i really like the idea of an au with just coworkers!ranson where randy, for whatever reason, ends up at a bar by himself. maybe he told his mom he was going to see "jason", some kid he thinks may have been in his 7th grade class? he has a vague recollection of going to the mall with him once, playing the nintendo display in gamestop. he thinks. it's blurry. he hopes he got the name right.
he's never really been drunk, had wine at communion, sipped a beer once with his uncle out in west virginia. he was maybe 15, hailey and his mom fast asleep in the guest room upstairs. his uncle ron exclaiming how "he's a man now" and how he needs to "get some hair on his chest". randy never really understood and his mom never knew about it, for obvious reasons.
he decided, well really just acted upon sudden impulse that he'd seemingly only ever had when he's trying to self sabotage, that he was going to go to the dive near his work. he passes it every day, sees the regular cars parked there every night when he's heading home. it terrifies him, really.
he'd had this itch recently. it only reared it's ugly head sometimes. once when he was a child, he'd fully conjured a plan to run away. it wasn't unheard of for 10 year olds to wanna "run away", but randy had a full, thought out plan. when he thought back to it, it was incredibly impressive for a kid that young. luckily for him, or rather incredibly unluckily for someone else, some kid just 5 miles up the road had gotten kidnapped and murdered just days before he intended to enact his plan. that effectively made him give up, his mom put him on lockdown anyways.
nowadays, he was usually content in his every day activities. get up, shower, go to work, come home, eat dinner with his family, maybe take hailey to practice for whatever activity she was currently enrolled in, shower again, go to bed. maybe content was the wrong word. he was passive. everything seemed to work. everything flowed as easily as it could. easier to leave everything as if, god forbid he makes the wrong decision and fucks everything up. again. routines are good for people, he'd read that in a health magazine he'd snatched up in his doctor's waiting room.
somehow though, for the last week, he'd had that fucking itch. the itch to do *something*. it didn't need to be anything crazy, though he'd be lying if he said his first thoughts weren't killing himself violently, for all to see or completely running away. again. somehow, this fucking itch devolved into the want, the need to go to the Scary Bar. he was gonna go to the Scary Bar and he was going to get drunk for the first time. fuck the shift he was scheduled for tomorrow, fuck the lying to his mother, fuck everything. even his thoughts, just like him, had a shaky voice with zero conviction.
he walks. it's really not far, about two miles. a good hour and half for randy to think about if he really wants to do this. spring doesn't necessarily feel nice in louisiana, hell, it's hard for any season to thrive in the goddamn swamp. but it's definitely no sticky, harsh summer air so ultimately, randy can't complain. he had a hand-me-down walkman from his uncle, the one with the shitty beer. he listened to "Queen's Greatest Hits" for the 50th time. it ended and randy just restarted it. focused back on the music. the fastest hour and a half of his life comes to an end when he finds himself in the parking lot of Ryder's.
tunnel visioned, he hands the bouncer his id and walks in. it smells like smoke and rancid, acidic alcohol. randy immediately wants to leave but he's here. he's done this. he made the decision and he's gonna stick it out for at least one drink. he asks the lady bartender what their popular beers are, he's brutally honest (moreso in a word vomit way) that he's never been to a bar, never really had a drink. she's sweet, offers him a vodka cranberry instead. says it's popular with young folk like him. he quickly nods. he didn't think he'd like it, really. he's never found alcohol appealing. but this? it was nice. bitter, but refreshing, almost. he chugs it, fast.
somewhere between the anxiety of being there and sudden onset haziness of two shots of vodka, randy starts to look around at his fellow patrons. mostly just old dudes, a few women scattered about. it's a friday, so they're pretty fucking busy. randy asks for another drink. as he does, a figure appears next to him asking for another whiskey and coke. the voice almost sounds familiar, randy's not even tipsy yet, but his brain isn't exactly working at top speed. he looks to the figure and before he can speak,
oh. it's benson. obviously it's benson. the voice was gruff, full of smoke, confusion. the vague shape starts to place in his brain and randy can't meet his eyes. benson is here, uniform abandoned for a wrinkled shirt, sleeves cut off, marked "Ween, The Mollusk" with a grotesque creature on the front. his jeans were a bit too big, his hair even more astray now that's it's not confined to a ball cap.
"oh! uh- hi- hey, benson!" randy tries to give a smile, like this is normal, please don't say anything. pleading eyes stuck to the bar. randy wishes benson would scoff and leave, much like any time randy asked anything of him at work. but of course, a sly smirk crosses his face and he claps a hand down on randy's shoulder. he sits down next to him.
"the fuck are you doin' here, bradley? wrong turn on the way to church camp?" his breath smells acrid, he's leaned in far too close. bradley's second drink arrives at this moment.
"i- uh... i don't really uh. know..." he trails on, almost scared to grab the drink in front of him. he feels caught, trapped like an animal with a clamped leg in violent metal. benson is looking at him like he wants an answer. a real one. it's an intensive gaze, he feels stripped down. what is happening?
then, with him seemingly unaware of the spur of emotion deep within randy's gut, benson laughs. like truly fucking laughs. randy has never, ever heard something like this, from him, before. it's deep and nearly triggers a coughing fit. getting a real kick out of the situation. randy wants to call him an asshole. he won't.
"jesus christ, bradley," he wipes a tear from his eye, randy doesn't think it was ever really there,
"c'mon, i'm over here, let's go." benson gets out of his stool next to randy bradley and beckons him. rolls his eyes when the boy just stays in his seat like a deer in headlights.
"don't make me do some count to ten bullshit"
randy grabs his drink and gets up.
baratheonpilled
stormborns
jacobvanloon
yousharknotpass
2087
