Chapter 5: Gallagher Washing Machine
The knock came at 7 AM, loud enough to rattle the garage door on its track.
Ben was already awake—had been since 5:30, unable to sleep after yesterday's disaster with Mrs. Rodriguez. He'd spent the night cataloging his mistakes, adding new entries to his mental list of "ways using powers creates collateral damage." The knock interrupted his spiral into self-recrimination.
His Danger Intuition pulsed softly. Not threat, exactly. More like... significance. A moment that mattered.
Ben opened the door.
Fiona Gallagher stood there with two kids flanking her like miniature soldiers. Behind them, a red wagon held a washing machine wrapped in a bedsheet, tied down with bungee cords that had seen better days. All three looked exhausted—the deep, bone-tired exhaustion that came from chronic crisis, not just one bad night.
"You the fix-it guy?" Fiona asked without preamble.
Ben recognized the kids from his brief observations: Debbie, maybe ten, with her hair in a neat ponytail despite the early hour. Carl, same age, wearing a jacket two sizes too big and an expression that suggested he was already planning something criminal.
"Yeah," Ben said. "I fix things."
"Good. This died yesterday." Fiona gestured at the wagon. "Need it working. Six people, one bathroom, laundry piles up fast. Laundromat costs too much."
She spoke in clipped sentences, each one economical. No wasted words, no unnecessary explanation. Just facts delivered with the efficiency of someone who'd learned that emotional appeals didn't work as well as direct negotiation.
Ben's MacGyver Mind activated the moment he looked at the washing machine. Even covered, he could see the model from the control panel poking out: fifteen-year-old Kenmore, top-load, direct-drive motor. The sheet didn't hide the scorch marks near the power cord.
"Let me look," he said.
Getting the machine off the wagon required all four of them. It was heavier than it looked, and Fiona handled her corner with practiced competence. They maneuvered it onto Ben's workbench—reinforced two-by-fours over sawhorses, built specifically for this kind of work.
Ben pulled back the sheet. The damage was immediately apparent: motor had burned out, taking the start capacitor with it. The wiring harness showed heat damage. Some of the internal hoses had melted.
"How bad?" Fiona asked.
"Motor's fried. Capacitor too. Some wiring needs replacing."
"Can you fix it?"
"Yeah. But parts—"
"How much?" She pulled a crumpled wad of bills from her pocket. Started counting. One, five, ten, twenty, thirty... thirty-eight dollars total. She held it out like an offering. "That enough?"
Ben looked at the money, then at her face. Pride and desperation warring in her expression. The kids watched silently, and he could see them calculating: would the world kick them again? Would this stranger take their money and do nothing? Or worse, take it and tell them it wasn't enough?
His MacGyver Mind supplied the numbers: replacement motor from a scrapyard, forty-five dollars minimum. New capacitor, twelve dollars. Wire and connectors, another eight. Sixty-five dollars in parts, plus labor that would normally run another fifty.
He could do it for cost. Eat the labor, use his supernatural abilities to make the repair work. But even cost was more than thirty-eight dollars.
"Twenty," Ben heard himself say.
Fiona blinked. "What?"
"Twenty dollars. I've got spare parts that'll work." The lie came smooth, automatic. "Pick it up tomorrow afternoon."
"That's... you sure?"
Ben met her eyes. Saw the suspicion there, the bone-deep knowledge that nothing came free in this world. She was trying to figure out his angle, what he'd want in return.
"I'm sure," he said.
Fiona studied him for a long moment, then counted out twenty dollars. Her hands were rough, calloused from work. She folded the remaining eighteen bills and put them back in her pocket with visible relief.
"Tomorrow afternoon," she confirmed. "What time?"
"After three. Give me time to source parts."
"Okay." She paused, then added, "Thanks."
The word came out reluctant, like she wasn't used to saying it.
"No problem."
While Fiona arranged the pickup details, Debbie decided to interrogate him.
"Do you need an assistant?" she asked, suddenly right next to his elbow.
Ben looked down at her. She'd positioned herself between him and the door—blocking his exit, whether she knew it or not. Smart kid.
"Not really," he said.
"I'm very organized. And I know math. I can do percentages and fractions. I'm good at inventory management too."
"Inventory management."
"Yes. I organize all our stuff at home. Food, clothes, supplies. I make lists and everything."
Behind her, Carl was investigating Ben's tool collection with the focused intensity of a cat stalking prey. He picked up a socket wrench, hefted it, tested the weight.
"Could this break a window?" Carl asked.
"Yes," Ben said. "But don't."
Carl's face split into a grin. "But I could?"
"Technically."
"Cool."
"Carl, put it down," Debbie snapped. "You're being weird."
"You're being bossy."
"Someone has to be, since you act like—"
"Both of you, shut up," Fiona said, her voice carrying the exhausted authority of someone who'd had this exact argument a thousand times. "We're leaving. Say thank you to Ben."
"Thank you," Debbie said promptly.
"Thanks," Carl echoed, still holding the wrench.
"Carl. Put it back."
He did, but with obvious reluctance. The three of them headed for the door, and Ben watched the dynamic play out: Fiona herding the kids, Debbie trying to maintain order, Carl looking for opportunities to cause chaos. It was exactly like the show—chaotic, loving, barely held together by Fiona's sheer force of will.
