Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buck loves the beach. The waves, the light, the way the whole world seems to breathe easier when the tide rolls in and out… It's half the reason he ended up in LA in the first place. It’s why he once lost months along the Peruvian coast, salt in his hair and sand in every pocket. There’s something magical about it. Healing, even.

That said, Buck is never coming to the beach again.

“Head down, buddy. That’s it –hold your head down.” Buck presses a towel gently under Denny’s nose, tilting the boy’s neck with practiced hands.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Robbie’s voice cracks across the sand. He’s pacing in frantic circles, kicking up grit with every step.

“Robbie, hey–” Buck starts, but Robbie is already unraveling, louder now.

“I didn’t mean it! I didn’t–”

“Dude,” Buck forces his voice calm, steady, like he’s back on a call trying not to spook someone already in shock. “It’s fine. It was an accident.”

Denny blinks up at him, wide-eyed but not crying, more confused than hurt. The blood is what’s got him rattled… well, the blood and Robbie practically having a meltdown beside him. Harry, standing a few feet back, looks caught between wanting to help and wanting to run.

“Yeah, seriously, he’s fine.” May’s voice cuts through, firm in a way that sounds older than her years. She plants a hand on Robbie’s shoulder and gives him a little shake. “It was just a ball to the face. Chill.”

Robbie jerks like she slapped him, eyes shiny with tears, chest heaving, Buck exhales, turns to Tomaz. “Hey, Tomaz, can you take over?”

The boy nods quickly, grateful to be asked, and kneels beside Denny. He presses the towel carefully against the younger kid’s face, every inch serious at playing medic.

Buck ruffles Denny’s hair. “You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah,” Denny mumbles, pinching his nose shut like he’s seen Buck do. “It just stings.”

“Exactly. Little veins in the nose bleed easy, but they close up fast. You’ll be back in play before you know it.”

Harry brightens at that. “We can play soccer instead!”

“Soccer’s worse!” May groans. “People actually headbutt the ball.”

“Not if you’re good,” Harry shoots back, which earns him a laugh from Denny, blood and all.

Meanwhile, Robbie still hasn’t moved. He’s hunched in on himself, fists clenched, staring at Denny like he expects him to drop dead at any second.

Buck steps over and pulls him into a hug. Robbie doesn’t even resist –just collapses against him, burying his face in Buck’s chest like he’s eight years old again instead of fourteen. That alone has Buck’s stomach tightening.

“Dude,” Buck murmurs, tipping his head down to try and catch his brother’s eyes. “Why are you crying? It was just a volleyball.”

“I don’t know,” Robbie chokes, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, only to smear sand across his cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Robbie.” Buck squeezes his shoulder, solid and grounding. “Denny’s fine. I promise. Nose bleeds look scary, but they’re nothing. Seriously, it’s already slowing down. He’s tougher than he looks.”

Robbie sniffles against him, breaths coming rough and uneven, but the frantic edge starts to fade. Buck keeps his arms wrapped tight anyway. He knows better than to let go too soon. Some accidents aren’t really about the accident at all.

Buck presses his chin lightly against the top of his brother’s head. He’ll have to talk to Bobby about this. A nosebleed shouldn’t trigger this kind of spiral, not unless it’s carrying weight from somewhere else. Kids process grief differently than adults, sometimes sideways, sometimes loud, sometimes in the smallest crack of a moment.

Buck sighs and squeezes Robbie closer, like he can hold him steady until the tide of it passes.

“Hey,” he says finally, soft enough just for Robbie to hear. “How about we hit pause for ice cream?”

That gets everyone’s attention. Six heads snap up at once, like he just announced free puppies.

“Yes!” Harry practically bounces.

“Double scoop,” May bargains immediately.

“Triple,” Tomaz mutters, already brushing sand off his knees.

Even Denny grins around the towel still pressed to his face, blood already dried. “Can I get sprinkles? My nose is fine now.”

“Sprinkles all around,” Buck promises, easing Robbie back enough to meet his eyes. His brother still looks raw, like the tears are barely finished, but he nods and swipes at his face. Buck gives him a lopsided smile, gentle as he can manage. “We’ll play more later. Volleyball, soccer, whatever you guys want.”

The cheer that goes up almost drowns out the waves, and Buck herds them all toward the boardwalk, Robbie tucked close at his side.

Buck is halfway through wiping down the rig, sleeves shoved up and a smudge of caked mud across his arm –dreaming of the shower he’ll get after he is done–, when Hen sidles up to him with a grin tugging at her mouth.

“Are you a wizard?” she asks, like it’s the most normal question in the world.

Buck blinks at her. “What?”

Hen chuckles, leaning a shoulder against the rig. “Denny can’t stop talking about you. Seriously, it’s Buck this, Harry that, Robbie this, Buck that.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe it, but her smile is all fond.

Buck can’t help laughing, tossing the soapy damp rag onto the bucket with a slap. “He’s a great kid, Hen. Got along with everyone. If you ever need someone to watch him again, I’m sure Robbie and Brook wouldn’t mind the company.”

Hen’s eyes soften. “It’s incredible, you know? How you are with them.”

That earns her a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’d make a great caretaker,” Hen says, voice gone thoughtful. “Could be someone who works with kids. I can see it.”

Buck stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “Did you forget the part where I gave your kid back with a swollen nose?”

Hen bursts out laughing. “Oh, please. Denny thought it was ‘sick’. You’re basically a hero in his book now.”

Before Buck can argue, the bay doors rumble open. Bobby’s Captain truck pulls in, smooth as always, and their captain steps out stopping to get the massive cake .

“Oh lord,” Buck mutters when he catches sight of the actual cake.

Hen cranes her neck, then snorts. “Is that–?”

“It’s the cake you ordered, kid,” Bobby calls as he heads for the loft stairs, perfectly deadpan.

Buck hurries after him with Hen on his heels, trying to get a better look as Bobby sets the box on the counter and opens it.

The cake inside is… a work of art. Or maybe a crime scene. It’s Chim’s head, perfectly frosted, complete with thick streaks of bright red gel running down his forehead.

“Yeah,” Buck says faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.” He can already imagine Father Brian’s face if he saw it. Or Isabel’s. God, Isabel would have a heart attack.

Hen claps a hand on his shoulder, grinning. “Relax. Chim is going to love this. You know his sense of humor.” Buck glances at her doubtfully, but she just laughs harder. “Fine,” she teases. “If he doesn’t, I’ll take the blame. Deal?”

Bobby, calm as ever, closes the box again with a smile. “This is going to make his day.” His voice is steady enough that Buck feels himself steady too, like maybe it won’t be the disaster he’s imagining.

For now, the cake waits on the counter like a very badly kept secret. Chim isn’t due for another half an hour, easing back into things with a light shift. By then, they’ll all be upstairs, waiting to welcome him back. A team, together again. 

They’re just sliding the cake into the fridge –Buck crouched low, Hen giving directions like she’s air traffic control– when Athena’s voice carries up from the bay.

“Hey, boys!” she calls, heels clacking against the floor as she comes in. “Hi, Hen.”

“‘Thena,” Hen answers with a grin, stepping forward into a hug.

Buck pushes the fridge shut and straightens, wiping his palms on his pants just as Athena greets Bobby with a kiss to his cheek. She turns immediately to Buck, pressing one of her own against his face before he can react. The heat rushes straight to his ears, traitor-fast. It makes sense… Athena treating him with the same casual affection as everyone else now that she and Bobby are officially together. Still, Buck’s never quite sure what to do with kindness when it lands right on him.

“How are the preparations for the party?” Athena asks, sharp eyes taking everything in.

“We got a banner!” Buck says, maybe too brightly, pointing toward the bold WELCOME BACK strung across the loft where Hen is still standing.

Athena follows his finger, lips curving into a smile. “It’s lovely.” She nods, approving, then tilts her head. “Anything I can help with?”

From there it’s easy, the kind of bustle Buck likes. Athena folding napkins with ruthless efficiency, Hen arranging finger foods while Buck ferries plates, Bobby quietly orchestrating everything with the steady hand he always has. The space fills with the hum of work and low laughter until Alice’s voice rings out from the stairs:

“Look who’s back!” she exclaims, far too loud.

Buck startles, eyes darting to Bobby. Bobby meets his gaze just briefly, the flicker of a smile and then both of them are moving fast, arranging the last of the food on the table as the rest of the shift begins filing up to the loft.

Then Chimney appears, Alice beside him, and the place erupts in cheers.

Chim’s smile is wide, sheepish in that Chim sort of way, and the scar on his forehead darkens with color when he flushes. Buck catches it, the detail sharp against the glow of welcome all around.

“We are so happy to have you back, Chim,” Bobby says once the noise settles, voice carrying steady and warm. He reaches into the fridge and lifts the box Buck’s been nervously guarding all day, setting it in front of Chim with a flourish. “In fact, we’re so happy–” Bobby flips the lid back, revealing the gruesome masterpiece. “–that we got you a cake.”

“Welcome back, Chim!” Buck blurts, unable to help himself. Chim stares at the cake for a beat, then his grin cracks wider. “How does it feel to be back?” Buck asks, leaning forward, more earnest than he means to sound.

“Beats the alternative,” Chim jokes, and laughter ripples through the room. His gaze flicks from the cake to the faces around him, softening for a moment. “One thing I realized while I was away is that I really need you people–” The words hang there, heavy, and Buck feels them catch in his chest. Chim must feel it too, because his smile twists, and he rushes to tack on: “--like I need a hole in the head.”

Hen snorts, smacking his shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”

But Bobby doesn’t let it slide. “This place hasn’t been the same without you, Chim,” he says quietly, all sincerity. “I’m glad to have you back.”

Chim blinks, then nods, the humor slipping for something raw. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Athena steps closer, her voice soft but certain. “You had a lot of people praying for you. Not only in this department, either.”

Chim exhales, eyes flicking down, then back up with a wry tilt. “Well, I think somebody was listening. The doctors kept using the word ‘miracle.’”

And Buck, watching the way everyone presses in close –how relief bends into laughter, how love makes the loft feel smaller than it is– thinks maybe they aren’t wrong. 

It’s late in the evening –early in the night, depending on your angle. The loft is quiet now, only the hum of the bay and the distant sound of pipes settling after too many showers. Buck is at his locker, toweling his hair and trying to flatten the curls back into submission, his clothes freshly washed and smelling of soap.

Bobby finds him there, leaning against the row of lockers with a cup of coffee in hand. He watches for a moment before saying, “You know, I think your hair would look a lot better if you stopped trying to fight against the curls.”

Buck glances up, frowning, then looks back at the little tin of pomade in his hand. Bobby plucks it away and sets it neatly back inside his locker.

“I don’t know how to style it,” Buck admits, shrugging. He runs his fingers through the damp strands instead, shaking some water loose.

“You’ll learn,” Bobby says simply. “You learned to braid Brook’s hair in a week. You can figure out your own.” He points out, passing a hand through Buck’s strands.

That pulls a snort from Buck. “Maybe.” He tucks the towel around his neck. “You staying for the night shift?”

Bobby nods. “Yeah. I’ll ride with Chimney until his shift is over, just to ease him back in.”

Buck hums his agreement. He’d stay too, if tonight weren’t already spoken for. “Yeah, I would, but… I’ve got a date.”

Bobby freezes halfway through a sip of coffee. “A date,” he repeats slowly. “With… Tommy?”

Buck jerks back like he’s been accused of something. “What? No!” His grin breaks wide and incredulous. “I can’t believe your mind went there. No, this is a very special date with my very special girl.”

Bobby blinks, still trying to keep up. “Abby?”

“No, Dad,” Buck says, exasperated but laughing. “Peanut.” His face softens as he says it. “I don’t think I’m up for dating yet.”

“That’s okay, kid.” Bobby sets his coffee aside and pulls Buck in for a brief, grounding hug. “Give yourself time to heal and grow. When the time comes, you’ll know it.”

“That I’ll find someone who magically fits like a perfect match?” Buck teases against his shoulder.

“I’m sure of it,” Bobby replies with quiet conviction.

Buck leans back, smirking. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic, pops.”

“Well,” Bobby says, folding his arms now, “I’ve learned over the years that we’re human, and humans need love –connection. When we isolate ourselves, we wither, we need to keep our hearts open for the opportunities.”

Buck tilts his head, frowning a little. “And yet you hate on everyone I try to date.”

“No,” Bobby corrects gently, his tone firm. “I hate on the people who try to date you.”

That gets Buck laughing, shaking his head. “Whatever you say. I should go.” He grabs his jacket, slipping one arm through. “I’m stopping at Isabel’s, bringing her flowers and some cake.”

Something flickers in Bobby’s expression then, and his smile turns soft, almost damp around the edges. “God, Buck.” He shakes his head, and for a second his eyes shine. “Your heart is really beautiful. Sometimes I’m so proud of it–” He swallows, blinking hard, like he realizes he’s said too much. “Sometimes I wish I could take responsibility for it, for the incredible man you are.”

The lump in Buck’s throat is instant, stupid and stubborn. “Bobby–” he starts, but Bobby waves him off with a brisk motion.

“Never mind. Mood’s getting to me. Go on, see Mrs Diaz and Peanut. Send them both my love.”

Buck nods, tugging Bobby into one last hug before heading out to his Jeep, throat still tight with all the things he doesn’t need to say out loud to be heard and understood.

The drive to Isabel’s is surprisingly quick, LA traffic unusually kind to him tonight. When he pulls up, the street is quiet, the only sign of life the faint red taillights of a truck pulling away. He watches them fade before cutting his own engine and climbing out.

Isabel is already at the door by the time he knocks, smiling so brightly it chases away the last of the evening’s heaviness.

“Evan!” she exclaims mildly surprised, pulling him into a hug that smells faintly of rosewater and soap. “Ay, only one minute earlier and you would have met my grandson and his kid!”

Buck grins at her, easy and sweet. “Maybe next time. I do hope I’m not bothering you.”

“You could never bother me, cariño,” Isabel insists, ushering him toward the warmth of her home.

“Not tonight,” Buck apologizes gently, stopping just inside. He lifts the bouquet of pale hollyhocks like an offering. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Her eyes widen, hands coming up to cradle the flowers like they’re made of glass. “Oh.” The word catches on a breath. “They’re beautiful, Buck, thank you. You know, Edmundo, my late husband, he used to bring me hollyhocks for my birthday.”

That makes Buck blink. He hadn’t known that. The only reason he’d chosen them was because, the last time he’d been here, he noticed one of her embroidered pillows with a flower he didn’t recognize. It stuck with him enough that he’d gone fumbling into a florist’s shop, armed only with a lopsided sketch and the world’s worst description. The man had eventually pointed him toward hollyhocks, and Buck had known immediately that was it. He just wanted to sate his curiosity.

He doesn’t say all of that –doesn’t even fully understand why he’d remembered afterwards. Maybe because the thought of Isabel not getting anything today had itched at him. Days earlier, at the dinner table, surrounded by siblings and almost-siblings –Harry and May tucked in like they’d always been part of the family– he’d been helping Robbie glue rhinestones onto a Virgin Mary card for Father Brian. Brook had asked him to help make one for Athena, and before long they’d been making cards for everyone.

And Buck had thought about Isabel. About Pepa. About how Valentine’s Day wasn’t just about romance –it was about remembering every kind of love.

So he bought the flowers. Wrapped up a slice of Chimney’s coconut-vanilla cake. And drove here.

Looking at Isabel’s face now, lit with that quiet, pleased smile, it feels a hundred times better than any date he’s ever sat through.

“I do have to go,” he says after a moment, stepping back reluctantly. “I still have one very important date tonight.”

“Ah,” Isabel nods, holding the hollyhocks close like they’re a secret. “Give her a little kiss from abuela, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Buck answers warmly, heading back toward his Jeep.

“And come back for tea, when you can,” she calls after him, her voice carrying through the still night.

“Yes, ma’am!” he repeats, louder this time, with a grin.

Then he climbs into his Jeep, heart lighter, and points himself toward the hospital… toward his daughter.

The hospital on Valentine’s Day is busy but not chaotic, no more than usual, which is almost comforting. Buck only pauses long enough at the front desk to give the receptionist a quick wave and sign his name before taking the familiar route to the maternity ward.

Five minutes later –two doors, one elevator, and a hallway with too-bright floors scuffed from endless foot traffic– he’s standing in front of the nursery window.

And there she is.

Peanut.

Tucked safe in her isolette, perfect and healthy and somehow bigger than the last time he saw her. It always knocks the air out of him, how she seems to bloom like a flower even under the harsh lights, even with everything stacked against her.

“Buck!”

He startles, then turns to find Chase waving him over from the doorway. “We were waiting for you,” the nurse grins.

Buck is already tugging on the gown and gloves before Chase finishes speaking, his hands clumsy with the rush of anticipation. The smell of sanitizer clings to him as he steps into the room, gaze locked on his daughter.

And then he notices.

The feeding tube is gone.

“Oh my god,” Buck breathes, eyes going wide. “She’s feeding on her own?” The question comes out raw, full of hope he’s almost afraid to hold onto.

“Not yet,” another voice answers gently.

Buck spins to see Dr. Torres in the corner, SpongeBob scrubs bright against the sterile room, a yellow surgical cap barely containing a mess of curls Buck knows is under there. The doctor’s smile is warm, steadying, and Buck feels his confusion soften.

“Suzanne and Chase convinced me to wait for you,” Torres explains.

Buck blinks at Suzanne, who is at the counter carefully mixing a nutrient formula and milk into a tiny tiny bottle. Her face lights up like she’s in on a secret.

“I get to feed her?” Buck repeats, the words almost reverent. “Already?”

“She’s ready for the first trial,” Torres says, moving closer to unlatch the plastic dome. “She’s strong. A little warrior. And from what I hear,” his eyes flicker with humor between the baby and Buck, “there’s already gossip about guardianship paperwork making the rounds. So it’s only a matter of time.”

The words settle deep in Buck’s chest, something unspooling there that he hadn’t realized was still wound tight.

Then Peanut is in his arms.

Sweet and small, still delicate but so much sturdier than before. One less tube, one less barrier between them. She feels lighter somehow, even though he knows she’s heavier than the last time. She feels more real. More his.

Buck’s smile is helpless, his heart a mess of awe and terror and gratitude. She looks even more perfect.

“Here.” Suzanne passes him a preemie bottle, the thing so absurdly small in his hand it almost looks like a toy. “It’s mixed with donor milk,” she explains, steady, reassuring. “We’ll go over all the details when you take her home.” When, not if. The way she says it –confident, matter-of-fact– settles warm in Buck’s chest.

“We’re doing things a little different for the first feed,” she continues, demonstrating with her own hands before guiding his. “Cradle her semi-upright against your chest. Like that… yes, support her head in your arm. That’s it. Keeps the airway clear.”

Buck swallows hard, terrified to even breathe wrong. She’s so small. So breakable. His hands feel too clumsy, too big, like he could shatter her with the wrong move.

But then, her mouth opens at the brush of the nipple.

Instinct, pure and simple as she latches, tiny jaw working, and Buck’s whole body goes still, the fear swallowed up by awe. After all the nights he’s spent scouring blogs and articles about newborns and preemies, after all the horror stories he’s read about complications and setbacks, but this is just… simple. Natural. His daughter, drinking, like she was always meant to.

The first sip goes down, and the monitors hold steady, soft beeps filling the silence. Buck lets out a laugh, shaky and wet at the edges, because she’s really doing it. His girl is taking her first milk –from him. Her first step toward freedom, toward growing stronger, toward the life he knows she deserves.

Suzanne’s voice comes gentle over his shoulder, grounding him. “She’ll get tired fast. Don’t be discouraged if it’s just a little.”

