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The dirt in between his nails build up the longer he’s out here.
Buck had stepped out onto the back porch early in the day, barefoot in shorts and a black tee. He’d walked over to the faded green shed in the shade, the midday sun peaking over the structure. He let his eyes adjust before grabbing a 20 lb plastic bag of topsoil, lifting it over the side of his right shoulder, and got to work.
Gardening had become a peaceful pastime for him. A few years ago, Bobby had taught him how to build raised garden beds with scraps of wood, gave him a few tips on the best fruits and vegetables for the springtime, and things sort of bloomed from there. His makeshift garden was small, and only a few scraggly plants survived those first few months when summer turned to fall.
Gardening felt a lot like baking; getting your hands dirty, putting all of your focus and energy into one thing, and then watching with methodical fascination as more effort being put into it led to a better success rate.
Once Buck got into it, it was addicting. Tracking the number of leaves growing on each plant, watching the weather for times of rain or drought, and doing research on the best products for the best results—it felt like a game, one that required so much of his time, and he usually wasn’t much of a competitive guy, but this was a game he wanted to win.
So like many of his hobbies, Buck got really good at gardening. So much so, that over the years he’d replaced most of the old wooden raised beds with much bigger, newer ones, created a grid system full of his favorite fruits and veggies that he changed accordingly every season, and even started on a flower garden that was small but growing steadily around the edges of the backyard.
The flowers were Maddie’s idea. She thought it’d look nice, and it was another task, something new, that Buck could focus on. Now that he was nearing 40, he spent a lot of time searching for things that interest him. Things that can occupy his time, motivate him; things that can make life enjoyable.
He spends a lot of days at work, but the rest of the time needed to get filled up—by something, because Buck liked to keep busy. So he took on gardening like a second skin, scoured the internet for interesting recipe ideas, and made routine visits to his family, dropping off cucumbers and tomatoes and strawberries along with whatever leftovers he made that week.
He made an effort to visit everyone regularly; Bobby and Athena on Sundays—usually for dinner—, Hen and Karen anytime during the week when they were off, and Maddie and Chimney and the kids on the weekends—if Buck was feeling especially lonely, he had an open invitation to stay over any night, at all three houses, but Buck tried to keep that to a minimum.
He’d been good at that, not taking advantage of their hospitality, not overimposing on their happy lives—and every year has gotten better, lapsing less and less. But Buck can admit it gets worse when spring hits, when the flowers start blooming, and everything falls into a sort of dullness that he doesn’t recognize until he’s pulled out of it in July.
Buck is good about keeping in touch with everyone, and they are too. Ever since the 118 scattered into the wind just a few years ago, they’ve been holding onto each other especially hard.
Ever since—ever since that clear-skied day in May.
Buck should have slipped on his gardening gloves, but his mind had been foggy all day, and he was feeling a little sporadic, so he’s pouring topsoil into an empty plot, and then flattening it with his bare hands, sliding his fingers through the dirt, relishing in the grounding feeling it’s giving him.
He falls into a routine; pouring dirt out slowly, flattening it, raking his hands through it, breathing in the slight damp smell, and then doing it again in another area of the garden.
By the time he’s done, his hands feel a little raw and his back is killing him from leaning over for so long. He gets up from his knees, back cracking and legs sore, and makes his way back to the shed, to pick out the flower seeds he wants for this plot.
He rifles through the bucket sitting by the door full of seed packets, selecting poppies and lavender, having researched about the importance of ‘companion planting’ with different kinds of flowers the night before.
He pads back over to the soiled dirt he’d been working on, feeling the warmth of the sun along his back. He stops for a moment, breathes, and can almost imagine it; imagine him just a step behind Buck, body heat flush against him.
A bird call pulls Buck out of the moment; he blinks, and then he gets to work, kneeling again to make tiny holes in the dirt.
