When It Counts ⋆.˚☾
Chapter One
snl!reader x ben marshall ── grumpy x sunshine, coworkers to loversˎˊ˗
syn: being a production coordinator was difficult enough without ben refusing to leave you alone. he meant well but you only had so much patience and time in a day
wc: 1.3k
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While most people had Sunday scaries—the day before the dreaded grind begins—yours always came on a Monday.
Monday’s were your easy days (if any day in Studio 8H could be described as such). The fluorescent lights didn’t feel so harsh, nor did the smell of fresh paint in the props department. Your desk waited for you in its near organized state, not yet buried under abandoned drinks and marked up schedules. Though, you knew better than to expect that to last past noon. You thrived in interfacing with the host of the week, briefing the production team, schedule building, credentials.
There was a version of this job you'd fallen in love with somewhere between your cramped lecture hall and unpaid internships where you had a clipboard and a plan people actually respected. Monday was the closest thing to that version you ever got anymore.
Somewhere between Tuesday's pitch meeting and Saturday's broadcast, your job became herding a cast of arrogant, sleep-deprived comedians who thought deadlines didn’t apply to “creatives.”
Working in comedy had never been the goal. But you'd have been an idiot to pass up a seat at one of the most exclusive tables in the industry. You have yet to decide if your sanity was a fair trade for it.
A production intern crept in, eyes heavy and apologetic, and set a paper on your desk without a word.
She grimaced, already backing out before she had to see your reaction.
The door latched shut behind her, blocking out the passing chatter in the hall. For a moment it was just you and the hum of your space heater by your feet.
You scanned the memo—another warning from Standards following last weekend's wardrobe malfunction.
Before you'd even gotten through the first line, your door swung open again, and you found yourself wondering, for the umpteenth time, why you even bothered having a door at all.
“Redbull or coffee,” someone chirped, with enough energy to make your head spin. Dear, sweet Veronika, never once deterred by your sour mood.
Your eyes flicked from the memo to the time on your phone. 11:15 PM, with at least four hours of work left. And this was considered a light day.
“A gun,” you muttered, without looking up.
“Okay,” she said, undeterred. “I'll just leave both.”
A paper cup of coffee and a sweating can of Redbull landed in your eyeline. You sighed in place of a thank you, too spent to vocalize your gratitude.
You looked up to find her bundled in a burgundy jacket, a scarf hanging loosely around her neck, her large, well-worn purse slung over one shoulder.
“You headed out already?”
“I know. Shocking, right?”
“Go,” you waved her off. “Don't waste any more time here than you have to.”
“Right.” She flashed you a smile, warm and a little relieved. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.” Your attention was already back on your desk.
You eyed the Redbull teetering on the edge of it, leaving a puddle of condensation next to a stack of evaluation guides and your cheesy Rockerfeller snowglobe. After a moment of consideration, shoved a few stray papers aside to make space for the wet can.
“Uh, hi,” a voice announced from the door. You pressed your lips together to hold back a groan.
Ben stood half in the hallway, one shoulder braced against the frame, hair slightly mussed after a day of anxiously running his hands through it. His fingers drummed against the doorframe, the picture of a man who had nowhere else to be.
You looked away fast, before you could hand him the opening he was clearly fishing for. You didn't have the energy for whatever material he was saving up for you specifically.
“Yeah?” Your voice came out just as strained as you felt.
He didn't answer right away, but you could feel him still hovering in the doorway, watching you not-watch him.
“You're supposed to say hi back. Maybe even a how are you.”
“I used up all my hi's and how-are-you's on Sabrina Carpenter's team today.”
You relented and glanced up, if only to speed this along. A lopsided grin spread across his face. You could just tell he was thinking he already won.
He brought a hand out from behind his back, revealing a small bag of salt and vinegar chips. Your favorite, unfortunately. Now you knew where that look was coming from.
"I come bearing dinner," he said, then paused just slightly too long before adding, "You haven't eaten. I asked Veronika."
“Veronika's a snitch.”
“C'mon. She cares about you. We care about you.”
He dropped the chips directly in the center of your desk. The crumpled bag sat between you, almost like a bribe, and you tried very hard not to think about how hungry you actually were.
“Yeah, I’m so sure,” you muttered.
Ben folded himself onto the couch across from you, arranging his limbs into something that was supposed to pass for comfortable. His fingers twisted into the knit blanket thrown over the arm, still watching you expectantly.
As you reached for the bag, begrudging every second of it, he caught sight of the bandage on your thumb.
“Is that from Friday?”
You worked the bag open, then abandoned it as soon as he mentioned the injury.
“Don’t.”
He grimaced. “I feel like I should apologize again.”
“Ben.”
“I didn’t realize it was real glass.”
“It wasn’t even near the props department. And there wasn’t a single sketch with sugar glass last week. Why–”
As you paused for a breath, you realized he had slouched into the couch, clearly overcome with guilt.
“It would have been funny.”
His head instinctively pulled back, brow furrowed. “Really?”
You pulled a face and cocked your head. “Eh.”
“You don’t think I’m funny?”
You tilted your head to the other side and further exaggerated your expression.
He shifted in his seat and folded his arms. With his lips pressed together and eyes narrowed, he looked like he was trying very, very hard to look unamused.
"Just being honest."
An easy look flashed on his face and his posture softened. “Well, I’m funny when it counts."
He leaned back and draped his arms on the back of the couch. Your attention caught on his posture—how long his wingspan was. He was obviously extremely tall, but of all the times he’s crashed in your office, you never noticed how he made your tiny, cheap couch look like doll furniture.
You peeled your eyes away and reached for the Redbull, wiggling your thumb underneath the tab without thought. A sharp, stinging sensation followed as the fresh wound peeled open. You drew your lip between your teeth and tried to keep an even expression.
He was up in an instant, hinging forward to reach for the can. “Want help?”
“I can open a can.”
“Didn't say you couldn't,” he shot back, arm already extended.
You looked down at his open hand, the rough skin of his palm, no more than an inch from you now. Then at your throbbing thumb—after one humiliating second, then handed it over.
Your pinky was caught in his grasp for half a second, something not at all notable.
The hiss of the can cracking made you realize how loud the silence had gotten without him talking.
He set it back down, right on top of your papers. You snatched it up just as fast, eyeing the wet ring it left behind.
“Least I can do,” he said, grinning.
“Low bar,” you muttered into the rim before taking a sip.
“So I cleared it?”
You let out a dry laugh, despite yourself. “Sure.”
He pumped a fist and pushed to his feet. “Nice.”
You idly swiveled in your chair, staring at the piles of past host planners that needed to be logged. The idea of trudging through these—until the whole floor went still and the only light coming from your desk lamp and the skyline outside—felt suffocating.
“Okay,” you said too quick, like you had to say it before you changed your mind. “I have work to do. Go home.”
“Yes ma'am.”
He took one step toward the door, faltered, then doubled back just long enough to steal a chip. You watched the entire maneuver with far more attention than it deserved.
“Goodnight,” he called, grin still stuck on his face, already halfway into the hall.
“See you tomorrow.”
More distant this time, he said, “Looking forward to it!”
Ahh my dreams came true!! Thank you <3
