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The first time the Captain kisses him – kisses him properly, that is, with all the heat that's been building between them for years – it feels like the last piece of a puzzle sliding into place.
They're two hundred feet underground at the time; it's dark, there's a worrying rumble starting somewhere behind them and Snowy is digging furiously at the soft earth of the caved-in wall. Tintin was digging, too, until the Captain had grabbed hold of him (grabbed, possessive and certain and Tintin hadn't realised that that could be quite such an appealing prospect) and told him that he was damned if they were going to die without -
Well. Tintin has always rather scorned the young ladies in sensational novels who swoon in the arms of their lovers (not that he reads them a lot, of course, but Marlinspike has a surprisingly varied library and sometimes one cannot help but be curious), but honestly, no one has ever told him that kissing could be like that, no matter that he's very far from being a helpless young lady in a sensational novel.
“That was nice,” he says dazedly when the Captain releases him.
“Nice? Blue blistering -”
And then Snowy interrupts them with a frenzy of barks as the blockage caves in, and then they are running and it turns out that the rumbling noise was an underground river and that someone has blown up the rather large dam, and there isn't too much time for thinking about kissing.
And that is the start of the problem.
A week later, when Tintin tries to get the Captain to talk about it, it is a little bit like hitting his head against a brick wall (only the Captain's chest when Tintin braces his hands against it is warm, firm beneath the soft sweater).
“Heat of the moment,” the Captain says, avoiding Tintin's gaze.
“What rot,” Tintin says, indignant. He curls his fingers into the blue wool of the sweater; he has the Captain backed into a corner of the library, and the smell of old books mingles intoxicatingly with the familiar smell of tobacco. “You said you were damned if you were going to die without kissing me.”
“I needed to distract you,” Haddock says to a point on the far wall, slightly above Tintin's head, “so that Snowy could dig where you were standing.”
“And kissing me was a fine way of distracting me, hmm?”
“It seemed to work well enough. As a distraction.”
Tintin sighs in disgust and lets go of the sweater, stepping backwards; he cannot quite decipher the look that flickers across the Captain's face. He's conscious of a slow panic building in the pit of his stomach – what if the Captain is telling the truth? - and squashes it ruthlessly. “Captain,” he says, and pauses; something about the stubborn set to his friend's mouth tells him that this is one of those few times that he will not be able to talk the Captain around. “I'm – going for a walk. With Snowy. I'll see you at dinner,” and whistling for the dog he marches determinedly out of the library.
If talking isn't going to work, well, Tintin is sure there are other ways. And he does enjoy research.
”Oh, my sweet life,” the Count groaned; his touch burned where he slid eager hands up her trembling thighs. “My beloved angel.”
“Take me, my love, for I am yours!”
“I will be gentle, my sweet, you shall feel only the most exquisite
“Tintin?”
Tintin snaps the book shut, cheeks burning, and sits up in bed as his bedroom door creaks open. “Yes, Professor?”
Calculus peers at him, frowning. “Our mutual friend the Captain seems to be rather the worse for wear, don't you think? I do hope he's not coming down with something.”
“I believe he's fine, Professor, really.”
“Been at the wine? That would explain it.”
“No, he -”
“Well, I'll leave you in peace. Good bye, Tintin.”
Tintin watches the Professor bumble away, and sighs. Really, he needs to make a breakthrough soon; The Count and Mariella is all very well, but it seems to contain a great deal of innuendo and not a lot of, well, helpful advice. Certainly not if you are not in possession of a heaving bosom and well-turned ankle, Tintin thinks disconsolately, nor yet creamy pale skin with never a hint of a blemish. Seduction seems to be a great deal easier if one is female.
He heads towards the library after pulling the dressing gown around his bare shoulders (it was once the Captain's, and is rather overlarge), Snowy padding along at his heels, and meets the Captain at the foot of the staircase. “Good morning, Captain,” he says, standing back to let him pass. “Did you sleep well?”
Haddock stares down at him, and for a moment seems to forget to reply; then he blinks and shakes his head. “Not – not too bad, lad, and yourself?”
“A little too warm,” Tintin says truthfully; the days are slipping away towards summer, and the nights are no longer cool. The Captain stares at him again, and Tintin adds, “Is something the matter?”
“Not at all,” the Captain says hoarsely, and makes a beeline for his study.
Mariella continues to be rather useless, and so Tintin turns to his next source of information; Nestor.
“I wouldn't like to say, sir,” Nestor says carefully when Tintin tries to ask him what the Captain's favourite flowers are.
