20 August 2012

winryweiss: (Default)
This is something I’ve never …
But this idea came to me so suddenly and left such a strong impression. Basically The Crab with the Golden Claws "retelling" from Captain’s POV. I hope sincerely that those two would never be like this. But fandom is fandom, and one of the many joys of it is the different points of views on their relationship. Right? *poke* So sorry, this is not my usual, slightly sarcastic writing.
Warnings: Angst (well, sort of), Tintin/Haddock.
Suppose, it might count as a sort-of-a fill for this prompt : http://tintin-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1701.html?thread=315045#cmt315045

[PWP sequel here : http://winryweiss.dreamwidth.org/2544.html.]

A Good Boy

Am I really that miserable?
I know that I’m just a drunken old fool. Worn down sea-dog without any perspectives. The one who give up easily, never able to resist own urges. Slave of the bottle. Damn easy to manipulate.
But, am I really that miserable?
To be swept off my feet by … by … by him?
The most wonderful, most adorable, most beautiful and most rotten creature ever walking upon the Earth.
Just his name, those two repeating syllables, makes me shiver. And the gaze he could cast with his eyes, those mesmerizing emerald eyes. He looks so innocent, so young, so fragile, but it is all just a façade. Perfect mask he wears, mask he uses to fool everyone. To lure them into what he wants.
He let it slip for me, revealed his true self before me, that calculating ginger Devil, that sweet little Angel. He known that it will made me follow him like an abandoned puppy.
“Be a good boy,” he said, after the plane crash. After I made the plane crash. “Be a good boy, Captain. Behave and I reward you.” He said it with such a tone, gave me such a look, that I immediately understood what does he mean by it.
He had known, must have known by the first moment he came crashing through my window. He had read me like a wide open book. But nevertheless I did exactly what he wanted me to do. Walked across that damned desert. Chased after him through unknown city. Not giving his whereabouts or plans to those wicked ruffians of crew I once was in command. Kissed him back while both of us were totally drunk by accident and he clutched me, singing clumsily and giggling with that angelic voice of his. Patiently listened to those twin-like detectives and that Japanese guy who congratulated him and asked him for details over and over again. And now, waiting in this hotel suite, our hotel suite, for his return, chewing my pipe nervously.
Am I really that miserable?
The door clicks and Tintin walks inside, Snowy at his heels. When he notices me, he stops in the middle of the movement, few inches from the couch I am sitting in. He probably doesn’t expect me to be still here.
While I got the freedom to do anything.
While I could run away.
Am I really that miserable?
Yes, I am.
And he knows it.
“So,” I swallow hardly, looking pleadingly into his eyes. “Was I a good boy?”


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