hm. Then I suggest that you are an epileptic. I can’t say that I’ve met many sufferers. You will have to arrange to see a specialist.”
A series of noises were attempting to release themselves from Haddock’s throat. “Hang on though – that's a bit hasty to say. Lad, I’ve never seen you have a fit like that. Maybe it was something else.”
Tintin sighed, a frown crossing his face and he looked down at his fidgeting hands.
“The car crash. I didn’t have the fit because of the car crash. I crashed because I had a fit. I remember feeling queer just before I lost consciousness, just as I did today – just now. It makes Snowy nervous. He can tell. He tried to warn me but … but I didn’t want to believe it was true. That it would happen again. So I didn’t tell you.” His voice was a husk by the end of his confession.
Haddock put his hand on Tintin’s forearm.
“Tintin ... but ...” it couldn’t be true. This wouldn’t happen to Tintin. “Maybe you don’t remember it right,” he said, as gently as possible.
Tintin sighed again, a little frustration in the noise now. He rolled his eyes up to the Captain. “And that wasn’t the first time either. I had another in my bedroom, one day. It came out of the blue – that queer feeling, and then nothing. And waking up with a splitting headache and bruises all over me and Snowy howling and trembling.” Tears sprang up in his eyes suddenly, his voice climbing high and hoarse. “Of course I didn’t want it to be true, either. Why do you think I said nothing? It’s all I’ve been able to think about for months, just waiting at the edge of my chair for it to come upon me again and take away all my control – wishing that it was all a nightmare and it wouldn’t come-”
Tintin stopped himself abruptly and hid his face in his hands, breaking away from the Captain’s grip. He drew his knees up under the blankets and curled up, back shuddering. Haddock could not sit by so far away. He joined Tintin, sat sideways on the bed and put a firm arm around his slim shoulders, rocking him into an embrace. Tintin turned his head to Haddock, almost burrowing under his beard. Hot tears smeared against his shirt collar.
“There, lad, don’t - don’t excite yourself, now,” he said. His thoughts were a-whirl but he cast about for something more comforting to say – nothing came to him. “Doctor,” he said, his voice equally fraught, “How has it happened? How has he got it now, all of a sudden?”
The doctor was looking away, as if something private and slightly untoward was happening in front of him. He cleared his throat. “Well, the causes can be manifold. If it does not present naturally in the individual in childhood, it’s most commonly seen in those who have suffered head injuries, soldiers and labourers, sometimes people who have fallen from a great height or some other calamitous accident. It’s a mysterious ailment in many ways.”
How many calamitous accidents and falls, and whacks over the head hard enough to knock him cold had Tintin received? Ten with every story he followed. Then there were strangulations, attempted drownings. He’d been superhuman with the speed of his recovery. Tintin had always shaken it off and popped up again with his fists out.
“There are drugs that your doctor might prescribe to manage the seizures,” the Doctor continued. “I wouldn’t like to say any more, Mr. Tintin, as I am not your doctor and I’m not in the habit of making a diagnosis in these, er, conditions.” He waved around the room, presumably meaning during the middle of a party, in a guest room of the Syldavian embassy, possibly having already quaffed a glass of wine.
Tintin recovered himself, sniffing loudly. “Thank you, sir,” he said, emerging and sitting up enough to give the doctor eye contact. “Your help has been very appreciated. I don’t think there’s anything more you can do for me now, and I have taken up much of your evening.”
Tintin – always thinking of others. The captain wished for the doctor to be gone too, so it could be just the two of them. It always calmed Tintin when it was just the two of them.
“Don’t mention it,” the doctor said, picking up a bag. Haddock wondered if he carried it with him everywhere, just in case. “It’s an honour to treat such an esteemed guest of the King.” He looked at Haddock. “If anything else occurs this evening, send for Dr. Nicholson – that's my name.”
