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Chapter Text

"MULLER!"

The German whirled around, fear strangling his features as footsteps sounded above.

"Captain!" Tintin gasped, failing to twist himself out of Muller's grasp. "I'm down he-" He cut off as Muller slammed the door of the small metal box shut, sealing him in darkness. 

"MULLER, I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE, IF YOU HAVE SO MUCH AS HARMED A SINGLE HAIR ON THAT BOY'S HEAD!" Haddock's fury echoed through the house. It was always Muller. Even after a small handful of encounters with the young reporter, Muller had left him scarred, both physically and emotionally. That much had been clear to the sea captain when they had arrived at the Emir's house after saving Abdullah. Poor Tintin looked as though he had been dragged through hell and back, as he rubbed the bruise on the back of his head with trembling hands. The Thom(p)sons had later recalled how they had found the boy half-asleep on the train back from Scotland, his ankle wrapped tightly in a bandage and with burns tracing up his forearms. Haddock barely knew the doctor, yet he hated him with almost every fibre of his being.

Haddock ripped open a door, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he sprinted down the stairs leading down into the basement, Milou hot on his heels. Hold on for a bit longer, laddie.. 

He was not prepared from the raw, agonising scream that tore through the air into his heart. For a moment, the world was silent. Blood pounded through Haddock's ears. He barrelled down the stairs, threw the door open and almost strangled Muller on the spot, had the man not been wielding a gun. Tintin was nowhere to be seen; only the hum of the strange metal box accompanied the two men. "Muller, you sadistic-"

"Say one more word and I blast your brains out."

Haddock swallowed. How was it, whenever Tintin had the wrong end of a gun pointed directly at his head, the boy was so calm? To the captain, it felt as though God was waiting with His finger on the trigger, ready to end his existence in a bink of an eye.

The trigger was not pulled. Instead, the room suddenly filled with police officers, all of them with firearms trained at the German. Muller's face paled and his arm dropped.

"Where is Tintin?"

"Not here."

"What do you bloody mean, not here!?"

Muller said nothing, only widening his eyes as Haddock loomed over him, gripping his coat lapels. Their noses nearly touched and Haddock let out a low growl. "Where. Is. Tintin?"

"He's- he's in the box over there."

Muller fell to the floor in a tumble of fabric and limbs as Haddock carefully cracked open the peculiar safe. Darkness spilled from the corners, obscuring any honey-coloured hair or bright blue eyes that might have been waiting for him. As Haddock shifted to let in the light, his gaze caught on a sight that made his blood freeze.

Red.

Spilling onto the metal floor, dark and rich and bloodlike. Muller, you sick beast. What have you done? Gently, Haddock reached out a trembling hand to the sliver of scarlet. It met the soft, slightly textured feeling of a cotton coat and Haddock blushed at his foolishness. It was nothing but fabric; in his defence, the lighting was dim. He reached around, feeling the form of a tiny body huddled against the wall and carefully pulled it out.

His eyes widened.

In his arms, drenched in a battered lady's coat, was a tiny boy. Hunger had clawed at his frame, leaving nothing but hollow cheekbones and protruding bones in its wake. Dirt clung to his pale, ghostlike skin and, as Haddock brushed the lock of hair off his forehead, so did blood. The most haunting thing was the child's stillness. He hardly seemed to breath. And, to Haddock's alarm, his skin was icy. The little hand was marked with purple fingernails and the lips that should have been pink were a deathly blue. Despite the Grim Reaper's grasp on this unconscious boy, a fact was startingly clear. 

It was Tintin. A younger, dying Tintin.

Milou whined, nudging the small figure gently.

"Muller... what did you do?" 

"Captain? What's the matter?"

"We need an ambulance. Immediately."

Thompson and Thomson appeared, bowlers in hand and sticks on arm. "Is he alright?" Thompson paled at the sight of the bedraggled figure. "My word..."

"To be precise..."

The child's skin was horribly cold. Haddock pulled off the sodden coat, flinching at the sight of ribs poking through the worn shirt, and wrapped his own jacket around the child in a tight embrace. "I think he's hypothermic. Muller!"

