Chapter Text
TINTIN
Grey light from the overcast sky showered everything in the small flat a glum hue of blue when Tintin finally arrived. He dropped his suitcases by the door, rubbing his tired eyes. A faint sense of guilt about turning down Haddock's invitation to stay at Moulinsart tried to work its way into his mind, but exhaustion quickly shut it out. How long had it been since he had a solid night's sleep? He couldn't remember.
The couch gave a sigh as he sunk into the cushions, staring out the French window overlooking the street. Light was slowly beginning to dim from the clouds, shifting from slate to blue. Tintin vaguely acknowledged the lack of dust around the place, though he had been gone several months. With a groan, he reached over to the gramophone, lifted the needle and gently places it on the faint grooves in the vinyl. A crackled, then the soft chords of Debussy's Clair de Lune began to fill the silence. Mme Finch must have come to clean. He hadn't listened to Debussy in years. Ten years, if one wanted an exact number. He would have been ten when he last heard the running arpeggios and twinkling melodies that reminisced the moonlight shifting across a quiet river.
His mother loved this piece. She would play it on their little upright piano, when he was tucked in the bed they shared, her fingers moving by themselves. She didn't need music; she didn't need to see. It was second-nature to her. Through the crack of the ajar door, he could see her dark, auburn hair pulled back into a loose plait, or wound tightly into curlers. He loved to watch her play, watching her hands glide across the keys, the emerald in her engagement ring sparkling in the lamplight. Sometimes it was jazz, but mostly it was the lilting tones of Debussy, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff and Chopin.
Not much had changed in the little flat. Most of the furniture was the same, though the little piano had been sold and replaced with a glass-panelled cupboard, and the bedroom was now filled with model aeroplanes and pictures of Tintin's adventures. He didn't have the heart to move out of his childhood home, and Mme Finch had been more than willing to lower the rent while he found his footing. This was home. This was where Maman was. And he didn't want to leave.
"Tintin?"
He jumped, pulled from his reverie (ironically, Clair de Lune had finished and the gramophone now sing Debussy's Rêverie,) and gazed at the door.
"What are you doing sitting in the dark?" The click of a lamp echoed and suddenly the room was bathed in a golden glow. "I nearly tripped over your bags," Mme Finch said as she moved them to his room.
"Oh, sorry," Tintin sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"No need. I can imagine your dead tired," she called from the kitchen. "Tea?"
"Yes, please. With honey?"
"You won't have it any other way. Now," she appeared behind him, dusting her hands on her apron. "How was it? Did everyone come home safe and sound?"
Tintin stared at her, blinking slowly. "It was fine."
She narrowed her eyes. "You went to the Moon, and all you have to is that it was fine?"
"... Yes."
"Hmm." The whistle of the kettle called her back to the kitchen, but she soon arrived with a pair of steaming mugs, which she set gently on the coffee table. "Come on. What was it like? On the moon?"
Tintin said nothing.
"Tintin? Are you alright?"
He sniffed.
She took his hand, rubbing it gently. "What happened?"
"There were so many stars." He pulled his hand away, pressing it to his eyes. "So many."
Mme Finch said nothing, but instead began to run his back. The sniffs slowly turned to sobs, yet she did not speak. Sometimes it would take a while, but Tintin always spoke. Eventually.
"I–" he gasped, jabbing the heels of his palms into his eyes, wishing to cease the steady stream of tears. "I don't know the last time I saw so many–"
"Deep breaths."
He tried, though they shuddered like an old automobile starting its engine.
"Mme Finch," he whispered.
"Yes?"
"I can't see the stars anymore."
He felt her hand stop and her breath hitch. "Are you sure?"
He nodded.
Then her arms wrapped around him in a warm, tight embrace, her steady heartbeat sounding in his ear. There were no words to be said or exchanged, for what does one say in a situation like this? When one's greatest fear is realised?
The sons slowly ebbed away to the occasional hiccup, but Mme Finch's hug did not. "The Captain also offered me a place at Moulinsart to live, but I don't know if I could ever bring myself to leave here."
"Perhaps it might be best." Her voice resonated in her chest, deep yet soft. He shook his head. "I think it might help."
"No."
"You won't be leaving her."
There was no reply, so Mme Finch continued.
"She lives on in your memories."
"But my memories are here!"
She sighed, rubbing his arm. "That's the beauty with memories; you take them with you wherever you go."
"But this is home."
"I know. But there comes a day when the bird needs to leave the nest."
He rubbed at his wet eyes. "Why? Why do I need to go?"
"Because you're stuck in the past, Tintin." She pulled a tissue from seemingly nowhere and handed it to him. "It's time to live in the present."
The tears began to spill once more. He knew she was right. There were too many memories here, most of them lovely. Yet, in the dark shadows hid the source of many nightmares and tears that had risen last night. He hardly slept a wink because of them. "But," he whispered, "I don't know how."
"Take up Archie's offer."
"... I don't like that you're on a first-name basis with him."
"We have many conversations about you. He cares for you, and he'll look after you. I'm assuming he knows?"
He shook his head violently. "No. No one knows. The can't know."
"Tintin-"
"What would they think?" He pulled away, swallowing. "What would they say?"
"They will cherish you and look after you."
"That's wat Maman thought! And she lost almost all of her friends when they found out! And-" He didn't have to say it. It was clear in his eyes what he was referring to.
Mme Finch straightened her skirt, studying her hands. "Times have changed since then."
"Hardly."
"You never know." She looked back at him, hunched by the arm of the couch. "Haddock thinks the world of you. You've changed his life and he wants to do everything he can to make it up to you."
"So imagine how he would feel if I finds out I'm a useless weight to society!"
"Ah, no." Her tone grew stern and she grabbed his head in her hands, pulling herself close to him. "You do not say that about yourself. You are not useless and you are not a dead weight. You are more capable that anyone else I have met, and you will continue to developed your skills and talents in ways that contribute to those around you. You are not worthless. Have I made myself understood?"
Slowly, he nodded. "I guess."
"Don't guess. Know."
"Yes, Madame."
"Now, do you have an officially diagnosis?"
"No."
"Go get one."
"But–"
"Tintin, you cannot run away from it. It's too late for that. I know this is hard," she said, taking his hand again, "but this is important. You need to prepare, before it's too late."
She was right. He sighed. "All right. I'll get the diagnosis."
"And, when you're ready, you're going to call Archie and accept his offer."
Tintin said nothing. Again, she was right, but this would make it all real. There would be nights where he would dream that she would return, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead when he woke up in the morning. She was just trying to find her way back. But, as the years had drawn on, he knew she wasn't coming home. He knew this fantasy needed to end. "All right. I'll call him "
"Good boy." Mme Finch squeezed his hand. "You'll come and visit, won't you?"
"Of course! I would miss our Friday evenings for the world."
She grinned. "Wonderful. Unpack your bags, change into something comfortable and come downstairs when you're ready. I'm making soup."
"Thank you, Madame."
She left with a soft click of the door. Tintin sat there for a moment longer, smiling fondly as Milou jumped onto his lap. "Hello boy. I bet you're starving. Shall I get you some dinner?"
Milou's tail began to wriggle rapidly against his legs.
"OK! Message understood. Then we'll go down."
Milou gave out a bark.
Through the gap in the still-open curtains, the moon hung, suspended in a sea of clouds. Beyond them were the stars.
And somewhere, far beyond them, lived the souls of those who had left this world.
He knew she was there.