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At first, Owen thinks he’s dreaming.
TK. A gunshot.
There’s no other explanation. It must be an awful, vivid dream that only toxic chemotherapy drugs can produce.
Things drastically clear when he manages to focus on his only child. TK staggers from the momentum of a gunshot to the chest. He turns to him instinctively with wide blue-gray eyes and mouth forming ‘Dad’ in childlike shock. Owen's breath catches in his throat, but he reacts instantly. He cushions TK’s fall to the ground as best as he can. He shouts his son’s name with one breath and with another he’s barking orders to the team.
This is not a dream.
Owen gets a flash of the first time he held his perfect little boy.
----
The scrunched, red face tiny thing finally relaxes in his arms. His freshly cleaned, freshly fed newborn son wiggles sleepily. Five tiny little fingers clench around his pinkie in a vice-like grip.
Gwyneth is asleep in the hospital bed. She finally relinquished their son after breastfeeding him for the first time. Owen scooped him up immediately instead of giving him to the nurse.
It’s been minutes, maybe hours, and Owen will not put him down in the bassinet by his wife’s side. He sits in the rocking chair in the corner of the room with the snugly wrapped blue bundle. He rubs a finger over the plump, reddened cheek. The baby yawns, making a soft little cry at the thought of being disturbed. A sweep of dark eye lashes over fuzzy blue eyes, takes his breath away.
Tyler Kennedy Strand. His son.
----
It’s a through and through - the bullet’s lodged in the wall behind them, but there’s not a lot of blood immediately. Owen pats his chest with furious intensity, sure that he can plug the holes with just his best intentions. Michelle appears beside him, shifting TK better into his arms and gently guiding his free hands to TK’s opposite shoulder and head. She kneels on the ground, reaching into the depths of her bag for supplies. “Hey TK, it’s Michelle. Can you hear me?” She doesn’t wait for TK to respond, spotting the wound immediately and peeling back the soaked uniform. “GSW to the upper left chest, sucking wound.” She lifts her stethoscope to her ears, assessing his chest, “No breath sounds on the left side, must have punctured the upper lobe. Get me a needle for decompression just in case.”
Pneumothorax, Owen’s mind supplies. His vision whites out for a single second, but he shakes himself, taking a fortifying deep breath. He turns away from the technicalities of Michelle’s commentary. He runs his fingers through TK’s sweaty hair, tapping his cheek, “TK, look at me. Stay awake.” His son doesn’t respond, so much as blink heavily. “It’s important, kid. Come on, look at me.” He taps his cheek a little more intensely. “TK.”
The sharp command is effective as ever. TK’s eyes lazily slide open, his mouth parting with a wheezing puff of air that could probably be taken for a mumbled, ‘Hurts’ if Owen was a gambling man. A sliver of pure fear slips into his stomach, something he hasn’t felt in years – hasn’t let himself feel for years, even at the first appointment with his oncologist.
“You’re gonna be fine. They’re taking good care of you.” TK’s lips pull into a grimace, eyes fluttering shut with another labored breath. Owen purses his lips, exchanging a quick glance with Michelle. He may not be a paramedic, but he’s seen a lot. He pats TK’s cheek again a little frantically, and Michelle takes it a little bit further.
She rubs his chest hard, “TK? Don’t fall asleep, sweetheart. Come on, show me those pretty eyes of yours.” Michelle presses a little harder than necessary on his wound. TK moans, starting a shockwave of harsh coughing, and quick biting sobs of pain that tear through Owen's heart. TK’s been injured on the job before, not this bad, but he’s strong. He’ll be fine. He repeats it, like it’s his new mantra as his son stops responding to Michelle’s ministrations.
He'll be fine. He'll be fine. He'll be fine.
Rosewater appears at his side, dropping to kneel with a nasal cannula and a portable tank of O2 that he passes to Gillian. He grabs another IV start kit and begins prepping TK’s opposite hand without pausing. “Second rig’s around the corner. Luckily, the 122 had a false alarm.” Rosewater meets his eyes, before turning to Michelle. ”Mr. Crump’s in ROSC, sinus rhythm after two shocks and 1 milligram of epi, breathing on his own. He’s on a monitor and on 2 liters of oxygen. He's doing ok.” He finds a vein in TK’s forearm and slips the needle and cannula in with ease. “He had a heart attack a year or two ago and hasn’t been keeping up with his cardiologist. Wife’s shook up but unharmed and the kid--” He pauses, shifting nervously.
