Work Text:
He’s seen Bradley get stressed at work before—way more stressed than is warranted for a fucking fast food job—but he’s never seen him this bad.
He got somebody’s order wrong, gave her crinkle fries instead of curly fries, and the whole thing had taken way too long to come out of the kitchen already, and the old bitch went off on him. He’s apologizing to her over and over, and, Benson imagines, is just waiting for her to ask for a manager so he can pass this on to someone else. But she doesn’t.
Some customers get mad because they really think having to wait on their curly fries is the end of the fucking world, but some are just looking for someone—anyone—to yell at, and this lady’s happy to yell at Bradley.
He’s a good target, even Benson has to admit that. The way he just takes it, and actually looks a little ashamed, even if the person yelling at him is a fucking moron.
On top of the customer freaking out, Chris is on the headset in the kitchen doubling down, saying, “Wow Bradley, you can’t even get somebody’s fry order right? What’s it feel like to know you suck this bad at everything?”
Bradley’s voice is hitting a new high note on his hundredth, “I’m sorry,” and if he had any fucking sense he would’ve told this bitch to fuck off already, but of course he doesn’t. Benson watches from behind the soda machine where he’s been wiping up the same spill for the last five minutes, as Bradley’s shoulder’s get higher and higher around his ears.
Eventually the customer leaves, but Bradley doesn’t relax. His fists are balled up so tight his knuckles are turning white. Chris is saying something else in the headset, Benson’s not sure what, he’s tuned it out, but Bradley’s shoulders are starting to heave like he’s hyperventilating, or about to puke or something. The kid’s been here almost a year, you’d think he’d have learned how to handle the fucking stress by now.
Benson watches him for another few seconds, waiting to see if he’ll calm himself down, but fuck, he’s shaking, and Benson starts to wonder if he’s crying. He can’t just let the kid break down in front of the whole restaurant and all their shit ass coworkers, so he rounds the corner and grabs Bradley by the back of his shirt, drags him into the backroom.
Hardy’s door is shut, and Benson can hear the tinny porno moans that mean he’s got his headphones up way louder than he thinks he does. Benson shoves Bradley into the corner by the coat rack, and says, “Stay here.”
Of course the kid does as he’s told. He isn’t crying, but he’s got his eyes squeezed shut, leaning his head back against the wall and breathing fast.
Benson actually doesn’t use drugs at work most of the time, at least nothing harder than weed, which doesn’t count because how are you supposed to get through a fucking fast food job without something? But he always brings the pills, just in case. He digs around in his jacket pocket and pulls out the bottle (the only good thing court-ordered therapy ever did for him), and shakes a couple of tablets into his hand.
“Take these,” he says, holding them out on his palm, but Bradley peers down at them and shakes his head. He’s breathing so hard it sounds painful, and he’s gonna make himself pass out if he doesn’t calm down.
“Bradley, don’t make me force it,” Benson sighs, shaking the pills at him, but it’s like Bradley doesn’t even hear him. So Benson grabs his face in one hand, pries his jaw open and shoves the pills in. Bradley purses his lips to spit them out, and Benson clamps a hand over his mouth and nose.
And listen, normally Benson’s not one to make somebody do drugs they don’t want. But they’re only three hours into the afternoon shift with another five to go, and if Bradley doesn’t chill the fuck out Chris will never stop bothering him. And if Benson has to listen to that all day, again, he is finally going to do something stupid they’ll all regret. It’s easier just to make Bradley take the pills.
It takes Bradley a minute to swallow. With his head back against the wall his pale, skinny neck is right in Benson’s face, so Benson brings his free hand up to massage it a little, pressing his fingers up under Bradley’s jaw, rubbing in slow circles. Benson has no idea if it’ll help the pills go down, but it can’t hurt. He can feel Bradley’s too-fast pulse under his fingertips.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs in the kid’s ear. “It’s gonna make you feel better.”
At last Bradley swallows, Benson feels the up-and-down pressure under his hand, so he lets go of the kid’s mouth.
