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“That one is definitely the dad.”
Quinn hums, dipping the mint chocolate chip-coated scoop in the sanitizer bin. “You said that about Cow Eyes last week.”
“And I thought I was right about that last week,” Chelsea grumbles. “You can’t blame me for thinking that. The kids look at Birthmark like he hung the moon. They look at Cow Eyes like he’s standing in front of said moon and telling them to do their homework before they can play with it.”
“And the week before that—”
Chelsea groans, fixing a smile towards the customer at the window and passing off their cone. “The week before that I said Forehead Scar was the dad, I know. I didn’t realize how complicated this all is.”
“We told you,” Quinn sings. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it? They’re all nice and they tip well. That’s all we can really ask for.”
They look out the window, helpless against the sigh that sneaks from their lips at the picnic table dead ahead: two men—Cow Eyes and Birthmark—somehow manage to be both mindful of the children playing around them while also maintaining an air of calm in the chaos. The youngest kid, a toddler, sits on Birthmark’s lap and paints sticky handprints on his cheeks.
“They’re sweet,” Quinn murmurs. “They look happy.”
“I’m gonna ask their names,” Chelsea declares, and she’s out of the shack before Quinn can tell her to leave well enough alone.
Chelsea’s a bit hamfisted but she’s not wrong; this nebulous web of connections surrounding the group of kids that come here once a week is…confusing, at best. Quinn is pretty sure that the boy on crutches belongs to Birthmark, but other than that they couldn’t hazard a guess. Adoption is a thing—a thing that Quinn is intimately familiar with as they were adopted themself—and they’re happy enough to accept that as an explanation. In the end, the real problem is the adults.
Mike’s Ice Cream and Soda hosts a revolving door of caretakers surrounding these kids. Benny claims that he’s positive that Forehead Scar and Birthmark are an item, and the evidence he touts is that they bicker and hug with an air of storied familiarity. Quinn can’t quite see it, and they’re reasonably sure they’ve seen Forehead Scar kissing a brunette with irises that match Cow Eyes’—which could mean nothing, but it did give them the opportunity to dub the newcomer ‘Doe Eyes’ and tack her up on the shops conspiracy board as Cow Eyes’ sister. They’re fairly confident about that one.
The boy with the curls—Curly, for obvious reasons—seems to gravitate the most to a woman that shows up infrequently but makes an impression when she does; Quinn has never built up the nerve to ask where she gets her glasses and they probably never will. Glasses, also known as Tracksuit, also bickers with and hugs both Forehead Scar and Birthmark. Cow Eyes mostly hangs back, either brooding or laughing depending on the day.
“Buck and Eddie,” Chelsea crows as she batters back inside.
“Come again?”
“Buck is Birthmark and Eddie is Cow Eyes.”
Quinn nods. “Add it to the board.”
The board hangs precariously off the shop wall, weighed down and warped by all of their compiled information. A slightly loose thread waves in the currents of the rusty fans, distantly connecting Birthmark—Buck—to Silver Fox. The man showed up one day, soft-spoken and gentle as he ordered the the kids’ usual cones without having to check in with their choices first; he wrapped his arm around Birthmark’s—Buck’s—shoulders as they watched the kids play, a matching, tiredly fond look writ on both of their cheeks.
“That’s his dad,” said every employee on shift, and so he joined the lore.
“Did you ask Buck and Eddie if they’re together?” Quinn asks, intentionally light. They have a not insignificant amount of pride at risk if they’re wrong about those two.
Chelsea scoffs, grabbing a new tub of vanilla from the freezer. “No. I didn’t want to scare them away. At this point, that…family, or whatever, is paying for my trip to Miami.”
“We have beaches and booze here. I still don’t understand why you’re going to Florida for that.”
“And you never will,” Chelsea breathes. “I did ask about Forehead Scar, though.”
“Please tell me you didn’t call him that to their faces.”
“No,” she snaps. “They said his name’s Chimney and that he’s on ice cream duty next week.”
Quinn hums, idly pinching a cleaning rag between their fingers. “What kind of a name is Chimney?”
“They said it’s better if I don’t ask.” Glaring, Chelsea hip checks them out of the way. “Can you start cycling out the empties? I wanna get out of here before midnight tonight.”
Quinn complies with a final, wistful glance at the table. They hope to get to the bottom of the circle of connections at some point, but more than anything, they hope that everyone involved is happy.
“Are they fighting?”
“I can’t really tell, but…I think so?” Quinn keeps their eyes on the table, less of their attention than their current customer would probably like on the sundae they’re preparing. “Have you ever seen those two here at the same time?”
