Tintin looked around; half a dozen men, all armed with spears, surrounded him. More closed ranks behind them. Tintin heard a whimper of fear; he looked down. Qoya lay beneath him, her hands clutching his shirt, bunching the fabric into knots at his collarbone. Panic filled her dark eyes, too big for her face.
The dream changed. The house was dark, damp. People were talking in low tones, voices fading in and out. He caught only snatches, fragments of conversations: "scarlet… mercifully fast… full recovery… horrible to wake up… he couldn't seem to die…" Someone laid a gentle, so gentle, hand on his arm. "Tintin, wake up…"
Tintin sat bolt upright, and his forehead smacked into Qoya's. Tintin swore in pain; Qoya tumbled backwards, clapping her hand over her mouth to muffle a scream. The Captain, sleeping peacefully a few feet away, shifted slightly and muttered something about splicing the mainbrace.
Tintin massaged his temple, muttering curses under his breath. It was still dark out; Qoya was curled in a ball on the floor of the tent, rubbing her forehead. They mustn't wake the Captain, Tintin simply couldn't face the taunts about catching Qoya in their tent. Qoya was in their tent. Why, exactly, was Qoya in their tent?
"What are you doing in here?" Tintin hissed. "You're supposed to be on watch!" Qoya started to answer, but Tintin gestured to the Captain with a shushing motion. Seizing Qoya's arm, he scrambled outside.
It was a beautiful, moonless night. Hyper-alert, Tintin felt every star as a pinprick. Qoya was still massaging her forehead. "We'll probably both have a lump, come morning…" she muttered.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing." Qoya dropped her hand.
"No, go ahead. You clearly have feelings about the forehead lumps. What is it you want to say? How is this one my fault?"
"I didn't..." Qoya shook her head. "I don't have anything to say. I was just thinking out loud. I do that."
"Then think out loud and tell me, what the hell you were doing in my tent? Watching me sleep?"
"I wasn't watching you sleep! That would be - just - weird!"
"Then what?" Tintin crossed his arms and tapped his foot.
"I… was on watch. I was just up, pacing. I wasn't spying on you or anything, but I heard you, sort of - well, it sounded like you were having a nightmare…"
Tintin felt the blood drain from his face. He thought back to his nightmare… nightmares. The one with Qoya, that was the second time. And the other… well, that one had been with him more than a decade, would probably always be with him…. Had he sleep-talked? What had she heard?
"Did I say anything?" he asked.
"You were definitely talking, but I couldn't make out any words except 'mum' and 'dad'." She looked up and met his eyes. Tintin felt his own cloud over. He wasn't prepared for this. He wasn't ready for this.
He turned back to the tent. Qoya followed him, reached for his arm. "Tintin..."
"Thanks for waking me up," Tintin said as he pulled his arm out of her reach and ducked back into the tent, zipping it securely behind him.
.
.
.
Tintin rose early the following morning, having tried and failed to fall asleep once more. He bathed in a nearby stream, wincing at the cold water. Soon, they would reach the snowline, and baths might have to stop altogether… He thought back to when he and the Captain had been stranded in the desert, and decided this was better. At least they weren't thirsty.
An enormous spider scurried from the leg of his trousers as he pulled them on. He noted its yellow body and made a mental note to ask Qoya whether it was poisonous. Assuming, of course, that she was talking to him. Assuming - of course - that he was talking to her.
He stuck his head under the mini-waterfall one more time, then shook his head, spraying water droplets everywhere, feeling braced and energized by the cold water. Then he gathered his shirt and shoes, turned to walk back to camp, and, he was barely even surprised, his eyes landed on Qoya, who stood a few yards away, holding a bar of soap. It was a good thing she hadn't appeared a minute or two earlier; she must have come while his head was under the waterfall, or he would have heard her.
Oddly, he wasn't angry at her anymore. He just felt emotionally drained. The vitality he'd felt from the cold water vanished. He was too exhausted even to feel awkward. It made no sense; he should have been furious, after she'd invaded his tent the prior night.
Her face registered none of its usual scorn, and for once she wasn't hurling an insult or barb. Her mouth was open; she looked slightly stunned. Tintin tilted his head… what was up with her? Then he felt her gaze traveling over his bare chest and shoulders. Goosebumps sprang up on the back of his neck.
Their eyes met for a split second before Qoya looked away and marched determinedly to the stream, twisting and pulling her hair to her mouth and gnawing nervously on her braid.
He left her alone, grinning and re-energized in spite of himself. Maybe, he mused, she would hereafter be a little less self-righteous about the two-tents issue. She had, after all, just proven not immune to the fact that she was a girl and he was not.