I want to protect this.
The thought came unbidden. Not just help them, not just interfere. Actually protect them from the disasters he knew were coming. Keep them safe in ways they'd never realize they needed.
Which was either noble or deeply arrogant, and Ben wasn't sure which.
After they left, he locked the garage and headed for the scrapyard. Spent two hours finding the right motor, haggling with the owner, using a careful application of Silver Tongue to get the price down to forty-two dollars. Bought the capacitor and wiring from a hardware store. Sixty-three dollars total, plus tax.
He'd just spent forty-three dollars more than Fiona had paid him.
The math didn't make sense. But somehow it did.
Ben spent the rest of the day and most of the night rebuilding the washing machine. The motor swap was straightforward—his MacGyver Mind guided his hands through the process with mechanical precision. The wiring took longer, requiring careful splicing and soldering to ensure the connections wouldn't fail under load.
By 2 AM, the machine was functional. He tested it with a garden hose and drain bucket, watching it run through a full cycle. It worked perfectly, better than it probably had in years.
Ben allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before exhaustion caught up with him. He collapsed on his mattress without bothering to clean up, fell asleep to the sound of distant sirens.
Woke at noon with a headache from MacGyver Mind overuse and dried blood under his nose from where he'd had a nosebleed sometime during the night. The price of pushing his powers too hard.
Worth it, though.
Fiona arrived at 3:15 PM, alone this time.
She'd changed out of her work uniform into jeans and a sweater that had seen better days. Her hair was down, and without the exhaustion weighing on her features, Ben could see the beauty that the show had only hinted at. She was pretty in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or styling—just bone structure and the fierce intelligence in her eyes.
"It's ready," Ben said, because staring would be weird.
Fiona approached the washing machine. It sat on the workbench, gleaming slightly where he'd cleaned accumulated grime from the exterior. She counted out twenty dollars, then stopped. Looked at the machine, then at him.
"This isn't twenty dollars of work," she said.
"Had the parts already. Told you."
"Bullshit." She gestured at his garage, at the organized tools, the equipment that suggested competence beyond basic repairs. "You don't just happen to have a motor and capacitor that fit a fifteen-year-old Kenmore. You bought these. Probably spent more than I paid you."
Ben's Silver Tongue stirred, ready to spin a convincing lie. He forced it down.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I did."
"Why?"
The question hung between them. Fiona watched him with that same analytical expression from the convenience store—trying to solve the puzzle, figure out his angle.
"Because you needed help," Ben said. "And I could give it."
"Nobody does something for nothing in this neighborhood."
"Maybe I'm nobody, then."
She studied him for a long moment. Ben met her gaze without flinching, letting her see... what? He wasn't even sure. Just honesty, maybe. The simple truth that he'd helped because he could, because watching her struggle felt wrong, because he was tired of being a passive observer in a world he understood too well.
Something shifted in Fiona's expression. The guard didn't drop—she was too smart for that—but it lowered fractionally. Acknowledgment, maybe, that he'd passed some kind of test.
"Thanks," she said again, and this time the word carried weight. Meant more than casual gratitude.
"You're welcome."
They loaded the machine back onto the wagon together. Fiona had the technique down—lift with the legs, keep the weight balanced. She'd done this before, moved heavy things without help because help wasn't reliably available.
"You live around here?" she asked while they worked.
"The garage. Rent it from Kowalski next door."
"You live in your shop?"
"Cheaper than an apartment. And I'm here anyway."
Fiona nodded like that made perfect sense. Probably did, in her world. Why pay for two spaces when one could serve both functions?
She pulled the wagon toward the door, then paused. "If you need anything—work, whatever—let me know. I waitress at a diner. Patsy's Pies. Owner's always looking for handyman stuff. I could put in a word."
"I appreciate that."
"And the kids... they liked you. Debbie especially. If she shows up offering to be your assistant again, just tell her no firmly. She doesn't take hints."
Ben smiled. "Noted."
Fiona left, pulling the wagon behind her. Ben watched from his doorway until she turned the corner, heading back toward the house he knew too well from television. The house where Frank was probably passed out, where Lip was probably tutoring some girl to get into her pants, where Ian was working a shift at Kash & Grab, where the younger kids were fending for themselves.
He knew their whole story. Every beat, every tragedy, every moment of grace. And now he'd inserted himself into it, helped them in a way that would ripple forward in ways he couldn't predict.
I'm not an observer anymore.
The realization settled over him like a weight. He'd crossed a line. Made a choice. Gotten involved with people he knew, people whose futures he'd memorized like scripts.
And the terrifying part was how right it felt. How natural. Like this was what he was supposed to do—use his impossible powers to help them, protect them, change their story for the better.
Or make everything worse. That was possible too.
Ben went back inside and cleaned his workspace, organizing tools with methodical precision. The repetitive task helped quiet his mind, let him process the implications of what he'd done.
He'd helped Fiona. Charged her a fraction of what the work cost. Made her suspicious, but in a good way—she saw him as generous, not a con artist. That was a foundation to build on.
But it was also a commitment. A promise, implicit but real, that he'd be there when she needed help again. Because she would need help. The Gallaghers always needed help.
The question was whether Ben was equipped to give it without revealing the impossible truth of what he was.
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