And it is only a little, barely a teaspoon before her eyelids flutter shut, lashes resting against her cheeks, her body slack with sleep. Milk-drunk and perfect.

Buck presses his cheek to her downy hair, the scent of her, warm and clean, breaking something open inside him. He whispers, soft enough it feels like a secret he’s only just discovered in himself: “I love you, little dove.”

Buck leaves the NICU two hours later, reluctant to let go. Peanut had slept most of that time curled in his arms, her tiny breaths ghosting against his chest. She’d blinked up at him once –yawned, impossibly cute– and then drifted right back to sleep.

“This is really great news,” Dr. Torres says as they wrap up for the night, moving around the cramped supply room tossing EPIs into the bin. His SpongeBob scrub cap is crooked now, hair curling loose at the edges. “We’ll keep you updated, but she’s making huge progress. Can I have your number? So I can reach you directly instead of through the nurses?”

“Of course.” Buck unlocks his phone, still grinning at nothing. When he opens the NICU group chat, his heart squeezes –they’ve already flooded it with pictures of him holding Peanut, one-handed, bottle tilted just right. Rachael’s sent a dramatic ‘on my ONE day off??’ and Buck can’t help sending a heart reaction before adding Torres’s number.

On his way out, he forwards a few of the photos to Bobby. The man won’t see them right away, but Buck imagines him checking his phone during a break, smiling that quiet proud smile.

The elevator is just ahead when shouting slices through the hallway.

“You’re a fucking bitch!”

Buck’s head snaps up. Karinne –one of the maternity nurses– is pressed back against the wall, eyes wide.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already scanning for danger.

“A woman came in labor,” Karinne stammers, gesturing toward the open door down the hall. “One of them’s the father –or both? I think she was seeing them at the same time.”

“Lying fucking cheater!” one man yells. “Do you even know who's the father of that baby?”

“Who cares?” the other snarls, stepping closer, face red and tight. “The baby’s mine, and once she’s out, I’m taking my daughter away from that whore!”

Buck freezes for a split second. The language –the sheer venom of it– hits him wrong. He’s been living in a softer orbit lately: Bobby’s house, his siblings, Sunday church ladies. Hearing someone spit those words at a woman, at someone in labor, makes his stomach twist.

Then one man lunges.

They crash together hard, fists flying. Karinne yelps, flinching back.

“Call security!” Buck shouts, already moving. He grabs the nearer man by the shoulders, trying to wedge himself between them. “Hey! Hey –enough!”

But they’re gone, wild with adrenaline. One swings again; Buck blocks it with his arm, shoving him back. The other catches his footing and tries to lunge past Buck toward the hospital room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Buck sees the pregnant woman –sweating, face contorted, hands clutching the rails as she tries to push herself upright. She’s sobbing, trapped in the middle of it all.

“This isn’t helping her!” Buck barks, voice sharp in the sterile air. “You’re scaring her, stop–”

He doesn’t see the punch until it’s already coming.

It’s not even meant for him. Just bad timing and terrible luck.

Something slams into the side of his jaw, white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes. The floor tilts, the walls blur. He hears Karinne scream his name, distant and distorted, like she’s underwater.

Then everything drops out from under him.

Dark.

Bobby’s still laughing when he feels the buzz in his pocket. Chim’s in full storytelling mode at the kitchen table, miming the man dangling from the balcony as he tries to escape the wrath of the woman’s boyfriend.

“--and then, get this,” Chim says, pausing for effect, “the guy she was cheating with? Turns out it was her ex-husband!”

Bobby chuckles, shaking his head, and reaches for his phone out of habit. The lock screen lights up with a string of new messages from Buck –a few unread photos. He can’t see them yet, but he can guess. Probably more pictures of his granddaughter.

God, he thinks, heart tugging, he has a granddaughter.

It still feels impossible. Once, in that other life –that distant, burnt-out past– he’d let himself imagine watching his kids have kids. After the fire, after losing Robbie and Brook, the thought of ever being a grandfather had felt cruel, impossible. He’d buried that dream alongside all the others with his family.

And then Athena came into his life with May and Harry. Slowly, piece by piece, he started to imagine something that tasted like hope again. He’d let himself picture being there one day when their kids came along –not as a father, not even really as a grandfather, but as something close. Pops, maybe. Someone steady. Someone who loved them enough to dote on the next generation.

But this? This was different. This was Buck.

Buck, who’d somehow become his family without Bobby ever meaning for it to happen but couldn't imagine it happening any other way. Buck, who’d gone and had a baby of his own –and not even had to hit anyone with a car to get it.

And here he is. Buck, his son in every way that matters, has a baby of his own. A tiny, fierce miracle of a girl. And Chris… he’s close behind. Every month, every week, every day, the Diazes are one step closer to getting here, to joining this strange new version of their lives. 

Bobby can only hope that Buck and Eddie are still… well, Buck and Eddie. That wild energy, that spark, that they find each other again. He has faith. Some things, he figures, are inevitable.

He smiles faintly, tuning back in just in time for Chim’s story to reach the punchline. The table bursts into laughter. Jones practically folds in half, cackling.

Bobby’s phone rings again with a  call this time, informing him the number is from Cedars-Sinai. His chest tightens. He never takes calls at the table, but his gut is already cold so he picks up before the second ring.

“This is Nash,” he says, voice even.

“Hi, this is Jessica from Cedars-Sinai Hospital,” the woman says briskly. “I’m calling about Evan Buckley?”

Bobby’s stomach drops. “He’s my son,” he answers automatically. “What happened?”

“Mr. Buckley was involved in a physical altercation near the maternity wing,” Jessica says carefully –the kind of professional calm that only makes it worse. “He was struck in the head. He’s awake now, but he was unresponsive for several minutes after the impact, so we’re keeping him for observation and concussion protocol.”

Bobby grips the edge of the table, knuckles white. “Is he stable?”

“Yes, sir. He’s responsive, talking, and we’ve already sutured the laceration. He’s in the maternity unit for now, just until he’s cleared for transfer.”

He exhales, steadying himself. “I’m on my way.”

He ends the call, already standing. “Buck was in an accident,” he says, and his voice is calm –too calm. “I’m going to the hospital. Jones, you’re in charge while I’m out.”

Questions and murmurs follow him down the stairs, but Bobby barely hears them. His world has narrowed to one point of focus: Get to Buck.

The drive feels both too long and not long enough.

By the time Bobby pulls into the hospital parking structure, his hands have stopped shaking, but only because he’s forced them to. He parks neatly, methodically –the way he does everything when the world starts spinning too fast– and sits there for a moment, the hum of the engine a steady heartbeat beneath the noise of his thoughts.

Head injury. Unresponsive. Stable now.

He repeats the words like a prayer.

He had done everything he could to spare Buck from the heartbreak from the past, keep him from having his heart broken by Abby, from having his spark stolen by that therapist and still it seems like the word was decided to replay all of Buck’s greatest hits even if Bobby tried to keep Buck safe and happy. 

Inside, the shift hits him all at once, the smell of antiseptic, the echo of footsteps on polished tile, the low hum of distant monitors. It’s the kind of place that wears its own gravity, and Bobby feels it in his chest, that familiar weight.

He’s been here before. Too many times. He bypasses the reception going straight for the wing where he knows Buck will be.  

The maternity wing sign above the elevator feels surreal –maternity, of all places. A space meant for beginnings. The closer he gets, the sharper the air seems to turn, sterile and overlit, the kind of light that erases shadows but never warmth.

A nurse glances up as he approaches the desk. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for Evan Buckley,” he says, voice steadier than he feels. 

There is a hint of recognition in her eyes as she types something quickly, then nods. “Room 1012. Down the hall, on your left.”

“Thank you.”

He moves through the corridor, each step echoing faintly. The floor shines so bright it almost hurts his eyes. There’s a woman’s laugh somewhere behind a half-closed door, the soft cry of a newborn, the squeak of a gurney wheel. Sounds of life, too tender for the fear knotted in his gut.

He remembers hospital corridors that didn’t end with laughter. He remembers running down them, smoke in his lungs, the world ending in flames. The way grief made everything sound like static.

He swallows hard, pressing that memory back where it belongs. In the past.

Outside the room, he hesitates. The door’s cracked open, just enough for him to see Buck through the gap –sitting up in the bed, a single butterfly bandage at his temple, jaw already beginning to swell. There’s a nurse beside him, checking vitals holding an ice pack to his face, and Buck’s doing what Buck always does when he’s hurt: trying to smile through it, deflect, reassure everyone else first and basking in the attention even if he doesn’t mean to.

Bobby lets out a quiet breath, the tension in his chest easing just a little. Buck’s alive. Talking. Moving.

He steps inside.

“Hey, dad,” Buck says when he notices him, voice rough but bright. His grin falters when he sees Bobby’s face. “I’m okay, I swear. Just got in the middle of a bad family reunion.”

Bobby’s throat tightens. “You sure know how to pick your moments.”

Buck shrugs, winces. “Yeah, well. Somebody had to break it up before someone got hurt.”

“You got hurt,” Bobby says gently, coming closer.

Buck glances down, sheepish. “Occupational hazard.”

For a moment, Bobby just stands there, taking him in, the gash, the faint tremor in his hands, the ridiculous bravery of him for people he doesn’t know. Then he sits beside the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Next time,” he says, voice low but firm, “call security first.”

“We did, they were on the way.” Buck huffs a laugh. “But I'll keep them on speed dial now, I think.”

“I’ll be going, call if you need anything.” The nurse excuses herself quietly with a small amused smile. 

“Thanks, Karinne.” Buck tells her flashing her a charming smile, the woman blushes a bit and the door clicks shut behind her. 

The silence that follows is soft, filled with the faint hum of machines and the muted sounds of life outside. “You scared the hell out of me, son.”

Buck meets his eyes, something unguarded flickering there, guilt, relief, love. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

Bobby reaches out, rests a hand on his shoulder, grounding them both. The antiseptic air, the harsh white light, the echo of grief and smoke –all of it fades for a moment. There’s only this: Buck breathing. Peanut safe. The steady, fragile pulse of life is moving forward and Bobby will keep it beating. 

“I’m fine, Pops.”

Buck says it for what has to be the fifth time, sprawled across Robbie’s bed carefree, determined to prove it. He’s in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, and there’s a faint pink line under the fresh butterfly bandage at his temple that almost continues into Buck’s birthmark.

Across the room, Robbie is hunched at his computer, headset around his neck, while Brook lies sideways beside Buck, nose buried in a paperback.

“It’s been twelve hours already,” Buck continues, eyes flicking toward Bobby, who’s hovering by the door with that particular brand of quiet paternal vigilance. “I can be on my own now.” He gestures at Brook. “Or, well… as alone as I can manage.”

Brook snorts into her book, the corners of her mouth twitching, and gives Buck a light kick on the thigh.

“Hey!” Robbie says immediately, spinning his chair around. “You’re the one who came in here and stole my bed! I was minding my own business.”

Buck smirks, stretching his arms above his head until his fingers hook over the headboard, just to annoy him. “But your bed’s so comfortable, poop brain.”

“Buck,” Bobby warns, the single word carrying all the weary authority of a man who’s more used to chaos than most kindergarten teachers.

Robbie doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s because I’m not fat like you, so my mattress doesn’t have a hole in it.”

“Robbie!” Bobby hisses, scandalized, but Buck is already laughing, full-bodied, delighted, before grabbing one of Robbie’s animal-shaped pillows (not a stuffed animal, he’s been informed) and launching it across the room.

Robbie ducks; the pillow thuds against the wall behind his desk and sends a neat stack of game cases crashing to the floor.

“Dude!” Robbie yells, scrambling up.

He’s on the bed in two seconds, tackling Buck with all the grace of a baby elephant. Brook yelps and scrambles back, clutching her book as Buck lets out a grunt when Robbie lands squarely on his stomach.

“Boys!” Bobby’s voice sharpens. “Buck has a concussion!”

Buck’s only answer is a strangled laugh. “It’s fine! I’m fine!” he wheezes, one arm around Robbie’s waist as he –pretends– tries to roll him off. “Twelve hours, remember? Who’s the fat one now?” he teases, breathless.

“You!” Robbie laughs, wriggling. “You’re smothering me! I can’t breathe!”

It’s only when Bobby steps in, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and physically prying them apart, that the laughter starts to die down.

Brook, still wide-eyed but trying to look composed, sits up laughing until she looks at Buck. “Buck, you’re bleeding.”

That stops everyone.

Buck blinks, touches his forehead, and pulls his hand away with a faint smear of red. “Huh.” He gives a crooked grin. “It’s nothing. Brook’s mosquito bite from last week was bigger.” Brook frowns, but Buck just leans over to boop her nose gently before climbing off the bed. “Don’t worry. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Buck,” Bobby says quietly but Buck only waves him off with that easy, lopsided smile that’s supposed to say I’m fine, even when he clearly isn’t. Bobby doesn’t argue. He just sighs and follows him down the hall to the bathroom, the sound of Robbie and Brook whispering behind them fading into the background. “Sit down,” he says, nodding toward the closed toilet lid. Buck complies without protest, sinking down heavily.

“It’s just a little cut,” Buck says, almost sheepish. “They won’t freak out about it, right?”

“Don’t worry about your siblings,” Bobby murmurs as he reaches into the cabinet for the first-aid kit. His movements are calm, practiced, gauze, saline, a fresh strip of tape. “It’s not even the first time they’ve seen you with a concussion.”

Buck chuckles at that, a soft, breathy sound. Bobby cleans the small gash carefully, dabbing at the dried blood. It’s nothing serious –barely a scrape– but there’s something grounding about the ritual of it, the quiet between them filled with the faint scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic sound of gauze against skin.

For a moment, Bobby lets himself feel it, the simple, steady comfort of taking care of someone he loves. Like patching a skinned knee after a bad fall, or pressing a cool hand to a fevered forehead. It’s fatherhood in all its ordinary, fragile grace.

“At least it was just a tiny cut,” Bobby says finally, more to himself than to Buck.

Buck grins, that same proud, boyish grin that makes him look far too pleased with himself for someone who just got knocked out. “See? I told you.”

Bobby hums. “I’m still not convinced this won’t happen again.”

Buck raises an eyebrow. “What, me getting decked by someone else’s boyfriend?”

“Not funny, Buck.”

“It’s a little funny,” Buck mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t push when Bobby fixes him with a look and presses the last piece of tape gently into place.

“There,” Bobby says, stepping back. “Good as new. Now go help your brother clean his room before I find out you two broke something.”

“Yes, sir,” Buck replies with mock seriousness, snapping a playful salute as he gets up.

Bobby shakes his head, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Buck disappears back down the hall.

A moment later, there’s a crash, followed by Robbie’s indignant yell and Brook’s laughter ringing through the house. Bobby leans against the bathroom doorframe, listening to the noise, the chaos of domestic life, and exhales slowly.

He has to face it now: there are things he can’t change.

Sure, he’s made calls, nudged events where he could. Some ripples have bent differently this time, lives were spared, moments softened. But even with all his careful maneuvering, the current still finds its way. The fire still happened. Chim still got hurt. And Buck… Buck still managed to get himself knocked down on Valentine’s Day.

It doesn’t seem to matter how much he tries to keep it all from repeating. The same storms still roll in, just slower, gentler maybe now that he knows where the water will hit, but never gone.

Bobby breathes, slow and tired, rubbing a hand over his face. The only thing he’s ever been able to do is soften the landing. Like tonight. Buck’s here, alive, loud, laughing, not on a restaurant floor, not with a tube in his throat, not pale and still in a hospital bed while Bobby prayed for a man he hadn't truly known.

He still remembers sitting at his bedside back then, afraid to call him son, afraid to believe the universe might give him another chance at family. But now… now Buck’s in the next room, teasing his siblings, alive and whole.

That’s enough for tonight.

Bobby straightens, takes one last glance toward the laughter echoing down the hall. There’s a Plan. There has to be. And for now, he believes in it.

Buck jogs back to the rig, enjoying a little of the cool air on his face, and grabs the cordless impact driver, the one that can loosen just about anything. The chatter from the crowd spills over the parking lot, laughter mixed with the faint whirr of arcade music still playing from inside the convenience store.

He hurries back, shouldering his way through the cluster of onlookers. Inside the glass case of the claw machine, a little girl –maybe four, at best– sits in a nest of plush toys, utterly content. She’s holding a stuffed cow like it’s her emotional support animal, kicking her tiny legs against the glass. Not scared, not crying. Just vibing.

“All right, folks, coming through!” Buck calls, grinning as people part to let him through. “Excuse me –yep, firefighter coming through!”

The girl’s mother is standing a few feet away, laughing helplessly, caught between embarrassment and disbelief. She’s got the look of a parent who’s clearly outnumbered by her own child.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless when Buck approaches.

“Hi,” Buck answers, easy and bright, before crouching in front of the glass. He meets the girl’s eyes and she stares back at him, serious and curious, as if evaluating whether he’s worthy of her rescue. “What are you doing in there, huh?” he teases. The girl giggles and hugs the cow tighter, her smile all baby teeth and mischief. “I’m gonna take you out, if that’s okay with you,” Buck offers, holding her gaze like he’s striking a deal.

She proudly holds up the toy to show him her prize, before nodding.

“Great choice,” Buck says, smiling. “All right, hang tight. You’ll be out before you know it.”

He crouches by the side panel, fingers quick and sure as he lines up the driver. The tool hums, a clean metallic whirr, and the bolts come loose faster than the crowd expects.

“There we go,” he mutters, popping the side open. “Hey, ready to come out?”

The girl nods immediately, little arms shooting up in trust. Buck slides an arm under her and lifts her free.

“Watch your head,” he says, voice softening as she tucks against his shoulder. She’s heavier than she looks, warm and solid in his arms, like fitting a puzzle piece into place. “Oh, I got you,” Buck murmurs, and she lets out a delighted giggle that ripples through the small crowd.

Her mother reaches out, half laughing, half tearing up. “Thank you. I can’t believe they didn’t have a key for this thing.”

Buck passes the girl over, brushing the glitter from his turnout sleeve. “No problem, that’s what we’re here for.”

He turns back, scooping something from inside the machine. “Almost forgot your moo-moo.”

The girl gasps, clutching the cow to her chest the second he hands it over.

“I can’t believe she actually climbed in there,” the mother says, still shaking her head as Buck reattaches the panel.

He chuckles, tightening the last bolt. “Hey, she was just really committed to her toys.” The girl nods solemnly, like he’s just told the truth of the universe, and some people bursts out laughing again.

Buck straightens, flashes them a grin, and glances up toward the pale glow of the rising moon.

“Buck?” Chim calls, leaning halfway out the storefront door.

Buck glances back from where he’s crouched, tightening the last bolt on the claw machine. “All done!” he announces, giving the panel a quick pat. He checks his work –sealed, neat, exactly as he found it– then flashes the little girl and her mom one last grin.

“Well, behave, listen to your mom, take care, okay?” he says, voice softening at the kid’s wave. Then he jogs back toward Chim, wiping his hands on his turnout pants.

Chim eyes him with a knowing grin. “So… did you get the single mom’s number?”

Buck blinks, thrown off. “What? No!” he says, climbing up into the ladder truck, tone half-offended, half-genuinely confused.

Chim opens his mouth to press the point, because of course he would, when Hen’s voice cuts sharply through the radio.

“Chimney! We’ve got a call!”

“Copy that!” Chim calls back, then leans a forearm on the open truck window, smirking up at Buck. “We’re not done with this conversation. You’ve been hiding out too long, my friend. We’re gonna fix that.”

Buck groans under his breath. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Good,” Chim says, grinning before jogging off toward the ambulance.

Buck shakes his head and turns to find Bobby watching him from the passenger seat, one brow raised in quiet amusement.

“The kid okay?” Bobby asks as Buck fires up the engine.

