Y'all liked the tags so much, so here you go. <3
☆☆☆
When Benson pulls up for his evening shift, he's grinning ear to ear. He whistles on his way inside, clocks in with a flourish. Hardy passes by holding a clipboard and asks if he can take over for Donnie on the grill.
"No can do, boss man."
Hardy looks up sharply, ready to feed his micro authority complex with some dickish response, when he finally clocks the gleeful expression on Benson's usually stoic face. Slowly, he looks down at his clipboard, squints at his own chicken scratch, and sighs.
"Right. Compliance training."
He trudges towards his office with the posture of a man defeated. Benson eats that shit up. Victory never tasted so damn sweet. He snags a jacket from the hooks in the back as he follows - Chris', maybe, he doesn't actually care enough to look - because there's not a chance in hell he's about to plant his ass on Hardy's nasty chair. They all know what he's doing when he shuts himself in his office to do "paperwork". Perv.
Speaking of, he catches Hardy quickly closing a browser when he walks in. Far be it from him to pass up on such a golden opportunity. "Oh, shoot, was I interrupting something?"
It startles the man something fierce. He fumbles the mouse, knocks over a stack of papers that've been perched on the edge of the desk for god knows how long. Whips around to glare with his face all splotchy. Benson scratches at his neck and feigns innocence.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock first?" Hardy splutters.
"Nah."
"I swear to god," he mutters to himself, "these goddamn punks..."
Far too aggressively, he clicks at the computer until an ancient program finally wheezes to life. He punches the login into the keyboard with all the care he probably shows his wife, finds Benson's full legal name on the list, and pulls up the list of required yearly trainings.
"This should not take you more than three hours. You hear me? Three! That's it!"
Benson salutes. "Yessir."
He swears he can see a vein pop out on Hardy's forehead. Fuckin' delightful. He's practically giddy. He makes a big show of laying the jacket out on the chair before plopping down on top of it. Hardy looks like he has something to say, but he thinks better of it, turns on his heel, and stomps out.
Finally. Benson fucking loves training day.
It's easy enough to actually run through the material. This ain't his first food service job, and he's been in this specific one for almost five years. He knows this shit by heart. Safe food holding temperatures, how and when to check the thermometers, where to document the numbers that they all just fudge at the end of every week - well, all but Bradley, the little goody two shoes. Cleaning solution ratios, quat bucket placement, how often to change the water out. The three sink method for handwashing dishes since Hardy's too fucking cheap to fix the automated washer. The hand washing protocol that Benson will actually yell at people about, because it's not that hard and his coworkers are disgusting. He's got this shit locked down.
But Hardy doesn't need to know that.
Kicking his grimy work boots up on Hardy's desk, he lets the videos play while he enjoys his alone time. Occasionally Hardy walks by to check on his progress. Thinks he's slick the way he moves boxes around pointlessly to look like he's actually doing something. Every time he walks away, Benson backs the video up fifteen minutes or so. A thirty-two minute snoozefest about proper food placement in the walk-in - ready-to-eat, produce, patties, chicken, common sense to anyone with half a brain - becomes a ninety minute opportunity for Benson to avoid work.
And don't even get him started on the bullshit quizzes at the end of every module. If he doesn't get 80%, he has to take the whole training over again. And again. And again. It's like taking candy from an overgrown, balding, porn-addicted baby.
It's a system he perfected long before he got hired at this shithole, and it'll serve him well for years to come, he's sure.
While he runs through his routine on autopilot, his mind wanders. He thinks about the never-ending to-do list in his head: mow the lawn, fix the kitchen drawer that keeps falling off the track and getting stuck halfway open, cigarettes for Ma, pay the power bill before it gets shut off again.
He thinks about the basement show Donnie's been begging him to tag along to. The guy swears up and down it'll be good, but his taste in music is kinda shit most of the time, and Benson isn't sure he wants to waste another precious day off on a headache and lukewarm beer. Still, though. Donnie's probably the closest thing Benson has to an actual friend, and it'd do him some good to get out of the house for once. He resolves to catch Donnie before his shift ends to accept the invite.
He thinks about how much he hates this fucking job, but only for a few minutes. If he dwells on it too long he starts to feel a slurry of uncomfortable emotions that he'd rather not look too closely at. That makes him mad, which inevitably leads to thinking about the shotgun in the trunk of his piece of shit car. And while those fantasies are mostly jokes, they are only mostly jokes.
It's still a job, though. Hardy always gives him all the hours he wants; it pays enough to keep the lights on, the fridge stocked, and his (and Ma's) nicotine addiction satisfied. He can't complain.
Well, he can. But he won't.
Well, he won't out loud.
Anyway.
His train of thought comes to a screeching halt - and thank fuck, he was dipping his toes into dangerous waters - when the sliding accordion pathetic excuse of a door rattles open. He's expecting Hardy, because he's already pushing four hours on these trainings, but it's just Bradley. Probably grabbing one of the filters Hardy keeps locked in the office for some stupid reason. Benson turns back to the computer.
...Bradley doesn't leave.
He's hovering, cringing like he knows Benson hates that shit, tugging at the end of his work shirt. Benson sighs, pauses the video on the screen, and turns completely around to level Bradley with an entirely unimpressed frown.
"You lost?"