“All right,” Tintin says, rather relieved to let this point drop; he's not sure he could face presenting the Captain with a bouquet of flowers. “Well, what about – other things?” At Nestor's rather peculiar look, he adds hurriedly, “it's – it's his birthday soon, and I wanted to surprise him.”
“Might I be permitted to suggest tobacco, sir? Other than that, sir, you would be far more likely to know the Captain's likes and dislikes than me, or indeed than anyone else.”
Tintin blinks. “Oh. Yes, I suppose.” And then, taking his courage in both hands, he says, “Nestor, if you – wanted to woo someone, how would you go about it?”
This time the look Nestor gives him is not so much peculiar as verging upon an excellent resemblance of a stuffed frog. “I'm sure I don't know, sir. Perhaps there might be some books in the library upon that particular subject.”
The most relevant book that Tintin has really found is a copy of A Young Gentleman's Guide to the Pursuit of his Beloved: it is rather too full of poetry for Tintin's taste, and he doesn't think there would be much use in serenading the Captain or paying social calls. “The library hasn't really been -”
“If I might recommend the section on the Classics, sir,” Nestor says, staring fixedly at Tintin's left ear. “You might in particular find some of the ancient poetry most edifying.”
Tintin does find them edifying; a little too edifying, if truth be told, enough that halfway through some of Catullus' more detailed and unlikely poetry he puts the book back down on the table with a wince. “Goodness,” he says aloud; Snowy looks up from his position in front of the fire and wuffs half-heartedly. “I must say that that sounds very uncomfortable. Come on, Snowy, it's time for a walk.”
A brisk walk in the fresh spring air clears his head somewhat, a blessed relief after spending so much time cooped up inside. Heading back to the kitchen afterwards for a glass of water, he finds the Captain seated at the table, staring at the kettle as it boils; the set of his shoulders seems to Tintin to be rather more troubled than usual. Nestor is clattering about in the butler's pantry next door, clearly wishing they would both vanish from his domain. “Captain,” Tintin says cautiously.
The Captain looks up, and the expression on his face – Tintin feels heat rush to his own cheeks; the expression is akin to the one he's sometimes seen when the Captain looks at whisky after trying to give it up, only this time it's different - more full of heat, of naked plain desire – and it's directed solely at Tintin.
It lasts only a moment, but it's enough to disconcert them both; the Captain jumps hastily to his feet. “I, ah, I must be going,” he says. “Gardening. Horse-riding! I, I have things, things to do outside,” and he is gone from the kitchen before Tintin really has chance to wipe the stunned look from his own face.
More reading will most definitely be required.
He doesn't really consider that his own behaviour might be considered at all unusual until the Captain finds him late one evening (very late, in fact), sitting in the study – the Captain's study, in reality, but he claims that the portraits of ancestors hanging on the walls are off-putting and tends to avoid it – and asks him if he is all right.
“Of course, Captain,” Tintin answers immediately, and rather breathlessly; he has had to scramble to cover over Rosalinda the Gypsy Rose with an innocuous map, and is hoping that the Captain does not pay much attention to the big tome of Catullus open at a particularly interesting page.
“You seem flushed, lad.”
“I'm fine,” Tintin insists, trying not to squirm under the concern in his friend's eyes. The Captain is dressed as if he is going out, he notices suddenly, well-fitting suit and beard neatly trimmed. “Are you -”
“Well, I was asked to, you know, by Mr -”
“I – I thought you were -”
They both trail off, and Haddock laughs a little self-consciously, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket; he really does look very fine in evening dress. “'tis only dinner, lad, with our neighbours; nothing exciting. What's this, plotting more travels?” and he reaches out towards the map Tintin has draped over the incriminating evidence of his books.
“No,” Tintin says, more sharply than he means to, and the Captain halts, clearly surprised. “No, it's, er, it's – I was just researching -”
“Well, can I help?”
“It's private,” Tintin says desperately; the Captain blinks.
“I – I see,” he says, and steps back.
“For now,” Tintin adds, and Haddock visibly relaxes. “I hope you have a nice evening, anyway, and – do give my apologies.”
Several hours later, and Tintin is dreaming.
It's hardly surprising that he should be dreaming about the Captain, given the amount that Tintin has been thinking about him of late; but while he's had arousing dreams in the past he's never found them to be especially vivid, peopled more by hazy feelings, sensations, hidden faces.
