Chapter Text
Bobby wakes to the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue.
For a brief, panicked moment, he thinks he’s still in the lab –thinks maybe Athena got to him in time with the doctor, or maybe Buck got a second dose. His breath catches in his throat. He inhales sharply and instantly regrets it, because pain spikes through his skull like a lightning bolt. His whole body feels off, sluggish and lead-heavy, a creeping ache in his bones he hasn't felt in years. Not since…
It feels like a hangover. The craving curls low in his gut like an old friend, sinister and familiar. His body begs for a drink.
That craving used to be louder. That ache used to be constant. It hasn’t been for years.
He opens his eyes, expecting hospital lights, the hum of machines, sterile walls. Instead, he’s staring at the familiar grain of the bedroom ceiling. His old ceiling. A ceiling that doesn’t exist anymore.
He bolts upright in bed, heart pounding. The lab, the explosion, the virus –he died. He remembers dying.
But this? This feels just as real . Tangible.
His mind scrambles to catch up. Maybe it was a dream, dying. A nightmare, vivid and awful. A warning from the universe. Maybe it was a twisted hallucination meant to remind him that he wants to live. That he’s not done yet.
Relief floods through him at the thought. He turns instinctively toward the other side of the bed, ready to wake Athena with a kiss, to tell her he loves her, that he chooses her –always, in every life. That however long “forever” is, he wants to spend it with her.
But it’s not Athena.
It’s Marcy .
Marcy, curled beneath the covers, her hair just beginning to show flecks of gray. Peaceful. Familiar. Alive.
Bobby sits up like he’s been electrocuted, his heart a stampede in his chest.
No. No, this isn’t possible.
He stumbles out of bed and down the hall, his feet moving before his brain can catch up. He throws open the door to the kids’ room, and there they are –curled beneath cartoon-printed blankets and pastel sheets. Breathing. Warm. Alive .
He chokes on a sob.
Is this heaven?
Is this what repentance looks like? Not peace, not release –but a chance to try again ?
“Daddy?”
His daughter’s small voice slices through the stillness. Brook blinks up at him from her bed, her cheeks flushed from sleep, her voice high and soft. “Is it morning already?”
Bobby stares at her. She looks younger than she should be. She looks younger than the last time he saw her, alive or in his dreams.
He swallows hard, tears prickling in his eyes.
“I thought I heard you call me,” she adds, sitting up just a little.
“Oh.” He clears his throat, trying to sound normal, trying not to shake. “No, sweetheart.”
She tilts her head. “Okay,” she says easily, and lies back down, her hair bouncing against the pillow. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Bobby whispers, voice catching. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He stands there another few seconds, drinking in the sight of her, of both of them, breathing and whole, before he turns and walks numbly back to the bedroom.
Marcy is awake now, sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed in that way she always had when she was somewhere between concerned and suspicious.
“You okay?” she asks, voice low but sharp. “You were acting… weird.”
“I’m fine,” Bobby says, forcing out the words. “Just… had a bad dream.”
She narrows her eyes at him, clearly not buying it, but doesn’t push. She’s used to his bad dreams. Used to his lies.
“I’m going to a new rehab tomorrow,” Bobby adds suddenly, the decision crystallizing as soon as he says it. “It’s church-founded. I think–” he pauses, collecting himself. “I know I’ve said this before. I know I’ve promised, and failed. But this time… I mean it, Marcy. I swear to you. This time, it’s going to work.”
There’s a flicker in her expression. Not hope. Not yet. She’s heard it all before. But something softens at the corners of her mouth –a tired, familiar smile, the kind she used to wear when she wanted to believe him and didn’t have the energy to fight.
“Come to bed, Bobby,” she says, with a sigh that sounds like surrender.
He slips beneath the covers, lying on his back, eyes wide open. She expects him to fail. In the morning, she’ll brace for the same disappointment.
But she doesn’t know what he knows.
He’s already clean. In his heart, in his mind, he’s already come out the other side.
This isn’t day one of recovery… but it is a second chance.
And he’s not wasting it.
Rehab –the fifth time around? It’s… fine.
Bobby detoxes fast. Faster than anyone expected. He doesn't fight the process like he did before. The wanting is still there, still whispers in the back of his mind, but this time, he knows how to ignore it. He has something stronger than willpower now – purpose . He doesn’t know where he came from, how he got here, but he holds onto it like a lifeline.
By day five, the shakes have stopped. His skin no longer itches with regret. His mind is clearer than it’s been in years at this point. The doctors call it a miracle. The priest, an older man with tired eyes and hands that tremble when he blesses the breakfast table, calls his resolve divine.
It’s a week or so before Christmas when he finally lets himself out for a visit –just a meal out with Marcy and the kids.
He grins through the whole lunch. Laughs too loud. Hugs them tighter than he should and more often than necessary. Robbie rolls his eyes but leans into it, and Brook giggles every time Bobby kisses the top of her head.
For a few moments, he lets himself believe this could be enough.
When Robbie drags Brook off to scout the dessert counter –Brook’s personal mission for the day? Secure the biggest slice of pie– Marcy leans in, her voice low but steady.
“Do you want to come home?”
Bobby's smile falters. He looks down at the water glass in his hand, fingers tightening around it.
“No,” he says quietly.
Her eyes search his face. “No?”
The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. “I need a little bit more time, to think, to get stable enough.” It’s too close to the fire. She blinks, confused, but doesn’t say anything. “But I’ll be home for Christmas,” he says, more to himself than to her, “nothing bad will happen. I just have to hold out. Wait. This is my chance, Marcy. Everything… everything’s going to be fine.”
He believes it. He has to.
He doesn’t let himself think about the 118.
He doesn’t think about Chimney’s bad jokes or Hen’s steady presence. He doesn’t think about Buck –about how deeply that kid loved, or how Bobby had learned to love him back like a son. He doesn’t think about Athena, not really. Not in a way that lingers. Doesn’t allow himself to.
But he misses them. He misses them like a phantom limb.
He loves Athena –God, he loves her– but Marcy is here. A ghost, as it maybe. But a beautiful, familiar one, she’s real, and she gave him two perfect children, and maybe –maybe Bobby can love her again like a husband should. He will love her again. He can make it work. He has to.
“I need a little more time,” he tells her, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back for Christmas. I swear.”
The fire doesn’t happen on Christmas. It happens before .
So if he stays away, stays clean, doesn’t go back , then maybe this time –maybe this time no one dies.
It’s three days before Christmas when the priest walks into Bobby’s room.
His face is tight, pale with grief and something he’s trying to mask under holy calm.
“There was a fire,” he says.
Bobby’s ears ring. The rest of the words blur, muffled by the roar of blood in his head. He can't remember the details. Can’t hold onto the names. It doesn’t matter.
Even with Bobby gone , even sober , even though he never got drunk, never took the medication, never turned that damn heater on – the fire still happened .
“God has a plan, son,” the priest says gently. “You must trust it.”
Bobby turns to look at him slowly. The room feels like it’s tilting. His voice is steady when he speaks, too calm.
“A plan.”
The priest nods. “Yes.”
Bobby laughs. Just once. It sounds like it hurts even to his own ears.
A plan . That’s what this is? The fire. The dead. The people he killed. The guilt that hollowed him out for a decade. All of it –a neat little line in a divine blueprint?
He never had a chance. He was never a man –not really. Just a piece on a board. And when he stepped away, when he made all the right moves, God just moved another piece.
The fire still came.
The priest keeps talking, but Bobby barely hears him until he catches a phrase that feels like a hook through his chest.
“We can bring them here for the next week.”
Bobby blinks. “Who?”
“Your kids,” the priest says softly. “Brook and Robbie. They’re alive, but they’re scared. The hospital needs you to sign them out.”
