Work Text:
Archibald Haddock wasn’t a man of words. Of books. Of learning. His time in school had been short, and, if he remembered well, rather frustrating for his teachers, because he’d be easily distracted. Learning to read and write had been a struggle. He’d daydreamed of fresh air and endless views, of steam engines, of seeing places other than the rather drab and grey inland port of Liège. And, well, since his parents hadn’t had the money to let him study anyway, they were happy to let him board the first vessel that offered him a job at just 14 years old. Everything he’d learnt as a sailor he’d picked up by observation and experience, gradually working his way from swab boy up to captain.
Which was why it was rather odd he’d ended up with four housemates who all seemed to like to surround themselves with piles of paper, Haddock pondered, lighting up his pipe. Outside, an autumn storm blew branches and rain against the windows, but inside the sitting room the hearth was blazing and the candles were lit. He had claimed the comfiest fauteuil after a delicious carbinade flamande dinner. Out on sea, in weather like this he’d be on deck in oil jacket and rubber boots even if the ship lay anchored, bellowing orders and peering into the darkness to check for anything that might indicate problems. The contrast couldn’t be greater. It was enough to put any man in a pensive mood.
He hadn’t known that old, loyal Nestor liked reading. Haddock rarely had reason to enter Nestor’s private room downstairs, so he’d been surprised when yesterday night after serving them hot chocolate, Nestor finally accepted Tintin’s invitation to stay in the cozy sitting room with the rest of the inhabitants of Marlinspike Hall, and promptly produced a thick volume of Allan Edgar Poe to read. The butler apparently had a taste for murder mysteries as well as for horror. Haddock wasn’t sure if he should be concerned.
Calculus’ literary collection consisted of an impressive amount of scientific physics and chemistry publications as well as the entire works of someone called Oscar Wilde. Tintin took his work everywhere he went (that was, if he had the time for it, which on most of his adventures of course he hadn’t), shouldering around mountains of newspaper clippings, concept articles and books on highly random topics, from south american politics to airplanes to the history of polar exploration, that he’d picked up for research or had caught his interest on some second hand market. Even the newest addition to the household, the lovely Justine Darroze, whom he’d hired as a cook and baker on Tintin’s suggestion (though how they even met each other remained a mystery), kept her comics and historical novels beside her cooking recipes.
But perhaps odder was how much Haddock found he liked it this way. Books, though he didn’t care for them in itself, had a way of making the large spaces of Marlinspike Hall fill up and feel lived in, feel like home. They dimmed the echo of his footsteps. Furthermore, one didn’t turn the pages if one wasn’t feeling relaxed. One didn’t let their guard down to become absorbed in a story if one wasn’t feeling perfectly safe. One especially didn’t put in the effort of carrying heavy crates of books unless one had the intention of staying. And Haddock very much wanted his housemates, this strange, oddly matched little family he’d somehow collected, to stay. Over thirty years he’d been cast adrift at sea with an ever changing crew, ever changing ports to call home. It had been his calling and he didn’t regret it, but by now he’d had quite his fill. To make matters worse, his last crew had even goaded him into an alcohol addiction to cover up their crimes, something he was still struggling with, if he was being honest. But safe and secure at home it was easier to not let the alcohol soak up his thoughts, as it tended to do in times of loneliness and chaos and distress. Tintin would probably tug him along on another adventure soon enough - it seemed inevitable with the boy - but still, now Haddock would have a home that wasn’t empty to return to, which somehow made all the difference.
As it was, however, right now Tintin didn’t seem in a rush to go anywhere. November went by especially cold and rainy and uneventful and the lad seemed content to mostly stay in to research and interview by phone and catch up on writing. Haddock enjoyed the time home for however long it lasted. He grew fond of the quiet afternoons and evenings, observing his friends with their noses stuck in books while he himself sat back beside the fire with a pipe filled with good tobacco or a cup of tea with a nice (but small, no, really) dash of whiskey and maybe an old ship model he’d bought at an antique market to repaint. He noticed with delight that Tintin would sometimes stick his tongue out a little when he was reading, Snowy curled up at his feet. Justine would softly smile to herself when she’d come across a passage she apparently liked. Sometimes she was even so absorbed in the book that she petted the sofa instead of the cat, and Haddock had to keep himself from snickering. Nestor’s face stayed unreadable (ha!) as always while he was reading, but still, he would relax his upright back somewhat. Calculus - Haddock concluded that he most of all liked to look at a reading Calculus. An adorable little frown of concentration would appear on the professor’s forehead, and sometimes he would agree to read Jules Verne aloud to Haddock, who discovered that he actually liked adventure stories if he didn’t have to read them himself - or, worse, be a character in one. And Calculus’ gentle, precise voice was very pleasant to listen to.
One late November evening, however, instead of the usual books and papers Calculus had brought a broken telescope into the warm sitting room. Haddock found himself stuck watching the professor carefully study and repair the delicate brass instrument. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to be so thoroughly observed and examined by those kind, clever eyes and long fingers, and he had to excuse himself earlier than he would have liked. On his way to the door, he caught Tintin’s puzzled look. Haddock was usually never the one who went to bed first.
