Archive of Our Own

The door clicks shut behind Buck like the last note of a dirge–  a final, cruel punctuation to a night that shattered the center of his universe.

The keys slip from his fingers and clatter onto the kitchen counter, but he doesn’t flinch. His phone slides from his grasp a second later, hitting the floor with a soft thud. He doesn’t notice.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

And too clean.

Like no one ever lived here. Like nothing has ever happened inside these walls. Like Bobby never existed.

Buck stands motionless in the middle of the living room– this borrowed house, Eddie’s house, the one he’s never truly made his own–  and stares at the wall ahead. Just a blank, off-white wall. Empty. Cold. Silent.

For one brief, desperate second, he almost sees Bobby there– leaning against the wall like he used to lean against the fire truck, arms crossed, a soft half-smile on his face that said I see you. I know who you are. And I still believe in you.

But it’s not Bobby.

It’s just a wall.

And Bobby is gone.

Gone.

The word slams into Buck’s chest like a fist.

He stumbles forward a step, then drops. His knees crack against the hardwood, but the pain doesn’t register. He doesn’t care. What’s a little pain compared to this?

He folds in on himself, as if he can somehow protect what’s left – what little scraps of love and safety and family are still clinging to the inside of his ribs.

His breath hitches.

Then it falters.

Then it breaks entirely.

A sob bursts out of him– raw and broken and so loud it bounces off the walls. He clamps a hand over his mouth like he’s ashamed of the sound, but it’s too late. The dam is broken.

“No, no, no, no,” he gasps. “No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave me. Not you.”

He curls tighter, pressing his forehead to the floor. It’s cool against his burning skin.

“You promised,” he whispers, voice thick and shaking. “You promised you wouldn’t leave. You were supposed to be the one who stayed. ”

The tears fall fast, hot and relentless, carving tracks down his cheeks like rivers through rock.

He can’t stop them.
He doesn’t want to.

He cries like a child. Like a boy who’s just lost his dad. Because that’s what this is. That’s what Bobby was.

His captain.
His family.
His father in every way that mattered.

And now he’s gone.

“I’ll do anything,” Buck pleads into the stillness. “Please. Please . God, if you’re out there–  if you ever gave a damn… take me instead. Bring him back. He didn’t deserve this.”

His voice cracks, then shatters completely.

“Take me. I’m the screw-up. I’m the one who always messes everything up. Not him. He was good. He was everything. ”

But the silence stretches on, cruel and unchanging.

There’s no divine intervention. No thunderbolt. No voice from the sky.

Just quiet.
Just the hum of the fridge.
Just the distant echo of sirens far away– sirens that won’t ever call Bobby to action again.

He screams.

Not words. Just sound. Pure, agonized, animalistic pain. A scream that doesn’t end so much as it bleeds out of him until there’s nothing left but ragged breathing and the taste of blood where he bit his lip.

And still–  no one knocks.

No one comes.

They all know.

Everyone knows what happened.And no one knows how to fix it.

He curls up on the floor, hands clutching his shirt so tightly it tears at the seams. His body trembles. His heart pounds.

“Please come back,” he whispers to no one. “Please, Bobby, I can’t do this without you. I can’t– ”

His voice breaks again. His lungs can’t keep up. He hiccups through the tears until he’s just gasping. Shaking. Empty.

And eventually, the tears don’t stop because he’s okay.

They stop because his body gives out.

Because grief like this isn’t survivable. It just waits until you collapse under its weight.

He lies there on the cold floor, face wet, chest hollow, body still curled like he’s trying to protect something that’s already gone.

The night wraps around him like a shroud.

No dreams.

No peace.

Just the echo of his own begging.

There’s a knock.

Gentle. But firm. Like the sound of someone trying not to break something already shattered.

Buck stirs. Blinks.
His cheek is stuck to the hardwood floor, the imprint of the woodgrain pressed deep into his skin like a brand. His eyes feel swollen, his throat dry and torn from crying and screaming into a void that never answered.

Sunlight slices through the window, too bright, too harsh–  like the world is cruel enough to keep spinning even now.

Another knock. Closer this time. A voice follows it, muffled but familiar.

“Buck? It’s Hen.”

His body resists the command to move. Every part of him aches– like grief has seeped into his bones and settled there, a second skeleton made of sorrow and silence. But he forces himself up anyway, muscles protesting every inch.

He stumbles to the door.

Opens it.