For a moment, Bobby doesn’t breathe.
Then the floor is gone. His knees hit the linoleum. He folds in on himself, sobbing– huge, wrecked sounds tearing from his chest.
They're alive.
They're alive.
God has a plan.
That plan killed Marcy –but it spared his kids.
The church lets Robbie and Brook stay with Bobby at the rehab house. It’s not a perfect arrangement –there’s barely enough space, privacy is a sham, and the plumbing hisses like it resents being used– but they make it work. Somehow. It’s only for a couple of days.
While Bobby sits with Father Mark and talks through his demons –his vices, his regrets, the lives he’s broken, failed and saved– his children begin sorting through their own wreckage. There’s something cathartic in it, Bobby thinks. Something strangely holy about watching your kids kneel in prayer beside a priest with calloused hands and a soft voice, asking God why their mother had to die. Why are they still here now that she is gone?
There are moments of grace. The community steps in quietly, without asking for thanks. Firehouses from around the city send donations –old friends, old teammates, men and women who haven’t forgotten who Bobby was before the fall. The church organizes a few drives, boxes of clothes and toys arriving like Christmas morning scattered across weeks for all the survivors. Over one hundred victims, over two hundred gone.
Patrick helps the most.
He’s Bobby’s old Captain, long since retired, grayer now and broader around the middle. The kind of man who still leads with his heart first and his voice second. He has a rental property two blocks from the church and offers it up without hesitation.
“I’ll get everything done for you and the kids,” Patrick says, voice firm and unwavering. “You and your family will have a place to go no matter what.”
“I can’t accept that, Captain,” Bobby replies quietly, shame blooming in his chest.
“Don’t be prideful.” Patrick’s hand lands heavy on Bobby’s shoulder, grounding. “In a couple of days, the house will be ready. Don’t take them to a hotel. Don’t make their lives harder than they already are.”
Bobby nods, swallowing the sting in his throat. And five days later, they move in.
Time passes slowly in the new house. The days feel both heavy and hollow.
Brook slips into Bobby’s bed most nights, still clinging to the pieces of safety she can hold in her arms. Robbie asks questions Bobby can’t answer –about what comes next, about what they’re supposed to do now, about whether God only listens to grown-ups.
Christmas comes and goes in a blur of blinking lights and too many casseroles. New Year’s slips by while they all sleep through the countdown.
And then it’s 2015, and the leaves are beginning to come back.
Bobby watches them pile up on the front lawn as he washes dishes after Easter dinner, wondering if this –this quiet, this in-between– is all the second chance was ever meant to be.
Until one afternoon, over a lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup, he clears his throat and says, “Let’s move.”
Both kids stop chewing.
“Move where?” Robbie asks, wary.
“There’s a firehouse in L.A.,” Bobby begins slowly, carefully. “They offered me a position a while back. I said no at the time. But they haven’t filled it yet, and I’ve been thinking... maybe I should say yes. What do you think?”
Brook furrows her brow, spoon paused in her hand. “Only if we want to go?”
“Yes,” Bobby says immediately. “Only if you’re both okay with it.”
Brook tilts her head. “You think it would help?”
“I do,” Bobby says. “I’m not trying to run away, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m sad . I’m angry . I think it’s unfair that we’re living off donations when I worked so hard to give us a home, a real one, and–” He stops himself. They don’t need to hear that. Not all of it. Not yet. “I just think it could be good for us. A fresh start. New town. New house. New friends. A place to build something again.” Brook stays quiet.
“I like it,” Robbie says first, and there’s something decisive in his tone –like he’s already made peace with the idea of leaving.
“But my friends are here,” Brook says softly.
“We’ll make new friends,” Robbie shrugs. “Can we have different rooms?”
“Yes,” Bobby promises. “The new house... everyone gets their own room.”
Brook still looks unsure. But she leans into her soup again without protest.
It’s enough.
He is given a box. A single one that smells like soot and smoke, that contains everything they managed to save from their place after it went up in flames. There’s a photo from the day Brook was born –Marcy holding her, smiling despite the sweat and exhaustion, and Bobby holding Robbie up so the boy could see his sister for the first time.
The photo was tucked safely inside a book about fire safety , probably something the person had taken from their precinct or firehouse to keep the picture in. Bobby would have… he wants to say thank you to them, for the care they had with the useless things the fire didn’t consume and for keeping the most important thing safe, but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know if he can.
The LAFD accepts him easily. A lot smoother than… last time. Not being present in the fire –and with his own family being one of the affected– makes him some kind of martyr firefighter. It’s a title Bobby doesn’t want, one he’ll work hard to live past, but he will change their perception of him.
Still, he accepts the ease with which he’s made Captain of the 118. It’s the first thing that doesn’t feel like a punishment.
He asks to move as the school year ends, and they don’t even mind.
The packing takes longer than it should, mostly because there’s not much to pack. A few donated clothes, some school supplies, toys that arrived from strangers with kind eyes and warm hands. Brook folds hers slowly, like if she takes her time, they won’t actually have to leave. Robbie moves fast. He packs like he’s escaping something –maybe he is. Bobby watches them both and tries to strike the balance between control and kindness. He doesn’t want to push. Doesn’t want to hover either.
The morning they leave, the sky is gray with the kind of cloud cover that promises nothing but cold wind and the ache of waiting. Bobby straps their bags into the trunk of Bobby’s old car. The engine rumbles like it’s doing them a favor.
The drive is long. Long enough for silence to settle. For Brook to fall asleep against her window hugging a pillow and for Robbie to fidget with the radio until they land on static. Bobby keeps one hand on the wheel and the other curled tight around the edge of his resolve.
“Do you think we’ll like it?” Robbie asks sometime near Barstow. “That we will be happy?”
Bobby glances in the rearview mirror. Brook’s still asleep, mouth slack. Robbie’s eyes are hopeful but tired.
“I think we’ll have a chance,” Bobby says.
It’s not quite the same thing, but it’s honest.
The new house has five bedrooms –more than they need– but there’s a hopeful part of Bobby that thinks about May and Harry. About Athena. That maybe, someday, if he gets her back, the kids will each have their own rooms here.
And then he feels awful.
He remembers the picture of Marcy. Her arms full of their baby girl. He feels like the worst husband in the world.
Feels awful because he died. He died, and Athena watched him die in that basement as he puked blood all over the floor. And he feels like a terrible husband to Marcy because –deep down– he knows he wasn’t in love with her, not hard enough. Not really. And now their children don’t have a mother. And he’s not even mourning her properly.
But Bobby is still alive. Brook and Robbie are still alive. And that means he has to be their father.
The house is beige. Not Bobby’s first choice, but at least it’s clean –and that means he has a project for his days off. Small yard. Old porch swing. A single tree in the front with leaves that already look like they’re giving up on the year already.
He steps out first and breathes deep.
The air smells like ocean and dust and something faintly industrial –something that reminds him of firehouses and home all at once. Of home, here in Los Angeles.
Brook stares at the porch. Robbie runs ahead to try the door.
It has the bones of a house. Couch, kitchen set, no TV –he’ll have to deal with that fast. All the rooms have beds and pillows, but no covers or linens.
It feels… blank. But Bobby figures blank is better than ruined.
“This one’s mine!” Robbie yells from the back. “It’s got a window that faces the street.”
Brook drags her suitcase down the hall and stakes her claim without a word. Bobby hears her door close, soft and unsure.
He stands in the living room a second too long. His fingers twitch for a glass that isn’t there, and he exhales slowly.
There’s no altar here. No cross on the wall. No Marcy humming in the kitchen. No Athena reading on the couch.
But there are his kids, and there’s space for new things. And new memories.
