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cas-kingdom · 1 year

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Instinct

A/N: My exams finished and what did I do first as a free woman? Write.

My first 9-1-1: Lonestar fic, a small one (with questionable quality), but a subject that hits pretty deep right now. It’s for that reason that this fic isn’t reader-centric. Hopefully “ya’ll” love Connie Strand anyway. Enjoy, and bear with me as I return to writing now that summer’s here!

(Connie’s about 19).

Title: Instinct

Summary: Owen and his daughter discuss the possible return of his cancer.

Words: 2108

The nerves came when the coughing did.

It was instinct at this point. The moment the familiar, guttural sounds reached her, they immediately broke down doors in her mind and wrenched free the memories she’d locked away.

It was instinct also that had her putting her laptop to the side and staring at her bedroom wall for a moment. Heart revving into that familiar gear, hands growing familiarly clammy, breath stopping in that familiar place just at the top of her throat. A sick sort of feeling climbed from her stomach and crawled its way up to her chest, settling there when the coughing stopped and broke down into small croaky things. Barely-audible things. Nothing-to-worry-about things.

She stepped out of bed and hugged her arms to her chest, walking quietly on bare feet towards the halfway-open door. Her room was closest to the kitchen, so she saw him when she stepped out, hunched over the island, head bowed, hands in fists on the marble. For a scene that had moments ago been overwhelmed by a coughing fit, it was scarily silent now.

A time when something like this would not dare cross her mind had passed the window of impossible with her father’s initial cancer diagnosis. Almost a year ago now, he’d been in remission for most of that year, but every cough, every hoarse throat…hell, every stubbed toe had Connie Strand’s nerves skyrocketing. That was normal, she’d been told. That was instinct.

Instinct was a bitch.

Owen saw Connie before he could automatically situate himself into a position that looked the picture of health. Still, he tried, straightening the moment his eyes caught sight of her padding down the hallway. He cleared his throat and picked up a knife, pointing it at the half-cut banana in front of him.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he said, throwing a smile in her direction for good measure. His voice was crackly. “I’m making a protein smoothie. Want some?”

It was in the fire captain’s nature to act oblivious, but Connie didn’t think there was much point in it now. He’d had cancer, he’d had chemo, he’d beaten cancer, he’d beaten chemo. He hadn’t told his kids, then he’d told his kids. It wasn’t as though Connie could no longer tell when he was feeling off. She’d known the difference before the tumours, and she would continue to know it long after. T.K. called that a superpower. Owen called it a pain in his ass.

“I’m allergic to protein powder.” Her answer every time, it was the second reason she wished T.K. still lived with them. When he did, the two were able to sneak a packet of potato chips in through the front door, or even a chocolate bar if they were lucky. But Owen controlled the grocery shopping now, and when Owen controlled the grocery shopping, not a morsel of candy made it in the cart. The first reason lay in the possibility of these exact moments. When she needed her big brother, it wasn’t often he was around.

Still. Connie was and always had been more like her father than her mother, and smoothies, minus the protein, were still a favourite. Owen was extremely proud of that small achievement.

“In that case, My Sunshine Lady Princess—” He turned to grab another glass as she sat in a swivel chair— “One protein smoothie, minus the protein, coming up.” Connie breathed a laugh and he sighed exaggeratedly. “Let me believe it, Con, please.”

He returned to chopping the banana, but Connie could see his face fall. He wasn’t stupid, and neither was she. He knew she hadn’t come into the kitchen at seven am to escape her homework or procure one of his morning smoothies.

“Dad?” She glanced down at the table, following the lines of marble with her finger.

Owen stuck a handful of bananas in the blender and reached for an apple. “Yep.”

“You’re alright, right?”

There weren’t many people who could answer that question truthfully, and once upon a time, Owen Strand would have been at the top of that list. Recently, though, he’d learnt to be a bit more open. He’d had to be. After T.K. had figured out what he’d been keeping from his kids, scepticism followed them both around like the plague.

So, it was with this that the fire captain put down his knife and placed the palms of his hands on the counter, bracing himself against it. He looked up at Connie, her upper lip unknowingly caught between her teeth. He sucked in a breath and cleared his throat. “Banana went down the wrong tube,” he tried.

Connie dropped her head and rose her brows in a very Owen Strand way that had her dad cringing and pulling back.

“Okay, okay. I might have a little tickle in the back of my throat that’s been there a few weeks. And that’s a might, so you take a chill pill right now, Miss, ‘cause I won’t have you worrying about nothing ‘til it’s something.” He had one hand aimed at her, a finger pointing forwards. The Owen Strand look settled quickly on his own face and Connie had a difficult time keeping the smile from her lips. Her dad was her dad, after all. Her hero and entertainer.

At her smile, Owen let one of his own slip onto his face, knowing he’d got her. Just to make sure, he lifted his eyebrows higher and sent a teasing: “You hear me?” to which she just about refrained from rolling her eyes at. Swivelling in her chair, she mumbled an answer, averting her gaze.

“Hey, don’t make me come over there and fix up a smile.” Owen had a habit of turning negative situations on their heads when it concerned Connie and T.K.. Even before the cancer, they hadn’t had the most perfect of lives, switching between mom and dad’s house and suffering the odd babysitter when representing clients and fighting fires overlapped a bit too much. He guessed T.K. had had it worse—he was older and remembered the choppy months after the divorce. Connie had been born in choppy month eight, the most surprising of surprises, but their new way of living had always been her norm. Still, life had had its downs, and a Connie frown broke his damn heart every time.

