Sixteen: Paralytic Drugs

A/N: Set between 'The Calculus Affair' and 'The Red Sea Sharks'. The paralytic drug chosen for this one-shot did exist during Tintin's lifetime, although I have played with the dosage that was traditionally used. Also the new longest oneshot so far!

It had been six months since Borduria, and nothing had happened.

No kidnappings, no assassination attempts, no Bordurian agents shooting down the front door; it had been surprisingly quiet.

He couldn't help it; he kept wondering when the next thing would happen. They'd become so used to having frequent adventures that living a normal, ordinary life seemed like a fever dream.

The young man found himself pondering this almost obsessively as he sat in the front living room, watching as the days passed by. Eventually autumn gave way and December came through, and he would sip his tea while counting the snowflakes that landed on the windowsill, unable to fully let go of his worries. Surely a criminal is going to burst through that window any time now…

Some would call it paranoia, others would say he was being hypervigilant; Tintin thought he was exerting the right amount of concern. The Captain would sometimes crack a joke at the young man's refusal to believe everything was okay. "You and your paranoia; you'd think you've got the FBI on your trail or something!"

Yet despite the jokes, the older man was deeply aware of how on-edge Tintin truly was. How could he not be, after all the things he'd experienced in his short lifetime? He still couldn't believe Tintin was willing to set foot outside his bedroom door at all, given how often he'd come close to being killed.

It came to Christmas Eve, and Tintin still found himself fussing over the lack of excitement. Upon enthusiastic advice from the Captain (which he would've described as harassment), he'd successfully applied for the first Christmas period off since he first joined the journalism industry. He quickly grew bored, his fingers dancing idly over his typewriter as he longed for a story to investigate.

But, like the Captain had continually reminded him, Christmas was a time for rejuvenation and relaxation. He'd even sent Nestor on holidays early, and instructed the man not to return until January 2nd.

Tintin just hoped it wouldn't mean he'd be stuck dealing with a blackout-drunk Captain for a week.

It had come as a surprise to the young man when Haddock announced in the late afternoon on Christmas Eve that he was going out. "I don't mean to the market or anything like that, lad," The Captain clarified, shoving his jacket on. "Just going for a stroll."

"But Captain," Tintin spoke, "you do realise it's only a few degrees outside?"

"And?"

Tintin blinked, trying to think of an appropriate response. "…Bit cold for a walk, isn't it?"

"Nonsense, lad! You forget that I once sailed on decks in this sort of weather!" Haddock adjusted his hat. "Well, I mean, it wasn't snowing in the ocean, but-"

"I think I understand, Captain," Tintin laughed, taking another sip of his tea. "Now go on and enjoy your fresh air."

Haddock snorted as he opened the front door. "Enjoy your window watching, my friend!"

Tintin laughed as he watched his friend depart, only to hide the fact that Haddock was unknowingly speaking the truth. So many threats had come through that front door over the years; it made sense to him that the best place to observe for danger was in the living room.

Perhaps I am being paranoid.

He continued to sit in the living room long after he'd finished his cup of tea. He hadn't realised how long he'd been standing guard until Snowy trotted into the room, sniffing his legs and whining. "Oh, of course! Must be dinner time for you, boy!"

With the faithful canine weaving in and out of his legs, Tintin made his way to the kitchen, shivering at the sudden drop in temperature as he entered the tile-coated room. He pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his hands as he sorted through the main pantry, looking for Snowy's favourite dry food. Makes me wonder how many layers Nestor has to wear when working in here.

Snowy gave a grateful bark as Tintin lowered the bowl of food to the floor, tucking in feverishly. The reporter smiled, returning the container to the pantry and brushing the crumbs from his palms. "De rien, mon garçon."

Upon returning to the living room, Tintin's eyes were immediately drawn to an open front door, and he felt his stomach drop. The Captain can't be home already…

He'd barely taken a single step before he felt a sharp prick in his deltoid. "Merde!" His hand instinctively flew to the area and began to massage it. Oh, no no no…Am I going to drop dead or what?!

"Such language, monsieur!" The mysterious man's voice carried a sharp French accent. Having already pocketed the needle and syringe, he firmly grabbed Tintin by the shoulders before the young man could think about running. "I hardly think it appropriate."

"Says the man who just broke in and jabbed me!" Tintin snapped, struggling in the man's grasp. His eyes widened with horror as he realised what his brain was trying to tell him. "…Why are my legs numb?!"

