Work Text:
“Help me look, will you?” Tintin asked as he crouched over a pile of dusty documents. “Jameson said he sold it to the owner of this store, so it must be here.”
Haddock sighed and began sifting through a box of used books. They were looking for a century-old notebook that Tintin was convinced held the key to a stolen treasure cache hidden somewhere in the city. Its previous owner, a certain Mr. Harold Jameson, had sold it to a shady bookseller, hence their presence in the dark, musty secondhand shop that morning.
“Do you even know what it looks like?” Haddock huffed. “There could be dozens of notebooks in here. How will we know which one is the right one?”
“Jameson said it had the thief’s initials embossed in gold on the spine. It shouldn’t be that hard to locate.”
“And what are those initials?" Haddock wasn't trying to be contrary, not really, but they'd been searching for the notebook for a week now and after several false leads, he was beginning to think they were being toyed with.
“Just look,” Tintin snapped. He was patient, usually, but even he had his limits.
Haddock rolled his eyes, wondering for the umpteenth time why Tintin always had to go and get himself involved in these investigations when he could be working comfortably from a desk as editor-in-chief. He still couldn’t understand why Tintin had turned down the offer when his boss had retired earlier that year. There was no one else more deserving or better suited for the job, in his opinion. And it would have had the added advantage of giving Haddock a break from all these investigations. Investigations that he admittedly participated in of his own free will, because like hell he was going to let Tintin run headlong into danger on his own. But. But. That wasn’t the point.
Finding no notebooks in the first box, Haddock moved on to a pile of magazines perched precariously close to the edge of a counter. They seemed to be at least fifty years old, and most had salacious illustrations on the cover. Or, well. What would have been considered salacious half a century ago. They were certainly very tame compared to the ones he kept hidden under his bed at Marlinspike. Haddock tried to shift them to a side, in case the notebook was concealed behind them, but they slipped out of his hands and spilled all over his feet. Great. He bent down to pick them up and was just about to shove a pile of them back on the counter when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was another magazine from the pile, but unlike the ones in his hands, which all had colorful depictions of half-naked women on the front page, the cover was decorated with a black-and-white photograph of a man.
But perhaps the most unexpected aspect of the cover was not so much that the man was fully dressed—though in a pile of dirty magazines that certainly was unusual—but rather that the man, who was staring directly at the camera while he toyed with the top button of his shirt, was in fact Tintin himself. A Tintin who looked at least twenty years younger than the one muttering to himself a little ways away in the shop, but Tintin nonetheless. Below the photograph, a large headline in bold letters confirmed it, proclaiming TINTIN REVEALS ALL.
Haddock closed his mouth, which had fallen open, and glanced at his companion. Tintin was still sifting through his pile of documents with a frown, distractedly pausing from time to time to push his glasses up on his nose. Even with the moustache and glasses he wore nowadays, there could be no doubt that they were the same man.
A sudden thought occurred to him, and he grinned. Why not tease Tintin a little? With the suggestive cover photo—it could look suggestive, Haddock thought, if you looked at it with the right intentions—and the even more suggestive headline, it was the perfect opportunity to poke fun at Tintin’s tightlippedness about his past. Maybe it would finally convince him to tell Haddock more about his life before they met.
He turned to his companion, and with his most innocent look, casually commented, “So Monsieur Tintin…”
Tintin immediately stiffened and shot him a distrustful look. He'd learnt to be suspicious whenever Haddock called him that, but that wasn't going to deter Haddock.
“I didn’t know you'd had other careers prior to journalism.”
Tintin raised an eyebrow before turning back to the task at hand. “What are you talking about?”
“Just this magazine that I found here. Tintin reveals all, eh? Reveals what, I wonder?”
Tintin’s head snapped back up, his face reddening as he spotted the magazine in Haddock’s hand. Haddock wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, unable to keep a grin off his face as Tintin began to sputter.
“That’s… that’s not… Where did you even find that?” Tintin was standing very still, but Haddock could see his fingers twitching with the desire to rip the magazine out of his hands. Oh, this was interesting. Suddenly, Haddock wanted to know what the contents of the magazine were.