“Yeah, she’s fine.” Buck nods, a quick smile flickering across his face.

“And you?” Bobby presses gently, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Buck exhales, that crooked, reassuring grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m good, pops.” He reaches up and gives the roof a playful slap. “We’re rolling! Strap in!”

The engine rumbles to life, the radio crackles again, and the moonlight glints off the windshield as the truck pulls away– another full-moon call waiting just around the corner.

“All I’m saying is that the full moon affects life on Earth,” Buck insists, leaning back in the seat like a man making a closing argument. His tone is serious, almost academic –if you ignore the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, lord,” Bobby mutters tiredly as they pull the ladder truck to the curb. “We’re really doing this again.”

“It’s a fact,” Buck presses, unbothered. “Gravity is heavier during full moons. Scientists have proven it.”

Bobby says as Buck cuts the engine, glancing over at Buck with a long-suffering sigh. “You read this in a peer-reviewed, scientific publication?”

Buck squints, thinking way too hard about it. “Uh… I don’t know. Is the internet considered a scientific publication?”

That gets a short laugh out of Bobby despite himself. “You know, I sometimes think you were sent to test my faith,” he says, climbing out of the truck. He tosses a hand over Buck’s shoulder, squeezing briefly as they start toward the entrance. “The idea that the moon causes odd behavior goes back to the first century, Buck. It’s folklore. Magical thinking.”

“Yeah, but don’t you think there’s something to it?” Buck argues, jogging a little to keep up as they reach the front doors. “If so many people, across so many cultures, believed it?”

Bobby hums, looking up at the silver disc hanging over the skyline. “There’s a lot we don’t know about life,” he concedes with a soft face. “I’ll give you that one, and that one only.” He punctuates it by raising a single finger as the elevator doors slide open.

“Thanks, Dad. I feel a lot better now,” Buck says with a grin, stepping in beside him.

When the elevator dings open, they’re immediately met by a flustered woman in leggings and a ponytail. “Oh, thank God you’re here!” she blurts, relief flooding her voice. “She’s this way, Jackie’s six months pregnant, she’s new. This class is only open to moms who are at least twenty-six weeks, I told them about overexerting themselves –come on, come on–”

She talks fast, leading them down a hallway that smells faintly of lavender and essential oils. Buck takes in the scene as they enter the yoga studio: soft music still playing, pastel mats scattered everywhere, and about ten very pregnant women looking like they’re deciding between panic and politeness.

“And behold,” the instructor says dramatically, gesturing toward the center of the room, “the Salabhasana.”

Bobby’s brows knit together. “Locust pose,” Buck supplies, immediately stepping forward.

Bobby looks at him sideways. “You know that how?”

Buck’s grin is bright and entirely too proud. “I’ve dated, like, a lot of yoga instructors.”

“Of course you have.” Bobby lets out a huff that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan as they head toward the woman frozen mid-pose on the mat. “Can you guys please clear out so we can get in there.” Bobby asks and they all move away, still watching but from afar. 

The yoga call ends up being a three-for-one special, courtesy of the full moon, Buck is sure. It was a crash course in on-scene obstetrics. Nothing like a hands-on experience to really make the lessons stick. The night, it seemed, was just getting started.

They take the narrow stairs two at a time. At the top, a man paces in front of a closed door, face pale with worry and frustration. “Oh, thank god,” he blurts the second he sees them. He turns toward the door and calls out, “Connor? 911’s here, open the door now!”

There’s no answer.

“Connor?” Bobby calls, calm but steady. “Los Angeles Fire Department. We’re here to help.” He steps between the man and the door, his movements smooth, practiced. “Step aside, sir.” One firm knock. “Connor, we can’t help you if you don’t open the door.” A small whimper carries through the wood. Buck winces. “Connor, I don’t want to have to break this down,” Bobby says, voice even and coaxing. “Open it up and let us take a look.”

There’s a click. The door creaks open to reveal a thin, sweaty young man crouched near the toilet, both arms wrapped tight around his stomach.

“I –I feel like I’m gonna give birth or something,” Connor groans. “It’s like –like something’s moving. Inside me.”

Behind Bobby, the other man rolls his eyes. “We had sushi tonight. He always orders the omakase, then freaks out about it later. He’s got diarrhea, that’s all.”

Connor glares at him. “If you tell me I just have a stomachache one more time, I swear I’ll stab you with your toothbrush.” Buck bites back a laugh as he crouches beside Bobby, opening his kit on the tile. Bobby’s already snapping on gloves.

“How long have you been having these cramps?” Bobby asks.

“A week. I made a doctor’s appointment for Friday.”

“Any other symptoms?” Bobby’s tone is mild, almost conversational, but his eyes are sharp.

Connor hesitates. “No.”

“He’s been having a lot of gas,” his boyfriend supplies helpfully.

“Shut up!”

“It kind of builds like an overture,” the man continues, deadpan, “then a nice little tuba solo–”

“Paul,” Connor warns.

“--a tremendous amount of horrible flatulence.”

“Paul!” Connor’s voice cracks in distress. Buck can’t help the grin tugging at his mouth; the dynamic is so familiar, so domestic, it almost feels like watching a sitcom. Buck looks away, pretending not to notice.

“Okay,” Bobby says, gently guiding Connor to lean back. “Let me take a look.”

Buck clears his throat, trying to keep it professional. “Do you guys eat a lot of sushi?” he asks, watching as Bobby palpates the abdomen. Connor’s got a solid core, any swelling would show.

“He does. Four or five times a week,” Paul says.

“I try to stay carb- and fat-free,” Connor offers, grimacing through another cramp.

“Ah, same here,” Buck says lightly. “You guys ever try the brown rice pasta? Not bad, honestly.”

Connor tilts his head, distracted from the pain. “It’s a little gummy for my taste.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Buck agrees with a grin. “But dad can make anything taste good.” 

Connor squints at him, like he’s reassessing. “Hey, what’s your body fat percentage?”

Buck can’t help but preen. “I swing between, like, fifty–”

“Can we finish the most fascinating conversation of all time later?” Bobby cuts in, dry as dust. Buck ducks his head, grinning sheepishly. Bobby presses gently along Connor’s abdomen, methodical and calm even as the man groans. “Deep breaths,” Bobby says, tone firm but kind. He presses again, and Connor shifts, breathing unevenly. The next second, he stiffens, a sharp cry tearing from his throat. 

“Oh God! No, no, no!” Connor doubles over, both hands gripping his side hugging himself in despair. His legs tremble, knocking against the base of the cabinet.

“Okay,” Bobby says quickly, all command now. “We’re moving you to the ambulance. Buck.” Bobby calls without having to say what Buck has to do.

Between the two of them –and a flustered Paul hovering behind– they haul Connor upright. He’s groaning, half-folded over, but lets them steer him down the narrow hall.

By the time they get him on the gurney, Connor is drenched in sweat. His breathing’s ragged, his knuckles white against the mat.

“Drive faster!” he gasps as Buck adjusts the straps. “I’m gonna explode all over the place.”

“All right, Connor, you’re doing great,” Buck says, trying for calm encouragement as he checks the IV line. “Almost there. They’ll do a scan, figure out what’s going on, get you some relief, okay?”

Connor’s eyes dart wildly. “There’s something under my leg.”

“It’s just the IV tube,” Bobby says automatically, not looking up.

“No,” Connor pants, voice breaking. “No, no, it’s moving.”

Buck’s head snaps up. “What do you mean, moving?”

“I swear to God, there’s something under my leg!” Connor thrashes weakly, trying to lift it.

Buck glances at Bobby. Bobby sighs, already resigned. “Turn him,” he says. “Let’s check.”

They roll Connor slightly to the side–

–and Buck freezes.

“Oh.” The sound escapes him, soft, startled, horrified.

Bobby’s head jerks up. “What?”

“What the hell is that?” Paul leans over for a look, and immediately shrieks.

“That,” Buck says grimly, staring down, “is a tapeworm.”

Connor blinks, then lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a sob and a scream. “I have a tapeworm?! It’s – it’s coming out of my –oh God!”

Paul slaps a hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Bobby’s voice stays level, the picture of professional calm. “We’re almost at the hospital. They’ll remove it properly, give you medication –albendazole, maybe praziquantel –then we call it a night. You’ll be fine.”

“No!” Connor gasps, clutching at Buck’s sleeve. “I can’t take those drugs. They’re toxic. They put me on Flagyl once and it gave me severe heartburn –and turned my pee burnt sienna!”

“I’m sorry, burnt–?” Buck starts, half incredulous, half amused.

“Brown! It was dark brown!” Connor shouts. “Just please, get it out!”

Bobby shakes his head looking done with the situation. “We are not pulling a parasite out in the back of a moving ambulance, kid.”

Connor’s hand shoots out and grabs Buck’s arm, desperate. “Please!”

Bobby glances at Buck. “It’s all you.”

Buck blinks. “Really, dad? You’ve got no problem delivering a baby but this creeps you out?”

“Seniority has its advantages.” Bobby replies dryly.

Connor groans, voice climbing into a near wail. “Just get it out!”

Buck sighs, tugging on another pair of gloves. “All right, but I have to be careful. If it breaks, it can crawl back inside and regenerate.”

Paul makes a strangled noise. “Oh God, why would you say that out loud?”

Buck crouches down, face set in determined calm. “You know,” he says conversationally as he begins to pull, slow and steady, “these things can live inside you for twenty years. Old model’s trick for losing weight.”

Paul’s still green but manages a weak laugh. “I knew you didn’t go from a thirty-four to a thirty-one with just sit-ups.”

“Please don’t narrate!” Connor yelps, gripping the gurney rails until his knuckles whiten.

Paul stares at Buck, incredulous. “How do you even know this stuff?”

Buck shrugs without looking up. “Tended bar one summer on a surf beach in South America, saw a case like this. Makes sense, really –all the sushi you guys eat. It’s like playing Russian roulette with parasites. And with the moon–”

“Will you shut up about the moon,” Bobby mutters, tightening his hold on the IV bag.

“It’s true,” Buck insists mildly. “Parasites’ breeding cycles rise and fall with the full moon.”

Paul leans in, peeks once, and recoils. “This is insane. It’s like a magician’s handkerchief trick.”

Connor screams again as another length slides free. “Just –just make it stop!”

“Almost there,” Buck murmurs, it’s a lie but he keeps his voice calm and gentle, hands steady as he keeps pulling. The worm glistens under the harsh ambulance lights, a sick parody of a ribbon unspooling.

Bobby grimaces, glancing sideways. “I honestly don’t know how you’re so calm about this.”

Buck snorts. “It’s nature, you know? It’s the circle of life.”

“I don’t think Elton John had this in mind,” Paul mutters weakly.

Finally, with a soft grunt, Buck lifts the last slick length free. It coils into the biohazard bag like a noodle out of a nightmare.

“Congratulations,” Buck says, snapping the seal shut with a grin. “It’s a boy.”

Connor promptly faints.

They take half an hour offline, gathered around the table with Hen and Chim joining in. The air feels lighter than usual  –no calls, no chaos, just the lull before shift change. Laughter blends with the smell of coffee and disinfectant as they trade stories.

“It was a zombie,” Chim says with complete sincerity, leaning forward on his elbows. “He tried eating Hen’s brains.”

“He was high on something,” Hen corrects, rolling her eyes while Buck and Bobby burst out laughing. “I’m just glad ‘Thena was there to save me.”

Buck’s laughter fades when his phone buzzes against the tabletop. He glances down, thumb sliding to unlock it. “Oh, hey,” he calls out toward Bobby. “Connor’s already getting ready to leave the hospital, that was fast.” He smiles as he says it –small and pleased– Bobby looks up from his mug.

“You got his number?” Bobby asks, frowning immediately and sharp.

“Paul’s actually,” Buck answers with a grin that falters when Bobby keeps looking at him. There’s disappointment there, quiet but unmistakable –that paternal kind of disappointment that Buck has spent a lifetime recognizing, though never from Bobby. 

Until now.

His chest tightens. “Is –hm –is that… against protocol? I mean, nobody ever said we couldn’t swap numbers with victims.”

Bobby sighs, but it’s Chim who cuts in. “It’s not,” Chim says with a teasing smirk. “Feel free to get all the phone numbers you want, Buckaroo.”

Buck blinks, flustered. “I –he offered!” His voice tilts up defensively. “It wasn’t like that.”

“He was flirting with you,” Bobby says, voice flat, like it’s just a fact Buck has to accept.

Hen groans. “Cap–”

“He wasn’t!” Buck interrupts, more insistent now. “He wasn’t, I swear. Paul didn’t give off any signs.”

Bobby’s brows lift. “He was,” he says simply. “I was there.”

Buck gapes at him, exasperated. “He wasn’t. And even if he was, that’s my problem.”

“They were both flirting with you,” Bobby replies, calm but immovable. “And I don’t like the idea of you getting involved with someone who’s still in a relationship. Or freshly out of one… Or you being the cause of a relationship to end.”

Chim whistles lowly. “Oof,” he mutters under his breath.

Buck stares at Bobby, jaw tight. His voice drops when he speaks. “I would never do that,” he says quietly, with a steadiness that makes Hen glance up. “Don’t you trust the values you taught me?” That lands. Bobby blinks, a flicker of surprise softening his expression. “I mean –I was a little wild before,” Buck admits, looking down at his hands, “but I never cheated. I’ve never broken someone’s trust like that.”

“I know,” Bobby says after a beat, voice low. He gets up, crosses to Buck, and presses a kiss to the top of his hair. “I’m sorry, son. I just worry.”

Buck exhales, not quite forgiving but not angry either, just… raw around the edges. He nods. Bobby moves to refill his own mug, then pours hot coffee into Buck’s without asking –a silent truce or an apology, and Buck drinks it trying to centre himself again.

Hen’s gaze lingers on Buck. “So,” she says eventually, leaning forward. “Why do you think they got your number, then?”

Buck shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, uh –well. Me and Connor kind of think alike, I guess. Paul said something about taking me out to eat with them sometime.”

Hen grins knowingly. “They so want to set you up with one of their friends.”

Buck looks up, surprised. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” Hen says, smiling as she leans back in her chair. “They saw a pretty firefighter and immediately thought, ‘I know someone who’d love him.’” She tilts her head. “My advice? Ask for a picture before you say yes.”

Buck laughs, finally, that easy laugh that loosens the tension in his shoulders. “Noted,” he says, lifting his coffee like a toast, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I –I don’t think I’d agree anyway,” he admits, still smiling. 

Hen blinks at him, then nods, soft. “That’s okay too,” she says, and Bobby echoes the nod beside her, calm and supportive.

“No, it’s not,” Chim cuts in immediately, jabbing his spoon toward Buck for emphasis. “You haven’t dated –ever– at least not since I met you. You’re young, Buck. You can’t let Papa Bear here keep you locked away forever. You gotta go out, have fun.”

“I date!” 

Buck says at the same time Bobby exclaims, “He can date if he wants!”

Hen snorts, shaking her head. “But not people you don’t want him to date.”

“Well–” Bobby starts, and Buck watches, half amused, half fascinated, as color creeps up Bobby’s neck. The man actually blushes. “I just don’t think Buck has to go so fast.”

“It’s glacial, Bobby,” Chim argues, leaning forward, dramatic as ever. “I mean, come on, the boy has needs. He’s gotta be able to go out and have some action.”

Hen groans. “Chim–”

“Oh no, no, no,” Buck interrupts quickly, waving both hands like he can fan away the topic. “I’m –uh –I’m fine with being glacial, thanks.” His voice hitches on a laugh. “Really fine. I don’t even mind dad’s opinions on my dates –he just needs to trust me a little more that I  won’t do something as stupid as aiding a cheater.”

“Of course,” Bobby says immediately, voice gentle, eyes steady. “I’ll trust you even more from now on.”

Buck smiles, the tension easing right out of him. “Thanks, pops.”

It’s quiet for a heartbeat –just the sound of the coffee maker humming, the distant buzz of the station. Then Chim claps his hands once, loud and triumphant.

“Alright,” he declares. “Now that we’ve established you’re allowed to date, I’m gonna be your wingman. There is this karaoke bar–”

Hen rolls her eyes as Bobby mutters something about God helping us all. But Buck just nods as Chim is speaking, he’s not ready yet, but when he’s he doesn’t want to go out alone.

Bobby spends the whole afternoon in the nursery. The walls are already the soft pink Brook suggested but they look… plain. Too plain.

Back when Robbie was born, he and Marcy had painted paw prints across the nursery walls. Marcy had been a dog person through and through, always dreaming of a house big enough for kids and a golden retriever tumbling in the yard. But their apartment had been small, and Bobby… Bobby had been too much of an idiot back then to just give her that life. Too stubborn, too caught up in his own mess to see how simple it would have been to make her happy. He hopes she has all the dogs she wants now. Hopes she’s forgiven him.

But that’s not the point. The point is this room, right here. Peanut’s room.

It’s tucked away like something sacred, and every time Bobby passes it, he stops in the doorway. He imagines her here, Buck’s little girl, and the walls always strike him as too bare. Too still. Children like color, noise, things to reach for with their eyes before they can even lift their hands and heads. Dusty pink feels too old for a girl so new to the world.

So today, when Brook suggested a trip to the mall, Bobby claimed he was tired from work. Robbie looked at him with that sharp suspicion only teenagers can manage, disappointment tugged at his face, until Bobby gave a wink and a quick tilt of his head toward Buck, toward the nursery. Robbie groaned, rolled his eyes, but the smile gave him away. He understood. His father was up to something, and whatever it was, he wasn’t about to ruin it.

Two minutes later, Bobby was alone. He carried the cans and brushes into the room like contraband, closed the door, and stood there a moment with his palms on the lid of the paint pan. He hadn’t told anyone what he planned to do. Maybe he should have. Maybe Buck deserved to be asked first.

But he’s already here. Paint poured, brush in hand, staring at the smooth pink walls and imagining something brighter. Doves, maybe. Flowers. Life blooming across the room before Peanut ever takes her first step in it. 

He dips the brush and makes the first stroke, praying Buck will understand. Praying he’ll like it. After all, this is his daughter’s room.

The front door clicks open just as the end of day settles in –that soft, in-between hour where the air smells faintly of rain and mall pretzels, and everyone’s a little tired from pretending not to enjoy the shopping trip.

“–it’s too!” Brook declares, juggling a bag that’s definitely heavier than she admits, “next time, I’m picking the store, Buck. I’m done watching you agonize over baby blankets.”

“I wasn’t agonizing,” Buck argues half-heartedly, kicking his shoes off by the mat. “I was comparing fabrics, Peanut is delicate.”

“You compared nineteen fabrics,” Robbie mutters, brushing past him with the universal teenage look of annoyance. “You made a spreadsheet.”

Buck grins. “That’s called being thorough.”

Brook just waves him off and heads to her room happy with her books, already calling over her shoulder something about bath time and dinner. Robbie disappears toward his own room. It should be quiet, domestic everyday. But there’s a smell.

Not the usual dinner meal and coffee –this is sharper. Buck freezes by the archway on the way to Peanut’s room where he is going to leave the new things he bought. The hall light’s off, but a faint glow spills from the end of the hallway. Peanut’s room. He feels his chest hitch before his feet even move. The scent grows stronger as he nears, a mix of fresh color. 

“Bobby?” he calls softly.

He gets a low hum in response. When Buck pushes the door open, it’s like stepping into a new world. The pale pink walls aren’t plain anymore.

Vines curl up from the baseboards, delicate leaves and tiny flowers winding toward the ceiling in soft greens and honey yellows. Little birds peek out from the corners, caught mid-flight, painted with the kind of care that feels personal –careful brushstrokes, imperfect lines that make them real and precious. The air feels warmer somehow, the room softer.

