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A year ago, if you had asked Christopher if he would want to spend a weekend looking after a four year old in a mall-- well, actually, Chris would’ve probably just shrugged and asked if Jee wanted a new princess dress or something. Still, babysitting wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities, even though it was a little nice that he was old enough now to be the one doing the babysitting rather than being babysat.
And besides, this was not just any kid: this was Theo.
Christopher had felt-- strange, about the idea of Theo, at first. The kind of strange that tangled in your chest and made your therapist ask leading questions until words spilled from you like a faulty tap. But Buck had looked at him so hopefully when he’d first introduced them, is the thing, and Chris didn't have the heart to be mean to him.
This was a kid who’d just lost his parents, after all, and Chris knows how that song and dance goes. Theo was loud and brash and sometimes furious and sometimes sad, and it was annoying but Buck had quietly told Chris, something hesitant in his eyes, that Theo had big feelings. And Chris had looked at that tiny body and could understand how feelings as big as the ones you get from losing your parents might spill over, when you were trying to stuff it into a container that small. He remembers being not too much bigger, breaking salad bowls and screaming in the middle of the night and laughing the next moment, because the world was big and beautiful and scary and so strange, when you’re so new inside of it.
Besides, Theo was sweet, too. Between the sadness and anger, he was cheerful and clever and worshiped Christopher in a way that made him feel almost adult, because to someone as small as Theo there wasn’t really a difference between real adults and bigger kids.
So despite all of Christopher's misgivings, there was something about this kid, about the curl of his sunshine-bright smile or the absolute trust he gave to Christopher from the second he laid eyes on him, that made Christopher feel weirdly protective of him. It was like meeting a mini Buck, a Buck who couldn't pick Christopher up from school or run into fires but had the same instincts to do so, and Christopher has always loved Buck easily, without hesitation. This kid-- this kid who is Buck's now, which is to say he is a little bit dad's, and a little bit Christopher's -- Theo was important, in some way that Chris couldn't easily articulate.
So when Buck and dad were running around like chickens with their heads cut off at some weird scheduling snafu that left Theo without any supervision for a day, Chris only hesitated for thirty seconds before informing them that he could cancel his minecraft stream with his friends to look after him instead.
"You sure, superman?" Buck asks him, brows furrowed, eyes a little guilty and something softer beneath that, something just for Chris. "Theo-- he's not-- you don't have to--"
"It's whatever," Chris says, because he can see the parts of Buck that wants to tell Chris that he doesn't have to go through the trouble and the parts of Buck that doesn't want Theo to hear him referring to him as trouble warring. Which is silly, really, because Theo is currently waging war between the mammals and reptiles in his toy zoo, complete with mouth noises, and probably was not paying attention to his foster dad even a little.
Buck looks at him in that way he does sometimes, equal parts assessing and awed. Chris tries not to squirm under the weight of that attention, the thoughts of what it means, or what Chris might stupidly want it to mean.
“Alright, then,” Buck says, mushy and warm, arm curling around Chris in the kind of hug that Buck gives, that always makes you feel as safe as houses. “Thanks, Chris. You’re incredible.”
Behind him, dad is leaning against the hallway wall, looking at them with soft eyes. Theo keeps playing on the floor. Chris leans into Buck a little, tries not to read too much into his words, and for a moment pretends that everything is normal and alright.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling at him, at Theo. “No problem.”
It is, in fact, a problem.
“Theo, Theo!” Christopher groans, moving his wheelchair across the exhibits in the museum as Theo shrieks with giggles, running down the aisles with the ease of a child who is used to his name being called in that specific tone. Chris is glad that he had the foresight to bring his motorized wheelchair, which is the only thing that has a chance in hell of keeping up with the kid, but its comparative bulk also means that it’s harder to maneuver with.
You win some, you lose some.
