Eighteen: Take My Coat
A/N: A short oneshot, set between 'Prisoners of the Sun' and 'Land of Black Gold'.
This was one of those occasions he decided to keep to himself.
After all, what the Captain didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and it certainly wouldn't send him into a worried frenzy.
He couldn't even blame it on research for a new story; he'd just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Then again, he'd thought, why the hell did I think going for a walk at night was a good idea?
Despite the chill that crept down his collar with the wind, he'd clenched his hands tighter in his pockets and continued on his stroll. Insomnia seemed to be plaguing him more and more often these days, and while it did mean he didn't have as many nightmares, it did mean he was resulting in more creative techniques to induce the blissful existence that sleep brought him.
Walking had been his last-resort option, especially at this time of night, but nothing else had worked on this particular occasion. Once his clock had ticked past two thirty, he'd thrown the covers off in disgust and grabbed his thickest sweater. I swear, if this doesn't work, I'm going to have to take up drinking. This is ridiculous!
The thought of bringing Snowy had crossed his mind, but when he noticed how deep in slumber the canine was when tying his shoes, he'd decided to leave his faithful friend at home.
Thankfully, it seemed he didn't have to walk far before fatigue started to work its way through his body. He yawned for the first time all evening as he commenced his return journey, pleased at the apparent progress.
He'd literally been around the corner from his apartment when it happened.
It seemed having good timing would be something he could never achieve.
He let out a strangled groan as he felt a blunt object collide with the back of his neck, the impact sending black spots flying across his vision. Consciousness lost its grasp on him for an unknown amount of time, for the next he thing he was aware of, he realised he was being dragged by the arm across the concrete. Nausea rose suddenly in his throat and he spat out a mouthful of bile. Oh, not this again…they better not rip my arm out of my socket!
"Ugh, est-il malade?" An irritated male's voice rang distantly in Tintin's ears.
"Non," A second male quipped. "Un peu de salive."
Tintin was convinced his brain was not working, for despite having the urge to rip his arm from his captor's grip and start screaming for help, nothing seemed to cooperate with him. All he could manage was a small moan, and his reward for doing so was to have a grotty handkerchief unceremoniously shoved in his mouth. I mean, I'd happily fall asleep now if I was in my own bed, but I prefer to sleep without being gagged.
"Il est réveillé!" The second man hissed, grabbing Tintin's other wrist. "Se dépêcher!"
Despite the cotton wool that seemed to be filling his head, Tintin felt himself grow cold. They're planning to do something with me…I really hope this isn't another kidnapping. His suspicions weren't easing when he felt his hands being forced together, the familiar feeling of coarse rope being secured around them. Wait, where am I going? Surely we can't be far from my apartment-
His head seemed to clear almost as soon as he realised he was being lifted into the air, the panic quickly rising as he became aware of just how disorientated he was. Hang on…why can I smell seawater?!
A hand grasped his chin, forcing him to face his captor. The first man stared directly into Tintin's soul, his fake glass eye displaying as much sadistic glee as the real one. "Enjoy your swim, monsieur."
He was suddenly weightless.
He found himself falling through darkness, the air whizzing through his quiff.
His eyes glanced toward the receding sky. Notre Père, qui es aux cieux-
The water seemed to appear from nowhere.
He felt the air in his lungs disappear, as if it had been instantly evaporated. The handkerchief in his mouth fell away, vanishing amongst the flurry of bubbles that surrounded him.
The knots around his hands were easy enough to break; he quickly realised that these criminals weren't the most experienced in restraints, for which he was grateful.
Kicking his legs furiously, he began swimming in what he prayed was the right direction. His lungs burnt and the fuzziness in his head slowly began to return.
He broke the surface and gave a sharp inhale.
Bloody hell, that water is cold!
"Here, Tintin," Thompson shrugged off his black blazer, wrapping it firmly around the younger man's shoulders. "That should keep the breeze off you for now."
Tintin's teeth were chattering so hard he couldn't form a response, instead choosing to give a slight nod. Hope he doesn't mind having a ruined, wet jacket…I'll have to offer to have it dry cleaned.
It had taken a few minutes before he'd been pulled from the water by two sailors, who happened to have been finishing a late night at the pub. That short period of treading water while awaiting rescue had used up all of his remaining energy.
He'd been dragged onto the decking a safe distance from the water, with both sailors rushing around as they fought to keep him warm. Unfortunately, neither was able to come across a spare blanket, so he'd resorted to shivering in his soaked sweater to stay warm as they waited for the police and an ambulance.
He hadn't expected the Thompsons to pay a visit before he'd been taken to hospital. After all, it was now well after three in the morning. He couldn't help but wonder how the hell they found out so fast, given that they arrived before the other detectives, but decided to put that mystery aside and use his remaining brain power to keep himself somewhat focused on their conversation.
The detectives brought him up to speed quickly, though most of the details slipped through his ears. It turned out that the men who had tried to drown him were currently the main suspects in a series of four unsolved murders. "All of their other victims were found almost in the same spot where you were brought out," Thomson had said shakily. "Now we know why all the others were stiff as a board when they were found; they'd been killed in the middle of the night. Seems you happened to be in the right place for them to ambush you."
Tintin had said nothing. He couldn't say anything, to be completely fair. The hypothermia had settled in so fast that he'd barely been pulled out of the water before the shaking began. An ambulance had been called some time ago, though they were yet to appear. It was taking all his effort just to remain conscious; speaking was not a priority for him in that moment.
Instead, he remained seated on the deck, tucking Thompson's blazer around him a bit tighter as his body shuddered violently, any remarks he wished to express remaining trapped behind chattering teeth.
He decided to have a swig of the Captain's whiskey when he was discharged.
After all, it was supposed to be good at warming oneself up.
A/N: Est-il malady = is he sick
Non, un peu de salive = no, a bit of saliva
Il est réveillé = he's awake
Notre père, qui es aux cieux = our Father, who art in heaven