Work Text:
Victim 1021
With tired, swollen eyes he looked around, taking in the people with their worried faces and wet cheeks, all hope gone, left in the parking lot right by their cars. He never wanted to be one of them, at least not now, not so soon. The ringing of his phone demanded his attention and he looked at the display amidst a new flow of tears leaving his sore eyes.
“Yes?” His voice sounded croaky after a night of tears and pain, and the constant drumming in his head made it difficult to concentrate. “Are you still at the hospital?” The quiet, soothing voice of his best friend echoed from the other line and for a moment he closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes I am,” he nodded despite his friend’s inability to see it. “I’m coming over, okay? Shall I get something for you on the way? Clothes, food, anything?” He swallowed, once, twice. “Could you…could you ring my mum and ask about the twins?,” he whispered, his face resting in his hand, tired and heavy. “Sure. I’ll be there in no time. We’ll get through this. Somehow!” Dropping his phone on the empty, plastic seat beside him, he buried his face in both of his hands again, allowing more tears to wet his cheeks, his palms, the grey linoleum covered floor.
“A few minutes ago a Boeing 747-400 operated by British Airways crashed into the American Embassy at London’s Grosvenor Square. The plane, which had left New York and was aimed at Heathrow Airport, was hijacked about an hour before the crash according to information issued by the Metropolitan Police. Happening only one month after the ninth anniversary of the London bombings of 2005, this attack rips another deep wound into the heart of the British nation.
The area around Grosvenor Square has been closed off while investigations have started. Due to the immense force behind the crash, the density of the area, and the amount of time it took to get the fire under control, none of the 345 passengers on board are believed to have survived. How many people were in the Embassy at the time of the crash is yet to be confirmed. Metropolitan Police, the British Army, and the London Fire Brigade are still searching for victims and possible survivors.
So far no one has confessed to the attack although a terrorist background is assumed due to the aim of it. Join us live for a more detailed report on the events in half an hour here on BBC.”
In disbelief and shock, he had stared at his phone after a loud crash and screams had ended his call. She had sounded scared but also surprisingly calm when she told him she loved him. Her last words kept ringing in his ears, sounding somehow wrong and out of place. “Please be happy again. Find someone else, love someone else.” How could he? How could he love someone else than her? How could he ever be happy again after losing her, losing her like this?
As if on autopilot he had called his mother, then his father, and afterwards Luke before he went upstairs into the nursery, his children sleeping without a care in the world, oblivious to what had just happened. Carefully he picked up his son, cradling him in his arms like the most precious and fragile being on earth while tears streamed down his face, dropping down onto his little boy, leaving a wet patch on the blue romper suit.
“Tom…give him to me,” she had whispered, carefully taking her grandson away from him as he still stood there, motionless despite his son’s crying and whimpering. Still in shock he had watched his mother change his children’s nappies, feeding them afterwards while he remained glued to the spot in between the two wooden cradles.
He didn’t look up as a pair of hands gently squeezed his shoulders before the quiet creaking of the chair next to him announced the person’s intent to stay for a little while. Grateful, he buried his face in the shoulder of his friend, too exhausted to cry, too tired to scream. “Let’s go home, Tom,” Benedict whispered and he simply nodded. Her body had long been taken away, the white sheet covering her slender frame after her injuries had finally taken their toll. Seated at the back of the plane she had been alive when firefighters had found her, though not for long. Too severe were her injuries, too long had it taken to finally get her out of the burning pile of metal and concrete. She had been victim number 1021 a police officer had said. Not to him, of course, but he had heard it nonetheless.
Victim 1021. A number on a sheet of paper, another casualty to mourn over for the papers and the public. But for him she was so much more than that. She was his wife, his friend, and lover. She was the mother of his children, his inspiration, and soulmate. She was his other half and now that she had been ripped away from him, he felt incomplete and lost, unable to cope with being a father, a son, and a widower. He felt unable to simply be alive when she wasn’t and never would be again.
Rain pattered loudly against the windows of his bedroom, the pale light of the street lamp shining into the room, illuminating the white bed sheets draped over the mattress underneath him. It felt as if all of London held its breath, tending to its wounds while waiting for another blow. This time they wanted to be prepared in case the enemy stroke again. Exhaling quietly, he looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms, her dark brown, feathery hair glowing in the light, her eyes squeezed shut, and her breathing even and relaxed. His son was resting on his best friend’s chest, sleeping soundly as well while Ben’s eyes rested on him protectively.
Downstairs he could hear his mother and sister talking to Luke. Quiet, worried voices mixed with tears of grief - grief for his wife, victim 1021 of 1132. They radio and TV had been turned off long ago, too painful were the reports and guesses and attempts to understand.
As if it helped.
As if it helped to know how and why.
As if it helped to tear it apart, to scrutinise every detail, every victim, every story behind the passengers’ last words only for the public to hear and gape at.
This wasn’t about the public. It was about the victims and the loved ones left behind. About those who had to hand in toothbrushes and combs in order for forensics and pathologists to identify the bodies. It was about those who called the police only to find out that yes indeed, that name had been on the passenger list. It was about those who had to say goodbye to a loved one, a brother or sister, a mother or father, a husband or wife.
“I don’t know if I can do that, my little baby girl. I don’t know if I can handle being on my own, being mum and dad at the same time. I have no idea what to do or how to do it. I am sorry for every mistake I’m going to make, for every time I confuse your favourite puree with that of your brother. I am sorry for every time I’m going to cry because I miss her. I’m sorry for every time I don’t understand what you want while she simply had to look at you to know your every wish. I’m sorry that you won’t get to know her as I have, that you’ll never be able to talk to her about how annoying your father is and how horrible the clothes are he chooses for you. I’m simply sorry…I’m so, so sorry.”
Unaware of her father’s pain and anguish, Emiliana simply yawned an almost toothless yawn, snuggling up to him thereafter, relishing his warmth and protection. The voices downstairs had stopped and instead they had been replaced with quiet tears as his mum and sister and friend stood next to the bed, suffering with him while Ben had closed his eyes, silent tears lining his cheeks as well.
“You’re not alone, you know,” Luke mumbled first. “We’re here for you, every step of the way. Whenever you need us, whatever you need. We’re there. I promise!” Thankful yet still sad Tom nodded, looking up at him before he pressed a gentle kiss on his daughter’s forehead. “I know I’m not alone. And I’ll make sure they’ll know it, too,” he whispered, gazing lovingly at the picture of his wife on the wall between the windows.