Twenty Eight: Headache

A/N: Set after 'Tintin and the Picaros' and takes place in a timeline where 'Alph-Art' never happens.

They don't come as frequently as they used to, but he swears that it was one of those things that wasn't improving with age.

He knew it would happen at some point; it was almost inevitable, given the amount of head bashing and trauma he'd experienced. Some doctors would remark how they couldn't believe he was still awake and talking, and that he should either be in a vegetative state or in the morgue.

Now he looked back on those comments with the same amount of disbelief.

They seemed to come sporadically at the start; the first time he remembered having an excruciating headache was when he was being held captive by Mitsuhirato in China. He could remember running from gunshots near the train line that they had blown up, yet he was never able to remember actually slamming his head into that tree.

That headache had lasted long after he'd faked being injected with the madness poison, and had persisted well into the early hours of the morning.

At the time, he'd thought nothing of it. He attributed it to the extreme stress of the situation and nothing more.

But they continued to make appearances, with each one being worse than the last. Sometimes he would press his fingers so aggressively into his forehead that the indent marks would take days to fade.

If he was ever asked about his current wellbeing, he would insist to every single doctor he encountered that his head was never the same since that Bordurian agent managed to graze his skull and keep him hospital-ridden for weeks.

But he never told them how bad he really felt. I can handle it, he would tell himself. I've always handled it.

The Captain and Nestor had grown increasingly used to his sudden bouts of 'illness' over the years. Sometimes he couldn't even make it through eating his breakfast without having to return to bed, cradling his head as he wished for the knife that stabbed him between his eyes to finish the job. Nestor would usually produce a cold pack for his forehead and leave a glass of water that often remained untouched for fear of regurgitating it all over his bedsheets.

His breaking point had been once they'd returned from rescuing Calculus in Borduria. He'd woken the entire household a few nights later with his screams, which everyone automatically assumed was due to another nightmare. Haddock and Nestor had abandoned the warm comforts of their respective beds to sprint to Tintin's room, their concern mounting as the screams grew louder.

As soon as Nestor had thrown the bedroom door open, both men had sprinted inside, only to grind to a halt at the sight before them.

Tintin was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his head buried so deeply within his pillow that Haddock initially thought he'd cut a hole through the centre. His pyjamas were soaked with sweat, his hands trembling as he moaned from the flames of agony that were burning furiously inside his skull. Colourful spots were flashing in disorientating patterns across his field of vision, and any sort of external light that infiltrated his eyelids was enough to make him start gagging in agony.

For some reason he wasn't taken to hospital for that incident, though the exact reason why was something he would never know. He couldn't remember much from that night, apart from vomiting profusely all over the Captain's slippers, something which he would be mortified about until the day he died. All he could recall was seeing the doctor at Marlinspike the following morning, who'd informed him that what he'd experienced was a migraine, and that it was possible they could become a long-term issue. He'd provided a prescription for some strong pain relievers, and advised him to start taking when he felt a headache beginning to brew.

Tintin had shot back, claiming his head seemed to be hurting every day at this point: "Do you want me to destroy my liver? No way am I taking those! I can handle it!"

"Young man," The doctor had looked down at Tintin over his glasses, his brow furrowing with concern, "are you telling me that you are used to being in pain?"

He'd instantly denied it at first, as was typical for Tintin when it came to anything medical-related. He retracted his statement and managed to usher the doctor out of the door before any further probing of his condition could be conducted. I can handle it.

But as the weeks went by, he found that he could no longer work in the office, for the noise and lights were often too overwhelming, and he'd be curled up under his desk weeping with pain. The boss was supportive and understanding at first, but as the number of calls to the local doctor while Tintin was on the clock became more and more frequent, he started to lose his patience, and eventually asked him to re-evaluate his choice in career: "I can't have my journalists doing their work from under the desk instead of at it."

Tintin had packed up his cubicle and went straight home to Marlinspike once his boss had finished giving his 'recommendation'. He'd stolen one of the Captain's whiskey bottles that night and drank until he was satisfied he'd have a massive hangover the following morning. I can handle this…

It had taken months before he managed to settle into a new routine. He was able to negotiate with his workplace to research and submit articles from Marlinspike, although he was now limited by his condition as to how far from home he could travel to investigate potential stories. He would go through periods where he could go for runs around the estate with Snowy, but he would also have times where he was bedridden for days.

"Why do I deserve this, Captain?" Tintin asked at breakfast one morning. "W-Why do I have this…this 'condition', this problem? I was only doing my job!"

Haddock had no comforting response he could give the young man. Considering you used to get bashed on the head practically every five minutes, it's no wonder that it caught up with you in the end. Instead, he kept his thoughts private and reached over the dining table to give his friend a pat on the hand. "Every day when I see you, I think the same thing over and over: I'm just grateful that you're still alive, lad."

Tintin's eyes had watered furiously at that statement, even though he refused to let them spill over. I can't cry; I can handle this.

Every morning he awoke and catch sight of the bottle of painkillers that remained untouched on his bedside table.

Every morning he thought about taking one, before he decided otherwise.

I can handle it.

I've always handled it.

I have to handle it.