Tintin wiped his hands on the bedsheets and insisted on shaking his hand, though he had not quite got control of his tears. The doctor left them, and as predicted, Tintin sagged back into the Captain’s embrace as if his strings had been cut. Haddock lifted his legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard, dragging the young man back with him. Tintin moulded himself to the Captain’s side. Strangely enough, his tears dried up at once, and he let out a sigh.
“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling my usual self. It’s just, the thought of telling you has been terrifying me for such a long while-”
“Me?!” Haddock exclaimed. “Why on earth couldn’t you tell me? I’m your closest friend, aren’t I? Well, geographically, at the very least.”
“You are,” Tintin sighed. “In every sense. But I couldn’t. That’s why I couldn’t. I didn’t want things to change and for you to see me as weak. You always treated me as your equal. I didn’t want you to start thinking of me as a … as someone who … was not worthy.”
There were a thousand denials crowding to get out of him – Tintin! Not worthy indeed! Never! No worthier! Best of men! Worth a billion Haddocks! - but he held back his usual overreaction, aware of the fragile nature of the confession and the preciousness of the gift of trust he had been given.
“Lad.” He stroked Tintin’s side with the arm curled around his back. He spoke slowly, trying to fit the enormity of his feelings into mere words. “If I’ve ever given you any doubt that you are the best thing in my life, and that nothing will ever change that, then I’ve been a failure of a Haddock and I’m as cursed as the rest of them.”
When he had said it, there was only silence, and breathing, and the rhythmic brush of fabric as the Captain kept up his caress. In low light of a bedside table, and from the corner of his eye, Haddock saw Tintin’s eyelashes moving in unhurried flickers and blinks. Tintin laid a light hand on the Captain’s lapel, but that was all. It was not long before his breaths lengthened and he knew that Tintin had fallen asleep.
Almost a year since the crash, and from far away, he watched a small figure make its way down a path in a sun-bleached sward. The white hat and shirt had caught his eye; the little white dog too, that dashed around at the heels of the figure. The warm wind and the high hum of insects covered the sound of their approach. At the bottom of the field they disappeared into trees, where he knew it would be cool and the boy would cross the little bridge and the dog would splash through the stream.
While he waited for them to emerge again on this side of the copse, the Captain looked again at Marlinspike, from where the lad had started his walk. He thought he could see Nestor on the front steps, looking on as a red car gathered speed up the drive. The butler watched it turn at the gate, and then went inside.
A bark. Tintin and Snowy had come out of the trees while he’d been looking away, and were now making steady progress up the hill towards Haddock. Tintin’s legs ate up the distance; the spring and pace of his steps, that had always made up for their shortness, had been restored with Tintin’s efforts. The white scars would always be there, but one could never call anything about Tintin defective, once one really knew him: so Haddock loved them, as he loved all of Tintin’s parts.
Tintin’s cheeks were flushed in the heat. He was scowling against the sunlight, even under the brim of his hat.
“Hello Captain,” he said. “I hope we’re not disturbing your peace.”
Snowy bounded towards him, tail wagging, sniffing him and expectant of a pat or two before he ran off into the dry grass. He’d been very obsequious towards the Captain since he’d bitten him, as if hoping that the Captain might doubt that such a good dog had ever shown his teeth. He really was a clever thing.
“No, my lad, of course not. Come and join me,” he said, inviting Tintin to the patch of grass beside him. Tintin gave a quick search for hidden thistles or nettles and then sat beside the Captain, their linen shirts brushing from shoulder to elbow.
“Bit hot in this field.”
“Aye. I was just taking a rest.”
Tintin looked at the view of the blue hills and Marlinspike rising proud in its polished little domain. “You watched the car going?”
“I happened to see it,” the Captain said. Tintin had wanted to deal with arranging for its sale – it was, after all, his property.
Tintin leant back on his elbows. “Well, that’s that. My last car. And I’m only twenty three.” The Captain looked down at him, but Tintin was smiling.
The Captain grunted, resisting 'it might not be', which would only imply that there was something wrong with the way things were. “You’ll still drive me around the bend.”
