A/N: I'm sorry this has taken me a year to update! Thank you all for your support and comments, it's very much appreciated.
More allusions to child abuse in this chapter and they will increase as the story goes on.
Disclaimer: This is a fan produced work, I do not claim to own any of Herge's work.
The drive to Tintin's home, a small village on the outskirts of Geel, was one of silence, broken only by directions given by Tintin and the Captain's blustering curses over the maps. Tintin counted every time he said he was better at navigating the seas than stupid country lanes, a tiny smile pulling at his mouth. Still no questions came about his father, his family, his childhood, not at a single point in the journey and he started to wonder what present he could buy the Captain once the whole affair was all over. He knew the questions would not help, though they no doubt burned in his mind, especially as his silence on the matters of his family continued to stretch on. Tintin couldn't find it in himself to express his gratitude, certain that any speech he'd come up with would soon devolve into something inadequate and awkward. And so, the silence stretched on, all the way to the village.
The tightness in his chest hardened its grip as they drew closer to his village. He recognised it, all the small landmarks along the way and watched them go by with a frown. The last time he'd seen them, he was running past them, with Snowy at his heels and all he could carry on his shoulders. It felt so strange to be returning now, in a car no less, knowing that he was leaving a mansion behind him. He would have never had guessed that he would have been able to be so fortunate in life, especially as he had less than a head's start. To have friends, a home, a career… when he had started he had just prayed that he wouldn't become homeless.
He insisted (though there hadn't been much protest) that they speak to the lawyer first, saying that he wanted it out of the way as soon as possible. Although there was an element of truth in this, he was also putting off going back home for as long as he could. Foolish and childish (a theme that seemed to haunt his actions of late) though it was, he could not help himself. A part of him, a part he was doing his best to ignore, was still frightened, was still small; it was telling him to run, to hide in Marlinspike Hall where there was familiarity and the Captain and safety . But it had been a long time since Tintin had ran, since he had had to run. He was a fighter now and fight on he would.
Tintin spoke little slivers of several languages, small phrases to get him by, but the language of lawyers was not one of them; and there was for more to a will than he could have guessed. He felt horribly small as throughout the conversation, the Captain's voice grew more dominant and Tintin shrunk further back into his chair, feeling ever so out of his depths. He felt small, like a child at a doctor's appointments where all questions were asked to the parent and not the patient. Though there was little he could add that was useful, he still felt inadequate and it was a feeling he was unused to. He made a note (reporters habit, to bring a notepad and pencil wherever he went), of the figure he would inherit, only to scribble down under it possible charities to donate it to. It was illogical and stupid, but the money felt tainted by association. He wanted nothing from that man.
They left the lawyer's office, the paperwork under one arm, Snowy under the other. Tintin found himself wondering if his father had remembered him, thought about who would be inheriting his possessions, or whether he had made the will when Tintin was born and forgotten all about it. He suspected the latter; he hadn't sought him out after he left and even if that was a blessing, it still left a sting.
"Thank you, Captain," his voice was distant as he got into the car, "I have to admit, it all went quite over my head."
"Think nothing of it lad," the Captain replied in his usual gruff way, getting into his own seat and starting the engine, "it's hard enough without all this legal rubbish," he turned to Tintin, "home then?"
'No,' Tintin thought, 'home is far away from here; it's sitting by the fire with you and it feels further away than it's ever been.' But of course, these ruminations stayed unspoken and he nodded in assent.
Tintin was lucky he remembered where his house was; it wasn't so much the time he'd spent away from there that fogged his memory, but that he had tried his best never to think of home again. The fingers running through Snowy's curly fur tightened as the house drew up, his breath shortening at its sight. Snowy whined, a small, whimpering sound and a shiver of shame passed down his spine as he realised that the sound was exactly the way he felt. He shouldn't be so afraid, after the things he'd done, the things he'd seen. It was just a house. An empty house, belonging to a dead man. No danger here, only ghosts.
He was unsure how to react when they pulled up to the house. He was not happy to see it, but he wasn't sure if he should pretend to be happy either. This was no homecoming. It was wisest, he decided, to make no comment. He noticed a tremor quivering his hands as he shut the car door to and clenched it into a fist. He wasn't there. His father was dead, waiting to be put in the ground. There was no adversary tp defeat. Tintin frowned, determined, took a breath and headed to the house.
After the Captain's insistence that he had the luggage, Tintin unlocked the house- his house now- and stepped inside. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn't obliterate all memories of this place. There were good memories here, but they were rarely revisited, as it was difficult to untangle them from the dark ones that would plague his mind should he let them. Emotions rose up in his chest, pushing all air from his lungs. So little had changed; though it was filthier than he remembered, not a lot was truly different. Though covered by a layer of grime or dust, things, so far, were still in their rightful place; Alphonse Mucha's 'Moon', his mother's favourite painting, still hung in the hallway, the same remnants of glass still in the frame. He remembered staring up at it as a child, wondering how the stars on her dress managed to glow, even though it was only paint. He also remembered his father's fist breaking the glass, a missed target and enough of a distraction for escape. His black influence bled into all good things in this place.
