It is something he's seen coming for a while. They're both old really old. And Tina's health has been failing for a while. So really, this shouldn't come as a surprise, especially because he has been expecting it.
But it still does. He's the one to wake up first, as usual. Even in his old age, he still doesn't require more than six hours of sleep. So, it is nothing out of the ordinary. He gets up, going to make breakfast for the two of them, as he does every morning.
It's a mundane morning, really. He chuckles softly to himself. In his prime, he would be looking for something to make the day interesting (though, he never had to go any farther than his case.) But now, he's glad for his rather normal life.
This normality is shattered when he walks back into the room, intent on waking Tina up for breakfast. He's holding a tray of the food; the past few months, walking has been hard for her and Newt giving her breakfast in bed has become a routine. But, as soon as he's in the room, he knows something is wrong.
It's too quiet, much too quiet. Tina doesn't quite snore, but her breathing is always, always audible. His own breath catches in his throat. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. And really, he knows immediately what it is, but he has to check, has to be sure. He hopes he's wrong. Merlin, he hopes he's wrong.
But he's not. As much as he presses into her neck, he knows he's not going to feel a pulse. And her skin is so, so cold. It makes him feel ill to even think it, but he can't sit here and deny that she's dead. She's dead. She's dead.
He doesn't cry at this fact. He thinks he should, but he doesn't, he can't. He doesn't feel like crying. Perhaps there's a part of him that still doesn't believe Tina is dead. (He notes, vaguely, that a part of him that admits she's gone wants him to die as well so he can be with her.)
But he can't do that. Not yet, at least. It occurs to him that he should call the kids. Yes, yes. That's what he needs to do. They'll come and they'll help. Perhaps seeing them will alleviate the numbness he feels. He doesn't know. But he does know that he needs them here, with him.
So he calls them, one by one, in order. It gets harder and harder to talk with each call. But he trudges on. All of his children have to know. And he needs all of them to be here. He's so incredibly grateful that none of them strayed far from home. They'll be here soon. And he'll surely feel better.
As he waits, he sits in the chair next to the bed, next to Tina. He grabs her too cold hand, mouth forming a small, sad smile. As a habit, he pushes her hair behind her ear. At the same time, he realizes that it's the last time he's ever going to do that.
And that's what triggers the tears. He doesn't even notice it at first. He doesn't sob. The tears roll down his cheeks, but he makes no noise. He sits like that, crying silently, until he hears the door open downstairs. One of the kids are here.
He stands up, looking down at his wife. He knows he's going to be joining her soon. But, he has to hold on just a little bit longer. He doesn't want the children to lose both of their parents so close together; it's just not fair to them. And so, he will hold on for as long as he can.
But soon enough, he will be with Tina. And they can embark on their next great adventure together.