Archive of Our Own

Keflavik Airport is not particularly large, but the silence and the shadows make it feel bigger than it is. The sun had briefly set at some point during the slim hours, dipping just below the horizon, while the dusk that has settled outside the windows never quite deepens into night. Tintin watches the sky fade from a soft purple shot with pink to a grainy blue that gives the enclosing gloom an almost tangible quality. He puts his copy of Rebecca down on the table before him. Tiredness is a grit in his eyes that he can’t rub away no matter how hard he tries.

It’s now 6am and they’ve been here for a little over three hours. The cafe they are seated in had been long closed by the time they arrived. The windows into the few other establishments the airport boasts are shuttered, and the metal grills gape like prison windows into the deeper shadows of the closed shops.

The Captain and Milou are both sleeping soundly. The Captain laid out on the bench seat opposite, his cap pulled low over his eyes. Milou curled up on the floor beneath the table. Occasionally, Milou will whimper and twitch in his sleep, or the Captain will murmur and grunt, but other than that the soft sounds of their breathing, deep and even, are the loudest thing in the cavernous room.

Leaving them to their slumber, Tintin gets up and quietly picks his way out of their booth. All the free standing chairs have been turned upside down and stacked ontop of their corresponding tables.

They are, the three of them, bone-tired. Tintin is so exhausted that a dull ache has taken up residence in his legs. He will walk it off. His footsteps sound loudly in the muffled silence.

He knows, logically, that they are safe here as they can be. That the night watch they had stuck to on the small island off the southern coastline, hot in the pursuit of criminals, is not necessary here tucked away in a near-deserted building. As the airport is used by the American military, there is even a checkpoint to get through. But his body isn’t listening to logic. Sometimes the adrenaline is hard to shake off after a confrontation, hard to come down from. He doesn’t know if the tremble in his limbs, the unsteadiness of his hands, is just exhaustion or a souvenir from their latest scrape with life and death.

He makes his way to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water. Meeting his own bleary eyes in the mirror, he finds he looks as haggard as he feels.

He heads back to the empty cafe, and pulls out his notebook. Sometimes words come to him easier in the still of the night, as though loosened in the haze of sleep deprivation. And if he’s not to get any rest yet, he thinks, he might as well get some more work done on his story.

***

A week ago over breakfast, they had received a telegram from the Captain’s old friend, Chester, who still runs the Sirius through various Icelandic ports.

Greetings H.

Hope all well. Unknown ships spotted monthly off Icelandic isle of Álsey on two consecutive nights around new moon. Local authorities disinterested. Might be of interest to your boy.

C.

When they arrived in Reykjavik they rented a car and camping equipment. Bedrolls, sleeping bags, and a small green tent that looked barely big enough for two people.

‘It’s not much more than a glorified coffin,’ was the Captain’s grim appraisal. ‘When we freeze to death and they come to recover the bodies, they’ll find us packed in there like sardines in a can.’

Last time they had been to Iceland they had stopped over only briefly, and had not had the chance to appreciate much of the landscape. Tintin gazed in wonder out of the window as the Captain drove them down to the coast, taking in the dramatic contrast between the flat planes of the lowlands and the dark silhouettes of mountains in the distance. Under the bruised sky, the green looked quite lurid and somehow unlike the green of the rolling hills back home. It felt almost primordial, ancient in a way that reminded him of the desert. There was a barrenness that was the same, and with it a rawness of the earthly materials that the land is made up of - as if it could shift and reform at any moment. Occasionally they passed vents of steam coming up from fissures in the earth to form clouds like a sandstorm in the deserts of Khemed, where one’s footsteps could be lost in an instant and any familiar landmarks eradicated. Here the locals told stories of volcanic eruptions that expand the coastline by several miles, or birth entirely new islands out of the sea.

Seen from the mainland, the islands themselves looked like a range of blue mountains, hazy in the distance. They drove down to Landeyjahöfn, where they left the car and caught a ferry out to Heimaey, the largest island of the archipelago and the only one with any permanent occupants.

Chartering a small motor boat, they made their way over to Brandur, an island less than a square mile in diameter. They made their camp on one side of island’s natural incline, away from the side facing the slightly larger nearby island Álsey, where the unidentified ships had been sighted. It had felt incredibly exposed, camping on little more than a barren rock miles out to sea under a sun that never fully set. And though it was June for the first few days the temperature rarely crept much above ten degrees celsius, and frequently fell below.

‘If we don’t freeze, we’ll be blown off this godforsaken boulder and out to sea,’ the Captain grumbled as they worked that evening to make the camp, weighing down the corners of the tent with precautionary stones.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. The next evening after their first cold night of restless sleep, he had knocked over one of their water bottles in the tent and it had spilt all over one of the sleeping bags. Seeing as the day was fairly balmy, by Icelandic standards, they dragged it out into the air to dry.

‘Wow! Captain, will you look at that,’ said Tintin, passing him the binoculars as a puffin darted into a small fissure in the cliff wall of Álsey.

A sudden gust of wind blew over them, throwing up violent waves in the sea below and bending the stalks of whatever plants were stalwart enough to weather life on the battered islands.

It was Milou’s barking that alerted them and they both turned to see the sleeping bag blowing away as though it were made of nothing more than brown paper.

The Captain gave chase but achieved nothing so much as narrowly avoiding following the sleeping bag off the cliff.

‘Thundering typhoons! What did I tell you!’

‘Buck up, Captain,’ said Tintin. ‘We’ve still got the tent and the other sleeping bag. We can unzip it to cover the both of us and we’ll both take a dram of whisky before retiring. How’s that sound?’

The promise of whisky tided the Captain over somewhat, and that night they lay huddled together under the sleeping bag. Tintin stayed up until gone midnight, past the time when any unusual activity had been reported on the water. In the dim green light inside the tent, Tintin thought of how far-flung, how lonely the little island would have felt in the pitch black, surrounded by the dull roar of the waves. Honestly he had expected the midnight sun to be more spectacular, but so far the grey overcast days have transitioned briefly into grey overcast dusk and back again without much fanfare.

He found himself staring at the Captain’s back, watching its steady rise and fall until he too fell into sleep.

***

Tintin filled those first couple of days by making notes about the archipelago, recording what little information they’d collated so far and making lists of what further research would be beneficial to round the article out. He also snapped some shots to accompany his story of the little cluster of islands, the wildlife, the view of the mainland coast on one side and the empty void of the horizon on the other. Smiling, he also took a few surreptitious pictures of the Captain playing with Milou on the high ground, silhouetted against the sky. In the evenings he would read aloud after they had finished eating. They could not risk a fire, but sat together under the looming clouds as though they had one. The Captain was not a particularly avid reader, but seemed to enjoy listening to a chapter or two of whatever Tintin was currently working his way through.

The weather remained quite resolutely overcast, with only an occasional beam of sunlight breaking through the thick layer of cloud to bathe them in warmth or to shine down in the distance and illuminate a patch of the water, turning it from steely grey to a translucent blue.

***

A boat appeared the following night. It seemed to be an ordinary enough fishing boat, though why an unknown fishing boat would stray into these rocky waters was another matter. Tintin was on his usual watch, and lowering himself down flat he crawled on his stomach up to the summit of the island, binoculars in hand.

A launch was let down into the water, manned by two figures who rowed the small vessel into a cove that formed naturally at the bottom of a steep sloping side of Álsey. He reached for his camera, mounted on a low tripod and carefully photographed both the boats, and the two men as he watched them unloading some crates and stashing them in what looked like a crevice or cave below. Without the flash, the pictures might very well be blurry and unintelligible, but hopefully better than nothing.

‘If only I could make out the name of that boat. I’ll bet whatever it is they’re hiding away down there, Milou, it’s not fish,’ he murmured, before realising that he had left Milou behind in the tent, where he was probably still sleeping, curled up in the warmth.

Job finished, the men below put back out to sea. He watched the launch being hauled back up before the ship pulled away and slowly vanished into the gloom.