And there she is.

Hen.

Strong, steady Hen. A pillar in the storm. But even she looks like she’s been hollowed out–  her eyes rimmed with red, lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders heavy with the same unbearable weight he’s been dragging across the floor.

She takes one look at him–  the dark circles under his eyes, the tear-stained face, the wrinkled shirt, the way his hands are still trembling like an engine that won't shut off–  and she doesn't say a word.

She steps forward and pulls him into her arms.

And that’s all it takes.

The dam cracks wide open again. This time, the sob that tears from Buck’s throat is quieter – not a scream, but something worse. A soundless, shaking collapse.

He clutches at her like he might drown without her there to anchor him. Like if he lets go, he’ll fall through the floor and never stop.

Hen tightens her arms around him, rubbing slow circles into his back even as her own tears begin to fall. She says nothing. She doesn't need to.

They stand like that for a long time–  a small, broken universe of two, holding onto each other like they’re the only solid thing left in a world that’s fallen apart.

Eventually, Hen guides him gently to the couch. He lets her.

They sit. Neither of them speaks right away.

The silence is heavier than any words.

Finally, Buck’s voice breaks the stillness– cracked and soft, like the words are dragging themselves up from somewhere deep inside him.

“He was… everything, Hen.”

His eyes flick to the photo on the mantle. The one of the whole team, all smiles and dirty gear and soot-streaked joy. Bobby’s arm slung around his shoulder like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

“He was my captain. My family. The first person who ever… who didn’t give up on me. Who made me feel like I mattered.” His throat catches. “Like I wasn’t just a screw-up with a hero complex.”

Hen exhales slowly, her eyes never leaving his face.

“He saw you,” she says quietly. Her voice is raw. “When a lot of people didn’t. When even you didn’t.”

Buck’s lips tremble.

“I keep thinking…” He swallows hard. “What if I had been faster? What if I’d gone back for him? What if–”

“No,” Hen interrupts, gently but firmly. “Buck, no. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t you dare.”

Tears spill from his eyes again– quieter this time. Steadier. Like rain that doesn’t know when to stop falling.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Hen reaches over, takes his hand. Holds it tightly between hers.

“None of us did.”

They sit in the quiet wreckage of Bobby Nash’s absence, surrounded by the ghost of his laugh, the memory of his voice, the invisible shape he left behind in every corner of their lives.

“He was our center,” Hen whispers. “Our moral compass. Our firehouse dad. And now… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going without him.”

Buck leans his head back against the couch, blinking up at the ceiling like it might hold the answers.

“I keep expecting him to call. To walk through that door and ask why I haven’t shaved or cleaned up. To tell me I’m not alone.”

“You’re not,” Hen says, fiercely now. “You hear me, Buck? You’re not alone.”

He nods, but it doesn’t feel real yet. It might not feel real for a long time.

They fall silent again. No rush to fill the space with false comfort.

Just two broken hearts, sitting shoulder to shoulder, holding the weight of a third.

And letting it hurt.

Letting it devastate .

Because there’s nothing else to do.
No way around it.
Only through it.

And they’ll get there– maybe not today, maybe not for a long time– but they’ll do it the way Bobby taught them:

Together.

The airport is buzzing with life. People move in every direction– laughing, talking, greeting, departing– and the sound of it all feels like static in Buck’s ears.

It’s too loud.
Too alive.
Too indifferent.

He stands just inside the terminal, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the crowd even though he knows exactly who he’s looking for. And then he sees him– Eddie, weaving his way through the crowd, a black duffel slung over his shoulder, face set in quiet lines of grief and exhaustion.

They meet without words. There’s no hug. No dramatic moment. Just two men standing in the thick of unbearable loss, each unsure of how to carry it.

Eddie gives him a short nod, the kind that says I'm here.
Buck returns it with one of his own, the kind that says Thank you.

The walk back to the car is quiet. The lot is hot and bright and indifferent.

They climb in. Buck starts the engine, the sound low and distant like it’s happening in someone else’s life.

No one talks for a long stretch of highway. The air between them is heavy, thick with everything they could say and everything they can’t .

Eddie finally breaks the silence.

“You holding up?”

The question hangs in the air, too gentle, too cruel.

Buck stares ahead, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight. His hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“I’m trying,” he says finally, voice hoarse from hours of crying and not enough sleeping.

Eddie nods, gaze distant out the window. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s not much. But it’s honest.

