I had originally intended for the story to go straight into the 'oh my's 'and 'whoo-hoo's' at this point. Instead I went into angst. I just felt that Tintin (who let's face it – isn't the most sexually promiscuous lad in the world – no matter our feelings on the matter) would be comfortable just opening his legs up before his heart was.

And the Captain feelings for Tintin are more toward a very special young lad, who could be practically a son, even though he may have ambiguously sexual urges toward the boy.

So, this chapter deals with Tintin's back story and why he is the way his is (and as we all know Tintin is the penultimate vaguely drawn character, so we are free to fill in the who and what and why) to his dearest friend, allowing the Captain insight into the greatest mystery Tintin has ever had – himself.

And now that I've practically written an entire chapter on just the introduction, I will quit my blathering…

…

Tintin stiffened as he felt the Captain shift. He had just about come to the decision of talking to the older man the next morning, confessing all and promising that he, Tintin, would never do such a dastardly thing ever again. Not that he was really at fault since he'd been fast asleep for all but the very end, but still. He sure wouldn't want to be used as some type of surrogate sex object.

He turned his eyes and blinked. Not only was the Captain facing him, but his head was propped up on one hand and he was most certainly awake. Tintin closed his eyes and took a very deep breath, letting it out slowly as he built up his confidence. The Captain knew - he was sure of it. Crumbs.

"Lad?"

Taking another breath, Tintin forced his eyes to open. Best to get this done and over with. The Captain was one of his very finest friends, and he'd hate to think of anything that might damage that relationship. He liked people and got along very well with most, but knew he had a hard time actually letting anyone in close to him, to build the level of trust that he and the Captain shared was not only special, but relished.

Tintin shifted as well, turning to face the older man. He met the Captain's eyes and made a small moue of discomfiture, feeling his cheeks beginning to burn. He suddenly had the most disquieting urge to break down and cry. He, who at one time or another had been kidnapped, held prisoner, tied up, almost shot by a firing squad and had dealt with all of that and more with equanimity - and yet he wanted nothing else than to squall like a baby. For heaven's sake his bottom lip was trembling.

"C…Captain, um, I, I, uh, I…" Tintin swallowed, becoming more annoyed with his self. For crying out loud, he was stuttering. Where was the capable young man he so strived to be?

Meeting his friend's eyes once more, Tintin noted the gentle smile on the man's face. Buoyed by the expression, he took yet another deep breath, and went for broke.

"Captain, I'm sorry. So very sorry. I surely didn't want anything like that to happen, and I'm extremely embarrassed not to mention distraught about causing you any kind of discomfort whatsoever. I promise you with all my heart, that I will make every effort never to engage in such a…an…um." Normally Tintin had no problem finding the right word; he was a journalist after all, quite a good one if all the accolades were correct. But for some reason he could not find a way to describe what had so recently taken place. Horrific act? Despicable act? Incredibly stupid act? Just how does one describe the performance of using a friend's leg as the object of affection?

Tintin jumped a little as he felt the Captain's hand grip his shoulder gently.

"Don't worry about it, lad. It happens, nothin' to be ashamed of. Thunderin' typhoons boy, if I had to count the times I was in a compromised position, well, let's just say there'd be conversational matter to last for days."

Tintin felt himself start to relax, as the older man's tone was light, jovial even.

"Besides," Haddock continued, "You didn't cause me any discomfort. I've had many a dream of my own like that in my life, nothin' to be ashamed of, nor embarrassed about."

"But, Captain, I was…I mean; I had been, er, up against you…" Tintin began, trying to explain and apologize more.

"Aye, I know. But it wasn't really me you were dreamin' about, now was it?" Haddock grinned in friendship.

"No!" Tintin replied rather quickly. "No, not at all." He continued, more in control of himself.

The Captain leaned in little bit and smiled a bit more broadly. "So, anyone we know?" he asked, eyebrows rising conspiratorially.

Frowning, Tintin sought to deflect the question. "No, er not… actually, I don't think I was dreaming about anything specific. Just vague…feelings, I guess." He finished lamely.

"Hmmm." Came his friend's reply. "Should have known, you just aren't interested in companionship, are ya lad?"

Tintin inhaled deep, and let out his breath slowly before answering. "I…I just don't have the time, what with investigating, and traveling, and everything. The job I have, it takes up most of my time…" He stopped as he felt the Captain's hand move from shoulder to chest.

"Lad, is that really the reason, or just a most convenient truth?" Haddock queried; his voice just a bit more stern. "I know you like adventuring and all, but there's more to life than jumping from one frying pan into a raging fire."

Blinking, Tintin looked down and away. He was never comfortable giving out personal information, even to his nearest and dearest friends. The only one he had ever confided to was Snowy, and not only because the terrier was a good listener - never judging or trying to advise, but also because the dog couldn't talk to anyone.

Still feeling the Captain's eyes upon him, knowing the man was waiting for a response, Tintin turned onto his back. He really wanted to turn completely around, put his back (and therefore a wall) up between him and his friend. However, not only would that be rude, but Tintin knew the older man deserved an answer. They had been through so much together, and Tintin doubted the man even knew what flavor of jam Tintin preferred.

Staring into the darkened ceiling, vaguely lit by the dying fire, Tintin began to speak.

"I know Captain. I know. But it's…easier this way. I…this way I don't have to…stop. To…think." He turned his head a little. "I've always loved puzzles, and investigating mysteries is a means to keep myself occupied, to give myself a reason to…stay involved without getting involved." He stopped and sighed, running a hand over his face. "This isn't making sense, is it?"

"Not really lad, but take your time. We've got nothin' but time, out here in the middle of nowhere."

Sighing, Tintin swallowed once and continued. "I'm sure you know that I find it hard to talk about myself." He paused as the Captain made a sound somewhere between a chortle and a snort. "But it's just that I really don't like to draw attention to myself. I like to do a good job, but it's not as if I need the…celebrations or the awards. I know that is part of it, that people like to reward good work, but for me the icing on the cake is when I've completed an investigation and gotten to the bottom of things, putting the pieces together and revealing the whole picture…"

"Son, you're not telling me anythin' I don't already know." The older man's voice broke in, the tone gentle.

Tintin screwed up his face. There was no escape from it. Biting his lip he turned back over to face the Captain.

"I…I don't know who I am. I've tried to find out, but it's the one mystery I can't solve. I don't know who or where my parents are, I don't know my full name, I'm not even sure how old I am."

There was a long silence. Finally the Captain cleared his throat.

"Lad, you weren't fully formed; popping out of some forehead, there has to be some history on you for barnacles sake."

"Captain, believe me I've tried. I think I was left at the doorstep of a church, but no one has any record of it. The vicar retired shortly afterward, and then died of a stroke. No-one at the church remembers me being left there. I've looked at all the births and deaths and marriages and divorces and family histories for that region and tried to find somebody that might have had a child then, but there is nothing. It is like I just arrived out of nowhere." Tintin could tell his tone sounded frustrated and not a little upset.

"But how about when you were young, do you remember anything about that?" the Captain queried, his own voice confused.

"Vaguely. But it's…shaded somehow. It's hard to explain. As if somehow my memories of anything before I was twelve or so have become…blocked. The clearest memory I have is standing in the train station in Brussels, to become a reporter and apply for a job. And from then on to now, I've always been Tintin, boy reporter."

He fell silent; his gaze fixed upon something unseen, unknowable, untouchable.

…