Work Text:
Buck hated paperwork.
That was the part nobody saw.
Everyone at the 118 knew Evan Buckley as the guy who could run into a burning building without hesitation, who could improvise a rescue with half the information and somehow make it work. They knew him as the firefighter who remembered every detail of a victim’s story, every face, every name.
But put a clipboard in front of him?
Suddenly Buck felt like he was five years old again.
He stared at the incident report on his desk, pencil tapping against the paper.
Patient count: 4.
Simple.
Four people.
A number a child could write.
Buck had already written it three times.
The first time he wrote 6.
The second time he wrote 3.
The third time he had stared at it so long that the numbers seemed to move around on the page.
“Buck?”
He jumped, quickly covering the paper.
Bobby stood beside the desk, coffee in hand.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Buck said too quickly. “Fine.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow.
He had known Buck long enough to know that “fine” usually meant the exact opposite.
“Why have you been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes?”
Buck looked away.
“I’m just tired.”
Bobby didn’t push.
Not then.
But he noticed.
He noticed how Buck avoided reading things out loud during briefings. He noticed how Buck would ask Eddie to check reports before submitting them. He noticed how Buck would get frustrated when everyone else seemed to understand something that he couldn’t.
And Bobby remembered something Buck had said years ago.
“I’m not stupid, Bobby. I know I’m not stupid. But sometimes I feel like my brain is fighting me.”
A few days later, Bobby found Buck sitting alone at the kitchen table at the station.
Everyone else was in the gym.
Buck had a stack of papers in front of him.
Bobby watched for a moment.
Buck wasn’t doing paperwork.
He was trying.
There was a difference.
His brow was furrowed, his shoulders tense, and he kept erasing the same answer over and over.
“Buck.”
Buck looked up.
“Oh. Hey, Cap.”
“What are you working on?”
“Nothing.”
Bobby sat down across from him.
“Buck.”
The younger man sighed.
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Try me.”
Buck looked down at the paper.
“I have trouble with numbers.”
Bobby waited.
“And reading sometimes,” Buck admitted quietly. “Words move around. I skip lines. I know what things say, but my brain doesn’t always put it together properly.”
Bobby’s expression softened.
“Buck…”
“I know firefighters are supposed to be smart.”
“Buck.”
“I’m not saying I’m not smart,” Buck rushed out. “I know I’m good at my job. I know I can do rescues. But paperwork? Tests? Anything with numbers? I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.”
Bobby leaned forward.
“Have you ever been tested?”
Buck shook his head.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Buck shrugged.
“Because everyone just thought I wasn’t trying hard enough.”
That sentence hurt Bobby more than he expected.
Because Buck said it like he believed it.
The next week, Bobby quietly arranged for Buck to get evaluated.
Buck was nervous.
Actually, nervous was an understatement.
He was terrified.
“What if they tell me I’m just bad at this?” Buck asked.
Bobby looked at him.
“Buck, listen to me.”
Buck met his eyes.
“You are one of the most capable people I know. A diagnosis doesn’t change that. It just explains why some things are harder.”
Buck swallowed.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
When the results came back, Buck sat in Bobby’s office.
The paper was on the desk between them.
Dyslexia.
Dyscalculia.
Buck stared at the words.
“So my brain really is different.”
Bobby nodded.
“Yes.”
Buck looked disappointed.
Bobby continued.
“But different doesn’t mean broken.”
Buck looked up.
“You actually believe that?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
For a moment, Buck was quiet.
Then he laughed softly.
“All those years I thought I was just bad at school.”
“You weren’t bad at school.”
“I failed math twice.”
“You struggled with the way it was taught.”
Buck looked at the paper again.
“So what now?”
“Now we figure out what works for you.”
Bobby became determined.
Not in a way that embarrassed Buck.
In a way that made Buck realize someone was finally on his side.
They changed little things.
Buck used a coloured ruler to help him follow lines when reading reports.
He started using a calculator without feeling ashamed.
Bobby helped him organize paperwork into smaller sections.
Instead of saying:
“Finish the report.”
Bobby said:
“Let’s do one section.”
Buck learned that writing things down helped. That listening while reading helped. That taking his time wasn’t the same as failing.
The team noticed.
Especially Eddie.
“You seem less stressed,” Eddie said one evening.
Buck smiled.
“Bobby helped me figure something out.”
Eddie looked over at Bobby.
“Of course he did.”
Bobby rolled his eyes.
“I’m sitting right here.”
A few weeks later, Buck was filling out a report after a difficult call.
The victim had been a child.
It had shaken him.
Normally, paperwork after a call like that would have felt impossible.
But this time, Bobby found him halfway through.
“You’re doing it.”
Buck looked up.
“What?”
“You’re doing the report.”
Buck looked down at the page.
A small smile appeared.
“Yeah.”
Bobby nodded.
“You know what I’m proud of?”
Buck raised an eyebrow.
“My amazing handwriting?”
Bobby smiled.
“No.”
Buck laughed.
“I’m proud that you stopped treating your struggles like they were something to hide.”
Buck became quiet.
“I spent so long thinking I had to pretend.”
“You never had to pretend with me.”
That hit harder than Bobby expected.
Buck looked down, blinking quickly.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Bobby froze for half a second.
Then he smiled.
“Anytime, son.”
Later that night, Eddie found Buck sitting on the couch with his paperwork finished.
“All done?”
Buck held up the folder.
“All done.”
Eddie grinned.
“I knew you could do it.”
Buck leaned into him.
“Bobby says my brain works differently.”
Eddie kissed the top of his head.
“He’s right.”
Buck smiled.
“And that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “It is.”
Because Buck wasn’t a bad firefighter.
He wasn’t lazy.
He wasn’t stupid.
He was Buck.
And Bobby had spent years making sure Buck knew that was more than enough.