Chris had thought the dinosaur exhibit at the museum was a safe bet -- Theo loved dinosaurs, Chris was not too cool to admit that dinosaurs rocked, and it was fairly empty of people for Theo to terrorize on a Sunday morning. More fool him, apparently, because less people to people who are called Theo means this place is my playground.
Honestly, Chris would respect the hustle, if it weren't for the fact that he was the one that promised to wrangle Theo.
“Look!” Theo shouts, throwing his hands up as he nears a fossilized t-rex. “‘s me! I’m big!”
“Yup- yeah, uh-huh,” Chris skitters to a stop near him, grabbing the back of his hoodie before Theo can get any bright ideas about scaling the thing. Again. “That’s really cool, Theo.”
Theo wiggles under his grasp, all bright energy and lack of fear. Christopher feels a fission of-- something that he doesn’t want to call irritation, because this is just a kid. An orphaned kid. A kid that still seems so happy, somehow, even though his world has fallen apart.
Chris remembers, suddenly, the days after his mom died, the feeling of dread that lingered under his skin. The way it slowly bubbled up, over the years, until he couldn’t be this kid anymore, this kid who could look at the world and not see danger in every corner. He wishes that Theo will never be like that. He knows, living with a first responder, that the odds of him turning out any other way are against him.
“Hey, Theo,” he says suddenly, the words spilling from his lips without permission. “Do you think Buck is your dad?”
The rustle of cloth stills. Theo stops squirming in his bright red hoodie. Christopher wishes that he can swallow the words back down, where they only haunt him, and not this knee-tall kid.
“Daddy’s gone,” Theo says, in a voice that suddenly sounds as small as him, a voice Chris has never heard from him before. He sways from side to side, tugging the hoodie as he goes, not trying to escape but not quite wanting to stay, either. “So’s mommy.”
Chris doesn’t know what to do, except to curl his fingers in tighter. “I know,” he says, then: “It sucks.”
“Sucks?”
“It’s bad,” Chris clarifies, and Theo considers his words for a moment before bobbing his curly head up and down.
“Sucks,” Theo offers solemnly, and it startles a snort out of Chris. He watches Theo, the parts of his face that look so much like Buck’s. The parts that don’t. He thinks, suddenly, of all the ways people have commented on how much he looks like Buck. By the power of transference, that must mean there’s a resemblance here, as well. Some way that people might look at Christopher and Theo side by side and see something like a family, even as they’re talking about the parts of their families that have left them.
“My mom’s gone too,” he tells Theo, like the world’s shittiest gift. Theo blinks at him. Chris thinks of her, the blurry image of her in his mind, all the ways that people can’t see the resemblance from him to her, because she’s not there to be compared to anymore. “It’s just me and dad, now. And Buck.”
“An’ Buck,” Theo echoes. Chris doesn’t know what look is on his face, but in front of the Tyrannosaurus Rex fossil, in a museum that Christopher has gone to with his dad and with Buck and with both of them dozens of times, over the years, Theo crawls onto his wheelchair, into his lap. Christopher’s arm goes around him automatically, preventing him from falling. “Buck’s your dad?” He repeats Christopher’s words in his small voice, fingers picking at his collar.
Christopher’s breath hitches, sharpens, dies. Because Buck is Theo’s dad, except for all the ways that he’s not. And he’s not Christopher’s dad, except for the ways that he is.
“I-” he says, trying to figure out what to say.
That is, of course, when he begins to hear the rumble. When Theo makes a small, frightened noise. When Christopher thinks about dad and Buck and all the lectures they’ve given him over the years that don’t consider the potential involvement of a small child. When he holds Theo tight in his arms, rolling them flat against the nearest wall as the building begins to shake apart around them.
When Christopher was seven years old, he went through his first LA earthquake.
It had been exciting, then, in the way that scary things can be when you’re seven and your dad is a superhero. Mr. Thompson had taught them how to hide beneath their desks, had made extra sure that Christopher was tucked away properly, his crutches squeezed beneath his knees as his hands went over his head. The world shook, and a few of the other kids screamed, and Christopher was already thinking about how to tell his dad about how brave he was.