Tintin fought his curiosity. He was dying to know what had been hidden on the opposite island, and what else he might be able to discover from examining the scene of the crime. But he was also tired, having not slept so far that night, and now that he took stock of himself he realised he was freezing. And, he reasoned, it would probably be a bad idea to set out in the boat by himself, leaving the Captain and Milou to discover his absence in the morning.

He crawled back into the tent and curled up under the sleeping bag, finding Milou with his feet and receiving a lick through his sock that drew a soft huff of laughter from him.

‘Tintin,’ mumbled the Captain, the word a half-formed thing barely audible over the white noise of wind and sea. A frown formed on his brow, but his eyes were closed and Tintin was quite sure that he was still asleep.

‘Goodnight, Captain,’ he said. He was shivering, still covered in goosebumps, and briefly considered taking a second slug from the whisky in his bag, but dismissed the thought on the grounds of not disturbing the whole tent rummaging around for the flask. Anyway, the Captain seemed to be radiating heat and Tintin was sure he’d warm up quick enough. He shuffled closer until he could feel the Captain’s warmth pressed up against his right side. He tucked the sleeping bag under his left side and closed his eyes.

The Captain shifted in his sleep, and Tintin felt the dead sleeping weight of an arm thrown over his front. They were flushed together now from head to toe, and Tintin could feel the tickle of the Captain’s beard against his forehead.

‘There’s a good lad.’

Tintin felt the slightly slurred words against his forehead and as he began to lose consciousness found he was grateful for the weight of the Captain’s body against his own, felt safer for being held down on the exposed surface of this tiny island as they were battered by the elements.

***

The next morning Tintin woke feeling warm and content despite the hard ground beneath him. It was certainly the best night’s sleep he’d had since their arrival and it was only when he stretched and yawned that he fully took in their position, felt the warmth of flesh against his lips.

It seemed that they had both rolled over at some point in the night. The Captain was sprawled on his back, and Tintin lay on his stomach, half sprawled over the Captain’s front, face pressed into the warmth of his neck as though to shelter from the light.

He froze, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. On the one hand, he felt a strange reluctance to move. Usually Tintin was an early riser. No sooner than his eyes were open he was generally up, ready to face the day. Sometimes he would lie still for a while if he felt the warmth of Milou’s chin on his leg, unwilling to disturb his companion’s sleep and sentimental of the unconscious display of affection. He felt a version of that same feeling then, tangled up with the Captain under the covers.

It felt, he thought, the same the way it felt to first wake up well rested back in his own bed after returning to Moulinsart from a long and wearying trip.

Movement beneath him, as the Captain started to shift with the first of the morning’s wakefulness before it came upon him fully. His hand seemed to come up automatically to rest at Tintin’s back, rubbing absently up and down his spine. Tintin screwed his eyes shut and with a twinge of guilt forced himself to relax, to let the sudden tension go out of his limbs and pretend to be asleep.

It felt beneath him, this pretence, but at an utter loss himself as how to proceed, he wanted desperately to know how the Captain would respond. His stomach twisted, the tension he tried to repress turned to nausea. He could feel himself trembling slightly, and hoped it would come across as cold. Though if the Captain could feel the heat of his body in the same way that Tintin felt it where they touched, he did not hold out much hope.

The moment the Captain’s awareness sunk in was characterised by a sudden stillness. His hand stopped. For a moment, even his breath stopped, chest and throat stilling where Tintin’s head was pillowed. His hand moved again, small uncertain movements this time against Tintin’s back.

He had half expected a complaint about his weight, or an exclamation of amusement at their position, and somehow the Captain’s indecision only fuelled his own.

The smell of the Captain filled his lungs. The freshness of the outdoors still on him, the sea, tobacco, perhaps a little whisky. That particular musk that is unique to every person. Back home he might have smelt of some expensive cologne, and Tintin was surprised to find that he was glad to smell him without it.

‘Tintin.’ The Captain’s voice was gentle, still rough from sleep.

Tintin shifted, and let his eyelids flutter open. He imagined the Captain must have been able to feel it against the delicate skin of his neck.

At that moment, hearing the first word of the day, Milou wriggled his way up the sleeping bag and greeted them both with his usual morning enthusiasm, trampling all over them. With a face full of fur, teeth, and tongue, Tintin laughed and was giddy with relief to have an excuse to roll onto his back in a sudden movement that did not involve any kind of awkward negotiation. Milou positioned himself on Tintin’s chest for easy access to further administer his affections, tail wagging vigorously.

‘You’re both far too lively for so early,’ the Captain groused, half-hearted. He paused a second and Tintin could all but see thoughts moving through his mind, though what they contained was impenetrable to him. ’Tintin, I-‘

He recognised that tone of voice, thought of it privately as the Captain’s concerned voice. It is soft, almost tentative. Nothing at all like his usual demeanour. It is the tone he uses when he wants to let Tintin down gently and it evokes memories of their time in Tibet.

‘Sorry if I squashed you at all last night, Captain. Think I must have been cold in the night.’ He was all cheerfulness, businesslike, brusque as a way to dispel any concern.

Another brief pause, and then, ‘Think nothing of it, lad. I’ve had worse nights to be sure.’

‘I saw the boat last night,’ said Tintin, grasping at it for a change of subject. Somehow it had quite gone out of his mind. ‘We can have some breakfast, and then head over. I’m sure they dropped something off. If the reports are right, a second boat will appear tonight. To pick up the goods, I imagine.’

‘Goods? You saw them make the drop-off then?’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t make out what it was. We’ll have to investigate,’ he said with a grin.

They ate a light breakfast, not conversing much. They had brought over enough dried food to last them for a good five days though they seemed on track, now that the first boat had been spotted, to hopefully head back to the mainland tomorrow. Tintin was glad to have a story to focus on. The curiosity cleared his mind, allowed him to drown out other more inconvenient things.

***

The day turned out to be much finer than the ones that had come before it, the sky a rich blue reminiscent of June back at Moulinsart, and they soon found themselves sweating as they made their way over to Álsey. They made for the cove that Tintin had kept watch over the previous night, and as they entered Tintin heard himself gasp aloud. The cove, only just wide enough for their small motorboat to pull into, opened up under an overhang of dark rock made of geometric basalt columns.

‘Isn’t it wonderful, Captain!’ Tintin breathed, climbing onto the shore. His feet sank a little into the black volcanic sand that made up the cave’s floor, watching with delight the contrast it made against the white foam of the waves as they washed in. They pulled the boat up onto the dry sand near the rock face, and Tintin reached out a hand to touch the curious slats of it. ‘Amazing that this hasn’t been rounded down by the sea. It looks as though it’s been constructed, like something from an alien world.’

‘I’ve had my share of alien worlds, thanks.’

It did not take them long to find the crates tucked away behind an outcrop of rock, midway up the back wall of the shallow cave, where they found a small plateau. The structure of the rock made it fairly easy to climb, and Tintin was able to scramble up and lower one of the heavy boxes down to the Captain with relative ease.

‘It seems to be full of prescription drugs,’ said Tintin once they had managed to prize the first lid off and uncovered boxes of tablets, nestled in amongst the packaging. ‘Codeine, fentanyl, meperidine. Opioids. Some of them don’t have any labelling at all. And none of them have any branding or details of manufacture. Either they’ve been stolen or someone has a very large manufacturing operation going on.’

‘Why choose this godforsaken rock as a drop off point?’

Tintin considered it. ‘Perhaps as a midpoint from somewhere in North America? A ship drops off here, and another from Europe comes to pickup. Less traceable than a ship smuggling drugs all the way there and back again.’

In the meantime, they searched the island for any further signs of recent activity but found none. Though several times the size of Brandur, where they spent the last three nights, the island was by no means large and did not take them long to search. The topmost point was certainly higher but Tintin was relieved to discover that their little camp was indeed well hidden even from that vantage point.

They discovered a herd of seals lounging on the rocks on the far side of the island, enjoying the sun. Tintin quickly restrained Milou, who looked far too interested, before he could scamper over to investigate further.

They sat together at the summit, enjoying the rare sunshine. The Captain lit his pipe and Tintin was met by the old reassuring smell, so different to cigarette smoke. He felt his face grow warm as memories of the previous night came back to him. Somehow he had been managing to contain his thoughts, but now the warmth of their bodies together, and worst of all the damning comfort it had brought with it, threatened to spill over.