-

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Not the kind that begs to be filled– the kind that feels sacred. Like speaking too loud might wake something you don’t want to face.

When they pull into the driveway, someone is already waiting on the front steps.

Ravi.

He’s sitting with perfect stillness, back straight, a garment bag resting across his lap like it’s something sacred. Something fragile. And maybe it is.

He stands the moment he sees them, dusting off his pants. His face is pale, eyes tired but kind.

“Hey,” he says softly, offering the bag to Buck like he’s handing over a crown. “Didn’t want you to worry. I picked it up this morning.”

Buck takes the dry-cleaning bag carefully. His fingers brush Ravi’s. They’re shaking.

He wants to say thank you – he tries – but the words snag in his throat. They get caught behind the ache.

Ravi seems to understand. His smile flickers, then fades.

“If you need anything,” he says, “I’ll be outside.”

He leaves them to it, disappearing down the steps like smoke.

Inside the house, it’s dim and quiet. Buck drops the keys onto the counter again, slower this time, more careful. Eddie sets his duffel by the door but doesn’t move to unpack. There’s nothing to unpack. They didn’t come home to stay.

They get ready in silence.

Buck opens the garment bag with trembling hands. Inside is his black funeral suit, freshly pressed and wrapped in plastic like it’s something worth preserving.

He stares at it too long.

Eddie watches from the hallway, his tie already half-knotted, his sleeves rolled.

“You good?”

Buck swallows hard. “I don’t know how to do this.”

His voice is barely above a whisper.

Eddie walks over, helps him take the suit out, hangs it on the closet door. “You don’t have to know. You just... do the next thing. One step at a time.”

Buck nods, but his eyes are glassy again. “I never thought I’d be doing this for him. Not Bobby.”

“I know,” Eddie says, just as broken. “Me neither.”

They dress slowly. Deliberately. Every button is a battle. Every motion feels like it’s happening underwater. The weight of what they’re preparing for presses down on them – heavy, suffocating.

Shoes. Tie. Jacket.

Buck stares at his reflection in the hallway mirror and doesn’t recognize the man staring back.

He looks like a soldier before a funeral.
Like someone who survived the explosion but never made it out of the blast.

Eddie stands behind him, fixing his own cufflinks. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“Ready?” Eddie asks.

“No.”

Buck’s voice cracks.

“But I’ll go anyway.”

Because Bobby would’ve.

And because he has to.

The sky is overcast, as if even the sun couldn’t bear to show its face today.

The funeral is… quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that soothes.
The kind that settles over your shoulders like wet cement.
The kind that makes every breath feel like a betrayal – like the world should’ve stopped spinning the moment he took his last.

There’s no wailing. No breaking down mid-service. Just stillness.

Just pain.

A sea of black attire, bowed heads, and tissue-clutched hands.
The kind of silence that wraps around a family undone.

Athena walks at the front, back straight, chin high, a warrior in mourning. But her grip on May and Harry’s hands is fierce, white-knuckled. She isn’t holding them up – they’re holding each other , a single unit trying not to break in half.

Behind them, the 118 walks together in slow, synchronized steps, every footfall a prayer, every breath a memory. Buck's heart pounds in his chest, a rhythm that doesn't belong to the living.

The casket waits for them.

Dark cherry wood. Brass handles. A flag draped over the top.

Bobby’s badge number etched in gold.

Buck doesn’t remember moving. One minute he’s standing among them, the next – his hand is on the casket’s handle, trembling. Eddie is on his left. Chimney on his right. Hen, Ravi, and…

Tommy.

Someone behind them whispers, soft and confused:
“Why’s he here? He wasn’t part of the 118…”

Buck hears it, just barely. But Tommy doesn’t react. He just stands tall, hands steady.

Hen leans toward Buck as they pause for a beat. Her voice is low, but it vibrates with knowing.

“Bobby saved his life once. Didn’t have to. But he did. That kind of love sticks.”

And it makes sense now – because that’s who Bobby was.
He made family wherever he went. Not because of his rank, but because of his heart.

They lift the casket together. It’s heavy – physically and emotionally. But no one flinches.

Because they owe him this.

Because he carried all of them, every single day, in a thousand invisible ways.

The procession moves slowly. The only sounds are the soft crunch of shoes against gravel and the occasional sharp inhale from someone trying to keep it together.

