Work Text:
It is a blustery October morning. The sky is blue, and Bob Newby is happy.
He shoulders the door open, leaving Radio Shack in the trusted hands of Dave, a surly but otherwise good-natured kid who works for an hour during his lunch break. Dave reminds Bob of Jonathan, less the shaggy bowl cut and tortured music taste.
Bob waves hello to a window-washer and breathes in the air of downtown Hawkins. Everything is brown and drab, but there’s nary a cloud in the sky and it smells like fallen leaves and optimism.
He’s felt a lot of optimism lately.
Melvald’s comes into view, and Bob can already see Joyce’s reddish-brown hair peeking over a shelf. His heart does a sweet little somersault and he can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips. She’s probably fussing with new sale labels or bickering with Donald. She’s probably hungry, too, and Bob has the answers.
Bob likes having the answers.
To trivia. To movie night recommendations. To making Joyce blush and giggle. It’s almost like another programming language. He thinks of it like BASIC. If date night, then bring a bottle of Joyce’s favorite red. If Jonathan’s birthday, then acquire a broody mixtape. If Will’s pencils are dull, then sharpen them to perfection.
If the Byers are happy, then Bob is happy.
Maybe he’s slightly obsessed. But watching the light of joy and contentment flood into Joyce’s tired eyes is better than any movie. It’s better than solving any equation. The satisfaction he gets from this is good. Too good!
“Baloney!” He announces, shaking the brown paper bag in his hand. “Gourmet delivery!”
Joyce emerges from the stationery aisle, wearing a soft striped sweater. Her Melvald’s vest is draped over her hunched shoulders, and she smiles bashfully. “You’re a little early today,” she says, rounding the counter and leaning forward.
“Ah,” Bob sighs, “I guess I just got a little too excited. About the sandwiches, of course.”
“Of course,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. Bob leans in towards her and receives a peck on the cheek. He grins. This is the best part of lunch time.
They sit in the cramped break room at the back of the store. Donald is out today—something about a doctor’s appointment—and Joyce is manning the store.
“I shouldn’t really be taking a break,” she admits around a bite of her sandwich.
Bob shakes his head and pushes a Coke towards her. “Don’t say that! You deserve it.”
She smiles again. His chest aches with affection. “How’s your morning been? How are the boys?”
Joyce’s face falls slightly and Bob leans forward. If the boys aren’t good, then Joyce isn’t good either.
Bob wonders if he can help make it good.
“Will’s been upset. You know, with his doctor’s appointments and all… there haven’t been a lot of bright spots. I take him to the arcade, y’know, and he seems to have fun. Karen says he’s always happy hanging out with Mike. But I just wish there was more for him.”
He hums to himself. Will likes art. He likes Dungeons and Dragons. He likes eating popcorn out of the really big bowl, having one serving all to himself. Bob always makes sure Will gets the biggest bowl on movie nights.
“There is this one thing that’s getting him down.” Joyce confesses. “And there’s really nothing I can do about it.”
Bob tilts his head and reaches out his hand, taking Joyce’s and rubbing little circles into her palm with his thumb. “Tell me about it,” he urges.
“The PTA… they host this stupid thing every fall. It’s tomorrow and… well, it’s a sore spot for Will. It’s the Fall Breakfast, and it’s a chance for kids to have a morning with their dads.” Joyce explains.
“Like the opposite of Bring Your Kid to Work Day,” Bob says. “Bring Your Dad to School Day! But with added pancakes,” he chuckles.
Joyce smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. But, you know… Lonnie never cared about that when Will was little. And now he’s gone, and Will doesn’t have anyone.”
Bob feels a pang in his heart. He doesn’t want anyone to go unloved— least of all sweet Will, with his big, unblinking saucer eyes and coy little smile. He’s been through so much. Bob thinks briefly of his sister Patty. He’d made a family for her.
He’d make a family for Will, too.
“I can’t go because of my shift, and if I cancel my shift…” Joyce trails off, gesturing vaguely. “I need the money. Is that terrible?”
Bob shakes his head, squeezing her hand tighter. “No. Not at all. Listen, you’ll need to talk to Will about it, but…” he takes a deep breath. “I could go to the Fall Breakfast with Will.”