The doctor, now handcuffed, glanced at the captain. "What?"

"Explain yourself!"

A sickening smirk pulled at Muller's lips. "He ruined me, yet I have never been able to kill him. He's a fighter. So, I thought that if I brought back a younger version of that brat-" saliva sprayed across the floor as he spat out the word, "- he would be easier to kill. It appears my invention worked."

"And then you starved and froze him?"

"No. The scream you heard was when I made the switch."

Haddock stared at the frozen figure in his arms, a hand pressed to the boy's chest to check that his heart was still pumping. If what Muller said was true, then that would mean that whatever happened to this boy was a cause of some other thing in his past. "He needs medical attention, now."

"An ambulance will be here in about ten minutes-"

"He needs one now, you bashi-bazouks! He's bloody dying!"

As he spoke, he shifted, revealing the tiny body in his arms. No one spoke.

"Good grief," breathed one of the younger officers, his eyes brimming with bitter memories. "He looks like he's just come out of the war."

Haddock's heart plummeted. He probably has.

It felt as though forever had passed. Minutes had become synonymous with days, months, even years as the captain sat by the hospital cot, a tiny, blue hand resting in his large one. The boy (it felt weird and upsetting calling him Tintin, especially in such a state,) was still unconscious, though colour was slowly returning to his skin. Nurses had marched through the doors at a constant rate, changing hot water bottles, turning up the radiator, pressing warm compresses to their patient's forehead, anything that would keep him warm. Haddock hoped their efforts wouldn't be in vain. Yet, despite his doubts, he couldn't help the spark of hope that ignited as he watched the boy's breathing become deeper as they attached an oxygen mask to his face, or when his hands started to tremble slightly. Shaking was a sign of the body's attempt to regulate temperature, and the small tremors that wracked those small bones were, for once, something to be excited about.

Haddock, meanwhile, was growing sleepy. The adrenaline crash from the earlier events had hit him like a truck. When paired with the slightly too warm room, Haddock's eyes grew heavier and every now and then, his head would drop to his chest. He was never truly asleep, however. One small noise would bring his head snapping back up and the cycle would begin again.

Haddock was in another head-lowered stage when the hand he was holding suddenly jerked. He looked up just as the hand pulled away, accompanied by a sharp intake of panic. The boy was awake. For a brief moment, their eyes locked and Haddock saw the familiar startlingly blue eyes ringed with navy. Tintin's eyes.

Tintin, at least, to the Captain's knowledge, did not speak German. He knew, however, that Tintin had an entire arsenal of languages and dialects up his sleeves, but it still shocked him when the boy in front of him began hyperventilating, a stream of garbled French, German and... Dutch? came tumbling out of his mouth. The room quickly filled with nurses and panicked cries as he thrashed, trying to break free from the nurses' tight grips. 

"Nein! Alsjeblieft, nee, hör auf! À l'aide, maman!"

He screamed, tears falling as he struggled, skinny limbs flying and colliding with someone's nose. Haddock swore he heard his heart shatter into a fine powder. "Stop. Stop it, you devolved ectoplasms! You're scaring him!" The nurses obeyed, but the doctor shook his head, pulling out a small torch.

"He needs an immediate medical examination, Captain-"

"No, he needs you to stop!" Haddock shoved the doctor out of the way, then took a deep breath. "He's evidently come from a deeply traumatic event; he's scared, confused, and all you dunderheads are doing is making everything worse!"

No one spoke. The only sound came from the little boy, who had pressed himself into a tight ball against the pillows. Haddock turned around slowly, kneeling down beside the cot. The boy watched him with wide eyes that seemed to almost bulge.

"Hello, laddie," Haddock whispered.

"Where am I?"

"You're in a hospital, in Belgium. You're safe now."

"No." The boy started to squirm again. "No, I'm not safe- they'll find me here- they find me again-"

"Hey, hey." Haddock took his shoulders gently, trying not to wince at how thin they were. "No one's going to hurt you."

"But the Gestapo-"

"They're gone. There's no more Gestapo here."

The boy froze, his mouth agape. Then, with a jerk, he pulled away from the captain, his eyes darkening. "I don't believe you."

"What year do you think it is?"

