#and he gets competitive over doing brain teasers with bob on their breaks

[cherrydreamer]

It starts with a microwave.

Susan's microwave.

Susan's fancy-ass fucking brand new microwave that Neil had so smugly given her as a birthday gift only yesterday. The one that he'd then gone on to give a whole damn speech about, making sure the whole family- especially Billy- knew just how expensive it was, how it was a 'top of the line' product and should be treated as such, how they needed to make sure it was always wiped out after every single use and how they best not do anything dumb, like trying to reheat chicken on the soup setting. 

That microwave.

The one that Max had, of course, somehow managed to break, her stupid, clumsy hands jabbing at the buttons until one of them stuck down and the timer went all weird and the fucking thing wouldn't stop beeping until Billy wrenched the plug out of the socket.

That fucking microwave.

And Billy knows that he's getting the blame. Because that's how it works. Because, even though it's not his fault, Billy is the one who's gonna get it in the neck for this, even though he'd told Max, he'd fucking told her, that if she just waited five goddamn minutes for him to finish his workout, then he'd sort out some dinner for both of them. But she just couldn't. She just had to rush on in and break it and ruin his whole fucking night and-

It doesn't matter.

Billy reminds himself of that fact. It doesn't matter how it happened because it's happened. Neil and Susan went out for their special fancy meal and Billy didn't watch Max closely enough and Max broke Susan's brand new microwave and, as soon as he finds out, Neil is going to break Billy.

It's fucked.

Everything is fucked.

Billy, most of all, is fucked.

Except. Maybe he isn't.

Because when the disorientation of the initial panic starts to ebb, giving way to an all too familiar clench of cold fear, Billy is suddenly granted an idea. A slight glimmer of hope. And he knows he can't afford to replace the thing, but maybe a repair could be manageable. Doable. It'll probably wipe out all his savings, the wad of cash he keeps under the seat of the Camaro and that he's pinned a whole load of his future hopes on, but hey, if Neil comes back and finds out what Billy's done, then his chance of a decent future is looking mighty slim as it is.

So Billy has a plan. Sort of. He heaves the microwave into his arms and hauls it out of the kitchen, yelling back at Max to grab the trailing cord clattering along the counter, and he manages not to drop it the whole way down the steps and then he's placing it into the passenger seat of the Camaro, taking more care of it than any actual passenger he's ever had, and then, with Max in the back, he high tails it all the way to the Hawkins' high street, screeching to a stop right outside of Radio Shack.

And it's closed. Of course it's closed. The real, definite, 'sign flipped and shutters down' kind of closed. Of course it is.

Because that's the kind of night Billy's having. And, ok, maybe he loses it a little and aims a frustrated kick against the door and maybe he pounds against the shutters and yells a few obscenities at the well locked door for good measure.

But hey, who can blame him?

And he's just about to turn around, head back to the Camaro and either drive home to face his fears, or just carry on driving right outta Hawkins, just him and Max and a kidnapped microwave that he might manage to hawk for gas money. He hasn't decided yet.

But for once, someone's looking out for Billy. Because, despite the store being closed, there's a sudden flown of a light flicking on behind the shutters, and then the door is opening and the chubby face of Bob Newby is right there, peering out at them with a bemused expression,

"Now guys, I know we've just got the new Flavoradio in but you kids really don't have to go beating down the door to get it, they'll all still be there tomorrow."

But Billy's already back at the Camaro, lugging the microwave out, raising a surprised sounding chuckle from Bob and an amused retort, "Careful there, sport, that looks like a weighty one." And then Bob's off, chatting away like he and Billy are old friends. Like Billy actually gives a shit about the crap he's rambling on about, "That how you get those muscles, huh, lifting appliances? Cause, that'll do it. Some of the guys in our warehouse? Arms like Schwarzenegger. Not quite the same for us store guys though-" he pauses, patting his gut and smiling, "Although I can't deny that the old brain cells do get a fair workout now and again."

Billy really doesn't have time for this, and, for all Bob's stupid jokes, the microwave is fucking heavy, one sharp corner of it digging right into the crook of his arm, so he's a little harsher than he means to be when he says, "Look, I really need this thing fixing. Tonight." But he quickly manages to tack on a, "Please?" when Bob's eyebrows start to raise.

"Well, now, Mister," Bob sucks his teeth, and tilts his head, "this is Radio Shack, and this thing sure as sugar isn't a radio. And technically, we're not even open."

Billy's heart starts to sink. Plummet, actually, aiming to land somewhere deep down to his feet, but then Bob's smiling again, "But hey, I won't tell if you don't."

And then he winks, ushering Billy and Max inside. He gestures for Billy to put the microwave down on the counter as he pulls a tiny, plastic case from out of his shirt pocket, opening it up and selecting a tiny screwdriver from a whole row of them, tapping the silvery end of it lightly against the microwave's control panel.

"And it just so happens-" Bob wiggles the screwdriver back and forth, tongue poking out from between his teeth as he concentrates on getting the angle just right, "-that I have some personal experience with this model. There's a bit of a design flaw with the, uh, the plastic edge here, right by the buttons, you see?" He taps the screwdriver on the place he means, smiling even more when Billy finally leans in to look, "Press it with a little bit too much force, and you might just find that it tends to jam right up, especially if someone touches it with sticky hands." Bob aims a knowing nod at where Max stands browsing over by the personal stereos, "But it's nothing that can't be fixed when you know how. In fact..."

