Thirteen: Fracture

A/N: A short, alternate version of Haddock's injury from 'The Castafiore Emerald'.

He had intended to get that step fixed. He really had.

He just wished he'd gotten it fixed sooner.

Even though he had literally witnessed Nestor nearly kill himself on that step two minutes prior, it had already slipped from his mind as he was passing a telegram to Tintin. "Who knows? Perhaps Bianca Cataclysm has been held up!" He smirked proudly, sipping his whiskey.

Ignoring the Captain's quip, Tintin unfolded the paper and quickly skimmed through the telegram. "It's from her, all right. Sincere regrets, stop. Cannot come-"

It was as though Christmas had come early. An enthusiastic grin rapidly spread across the Captain's face, as he let out a whoop of excitement that interrupted the reporter. He carelessly threw his glass in the air, oblivious to the large spray of whiskey that rained. "SPLENDID! Heaven be praised!"

"Captain-"

"NESTOR! Nestor, I won't be needing my bags!"

"Captain, that's not all she says…" Tintin snapped, glancing down at the telegram.

Haddock froze at the young man's tone. "What?!"

"Sincere regrets, stop. Cannot come seventeenth, stop. Arriving sixteeneth, stop. Regards, Bianca," Tintin gazed up at the Captain as he finished reading, watching the horror in the older man's eyes blossom by the second. "The sixteeneth?"

Oh, bollocks. Haddock spat out what was left of his whiskey. "…The sixteenth?! It's the sixteenth today!" Slamming the empty glass down, he began to sprint for the doorway to the main hall. "All hands on deck! Abandon ship! I'm off!"

Tintin rolled his eyes. Que diable, not this again. "But where, Captain?!" He shouted. "Where would you go?"

"…I don't know! Doesn't matter! I don't give a damn!" Haddock yelled over his shoulder. "Milan, perhaps! I never been there in case I met her!"

Leaving the confused young man in the living room, Haddock jogged along the corridor, his heart thumping in his throat. Maybe if I'm fast enough, she'll see my taxi leaving just as hers arrives! "Nestor! My bags, at once!"

He began running down the stairs two at a time. Who the hell does this woman think she is? How she can just 'invite' herself over and expect ME to host her! Me, Captain Bartok! I swear, if I have to see play host to her stupid face under MY roof-

He didn't see the step until it was too late.

It was as though time stopped completely while he sailed through the air, his right leg soaring to an eighty degree angle as he fell. He caught a brief glimpse of the magnificent ceiling above, and briefly pondered if the moment before death would be a good time to choose a religion.

His back slammed onto the ground.

His ankle gave off an audible crack.

He screamed.

Tintin couldn't remember the last time they had called an ambulance for the Captain instead of himself. It was definitely turning into one of those rare, unusual days where he wasn't the one half-dead in a hospital bed.

It didn't mean he didn't feel sorry for him. He definitely felt sorry for the Captain. Infinitely and truly sorry.

Because now, after a one-night reprieve, he was being discharged from the hospital, and she had arrived at Marlinspike. He is going to absolutely love his welcoming-home committee…I hope Wagner can talk her out of singing to him.

As Tintin made his way through Haddock's ward, he could already hear the older man's incessant ranting, despite having the bed closest to the window at the far end of the twenty-bed ward. "Billions of blue blundering blistering barnacles…"

He entered the Captain's room, fighting a smile as Haddock crossed his arms like a child, fuming in his hospital bed. The older man's face lit up upon seeing the reporter. "Tintin! Ah, lad, can you just pass me that spare pillowcase and it tuck it over my head? I'd be most grateful."

Tintin couldn't help but chuckle. "Captain, I think these people may frown upon murders being committed in hospitals."

"For the love of God, lad, don't let them send me home!" Haddock grabbed the younger man's hand, grasping it with surprising strength. "I can't bear it, Tintin. I can't stand that woman. She's already sent me a bunch of flowers, and I've only been in here for one night!"

The noticeable lack of flowers on the bedside table told Tintin that the Captain had definitely done something suspicious to them, but given the thick plaster that was currently enveloping his foot, he wondered if he'd bribed a nurse to throw them in the rubbish bin. "Calm down, Captain," Tintin attempted to sound reassuring, but he was vainly fighting the laughter that longed to escape his throat. "Once you get started on the painkillers they'll send you home with, you'll be too tired to notice her-"

"Tintin," Haddock's voice was low, but carried a distinct hint of desperation, "Please, for the love of everything that's holy, talk some sense into these people. Tell them…tell them I'm supposed to be leaving for Italy today!"

"Italy, or any travel in general, is completely out of the question," The curtains were roughly pushed aside and a middle-aged doctor poked his head in, hands clutching a clipboard overflowing with papers. "As I told you yesterday, Mister Haddock, you've got a lateral malleolus fracture, which means you are strictly resting that foot for at least six weeks."

Haddock's anger ebbed slightly; he realised he was losing this battle. "…Can't I just wheel myself around Italy?"

Without replying, the doctor produced a stack of paperwork and handed it to Tintin, a condescending look in his eye. "You're free to take him, but make sure he stays off that foot. I don't want him back on this ward with another fracture."

"Absolutely, doctor," Tintin tucked the discharge papers in the pocket of his coat and turned towards his friend, a slight grin appearing on his face. "Now, do you want the wheelchair with the racing stripes or the pink ribbons?"

If looks could kill, Tintin would've been vaporised in that moment. He released a small giggle, which did nothing to deter the Captain's soul-destroying glare. "Okay, okay. No funky wheelchairs. But I can't promise I won't let her write on your cast."

A/N: Que diable = what the hell