His dad had been late to pick him up, that day, but Chris knew that he was probably out being a hero, had told Mr. Thompson this when they’d sat in the hall together waiting for him. When he had shown up, it was in a different car, a blue Jeep that would one day become just as familiar as his dad’s truck.
“My friend Buck is gonna drive us home, okay, mijo?” Dad had told him, as he’d carried him to the car. Chris remembers the way Buck waved at him, the cheerful grin on his face. When Chris had told him and dad about how he hid under his desk during the earthquake, Buck’s eyes had gone comically wide, and he’d very seriously asked Chris if he wasn’t supposed to be the one working at the fire station with him, instead of dad.
It had made Chris laugh, it had made dad smile, even as he rolled his eyes. Chris remembers that smile, even now. Because he hadn’t quite realized it then, but his dad hadn’t started smiling like that until he met Buck. That smile had felt like magic, like something clicking into place.
When Chris remembers that day now, he doesn’t think of it as the day he went through an earthquake. He thinks of it as the day he met his Buck.
When Chris comes to, his back is still against the wall, and his inhale makes him cough, tasting of dust and drywall. His glasses are cracked, which is fucking typical. His arm aches, muscles strained, and he feels a rush of relief followed by fear as he realizes that Theo’s little head is still tucked into the crook of his arm.
“Theo?” Chris coughs out, voice cracking as it echoes around him. There’s a bubble of space around them, not quite enough for Chris to stand but maybe enough for Theo. Two large pieces of rubble criss-cross above them like a roof. There’s no light around them, and Chris fumbles at the side pocket of his wheelchair to pull out his phone, the screen throwing them into dim, harsh light. No signal, of fucking course. “Theo, are you okay?”
A mumble, a sob, then the blink of blue eyes as they fall onto Christopher’s face. Theo’s eyes go bright as they see him, big tears falling down his soot-covered cheeks as he curls into him. Chris is grateful that they’re both still against a wall, because otherwise the force at which Theo clung to him would’ve taken them both to the ground. Instead, he puts a hand against the curls matted at the back of Theo’s head, feels his heartbeat slow by increments.
“Chris!” Theo cries, wiping his gross little nose on Christopher’s jeans. It’s whatever, they’re probably unsalvageable anyways.
“Hey, hey--” Chris feels his muscles protest as he carefully shifts his aching body into a more comfortable position, imagining that it’s just another round of physical therapy -- slow and steady, Chris! Just get yourself to the ground at your own pace. As he shifts, he realizes that his wheelchair is stuck between bits of concrete and drywall, the wheels wedged and unmoving. Whatever, it’s probably destroyed anyways.
Theo stays curled around him as Chris carefully rearranges his limbs, and once Chris doesn’t feel a twinge in every one of his limbs he reaches his hands forwards. He holds Theo’s face with both hands, looking over Theo’s big red-rimmed eyes and the pouting, upset twist of his mouth. He wipes away a bit of soot from his cheek with his sleeve, even though it mostly just smudges the dust around more. “You okay, buddy?”
Theo pouts. “I got scrape,” he says, holding up a little hand.
Chris frowns at the scrape -- it doesn’t look deep, just an angry red welt on his palm, not even bleeding, really. But it makes his stomach sink anyways. “Oh sh- shoot,” he says. “Um, I don’t have any bandaids here, but, um--”
“Blow on it,” Theo demands, tears replaced with the kind of stubborn bossiness that reminds him of Buck with a clipboard. Or, if his dad is to be believed, himself with a spreadsheet. There’s something about the presumptiveness of it that makes something in Christopher’s chest fall loose, makes him huff out something almost like a laugh in this dim nightmare.
“Okay, okay,” Chris says, puffing a gentle breath over Theo’s scrape. Theo’s lips wobble slightly, but he looks less likely to throw a tantrum, which is always a good thing. “Anything else, Theo? Does it hurt anywhere else?”
