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It should have been him.
It always should have been him.
It was the inscrutable, irrefutable truth he had carried with him for years, a niggling little thought that would often rage into a full-fledged inferno, still tormenting him with nightmares that would leave the scent of alcohol smothering him, the itch of soot scraping beneath his nails, the taste of ash and half-dissolved pills heavy on his tongue.
148 people.
148 innocent people.
All because he had been too careless, too lost to temptation to notice, to intervene, before the worst came to pass.
He saved Amir. In spite of everything, he had crawled and clawed his way through the desert, the weight merely a physical manifestation of all the regret he had been shouldering for years, and he saved him.
But it wasn't enough.
148 souls were sent to their afterlives, to their own versions of Paradise or rest or reset.
Yet how many others had survived that evening from Hell?
He had been so desperate to repent, to atone for each and every loss, that he never thought of the survivors.
How many others were walking the Earth, permanently scarred because of him?
He didn't deserve the love he was shown. He didn't deserve the amazing, beautiful, brilliant woman at his side. He didn't deserve Harry and May, his team, this family.
For so long, he had been resistant to their attempts to get closer to him, continued to keep himself at a comfortable distance even as they welcomed him into their lives.
Chim, with his laughter and his kind eyes and his reckless, endless drive to help.
Hen, with her wisdom, her strength, her unshaking, fierce determination to care.
For years, he managed to evade their questions, slipping away from their attention before they could find a weakness in his armor. He was friendly, always willing to bend a listening ear- fond of them even then, but he refused to let anyone get too close. He was more than halfway through his list, and he didn't need his bad decisions causing another disastrous fallout.
Keeping them at a distance became easier, and Bobby was growing more and more certain of his path with each new soul he managed to save.
Then Evan Buckley came barreling into his life, and the future Bobby had so meticulously planned was spiraling away from him.
In spite of himself, in spite of his resolve to never get attached, to remain aloof, Bobby was drawn in. He saw himself in the kid, saw a version of himself from before…
Well.
Before.
Somehow Buck managed to shoulder his way past the walls Boddy'd carefully built, and kept squeezing his way further in, pushing until he had firmly established himself as a fixed point in Bobby's life; he formed a united front with Chim and Hen, and suddenly, almost without his knowing, the three of them had wormed their way into the gaping hole in Bobby's heart, and he had a family again.
Buck, however, in that gung-ho way he approached everything when it came to the people he loved, kept inching further past Bobby's defenses, stubbornly refusing to leave.
Bobby saw something in him, saw something in this punk ass kid that made him keep giving him more and more chances, even if back then he couldn't explain the why. Just like he couldn't fully understand why each "Hey, Pops!" in that first year ached like a phantom limb.
Back then, Bobby lacked the self-awareness to comprehend why it was the damn kid who ended up pushing his buttons so much, and how it was Buck who ended up being the one to finally shatter his self-restraint.
He hated thinking back on that moment.
He hated remembering how he essentially threw Evan into the wall, how the all-consuming rage and desperation and dread compounded with the weight of his regret and all that damned guilt to trigger something reminiscent of terror in the kid's eyes.
In one terrible moment of weakness, Bobby had become his own father, and he couldn't cope.
He was certain that if Hen and Buck hadn't shown up when they did, if they hadn't been his saving grace, he would have succumbed to the one temptation that had been tormenting him since Minnesota. Since Marcy. Since Robbie. Since Brooke.
Much later, what now felt a lifetime ago in a parking lot somewhere off Route 15, Buck had confided that in his dream, in "the coma dream," Bobby had gone through with it, before Buck was suddently changing the subject, promptly declaring that Bobby was his dad in every way that mattered.
Bobby had known for a while how he felt about the kid- which was apparently abundantly clear to those who knew him best- but to hear the whispered confession hovering in the arid evening air, to find out that it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part?
His world had shifted on its axis.
It was enough, then, to encourage him to crawl out of that dark place, to climb back into the light.
Eventually, he got his retribution, fondly sighing out a “My son is a dumbass,” in the spice aisle of their favorite supermarket. Months later, and Bobby still wasn’t sure if the look on Evan’s face was from his 20-years-too-late epiphany over sea salt or if it was because of Bobby’s comment; he liked pretending it was the latter.
Life was good, for a time. He was at peace again; he was happy.
