Chapter Text
It was no secret that Mike Schmidt was terrible at keeping jobs. So much of his free time was spent tweaking his resume and attending job interviews that he might as well make it a hobby. Still, he persevered, Mike was nothing if not determined.
There are only so many jobs to be had in Granite falls. Mike had long since stopped being picky about what he applied to, stepping out of his comfort zone and taking a position as a server. A mid-tier restaurant just outside the city limits, not nearly as fancy as the spot he'd taken Vanessa on their not-date, but nicer than somewhere like Sparky's. It was fine by Mike, who would rather stay unemployed than have to work as a crumb scraper.
Turns out, serving wasn't bad work. Flexible hours that allowed him to see Abby before and after school, surprisingly good money, and overall one of the less stressful jobs he'd had. He put it up there with mall security, though he definitely made less money per hour working there.
Everything went relatively smoothly during his week of training. It was odd, having such a diverse age range of coworkers. Women with three kids at home working their second or third job working alongside teenagers young enough to be their kids. There were a few people near Mike's own age, yes, but he was alienated further by the fact he was one of the only men.
He'd originally applied to work in the kitchen, also something he hadn't done before, but apparently all those slots were filled. What they did need, however, was servers; and Mike somehow left a good enough impression on the kitchen manager he'd been referred to the floor manager.
He honestly never imagined he'd be good at any sort of job involving customer service. The rare instances in the past he had to deal with annoying customers had ended with him written up or fired. As it turns out, the ability to walk away and talk shit in the back with women twice his age made those interactions a lot more bearable.
The point was, Mike found himself genuinely enjoying this line of work. What had originally been intended as an in-between job to keep himself and Abby afloat as he looked for something better had turned into, well, something he wouldn't mind doing a little longer.
A few weeks out of training, and Mike was feeling relatively confident. He was quicker jotting down orders, more familiar with the menu, and even growing a little less awkward in the social aspect. So, when he got sat three tables in a row back to back one busy Friday, he managed not to fret too much.
"Hey, sorry for the wait." he approached the last table in a rush, haphazardly slapping down some silverware and napkins without really looking. It was probably fine to leave this table for last, he'd figured, as it was just one guy, and he was currently still looking at the menu. Hopefully he'd be forgiving.
If Mike had known who would be behind that Menu, he wouldn't have clocked in that day. Hell, he might not have taken the damn job in the first place. The menu went down, revealing the face of Michael Afton.
Mike's initial reaction was shock, immediately overshadowed by rage. Was he here for some revenge plot? Or just to piss Mike off? Somehow, Michael looked equally shocked, though that couldn't be right. It didn't matter, Mike decided he simply wasn't going to deal with it. He turned on his heel, stomping off towards the back.
"Anyone want a table?" He inquired, poking his head into the room where servers gathered to make drinks and such. Most of his co-workers ignored him, likely busy with their own tables. He asked again, and this time one of the younger waitresses took the bait.
"Which one?" she asked, turning her attention to the dining room.
Thank god. "That guy over there, by himself. I didn't get his drink order or anything, just brought him silverware."
She paused for a moment, peering at Michael with skepticism. "Why don't you want him?"
He should have lied. He should have said he was too busy, needed a smoke break, or literally any other excuse in the book. Instead, what he blurted out was "We have a history."
Her eyes snapped back to him in an instant, intrigue clear in her expression. "What is he, like, your ex or something?"
Mike could feel his face heating up. That was absolutely not the kind of rumor he needed circling through his place of work. "Hell no."
The disgust he felt must have been evident on his face, because she laughed as she brushed past him into the dining room. "It's fine," she taunted, "I'll take him for you If you sweep my section later."
That was fine by Mike. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders as she sped off towards Michel's table. He tried to forget about it and go back to work as normal, but found himself standing dumbly by the drink machine with two empty cups in his hands. What had the last table wanted to drink again? Water? Or was it sprite? Stupid distracting Afton, he'd have to ask them again like a fool.
He nearly slammed into the waitress from earlier as he stepped out into the dining area, just barely dodging out of the way. "He requested you," she shrugged.