Theo nods, then shakes his head. “Ow,” he says, pointing to his face. Christopher’s heart sinks at the bruise on his cheek. At least his eyes are steady, which probably means that he doesn’t have, like, a concussion or anything.
Theo peers at him, then, little hands patting Christopher’s face the same way Chris held Theo’s, and Chris scrunches his nose a little as little-kid hands catch at the arms of his glasses. “Theo,” he says, a little exasperated.
“Is Chris hurt?” Theo asks, brows furrow and little voice curious and intent. Chris remembers, suddenly, damp palms on his cheeks, the smell of salty air, blue skies overhead.
He shakes his head a little, feeling the world go a little wobbly as he does. “‘M okay,” he tells Theo. He is. He has to be, at least until dad and Buck come. Because dad and Buck will come, the way they always do. He just has to keep Theo safe, just for now, just until they come to find them.
The two of them sit in their little pocket of space for a while, quiet. Theo starts squirming, after a few seconds, trying to get down. “Theo,” Chris snaps, a little too sharp, when Theo pulls away. “No running, okay? It’s dangerous.”
Theo pouts at him, and Chris sighs, running his hand across the ground until he finds a bit of rubble. He picks it up and hands it to Theo, because it’s either this or have the four year old bring down an entire section of building onto them. Theo seems entertained enough, at least, immediately looking at the squarish piece of grey like it’s a rare archeological find.
They play with bits of rubble, then Chris teaches Theo a version of cloudgazing except it’s finding shapes in the debris, and all the while he tries not to look at the light of his phone, at how many minutes and hours it’s been. He tries not to think about if dad and Buck have realized that they were missing yet, if they’re looking for them. If they’re--
“God, Buck’s gonna be so pissed,” he says, watching Theo wave around a bit of concrete like it’s a toy. He winces immediately afterwards. “Don’t-- don’t say that word, okay?”
Theo giggles, the sound bouncing off of the walls. “What’s pissed?”
Chris thunks his head against the wall they’re leaning against. “It means angry,” he tells Theo, anxiety crawling up his throat. One thing. He was supposed to do one thing. “Your-- your Buck will be pretty worried about you, Theo.”
Theo considers this, peers at Theo with big blue eyes that are too clever for their age. “Your Buck?” Theo says, after a moment.
Christopher’s heart thumps once. Your Buck, his dad has called Buck again and again, over years and years. And it’s been true for so long. Buck has been his Buck, Christopher’s Buck, Buck who puts Christopher first, in a way that Chris can’t quite quantify the meaning of but can trust nevertheless. In a way that they never say out loud, but is true in all the ways that matter the most, in tsunamis and hand-drawn cards and lightning strikes and uber rides and horse riding lessons.
Christopher’s Buck, but not really. Not anymore.
It makes his eyes well up, stupid and useless. He wants his Buck, here, who would know what to do when the world falls apart. He wants his dad, in the same sort of hopeless way.
“Yeah,” he says, the words a little wet, hiding his face in Theo’s curls. “Our Buck.”
Christopher’s phone dies, and Theo starts crying. It’s loud and bouncy and Chris keeps holding him but he keeps wailing, clinging onto Christopher and demanding to get out, out, out!
“‘M sorry,” Chris says, tears welling up in his eyes. “Sorry, Theo, sorry.”
“I want mommy,” Theo shouts. “I want daddy. I want Buck.”
It feels like he’s pulling the words out of Christopher’s chest, useless and vital. Chris squeezes Theo in his arms, ignores the way his little arms hurt when they flail into Christopher’s chest, at the edge of his jaw.
“Me too,” he says. “Theo, me too.” He wants to cry some more, but he can’t, not when he’s responsible for Theo. He tries to imagine what dad would do. What Buck would. “But I’m here, okay? You’re not alone, Theo. You have me.”