“How about we take a nap and go out to buy some things for the house?” he calls into the hallway.
“Like plates?” Brook asks, appearing from the room she picked. “There are no glasses either.”
“And we only have three towels,” Robbie adds.
Bobby nods. “We need a list! Go around the house and try to think of anything we might need,” he says, and they both start wandering with purpose.
All Bobby can think of is Buck –walking around the 118 with a clipboard and that radiant smile. Smug at how good he is with logistics and pleased that he gets to tell people what to do.
And just like that, he feels a sharp pain in his chest.
The first month goes by fast. Faster than Bobby expects. Suddenly, he’s staring at his first day at the 118 again before he can think too much about it. He’s spent the last few days trying to get his head straight. Chim and Hen will be there. But he has to remember –they aren’t his Chim and Hen yet. Not quite.
“Daddy, can I go to Matilda’s house after class today?” Brook asks between spoonfuls of cereal.
Just like he imagined –Brook made friends right after her first day and is already happily integrated in the middle school social life of LA. So had Robbie. Kids adapt faster than adults. Bobby is both grateful and haunted by that.
“I suppose so,” he nods. “And you, Robbie?”
“I’ll be here with Clara,” Robbie says, then hesitates. “I–”
“What is it?” Bobby asks gently.
“I saw a volleyball league,” Robbie says. “They train at the beach and I thought…”
“Of course!” Bobby agrees right away. “Do you know the name? So I can call and ask about classes?”
“Yeah!” Robbie nods quickly. “I’ll get it today!”
“Deal,” Bobby says, smiling. “I’m working a twenty-four today, just to get to know the team, but I’ll be back tomorrow and we can talk about it, okay?”
“Okay,” Robbie nods.
“And I’ll be calling Clara around bedtime,” Bobby adds, “so be sure to listen to what she says.”
They both nod, already used to the routine.
“But tell Clara I’ll only be back later,” Brook says seriously, like she’s negotiating a high-level treaty.
“I’ll talk to Matilda’s mom at drop-off,” Bobby assures her. “Depending on what she says, I’ll update Clara.”
Fed and dressed, they pile into the car. On the way to school, the city feels less foreign –just a little more like somewhere they might actually grow roots.
At drop-off, he talks to Amelia –Matilda’s mom– and the woman confirms she’ll bring Brook home around five. Bobby thanks her, then calls Clara and lets her know. Clara promises to pick Robbie up at three.
The logistics handled, the kids off and safe, Bobby drives to the 118.
For the first time–
For the second time.
The firehouse looks the same.
That’s the first thing that strikes him –how unchanged it is. The walls are still that warm stucco red. The engine sits in its bay like it’s always been there. The flag out front flaps lazily in the breeze. Bobby parks in the same spot he used to and stares through the windshield for a long moment.
It feels like walking into a memory that hasn’t quite settled yet.
Inside, there’s movement. Voices. Laughter.
He steps through the bay doors, uniform pressed, hands steady at his sides even if his heart skips a little. A man with kind eyes sees him first.
“Captain Nash?” the man asks, rising from the bench near the lockers.
“That's me,” Bobby says. “You must be Han.”
Chimney grins, extending a hand. “Yep. Chimney’s what most people call me. Welcome aboard.”
They shake hands, firm and brief. Behind Chimney, another figure steps into view.
Hen.
She sizes him up, not unkindly, just… observant. Sharp. The way she always has been.
“Henrietta Wilson,” she says. “You’re our new Captain?”
“I am,” Bobby says, then clears his throat. “It's good to meet you both.”
“You’ve got a bit of a reputation already,” Chimney says lightly.
Bobby arches a brow. “Do I?”
Chim shrugs. “News gets around. House fire, two kids, whole story. You coming in with gold trim or what?”
“I’m just here to work,” Bobby replies evenly. “I’m not expecting any special treatment.”
“Good,” Hen says, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Because you won’t get any.”
The tension breaks, just slightly. Chimney laughs and claps a hand on Bobby’s shoulder as if they’ve known each other longer than five minutes.
“Come on,” he says, leading him further in. “I’ll show you around.”
They walk through the firehouse –the kitchen, the dorms, the rec room. Bobby listens, nods, takes mental notes. It's cleaner than he remembers it being on his first run. Maybe that's just the nostalgia talking.
The introductions wrap up, and soon the team is assembled for the morning briefing. Bobby takes the whiteboard marker in hand, starts with the basics: expectations, rotation schedules, emergency protocols.
He keeps it clipped. Clear. Professional.
But every so often, he catches a look from Hen, or a thoughtful glance from Chim, or the way Tommy keeps tilting his head like he’s trying to read between Bobby’s words.
They don’t know him yet.
But he will earn them.
Not with grand speeches or legends or pity. But with work. With consistency. With being here, every day, ready.
He’s done this before. He can do it again.
By the time the call comes in –minor MVA, no major injuries– Bobby feels steady enough to lead them out the door. And when they return, sweaty and sore and just the right kind of tired, Chimney makes a crack about Jones’s hair gel, Hen rolls her eyes, and Bobby laughs before he can stop himself.
It’s not quite home.
But it might be on the way there.
It’s been four months already, and Bobby is happy –and so are the kids. Which is why it comes as such a surprise.
He’s driving to pick Robbie up from volleyball when it happens. Or rather, when he happens –because Bobby doesn’t even have time to think before he’s slamming on the brakes, and it’s too late.
The light is green. He’s just about to turn the corner when he sees him.
Buck.
Young. Golden. Like sunshine personalized. He’s wearing a backward ballcap, and the sight of him hits Bobby like a punch to the chest. He looks so young , so small , so alive and –God– lost .
The boy – man , Bobby, Buck is a man, not a kid– is crossing the street with a frown on his face, thumb tucked against his mouth like a nervous habit. He’s not paying attention. Doesn’t even look both ways.
Bobby doesn’t stop in time.
Buck goes up and over the windshield before hitting the pavement with a sickening thump that makes Bobby’s chest seize. The sound echoes in his ears.
God. God, I came back and managed to save two of my kids just to kill the eldest one.
Bobby’s out of the car in seconds, heart in his throat, dropping to his knees beside Buck. “The light was green, kid –you gotta look both ways,” he says without thinking, voice tight with panic.
Buck blinks up at him, dazed. Then, impossibly, he laughs .
“Sorry, Dad,” he shoots back, voice dry and sarcastic.
Bobby’s breath catches, and for a second he thinks he might pass out. But training kicks in. He runs through the ABCs while traffic piles up around them, horns blaring. “Come on,” he mutters, carefully helping Buck to his feet. “We’re going to the hospital.”
Buck winces but doesn’t fight him. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, climbing into the back seat with a groan. “I know the rules. Don’t sleep, stay awake, yadda yadda…”
Bobby glances at him in the rearview. “That’s right. Keep talking.”
The drive is short, but it feels like a lifetime. At the hospital, Bobby flags down a nurse and explains the situation. Buck’s wheeled into an emergency bay, and they say a doctor will be in shortly.
Bobby takes a breath, pulls out his phone, and calls Clara.
“Hey, Bobby!” she answers brightly.
“Hey, uh –Clara, listen, I’ve had a bit of an emergency. I’m okay, but I was on my way to pick Robbie up from volley and I don’t want him waiting too long. And Brook –she’s alone at home…”
“I’m already on my way,” she assures, keys jingling in the background. “Don’t worry.”
“I’ll pay whatever,” Bobby starts, guilt bleeding through his voice.
“Bobby. It’s fine,” she cuts him off gently.
He murmurs a thank you just as the curtain to Buck’s bay is pulled aside and the doctor steps in. Bobby hangs up and turns toward the exam table. The doctor is already checking Buck over, his hands quick and practiced.
