Chapter Two
Sugar and Spice

December 14th

Captain Haddock was well and truly confused.

He had thought that Tintin would be pleased to spend Christmas at Moulinsart. He had certainly sounded excited, over the phone. And he'd been enchanted enough by the beauty of the Hall (not that Haddock could take credit for that, but it was nice all the same.) But Tintin just seemed to be… dare he say… almost moody. Though it was hard to tell with Tintin sometimes; you would think he was being reticent because he was simply having bad day, and it would turn out he wasn't talking because he was hatching a plan to drag down a master criminal and concentrating furiously. It didn't help that the lad hardly opened up to him, which was downright aggravating; considering how often Haddock spilled his guts about himself, it would be nice to know a little about what the lad was feeling. Just once in a while. But no.

Dragging his fingers through his beard, Haddock struggled out of his bed sheets and slumped onto the floor, groaning with early-morning exhaustion.

Yes; sometimes it was very hard to tell with Tintin.

/

When Tintin opened his eyes, his first instinct was to panic. He was in a strange house. In a strange bed. Therefore, he had been kidnapped. Every instinct in his body told him so.

No. Wait a second.

This room looked familiar. And familiar meant safe.

Tintin stood, stretched, and made his way to the windows next to his bed. They were tall and light streamed through them, filtering through the opulent curtains, bathing the room in a dazzling scarlet glow. Pulling the curtains aside, he studied the scene before him, squinting at the bright light. There were a lot of trees. A lot of trees. Tall, majestic trees, with a thick layer of snow over the branches. There was a little pathway, and if he stood at the far left side of the window, he could see a house down the path.

The laboratory, he remembered. I'm at the Hall. Safe.

Sighing, Tintin slumped back down on the bed. He took another deep sigh, blinking sleepily as he stared blankly at the carpeting. His mind seemed to be trapped in a drowsy muddle, and he was waiting for it to wake up.

After a moment, he gave up. It was 8:30 – he had already slept in too long. "Mmmblh… Snowy… come on, boy…"

Snowy lazily opened an eye, regarded him solemnly, and then yawned and got to his feet, stretching and kicking off his blanket. He trotted briskly behind Tintin as the boy made his way to the bathroom.

Pausing as he squirted toothpaste onto his toothbrush, Tintin stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, at his puffy eyes, at his hair, sticking every which way. He looked exhausted. He felt exhausted. But he was in a much better mood than he was yesterday. Yesterday he had been downright pessimistic. Not without cause, but he was feeling much better today, and was happy for it. Maybe this wouldn't be such a horrible holiday after all.

Tintin went through his morning agenda: take Snowy out to pee, come back in and have a cup of coffee, read the newspaper, and then— Great snakes! What is that smell?

/

The smell of baking cookies was probably the best smell on the planet. At least, Tintin thought so. So did Snowy, apparently; Tintin was holding him in his arms to keep the terrier from leaping onto a chair and gobbling up the rows of soft, warm, holiday-themed cookies lying on the kitchen table.

Oh crumbs, he wanted one.

His fingers moved without permission in the direction of a sheet of freshly-baked treats, there was a cookie right there that was so warm it almost fell apart when he grabbed it—

"Gotcha!"

A tan, leathery hand snaked out from behind Tintin, gripping his wrist with such force that the cookie fell from his fingers. It didn't touch the floor, though. Less than halfway through its descent, the other hand reached down and snatched it out of mid-air.

Tintin yelped, "Crumbs!"

"Crumbs? Not yet," replied Haddock, stepping in front of Tintin and grinning cheekily. He took a big bite of the mitten-shaped cookie, sending a scattering of said crumbs to the floor. "That's crumbs," he said, mumbling through a mouth full of cookie.

Tintin's gaze flew around the kitchen, searching for any item with which to get vengeance. His hands closed around a bowl of what looked like blue paint. Aha!

He flashed the Captain his best winning smile, as his fingers closed around the smooth surface of the bowl. "And that's blue blistering barnacles!" he shouted, quickly sploshing the thick liquid into the Captain's face before he had any time to react.

There was a long pause. Haddock slowly reached up and, with a cookie-filled fist, rubbed the blue away from his eyes.

He didn't mean to, but Tintin started snorting with laughter.

"It suits you!" he chortled, inbetween gasps for breath. "It matches your eyes! It really—"

His sentence was cut short when a wave of bright red crashed over his vision. It was blinding. He could see nothing, smell nothing. It was just red, cold liquid, dripping down his face and onto his white—white—pyjamas.

From somewhere in front of him, the Captain snickered.

"Matches your hair."

"My hai— no it does not!" He immediately regretted speaking. His entire mouth was instantly filled with the red paint. "Eugghhh! I got paint in my mou—" Wait. This tastes sweet.

"Is this… icing?" the Captain asked, as if he had been reading Tintin's mind.

"Um." He paused, licking his lips. "Yes. Yes it is."

There was a long pause, and then he heard—he still couldn't see— Nestor's voice coming from the doorway.

"Er." The usually articulate butler sounded at a complete loss for words. "Ah."

"What is it, Nestor?" Tintin heard Haddock ask.

There was an even longer silence, in which Nestor was probably debating what he could say that would be respectful, but still get his employer out of his kitchen.

"I hope I didn't intrude," he finally said, annoyance almost imperceptible in his cool tone.

"Not a bit," the Captain replied meekly. "Tintin and I were just going."

Tintin wiped away icing from his eyes so he could figure out where Nestor was. Once he saw the butler—even though the man seemed in a sort of red haze— he apologised, making sure to lay it on thick, and then accompanied the Captain out of the kitchen and into the foyer.

They stood there for a few moments, not exactly sure what to say. Then Haddock started sniggering.

"I don't think we're getting any cookies from Nestor this year, Tintin," he said.

Author's Note: ...and everything nice! :D

I spent basically all evening yesterday decorating cookies, and a bunch of friends (I think like 20, lol) are coming over for a cookie baking/decorating/eating party Saturday, so I was just in the mood to write about cookies.