Theo’s sobs continue, then start hiccuping, then hitches into silence, save for his deep, wet breaths. Christopher’s shirt is soaked through, his arms shaking. Theo rubs his sticky face into Christopher’s neck.
“I dun’ wanna be alone,” he says, and Chris holds him tighter.
“You won’t,” he promises. “I have you, and you have me, okay?”
Theo curls a fist into Christopher’s shirt. “Chris and Theo,” he says, like a promise, like he understands. “We’re not alone.”
A shifting creak, the buzz of voices, a spill of sunlight. Christopher blinks and winces at the brightness of the light filtering in. In his arms, Theo begins to cry. Chris holds him tighter. Blinks.
Ravi stares back at him.
“Jesus fu-dging Christ,” Ravi stutters. “Chris? Theo?”
The radio crackles. “Did you say Chris?” Buck’s voice rings out. Overlapping him, equally comforting, is dad’s sharp “Chris?”
“Buck! Dad!” Chris shouts in Ravi’s direction, voice ending in a sharp cough. In his arms, Theo wails something that might be Buck’s name.
“Chris-- Theo-- hold on, buddy, I’m coming, I’m--” Ravi’s radio crackles into static, voices overlapping. Ravi clicks a button, and it goes quiet.
“Are you two hurt?” he asks, falling back into professionalism.
Chris turns Theo towards him, all sooty and pouting, tear tracks through the dust on his cheeks. “He has a scrape,” he informs Ravi, with all the seriousness with which Theo had imparted it to him.
Ravi’s eyes soften as he lowers himself on a wire, feet hitting the ground gently. He holds his hands out. “That sucks,” he commiserates. “Why don’t we get you up and checked out for that, Theo?”
Theo eyes him distrustfully. “I wanna go with Chris,” he says, curling his little hand in Christopher’s shirt tighter.
Chris holds his arms, tugs him gently away even as Theo tries to cling harder. “It’s okay, Theo,” he says. “Go with Ravi. Dad and Buck are up there.”
Theo shakes his little head, tucking it under Chris. “Wanna go with Chris,” he insists, in Buck’s most stubborn voice made small.
And Chris knows that he needs to let Theo go, he knows. But it’s still dark and he’s still aching and stuck and the thought of being all alone down here, for even a second while Ravi is bringing Theo up, makes his heart pang with reluctance.
Still, Buck is up there, and so is dad, and Chris doesn’t want to be selfish. “You need to go, Theo,” he insists, trying to keep his voice gentle.
Theo’s eyes well up, red-rimmed. His lips begin to wobble again, and right before he emits another wail another shadow falls over them, another face appears through the opening above them, familiar and beloved.
“Oh my god,” Buck breathes out, his soft voice echoing through the space. “Eddie-- Eddie, they’re here, I’m gonna-- guys, I’m coming, okay? Theo, Chris, you did so good, you guys are incredible, just--”
He’s lowering himself down as he speaks, and Theo blinks up at him with awe in his eyes, tears forgotten. Chris is pretty sure he has pretty much the exact same look on his face, because Buck is here, Buck is here, and that means everything is going to be okay.
“Buck!” Theo screeches, beside himself with glee. His body flings forward, then back, like he doesn’t know if he wants to throw himself into Buck’s arms or stay with Chris, and Chris feels a swell of sudden affection that almost bowls him over with the force of it.
“Theo,” Buck replies, his tone the exact same shade of awe. Ravi steps back as Buck rushes forward, feet barely hitting the ground before he’s stumbling into Chris and Theo’s space, gloved hands cupping both of their cheeks. His eyes run over Theo, over Chris. “Christopher,” he breathes out, equally awed, equally relieved.
