Hi everyone! This is my new Tintin Fic, Tintin Against Time! I've loved Tintin for a very long time but when I saw the film, I just had to write a fan fic. I couldn't resist!

I'm hoping to update weekly, Saturdays GMT but since I'm in the middle of exams, it's looking like fortnightly. Anyhow, enjoy!

Edit: Re-uploaded Chapter 1 due to the atrocious amount of spelling mistakes. If you've read Chapter 1, just move on, nothing much has changed. If you're a new reader, please do read it!

CHAPTER 1

A middle aged woman answered the door to the block of apartments on Labrador Street. Peering over her full moon glasses, she looked me up and down before speaking.

"Yes? Are you here about the flat upstairs?"

"I'm here to see Tintin actually." I felt myself redden as she rolled her eyes.

"Of course, always to see Mr Tintin. Well he's not in, you'll have to wait."

I glanced back at the busy, rumbling street behind me, and most importantly at the rain bouncing on the cobbled road. "Can I wait inside?"

The woman reluctantly pulled aside the door. "Why not, why not? Just head up, he's probably left the door open anyway, he always does. First on the right as you go up."

Up I went, up the narrow wooden stairs. The first door on the right was rather unassuming, the same dull brown as the rest of the block. But even as I approached it, it became obvious that it wasn't like the others at all.

True to the woman's word, the door was open. Trying not to feel like I was breaking and entering, I turned the red paint-printed door handle and crept in.

The room was like an Aladdin's cave, a mess of beautiful objects. A fireplace was the first thing I saw, a giant mirror framed above it, making the small flat seem twice as big. To the right of it, giant French windows opened out onto a view of the Belgian rooftops. The desk next to it was encrusted with leaves of paper and a majestic looking type writer, the floor littered with boxes and ornaments. Picture frames lined the mantle piece like a shrine to people I didn't know. I placed my suitcase on the floor and walked gingerly across the sea of tat to the montage on the opposite wall.

His first article, a modest piece on a film that had come out at the time took pride of place in the middle, a tiny photo and a chirpy "I look forward to writing more for you!" signing it off.

Then all around, special editions of all the adventures he'd been on, surrounded the first, The Soviet Russia edition directly above and all the others circling around like rays of sun. I put my fingers up on the glass and leant in close, reading the tiny text even though I'd read it millions of times before. He wrote so well, it made anyone who read it believe they were there with him. Or long to be with him at least.

Suddenly there was a loud bang from downstairs as what I could only hope was the front door banged against the wall.

"Morning Mrs Fisher!"

"Mr Tintin, there's-" The woman was cut off as footsteps bounded up the stairwell.

"Awful weather, isn't it? Jeez, I hate rain... Which is why I really don't need you shaking your wet fur all over me! Why do you think I ran home with the paper on my head Snowy? Where is my key... Oh the door's probably open..."

I turned as the door swung open. A white shape shot through the gap and promptly began snuffling in a pile of papers in the corner. I ignored this and turned my attention to the figure in the doorway. A dripping wet mac hung past the plus-four clad knees, open at the front to reveal a plain white shirt and a homely looking pull over jumper, and as he pulled the sopping newspaper from his head, a quiff of ginger hair crowned the boyish, freckle dusted face I knew and loved.

"Oh," said Tintin, finally spotting me. "Never saw you there. Did Mrs Fisher let you in?"

"Rather begrudgingly, yes." I smiled.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, I only went out to get a paper. Not a lot of use that's going to be now," He threw it into a near by bin with a disgusted look. "I'm really sorry, I haven't even asked your name!"

I felt a smile creep across my face. "Sophie. Sophie Dubois."

Tintin's eyes widened. "Sophie! No- no way! Of course, how could I not recognise you? Come here- wait," He stripped off his mac and looped it over a peg on the wall. "There. Now, come here," He opened his arms and kissed me once on both cheeks. "Stand back, let me take a look at you- golly!"

"It's only been three years Tintin!" I reminded him, giggling as he took my coat and hat from me.

"I know, but you already look so different!" He tidied some papers away in an attempt to straighten his unprepared flat. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I was 16 a couple of months ago. You can't be much older."

"19 beginning of next year ma cherie, there's a difference!" Tintin ushered me into a basket chair and sat opposite me, pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the dusty coffee table.

"Boy reporter no more then!" I smiled, taking the slightly cold cup he offered me. Tintin wrinkled his nose.

"Tell me about it. Oi, Snowy!" Here he turned to the white mass in the corner. "Stop being anti-social and come and meet our guest."

In a moment, a pure white, curly haired fox terrier sat at my feet, looking slightly annoyed at being interrupted but thoroughly enjoying the fawning he was getting off me.

"Hello sweetheart! Snowy, isn't it? What a darling! When did you get him?"