The casket is placed at the front of the ceremony, beneath a simple black canopy. Flowers flank it, red and white. A framed photo of Bobby sits beside it – his fire captain uniform crisp, his expression warm and steady.

He looks proud.
He always did.

As the chaplain speaks, Buck’s ears ring. The words melt into static. Something about service, sacrifice, legacy. None of it matters. Not really.

What matters is that Bobby isn’t breathing. Isn’t standing beside them. Isn’t calling Buck “kid” or cracking a joke to break the tension.

What matters is the hole he left behind – the one none of them know how to fill.

When the time comes, Chimney steps forward, something bulky and folded in his arms.

Bobby’s turnout coat.

His helmet.

“Thought…” Chim’s voice falters. His jaw works. “Thought you should be the one to hang it up.”

He holds it out to Buck like it’s made of glass.

Buck hesitates.

Then nods.

He walks, legs unsteady, toward the 118 engine parked nearby. It gleams in the dim light, polished for the occasion. But it looks wrong somehow. Lonely.

Buck swallows hard as he reaches up, hanging the coat on the side of the truck, smoothing it with shaking hands. Then he lifts the helmet – Bobby’s helmet – and places it carefully on the hook above.

His breath catches.

It feels like hanging up a crown. Like entombing a legacy.

He steps back, chest heaving, eyes wet.

The silence is deeper now.

The fire engine’s lights begin to flash – no sirens, no sound. Just a soft, pulsing glow. Like a heartbeat.

Like a goodbye.

The truck pulls away slowly, the engine low and mournful. The coat flutters slightly in the breeze.

Buck watches it disappear down the road – their last captain’s final ride.

His knees nearly buckle.

Eddie is there in an instant, one hand steadying his back. Hen and Chim step in on either side. Ravi, silent but solid. Eyes glassy, head bowed.

No one says a word. They don’t need to.

They wrap their arms around each other – grief-stricken soldiers, battle-worn and grieving.

It doesn’t make it better.

It doesn’t bring him back.

But it means they’re not alone.

And somehow, that matters.

The door closes with a soft click behind them.

Not a slam. Not loud. Just... final.

The kind of sound that echoes. The kind that stays.

Buck stands in the entryway, coat still on, shoes scuffed from the cemetery soil. Eddie lingers behind him, unmoving. The house smells like nothing. Like it’s been holding its breath since they left.

For a while, neither of them speaks. The silence is a living thing now. It presses on their chests, tightens around their throats.

Buck finally takes a step forward. It feels like walking underwater.

He shrugs off his suit-jacket and lets it fall to the floor. Not lazily. Not carelessly. Just… like he doesn’t have the strength to do anything else.

Eddie follows, dropping his suit-jacket next to Buck’s. They move like mirrors, like they’ve been doing this for years – grieving together in the same rhythm, even if the notes are different.

Buck collapses onto the couch like his strings have been cut. Eddie follows, slower, like he's trying not to break in half.

And for a moment, they just sit there, side by side, as the silence stretches on.

Then Buck’s voice breaks through it.

“I didn’t say it back.”

His tone is so small, so flat, it barely sounds like him.

Eddie turns, eyes red and rimmed with salt. “What?”

“In the lab,” Buck whispers, staring at his hands. “When it was about to go – when I thought we were both gonna die. Bobby told me he loved me.”

He swallows hard. His fingers are trembling.

“And I didn’t say it back.”

His voice fractures.

“I heard him say it, and all I could think about was getting out, getting us out – keeping him calm, being the firefighter, the soldier, the one who fixes things.”

He sucks in a breath that doesn’t fill his lungs.

“But I didn’t say it back.”

Eddie says nothing – just watches him like the words are burning his skin.

“I thought we had time,” Buck whispers. “I thought we’d walk out of there and I’d say it then. I'd say, ‘I love you too, Cap.’ Or, ‘Thanks for being my dad when I didn’t have one.’ Or even just something. Anything.”

His hands clench into fists in his lap.

“But there wasn’t a later. There wasn’t even a minute.”

His voice breaks open. Shakes like a house about to collapse.

“I just stood there. I let him say it. “ A sob rips out of him before he can stop it. “And then he was gone.”

He tries to wipe at his face, but it’s useless – the tears are falling too fast.

“I didn’t save him.”