Christopher’s eyes prickle with tears, and it’s embarrassing but he can’t quite care right now. “Buck,” he says, voice trembling.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” Buck breathes, and, oh, he’s putting his around both of them, palms gently cupping the backs of their heads the way Buck does when he hugs you, in a way that makes the world feel safe and warm. Despite himself, the tears slip down Christopher’s cheeks, and he presses his face into the shoulder of Buck’s turnouts, breathing in his cologne and sweat and the smell of home. Theo presses into Buck, too, clinging on to the edge of his open turnouts. Chris can feel Buck press his face into their hair, too. “Okay, okay. I’ve got you guys. It’s gonna be okay. God, I feel like I’ve aged ten years.”
“But you’re already so old,” Theo pipes up, words all mushed into Buck’s clothes. Chris laughs wetly, and he can hear Ravi snort, too, and another laugh echoing from above. Chris looks up, and there’s dad, and Chris feels another weight loosen from his shoulders.
“Dad,” he says, and Theo looks up too, yells an excited “Eddie!”
“My boys,” Eddie says, all warm relief.
Buck pulls back a little, looking them over again. “Chris,” he says, brows furrowing. “Bud, you’re hurt.”
Chris frowns. “I am?”
“You’ve got a pretty bad lump on the back of your head,” Buck frowns. “Pupils are reactive, and the same size, but we should get your dad and Hen to check you over.”
“I got a scrape!” Theo announces. “Chris blew on it.”
That makes Buck’s eyes go gooey. “He did, didn’t he? Chris is the best.”
But I didn’t do anything, Chris thinks, something twisting in his stomach. He doesn’t say anything, though. Not as Buck straps Theo to his chest and pulls Chris gently out of his wheelchair to hold at his side, despite Ravi offering to carry one of them. Not as Dad pulls them up, eyes dark and worried. Not as Dad fusses over his head and the bruises on his arms and the long scrape on his back that he didn’t even notice but apparently needs stitches. Not as Theo clings to him all the way to the hospital, regaling everyone with how the t-rex stomped the whole building down. Not as the doctors release them, not as they go home.
Or-- they go to Buck’s house, which is almost the same thing, where Buck orders pizza and insists that Chris sleep in his bed. And Chris barely places his head on the pillow, registers a small, squirming thing wriggling its way under his arm, before passing out completely.
Christopher wakes up with a mouth full of curls and a body that feels like it’s been thrown around in about five spin cycles, which is unfortunately not the newest sensation for him. It’s been a while since it’s been this bad, though. Not since--
Deep water, blue skies, a firetruck.
He inhales, exhales, registers the scent of kid’s shampoo, Theo’s face wedged in his chest. His heart twinges, and for a moment he tightens his arms, holds Theo tight, eyes prickling. Then, he reluctantly pushes himself up, arms not quite working right, gently extricating Theo from his hold when he tries to cling, even in his sleep.
When he manages it, Theo curls up into Christopher’s pillow instead, face scrunched up like he’s active even in sleep. Chris watches him for a while, then looks up, blinking as he sees his dad curled up in an armchair by the bed, head lolling in a way that’s probably incredibly uncomfortable, a blanket half-covering his lap.
Christopher aches, and he slowly inches out of bed, using the walls as anchors to make his way into the hall. The morning light is bright in the living room, the windows bigger than in dad’s place. Chris isn’t surprised, really, when he sees Buck shuffling around in the kitchen.
Buck jumps a little when Chris walks into the living room, eyes softening as they land on Chris. He abandons the mixing bowl he’d been holding to walk over, apron smudged with flour. “Chris,” he says, hovering inches away from him. “You feeling okay, bud? Can’t sleep?”
“It’s morning,” Chris points out.
“You had a long day yesterday.” Buck’s smile is soft, a little weary at the edges, and Chris wishes he was small enough to easily fall into his arms still, small enough for everything to feel uncomplicated.
Now, he just shrugs, wincing a little at the way it pulls at his hurts. Buck steps forward immediately, eyes worried, hand touching Christopher’s shoulder.
“I should do my morning exercises,” Chris says.
Buck frowns. “Maybe just some stretches,” he says, thoughtful in a way that scrapes, right now. “And I can grab you a diazepam first, you must be aching."