"When I arrived here. I was feeling a bit lonely in a flat by myself. He's been a great pal." Snowy settled his head on Tintin's shoes and his master rubbed his ears fondly. "So," Tintin settled back in the armchair. "How are you? Still at school?"

"Of course! I didn't run off like you did."

"Hey, 'running off' -as you very unkindly put it- has done a lot for me. And at least I have a job, I didn't leave school just because I didn't like it or something. I had more going for me here." He gestured around the flat, nearly spilling tea on Snowy.

"Ah yes, all these wonderful adventures, all over the world! And all in the name of journalism. I have to say, I'm quite jealous."

"I don't go looking for the adventurous bit. Trouble just seems to find me."

"I shouldn't complain, it's making you famous!"

Tintin reddened. "I feel like there's more newspaper articles being written about me than I'm actually writing. But after you get over the fear of being buried alive or beaten to death with a heavy object, it's a pretty smashing job," He laughed. "But I'm digressing. Tell me, how is Jacques?"

I felt my face fall. Tintin leant forward. "Is something wrong with him?"

"I don't know," My voice suddenly went very quiet. "I know it sounds silly, but it's why I'm here. You were the only one I could think of who might be able to help-I'm sorry-" I put my hands to my face as tears began to well up. Snowy lifted his head and Tintin was starting to look concerned. He lowered my hands from my eyes and took them in his own.

"Sophie, you must tell me. What has happened to Jacques?"

"He's gone missing Tintin. He was working in the shop and he was supposed to come home for the weekend and he didn't. I mean he used to go out and stay with his friends but he would always ring! Always! The employees said he left at the normal time and everything but now he's gone and I'm so worried!"

I was pretty much hysterical by this point and Tintin was doing his best to calm me, but I could tell he was as worried as I. He took my cup of tea off me and told me to fill him in on everything that had happened since he left us three years ago.

Jacques is my brother, the same age as Tintin. They had met at collége, became firm friends and Tintin had become a regular face around our house.

Jacques had never wanted me hanging around when Tintin came over. The two of them would disappear into the woods for hours, having wild adventures and making strange contraptions out of junk. I was fascinated, but as a girl, my elder brother deemed such excursions inappropriate. Therefore, I'd never gotten to know Tintin very well as a child. He was just another one of Jacques friends. However as we got older it emerged that Tintin was a pretty dab hand at tennis, and as a suitably unisex games, Jacques allowed me to join them. I was far better at tennis than Jacques was so in the end the sport became an event that predominantly Tintin and I indulged in. Many a summer's evening was spent on the local tennis courts, sipping bottled lemonade and smashing aces until it got too dark too see. That's how I'd gotten to know him, about his life, his family, his aspirations. That's how I'd grown to know him as pretty much the nicest human being I would ever know, how I'd grown to love him as one of the best friends I would ever have. I could see why he was Jacques best friend. That's why we were both so torn up when he left.

It was one of those days when Jacques had graced us with his presence upon the tennis green. We were sitting against the chicken wire, munching on cheese sandwiches when he announced it. When that summer ended, Tintin would not be going to lycée with Jacques as we'd all thought. He'd taken up a job as a junior reporter with a newspaper called "Le Vingtéme Siécle" and and he would be moving to Brussels. Alone. I immediately congratulated him, but I felt crushed. My summer days with Tintin were drawing to a close, the friendship we had lighted was being blown out by the wind of greater things. As my brother and I waved him off at the train station we were sure we'd never hear from him again, even though he promised to write to us. Tintin was far too flighty to bother with such things.

However almost a year later, Tintin's face was splashed across every paper in Belgium, along with his accompanying article in "Le Vingtéme Siécle", describing adventures almost too wonderful to be real. The criminals, the kidnaps, the daring chases and escapes... It was like a dream! Jacques read it, and every other article that followed, and although he never said it, I knew he was jealous. The tales he and Tintin had concocted in the woods were nothing compared to what Tintin was experiencing in real life and the light in Jacques eyes grew more hungry the more he read. By the time he was 18, Jacques was a restless as a caged bird. He longed to spread his wings and fly to lands unknown, to have journeys of his own, to conquer the world as Tintin had.

But the article on China delivered the worst blow. Whilst reading it together we marvelled at Tintin's rescue of a young Chinese boy, Chang, from a flooded river. I thought this extremely brave, but Jacques' face was ashen. And if the picture of them smiling, arms around each other wasn't enough, the caption below it describing Chang as "Almost the closest thing to a best friend" was.

I found the paper in the bin the next morning. Jacques was broken.

He never went on his adventures. While Tintin jetted to the Congo and traipsed across Europe, Jacques took a place at our father's watch making business in Brugge. I could tell it made him unhappy, but I never confronted him about it. Some things were best left alone.