"I prefer no chloroform, monsieur. Makes the job unpleasant for both of us," The man commented, watching in delight as Tintin began to sag to the floor. "Instead, I give small dose of curare. Takes care of things very quickly."

I HATE criminals who prefer creative methods. Tintin could only watch in abject terror as his legs stopped responding to him, his anxiety beginning to peak as he felt the same sensation spreading to his arms and torso. "You're insane! You could kill someone with that stuff!"

"Same argument for chloroform, young man," The man hoisted Tintin underneath his arms and began to drag him across the living room. "But I have been in this business long time and know it very well. I assure you, I know what I do."

"You're a professional, then?" Tintin spat, wiggling his fingers in the vain hopes of stopping them from becoming paralysed. "What do you want with us?! There's not much of value here!"

"I assure, monsieur, there is plenty! You just do not see it," Grunting heavily, the intruder hoisted Tintin onto the couch, arranging his limbs as to prevent them from dangling over the edge. "You are heavier than first appear, monsieur."

"Et ton angles c'est merde." Tintin snapped, glaring at the man's features through his balaclava. He suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, and unconsciously found himself beginning to breathe faster. Please don't tell me this paralyses the diaphragm as well!

A coarse laugh escaped from the thief as he placed a cushion under Tintin's head. "Tu es un drôle d'homme. But please excuse me; I have work to do."

Tintin found himself staring into the man's piercing blue eyes, only to realise that it was because the muscles in his neck had stopped responding, and he was now being forced to gaze upright. "You won't get away with this! My housemate will return soon!"

He heard a scoff from the intruder. "I watch you closely for few days, monsieur. He will be gone some time."

The young man struggled to find an appropriate retort, partially because he could feel his jaw beginning to stiffen. He tried to hiss a final remark at the intruder, only for his mouth to fall closed as the paralysis took over. "Hmmgh!"

"No point grunting, monsieur. It paralyses vocals too," The intruder's voice had grown fainter, presumably due to beginning his treasure hunt through Marlinspike.

He stared dully at the ceiling as he waited for his assailant to finish his search, his frustration mounting at an alarming rate. I can't help but be genuinely curious as to what he finds so valuable that he has to break in.

Although it was a very rough guess, he estimated ten minutes had elapsed before he caught a glimpse of the man in his peripheral vision, carrying a full potato sack of stolen goods. "Not as much as I hoped, but still good profit."

Tintin instinctively tried to growl, only for nothing to escape his throat. You despicable bátard.

"I see your anger. But consider yourself lucky, my young friend," The intruder suddenly kneeled next to the young man, snarling so close to Tintin's ear that his breath sent a tickling sensation down his ear canal. "I purposely give small dose. I am a thief, not a killer. You'll be uncomfortable for a few hours, but you will not perish. None of my others have died."

Tintin could only widen his eyes as the severity of the situation sunk in. He felt himself grow cold all over. No no no no no! I can't be left like this! The Captain won't be back until dinner!

The intruder sniggered as he noticed Tintin's silent distress, and clutched his rucksack of stolen goods tighter. "Bonsoir, monsieur."

He heard the front door slam shut, and found himself blinking away a fresh flurry of tears. Oh, mon Dieu…

If the paralysing agent didn't kill him, he was sure the boredom would.

He'd given up on counting the hours a long time ago. What was the point when you couldn't see the clock? Instead, he tried to rely on the hourly chime from the grandfather clock in the dining room, though it was ultimately useless due to the distance.

He'd been fretting with worry about Snowy until he heard the familiar screeching of the Captain's cat. Of course he's chasing the damn cat…probably hasn't even realised anything is wrong.

Tintin tried to sigh, only for it to come out as a slightly-louder exhale. When he said 'hours', did he mean two to three hours, or longer? I can't stay like this for a whole day!-

The front door was thrown open, revealing the most beautiful sound in the world. "Tintin! I'm home! And I hope you like English whiskey, for we're sharing a bottle of it tonight!"

Tintin blinked furiously, his heart leaping in his chest. Captaine! Help!

"Tintin? Where are you, lad?"

The young man's eyes snapped to the side as he futilely fought to look at the doorway. He desperately wanted to cry, to scream, to move even his eyebrows, yet none of his muscles would respond to his commands. I'm here! Captaine! I'm in here!