Her eyes widen. Bob’s heart flutters. “Maybe that’s too much—too soon,” he stutters. “But I really love your boys, Joyce. Especially Will. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but…”
She smiles, her eyes shining with unspilled tears. “Bob,” she breathes. “You… gosh, where in the world have you been?”
He perks up. “At Radio Shack,” he answers. The joke lands, and she laughs, a few errant tears escaping down her cheeks. “But, Joyce, I’m serious. I’d love to go with him.”
“Okay. I’ll ask him tonight. Call and let you know?” She asks, returning to her sandwich and Coke.
“Yes. Whatever Will the Wise wants!” He exclaims, wiggling his fingers in an imitation of a spell-caster.
If Will Byers is happy, then all is right with the world.
The call comes around seven. Bob is tinkering with a breadboard, mounting another strip of circuits onto the thin sheet of plastic. He’s reminded of his time in AV Club— maybe he can show Will his new creations some time.
The phone, ringing from the kitchen, startles him. He stands, humming a tune to himself, and picks up the phone.
“Newby residence,” he greets.
“Hi, Bob,” Joyce says, and he can hear her smile. He leans against the wall, grinning.
“Joyce,” he replies. “Isn’t it past your curfew? Sneaking in a late-night call?”
She chuckles. It’s like a wind chime, mixed with a symphony, mixed with what hot chocolate would sound like if it was a song. He bites back a sigh.
“The night is young!” She exclaims. “I’m calling because I talked to Will.”
Bob straightens against the wall. He’s nervous, and he isn’t sure why. The kid isn’t intimidating or anything. It’s more of a little chip of doubt in his chest— is he good enough for Will? Has he proved himself to be good for Joyce, for the boys?
“Well, what did he say?” He asks, his voice shaking a little.
“…Bob?” The voice is small and pitched higher than he sounds in person. Bob smiles into the phone.
“Hey, Will!”
“Hi. Um… Mom told me you want to come to Fall Breakfast. I—I think that would be fun. I’d really… I’d really like that.”
“Yeah?” Bob asks, fist-pumping and whispering Yes! into his empty kitchen. “Awesome. Well, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re hungry. If there’s an award for most pancakes eaten, we’re taking home the win.”
A giggle floats through the speaker, hitched and staticky. “Okay. Thanks, Bob.”
“Thank you, Will the Wise. I’ll be your honored guest!”
Will mumbles a quiet, bashful bye and hands the phone back to Joyce.
“He seems excited,” Bob comments. He’s trying to restrain himself from whooping gleefully into the speaker.
“He is. I just… I want him to feel normal, y’know?” Joyce says with a little sigh.
Bob thinks back to when he was Will’s age. There’s an ache deep inside— one that has faded with time, but is like a raised scar on his heart. That terrifying ordeal of middle school. Cruel nicknames, awkward growth spurts, mean boys and girls.
“He is normal.” Bob whispers. “He’s Will. That’s all that matters.”
The world wasn’t made for sensitive people like Will and Bob. It favored the sharp and the hard. But, miraculously, the soft had carved out a world of their own. And Bob’s world looked like taking Will to breakfast.
Being his dad, if only for a day.
The Hawkins PTA spends too much time on these things, Bob decides.
The cafeteria is draped in all manner of autumnal colors. Leaf garlands and a big banner: 1984 Fall Breakfast. Welcome, Dads! An absurd number of pancakes were piled up on the long tables at the front of the room. All manner of syrups and toppings were free for the taking, and Bob pities the teachers that have to deal with sugar-stuffed pre-teens for the rest of the morning.
Bob ushers Will into the line, and watches as the boy peers at the food. His eyes are wide and curious. “They do this every year?” He asks. The question chips away at Bob’s heart.
“I think so. But this looks like the best spread so far,” he says lightly, waving to one of the PTA moms. She looks away, frowning.
“Look! They have Reese’s Pieces!” Will gasps, pointing at a bowl overflowing with the orange, yellow, and brown candies.
The boy is practically vibrating with excitement. It’s the most emotion he’s seen Will show in the past few weeks. Gone is the subdued, timid creature that sits stone-still on the couch during movie night. This is an animated, clever Will Byers.
“They sure do. Want some?” Bob asks, already scooping a generous amount on top of Will’s pancakes.
He nods. “Maybe syrup too. It could be too sweet, though,” he muses, narrowing his eyes.