Bobby sits on the floor beside the crib, a mug balanced on the paint tray, his forearm smudged with green. He looks up, eyes widening like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

“Oh,” he says, and Buck can see him getting ready to apologize. “I was going to tell you. Or ask. I just–”

Buck steps inside before he can finish. His throat’s too tight to answer right away. He runs his fingertips almost touching the painted vines nearest the door, following the curve of a leaf like it’s something precious where a butterfly is resting on it.

“It’s beautiful,” he says finally, voice low. “You did this?”

Bobby shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want her walls to feel empty.” He sets his mug down carefully. “But if you hate it–”

“I don’t.” Buck turns toward him, still dazed. “I– Dad, it’s perfect. I love it, Peanut is going to love it.”

He can feel his chest swelling, that dizzy, stinging warmth that comes from love sneaking up on him. He’s never been good at this kind of thing –never known how to say thank you when it means you saw me.

He looks around again, eyes catching on a set of tiny paw prints near the crib’s baseboard, trailing up like some unseen puppy had wandered through before the paint dried. Buck laughs softly, the sound breaking something tight in the room.

“Paw prints?” he asks.

Bobby’s mouth tilts into a small, shy smile. “Marcy always wanted a golden retriever. Thought maybe Peanut should have one, even if it’s just on the wall.”

Buck’s laughter fades into a quiet kind of ache.

For a moment, Buck just stands there, watching him –this man who somehow keeps finding ways to turn heartbreak into gentleness. The nursery feels like proof of that: you’re family. She’s family. We’re family.

Buck swallows hard. “You know you didn’t have to–”

“I wanted to.” Bobby meets his eyes. “She deserves something warm. And so do you.”

Something in Buck goes soft and unguarded. He crosses the room, crouches down, and pulls Bobby into a hug before he can think better of it. It’s quick and clumsy, paint still damp on one of Bobby’s sleeves, but real.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against his shoulder.

Bobby pats his back lightly. “You’re welcome, kiddo.”

Buck pulls back, eyes shining a little, and gestures to the walls again. “But, uh… you’re not quitting firefighting for interior design, right?”

Bobby chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. My brushwork’s strictly amateur.”

Buck grins and looks around one more time –at the vines, the birds, the paw prints– then at Bobby, who looks tired and content all at once.

“It’s more than perfect,” he says quietly. “She’s going to love it.”

“Any more condensed milk in this mug and it’ll be a mousse,” Buck jokes, watching Pepa stir one last spoonful into the cup.

“Hush,” she scolds affectionately, handing it over. “Beba.”

Buck smiles and obeys, taking a sip. The coffee is sweet –really sweet– thick with sugar and milk, but Pepa’s expectant look makes it impossible not to enjoy. He’s more of a black-coffee guy, but there’s something comforting about this; it tastes like kindness.

Across the table, Fernando’s already on his second cup, demolishing the tiny fried cakes Buck brought with him. Crumbs dot the plate and his grin is sugar-dusted happy.

Pepa leaves the kitchen humming to herself, and the moment she’s gone, Fernando sighs, leaning back. “Thanks for the help with the roof, Buck,” he says for the third time that morning. “Usually Rafa would be the one up there with me, but he’s been traveling for work the last… six months.”

“So he moved?” Buck asks jokingly, but genuinely curious.

Fernando snorts. “He says it’s temporary. Complains about Pittsburgh every day in the family chat, but still hasn’t moved back.”

Buck laughs under his breath. “Well, it was nothing, really. I like helping out… and your mom’s always so nice to me. Her and Isabel both.”

Fernando smirks. “They really like you. They also use you as a comparison every time we tell them we don’t want to go to church.”

Buck nearly spits out his coffee, coughing around a laugh. “Oh, God –I’m so sorry.”

Fernando’s already cracking up. “Seriously, man, don’t be. It’s hilarious. You’re basically the golden boy now.” He lifts his voice into a perfect imitation of Pepa’s sing-song tone: “‘Ay, Nando, he’s so sweet with his hermanos.’” He snaps his fingers in the air just like Pepa does. “‘He fixed your abuela’s stove like this.’”

Buck’s face goes red from laughing so hard, half-mortified, half-delighted. He doesn’t even realize Pepa’s back in the doorway until she calls out, “¿Ay, qué están chismeando ustedes dos?” Both men freeze for a beat, then break down laughing again. “Niños,” she mutters, shaking her head as she sets a small bag on the table. “Dos niños.”

Pepa sits, opening the bag like it’s treasure. “Here, Buck. For your daughter.”

Buck’s laughter fades into a breath of surprise as she pulls out a delicate white dress, soft cotton, tiny lace at the sleeves. His hand hovers before he dares to touch it. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Pepa,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

She beams, proud as if she’d sewn it herself.

“You have a kid?” Fernando asks, eyes widening a little.

“Ah, sí,” Pepa answers for him, her voice warm. “Una cosita linda, Nando. So small.” She taps Buck’s hand. “Show him.” 

Buck clears his throat, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. “She’s still in the NICU,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “But she’s getting stronger. She fed from a bottle for the first time a couple weeks ago.”

He unlocks his phone and turns the screen toward them, Buck in the NICU chair, cradling Peanut against his chest, a bottle held carefully in his big hand. The baby looks impossibly tiny, her little fingers curled near his hand

Pepa lets out a soft sigh. “Oh, Buck. Qué perfecta.”

“She really is,” Buck murmurs. His chest feels warm and heavy at once –pride tangled with awe.

Fernando leans closer, smiling. “Man, look at that.” Then he smiles and takes his own phone out, unlocking it with a proud grin. “This is my girl,” he says, turning the screen toward Buck. The photo shows a bright-eyed little girl with tiny curls that frame her face like a halo. “Kayla.”

Buck’s smile softens. “She’s beautiful,” he says, meaning it. There’s a small ache in his chest –that familiar tug that comes every time he sees a happy, healthy kid, imagining Peanut in the future.

“You know,” Fernando says, scratching the back of his neck, “mama didn’t tell me you had a little girl. I can bring some of Kayla’s old toys and clothes for you, if you want.”

Buck blinks, eyes going wide, surprised by the offer and the sudden rush of emotion behind it. “That would be very helpful, Fernando. Thank you so much.” His voice comes out quieter than he expects, and the man actually blushes.

“Ay,” Fernando waves his hand with a flourish that’s all Pepa, that same effortless warmth. “Nando, please. And don’t worry about it. Kids outgrow their things too fast, we could fill a whole container with what Kayla doesn’t use anymore.”

Pepa beams at her son. “That’s incredible, mijo.” she says proudly, patting his shoulder.

Buck nods, smiling over his mug. “It really is incredible.”

“If I knew earlier, I could’ve brought them today already.” Nando says, giving his mother a look.

“Oh, well,” Pepa says, clapping her hands once on the table with finality. “That just means Buck will have to come back for coffee again soon.”

Buck snorts, surprised, then breaks into a laugh that fills the kitchen. Nando joins in, their laughter echoing against the old tile walls.

For a moment, Buck lets himself just sit in it –the sound of family, the smell of strong coffee and fried dough, the warmth of sunlight slipping through lace curtains. It feels easy here, steady, like the world isn’t waiting to take anything else from him.

He looks at Pepa, at Nando, at the photo of Kayla still glowing on the table. “Guess I will,” he says softly. “Wouldn’t want to miss your coffee mousse.”

Pepa smiles at him, eyes crinkling with fondness. “Así me gusta,” she says. “Now drink before it gets cold.”

And Buck does, the coffee still too sweet and cold, it’s perfect.

Buck isn’t… traumatized. Not really.

He knows what happened with that therapist isn’t the norm. Knows it the same way he knows he’s supposed to eat, sleep, keep breathing. It just doesn’t make it easier.

He spent days texting back and forth with Carla –Abby’s mom’s caretaker, who somehow always has the right contact for everything– until she helped him find the best child therapist in the area. One who specializes in trauma and sibling adjustment. And now Buck’s sitting here, elbows on his knees, hands fidgeting uselessly in the air, watching Bobby move around the kitchen while the smell of garlic and onion fills the space, trying to figure out how the hell to start this conversation.

He’s never not known how to talk to Bobby before. Not even when he worried that Bobby’s faith might make him care less once Buck came out. Not even when he confessed the kind of things that make most people look away.

But this… feels heavier, sharper around the edges.

He still hasn’t filed the report about Dr. Wells. Athena and Bobby both told him they’d be there, that they’d help, but the thought of sitting in that room again –writing it all down, reliving it– makes something lock up in his chest. He hasn’t gone to see a therapist himself since either.

And now here he is, clutching a piece of paper with names and phone numbers, trying to keep his voice steady but failing to find words.

“What is it, Buck?” Bobby asks finally, not looking up yet from the stove.

“What?” Buck mutters, startled.

Bobby chuckles, turning the pan with easy motions. “I can smell your brain burning from here.”

Normally, that would earn at least a snort. But Buck just stares at the countertop.

“C’mon, kid,” Bobby says gently, the warmth in his voice cutting through. “Talk to me.”

“Okay,” Buck says, taking a breath that doesn’t go very far. “Look –uh, I know Robbie’s fine.” At that, Bobby quietly turns off the flame, folds the towel in his hands, and gives Buck his full attention. “But I think he’s too fine?” Buck goes on, voice unsure. “I mean, Brook –she has these moments, you know? Where it’s obvious she’s processing things. But Robbie…” Buck shakes his head. “He just seems fine all the time. Except that day on the beach, when he hurt Denny… he looked really spooked. I don’t know, I thought maybe… maybe he should talk to someone about it. About all of it.”

He pulls out the folded paper and smooths it on the table like it’s something fragile. “I got some child therapist names from Carla. She’s an in-home nurse, knows all the good services and people. I looked them all up –they seem solid. I can even take him myself.”

When he finishes rambling, Bobby is still watching him. Not judging, just watching –steady and quiet in that way that always makes Buck feel like every word he says actually lands somewhere. “Bobby?” Buck asks softly.

“Buck, son,” Bobby says, voice low. “You need to report Wells.”

Buck flinches like he’s been slapped. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“If you want your brother to see a therapist,” Bobby says evenly, “you’re going to report Wells first.”

Buck blinks at him, incredulous. “You can’t use Robbie as a bargaining chip.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Bobby smirks just enough to soften it, turning the burner back on. “Take him to whoever you want, I’ll back you up. But when Athena gets here, talk to her, please. I’ll go with you to the PD. Actually, both of us will. But this has to be dealt with, Buck. You can’t let her do this to someone else.”

There’s no anger in his tone. Just that quiet conviction that always makes Buck stop arguing. Because Bobby’s right. And because Bobby knows exactly which part of Buck will always move for someone else’s sake, even when he can’t do it for his own.

Buck exhales through his nose, resigned. “Fine,” he mutters.

Bobby’s mouth curves, gentle again. He steps forward, pulls Buck in by the back of his neck, and presses a kiss to his forehead like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Everything’s going to be okay, kid,” he says quietly and Buck believes it. “With you, and with Robbie.” 

From all the things Buck’s been ignoring lately, Abby’s calls are high on the list.

It’s not that he dislikes her. He doesn’t. He liked talking to her –back when it still felt easy. Back when her voice on the other end of the line meant comfort instead of confusion.

But now that he knows, now that he’s had to live with the slow, bitter realization that he was never really more than a placeholder, a bright distraction both Abby and Tommy used to feel something for a while, it’s hard not to feel… used.

Still, there’s only so many missed calls before the guilt catches up to him. And Buck, for all his bravery, has never been good at ignoring someone who needs him.

So when his phone rings again, and her name flashes on the screen, he exhales through his nose and swipes to answer.

“Hey, Abby,” he says, forcing lightness into his voice. He glances toward the apparatus bay, silently hoping the siren blares so he’ll have an excuse to cut it short… then immediately feels guilty for even thinking it. “How are you?”

“I’m well, Buck. How are you?” Abby’s voice is soft, that careful tone she uses when she’s reaching for connection. “Feels like we haven’t talked in ages.”

“Yeah, I –uh, I’ve been pretty busy,” Buck says. It’s not even a lie. Between work and training, getting Peanut ready to leave the NICU, worrying about Brook and Robbie, and spending his Sundays fixing roofs and carrying groceries for the church abuelas, his days blur together. “I’m good, though. How’s your mom doing?”

He cringes immediately. He knows more about Patricia through Carla than he does through Abby herself now. Actually he knows more about Patricia and Carla than he knows about Abby at this point.

“She’s okay,” Abby sighs. “As okay as she can be. Some days are better than others…”

And then she’s off, her words spilling like a faucet that hasn’t been turned on in months. She tells him about her mother’s moods, her brother’s work, the exhaustion that never really goes away. Buck listens. Nods. Realizes too late that she can’t see him, so he hums in the right places instead.

But mostly, he just… sees her.

Not the Abby who used to sound bright and sure and made him feel wanted. But this version –the one grasping for something, using his voice as a kind of lifeline. And suddenly, instead of bitter, he feels sad.

Because it hits him that Abby’s lonely. Lonely enough to cling to a twenty-six-year-old man she barely knows for comfort.

When her words drift for a moment, he finds himself asking, “Is Patricia religious? I mean, are you and your family religious?”

There’s a pause on the line, one that stretches long enough to make him think the call dropped. “I –I think so?” Abby says eventually, unsure. “My grandparents were Irish, so probably yes?”

Buck nods to himself. “Do you want to come to church with me?” he asks. “You would bring your mom, of course. I think it might be good for her to get out of the house, maybe… to pray.”

He’s been praying a lot for Patricia lately. Praying she goes softly, peacefully. That she finds her way without fear.

Abby goes quiet again, the kind of silence that means she’s thinking or avoiding.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” she says finally.

Buck smiles faintly, leaning his shoulder against the firehouse wall. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says gently. “I just… Father Brian’s helped me a lot. Helped Robbie and Brook and Bobby, too. I guess now I think everyone should get the chance to feel as… at peace as I do lately. Because of, you know. Faith.”

Abby exhales, the sound small and wistful. “If she were a little better,” she admits, “maybe I’d risk it. I just… I worry how she’d behave in public. I don’t want people to be annoyed or uncomfortable.”

“Hey,” Buck says, firm but kind. “Nobody in the church would feel that way. I promise. They’d never judge you or Patricia.”

Abby laughs softly, but there’s a sadness threaded through it. “You’re a rare one, Buck. I’ve met a lot of religious people in my life. Not everyone’s as accepting as your family.”

He wants to argue, to tell her that maybe she’s just been around the wrong kind of people. But before he can, the station alarm sounds –loud and sharp, cutting through the air.

“Go,” Abby says over the noise. “We can talk later.”

“Bye, Abby.”

He hangs up, shoving the phone into his pocket as he jogs toward the truck.

“Everything okay, kid?” Bobby calls as Buck climbs into the driver’s seat.

“I’m fine,” Buck says quickly, settling behind the wheel. He isn’t sure if that’s true, but it’s what he knows how to say.

Bobby gives him a long, knowing look, the kind that says I’ll let that slide for now, and then rattles off the address for the call.

As the siren wails to life, Buck focuses on the road ahead –because sometimes, it’s easier to drive into the fire than to sit still long enough to feel what’s burning inside him.

There’s a tiger loose at the zoo.

The very same zoo Buck took Brook and Robbie to just a couple of weeks ago –where Robbie wouldn’t stop roaring at the glass and Brook spent half an hour talking to the flamingos like they were her new best friends.

Now the sirens are cutting through the thick afternoon air, echoing off the walls of the enclosures. They pull up just as Athena waves them over. Her expression is composed but tight, the kind of look that means this one’s bad.

“The tiger’s handler tried to wrangle him after he got loose,” she says as they jog up. Buck’s eyes find the man immediately, the middle-aged handler sitting against a low concrete wall, cradling his arm. Blood stains his khaki uniform, pooling darkly on the ground. “This ain’t pretty,” Athena warns, stepping back to let them in.

Bobby kneels beside the man without hesitation. “Okay, sir, we’re gonna take a look here.”

The handler gives a shaky nod, pale but remarkably calm. “It’s –uh –it’s called a degloving,” he says, almost academically, like he’s giving a lecture, Buck thinks he is trying to distract himself. “Big cats don’t just claw down. They hook and pull. Peel the skin right back.”

Hen is already tearing open sterile packs. Buck grabs the saline and passes it to her, crouching opposite Bobby.

Bobby peels back the towel, and even Buck –who believed he’d seen just about everything by now– feels his stomach twist. The man’s forearm looks like a medical diagram, tendons and muscle exposed beneath a flap of skin half hanging.

“Hen, saline,” Bobby orders. “We need to flush this out before we wrap.”

“Yes, Cap.” The man tenses as Hen pours the cool saline over the wound. “Sir, we have to disinfect this before we can cover it,” Bobby warns gently. “It’s gonna sting.”

Buck crouches a little closer, voice soft. “Hey. Let’s talk about something else for a sec, yeah? How come you’re still breathing after tangling with a tiger?”

The man gives a weak laugh through gritted teeth. “I’ve known Kobe since he was a cub,” he says. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. Just… panicked.”

Buck nods, keeping his tone calm and steady. “He got spooked, huh? Happens to the best of us.”

“Hold still,” Bobby says as he carefully repositions the lifted skin back over the exposed tissue. “If we’re really careful, we can preserve this.” Hen passes him a fresh roll of gauze and an elastic bandage. Bobby works methodically, moist dressing first to protect the tissue, then dry layers to stabilize it. “A little plastic surgery,” Bobby says, eyes flicking to the handler’s face, “and you’ll be good as new.”

“Lucky,” Hen mutters under her breath. “That cat could’ve taken the whole arm.”

The radio crackles before anyone can answer. “All units responding to Barnsdale Zoo, I have an adult male in distress, east side of the park. He identifies himself as Sean Coopertino, 47 of Riverside. He is hiding near the giraffe enclosure.” 

“Copy,” Athena’s voice comes through. “We’re heading over. The tranquilizer team’s with me.”

She turns, already jogging toward one of the zoo’s small utility carts.

“Be careful, Athena!” Buck calls after her.

She looks over her shoulder and flashes him that quick, fond smile that says you worry too much. “Oh, baby, I’ll be just fine.” she promises, and Bobby’s soft snort beside him makes Buck glance up. The two of them -Bobby and Athena- share a knowing look before she disappears into the maze of pathways.

“Can’t be the same guy,” Hen says under her breath as she tapes the last edge of the dressing.

“What guy?” Buck asks, glancing between them.

“Sean Coopertino,” Hen replies, adjusting the man’s IV line. “Dentist from Riverside. Got in trouble a couple years back for collecting rare animal trophies.”

Bobby nods grimly. “Including Ellie the lion, right?”

Hen hums. “Yeah. It was all over the news. Illegal hunting, taxidermy. Even shut down his practice for a while.”

Buck blinks, processing that. “And now there’s a tiger loose?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time karma had claws,” Hen mutters.

Buck frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “That’s awful,” he mutters, voice low, almost to himself. He’s still thinking about it, how someone can look at a living, breathing creature and see nothing but a trophy.

Bobby glances over, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Not everyone cries because the whales are sad, son.” he teases gently.

Hen and Chim exchange matching grins over the patient’s shoulder, both curious and a little amused.

Buck blinks, caught off-guard. “You told them that story?” he asks, scandalized.

Bobby’s grin widens. “They asked what made you show up at work with puffy eyes.”

“It was a real documentary,” Buck says, defensive but sheepish. “About the trainers at Sea World! It was sad, Dad.”

Chim chuckles. “Oh, we know. We just didn’t know why you started a whole argument in the kitchen about orcas’ emotional intelligence.”

