Bill Hader Oneshots

Arguing Pt. 1/3 (SNL Era)

a/n: hello! please reply to the post on my profile and i will be indebted to you! i just lost five followers in 10 hours so that's exciting! also requests are welcome as always

"It's funnier if he's sixty-five."

"But that doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't matter if it makes sense, Bill, it's a sketch."

"It matters if it's going to confuse the audience."

"It's not going to confuse anyone. It's a punchline."

"It's not punchy." Okay, now he was starting to get on your nerves. Especially since that was exactly the kind of stupid joke you would make if the roles were reversed.

"Why don't we just bring it to Seth and see what he says?"

"I think he went home."

"Seth went home?" you asked incredulously. The tone of tension between the two of you dropped momentarily so you could a look of disbelief. Seth going home was a minor miracle.

"I know," Bill said, "I bet his girlfriend didn't recognize him."

"She probably called the cops."

"And he's sitting in a county jail cell right now," Bill finished.

"Well, it doesn't matter because he'd side with me," you said, lifting the tension again. You weren't exactly sure why you always did this, always incited something. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you just liked the adrenaline. Maybe it was just fun to get Hader rilled up, the way he would move his hands to make a point, the way his cheeks would turn the slightest blush.

"No chance."

"Yes, chance," you said.

"That's not a saying."

"I'm not taking grammar advice from the man who forgot how to spell tarantula two minutes ago."

"That's spelling, not grammar."

"Still relevant."

"How often do you spell tarantula in your everyday life?"

"As often as I need to," you said primly. He stared at you. Point you.

"Fine, make him sixty-five," Bill said, "Seth is just going to make you change it in edits." Well, that was that sorted. You hadn't really expected him to give up that easily. Fortunately for you, that was one of three disagreements the two of you were having over the sketch. A trifecta of cuts or notes over which to argue for hours, or at least until the sketch was due. Ways to keep him talking to you. Even if it wasn't all that far from lecturing. But it was communication, and that was something you looked forward to with Hader.

It was a shame the only way you could get it was this. That was really the only way to get anyone's attention around here as a junior writer, to stand up for your writing. That or write a miracle sketch that everyone murmurs about for weeks. But that was not only out of the realm of possibility for you, it wouldn't give you the opportunity to yell at Bill for the couple of hours each week you held so dear.

If only you were less awkward. Then maybe you could talk to him like normal people talked to each other. You could strike up a conversation about sports. But your wealth of knowledge on the players he liked and the teams he followed was dirt poor. You could ask him about films. You knew he liked those. But he knew so much and you were sure to embarrass yourself when you revealed you hadn't seen Ingmar Berman's The Virgin Spring or whatever other hidden classic was bemusing him this week. Some Korean gem from the 60s. God only knew. What else did people talk about when they weren't trapped in 30 Rock for eighty hours a week. Food? Music, maybe? You really needed a week off.

"What else did we need to figure out?" he asked.

"The song," I said, emerging from my rambling train of thought. He let his head fall back. Maybe you should just let him go, you thought. He was tired. You hadn't slept since the dinosaurs ruled the earth with their stubby little arms and their spines studded with baseball plates. But the sketch actually needed fixing and you knew the two of you would regret turning it in like this when you had to cringe your way through the table read.

Bill grumbled something to the tune of general discontent.

"This is torture," he said, louder.

"And I like spending time with you too," you shot back, maybe a little too harshly.

"Not that. Just... this." He gestured vaguely, one arming arcing a large semi-circle. You watched his rub his eyes.

"Just go home," you said, softer, "I can finish."

"No, it's fine. Let's just get this over with."

"Seriously, I got it. Go home."

"Y/N-"

"You haven't slept in like, thirty-six hours." You kept tapping keys.

"Neither have you."

"I'm not essential to the show. If I pass out in the hallway in three hours, everything can still run smoothly," you countered. You were well aware of where you were on the food chain, and it was definitely below main cast member. Bill, apparently, did not appreciate your appraisal of the situation.

"Why does every interaction we have end up like this?" he asked, though it wasn't clear if he was asking you or himself. You decided to take the question.

"Because you only ever talk to me when you want to write something difficult!"

"You only ever talk to me when you want to write something difficult!" he countered.

You gave him a look. This was going nowhere. And you actually thought he should get some rest.

"Maybe we should have a conversation that isn't about work," he proposed, rubbing his eyes.

"Good luck finding the time for that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's SNL, Hader, everything here is always about SNL."

"Sunday. We'll go to dinner," he said, not a question.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" you asked, mostly joking, "Because it sounds more like a threat."

"It's both. Now, let's write this stupid song."

"I just did while you were arguing with me," you said and turned the screen toward him. He peered over, read through, and laughed at various intervals.

"Does this mean we can go to sleep?" he asked.

"Yup."

"Thank God. I'll see you on Sunday," he said and walked out of the room as if in a daze.

"What? The table read is in three hours!" you called after him, rolling your eyes.