Work Text:
Sammy Lawrence raised his hands at his composer stand, waiting for the next reel of film to play. The band in front of him readied their instruments, and he inhaled deeply while the projector above them flickered.
And… kept flickering. Sammy scowled, looking up at it as if that would make the next reel play.
"Damn projectionist," he hissed, gritting his teeth.
And still nothing happened. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, before Henry Stein stood up and set down the notebook that he had been quietly writing all things that the animation department needed to edit in.
"I'll check on him," he said, moving towards the hall. Sammy lowered his hands–irritation evident on his face (but really, that wasn’t anything new)–and the band members quickly followed suit.
Henry stepped out into the hallway, and moved towards the stairs to the projection booth. He liked to believe him and Norman Polk were good friends (well, if you asked Polk he would begrudgingly admit that Henry was 'a decent guy' and that was more than anyone else in the studio could get). So, he figured he would be the least likely to piss Norman off by entering the booth.
He knocked on the doorframe sharply, and once he got no answer he pushed the door open and peered inside.
Norman was slumped over in his chair, hand tangled in his hair in what looked to be a last ditch attempt at keeping his head up. Henry blinked, then took another step into the dark room.
"Norman?" He said, and the other man twitched a little in his sleep. Henry stepped forward again and set a hand on his shoulder.
Was it overworking? Henry could believe that. They had a deadline coming up after all, and if the musicians and voice actors were working overtime then so was their projectionist. But when he touched Polk's shoulder, some instinct in him could tell that something was wrong.
"Norman?" Henry repeated, a bit more earnestly this time, and shook the shoulder that he had gripped. The projectionist stirred, and lifted his head with some difficulty.
" 'enry?" He slurred, and Henry frowned.
"Norman, c'mon," he said, as his hand moved to Norman's forehead to try and sit him upright in the chair. Then he inhaled sharply, pulling back because holy shit, Polk was burning up.
Norman managed to crack one eye open and give him a weak glare, and Henry noticed with a sinking heart that he looked dazed, sickly–their only protectionist had managed to catch a bug. Or something worse.
He swore under his breath, then slipped one of Norman's arms over his shoulder and hauled him up. "God, Polk, you could've told someone you were sick…"
"Ain't sick." Norman replied stubbornly as he stumbled to his feet, his southern accent even thicker than usual.
"You're burning up!" Henry said, grunting a little as he struggled to hold the projectionist's weight. Norman was tall and lanky, sure, but he was leaning heavily on Henry.
Norman fell silent while Henry's knees threatened to give out. Nevertheless, he continued to haul him out of the projection booth and down the hall.
He wasn't sure how they got to the infirmary, Henry still struggling to carry most of Norman's weight–hell, he wasn't completely sure that Polk hadn't passed back out–but they made it eventually, and he carefully laid him down on a cot.
"Alright," Henry muttered, stepping back. Norman stayed where he was on the cot, making no movement except the small rise and fall of his chest.
To Henry's dismay, the infirmary was empty. And besides, the people that usually worked in here were accustomed to workplace injuries, not illnesses. Certainly not like whatever Norman had, at any rate.
He shook his head a little, turning around. "You stay here, Norm, I'll be back."
Henry got no answer apart from the quiet rumbling breaths of a man who'd already fallen back asleep.
-
Norman didn't know what time it was whenever he woke up.
Hell, he didn't know where he was, and he didn't feel like getting up to figure that out. Frankly, his brain felt like someone had taken it out, mashed it, then poured it back into his head and slapped him on the shoulder before telling him to get back to work.
And to his credit–Norman had certainly tried to get back to work, hadn't he? He had ignored his pounding head, had suppressed the urge to throw up, had even continued to stare into the bright light of his projector while his head ached and his eyes burned.
The last thing he remembered was propping his head up with one hand, staring down at Lawrence and his music crew while he let his mind wander for a moment.
And now he was here, wherever here was.
He groaned quietly, moving to sit up and grimacing as the world churned with his stomach. Someone pressed a hand against his shoulder and pushed him back into lying down, murmuring softly under their breath (and good lord, was he grateful for that. No one else in this damn studio could shut up for more than five minutes, always yelling and fighting and barking orders).
"Don't sit up, you'll just make it worse." The soft voice said–ordered, really–and Norman let it happen, let them push him back down. He was too tired to snap anything back, far too tired to struggle against whoever it was.
He did crack one eye open, and instantly shut it as spots danced across his vision. Jesus Christ…
The voice chuckled good-naturedly, and Norman risked another crack of his eye.
Once he had blinked past the spots that crowded his vision, he recognized the figure of Henry Stein, the bright lights of the infirmary illuminating the edges of his hair and giving him the strange illusion of a halo.
He tilted his head, making the connection to Alice; Henry had a halo, just like an angel. Strange as it was, Norman felt it fitting for the kind, patient man–though, if anyone asked him about that he would swear up and down it had just been his feverish mind.
Norman closed his eyes again, licking his chapped lips before croaking out a soft, ‘goddamnit, Stein.'
“Well hello to you too, Norman,” Henry said, a small smile gracing his lips. “You had me worried for a minute there.”
Norman furrowed his brow, giving Henry a confused look. Henry just shook his head and set his sketchbook down on the sidetable.
“You don’t remember passing out?” Henry asked quietly, and Norman’s brow creased.
“No?” The projectionist replied, trying to sit up again.
“Lay the hell back down, Norms.” Henry said firmly and, to his surprise, Norman obeyed the command and laid the hell back down–though, less to Henry's surprise, he didn’t do so without grumbling under his breath. Grumbling about how he wasn't sick and this was unnecessary and overreacting.
Above him, Norman could see Henry trying not to roll his eyes. Then he watched as the animator snapped his head up, blinking at the sharp knock on the infirmary doors. Norman winced, putting a hand to his head as if that could shut that awful racket up.
"Go back to sleep." Henry said, getting to his feet, and Norman reluctantly closed his eyes. He listened to Henry's soft footsteps, listened to the creak as the infirmary door was opened, and tried not to listen as Joey Drew's irritating voice burst through the little bubble of silence–immediately followed by Henry hissing something at him and the door shutting behind him.
And then the infirmary was silent once again, and Norman was alone.
-
He wasn't alone for very long, though. At least, he thought so. The next few hours were a daze, a blur of sleep and not-sleep.
He could've sworn he heard Sammy's annoying voice once, grumbling about how Mr. Drew was trying to get someone else to run the projector and good god, Norman, he didn't realize there were wrong ways to run the damn thing but he (the guy Drew had up there) managed to find all of them, before muttering something about how Norman had better get well soon or he would strangle both him and whatever poor soul was running the projector right now.
That poor soul turned out to be Wally Franks, the janitor (who was less a janitor as of late, and more a man who had to wear many hats against his wishes) who Norman was 65% sure came in to wake him up and ask him how to replace a light bulb in the projector. Whenever Norman tried to stumble to his feet to show him the proper way, the studio doctor promptly pushed him back down and chased Wally out, seemingly under Henry's orders that Norman shouldn't be up and moving for the rest of the day.
Personally, Norman thought that was bullshit. Those stupid idiots were going to get themselves killed without him, mark his words.
His theory proved to be correct when he was rudely awakened by Wally running in, shouting about something being on fire. Norman took one look at Wally's panicked expression and at his (rather charred) clothes, before he buried his face in his pillow and tried to ignore it in favor of going back to sleep.
Maybe Henry was onto something with the whole 'not getting up today' thing.