eternity || epilogue

"it's unfair that it's not them," hen acknowledges. "but they mentioned you in their will, didn't they? they trusted you."

buck snorts. "yeah," he says, then, in a lower voice-- "if i had a nickel for every time..." hen, wisely, decides not to pursue that. "but they weren't actually gonna let me-- if it weren't for the fact that there was nobody else--"

"but there was nobody else," hen interrupts him, because she can see the spiral beginning in his throat. "so it's you."

"how did you and karen know?" buck asks her. "that you could-- that you were ready?"

hen thinks about her baby, her babies, both the ones that are with her now and the ones that aren't. the long nights, the research, the talks that ended in tears or furious whispers or distances that felt too far to breach, sometimes. sometimes she looks at denny and thinks about what a miracle it is that he's here. sometimes she looks at mara and wonders at her own selfishness, for being so glad to have her, even though it meant so much suffering had to happen.

she looks at buck, and says: "we didn't. we decided that we wanted to build this life, that's all. the ready part comes afterwards."

buck absorbs that, and she can see the little furrow of his brows that means that he's carving her words onto his heart. he comes over next to her, leaning on the fence close, shoes knocking together. he leans his curls on her shoulder, shuffling down to fit. she lets him, because he was once this lanky kid who watched her put an iv in like she was pure magic, and the awe has never quite left his eyes when he looks at her.

"i feel like-- i was ready to let go, you know?" he murmurs, voice soft between them. "like you said: donor, not dad."

hen nods, cheek brushing against his curls. she remembers that conversation, the satisfaction of being able to focus on his problems, to provide a solution that she didn't have in her life, back then. she should've known that life would turn out far stranger and more complicated than her pithy phrase.

"and now you might be both," she finishes his thought.

a long exhale. "and now i might be both."

when harry had called buck theo's dad, hen had been the only one to correct him-- his biological father. she had remembered that conversation, then. how hesitant buck had been. her own reservations.

"do you want to be both?" she asks, because that part is important, too.

"yes-- no--" buck shakes his head. "i don't know."

hen thinks about buck bringing theo down from the electrical tower. he'd been charmed by theo, but only in the same way all of them were, only in the easy way buck connected to any kid on a call. it wasn't an instant connection or a biological imperative, just buck being buck, empathizing with a kid a little too hard, loving a little too easily.

love, for hen, has always been series of choices. sometimes easy, sometimes difficult. it's the nature of existing the way she does, in the world that she has to navigate. she's had years to come to terms with it. buck doesn't quite have that kind of time.

"that's okay," she says, still. "you don't have to know right now. this isn't-- it doesn't have to be permanent."

"i don't want to make the wrong choice," buck says, quietly. "i don't want him to ever-- feel like i did. unchosen."

hen nudges him with her elbow, making him wiggle a little. "you won't," she says, confident. "you know why?"

buck raises his head a little to look at her, all little-kid curiosity. she smiles.

"because there's only one thing you have to do to not mess this up," she says. "and you're there already."

buck blinks at her. "doing all the paperwork properly?"

hen laughs. shoves him a little, looks over all the things that buck has prepared for a little boy he'd been ready to let go of, if that's what he needed.