Chapter Text
Owen checked in with the receptionist and robotically proceeded to his chair. He remained quiet as the nurse set the external venous catheter and adjusted the chemo and saline drips.
Now that he’s told TK and the squad the full truth, coming to the hospital for his chemo appointments alone was a rare occurrence. And as much as he insisted they ought not to waste their time, that he was fine and that the cancer was not that serious, they wouldn’t budge. Truthfully, he found it equally comforting and strenuous to have someone with him at these appointments. Chemo was no joke and putting on a brave face was much harder when your veins were being pumped full of toxins that would kill you, if they weren’t busy killing the tumor first.
He sat on the chair and pulled his hoodie over his face, hiding from the watchful gaze of other patients, many of whom could probably recognize him if he looked like he did a week before, not a warmed-over corpse. He talked at the hospital’s fundraiser on the importance of regular screening for cancer and tried to get funding for the local charity that offered such tests to the citizens in lower income brackets.
Feeling the chemo enter his bloodstream, Owen closed his eyes, aiming to sleep through the procedure, but in his peripheral vision he spotted a couple standing in front of a bed. On it was laying a much too small figure of an 8-year-old Kelsey Addams, an immunocompromised transplant recipient. Her parents looked at her with tiredness and concern sprawled on their faces.
It was on a call the previous week that he met them for the first time. Her family was driving to the hospital for dialysis and a routine checkup - at least as routine as one could expect for a pediatric patient with nearly total renal failure. They got in a crash with another car. It belonged to the family of Jacksons, whose youngest daughter was going to her first soccer championship.
Mr and Mrs Jackson only suffered minor head trauma and a few bruises, but their daughter, Allie Jackson was not as lucky. She laid in front of the car – must have not been wearing a seatbelt and flew through the windshield due to the crash. Her little head was gradually seeping blood and skin and material of her soccer uniform torn and bloodied from the glass shards surrounding her form like some sort of a macabre halo.
The ambulance was still minutes out, they had to help her as soon as possible. 126’s Captain ran up to her and promptly dropped to his knees. Her eyes were open and her mouth moved like a fish gasping when taken out of water. Her chest was not moving, so Owen placed his hands on the sternum and began chest compressions. Thirty compressions, two breaths, thirty compressions, two breaths. Matteo ran up to the scene and took over the respirations. After what seemed like an eternity the paramedics finally arrived. They defibrillated her, but the pulse didn’t come back, so Owen jumped back to the compressions. He felt her ribs crack from the pressure. He didn’t stop. Another shock. No pulse. Compressions. Shock. No pulse. Compressions.
He was taken in the ambulance, pumping the girl’s heart for her until they arrived to the hospital. He only stopped when Captain Vega placed her hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of the trance just in time for the doctors to take over.
Owen couldn’t remember when was the last time he performed CPR for this long. He was told he went on for over an hour and if the swelling in his hands and a deep ache in his shoulders was anything to go on, he was inclined to believe it.
In the hospital, they said that she’s been down too long, that she was brain dead and keeping Allie on life support only prolonged their – and her – misery.
From his seat in the “chemo suite” he could see the small Addams family, caring for their daughter. This all brought back memories of doing much the same thing with TK, the many times he’s had to rush his beautiful, reckless son to the ER.
By now Owen realizes he’s been staring at the familial scene for far longer than could be considered normal. He fixes his hoodie and crosses his arms, intent on sleeping through the worst of this round of chemo. He inhales through the nose and exhales through his mouth. The breathing technique seems to bring him some degree of comfort. He’s picked it up from the stack of pamphlets he was handed along with his diagnosis. Probably the only worthy thing in that stack of wasted paper, but he was glad for it nonetheless. He calmed himself down as the cold feeling spread through his veins.
- Captain Strand? – a feminine voice cut through his light slumber. He opened his eyes and in front of him stood Kelsey’s mum, Lydia Addams. Her husband remained at their daughter’s side, gently stroking the child’s hand. He returns his eyes to the woman before him.
- Mrs Addams, good to see you. How’s Kelsey?
- So much better, the transplant really made a change. She looks so much better, she’s not as pale… They say with immunosuppressants she could return to normal…
- I’m glad she’s better.
- I just came over… I wanted to thank you. It’s thanks to you that Kelsey is still with us. The doctor said that the accident exacerbated her condition, and she’d have died if not for the emergency surgery. I know this will probably make me sound like a monster, but I’m so happy…
- It doesn’t make you a monster, it makes you human. You’re a parent, caring for your child above all else is in the job description.
- Thank you, again, Captain Strand.
- Please, call me Owen
- Only if you call me Lydia. You’re a father, Owen, aren’t you?
- Yeah, my son will turn 26 next week. He was actually one the paramedics that took care of your daughter – he replied with a small smile
- Oh, I do see the resemblance now. You have a good son, Owen. You should be proud.
