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Owen Strand raced across the hospital parking lot, ignoring the honks of cars objecting to being cut off by a pedestrian. The sliding doors almost didn't open in time as he rushed towards the station manned by a nurse. “Tyler Strand,” he announced, trying to catch his breath.
“I beg your pardon?” The nurse, a heavy-set woman in gray scrubs, raised a brow at the panting man before her.
“Tyler Kennedy Strand. He was brought in almost two hours ago.”
The nurses nodded, turning and tapping keys on her keyboard. “Relation?”
“I'm his father. He's my son.” Owen paused and closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath to collect himself. He regularly ran into fires for a living, on site and calmly directing others as needed before heading into the foray himself. He had made his living and kept his life by being calm, cool and collected, even when dealing with PTSD and grief and going through a divorce.
“Next of kin?”
“Yes, I'm next of kin,” he answered, willing himself to be patient. The nurse was just doing her job. She didn't need a worried father standing over her getting more and more upset. He had always had huge respect for nurses and doctors, just as much as he did for other first responders.
Even if this one was keeping him away from his son and he desperately wanted to leap over the cluttered desk, shove her away from the computer and look for the information himself.
It took a few brief minutes that felt interminable before she was directing him to one of the cubicles off to the side. He hurried that way, sparing her a distracted smile, and was soon standing in front of a multicolored curtain that was pulled closed. Looking down, he absently noted that his hand was shaking as he reached out.
It wasn't the first time he had been in this position, waiting to go to his son's side after an injury. Most of the time, it was due to things that happened at work. Smoke inhalation, scraps or sprains. On one memorable occasion, Tyler had been helping with mess duty and grabbed an extremely sharp ceramic knife wrong, slicing open his palm. They were all things that had to be checked out for insurance purposes.
This was completely different. Tyler had put himself here.
Again.
Owen squared his shoulders and steeled himself against what he was going to find on the other side of the flimsy fabric. Logically, he knew that they wouldn't have sent him over here to the corpse of his son without warning. His stomach still twisted at the thought, idly, hysterically thinking of Schrodinger's Cat. As long as the box was closed, the cat was both alive and dead. The cat was just fine.
As long as this curtain remained closed, Tyler was fine.
Another deep breath and the curtain was open, the hollow ache in Owen's belly easing as he took in his son. Tyler looked so incredibly young, dark hair curling in slight disarray, eyes closed against the bright lights. If Owen ignored the bruising under them his eyes, ignored the padded cuffs attached to the rails of the hospital bed, Owen could almost think that Tyler was still just a moody teenager trying to sleep through the day. He was absurdly pleased that the other end of the cuffs weren't attached to Tyler.
The holds sliding in the rail seemed unnaturally loud even in the bustling environment and Tyler opened his eyes to stare at the pock-marked ceiling before turning resigned eyes on the intruder into his private space. Expecting yet another nurse, dark eyes widened as he took in the figure of his father. “Dad.” He winced as his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, swallowing and wincing again at the soreness.
Getting your stomach pumped was never a pleasant feeling.
“You gave your word.” The words were stern, uncompromising, as was Owen's face as he stepped forward and pulled the curtain closed. They were completely contradicted by the softness of his hands running through Tyler's hair.
Tyler nodded, eyes welling with tears. “I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to!” he promised.
Owen sighed and sat heavily in the chair next to the bed, shaking his head before dropping it into his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “You promised me that I wasn't going to have to wonder if you survived after taking a bunch of pills again.”
“I know.” Tyler sighed, sounding utterly miserable.
“What happened? You seemed fine when we went off shift yesterday.” They were not quite halfway through their three days off. When leaving the station, they had made plans to meet up for brunch or lunch on the second day, a common occurrence for the close duo.
“I decided to do some spring cleaning. I've been putting it off.”
“Your apartment is the size of a closet,” Owen snorted. “It shouldn't have taken you long.”
“Not big enough,” Tyler sighed, fingering at a frayed thread on the sheet that had been tossed over his legs while studiously not meeting his father's eyes. “I found a box in the closet, way up on top tucked into the corner.”