But then all of his sins- the ones which still left him gasping in the middle of the night- were being hauled out into the open, and he could only sit there while all the suffering he had caused was being laid bare before him, the evidence clear in Amir’s voice and carved into his features.
No names needed to be said.
No details needed to be confirmed.
Bobby knew.
God, did he know.
Bobby knew that this life he had built, this joy he had found, should have never come to fruition.
He didn't deserve it.
How could he possibly allow himself any happiness when there were still people bearing the scars from his actions? How could he ever think that he was worthy of a better life when 148 stories were cut short, when dozens of families were still in mourning, when he was still responsible for so much pain, even after all these years?
It was the simple, inscrutable, irrefutable truth that he had spent the better half of a decade trying to run away from: he didn’t deserve any of it.
And he definitely didn't deserve a goddamn medal for heroism.
He hadn’t been prepared for it, stepping forward and stuttering out a begrudging acceptance he hoped sounded somewhat coherent, desperately tried to turn the attention back to his team.
His team, both the old and the new, who risked their lives and careers to come find him.
He had never been more proud of them, more grateful for them, than that day at sea.
They were the heroes.
His team.
Athena.
The ship's crew who had risked everything yet couldn’t be saved.
He wasn't.
He was not.
That was the breaking point, the final push that sent him careening off the cliff's edge.
That was the moment he realized he would never be allowed to atone.
Not so long as he was here, bound to his obligations and duties.
He had done his part, repaired a broken home, but it was time for him to move on.
He hadn’t expected his announcement to receive so much pushback, hadn't anticipated that his decision would earn the Chief's vehement protests, each refusal layered in confused apprehension, scarcely concealing a thread of concern Bobby resolutely ignored.
He wasn’t worried about the future of Station 118.
He had built a good crew; Hen was more than qualified to take the helm, a copy of her captaincy exam scores sitting in the middle drawer of his desk.
And in spite of what certain others may have wished to protest, Bobby was fully cognizant of what he was demanding.
Eventually, finally, he convinced Simpson to agree- after a repeated argument for and against him instead taking an extended leave of absence- and Bobby felt like he could breathe again.
Athena, even in all her wisdom, didn't understand. Couldn't understand.
He wished he could articulate everything running through his head, wished he could pull it all out, set every broken piece on the table in front of her, let her analyze each and every detail, give her all the clues she would need to finally solve The Mystery of Robert Wade Nash.
Maybe then she could finally understand, maybe then she would finally accept that he would never be worthy of those praises, that he would never deserve to be called a hero, not until he was able to recompense for each and every one of his many, many sins.
She was trying, and he loved her for it. But even more, he hated himself for the growing wariness in her eyes, hated himself for making her carry even a microgram of his grief.
They danced around each other throughout the following few days, two specters haunting the same space, passing silently on their way to work or to the store or any of the dozens of errands that gave either of them an excuse to be apart.
Bobby knew they would come together again, eventually, and he would make more of an effort to be there, but he still had a few shifts to get through, and that brought a whole other challenge he wasn't quite sure how to deal with.
He resolutely refused to tell the team about the resignation.
He wasn’t worthy of a fanfare, or teary goodbyes, or a loud parting. He especially wanted to avoid the interrogations the announcement would bring.
So he bid his farewells quietly, slowly, meeting with everyone throughout the final few shifts, making sure to share at least one private moment, one final memory, with each and every member in his House.
He had no choice but to save his team for last, more for a sense of self-preservation than anything else, knowing that, given enough time, they would start swapping notes and before he could say “Minnesota Wilds,” they'd be ganging up on him, demanding to know what the hell he was thinking.
He couldn't risk them talking him out of it.
Hen especially, with all her wisdom and warmth, would have seen through him immediately, and wouldn't have hesitated to press him for answers.
He had to tread carefully when it came time for her goodbye, keeping his words light, choosing the ones he hoped could provide her some comfort while also reminding her just how much she'd come to mean to him.
He had nothing but absolute faith in her, her tenacity and resilience two of her greatest strengths. And beneath it all was an endless patience and capacity for love, a cornerstone so strong and unshaking that he was often left in awe of it. He was so damn grateful she had shared that with him, had been so steadfast in her resolve to break through the barricade, teaching him that it was okay to show his hand, to have faith in others, and to let love in when he needed it most.