Tintin pulled his innocent expression. “I promise you, you’ll be doing all the driving from now on,” he said.
“Wherever you want to go, dear boy.”
The Captain let himself down onto his elbows too, giving in to the urge to be closer. He wasn’t sure yet, whether he could lean down and kiss Tintin whenever he wanted. His skin prickled with the anticipation of feeling him again, but it had only been a week since the first time. Tintin might not want a weather-beaten face and a bristly beard to suddenly descend on him in this heat. Haddock’s fingers dug into the weave of grass beneath him. Tintin’s lips would be hot as fire.
“Captain.”
Haddock jumped and looked his way. Tintin had been staring at him with an impish smile. Tintin leaned in and placed his lips upon his. Oh, mercies of Heaven, they scorched him better than he could have dreamed. Instead of the usual comparative warmth, the cavern of his mouth was cool, his tongue like the touch of a salve.
He could never have guessed that life would see fit to bless him so many times. And now, outstripping any other blessing – Tintin. To know him had been enough, to become his best friend a delightful surprise, but this – being allowed to curve over him and brush a calloused hand down his stomach, feeling the pliancy of the muscles there, working to keep him upright and meeting the push of Haddock’s lips - words could never...
Tintin moaned, his hand exploring the breadth of the Captain’s shoulder.
When Haddock drew up to gasp for air, he knocked Tintin’s hat off and his light blue eyes slitted in the sudden sunlight.
“Maybe it is a little too hot in this field,” Haddock said, voice coming from the bottom of his chest. Tintin wriggled into his shadow.
“It’s not so bad under here,” he said brightly. From his comfortable cave, head resting on Haddock’s forearm, his nimble hand tripped up the Captain’s shirt, stroking the hair of his chest beneath it. Before, Haddock would not have believed that the action would make such curious heat light Tintin’s gaze, as if he enjoyed the touch as much as Haddock did. Haddock huffed in amusement and caught the hand against him, moulding the palm to the contours of his chest. “Drive me around the bend,” he repeated.
Tintin was away in some other plane of being, watching his trapped hand.
Snowy broke their moment, bounding over and seeing fit to tread all over and between them with a yip.
“Yellow-bellied, green-eyed beast,” the Captain grumbled as he rolled back over to sit up. Now that Marlinspike hall and village was in front of him again, he thought it seemed rather close – and there were windows there, facing their hill. It seemed private, down among the grasses, but it certainly was not.
“C’mon Snowy! Don’t abuse the Captain,” Tintin said, up on his feet with a spring and a click of his fingers at the dog.
Haddock picked up the discarded hat and rolled to his feet with less grace. Tintin was already walking down the hill, but he turned to make sure the Captain was following.
They went back and Nestor served tea under the gazebo. The long, white tablecloth made an excellent cover to hide their tangled feet. There was nothing to hide the wordless looks that Tintin gave him, those naughty promises that were unmistakeable to anyone who had ever received one. Tintin, the ingenue, probably didn’t know how plainly he was broadcasting his desire to anyone who happened to look.
He had grown more bold with each passing day since that first kiss, when Tintin, always the brave one, had fitted himself simply into his arms one evening, then paused before pulling the poleaxed Captain slowly to his lips. Perhaps it had been no coincidence that the kiss had come while the Captain was still panting after his impassioned speech: Let no man say that the one who had been to the moon and back, saved a throne, escaped a death of every awful type, made himself the scourge of villains the world over, and a thousand billion other glorious deeds, might be tripped up by a piffling hurdle like epilepsy. Epilepsy – ha! It was barely deserving of a footnote in Tintin’s life.
For once, with a quick glance to check that the lawn free of onlookers, Haddock allowed himself to let the heat he felt burn in his returning gaze. He thought, perhaps, that even if Tintin’s bedroom door was closed tonight, he might allow himself to open it all the way.
“A bend in the road is not the end of the road…Unless you fail to make the turn.”
― Helen Keller