Tintin hurried to his room, shutting the door behind him. He heard Snowy whine enquiringly from the bed, but he didn't respond to it. His hands shaking, he pulled up the telegram to his line of vision and another laugh erupted from him, though he didn't know why. He didn't even know what he felt, which was a very odd feeling in itself.

Something in his mind informed him that it was shock, which would certainly make sense. But mingled in there was something else. Disbelief? Relief? Happiness? Was he even allowed to be happy at the news of his father's death?

He got the answer to that question almost immediately, a vicious little yes snarling from somewhere within him. Yes, he was happy. The laughter was more likely to be nervous reaction, but he was happy. It was a bitter, vehement, gleeful sort of happiness and it scared Tintin. He'd seen so much death and never had he been happy about it, not even if it meant his safety or if it secured a country's freedom. But god, he felt happy now.

"I win," he hissed under his breath, before catching himself.

He paused for a minute before heading over to the bed and sitting down. He shouldn't have sounded like that, he wasn't supposed to be so… triumphant. But for whatever reason, it felt like a victory. He had won. He'd got away, he'd made a name for himself, he was a successful reporter. He'd survived. And what had his father done? Broken his neck falling down the stairs. So entirely dull and mundane and though it was far from the death that he deserved, it was at least boring, almost comical.

What a stupid way to die, falling down the stairs.

He turned to Snowy and spoke, "Father's dead."

Snowy started to growl as soon as he said that word, but Tintin rubbed the soft, curly fur, stroking away the growls.

"No, Snowy, he's dead. He's…" He was dead. Suddenly, Tintin choked on a sob.

He's dead.

His father was dead. It was over. There would always be people after him, so many organisations and gangsters and drug rings that he had fought against, that would want his blood. But they couldn't hurt him. The only man who could do that, who had ever done that was waiting to be put in the ground.

Tintin ran a hand down his face and let out a shuddering breath.

"Thank god."

"Tintin?"

Tintin started, jumping up from the bed at Haddock's loud knock, Snowy following suit at his master's sudden apparent call to arms. He'd almost forgotten about the Captain. Oh god, the Captain. Panic seeped deep into his stomach and he felt his whole body tense. This would be harder than the funeral. How on earth would he be able to hide it from his friend, his closest friend, how he really felt about his father's death? That he was celebrating the bastard's demise, not grieving. And Captain Haddock, kind, protective, Captain Haddock would want to help Tintin in anyway he could. And to trick him like that, to make him believe that he was in mourning... that just didn't seem fair.

If he hadn't opened the telegram at breakfast, he probably wouldn't have even told him. Or if he had a little time to think, he could have at the least polished up his acting skills. It had caught Tintin by surprise. If he had known, if he had any inkling of what he was about to read, he would have controlled his reaction, would have acted calmly, acted like his usual self, anything other than laughing!

But as it stood, he had been at the breakfast table with his friend and it had been a normal morning until the happy bomb fell. It was impossible to tutor his reaction into anything other than the raw emotion that the Captain was witness to.

He couldn't have the Captain thinking that he was upset. That would be cruel. But Tintin couldn't face telling his friend the truth. He didn't want the Captain's view of him to change. He didn't want any pity, worry, or even worse, disbelief. The few people he had told hadn't believed him and though there was nothing indicating that the Captain would react the same way that they did, it still put Tintin on the defensive. He didn't want to risk it again.

And he didn't know how to answer the door.

"Laddie? Are you all right?"

Tintin stood up, curling his quivering hands into fists. He strode to the door, opened it with decisiveness and determination, only to have all words retreat back down his throat and he was left stammering. He sincerely hoped that his speechlessness wouldn't become permanent. It was getting quite annoying, truth be told.

"I… er…" the Captain was watching him patiently and Tintin tried his best to speak, feeling heat rise to his cheeks once more, "Could… could I be alone, Captain?"

