Fifteen: New Scars

A/N: Set sometime after 'Alph Art'.

He was sometimes surprised by how well they'd healed.

They were constant reminders of the past that haunted him every time he bathed or changed his outfit. He'd initially taken to wearing long sleeves more when they'd started to appear on his forearms, but as time drew on these had faded, and he gradually grew comfortable with allowing the world to see them.

Sometimes he'd stand in front of the mirror for over an hour, his eyes trailing over the mutilated pieces of skin, though this was usually after he'd acquired a new one.

The first one he remembered vividly. He'd just boarded the boat to return home from China when he saw it in the mirror. The bullet graze had left an ugly lesion across his left deltoid, and even though it was barley as long as his little finger, it still caused him a great deal of pain. He was too ashamed to show the ship's doctor; he was also too concerned about what they'd say and what questions they'd ask. He'd resorted to simply dressing it with a clean handkerchief and praying it didn't become infected. Because it was the oldest scar, it had mostly healed, and he was grateful that he couldn't usually see it.

When he brushed a hand through his quiff, his fingers sometimes scraped along the remainders of the Bordurian agents' attempts to assassinate him. Technically, he'd received two scars from that ordeal; one from the bullet, and the other from landing on the ungodly-hard rocks outside the moon base. He remembered how they'd had to shave part of his head to stitch the wound together, and how he'd been grateful that the hair had grown back by the time the bandages were removed.

That incident had taken the most time to recover from, out of all of them. He couldn't remember exactly how long, but his muscles took weeks to lose their stiffness.

He'd wondered if it would have been better to have a stroke; at least then he had an excuse for having to learn to walk again.

Pulling on his left sock every day became a stark reminder of the agony he'd felt in the bear trap. Sometimes he could still feel the spikes implanted in his flesh, threatening to snap through the bone itself, and he'd take fifteen minutes to put his shoes on, for he would remain trapped in that moment in time. He looked at it and wished he'd been more careful, for though that part of his leg was forever decorated with jagged dents in an intricate pattern.

For a while he'd also stopped wearing watches. He'd decided it was pointless, for the straps never sat properly once the rope burns began to become more and more frequent. The skin around his wrists had gotten thicker as the years passed; if he stared hard enough, he thought he could see the imprint of the rope fibres. Sometimes he found himself itching them obsessively, and Haddock would have to tell him to stop before he made himself bleed.

If anything, in some places he'd acquired scars on top of scars. His ribs had been grazed and nicked by bullets so many times that he now sported permanent marks on both sides of his torso. His right index finger had developed callouses from gripping various handguns.

Today he'd been putting his sweater on to go for a walk with the Captain when his attention had drifted once again. His eyes peered at a line about two centimetres thick that wrapped around the base of his neck. It had taken several weeks after returning from Italy for him to notice the damage that Rastapopulos's noose had done to him, and he'd been violently ill as soon as he'd noticed.

Without realising what he was doing, he gingerly lifted his hand and traced along the dent in his skin. It wasn't the worst scar his body had to wear, but it had become one that he couldn't help but notice every time he looked at his reflection.

He found himself shaking as the memory played back like a bad film inside his mind. He'd often had nightmares about how if rescue had come a bit later, his neck would've snapped.

But I'm alive. I made it out as I always do. That's what matters, right? Alive alive alive happy happy happy happy happy happy happy-

"Tintin?" Haddock knocked briefly before sticking his head inside. "Tintin, what are you-" His features softened as he realised what ritual the young man had become engaged in, and his heart sank as he realised this was becoming all too common for Tintin. ".Talk to me, son. What's on your mind?"

Tintin couldn't tear his gaze from his reflection. The eyes that stared back at him were almost foreign; not only did they now possess the beginnings of potential wrinkles, they carried persistent bags and crow's feet, and always betrayed how haunted his mind truly was. It was almost remarkable how they no longer resembled the naïve young boy that once looked at the world through them, observing society with a carefree and optimistic point of view.

He stared at the battered and damaged body that stood before him, feeling as though he were thirty years older than what he actually was. He took a long breath before answering. "Did you ever look back, Captain, and…and wonder if you could've…i-if you should've done things differently?"

Haddock quirked an eyebrow as he came into the room, closing the door behind him. "In what way, lad?"

An unexpected sob quivered through Tintin's body. He watched in horror as the strong façade on his face begin to crack. "…I look at myself, and all I see is a young man who tortured himself. Who let himself get kidnapped and shot at and stabbed, all for a story to give his editor," He paused to wipe his eyes, surprised at the sudden emotion that overcame him. "…What have I done, Captain? I was so young! I should've been off chasing girls and getting an office job and starting a family and…and-"

The young man's voice broke off as he began to cry, feeling the hot tears plummet down his cheeks. He barely noticed as the Captain took him into his arms, whispering comforting words in English that his brain didn't understand. "It's alright, lad. It's okay."

"How?! How is this okay?!" Tintin wailed, his body shaking. "I'm traumatised, I'm paranoid, I-I haven't had a decent nights' sleep since I was about fifteen - how is this living?! And m-my body is c-covered in all these ugly marks a-and scars and…how is that fair?! I was just doing my job! I-I didn't…I didn't mean to…"

Haddock fell silent. The young man in his arms fell against his chest, his body shaking so hard he thought he would break. Blistering barnacles, what am I supposed to say to that? I'm a sailor, not a counsellor!

He held the boy - no, the young man - in his arms as he sobbed, finally allowing his fears and traumas to be exposed, the walls having finally crumbled after being held up for so long.

The physical scars had had plenty of time to heal.

Now it was time for the wounds in his soul to do the same.