Owen frowns hard, “None of that, Rosewater. How’s the kid? He must be traumatized. He can’t be more than ten.”
“He’s--”
“Eight and a half, actually.” Judd interrupts, swooping down to crouch his bulk beside them. “He’s upset, real upset, but Paul’s talking to him. Mateo’s outside ready to direct the second unit and Marjan secured the gun.” He rests a hand on Owen’s shoulder, it’s a comforting gesture but unnecessary. “We got you, Cap. Ready to move out when he’s stabilized.”
“Just a minute,” Michelle agrees, nodding her head. “BP is lower than I like. Bleeding’s pulsatile; it must have nicked something - Subclavian if I had to guess. We need to get him to Ascension. Another 500 bolus will help until he can get blood.” Gillian hefts the brand new bag of normal saline and squeezes it hard.
Owen doesn’t have enough time to thank Judd. A second set of medics rush into the hallway with a board and equipment, hustling passed them. Before he can direct anyone, Judd jumps to his feet, taking over the scene. He squeezes Owen’s shoulder with a “Meet you there, Cap”, taking command and leaving Owen with the medics. They’re a well-oiled machine, even with one of their own unconscious on the ground. They transfer him to the board, then the gurney with little fuss and by the time they're safely tucked in the back of the rig, the second ambulance is packed up and headed out.
Michelle tugs him into the back with Gillian and TK. Owen slides onto the folding metal bench to the right, retreating as far as he can without losing contact with his son. He slips his hands around TK’s loose one, rubbing warmth into the cool, clammy hand. “Come on, kid. You can’t do this to me.”
He sits hunched over his boy the rest of the trip, acutely aware of the labored breaths and his dropping blood pressure.
When they get to the ED, it's unnerving to be on the other side. A team meets them outside decked out in gowns and masks, clearly expecting the worst. Owen is grateful Austin is so supportive of its first responders. They speed to the trauma bay, medical lingo spewing out of Michelle’s mouth and Owen tries his best to not leave his son’s side. It lasts as far as the doorway.
“You need to let go, sir.” A short, squat nurse tests his grip, gently but adeptly tugging his hand away from TK’s limp grasp. “We’ll let you know how he’s doing the second we get in touch with his next of kin.”
“I am his next of kin. He’s my son.”
Her eyes soften impossibly and drift to his name embroidered over his right chest, “Okay, Captain Strand. It’s lucky you’re here.” She gestures to one of the gowned up women, “I’m Lenora and this is Dr. McGowan. Can we ask you a few questions about your boy?”
Owen nods, pushing as much as he can into the room without being forced out. They’re undressing TK, stripping him out of his blood, soaked uniform and boots. He’s the tiniest bit more aware, probably from pain, sluggishly following the commands of the doctor. Owen tears his eyes away as one of them leans into his view to press a stethoscope against his ribcage.
“I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
Lenora purses her lips in sympathy. “Name? Age? Date of birth? Allergies? Previous medical history?”
He rattles off TK’s demographics easily, pausing at allergies. “Penicillin as a kid, broke out in hives after an ear infection.” He remembers that tiny little toddler with itchy, red welts all over his body. “Asthma, but he hasn’t had an attack in years. If he has a chest infection, he might use an inhaler.” He stops, flashing to the horrifying image of his son laid out on the floor of his apartment with an empty container of pills. He can’t pretend that important part of son’s life doesn’t exist. “History of substance abuse. Depression.”
They ask more questions, and he answers by route. It’s nothing different than usual. He answered half of these a month ago in a different Emergency Room in New York City. TK had been awake by then, upset, sick, and embarrassed, but conscious. Owen struggles to put aside that moment.
The nurse asks more questions, straight forward things about home medication, occupation and social history. He strives to remain patient; Lenora doesn’t mean to sound bored – she asks these questions a million times a day. Owen’s attention drifts. She’s still speaking, but he stops listening. He may not understand all of the medical terms he overhears, but he knows enough trigger words – hemodynamic instability, sucking chest wound - to know something is wrong.
One of the nurses near Owen shouts, “Sats are dropping.”
TK’s breathing abruptly cuts off in a shuttering, gasping heave. He doesn't breathe in again. Alarms begin to wail.
“We need a 14 gauge for decompression. It’s a tension pneumo. Give it to me before he crashes.” Someone in green runs past Owen at breakneck speed. “Surgery’s aware. We’ll go directly to OR when stable.”
