Coming Home
Anyone could see just looking at the boy, that Tintin is more than just tired, Haddock thinks. The younger man is usually so good at disguising these things – he seems to be naturally stoic; uncomplaining and he tries so hard not to do anything to alert or alarm the Captain, but tonight. Tonight is different.
It's late and Haddock fully expects Tintin to share his bed, as he has done most nights they've spent at Marlinspike this past year and for this reason as much as any he feels more awake than he rightfully should.
They are greeted by Nestor, who looks ready to turn in himself, and they leave their suitcases in the hall to Nestor's passive reassurance that he will see to them tomorrow.
All in all it is just another one of those nights when they get back far too late, jetlagged and ready to do absolutely nothing but sleep for the next few days. If it wasn't for quite how languid Tintin's movements are, the Captain wouldn't be concerned, but something just seems off.
Whether it's the natural exhaustion that accompanies near-death experiences such as nearly being burnt alive while wearing a silly hat (and thank Christ for Tintin's quick thinking on that one) and then being stuck on a plane for eight hours. Or whether it's something Tintin hasn't ever, and won't ever talk about (the past) something is definitely wrong and Haddocks suspicions only seem confirmed when Tintin walks straight past the door to (his? Their? The Captain hasn't really given it much thought before now) the bedroom and keeps moving towards the room he slept in more than a year ago, on those rare occasions he could be persuaded to stay the night.
"Tintin?" He falters with his hand on the handle at the sound of Haddocks voice in the hall, and looks back, exhaustion etched into his face and around his eyes.
Haddock doesn't know what else to say, so he simply pushes open the door to his/their room and gestures for Tintin to come in which, after a brief moments hesitation, he does, leaving Snowy on a thick rug in the hall to wake the household at some ungodly hour when the cat gets on his nerves. Haddock, however, doesn't pay the little dog another thought and instead crosses the room in four strides, stripping quickly and leaving the clothes in a trail behind him until he's naked and sliding between the cool, familiar sheets an releasing the breath he wasn't even aware he was holding.
Tintin on the other hand, takes his time (and leaves his underwear firmly on; as clear a sign as any to Haddock as to Tintin's current lack of nefarious intentions) and Haddocks eyelids are growing heavy by the time the younger man is done folding his clothes and placing them in a neat pile on the armchair. And yet, when he slides in beside Haddock, curls his back to the older mans chest so that the Captain can coil his arms around the smaller frame, Haddock has to smile.
He kisses the top of one ear (to which Tintin gives an unintelligible grumble and tries to swat him away) and knows he's home. He pulls Tintin tighter against him and, for the first time in weeks the pair sleep soundly.
Haddock is woken – as he fully expected – by a loud crash outside the door and Snowy's yipping bark as he runs down the hall after the cat. A glance at the prone figure next to him proves just how exhausted Tintin must have been last night as he stirs fitfully, the curls back into Haddocks side with a small mumble of something that could have been 'Nestor'll get it" as equally as it could have been 'too early'.
Haddock sighs as he loops an arm around Tintin's shoulders and tugs the duvet so that it is a little more secure around his sleeping lover.
He had never thought it possible to fall so completely for another person, never understood the danger men were willing to put themselves in for their wives or lovers. He's known enough of love and such related things to understand that he could never have felt this for anyone other than the boy in his arms – the possessiveness, the tenderness and that bottomless, fathomless love; it's the sort of love that only Tintin could inspire in him. Only him with that same lack of boundaries or limitations he recognised from the moment the boy and his dog deposited themselves through his window and into his life.
It would be right then, when Haddock is quietly caught in thoughts of the past, relaxing in the thin morning light that finds the room through the gaps in the curtains. It would be then that Tintin wakes himself up – he dreams he was falling, his foot slips off the bed or some such thing (Haddock rightly feels that he can't possibly be expected to keep up with all of his lovers limbs at any one given moment, and besides, everyone knows exactly how unexpected the majority of Tintin's actions are.) Whatever happens, the result is the same; Tintin's head shoots up at a startling speed, in possible panic and his skull connects sharply with Haddocks jaw.
They both slump back on the cushions – Tintin clutching the top of his head and only looking slightly guilty, Haddock nursing a very sore jaw.
"G'morning to you too, landlubber." Haddock tests the bones with his fingers and watches the spots of pink rise on Tintin's cheeks.
"Sorry." He lifts a hand, long slim fingers somehow chilled despite the warmth of Marlinspike and the bed, touches where he might have bruised. Leans forwards and kisses it through the beard. And if he got hair in his eyes? Typically, he doesn't complain, just sits back wearing that same patient smile Haddock has come to associate with the boy. "All better, Captain." And Haddock doesn't know whether it's his mind that gives those words their teasing edge, or if Tintin really is repressing a smirk behind those calm, still-sleepy eyes.
Whatever Tintin's intention, the Captain still grabs the boy's wrist to pull him closer and captures his lips in a lazy kiss that draws a small sound of shock (protest?) from Tintin's throat before he relaxes into it. Lets Haddocks hands run across his neck, the fragile bones, the sensitive patch of skin behind his ear that makes Tintin open his mouth in surprise, and lower. Ghosting over his nipples and Haddock groans lowly, wraps his hands around Tintin's waist possessively, deepening the kiss and drawing another of those small noises from the boy.
He draws back a moment to examine Tintin's eyes for any sadness, any apprehension or reluctance or anything that isn't a green light. He finds only love (and a fair amount of desire) as Tintin cuts his inspection short, wrapping his arms around Haddocks neck and pulling him forward, on top of him, for another fierce kiss.
He growls, grinds his hips down to meet Tintins, finds that a pair of underpants constitutes too many clothes and that dealing with the situation with Tintin writhing beneath him does not make it any easier. He manages to hook two fingers into the waistband and gets as far as Tintin's cock before they get stuck.
It takes such a long moment that Tintin eventually takes pity and lends a hand until the problem is skimmed over and there is nothing but heat and skin and Tintin's hand holding him just so, teasing a thumb over the slit and wrapping those fingers around the shaft and twisting until the Captain is gasping.
He stops Tintin with another kiss, pries the boys fingers off him (Tintin bites his lip in protest) and aligns them instead, rocking them together. And when they're like this, Tintin's legs wrapping around his waist to anchor them more securely it feels like years since they've had the time, had the privacy, for such intimacies.
And it can't have been more than a couple of minutes, but it's long enough and it feels like they've been doing this forever, when Tintin breaks away from their kiss, starts babbling about "yes, fuck, there, please, harder. I love you, yes. Yes."
When he watches Tintin come apart beneath his hands and body Haddock wants a photograph, wants some way of framing that moment forever and keeping it somewhere he can always find it. It takes another two thrusts and he's sighing his own completion into Tintin's neck, kissing the skin there in the lazy post-coital affection they share. Tintin's hands running up and down the Captains back like he's trying to calm a horse, his arms deceptively strong where they're pressed against Haddocks biceps.
The reporter closes his eyes and his breathing starts to even out and it's a long moment before either of them can think to speak. Naturally it's Tintin who recovers quickest, letting out a laugh caught somewhere between a huff and a smile as Haddock rolls off him, opens his arms to let the boy curl against his chest.