Chapter 1: not out of the ordinary
Chapter Text
It seemed like any normal day; well, not normal by Tintin’s standards, but generally calmer. He’d been so focused on just sitting at his desk with the newspaper during the late morning, though of course aware that Snowy was curled up asleep on the bed behind him. It was peaceful, the main sounds being his little white dog whining contentedly during his dreams, any footsteps of either the captain or Nestor outside his door and the sound of the wind through the autumnal trees just beyond his window.
He probably wasn’t aware of his own breathing, eyes scanning too busily along the newsprint for any important information and flicking the pages away to notice. It was most likely his lack of sleep - he was so restless during the night and getting up at god knows what hour to pace nervously in his room (he didn’t want to accidentally wake anyone up and worry them; he was used to doing that) - but he felt himself blinking more, squinting to see the words properly as he noticed his vision fading slightly. He sat up against the chair, heart beating a little too fast in his chest.
He heard the little steps of Snowy on the wooden floor, having woken up and gently bounded off the bed to trot up next to him. He was yawning, stretching his body out and shaking his head before sitting and looking up at him with his shiny black eyes.
Tintin smiled down at him, and Snowy leaned into the touch as he scratched the top of his head and behind his ears, letting out a pleasant whine in the process. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep, he thought. A focus too much on one mystery to the next. He didn’t know how to relax, to be completely honest with himself.
He moved his hands to the desk in front of him, getting up to push his chair back. He felt unsteady on his feet as he stood up, blinking rapidly and leaning heavily against the desk in front of him. It was just exhaustion, right? Lack of sleep can cause stress and anxiety and he was just letting it get the better of him. No need to worry anyone else.
He would’ve usually shrugged this off if it wasn’t for the night before, but he sighed, nonetheless turning to walk off this feeling. He was hardly one to give up at the first hurdle considering what he did.
Snowy was walking around his feet, looking up at him with concern in his black eyes. Dogs were usually able to sense before anyone else that something was wrong and Snowy was no exception to this rule. In fact, he was probably more perceptive than most dogs, as far as Tintin was aware. Even if he could sense something though, Tintin wasn’t willing to admit weakness even if it was obvious. His brain was always whirring with new ideas about what to do and how to solve things. He didn’t often let himself rest until he’d had it figured out.
He stopped a few feet from his desk, putting a hand against his head, blinking dazily again as he felt an ache arise in his head and hissed. He forgot how little he had eaten recently, seeming to be running mainly on cups of tea and too focused on his work to even think about anything else. His legs were not feeling as solid as they used to - probably from sitting in his chair most days - and he’d been too focused to even think about his breathing.
It’s just a panic attack, he thought. He was far too used to these to think it was anything else - not like he wanted to anyway - and he wasn’t about to. They happened, he dealt with them, and moved on. Nothing like he couldn’t handle.
Nothing like he couldn’t predict, he thought, not anticipating his stumble as he took a couple of steps forward. He didn’t anticipate not being able to catch good ground, vision swimming, body swaying, momentarily feeling lighter than air. He could handle this, couldn’t he? He’d felt far worse from people who wanted him dead and managed to survive. Even if his breath felt like it left his body, feeling the usual sensation of the floor rushing up to meet him, even if---
He certainly didn’t anticipate the wooden bedpost in front of him, an almost indistinguishable object in his blurred vision as he uncontrollably fell headfirst with a painfully sharp thud against it, before he felt the usual darkness surround him before he even hit the floor.
Nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d be fine. Nothing to worry the captain about, or his own dog, unawares that the poor thing was barking up a storm at the door after scurrying away just before that moment. Everything else seemed drowned out, almost peaceful. So, getting up was the biggest problem of his with this, right?
Just another normal day, after all.
Chapter 2: still, he'd never be used to it, would he? not now with his friends seeing him like this
Summary:
Dear god, it has been literal years! I do apologise for the waiting on many of my WIPs like this, but things have often been rough and I struggle with being regular, so thank you for your patience! I've had a particularly bad number of crises in the last several months, and being diagnosed with both ADHD and Complex PTSD has certainly opened a whole can of worms in making sense of them. And so when I found a prompt from this Whumptober, it fit perfectly for me to write it! At least this is another start! Again, thank you SO much for your patience. My mental health has often been fragile, so it really means a lot to see comments, bookmarks and kudos on my work, even if I still struggle on how to acknowledge them!
I know I promised it earlier, but, yeah, life really, really does get in the way, huh?