Mike cursed, glancing over his shoulder at the offending table. Michael sat there, preening. He even had the audacity to wave excitedly when Mike met his gaze.
"I don't care, I'm not serving him," Mike grumbled, a little too loudly. A passing manager paused, glancing between Mike and the seemingly normal man he was refusing to serve.
"Yes, you are. We're too busy for this right now. Go take his order."
And just like that, it was decided. Mike would have to literally take orders from the man that had tried to kill him and his family not even three months ago. Mike wondered, not for the first time, if God hated him.
He approached Michael's table with obvious hostility, weary that this was somehow a trap, that Michael's brilliant backup plan was to kill him in broad daylight in a mid-tier restaurant. He wouldn't be surprised. "What are you here for, Afton?" Mike growled.
"Lunch, Mike." Michael scoffed like it was obvious. "Though, I'm still deciding between the potato soup and the house salad. What do you recommend? Should I just get both?"
Mike felt his eye twitch.
"Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Why don't you fetch me a diet coke and I'll think about my order, hm?" Michael spread his hands, the infuriatingly casual display pissing Mike off to a higher degree than if he'd chosen to make a scene.
Mike silently seethed, storming off to go check on his other tables. He'd do a lap around, he decided, putting Michael's drink absolute last on his priority list. Maybe if he took long enough, Michael would grow bored and leave.
Yeah, right.
He dropped off drinks and took orders for other tables, purposefully avoiding Michael's gaze when he passed by. Eventually, though, the buzz of lunch rush died down and Mike had no more excuse to avoid getting Michael's drink any longer.
Pettily, he added a splash of water to the soda. He really should spit in it, or his food, but there were too many people around for that. And who knew with Michael? Chances were, he'd like that.
When he made off towards Michael's table, he saw the man had flagged down one of his co-workers, though not the same waitress as before. Why? She pointed at Mike, and as he got closer he caught the tail end of the conversation.
"Oh, right there. I'm sure he was just busy." She smiled, giving Mike an odd look before continuing on with her own work.
"Thank you!" Michael called out to her as she left, then turned his attention back to Mike.
Mike slammed the diet coke down on the table. "What was that about?"
"Ah, I thought you'd forgotten about me, Mike. I had to ask where you'd gone. You know, it's impolite to leave customers waiting so long."
So he'd embarrassed Mike in front of one of his co-workers. Great. "You're not a customer," Mike said flatly. "I should call pest control."
Michael's eyebrows shot up, his mouth twitching with obvious amusement as he fought back a grin. "That's not very nice, Mike. Maybe I'll have to speak to a manager."
So that was his game. Irritate and embarrass Mike to the point of rage, then snitch on him for reacting appropriately? Mike found himself almost wishing this had been another ridiculous murder plot.
"What do you want to eat?" He snapped, changing the subject in hopes he could just get Michael his food and shoo him out of here as fast as possible.
"I think I'll go with the house salad. No tomatoes."
Mike wrote down extra tomatoes. "Dressing?"
"Ranch will be fine, thank you." Michael handed over the menu, which Mike promptly snatched.
Mike considered, again, waiting a while before handing the order to the kitchen. He decided against it, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. He hoped Michael was allergic to tomatoes or something, and that the salad killed him.
When he dropped the food off later, Michael immediately interjected to say something. Probably about the stupid tomatoes. Mike didn't care. "One second."
He continued on, pretending there was some urgent matter just around the corner he had to attend to. As it turns out, there was. One of his tables flagged him down for a drink refill, and Mike latched onto the excuse, scurrying off past Michael's table, drinks in hand.
Still, there were only so many distractions to be had before he, again, had no excuse but to stop by Michael's table. Mike didn't need him grabbing another server again.
"Ah, Mike! I don't think I can eat this. Too many tomatoes. I tried picking them out, see," he gestured to a napkin piled high with red chunks, "but there's just too many. It's tainted." Michael politely pushed the plate to the edge of the table, blinking up at Mike expectantly.
"I'll get you another one," Mike grumbled, internally debating actually spitting in the next one.
"No, that's alright. I don't think I want salad anymore. How about that soup? The potato. And, if you could take the salad off the bill. Thanks."
