Work Text:
Peter's good at fiddling with stuff.
Not necessarily fixing, but fiddling.
He can work with the things that want to be fixed, and find what wants to be found, but sometimes objects are just plain out non-cooperative. He thinks he'd run a repair shop if broken things weren't so fickle.
That's the thing about antiques. Old things usually want to be fixed. And even when they don't, all sorts will come into the shop and purposely buy something full well knowing it will never work again.
He's learned to not force things- not if he wants to keep all his fingers intact. You haven't met a malfunctioning device until you met one that was maliciously malfunctioning.
So he keeps his fingers ready to pick up what they will, fiddle and tweak whatever he can get his hands on, careful to listen closely for the signs of impatience, the shaking and movements that meant his intervention wouldn't be tolerated much longer.
He would never change something that didn't want to be changed, broken or not.
Even when welcomed, some changes had to be little shifts, so he paid attention to an item's cues, and put it back before it could be overstimulated.
Sometimes they just wanted to be held- touched again.
The older objects are better at communicating, another reason he works with seriously old shit.
Sure, sometimes people in the town who knew him would bring in their new technology that was suddenly misbehaving, but the items in question usually didn't give him very much to work with. Often, they were downright hostile.
Peter liked old things, and they tolerated him, so it was a good deal.
He knew other antique stores usually acquired items by buying them or hosting lots for sellers, but most of his inventory was graciously donated by people who wandered in with items in tow. Because they wanted to be brought here. The items, that is.
The people usually didn’t have an explanation for how they ended up here or why, they just dropped off their items, maybe stayed and looked around for a bit, and ultimately left empty handed.
He has a soft spot for music boxes. And music boxes that aren’t music boxes. There’s this porcelain doll that’s older than he is that sits behind him at the checkout counter, a winding mechanism at her back. He knows he’s heard the song before, some orchestral thing that they use in movie soundtracks, but he can never quite place it, no matter how many times he listens.
He thinks maybe- one day- he’ll find out what music she plays.