Brussels was loud. Children screamed with laughter as they fled from their pursuing friends. Market vendors pitched their voices to be heard above the general hubbub of the street. Car engines rumbled behind horse-drawn carts. Over and under and through it all was the babble of French and Dutch, one more fluid, the other more guttural. Various smells wafted through the air; burning oil dueled with fresh fruits and vegetables, guaranteed to be plucked from the fields that morning. The air itself held an oily tang from the vendors switching to gas power, warring with the traditional haze of a coal fire burning in the majority of the restaurants along the streets.
A reporter, built on the small side, with a distinctive tuft of blond hair that stuck up in the front no matter how hard he strove to brush it down, strode through it all with a small smile on his face. A blue sweater over a white button-up shirt and plus fours gave him a younger appearance; the gun in his waistband under his raincoat said otherwise. He held a notebook, making small notes as he strolled through the city. A small white dog tagged along at his heels, barking occasionally as he encountered various passers by. After three years of adventure, it was nice for Tintin to spend a fortnight here in his home town. Even the dual languages began to come back, and he found his Dutch speaking skills to have not atrophied as much as he feared.
Milou, for his part, spent a good part of his time sniffing passers by. Cities held so many interesting smells. On this one, a tomato stain; on that one, burning meat. The terrier licked his chops appreciatively. That would be one worth following home.
"Milou!" called the reporter. "Milou, ou est toi?" The dog jumped guiltily and followed his master, staying close to his legs.
"Bonjour," called a vendor. Tintin smiled, responding easily in French. After a few moments of patter, the salesman ended up with a few francs, and the reporter held a small cone of fried potatoes. "Voudrais-tu un festin, Milou?"
The terrier begged, barking a little, and Tintin threw him one. Milou leaped in the air and came down moments later, tail wagging, growling happily as he chewed at the potato.
The young man smiled, looking at the tangled knot of humanity that was his birthplace and always his final destination. It was not perfect, and after all of the places he'd traveled, he knew it didn't compare to the raw beauty of a jungle sunrise or the sheer humanity present in a single block of Chicago.
But it was home.
And it was good to be home.