Bradley shakes his head. Kid looks like he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. "No, it - I, um. I'm supposed to - Hardy asked - told, Hardy told me to keep an eye on you." His face screws up at the end like he expects Benson to fucking yell at him or something.
He should pry at that, figure out why Bradley's so damn jumpy all the time. He pins it for later.
"Whatcha s'posed to watch me for?"
"He says you're taking too long. I think he thinks you're cheating." Bradley shuffles his weight from one foot to the other and reaches for his hair before dropping his hand abruptly. "Or something. I don't know."
"So, what...you're here to babysit me?"
"I...guess."
Benson barks a laugh. Bradley jumps, but then he relaxes, if only barely. Shoulders still hiked up to his ears, but Benson's pretty sure that's just his default posture. He drags the other chair over and pats it.
"Shut the door, c'mere. You're about to get a valuable life lesson, courtesy of yours truly."
Bradley settles gingerly into the chair a respectful distance away, so Benson takes it upon himself to drag him closer until their armrests bump into each other. In response, he shifts away. Somehow he folds his lanky body in on itself, like he's trying to take up as little space as possible. Shit looks uncomfortable as hell, but short of manhandling him into a normal human position, there's not much Benson can do for him. And as the video on the screen says: "Unwanted touch can be considered harassment!"
Leave room for Jesus and all that.
"You did your trainings last week, right?" He taps at the screen when Bradley doesn't reply. The kid jumps like he hadn't been paying attention. "Trainings? Last week? Yes?"
"Yeah. Yes. Sorry."
"Uh huh. And how long did they take you?"
"I think...two hours, maybe."
Benson whistles low. "Goddamn. Impressive. Bet that's some kinda record. What'd you win for being Hardy's fastest little training bitch?"
Bradley side-eyes him, and it's almost a glare. Cute.
"Nothin', that's what you won. Busted your ass for the whole rest of your shift, didn't you."
"Well, yeah. It's my job. It's your job, too." It's so bitchy, Benson loves it. Bradley looks surprised at himself, shrinks back down, and adds, "Right?"
"Sure." Tucking his arms behind his head, Benson kicks back again. Bradley stares at his boots on the desk, looking utterly scandalized. "And when I'm done with my trainings, I'll bust ass, too. But who knows how long that'll take. Gotta be thorough, Bradley, this is important information. You get me?"
Quietly, Bradley considers. Benson lets him. He nudges the spacebar with the heel of his boot to unpause the video, and they finish out the last couple minutes of the "Appropriate Workplace Conduct" bullshit together. When it's done, Benson slaps his hands to his knees and stands. He hasn't had a cigarette in hours. Hasn't really wanted one, but why not. Free fifteen minute break.
"Come on. Break time."
"Oh...I already took my break -"
"Don't care, didn't ask, let's go."
They pass Hardy in the stockroom. He looks ready to blow his lid. "Where the fuck are you going?"
"Ciggy break. Bradley's coming, too."
"Wh- Bradley!"
The kid makes a helpless gesture and lets Benson drag him by the collar out the back door.
The weather's nice. It's cooling down, and there's a light breeze rustling through the trees. Bradley takes his hat off to fully appreciate it, mussing his curls with a sigh. For a long while, they just stand together and watch the sun set as Benson burns leisurely through a cigarette.
"I think I get it," Bradley says quietly.
Benson's pleasantly surprised by the admission. "Yeah? Finally opening your eyes to the scam that is corporate America? Ready to shake off the oppression of the grind?"
Bradley looks at him like he's an idiot. "Uh...no. I wouldn't say that. Just...maybe it's not so bad to slow down. I mean, Chris gets away with it all the time, so..."
He trails off. Benson waits for him to finish the thought, but he doesn’t. Waving a hand in his direction, he prompts, "So...?"
"So...I won't tell Hardy if...you don't...?"
A little shaky, but he'll take it. He claps a hand down on Bradley's shoulder, wiggles him around a little just because he can. "Attaboy."
Before they head inside, he offers his cigarette. Bradley declines in no uncertain terms using only his face, which is pretty funny. Hardy intercepts them on their way into the office to beg Bradley for good news.
"Sorry, sir. He's just having a really hard time grasping the material, I think."
Hey, now. Sassy-britches.
"Fucking - okay, well, I need you back on the register so I can -"
"Aw, shucks, Hardy. I actually need him to help me out with these quizzes. You do want me on the floor at some point, don't you?"
Benson slings an arm around Bradley and doesn't wait for an answer, relishing the look on Hardy's face when his own office door rattles shut in front of him. They listen to him huff and puff and finally stomp away. Bradley slaps a hand over his mouth and laughs.
"I can't believe that worked!"
"'Course it worked. That asshat has a fuckin' pool noodle where his spine should be. Now, come on. I'm having trouble grasping how to fill a sink."
Bradley laughs again, and it's fucking awesome. Nice to see the guy cut loose for once.
In the end, they squeeze another hour out of the whole affair before Hardy actually loses his shit. Not bad for a day's work. Bradley scurries off to the register and Benson finally relieves Donnie at the grill. The last few hours of his shift are tedious, as usual. But Donnie shares a joint with him behind the dumpster on his next cigarette break, and Bradley keeps sneaking him sly little grins, like they're in on some inside joke together. He supposes they kinda are. So really, all seems pretty right in the world.
God, he loves training day.