“This is because you found a box?”
“Remember Justin?”
Owen scoffed and shook his head. “Remember Justin, your first serious boyfriend? The first guy you made me promise to behave before I got to meet him? Nahh.”
Tyler shook his head at his father's antics. “It must've been tucked up there for a couple years. I, uh, I opened it.” Tyler gave a slight one-shoulder shrug. “I shouldn't have.”
As much as he wanted to ask questions, Owen refrained. One question would turn into two and then into ten. The last thing Tyler needed was to be badgered with questions that may quickly turn into accusations.
In all honesty, what Owen really wanted to do was reach across the bed rails and shake Tyler for scaring him like that.
“I shouldn't have opened it,” he admitted. “As soon as I saw Justin's name on the side, I should've tossed it in the dumpster.” He picked more at the fraying sheet and chanced a glance at his father before looking down again. “I'm not always the most sentimental type of guy.”
Owen raised a brow at his son's lowered head at the extremely false statement. Sure, Tyler wasn't someone who went out of his way to be teary and emotional, but he had never shied away from actually having emotions. Owen had done his best to make sure of that while raising him.
“Remember that picnic in Central Park that he surprised me with?”
Owen didn't keep track of his son's dates anymore, not since the younger man was out of his house and in his own apartment. He trusted that Tyler could and would ask for help if he needed it. He kind of felt like he'd been lying to himself on that front given the current evidence of where they were located. He did remember that, though, simply because it was Tyler's birthday. Justin had stolen Tyler's phone and called Owen himself, explaining that he really wanted to take Tyler out on his birthday and not just spend the day with both the Strand men.
It had been the first and only birthday that they hadn't spent the entire day together. Even when they were forced to work, they had been together at the station house.
“I, uh, I found those stupid flower crowns in it.”
Owen had to bite back a smile as he remembered the disgruntled look on his son's face seen via Justin's phone. Tyler had not felt like wearing a crown made of flowers and fluttering ribbon and was even less of a fan once a few bees found the flowers. As had been explained at the time, Justin had decided to support an enterprising young female entrepreneur, surely the first step to her worldwide arts-and-crafts domination.
Tyler had later confided to his father that he and Justin had officially said 'I love you' to each other there, right after Justin had given the nontraditional bouquet to Tyler.
Tyler shrugged again. “I found those stupid flowers and I remembered how happy we were before he left.”
“And you decided to try to kill yourself?” Even as he asked, Owen wanted to kick himself. That was not an approved question, if he had asked any mental health professional. “Did you even think...” he trailed off, not wanting to add to whatever Tyler was already carrying on his shoulders. He didn't need to carry the guilt of letting Owen down, of how the man would feel if he had been directed to the morgue.
“No! I wasn't trying to kill myself. I just... I wanted it to stop, for a little while. I thought it was a good day for it.” Owen's face was quizzical and Tyler elaborated: “Ides of March, Dad. I figured enough bad crap has happened today. What's one more thing?”
Owen abruptly cursed passing on his love for history and trivia to his son. “I don't know how you could ever think it would be just 'one more thing,' Tyler.”
“I know, Dad. I'm sorry.” Anything else he would have said was stopped by a man coughing directly outside their not-quite-private haven. Paper rustled and a pair of shoes stopped just out of line of sight. Before they were truly interrupted, Tyler had one request to make of his father, something that made his stomach tighten just a bit, but that could have easily been residual cramps as well.
“Hey, Dad?” When Owen once more looked at his son: “Do you think you could start calling me TK instead of Tyler? I... I don't know if I feel much like a Tyler anymore.”
Owen smiled and nodded. “Not a problem, TK.” He reached out gave his son a quick hug, patting his back before taking half a step back. He resolved to himself to visit Tyler's – TK's – apartment before his son was released. There was no way the younger man was going home to the same mess that put him in such a tailspin.
Both men turned as the curtain opened and the doctor walked through.
“Tyler Strand?”
Father and son glanced at each other. At a subtle nod from Owen, the younger man looked up at the white-coated man. “Call me TK, Doc.”