“This? Oh, it was just here,” he gestured at the magazine pile and paused for dramatic effect, knowing fully well how Tintin was going to react, “with all the dirty magazines.”
Tintin made a strangled sound and turned even redder at that. He took a step towards Haddock, who fought the urge to burst out laughing long enough to gasp, “I never would have expected you to engage in such scandalous activities, Monsieur Tintin.”
“Give it to me.” Tintin’s voice was low.
“No.”
“Haddock.”
“Come and get it then.”
Tintin lunged, as always moving quicker than one would expect from a man in his mid-forties. But Haddock was prepared and moved the magazine out of his reach before he could grab hold of it. He was a good head taller than Tintin, and it was easy to keep it away from him by simply raising his hand over his head.
Tintin growled and grabbed Haddock’s arm with one hand, trying to pull it down. Haddock looked down at him with a teasing smile and was suddenly all too aware that they were standing almost chest to chest, and that Tintin, standing on the tip of his toes, was tall enough that Haddock would barely have to lean down to kiss him. The thought itself nearly made him lose his balance.
“Haddock,” Tintin snapped, apparently unaware of the mental images plaguing Haddock’s mind at that moment. “Give it to me. It’s not what you think.”
Haddock tried to refocus on the situation at hand. He was supposed to be teasing Tintin, not getting lost in daydreams about kissing him! “If it’s not what I think, then what’s got you in that state? Can I see what’s in it?”
“Absolutely not. I will be taking this up with the owner. Storing that with the pornographic magazines, really…!”
Haddock was going to argue that they weren’t technically pornographic, actually, but before he could get a word in, Tintin abruptly tightened his grip on his arm and jumped. Haddock pulled his hand back and realized belatedly that Tintin had anticipated his move and had angled his jump to reach it. Unfortunately, he miscalculated and instead crashed into Haddock, who tumbled backwards, sending them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Haddock's first thought was that he’d landed on something hard, maybe a book, that would likely leave a bruise on his lower back.
His second thought was that Tintin was heavier than he looked and—
Thundering typhoons! Tintin was on top of him, he realized, and was staring right at him with a look of surprise, his mouth open in a perfect o. Their noses were almost touching, and from this distance, Haddock could see the little flecks of gold in Tintin's brown eyes and the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks. His glasses had slid down in the fall and were hanging precariously on the tip of his nose, and Haddock was seized with the sudden urge to push them back up. A little more, he thought, and they might have kissed. A shiver ran up his spine at the thought, and he immediately became aware of his free arm being wrapped around Tintin's waist, pinning him against his chest. He hurriedly dropped it, hoping Tintin wouldn’t comment on it. Ever since Haddock had realized he had feelings for him, he found himself trying to keep his distance from Tintin, terrified his body might betray him if he let himself get too close. Already, he could feel his cheeks flooding with colour and his heart pounding as if trying to break free from his chest. It would be a miracle if Tintin couldn’t feel it. He prayed the layers of clothing between them were thick enough to dull it. If Tintin ever found out about his little infatuation, well, Haddock would just die from embarrassment.
Thankfully, Tintin said nothing. As soon as he could move again, he rolled off of him and sat up, pushing his glasses back to their place. He turned to Haddock with an apologetic look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, my boy, I didn’t mean to knock you over. Are you hurt?”
He looked adorable when he was worried, Haddock thought. There was a flush on his face, probably from their earlier bickering, and Haddock desperately wished he could have been the reason Tintin was blushing. Wouldn’t it have been nice if the fall and their subsequent closeness had flustered Tintin as much as it had him?
“Haddock?” Tintin asked again when Haddock failed to respond. He leaned in. “Please tell me you didn’t hit your head.”
There was real concern in his voice and Haddock shook his head dazedly, trying to chase away visions of reciprocated affection. “No, no, I’m fine.”
He sat up under Tintin’s watchful eye, and suddenly remembered the magazine. Tintin was momentarily distracted, but it wouldn’t be long before he tried to get hold of it again. Haddock needed a distraction—fast. He looked around desperately, wondering how he’d be able to divert Tintin’s attention long enough to hide the magazine from him when his eyes fell on a small notebook tucked in the bottom shelf of an overflowing bookcase. It was bound in blue leather and Haddock could just make out the letters “K.M.R.” shining dully on the spine. Yes!