Bradley gasps for air, keeling over, his forehead hitting Benson’s chest, and Benson holds him up to keep him from falling. The gasps are good—they’re big, deep inhales, not like the shallow little panic breaths he was taking before.
“What did you give me?” Bradley pants, still resting his head on Benson’s chest, and a little string of spit is dropping from his lips onto Benson’s shirt. Benson wipes the corner of Randy's mouth with his thumb.
“Just a couple Xanax, no big deal. Give it a few minutes and you’ll feel better.”
Bradley’s still taking in big, wet breaths, but already some of the tension has left his shoulders. It’s a little awkward standing in the corner of the stock room with Bradley leaning on him, but Benson doesn’t want to push him away until he’s sure he’s steady.
“You gotta learn to not fucking overreact like that,” he mutters, and lets a hand come down on top of the kid’s head, strokes his hair.
And here’s the thing. They’ve been working together for almost a year, and haven’t talked much—Benson’s never been much of a talker, and Randy’s a big “good morning,” and “good night,” guy, but doesn’t seem to know what to say the rest of the time. But Benson’s been keeping an eye on him. Mostly out of concern, not that he normally intervenes when Randy’s getting picked on by their coworkers, or when Hardy asks him to do some shit no one should have to do, like deep cleaning the fryers right before close, because he knows Bradley won’t say no. The kid has to learn to fight his own battles, but Benson watches, just in case.
Pushover though he may be, there’s something sharp about Bradley, behind the eyes, and Benson likes that about him. It’s how he knows the kid’s not a lost cause. He only catches it once in a while, when the teasing has gone just a little too far, or Bradley’s getting blamed for something that really isn’t his fault, but after Benson noticed it the first time, he kept noticing it.
And then he kept noticing other things, like the sort of pretty way Bradley smiles when a customer says thank you, or the nice slant of his neck when he has his head bent over the cash register.
At the end of every shift whoever was on register has to count out the drawer with a witness, and usually Randy asks Benson to do it for him. They sit across from each other at a card table in the back, and Benson watches Bradley’s hands carefully as he flicks through the bills, slides coins into piles. Benson doesn’t give a fuck if Randy steals from the register—not that he ever would—but he keeps a close eye on him because he likes watching the precise, almost delicate moves of Bradley’s fingers.
Not that this is about that, it isn’t. He really just wants to help the kid calm down. But if he takes an extra second or two to comb through Bradley’s hair with his fingers, who’s going to notice? Certainly not Bradley, whose knees are already getting a little loose, wobbly. Benson braces a hand against the kid’s side and helps ease him to the floor, sits next to him with their backs against the wall.
“I’ve never taken Xanax,” Bradley says, and no shit. There’s still an anxious edge to his voice, but that’ll go away soon enough.
“It’s gonna feel good,” Benson promises. “Just give it a minute.”
“Why do you keep it in your pocket?” Bradley asks, and Benson hadn’t even considered that he’d have to explain himself.
“In case some little shit at work can’t handle himself, and I gotta step in.”
Bradley’s quiet for a second, and Benson almost starts to feel bad.
“Really?” Bradley says, and he’s serious, he’s actually asking in earnest.
Benson scoffs. “No, not really. It’s in case I wanna take it, what the fuck do you think?”
He’s dreading more questions—where did you get it? do you get anxious too?—but Bradley just nods. They sit for a little while in silence. Eventually they’ll have to go back out onto the floor, but they can take a few extra minutes. They’re always holding things down while Chris and Jess are off fucking in the walk-in, and the store’s not that busy anyway.
Benson’s about to say, you feeling it? when Bradley’s head hits his shoulder. At first he’s worried the kid has fallen asleep, or passed out or something. Benson only gave him two pills, but maybe he should’ve started with one. But when he looks down Bradley’s eyes are open, gazing softly at nothing, resting on Benson’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He shouldn’t, but Benson slides his hand up between the steel wall and Bradley’s back, lets it land in between his shoulder blades. Pats his back a couple times.
It’s been a while since Benson has touched anyone this much. Anyone except maybe his ma, but even with her it’s usually a quick kiss on the cheek when he gets home, and maybe she’ll pat his arm. They’ve never been huggers.