“Well?” Bobby asks when the silence stretches.
“A few bruises. Probably more scared than hurt,” the doctor says, throwing Buck a wry smile. “I’ve seen worse. Concussion’s mild, if anything.”
Bobby nods. “So he stays for observation?”
“Couple of hours, maybe,” the doctor agrees.
Buck groans. “Come on…”
“He’s right,” Bobby tells him, voice firm but kind. “An hour. Then you’re stuck with me for a while so I can keep an eye on you.”
Buck shoots him a look that’s half amused, half bewildered.
The doctor laughs as he tosses his gloves into the bin. “Fathers,” he teases, glancing at Buck. “Always the same, just different addresses.”
He slips out, leaving them in silence.
Buck stares at Bobby like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle no one gave him the pieces to.
“So,” Bobby says, slowly. “How are you?”
“I’m… confused,” Buck admits. “And not because of the concussion.”
Bobby raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“You are aware we don’t know each other, right?” Buck says, voice dry but not unkind.
Bobby chuckles. “I know a punk kid when I see one.”
Bobby drives in silence, ignoring Buck’s half-hearted protests.
“You don’t have to do this. I can just go home,” Buck says, shifting in the seat of Bobby’s car.
“Are your parents home?” Bobby asks, already knowing the answer –knowing full well Buck isn’t even speaking to them at this point in his life.
“No,” Buck admits after a beat. “I –I live with some friends.”
“Are your friends home?” Bobby presses. “Would they watch over you for the next day?” Buck rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond. “Thought so,” Bobby says, and they fall into silence.
A few minutes pass before Buck glances over. “So –uh, what’s your name?”
Bobby blinks, then chuckles. “We skipped introductions, huh?” He offers a smile. “I’m Bobby. And you’re Evan, right?”
“Buck, actually,” Buck corrects him automatically.
Bobby nods. “Buck, then.” There’s a pause. Bobby glances at him again. “What do you do, Buck?”
“I’m a student,” Buck says vaguely, and Bobby wonders for a second if he’s triggering the kid’s stranger danger instincts.
“I’m a firefighter,” Bobby offers, to level the playing field.
Buck perks up instantly. “Really?” There’s a stutter in his voice, surprise and something like awe behind it.
“Really,” Bobby says, smiling. “Captain of a firehouse, actually.”
“That’s so cool,” Buck says, suddenly animated. “I’m –uh, I’m going through the fire academy now.”
“Oh, that’s fun,” Bobby replies, then mentally kicks himself for sounding like he’s talking to one of his younger kids. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Yeah!” Buck grins, and the expression settles something deep in Bobby’s chest. “I think…”
“Go on,” Bobby urges softly. “I want to know.”
“I think I finally found something I’m good at.”
There’s a vulnerability in Buck’s voice that tugs at Bobby’s heart. He knows that tone –knows the weight of never quite fitting in, of always feeling a step behind.
“That’s good,” Bobby says gently. “I’m glad you found something you love, something you want to do with your life.”
Buck nods, almost shy. “Yeah. I’m really happy.”
Bobby smiles. “Okay, what does the future of the LAFD want to eat?” Buck blinks at him. “I need to bring something home for my kids anyway,” Bobby adds.
Buck’s smile comes slowly, but it’s small and twisted –tinged with that familiar longing Bobby remembers so well. The kind of longing Buck used to carry in every inch of his body before he found his place, before Maddie or Eddie and Chris, before he had a family to come home to –to live for.
“Burgers?” Buck says, low and unsure.
“Cheddar on the fries?” Bobby asks, and Buck’s face lights up –so bright, Bobby wishes he could bottle it forever.
Dinner is quiet, but not awkward.
Brook rolls her eyes when Bobby walks in with a paper bag full of burgers and Buck trailing behind like a kicked puppy. Robbie lights up when he hears Buck’s in the fire academy, and the two fall into easy conversation at the table –Buck, all bashful charm, and Robbie eating up every word like gospel. Brook acts unimpressed, but she hangs on Buck’s words and stories too and when Buck sneaks her his nuggets she looks amazed.
Bobby watches the whole thing with a strange kind of awe. Buck fits, too easily, in this kitchen. In this version of his life. He doesn’t eat much –says the pain meds are messing with his appetite– but he nurses a juice and listens, really listens, when Brook talks about her book report and Robbie complains about Coach Jake making them run extra laps.
It’s like nothing ever happened. Like Buck has always been here.
After dinner, Brook disappears into her room and Robbie settles in front of the TV. Buck ends up on the couch, half-curled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut despite his protests that he’s “just resting them.”
Bobby lets him be. He brings out a blanket from the linen closet, soft and new, and drapes it gently over Buck’s sleeping form. Buck doesn’t stir.
For a moment, Bobby just stands there.
It’s jarring –how young Buck looks like this. All the edges are softer. No creases around the eyes, no exhaustion permanently etched into his skin. He’s still figuring it out. Still carrying that invisible weight of not being enough, not knowing where he belongs.
Bobby brushes a hand over Buck’s hair, just for a second. Just enough to prove to himself that he’s real. That Buck is here, breathing and warm and alive, with him.
He thinks about the version of Buck who once told him that he didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t a firefighter, if Bobby ever stopped caring. About the man who nearly died more times than Bobby can count. About the son he never meant to have but couldn’t imagine losing.
He thinks, God, I hit him with my car. And then, But I found him again.
That has to mean something.
Bobby wakes Buck after two hours. The boy startles, groggy, blinking up at him from the couch.
“I should go,” Buck mumbles, pushing the blanket away and sitting up dizzy.
But Bobby shakes his head. “Come on. There's a room by Robbie’s. It’s got clean sheets and a door you can close.” Buck hesitates. Bobby doesn’t push –just waits. After a beat, Buck gives in with a sigh, lets himself be guided down the hallway like a sleepwalker. “Back to sleep,” Bobby says softly, and Buck doesn’t argue when Bobby pulls the same blanket over him.
Two hours later, Bobby wakes him again. This time, Buck doesn’t try to bolt –immediately. They sit on the couch for a while, watching a cooking show with the volume low. Buck’s eyes drift shut halfway through a segment about soufflés.
“I should–” he tries again.
“Not yet,” Bobby says, just as gently. “Get some more rest.”
He keeps waking him every two hours, just like the doctor said. It becomes a rhythm: sleep, soft wake-ups, a little bit of quiet conversation. Buck stays through the night. Then the morning. Then the afternoon. And when night falls again, Buck stands in the hallway, shoes on, hoodie zipped, ballcap low over his eyes.
Bobby lets him go this time –but not without slipping him a Tupperware container and a slip of paper.
“That’s my number,” he says firmly. “You call me. You text me. I want news, Buck.”
Buck holds both items like they’re heavier than they are. His eyes shine in the low light of the porch.
There’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes Bobby’s chest ache. The cap hides his curls, but Bobby remembers them well –still so blonde in Buck’s youth that it physically hurts to not see them anymore.
When Bobby goes in to check on Brook, she’s still awake, curled up in bed with a book –something about vampires.
“It’s sleep time, sweetheart,” Bobby says as he steps into her room.
“I’m just finishing this chapter,” she replies sweetly, but then looks up, eyes bright. “Daddy?”
“Yes, angel?” Bobby asks, coming to sit on the edge of her bed.
“You could have told us,” she says, her tone so earnest it stops him cold.
“Told you what?”
“About Buck,” Brook says. “That’s why we moved, right? Because you wanted to be close to Buck.”
Bobby blinks.
“What do you mean?”
Brook sits up a little, her small hand brushing his. “That Buck is obviously our brother. And you wanted to be closer to him. That’s okay.”