His voice hitched despite his best efforts, and for a second, he could see a flicker of recognition, the same shimmer of curiosity and worry she had been sending his way since his return from the desert. Thinking fast, he smothered that spark of interest before she would inevitably “chase the R.A.B.B.I.T"- as Harry was always saying.
The “Mother Hen” moniker, one she had picked up over the years, one she herself had never denied, served as the perfect distraction, and offered a not-so-subtle hint of the path ahead, should she choose to take it. He hoped she would; he had already submitted his recommendation for her promotion to Captain, knew that the team, the entire 118, would only flourish under her leadership.
There were still so many things he wanted to share with Ravi, their newest, their youngest. Ravi had taken them all by surprise, weaving his way into their little entourage so seamlessly that it was almost admirable.
None of them had been prepared when he had showed up during their treasure hunt, but in the moments that followed Bobby proudly found himself thinking: “Of course. Of course Ravi figured it out; he's one of ours.”
Ravi was coming into his own nicely, already surpassing every expectation that had been put in front of him, and Bobby just knew he'd continue to keep surprising them all in the years ahead.
He felt a twinge of regret that he wouldn't be there to see it, wouldn't be able to offer advice or watch him climb even higher, wouldn't be around to see the team's reactions as Ravi dropped more and more convoluted, ridiculous backstories at their feet.
Though he would no longer be in Ravi's life, he could still at least teach him one final trick, a tip that had been passed down from his Captain back when Bobby was still fresh from the Academy, flailing desperately for a foothold on the rocky path before him.
He had seen Eddie struggling for some time, and he had done his best to serve as both a sounding board and confidante in the past few months. He hated that the man was spiraling in real-time, the weight of loss and guilt slowly crushing him.
Bobby yearned to stay, to be there to help guide him through the valley of shadows, to help him weather the storm ahead, but The Plan was already in motion, and there was no turning back.
Finding a moment alone with him was, as always, a challenge, as Buck-and-Eddie were a solitary unit composed of two equal parts, the pair thick as thieves since that dang grenade. It took a sizable distraction to get Buck away, and Bobby finally had his moment.
He didn't know every detail, didn't know exactly which demons Eddie was fighting. But he recognized the doubt, the guilt, the internal conflict; he knew them as intimately as he knew his own. Maybe it was a cruelty, leaving even while knowing Eddie would be left floundering with his faith and his role, forsaking him when he would most need an ally. But Bobby couldn't stay, so he armed him for the fight ahead with the only weapon in his arsenal, praying Eddie would find his own way to wield it.
Chimney appeared at his side before Bobby could come up with a proper goodbye, joining him to watch the team dance around each other in the kitchen. Chim’d always been perceptive, always had a knack for knowing when his loved ones were struggling with something heavy, and while his presence would often be a balm to his restive soul, Bobby only felt the tension thrumming in his bones.
And maybe Chim could sense that too, because in a singular breath he was rumbling out a quip and a compliment on Bobby's behalf, pressing his palm flat against his back, the warmth seeping all the way to his bones. But Bobby hadn't braced himself for the contact, and Chimney turned to him with a question already forming, concern clear in his eyes.
Another Hail Mary, and Bobby was cracking a joke about how Chim should be over helping in the kitchen. His declaration was loud enough to carry across the loft, catching the attention of some of the team relaxing in the small lounge, the comment garnering no less than seven of his firefighters protesting in various levels of exaggerated disgust and amusement.
Chim was sufficiently affronted- and more importantly distracted- pouting to such a degree Bobby couldn't help barking out a laugh, taking his turn to squeeze Chim's shoulder, an epistle of gratitude for the years of the joy and kindness the man had shared with him, as he still hadn't a clue how to truly express how much he'd come to care for him.
Then there was the Buck of it all.
He should have known saying goodbye to Buck would be one of the hardest things he would ever have to do.
He should have known that if anyone, anyone, could convince him to change his mind, it would be Buck.
Leaving the kid was the final challenge, the singular threat to all of his plans, the one spark of resistance his conscience couldn't smother.
His first attempt, as always seemed to be, was through cooking.
For years, Bobby had been his teacher, sharing with him the one direct act of love Bobby could dare allow himself when it came to the kid. He taught him recipes handed down from his grandparents, from his mother, recipes he had learned from Marcy and Athena and Michael and some very obscure internet forums on those late nights when he just needed some kind of distraction.