It’s early May, and the supposed cool weather that usually graces California around this time of the year is stifled by the sun, bright and hot and free of any clouds in the sky. Chris is meant to visit for a few days, since he’s planned a spring break trip with his friends at the end of the month—instead of coming back home like he usually does.
Adriana has got the short end of the stick at her job recently, so she’s been pulling night shifts and doing overtime back to back.
That’s another thing that changed just a few years ago: the addition of Adriana in their lives. It came sudden but not so unsurprising, considering everything happening at the time. One moment she wasn’t there, the next she was. One person swapped for another.
Not really—not in the way that Buck wanted, painfully so, but—kind of.
After Eddie… after Eddie passed, a whole number of things changed, like a domino effect.
Bobby retired, which had always been the plan, but it happened a lot sooner than it was supposed to. A month after—after Eddie—Bobby promptly put in for retirement at the department, but not before adding a photo onto the memorial wall in the firehouse; one of Eddie, smiling in his uniform, easy expression and sporting the same swooped haircut he’d had for years.
This was a good thing, Bobby had said it was good, but Buck, broken and in pain and cracking under the weight of the world one month after losing his best friend, took one look at it and burst into tears. He had been sent home that day, and he actively avoided that area of the firehouse for weeks afterward.
When Bobby left, Hen was promoted to Captain and things stayed like that, for a while. Buck and Chimney working under Hen, following orders, and teaming up together when needed. But then, Chimney got into an accident.
One day, on a fake call meant to test the crew and prep them for building fires, Chimney took the wrong step, hit the wrong wall, and the floor collapsed right under him. The structure was supposed to be stable and had been tested on time and time again, but these unfortunate things sometimes happen. It was an awful accident—and it left Chimney with a broken leg and a broken arm, which Hen and Buck joked about relentlessly while he did PT for a month.
But the jokes ended quickly when things didn’t start to get easier, and the pain persisted. One month turned into two, then three, then Chim was put on light duty for the time being, and it took three more months for Chimney to reconcile with himself until light shift became permanent.
Although Chim complained in the beginning, Buck silently watched as he became more involved in his kids' lives, finally having the time to be there for school events and holidays. Some things are meant to happen, Buck thought.
Then it was just Hen and Buck at the 118. Obviously he had other friends there, Ravi included, but things were never the same, not like they used to be. So, Buck decided to leave too.
He requested a firehouse change a year after Eddie’s death. No one understood why he did it—except for Bobby. Sometimes—most times—it feels like only Bobby ever understands him. He’s fought that same battle. He’s felt that same pain, back in Minnesota. A change in environment was what Buck needed. Some sort of separation from the trauma he went through.
Despite Hen and Chim’s desperate attempts to get Buck to listen, and Maddie’s pitiful frown haunting him through most days, Buck had really only cared about one person’s reaction.
He told Chris first, before anyone else. Chris, who was freshly done with his first year at college, and had done so well in the face of grief and loss and heartache. He had sat on the couch in the living room, observed Buck’s unshaven face and glassy eyes, and calmly asked— “What do you think Dad would say?”
Buck had to bite his cheek and breathe for three seconds before he could answer. He said he wasn’t sure, and Chris looked at Buck like he could see right through him.
Eddie would want him to move on, Chris said. It was okay to move on.
Chris smiled, and he looked so much like Eddie that it was overwhelming, too much, and the tears poured out of Buck before he could get himself to stop. Chris held him, and he thanked God, for this quiet mercy.
And that was that. Buck joined a new firehouse, and finally felt like he could breathe again at work.
Buck’s hands are half in a mound of dirt and wood chips when he hears the doorbell ring. He’s sweaty and has dirt all over himself, on his knees and along his arms, up to his elbows. He didn’t realize how long he had been out here working—the sun is creeping steadily towards the treeline.
He shuffles inside, shaking out his legs as he goes. The rhythmic beat of crutches thumps the wood floor, and Buck is hit with a sense of nostalgia so strong that he has to stop and hold onto the kitchen wall for a second, before he can step into the living room.
