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Owen had thought that there could be no worse sound than the beeping of the machines surrounding his son, no worse sight than TK’s body lying prone on the bed.
It turns out, the absence of both those things is an agony he couldn’t have prepared for.
From the moment he heard the news, he knew that the worst was always a possibility. He’d listened to the doctors and Tommy talk about how hopeless the situation was; he’d seen TK with his own eyes, how artificial his breathing was.
That doesn’t mean he’d ever believed in it.
But then Marjan’s voice had crackled over Tommy’s radio, telling them to get to the hospital as fast as they could, and Owen had fallen to his knees in the snow.
“Come on, Owen,” Tommy said, gripping his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you to him.”
But, even though his son was dying, it still took Owen a long time to drag himself out of the snow and into Billy Tyson’s car. Tommy was staying behind with Grace, Judd, and their baby girl, and it seemed almost a mockery when the baby’s cries, that one sure symbol of life, followed him as he went.
But, in the end, it doesn’t matter that Billy drove as fast as he dared, that Owen sprinted to the ICU, that less than an hour had passed between the alert and them arriving.
In the end, what Owen is faced with is a darkened room, the sheets changed and arranged perfectly on an empty bed. For a second, he thinks he has the wrong room, because there’s no way this could be his son’s. It’s too… Because TK was supposed to walk out of here. These four impersonal walls were not supposed to be the last ones TK existed inside.
But a hand lands on Owen’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug, and when they let go, he’s met with four pairs of red eyes, all of them screaming confirmation at him.
Your son is dead.
Your son is dead.
Your son is dead.
And Owen thinks maybe he, too, stops breathing.
They’ve told him that he can go see him.
They’ve told him that there was no need for an autopsy, that things were always pretty black and white.
They’ve told him that bereavement resources are available, should he need them.
Owen hasn’t moved.
He’s on his own now, more or less. Paul got sent back to his own a while ago, and the others had followed, taking comfort in their shared grief. Tommy knows now, and she’s been down a couple of times, but mostly she’s been with Judd and Grace, trying to keep their happiness alive for a little while longer before the news will have to come out. Owen doesn’t want to be there when it does; he can’t fathom how they’ll feel knowing their daughter’s birthday is the same day…
TK would hate it, if he knew.
And then there’s Carlos.
Ever since Owen walked in, Carlos has been sitting in exactly the same spot, staring down at a brown paper bag he has clutched in his hands. He should talk to him, but Owen has no idea what to say, so they just sit at opposite ends of the waiting room, pain lying thick in the air.
Things have been completely silent, but then there’s a muffled sob, and Owen looks over to see Carlos bent double in his seat, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other to his chest. The paper bag slides to the floor, landing with a thud, and it only seems to make things worse, as Carlos almost wails , the sound cutting right through Owen.
He can’t do nothing, so he gets up and walks over, grabbing the bag up off the floor and sitting next to Carlos. He places a hand on his trembling shoulders and tries to force back the emotions threatening to burst from him, too.
A couple of tears still escape, though, and Owen knows they’re just the first of many to follow.
But he won’t let go just yet. Not while other people still need him.
It takes a while for Carlos to calm down—not that Owen blames him. He’s well aware of how the two of them feel about each other—or felt , in TK’s case—so he can’t imagine what Carlos is going through. Especially with the breakup and everything that came before still so fresh and raw.
Wordlessly, he holds out the bag once Carlos has straightened up in his seat, not giving him a chance to apologise for breaking down. But Carlos pushes it back into his hands and doesn’t even look at Owen when he does so.
“They’re his things,” he says, voice hollow. “They gave them to me because… But you should have them.”
“You were with him when he…” He still can’t say it, but there’s no need to; the silence speaks volumes. Owen knew, anyway—the team had told him how Carlos barely left TK’s side, how he was there when he took that final turn for the worse, how he stayed until the very end and more. Owen should have been there too, he knows; he never should have run away, but he’s glad that someone was there. And he’s glad that it was Carlos.
“Thank you,” he says, swallowing hard and nodding. “Thank you for being there all this time. I know—”
“You don’t know, Owen,” Carlos interrupts, his tone laced with so much hurt. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, breathing out slowly through his nose. “I’m sorry. I just… We weren’t even together, and I was still the one sitting there, talking to him, trying to get him to—” He cuts himself off and turns away for a long moment, taking a few shuddering breaths. His voice is even weaker by the time he manages to speak again, and Owen can see his hands shaking. “I couldn’t even hold his hand.”
Owen doesn’t know what to say to that, but he still has to bite his tongue to keep from making a sound. He’s not angry at Carlos, far from it, he’s just… Sad , seems too weak a word for this, but it’s all Owen has.
“Even when they told me it was the end, I… It was almost too late when I managed to finally touch him, and all I did was put my hand on his arm. He”—his breath catches on the word—“two minutes later.”
“I’m sorry, Carlos,” Owen says, “for everything. But I promise you that he would have wanted you there. The important thing is that he wasn’t alone, and he would be happy to know it was you who was there. I know I am.”
Carlos nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t quite believe it. Still, Owen has nothing more to give, so he turns his attention to the bag in his hand, full of items now without an owner.
TK’s phone.
His watch.
A few odds and ends that must have been in his pockets.
And there, at the bottom, a silver chain.
Owen lifts it slowly out of the bag, holding it so that the pendant rests in the centre of his palm.
The numbers of the 252 blur as his eyes mist over, and Owen has the sudden urge to throw the chain across the room. He can’t—
Once, this pendant had symbolised the things he loved the most in the world. Now, they’re all gone, and the metal feels like it burns as memories start to flash through his mind, of the Towers, of his old family, of TKTKTK — And he can’t do this.
“Here.” He turns to Carlos and holds his hand out. “It’s yours.”
Carlos’s eyes widen and, predictably, he shakes his head. “No, I—I couldn’t… You should have it.”
“I can’t,” Owen says. Carlos frowns, but he doesn’t want to explain the whole truth just yet. “I have other things to…to remember my son by. This is yours.”
“TK—”
“If you don’t want it, then I’ll send it to his mother. But I think, if TK could choose right now, he’d choose you, every time.”
If Carlos catches the double meaning, he doesn’t say anything. But he does, slowly, shakily, reach out and take the pendant, staring at it for a long moment before hanging it around his neck.
And the silence falls again, no easier or lighter, but more shared than the last.