Food had become their common language, logging hours of practice together over the past few years.
Bobby had started out simple, beginning with the science behind pancakes- specifically the pancakes Grandpa Nash had made on Saturday mornings before he would take Bobby and Charlie out fishing for the day. With the precise measurements of nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla, a perfect harmony to the chaotic cacophony which could come from choosing one's toppings, Buck's interest was piqued.
It was an easy lesson, the kid a fast learner, and his fascination had only grown from there. His intense interest in learning everything only helped, and it wasn't long before Bobby was teaching Buck every family recipe he could still remember.
Even when apart, they still seemed to share the same space; sometimes the urge to cook would hit them both at the same time, hopping onto a video-chat to pass the time faster. Sometimes, Bobby would come home with Buck's messy sprawls on bizarrely shaped sticky notes, bearing a recipe he had picked up from the Diaz’ family or a local restaurant. And sometimes, one of them would arrive at the firehouse with a stylized note-card, a permanent recipe to go in their matching recipe boxes.
Cooking was their lingua franca, and Buck had become more than fluent in the years since Bobby had first taken him under his tutelage, the kid composing sonnets and scribbling homilies all his own.
The recipe he chose for him today was a challenging one, one he knew would require a whole team of helping hands, and Bobby fought back a laugh watching everyone trying to pitch in, squeezing together to share the workspace while carefully following Buck's meticulous instructions.
Bobby couldn't fight back his smile as he watched Buck take the time to help the others when they asked, displaying incredible patience and pride as he walked them through each step.
Bobby felt a rush of pride all his own. That was his legacy; he taught him that.
The meal came out perfectly; Bobby knew it would. Buck had come so far, and had a whole family to help him now.
Watching Buck settle in his seat, quietly relieved when everyone began digging in, Bobby thought that this would be enough, that his seal of approval and encouragement would be enough to offer as a farewell. He wanted to believe that the bliss of this moment would be strong enough to serve as a warm memory for the kid to look back on later, to find comfort in The After.
But the pending departure weighed on him all evening, and Bobby still felt unsettled.
The end of the shift was drawing near, and the doubts were swirling around yet again, and he couldn't-
He couldn't just abandon the kid.
Not when Evan had a lifetime filled with people leaving him with no explanation, not when the memory of losing Robbie and Brooke was so fresh, not when Bobby was wishing all over again that he could have told them he loved them just one more time, could have given them a proper goodbye.
He couldn't leave Evan wondering.
He wouldn't betray anyone else.
He had wandered into the locker room without a clue as to what he was going to say, hours spent in deliberation not helping him come up with a coherent plan.
But this was Buck, and Buck deserved the truth.
He deserved to know how proud Bobby was.
But then Buck was rewriting the script, leaving him floundering, and all of his half-rehearsed platitudes crumbled into dust. Buck's earnest and fond declaration, a demand really, for seven more years together had left Bobby stranded, and for a moment, for just a moment, he wondered if he should abort his mission entirely.
But The Plan had already been put in motion, and he couldn't let anything interrupt it.
He frantically sought out a way to change the subject, Buck's overnight bag a blessing he hadn't realized he had been praying for.
Based on the way Buck shied away, Bobby should have told him a lot sooner about how much faith he had in him, and how he knew- from his own memories of Tommy and the light that was in Evan's eyes- that Buck had finally found a good one.
Seeing Buck's relieved smile was enough to solidify Bobby's resolve; his son was going to be just fine.
Bobby had almost made his escape when he heard Buck calling after him, and in spite of him wishing he could leave things as they were- Bobby could never leave the kid hanging.
Buck was giving him That Look again, the piercing perceptiveness that he wore whenever he was trying to piece together whatever energy he was sensing coming from his loved ones, his curiosity and compassion making it impossible for him to ever let things go.
Bobby'd been on the receiving end of That Look a lot as of late, and he'd done everything in his power to keep Evan from poking and prodding and pressing his buttons until he found the one that would make the truth come tumbling out.
But for a moment...
For just a moment, Bobby hoped Evan did decide to finally give voice to his questions and concerns, alongside whatever other complicated, seeming unrelated thoughts were spinning around his head.