Eddie shakes his head, eyes glassy. “Buck, you–”

“I didn’t save him!” Buck cries, louder now, raw. “I was right there . I was right there , and I couldn’t pull him out. I couldn’t–”

He cuts himself off, curling forward, arms around his stomach like he’s trying to hold the grief in. Like it might spill out of him otherwise.

Eddie places a trembling hand on his back, and Buck flinches at first – then leans into it like he’s starving for the touch.

“I should’ve saved him,” Buck sobs. “He always saved me. Every damn time.”

“You did everything you could,” Eddie says, voice cracking. “You fought like hell.”

“I didn’t tell him I loved him,” Buck gasps. “And now I don’t get to. Now he’s just…he’s gone .”

Eddie closes his eyes, tears sliding down his face silently.

“I wasn’t even there,” he whispers, and Buck lifts his head.

Eddie stares straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“I was in Texas. Eating barbecue. Laughing with my kid. And Bobby was– he was dying while I was laughing .”

“Eddie—”

“I didn’t say goodbye,” he says, voice cracking in half. “I didn’t call. I didn’t check in. I just assumed everything would be fine, because it’s Bobby . Bobby always pulls through.”

Buck’s heart is breaking again just listening.

“I missed the chance to say thank you,” Eddie chokes. “To say I love you. To say... anything. ”

He drags both hands down his face, breathing hard.

“He was like my dad too.. After I couldn’t trust anyone, Bobby was the one person I always knew would stay . And I wasn’t here. I left. ”

Buck shifts closer, but neither of them reaches for the other just yet. They just sit, unraveling at the same time.

“I keep thinking,” Eddie says, “what if I had been there? What if I’d taken a different flight? What if I’d been the one in the lab instead of him?”

“No,” Buck says quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Eddie says, voice rising. “You’re doing it.”

And they both fall silent again.

Grief hangs between them like smoke.

Then – finally – Buck reaches out. His hand closes around Eddie’s wrist and doesn’t let go.

“I don’t know how to live in a world where he isn’t here,” Buck whispers. “He was the first person who made me feel like I belonged. Like I wasn’t just a screw-up they had to deal with.”

“He was the reason I came back to the 118,” Eddie murmurs. “He told me I still had a place. He made that place.”

Their hands find each other, fingers curling tightly, palms damp with tears.

They don’t speak again.

There’s nothing left to say.

Eventually, Buck leans into Eddie’s side, head against his shoulder, and Eddie tilts his head until it rests atop Buck’s.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the living room.

They don’t move.

Their bodies sag under the weight of it all – exhaustion, grief, guilt, and the soft, searing ache of love left unspoken.

And somewhere between memory and mourning, somewhere in the silence Bobby left behind –

They both fall asleep.

Tears still drying on their cheeks.

Hands still clasped.

Hearts still broken.

But not alone.

Never alone.

The wind is different here.
Quieter. Slower. Like even the sky is holding its breath.

It’s been a year.

Buck steps off the path, worn sneakers brushing through soft blades of grass. His hand shakes slightly where it clutches the bouquet – lilies the color of fire and a few delicate wildflowers Chris picked from the backyard that morning. He’d slipped them into Buck’s palm with a quiet, “These are for Bobby too.”

The gravestone appears like an old friend in the distance.

Always waiting. Always still.

Robert "Bobby" Nash – Beloved Husband, Father, Captain, Friend.

Buck sinks to his knees.

He sits in the grass like he’s done it a hundred times – because he has, in dreams. In memories. In moments when he’d woken up gasping, heart aching, the silence too loud beside him.

But today, he’s here. Really here.

He places the bouquet down carefully against the stone. His fingers hover for a moment. Then he lets go.

“Hey, Cap.”

His voice is hoarse, quiet. Like it’s not quite ready to be used again.

“I’ve been trying to get out here all year. Couldn’t do it. Not until now.”

He laughs – small and bitter, but not unkind.

“You’d probably say I don’t need to fly halfway across the country to talk to you. That you’re already with me. And maybe you are. But I needed to see your name carved in stone to believe you’re really gone. And I needed… I needed you to hear this. All of it.”

He pulls his knees close, arms resting over them, staring at the ground.

“It’s been a year. A full year without your voice in my ear telling me I’m enough when I feel like nothing. Without your lectures. Your guidance. Your… your stupid little reminders to eat something not fried.”

His lip trembles.

“A year, and it hasn’t stopped hurting.”

The wind moves through the trees again, and Buck closes his eyes. It almost feels like an answer.

