Chapter Text
Tintin’s pistol was now on top of his bedside drawer in Marlinspike, as he was slowly moving his things there from his apartment on Labrador Road. His residence had changed – certainly far roomier and cosier than his old place that was dramatically dwarfed by the hall – but the feelings of paranoia and hypervigilance stayed living in his body and clung to his bones and ran through his blood like a parasite, staying latched on as he carried them with him into it. After all, criminals with a vendetta against him, or those who saw him as valuable, would eventually find where he lived, and follow him there. There was no chance to shake off these feelings – he presumed he’d live with them for the rest of his life, even if he gave up his journalistic job tomorrow – the people after him wouldn’t go anywhere until he was dead, or perhaps even worse, held captive in a far more unthinkable and inescapable scenario. It was basically autopilot to leave it there, as he’d always done before, and check its safety and magazines, and if he was stuck in a vulnerable position like being asleep in bed, he wouldn’t be fumbling around in the dark in a panic. Though he didn’t even need the lights on or to look in that direction to be able to grab it when needed, since he had every belief that the criminals would scale the walls and climb in through his bedroom window, just like with his apartment. It was that automatic, unfortunately.
Muscle memory, without even thinking twice. His career path was dependent on being able to be ready at a moment’s notice. It shouldn’t have to be such a reflex to defend himself so rapidly, and he’d had to apologise profusely for Nestor and the captain and even his poor dog Snowy for punching or kicking them after they’d startled him even only slightly. He thanked God that none of them did so when he was holding and checking his pistol. It was never something he could forgive himself for if it…no, it didn’t bear thinking about.
So, a year after they’d managed to acquire the hall and a few months after he’d begun to move in, staying more and more there before being convinced by the captain to move in and bring in all of his things and realising that it was less stressful there getting his articles finished before being able to send them off in a comfortable time to his office, he’d spent another night after writing another article and having dinner, before sitting in the lounge next to the roaring fireplace. The captain was opposite him, having his usual glass of whiskey and gradually falling asleep, and Snowy was fast asleep curled up in his lap, and who he was absentmindedly but lovingly stroking. A tired yet comfortable ache had settled in his bones, and he’d almost fallen asleep himself, especially with how wonderfully warm and soothing the heat of the fireplace was on his skin. It wasn’t like he wasn’t able to relax or didn’t want to, since to him it wasn’t really much of a choice, but moments like these existed where he could snatch them for himself, whether or not he was consciously aware that he was relaxing.
But he was pulled back from the edge of consciousness, as he felt Snowy bristle underneath his hand, now awake and quietly growling. There was also a rustling he thought he could hear – or was it his paranoia making him interpret that? He could never be exactly sure. It might’ve been outside. It couldn’t have been a person – but it was a still December night, and bitterly cold, and this was a massive hall away from the city, where you’d need an extremely good reason to be in the grounds. And everyone that lived here was inside and called for.
He couldn’t help how his heart began to thud in his chest, and his blood chill in response to it, hoping this night of all nights that he was just going completely mad. He’d been far too relaxed and unprepared, and he was not about to be caught off guard. Cut him some slack for once, please.
He sat up, stock still in his sofa chair, breathing as quietly as possible, straining his head forward to pick up on any more sounds. He really, really didn’t want to get up, but Snowy was practically vibrating underneath his hand, hot with a quiet, menacing anger, and the reporter was so used to just freezing and listening out for any unusual sounds, or watching out for any unusual movements. It was all just compounding, and even if he thought he really was going completely mad, there was no way with his experience that he was going to just ignore.
He stopped stroking Snowy, because it seemed his dog wasn’t letting go of whatever was happening and the things he was feeling. Animals always sensed things much deeper than humans, especially one of Snowy’s experience with his owner’s more than perilous and daring adventures. He slowly stood up, not realising that he was barely breathing, letting his dog leap off, skittering off in the direction of the sound. It was definitely rustling, intermittently stopping before starting again.
His heart had been thudding so hard in his chest, he’d forgotten the amount of adrenaline that must have spiked in his blood, because as soon as he’d stood up and starting walking, his whole body was trembling. He watched as Snowy had reached the living room door, standing up against it with two paws, ears pointed upwards, and by the time he himself had slowly and shakily reached him, he’d turned his head to him, teeth bared and upper lip raised in a snarl. He just wouldn’t stop growling.
Tintin couldn’t help but suddenly and horrifyingly realise – his pistol was upstairs, on his bedside table, where he had always kept it. He wasn’t about to head upstairs for bed yet; getting his chance every night to wind down by the roaring fire, opposite the captain, especially on these icy December nights where frost clung to anything it could cling onto, like the long rows of plants and flowers in the back and front of the hall, which often framed it like a beautiful landscape painting, but wasn’t the case during the colder seasons. Whatever this sound was, he wondered if he could run upstairs and run back down with it, unlike the more efficient and reflexive action of having it right by his bed to pick up when he was interrupted from his sleep.