Mike actually had to get a manager to change his bill. Annoyingly inconvenient, and he had to lie and say the kitchen messed up the order. Mike was a shit liar, but it didn't matter. Worst case, his manager would think he made a mistake, and not that he'd intentionally put in the wrong thing, because what idiot would do that? Mike would.
The soup was ready in just a couple minutes. They kept it in a huge dingy vat in the back, and Mike half suspected they just added to it every so often instead of actually dumping it and starting over. Unlikely, but the thought make him feel better about serving this to Michael. Maybe the health code violation stew would finish him off.
In the maybe three minutes or so Mike spent in the back room, Michael had been pulled into a conversation with two men. Mike hesitated to approach, watching from afar as Michael rose to his feet and shook hands with a rather burly looking man. The other, shorter guy, clapped a hand on Michael's shoulder with enough force to send him stumbling a step.
Mike stood there dumbly, holding the uncomfortably hot bowl of soup and straining to make out any of the conversation. Michael was smiling politely, chuckling and nodding along to whatever the two were talking about. Mike truly didn't know what to think when the burly man rolled up a sleeve and started… flexing? Yes, flexing his bicep for Michael, who nodded approvingly.
Okay, that was enough. Morbid curiosity (and the burning hot bowl stinging his hand) urged him forwards. He had to know what the hell they could possibly be talking about. "I've got your soup," he cleared his throat, prompting the two men to step out of his way.
They seemed to take the hint, bidding farewell to Michael. "Well then, we'll leave you to your food. Good seeing you!"
"You as well," Michael nodded once more before collapsing back into his chair, his polite charade faltering for a moment. Mike watched annoyance and exhaustion flash though his expression before settling back to indifference.
"Who were they?" Mike inquired.
Michael just shrugged. "I don't remember their names. Rude, I know, sue me."
Mike bit his tongue to stop himself from asking further questions. He really shouldn't get into the habit of chatting up Michael Afton. Who cared if random men showed him their biceps? That was Michael's business, how ever odd.
His restraint turned out to be in vain, as Michael was apparently determined to take up every single spare second of Mike's time. He had Mike running in circles, more napkins, crackers, another spoon because he'd dropped his, a drink refill, a to-go cup for said drink. If it were anyone else, Mike would only be mildly annoyed. But because it was Michael, he was pissed.
All this work, and for what? He was certain Michael wasn't going to tip. Why would he, when his obvious goal was to be an irritating little shit?
Mike went and hid in the break room after dropping off Michael's check. No way was he getting anything else for that psycho. It was nearing the end of his shift anyways, with Michael being his only table that hadn't left.
After a sufficient amount of time had passed, Mike poked his head out of the serving room and peered over at the register. Michael was chatting up the hostess, hopefully on the verge of leaving. Mike decided to stay put until he left, but continued watching as the host dug something out from under the counter.
Was that… the scheduling book? Dread pooled in Mike's stomach as he pieced together what was likely going on. Fuck, was she really that stupid? Mike hurriedly made his way over, praying that he was reading the situation wrong.
Michael caught one glimpse of Mike's dark expression and turned tail, squeaking out a goodbye before ducking out the door. Good, hopefully he wouldn't return.
Mike tried to calm himself before turning to his co-working and asking "what did he want?"
"He asked what days you're working." She cocked her head, confused.
Fuck. Of course he did.
"And you told him?"
"Yes?"
Mike had to clench his fists and bite back a curse. It wasn't this girl's fault that Michael had tricked her, he was apparently surprisingly good at hiding his weird, off-putting nature when he wanted to. Manipulation, that's what it was.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, just… don't sit him in my section next time. Please."
She nodded, and Mike strode away to clear off Michael's table. Just get this one thing done, and he could go home and search for a new line of work. Fuck Michael, he'd find a new job and never have to see his stupid face again.
Michael had left cash on the table with the bill. Mike began to count it, cursing himself for not doing this before the man had left. It would be just like the Afton to short him and get Mike in trouble.
Mike counted the money and frowned. Then, he counted it again. He glanced dumbly between the total on the bill, and the cash in hand.
Michael Afton had left him a twenty dollar tip.