“Tintin! There! The notebook!”
Tintin, who'd been about to say something else, turned around and followed Haddock’s pointed finger. “Great snakes! You’re right!” Without another word, he bounded across the store and crouched down to pull it out.
Haddock slipped the magazine in his jacket and got up, rubbing his sore back, before joining him. Tintin was thumbing through the pages with a frown of concentration. Then he slammed it shut and looked at Haddock with shining eyes.
“This is it! I’m sure of it! We’re one step closer to finding that stolen treasure now. Come on!”
Haddock had never been so grateful for Tintin’s one-track mind.
Back at Marlinspike, Tintin immediately set about deciphering the instructions in the notebook. But it was a slow process, made difficult by the author’s poor penmanship and their use of a cipher to encode the text, and it soon became clear it wasn’t going to be something that would be solved in a couple of hours.
Haddock found he didn’t mind terribly. In fact, it provided him a much needed respite from their adventures. With Tintin spending his days in the library trying to figure out their next step, he didn’t have to worry about being dragged into danger at the drop of a hat. Better yet, it gave him complete freedom to do whatever he wanted without worrying about Tintin interrupting him.
Like reading the magazine.
He’d read it cover to cover on the first night. In truth, the section on Tintin was only about fifteen pages long. Despite his comment to Tintin when he’d first come across it, he hadn’t actually believed there would be any lewd content in it. The magazine looked much too serious for that kind of content, and anyways, even he knew Tintin would have never agreed to appear in a publication of that type, no matter the circumstances. He probably had never even looked at one before. No, he had been sure from the start that the contents of the magazine would be entirely innocent, though he couldn’t explain Tintin’s sudden fierceness in attempting to prevent him from reading it. Did he really not want Haddock to know about his past that badly? Haddock only knew that Tintin had become a journalist at a young age and had become quite renowned following a couple of high profile reports. But Tintin had always refused to elaborate further, no matter how much Haddock prodded. Could there be something more to Tintin than he let on?
The article in the magazine certainly presented a much different version of Tintin than the one Haddock was accustomed to. Younger Tintin had been cockier and more reckless than his middle-aged counterpart. Some of his exploits were thrilling, others hair-raising, and Tintin’s comments in the article betrayed a self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance. It was as if he believed himself to be invincible. Haddock found it fascinating. The Tintin he knew was cautious—as cautious as someone who regularly chased dangerous criminals could be, anyways—and didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. And while it was partly this level-headedness that had made Haddock fall head over heels for Tintin—there was just something profoundly sexy in the way Tintin kept his calm and assumed control in almost every situation—a part of him wished he could have met this younger version. Maybe without the age gap and Tintin’s infuriating desire to do what was right all the time, he might have had a better chance with him. Maybe a younger, more reckless Tintin would have seen a possible relationship between them as an adventure. Maybe he might have even taken the first step, instead of maintaining a frustrating distance between them like he did now.
But still, while it was a bit shocking to discover this other side of Tintin, there was nothing in the article that could convincingly explain his reaction, unless he was truly that ashamed of his younger self’s attitude.
And then Haddock had noticed the photographs.
He’d been so intrigued about the article that in his first read, he’d completely ignored them. But as he flipped through the pages again, he immediately realized that it was the photos that Tintin hadn’t wanted him to see. Really, he should have imagined it. He’d never seen Tintin look so cocky, so… indecent as he did on the cover photo, and he had to admit it was an attractive look on him. He pictured Tintin as he knew him now, with the glasses and moustache and barely-there crows-feet at the corner of his eyes, giving him a look like that, like he knew exactly how attractive he was, how attractive Haddock found him, and he felt his stomach clench with desire.
Most of the other photos were somewhat risqué as well, even though Tintin was fully clothed in them. Some appeared to have been taken during his travels, but there were a few that had clearly been taken in a studio for the magazine. The article having been written upon his return from a trip to South America, the studio photos had all been staged to look like they had been taken in a tropical setting. And as a result, Tintin appeared with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his arms crossed in a way that highlighted the muscles that were usually hidden under layers of clothing, or wearing a shirt that was open almost to his navel, revealing a dusting of pale hair on his chest and the barest hint of a dusky nipple peeking at him from the edge of the shirt. Whether the photographer had intentionally been trying to be suggestive, or merely trying to convey the heat of a tropical climate was unclear, but in any case, Tintin appeared wearing substantially less clothing than Haddock was accustomed to seeing him wear. Not that he was complaining.