As December arrived, Nestor and Justine undertook a joint mission to decorate the entire Marlinspike Hall with ivy and tinsel and the place seemed homelier than it ever had been before. Calculus read them all Brontë sisters poetry, his voice rising and falling in rhyme and rhythm as in some spell which Haddock couldn’t help but be enchanted by. Tintin softly sang carols in his clear tenor voice as he searched through piles of old newspapers. Behind all the domestic bliss though, or maybe made stronger because of it, his confusing thoughts involving Calculus didn’t go away. It was like now the porthole had opened, once he had become aware of his feelings that had probably been simmering for a longer time already, the waves kept coming in. Haddock now spent most evenings in the sitting room just dreaming. He imagined Calculus reading him lines of verse beside him in bed, the top buttons of the pajamas Haddock had once seen him wearing casually undone. Waking up beside the professor, looking at his slim curled up figure as he was asleep, mustache softly trembling as he breathed. Gentry shaking Calculus awake and bending down to give him a morning kiss - blistering barnacles, he was turning into a ridiculous sap, and a pining one at that. He usually wasn’t this hesitant to go after what he wanted. But, then, this was a different matter altogether than deciding on his next kind of liquor. Would Calculus even be interested? Haddock, now he allowed himself to think about it, thought that the man actually might be. After all, why move in with a similarly middle aged bachelor if Calculus’ desires were for a wife instead? Haddock impulsively decided he should do something.
It was difficult to think of what exactly to do, though, as he strongly suspected that “Ahoy mate, want to share my bunk tonight?” as in proper maritime tradition just wouldn’t do. And, besides, he wanted Calculus for more than just a night, so Haddock felt like he should put in a bit more effort. He wanted it to last. So, what else?
His relationship experience with non-mariniers was sorely lacking.
A morning stroll through Antwerp’s streets with their beautifully decorated store fronts gave him an idea. A gift. That was a good start. And nobody would look odd upon gift giving in December. But he still didn’t know what a good gift for the occasion would be. It should be something Calculus would be pleased by, obviously, but also something that would subtly convey Haddock’s romantic interest. He couldn’t ask the store owners for advice - most wouldn’t be friendly and he’d prefer to keep his private affairs out of the public eye, thank you very much. The publications about him and Bianca Castafoire had been awkward enough, and those hadn’t even been malicious, nor had they been true. He remembered that Calculus had been very friendly towards her. Had even named a rose in her honour. Was he reading this situation wrong after all?
Thunder and buffoons, no use to wail around in self doubt now. He’d simply try and see.
Haddock was no scientist who could develop new kinds of flowers. He thought of going the area in Brussels where he knew the undercover gay bars and erotic shops were, but they would hardly have good gifts for Calculus. He wouldn’t give the professor a porn magazine. Although, admittedly, it was reading material. And it would do a rather spectacular job of making his intentions clear. If not at all subtle.
Haddock put his hands in his head and groaned.
“My, Captain, what’s the matter?” sounded Tintin’s cheerful voice, and when Haddock looked up, he saw the boy had come into the kitchen with a thoroughly sodden and muddy Snowy in his arms.
“Nothing for you to worry about, my lad,” he hastily said, as Tintin started to fill the sink with warm water to give his not-so-white-anymore dog a much needed bath. And it wasn’t a lie. Not really. As much as he loved and trusted his young friend, Haddock just couldn’t bring himself to ask for his advice. He knew well that Tintin was older than he looked, than he often seemed, but still, Tintin was like his son, his surprisingly mature child. It would just feel too weird.
Had Tintin ever shown a romantic interest in a lass, he suddenly wondered. Not to his knowledge. That was odd for a young man - especially one as handsome and popular as Tintin was. As awkward as it’d be, maybe he should have a bit of a talk with Tintin after all. The boy was good at evading questions about his youth but Haddock knew he’d been raised strictly Catholic, and he’d heard enough drunken confessions to know something about how such an upbringing could plague one with guilt and shame. Or something else was troubling Tintin. Or maybe the issue was simply that he was also a homosexual. Well, in that case, him and Calculus getting together might show Tintin that he needed not to hide anything in this household.
But then Haddock’s attention was caught by the sight of the cat sneaking into the kitchen. Snowy promptly started to struggle against Tintin’s strong grip to chase it, which would surely result in a soaking wet and soapy kitchen and a disappointed looking Nestor. He’d resume his mild worries about Tintin later. Time to intervene.
Haddock daren’t ask Nestor. That poor man already knew too much about his life, every unglamorous part of it, even if he was being awfully polite about it. In the end, he trusted Justine with his dilemma. He’d had a growing suspicion that the mysterious old lover she’d now and then mentioned had been a woman. You don’t go through decades of largely hiding away your sexuality without learning to pick up the subtle signs of other queer souls. To his relief, she was indeed very sympathetic. Even if she did laugh at his stumbling a little, too.