Bob purses his lips, looking back down at the control panel and then up at Billy. He nods, seemingly to himself, and then he pulls the screwdriver away, holding it out, handle first, to Billy, "Why don't you do it?"

Billy shakes his head, "Nah, no way, I'll just fuck it up even more.

"No you won't," Bob sounds so certain of that fact, and Billy has no idea why, until he continues, "Because I'll help you. Teach you. So you do it and then if it happens again, well, you won't need to lug this thing all across town."

It's sensible, really, Billy thinks. Knowing Max, this is unlikely to be a one-time occurrence. And he can just imagine the look on Neil's face if Billy is the one to save the day. Hell, he thinks, his dad might even be proud of him. It'd be good, Billy thinks, really good.

So he takes the screwdriver. He listens to Bob's calm, measured instructions. He follows them. He listens a bit more. He pokes at the button. He jiggles it. He twists it. He nudges it.

It doesn't budge.

He nudges it again.

Nothing. If anything, it looks even flatter.

Billy throws the screwdriver down on the counter with a clatter, "I can't do it. I can't fucking-"

"You can, you've got it, look it's almost there," Bob's voice is patient. Reassuring. He picks the screwdriver back up, pressing it into Billy's hand again, "just tilt it up at the edge, give it a little bit more of a tap, and see what happens."

Billy breathes in and out, deliberately slow. He focuses his gaze on the end of the screwdriver, right where it rests against the sunken, stuck in button.

He tilts it up. He gives it a tap. Then another, a bit harder. And then one more, for luck.

This time, there's a click. It's the tiniest sound but it echoes in Billy's ears, and the button springs up, flush and level with the others.

Fixed.

Billy knows that he's grinning, a big, dorky, ear to ear one that he just can't stifle, and he looks up to see a matching expression on Bob's face.

"There you go," Bob says, voice full of pride, "Couldn't have done it any better myself. Look at that, huh?' Bob taps an approving finger on the button, pushing it in and watching it spring right back out, just as it should, "Good as new."

Billy nods, holding the screwdriver out for Bob, but Bob just shakes his head, gently pushing it back into Billy's hand.

"Why don't you keep hold of it?" he smiles, "Just in case?"

And Billy doesn't trust himself to speak. Not right now, when the surge of relief flooding through his body has left him dizzy and emotional, and Bob's kindness is only making things worse. So he nods, taking the screwdriver and dropping it into the pocket of his gym shorts, and then he heaves the microwave back into his arms, declining Bob's offer to help him carry it.

It's only when Billy's got the microwave and Max packed safely back into the Camaro that his brain catches up with him, and he grabs the bundle of cash from the gap underneath the seat, growling out a, "You didn't see anything, OK?" at Max's little gasp of surprise, and then he's heading back into the store.

He still can't quite meet Bob's eyes, especially when that dumb, bright, proud fucking smile is still on his face. So instead Billy looks down at the bulge of the case in Bob's top pocket as he rasps out a, "Thanks. For helping. And, uh, for the screwdriver. I, uh, I don't know how much-" he holds out the money, "But I'll get more. I promise. I don't have a job yet but I can-"

But Bob's shaking his head. Still smiling, he gently pushes the money back towards Billy.

"Don't be silly, you did all the work. At a push I could take a dollar for the loan of the tools but, uh, hey, I've got a better idea."

He reaches under the counter, pulling out a sheet of paper which he hands over to Billy.

It's an application form.

"We're pretty busy at the weekends," Bob explains as Billy tries to take it all in, "Gary and Lou handle most of the customers, but I could really do with a hand in the back. Repairs and such."

Bob must see the confusion on Billy's face, because he lets out a little chuckle, "I know, I get it. It's not the jazziest of jobs and I can't say the uniform is especially flattering-" he plucks at the collar of his shirt with a grimace "-but, hey, no one minds if we have the radio on back there, so that's a perk, and I'll teach you all you need to know, you've already proved you're more than capable of it. And I gotta tell you, there's a lot to be said for the job satisfaction." For once in their entire conversation, Bob starts to sound serious, "Just picture it, that whole experience of getting something that looks totally broken, all those pieces in a pile on the workbench, and, to start with, you might not know where anything goes or what all the parts are, even, but you know that if you try, if you figure out what all those pieces do and understand why they broke, well then, all you need is a little time and effort and you'll be able to put it all back together again. And, honestly, you can't beat that feeling, sport, you really can't."

It's a lot. Bob almost seems breathless by the end of his little speech, and Billy averts his eyes, staring down at the form in his hands until the words start to blur.

"There's no pressure, of course," Bob says, resting a gentle hand on Billy's shoulder, just for a moment, "But just think about it."

And Billy does.

He thinks about it a whole lot.

(So much credit for this one goes to @ihni and her wonderful Billy and Bob bonding headcanons. We pretty much came up with this whole thing during one of our many chats, and I've definitely borrowed a few of her ideas, I'm just the one who got round to writing it down first!)