“I thought maybe I could get through this part without crying,” he whispers, chuckling wetly. “But let’s be honest. You always said my heart was too close to the surface.”

His hand reaches out, brushing the edge of the headstone.

“Chim made captain.”

The words fall gently, like an offering.

“He didn’t want it at first. Said it felt wrong without you. But you know Chim. He stepped up. He leads the way you did – with compassion. With care. And when he gets overwhelmed, he touches the brim of your old helmet like it’s gonna whisper advice back.”

Buck pauses, swallows, tears welling again.

“Maddie had the baby. A little boy. You should’ve seen Chim when she told him the name. Robert Nash Han.”

His voice breaks completely.

“I think he cried for twenty minutes. Hell, we all did.”

Buck smiles through it. Wipes his eyes. Keeps going.

“Hen and Karen adopted Mara. It’s official. She’s their daughter. And Bobby, she’s so bright. You would’ve adored her. She asks a thousand questions a day. Calls me ‘Uncle Buck’ like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes I forget what life was like before she was in it.”

He breathes in slowly. It hurts.

“Athena’s… surviving. She sold the dream house. Said she couldn’t keep building something you’d never live in. She said you’d understand.”

He looks away for a moment, trying to collect himself.

“She misses you like oxygen. But she’s learning to breathe again.”

A bird flits through the branches above, singing something soft. Buck watches it for a second.

“May’s doing amazing in law school. Top of her class. She said she’s going to start clerking for a judge this fall. And Harry… he’s working with Michael in Miami. Said he wanted to do something that mattered. Something you’d be proud of.”

He swipes at his eyes again, voice trembling now.

“And Chris... he came home.”

That ache opens in him again, wide and gentle.

“He misses you too. But he talks about you like you’re still around. Says you were the first grown-up who listened to him like he was already someone. That you made him feel strong.”

He blinks up at the sky, lets the tears fall.

“I watch him walk through the world now, and I see you in him. Not in the way he talks or acts, but in the way he loves. Without condition. Without fear.”

And then he stills. Breath catching.

“I need to tell you something.”

He swallows hard.

“Eddie and I… we’re together now.”

He looks down, then laughs softly. “You knew. Of course you did. You always knew.”

His fingers curl into the grass.

“He’s incredible, Bobby. Gentle and patient and strong in all the ways I’m not. He holds me when the nights are too loud. He lets me fall apart and doesn’t try to fix me. He sees me – the way you did. And I’ve never loved anyone like this.”

His voice softens.

“And he loves me too. He says it like it’s a fact, like gravity, like it’s not going anywhere.”

Buck draws in a breath and lets it go slow.

“We’ve been building something. The three of us – me, Eddie, Chris. And next month, on Chris’s birthday… I’m gonna ask him if he wants me to adopt him.”

His voice cracks again, but it’s full of awe this time.

“Not because I need the paperwork. But because he’s mine. Because I want to be there – officially, legally – for every birthday, every heartbreak, every impossible math test. Because loving them both feels like the only thing in my life that’s ever made perfect sense.”

A tear slips down his cheek, trailing along his smile.

“I think Eddie’s the one,” he says. “The real deal. The forever I didn’t think I’d get.”

He leans forward and presses his hand flat against the cool stone.

“And when we get married someday... I’m saving a seat for you. Right at the front. Right beside Athena. And I know you won’t really be gone. You’ll be in the vows. You’ll be in the way I look at him. You’ll be in Chris’s laughter and Eddie’s eyes and every moment that feels like coming home.”

His hand shakes.

“You gave me that. This life. This family. You built it, Bobby. You loved us all into something that survived you.”

He closes his eyes.

“And I miss you. I miss you so damn much I don’t know how to hold it sometimes. But I’m living, Bobby. And I’m loving. And I think you’d be proud.”

There’s no wind now. Just stillness. Just peace.

He stays a while longer, hand against the earth, before finally standing. He places a kiss against his fingers, then presses it gently to the top of the headstone.

“Love you, Cap,” he whispers. “Always. And I’ll see you at the wedding.”

Then he turns and walks away – slowly, with the weight of grief still heavy on his shoulders.

But this time, he’s not crushed by it.

This time, he carries it like a memory.
Like a promise.
Like family.

The candles on the cake flicker in the living room light. Chris leans forward, grinning, cheeks flushed with joy and sugar, and blows them out in one confident breath. Everyone cheers. Maddie snaps a picture. Hen whoops. Eddie presses a kiss to the top of his son’s head.