“Hey, Buck!” Chris calls out, throwing his backpack down before approaching the tall man.
Buck greets him back, crushing Chris in a strong hug, forgetting all about his disheveled appearance.
Chris, smushed against Buck’s shoulder and already starting to pull away, mumbles, “Love you too, but you’re covered in dirt, and I showered this morning.”
Buck laughs, head back, grateful for this kid. His kid.
He slides his arm around Chris’s shoulders and drags him into the kitchen.
“You’re just in time for dinner, how was the drive?” Buck asks, heading to the kitchen sink and sudsing up his forearms and hands.
Chris sets his crutches against the wall and settles into a chair at the table.
“It was fine. I listened to a podcast the whole way—” Chris stops, head tilted at the way Buck is furiously scrubbing his hands under the sink.
“Seriously, do you actually spend time gardening or do you just roll around in the dirt out there?” He questions, which Buck answers by rolling his eyes and flicking water at him.
They chat for a bit, Buck asking Chris about the semester, and they fall into a comfortable flow between the two of them.
Most times Buck and Chris are together, they choose to do the mundane things. Cook meals together, and go on walks around the neighborhood, and catch a movie when one piques their interest. The safe things—grocery shopping, getting lunch downtown, and sitting at home reading, separate but together in their shared space. It’s nice, to enjoy the simple moments. To appreciate the uncomplicated moments.
Because for a time—right after Eddie passed—life was really, really difficult. After the initial shock, after the disbelief and the confusion finally dissipated, everything that Buck felt was broken, and everything that Chris felt was anger.
Chris recoiled into himself, spent months having nightmares, and desperately pled in the darkness for his father back. Chris argued about every little thing, and was set off by the littlest of inconveniences, and in his heated anger, all he could do was hurt, hurt, hurt.
Buck deflected and stood his ground for as long as he could, but things weren’t getting better. He didn’t think he could do it, handle a kid on his own along with the grief that was eating him whole, and he almost gave up on it all.
But Bobby swooped in, like he could sense the impending doom, and he made himself available after every fight, every difficult talk, and was there for advice if Buck asked for it.
And—it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t the person that Buck truly wanted in that moment, but—it worked.
Slowly, every bad day turned into most bad days, which turned into only some bad days, and then just a few, scattered here and there. Chris’s rage deflated as time went on, and the angry scab over his wound turned into sadness; bleak and fragile but ebbing in and out, like waves crashing against the shoreline, letting the sand just enough time to see the sun before being engulfed again. Buck and Chris started to handle bad days on their own.
Then Adriana showed up, one stormy night, tears in her eyes. Before Buck could say a word to her, she was rambling on about how shitty her parents were, how hard it had been growing up in a hollow family, but Eddie was different. Eddie was different, because Chris changed him, for the better. And even though she comes from that same shitty family, she wants to be different, she wants to know Christopher, if Buck would let her.
Buck didn’t know what to say, at first. It had been hard, too hard, these months without Eddie. It had felt—too much, and like nothing at all at the same time. It was like he was a ghost, walking through life, stomach empty and rotting, his body drained and gutted, to be used by no one. To not have a single thought except for the drowning feeling of defeat. To yearn for something, for someone, who was too far to reach.
The front door had creaked where Buck held it open. Adriana was wearing a brown Texas state sweatshirt, rain dripping from the ends of her hair. She was breathing heavily, puffs of hot breath coming out of her fast, and was shivering like she’d been standing out on the porch for a while. Buck was… unsure. He hesitated.
But then he caught her eyes and saw Eddie there, standing in front of him, deep browns looking earnest and pleading. He saw Adriana’s frown, how it pulled on her face and puffed out her cheeks, and saw Chris in a tight black suit at the funeral. He took one look at Adriana, and couldn’t say no.
So, they worked together and became—something of a family. A kid grieving his father, who he looked up to more than anything, an aunt haunted by her past hoping to find connection in quiet moments with her nephew, and a broken man trying to live for a kid who should never have had gone through what he went through.