And then there was the photo on the last page.
He wouldn't be needing the other magazines he’d stashed under his bed ever again, he’d thought.
It wasn't obscene, far from it, but it certainly was scandalous. Tintin was standing amid some tall leafy plants, staring directly into the camera with a seductive half smile. But what made Haddock do a double take wasn't his expression—though the idea of Tintin looking at him like that was more than a little thrilling, to say the least—but rather, his outfit. Tintin was standing entirely bare-chested, with one hand on his hip and the other reaching out to one of the plants. It was the most skin he'd ever seen from Tintin.
It was that photograph that kept him sneaking back into his room at all hours of the day while Tintin was working in the library. It was what was on his mind now, as he closed the door to his room and threw himself on the bed. He dug out the magazine from its hiding spot and flipped to the dog-eared page, eyes roving across Tintin’s naked chest.
He raised a hand to trace over Tintin's abs in the photo. Who would've guessed that he was hiding that under his argyle sweaters and tweed jackets? Then there was the silvery scar on his ribs that was barely visible in the photo. Haddock caressed it with his finger. How many scars was he hiding under his clothes, he wondered? How many more would he have now compared to back then? His eyes slid to Tintin's hips. He was wearing the old-fashioned plus-fours Tintin used to wear in his youth before adopting the more modern suit that he wore now, and he wondered if he had any scars hiding beneath there too. He immediately felt himself growing hot as he pictured what Tintin would look like without the plus-fours in the way. He was getting hard too, and he glanced at the door guiltily. Surely no one would know if… Tintin was busy, after all, and he wasn't usually the type to barge in unannounced. And if he used the magazine to… well, no one would have to know.
Tintin’s gaze on the photo appeared to be egging him on, his eyebrows quirked in what looked like a challenge. He closed his eyes and imagined what Tintin would look like now, still as athletic, but with the softer features lent to him by age. He tried to picture how it would feel to run his hands up Tintin's chest and how Tintin would touch him if he were there. He would probably be bossy, he thought, and insist on taking the lead, like he did in everyday life. It was an appealing prospect. He wondered if Tintin would be the type to tease him in bed. He occasionally poked fun at him when they were together, questioning his fashion choices or his decision to grow his hair out, always with a little smile that showed he didn’t really mean it, and thundering typhoons, it was sexy. Everything Tintin did was sexy.
Distantly, he heard the sound of footsteps running in the hall downstairs. Tintin was probably chasing Snowy, he thought distractedly before returning to the task at hand.
Breathing shallowly, he undid the fastening on his pants and tugged them down past his hips. He slid one hand over his clothed erection, shivering at the sensation, and fingered the elastic of his shorts. Where was he? Ah, yes. Everything Tintin did was sexy—
A door slammed open with a bang, startling him out of his fantasy. It took him a moment to realize it had been his door.
“Haddock! I’ve got it! I know where—”
Haddock opened his eyes, horrified. Tintin was standing by the door, his hair in disarray and eyes shining behind his glasses. He had a triumphant smile on his lips that was slowly turning into a frown of confusion as he took in the scene before him.
“H-Haddock?”
“It’s not what it looks like!” Haddock shrieked, desperately trying to pull his pants back on. He felt something thump below him; the magazine, which had been lying on the bed next to his hand, had fallen to the floor as Haddock shifted, and was lying open to the page of the shirtless photo… in Tintin’s direct line of sight.
Haddock watched in horror as Tintin looked down at the magazine. His eyebrows shot up and his cheeks coloured in a way that Haddock would have normally found adorable, but was now too mortified to notice. Then he looked back up to Haddock, eyes pausing momentarily on the telltale bulge in his underwear, and Haddock covered his burning face with his hands. There was simply no way he’d ever be able to look at Tintin in the eyes again.