Chapter Text
It appeared unconsciousness felt like it had consumed him for an eternal period of time, spending so much of it in the dark. Not long into it, he was already feeling like he was staring down at himself, completely and utterly detached from the reality around him. He heard faint sounds of beeping, of voices, of snoring, and the strong smell of disinfectant and linen was all around him. His head had been painfully stitched, and he felt it was sticky and covered in a strange fabric, there were needles in him, something plastic was clipped to one of his fingers, he was dressed in crisp, clean pyjamas as he lay on a soft bed and downy pillows, covered in sheets with a plastic mask over his mouth and nose as he felt himself breathe, felt his chest rise and fall with each one, feeling the slow pulse of his heartbeat deep inside of himself.
He was in a hospital? It seemed they went the whole nine yards. It wasn’t that bad, was it? He felt like a science experiment, and all he could see was himself below him and try and picture the way everything looked, because right now, he was only able to feel and hear what was happening to him.
A sense of anxiety gripped him, even more so than before. He could sense these things, but he couldn’t properly picture anything. It felt and sounded very much like a hospital, he was somewhat aware of what was happening to him, but he couldn’t move. Not even twitch his fingers. He heard rustling nearby, a touch of his arms, faint conversations that tonally sounded concerned. Was it the concussion against the bed post that did it? Or was there something more? He felt sick, the sense of anxiety growing to a twinge in his stomach and chest. His body wouldn’t move, and he didn’t understand how much time had passed. Was he dead? He couldn’t be dead – he was just about able to sense things around him. So what was the possible explanation?
“Doctor, what on earth are you talking about? Is the lad going to be okay or what?”
The comforting, deep but worried and impatient tones of the captain reverberated in his head. Oh thank God, he was here---
“Sir, I’m sorry, he’s been in a coma for six months already. We’re doing the best we can. As I said, it wasn’t just the head injury. We found in an X-ray that he also has had a severe chest infection that he didn’t seek help for.”
The clinical, serious and cold tone of the doctor still hit him like a freight train. No, no, no! He couldn’t be in a coma! For six months?! And he had a chest infection too?! Sure, he remembered feeling certain symptoms, like aches, fatigue and trouble breathing, but he’d been so focused on his work, he’d barely noticed. He must have burned through his symptoms without realising. But surely, he would’ve noticed something, right? Especially with something as severe as a chest infection?
“Then find a way to get him out of it! He can’t stay like that forever!”
Tintin could hear the fierce protectiveness ring in his tone. The captain wasn’t one to slip and be open about his feelings about anything, which, not like the reporter was either, but whilst the reporter was left in such a vulnerable situation, it seemed it all came pouring out, leaving him more vulnerable too. Oh, how he wanted to wake up and talk to him and make it all alright again! But he couldn’t move, trapped in a terrified state that he couldn’t see outside of, that he couldn’t respond from.
“It’s not that simple, sir! We did manage to catch it early, but his state was made worse from the head injury. We’re fortunate that it’s a bacterial infection, so we’ve been able to give him antibiotics and fluids as well as oxygen, but at the moment, we’re monitoring his brain activity and pulse rate to keep an eye on him.”
“I know, I know, I just---” he heard the captain reply, gripped by worry and frustration, before it quickly collapsed, voice shaking as it sped up, now open and raw and exposed with fear and self-blame, “I should’ve asked, I should’ve helped earlier, but he’s not one to tell me anything and I never wanted to suffocate him---”
“I understand the concern. Especially with how young he is. But you shouldn’t blame yourself. He must be dealing with a lot, the poor thing. He doesn’t have a terribly good immune system, but we are going to make sure that his odds of survival go up, I promise you that. That’s exactly what we’re here for.”
The doctor sounded less clinical and far more genuine, and it seemed the captain had gone silent, perhaps overcome with emotion. The air was quickly punctuated with his quiet sobs though, and Tintin was cursing the fact that he couldn’t do anything to help him, he couldn’t reach out in any kind of way, he could only just lie here and hear his deep distress through the veil of unconsciousness instead. He was going to survive, he was going to be alive, come hell or high water. However many times the reporter had been in the hospital, it had always come so close to destroying the captain. He wanted this to be no different whatsoever.
Veraison on Chapter 1 Tue 05 Jan 2021 05:17PM UTC
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KK (Guest) on Chapter 1 Thu 08 Jul 2021 06:17AM UTC
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kivancalcite on Chapter 1 Thu 08 Jul 2021 02:18PM UTC
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0atMi1k on Chapter 1 Sun 19 Jun 2022 11:42AM UTC
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