It was hard, and it was painful, and most times, Buck felt so raw; cut in half, hands pressed to his chest in a silent ache as he laid in Eddie’s bedroom. Most days, he felt like screaming: at God, at the world, at Eddie; wanting to ask questions that couldn’t be answered, desperately hoping that there must be more, something else after this, after everything that’s happened.
But every time he gave in, every time he let himself get so mad he shook with anger and resentment and hate, guilt washed over him like a tsunami. Guilt washed everything out; every emotion, every small feeling, until all Buck felt was numb. He couldn’t change anything. He couldn’t stay angry. Because he had a kid, who relied on him now, who needed Buck to be a parent and have some sort of control in life.
Buck hummed to himself as he wiped his hands clean. He had the stuff in the fridge for lasagna, so he went about gathering the ingredients while Chris sat at the kitchen table, recounting what he’d been up to at school. The classes he liked and the ones he didn’t, the new friends he made, his plans for spring break—and Buck absorbed every minute of it.
This was their favorite part of being together: the easy monotonous aspect of life spilling around them, making dinner, joking around together, talking and smiling and loving each other—feeling safe and at home, feeling Eddie with them, breathing, alive, in every moment.
They talked about Eddie a lot; memories of him, what he’d think of things—like the new recipes Buck’s been adding to his skill set, or the books Chris has to read for class.
Both Buck and Chris needed that—needed to remind themselves of this person that was, at one point, so permanently entwined in their own lives; to remember this man that they loved so deeply, so powerfully, that nothing could ever change the love they had for him. It was still there, beating like a vessel around their home, still present even though Eddie was gone.
Buck slides the lasagna in the oven, sets the timer, then motions Chris to follow him out back, to catch the sunset.
They do that a lot too—or well, Buck does it a lot—and whoever’s usually with him, be it Bobby or Hen, Adriana or Maddie, joins him.
But it’s just Buck and Chris today.
They settle onto the back porch, chairs scraping the wood. Buck turns west, and smiles. The sun is just beginning to set over the horizon, a pale pink sky melting into a deep and bright orange. Buck shoots a look over at Chris, and watches as the younger boy takes a deep breath, a content smile on his face.
It’s times like these that Buck hopes somewhere, out there, Eddie is watching. Somewhere, in the dirt, or in the trees, or in the pink, pink clouds, Eddie is catching glimpses of his family; cataloging each moment and letting it run like a memory in his head, somewhere in the vast, enormousness of the in between. Somewhere, on the other side. Somewhere, wherever he is.
They sit side by side until the automatic lights turn on in the garden. The sun is about to dip behind the trees when the moon appears, a half-crescent, small and transparent. Small animals rustle in the bushes; mosquitoes buzz around their heads.
The ‘Riiiiinnggg’ of the oven alarm is faint, but both Buck and Chris hear it in the silence. They make their way inside.
After checking the lasagna and deliberating over letting it cook for a few more minutes, they head into the living room. Chris mentions something about a book, grabbing it from his backpack, and passing it to Buck. It’s one of those dystopian sci-fi novels that Buck loves to read at work when he’s got downtime.
Chris starts walking past the living room when he stops in front of the mantle. Sat there, free of dust, are picture frames of their family from over the years. Group photos and individual ones: Chris at his high school graduation, hair slicked back a little too much, because Buck had no idea how to fix up his hair and just wanted to get one thing right.
There is a picture of Chris, Buck, and Adriana posing in front of a firetruck, all wearing sunglasses and throwing up peace signs. A Christmas photo of the Buckley-Hans, Maddie and Chim on the ends and their kids in the middle, all wearing Santa hats and bright red sweaters.