Buck rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. “Because it is a sad thing to do to a living animal,” he says, earnest again. “They don’t deserve that. They have feelings, they get scared, they–” he gestures vaguely, like the right words are just out of reach, “--they trust us.”

The handler, still sitting on the gurney with his bandaged arm, nods emphatically. “They do! And Kobe’s scared right now. He’s not mean, he’s just… stressed out. Too many people yelling, running. It’s confusing for him.”

Buck crouches to steady the man’s legs as Terence adjusts the straps. “He’ll be okay,” Buck says, certain. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I know at least two kids who’d be heartbroken if anything happened to him.”

Bobby gives a quiet laugh as he helps guide the stretcher toward the ambulance. “Make that three,” he says under his breath.

Buck glances back at him, pretending to scowl but fighting a smile. “Yeah, yeah.”

As they lift the gurney, the handler looks up at Buck again, still pale but smiling now. “Next time you come here with those kids, let me know. I’ll get you all something, a –a little thank-you gift.”

“For one,” Buck says as he clicks the latch to secure the stretcher, “the only thank you I need is knowing you and Kobe are gonna be okay.”

The man exhales, the relief settling over him like a blanket. “Deal,” he says finally. Then, with a faint grin, “But let me know anyway. We’ve got some stuffed tigers collecting dust in the gift shop.”

Buck laughs softly as he closes the doors behind them, the sound bright against the low hum of the engine. Terence hops in beside the handler, already joking about how Buck probably cried over Finding Nemo too.

Buck shakes his head, smiling to himself as he walks back toward Bobby and the others. The zoo smells like sun and animal feed and wet leaves after a hose wash. Maybe there’s still good left in the world, he thinks. Maybe even tigers just need someone to believe they’re good boys too.

Buck tries to go visit every day.

Even when the shifts are long and his eyes sting from lack of sleep, even when Hen tells him to go home and rest after a rough shift, he finds himself driving to the hospital anyway. Peanut is still so small, so fragile, and Buck can’t shake the feeling that if he just stays, she’ll be okay.

Patrick warned him the process would move fast. The social worker had made it clear from the beginning: since Buck had been pre-approved for temporary guardianship and his home study had already started, the state preferred to place the baby directly with him rather than through a foster family. “It spares her another transition,” Patrick had said. “Less trauma for the kid and less paperwork too.”

So there he is, sitting beside Patrick in a cramped office that smells faintly of disinfectant and printer toner, filling out paperwork that feels a lot heavier than a few typed lines should. His handwriting trembles slightly as he writes her name.

“Why can’t I just put myself down as her father already?” Buck mutters under his breath, more to the form than to Patrick.

Patrick chuckles softly, used to Buck’s impatience by now. “Because that’s not how it works, Buck,” he says kindly. “You’re her legal guardian, not her father… yet. That’ll take a few more months, maybe less if the court expedites the adoption petition and I bother them enough.” 

Buck huffs, but there’s no real fight behind it. “Feels like I’m already doing all the father stuff.”

Patrick glances at him over the paperwork, smiling in quiet sympathy. “You are. But the law has its own timeline.”

In the end, Buck gets what matters most for now –he gets to give her a name. He prints it carefully in the designated line, his throat tightening as he writes Gabriela Dove.

Patrick leans in, nodding in approval. “That’s beautiful,” he says. “By next year, she should officially be Gabriela Dove Buckley.”

Buck stares at the paper a moment longer, the black ink of her name still drying. It feels like both a promise and a prayer. Even if, somehow, the adoption falls through, maybe she’ll still get to keep the name he gave her –a piece of him she can carry forward.

By the time the forms are done, it’s well into evening and the hospital’s NICU is quiet when he slips back in, the lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. Rachael smiles as she sees him settle into the chair beside Peanut’s isolette.

He’s just finished feeding her –carefully holding the impossibly small bottle, her tiny hand curling instinctively around his finger– when Rachael gives him a soft smile.

“All right, dad,” she teases gently, “time for her to rest. You can come back later, okay?”

Buck huffs a little laugh. “I can’t, I’ve got a shift after this.”

“I figured,” she says, still smiling as she takes the baby from him with practiced ease. “She’ll miss you anyway.”

Buck presses a kiss to Peanut’s forehead, impossibly careful not to disturb the tape holding her little oxygen line in place. “Be good for Rachael, okay?” he murmurs. Then he steps back, leaving her in capable hands, though it feels like leaving a piece of himself behind.

He lingers outside the glass a few minutes longer, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, watching as Rachael checks Peanut’s monitors and hums something quiet under her breath. It’s the most peaceful thing he’s ever seen, and somehow the most terrifying.

He’s still staring when a familiar voice breaks through the hush.

“Buck.”

He turns, blinking in surprise. “Father Brian,” he says, smiling instinctively even though his brow furrows. “Hey, what are you doing here? Everything okay?”

“Oh, everything’s fine.” The priest’s voice is low, reverent almost, as he looks through the viewing glass into the NICU. “I came to administer last rites in another ward,” he explains softly, “and sometimes… I like to come here afterwards. Remind myself what we’re fighting for, so to say.”

Buck nods, a lump forming in his throat. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

Father Brian tilts his head. “Which one is yours?”

Buck grins a little, gesturing toward the row of incubators. “Do you see the little one getting a tan?” he jokes, but Father Brian spots her immediately.

“Oh,” the priest says, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, though his smile is warm. “She’s beautiful. What’s the light for?”

“Phototherapy,” Buck explains. “She’s got a touch of jaundice, but she’s almost done with it. Another day or two, they think.”

Father Brian hums thoughtfully. “Does she have a release date yet?”

“In the next month, definitely,” Buck says, gaze still fixed on the baby. “I'm still hoping for March. Chase, one of the nurses, thinks March too. But Suzy and Rachael are betting early April.”

“Sounds like the whole staff’s invested.” Father Brian chuckles. “Is everything ready at home?” 

“Oh, they are,” Buck admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Between everyone at church giving us gifts and me and Bobby buying way more than any baby could ever need… yeah, we’re pretty much ready. I think we have two of everything.”

“Good.” Father Brian pats his shoulder, approval shining in his eyes. “That’s how it should be. And if there’s anything else you need, you know where to find us.”

“I do,” Buck says quietly, meaning it.

The priest studies him for a moment longer. “You staying here tonight?”

Buck shakes his head with a tired smile. “I’ve been here for four hours already,” he says, glancing one last time at Peanut before turning toward the elevator with him. “If I stay any longer, Rachael will start charging me rent, I also have to get to the station for my shift.”

Father Brian laughs softly as they walk side by side down the corridor, the hum of the hospital following them. “Something tells me they’d let you stay as long as you wanted.”

Buck doesn’t answer right away. He just smiles faintly, eyes distant, already counting the hours until he can come back.

They’ve all showered. Repeatedly.

At least five times each, by Buck’s count. And somehow the smell still lingers –a faint, rotting sweetness clinging to their skin and hair no matter how hard they scrub.

“I can still smell it,” Chim mutters, sniffing his own shoulder like it personally betrayed him. “I can still feel it on me.”

They’d just spent two hours rescuing a man halfway compacted by a trash truck. 

The good news: he’s alive.
The bad news: they now all smell like spoiled produce. 

“It’s probably in our noses,” Buck offers, toweling his hair and grimacing.

Chim glares at him. “What does that even mean, Buck?”

“He’s not wrong,” Hen cuts in, unbothered, scrolling through her phone. “We probably have olfactory fatigue.”

“Do they make caffeine for that?” Chim fires back dryly.

Hen smirks. “No, but rinsing your sinuses with saline might do the trick.”

Buck makes a thoughtful hum, then immediately drops his head onto the table with a dull thunk.

“You good there, Buckaroo?” Chim asks.

Before Buck can mumble something incoherent, Bobby appears, setting a mug of coffee in front of him like an offering. “He’s anxious,” Bobby says simply. “Peanut’s being released soon.”

“Oh!” Hen’s face lights up instantly. “Is it finally happening?”

“In the next weeks or so,” Buck says, lifting his head. He looks tired, but there’s something almost luminous in his expression –like he can’t quite believe it yet. “They took her off the breathing tubes. She can feed, she can breathe, and I think she’s even smiling already.”

“All equally important life skills,” Hen teases, and Buck laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I’m just… anxious, I guess,” he admits. “Pops said I can get the full twelve weeks off, but that would mean pushing my shield ceremony.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Bobby says, sitting down beside him. “If you’d told me that was what was eating at you, I’d have reassured you sooner. We can keep the ceremony plans. Worst case, we move it up.” He pauses, thinking aloud. “Actually, I believe we could get you your shield sooner if necessary.”

Buck blinks, stunned. “Oh. Okay. That’s… one less thing to stress about.”

Hen gives him a soft, knowing smile. “Buck, you’re about to bring your daughter home,” she says gently. “You’re never going to be stress-free again.”

Buck sighs dramatically. “I haven’t been stress-free since Brook learned how to access the private files on my phone.”

That gets a genuine snort from Bobby. “I already told you to stop letting her use your phone.”

“She takes it!” Buck protests. “She’s like a raccoon.”

Hen and Chim both burst out laughing, and even Bobby’s trying –and failing– to hide his grin behind his coffee mug.

“Fatherhood looks good on you, Buckaroo,” Chim says finally, shaking his head. “You’re just as dramatic, but now you come with baby gear.”

“Don’t remind me,” Buck groans, slumping back in his chair, but there’s warmth under the words, a glow that no number of showers can wash away.

“Maybe I can get her her own phone this Christmas,” Bobby muses after a moment, stirring his coffee like he hasn’t just detonated a bomb in Buck’s brain. “For Brook.”

Buck’s head jerks up. “Ow, ow, ow –calm down,” he says, holding both hands out as if to stop traffic. Chim’s already wheezing into his mug. “Let’s not get that far.”

“She’s a teenager, Buck,” Bobby points out, with all the calm authority of someone who’s already survived raising kids. “She’ll be fourteen. She’s going to need her own phone.”

Buck feels the blood drain from his face. His skin prickles cold. “I don’t like that.”

“Son,” Bobby teases gently, that fatherly drawl creeping into his tone. “Don’t be dramatic. Your sister’s a young girl, she’s got a social life and–”

“No. No, no, no social nothing,” Buck insists, shaking his head vehemently. Hen’s laugh rings out across the table. “Not funny, Hen! I was a fourteen-year-old boy once. I know what they’re thinking.”

“Isn’t Robbie fourteen?” Chim asks, smirking over the rim of his cup.

Buck glares. “And again –exactly! I know what boys think. And Brook is not ready for that.” He taps his finger against the table for emphasis, a sharp rhythm of panic and big-brother energy that Buck still isn’t completely used to.

Bobby just hums, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Well, you’ve got the rest of the year to get used to the idea. And maybe teach your sister about the dangers of the internet… and teenage boys.”

Buck groans, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Oh, great. Now I have to raise two kids.”

“Let’s call it training, then,” Bobby says lightly.

The station’s alarm blares before Buck can protest further. Chairs scrape, mugs clatter, and the team moves as one their controlled chaos in motion.

“Not funny!” Buck yells over the siren as he runs for the truck, Bobby’s chuckle trailing behind him.

“No, it’s too pink,” Isabel says, squinting at the screen like the shade itself personally offended her.

Robbie huffs and drags the eyedropper tool across the color wheel, muttering under his breath as the background shifts from bubblegum to a softer rose.

“I like the little peanut in the corner,” May comments, leaning in. “It’s a cute touch.”

“It was my idea,” Brook declares proudly. May’s smile turns warm and approving, and Brook practically glows under it.

“Can you make the address a little bigger, Robbie?” Buck asks from behind them, voice soft but distracted –half focused on the design, half just marveling at how this entire operation formed around this baby’s picture.

Robbie nods, clicking obediently. “Got it.”

“What are y’all doing in here?” Athena’s voice comes from the doorway, laced with amused affection.

The room looks just a little too cramped under their organized mess. Everyone’s crowded around Robbie’s desk: most are standing, Isabel and Pepa have claimed dining chairs dragged in from the living room, and Tomaz has sprawled across the bed, scrolling his phone but he is observing them like a wildlife documentary.

“We’re making Peanut’s baby announcement card,” May says brightly, waving Athena over. “Look!”

Athena steps closer to see the screen. The announcement shows a photo of Buck cradling tiny Gabriela in his arms –her cheeks rosy now, her hand clutching the edge of Buck’s shirt. Across the top, soft script reads Welcome Gabriela Dove, with her birth details neatly listed below.

“Oh,” Athena breathes, eyes softening. “That’s beautiful.”

The group collectively beams.

“It was a group effort,” Buck says.

“But mostly Robbie,” Tomaz chimes in, still lounging.

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck teases. “Mostly Robbie. Thank you, Robbie.”

Robbie grins, proud and a little flustered. “Wanna see the party invite?” he asks Athena, already opening the next file.

“Of course!” she says.

The second design looks similar, but with cheerful lettering across the top: Come celebrate with us! Below, Bobby’s address and a save-the-date for Gabriela’s welcome party. Buck squints at it. Technically it’s a baby shower, except Peanut’s already been born and will have been home for hopefully more than three months by the time it happens. Still –same spirit. Free diapers.

“This is perfect,” Athena says. “I’m sure we’re all excited to meet Peanut in person. But Bobby’s been working very hard on tonight’s dinner…”

Buck rolls his eyes affectionately. “Yeah, yeah, we’re going,” he says, offering Isabel his hand as she rises from the chair. She smiles, letting him help her toward the living room.

Behind them, Tomaz pipes up to Robbie, deadpan: “Still think you should’ve added his bank account for money gifts.”

Buck doesn’t even turn around. “I heard that,” he calls over his shoulder.

“I’m just saying, dude, I’m trying to help.” Tomaz replies, grinning.

By the time they make it to the dining room, the place looks like a miracle of logistics purely based on love and improvisation.

Bobby and Harry have already set the tables –plural– and now Patrick’s helping Bobby carry out the last of the dishes. The air is warm with the smell of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and something buttery Buck can’t quite place but knows it’ll taste like home and family.

Three tables have been pushed together end to end, stretching across the room like a patchwork of mismatched wood and tablecloths. Chairs have been borrowed from every room in the house. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.

Once everyone settles –Athena beside Bobby, Pepa and Isabel chatting softly, the kids sliding into their spots like a well-rehearsed troupe– Bobby looks around the full table, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” he says, voice thick with quiet pride. “Surprised we can fit everyone at the dining table, yes, but mostly glad.”

“I don’t think it counts as fitting if I had to help you assemble three extra tables, Dad,” Buck teases, and laughter ripples down the table.

Bobby chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, at least now we’ll always have space at our table.”

“Tables,” Robbie mutters under his breath to Buck, just loud enough for him to hear.

Buck grins, bumping Robbie’s shoulder. “Smart mouth.”

Bobby pretends not to notice, though there’s a glint in his eyes as he starts serving food around. Platters pass from hand to hand –slow, overlapping conversation, easy laughter, the occasional clatter of silverware. The whole space is filled with warmth and the kind of happiness that doesn’t need to be named to be felt.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Buck looks up from his plate and just… breathes it in. The laughter. The shared dishes. His family all crowded together under one roof. It’s messy and loud and perfect, even if Robbie complains when Buck asks for his and Brook’s help filling out the cards to send out. 

Buck sends out a lot of announcements over the next few days.

He’s careful with each one –addressing envelopes in his neatest handwriting, making sure every card sits perfectly centered in its sleeve. There’s something grounding about the routine.

It’s when he slips Maddie’s card into an envelope that he realizes… he hasn’t sent her a postcard in a long time. Too long.

With everything that happened –the academy, finding Bobby, becoming part of this… family– he can’t even remember the last one he sent. Maybe when he got accepted into the fire academy? He definitely meant to send one after joining the 118, but he must’ve forgotten. God, he’s a terrible brother.

He prints a few pictures to include with the card. One of him with Robbie and Brook in the church yard, taken after Thanksgiving, three smiling faces, full of pie and sunshine and something that looks like peace. He adds a few of him holding Peanut –Gabriela, he reminds himself, though the nickname has already rooted too deep.

He starts writing, at first easily. Telling Maddie about the 118. About Bobby, and the team, and how they’ve become a second family. Except… he has to be careful. He can’t call Bobby Dad, even if the word hums at the back of his throat every time he thinks about the man. He can’t call Robbie and Brook his siblings either, even if he feels it deep in his heart, always there, undeniable.

It’s hard, writing to her now. Harder than it should be. Because everything he’s describing –this sense of belonging, of being cared for– it’s something the Buckleys never gave him.

By the time he reaches the end of the letter, he’s out of words… He isn’t even sure Maddie reads these anymore. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. But he keeps sending them because she was the only person who ever cared, back then. Because he doesn’t know how not to.

Still, it stings to admit that he’s closer to Bobby and the kids than he ever was to his parents. Or even to Maddie, really.

It’s a sharp truth that creeps under his skin and sits there, cold and heavy.

He ends the letter abruptly: Miss you. -Evan.

The name feels strange. Too formal. Too small for what he’s become.  

He seals the envelope and stares at it for a long time.

Buck knows he needs to work through some of this. The late-night blog posts and Psychology for Dummies pages only go so far. He needs actual help. Therapy. Something professional and steady. Because if he’s going to raise Gabriela, if he’s going to be someone Robbie and Brook can rely on, he can’t keep dragging around unhealed pieces of himself.

He can’t tell Robbie “I think you haven’t processed your mom’s death properly” when he’s still carrying his own ghosts like anchors. He can’t become the kind of adult who looks away, who dismisses pain because it’s inconvenient.

He sighs, heavy and long, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. He knows what he has to do. He just… doesn’t like it.

Running into burning buildings feels easy in comparison. That kind of pain is straightforward, something you can brace for, fight through. But sitting across from someone who might ask him about Wells, about what really happened, about how he was hurt, about how much it broke him, feels like being peeled open.

Still, he can’t keep pretending he’s fine.

He gets up, shaking off the thought for now, first he needs air. 

He grabs his hoodie from the hook, thinking a run might help clear his head, and walks out of his room.

Bobby’s in the living room, half-watching a baseball game, a mug of coffee in his hand. The low hum of the TV and the scent of breakfast still lingering in the air feel almost sacred in their simplicity.

And just like that, Buck pauses, caught between the need to run and the quiet pull of the safety of his home.

Bobby glances up from the TV when he hears him. “Going out?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, tugging at his hoodie zipper. “I’m mailing more announcements, and Maddie a letter. Gonna run for a bit.” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “I also, uh… maybe–”

Bobby frowns and turns off the sound, really looking at him now. “Maybe what?”

Buck’s throat tightens. He swallows hard. “I want to report Wells.”

For a second, the air stills. Then Bobby exhales softly –no surprise, no judgment, just quiet understanding. “Oh, kiddo,” he murmurs, standing up. Before Buck can say anything else, Bobby crosses the room and pulls him into a hug. It’s the kind of hug that anchors him. Solid. Warm. Safe. Buck folds into it like he’s been waiting for permission. “I’ll call Athena,” Bobby says against his hair. “We can drive there once you get back.”

Buck nods into his shoulder and tries not to cry. God, it’s so easy now –too easy– to let himself feel cared for. A few years ago, he would’ve flinched away from this. Now, all it takes is Bobby’s arms around him and the world steadies again.

“Okay,” he says, voice cracking a little. He doesn’t want to break, not now –not when he knows he’ll have to pour every raw, ugly thing out in a police station soon.

“I love you, son,” Bobby says. He doesn’t pull away; he never does first. Buck has the sense that Bobby would stay like this for an hour if Buck needed him to. Just holding on. Just making sure Buck feels safe.

“Love you too, Dad.” It comes out broken but sure, and when Buck finally pulls back, his eyes are wet. He sniffs and tries for a smile. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Bobby glances at the clock, it’s close to pickup time. Buck can tell what he’s thinking even before he says it.