He heard Tintin take a deep breath. Haddock braced himself, but did not move to uncover his eyes. Who knew how Tintin would react to the scene before him? Would he ask him to leave? Tell him how disgusting and pathetic he thought he was? The silence was unbearable.
“I, uh… Get dressed, Haddock. I know where the treasure is,” he finally said with only the barest hesitation. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”
Haddock didn’t move until he heard the door click shut. He peeked through his fingers and saw that he was alone. He ran a hand through his hair with a groan. He couldn’t face Tintin. All he wanted was to bury himself under his covers for the rest of his life and pretend the last five minutes hadn’t happened. But he knew that if he wasn’t by the front door in fifteen minutes, Tintin would likely just come back, and that would be worse, because then they would probably have to talk about it. At least now, Tintin seemed content with letting it be. So he dragged himself out of bed with a sigh and headed for the door, dread filling his heart. What would Tintin think of him now?
Tintin was waiting for Haddock by the stairs, not quite smiling, and not quite meeting his eyes, but not looking particularly upset either. There was still a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks that deepened when he caught sight of Haddock. It was from the embarrassment, no doubt, of discovering that his best friend had sexual fantasies about him, Haddock thought miserably.
As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Tintin turned and headed to the door. And was it Haddock’s imagination or was he walking a little stiffly?
Haddock considered him cautiously as they drove away from Marlinspike. Tintin was quiet, quieter than usual, and Haddock couldn't figure out if that was good or bad. His face was impassive as he turned on to the main road leading past the village, but his hands were crisped on the wheel, betraying a certain unease. It would have almost been a relief if Tintin had said something; at least then he'd know what he was thinking. But Tintin remained stubbornly silent.
Was he waiting for Haddock to bring it up first? He hoped not; he had no idea how to even broach the topic, and truth be told, the idea made him feel rather panicky. Not only was it embarrassing, but what if he had inadvertently ruined their friendship and doomed them to an eternity of awkward silences—assuming Tintin didn’t just decide to move out to get away from him? Haddock cursed himself for buying the magazine. What a fool he’d been! When would he ever learn to leave well enough alone?
He had to say something, though. He couldn't bear the silence any longer. It made his thoughts too loud, and he didn't particularly want to hear them at the moment, not when they were suggesting that Tintin hated him for what had happened. He desperately needed to focus on something else.
“So… where is the treasure?” he asked finally.
Tintin kept his eyes on the road. “The notebook talks about a lighthouse with a code engraved in its walls. We find the code, we find the secret entrance to the cache.”
“And you know which lighthouse we need to go to?”
“I do. Everything was laid out in the notebook. Really, I’m surprised no one’s found it yet. The notebook’s code was surprisingly simple to crack once I figured out what encoding system the thief was using.”
He went on, explaining his code-breaking process in an even voice, and despite himself, Haddock began to relax. Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Tintin would likely not hold it against him. After all, he’d forgiven him for far more serious actions in the past (his drunken escapade aboard the rocket that took them to the moon flashed before his eyes, and he cringed internally). He offered Tintin a tentative smile. Tintin responded in kind and turned on the radio to Haddock’s favourite station as they drove to the coast.
Tintin didn’t bring up the incident (as Haddock had taken to calling it) for the remainder of the case, nor did he bring it up when they returned to Marlinspike after restoring the stolen contents of the cache to their rightful owners. After a week of silence on the topic, Haddock finally let himself relax for good. Everything was back to normal, and Haddock intended to keep it that way.
There was only one thing that bothered him: the magazine had been nowhere to be found when they’d returned home. It wasn’t where he’d left it on the floor, nor on his bed or desk. And it wasn’t in the box with his other magazines under his bed. It was as if it had vanished. He wondered if it had been Nestor who had taken it when cleaning his room. Surely it couldn’t have been Tintin, who had been by his side the whole time. But the idea of asking the butler about it was too embarrassing to contemplate, so he gave it up for lost. It was probably for the best anyways. So he tried to put it out of his mind and focused on getting back into his usual post-adventure routine: playing with Snowy and lazing around the chateau with a book in hand or a record playing in the background.
Which was why it was such a shock when, a week later, as Haddock dozed in the library, Tintin suddenly dropped the magazine on his lap.
“We need to talk.”