- I am, every day.
- How come you’re here?
The conversation seemed to steer into, however obvious, rather uncomfortable territory. Owen shot a glance at the IV drip attached to his wrist and looked back at Lydia.
- It’s chemotherapy, for my lung cancer.
- Oh...
- It’s not as bad as it seems. I’m…
Owen Strand could, and did, curse his luck on many occasions. Whether it was Matteo interrupting a prospective date or Buttercup puking on a new carpet he didn’t like, a muttered curse and a clench of a fist were a near constant companion. This one was going to be a rather spectacular example of his wretched fortune. As soon as he was going to spin a lie of how he was actually “all Gucci”, as Marjan liked to say, a powerful wave of nausea overtook him. With no time for an excuse he turned away from his unexpected visitor to grab a bucket that was in the chemotherapy suite for just this reason, and proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach of the lunch he was brave – or stupid – enough to eat before chemo. After a minute or two of dry heaving, he felt the nausea back off enough not to projectile vomit all over Lydia. He took a swig from his water bottle and spit it out to get rid of the acrid taste of vomit and bile from his mouth. He drank a bit of the water before he finally turned back to the woman.
- Not as bad as it seems, huh?
- Yeah, gotta admit, this is not one of my finest moments.
She rummaged through her bag for a moment, finally taking out a box of honey-flavored mints, and offering them. He took one from the box and thanked her. They were pretty good, although he wished his mind wouldn’t immediately go to the sugar contents of the treat.
- Which stage is it?
- Could be worse, but still a bitch.
- I hope it gets better – she turned around to look at her daughter who seemed to be waking up from the anesthesia.
- You should go, be with her when she wakes up.
- Thank you, Owen.
- No problem, just doing my job.
She walked out of the glass door to the other room, joining her husband. Knowing he still had about an hour left of treatment, Owen once again closed his eyes to get some hard- earned respite.
Unfortunately, with his wretched luck, it simply wasn’t meant to be. He was ripped from his slumber by screams and crashing sounds.
- Hands in the air! Nobody has to get hurt if you do what I say! – a familiar voice shouted
- I’m looking for Greg and Lydia Addams! If you come out with your hands in the air I promise you, no one will suffer.
Oh god. It was John Jackson, the father of Allie Jackson. His eyes darted around the room. Addamses were crouching around the bed, visibly terrified. Mr Jackson couldn’t see them from his vantage point – at least for now.
A security guard launched himself at the man, only to be shot in the gut. He fell to the floor, clutching his abdomen. The bang was loud, someone had to have heard it from outside of the ward.
- If someone calls 911 I start putting bullets in people’s heads, now give me the Addamses!
He had to do something. The man was armed and dangerous, clearly ridden crazy with grief. Owen detached the drip from his hand, not caring as a little blood and life-saving drugs dripped to the floor. He had to get the man out of there, if he tried to take him down in the packed ward, there was no telling what – or who – the stray bullets could hit.
He slowly raised his hands, and walked out to the main ward, trying to remain as calm as possible, not to spook the attacker.
- Mr Jackson? – he said to draw the man’s attention to himself
- Oh God, it’s you! You were the one to make sure my baby stayed alive long enough for these monsters to butcher her!
- Mr Jackson, please, put down the gun…
- No! These monsters took my baby, My Allie away! Now they’re going to pay for it!
- Sir, I understand your pain…
- No, you don’t! You don’t know what it’s like to hold your little angel, dead! What it’s like to beg for them to open their eyes again, knowing it could never happen!
Tears now fell freely from the attacker’s face as he readjusted the grip on his weapon. So, negotiation was out of the question. The man seemed determined to kill everyone he blamed for his child’s death. It was time for plan B.
- Yes, I do! And if I had the chance to shoot the one responsible for my child’s death, trust me, I would.
It was only partially a hyperbole. Many times, he had imagined himself finding the bastard who sold his son the Oxy he overdosed on, on that fateful evening in NYC. What he would do if he did. He imagined wrapping his hands around their throat and squeezing until they stopped struggling. It was more than they deserved anyway. Mr Jackson looked him in the eye, piercing stare unrelenting until his face relaxed slightly, seemingly content to find familiar ire in the firefighter’s gaze.
- You do, don’t you?
- I’ll help you find the Jacksons. You have my word, these bastards won’t leave this hospital in any way other than in a body bag. Plus, I actually know where they’re hiding. I’ll take you to them.
- Why wouldn’t I just shoot people until you confess where they are?
- Because you and I are the same. I want to help you. You come with me, we find them and you get to avenge your daughter.
- You’re one sick son of a bitch.
- Oh, you’ve no idea.
- Okay, lead the way.
