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.