She says it so matter-of-factly it takes Bobby a second to catch up.
“We like him,” she adds, with a firm little nod. “It’s fun to have another older brother.”
Bobby chokes on a laugh. He opens his mouth to tell her that she’s wrong –but the truth won’t come out. Because if he says Buck isn’t part of their family, it’ll feel like a lie. He does see Buck as a son. He did move to California for a new job, yes –but also for Athena, and also, undeniably, for Buck.
“Really?” he asks, just to be sure. “You wouldn’t mind if Buck was around more?”
“No way!” Brook grins. “He said I can paint his nails red next time he comes over.”
Bobby snorts. Buck obviously never planned on coming back, but –well. Bobby’s never been above making plans.
“I’m glad you like him, truly,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Twenty more minutes. That’s more than enough for one chapter.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
She’s already buried in the pages again by the time he closes the door.
He turns to check on Robbie. The boy is at his desk, hunched over the glowing screen of his computer.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“I’m just finishing up,” Robbie says quickly, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bobby replies, amused.
Robbie glances over with a side eye, then goes back to typing. Bobby steps further into the room.
“I just talked to Brook,” he starts. “And I was wondering–”
“If I like my new brother?” Robbie asks, cutting him off before he can finish.
Bobby stares. “Oh. Uh –yeah.”
“Buck’s cool,” Robbie says, casual. Then he's quiet for a while –long enough that Bobby is halfway turned toward the door when his son speaks again. “Did Mom know?”
“What?”
“About Buck,” Robbie says, still looking at his screen. “Is that why you fought?”
“No,” Bobby answers quickly. “Buck... Buck is recent. I never cheated on your mom, I would never–”
“I know that,” Robbie replies, with a roll of his eyes. “Buck’s too old anyway. Brook thinks you moved here for him.”
“She’s not completely wrong,” Bobby admits after a pause.
“Cool,” Robbie says. Then, like it’s the most natural question in the world, “Will he go to church with us?”
“We can ask,” Bobby says. It’s the only answer he has.
He thinks the night will be hard –that sleep will be elusive with so much on his mind. But it comes easily. Peacefully.
If Buck doesn’t call or text soon, Bobby’s going to find his number through the LAFD himself.
But no matter what, Buck is part of the family now.
The next morning, Bobby is getting ready for a shift when his phone buzzes with a text.
Unknown Number: Thanks for the food.
Unknown Number: It was good.
Unknown Number: This is Buck.
Bobby smiles to himself as he saves the number. It’s barely anything –but it’s also everything.
He types back:
BOBBY: Glad you liked it. Made enough to drop off another one if you're hungry again.
The typing bubbles appear, disappear. Appear again. Then nothing.
Bobby doesn’t push. He slips the phone into his pocket and heads out for his twenty-four-hour shift. It’s around lunchtime when he finds himself making chili –the meatless one Buck had liked so much before. Out of instinct more than anything else, he snaps a photo and sends it.
BOBBY: Making chili for my firehouse today.
Buck replies fast.
BUCK: You cook for your firehouse?
BOBBY: It’s a captain’s job to take care of his men.
There’s no immediate response. Calls come in, and Bobby gets busy. Hours pass before he checks his phone again.
BUCK: Broke a record today!
Bobby sends a thumbs-up. A moment later, Buck replies with a laughing emoji. It’s enough. Bobby can tell he’s happy.
The next day, while out shopping with the kids, Bobby sends another message.
BOBBY: I’m making lasagna tonight. Why don’t you come over? We’ll celebrate your new record.
This time, Buck takes longer to reply. Long enough that Bobby nearly writes it off. But then–
BUCK: Sure. Thanks.
Bobby counts it as a win.
That evening, while the kids are sprawled on the couch watching TV, Bobby walks into the living room.
“Buck’s coming for dinner tonight,” he announces casually. “So... are your rooms clean?”
Brook makes a face. “Is Buck even gonna see our rooms?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby says. “But if you show him something and he walks in, are you gonna be embarrassed by the mess?”
That gets them. Both kids pause, glance at each other, then wordlessly get up and march to their rooms.
Bobby hides a smile as he returns to the kitchen, heart a little lighter than before.
Buck arrives ten minutes early.
He stands awkwardly on the porch, shoulders hunched, his baseball cap pulled low over his curls like a shield. Bobby watches him through the front window for a second longer than necessary, waiting for the knock that never comes. The boy fidgets, almost turns back toward the street, and that’s when Bobby opens the door.
“You're early,” he says with a smile.
Buck shrugs, a half-apology in his posture. “Traffic was faster than I thought.”
Bobby steps aside to let him in. “Good thing the lasagna's already in the oven.”
Inside, the house smells like tomato sauce and garlic. The kids are in the living room playing a game with fierce concentration, Buck hesitates just inside the entryway, not sure what to do with his hands, or himself.
“Hey, guys,” Bobby calls, and both Brook and Robbie glance up. “Buck’s here.”
Brook drops her controller with a dramatic gasp. “Hi, Buck!” she chirps, bounding up from the couch like she’s been waiting for him all day. “You came! Do you want to see my new red nail polish? It has glitter.”
Buck startles a bit but nods, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sure?”
“You said I could paint your nails red next time,” Brook reminds him, already grabbing his hand.
“I did say that,” Buck murmurs, letting her drag him toward the coffee table.
Robbie doesn’t say anything, but he lifts a hand in a casual wave. Buck nods back like he knows that’s a lot coming from a twelve-year-old.
Bobby heads to the kitchen to check the oven, but he keeps an ear on the living room. Brook is chatting Buck’s ear off about her vampire book, her friends at school, how she thinks lasagna should be its own food group. Buck listens –really listens– and laughs in all the right places, makes all the right questions.
It’s only when dinner is on the table and they’re all seated that Bobby sees it clearly.
Buck doesn’t just like being here. He aches for it.
He watches Brook reach across him for the garlic bread, listens to Robbie talk about some video game mod he installed, and smiles like it hurts. Like he’s not used to being in a house that’s loud and full and loving.
“So, Buck,” Bobby says, gently steering the moment, “Tell us about the record you broke.”
Buck perks up. “Oh –yeah. We were doing the hose drill, the one where you have to hit all the targets? I shaved off four seconds from my last run.”
Brook lets out a delighted little cheer. “So you’re like a fire ninja!”
Buck laughs, ducking his head. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”
Robbie, who’d been chewing thoughtfully, pipes in with, “That’s cool. You should show us sometime.”
There’s a flicker of something in Buck’s eyes –surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Bobby sees it. Stores it.
He raises his glass of grape juice. “Congratulations, Buck.” Bobby notices how pleased and surprised Buck looks. “We’re proud of you.” he says simply.
Buck looks up, eyes wide, mouth half-open like he wants to say thank you but can’t figure out how. He just nods. Once. Quick.
After dinner, Brook insists on painting one of Buck’s thumbnails “just for fun, you did promise,” and he lets her, holding out his hand like it’s nothing at all. Robbie sits nearby, pretending not to care but throwing in suggestions about which polish to use next.
Later, when Bobby walks Buck to the door, it’s dark out. Quiet. The kind of night that makes you want to stay just a little longer.
“Thanks for dinner,” Buck says, hands in his pockets, his tone too soft for someone who just ate half a pan of lasagna. “And everything else.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Buck,” Bobby says. “You belong here.”
Buck’s breath catches like he wasn’t expecting that.
Like no one’s ever told him before.
He doesn’t say anything, just nods and walks down the steps. Bobby watches him go, the streetlight catching the curve of his cap, the soft gold of the curls just barely visible underneath.