He almost hoped Evan had finally seen past the cracks in his mask, that he would carefully pry it away, would finally ask why Bobby had been so out of sorts for the past few weeks.
He wasn't prepared for what Buck offered him instead.
The hesitation.
The soft trepidation.
Evan was speaking with a tenderness that, seven years ago, most would have thought him incapable of. It caught him off-guard, especially when Bobby caught the scratch in Buck’s voice, the worry threading itself in his words.
It was as if Buck knew, as if he was somehow aware of the finality of this moment.
Bobby's resolve was falling apart at the seams, and he could feel heat starting to rise to his cheeks, saw the shadows on the edge of his vision distorting through the sheen of gathering tears.
In a perfect life, in a better world, Bobby's retirement wouldn't have been a closing door for anyone, particularly his team. He would still be pulled into the gravity well of their chaos, would still have them knocking on his door at all hours of the day and night, would have kept heckling all of them for ideas on how to spend his newfound free time, and, in all likelihood, he’d have begun hosting a lot more family events.
In a perfect world, their lives would always be woven together.
Ravi would keep their Monday breakfasts. Buck would show up seemingly at random (yet always conveniently when Bobby didn’t have plans with Athena or the kids) to drag him God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. Eddie would ask for, and receive, Bobby’s unwavering support, even when the man was being painfully stupid with some of his choices. Chim and Hen would have alternated in when and how they would show up- likely with exasperation that one of the Buckley siblings didn’t know about a certain movie- “I need vindication, Bobby! I can’t let my baby girl be raised by someone so uncultured!” and in the form of the tequila-infused frustrations over a late night infomercial- “And then she slaps this ‘Miracle Mender’ on the guy's hand, and Cap that- That's not how it works! That's not how any of this works!”
But this wasn't a perfect world, he was far from a perfect man, and these relationships he had built were riddled with imperfections, fragile castles made of sand. The tide was rolling in, and the once strong foundations were crumbling all around him.
Or maybe that was just Bobby.
Bobby, who couldn’t express how much he was hurting, who couldn't reveal to anyone how much he was struggling, who couldn’t even frame a goddamned goodbye to his loved ones in meaningful ways.
He was fully imperfect.
But he could still try to find the perfect words. He could try to fond the perfect way to show just how damn important the kid had become, how proud he was of this brave, perceptive, compassionate young man.
This man, who had chased him three hours through a desert just because he cared. The man who had come back screaming into the wreckage of a sinking plane, ready to sacrifice himself if it meant saving him. The man who had made a habit of shoving his way into Bobby's life at some of its darkest moments, dragging him kicking and screaming back into the light.
Buck was the first real friend he had found in The After, a friend who had become something so much more, yet Bobby still didn't have the strength to say the words the kid actually needed to hear.
Instead, Bobby poured as much affection as he could in his voice, and offered the most grateful smile he could manage, praying that someday, after Evan had time to process and adapt, he would understand the weight behind his next words: "It's been my pleasure, kid."
The firehouse AC was set, yet again, to the coldest possible setting (a decade-long point of contention between A and B-Shifts), and a chill settled deep in his bones as he moseyed from the office out into the bay. The lights were dimmed, B-shift resting before their first call, and the place was mostly deserted.
So many memories came to mind, overlapping, blending softly together, most full of warmth and laughter and some with just a touch of bitterness. But it was good, the feeling bittersweet, and it soothed him knowing just how far the station had come.
He had built something good here, and he knew, with Hen soon to take the helm, the 118 was going to remain in good hands.
For as difficult as saying his goodbyes to the team had been, there was one person on the farewell tour he never should have underestimated.
Oh ‘Thena...
His brilliant, beautiful Athena.
His heart shattered when he came home to find Amir downstairs, a fresh twist of remorse and resignation ripping through his already tattered spirit; he couldn't even begin to imagine the pain Amir was going through.
He hadn't intended to lose control, hadn't planned on letting the ire slip out, but she was pushing and pushing all over again, until finally- finally- he snapped.
It was their worst fight in years.
All of his anger and self-loathing tumbled out, and for the first time he finally admitted aloud- to himself, to Athena, to God, the Saints, and the Heavenly Host- what he had really intended to do, what he had always planned to do when he finally balanced the scales again.