“I’ll see if Clara can get the kids. They can hang out there for a bit,” Bobby says easily, and then, with that small, bright smile that always makes Buck feel twelve again, adds, “Once everything’s done, we’ll grab some pizza.”

Buck huffs out a laugh. “And now you’re bribing me.”

“I’m incentivizing,” Bobby corrects, mock-serious. “It’s called positive reinforcement.”

Buck shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Sounds like a plan.”

Bobby presses a quick kiss to his temple. “Go on, then. Clear your head. I’ll make the calls.”

So Buck goes.

Usually, he’d grab the car, drive to the post office, but today, he runs.

The city moves around him, blurred and breathing. The sun shines on the pavement and the clouds in the sky change shapes. The rhythm of his feet against the ground drowns out everything else. For almost half an hour, it’s just air, and sweat, and motion.

He drops Maddie’s letter into the mailbox, buys a bottle of water, downs half of it in one go. Then he runs back.

By the time he reaches home, his lungs are burning, but his head is clear. He doesn’t want to think about what comes next, so he focuses on something small… pizza toppings. Pepperoni, mushrooms, extra cheese. Something simple. Something good.

Because after this afternoon, he’ll need a little good.

Bobby makes sure to hug Buck extra hard after they’re done at the police station, the kind of hug that lingers, steady and grounding, like he’s trying to make up for all the years he didn’t know this boy needed one. Buck’s tense shoulders soften under his hands, and Bobby doesn’t let go until he feels Buck exhale.

Athena’s still working, but she made time to sit with them through Detective Romero’s questioning, her calm presence keeping the edges from fraying. Now, with the report filed and the worst part over, Bobby takes Buck for milkshakes. Buck rolls his eyes when Bobby orders for him –with extra whipped cream– but he drinks every drop anyway, stirring the cup absently as the last of the ice cream melts.

“If this goes to trial,” Buck says, voice low, eyes fixed on the swirl of plastic straw and half-melted ice cream. “Will I have to testify?”

“Maybe not,” Bobby answers, careful, even. “She’ll probably settle. Let’s not borrow trouble before we have to.”

Buck nods, the word okay small but sincere. Bobby glances over at him from the driver’s seat, the faint glow from the streetlights washing Buck’s face in silver and gold.

“Eyes on the road, Dad,” Buck says suddenly, trying for a joke. “You don’t need another kid to worry about.”

Bobby huffs a laugh, reaches over to ruffle his hair, just enough to earn a mock glare. For a moment, the air between them feels lighter. It won’t last, not with everything Buck’s still carrying and everything that is about to happen that apparently Bobby has no control over… but it’s something.

By the time they pull into Clara’s driveway, Bobby’s shoulders have loosened. Buck has done the hard thing; Athena’s on it; his kids are safe. For now, that’s enough. Buck’s out of the car before Bobby even unbuckles, bounding up the walkway with a burst of restless energy.

“Hey, Buck,” Patrick calls from the open door, greeting him with a quick hug. “Bobby, long time no see.”

Bobby locks the car and joins them, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you, Patrick. Hope our kids didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“Nah, they’re great,” Patrick says easily. “Tomaz and Robbie are upstairs, and Brook’s with Clara and her mom in the sewing room.”

“Sewing room?” Buck echoes, curiosity lighting his eyes.

Patrick grins. “Andrea –Clara’s mom– she’s got a clothing line. Wanted to make Brook a dress.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I hope that’s okay?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Bobby assures him with a small smile. “As long as she’s behaving.”

“She’s an angel,” Patrick promises, then gestures toward the back of the house. “I’ll go call them in. Get ready for a fashion show.” He starts off, only to double back halfway through the living room. “Word of advice –everything’s beautiful, no notes, no changes.”

Bobby laughs, shaking his head. “You sound like a man who’s survived a few of these.”

Patrick chuckles and then gets really serious. “You have no idea.” he says before disappearing down the hall.

The sound of laughter carries from the back rooms, bright, overlapping voices and Bobby easily picks out Brook’s giggles in the mix. The sound loosens something in his chest.

“Robbie says they’re playing games upstairs and to get him when it’s time to go,” Buck says, thumb moving over his phone screen.

Bobby glances over. “What did I say about texting your brother when you’re in the same house?”

Buck huffs a laugh without looking up. “This place is huge, Bobby. We’re guests, and he’s all the way upstairs. I’m not barging in without an invite from the homeowners.”

“Don’t use good manners to excuse bad ones,” Bobby says with a faint smile.

That earns him a quiet chuckle and a shake of Buck’s head.

“Daddy, Buck, look!” Brook’s voice rings from the hallway.

Bobby turns, eyes softening. His daughter stands there in a dress that looks more like art than clothing, soft fabric layered like petals, her hair lightly curled, a hint of blush on her cheeks and gloss on her lips. It’s all tastefully done, though, so he swallows the instinct to protest.

“You look beautiful,” he says sincerely, already halfway to his feet.

“She’s a perfect model,” says a woman standing behind Brook. Bobby can see the family resemblance, the same wild black waves as Clara, the same creative spark in her eyes. “I’m Andrea,” she says warmly, extending a hand. “Your daughter was a delight to dress. She’s got a spark to her.”

“Thank you,” Bobby replies, shaking her hand. “I’m Bobby.”

“And I’m Buck,” Buck adds, grinning as he gives Clara a hug before crouching to Brook’s level. He twirls her gently, the skirt blooming like a flower. “You look perfect, princess.”

Brook beams. “Andrea said I can keep the dress!”

Bobby shakes his head automatically. “Oh, we can’t accept that.”

Andrea sighs, all exaggerated drama. “But I made it just for her. It won’t fit anyone else.”

Brook’s eyes widen. “Please, Dad?”

Bobby exhales through his nose, already feeling the inevitable collapse of his resolve.

“Please, Bobby,” Clara adds with an easy smile. “It’s a gift from us.” She pats Buck’s shoulder affectionately.

“Are we still getting pizza?” Buck asks, glancing at Brook. “Because I don’t think this masterpiece is pizza-proof.”

“I can change really quick!” Brook says at once, clutching the skirt protectively.

“Come on, darling,” Andrea says, motioning toward the back rooms. “I’ll help you, and I’ll show you how to pack the dress properly too.” Brook follows her with eager steps, the sound of her chatter trailing behind them.

“You know,” Patrick says, appearing from the hall with a wry grin. “I’m not opposed to pizza.”

“We can just order enough for everyone, eat here.” Clara offers. “What do you say, boys?”

Buck’s already nodding, Bobby gives in with a chuckle. “Let’s do it, but we better order it already. Between this one” –he jerks his chin at Buck– “and Robbie, we’ll need at least five boxes.”

“And another one just for Tomaz,” Clara adds, laughing.

“I’ll ask Robbie what he and Tomaz want,” Buck says, pulling his phone back out.

“Oh, boy,” Bobby mutters good-naturedly. “We are in the same house, you know, and Robbie should be down here already.” He turns to Clara. “Mind if I go drag them out?”

“Please, be my guest,” Clara says, gesturing grandly toward the marble staircase. “Tomaz’s room is at the end of the hall.” Then she turns to Buck with a conspiratorial grin. “Come help me in the kitchen. I want to talk to you about that Mamaroo bassinet I got for little Gabi.”

Buck raises an eyebrow, resigned but amused. “You mean the bassinet I told you we don’t need?”

Clara laughs, already steering him toward the kitchen.

Bobby shakes his head to himself and starts up the stairs. The second floor is just as polished and perfect as the rest of the house, framed photographs mixed with abstract art and leafy greens in pots that probably cost more than his first apartment. The hallway smells faintly like laundry detergent and lemon cleaner.

He slows when he reaches the last door. There’s a little wooden plaque hanging there: TOMAZ in block letters, surrounded by doodles of guitars and comic book lightning bolts. It reminds him of the one Buck made for Peanut’s nursery door, all bright paint and proud love.

And this… this is absolutely his fault.

He knocks only once, out of habit more than expectation, too light, then pushes the door open.

Inside, Robbie and Tomaz are sitting side by side on the bed. And kissing. On the lips.

For a second, Bobby’s brain just… stops.

The boys freeze, too, like they’ve been hit by a spotlight. Robbie’s eyes go huge. Tomaz’s hand jerks back, and the air in the room turns sharp and mortified.

Bobby clears his throat, calm as he can manage. “We’re ordering pizza,” he says evenly. “So if you two want a say in the toppings, you might want to come down.”

Then he closes the door.

He walks fast –maybe a little too fast– down the stairs and finds Patrick just long enough to ask, “Bathroom?” before disappearing behind the door and locking it.

Inside, he leans on the sink, breath catching. Then he laughs.

It starts small –a huff– and then spills out of him until he’s sitting on the toilet lid, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.

God. His son is kissing people.

Robbie is almost fifteen. Fifteen, alive, happy, curious –here. He’s doing the normal, messy, miraculous things teenagers are supposed to do. And for a moment, Bobby lets himself just feel it, the unbelievable relief of it.

He’s alive to have awkward first kisses. To blush, to stumble through it, to learn.

Bobby wipes at his eyes, still smiling. “Oh, God,” he mutters, laughing again. Maybe he’ll let Buck handle the talk later. He’s too giddy to pull off a proper lecture tonight.

By the time he returns to the living room, the world has righted itself again. Robbie and Tomaz are sitting on the couch, both pretending nothing happened, though Robbie’s ears are burning bright red. Brook is leaning against Buck, who’s showing them something on his phone.

“What do you want, Dad?” Buck asks without looking up.

“I’ll just have whatever’s left after you all eat,” Bobby says, settling into the armchair with a smile that won’t quit.

Patrick looks up from a folder he’s reading through on the opposite couch. “I’d like a pepperoni, Buck.”

“Pepperoni,” Buck echoes, tapping on his phone. “And Clara’s getting a broccoli cheddar with me?”

“Yes, please,” Clara says, passing through with a kitchen towel in hand. “And my mom wants a margherita.”

“Got it.” Buck nods, adding it to the order. 

Bobby lets out a quiet chuckle and leans back, sinking into the cushions. Robbie’s still flushed, the corners of his mouth twitching with suppressed embarrassment, and Bobby feels another wave of joy threaten to break loose.

He turns to Patrick instead. “Did you catch the game earlier?”

Patrick grins. “You mean that disaster? Brave of you to call that a game.”

And just like that, the evening folds into something ordinary, pizza and light laughter and the faint hum of voices drifting from the kitchen when Andrea insists on getting drinks –which seem to be juice mixed with sparkling water–. Bobby lets it wash over him, grateful for the weight of it, for this simple, golden slice of a life he once thought he’d never see again.

He’ll talk to Robbie later. He’ll talk to Patrick and Clara, too. But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s just going to sit here, surrounded by family and friends, and be thankful that his boy got to grow up.

“So, something happened today, and I need you to talk to your brother,” Bobby says the moment he steps into the room.

Buck looks up from the paperback balanced on his chest. It’s late, the kind of quiet, half-drowsy hour when everyone should be winding down, but Bobby’s voice has that particular edge of amusement that always means something happened.

Buck frowns, sitting up. “What did poop-brain do?”

Bobby chuckles and shuts the door behind him, walking closer with that same look he gets when he’s trying not to laugh during a serious talk. “When I went upstairs to get him and Tomaz for pizza…” He pauses, grin threatening to break through. “The two of them were kissing. On the bed.”

For a second, Buck just blinks. Then his brain catches up  –Robbie. Kissing. His little brother. The one who still forgets to put his laundry in the basket and insists ketchup counts as jam because it is tomato and sugar.

And then Buck bursts out laughing.

“Oh, he must be mortified,” he manages between laughs.

“He was,” Bobby says, smiling like he’s reliving the moment. “And I need to talk to him before he starts thinking I have a problem with him kissing boys. But…” He trails off, a helpless grin tugging at his mouth. “I can’t look at his face without losing it.”

Buck grins wider, shoulders shaking. “Yeah, that would probably kill him on the spot.”

“Exactly.” Bobby sighs, amusement leaking through even as he tries to sound serious. “So, you need to talk to him tonight. Make sure he knows we don’t care about that part… just, you know, tell him to be careful.”

Buck raises an eyebrow. “And if he asks why you’re not the one giving this very formative talk?”

“Tell him I asked you,” Bobby says smoothly. “Didn’t want him to feel embarrassed.”

Buck tilts his head, smirking. “Right. Because that’s what’ll make it less embarrassing.”

“Just–” Bobby points at him, trying not to grin again. “You can tease him, but go easy on the kid.”

“Dad,” Buck says, mock-offended, though his eyes are bright with laughter. “I’m not gonna traumatize him.” Beat. “At least, not a lot.”

That finally cracks Bobby, he laughs outright, pushing the door back open. “Just enough for him to never forget condoms,” he says over his shoulder, still chuckling as he heads out. “Oh, Lord, Buck –his face–”

The door closes behind him, and Buck snorts, shaking his head. Yeah, Bobby’s definitely in no shape to have that talk tonight.

Buck takes a long breath, then another. Okay. He’s got this. He can be the responsible older brother. He’ll make sure Robbie knows he’s safe, loved, and supported, and that there’s nothing wrong with who he likes. He’ll even throw in a little wisdom about respect and boundaries, maybe even manage not to laugh.

He stands, bounces on his feet a couple of times like he’s warming up for a marathon. “Alright,” he mutters to himself. “No laughing. No matter what. Don’t laugh.”

He takes one last steadying breath, squares his shoulders, and heads out to give the talk. 

Buck doesn’t even give himself a chance to second-guess it. He knocks once for formality’s sake and opens the door before Robbie can answer.

“Oh no,” Robbie groans immediately, shoulders slumping where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a sprawl of LEGO bricks. “Please, no.”

Buck leans against the door, grin already forming. “So,” he starts, drawing the word out, “a little birdie told me you’re going around kissing people.”

Robbie makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine, pressing a hand over his face. His ears go red, then his cheeks, until he’s the exact shade of a cherry tomato.

“Dad should’ve kept his mouth shut,” Robbie mutters, grabbing a tiny piece of LEGO in his fist. “Is he–” he hesitates, glancing up, voice small now. “--is he angry?”

Buck’s smile falters. “Angry?” he repeats, confused, before crossing the room and lowering himself to sit beside him. “Why would you think that?”

Robbie shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes. “You’re here. Not him.”

Buck tilts his head, softening. “He figured you’d rather die than have that conversation with him,” he says gently. “And, to be fair, he’s probably right.”

That gets a weak laugh out of Robbie.

“You know,” Buck goes on, “when I got my talk, he took me to a diner, ordered a pie, and told me, ‘Son, I don’t mind if you like boys, and I’m pretty sure our God doesn’t either –but you cannot date that man.’”

Robbie finally looks up, snorting through his mortification. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.” Buck chuckles. “So, consider yourself lucky. No pie, no public sermon, no banned crush list –that he keeps adding names to for no apparent reason.”

Robbie laughs quietly, then fiddles with the piece between his fingers. “So he sent you because I was with Tomaz,” he says, like he’s confirming it for himself.

Buck grins. “He figured we might find some common ground.”

That earns him a faint smile from Robbie, but then the boy glances down again. “He’s really not mad?”

“Not even a little,” Buck assures. “Just... trying not to make you uncomfortable. And trying to make sure you know that none of it –none of you– is something to be ashamed of.”

Robbie’s shoulders ease a little. “Okay.”

Buck nudges him with his knee. “If you want to talk to him instead, you totally can. He just didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“No!” Robbie says too quickly, face heating again. “No, I –I’d rather talk to you.”

Buck’s grin softens into something quieter, proud. “Okay,” he says. “So... any questions?”

Robbie hesitates, then blurts out, “Does it always –uh –feel like that?”

“Like what?” Buck blinks, caught between surprise and trying not to laugh. 

Robbie fiddles with the edge of a LEGO instruction booklet. “Like... good?”

Buck takes a slow breath, choosing his words. “When you like the person,” he says, voice gentle, “and they like you back? Yeah. It should always feel good.” Robbie nods, cheeks pink again, but this time there’s a small smile on his face.

Buck reaches over and bumps their shoulders together. “And, hey, you can always come to me. Doesn’t matter what it’s about, okay?”

“Okay,” Robbie says, almost whispering it.

“Good.” Buck says, trying to keep the tone light. “Now, I’m supposed to remind you of something very, very important.” 

Robbie narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What?”

Buck grins. “Condoms.”

“Get out!” Robbie throws a LEGO at him. 

Carla calls Buck on a Wednesday afternoon, just as he’s getting ready to leave for a jog before his shift.

“Hey, Buck,” she greets, and he can tell –just from her voice– that it’s bad news. There’s a softness there, the kind that sits heavy behind the ribs.

“How is she?” he asks before she can even say the words.

Carla sighs, the sound small but tired. “Accepting,” she says finally. “She knew it was coming, but it still hurts.”

“Of course it does,” Buck murmurs, nodding even though she can’t see it. Knowing doesn’t make it hurt less, it just gives you time to brace before the hit lands. You still end up on the floor afterward, gasping for air. “Anything I can do?” he asks, and he means it.

Carla hesitates a moment before saying, “Can you go visit her soon? I know you two aren’t exactly the best of friends, but she cares about you. And… well, she doesn’t have much emotional support for her right now.”

Buck lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I can go. Before my shift tonight, maybe.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Carla’s voice warms a little. “I’m starting with a new family in a couple of days and won’t be able to be there for her as much. She’s holding it together, but… she’s lonely, Buck. I think seeing someone who remembers her mom might help.”

“Don’t worry,” Buck says, quiet but sure. “I won’t let Abby go through this alone.”

He means it.

Even if part of him still feels used, he can’t forget what loneliness feels like. That hollow, echoing space inside your chest when there’s no one left to reach for. Abby doesn’t deserve to sit in that silence alone.

So he spends the next hour baking. It’s muscle memory by now –the cake, the lasagna, the care packed into food because sometimes that’s easier than words. Because that’s what Bobby taught him. 

He does text her before heading out: Hey, heard about your mom. Can I stop by for a bit?

Her answer comes quick: Yeah. I’d like that.

When he gets there, Abby opens the door before he can knock twice. She looks smaller somehow, grief will do that. But she smiles when she sees him, soft and worn around the edges.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he echoes, holding up the containers in his hands. “I come bearing carbs.”

Abby huffs out a half-laugh, then steps forward and hugs him.

It catches him a little off guard, but he hugs her back anyway, careful and warm.

Buck stays for hours. He helps Abby make the calls she’s been avoiding, brings her coffee while she’s on the phone with her brother discussing the arrangements. He listens when she needs to talk, and stays quiet when she doesn’t.

They pack together after that, the books and framed photos, the folded blankets Patricia used to keep by her chair. The apartment feels different now. Bigger, somehow. Without the hum of the machines and the hospital bed taking up space, it’s like the air itself has changed… lighter, but lonelier too.

Buck glances around the room and feels a pang of worry that Abby will notice it more sharply than he does. That she’ll hear the silence where her mother used to be and not learn how to fill it up.

“Looks good,” he says once they’ve finished most of the boxes. He crosses to the windows, pulling the curtains open and pushing the glass panes wide. Cool air spills into the room. “Some fresh air will be good.”

“Maybe that’s what I need,” Abby says, sitting at the table, her hands folded loosely in front of her. “Fresh air.”

Buck nods, quick to agree. “Oh, yeah. See some people, walk around. You can’t just hole yourself up in here, that I know.”

That earns him a real smile. It’s small, but it reaches her eyes for the first time today. “You know,” she says after a pause, “Mom always wanted to go to Ireland.”

“Yeah?” Buck prompts gently, and Abby nods.