“What’s happening?” Owen asks. “What are you doing?” No one answers him. The way the doctor is pressing his fingers along TK’s ribcage is familiar in a particularly nasty way. He stops just over the second intercostal space, to the left of his sternum. Something stirs in the back of his brain. He’s watched this before. One of the medics in the 252 had been overeager and had tried to save a few extra lives before arriving at the hospital.
Someone hands the attending a massive hollowed needle tip. Owen’s heart drops to his feet; bile rises in his throat at the thought of that huge needle finding its way into his only child’s chest. He’s seen a lot of things. He’s walked through the smoky hallways of the twin towers with his brothers on his shoulders. He rose out of the ashes covered in layers of soot and dust that took hours to remove. Somehow, this is the moment that he can’t watch. His eyes snap shut of their own accord. The alarms are still wailing, his heart is pounding. The only thing grounding him is the the very weak gasping of his son’s breathing.
There’s silence, then the most beautiful sound Owen’s heard in twenty-five years.
TK takes an enormous gasping breath. Owen can’t help himself, he rushes forward past the nurses and practically shoves a medical student out of the way to approach TK’s side. His son’s eyes are open and mostly alert, chest heaving. His eyes slide to meet Owen’s, his trembling hand instinctively reaching for him, “H’rts, Dad.”
Owen leans down the best he can, careful of the doctor stabilizing the needle. He presses his face close to TK’s, petting his sweating hair. “I know, son. You’re gonna be okay. They’re taking good care of you.”
“We need to go, Captain. I’m sorry,” Lenora, the nurse from before, pulls his arm to lead him away. “Give him a kiss goodbye. We need to get him to the OR.”
He does as she says, pressing his cheek to TK’s, squeezing his hand so hard it should hurt. “You’ll be alright. I love you, kid.”
TK’s passing alertness fades. He nods sluggishly, eyes falling shut. They wheel him out, two pushing the stretcher, two others pushing machinery behind them. In seconds, he’s left alone in the empty, dirtied trauma bay. There’s debris on the floor and splattered blood, nothing Owen hasn’t seen before, but now the sight of it leaves him feeling sick.
"Captain?” He turns toward the double doors. The 126 is crowded around the doorway, Paul leading the pack. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Owen smiles at them, turning it brighter and more confident than he feels. “He’ll be fine.”
Marjan and Mateo exchange glances. “He asked how you were doing.”
Owen grimaces, realizing his mistake, and the megawatt grin slides off his face, “I’ll be ok. He’s in good hands.”
Judd wraps a comfortable arm around his shoulder, guiding him back to the waiting room. “Of course, he is, Cap.”
“You should head back. Get some rest, eat something.” Owen rubs a hand over his face, wiping away his exhaustion. No one mentioned how long they thought it would be, but he’s expecting the worst. He thinks back to where his phone was last seen, checking his back pocket. He looks up to several unimpressed faces who have planted themselves in seats across the small waiting room. For a very brief second, he rests his fingers on the bridge of his nose. “Head on out, guys. It’s gonna be a long wait, you should rest while you can,” None of them look impressed. “Come on, get. Isn’t that what ya’ll say down here?”
Judd huffs a laugh. “Good try. We’re not leaving. Once we know he’s out of danger we’ll head back.”
“But for now,” Marjan says, a soft smile embracing her features, “we can wait too.”
Owen sighs, in frustration and more than a little relief, “I can’t force you guys. Grab coffee and settle down. I need to make some phone calls.”
They wince, waiting a beat. Mateo says, “It can wait.”
“No, it can’t.” Owen laughs even though it’s not funny. “She’s going to be pissed that I waited this long.”
“Who is?”
“His mother.”
----
He and Gwen divorced the summer after 9/11. They tried, really, for months, to deal with Owen’s new triggers, his outbursts, his losses. It didn’t work. Too much had changed, and Gwen couldn’t handle it anymore. Not while she was also working full time as a prosecutor and taking care of their precocious six year old son.
Owen couldn’t blame her. He blamed himself too much.
It was hard going back to the 252 every day. Too many things had changed and too many lockers were empty. It was hard to fight fires every day knowing what other danger was out there. It was hard not to the see morning sun reflected off the towers.
It was too god damn hard.
She got custody of TK.