He is, and it’s frustrating that Buck knows, the way he knows so much about Chris, from years and years of being his Buck. Of being in his life in every way that matters.
“I don’t need it,” Chris says, feeling tender and wounded.
Buck tilts his head at him, assessing in that way that Buck can be sometimes, in a way that people sometimes don’t expect from him. Chris looks down at his toes, the little bruise on his ankle.
“It’s okay to need help, superman,” Buck says, gentle. “You went through a lot yesterday, you and Theo.”
“I didn’t even do anything, though,” Chris says, the words a little too honest. There’s a silence, then, and he doesn’t want to look at Buck’s face, doesn’t want to face whatever disappointment or sadness that’s etched there, for the kid that isn’t Chris and who Chris can never be again.
A soft hand on his shoulder, a thumb sweeping across his collar, and Chris blinks back tears as Buck speaks to him with a steady voice. “You know, I told Eddie that he shouldn’t trust me with you, after the tsunami.”
Chris blinks, looks up at Buck. Instead of sadness or anger or disappointment, there’s a small, wistful smile on his face.
“But you saved me,” Chris says, confused.
“I lost you first,” Buck says, which is perhaps true but not the part Chris remembers. Not the part that stands out to him in that long day that was terrible and made less so by his Buck saving him. “I looked for you, for hours, and I couldn’t. I didn’t even-- I didn’t know where you were, until I saw you in your dad’s arms. For a long time, I felt guilty about that.”
And Chris knows, okay? He knows what Buck’s getting at. He’s not a kid. But--
“You walked around,” Chris says sullenly. “I was stuck.”
“You kept Theo safe,” Buck tells him, as if that is the truth. “You blew on his scrapes, and kept him happy, and made sure he wasn’t alone.” He smiles gently, and says as if he’s remembering somebody else’s words: “That’s how he remembers it.”
“I was scared,” Chris admits, quiet.
“But you were so brave,” Buck says. “You’ve always been. My superman, my hero. And Eddie’s, and Theo’s, now, too.”
Chris blinks once, again, and the tears are spilling down his cheeks, and Buck makes a soft noise before cupping the back of his head again, holding him close.
“I was so scared,” he says. “And you weren’t there, and dad wasn’t there.”
Buck presses his face in his hair, rocking the two of them gently. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay, you’re here. I’ve got you, Chris. I’ve got you.”
“I don’t want to lose anyone else,” Chris says, and something in his voice makes Buck hold him tighter, in a little world that feels safe, even though he knows that it’s not.
“You won’t,” Buck says. “I’m not going anywhere, remember? You’ll always have me, and your dad, and Theo.”
Chris hides his face in his Buck’s shoulder, tears soaking through his tee, and feels something inside of him crack open, making room, growing.
“Chris!” Chris is sitting at the dining table with a plate of pancakes when a small whirlwind presses into his legs. Theo looks up at him, eyes wide and betrayed. “You weren’t in the bed!”
Chris looks down at Theo, whose scrape is covered with a spiderman bandaid, who holds onto Chris and trusts that he’ll hold him up. He looks up, and sees his dad watching the both of them, sleep rumpled and soft. Buck comes up beside him, nudges him with an elbow and a plate of pancakes, eyes so gooey that Chris has to look away.
It’s different, but not really. He’s sitting in Buck’s dining room, and he’s with his dad, and his Buck, and now his Theo, too. It’s different, but it’s better, maybe, or perhaps just bigger, wider, more space to step back and see the shape of them the way they truly are, or could be.
He reaches down and brushes his fingers through Theo’s curls, which look so much like Buck’s, which look so much like his, which look so much like his mom’s. He looks at him with dad’s eyes, in a room that smells of Buck’s pancakes, with a kid that dad carried out of Buck’s bedroom. A kid that Chris thinks he might love.
“Sorry, Theo,” he says, smiling. “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”