He wasn’t one to dwell on his actions, but to think and do in the moment. That’s how he’d always done it, hadn’t he? That’s how it had always been, because he couldn’t waste precious time thinking during the frequent life or death scenarios he put himself in.
Thinking of the captain, he’d looked round at him, still deeply asleep by the fireplace. The whiskey always seemed to have more of that effect on him, and he sighed, knowing how much of a hold that drink always had on him. He’d really only known him for a year, but even with their first meeting over a few days, it’d been enough to see just how much trouble he had with it.
He bit his lip, wondering if he should wake him up. Would he think he was just being paranoid? He’d already seen enough of what the reporter did and the risks he took with people in his adventures, even right at the very beginning. Would he reassure him that nothing was wrong? Would he check for him? Would he be there and awake if something really did happen? But at the same time, not only did he not want to worry the captain, it felt wrong relying on him. He’d been relying on himself his whole life, not counting Snowy. He could handle this himself, couldn’t he? He always had, he believed. And the captain seemed so peacefully asleep, and it was a late night, so why grab his attention for no real reason?
He'd turned around and put his hand on the doorknob and pulled the door open, Snowy having got back on all fours, still heavy with his growling through his bared teeth, and slipped through once the gap was open enough for him to do so, re-continuing his skittering towards the sound. Tintin cautiously put his head around the door, eyes darting up and down the gloomy, deathly quiet apart from Snowy’s paws on the wooden floor, hallway. No sign of anyone, just yet. He moved around, leaning against the doorway for a while, before moving forward through the door, and gently closing it behind him.
His dog was at the front door; on the same way he was the living room door. He might have already had a feeling that’s where he’d go, but the way his heart and gut sank as he stared in a silent panic, mouth slightly agape, walking further and further towards him and the front door, he might as well have prayed for that not to be the case. Anything but the front door, of all places.
He heard the distinct sound of crunching, alongside the rustling. There was a person outside. Or people. Did he hear an engine running now? Oh no, he wasn’t going mad after all. He really wished he had, but this was his life now and had been for years. There was no real paranoia if people really were out to get him.
He darted over to the stairs, taking them two at a time, looking around momentarily to see if Snowy was following him. To his horror, he was still at the door, able to jump up and grab at the door with his teeth, before yanking down at it. His eyes went wide, unable to stop himself from crying out in fear as he almost tripped after turning around and hastily running back down the stairs to stop the door from opening.
“Snowy, what on earth are you doing???”
He didn’t reach the door in time, managing to yank Snowy off of the door handle just as someone had marched through, before putting him down. The man was far taller than him and appeared eerily similar to one of his main enemies, Allan Thompson. Flat cap, five o’clock shadow, beige button up long coat and black boots. It couldn’t be him though, could it? That grey, intimidating face now had broken into a sadistic grin. He was in prison. He was supposed to be in prison, anyway. He thought he would’ve ditched his old boss, Sakharine, after all the people were put behind bars. No way that man would’ve worked with him again, not after not getting his promised reward after the whole scheme about the scrolls had been foiled.
Though, he should’ve known certain characters to be able to get around the system, especially where someone like Sakharine was involved.
Snowy had leapt forward, viciously assaulting his legs with his teeth, and Tintin of all people hadn’t reacted. He was shaking so much and brimming with so much adrenaline, that he didn’t know whether to run or punch the man in front of him, like he usually would’ve been able to do. Why couldn’t he do it right now, with danger and death standing right in front of him, staring him right in the face?
“Lousy dog, get off of me!” he’d shouted, and the distinct, not so indoor voice of Allan rang out as his dog’s teeth tore through his trousers and into his flesh, and Tintin made a split second panicked decision to run towards the living room door, flinging it open, a pleading cry leaving his mouth as the captain suddenly woke up, spluttering, and stood up to see---
“Captain! Nestor! Call the police right---”
A familiar rag had been shoved over his mouth and nose, the chemical scent of chloroform soon rapidly inhaled through them, and a large hand was now wrapping itself around his throat. Allan had broken free from Snowy, and he heard another person march behind him. He tried to kick him off, and put his hands up to pry off of his face and neck, trying to wrestle him off with a weakening grip. He’d been able to, and always had been able to, handle grown men, but he’d been taken completely off guard and now he was choking and breathing in chloroform like there was no tomorrow, his body consumed by utter panic.
Tintin, with his wide, terror-filled eyes, being held in the doorway, noticed the colour drain from the captain’s face, and Nestor had appeared, making a beeline straight for the telephone.