He was, after all, a captain in the FDNY in the aftermath of 9/11 with a brand new psychiatric history of PTSD and depression. He could barely handle himself, let alone his child.
He spent as much time as he could with TK on weekends, trading shifts as he was able. Sometimes, it wasn’t possible. He knew TK didn’t understand. It was better to disappoint him than have a nightmarish flashback in front of his young son.
He was glad (in a way that cut his soul) when Gwen got a promotion and they moved out of New York.
----
TK doesn’t wake up.
It’s been hours since he was brought to a room, mask rebreather on his face and monitors recording his every breath and heartbeat. The surgery hadn’t taken as long as Owen worried, and it was a relief to see his son after the tense phone call with his ex-wife.
The relief he feels doesn’t change the fact that TK still hasn’t woken up. The surgeon had come to speak to him when TK was settled in the recovery unit. Good and bad news. His lung had been re-inflated, and it had missed his heart and his spine. The bad news: the bullet had torn through the subclavian artery, and the blood loss was massive. It had taken some time to contain the bleeding, and his internal organs had taken a hit when they were deprived of oxygen and nutrients.
His kidneys had begun to fail.
His heart was working overtime.
His brain – they wouldn’t know anything until he woke up.
The doctors had been encouraging: he’s young and otherwise healthy. He should wake up soon. Owen stays positive. It doesn’t change anything. He sits by his side, holding his hand and brushing his hair. He talks to him, and winds up falling asleep in the chair by his bed in an awful position for an hour.
Eventually, Officer Reyes comes. It’s not a surprise - his son has a type - but the longing and fear in Carlos’ eyes is a surprise. Who knew the cop could be that enamored with his son that fast? Owen gives up his seat with ease, knowing with some kind of parental intuition that he isn’t making a mistake. He hopes TK knows too.
He speaks with Michelle, he forces down some delicious chili Grace brings to the hospital, he postpones his next chemo treatment and, in that time, TK still does not wake up. He’s not losing hope - that’s simply not a possibility, but his thoughts do get a bit bleaker, his nerves worse.
He’ll wake up when he’s ready.
He moans in his sleep; he grinds his teeth. He even mumbles nonsensical words that once, very memorably, cause Mateo to jump out of his chair in alarm. They call it a coma; they take him for special neurological tests (which come back negative) and shrug. His kidneys are recovering, his heart is basically back to normal, but they don’t know why his brain isn’t coming back online.
Owen doesn’t leave.
A few of the 126 join him when they’re not on duty. Carlos visits more often than not. They sit on opposite sides of the bed, sometimes speaking, sometimes sitting in silence until the beeping monitors get too loud.
Two days after surgery, the chest tube gets removed.
TK still doesn’t wake up.
----
When TK is eighteen, he comes back to New York City. He’s changed a lot since Owen’s last saw him just a few months earlier. He’s slimmer, shooting up a few more inches and filling out in his shoulders. Puberty has finally blessed him with the good Strand genes.
He’s come back to the city to join the FDNY and Owen can’t be prouder. Owen makes a spot for him in his apartment, clearing out a small room that he’d been using for storage. He joins the academy and they welcome him to the 252 when he passes the exam.
They work comfortably for a while until TK brings back a ‘house guest’.
Owen’s known for years his son was gay and it doesn’t bother him. Finding a random mostly naked man at his breakfast bar after a long night on shift, bothers him.
They argue when the man saunters out with a lecherous smile and wink. Owen can tell without a doubt the man’s using his son, but TK won’t listen. He leaves that day, packing an overnight bag and vanishing. They don’t speak, beyond a few commands on shift, and it’s with a heavy heart, Owen realizes TK thinks he’s upset that he’s gay. Three days after the revelation (when Owen’s still not quite brave enough to confront him), he gets a call from a medic with the 187 out in Brooklyn.
His son is in Brooklyn Methodist Emergency Room. He OD’ed on a handful of oxycodone.
After that, Owen makes sure things are different.
----
When TK does wake up, it’s of course, when Owen’s new friend is visiting. Zoe is kind in the wake of his relieved panic. She kisses his cheek, promises to check in and leaves the two of them to talk. TK is exhausted, but still has enough balls to tease his father. Owen takes it happily, just relieved that he even has the chance to tease his son right back about a certain Latino police officer.