"It's 1942. The end of 1942. Almost winter."

Haddock sighed. How was he supposed to explain to this scarred, petrified child that he was in the future? "This may sound strange, but I need you to believe me."

The boy said nothing, so Haddock continued.

"I know you, but I know a future version of you. There is this doctor fellow who doesn't like future you very much, so he decides to turn future you into current you."

"... I don't understand."

"Right, there's no beating around the bush: you're in the future."

There was no reply, save a strange whimper. "But... what year is it?"

"1948."

"And the war is over?"

"Yes."

"No more Nazis? Or Hitler?"

"All gone."

The boy's entire demeanour changed. He sank back into the pillows, staring distantly at the opposite wall. "If this is true..." He started slowly, "if you really do know me, then what is my name?"

Haddock blanched. In the year he had known Tintin, not one word had been uttered about his name. Not even an initial. "Well, I don't know your full name, but I and all your friends call you Tintin."

The boy lifted his head, staring at Haddock in fearsome wonder. "The only person who calls me that is my mother," he whispered.

"Do you believe me?"

A pause. "Maybe. But I would like photographic evidence."

"I can do that." Haddock straightened, groaning as his knees cracked. "I'm Captain Archibald Haddock. The doctor wants to examine you to make sure you're alright. Are you comfortable with that?"

The boy- Tintin, he was Tintin- gave a slow nod, eyeing the doctor warily as he approached. "Can I have some food?"

One of the nurses nodded and quickly left. Haddock went to accompany her since he was rather famished himself, but a weak hand gripped his jersey. He turned, staring back into those wide, bright eyes. "Please... stay?"

He nodded, took the tiny hand in his again and sat back down on the chair.

Thank you, God, for sparing this boy's life.

Chapter Text

The next couple of days were filled with bedside vigil for the Captain. Tintin hardy woke, only when he need to eat or drink. Haddock knew that rest was essential for recovery, but seeing the little boy almost lifeless in the massive bed sent flares of anxiety shooting through his heart. He never left the bedside (unless he desperately needed to), always watching for any symptoms that could signal a turn for the worse.

There were none, thankfully. Blue slowly faded from the boy's pallor, replaced by a gentle pink creeping into his cheeks and lips. His breathing had deepened and the tremors, after many long hours (or was it days?), had finally stopped. He was recovering, and the nurses had to reassure Haddock that the boy would be alright.

It was later one night when one of the nurses suggested to the sea captain that perhaps he ought to go home and rest. "No no," he muttered, "the boy needs me here."

The nurse- she was very young, hardly an adult- patted the older man's hand. "You can't look after him if you don't look after yourself," she said softly. "You go home, have something hot to eat, get some sleep and come back tomorrow, and I'll stay here and make sure he's not alone."

Though Haddock desperately wanted to scold her for possibly thinking that Archibald Haddock was incapable of taking care of his best friend, he knew that she was right. With a groan and a crack of his knees, he pulled himself out of the chair and put on his hat. "You call if he shows even the smallest signs of decline, understood?"

She nodded and handed him his coat. "When he wakes up again, I'll tell him that you'll be back soon and I won't leave his side until he's comfortable."

Haddock nodded. "Good. Yes. Very good." He sighed, casting his gaze on the small figure silhouetted by blankets. Slowly, they rose, paused for a moment, then slowly they floated down, only to rise shortly after. Stay with us, laddie. I won't be gone long.

With that, he opened the door and slipped into the dark, quiet hallway, letting the door shut behind him with a soft click.

The nurse had been right. Bags still circled Haddock's eyes the next morning, but the blurry thoughts and heavy eyelids had thankfully disappeared. It wasn't long before he was dressed and on the way to the hospital with a suitcase full of pictures, books and a chess set. For Tintin, so he wouldn't grow too bored.

Anticipation and anxiety weighed on his heart as he walked down the corridor, squeezing past nurses and doctors hurrying to their next patient. Haddock reached the door and cracked it open. 

