Just a little one-shot, because I know it's said that Tintin's lack of personality is what makes him an easy character to put into adventure-filled stories, but honestly? I really liked his personality; his energy and passion is really what carried the story for me. It was a kids' movie, but I loved the forties-setting, and the unlikely friendship between Tintin and Haddock, and Tintin's hair. It deserves its own spotlight, no doubt about it. So I figured, hey, since I'm just sitting around watching Sherlock Holmes 2 in Spanish anyway (because it sounds entertainingly like a cinematic Mexican soap opera), why not write a short fic for it?
Long story short, here it is.

"We will meet again, Haddock, in another time—in another life!"
-Red Rackham

In Another Life

"You know, I've been thinking."

Tintin had hitherto been frowning down at his frisky fox terrier, whose brown eyes were sparkling playfully up at his master while he refused to relinquish his jaws' hold upon Tintin's magnifying glass. At the sound of their sailor friend's low voice breaking the quietness of the dimmed room, however, Tintin released the handle and allowed Snowy to have victory, for the time being.

"About what, Captain?" he inquired, and his own voice sounded somewhat inexplicably loud, for outside the darkened windows, the garden surrounding Marlinspike Hall was much blacker and more silent than the street outside of his own flat in Brussels would ever be.

"I think I've figured out what Sir Francis's problem was," said Haddock with unusual thoughtfulness, as he removed his dark clay smoking-pipe from his mouth and stared into the crackling fireplace before which all three of them sat, "why he ended up losing his men and sinking his ship, and losing most of the treasure because of Red Rackham. I know what was wrong with him."

Tintin resisted the urge to smirk at his older friend's blunt mannerisms, and patted Snowy on the head when the friendly canine obligingly dropped his magnifying glass into his beloved master's lap.

"What's that?" he encouraged, because if there was one thing of which he was certain, it was that whatever Captain Haddock said was not always strictly-speaking intellectual, but it was certainly never boring, and for him to claim that there was something wrong with the one ancestor he adored and respected had to mean his explanation would be worth hearing.

Haddock shifted a bit in his leather armchair, placing his ankle comfortably on top of his knee, taking his time in answering. Their lives—more particularly, Tintin's—were constantly fraught with danger and intrigue, perhaps, but in these quiet moments, when Tintin visited Marlinspike and they just sat together in front of the dying fire when the rest of the manor was dark, it felt as though there was nothing on the other side of the sitting room door at all except an empty space. Normally, such an otherworldly sensation might not appeal to the young adventurer, being that it was in his nature to always want to step through a doorway into something new and thrilling, but he didn't mind it too much here. Marlinspike was the one place he welcomed the relaxation.

Haddock looked up from his pipe, his ocean-blue gaze meeting the young "ginger's" storm-colored eyes, and all humor abruptly fled Tintin's countenance as he saw the atypical amount of depth and sincerity in the other man's sun-tanned face, even for the shadows in the contours from the flickering fire.

"He didn't have a Tintin of his own to help him."

Tintin was not usually rendered speechless, but he would freely admit that such a claim, stated so simply and certainly into the near-silent air of the sitting room, left him momentarily stunned. It was true that he knew perfectly well of what he was capable, and all the good he had done to bring vile men to justice and salvage lives and property in his still-young career. Whatever praise he got from his readers and anyone else who heard of or benefited by his wit and courage, however, had never made him prideful. He had never been one to care overly much about others' opinions of him; if he was that sort of person, he would never have become a journalist in the first place.

He had received awards and acclaim from all sorts of illustrious men and women from as far away as Tibet, and never once had any of it phased him. A simple thank-you, a polite handshake—just to show his appreciation. Despite all of that, none of the princes and politicians who publicly waxed poetic about "our young hero, Tintin" had ever compared to this rough, semi-alcoholic sea captain who shouted his own form of profanity and smelt of tobacco ninety-five percent of the time.

None of them had ever been able to make him feel so important.

"I…thank you, Captain."

The other man raised his black pipe as a sort of salute, and though Haddock never thought much more of it (having accepted long before that it was Tintin who he owed his reformed life), Tintin pondered happily on it for the rest of the evening.

The End

Basically, I liked the idea that the Captain and Sakharine are Sir Francis and Red Rackham, reborn, only this time, Tintin is in the picture to help Haddock; I think it gives it a cool supernatural flare. I know it's not big or impressive, but I hope you enjoyed the fic anyway. Review!