Doe Eyes has Buck by the bicep, trails of fire licking from her tongue as she clearly and publicly dresses him down. Blanket—the girl who’s always wrapped in a blanket, oddly enough—looks on in unrestrained glee.
“I haven’t,” Chelsea says. “Should I… Should I get closer? See what’s up?”
“Absolutely not,” Quinn says, begging her to go anyway with their eyes. They frown down at the sundae when Chelsea leaves, wondering what to do about the mountain of whipped cream they accidentally smothered it with.
“That’s fine,” the customer bites out. “For the love of God, I just want to eat it before it melts.”
Quinn slides it over the counter, relieved for the break to commit themself to the argument outside. They’re able to catch snippets of it, namely: Don’t you remember what happened the last time you let her have chocolate? and You’re not the one who’s going to have to put her down for a nap in an hour, and I don’t know why you thought I wouldn’t notice, but I’m revoking your visitation for a week. They amble over to the board, an ear on the character assassination, and write exes??? on a sticky note, circling it three times, adhering the pink paper between Buck and Doe Eyes’ names.
“I got nothing,” Chelsea says sadly as she takes her spot behind the register. “Smiles says hi, though. He wants to know why you’re staring at his Buck.”
Smiles frowns more often these days, but he never fails to bring a laugh to everyone around him. Quinn even saw Forehead Scar slap a smiley face sticker on the back of one of his crutches a few months back and it’s still there, so they stand by the moniker.
“I think I cracked the case,” they say as they wipe down the counter, musing patterns in streaks of melted ice cream and chocolate. “Buck and Doe Eyes might be divorced.”
“I don’t know,” Chelsea says thoughtfully. “Her name is Maddie, by the way. Buck kept whining it. I think she destroyed his ego.”
“Probably. This is what, minute nine? It’s getting hard to watch.”
But the clouds clear like they always do; Maddie and Buck take their seats, the children simply pleased the band is back together.
“I’m not sure we’re ever gonna make sense of this,” Quinn whispers. Going by Chelsea’s dejected nod, she agrees.
“New development,” says Sheila, brought to the beachfront location to cover for Chelsea’s vacation. “I saw Forehead Scar in Glasses’ lap.”
“His name is Chimney,” Quinn corrects off-handedly, before—“You saw what?”
“In her lap, passed out like a baby, arms around her neck. Her hand was on his thigh.”
And it’s strange, maybe, but Quinn supposes they’re all sorts of strange. “Did any of the kids react?”
“Kind of? They mostly just dog-piled on top of both of them. Also, Silver Fox was there—he took a bunch of pictures and Glasses kept begging him not to send them to someone named Athena.”
“Like the goddess?”
Sheila hums.
“So…Chimney and Buck probably aren’t together then, right?” Quinn props their elbows on the tacky counter, peering over their shoulder at The Board. (It received a software update after Glasses and Cow Eyes put on a karaoke performance to humiliate the kids; now, instead of sticky notes, they’ve begun tacking up polaroids as proof. The Board is much more useful than the board, and Mike has even begun taking an interest now that he can’t deny what’s going on underneath their noses.)
“Why do you say that?”
Quinn sighs, brushing a handful of toffee crumbles onto the floor. “Silver Fox is Buck’s dad—”
“Obviously.”
“—and if Buck was with Chimney then I don’t think he’d be happy seeing his son’s partner on someone else’s lap.”
“They’re probably just all friends, you know,” Sheila says after a moment, kind, but so, so very wrong. It’s her constant argument, that they’re all nothing more than friends. Quinn envies her naivete.
“You haven’t been here that long. Give it a few weeks and then you’ll see—they can’t hide it forever.”
Quinn comes to regret that remark.
“Turn on the news.”
They look up sharply, heart sluggish at Sheila’s tone, the frantic tap of her thumbs on her phone.
“What? Why?”
“Just—do it, okay? Channel Eight, look for Taylor Kelly’s face.”
Quinn, utterly lost, does as they’re told. Flipping through the channels, they skirt past the broadcast, backtracking just enough to blink at the mess on the screen. Taylor stands in front of a fallen warehouse, dust still clouding the air. They ratchet up the volume until her voice cuts through the drone of the fan, the bustle of the beach:
—we’ve been told that the 118 was still inside the building when the roof supports collapsed, burying them inside. Hour nine of rescue operations have, as of yet, yielded no signs of life. Search and rescue dogs are being deployed behind me but spirits are frail as we await any updates.
“Is she crying?” Quinn asks, stepping closer to the TV.
“I think… I think she is.”