He wonders how often Bradley gets touched like this. Probably Bradley’s mom hugs him all the time; he seems like the kind of kid that never went wanting for hugs. But he pulls his breath in when Benson puts that hand on his back, and it takes him a while to let it out slowly, so maybe he doesn’t get touched a lot either.
“Bro what the fuck are you fags doing back there? Sucking—” Chris cuts himself off when he comes around the corner and sees them. The look of unadulterated delight on his face is pissing Benson off before he’s even said anything, and Benson holds up a finger threateningly.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says, louder than maybe anything he's ever said at work before. Chris opens his mouth and Benson says it again, louder still. “Shut the fuck up.”
Chris has never tried to fuck with Benson, but Benson's never tried to tell him what to do either. He needs Chris to leave it alone. He needs Chris to leave it alone or he's going to—
Chris holds up his hands and backs out of the doorway. His huge, shit eating grin that says he’s just saving it for later, but whatever, they can cross that bridge when they get to it.
It's quiet for another minute. Benson listens to Bradley's breathing get slower and easier. He presses his fingers against Bradley's back, tracing the outline of his spine with his thumb. He doesn't mean to do it, his hand is just there.
“Benson?” Bradley says, and his voice is hoarse. Benson closes his eyes and doesn't answer. Normally the silence might be enough to make Bradley shut up, but Benson knows how he's feeling right now, that feeling like nothing is dangerous, nothing can hurt him. For once Bradley's going to actually say what he's thinking. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
Benson swallows hard. He flexes his free hand, makes a fist and then releases it.
“No problem, Bradley.”
He should get up, leave Bradley to pull himself together, but Bradley’s head is still on his shoulder. He’s rubbing his face against Benson’s shitty polyester shirt a little bit, absently, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
Benson starts shifting, trying to give Bradley the signal that it’s really time for him to get up now, when Bradley mumbles, “My name’s not Bradley.”
It takes Benson a few seconds to process the words.
“What?”
The kid sighs lightly, the way a dog sighs, and closes his eyes. “Bradley’s my last name.”
Benson doesn't even know what to say. He’s got his last name on his name tag, which means even Hardy doesn’t know what his real name is, or doesn't remember.
“Then what’s your first name?”
“Randy.”
“Randy?” Benson tries to wrap his head around it. “What are you saying, you just let us call you by the wrong name for a whole year, and never said anything?”
"Yeah, I guess.”
This kid is unbelievable. This kid needs an intervention way bigger than what Benson can give him today.
“Why?”
Bradley—Randy—shrugs.
“Didn’t seem important.”
Benson shakes his head.
“You need to stand up for yourself," he says. "Don’t let everyone walk all over you.”
He watches Randy for some kind of acknowledgement, but his face is still vacant and clear. He’s not getting it, and Benson needs him to get it. “It’s pathetic,” he says before he can stop himself. The kids picks his head up off Benson’s shoulder. Benson tries to backtrack a little. "You're better than this shit."
Randy looks at him with his blank, indecipherable eyes.
“Yeah, maybe,” he mumbles.
“No, definitely.”
Randy looks away. He gets to his feet, and fuck, Benson ruined what had been kind of a nice moment. Big fucking surprise.
But what did it matter anyway? He got the kid to calm down, that was the goal. And it’s true, Randy is kind of pathetic, and he needs to hear it from somebody, or he'll never change, and he'll work here for the rest of his pathetic, miserable life. Maybe it hurts to hear now, but it'll be good for him in the long run.
Benson watches Randy walk back out to the counter, and tries to be satisfied with the fact that he at least kind of helped. He’s going to have to figure out how to some damage control on the Chris thing, but that can wait until after he’s gone out back to have a cigarette.
#
Randy does seem better the rest of the day. Relaxed in a way Benson has never seen him, smiling at customers a little brighter, a little more real than usual. He leans against the counter, spacing out instead of finding busy work to fill every goddamn second of his shift. He stares out the window, and Benson wonders what kinds of things he thinks about.