And Buck’s favorite: a photo slotted right in the center. It was taken on Eddie’s 36th birthday, a group photo out on Bobby's back patio. His whole family was there—Hen and Karen standing on the left, leaning into each other with Mara smiling brightly in front of them. Chim holding the baby and Maddie and Jee making silly faces. Bobby and Athena on the right, hands clasped, standing behind Chris and Denny, who were sitting on the chairs and grinning wildly.
Eddie was at the head of the table, in the middle, with a bright red firetruck cake in front of him with blue lettering that read: It’s A '36 Year Old' Boy!
Eddie was smiling so bright, and Buck was standing behind him, arms around his shoulders, wrapped over his chest. Buck’s chin sat at the top of Eddie's head, cheeks pulled into a wide grin. Later that night, Eddie told Buck he had felt weightless all day.
Most nights, Buck dreams of that day. Dreams of living in that moment, over and over and over. Every time he wakes up is a struggle, and he hopes and prays that one day he might be able to relive it one more time, for real. He hopes that if there is a heaven, and if there is a merciful God, that he gets to choose to relive that day, for as long as he lets him.
Chris’s voice brings him out of his thoughts.
“You know, he would’ve hated how many pictures you have of him up around the house.”
Buck half laughs. “Trust me, I know. He hated when I tried to take pictures of him. Didn’t think it mattered, he just wanted pictures of you up everywhere.”
Chris hums. “I don’t think I ever thanked you, for keeping the house. You could’ve sold it, years ago. Moved out somewhere for yourself.”
Buck swallows. “As much as that probably would’ve been good for me, I couldn’t do that. This house… it’s just got too many good memories I want to keep,” Buck huffs, “I’m selfish like that, I guess.”
Chris turns to him and gives him a funny look.
“You’re not selfish, Buck. You… you’re selfless. You did so much for me.”
Buck blinks back the heat of tears behind his eyes. “Bud. You did a lot for me too. You still do.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Chris mumbles, which makes Buck laugh.
“It’s okay. It’s—you know how it is. This whole month is hard.”
“Yeah. I do.” Chris sighs and takes a seat on the couch. Sniffles a little. “Sorry I’m not going to be here, for… you know. I didn’t want to go that week, but—my friends were already planning and, I didn’t tell them until… then it was too late. And then—”
Buck interrupts him. “Chris. It’s fine. You should go enjoy yourself. We’re going to celebrate now, right? No big deal.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“I do.”
Chris nods. His lips twitch, and Buck feels another question forming.
“Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you… are you going to stay at Maddie’s, then?”
Buck frowns, not expecting that.
“Uh, yeah. I will. I thought I already told you?”
“Oh. Must’ve forgotten.”
Buck smiles. “That’s alright. Well, how about we go check on that lasagna? Don’t want it to burn the house down, right? Your dad would be so mad.” Buck says, trying to clear some of the tension.
Chris laughs, then nods as he gets up, following Buck.
They sit at the kitchen table and eat there, instead of in the dining room. For about ten minutes it's quiet, just the sound of forks scraping plates and chewing and the occasional sip of water from a glass. Then Buck looks over at Chris, and he looks back, and they giggle as they each get a second helping.
The lasagna is good—and not burnt at all—and Chris tells Buck he’s got to make one for him to bring back to school because he’s tired of cooking himself dinner every night. Especially when his roommates eat all of his leftovers. They joke about Chris’s cooking skills, because while they’ve gotten better over the years as Buck’s sous-chef, he’s still Eddie’s kid. And Eddie was a terrible cook.
Buck is just about to clear the table when Chris stops him.
“Um, I had a question,” Chris mumbles, staring at his empty plate.
“Thirds?” Buck asks, exhaling slightly.
Chris smiles at him. “No, but. Maybe later.”
Buck sits back in his seat, looking at the boy in front of him. The young man—Buck rephrases—whose grown so much these last few years. Chris’s hair is longer than he usually has it, curling over his ears and dangling in front of his forehead, touching the top of his glasses.
He’s broader, too, filling out his skinny frame more every year. He looks so much like Eddie sometimes, it takes Buck a second to register what he’s saying.
