Flynn sighed as he set his bag on the counter and took his seat, glancing at the still-broken door in despair. Hundreds of dollars to fix a door. How was that even possible? There went his entire pay-check this month; he'd better get used to the taste of microwave noodles. There was nothing for it, so he set about getting his work done, sweeping up around the shop and polishing all the antiques and random knick-knacks, doing inventory –snort; like he'd sold anything– and after a dinner of cold take-out from the previous night, he started on his homework.
As expected, there wasn't a single customer; like anyone was going to come in the evening on a weekday, and he closed his workbook with another sigh as he looked around his shop. Dining room tables filled with vases and other delicates sat on the far side of the room, the whole left wall decorated with grandfather clocks, the room behind him out of the way of the main floor holding a multitude of weapons from different times past. And then he transferred his gaze to the stain-glassed pane and bent knob of his door with the beat-up little bell hanging above it. Nothing much he could do about it until he saved up some money.
He got up and headed upstairs to get ready for bed as true night set in, thoughts wandering towards political figures and wondering if he'd see a banner on the news with death announcements sometime in the near future.
Hearing a thud and muffled curse from downstairs, Flynn was on his feet in an instant and grabbing the metal baseball bat he'd put beside his bed after last night's encounter. He held it like the wooden practice swords he used so often in his kendo club and inched his way downstairs in silence. Just his luck to get robbed the day after the door couldn't lock. What god did I offend to get a week like this?
Upon reaching the landing, he was so surprised at what he saw that his stance faltered and his bat lowered, "What are you doing here?!"
The form crouched by the front door jolted, hitting their head on the counter beside them and cursing in pain before looking back at him with a sheepish expression, hands held up defensively, showing a screwdriver, "Um... fixing the door?
Flynn was momentarily distracted by the relief of the thought of not having to shell out several hundred dollars on repair, "...Can you?"
"Yeah, no problem; I used to be a handyman." Flynn tried to –uselessly– look over the stranger's shoulder at the door, raising his would-be weapon when the other moved, "Whoa, easy. No knife this time."
This was officially the most surreal moment of his entire life, bar none. First this mysterious man broke in and almost killed him in the middle of the night, now he was on his knees and trying to fix the door he'd broken. There was only one response to a situation like this: "You want a soda or something?"
The stranger beamed at him in a way that completely transformed his face, "Soda's good. Could you get the light, too? And if you have some spare screws lying around, those would help. Otherwise we're going to have to make a trip to the all-night hardware store."