“Today’s a sugar free-for-all,” Bob says. “Go ahead, kid.”
Permission granted, Will drowns his pancakes in syrup. The careful, exercised restraint that Bob’s observed from both of the Byers kids isn’t a product of Joyce’s parenting— he knows that. It’s residual, burrowed in their bones from years of Lonnie breathing down their necks.
Will’s shoulders seem lighter.
They sit down at one of the empty tables. When Bob stands to find a cup of coffee, Will straightens. “Wh—where are you going?”
His eyes are shining with worry now, pancakes all but forgotten. Bob offers a gentle smile. “Just to grab some coffee. You want some? Or is that gonna turn you into The Flash for the rest of the day?”
Will giggles, his bunny-like front teeth peeking out from behind his lips. “No. But…” he trails off, peering over to where the drinks are located.
“Orange juice?” Bob guesses. Will nods. “Yeah, orange juice. Th—thanks, Bob.”
Bob dips his head and walks over to the drink station. He’s not a prideful person— never has been. But his chest swells with a new feeling. He’s… full. It’s not pride. It feels more like love.
He doctors up his coffee with cream and sugar, and pours a big glass of orange juice for Will. At least the kid will get his vitamin C this morning.
Bob turns to walk back to the table, and notices that two dejected-looking boys have joined Will, their place settings decidedly empty.
He recognizes one as Dustin Henderson, his curly mop of hair the only visible feature. The rest of him is hunched forward, head laying on the table in defeat.
And the other is Mike Wheeler. Mike gravitates to Will, Bob has noticed, as if Will has his own magnetic pull. They’re near-inseparable, and now they’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the table. Mike is scowling and muttering to Will.
“…he’s not here, so I don’t get pancakes.” Mike finishes, and his head snaps up as Bob sets the coffee down.
“Oh. Hi, Mr. Newby. Sorry to interrupt. We—we’ll leave,” he says quickly, pushing back from the table.
Bob shakes his head. “No, no! If Will wants you here, you’re welcome to stay. But… Mike, where are your pancakes? Not hungry?”
Dustin raises his head, his face drawn. The face of a boy starved and denied far more calories than the recommended limit.
“We’re dadless,” he says despondently. “Only kids with dads can go through the line. That ugly PTA lady told us so.”
Mike and Will snort at his words, but Bob’s heart sinks. He’s not naive— he knows that some fathers don’t care about this sort of thing. They’d rather buzz off to work or spend their morning with their noses buried in the daily paper. He knows Ted Wheeler— indolent and apathetic. Always has been. And he knows Dustin’s dad, recalling a vague memory of him kissing his cousin in high school. He grimaces at the thought.
There’s only one solution.
“Well,” Bob sighs, “I don’t think I got enough pancakes. I’m a big guy, I think I’ll need more than one stack. Will, hold down the fort while Dustin, Mike, and I add to our treasures?”
Will blinks, surprise coloring his features. His cheeks are puffed out like a squirrel, mouth full of pancakes. “Sure,” he mumbles around his mouthful.
“Really?!” Dustin asks, shooting out of his seat.
Mike protests, but his words are lost in the sound of Dustin’s whoop. Bob chuckles, herding the two boys back to the line.
The PTA mom crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at Mike and Dustin as they grab plates and begin assembling a pancake monstrosity. Will’s syrupy stack pales in comparison to this abomination. Bob can’t help but laugh.
“This is a loophole,” she mutters.
“Give ‘em a break, Jan,” Bob says lightly. “Kids shouldn’t suffer for their parents’ mistakes.”
The statement comes out harsher than he intended, but Jan’s expression softens at the edges. The words hang in the air as Mike and Dustin strategize about how to arrange their banana slices. It is a mistake. The fact that these brilliant boys, enthusiastic and buzzing with energy, are alone. That their sorry dads can’t make the time— or have it, and just don’t want to— to hang out with their kids.
If Bob had a son, he’d become president of the PTA and plan a hundred more events like this, just so he could see the glee on his face.
Will’s face is the next best thing. As Mike and Dustin rush back to the table, arms laden with plates, he grins. It’s brilliant and sunny, easily the best smile in the whole damn cafeteria. Bob smiles again, ambling back over and taking his seat across from the boys.
