Work Text:
By plane it would be laughable how quickly they would get ahead of the Karaboudjan once they knew her heading.
"You'd best get a room, relax a bit. Let the professionals do their job," Thomson had said with a cheery wink.
"Yes, quite, we'll have them tracked in no time," Thompson concurred. "Never you worry, Tintin."
And he wasn't worried, no. But he was RESTLESS. If he and Snowy were to change bodies, he suspects they'd be so close to capturing Sahkarine that he could SMELL him. He'd run so hard and fast in pursuit of this story, his soul ached at the thought of having to WAIT.
Even if they left right now, to whatever corner of the world Sir Francis' clues might lead them—they'd be so far ahead of Sahkarine that Tintin would STILL be waiting.
The thought was maddening.
Tintin gave into the urge to stalk the streets of Bagghar, to distract himself by taking in the damage and counting his blessings. No lives reported lost in the flooding, and for that he reflexively muttered a "Thank God" under his breath. The list of injured, however, was too long for comfort.
The sight of another ruined building, the proof of the destruction HE had helped to bring about damned him a little too dearly. The desire to confess made him laugh defensively. He did not consider himself particularly devout in his Catholicism. His faith felt more a sense of obligation to Mother Church who raised him than compulsion by the Holy Ghost. And besides, what would he say? 'Bless me Father, for I toppled a city in my lust for adventure?' Absurd!—but the guilt made him want to turn back, all the same.
"Come on, Snowy," he said aloud, more to distract from his own growing discomfort than to ensure Snowy would follow. "Let's find the Captain."
He found the Captain back in their room. It was a small affair; one bed, a rough table, two chairs and not much else. The Captain was seated at the table, his face to the open window, his back to the door, shoulders hunched. By his right hand—
Tintin's spine stiffened, and he could feel a flush of anger come over him.
Deep down the sight of it doesn't make him hate Haddock, for he knows that is irrational. He hates the bottle, hates what it does to people. But Tintin is a man of words as much as one of action, and in darker moments he knows he could wield words like weapons; the rare desire to yell, to tear a man down instead of showing patience and understand rises within him.
He took a breath—
"Ah, lad—didn't hear you come in," Haddock said, turning in his chair. In his left hand was a cloth.
There was blood on it.
The sharp red hot anger shrinks into something distant and cold within him.
"I need your help lad, I think I got it all out but the last thing I need is glass being carried around in my scalp for the rest of my life," Haddock muttered as he poured some more of the clear alcohol onto the cloth, and pressed it to the back of his head. "That bold-faced assassin, blast his lily-livered treachery—"
And for a man who prides himself on always being able to get to the truth of a matter, Tintin feels the chill of shame when he finally sees the picture clearly.
He walks to the table—there's no water in their room, no soap. He picks up the bottle and carefully pours some of the alcohol in his hands. He rubs them together—the multitude of little cuts and scraps his hands have suffered burn, and he winces. It'll have to do, disinfecting-wise.
"Captain—" he begins, his fingers hesitating as they reach for Haddock's black hair. He swallows, and moves towards him instead, gently bending Haddock's head forward as he moves the hair aside.
The gash will not need stitching, at least, Tintin doesn't think it will. It is oozing a little bit still, but the dried blood makes it look far worse than it is. He takes the cloth from Haddock's unresisting hand, and carefully, oh so carefully wipes it away. Haddock shifts in his discomfort, but says nothing.
He finds a sliver of glass at the hair roots—a tiny thing, and he removes it. One more, and another. He wishes for better light, and a pair of tweezers. He checks and rechecks, and pours some more of the alcohol on the wound for good measure, which makes Haddock howl. From the bed Snowy, startled, returns the sentiment.
"Blistering blue barnacles, warn a fellow first!" Haddock swears.
"I'm sorry, Captain. But it's over," he assures him, putting the cloth and bottle down. His hand finds Haddock's shoulder—he squeezes it. "I'm sorry, Captain," he repeats.
"Nothing for you to be sorry for, you weren't the two backstabbing savages that jumped me," Haddock sighs, resigned. "Just…I'm sorry they got the upper hand on me, lad."
"No, Captain, I mean—"
And he remembers what he said. He remembers his anger, disappointment. He remembers HOW he said what he said, and how he WANTED it to hurt Haddock. But he remembers how Haddock had jumped into the sidecar. He remembers how he brushed off drowning, flippant in the face of danger in that moment.
He remembers him leaning over, pinning Tintin to his seat; his face close, breath free of any fumes as he put him back in his place and back on track.
Tintin hated the bottle. But for a brief moment, he used it as an excuse to hate the man.
The Captain hand covered his, and squeezed in turn. "I think I know what you're trying to say, lad," he said softly. "Thank you, for that. But it's not like it isn't the natural thing to assume about an old drunk like me."
"I didn't trust you," Tintin confessed.
He paused; Tintin saw the self-deprecating quirk of his lips underneath that beard, and the sad, far away distance in those eyes. "Tintin, I can't even trust myself, on occasion," Haddock explained. "You don't know how hard it is, lad. I nearly…I so nearly did but I thought of you and I didn't—but I was still distracted, see? And that's why—if I just only hadn't even been tempted—"
Haddock straightened, and looking up at Tintin, smiled. "I don't deserve the esteem of a lad like you, Tintin. But I intend to earn it. Oh yes. I intend to."
Haddock clapped his hand once more, and stood before Tintin could respond. He staggered a bit, and shook his head. "Thundering Typhoons, in all that excitement I didn't feel a thing—now my body's cashing in more IOUs than I know what to do with! Blast it all! I'm going to sleep off these aches, not as young as I used to be, don't suspect I ever will be again—wake me up if those two blundering baboons have anything for us," he chuckled as he shuffled to what passed as a bed. "I'll tell you one thing," he said as he lowered himself onto his side. "I'm itching to meet up with our good friend Sahkarine there—I've a favor or two to return him."
"Rest well, Captain," Tintin offered quietly.
The man and the bottle were not one in the same.
Tintin sat at the desk, and watched Haddock sleep.
He would never make that mistake again.