It’s not easy to explain what happened when he asks. Retelling the shooting is a different kind of pain than actually living through it. TK’s easy kindess and empathy for the child is a comfort. He’s always been a sensitive soul, and it’s good to know it has no bounds. At some point, in the near future, TK’s probably going to want to visit the kid in person, but right now, Owen is hopeful he can persuade him just to recuperate.
A day later, TK is released. He no longer needs oxygen, and they’ve come up with a non-narcotic pain control regimen that actually works. Owen shuffles him into the car, watching closely that he doesn’t feel faint or that the pain doesn’t get too much. They keep the conversation light, TK smiles at all the right points, but Owen can practically feel the way he tenses every time they go over a bump.
It’s a relief when they get out of the Texan sun and into the cool interior of their new home. TK practically melts into the leather couch, curling up in the corner and flicking on the television. Owen cannot physically stop himself from grabbing almost every single blanket in the house and tucking him in.
“Go to work, Dad.” TK’s blue eyes peek out from the blanket mound. He’s far too pale still, tires easily and is short of breath from just his jaunt from the car, but he’s recovering.
“I still got time off. Find a movie you like and I’ll make you something that actually tastes decent.”
“Dad, you gotta stop mother-henning me. I’m a grown man.” TK smiles at him, trying to be reassuring, and all it does is make him look like a pitiful kitten, “I’m fine. Let me sit here and chill.”
“But—“
“Dad.”
“Ok, ok,” Owen perches on the couch arm. “I’m allowed to hover though. You almost died four days ago. The only way you were discharged is because we convinced them you would do as much healing there as here.”
“I will.” TK sits up a little, grimace instantly vanishing when Owen stands up in a panic. “It’s ok, Dad. You can shower and eat something. I swear I’ll be ok.”
“I guess you’ll be alright by yourself for a few minutes.” Owen agrees. He thinks carefully. He doesn’t have to shave. He could wait to moisture until later. “If I rush through my skincare routine, I can make it back in time for your next pill.”
“Rush through your skincare routine? Who are you and what have you done with my father?” TK smiles fully then when Owen narrows his eyes at him. “I’m probably just going to sleep for the next few hours. It’ll be fine.”
“Thirty five minutes only. We need to stay ahead of your pain,” TK rolls his eyes. Owen had very attentively listened to the acute pain consultant on options other than narcotics. He doesn’t take offense. TK’s very good at pretending things are fine when they definitely are not. “If we don’t, it'll be unbearable, so it’s best to stay ahead of it. Dr. Humphry certainly thinks so.”
“He’s an overpaid, vapid doctor. He interrupted our consult to comment on his instagram.” TK sighs when Owen doesn’t crack a smile. “Fine. I’ll take the Tylenol and Celebrex.” TK punctures his statement with a yawn that cracks his jaw. “I swear I won’t move other than to eat and piss.”
“You better not.”
“Dad.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Owen stands then, checking his phone for his ‘To Do List’. He heads back to the kitchen, thinking of what he needs to get at the store, and if he should even leave TK. They’ve only been home for ten minutes, and Owen already is thinking ahead. Most of the fruit and veggies should still be good, he repackaged them into reusable containers so they would stay fresh, but there’s definitely a leftover or two that absolutely needs to be thrown in the trash.
“Hey, Dad,” Owen turns away from the fridge to his son. TK is sitting up, a curious look on his face. “You know, you could probably make today’s shift if you left within the hour.” Owen can’t quite stop his jaw from dropping and TK redirects, “I just mean you’ve been doing nothing for the last few days. You’re probably going crazy from boredom. You could totally head out and I’ll be fine.”
“I wasn’t that bored, son. I was pretty preoccupied with waiting for you to rejoin the land of the living.”
“Dad.”
“You’re stuck with me.” Owen puts aside the grocery list. Checking his watch for the time - he really could make the shift if he rushed, he heads for the hallway and the stairs leading to the master bathroom. He stops in the doorway when he has a thought. TK is on his phone, small smile on his face, “Hey TK?”
“Yeah Dad?”
“You pushing me out of here has nothing to do with a certain police officer who just happens to be off today and tomorrow, does it?”
“Oh my god!” Owen catches flushed cheeks before his son buries his face in a pillow. He can’t help laughing as he walks away. He feels better than he has in days, a bounce to his step and lighter in his heart. He starts for the stairs and takes a reassuring, deep breath. If TK is already thinking with his dick, he’s feeling better. He had expected a few days before he lost his mind from boredom, but this is much better.
TK’s gonna be just fine.