“Thanks, Mr. Newby,” Dustin says, sawing into his stack with a plastic knife as if he’s got a vendetta against it.
“Yeah, thank you,” Mike echoes. “Here, Will. I got you extra Reese’s.”
Will’s face flushes pink. “I didn’t need more, Mike,” he mumbles, but takes the candy anyways, sprinkling it across his remaining pancakes with a flourish.
Bob digs in too. They’re good pancakes. Fluffy and not too sweet. He imagines they would be good with Reese’s Pieces, but he can’t stomach the possibility of a tooth ache. He sticks with syrup. Watching the boys is sweet enough.
“And we’ll add in some other stuff, too,” Mike is saying, explaining the new campaign to Will. “Scary stuff. I want it to be dark. Since Halloween is coming up.”
“Uh-huh. You’ll be screaming like a girl at the end of it,” Dustin jives, poking Mike in the ribs with his fork.
“Ow! Shut up!” Mike squawks. Will giggles.
“Will can draw the art for the campaign,” Bob suggests. “Those crystals you mentioned, Mike… he’s got the perfect colored pencils.”
“I know,” Mike says, as if he’s acknowledging ancient, sacred knowledge. “I have a lot of ideas. Will, you’ll draw, right?”
“’Course,” Will answers. “Anything you need.”
“It’ll be perfect. Will’s drawings are always perfect, Mr. Newby. He’s the best artist ever.” Mike gushes, and Will’s face is a sunrise of red and pink.
Bob smiles to himself, turning back to his pancakes. “He sure is, Mike. He sure is.”
As Bob sips his coffee, watching the boys’ conversation devolve into shouts and giggles, his chest warms. Will isn’t the boy who got lost in the woods anymore. He’s lively and bubbly, throwing his head back and laughing. Mike throws his arm around the boy, whispering something in his ear that greatly dismays Dustin, who growls and punches Mike in the shoulder. The three dissolve into a fit of giggles. They eat off each other’s plates, sampling terrible combinations of toppings.
Bob decides he wants to go to Fall Breakfast with Will every year. And when there are no more Fall Breakfasts, he’ll take him to lunch. He’ll watch his graduation. Move him into a college dorm. Dance in the empty house with Joyce. Look back on this day.
Bob can see his future through the big, green eyes in front of him. He likes what it looks like.
Eventually, someone from the PTA stops by their table. “Picture time, boys. Dad, get in there!” The woman says, holding up a Polaroid.
“Oh, I’m not—“
“C’mon, Bob. Get in the picture!” Will says, beckoning him over.
His heart near explodes. He hurries over, draping his arms around the huddle of boys. A brood of certified nerds, squirming and hopped up on far too much sugar.
“Everyone say ‘pancakes’ on three, okay?” Bob says.
“Pancakes!” They sing, and the shutter goes off. The woman hands Bob the photo, walking on to the next table.
“Hey, Mr. Newby, you should come to our next campaign.” Mike says.
“Yeah! You can see our set-up, and Lucas just got these new dice that are really cool…”
“…and he’d make a good bard, too, wouldn’t he, Dustin?”
“…Or maybe a cleric like Will…”
They babble and shout, remnants of pancakes long forgotten in favor of campaign planning. Bob’s glad to see the lightness in Will’s gaze. The softer set of his shoulders. He finishes his coffee, hands still wrapped around the ceramic mug.
If Bob Newby is happy, then maybe the world can be soft.
That night, back in his living room, Bob uncaps a Sharpie.
Fall Breakfast 1984, he writes at the base of the Polaroid. With Will the Wise, Mike the Brave, and Dustin the Bard.
He shuffles over to the kitchen, finding a square yellow magnet. It looks like the pat of butter atop a stack of pancakes— fitting.
Turning to the fridge, the Polaroid joins a few sparse announcements, coupons, and a picture of Patty. Bob steps back, appraising the photo. His eyes stall on Will’s smile, toothy and unguarded. He vows then to make Will smile as big and as bright as possible, forever and ever.
Affection swells in his chest again. Not just for Will, but for the other boys. It really wasn’t about pancakes or keeping up appearances. It was about being there. About reminding Will that some parts of the world— the parts he chose—could be soft. That in some corners, there was still love.
Bob didn’t need BASIC to understand that.
It was just love.