It took a few agonisingly-long minutes before the Captain had finally looked into the living room, for he heard the distinctive sounds of English swearing. "Blistering barnacles!" Haddock dropped his shopping and sprinted to the young man's side. "Is he alive? Tintin!"

Tintin found himself staring past the Captain's eyes, blinking furiously as he desperately tried to turn his head. I'm alive! Captain! Ugh, it's a shame he doesn't understand morse code!

Haddock was puzzled, but the message seemed to click quickly. "Can you speak?"

Two blinks. Obviously I can't!

"Okay, I'm going to take that as a no. Can you move at all?!" Haddock's voice pitched slightly.

Two blinks and an irritated exhale. What I wouldn't give to be a telepath right now…

The Captain placed a hand to the young man's cheek, turning him so that their eyes could meet. "Oh, lad, I'm so sorry…what the devil happened?!"

Tintin blinked. I'm just doing this for fun. What the hell do you think happened?!

"Right, of course. I'm going to have to work this out then. Was it…those Bordurian idiots who kidnapped Calculus?"

Two blinks.

"Allan Thomson and his gang of iconoclasts?"

Two blinks.

"Rastapopolos?"

All Tintin could respond with was a blink, and he felt as though his chest would burst with rage. This is going to get old very quickly.

Of course there was a once-in-a-century blizzard that had sealed Marlinspike off from the rest of civilisation, meaning the doctor couldn't come.

Of bloody course.

Had he been physically capable to do so, Tintin would've grumbled. Instead, all he could give the Captain was an irritated blink. Putain d'enfer…

At least the Captain had tried to summon some help for him; he was grateful for the effort. Despite being unable to come and treat Tintin in person, the doctor was at least smart enough to provide Haddock with advice on how to support him as the paralysis drug was metabolised from his system. "He said lots of words that I don't understand, lad, but I'm pretty sure it's not rocket science."

Tintin blinked. Mon Dieu, this better be over soon, or I will go insane…

He blinked again.

Hang on.

My hand feels different…

His curiosity building, Tintin tried to move the fingers on his left hand, a small ball of delight growing in his chest as he felt them collapse into a fist. Bien! It's starting to wear off! He flexed the digits a few more times, his confidence growing as he felt his muscles grow stronger.

He caught a glimpse of Haddock out of the corner of his eye, who was still occupied with cleaning up the fragments of the broken whiskey bottle from when he dropped his groceries. There's no way he'll look over and notice. Captaine! Focusing all of his energy into his hand, Tintin's eye lit up as he finally managed to snap his fingers.

"What the?!" Haddock jumped, dropping the broom handle in surprise. To Tintin's relief, he turned to face the source of the sound, his face lighting up as he saw the reporter's hand moving. Although his hand seemed to have returned to normal, his wrist was still half-paralysed and offered limited motion. "Blistering barnacles, Tintin!"

Satisfied with this first step in communication, Tintin concentrated as he tried to mime writing. Get me a notepad, Captain!

"You want to write something?" Haddock's voice was laced with confusion. "Lad, you can barely move that hand, let alone write with it! Just wait a bit longer and the doctor will be here-"

Tintin responded by clicking furiously and miming a pen. Get. Me. A. Notepad.

He heard the Captain sigh angrily as he darted from the room, returning a few minutes later with the requested utensils. He clumsily grasped the pen in his left hand, struggling to twist it around his fingers. 1 intruder. Was planned.

Haddock took a minute to interpret the scrawled handwriting. "At least it wasn't a gang of thugs this time, I suppose. Are you alright though?"

Ok. Will wear off. Curare.

"Really? Not chloroform this time? Why the hell did he give you that stuff?!" Haddock snapped angrily. Realising what his words implied, he quickly backtracked. "Not that I'm not glad you're awake, lad…it's just-"

Tintin attempted to grunt in his throat, and was pleased when a small sound managed to escape. I understand, Captain, and I'm just as surprised as you are.

He reached out as far as his paralysis would allow, clasping the Captain's hand in his own and giving it a reassuring squeeze. I'll be okay, Captain. It'll be okay. And I did have a genuine reason to be paranoid after all.

A/N: Bien = good

De rien, mon garçon = you're welcome, my boy

Merde = shit

Et ton angles c'est merde = and your English is shit

Tu es un drôle d'homme = you are a funny man

Bonsoir monsieur = good day sir

Putain d'enfer = bloody hell