And when he turns back toward the house, Bobby thinks – Yeah. This kid’s already mine.
Christmas sneaks up on Bobby.
One morning, while he’s whisking pancake batter, Robbie sidles up close to him at the counter and says, “Brook wants a new dress.”
It’s a full sentence, serious and deliberate. Bobby pauses mid-stir, blinking at his son.
“For Christmas, Dad,” Robbie clarifies. “Brook wants a new dress to go to Mass. She’d be really happy if you gave her one.”
Bobby nods slowly, turns back to the batter –but his mind is already miles away, rolling.
Christmas… Already.
He remembers his first Christmas alone, after the kids and Marcy died. Remembers clinging to his sobriety by the skin of his teeth. Remembers Freddie Costas –the man, the boy – whose father’s death finally broke him. Whose future actions will one day blow up Ladder 118 and hurt Buck.
Bobby sighs.
“What about you, Robbie?” he asks after a moment, flipping a pancake.
Robbie shrugs. “Whatever I get will be a gift.”
It’s such a simple, genuine answer it fills Bobby’s heart with pride. Robbie walks that sweet, careful line between being a good kid and a pre-teen with opinions –and Bobby wouldn’t change him for anything.
“Very well,” Bobby says, smiling. “It’ll be a surprise then.”
“Okay,” Robbie agrees easily, going back to setting the table.
Bobby thinks about it all the way to work –the kids, the gifts, the way Christmas felt before and the way it feels now– and somewhere between calls he pulls out his phone.
Bobby:
What are your plans for the holidays?
Bobby:
Do you want to come by for Christmas?
Bobby:
We’re going to Mass and having a feast. There’ll be a lot of leftovers for you to take home.
Buck doesn’t answer immediately, so Bobby keeps going.
Bobby:
I also need to get the kids gifts.
Bobby:
Are you free this Tuesday for a very fun mall trip?
Work is steady enough –calls come and go– and Bobby can’t remember much about them afterward. He wonders if back in the “before,” he wasn’t really paying attention either. Just going through the motions. Waiting for life to end without realizing it.
When did that change?
After Buck?
After Athena?
After the cancer scare?
Now he has Robbie and Brook. Now he's living . It doesn’t feel like dragging himself across days anymore. It feels like being here.
His phone buzzes.
Buck:
I’m free Tuesday, I can help.
Buck:
I was just gonna sit around and drink eggnog for Christmas anyway.
Bobby smiles.
Bobby: I think we can do better than that.
Tuesday comes, and they pile into Bobby’s truck after breakfast, the radio crackling with Christmas songs Brook insists on singing along to, way off-key.
The mall is crowded, the chaos of last-minute shoppers buzzing in the air, but Bobby feels strangely peaceful walking between his kids –and Buck, who fits so easily with them it feels natural. Like it was always meant to be.
First stop is a small boutique near the food court. Brook runs her hands reverently along a rack of dresses, gasping every time she finds something with sequins or lace.
“This one, Dad!” she says finally, holding up a soft green dress that swishes when she twirls it. “It’s perfect! ”
Bobby nods, smiling. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart.” He ruffles her hair and catches Buck watching them, a soft, wistful look on his face.
They pay for the dress, and as they head toward the escalators, Bobby steers them into another store –this one bursting with Christmas sweaters.
Robbie groans. “Really, Dad?”
“Non-negotiable,” Bobby says firmly, already grabbing a stack.
He picks out a navy sweater for Robbie (a tasteful reindeer pattern), a sparkly one for Brook (it lights up, of course), a classic red-and-green one for himself, and a ridiculously loud one for Buck that reads “Merry Bucking Christmas” across the front with a prancing reindeer.
Buck laughs so hard he nearly drops his bag. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious,” Bobby says, stone-faced. Brook and Robbie are giggling already, so Buck just shakes his head and throws the sweater over his shoulder.
Next, they hit the electronics store.
“I know he’s been talking about it for months,” Buck says when they’re out of earshot of Robbie as the kids are seeing the new consoles, tugging Bobby aside. “The Sims 4. And a couple expansions. I think he wants the ‘City Living’ and ‘Get to Work’ ones? He won’t shut up about it.”
Bobby nods, impressed. “You’re good at this.”
“Just listen, that’s all.” Buck shrugs, a little embarrassed. “They like to talk, so that helps.”
Bobby smiles, yes, all of his kids are chatterboxes.
They get the game and the expansions, Bobby feeling a secret thrill of excitement imagining Robbie’s face when he opens them. Then, because Brook has been nothing but patient, they sneak into another store where Buck and Bobby pick out a kid-friendly makeup set –sparkly glosses, pastel eyeshadows, nothing too grown-up.
“She’s gonna lose her mind,” Buck says, grinning.
They settle into the food court after that, the bags piled high around their chairs, and Bobby watches as Buck helps Brook unwrap her giant cinnamon roll, his careful fingers keeping the sticky icing from going everywhere.
It’s as they’re eating that Bobby asks, “Did you have Christmas traditions growing up, Buck?”
Buck pauses mid-bite. Shrugs. “Sort of.” He wipes his hands on a napkin, not meeting Bobby’s eyes at first. “It was mostly for show, you know? Big tree, perfect house, perfect pictures. For my parents, it was…a performance.”
He laughs, but it’s a small, humorless sound. “No presents for me. Not really. Maddie tried sometimes, she –she’d sneak me something small, but… it always felt like a day you just had to get through, not something you could actually enjoy.”
Bobby’s chest aches. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says softly.
Buck shrugs again, trying for lightness. “It’s fine. It’s just a day now, you know? I usually just hang out, drink some eggnog, maybe watch a movie.”
Bobby leans forward, nudging Buck’s coffee cup toward him. “Well, this year it’s more than that. You’re with us. Family. ”
Buck looks up then, eyes bright, and for a second Bobby can see the little boy he must have been –hopeful, cautious, longing for something real.
“Thanks,” Buck says, quietly.
“Anytime, son,” Bobby replies, just as quiet.
Brook and Robbie are arguing about whether they should get matching Christmas pajamas next, and Buck chuckles, falling easily back into the conversation –but Bobby holds the moment close. A little piece of healing.
Later, when they get home, Bobby hides the gifts away and makes a mental note to find a box big enough for Buck’s sweater. Because this Christmas, no one he loves is going to feel like they’re just surviving the day.
They’re going to celebrate it, together.
They go to church more now than Bobby ever did before he died.
Robbie goes every Sunday without fail. It’s like therapy for him –the kind that doesn't ask questions, just lets him sit in quiet and believe in something bigger than himself. Brook goes too, but not always. She prefers confession when things get heavy, but otherwise, she doesn’t feel the pull as much as her brother.
Bobby lets them choose. As long as it helps, he doesn't question it.
It’s Saturday when things start falling in place.
He’s at the firehouse –doing inventory, helping the men check the rig, mostly just keeping busy on a slow day– when his phone rings. Clara. Her name lighting up the screen already gives him a sinking feeling.
“Clara?” he answers, but she’s already mid-breath, panicked and crying.
“Bobby –it’s my mom, she’s –she’s in the hospital. They just called me, she collapsed, and I’m supposed to be watching the kids and I don’t know what to do–”
“Clara,” Bobby says, voice firm. “Calm down. Take a breath.”
“I can’t –I need to go, but I can’t leave them alone –what do I do?”
He hears Brook in the background, trying to soothe her. "Clara, it’s okay–"
“You’re not driving,” Bobby says immediately. “Stay put. I’ll call Buck, ask him to come get you and stay with the kids.”
“I can drive,” Clara insists through her sobs.
“No, you really can’t.” Bobby's already trying to think what to do without a babysitter. Hen is watching him now, picking up on the urgency. “Just sit tight. Let me handle it.”