“She never got to, though.”

Buck leans against the windowsill, sunset light soft on his shoulders. “Maybe you could,” he says. “Go for both of you. I think it’d be good for you.”

Abby looks toward the window, then past him, to where her mother’s bed used to be. The space is empty now, only light and air left behind.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment, quiet but certain. “I could do that.”

“You can do that,” Buck agrees, smiling, and she mirrors it faintly.

“Want to help me find a plane ticket?” she jokes, a little more of her old tone coming through.

“I would love to,” Buck says, and he means it –he actually likes hunting for deals– but then glances at the time. “But I’m already cutting it close for my shift.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “Call me, okay? Let me know how you’re doing.”

“I’ll even send you postcards,” Abby says, and Buck laughs softly before pulling her into a hug.

It’s still familiar, that feeling, being someone’s anchor, their steady place to lean. Still a little like being used as a crutch for someone else’s pain and loneliness.

But this time, it doesn’t ache.

This time, it feels right.

He steps back, gives her one last smile, and leaves with the faint scent of coffee and lemon cleaner still clinging to him… and feeling, somehow, lighter for it.

Buck stands in the driveway, staring at the pickup truck like it might start explaining itself if he stares long enough. The bed is stacked to impossible heights with boxes, a small mountain of cardboard teetering precariously in the morning sun kept together by tight cords.

“Brother!” Nando calls, hopping out of the passenger seat with his usual broad grin. “How are you?”

Buck blinks at him, then at Bobby beside him, still trying to wrap his mind around the scene. “That’s… a lot of stuff,” he manages finally.

Before he can ask anything else, Pepa sweeps out of the driver’s side like a woman on a mission, a younger woman following close behind her.

“Nonsense!” Pepa declares, already pulling Buck into one of her rib-crushing hugs and kissing his cheek. Then she moves to embrace Bobby with the same fierce affection. “We brought everything you could possibly need, and help–” she gestures proudly to the young woman, “--and what you don’t use, we’ll take to the church.”

Buck looks at the growing pile of boxes again, then at Bobby, and sighs with mock resignation. “So what I’m hearing is… we’re unpaid labor for a children’s donation drive.”

“Sí, ya te cayó el veinte,” Pepa says with a delighted grin, the phrase rolling out like laughter.

She grabs the young woman’s arm and presents her as if she’s unveiling a prize. “This is my youngest daughter, Liliana.”

“Nice to meet you,” Buck says, offering his hand. Bobby echoes him politely.

“Nice to meet you too,” Liliana says with a teasing smile. “It’s good to finally put a face to the famous Evan.”

“Buck,” he corrects automatically. “My friends call me Buck.”

Her grin widens. “Then call me Lili.”

Before the moment can stretch into awkwardness, Nando claps his hands together. “All right, who’s helping me unload the truck before Ma decides to donate me too?”

“C’mon, son,” Bobby says, patting Buck’s shoulder.

Buck groans dramatically but follows, falling into step beside him. Together, they start hauling the boxes inside, arms full of brightly colored toys, tiny clothes, and the faint smell of baby powder.

By the time they reach the living room, Robbie, Brook, and Tomaz have paused their movie marathon, eyes wide at the growing fortress of boxes now surrounding the couch.

Buck drops his last load with a heavy thud and lets out a long, theatrical whistle. “Well,” he says, catching his breath and swiping his sleeve across his forehead. “You kids feel like helping out?”

Robbie and Brook exchange a look that speaks volumes –one part negotiation, one part silent rebellion.

“We’re sorting some things for Peanut,” Buck explains, gesturing toward the towers of boxes. “Anything that’s too small or extra goes with Nando to the church.”

“Me and Tomaz were gonna head out,” Robbie says, tone perfectly calibrated to sound regretful.

Tomaz, though, ruins it immediately. “We can help,” he says brightly. “We don’t even have tickets yet, and–” He glances toward the kitchen, where Pepa and Bobby are already plotting lunch with the intensity of co-generals. “--I think your dad and Miss Pepa are cooking.” He lowers his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “And I really like your dad’s food.”

Robbie snorts, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Yeah, okay. We can help.”

Brook, meanwhile, is already sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbows deep in one of the boxes. She lifts a faded yellow bird plush into the light. “Can I keep this?” she asks, hopeful. “It looks like the one I used to have.”

“That is the same one you used to have,” Robbie shoots back immediately. “The one you stole it from me.”

“I did not steal it!” Brook protests, clutching the bird tighter. “You didn’t want plushies anymore. I saved Sunny.”

“His name was Bingo!” Robbie fires back, indignant.

Before the argument can escalate, Bobby swoops in with a level of practiced calm that Buck deeply admires and hopes to learn by the time Gabriela is old enough to be disciplined. He plucks the bird neatly out of Brook’s hands. “How about,” he says, diplomatic as ever, “we leave this one for Gabi?”

Brook glares at him like he’s committed a personal betrayal, but Bobby doesn’t flinch. Buck watches, quietly impressed. He’s still learning that kind of backbone –the parent kind.

“Okay,” Robbie says cheerfully, grin widening as he looks at Brook. “Now you know what it feels like to lose your stuff to the new baby.”

“Robbie,” Bobby warns, voice low but gentle.

“Big head,” Brook mutters without missing a beat.

“Brook.”

“Nerd,” Robbie fires back.

Bobby exhales slowly, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a prayer. “All right, that’s it. The bird’s going to the church.”

Brook gasps like he’s declared war. “No! Peanut deserves it!” she insists quickly, holding her hands out and shooting Robbie a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “But Robbie can’t touch it.”

Robbie just smirks. Buck hides his laugh behind a cough.

They end up sorting through the boxes for hours. The work would probably go faster if Nando didn’t pause every few minutes to tell a story about some special item, a blanket his abuela sewed by hand, a bottle warmer that survived three babies so far, a crib that nearly broke him trying to assemble it. Pepa keeps drifting in and out of the living room with plates and spoons, insisting Buck try this sauce or that bite of rice, wanting his opinion on everything she’s stirring.

He’s not an idiot. He knows what she’s doing.

Each time she sends Lili in to bring a sample, or tells Buck to hand something over “to her, she’s right there, mijo,” Lili just gives him a soft, apologetic smile. He smiles back, easy and kind, no harm done. He gets it. Mothers are like that –or so he’s heard.

By the time the last box is taped shut, they’ve filled two full ones with things Buck will have to dry-clean and sterilize for Gabriela, and nine more for the church, neatly divided into clothes, toys, and baby appliances. The kids help with the labeling, though “help” might be a stretch; Brook keeps doodling suns and hearts on the cardboard while Robbie writes “TOYS” and then keeps adding block and shade to the letters. 

When they finally haul everything back to Nando’s truck, the sun is high and golden. The air smells like food –rice and cumin and something sweet Pepa’s been baking– and Buck’s stomach growls loud enough to make Lili laugh.

They sit down to eat a little later than usual, but it’s Sunday, and no one seems to mind. The table is loud and crowded, full of laughter and clinking plates, and Buck feels that deep kind of tired that lives in your bones but somehow feels good. Earned. Buck deserves easy. He deserves family.

“Very noble of you,” Father Brian says later, after the afternoon sermon when Buck tells him about Abby and Patricia.

They aren’t in the confessional booth –neither of them care much for the small, dark box– but sitting on a bench outside the church long after mass, watching some of the abuelas gossip while Brook pulls Harry around the playground in a game that looks equal parts tag and hide.

“And you don’t feel… used again?” the priest asks gently, his voice carrying that mix of concern and curiosity Buck has learned to expect from him.

Buck thinks for a moment before answering. “Not really,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess I feel… kind of like I do at work. You know, when a call goes right –when you pull someone out and you know you did good.” He shrugs. “I knew Abby needed help. I knew she was hurting. So I helped.”

Father Brian tilts his head, smiling faintly. “You feel as though you saved her.”

Buck huffs a soft laugh. “Not that she was on the edge or anything,” he says quickly. “Just that she needed someone to show up, be there only for her, feel seen and cared for.”

The priest studies him for a beat, then nods with a kind smile. “You’re a good man, Buck,” he says simply. “It makes sense that Bobby couldn’t let you go.”

Buck grins. “Pretty sure he just thought I was starving with all the food he kept giving me.”

That earns a laugh, and they lapse into a comfortable silence for a while. The sound of kids playing and the abuelas’ soft chatter fill the warm afternoon air.

Then Father Brian claps his hands lightly. “Ah, I almost forgot,” he says, eyes bright. “I know you’ve only started coming to church recently, but are you planning on getting Gabriela baptized?”

Buck blinks, caught off guard. His eyes flick toward the playground where his siblings are shrieking with laughter. “I… thought about it,” he admits after a moment. “I just–” He hesitates, his brow furrowing. “I don’t really know how it works, how to do it, what… what happens…”

Father Brian’s smile softens. “Oh, Buck. If that’s the only problem, I can explain everything. And I’m sure Lupita and Isabel will be thrilled to tell you all about the big party that comes after.”

That earns a laugh out of Buck. “Well, I can’t say no to a party.”

“That’s the Holy Spirit.”

Buck groans immediately. “That was awful.”

“I thought it was clever,” Father Brian says, mock-offended, and they both end up laughing.

“Buck!” Harry’s voice cuts through the air, high and insistent. “Push me over the bars!”

It’s definitely an order, not a request.

Buck snorts and gets to his feet. “Duty calls,” he says, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “Hey,” he calls after, eyes twinkling. “If you ever put together a stand-up act, call me first.” Buck completes grinning as he jogs toward the playground.

“I’ll save you front row seats!” Father Brian shoots back, his laughter follows Buck bright, easy, full of faith and hope in a world trying to be good again.

Bobby does end up pulling Buck’s shield ceremony forward.

It had always been a pretty sterile thing before –in the past– paperwork, a handshake, a small crowd pretending it wasn’t just another formality. Sure, they’d all known and liked Buck, even loved him in their own way. But this feels different. This time, they’re not just a team celebrating a rookie’s promotion. They’re family.

And Bobby has never been prouder of anyone in his life.

It hadn’t even been difficult to get Buck his shield early. Buck is, without question, one of the best firefighters Bobby has ever trained personally, and he knows it. Even here, years before the incredible man Buck will become, the spark is already there, the bright, relentless foundation, impossible to miss.

He’d also submitted Buck’s request for parental leave at the same time, placing both folders on the Chief’s desk with the kind of satisfaction that comes from knowing exactly what you’re doing. The Chief had only raised an eyebrow, glanced between the two files, and said dryly, “Ah. The request for an in-person meeting makes a lot more sense now.” Bobby had laughed, because what else could he do?

There’d been no complications in the end. Buck got the full twelve weeks of paid leave to be home with Gabriela once she’s discharged, though the Chief asked –half pleading, half teasing– that Buck at least complete a few weeks in the field first, “to earn the nap time.”

And now here they are. The day.

Bobby’s checked the clock three times already, making sure everything runs right on schedule. Clara’s on her way to pick up the kids from school, and if the traffic gods are kind, they’ll be here just in time for the official ceremony and the delicious feast after.

He’s gone all out for this one. Streamers in red and gold hang across the rafters, the station lights turned soft and warm. There’s a banner stretched across the upper rail that reads CONGRATULATIONS, BUCKLEY! in slightly crooked block letters, Brook’s and Harry’s handiwork. Alice and Terence are arranging chairs, and even Parker, dragged from retirement, is pacing near the coffee machine, looking amused by all the chaos in his Hawaiian shirt.

“Bobby,” Hen calls out from the mezzanine, tugging on the edge of the banner. “If I straighten this thing one more time, it’s going to disintegrate.”

Chim, steadying the ladder below her, snorts. “That’s what happens when you buy discount decorations, Cap.”

“They were on sale,” Bobby defends without looking up from the tray he’s arranging. “And I had to make choices and I chose great food, you’re welcome for the sandwiches you’re eating later.”

Hen grins down at him. “Fair point.”

He spots Clara’s car pulling into the lot, the afternoon light flashing across the windshield. A moment later, the doors fly open and the kids spill out –Robbie and Brook first, then Tomaz, May and Harry right behind them, all chattering like they’ve been waiting for this moment all day.

Clara walks straight to him, arms already open. “I called Athena,” she says as they hug. Her eyes sweep the decorated bay and her eyebrows lift. “Bobby Nash, look at this place. You really pulled out all the stops.”

Bobby flushes, a rare splash of color on his cheeks. “What can I say?” he murmurs, almost shy. “I’m proud of the kid.”

“That is abundantly clear,” Clara laughs. Hen snorts in agreement as she finally climbs down off the ladder, brushing invisible dust off her hands.

“This is the best we can do, Cap,” Chim adds, sounding half-apologetic, half-proud.

“It looks great,” Bobby says firmly. “He’s going to love it.”

“He’s going to love it regardless,” someone adds from behind them. Bobby turns and finds Chief Simpson walking in, wearing a broad smile. “Captain Nash,” the Chief greets, looking around approvingly. “House looks fantastic. And who do we have here?”

“Chief,” Bobby says, straightening a little. He rests a hand on each kid’s shoulder. “These are my children –Robbie and Brook.”

Brook gives a shy, “Hi.”

“Hello,” Chief Simpson replies warmly. “Are you two proud of your brother today?”

“Very, sir,” Brook says with a serious nod that makes Clara smile.

“And tell me –are either of you planning on following your father and brother into the service one day?” the Chief teases gently. They both immediately wrinkle their noses. “Oh, it’s not that bad,” he chuckles.

“Buck misses a lot of Sunday masses,” Brook points out.

“And taco Thursdays,” Robbie adds with somber wisdom.

Chief Simpson laughs outright, and even Bobby huffs out a laugh beside him. “Fair enough,” the Chief says. “The hours can be tough. But at least you’d get to slide down the pole.”

“Dad and Buck say we can’t,” Brook corrects.

“But they forgot to tell Parker,” Robbie says, grinning.

From across the room, Parker erupts in laughter. “I’ll make sure to get Parker straight,” Bobby calls, trying to sound stern and failing.

“No longer my Captain!” Parker crows as he strides over, clapping his hands together. “Alright, kids! Firefighter Parker is going to show you all the best places in the firehouse.” Harry brightens instantly.

“Can you turn the sirens on?” Tomaz asks, having materialized like a small, hopeful shadow.

“Of course!” Parker beams.

“Not. Of course not,” Bobby groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, the sirens inside the firehouse sounded too loud bouncing off the concrete walls.

“Aw, Bobby,” Chief Simpson says, amused. “Let them have some fun. It’s a special day.”

Parker nods vigorously like he’s just been granted a royal decree. “C’mon, ducklings! Follow me!” he announces, already herding them toward the hallway.

“Bring them back to the bay in time for the ceremony!” Bobby calls after him.

But the kids are already gone, trailing behind Parker, listening to him narrate the tour like an overexcited museum guide.

Clara nudges Bobby’s arm. “I’ll go check on them from afar,” she says quietly. “Buck will love this. You’re giving him a moment he’ll never forget.” And Bobby, soft in his chest, can only nod.

“How’s the grandkid?” the Chief asks once the chaos drifts off with Parker and the kids. His voice softens as they walk toward the little podium set up for the ceremony.

“She’s doing great,” Bobby says, pride slipping into every syllable before he can temper it. “She really is a fighter.” He can still see her tiny fingers curling around Buck’s thumb, that first desperate breath when they saved her –stubborn, determined to be alive.

“About that…” Chief Simpson begins. Bobby turns, already wary. “Our public relations team is thinking of putting together a feature story. About her. And Buck, naturally.”

Bobby’s frown is immediate. “Chief…”

“It’s a moving story,” the Chief continues, hands raised as if to soothe him. “Sweet, inspiring, a human-interest piece that would be excellent press for the department.”

Bobby exhales slowly through his nose. PR angles. Headlines. Cameras shoved into spaces that should be sacred. Buck had already been through enough without strangers using his life for a feel-good segment.

“I don’t think Buck would agree, Chief,” Bobby says firmly, he certainly doesn’t. “And to be honest? I’m not sure I would either.”

Chief Simpson doesn’t push, he’s too smart for that. Instead, he shifts tactics. “Buck is a very good firefighter, a good man,” he says, voice dropping to something closer to persuasion than command. “The work he’s done at the church, here at the house… He’s a model firefighter already. And now that he’s officially one of ours, my media team is eager to get him involved.” He leans a little closer, lowering his voice. “They’ve been on my back for weeks.”

Bobby snorts quietly. He can imagine. Buck draws people in without effort; of course PR would want to bottle that. They did in the past future and now Buck is even more appealing with Peanut’s adoption.

“Buck is a grown man,” Bobby says after a long beat. “He can make his own choices.”

The Chief laughs. “That’s exactly the point, isn’t it?” he teases, nudging Bobby’s arm. “He’s a good man, a good son –and the first person he’s going to ask for advice is you.”

Bobby can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, warm and a little helpless. “That’s the truth,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Alright. Why don’t you come by the house?” The Chief raises a brow. “After Gabi’s settled, of course,” Bobby adds quickly. “Talk to Buck, tell him yourself about this… proposal. Meet him and his daughter. And then you can decide if you still want to feature him as your… model firefighter.”

Something softens in the Chief’s expression –respect, maybe, or gratitude for the invitation. “It’ll be my absolute pleasure,” he says.

Bobby nods, but a quiet thought settles behind his ribs: Buck deserves peace. He’ll make damn sure the world doesn’t take that from him.

Buck isn’t surprised when he gets to the station –at least not by the part where he’s overdressed and over-nervous. His hair is curled the way Bobby likes for formal things, his uniform still warm from the dryer when he slipped into it. He smells like cologne he only wears for special occasions. He looks, for once, like a grown-up man with his life together.

He does stop when he sees the banner.

Because –God.

It looks like the floor of an arts-and-crafts store threw up on it. Glitter, gouache, crooked letters climbing the paper like a drunk spider… and Buck loves it immediately. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture so he can stare at that messy, heartfelt “Congratulations, Buckley!” forever.

“Buck!” Bobby calls, loud enough to echo off the bay walls.

Buck turns, heart doing this stupid warm flip at the sight of him. The station’s out of rotation until next shift, B Shift will cover tonight, and tomorrow starts Buck’s last weeks before he picks up Gabriela from the hospital. Before his whole life changes. Again.

“What do you think, son?” Bobby asks, proud as a sunrise.

“I love it,” Buck says honestly, the words coming out softer than he meant. Bobby’s smile goes warm and fond and a little triumphant. “Thanks, Pops.”

“No thanks needed.” Bobby waves him off and slings an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the small crowd. “You remember Chief Simpson.”

Buck nods out of politeness even though, truthfully, the Chief is a blur from his academy days –just a stern silhouette in passing. Of course he knows of the man; everyone does. But remember him? Not really.

“Hello, sir,” Buck greets, and the Chief’s answering smile is broader than Buck expected.

“A pleasure to meet you. I’ve only heard the absolute best about you.”

Buck flushes, ducking his head. “Dad’s a little biased.”

“I wasn’t talking only about Nash.” Chief Simpson gives a conspiratorial wink. “Though he has been your loudest defender.”

Buck can’t help grinning. “Then I hope they didn’t tell you about the soap incident.”

A bark of laughter erupts behind him.

“Oh, sir,” Chim says, already materializing at Buck’s shoulder like he teleported there. “Do I have stories. This time golden boy here was responsible for washing our gear–” Chief Simpson’s eyebrow spikes upward in delighted curiosity, but Buck doesn’t need to defend himself because suddenly–

“Buck!” Brook shrieks, barreling into him. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you, princess.” Buck scoops her up in one smooth motion, spinning her once until she giggles, then sets her down gently.