‘We’ll need a plan for tonight. I say we head over to camp, and pack everything away. We might need to make a quick get away.’

The Captain chewed on his pipe, thoughtfully.

‘Is this a reconnaissance mission only?’

Tintin sighed. ‘I think it has to be, for the moment. I don’t see how we’ll be able to apprehend an entire ship, no matter how small.’

‘We’ll need to keep a low profile to stop them from realising we’re onto them.’

‘We must avoid that, if we can. If we can only get some information about the ship, where it comes from and where it’s going, that’d be a start at least.’

‘We could take some of those tablets back home as some concrete evidence. And I’m sure the police will want to examine them.’

‘That’s a good idea, Captain!’ said Tintin, brightening. ‘They’ll be able to give us some more information about them.’

***

They got to work. Back down in the little cove, Tintin selected a bottle of unlabelled medication and slipped it into his pocket.

‘We don’t want to rouse their suspicions, I’ll just take the one.’

They did their best to put the crates back as they found them. The one they had opened looked perhaps a little suspect if closely examined. They could only hope the smugglers would be keen to get back to their ship as soon as possible and would not be under instruction to carefully check all their cargo.

Back on Brandur, they folded down the tent and packed away any evidence of their short stay into the boat. It felt a little odd to leave it after three nights of camping there, as though they were leaving something of themselves behind too.

‘We’re lucky the weather is so good today. It’ll be much warmer tonight without the tent,’ said Tintin.

‘We’ll have to be careful about visibility though, lad.’

The Captain was right. As the afternoon bled into evening the sun continued to blare down, sinking only slowly down towards the horizon. This lead them to other dilemmas, such as where to hide the boat.

‘It needs to be somewhere accessible, in case we need to make a getaway, but obviously not within easy line of sight,’ said Tintin as they picked their way around the shoreline.

Eventually they found an outcrop of rock, near where they had spotted the seals earlier, that should shield it from most angles. They sheltered there for most of the evening, waiting for cover of what little darkness would come and picking at their dry food supplies, though neither of them found they had much appetite for it after four days of the same.

Tintin and Milou crept back to the entrance of the cavern and found a spot around the far side of the rocky outcrop that made up its entrance to wait. If he was in luck, he’d be able to hear everything that was said. Positioned up above the entrance with the binoculars and the camera, the Captain was to play lookout and put his nautical expertise to good use by trying to identify the fishing vessel.

The evening was not particularly cold, but he found himself growing chilled, crouching in the shadow of the cliffside. Milou had long since found a little nook to curl up in, and Tintin himself was beginning to fight off the first wave of sleepiness that follows a long day of hard work, when he heard the Captain whistle a signal from above.

With bated breath, he waited. No sign of them yet that he could tell, but he was purposefully positioned away from their ship. He could only wonder if it was still approaching, or if they’d lowered their launch yet. Might as well be prepared, he reasoned, taking his handgun out of its holster. Just in case. He did not particularly fancy their chances of making it away on foot if something went wrong. But then again, the wet and uneven terrain that worked against them would be also be obstacles for their pursuers.

His first sign of movement was Milou, who suddenly stirred, lifting his nose to air as if to catch at a scent.

‘Good boy, hush now,’ he whispered, straining his ears. Just as the cloudless sky provided them with little cover, so the wind had eased and he knew sound would carry well.

And sure enough, there came the splash of oars drawing nearer in the water.

He hardly dared breathe as he listened to them, puffing and panting, wood scraping on rock as they loaded the rowing boat. Quick and efficient work, he thought. Hopefully they were not examining the crates too closely.

Tintin was sorely tempted to creep around the corner and peer into the cave. He weighed his options. Sorely tempting, he decided, but probably not worth the risk. Hopefully the Captain would have had better luck from his vantage point.

‘A healthy shipment. Herr Doktor will be pleased,’ said a man’s voice.

‘Herr Doktor doesn’t have to lug it around himself,’ said his companion.

Herr Doktor- could it be-?

He listened to the distinct sounds of the boat being pushed back out to sea. The scrape of the sand and pebbles against the hull, the scramble of men climbing aboard, and again the splash of oars this time diminishing as they returned to the ship.

He exhaled heavily through his mouth. ‘I think we got away with that one, Milou.’

It was, of course, the wrong thing to say. No sooner had he tempted fate, than he heard a shouted exclamation.

‘There’s someone there!’

Two quick shots rang out and were quickly followed by the loud splash of something large hitting the water. No. Tintin’s blood turned to ice.

He spun around the corner, very nearly slipping over on the wet rock. ‘Captain!’ he shouted, heedless in his sudden desperation.

There was a body in the water. The Captain. It had to be. Not dead, thank god, for he was struggling and splashing in the shallows. Tintin scrambled over to him, plunging into the water feeding into the mouth of the inlet with Milou barking, hot on his heels. The Captain was drenched, but had pulled himself up. Wounded, perhaps, but alive. Tintin tried to calm the panting gasps of his breath and free his mind from the panic that had overcome him to decide what to do next.

They had been well and truly rumbled now. Whatever happened next, there was no way the organisation would somehow fail to notice their interference. So Tintin tooks careful aim and shot. His first couple shots went wide, but the next few landed satisfyingly into the hull of the launch and, still quite some distance from the larger fishing boat, he could see the two thugs panic as they started to take on water. He smiled to himself, grimly. Let them find out how pleased Herr Doktor would be with a shipment of water logged tablets.

‘Quickly, lad,’ said the Captain.

They climbed back up the rocks around the mouth of the cave, hurrying as much as they dared. The climb was made more treacherous by their wet clothing, which was restrictive and icy cold. More than once, one of them nearly lost his footing but they managed to make it to the summit of the island. Distantly, they could hear more shouts from the ship. Tintin glanced back and could see the launch being hauled up.

‘We must get back to the mainland as soon as possible, before they catch up to us.’

The Captain nodded his agreement. He’d begun to shiver violently. Tintin grabbed his arms, resisting the temptation to pat him down to find a gunshot wound.

‘Are you hurt? Did they hit you?’

‘No. I slipped and fell when I dodged out of the way.’

They ran back over the island, keeping as low as possible, and clambered into the boat. As the boat cut through the water, Tintin turned to keep an eye on their assailants. No sign of chase just yet.

‘I think our old friend Dr. Müller might be caught up in all of this, you know. Though the voices I heard were English,’ he said, filling the Captain in on what he had overheard.

‘A link to pharmaceuticals and a passion for manufacturing questionable substances? Certainly fits his M.O. The ship was called the Queen Anne, so the English crew fits too.’

The Captain still shivered, and it was only in noticing that that Tintin noticed how his own body was trembling.

‘We need to get you out of those wet clothes.’

The Captain glanced at him. ‘I can change at the car. We’re not far now.’

They made it back to the beach and hauled the boat up as far onto the sand as they could, where they could be sure that the high tide would not sweep it away. As the Captain went back to the car to change into some dry clothes, Tintin quickly scrawled a note to the boat’s owner.

Sorry for not returning boat in person. Suddenly called home on urgent business. Please contact us at forwarding address to amend any damages.T&H.

He found a large pebble from the beach, and used it to weigh the piece of paper down on the front seat before heading up to the road to rejoin the Captain.

***

The drive back to the airport had an unreal quality to it. The adrenaline and fear had not left his system, but the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him. They turned the car heater on full, trying to warm the Captain up as quickly as possible to prevent him catching cold. The horror that Tintin still felt, the hangover of abject fear from the short moments when he thought the Captain to be dead, had not yet settled in his chest and sat in sharp contrast to the tranquil beauty of the view flashing by out the window. The sun was still setting as they started, the sky having turned to purple was mirrored in the colour of the wild lupins that grow with ubiquity across the country. They could see no sign of any pursuit on the road behind them, but Tintin felt that someone, somewhere, must surely be taking steps to stop their intervention.

After returning the car, they bought tickets for the first flight out of the country that would take them anywhere in the vicinity of home. They had the choice between a flight to Paris in eight hours, and a flight to Bristol in six.