He ends the call before she can argue and dials Buck.
“Emergency?” Tommy asks from across the bay.
“Something like that,” Bobby mutters.
Buck picks up on the second ring. “Hey, pops–” Bobby freezes for a split second. Pops . It's been years since he’s heard Buck say that. “Bobby?” Buck says again, and this time there's a nervous edge to it, like he’s not sure if he slipped.
“Hey, kid,” Bobby breathes out. “You busy?”
There must be something in his voice –something sharp, urgent– because Buck’s answer is immediate and serious. “Nothing I can’t miss. What’s going on?”
“Clara’s mom is in the hospital. She’s a mess. I need someone to drive her there and stay with the kids. I’m not off shift until tomorrow.”
“I’m on it,” Buck says, no hesitation. “Getting in the Jeep now. I’ll call when I get to the house.”
“Get the key from Clara.”
“Got it.”
True to his word, Buck calls twenty minutes later. He’s already taking Clara to the hospital, and on his way back, he texts Bobby:
Buck:
Taking the kids out for ice cream. They needed a distraction.
Not five minutes later, Bobby’s phone buzzes again with a photo: Buck in the middle, grinning with two oversized cones in his hands, Brook and Robbie on either side of him, mid-laugh with ice cream on their noses.
“Did your wife even help?” Jones teases when he spots the picture on Bobby’s screen.
“Ha. Very funny,” Bobby mutters, but he’s smiling.
He sends Buck a quick text:
Bobby: Thanks, Buck.
It’s nearly dinner time now, and technically he should complain about the sugar overload. But the truth is, Buck always knows what to do in a crisis. He has that instinct –the same one Bobby used to have– only Buck’s is gentler, warmer. The kind that kids trust without even trying to.
And somehow, that makes Bobby feel like everything’s going to be okay.
Sunday morning, Bobby wakes to a text.
Buck: There is no way your kid just woke me up at 6 on a Sunday to go to church.
Bobby smiles, still groggy as he types back.
Bobby:
Ah, I forgot about that. It’s very important to him.
Bobby:
But don’t feel forced. If you explain, he’ll understand.
Buck:
I stole one of your button-downs.
Buck:
Where’s the church? They better have free parking
Bobby huffs out a quiet laugh, fully awake now, and sends him the address for St. Paul the Apostle Catholic Church .
A beat later, Buck replies.
Buck: You better have food in your firehouse.
Buck: We’re stopping by for lunch.
Bobby laughs out loud, shaking his head as he sends back a thumbs-up emoji.
When he walks into the kitchen and starts cracking eggs, Hen glances up from her coffee.
“All good, Cap?” she asks with a smile.
“Yes,” Bobby says easily. “The kids are coming over for lunch after church.”
There’s a pause. No response. When he looks up, all four of them –Hen, Chim, Tommy, and Jones– are staring at him like he’s just announced a secret marriage. And Bobby knows that look.
“Is that a problem?” Bobby asks, confused. “I can call Buck–”
“No, no,” Chim cuts in quickly. “We don’t mind. It’s just –you don’t talk about them. We’re surprised.”
Bobby blinks. “Oh. I don’t?”
He thinks about it. He’s known this team inside and out for years –knows about Denny’s allergies, Maddie’s sleepless nights, even Jones’s dog’s anxiety medication– but he’s never really told them much about his own kids, especially in the time before, and maybe not now either. The old habit of keeping his shame and firehouse separate. It’s reflex.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“That’s okay, Cap.”Hen waves him off with a soft chuckle. “So they go to church every Sunday?” she asks as Bobby starts whisking the eggs.
“We do,” he answers after a beat. “After Marcy, my late wife, died, we spent a lot of time in a church house. The priest there really helped the kids with their grief. Especially Robbie.”
“That’s nice,” Hen says gently.
Chim nods. “That explains the early wake-up call.”
“Buck’s with them today,” Bobby says, flipping a slice of toast. “After that emergency with Clara, it kind of… just worked out.” He smirks. “We’re still working on his cooking skills, though.”
The table laughs, the mood lightening again. Bobby finishes plating the food and sets it in front of them, but his mind lingers on that earlier message – I stole one of your button-downs.
He can’t stop smiling.
By the time Bobby’s crew gets back to the station, Buck’s Jeep is already parked –right in the spot Bobby used to mentally claim as Buck’s, the one the man always parked at. It takes him a second to recognize what that means, to swallow the odd feeling rising in his chest.
They round the back of the rig and there they are, standing in the bay like they’ve always belonged there: Buck with one arm around Robbie and the other holding Brook’s hand, all three of them enraptured as Parker, one of the station’s oldest firefighters, tells a story with wild hand gestures and a proud gleam in his eye.
Parker must be working on his retirement tales again, Bobby thinks. The man has maybe three months left on the job –just long enough to overlap with the rookie Bobby’s been eyeing to hire –it’s Buck, he’s hiring Buck.– He tries to remember if Buck and Parker met before.
“I thought Jones was joking,” Tommy mutters as they file out of the rig.
“I warned all of you,” Jones says, grinning as they all pause to watch the scene.
Bobby glances back at the team, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You two do know Buck’s not actually my son, right?”
Jones stares between Buck and Bobby. Then back again. “Sure,” he says dryly.
Bobby chuckles and shakes his head.
“Daddy!” Brook’s excited shriek cuts across the bay as she lets go of Buck’s hand and runs straight into Bobby’s arms. He crouches to catch her, lifting her just slightly off the ground in the hug. “Parker said you could give us a tour!” she says breathlessly.
Bobby glances over at the older firefighter, who’s chuckling as he tips his chin toward the kids. “Figured the new Captain might want to show off for his kids a little.”
“I’d love to,” Bobby says warmly. “Thanks for entertaining them.”
Parker waves him off. “My pleasure. The tall one’s got a million questions.”
Bobby looks at Buck, who shifts his weight like he’s trying to hide behind Robbie. “Did he tell you he’s in the fire academy?”
Parker’s eyes go wide. “He didn’t ! I’ve been spilling every save story I’ve got and he didn’t say a word!”
“Pops,” Buck groans, but Robbie pipes up before he can stop him.
“Buck broke three records already!” Robbie announces proudly. “And he keeps asking Dad to make him celebratory lasag–”
Buck claps a hand over Robbie’s mouth and pulls the kid gently into his side. “That’s enough, ” he says, mock-stern. “Are you feeding us or am I taking the kids to McDonald’s again ?”
Brook’s eyes light up. “We can have McDonald’s?”
“Not today,” Bobby says, ruffling her hair. “I made potato gratin.”
Just in time, Chim and Tommy walk out of the locker room, pausing when they see the scene in front of them.
“Your father is awesome, ” Chim tells the kids.
“Awesome?” Tommy snorts. “Didn’t you just say you’ve gained five pounds since Cap started here?”
“If he didn’t eat thirds, he wouldn’t gain weight,” Hen chimes in, stepping forward and offering her hand to Buck with an easy smile. “Hi. I’m Hen.”
Buck lets go of Robbie to shake her hand. “Buck,” he says with a nod.
Robbie takes the opportunity to stick his tongue out at Buck. Buck raises an eyebrow and sticks his right back.
“Boys,” Bobby warns mildly.
“I’m Robbie,” the boy says cheerfully.
“And I’m Brook,” Brook adds quickly waving from Bobby’s side.
Bobby watches the way his team’s smiles soften as they meet his kids. Watches Buck step back into the dynamic like he’s been here a thousand times, like he’s not the outsider at all. He doesn’t miss the way Buck keeps glancing over at him –like he’s waiting for permission. For approval. For belonging.
He’s already got all of it.
