Bill Hader Oneshots

Birthday Pt. 1/2 (SNL Era)

a/n: hello, this was a request. hope you enjoy it!

Happy Birthday to me. That's was your first conscious thought as your alarm blared loudly next to your ear. You thought it with a certain degree of cynicism. It was your birthday, sure. But it was also a Saturday. And for you, a writer at Saturday Night Live, that meant the was a long day ahead. You palmed your alarm lazily until it finally fell silent and dragged yourself out of bed.

From one perspective, an optimistic one, most of the hard work of the week was already done. You had written your sketches (and one of them even got on). You had done your rewrites. You had consulted with props, makeup, hair, & costuming. Really all that was left to do today was make sure the whole thing didn't collapse. The cast had to do all the hard work of performing. You just had to stand under the bleachers with Lorne Michaels and pray the audience laughed.

That was the optimistic perspective. The pessimistic perspective, which might have been the same as the realist perspective, told you the last stretch was the hardest. Seth would be calling audibles all day. That meant you would be shaving ten seconds off your sketch with ten minutes to air, relaying orders to the tech department, arguing over the punch line of a joke that would go unnoticed anyway, and everything in between.

This is my dream job, you told yourself as you dressed in a hurry. Your sleep deprived brain was having a hard time believe you.

It was only seven a.m. when you arrived at 30 Rock, but the streets were already bustling. That's New York City for you. You showed your security badge to the man at the door and stepped onto the elevator. Here we go.

Seven a.m. Seven in the morning. And as soon the elevator doors opened on floor eight it was chaos. Two writers were fighting each other with swords made out of whiteboard markers. Jason Sudeikis was wearing at least three pairs of sunglasses. They'd likely been here since the night before. You'd had the good sense (and good fortune) to make it home for a few hours and know you felt like the only sober person at a house party. Near the elevator, Andy Samberg was carrying a giant box of donuts perched precariously on top of a stack of manila folders.

"Y/N! You're here!" Samberg chirped. You lacked his early morning enthusiasm.

"Indeed I am."

"Special day!" That softened you a little. You hadn't expected anyone to remember your birthday.

"Is it?" you asked with a half smirk.

"Sure is. Donut place is having a sale! You want one?" He flipped the lid up like a clam revealing a pearl. You sighed.

"Thanks, Andy," you said and grabbed a donut. Free food is free food. He grinned.

"Has Seth started losing it yet?" you asked.

"Not yet. But there's plenty of time left."

~~~~~

Indeed there was. At about three p.m., Seth popped down a thick stack of scripts onto your desk. It was so high you couldn't see over the top of it.

"Can you proofread these?" he asked, "I asked a couple of interns to do it but I think they made it worse." It probably wasn't their fault. As little sleep as you got in a week, the interns got half. They spent all their time fetching coffee, reporting messages, or vibrating nervously out of fear that someone would yell at them.

"Sure thing, boss," you said. God, this was going to be mind numbing. Dream job, your thought to yourself again, as if by making that your mantra you might forget how little you wanted to sift through a hundred pages of scripts. Seth looked apologetic.

"Hey, are you coming to the after-party? I heard there's going to be big names."

"There's always big names." In fact, to many people, Seth Meyers was a big name himself. Maybe less housewives would have a crush on him if they knew how much homework he assigned. You gave the stack of paper a sturdy pat. It almost fell over. In the hall, someone shouted Seth's name: another fire for him to put out. He glanced over his shoulder tiredly.

"Thanks, Y/N," he said, "You can make Mulaney help you when he's done talking to make-up."

"Will do."

"So are you coming to the after-party?" Whoever was in the hallway called Seth's name again.

"I don't know yet. I might fall asleep as soon as the band plays us out."

"You should come. Good luck with the..." He gestured at the tower of paper. You nodded. Mulaney better hurry up.

~~~~~

As it turned out, you didn't make it until the band played their final notes. You didn't even make it until the show began. You were passed out, exhausted, in your chair at eight. When you emerged from your slumber, it wasn't naturally. Hader had a hand on his shoulder and was gently shaking you awake.

"Y/N?" You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand.

"What time is it?" you asked.

"Eleven."

"Jesus. Why are you here? You should be-" You were distracted mid-sentence by the stack of pate on your desk. Or, more precisely, the lack of papers on your desk.

"What-"

"It's all done," Bill supplied, "Mulaney finished the rest when you fell asleep." Oh, thank God. You owed Mulaney lunch.

"Oh."

"I thought you might want to be awake. Your sketch is up soon."

"Thanks. You ready?" you asked. He gave a small smile and shrugged. His hair was slightly out of place, which he must have sensed because he ran his fingers through it. He looked tired, but not in the gross and exhausted way you felt. Just a little deflated.

"Are you coming to the after-party?" you asked, echoing Seth's words from earlier.

"Maybe not. I'm kind of dead. Are you?"

"Probably." As gross as you felt, your nap had given you a second wind. Plus, by the end of the show you'd be running in so much adrenaline it might be impossible to go home and get some sleep. You held out a hand and Bill pulled you to your feet.

"Or," you posited, "I could leave now and not have to stand under the bleachers with Lorne."

"And get fired."

"I'd fake a heart attack."

"In your twenties?"

"Exactly. Everyone would be so shocked they wouldn't question it."

"I think your overestimating your acting skills."

"Hey!" you replied indignant, but the two of you were both grinning. There was a glint in his eye, the root of which you couldn't identify. A minute later, you were catching up on the events of the day. There was always gossip at SNL because there were a hundred things happening per hour. The show that never sleeps.

"I should probably go," Bill said after a while. He was right. In fact, he probably should have gone twenty minutes before but you liked talking to him so much that you couldn't bear to mention the ticking clock. There was something about talking to Bill that felt out of time. It was the only way you could stay sane in a world of constant motion. People weren't kidding when they talking about the rush and unabating energy of New York. But inside 30 Rock it was magnified a hundred times. Sometimes you forgot you weren't just a machine programmed to type, edit, and laugh. Bill helped you remember.

"Yeah," you said, "I'll see you after the show."

"If we survive."

"If we survive," you agreed.