‘To get back as soon as possible, the logical option would be Paris,’ said the Captain. They bought flights for Bristol.

‘Hopefully they don’t have any insiders working in the airport,’ said Tintin. ‘As we know they have British connections. Approaching from the sea might be our safest bet. We’ve a good chance that they won’t be watching the ferries over from Dover.’

***

Tintin puts down his pen to stretch the cramps out of his hand and glances down at his watch. 8am. And not a wink of sleep since the previous night. But still, their flight is only an hour away now. Hopefully he’ll feel safer on the plane. Being indoors for the first time in several days is a little disconcerting, but the scale of the building and its echoing emptiness do not ease the feeling of exposure.

He glances over at the Captain, face still hidden beneath his cap, chest moving as steadily with his breath as it had in their tent. For a few horrifying seconds, he’d been sure the worst had happened. He’s not entirely sure why, but the thought comes over him that there would have been some kind of terrible irony if the Captain had breathed his last on the same day that they had woken up together, limbs tangled. His head aches with lack of rest, but he can feel that there is something that he is not adding up quite right. Pieces of a puzzle that try as he might, just won’t quite fit together in his exhaustion.

***

At long last, they board the plane. Milou, who normally fusses as much as possible on a flight, is so tired he simply opts to curl up on Tintin’s lap and fall asleep. The familiar feeling of running his fingers through Milou’s fur is soothing, the warmth of the small body in his arms as familiar and as constant as his own breath.

‘Here, lad,’ says the Captain, offering his cap. ‘It’s your turn. You look dead on your feet. Get some rest and I’ll keep an eye out. Any aviating buccaneer who wants to try something will have to go through me.’

Sometimes it is as though he can read Tintin’s mind. He smiles. It must be the tiredness, but he feels a little overcome by this display of gruff tenderness.

‘Aye aye, Captain.’

He dreams strange dreams. He is walking down the long drive to Moulinsart, but no matter how long he walks he doesn’t seem to draw any closer. The drive, usually straight as an arrow, curves and meanders through the overgrown estate. He tries to speed up, running full pelt towards the house, knowing it is imperative that he gets home as soon as possible. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference, he runs and somehow moves the same as he would walking. And still the house remains just around the corner. Finally he feels he is coming up to it now, when something flashes in the corner of his eye. He turns, startled, sure there was something there, but there is nothing to be seen. Weary, with that familiar prickling sensation of being watched, he turns back to continue on towards the house only the find that the path before him has vanished altogether.

The beginning of the plane’s descent into Bristol is what wakes him. He lifts his head off the Captain’s shoulder and offers him his cap back with a sheepish smile. Milou is also stirring in his arms, and seems to be trying to make as much fuss as possible to make up for lost time earlier in the flight. Tintin lets him down and tries to distract him with scraps of food.

‘Not long now, old boy,’ he soothes. ‘Anything to report, Captain?’

‘Everything shipshape as far as I’m aware,’ says the Captain, folding up a copy of a newspaper and tucking it back into the pouch on the back of the chair in front. ‘These rags do print a lot of rubbish. I guess they can’t all be lucky enough to have a boy wonder like you writing for them.’

Tintin grins.

***

They disembark and, though they’re half-anticipating trouble at customs, everything goes smoothly. They split up, the Captain heading over to the main reception to make a phone call back home, while Tintin heads to a cafe to pick up two of the biggest cups of coffee he can find. At a generous estimate, they’ve both had about three hours sleep and if they’re to continue on their journey immediately he thinks it might be wise to have their wits about them as much as possible. Milou trots along at his heels, obviously glad to have all four paws on the ground again.

‘Bad news,’ says the Captain when they reconvene. ’Nestor says he’s had a couple of enquiries this morning, asking after us. The first was a visit from an Englishman who apparently was most put out when informed that we were away and that Nestor did not know when we would return. The second was from that bumbling double act, those puffed-up excuses for policemen, who claimed to have been tipped off that we were involved in some suspicious activity.’

‘Thomson and Thompson? Well at least our pursuers are setting traps for us at home. I suppose, knowing our end destination but not our return route… Still, we’ll need to be careful.’

‘Yes, and get a move on.’

***

They decide to stop overnight in Dover before getting the ferry to Zeebrugge. Coffee, after all, can only take them so far, and for the moment it seems to Tintin that the threat of pursuit seems to be more pressing the closer to home they get. He rings around some hotels and finds that the unusually warm weather has brought with it a drought of spare beds. Eventually he finds one room available at an inn called the White Horse, which will have to do for them.

They rent another car from the airport. Speed is now of the essence and Tintin reasons they’re less likely to be waylaid in a car than on public transport.

‘Could I take a name please, sir?’ asks the bored looking clerk.

‘Uh- Thomson,’ say the Captain.

‘With a P,’ says Tintin, grinning.

‘Very good, Mr. Thompson. Please sign here.’

They are on the road within an hour of their plane touching down.

‘What was that address you gave them? It wasn’t Moulinsart.’

‘It was my old childhood address. Hopefully we’ll be less easily traced this way.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t think to give a false name at the inn. We’re under your name. And they only had one room to spare, which I think we were lucky to get.’

‘A twin?’

‘I don’t know. I was very relieved they had anything at all and didn’t check.’

‘I’m sure we’ll make do.’

Exiting the airport, they pass through Bristol itself before making it back out into greener landscape. The rolling hills, and gentle breeze certainly feel very small, very domestic in comparison to scale of the Icelandic landscape. They could be driving through the Belgian countryside back to the château if it were not for the clipped English voice speaking in the breaks between classical music on the radio.

‘How does it feel to be back in your home country?’ says Tintin.

‘This hasn’t been my home for many a long year. Until Moulinsart, I don’t think I’d found anywhere that felt more like home than the sea.’

It is much warmer here, and Tintin rolls the window down to feel the air and hide the smile on his face. Milou stands up in his lap to stick his head out of the window.

Tintin takes a sip of his cold airport coffee. It’s drinkable, but nothing like the rich, bitter taste of the coffee poured hot and fresh from the cafetière back at the château. Tintin is a morning person, loves the daily ritual of waking to the muted light and cast shadows through the white curtains at his window. Loves waking his body up first with stretches, easing out the last traces of the night’s stiffness from his limbs, before coming downstairs for breakfast and a steaming cup of coffee. They have a wide variety of coffees from around the world, and when the Captain comes down to join him they often take turns to guess the origin of the morning’s selection. It’s a game he’s sure Nestor enjoys too, as he inevitably comes in to correct their generally wildly incorrect guesses and collect their empty plates. The Captain may have a highly refined palette for whisky, but the skill does not seem to have transferred to other beverages.

‘I’ve got it this time, I’m sure it’s the blend we picked up in Peru,’ said the Captain on the morning before they got news of the smuggling ring. ‘Tell me I’m right, Nestor!’

‘Any advances on Peru, Master Tintin?’

‘Is it perhaps Indian?’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you both, sirs, but I’m afraid today’s selection was the Jamaican.’

‘Again?! You’re playing with us, Nestor!’ barked the Captain, outraged.

‘I thought perhaps a more recent selection would aid your palette, sir,’ said Nestor with all due deference, but it was plain that he was suppressing a smile.

‘Very good, very good. You snuck one past us this time, you sly old dog, but we’ve got your number now.’

‘As you say, sir.’

Tintin grins into his cup before draining it down to the dregs.

***

He wakes to find himself alone in the car. So much for the caffeine. They are parked outside the White Horse. It is a quaint little place with a whitewashed facade, windows and doors all outlined in glossy black. And to complete the image there is a wrought iron lamp and gently swaying wooden sign hanging above the entrance. Oldest pub in Dover, it proclaims, est. 1746.

It is instantly cool inside the thick stone walls, and Tintin, much relieved, finds himself blinking to adjust his eyes to the relative gloom. He does not have to venture far inside to find the Captain at the reception.

’Good evening there, do you have a reservation? I’m afraid we are all booked up otherwise,’ the man behind the desk is saying, polite but with the rehearsed quality of someone used to turning away unfortunate guests. It is a small inn, reasons Tintin, he is probably the owner.