Pictures flood the screen, dated as far back as 2018; it’s the duty roster of the 118 in their greatest moments in service to the city of Los Angeles. Quinn gasps as Silver Fox’s face—identified as Captain Nash—fits into frame, then Glasses—Paramedic Wilson, then Chimney—whose name appears to be Paramedic Han—then Eddie Diaz, and lastly, Evan “Buck” Buckley. More firefighters are identified, their photos streaming across a backdrop of red and blue, but Quinn only has eyes for the first four; their knees shake, threatening to bring them down.
“Oh, my God,” Quinn gasps.
“Do you think they’re alright?”
“I don’t...” They take Sheila’s hand, blushing as she slots her fingers through theirs. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
“They’re not a family after all,” Sheila murmurs. “They’re a team.”
Catching her eye, putting on their best reassurance, Quinn squeezes her hand. “I’m starting to wonder if that’s the same thing.”
It's nearly a month before any of them show their faces again. Quinn scrubbed the news every day praying they wouldn’t find an obituary, but the whole thing has been bizarrely covered up. They nearly burst into tears when Buck walks up to the counter on an otherwise innocuous evening—a Tuesday, a departure from the group’s usual routine—limping slightly.
“Are you okay?” they spit out in a breath, not minding his blank stare. “We saw you on the news, we didn’t…”
He smiles, kind of, more of a grimace than anything, his fingers scratching through the hair at the base of his neck. “Oh, um, I-I’m—we’re all fine. Happy to get out of the house for once.”
They get started on the order immediately, long past needing a refresher. “The kids must’ve been scared. Honestly, you must’ve been scared. That warehouse…it looked like a tomb.”
“It was touch and go for a minute,” Buck admits, resting his arm on the counter. “Bobby—that’s my captain—said he’d get us out of there. He doesn’t break his promises.”
“And he’s alright?”
Buck hums but it’s small, pained. “He almost broke his back, again, to do it. He’ll be fine, though. Old man’s tougher than me.”
“It seems so silly now,” Quinn says, doling out cotton candy scoops into two cups—one for Blanket and one for the toddler, who picked up the nickname Baby-G at one point after Benny overheard Chimney call her that. “I was so sure he was your dad.”
Choking, not enough to need the heimlich maneuver but enough that Quinn pauses to check, Buck shakes his head. “No,” he rasps after a moment. “I mean, yes, but also no, but also… Hey, is that my name?”
“Hm?”
Buck points, and Quinn dreads to follow his finger because god fucking damnit they forgot Mike moved The Board into full view of the serving window.
They put on their best customer service smile, trying: “If I said no and didn’t make you pay for this, would you pretend you never saw that?”
“No, and I’d still pay for it anyway.”
With a sigh, Quinn grabs a sugar cone so roughly that it explodes in their hand. “I feel like you’re gonna hate us. It’s—it probably crosses one, or perhaps fifteen lines but you cannot understand how boring it is when you guys aren’t here.”
“Can I take a look at it?” Buck asks, edging towards the employee entrance. He steps inside without waiting for an answer; he’s much taller than he seems when he’s on the ground and Quinn is standing on a stool. They don’t put up a fight.
“Go ahead,” they intone, watching him curiously.
“Okay, so, first of all, that is my sister.” He takes a pen from a cup on the counter and scores a large ‘X’ through exes??? “I don’t want to know how you came to that conclusion but I hate that for you. And me. And her, and her very loving husband who is not dating Hen in the slightest.”
Quinn shifts awkwardly, drawn towards him even through their mortification. “He was in her lap. What conclusion were we supposed to come to?”
“They’re—they’re partners, yeah? Paramedic partners. They’ve probably spent more time together in the back of the ambulance than anyone would like. You get…close.”
“How close?”
Buck snorts. “I think we’ve gone over why I’m not dating Chimney, but I’m gonna cross that out just in case.”
“So…he’s your brother in law?”
“Yes. He gave me two of my favorite people on the planet: his daughter over there,”—he points at Baby-G, and Quinn expects a heartwarming story next about how Chimney introduced him to his own partner (they’re hoping, fingers crossed, that they get one thing right with their Hail Mary guess of Eddie),—“and my step brother in law. Coolest dude you’ll ever meet.”
Quinn blinks. “Has he ever been here?”
“Nah, he’s in Korea with their shitty dad.”
Nodding along, Quinn tries to think of a way to subtly dip into Buck’s business. “Is there another parent in the picture?”
“What, like, does Chim and Albert’s dad have a partner?” Buck frowns, scratching his jaw. “I mean, he has a wife, but I don’t see what—”
“No, I meant your kid. Is there another parent around?”
And Buck? He freezes faster than the old A/C out back that Mike insists works, only for the whole thing to clog up with ice the second anyone even looks at it. “I don’t… What makes you say I have a kid?”