Chris doesn’t make a big deal about the whole thing, which is a surprise, but Benson does see him standing huddled up with Jess, whispering in her ear while she giggles, and that’s not a good sign. Chris doesn’t usually bother to whisper anything.
Randy looks up at Benson once, when Jess calls him Bradley and he doesn’t correct her. Benson meets his eyes, can’t bring himself to smile.
At the end of the shift, Randy still asks Benson to help him count his drawer. He honestly seems pretty unbothered by their conversation. Maybe that’s still the pills, or maybe it’s because pathetic is far from the worst thing he’s been called today, never mind since he started working here.
Randy counts out the drawer slowly, like he’s not anxious to get it done. Benson thought he liked the precise way Randy’s hands normally handled the money, but this is actually better, these easier, languid swipes of his fingers. Maybe Benson should make him take Xanax more often.
As soon as he’s had the thought Benson has to rub a hand over his eyes to get rid of it, because what the fuck is that.
Randy waits until he uncovers his eyes to keep counting the money.
#
That night Benson goes home, showers, eats a couple of cold slices of pizza from the box he left on the counter last night. He’d ask Ma if she ate, but she’s already asleep.
He shuts himself in his room and opens a window, lies on top of the covers. He pretends he’s not going to think about Randy, but of course he does. Randy. He can’t believe he didn’t even know the kid’s actual name.
He wonders if the light, clean smell of Randy’s hair is still lingering on his work shirt. He doesn’t let himself get up to check.
He closes his eyes and thinks about the easy way Randy leaned against him. Dazed and loose, like he’d let Benson do anything to him. Well, Randy lets anyone do anything to him, but for a moment he lets himself imagine that he would’ve let Benson do anything to him.
That he would've liked it. Would’ve liked it if Benson had pushed him back against the wall and pressed his mouth up against Randy's pulse, left a bruise in that warm, soft space behind his ear. If Benson had straddled him there on the floor and pressed his hard dick against his hip through their clothes. He thinks about Randy all blissed out and only really half-conscious. Not conscious enough to know that he shouldn’t want Benson of all people to be touching him like that, but conscious enough for it to feel good. Enough to let Benson know that it made him feel good, to whine and gasp and plead a little bit. He thinks about feeling Randy get hard underneath him, about unbuttoning his pants, and the way Randy would say his name, hoarse and a little confused. He can’t decide if he would touch Randy right away, or make him ask for it.
He thinks about wiping the spit away from Randy’s mouth, imagines doing it again but slower this time, dragging his thumb along Randy’s bottom lip, getting it all wet and shiny. He thinks about putting his fingers in Randy’s mouth while he’s jerking him off. About Randy’s mouth and how good it looked all relaxed, instead of tight-lipped and nervous. He thinks about Randy coming all over his hand, about making Randy lick it off his fingers.
He thinks about how easy it would be to pull Randy, all loose and relaxed, half from the pills, half from the orgasm, into his lap. How easy it would be to take his pants off, easy to make Randy suck on his fingers to get them nice and wet before Benson puts them inside him. He thinks about Randy’s head falling back into his shoulder, about his eyes rolling back when Benson hits the right spot. He thinks about teasing Randy until he gets hard again, until he begs for it. How Randy’s voice would sound all wrecked saying, “Please.” Benson would make him say it out loud, make him say, “Fuck me.”
There wouldn’t be a lot of room to move, on the floor with Randy in his lap, but that’s okay. Benson would fuck up into him in short little thrusts, keeping him full. He thinks about Randy moaning and crying and whimpering against his neck. Thinks about taking Randy’s dick in his hand and jerking him off again. It probably wouldn’t take long to make him come and when he did he would get so tight, and Benson would come inside of him.
Benson comes all over his own hand, and wipes it off on a t-shirt he pulls off the floor. He lies back on his bed, head turned towards the breeze coming in through the window. He feels a like a creep, and not for the first time. Randy Bradley is probably at home tucked into a nice clean bed, sleeping off the last of the high, getting the best sleep of his life, maybe. At least Benson did that for him. And if Benson lies awake in the dark thinking fucked up shit about him, Randy never has know.