‘A reservation, yes. I believe we rang up earlier and booked your last room.’

‘Could I take the name please?’

‘Captain Haddock.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. I’m sorry, sir, you sounded quite French over the phone,’ he says, voice warming. ‘Here’s your key, Captain. Just the one night, wasn’t it? There is a complimentary breakfast for you and your wife, starting from 7am in the-‘

The Captain laughs, a pale approximation devoid of any real sound of amusement.

‘Well, you see-‘

‘Hello there,’ Tintin says, announcing his presence.

‘Ah, Tintin, there you are,’ the Captain glances at him, eyes quickly darting away. ‘Awake, are you?’

‘More or less,’ he turns his attention to the man behind the desk. ‘I believe we spoke earlier on the phone.’

‘And you are, sir?’

‘His wife, apparently,’ Tintin says, smiling.

The joke lands badly. The landlord’s demeanour turns icy, his eyes flicking between the two of them.

‘I see.’

‘We were told this was the last room in Dover for the evening. We’re returning suddenly from a camping trip in Iceland and had to make do,’ the Captain’s voice is strained and Tintin can see the colour rising in his cheeks.

‘As you say. Very exotic, I’m sure. Very… unconventional.’

There is no offer of any assistance with their belongings, which they fetch from the car and carry upstairs themselves. Simply-furnished and elegant, the room is on the small side with a double bed stood in the middle of a threadbare rug. Anything would feel luxurious after three nights in a tent however, and Tintin collapses onto his back on the mattress.

‘Are you out of your mind? Do you have no idea what you’re saying, boy?’

Tintin laughs. ‘Captain, come now, you can’t be bothered by a man like him.’

‘We’re trying to keep a low profile! We’ll get ourselves in trouble with something like that here. He could still decide to call the police, you know,’ he sighs, sinking down onto the other side of the bed. ‘Perhaps we should have just slept in the car. Now I remember why I left this blighted country.’

‘I can sleep in the chair,’ Tintin offers, looking up at the Captain. His neck and back, already sore from sleeping in first the tent, and then the plane and car, protests at the thought. ‘If it helps.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says the Captain, gruffly. ‘You have the bed. I’ll take the chair.’

Annoyance makes him sharp. ‘Well if it’s ridiculous for me to suggest it, it’s even more so for you. You’ve been complaining of the discomfort since the first night of camping!’

There is a considered silence. In truth, though the Captain’s temper lives ever close to the surface, it is usually not aimed at Tintin himself. Even more rare for Tintin to get openly angry at all. He looks away, shamefaced.

‘I’m sorry, Captain. We’re both exhausted and I just want us both to get a good night’s sleep.’

He nods. ’Sorry, lad. I don’t want your name dragged through the dirt.’

‘Well apparently we’re already wanted by the police. Again.’

The Captain chuckles. ‘One day we’re going to get into the kind of trouble even you can’t wriggle out of.’

‘This bed is all but larger than the tent, anyway.’

‘Aye, that’s about true,’ the Captain concedes, offering Tintin a tired smile in return.

***

Tintin has only briefly visited Dover before, and as it is still early they while away the afternoon wandering around the small town, trying to make the most of it. He does not feel that he takes much from the experience, as the lengthy nap he took in the middle of the day combined with the exhaustion of the last 24 hours combines to make an impenetrable daze that settles heavy upon him. The Captain does not seem much more inclined to sightseeing than he is, and so they find themselves on a bench facing the seafront as the sun begins to set. The Captain draws from his hip flask and offers some to Tintin who, as usual, politely declines.

He had thought, before their arrival in Iceland, that he would miss the darkness of the night. That the twenty-four hour daylight would feel unnatural, all that light without the safety of true night to shield them. But now he finds the accumulating darkness a little oppressive. It feels like an incredibly early onset drawing in of the daylight hours for winter, as though autumn has arrived three month early.

Stifling yawns and admitting defeat, they make their way back to their room. Thankfully the reception desk is unmanned on their way in.

Discounting the tent, it is the first time they’ve shared an actual bed. Tintin tries not to think ‘as man and wife do’. Somehow, away from the landlord, he can’t remember why it was ever funny. It feels more real now. Perhaps even because of the fall of night outside the window.

Getting ready for bed is an uncomfortable ritual. They change with their backs to each other, making idle small talk to try and diffuse the moment when they have to climb into the bed together.

Eventually they are both settled, and Tintin reaches to turn off the pooling yellow glow of the bedside lamp and plunge them into the deepest night they’ve experienced since their last night at the château.

He struggles to fall asleep in the silence. Without the crash of waves on rock, the roar of the wind, there is just this small English room and their bodies in the dark. There is no life or death imperative to justify this intimacy. The lack of other hotel rooms or comfortable alternatives feels somehow like a feeble excuse as he lies there listening to the Captain’s breathing, feeling every shift he makes through the mattress. Tintin has never been more aware of his body and its treacherous desires. But he has rarely come across a physical challenge which he cannot face and with time, he thinks, this shall be the same. It does not have to change anything. With morbid fascination, he watches the Captain’s face, always so expressive in waking, relaxed in sleep.

Milou seems very pleased with the arrangements. He is always most content when they are the three of them sharing a space and he does not have to choose his master over his other favourite human. Often in hotel rooms he will gaze forlornly down the hall to the Captain’s room until Tintin scoffs at him. Tonight he is lying belly up between their legs, the picture of satisfaction.

When he finally drifts off, he dreams that Moulinsart has gone up in flames. Smoke belchs out of the windows, the heat so intense he can feel it on his face. From inside the blaze, he can hear Milou barking in panic. He races up the front steps and knocks on the door, desperate, trying the handle and burning his palm on the searing metal. Finally, someone opens the door. He comes face to face with himself.

He jerks awake, his breath coming fast.

’Tintin- lad- are you ok?

He feels the Captain turn over, shift towards him on the bed. He still feels bleary, half asleep. He can’t quite put his finger on what was so disturbing about seeing himself answer the door, but the horror of it lingers in his stomach.

‘Yes- I- Sorry. Bad dream.’

’Hush now. It’s ok. We’re safe.’

A large, warm hand on his shoulder, then brushing his mussed hair away from his forehead, clumsy with sleep.

Tintin closes his eyes and lets himself have this comfort. It’s not something he’s consciously been waiting for, but it feels hard won just the same. Relief washes through him, and he can feel the tension in his body begin to ease as though the Captain is drawing it out of him.

‘I dreamt that Moulinsart was on fire.’

‘Not one of your premonitions, I hope,’ he can hear the levity in the Captain’s voice, but also the underlying concern that is threaded beneath it.

‘No, not a premonition,’ he agrees. ‘Milou was trapped inside.’

At the mention of his name, Milou rises from where he too must have been disturbed by Tintin’s abrupt awakening. He creeps up the bed to investigate and lick tentatively at Tintin’s hand.

‘Sorry, old boy. I’m alright.’ He works his fingers into the reassuring softness of Milou’s white fur, scratching him under the chin.

‘He always looks like a little ghost in the dark,’ the Captain says, resting a hand on Milou’s back as he settles back down between them. ‘Don’t worry, he’d let us know if anything were amiss.’

They lie there together, face to face on the bed. Tintin’s eyes are acclimatising to the lack of light and he can make out the exhaustion that characterises the Captain’s features, the lines on his face a little more inset than usual.

‘Sometimes tiredness can make for a fraught night’s sleep.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘We’ll get the first ferry over in the morning and we’ll be back in Moulinsart by the afternoon.’

‘It’ll be good to be back.’ It almost feels too forward to say but Tintin’s tongue is loosened by the night, their proximity. But Tintin needs to remember that his presence there is impermanent, even if there is no end in sight. Moulinsart is the Captain’s home. It is not his, and to say he misses it, that he holds it in his mind on nights when he is lonely and tired and far away, feels like too much of an assumption.

***

He leaves the Captain packing up the car and heads back inside to settle up. It is early, not yet seven o’clock and the inn had been quiet when they brought their bags down. But now the voices of two women float out to meet him.