“Alright,” Bobby claps his hands once. “Tour first, then lunch. And no more tongue wars in my firehouse.”
Brook snickers even as Robbie looks proud, Buck just smiles through a blush.
And Bobby? Bobby can’t help but think: maybe this was the Plan all along.
Bobby leads them through the station with an easy familiarity, his voice softening when he gestures toward the common areas.
“This is the kitchen –where we cook, eat, wash the dishes. Buck, you’re banned from the stove for now, but I’ll gladly accept help with chopping as we work on the cooking lessons.”
“Hey!” Buck protests, grinning.
“I saw what you did to that omelet last week,” Bobby teases.
Brook giggles, skipping ahead toward the poles while Robbie looks around with wide-eyed awe, like the walls themselves are telling stories.
“Do you really get to slide down these?” Robbie asks, already halfway to testing it out.
“We used to,” Bobby says, catching the back of Robbie’s shirt before he takes a tumble. “Now it’s mostly for show. Safety stuff.”
Buck runs his fingers along the lockers, eyes catching on names stenciled in bold. “So, this is where you live?”
Bobby hums, thoughtful. “Sometimes, yeah. Twenty-four-hour shifts, so you make it home.” He glances at Buck. “That’s something you’ll get used to, if you stick with it.”
Buck nods, something quiet and settled behind his eyes.
And when they walk past the ambulance, Robbie gasps. “That’s huge!”
“It’s also Hen’s baby,” Bobby chuckles. “Touch it without asking, and she’ll ground you.”
Hen, who’s walking past with a cup of coffee, lifts a brow. “Facts.”
The kids laugh, and Bobby watches them –Buck falling into rhythm beside him, Brook peppering Chim with questions, Robbie practically vibrating with excitement. Yeah. This is what living is supposed to feel like.
Brook sits crisscross on a stool by the kitchen island, her fork stabbing through the layers of potato and cheese like she’s conducting a science experiment. Robbie’s wedged between Buck and Tommy at the table, asking his fifth question in as many minutes.
“So, if a building’s on fire, and there’s like a thousand cats inside –do you save them before or after the people?”
Tommy blinks. “...Are there actually a thousand cats?”
“It’s a hypothetical ,” Robbie explains, dead serious.
Chim leans in with a smirk. “We save the people first, always. But if we can, we’ll try to get the animals too. That’s part of the job.”
“Wouldn’t that be, like, so many cats?” Brook asks, eyes wide. “Do you have to bring special cat food?”
“We don’t carry cat food on the rig, no,” Hen says, sipping her drink with a barely hidden smile. “But we have oxygen masks that can fit pets. Dogs, cats, once even a ferret.”
“A ferret?” Brook squeals.
“Yeah. Named Noodle,” Tommy throws in casually, grinning when Brook gasps. “Hen saved it. Whole thing made the news.”
“I wouldn’t call that instagram post ‘the news’.” Chim teases and Hen laughs.
Bobby watches as Buck beams, flanked by his kids, surrounded by the crew, and thinks –not for the first time– that maybe family isn’t just something you’re born into. Sometimes, you build it. One story, one laugh, one lunch at a time. You build it every day, by being there and showing up.
Later that night, after Buck takes the kids home with a mac and cheese casserole for their dinner and a soft smile on his face, the team gets called to a cockfighting ring.
Tommy is running from the feathered menace, yelping as he dodges wings and claws. Bobby’s chasing after the rooster, towel in hand, when he looks up –and sees her.
Athena.
His world stops for just a moment.
She’s in uniform, commanding, focused, stunning as ever. Bobby feels the breath catch in his throat, but he manages to smile.
“...caller reported a stabbing, unknown assailant,” she’s saying, her tone clipped and precise. She hasn't seen the assailant yet.
“Actually, his name is Maurice,” Bobby says calmly, holding out the rooster now swaddled in a towel like a poorly-behaved infant. “Don’t worry, he’s been disarmed. Go easy on him, Sergeant –he’s had a rough day.”
Athena blinks, taken aback. She takes the rooster automatically, bewildered.
Bobby wants to kiss her.
But this Athena is still married. Married to Michael, who is still deep in the closet. She’s not his –not yet. And Bobby can’t change that.
Not now.
“Let’s go, Cap?” Jones calls, breathless from the chase.
Bobby nods, giving Athena one last glance. She’s still holding the rooster, shaking her head like she’s wondering what kind of circus she just walked into.
He walks away.
And doesn’t look back.
It’s too soon after Marcy.
He stares at the phone screen, her number already there, already memorized. Athena’s had the same one for decades, he doesn’t need to look it up. He just… can’t call. Not now. Not yet.
They can’t be anything while she’s still with Michael.
While he’s still –at least on paper– grieving his wife.
While she’s still mourning the version of her life that’s slipping away.
So he does the only thing he can.
He saves the number.
And doesn’t call.
“Buck went to his first confession today,” Brook announces happily during dinner a couple weeks later.
“Really?” Bobby asks, curiously. In the past, before Bobby died, Buck had never shown much interest in religion, but lately… well, things have been different. He’s been spending more and more time with the kids –taking them to school, and back home, showing up for volleyball games and ballet recitals, staying for dinner, spending whole weekends with them… and, of course, accompanying them to church.
“You didn’t have to, you know that, right?” Bobby says, gently.
“Yes, Pops, I know.” Buck smiles at him –grateful, soft, calm. “But Father Brian is fun,” he adds, almost like it surprises him. “He isn’t –hmm –he doesn’t judge.”
There’s a flush creeping up Buck’s neck, and Bobby feels a twinge in his chest. There was something Buck needed to get off his chest, something he’d chosen to tell a priest instead of Bobby. And Bobby knows that makes sense. Confession is private. Sacred. But it still makes him feel… left out. Maybe even a little sad.
He remembers the version of Buck from this time, the one he used to know, at least. The one with a different girl on his bed every day and night, drinking too much, throwing himself into noise and motion just to avoid the quiet. But now? Now Buck's mellow. He lingers after meals. He wears Bobby’s shirts to church. The old ladies at brunch give him extra cookies for being ‘such a nice boy’ . And maybe that change is because Bobby keeps pulling him in, keeps feeding him, keeps giving him a place to stay and someone to belong to.
Maybe he’s already changing Buck. And maybe Buck’s changing him, too.
“And did it help, kid?” Bobby asks.
Buck looks up from his salad, something vulnerable in his eyes. “It did,” he says after a pause, nodding. “I thought –I thought he’d ask me not to come back.”
“The church is open for everyone,” Robbie chimes in, matter-of-fact.
“Yes, Father Brian said that too.” Buck nods again, almost to himself.
There’s a beat of silence, warm and easy. Then–
“It’s not fair that I’m called Robbie,” Robbie blurts out.
Bobby raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You, Brook, and Buck are all Bs. I’m an R.”
Buck swallows a laugh. “Actually, You is a Y.”
Robbie scoffs. “ You is a idiot.”
Buck’s eyes twinkle. “ You are an idiot. Offend me all you want, sure –but don’t commit war crimes against grammar.”
“Language,” Bobby says, sharply, though there’s no real heat in it.
Brook tilts her head, totally unbothered. “...Technically, he was correcting language.”
“Brook,” Bobby warns.
She shrugs. “Just saying.”
“One more word,” Bobby says, pointing at each of them in turn, “and everyone’s doing dishes. For a week.”
“I don’t even live here,” Buck mutters under his breath.
“You eat here, don’t you?” Bobby counters without missing a beat.
Brook snorts and Robbie groans. Buck pretends to pout –but his smile’s already coming back.
And for a moment, Bobby lets himself just take it in.
His kids.
His not-quite-kid.
His family.