There is nothing hazy about the Captain in this dream. Tintin has seen him in various states of undress before, of course – they have shared rooms often enough – but never before so utterly and unashamedly naked; his imagination fills in the thick line of hair that he has seen disappearing under a thin white vest, shows the contours of the muscles he has so often felt and lower down – Tintin has nothing but himself, occasional glimpses of erotic art and the descriptions in the books he has read to compare, but in this case his suspicion that the Captain is well endowed seems to be more than adequately borne out.
In the dream, he is in bed, his own bed, and the Captain leans over him and smiles that smile, that particularly sweet smile that he seems to save especially for Tintin; only this time it is laced with heat, and the Captain's eyes flick down over Tintin's own body and then back up and that look – that look makes Tintin moan deep in his throat and reach for him. “Tintin,” the Captain murmurs, sliding fingers through the hair at the back of Tintin's head.
“Captain,” Tintin says, shivering with wanting, arching up towards him.
“Tintin,” says the Captain, and his tone has changed slightly. “Tintin? Tintin, wake up.”
Tintin comes back to himself with an unpleasant jolt, to find himself sprawled face-down on one of his books; he has fallen asleep in the study with the pen still in his hand. He jerks upright, and the warm pressure at the nape of his neck falls away, pressure he had not realised was not part of the dream; Haddock is standing there in front of the desk, staring down at him, a copy of Rosalinda the Gypsy Rose in his hand.
They stare at each other for a second, during which Tintin notices several things. One, that the Captain is still wearing his heavy overcoat; two, that he is back early – the clock on the mantelpiece still reads only nine – and three, that the map has fallen off his pile of books and scribbled notes and it is now mortifyingly obvious what he has been doing.
“Ah,” the Captain says after a moment longer. “So, you – not – not travel, then?”
“Not so much.”
“Ah.”
“You're back early,” Tintin blurts.
“Aye,” the Captain agrees. “Tintin, were you – confound it, have you been trying to – to seduce me?”
“Yes,” Tintin says. His voice is all scratchy. “I, I, you wouldn't listen.”
The Captain stares at him for a moment longer, and then, astonishingly, a muscle twitches at the side of his mouth, and then he starts to laugh. “Se – seduce me?” he asks unsteadily as Tintin sits there frozen to his seat. “You were trying to – to seduce me?”
“Yes,” Tintin says. He stands up, clenching his hands into fists and willing his legs not to shake as he steps away from the edge of the desk. “I'm – sorry the idea isn't – well, I'm glad it amuses you and -”
“Hold on, Tintin!” The Captain halts him with a hand on his arm, the laughter dying away. “I didn't mean it for -”
“No, you're right,” Tintin says. “It is ridiculous. I should have believed you when you said -”
“Tintin,” the Captain interrupts, “d'you think I was laughing at – no, no, lad, never – it's only that I had never – never thought that anyone would want to – to seduce - me, d'you see? Not when -” he pauses, and swallows hard; Tintin sees the adam's apple bob in his throat. “Not when I thought I could never – never have you, not for all the miracles of the world, and damn me – you turn around and start – start planning.”
“Did you think I wasn't serious?” Tintin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose, slumping back against the solid wooden desk; he needs to be calm again, to think about this logically and seriously and try to make the Captain understand that they can both -
The sensation of warm lips closing over his own is entirely unexpected. Tintin clutches convulsively at the nearest thing – in this case, the damp woollen overcoat the Captain still wears – and the Captain moves closer and slides an arm around Tintin's waist to keep him there. He tastes faintly and intoxicatingly of wine – not whiskey; he must have come home directly the meal was over – and then he shifts slightly, deepening the kiss and sliding his fingers back into Tintin's hair and the feelings from the dream return in full force; Tintin gasps and pulls back and says, “Captain, Captain -”
“Do you know what it would do to me,” Haddock asks him, low and fierce, “if you left me? There'd be nothing of me without you, lad, nothing but the burned-out husk of a fool too cowardly to follow his own dreams. That's why I can't – I don't want to – why I'm afraid to risk you leaving, you see, because if you did – lad, if you left me I don't think my heart would see the point in beating.”
Tintin grips onto the coat very tightly, almost afraid still that the Captain will try to run. “That's why you -”
“I was angry with myself,” the Captain says, speaking quickly as if he fears losing momentum. “Not with you. Never with you.” He clears his throat. “And I hurt you, and I'm – blistering barnacles, Tintin, I'm trying to apologise and I'm trying to tell you that I love you and I'm making a pig's ear out of it.”