‘His name is Tintin, I’ve read about him in the papers. He’s the one who bust those forgers up in Scotland a few years back.’

‘I’d wager you hadn’t read this about him in the papers. Though I did hear they live together in a huge Manor House. Neither one of them a wife. You’d think a naval officer would know better. Not only is his young companion decidedly below himself in age, he is also French.’

‘Bonjour. I’m Belgian, actually.’

Tintin’s smile is forced as he approaches the desk. The first woman, the younger of the two, looks mortified and bustles away quickly through a door that must lead to the kitchen.

The second woman stands her ground and appraises him. He images she is the landlady. There is a cold disapproval in her to match her husband’s.

‘Ready to leave, are you?’

‘All packed up, yes.’ He keeps his tone as pointedly polite as possible.

***

It feels good to be back out on the open water with the Captain beside him, who’s spirits are always brightened by a journey undertaken by boat.

It is another fine day, and already it feels strange to think back on those first few overcast days in Iceland. It seems a short lifetime ago, like trying to recall Christmas at midsummer. As they pull away into the channel, Tintin watches the cliffs, a perfect streak of white against the blue of the sea and sky, growing more and more distant in the churning wake of the ferry.

They visited a little cafe on the seafront to gulp down coffee before boarding and sit now in companionable silence on deck picking at their croissants. The Captain surreptitiously feeds Milou bits of pastry as Tintin pretends not to notice.

‘We should make it back to Moulinsart by mid-afternoon,’ says the Captain.

‘Hopefully.’

He has not told the Captain about the gossiping women back at the hotel, does not want to sully his good mood with it. He closes his eyes to savour the sea wind upon his face, letting it blow the unpleasant memories away.

He thinks back to their waking this morning. The keen rays of the morning sun had found them entwined once more. This time, Tintin felt the press of the Captain’s large chest against his back, his arm thrown over his body again in what felt like a casual kind of ownership. Milou was curled into the bracket of Tintin’s body, effectively trapping him on both sides. A terrible mixture of panic and a curling warmth that he wished he could not name as desire flooded through him.

He knew that extricating himself as soon as possible was his best and only option, that he could not bear to face another kindly rejection. Gently, he nudged Milou awake and persuaded him to jump down off the bed in exchange for breakfast. Ever so carefully, he lifted the Captain’s sleep heavy arm off him and slipped out from underneath it, laying it softly back down on the space he’d just vacated.

The Captain had not stirred until Milou, upon finishing his rather make-shift breakfast, jumped back up onto the bed and roused him with his usual rather rude method of awakening.

***

When the Captain had telephoned from Bristol, Nestor had offered to pick them up from the port. It was sorely tempting but felt unwise when they knew the house was being watched. So they rent another car, and Tintin hopes they will be able to return it promptly. He feels a vague sense of guilt about their trail of abandoned means of transportation that they’ve left behind them, though he knows it to be far from the first time. Perhaps they can drive it back in convoy with the Captain’s car tomorrow.

‘Ah, familiar countryside! The last leg of the journey! There’s nothing like it,’ says the Captain, his good mood unflagging. ‘Only a couple more hours and we’ll be installed in the saloon, hopefully with a platter of sandwiches or some afternoon tea.’

‘I’m sure Nestor will rustle something up,’ says Tintin, torn between the Captain’s infectious enthusiasm and a sense of foreboding. He knows the danger can only increase the closer to home they get, that their return will be looked for.

Their route takes them through Bruges, past Ghent and then Brussels. It is indeed scenic. As they get closer to Moulinsart, they transition onto country roads, small and winding, flanked by dry stone walls and the giant purple Buddleia bushes that perfume the summer air.

At long last they pull into the wrought iron gates of the estate, which stand open in readiness for their return. Milou perks up again in Tintin’s lap, his tail wagging with the thrill of arriving home.

Nestor greets them at the door.

‘Good afternoon, sirs. I trust your journey went smoothly.’

‘So-so. Nestor, we’re quite famished. Could you possibly-‘

‘I took the liberty of laying a table for you in the saloon, sirs. I thought some coffee and cucumber sandwiches might be a welcome refreshment.’

‘Nestor, you’re a marvel.’

They make their way through from the hall, and The Captain pours himself some coffee, adds cream and tastes it, savouring the bitter fragrance that Tintin can already smell.

‘Peru?’

‘Indeed it is, sir,’ says Nestor, hiding his amusement admirably.

‘Jolly good, Nestor, thank you.’

‘You haven’t noticed anyone watching the house since you received that caller?’ says Tintin.

Nestor pauses by the door in the act of letting himself back out into the hall. ‘I have kept an eye out, Master Tintin, but I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.’

They settle down at the table, the saloon just as they left it. The French doors thrown open to the afternoon sunshine and their usual breakfast table laden with cafetière and the Captain’s much wished for platter of sandwiches. Sometimes it amazes Tintin that the house is still standing after all the centuries that have passed since it was first bequeathed to Chevalier François de Haddoque, and all they’ve put it through since. It is a relief to find it just as they left it, no matter the changes that Tintin feels between them. Perhaps things can return to normal now, after all.

He feels the wind on his face as it drifts in from the grounds and restlessness comes over him. He needs action, and has things to be getting on with all after.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ demands the Captain as Tintin suddenly rises.

‘I have photos to develop. Best to get on with it, then we can present the evidence to the police as soon as possible.’

‘Blistering- Do you ever stop, boy?’ he grumbles, as though it inconveniences him greatly. ‘Very well, if you must. At least take something up with you.’ He makes a coffee up for Tintin and foists a heaving plate of sandwiches upon him.

***

The darkroom in the cellar had been a matter of convenience more than anything. He had grown tired of constantly catching the train into Brussels and idling away days in the city impatiently waiting for his photographs to be developed when he needed them.

He had mentioned it to the Captain, worried about the impertinence of converting a room that was not rightfully his, but the Captain had insisted that someone might as well be using the space and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the idea. And so the two of them had spent the day gathering together what they could get easily including a timer, tanks, an easel, a funnel, string and some clips. The Captain had phoned around and ordered the rest, including all of the more expensive of the equipment, to be delivered at his own expense. Tintin had objected, but as usual the Captain had all but feigned deafness in his insistence.

It had taken a while for Tintin to learn to produce reliably satisfactory prints, but he’s got it down to more or less a fine art now. The red light has a queer effect on his eyes, seeming to distort distance, and the darkness with the light off is all but absolute. He likes the repetition of it, the slowness of the process. It can be very disappointing when all the fruits of his labour amount to very little, though equally as satisfying when the results come out well.

He spends most of the afternoon in there with the film they shot on the archipelago. As he suspected, the results tend to be blurry and indistinct but it will still count as evidence even if it will not help with identifying the suspects.

There are some rather lovely shots of the Captain and Milou, however, that he hangs up to dry with the others. He might include one as a little colour for his article, or perhaps he will have them framed.

***

Tintin spends the evening making any final notes at the dinner table. They have fish that evening which was caught in the stream earlier that very day, Nestor informs them. It is certainly delicious, but he must admit his attention is more on the book propped open before him about Icelandic fishing vessels that it is on the local trout. He makes a note to make some phone calls about the Queen Anne tomorrow.

If the Captain seems a little distracted, Tintin assumes he is just tired.

***

He retires for the night, or tries to. Once inside his room, he puts his suitcase down on the floor by the door, as though he is already expecting to leave again or is reluctant to go in any further.

It is the first time he is expected to be on his own in a room for an extended period of time since they left for Iceland, and he feels strangely bereft. They’ve lived in each other’s pockets for longer than this before, of course. But this is the first time they’ve spent three nights sharing a bed, and when Tintin settles down onto his own it no longer feels as if it belongs to him. His bed at rue du Labrador had been tiny in comparison, the metal frame austere next to the antique headboard he lies back against now. Usually Milou would be up on the bed beside him in an instant, but he seems to sense Tintin’s discomfit and does not settle.