As soon as he said the words, he felt guilt bleed into his gut, but the Captain, looking far from hurt, nodded understandingly.

"Aye, of course. You know where I'll be if you need me."

Tintin nodded and spoke again as the Captain was turning to leave, words starting and jittery, "I'll be fine, you know," as he saw the older man's head rotate, eyebrows raised, his stomach gave a nervous flip and he shrunk back a little, "you don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine, I promise."

"Thundering typhoons, boy," he muttered under his breath. Two weather-hardened hands rose up to clasp Tintin's shoulders, dwarfing them in his grip, "you don't have to be fine! No one's asking you to be fine! You've every right to be a god damned mess if you need to be!" he shook his head, "you don't have to be the boy wonder on this one, Tintin. It's all right to not be… y'know…"

"Myself?" Tintin asked quietly, smiling the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Y'know what I mean," Haddock grumbled, hands moving from the boy's shoulders to his own pockets, "nothing shakes ye, laddie. And… with things like this… it's all right to be a bit shaken."

The reporter smiled a little sadly, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his head, "I know, Captain," he murmured. And the thing was, he probably would be shaken. He wouldn't be fine, he would be a mess if the relationship he'd ever had with his father had ever been amicable. But it hadn't. And as it stood, the only "hard" thing about this was pretending that he cared.

"I just… I don't want you to worry."

Haddock shook his head, making a noise that sounded more like a gust of wind than any discernible words.

"Don't want me to worry? Blistering barnacles, if I don't worry about you then who will?! And don't say snowy," the Captain said as Tintin opened his mouth, sternness giving a slight hardness to his voice.

Tintin's smile faded when he saw just how serious the Captain was and he sighed, shoulders drooping. As much as he would like to point out that he didn't actually need anyone to worry about him, he knew that he wouldn't improve matters by saying so. And, well, the Captain wasn't wrong. Except for maybe the Thompsons on the cases they took together, there wasn't anyone else asides from him and Snowy that looked out for him. Unsure of what to say, he merely nodded in ascension.

Haddock patted the boy's arm, "I know you like your space and I'll let you have it now. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to do this on your own."

"I already knew that, Captain," Tintin replied, a warm smile creeping onto his face, "but thank you for reminding me."

The Captain nodded, giving Tintin's shoulder one last friendly grip with his hand, before finally turning to leave his friend's doorway. The reporter watched him for a moment, before retiring to his room.

He could tell that his friend wasn't satisfied by his response and he couldn't blame him. Tintin should, by all accounts, be far more emotional than this, for even the small signs of grief weren't there; red eyes, sniffling, cracks in his voice. He had none of that and Tintin unfortunately wasn't gifted with the greatest of acting skills. Sure, he could lie and make his way out of a sticky situation by spinning a tale, but he couldn't cry on demand. That sort of talent he lacked and he didn't want to start learning just so he could trick his friend.

Tintin made his way to the bed and sat down on the edge with a sigh. Snowy cocked his head, before making his way to his master and pawing at his leg, whining.

"I'm all right, Snowy," the boy sighed, though his voice remained dejected in spite of his words. He reached down to stroke the white fluffy fur, though his pet still whined anxiously, "I just don't know what I'm going to do about the Captain. I think he can see right through me already. But he's already involved now and I'll need his help later on."

Snowy barked and Tintin nodded, "I will, Snowy, boy. I've never had to deal with a dead person before. Well, you know what I mean. I have no idea how to arrange a funeral or sell a house and I've never even seen a will," he shook his head, "I don't know how I'm going to do this without the Captain's help. It's not like I can ask Thompson and Thomson, though that I think they'd be much use anyway," the boy muttered to himself, wondering exactly just how badly they could mess up a funeral, "The Captain will have had to have arranged a funeral before. He's the last of his line. If there's anyone who can help me, it's him."

Tintin's shoulders slumped dejectedly once more and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, frowning up at his ceiling.

"I just wish it didn't have to be."