We shouldn't be here, Tintin thinks. Only now, when he's gasping for breath, bent double, one hand braced on the wall for support does he silently admit he made a mistake. Warm blood trickles along his cheek, but it's just a scratch, nothing fatal. It's the Captain he's more concerned about. The older man slams his back to the brickwork, expression pained as his lungs burn and his knees tremble weakly. They shouldn't be here in this war torn country, mistaken for spies, running for their lives from armed insurgents. The pursuit felt endless, their adrenalin pumping high as they ran blind with nothing but hope and luck in their arsenal. Bullets smashed holes in the masonry beside them, chips of stone, sharp as glass, exploding at them. But in reality it lasted only minutes.
A warren of narrow passageways was their salvation, meandering between the ruins of houses in this empty part of the town. Here, they might be safe. The gunfire has long since faded and the shouts have ceased. Here, the quiet seclusion settles around them like armour. Tintin straightens up, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. It's nothing really. His heart is returning to a steadier rhythm and his concerns stay with his friend. Captain Haddock is exhausted. He can barely stand, but he won't tolerate any fuss, Tintin has learned that. His recovery is a little slower than Tintin's, but he catches up. Then Tintin notices Haddock is actually injured. There's no need to point this out since the Captain is already pulling the shredded jumper over his head. The white vest he wears beneath is a striking contrast to the bright red smeared down the curve of his upper arm. Haddock inspects the wound and Tintin tries to look too, but he's discreet about it. No fuss. It's a bullet graze, not as bad as it looks. He'll live. But that doesn't make it any less painful - for either of them.
It's times like these when the Captain yields to the craving, and it's no surprise when he lights up. Today it's a crumpled cigarette that he acquired from somewhere. The paper burns with a crackle, the tobacco glows red hot, and Haddock inhales, all the exertion and tension departing his body like the white cloud jetting from his lips. He sighs and rests against the wall. Tintin should hate this, knowing precisely the damage each puff is doing to his friend, but he reserves judgement. Haddock needs this right now and Tintin is openly curious. He asks him if smoking actually works? Does it really soothe him? And Haddock smiles wryly, telling him not as much as a good stiff one would. Tintin, recognises the innuendo. He's spent enough time with the man to know his habits and vices. Certainly, you don't live in a sailor's company without learning a thing or two. Really, Captain? Tintin quells a smile. Now? Here? Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.
Tintin plays the naïve card and answers that they're fresh out of whisky. Haddock says that's a shame and offers Tintin his cigarette. Naturally, Tintin declines and chides the Captain for being a bad influence. But the smell of it, the rich, sweet tang of tobacco, clinging to their hair and clothes, is like home. That's where they should be. He thinks of Moulinsart and reading in the library; travelling through Bruges in the tightly packed tram when his face was pressed against the Captain's shoulder; on another continent, huddled around a map; hotel rooms; imprisoned in Peru; and now here, this moment. Home is… wherever the Captain is?
And how does he do it, Tintin ponders? How does Haddock lean there, fatigued, sweating, hair a mess, blood running down his muscle and a cigarette smoking between his fingers, and still manage to look like the most dashing man on Earth? He must be indefatigable, invincible, tough as old boots. But of course, he isn't. The Captain's just on a lucky streak. And deep down in his heart, like the bite of a serpent, Tintin is certain that he will be the end of the Captain long before the smoke or the drink ever take hold. He's the real bad influence here, leading them into very tangible and imminent dangers, knowing that Haddock will never stop following, even if he told him to. Even if he begged him to.
Like any addict, Archibald Haddock is committed and loath to give up his pleasures. Life's too short not to enjoy yourself a little. Or a lot. That's the Captain's philosophy. Unlucky for Archibald, then, that his biggest pleasure is a five and a half feet tall strawberry-blond package of trouble. But then, some addictions just aren't meant to be broken.