And really, now that the dam had burst open, now that he had finally turned his focus inward, some part of him knew that he still had every intention of seeing it through.
Athena was right to worry about him.
But he didn't deserve it.
She was angry and hurt and scared, for him, because of him, and he didn't deserve any of it.
She didn’t deserve what he was putting her through.
It would have been a mercy if he had died in his sleep; it was a miracle he didn't.
Saving her was instinctive.
It was the calling written into his soul, it was the legacy that flowed through his veins, it was the drive that had kept him fighting for years.
He was born to serve, to protect, to save.
But even in another life, he would always try to find her, to save her.
She was more to him than Life itself.
The world was going to Hell all around them, everything consumed by flame and fury, but he pushed on; so long as there was breath in his lungs and strength in his body, he would fight for her.
The cool night air was almost enough to choke him, scraping through the damage to his sinuses and making every inch of his skin itch at the growing awareness of exposure burns peppering his skin.
But he was too focused on bringing her back to give a damn.
He may have been crying between breaths, may have been screaming himself raw with each chest compression, thoughts tumbling into a chaotic frenzy of desperate prayers and half-formed hopes and anxious pleas to let him take her place, to give her back.
It wasn't supposed to be Athena.
Never, never Athena.
It was supposed to be him.
But he wasn't ready anymore.
He needed her back.
He needed her.
Years ago, he had listened to her nearly die on the radio, heard every blow, could do nothing but listen to every grunt and hiss and cry as she fought to stay alive, hunting down a monster only to be ambushed in his lair.
When the gunshot echoed through Dispatch, when the ringing ricocheted through the LAPD and LAFD and every radio transponder in the city- He thought he had lost her.
He began to mourn her before they had even finished pulling into the parking lot, trying in vain to brace himself for a world without her.
But he knew then he would never be ready, could never be ready, just as he knew he could never survive in a world without her in it.
He gave another two breaths, then resumed compressions.
"Come on!"
He heard sirens in the distance, a balm to the numbness hovering around the edges. Help was coming, someone with better tools and a better chance at reaching her.
But he couldn't stop; he'd never stop.
"Wake up-"
He felt one of her ribs give out on him, felt the cracking under his palm and silently offered an apology for the pain recovery would bring, especially as he felt another shatter under the pressure.
But broken ribs could heal.
Houses could be rebuilt.
They could talk things through, come out of this patch stronger than they were before.
He could go back into therapy, and he could fix all of this-
But only if she was by his side.
"'Thena!"
He was frantic, and if it wasn't for decades of muscle memory working in his favor, he was sure he would have collapsed there beside her, his torso screaming in agony at the strain, his lungs begging for a reprieve, senses overwhelmed by the smell, the taste, the weight of soot and ash and smoke.
"C'mon! Dammit, Athena; don't you dare-"
Watching her come back to life was a miracle in itself; watching her eyes frantically seeking then softening upon finding him was a salvation all its own.
He barely had a moment to allow his world to settle, to take in his wife- his true north, his guiding light- coughing, gasping, breathing- before the paramedics were rushing in, the grass around them dancing with the crimson and scarlet of the engine lights and the vicious flames tearing through their home.
Oh.
Goddamn.
The fire.
Somehow, somehow he found the strength to stumble back to his feet, staggering his way forward, almost entranced.
It wasn't the same as before, not this time.
Athena was safe.
Athena was coughing beside him, ripped away from Death's grasp, carefully being loaded onto a backboard, and getting prepped for transport.
Athena was safe.
May and Harry and Michael and David were safe.
His family was safe.
Athena…
Athena was safe and she was alive and-
Alive.
Athena was alive.
Blessedly, miraculously, alive.
The adrenaline started to seep away, and he was becoming acutely aware that the sharp pain in his chest wasn't just from muscle strain, the aching not just from smoke inhalation. He only had a second to panic before the screaming from his senses engulfed him, his entire body alight with agony.
He stumbled again, tried to call out to her, but this time his vision was falling out of focus, darkness swiftly sweeping in from the sidelines, rapidly forcing him into submission.
Distantly, he heard someone shouting his name, but the world was pressing in on him from all sides- choking him, suffocating him, crushing him- before it all began to fade away, slipping from his awareness softly as smoke.
Figures.
Just when he was ready to start living again.
It was finally him.
*