Haddock stared at it, feeling his face heat up. “W-what? Where…?” He paused, feeling scrutinized by Tintin’s stern look. He finally asked weakly, “Do we have to?”
Tintin ignored the question. “You got the magazine,” he said instead. “Against my wishes. Why?”
He felt like a child being scolded. Tintin didn’t sound angry, but there was a twinkle in his eye that he couldn’t decipher and, blistering barnacles! That was almost more stressful than if Tintin yelled at him.
“Well?”
“I, uh, I…” Haddock looked away, embarrassed. “I was just… curious. You never talk about your past and I… well, I just wanted to know a bit more.”
“Hm.” Tintin had taken a step closer and was standing mere inches from where Haddock was sitting. He still had the peculiar look in his eyes. “And what did you think of the photo?”
“The, uh… the photo?” Haddock gulped. If he hadn’t been blushing before, he certainly was now.
“The shirtless photo,” Tintin said calmly, as if there was nothing embarrassing about it. “I want to know your opinion.”
“I…It was… fine, I guess.” It haunted his every waking moment, actually. Even after everything that had happened, Haddock couldn’t stop thinking about it and how much he wanted to see Tintin shirtless in person.
“Just fine?” There was a dangerous edge to Tintin’s voice now. “It looked to me like you thought it was more than ‘fine’ the other day…”
Haddock wanted to die. Right now. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. Tintin hadn't forgotten the incident after all. Tintin had in fact given it some thought, clearly, if he was confronting him about it two weeks after it had occurred. Haddock didn't know how to feel about that. And how was he even supposed to respond to that, anyways?
Tintin, however, did not seem to be expecting an answer. He had a look of satisfaction on his face now, like he did whenever he was proven to be right about something. As if something about Haddock's response had confirmed his suspicions. Before Haddock could begin to process what was happening, Tintin had placed a hand on each side of him, effectively trapping him on the couch, and brushed his lips against his ear.
“Next time, you could just ask if you want to look,” he whispered.
Haddock felt as if the air had been punched out of his lungs and he let out a strangled noise at the mental image. He turned to look at Tintin, unable to form a coherent reply as his brain struggled to process what he had just heard.
Tintin smirked, and without warning leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss.
Haddock wondered if he could get a heart attack from being kissed. His heart was racing, and his whole body tingled from the overwhelming feeling of Tintin’s lips moving against his. He felt Tintin’s hands snake to the back of his head and his fingers thread themselves in his hair, and he moaned. Haddock could only cling to the couch and hope he wouldn’t explode from the sensation. Then Tintin’s hot tongue slipped into his mouth, exploring every corner with his usual conscientiousness. He whimpered. He wanted more. He clumsily grabbed at his sweater to pull him onto his lap and Tintin growled. Suddenly, he was being pushed flat on his back and Tintin was climbing on top of him— on top of him! —and he still hadn’t broken the kiss. He could feel Tintin getting hard against his leg and he involuntarily bucked his hips.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Tintin pulled away, panting softly and grinning devilishly. When Haddock surged forward to try to kiss him again, he pressed him back against the couch and quickly glanced at the door. Haddock whined.
“Not here.”
Tintin climbed off him, adjusting the collar of his shirt, and stepped towards the door. Haddock couldn't do anything but watch him, transfixed, his mind still replaying the kiss. Tintin had kissed him. Tintin had kissed him! And it had been better, hotter than he could have ever imagined. But what was more, Tintin had very clearly suggested that he was open to Haddock looking at him shirtless. Looking… and maybe doing more. Oh, this would keep him up for the following nights, he was sure of it. That damned old man, he thought. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was no way Haddock would ever have a moment of peace ever again, not now that he knew Tintin felt the same way he did. Not when he couldn’t stop thinking about what he wanted Tintin to do to him.
Tintin let out an amused huff from the doorway, pulling Haddock from his thoughts. “Well? Are you coming?” When Haddock failed to reply, he shrugged and turned to leave. “Up to you. But I’m not fucking you in the library, Haddock.”
Wait, what? Haddock shot up from the couch with such enthusiasm that he tripped over the coffee table and crashed to the ground with a terrific noise.
He could hear Tintin laughing from the hall. “My, a little eager, aren’t we?”