The bed was empty. He froze, unsure whether to yell or cry or to simply say nothing. It was then that he noticed the chair he sat on was also missing. He opened the door fully, sighing with relief. On the chair, in a pool of morning sunshine pouring in from the open window, was the honey-haired boy, blinking blearily at the captain from under a blanket. Such large eyes set in a tiny face, bluer than a summer's sky and sparkling as the pale light streaked across his face. Yet, Haddockcouldn't help but notice the shimmer of emerald in the left eye, like a sliver of a secret. The eyes watched as Haddock shut the door and walked over, crouching down by the chair. "Hello again."

"Hello." A shy whisper, but definite and laced with growing strength.

"How are you feeling?"

A shrug. "Do you have photographs?"

Haddock chuckled. "I do. Here-" He undid the clasps on the suitcase and pulled out a brown envelope. "I hope these will do."

A small hand appeared from under the blanket and took the envelope. Tintin shifted in the chair, letting the blanket part so he could open the envelope. It crinkled as he pulled out the stack of photographs. He stared, then tilted his head. Haddock looked over his shoulder at the picture, smiling at his friend's crooked grin frozen in the sepia moment. "That's you, only a few months ago."

The resemblance was striking. Of course it was; they were the same person after all. Yet it still surprised the Captain how little Tintin's countenance had changed. His Hair had grown a tone darker, now a rich honey hue compared to the head of soft gold next to him, but the eyes were the same, as well as the soft cheeks and faint freckles dacing across his upturned nose. The only difference were the few white and pinkstripes and spots of scars wasn't from a career of journalism. The little boy next to him had hardly any, save for the recent scratches and the dressing stuck to his forehead.

"It is me."

"Yes."

He flipped to the next photograph, an older one, but still recent. This time it was Tintin and Haddock together, grinning in front of the newly acquired Marlinspike Hall. "Is that your house?"

"Yes, it belonged to my ancestors. It's called Marlinspike Hall."

The boy turned his face to the Captain, curiosity tracing furrows into his brow. "Where do I live?"

"Well, you used to live in Brussels for a while, but then you moved into Marlinspike with me and another friend."

"Who?"

Haddock pulled another photograph our of the pile, one with him, Tintin and the skinny green-clad Professor. "This is Professor Calculus. He's a tad mad, quite deaf though he denies it, but he's a lovely soul."

The boy giggled. "What a strange group we all are."

We all are. Haddock smiled, placing a hand on Tintin's small shoulder. "We're certainly eclectic. Especially because you have somehow befriended an Italian opera singer and a Chinese lad names Chang."

"How on earth did I meet someone from China!?"

"Why, you went there!"

Tintin stopped, gaping at the Captain. "I've been to China?"

Haddock lowered himself so he was staring the boy in the eyes. "You've been everywhere, lad. You've been to the moon."

Tintin's jaw dropped. "The moon!? How did we get to the moon?"

"In a rocket."

He sat back, blinking slowly as the realisation sunk in. "The moon. I've been to the moon." He frowned, turning back to the Captain. "But... why me?"

"You're the world-famous reporter and best friends with Calculus, the madman who concocted the whole schema-"

"I'm what!?"

Haddock paused. Of course the boy wouldn't know he was famous. The poor thing had probably lived a mellow life, another ordinary little boy from Belgium who had never imagined that he, of all people, would become a household name and a national icon. "You're famous, Tintin.'

Tintin blinked, his eyes wide. "I- I know I like to write for the papers, but I'm nothing special," he sputtered.

"What- you write for papers? You're nine!"

"Twelve, actually. And nothing too big, just Le Libre Belgique and some other smaller ones."

"The- you write for the Belgian Resistance!?"

"Of course!"

"But you're a child! You'll get yourself killed!"

"Only if the Nazis suspect a child of writing for the underground. Besides, I was going to get killed for a variety of other reasons anyway," he added, calmly stacking the photographs as though he was remarking on the weather.

Now it was Haddock's turn to blink in confusion. Apparently Tintin's track record for running headfirst into danger wasn't limited to his career. He was about to question the lad about his so-called "other reasons" when the image of him screaming for help in the hospital bed sprang to mind. He shuddered, deciding that perhaps it would be best to save it for another day. "I also brought some clothes and a chessboard, as well as some books."