His reverie broke as the Captain came through the doorway, arms heavily loaded with with suitcases and moving boxes.
"Good heavens, Captain, you'll break your back!" He slipped his hand under the handle of a suitcase, easing it off of him in spite of his protests, "perhaps we should have brought Nestor with us after all," he grunted, depositing the suitcase down with a thud.
He chuckled at that, "No, the man needs a break. Besides, I'd rather had all the fires lit in Marlinspike hall than go back to a cold house," he dropped his own trunk unceremoniously on the ground, before leaning the boxes against the wall.
It was very odd indeed to have the Captain standing in the hallway of his childhood, two separate parts of his life colliding. It was comforting though. He'd brought a piece of home with him, a shining light to ward off the darkness that threatened to spill from all the cracks and corners of that house. He was a reminder that his life was no longer here. It was with the Captain, with Snowy, with the friends he had made in the years since he had left. The house was a shell and soon he would sell it on and all bad things that had happened there would dissipate like mist against the morning sun as a new family would make new memories in it; hopefully better memories.
"Right, should we get packing then lad?"
"I think what we need to do first is set the beds. We don't want to get tired from all the heavy lifting, only to find we can't go to bed when we want to. I'll get them sorted and you can start putting the boxes together."
While Tintin said this, he didn't know exactly how much he'd be taking back with him- or if he'd be taking anything back at all. He had a feeling that everything in this house would be tainted by association, that every time he would look at something he'd brought back, he could only see the bad memories and none of the good ones. Perhaps he could sell it on instead, like he would with the house or donate it to charity. He hoped that the Captain's curiosity would keep at bay when none of the boxes would return with them to Marlinspike, though it may very well surge up before then, when he'd undoubtedly notice his dry eyes at the funeral, the stiffness of his lip and the marring of his brow. He tried to divert his thoughts away from the Captain's discovering his secrets by ascending the stairs that had killed his father.
…
His room was untouched, a thick layer of dust covering every surface, softening his tentative footfalls as he stepped inside. Even though it was his, he felt like an outsider, intruding into a somber place meant only for silence. He realised he wasn't even breathing as he moved in, looking around at the relics of his old life, at all the things he had left behind. He'd held so many things in that room dear to him at one time, his books, his toys, model airplanes, toy soldiers and stuffed animals; he remembered thinking at the time how would ever manage without all of them. It turned out that when all he wanted was a place to sleep and a hot meal, his belongings were very easy to forget.
He knew, technically, it hadn't been that long ago, but it felt like an age. He was an entirely different person now. He'd grown up very fast (in everything but height), built a career, knew how to cook, knew how to pay the bills, look after himself. It was wildly different to the last time he was here, when he was packing as quickly and silently as he could, heart beating out of his chest. It had been the night he'd reached breaking point, the night he decided he wouldn't take any more and he'd never looked back since.
Tintin pulled himself out of his reverie and moved to the bed. Taking the toys off the bed and placing them onto the floor, he pulled the sheets off the mattress in a flurry of dust.
"Well, this won't do," he said to himself between coughs, his eyes watering as dust entered his lungs, Snowy sneezing in unison.
He hoped that the single bedsheets hadn't been thrown out because he couldn't sleep in these musty sheets. The thought of the dustmites alone was enough to make his skin crawl. The house wasn't a large one and he couldn't exactly get lost in it the way he could at Marlinspike, but it still felt bizarre how well he knew it. He moved to the linen cupboard without thinking, even though he hadn't done so for years. Being in the house was like being in a terrible dream, where everything was both familiar and strange at once, where the memory and the nightmare dissolved so much that you couldn't tell the difference between them. He knew he wouldn't be able to get rid of the feeling as long as he was there, but he still couldn't help but try and shake it off.
Once he'd set his own bed, it was with grim determination that he moved to his father's room. It had been awhile, since he'd had the privilege of playing host, but he still knew that a guest needed fresh sheets. He would need to pack everything inside the house one way or another, so it would be foolish to shy away from his father's room now. Even knowing all this, he still stood outside the unopened door for a good few minutes before entering. Out of all the rooms in the house, this was the place where he had the least memories. He only went in there when his mother was there and after she died, he didn't dare step foot in there; the very thought of it had filled him with dread, the possibility of awakening the monster that lurked deep within.
