winryweiss: (Default)
Sort of a fill for kinkmeme's Scars prompt, taken from very different angle than was expected. Blame this story to my strange mood when I was ill, one particularly persistent plotbunny and my keenness for enumerating fics. ^.~

Warnings : Tintin/Haddock established relationship. Fluff. Mentions of various injuries.


There are seventeen scars on Tintin’s body.
Of course, there are usually many more, alongside various bruises, some of those fade away only to be replaced by new ones way too soon. But only seventeen of those scars are permanent, never leaving, forever marring Tintin’s body.
Captain knows them by heart.
And it amazes him how sensitive those are. So he treats them with possessive affection, caressing them whenever he could. Tintin seems to be keen on this, as there is always a huge, heavenly grin on his face, before Captain embarks into another way of worshipping his body, and Tintin’s expression changes into much more desperate, more private, something only Captain is allowed to see.
There are seventeen scars on Tintin’s body, seventeen reminders of all those dangerous situations they ended up in. Some of those scars are old, from the time before Tintin knocked him out for the first time. (And beg your pardon, Captain means this in all chastity.) There is little cut in shape of half moon on Tintin’s left index finger. He had been chopping something inedible for dinner, cabbage was it, and the knife slipped. There is tiny burn from cigarette on right arm, near elbow, when some ectoplasmic gangster in Chicago decided that the nosey reporter would be a perfect ashtray. If only Captain could get his hands upon that idiot, he would teach him a Lesson. He would tear that tottering troglodyte apart with his bare hands. There are two scars which Tintin acquired in San Theodoros, the one on right shin is from car accident, and the one on right knee is from particularly hard collision with interestingly shaped boulder in the middle of river. There is cicatrice from when bullet grazed his left shoulder years ago in China. Luckily Chang was there that time and treated that injury immediately. There is whitened thin scar on his right forearm which Tintin acquired as child. He doesn’t remember anything about it. And there is much newer wound across it, slash from rapier from one of his early adventures in India. There is gash on Tintin’s left palm, lengthening his Life line, as he accidentally cut himself when opening a letter in haste. And, Captain’s favourite, patch of tiny scars on left thigh from when Tintin landed in brambles after crashing with plane in Scotland, miraculously he hadn’t been the one who piloted, and then chafed it against coarse kilt. Kilt! Actually, Captain is very keen on it. Not only on that scar, but on that kilt too. Even though Tintin grow up from it, so it’s more like mini (s)kilt skirt now, he still looks breathtakingly cute in it and even more tempting. And he’s well aware of it, wearing that kilt on specials occasions, teasing Captain with ambiguous looks and voluptuous smiles while needlessly straightening up that blasted piece of garment.
But, in all honesty, Captain hates some of those scars.
The tiny scar on the back of Tintin’s head, hidden beneath his short ginger hair. A "gift" from one particular thug with particularly thick club. The wound on his left arm, left after bullet hole. Captain still remembers Tintin’s grimacing when he bandaged it with Tintin’s own necktie, not exactly tenderly given the time pressure and the circumstances. Hiding behind ancient Greek statue while being shoot at is not the best place to provide first aid. But it is not a proper charity ball unless it ends up with a wild goose chase around the museum with armed villains. Yet … signora Castafiore looked like she would kill them all on the spot after that. Barnacles, even Thom(p)sons were terrified by the sheer power of her angry gaze. Only Professor remained calm, but that couldn’t be counted as he was oblivious during the whole incident. The burn mark on his left calf from when they crashed in Sahara dessert shortly after their first fateful encounter. Not from the plane crash itself, but from when Tintin thrown himself into burning wreck to save two treacherous troglodytes who tried to kill them before. Honestly, that boy … The Stab mark on Tintin’s belly, very close to his bellybutton. All right, it was not exactly a stab, only a mere gash, but it bled like Bloody Hell! That memory still haunts Captain, the memory of Tintin in his arms, pale as ghost, clutching both his hands onto his stomach to stop the bleeding, and it was futile since the blood, Tintin’s precious blood, still continued to flow out of his body, more and more with every heartbeat, dyeing his powder blue shirt to a red one and Captain was scared, so scared, and he thought that this time they won’t make it, that they won’t be able to make their trademarked miraculous escape, that he will lost his little Angel, that he will be alone once again. Even now, years after that incident, he sometimes wakes up with a startle since he keeps seeing it in his nightmares. And then Tintin would wakes up as well, driven by some primal protective instinct, and cradle him, hushing him sleepily back into peace and into slumber. Strangely, Tintin wouldn’t remember it in the morning. But that doesn’t matter, because he is there and he is alive and happy and that’s all what matters. Moreso, Captain is willing to grant a pardon to this scar, because it’s incredibly sensitive and Tintin makes the most cutest sound whenever Captain kisses it. The cicatrice on Tintin’s left side, from the mysterious plane crash in Celebes Sea, which looks suspiciously like a bullet graze. But no matter what, none of them is able to remember what the deck happened back then. Another scar from car crash on left hip, as Tintin somehow tends to end up in car-chases more often that could be considered healthy. The scar on Tintin’s back, close to shoulder blade, from his conflict of interest with a condor in Ands. Would you believe it?! Then there is the scar, scar left after bullet grazed his skull, once again hidden in hair, few centimeters above his right ear, from when Bordurian spies tried to silence Tintin at Sprodj Atomic Research Centre. Oh, those endless hours Captain spent sitting by his side and watching his peaceful sleeping face, the unnerving fear, the powerlessness he felt, staying on guard by his Sleeping Beauty. That time Tintin didn’t argue with doctors but obeyed without a single protest, which was something Captain hoped for every time his boy got injured, yet it terrified him. It was like the wound was more serious, much much more serious than doctors admitted.
And back when the bruises from Tibet, from the rope which bounded them together on the verge of Death, were still visible, they were the injury Captain hated the most. That big ugly purple line of bruises was so nasty just from its essence. It’s a miracle that his weight didn’t torn Tintin in half. Well, he did lost some weight due to lifestyle which inevitably comes along with living with Tintin, but still he was so heavy and helpless back then, dangling on a rope like a rag doll. He hated those bruises with a passion and was only glad when they faded.
Captain hates those scars, as they are constant reminders of his failures to protect his beloved boy. He could prevent them from existing. He could, he could, if only he was swifter, brighter, quicker, if only …
But that’s past and past can’t be changed, no matter how hard he would try to do so. And whenever he tries to change the subject of their chatter towards it, Tintin would only press his lips together in thin line, scolding him wordlessly, resolutely yet tenderly refusing all his qualms and scruples. And then, sometime later on, he will whisper sweet nonsense into Captain’s ear, breathing out pleas and promises he intends to keep while clenching his fingers to Captain’s broad back, leaving dozens of scratches all over, tracing Captain’s own old scars.
There are seventeen scars on Tintin’s body.
Seventeen. So much yet so few, considering the way of life they have. Seventeen. Really, seventeen is like omen for them. Tintin was seventeen, actually exactly seventeen days after seventeenth birthday, when they met. And, as a fact, the age difference between them is seventeen years. Terrible, isn’t it? Sir Francis, who essentially brought them together, after seventeen months of knowing each other and flirting tentatively, lived in 17th century.
And …
There are seventeen scars on Tintin’s body.
One for each year they are together.
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