Tintin's eyes lit up at the mention of chess. "I wouldn't mind playing a game," he replied.

"I'll go easy on you."

A strange glint flashed across Tintin's eyes and he smiled, saying nothing.

Haddock deeply regretted his decisions.

Somehow, in less then ten moves, Tintin's black queen was sailing up the board and he suddenly announced an innocent "checkmate" before the Captain could register what was happening.

"Wh-" He cut off, his brows knitting to gather in confusion. "You cheated."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yuh-uh! How did you do that?"

Tintin grinned, his slightly-too-large front teeth poking over his bottom lip. "Luck, perhaps?"

"Again."

This Time the Captain was defeated in five moves."

"You little ankle-biter!" Haddock yelled over Tintin's giggles. "Again, but I'll play black!"

He lost. Again.

"Oh, thousands upon thousands of thundering typhoons!"

"Shall we play again, Captain?" Tintin asked sweetly as he rearranged the pieces. His eyes twinkled with mirth. "I'll go easy on you."

"How!? You- wh- you're tiny! A child! I've been beaten by a child!"

By this point Tintin was laughing so hard that the nurse had to stick her head in to make sure he was alright. "Oh, Captain," he wheezed, wiping at the tears on his flushed cheeks, "I should have told you.'

"Told me what!?"

"I was Brussels' under-twelve's champion for four years and Belgium's champion for two."

"Of course you were."

Tintin exploded into another fit of giggles at the Captain's disgruntled expression.

"I am not bemused, Tintin."

Tintin howled, slapping the arm of the chair. Haddock couldn't help but grin. What a fresh change it was to see him full of live and energy! Certainly a stark difference from the wide-eyed boy he had seen the past week. As Haddock watched him, still laughing with a scrunched nose, it finally dawned that this, this small being of energy and joy, was Tintin. Tiny, lively and grinning with the softest expression of love Haddock had ever witnessed. This was Tintin.

Haddock couldn't help but dissolve into a low, gravelly chuckle.

Finally they both subsided, grinning in the growing, golden sunlight. "Tell me, laddie," started the Captain, "what is your name?"

Tintin's eyes narrowed. "You won't laugh?"

"I promise."

He raised his eyebrows, then sighed. "Valentin Huyghebaert."

"V... Valentin?"

"You promised, Captain."

"As in St Valentine? The patron saint of... lovers?"

"And beekeepers and epileptics, yes."

Haddock had to admit; he was trying very hard not to laugh. "And your last name?"

"Huyghebaert."

"Hyoog..."

"Huyghebeart."

"That's not French."

Tintin gave Haddock a look. "No, it's Flemish."

"Ahhh- wait." Haddock paused, the gears in his head turning slowly. "You... speak French."

"And Flemish and German and English. What about it?"

"So you're Flemish?"

Tintin shrugged, picking at the edge of the blanket. "Partially. My father was from Flanders, but my mother i-was from Walloon."

"How did that go down with their families?"

"Not well. I've never met my extended family."

Haddock nodded slowly. "But Valentin-"

"-was my mother's doing." Tintin groaned. "She always told me that names had meaning and that I shouldn't think mine is silly because she chose it for a reason."

"Was she perhaps a hopeless romantic?"

Haddock's remark earnt him a withering glare. "No," Tintin replied, "she chose it because it means strength and health."

A fitting name for the journalist, then. Haddock hummed softly, taking a brief moment to reflect on that. "What is your mother's name?"

"Lucille." Tintin smiled fondly, turning his face to the window. "It means light."

The Captain also turned to the window, which was now glowing with the golden morning. The boy's face seemed to shine, pale gold mixing into the blue of his eyes. Haddock wondered for the first time what Lucille Huyghebaert must have looked like and how much of her appearance was replicated in her child. They lapsed into a sense of restful quiet, blinking in the sunlight as they wandered down their own thoughts.

Haddock finally spoke. "Do you prefer Tintin, or would you like me to call you something else?"

The boy turned and stared at the Captain. His eyes seemed to see through Haddock, into his heart and soul, discerning his motives and person. "No," he said softly. "I like it when you call me Tintin."

Haddock smiled.

Tintin smiled back.