Perhaps none of it has ever felt like his. Moulinsart is the Captain’s ancestral family estate. This room is the Captain’s as much as any other. Tintin is just a guest, merely the possessions inside are his. His things don’t even seem to fill the room very well. His flat had been sparsely decorated as it was, and now his things rattle around this grand old house. The ornate Chinese vases alone feel worthy of the place, and have taken up residence on a mantel piece downstairs.

Restlessness gnaws at him again. Perhaps there is another piece he could be assigned. There almost always is. He will telephone his editor tomorrow, he decides. Surely, he can finish this piece off as he starts another. It is better to be busy.

He rises and Milou cocks his head up at him, as though awaiting his decision.

‘We’ll just take a turn around the grounds, eh? Get some fresh air before we head to bed.’

They descend the marble staircase, so aristocratic and grand. It should feel more like a museum than his home, he scolds himself.

He pauses halfway down. The Captain, adorned in that regal dressing gown of his, is framed in the large open doorway, looking out onto his estate. It’s a large door that would dwarf a smaller man, but somehow it seems only to make him look striking silhouetted against the night. When he isn’t in his naval jumper or any slightly ridiculous getup involving monocles and riding gear, which still remain rather horrifyingly appealing much to Tintin’s distress, he is very good at looking the part of lord of the house.

‘Glad to be back, Captain?’ says Tintin as he cautiously approaches.

‘I told you before that Moulinsart is the first place that has felt like home to me on land,’ says the Captain without turning away from the open door. There is something odd, almost cracked open about the Captain’s voice. As though his usual bluster has foundered upon the rocks to expose something that seems almost vulnerable.

The Captain glances at him briefly, before quickly looking back out down the front steps of the grand old house. The air is full of the heady scent of rose as dusk settles in for the night. All is quiet around them. If not for Nestor, Tintin thinks, they could be the only people for miles around.

He has always measured his life by adventures. The passing of the seasons in his mind has taken on the quality of wherever he was at the time. The stifling heat of late summer in India. Watching the turn of the year in Shanghai, the leaves turning to red. At some point this has subconsciously started to shift, and he finds now that he keeps Moulinsart as his compass, his reference for the passage of time. The first bloom of the flowerbeds in the spring. April showers pattering against the sash windows of the saloon. The Captain’s hay fever. The fool’s parsley. The meandering walks he and the Captain take in the surrounding woodland as Milou scatters around after rabbits. The surrounding landscape monochrome and bare in the depths of winter, and then rich with all the abundance of summer. Milou helping himself to fallen apples during the harvest as Tintin tries to chase him away. The crackle of the fire during the colder months.

‘Well the truth is, boy, I couldn’t imagine life here without you.’ He cradles his whisky to his chest. Tintin had thought it was his first drink of the night, but he must have been mistaken. ‘And I hope you feel the same.’ There is a frank emotionality in his eyes, though they seem surprisingly clear.

A chink of yellow light is visible under the door to the kitchen, but out here everything around them is the blue of fading light and although the night is warm, Tintin feels a little chill run through him. The Captain really is very handsome in his dressing gown. The thought comes to him unbidden, as though someone else had said it aloud. His thick, dark mop of hair a little dishevelled from travel in a way that is rather dashing, his shoulders broad in the soft, rich fabric.

‘Captain-‘ he says, stepping forward. They are so close now, here on the threshold to the house. He’s not sure what he means to do when he lays a hand on the Captain’s forearm. Their eyes meet, though when Tintin licks his lips the Captain’s gaze falls to trace it. ‘Captain, I-‘

‘Sir,’ Nestor says as the kitchen door opens and his familiar attentive form appears. Tintin’s hand quickly falls back to his side. ‘Oh, I am sorry for interrupting, sirs. I thought Master Tintin had retired for the night.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself, Nestor,’ says Tintin. ‘I think I’ll take a little walk before I turn in.’

He’s down the shallow steps before he has time to think about it, Milou as always at his heels. He does not turn to look at the figure behind him in the entrance hall.

***

The woods on the outskirts of the estate are light and spacious during the day but now gloom lingers between the trunks, seeming to contract the space inwards. An unseasonably strong wind shakes the boughs, and if Tintin closes his eyes he could almost be back on Brandur listening to the white noise of the Atlantic. When he turns around he can catch glimpses through the trees of the lit windows back up at the château like a ship on the water. He smiles at the image, a fitting one for the Captain’s home.

Milou is lagging behind him, all but attempting to drag Tintin back to the house. But Tintin feels too jittery to even think of returning just yet. He feels as though he is on the brink of something, as though he has approached a ledge he has to jump off but instead finds himself looking down from the sickening height. He’s used to his intuition guiding him through things, often acting without much conscious thought at all.

He comes out of the copse to meet with the end of the drive. His back to the towering gates, he finds his gaze drawn back up to the château as though under some compulsion. It looks bigger somehow, larger even than he remembers it, as though the house has grown in their absence. The whole thing has a peculiar air about it, which only night can bring, as though it’s a continuation of the troubling dreams Tintin has had of late. Milou takes a few hopeful steps towards home and bed, looking back over his shoulder to check that Tintin is following.

Tintin yawns, feeling the time catching back up with him again as his mind begins to settle back down. The scent of the roses floats out to him again as he passes the flowerbeds and he has the idea to take a few blooms in for a vase. He’ll leave them on the breakfast table so that they can appreciate them in the morning over their traditional coffee. It is when he’s bent over that he hears Milou growl. He does not even have time to straighten up before he feels a sharp pain on the back of his head and the world goes black.

***

Tintin wakes to a dull throbbing in his head. He lies perfectly still, trying to regain his bearing. It comes back to him slowly, though his memories feel blurry. The dusk, the Captain in the doorway, the roses, the lit windows of the château in the night.

He shifts ever so slightly and internally breathes a sight of relief. He does not seem to be tied up. In fact, aside form the splitting headache, he is very comfortably laid out on a bed.

Blinking his eyes open, he takes in the room. The high ceilings, the intricate cornice, the morning light coming in to illuminate the elegance of the room. He is definitely back in Moulinsart, but there is no ceiling rose in his own room.

He turns and finds the Captain dozing in a chair that has been pulled over to the side of the bed. This must be his room, Tintin reasons. He has not been inside here much, and lets his gaze travel around. It is more impressive still than his own, with a marble fireplace that stands empty in the summer months, and a view that takes in the rose beds just below, the château’s long drive and the towering gates to the world outside the estate. The paintings on the walls are typical of the Captain’s usual preference for ships and seascapes, though they are perhaps stormier examples than those found throughout the rest of the house.

The Captain’s hand lies on the covers, a mere breath away from his own. He imagines that the Captain fell asleep clasping his hand. Sometimes Tintin wonders if it’s all just an excuse for these moments. Terrifying, heart-stopping moments when they can reach out for each other. In the face of the unexplainable, this unexplainable thing between them seems almost possible. Before he had discovered this stately if rather unconventional home, he had always felt as if he was running towards something. He wonders now just how long he has been running away.

The door opens. Milou bounds into the room and is followed by the Doctor and Nestor as the Captain jerks awake. Milou barks happily and treads all over the bed before settling in at Tintin’s side. The Doctor approaches, and Tintin can already feel the severity of his disapproval.

‘That was quite a nasty fright you gave us, Mister Tintin.’

‘I’m fine,’ says Tintin. ‘I’ve had plenty of bumps on the head before and always recovered perfectly well.’

‘Young man, that is far from reassuring,’ he scolds, holding Tintin’s eyelid open to examine his pupil. ‘Do you remember everything that happened last night?’

‘I think so. I went for a walk in the grounds and was on my way back in when I was attacked from behind.’

‘Your patented luck continues, I believe you have escaped with only a mild concussion. That means bed rest, do you hear?’

‘Did the thug get away?’ Tintin asks, trying to rise up off the bed as the Doctor attempts to restrain him.

‘Easy, lad. We apprehended him. He’s with the police now,’ says the Captain, joining the Doctor’s efforts to keep Tintin prone. ‘Nestor recognised him as the man who came round asking about us yesterday. The tablets you picked up are with them for analysing too, along with your notebook and the photographs. You’ve done all you need for the moment.’

Tintin relaxes a little, enough to allow himself to be pushed back down onto the mattress.