#
Randy’s so tired that night that he barely makes it through dinner. Not bad tired, not brain scrambled and on edge, just…sleepy. It feels good to get undressed and flop onto his bed.
It’s a little scary, how good it feels. Randy’s never done drugs that weren’t prescribed to him. His mom poured him a single glass of wine on his 21st birthday, which had made him feel warm and nice, but this is something so altogether different.
He should be mad, probably. A coworker forced him to take something without even telling him what it was, and Randy said thank you. It could’ve been dangerous, Randy could have been allergic to it, it could have been too big of a dose.
He’s not mad, though, not really. Benson was right, it did make him feel better, and it made the whole shift easier to deal with. That’s what scares him—it’s easy to see how you could start doing it every day, just to take the edge off things. He wonders if Benson uses them a lot. He doesn’t think so—he looks too serious to be feeling that good all the time.
Randy’s always liked Benson. They don’t talk a lot, but that’s part of why Randy likes working with him. Sometimes they share a look behind Chris’ back, or Hardy’s, and Randy wouldn’t say they’re friends exactly, but it’s still nice.
It was nice today, sitting with him, letting Benson pat his back and deal with his problems for him.
And it was…well, maybe it wasn’t nice when Benson held his hand over Randy’s mouth and murmured in his ear to get him to swallow, but Randy liked it anyway. Maybe liked it more because it wasn’t nice.
He doesn’t want to have to worry about what that means, so he doesn’t. It was just a weird day, and maybe the drugs are still in his system. He’s just going to think about it this one time, and not worry about it at all.
He closes his eyes and presses his own hand over his mouth. Benson’s was bigger, rougher. Benson held his head in place and covered his whole mouth and nose with one hand, easily. Randy takes a deep breath. He drags his fingers down to his throat, retraces the path Benson’s fingers had stroked to get him to swallow. He spreads his hand wider, covering his whole throat, and squeezes a little bit.
He’d never gotten that close to Benson before, was unfamiliar with his sweat-cigarette-breath mint smell that should’ve been gross but really wasn’t. That smell that wasn’t gross at all and actually really turned Randy on, which he couldn’t think about when it was happening, but he can now. If he could he would bury his nose in Benson’s shoulder, not in the stiff work uniform but in whatever t-shirt he wore underneath it, right against his skin. It would be soft; the t-shirt, from being over-washed, and Benson, who had that sort of softness some guys a little older than Randy seemed to grow into. And that smell would be deep in Randy’s lungs, in his sinuses, impossible to forget. Randy swallows, and feels his throat pulse against his own palm.
It’s that mix of rough and soft that’s so good about Benson, that’s getting Randy flushed and hot even though he hasn’t touched himself yet. Remembering the hand that pressed hard over his mouth, and the one that gently stroked his hair.
Randy wraps a hand around his dick and pictures a different hand, a different hand jerking him off, a different hand squeezing his throat. A body heavy and warm on top of him, stubble scraping against his neck, soft lips, teeth. Those hands all over him, inside of him, opening him up. Benson’s voice in his ear saying, It’s gonna feel good, just give it a minute.
He lets his own hand drop down from his dick, brings it up to his mouth to wet a finger, two of them for good measure, and moves them back down, between his legs. He presses both of them inside himself at once, because Benson’s fingers are thicker than his.
Randy fucks himself picturing Benson’s big hand covering his mouth again to keep him from moaning too loud. Benson murmuring in his ear, calling him baby, telling Randy to come on his cock. Telling him, it's gonna feel good, it's gonna feel good.
He comes replaying Benson's voice in his head. Not imagining it, remembering it. He breathes deeply and runs his fingers through the mess on his stomach, picturing someone else's come all over him, Benson's voice low and telling him what to do this time, saying, swallow.
Randy shakes himself out of it. He sits up to look for a dirty t-shirt or pair of underwear to clean up with.
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything to Randy, and it certainly didn’t mean anything to Benson, who would probably either laugh or be creeped out knowing the pathetic kid at work went home and jerked off thinking about him.
But it was just this one time, and Randy doesn’t have to worry about it. (That’s what he tells himself every time).