“Smiles, the one who always gets peanut butter crunch. Isn’t he your kid?” Quinn really, really doesn’t understand why he looks seconds away from blubbering on the floor.
“Chris isn’t… Chris is Eddie's son. He's my best friend.”
“Eddie is your best friend?
“No—yes.” Buck fidgets, cheeks flushing. He’s like an open nerve and Quinn almost feels bad for the interrogation. “Something like that. But Chris is my best friend in the whole world. I love that kid more than anything.”
Feeling at least partially right, Quinn lets it slide. “Then, Silver Fox isn’t Chris’ grandfather?”
It’s a calculated strike to use the name, aimed right for Buck’s tolerance. Quinn doesn’t have much dignity left and the way he fumbles as though struck makes up for some of the humiliation they’ve sustained while piecing this all together.
“Silver Fox?” Buck wheezes, slowly, like it pains him. “Please don’t tell me you’re talking about…”
“Your captain,” Quinn beams.
Buck retches, drawing the attention of—
Quinn wobbles on the stool, staring down their end. The entire group is at Mike’s Ice Cream and Soda for the first time in history, and they seem like they want to get to the bottom of whatever is taking so long.
“I hate today,” Quinn mutters.
Buck must have recovered, because he spares them a grin before calling out, “Hey, Bobby? Quinn, here, has a question for you.” He waves off their rapidly blinking eyes, whispering, “Ask him what you just asked me. Although, do everyone a favor and don’t call him…that.”
Quinn steels themself, figuring in for a penny. They’ll be getting a lot of pennies by the end of their shift; they did, in fact, solve the mystery. They will be compensated for their time.
It takes Bobby longer to reach the counter than usual, his steps intentional, his face pinched and drawn. Baby-G is plastered to his side, pulling at the neck of his polo. As much discomfort as he seems to be in, he looks at peace.
“Everything okay, kid?” he asks Buck, flashing Quinn a small, slightly suspicious smile.
It’s sweet, the way Buck settles the baby more comfortably, clearly concerned that Bobby is holding up too much weight. It’s also not the point.
“I was just having the most interesting conversation with Quinn,” Buck says. “I thought you might like to hear it.”
“Hey, how do you even know my name?” asks Quinn, suddenly off-center.
Buck huffs. “You’re wearing a nametag. I’m more interested in how you knew most of ours but we can talk about that later.” He rolls his hands out with a flourish, as if saying, go on.
Turning to the captain of the 118, once thought to be forever lost to rubble, and in a voice like water on a reedy shore, Quinn says, “Is Chris your grandson?”
Bobby looks at them, looks at Buck, looks at the ground, looks at the child in his arms. And then he melts.
“All of these kids,” he says slowly, warm, utterly kind, “are the children of my family. If that makes me their grandfather then I’ll take it.”
He snags the ice creams off the counter, smiling at Quinn's shock.
“Just…do me a favor,” he says before he walks away. “Don’t tell my wife that. She’d kill me for even implying that she’s old enough to have grandkids.”
Quinn watches his retreating back for a moment, gathering themself. “Which one is his wife?”
“The one with the gun,” Buck says, laughing at their caught-out flinch. “She’s harmless. Mostly.”
“You guys have it all figured out,” Quinn says quietly. “We get a few regulars, but half the time… So many people seem to just fly through here, or they use the ice cream to pave over their personal issues during custody swaps. We really do like you, you know.”
“Maybe too much.”
“It’s very possible.”
Eddie makes his way over, leaning his brow against Buck’s shoulder. The move looks unconscious, hardly even recognized by either; even when they both wince at the jostling, there’s no discussion of shifting apart.
“Why’s Cap crying?” Eddie asks Buck’s shirt.
Buck smiles, tips his head back in a quiet laugh. “I think he just got his shit rocked by reality. Remember that time Chris called him ‘Pops’?”
“I should’ve recognized those tears. He’s never gotten over that.”
Wrapping his arm around Eddie, Buck sends a wink back towards the ice cream shack and helps him back to the table. Quinn watches them go, more calm than they’ve been in…ever.
“What’d I miss?” Sheila pants, several gallons of chocolate fudge stacked on her head, hauled up from the basement freezer.
“Everything. And nothing.”
The grown-ups crowd around the kids, exhaustion flagging their movements, bandages peeking out of hems and sleeves but they’re alive, happy and healthy enough to have this moment. Quinn decides that pennies aren’t worth ruining this for anyone, that the game they play is as simple as it is complex; they’re a team, a family, dating and not, parenting all as an extended unit.
The Board won’t make it to retirement quite so soon.