‘Captain, I trust you will be able to keep him from over-exerting himself?’

‘Of course, Doctor. I’ll lash him to the bed if need be.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ says Tintin, heat rising to his cheeks.

‘It had better not be, young man. Bed rest, that’s what you need. For the next twenty-four hours certainly. Keep an eye on him and if the symptoms continue after forty-eight hours please call me again, Captain.’

‘As you say.’

***

At first, Tintin is perfectly well-behaved. The Captain fishes out Tintin’s battered copy of Rebecca from their luggage and reads to him until he dozes off.

He wakes up again to the mouth-watering smell of fresh baking.

‘I had Nestor whip up some afternoon tea. Thought a little something might do you good.’

He manages to persuade the Captain to let him come downstairs for the afternoon in exchange for eating something, but the Captain insists on adding the cream and the jam to the scones himself. Tintin settles himself in his usual seat for a belated breakfast, though now he is not allowed any coffee, and lets the Captain fuss.

When he puts the first mouthful to his lips, he is suddenly famished and quickly polishes off two of the scones laden with generous portions of rich whipped cream and tart raspberry jam. Tintin finds he has become very attached to the ritual of afternoon tea when they are at home, perhaps the only particularly British custom that the Captain has introduced into his running of the estate. And store-bought simply cannot compete with the homemade scones, freshly whipped cream, and various jams Nestor makes in vats in the kitchen during the summer.

Often, when he has installed himself in the study to work on an article, he will find himself pleasantly interrupted when the Captain seeks him out with a laden tray.

It is only after he has swallowed the last of his little feast, and is sipping contently at his cup of decaffeinated English Breakfast, that he notices the flowers. Three beautiful crimson roses sit in a glass vase on the table before him. It is a little surreal to see them there, so close to the image he had in his mind the previous night.

‘Those roses,’ he says. ‘I was going to bring some in last night. It’s what I was doing when-‘

The Captain, standing at the French windows, turns his back to the view and sheepishly meets Tintin’s eye.

‘I know. I may have been keeping an eye on you from my window. I saw it all happen and after we got you inside, I thought you might still like-‘ he gestures half-heartedly at the vase.

Tintin rises from the table, crosses the space between them, and pulls him down into a kiss. The Captain goes very still and for a terrible moment Tintin thinks he has made a gross miscalculation. But then the Captain’s hand comes up to his waist and pulls him in flush against him.

They kiss until Tintin’s knees start to feel weak and his head starts to spin and the Captain ushers him back into an armchair, looking simultaneously guilty and worried and extremely pleased.

‘You’re not meant to be doing anything strenuous,’ he says, gently chiding himself as much as Tintin.

‘Very well.’ Tintin sighs. He can feel that he is blushing slightly and hopes he can cover his giddiness with exasperation. His heart is still pounding in his chest. ’Can we extend my confinement to the lawns?’

‘Don’t think I don’t notice your attempts at creeping further and further away from bed rest. What would the Doctor say?’ The Captain is all wry amusement, and Tintin feels certain his bluff is being called.

‘I’m sure the fresh air would do me good,’ says Tintin, who after all is nothing if not tenacious. ‘Please, Captain.’

It is the Captain’s turn to sigh, but Tintin is sure he is not imagining the fondness that colours it.

‘Far be it for me to keep anything from you, as usual. Very well, but you’re to relax and I’ll continue to read.’

All in all it’s a most agreeable compromise, giving Tintin ample opportunity to watch the Captain as he reads, taking in his large calloused hands and the all but perpetual frown that creases his brow as he concentrates. He is a man who devotes himself utterly to whatever it is that fixes his attention and wears his heart on his sleeve. There is no art in his manner, and Tintin both admires and envies him for that.

The lazy afternoon, quite literally what the Doctor ordered, turns out to be very pleasant. At first Milou is constantly at his side, seemingly on guard in case of another assault. But as the hours languidly slip by he relaxes and gambles around the expansive grounds of his volition. The restlessness that worried at Tintin the night before seems to be entirely dispelled, and he is quite content to fall in and out of consciousness, the sun warming his skin as he lies in the immaculately kept grass listening to the low rumble of the Captain’s voice.

***

That evening they retire to the dining room for a relatively simple meal. Apparently the omelette with spinach and cheese was on the Doctor’s list of recommended foods for recovery, and Tintin finds he is not complaining.

Night falls outside the windows and the tired fog that has plagued Tintin since he awoke seems to thicken. He is unable to hold it at bay any longer and stifles a yawn, unwilling to go to bed and draw a line under the day. But the Captain’s keen watch has not let up, and he is soon being chivvied up the stairs, one arm around Tintin’s back as though he thinks Tintin might stumble. In truth, his legs do feel a little weak, and Tintin finds he does not mind at that particular moment.

They reach Tintin’s door, and he lays a hand on the wood but stills, the Captain’s hand still on him.

‘Well, I’ll- er- I’ll say goodnight then, lad.’

A whine comes from down the hall.

‘Milou?’

Milou has settled further down the hall, sitting outside the Captain’s door. He paws at it and yips again, clearly demanding entrance.

‘This is our room, boy.’

Milou, stubborn as ever, lies down where he is.

‘He’s been spoilt the last few nights,’ says Tintin, smiling up at the Captain. ‘I think he likes it when we’re all together.’

‘Listen, the Doctor said to keep an eye on you. Perhaps-‘

He is cut off when Tintin leans forward and brings their mouths softly together again.

The Captain lets him briefly, before gently putting a little space between them, looking harried.

‘You look very handsome in your dressing gown,’ he says, his hands on the Captain’s shoulders giving in to the long repressed temptation to smooth over the softness of the fabric and the hardness of the form beneath.

‘You don’t make this easy for me, boy. Though that’s the concussion talking, I’m sure.’

‘Don’t-‘ It is the Captain who cuts him off this time, and this time it is not so soft. Tintin quickly finds he has to lean back against the door to keep his legs beneath him. His head is spinning once more as he breaks away to gasp for breath.

‘Perhaps this isn’t a bright idea.’

‘Please, I’ll be good.’

The grip on Tintin’s arms tightens, vicelike.

‘You mustn’t say things like that to me, Tintin,’ he says, heat in his gaze. ‘I’ve tried my best to shield you from harm, but I’m sure this is my doing.’

‘You can’t have known that there was a crook lurking in the rose beds.’

The Captain looks away, smiling softly to himself. ‘Aye, that’s true enough. Well if you promise to be good I shall endeavour to hold up my end of it too, though I share none of your natural propensity for it.’

‘Captain, that’s not-‘

‘I promise you, lad, that any goodness you see in my countenance is a reflection of your own nature.’

‘Even if that were true, do you think a wicked man would be able to reflect another’s goodness?’

The Captain stares at him, the intensity of it making Tintin’s stomach flutter.

‘You said it was not for you to keep anything from me,’ says Tintin, though his dizziness has not passed and he can hear how breathless he still sounds. ‘So kiss me again.’

The Captain groans, a deep sound that Tintin can feel in his own chest, and captures his mouth in another searing kiss. The length of their bodies are pressed together and it is all Tintin can do to hold onto the Captain’s shoulders and allow the press of the larger body against his own to keep him upright against the door.

‘Come on then,’ the Captain pulls away from him just enough to lead the way down the hall to his own door. ‘Quickly, before you make me into an honest man. I’ll not have you breaking your record this time by succeeding.’

***

‘Let’s not rush off anywhere for a little while at least,’ says the Captain after they have settled under the covers together, his voice slurred with oncoming sleep. They are both quite wiped out. Tintin with his ill-advised exertion, and the Captain seems to feel similarly. Tintin imagines he did not get much sleep last night as he watched over Tintin’s own. ’It’s good to be home.’

Tintin feels the foolish smile on his own face. Tomorrow, he will go into Brussels to give his statement to the police and find out if anything is to become of the arrest and the evidence he collected on Álsey, and of course there is the matter of returning their rental. But for now he is lying on the Captain’s bed across from him, their faces ever so close on the pillow, hands meeting in the middle of the scant space between them.

Yes, it is good to be home.