Now that he was in there, the room devoid of all demons and terrors, it didn't seem quite so terrifying and he felt some of the age old terrors that had buried themselves deep in his heart dissipate like a morning mist being greeted by sunshine. It was even weirder being in this room than his own, but he did his best to ignore it, pulling off the bed sheets and pillowcases with the speed of a child ripping off sweet wrappers. He hadn't heard the Captain come in and when he spoke, his reaction was probably a little more intense than it would have been if they were at home.
"I'm sorry my boy, I didn't mean to scare you," he offered a grin and a hearty pat to the shoulder which broke a smile onto Tintin's face.
"That's alright, Captain," he replied, "I was just making your bed for you. I'll be down in a second."
"Take your time. This is your old man's room, I presume?" he asked, looking about him.
"Yes, it is," he turned back to his task at hand, steeling himself against any questions that might be thrown his way.
"How does it feel to be back?"
"... Strange," that, at least was the truth. He really didn't enjoy lying to the captain and would prefer to avoid it if he could, "a lot of things have changed since I've been back here. I've changed a lot since I was last here. It's like being inside an old photograph."
"It's been a long time then since you've been here?"
He could hear the surprise in his voice and Tintin couldn't blame him. He knew that for an adventuring reporter he was young for his age and Haddock was probably trying to calculate in his head how many years it could have been since he'd left home. He wasn't quite ready to admit to him that he had run away at the tender age of thirteen because that had the insinuation that he had to run away, because by that point there had been nothing left for him to do. The Captain didn't need to know about the day he had finally reached breaking point.
"It's been awhile. My father and I weren't very close, so I never came round for holidays or anything like that," the half truth rolled off his tongue with ease and he felt the knot in his stomach ease if only slightly.
"I'm sorry, lad."
It was very easy to mistake the Captain as being only a rough, weather worn Scot, filled to the brim with nothing but booze and profanities, but Tintin knew better. He'd seen the man at his worst and at his best and he knew that at his core, he was kind and he cared for his friends fiercely, even if he had a gruff way of showing it. He could hear the genuine regret in his voice and was grateful he didn't know the whole truth. He didn't like the idea of the Captain being angered or saddened by the ghosts of his past, "It's all right," he assured him, turning to smile up at him, "that was just how it was."
They had had a long day of sorting out the house; unpacking boxes, sifting through possessions, rifling through the kitchen to throw out anything that was ready to go out of date. After many hours of trying to decide if he wanted to keep anything for himself and after their long drive, Tintin had thought that it would stir up enough exhaustion to put him into a long, deep sleep. He had been wrong. He awoke in the dark, in a tangle of bedsheets and the dregs of his nightmares clinging to him; he knew he was in his old room in his old house, but he was still half dreaming and he could also hear his father's footsteps down the hall, a steady, horrible thudding that was growing louder.
He blindly reached for the lamp and once he switched it on, he remembered why he was there. His father wasn't coming down the hall. He wasn't thirteen any more and he no longer lived in that house. His father was dead. He knew this and even as he pushed out a shaky sigh of relief through his mouth, residue adrenaline still surged through his veins. Even though he knew what was happening, it was like his body didn't, still preparing him for the monster that stalked the hall outside.
He pulled himself out of bed and stumbled to the door. He was going for a walk, he told himself, he absolutely was not checking to see if the hallway was clear. Tintin quickly flipped on the switch and stepped out into the hall. There was no one to be seen and he sunk against the door frame. He stood for a moment, shivering slightly as his pyjamas, damp with sweat, became cold. He was about to go back to bed when he heard a noise and he froze, familiar panic seizing him for one moment, before he realised what exactly the noise was.
Snoring.
His father had never snored, which was why it was so notoriously difficult for him to do anything at night with he had no indication whether he was asleep or not. He let out a shaky laugh when he remembered that of course, the Captain was staying as well. He started to move down the hall before even thinking about why, slowly and quietly opening the door when he reached the source of the racket. A sliver of light fell on the Captain's, who was clearly in been in a far deeper sleep than Tintin as the light didn't wake him up. It was strange seeing him in the bed that had belonged to the source of his childhood nightmares, that had been the cause of his misery for such a long time.
Out of nowhere, tears welled in his eyes and he did his best to rub them out with the base of his palms. He was being stupid. Tired and stupid. He had no reason to be upset, none whatsoever. He still couldn't stop himself drawing parallels, the Captain sleeping in his father's bed, the Captain, who he could always utterly rely on, who treated him with more kindness than he thought men his age capable of. It was horribly unfair that they had met so late. It was unfair that he had had to deal with such a terrible father, unfair that only now he was realising just how different his childhood could have been if he had had someone like Haddock. Nothing about it was fair, but there was nothing he could do about it, there never had been. Unable to look at the sleeping figure any more, who was still snoring away, he quietly shut the door and slunk back to bed.