“This is really cool,” Robbie says, trying to look unimpressed but failing entirely. Tomaz nods next to him like the station is the most sacred place on Earth.

Before Buck can answer, Harry launches himself into Buck’s arms like a missile.

“This station is way cooler than Mom’s,” he declares.

Up above, Bobby turns to the Chief with the solemnity of delivering a punchline. “Sergeant Grant,” he announces.

It takes a beat, then Chief Simpson bursts into laughter.

“Oh, please,” he says, wiping a hand over his face, “make sure you tell your mother exactly how great our stations are.”

Harry nods, gravely accepting the mission like he’s being sworn into duty himself. Bobby snorts when Chim cackles, but then Chief Simpson gives Buck a once-over. “Say, Buckley, you don’t happen to know how to play baseball, do you?” he asks.

Hen and Chim groan in unison.

“Chief, he doesn’t even have a shield yet,” Hen says between smiles. “Give him time before recruiting him to the July madness.”

“Every summer we have a little game between us and the LAPD,” the Chief explains, unfettered, throwing an arm around Buck and guiding him toward the small podium at the front, where most of the guests have already gathered. “It’s just for fun, to get to know each other.”

“So we all take it way too seriously and the objective is to win,” Buck translates, deadpan.

“Chief Bronson has been holding the trophy hostage for four years, Buckley.” Chief Simpson tells him gravely.

“We are on a losing streak.” Buck translates again.

“No, no,” the Chief corrects with a playful scowl, “we just took some time to practice, to let the LAFD catch up with our total wins.”

Buck can’t help laughing. “I’m not actually a –hmm, sports person,” he admits. “But if you ask for help with a summer food fest, I’m your guy.”

The Chief pauses, his expression softening into something genuinely warm. “Oh, well. I’ll keep that in mind.” He sets both hands on Buck’s shoulders. “I’ve really only heard good things about you, Buckley. It’s rare for a probie to be as promising as you in such a short time.” He glances toward where Bobby is talking to the kids –likely reminding them to behave during the ceremony. “Your father is also very proud.”

Buck’s heart jumps pleasantly, then stutters. He smiles but corrects gently, “He’s not really my father.” Just in case it’s a misunderstanding that could get someone in trouble.

Chief Simpson frowns at him like Buck just tried to tell him gravity is optional. “Are you sure?”

Buck laughs. “Not biologically, no. I’m not that lucky.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Chief Simpson says firmly. “He is your father, and he is proud.” The certainty in his voice hits Buck in the chest –solid, undeniable, like someone pressed a warm hand there and held it still. Buck swallows and nods. “Ready?” The man asks solemnly. 

“Yes, sir,” Buck answers, and he means it, the truth settling into place with quiet conviction.

Chief Simpson claps him on the back once and moves toward the mic, clearing his throat as the crowd settles. Buck steps back watching his not so little family who gives him small, knowing smiles, waves and winks that Buck feels all the way down to his ribs.

The ceremony begins. Speeches, handshakes, a few jokes that make the kids giggle. The kind of community warmth Buck used to dream about growing up, wondering what it would feel like to belong to something like this, and that is all dedicated to him today. 

He’s standing in the middle of it, warm and pleased and feeling like he deserves it without having to go through pain to gain it. 

When Bobby is called up to speak, he catches Buck’s eye. Just a moment. Just a look. But it’s steady and proud and full of that calm, fierce affection Bobby gives. And later, when the applause rises and the sun dips low over the parking lot, Buck lets out a slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

It’s well past bedtime when Buck shimmies into tight jeans and a fitted t-shirt, trying not to wake the whole house. He pauses by Robbie and Brook’s room out of pure instinct, peeking in. Both kids are sprawled out in sleep, one snoring softly, the other drooling on his stuffed dragon. Buck smiles, fond and a little mushy, then eases the door shut.

He’s almost at the front door when a confused voice stops him.

“Buck?” Bobby stands in the hallway in buttoned-down pajamas, glasses low on his nose, a mug of tea steaming gently in his hand. He looks like someone pulled him directly from a sleep-study pamphlet. “Are you going out?” he asks, puzzled.

“Ah –yes.” Buck nods, already bracing. “Just to commemorate.”

“Of course,” Bobby says, smiling. “Where are Hen and Chim taking you to?”

“Ah, no.” Buck shakes his head, and he can see the way Bobby’s smile falters at that answer –just a fraction, but noticeable. “I’m going out with Connor and Paul.”

Bobby frowns outright now. “Oh.” Just that. Flat as a pancake.

“They’re fine, pops,” Buck says quickly. “They’re cool. And they have a friend–”

“Of course they do,” Bobby mutters into his tea.

“Dad.” Buck levels him with a look. “I’m going to have to date eventually. And I’d like to do it on my terms.”

“Of course,” Bobby repeats, but this time it sounds like he chewed the word twice before spitting it out.

“And after today, who knows when I’ll be able to go out at night again?” Buck presses. “I’ll have a baby to take care of! I mean –how long did it take you to become this?” He gestures at the mug of chamomile and the flannel pajama set.

Bobby frowns like Buck just insulted his honor. “I go out. I go to shows.”

“You go to a show,” Buck corrects gently. “Singular. With me.”

“I’m dating Athena,” Bobby argues, standing taller.

“And half your dates are here in that kitchen,” Buck reminds him, “and the other half are at Athena’s place.”

Bobby inhales slowly, maybe counting to ten.

“Look,” Buck says softly, grounding them both, “I just want a nice night out. I’ll be back at a reasonable time. I won’t do anything crazy. Just dance, talk, and maybe kiss a hot guy.”

Bobby finally exhales, shoulders loosening. “Yes. Of course, Buck.” And then his voice warms. “Go have fun. You’re too young not to.” He hesitates, then adds, “And… I hope you know I’ll love to take care of Peanut if you ever need a night off. Even if it’s just to go to the movies alone.”

Buck’s heart does that soft, painful twist. He nods. “I know.”

“Be careful, okay?” Bobby says, stepping forward to kiss his forehead. “I worry.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine,” Buck promises –and immediately earns Bobby’s classic raised-eyebrow stare. Then, out of nowhere, Bobby chuckles, the sound warm and knowing. “What?” Buck asks.

“I was going to say something about parents and worrying,” Bobby admits, “and then I realized I don’t have to. Because in less than a week, you’re going to learn it firsthand.”

Buck groans. “It’s not funny, Dad.”

“It’s a little funny,” Bobby says, still laughing.

Buck grabs the doorknob. “Goodnight!”

“Take care,” Bobby calls after him –and Buck can still hear the fond laughter following him out into the night.

Buck has to physically stop himself from vibrating out of his skin. His knee bounces. His hands fidget. His whole body feels wound too tight. “But she’s fine?” he asks again, voice pitched a little too high.

Dr. Torres gives him the same patient smile he’s given him at least fifty times over the last months. “She is perfect, Buck. Truly. We have gone over all of this already.”

“I know,” Buck says, but he doesn’t. Not in his bones. “I just… I don’t want to mess anything up. I don’t want to bring her back here because I did something wrong.”

“No parent wants to bring their kid back to the hospital,” Dr. Torres agrees gently. “Especially not after a NICU stay. But if you ever feel unsure, bring her in. Or call. Or text. Any of us.” He shakes his head fondly. “Trust me, we would rather answer five anxious messages at midnight than have you sitting at home worrying.” Buck snorts, embarrassed but grateful. “So,” Dr. Torres continues, flipping through Gabriela’s chart. “As we discussed, Gabriela’s developmental clock starts from her due date –so we consider her one month old as of April first.”

“Because she’s a preemie,” Buck says, nodding quickly.

“Yes. And we’ll use her corrected age until around her third birthday to be safe. Even after that, we still take it into account for milestones.” Dr. Torres glances up at him. “I’m guessing you’ve read every parenting book you could get your hands on.”

“You’re guessing right,” Buck says, painfully serious.

Dr. Torres groans dramatically. “Please tell me at least one of those books reminded you that every child is different.”

“Oh, yeah. All of them.” Buck nods earnestly. “They also said every child is special.”

“They’re correct,” Dr. Torres says with a soft laugh. “There is no single right way to raise a baby. There are things you need to do, yes, but no perfect formula. You and Gabriela will figure out your rhythm together.” He signs one last form with a flourish. “And I’ll see you both in one month for her first round of vaccines.”

“Vaccines?” Buck repeats, horrified, scrunching his nose.

Dr. Torres freezes. His face falls a full inch. “Buck–”

“I’m joking,” Buck laughs immediately.

“It’s not funny.” Dr. Torres tries to scold, fails at it, and ends up chuckling as he hands over the paperwork. “Go on. I know they’re waiting for you.”

Buck can’t stop smiling as they head down the hallway. It feels surreal. Final. Like stepping over a threshold.

The NICU is humming softly when they enter. The monitors, warm lights, the quiet whoosh of tiny breaths being watched with infinite care, it doesn’t look as daunting anymore. Suzanne is already waiting, holding Peanut against her chest.

“Look, Gabi,” she coos, turning so the baby faces them. “Daddy’s here.”

The baby blinks, then blinks again, eyes drifting toward Buck and Dr. Torres. She can’t really focus yet; she can’t smile or recognize them no matter how much Buck thinks she can.

But Buck feels –knows– that she’s happy. That she’s perfect. That she’s ready. And that he is, somehow, impossibly, is ready too.

The first week flies by in a blur of bottles and tiny socks, late-night check-ins with an exhaustion Buck wears like a badge of honor thought it all feel easy too.

He’d braced his siblings for a mess –warned them about newborn crying patterns, startled-night-wails, the whole terrifying symphony of babyhood he got warned about through YouTube videos and parenthood books– and then Gabriela… didn’t do any of that.

Not really.

She cries, yes, but it’s not the frantic, air-splitting shrieks people talk about. It’s soft. Too soft. Gentle little whimpers that sound like apologies, as if she is sorry for making a fuss, and every time Buck hears them his heart tries to climb out of his chest. Four months in the NICU taught her a cruel lesson: no one comes when you cry. She learned to save her energy.

Buck’s determined to teach her the opposite.

So he picks her up at even the smallest sound. He holds her for hours, honestly, probably too many hours, but he has the time, and she melts against him like she’s been waiting for this. For him. Sometimes her tiny fingers curl around his shirt like she’s anchoring herself to the world.

Buck pretends he’s not anchoring himself right back.

The house shifts to accommodate her. Bobby’s alarm changes tone so it won’t startle her. Brook rearranges the shelves to make room for baby lotions and hairbrushes “everything should be at hand, just in case Buck’s system is inefficient.” The baby monitor becomes the soundtrack of the hallway. Light stays a little softer, voices a little quieter. Not because she’s fragile –though she is– but because everyone wants her to feel safe.

Buck notices it most in the afternoons, when the house gets sleepy. Gabriela loves Bobby. So much it’s almost unfair. She lights up –well, as much as a NICU graduate with limited range can– when he shuffles in with her pillow tucked under his arm. (Brook claims it looks like a dog bed, Buck insists it’s a specialized infant lounger. They are both technically correct, and neither budges.)

If Bobby’s home for the day, he takes his post-lunch nap like clockwork. Gabriela goes with him, settled into her little pillow beside his chest while he snores gently. Buck once peeked in and found them both asleep: Gabi curled like a comma, Bobby sprawled like a tired dad caught mid-sentence. He took a picture. He takes a lot of pictures.

Brook doesn’t do much hands-on at first. She’ll brush Gabriela’s fine hair with a kind of reverence, like she’s styling a very fragile porcelain-doll. She reads to her sometimes. And she definitely dictates which outfits Buck is allowed to put the baby in –usually limiting him to colors that “won’t clash with her tone.” But half an hour is her limit. Then she’s gone.

Robbie, though –Robbie is all in.

He drags the Mamaroo bassinet around like it’s his personal sidekick… or maybe Gabriela is his sidekick. Sets it next to him on the floor while he works on homework or sorts LEGO sets or solves puzzles. He narrates everything: the plot of a comic, the strategy behind his math worksheet, his entire Magic the Gathering deck system, the backstory of his Sims. Gabriela just watches him, wide-eyed, utterly calm.

Sometimes Buck checks on them and stands in the doorway for a full minute before making a sound. It’s become a thing he looks forward to: Robbie talking a mile a minute, Gabriela absorbing every word like the world’s tiniest, most fascinated audience.

Once, Buck went in to switch her diaper and realized Robbie had already done it –perfectly– and neither kid had made a peep about it. Gabriela had spent four hours with him like that, no cries, no fuss.

“Robbie,” Buck whispered, equal parts impressed and horrified, “who taught you how to do that?”

“I watched a YouTube tutorial,” Robbie shrugged. “It’s not that hard, Buck.”

Buck had to walk away for a second because his heart was too full and his heart was beating to fast.

The house adjusts to Gabriela.

And Gabriela, slowly and softly, adjusts right back.

“When can Gabi leave the house?” Robbie asks one night as they sit around the dinner table, the kind of normal, cozy family dinner Buck came to expect. Gabriela is asleep in her crib down the hall, the baby monitor resting between the salt shaker and a bowl of mashed potatoes like it’s just another part of the dinner spread.

“Not before she’s three months old,” Buck answers, automatic at this point.

Robbie frowns. “But… wasn’t she born in January?”

“Yes,” Buck says, already sighing because he knows what’s coming. “But she was born too early. That’s why she spent so long in the hospital.” He nudges his peas into his mashed potatoes, searching for the right phrasing. “And we don’t really know how early because her mother was–” He stops, recalibrates. “She was very scared. And sad. And she didn’t take care of herself or Gabi as well as she should have.”

Robbie and Brook both nod, solemn and understanding in a way that makes Buck’s chest tighten. They’re kids, but they get it, more than he ever gave them credit for.

“So how many months is she really?” Robbie presses.

“Around two,” Buck answers. “She’ll get her first real shots in early May.”

“So next week,” Brook says, as if she’s announcing a plot twist Buck forgot to foreshadow.

Buck blinks at his plate.

Next week.

Gabriela’s been home for a month already. How? When? He feels a rush of dizziness, like he blinked and time jumped without him.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Next week.”

He clears his throat and looks at Robbie. “Do you want to come with me? It won’t take long. And maybe afterwards we can stop at the church, you can run and see if Father Brian wants to meet Gabi. I’m sure he’d love to bless her.”

Robbie brightens instantly. “I do run really fast.”

“You do,” Buck agrees with a grin, he turns to Brook. “And you?”

Brook shakes her head. “I’d rather be home with my books. Besides, I already know she’s fine. She looks a lot healthier than the other times we saw her, before she came home.”

Buck’s heart pulls at that. “Yeah,” he says softly. “She really does.”

“A little love goes a long way when healing,” Bobby says, reaching over to squeeze Buck’s shoulder before returning to his meal.

Brook spears a carrot and shrugs. “She’ll be a lot more interesting when she can speak.”

Robbie glares at her. “She’s already interesting, she listens to me.”

“She can’t escape you,” Brook mutters, and snorts.

“We never got tired of you,” Buck reminds her with a teasing lit.

Brook sticks her tongue out. 

“Speak for yourself.” Robbie stage-whispers, “I’m definitely tired,” and Brook rolls her entire soul through her eyes. Buck only laughs into his fork, warmth blooming through him like candlelight.

Later, when the dishes are mostly done and the kitchen smells like lemon cleaner and dish soap, Buck is drying plates while Bobby wipes down the counters. In the living room, Robbie has stolen Gabriela yet again, carrying her around like a very breakable football and narrating some movie to her.

Bobby glances over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “We have to start preparing for the welcome party,” he says, like it’s something he’s been waiting for the right moment to drop.

Buck blinks. “It’s still two months out.”

“And it’ll pass before you know it,” Bobby counters easily. “Do we have a guest list?”

“Yes.” Buck nods… then immediately cringes. “And it’s too big. She’ll only be three months old, but how do I not invite Pepa and Nando? And then Dave and Sarah –and they’ll bring Josh.”

Bobby pauses mid-wipe. “Who are they again?”

“I met Dave at the hospital,” Buck explains, leaning the plate stack against his hip. “Josh was in the NICU for a night or two, we bonded while eating terrible hospital food. First-time-dad trauma bond, you know? We text a lot about the babies… and, and Sarah’s already researching kindergarten lists, which is like terrifying, but she said she’d help with Gabriela.”

He taps the towel against the sink, remembering. “Oh, and Carla. I definitely want to invite Carla. She keeps texting me about Gabi, and she’s the one who sent that basket of baby soap and lotion.”

“I remember Carla,” Bobby says, a soft, warm smile spreading across his face. “Brook was only two months old for her first big affair. We had it at the church. Family and friends, more than half the congregation wanting to hold her.” He chuckles. “Your friends won’t mind you asking them to wash their hands, Buck. Most of them have kids and will understand. And Gabriela will mostly stay in her room where it’s quiet anyway, the mess will be out here and in the backyard.”

Buck huffs a laugh. “And we really need the diapers.”

“We do,” Bobby agrees, full laugh this time. “Maybe Tomaz has a point about you making a wishlist with the invites.”

“Yeah.” Buck shrugs helplessly. “I’ll talk to him and Robbie. They can help set one up.” He pauses. “We should send the invites next month.”

“They seem to be… fine,” Bobby says, a little too casually.

Buck snorts. “If that’s your way of fishing for gossip, you need to work on it, Dad.”

Bobby bumps their shoulders together as he passes. “Maybe I do.”

“They’re still together,” Buck says, leaning back against the counter. “I’m hoping they break up nicely.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “He hasn’t called Tomaz his boyfriend yet. Not to me at least, but that could just be because I’m his father.”

“No, he hasn’t. Which means they’re probably just… fooling around.” Buck makes a vague gesture. “Teenage things.”

“You haven’t asked?”

“I was going to.” Buck sighs. “I told myself I’d wait a month before prying, but time–” He sighs again, waving vaguely at the air. “You know.”

“Oh, I know,” Bobby says, voice a little wry.

“I’ll talk to him soon. Maybe during the drive to Dr Torres. It’s long enough to get into his head properly.” Buck turns the towel in his hands. “I haven’t had much time to annoy him lately.”

There’s a beat before Buck adds, softer, “I wanted to talk to Brook too. With everything going on with Robbie and Peanut… I feel like I haven’t checked in with her in forever.”

Bobby blinks at him, surprised but not unkind. “She seems fine,” he says gently.

“Well, yes. I just–” Buck rubs the back of his neck, towel dangling from his hand. “I just miss spending time with them. I was with Gabi so much at the hospital, and now that she’s here they’re… living their lives. And they don’t talk to me as much.”

Bobby nods slowly, thinking it through. “Well,” he says, “they’re seeing you as a parent now.” He gives Buck a pointed, amused look. “Before, you were the fun older brother they could tell everything to. And now you’re a parent. And as you well know… ‘parents are lame.’”

Buck laughs, then groans loudly. “I’m cool. I’m a cool father. I’m a young father.”

Bobby snorts so hard he has to steady himself on the counter. “Maybe remind them of that.”

“I will,” Buck says with an exaggerated sigh, flinging the towel over his shoulder. “Being a grown-up is hard.”

“You think?” Bobby laughs, shaking his head. Then his voice softens. “I think you’re really good at this.” It’s a small sentence, but it lands like warmth straight into Buck’s chest. He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. “They’re just adjusting to everything,” Bobby continues. “I’ve got a four-off coming up. Why don’t I watch Gabriela for a day, and you take Robbie and Brook out? Just the three of you.”

Buck brightens immediately. “Thanks, pops.” He leans a hip against the counter, sincerity slipping through. “I would never be able to do all this without you.”

“Of course you could,” Bobby says, turning fully toward him, voice serious and steady. “But I’m glad I’m here to help. And for as long as I’m here, you don’t have to go through any of this alone.”