“Why don’t you give him a new, nice warm coat?” she said, tucking a lock of her graying black hair behind her ear and sipping a cup of milky coffee in the sitting room one frosty morning. “That green one of him is becoming rather threadbare and too thin for these kinds of temperatures. It will also nicely tell him that you are invested in keeping him protected and warm.”
Haddock blushed. But she was right. A bit more intimate and expensive than could be expected for a Christmas gift, but not rudely so - yes, that was brilliant, actually. He thanked her and went out into the cold to have a look around at the village clothing shop. Justine was even so kind as to help him take the proper measurements from Calculus’ old green coat that night while everyone else was already asleep.
(She quietly told him more about her lady lover then, and it was a rather sad story about crushing expectations for a good marriage and children and self denial, followed by a few brief years of happiness and then sheer bad luck that had taken her lover away from her side, but he was grateful she trusted him with the story all the same).
When he returned to the clothing shop to pick up the finished coat a week later, he was very pleased with the result, and hoped Calculus would be so too. The other Christmas presents were easier to decide on, but not less enjoyable to buy. Haddock had never thought he would grow fond of shopping, yet walking among a cheerful crowd in twilight streets that smelled of waffles and roasted chestnuts, along candlelit store windows and branches of pine and mistletoe, looking for gifts for loved ones - well, that was a joy. For the first time he felt connected to the people around him. That woman wearing a red hat now smiling at him, was she also buying gifts for loved ones? The lad and lass holding hands - he hoped they were happy together and that someday he and Calculus would walk these streets arm in arm, too.
Christmas Eve turned around the corner faster than seemed possible, and Justine outdid herself with delicious roasted rabbit with mushrooms, accompanied with heaps of crispy baked pommes de terre, paté with freshly baked bread, haricots vert with jambon ‘d Ardenne, and vol-au-vent pastries. Followed by a spectacular creme brulee. Per usual, they gathered in the seating room after dinner. Nestor served large glasses of warm, spiced honey wine and Tintin turned on the radio so they could listen to carols live sung by a choir.
When the time had come for gift giving the next morning, Haddock waited with his present for Calculus until he had given his other presents. A blue and gold fountain pen for Tintin, which got Haddock one of the lad’s delighted smiles and an embrace. A leather bound epitome of Irish ghost stories for Nestor (that had given the shopkeeper nightmares, she’d said), and the butler’s dark eyes lit up. An Italian marble notebook for Justine, to write down anything she wanted, and she spontaneously kissed him on the cheek in thanks. Which was… unexpected, but welcome, he found. Haddock got a fair share of presents himself as well. No books, though, luckily.
Calculus then carefully unwrapped the package Haddock gave him (trying not to look nervous), took out the coat and held it up high. He was smiling widely.
“My dearest Archibald, what a marvelous coat! And so soft and warm! I will gladly wear this and think of your thoughtful generosity. Please allow me time to return a proper courting gift to you, though.”
Wait. What? Wasn’t courting a particularly old-fashioned word for pairing up? Haddock didn’t have much time to think about it however, because then Calculus put on the coat - it looked good on him, a lovely shade of moss colored wool with down filling and a trim of cream fur -, and closed the distance between them and suddenly Haddock had a soft, warm armfull of Calculus who was reaching up on his toes to kiss him. And all of Haddock’s thoughts melted away, there was just Calculus and his soft lips against his own and the deep tenderness and desire that engulfed him - and then he came to himself again as Calculus gently pulled away, smiling into his eyes, and Haddock returned that addictive smile and then risked a quick glance around him.
Tintin looked slightly stunned but happy. Justine was grinning rather like Snowy when he’d just dug up a bone in the garden, and Nestor was somehow already opening a bottle of champagne. Oh. So that was all well, then. Then he looked back at Calculus.
“You knew?” he asked, incredulous. He glared accusingly at Justine - had she - but she quickly shook her head.
Calculus, meanwhile, wore a highly smug expression. “Of course I knew, my dear. Your face is like an open book to me. It was about time for you to present an offer, or I would have done so myself!”
And of course Calculus would mention books, even now.
“You could have said something,” Haddock said, a touch grumpy, more for the show than for anything else. How could he be anything but happy now?
“But I had so much fun waiting to see what you would do. There’s joy to be had in the anticipation, don’t you agree?”
Then Calculus leaned in close to Haddock’s ear, and whispered, “I’m very pleased by the way you chose to show your interest in me. No sex, though, until we’ve courted for a proper time. Somebody here has to respect traditional manners!”
Haddock turned a violent shade of red, judging by how hot his face suddenly felt. It wasn’t just because of the professor’s words. It also was because Calculus’ whispering was much louder than most people’s whispering volume. Calculus was still hard of hearing after all, even though he now finally wore a good pair of hearing aids.
But then sheer happiness took over and Haddock found that he couldn’t care at all what the others might have heard. He would wait, if Calculus wished so. He would have his little weird bookish family, would have Calculus in his life, in his heart, in his bed, and that was what mattered. He was a lucky man.