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The smell of old pennies and bleach always clings to the lobby, but today it tastes like copper in the back of Sam’s throat. Sam steps through the heavy door of the Bates Motel, the December chill still clinging to his wool coat. He finds Norman behind the desk, the younger man looking fragile, almost translucent under the flickering fluorescent hum of the ceiling light. Norman is twenty-eight, but there is a hollowed-out quality to his cheeks that makes him look starved. His skin is a sallow, papery grey, stretched tight over a jawline that looks sharp enough to cut.
Sam’s chest tightens. He reaches across the counter, his thumb brushing Norman’s temple, noting the cold sweat beaded there. Norman flinches, a small, shuddering movement that ripples through his lean frame. He looks small, diminished, his eyes darting toward the door as if he expects a ghost to walk through it.
"You look sick, Normie," Sam murmurs, his voice thick with a protective, raw edge. "You look like you're fading away."
Norman swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in a throat that looks too thin. He leans in, his voice a brittle whisper that barely carries over the drone of the heater. "I... I can't get anything out, Sam. It's been days. Everything just feels... stuck. Like a stone in my gut." He admits the constipation with a flush of shame that stains his neck a bruised purple.
The sickness in the air is palpable, a heavy, stagnant heat that settles between them. Sam doesn’t recoil; instead, he feels a surge of visceral intensity, a need to reach inside and pull the tension out of Norman's body. He can see the distress in the way Norman’s stomach is slightly distended, hard and tight beneath his pressed shirt.
"Come with me," Sam commands softly.
He leads Norman away from the public eye, guiding him toward the cramped employee toilet in the back. The room is windowless and damp, smelling of damp concrete and industrial soap. Sam pushes him inside, the door clicking shut with a finality that seals them in. Sam’s hands are already moving, unbuttoning Norman’s trousers with a focused, urgent precision. He reaches for the bottle of mineral oil he’s kept in his bag for just such a crisis, the glass cool against his palm. He pours a generous amount of lubricant onto his fingers, the oil slick and shimmering, preparing to delve into the heat and the blockage of Norman's failing system.