“Oh, we can’t have that, can we? The boss wouldn’t like that, and he told me, if you call the police, I have every permission from him to beat the little brat to near death.”
There was a depraved, patronising glee in his tone as he spoke. Of course he was working for someone. Of course.
He wondered if he’d learn who wanted him so badly this time before his eyes fully closed, his body went limp and everything faded to black. No matter how weak and lightheaded he got, he was fighting unconsciousness so desperately, it seemed Allan had felt the need to comment on it.
“He’s a fighter, isn’t he? Little brat doesn’t give up, does he?”
Tintin could faintly hear Snowy growling as he tore into the legs of someone shouting, who he could now clearly hear was Tom. A panic rose through his system at what this might mean. They had to have changed employers, right? Even though it was still terrible regardless, he didn’t want to know what this would mean for him.
“You’ll let go of him this second, you snivelling, pathetic monster!” the captain shouted, sounding absolutely incensed, even though Tintin could sense a hint of terror and worry behind it, “You should be in prison! Both of you! Who got you out? Who are you working for now?”
“Or you’ll do what? You’re drunk again, aren’t you? Like always,” Allan had muttered disdainfully, before he heard sadism spill from his voice, “and the same goes for coming any closer. The boss wouldn’t like---”
“ENOUGH! WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR THIS TIME?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for it to get through that dense head of yours? I’m sure you’re very familiar with him. The man still has it out for you two, after all.”
It was achingly slow in its sadism, and it was like everyone could hear a pin drop.
And then, a sickening slam behind him, a distressed yelp, and then…silence.
Tintin could feel the other presence right next to him, and he felt his gut sink for…for everything. The chaos that had happened around him and what he’d just heard. He couldn’t be angry, he couldn’t cry, he couldn’t lash out, and the captain couldn’t vocalise in a quiet horror, that was mixed with a silent fury, fast enough, who it was they were working for now, before he felt his body finally give up the fight and fall limp, arms by his side, as his feet dragged on the wooden floor of the hallway as he was pulled away, his eyes having long since closed and long since his vision had been edged with black, hearing Tom’s footsteps follow them in front of him.
“No, that’s…that’s ridiculous. It couldn’t be him. Not again! Not Sakharine of all people! Not again!”
Tintin’s pistol was still on top of his bedside drawer in Marlinspike, as he’d slowly moved his things there from his apartment on Labrador Road. His residence had changed – certainly far roomier and cosier than his old place that was dramatically dwarfed by the hall – but the feelings of paranoia and hypervigilance stayed living in his body and clung to his bones and ran through his blood like a parasite, staying latched on as he carried them with him into it. After all, criminals with a vendetta against him, or those who saw him as valuable, would eventually find where he lived, and follow him there. There was no chance to shake off these feelings – he presumed he’d live with them for the rest of his life, even if he gave up his journalistic job tomorrow – the people after him wouldn’t go anywhere until he was dead, or perhaps even worse, held captive in a far more unthinkable and inescapable scenario. It was basically autopilot to leave it there, as he’d always done before, and check its safety and magazines, and if he was stuck in a vulnerable position like being asleep in bed, he wouldn’t be fumbling around in the dark in a panic. Though he didn’t even need the lights on or to look in that direction to be able to grab it when needed, since he had every belief that the criminals would scale the walls and climb in through his bedroom window, just like with his apartment. It was that automatic, unfortunately.
Muscle memory, without even thinking twice. His career path was dependent on being able to be ready at a moment’s notice.
He should’ve been able to grab it and be ready when the criminals decided to come after him, shouldn’t he? Like with all of this tonight, around him? It was a good idea to keep it up there, so he could grab it when his sleep was interrupted, wasn’t it? And not have it downstairs, when he was trying to relax, right?
Even though it worked in his favour, it all just happened so very fast.
If only that was how it worked, and he wasn’t being dragged out to a waiting car whilst the captain and Nestor struggled to know what to do except watch in silent horror and fury, and Snowy lay unconscious by the stairs. It might as well have been a murder scene with how it appeared, and what had just happened.
The pistol he was so used to being ready with, and checking repeatedly, and being something he would protect himself and his friends with, lay pathetically untouched on his bedside table upstairs, and was of absolutely no use to him now, whether he had that automatic instinct, that muscle memory, in him or not.
Instead, he just had to wait. Which wasn’t him, at all. But he had to.
He had to.
After all, that was all he could do right now, couldn’t he? Even with how many times this had happened, he could never get used to waiting.
Time was all he had now, besides the unbearable darkness of unconsciousness. Perhaps though, he wouldn’t have to think about who was waiting for him on the other side until he eventually woke up.
Then he’d figure it out from there, without any necessary defenses close by to him, wouldn’t he? He always would.
Eventually.