This I told to Tintin as the rain continued to empty itself outside the window. The light had taken on a greyish tone, dulling the ginger of Tintin's hair to a reddish brown. He sat, sunk into the armchair, his fingers steepled and his head resting against the back of the chair, a slight frown crossing his features. Snowy switched his gave from his master to me, a small whine escaping him.

"I'm sorry. I never realised I'd hurt you both so much. I know it was sudden, me leaving but-" Tintin looked up at me sharply. "You don't think he left just because of me?"

"I don't think Jacques would have left at all, at least not without telling us. I have no idea Tintin but I have a horrible feeling some thing's happened. Father's gotten the police involved but they've done nothing. All we know is he left work and never came home, and they haven't gotten much further." I leant forward. "Please Tintin, will you help me find him?" I sounded so desperate, I was horrified at myself. Tintin lowered his hands and looked hard at me.

"You don't even have to ask that Sophie. You know I'll always help you, in anything," Noting my tearful face, he rose, pulled me to my feet and enveloped me in a warm hug. "We'll find him. I'll sort out this mess that I've made and we'll get him back. I promise."

"Don't blame yourself Tintin, please," I begged. Tintin pulled back and wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Do you want to call your folks and tell them you've arrived safely?"

I felt myself colour. "They... don't... know I'm here..." I mumbled to my shoes.

"What the- Sophie! They're going to be worried sick!" Tintin exclaimed.

"I knew they wouldn't let me come to you! They didn't think you'd be able to do anything. "Leave it to the police"; I'll be damned if I let the police "handle" it any more! They deserved to be worried!" I pouted.

"They've just lost one child, they don't want the other one gone too! Think a little!" Tintin threw his hands in the air in desperation. "How long ago did you leave home?"

I felt my anger die slightly as I realised what I'd done. "Two days ago... I got taxi to the station then took the train. I spent a day asking around for you so..."

Tintin thrust the receiver into my hand, his eyebrows raised. "Sophie, call them."

I took the phone from him reluctantly. Tintin pulled a chair out from the desk at the windows, inserted fresh paper into the typewriter and cracked his knuckles.

"I have a lot of work to do so please keep family disputes to a minimum." He gave a cheeky grin.

I called my family home. Snowy jumped up onto the counter next to me and put his head close to the phone, as if he were listening to my conversation. I smiled and patted his head. Much to my disappointment, it was my mother who answered. I tried to talk quietly for Tintin's sake but my mother almost brought me to the point of throwing the phone at the wall. Being a teenager was the most difficult age that I'd had to face: I was treated like a child and expected to act like an adult. Just when I thought I couldn't take another "very-irresponsible-too-headstrong-for-your-own-good" lecture, Tintin rose from his seat and silently took the phone from my grasp.

"Good evening Mme. Dubois, it's Tintin here. Tintin, Jacques friend. I'm glad to hear you were having tea with my mother last week, she likes getting visitors. Yes, I still work for the newspaper," He stuck his tongue out at me as my mother's inaudible chatter leaked out of the receiver. "What I wanted to say was, Sophie is perfectly well-No, no, she's just fine. She only came for a visit, to get away from all the business at home- It is very stressful, I understand that, but everyone needs a break sometimes Mme. Dubois- I will make sure she pays you back for her train fare-and I'll make sure that happens too." I could tell Tintin was dying to laugh. "I will-yes-thank you-I will-good evening." Tintin put the receiver down gently and burst out laughing. "Mon Dieu, your mother could talk for Belgium!" He sat down in his chair and pushed the end of his typewriter along. "Anyway, it's settled."

"Just like that?" I was dumbstruck.

"Just like that. You're going to stay here with me while you recover from Jacques disappearance. Get some respite and "get away from the action"".

I snorted, knowing that a stay with Tintin was never short on action. "She actually agreed to letting me stay with a boy all alone?" I raised an eyebrow. A small smile played on Tintin's lips a he fiddled with the carbon paper.

"Well, I promised her I wouldn't let you stay in a dodgy hotel alone, and since that's the description of most hotels in the main city you going to have to stay with me. Besides, your mother trusts me."

"More than she trusts me, it seems!" I exclaimed, mortified that my mother had asked such a thing of my friend. Tintin gave a smile again.

"Peut-être... Go and unpack. You can have my bed."

"You don't need to do that!" I assured him. Tintin looked up at me. "I'll be fine on the couch."

"And how impressed do you think your mother would be if she found out I was letting you sleep on my couch? Not very, I think. My bed is yours for as long as you here." Snowy clambered up on the table and Tintin scratched him behind the ears gently.

"Thank you," I murmured. "For all of this." And I left him to his work.

French Translations: ma cherie: my dear

lycée: French equivalent of Middle School (somewhat)

collége: French equivalent of High School

Le Vingtéme Siécle: The Twentieth Century, the newspaper Hérge wrote for.

Peut-être: Maybe

Please R&R and I'll try to update soon!