Buck watches from across the table, hands shaking slightly in his lap.

This is it.
The moment he’s carried in his chest for months.

Later, after the cake is cut and the chaos dies down, Buck finds Chris on the couch, unwrapping one last gift. It’s small – just an envelope. His name written in Buck’s uneven, excited handwriting.

Chris opens it. Inside is a photo – the three of them at the beach last summer, tangled in each other’s arms, laughing so hard the frame had to be taken mid-shake. And behind it, a typed letter on soft paper.

Chris reads it silently, eyes scanning slowly. Halfway through, his fingers tighten.

When he reaches the end, he looks up at Buck with eyes that are shimmering.

“Does this mean... you want to be my dad? Like, for real?”

Buck nods, and suddenly he can’t speak. He just drops to his knees in front of Chris, heart in his throat.

“If you want,” he finally manages. “If it feels right to you.”

Chris doesn’t answer at first.

He throws his arms around Buck’s neck instead, burying his face in Buck’s shoulder, his voice muffled by tears and laughter and something bigger than both.

“You already are,” Chris whispers.

Buck holds him tighter than he ever has.

Across the room, Eddie watches with tears in his eyes, joy and love tangled in every line of his face. He doesn’t speak, but when Buck looks at him over Chris’s shoulder, Eddie nods – once, slow, full of everything that words couldn’t say.

Buck is his son’s father.
And Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sun is setting in Los Angeles. Golden light spills across the lawn where friends and family sit in hushed anticipation, the air warm with laughter and music and something sacred.

Rows of white chairs line the aisle. Flowers bloom on every surface. But it’s the front row that holds Buck’s gaze the longest.

There, right beside Athena, is an empty seat.

A single white rose rests on the cushion.

And in the center of the chair, framed in silver, is a picture of Bobby.

He’s smiling – not just any smile, but that smile. The one that made Buck feel like he wasn’t failing, like he was enough.

Athena reaches out and brushes her fingers along the frame once, gently. Her eyes shine. She says nothing.

She doesn’t have to.

The ceremony begins.

Eddie walks down the aisle with Chris by his side, both of them in matching suits, laughter bubbling between them. Chris carries the rings, nervous but proud. He looks out at the crowd like a young man who already knows his place in the world.

And Buck – when he sees them standing there, waiting for him – he almost can’t move.

But then his feet start carrying him forward, because they always have. Toward Eddie. Toward Chris. Toward the family he chose and who chose him back.

They meet at the altar, hearts wide open.

The vows come later, but they arrive like thunder and quiet all at once.

Buck’s Vows:

“I spent a lot of my life wondering if I’d ever be enough. If I was too loud. Too reckless. Too much or never quite enough. And then I met you, and you didn’t try to fix me. You just loved me. You loved me in all the ways I never thought I deserved.

“And I carry people with me, Eddie. Always. I carry the ones I’ve lost, the ones who lifted me up when I couldn’t stand on my own. And one of those people was our captain – my captain – Bobby Nash.

“He once told me that family isn’t just blood. That family is who shows up, who stays, who believes in you even when you don’t believe in yourself. He showed me how to be a better man. A better partner. A better father.

“And today – standing here – I promise to carry you the same way. With love. With loyalty. With everything I have.”

Buck wipes a tear from his cheek, gaze drifting – just briefly – to the chair in the front row.

“Bobby,” he whispers so only Eddie can hear, “I saved you a seat.”

Eddie’s Vows:

“I used to think love meant sacrifice. That it meant silence. That it meant staying strong, no matter what it cost. And then you walked into my life and turned every definition I had upside down.

“You taught me that love is messy. Loud. Real. That it’s okay to lean when you’re tired. That I don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

“Bobby once said something to me about you. He said, ‘Buck’s heart is the kind you follow into fire. Because even if you’re scared, you’ll know you’re not alone.’

“And he was right. I’d follow you anywhere, Buck. Into fire. Into fear. Into forever.”

Their hands shake as they exchange rings. Chris beams as he steps forward, offering each one with pride in his chest and Bobby’s picture in his pocket.

When they kiss, the world erupts around them – joy, applause, tears, celebration.

And yet for Buck, the moment feels still .

Like time has paused.

Like somewhere, Bobby is watching – that quiet smile on his face.

And the chair in the front row stays empty.

But only in body.

Never in spirit.