Tintin shifts his hips experimentally forwards; the Captain shudders. “Y-you have been a little obtuse, Captain -”
“Obtuse? You -”
“If you think I would ever leave,” Tintin says. “Ever. I suppose it bodes well that you are very difficult to seduce, so that means we -” he stutters to a halt as the Captain drops his head – he is a tall man, and Tintin is standing on tiptoes pressed back against the desk – to nose at the skin just under his ear; the feeling is really thoroughly distracting. “I, I think we might, because I f-feel rather the same way about you, you see, so – so I -”
“Was lounging around the house in nothing but my old dressing gown one of your seduction strategies?” the Captain asks, and then he uses teeth and rocks forward a little and Tintin can't quite remember how to talk. “Confound it, Tintin, it's been all I could do these last few days not to just take you and -”
“Would it have worked better if I had been naked?” Tintin asks, which earns him a hissed intake of breath and a large hand gripping tight at his hip. “I s-suppose I should refine the technique and -”
“I don't think I really need to be seduced any more,” the Captain says hoarsely. “You, you do that quite well by just being – yourself.”
“But I've researched, Captain,” Tintin mock protests; Haddock growls and actually lifts him backwards, sliding onto the polished wood of the desk. A few papers slither to the floor, and Tintin finds that now he can quite easily wrap his legs around the Captain's hips; the closer contact is maddeningly good, and he rocks shamelessly forward, abandoning all pretence at propreity.
“And what did you learn from Catullus?” Haddock gasps. Tintin leans forward and tells him in quite explicit detail, enjoying the way the Captain's grip tightens and the rasp in his throat. “I – I see. Tintin, I'm not sure that this is – is the place to -”
“In some of the books I've read, Captain, they -”
“We're not in a confounded book,” the Captain growls against Tintin's ear, and Tintin turns his head and kisses him again; the beard has rubbed against his mouth until the skin there is hypersensitive, and he wants, he wants more, knows that the Captain will give him anything and everything he asks for.
Quite how they manage to undress remains a mystery; it has been a build-up of weeks of watching and frustration and when Haddock first shoves the plus-fours down over Tintin's hips and takes him in his hand Tintin finds himself becoming surprisingly vocal. He is used only to his own hand, knows how to pleasure himself and what it will be like, and the Captain's hands are bigger, rougher, stroking him so very differently. “Captain – yes, please, oh please -”
The Captain kisses him, hard and needy, and Tintin finally manages to undo the man's wretched belt and oh, there will be buttons all over the carpet, but when he wraps a hand around the Captain's cock he makes a guttural noise and surges forward; more books thud onto the floor as Tintin falls back onto his elbows. “All this time,” Haddock says roughly, wrapping his hand around both of them and oh, lord, but it is almost too much; Tintin scrabbles at the Captain's back, still covered by the expensive shirt, straining towards him in the most wanton fashion imaginable. The heat of it, of the touch of this man that he would do anything for – it burns through his veins, through everything he is. “Tintin -”
“Yes, oh -”
“All this time – always you, lad, always -”
Tintin comes with a strangled moan, entirely lost, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that sparks dance; he feels the Captain follow him over the edge, thunder roaring in his ears. They stay there, the Captain half braced, half fallen over Tintin, chests heaving; the long muscles under Tintin's hands are twitching as if they have run a mile. “That was nice,” Tintin murmurs after long moments have passed, and Haddock laughs against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.
“Still only 'nice', eh?”
“More than nice,” Tintin says fervently, nuzzling thick black hair; the Captain shifts as if to move, and Tintin tightens his hold. “Don't -”
“I had no idea you were half limpet.” The Captain's tone is soft, achingly fond, and Tintin feels as if he is more full of happiness than perhaps he's ever been before. “Blistering barnacles, but this desk is hard.”
Tintin sighs, and releases him; the Captain moves backwards with a wince and Tintin sits up and stretches, revelling in the eyes that travel over him as he does so. “I never even got to demonstrate my research,” he says as innocently as possible. “Perhaps if we relocate to -”
“Give a man a wee bit of recovery time!”
Tintin beams, and slithers off the desk himself (really, what had possessed them?), stretching up onto his toes to kiss the stunned look from his lover's face (such a marvellous thought). “But I have so many things that we can try -”
“D'you think I don't have a few myself?” Haddock growls, and loops an arm around his waist. “Come on, upstairs with you. I'll not have you tuning the study into a den of debauchery.”
Tintin allows himself to be towed towards the door, and pauses only to turn off the lights; the mass of books and papers littering the floor momentarily rebukes him, and he smiles. The tidying, he thinks, can certainly wait until tomorrow, or even the day after; it is no longer urgent at all.