“I was just wondering, and it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. But. Are you—will you ever move on? From dad?”
Buck blinks.
“Move on?”
“Yeah, like. Are you ever going to try to find someone else?”
Buck can’t help but frown. “Why would I find someone else?”
Chris shrugs, like he doesn’t know what to say.
“Well, can I tell you something Chris? I promise I’ll try not to cry.” He says, a laugh puffing out of him. Chris shifts his gaze to Buck and nods.
Buck takes a deep breath. “Your dad… he was something special. I’ve never met anyone like him. And he was—he’s got this special place in my heart, that I don’t think anyone else could replace. I don’t think anyone—no matter how hard they tried—could fit the way he did in our family.”
Chris nods, swallowing wetly, eyes shiny. “I know. I just—I want you to be happy. And you deserve love too, Buck. After everything.”
“Chris, I may not seem like it all the time, but I am happy. I already have the love I need. I have you, and Adriana, and Maddie and Bobby. And everyone else, right? But I also have Eddie’s love, too. I feel it. I still feel it, every day. It hasn’t disappeared. And nothing’s going to change that. Time won’t ever change that.” Chris sniffles, and runs a hand over his eyes.
Buck realizes he’s crying too, so he gets up to grab tissues, then thinks better of it and grabs Chris into a crushing hug instead.
“He still loves you too, Chris. His love is—is here, with us. It never left.”
Chris shakes a little. “I know, I know, Buck. But still,” He pulls away a little, to get a better look at Buck’s face.
“Hey. I don’t want you worrying about me, okay? Because—” Buck stops, takes a breath and blinks harshly to stop his tears. “Because I’m fine, okay? I don’t—I don’t think having another person in my life would help, Chris. Not when I’m still not over your dad. And I don’t think I’ll ever be over him. I’m always going to love him.”
“But—But…”
Buck smooths his hands over Chris’s back, soothing him.
“Bud, It’s okay. I had the big, once-in-a-lifetime, life-changing love. I had it. And I wouldn’t change a single thing that happened. Because it gave me him, and you. And I can’t ask for anything better than that. There isn’t anything better than that. Eddie—Eddie was it for me. He still is,” Buck shrugs simply, despite the situation. “I don’t want anything else. I just want you to be happy.” I just want him, Buck thinks.
Chris breathes shakily. Buck pulls him back into a hug, knocking their heads together, trying to telepathically push every happy memory of the three of them into Christopher’s mind.
Chris admitted once how many memories he’s forgotten of Eddie; a lot of his earliest one’s, in El Paso, but also some in LA, at the zoo or visiting the firehouse. Buck promised him he’d remember for the both of them, and has dutifully maintained that promise every time Chris calls, either from the desk in his dorm room or through the crackle of his car on the way to class.
“You and me? We’re going to be just fine. Okay?” Buck says, pressing a kiss to the top of Chris’s head.
He feels Chris nod against him, and after another moment, he starts to pull away. They break apart much like they fell together; in tandem, supportive, and grateful. The pain is still there—it won’t ever go away. But at least they have each other.
Chris hiccups. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure.”
“I get it. Thanks, kid. You’re something special.”
Buck expects a quip, a remark against that. A joke, or something funny. But Chris just smiles at him, wide and toothy. His glasses are smudged from tears and there’s a little snot on his upper lip. Buck guesses he looks much the same.
They end their night on the couch, a crappy reality show playing on low while they talk through the plan for tomorrow, to visit the cemetery. Eddie first, then Shannon. Then to Abuela’s, for the rest of the day.
Chris, who stayed up late finishing a handful of midterm assignments the night before, falls asleep on the couch rather quickly.
Buck likes to think it’s due to the atmosphere; of being home after two months at school, being back in a comforting place—being back beside Buck. Being just a little bit closer to Eddie.
Buck slips into sleep, too.
And dreams his favorite dream.