“Alright—” He dusted his hands together and threw his arms up, resigned— “I’m coming.”

Connie jumped to attention immediately, not quite having expected the change in mood. Though it was certainly like him. “I didn’t say anything!”

Owen clicked his fingers as he made his way intently around the counter. “That’s exactly why I’m coming.”

He wasn’t even hiding the mischievous intonation of his voice. That teasing lilt made its familiar way in, dutifully pushing all negative thoughts from Connie’s mind as she spun in her chair and stretched her arms out. “Hey, hey, okay!” Owen stopped a foot from her chair, eyes narrowed, hands poised suspiciously like they were seconds from launching a tickle attack Connie had told her dad a hundred times she was way too old for. He’d never taken that to heart, nor had T.K., and somewhere deep, deep down she appreciated that. Still, she could pretend not to enjoy it, and probably would until the day Owen himself deemed her too old, if that day ever came.

“Okay,” she said, “not worried. I’m not worried! See?” She pointed at her face, forcing the widest of toothy grins possible. “Look at my smile.”

Owen couldn’t help but snort, amusement at the situation overriding his brief venture to remain serious. “I see it,” he said, letting his arms hang limp by his sides and walking towards her. Connie spun around again to face the counter and he stopped behind her, lifting his arms to drape over her shoulders. Quiet, Connie let her dad pull her back against his chest, feeling his chin come to rest on her shoulder. The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound for a moment, father and daughter acting completely on instinct in their need to hold each other for a moment. Worrying about nothing ‘til it was something was Connie’s forte, after all.

“It was just a cough, Sunshine,” Owen reassured her.

“And a tickle in your throat.”

“Mm, I’m pretty sure that was the banana.” Connie smiled and he hailed that a silent victory with a kiss to her cheek, hugging her closer. “My next check-up’s not for another month but I’ll book in with the doc tomorrow. Just to be sure.”

Connie nodded and placed her hand over his. “Just to be sure.”

She could hear him hesitate beside him. “Con, kiddo…I know you’ve got reason enough to be worried, and I’m not gonna take that right away from you. It’s okay to be worried, reminds us all we’re human. But…”

“I worry too much?”

He hummed. “Not that. Sometimes—you just don’t need to worry. And I know you can’t help it, neither can I, I guess we just gotta batten down the hatches a bit, huh? If we worry about anything and everything that could be tumour-related, there’ll never be a time we’re not shaking in our boots.”

He was right, of course, always was, but Connie didn’t know how to answer him. The mood might have continued to plummet, probably would have continued to plummet, if her phone hadn’t pinged at that moment. Connie couldn’t have reached for it quicker, feeling her dad press another kiss to her head before moving back to his side of the island. In the blink of an eye, the dismal air of the kitchen seemed to shatter as Owen opened the blinds and called for Alexa to quietly play his breakfast playlist. They’d talked about what they’d needed to talk about, defeated the elephant in the room. The C word was buried for now.

“T.K. wants to meet for breakfast,” Connie said, her brother’s u me & pancakes b4 shift? shining at her from her bright screen and waking up any residual exhaustion her eyes had been harbouring.

Owen sighed dramatically and visibly deflated. “After I slaved away at the counter cutting fruit for your smoothie?” Connie smiled as she typed a response. “Does he want me to drop you off?”

“He’ll pick me up. You wanna come?”

Another dramatic sigh and the knife clattered to the marble top. Connie rose an eyebrow at his spectacle, knowing deep down he was attempting to shake off any gloominess floating around the kitchen but letting herself enjoy his puckishness all the same. When a theatrical: “After I slaved away at the counter cutting fruit for my smoothie?” came from him, she finally laughed and shook her head.

“Come on, Dad. Pancakes over smoothies every time.”

Hand on his heart, Owen frowned. “Don’t, Connie. Just don’t.” And with that, the Captain of Firehouse 126 promptly turned on the blender. When Connie made half-hearted attempts to shout something over the noise, he put a hand to his ear and leant forward, yelling back: “What’s that? I can’t hear you over this blender! Can you say that again?” Perfectly dad like, perfectly Owen, perfectly instinctual. Still, Connie rolled her eyes and jumped from her chair, marching around to his side and holding up her phone as proof she was ringing T.K. and needed him to turn it off.

Owen peered at the screen but shook his head. “I’m making a smoothie!”

Connie put her phone to her ear and blocked her other ear with a finger. “T.K.? Huh?” Barely audible over the sound of the screaming blender, it apparently did not occur to Connie that she could leave the room. “T.K.!” A chuckling Owen heard her all but yell down the line. “Dad’s not coming! He’s gonna stay at home and sulk over a glass of protein smoothie!”

Owen stopped the blender and made a grab at Connie’s phone. “Uh, that is so not what I said!”

“It so is—” Connie just about leapt away from him— “Yeah, he’s not feeling so hot. Says he has a tickle in his throat.”

Not many could best Owen in a battle of wits, but he was damn glad that the one who could was his kid.

With a deep, insanely proud chuckle, he clapped his hands together before wiggling his fingers towards her. “I’ll show you a tickle in the throat.”

Instinct. Total instinct.

And, even as her shrieking resounded throughout the kitchen that Sunday morning before the clock had even struck seven am, Connie Strand loved every bit of it.

Lone Star Masterpost

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