A/N: Before you read this fic, I must inform you that it has been years since the last time I wrote a fanfiction. Life has gotten pretty hectic and before I knew it it has been almost four years since I wrote my last fanfiction. So if my writing is cringey or odd, I apologize in advance. Practice makes perfect, as the saying goes.

Besides that, please enjoy.

Despite the impossible deadlines, despite the violations of safety regulations, despite the incessant absence of my best pal, the new and broken pipelines, the constant complaining of whats-its, and the growing void in the company's bank account...I chose to stay.

Joey's losing it, I can tell. Ever since he lost the ability to walk he was a shell of his former self. He's a lot more reclusive now, he barely leaves his office anymore, and half the time whenever I try to talk to him it's like I'm talking to a wall. That rambunctious man that wasn't afraid to let anyone know what he was feeling and why, is gone. He's just a broken old man now, and his old pal just didn't have the heart to leave.

I still draw the scenes, sketch the forms of the devil darling himself, and give them the love and care I always do in all my works. Though, the same couldn't be said about the others. Sammy has been a lot more hostile ever since Joey shut his doors to him, Alisson has yet to stop looking over her shoulder because of the breakdown she had to deal with from a raging Susie who felt she was just backstabbed. Everyone else...everyone else is just...it's as if everyone has been shrouded in dark ambience. Some are extra tense, some are depressed, and some are just not all there. If I hadn't been working here for a couple of years I would've thought this place was a funeral parlor.

But it's not, and these people are still acting as if someone had just died.

I stilled my pencil at that thought. I looked at the unfinished sketch of a sad demon who's crying over the loss of his melted snow-pal. I tapped the edge of the page in anticipation to continue working but decided against it and let the pencil fall onto the table. I sighed and leaned back on my stiff chair.

Someone might as well have.

I gently knocked on the door, careful not to spill the stack of sketches and work pieces in the other hand. There was a gruff 'come in' and I gingerly turned the squeaky knob. The door whined as I pushed it open and was greeted with a dimly-lit office and the boss leaning forward in his wheelchair, staring at what appeared to be a blank page with his writing hand halted in contempt as to what to write.

I shut the door behind me and walked up to the desk and laid the stack of papers down before him. He didn't look up, nor did he even glance at the papers before him. It was only after a moment of silence did he give up on writing and laid his antique pen down.

"I take it these are the new storyboards?" He didn't look up but instead caressed his pale hand on the top page gently.

"Yeah, I finished it. We should be good to go."

"Good. Good." He nodded slowly, taking the top page off and inspecting it with tired, glazed eyes. "I'll get this to Sammy and we'll discuss the music arrangement." He placed the page back on top and slowly swiveled his chair to reach the outer right drawer. He pulled out a large binder and scooped the stack of papers inside, his ghostly hands shaking the entire time. It broke my heart to see him like this, it hurt every time I came in here. I was about to say something when he beat me to it. "Good work. That will be all for today."

I stared at him for a minute before deciding now wasn't a good time. He's still reclusive and dismissive. To think this man used to be a stubborn show-off.

I left the desk and went to turn the knob before something stopped me. I turned to him to find that he picked up his pen again and finally started writing, it was very slow and almost a pain to watch due to his shaky hands.

"Joey," I called. He didn't look up, but he did stop writing. He didn't say anything so I continued. "You can always come talk to me. You know that right?"

His pen started moving again, and I decided not to linger anymore. I closed the door and left the broken man to his work.

I couldn't go to work today, my leg wouldn't stop hurting. It started out as harmless charlie-horses at night, but now it's constant. I couldn't get out of bed, every moment I tried putting weight on it the pain would slice through me like a knife and make me bawl like an overgrown baby.

My wife decided to call the doctor and make an appointment. I told her that I probably pulled a muscle and needed to rest and that she was just being her usual overactive self. She huffed at my comment and made one anyways. Thinking back on the conversation, the way that I said it, I never realized how much Joey had rubbed off on me.

I called Joey and told him the situation. He was quiet at first but sent his regards and hoped that I would feel better. It kinda through me off guard, he was always the type to chide me for the smallest things and make a big joke about it, but then again he hasn't been 'Joey' for a while now.

Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed my sketchbook off of my night stand and continued where I left off. I drew until noon, in which my wife helped me to the car and drove me over to the doctors. As we waited in the office, I pulled out my sketchbook again and put the finishing touches on the sketch. As I finished shading in the last piece, the doctor walked in with his trusty clipboard in hand. He was an older gentleman, and a sweet one at that, he wore a smile that could put a tantrum child to rest.

"My, my, if it isn't the calmest man in the world." The doctor chuckled softly, examining the clipboard one last time before setting it on the counter nearby. He grabbed his stethoscope and placed the cold medal on my ribcage. I flinched at the touch, in which the good doctor chuckled again. "Well...maybe not in the world but…" After he finished, he swung the stethoscope to hang behind his back as he grabbed the clipboard and sat next to me, pulling a pen out of his coat pocket and flipping to a blank page. He licked the tip of the pen with his tongue for a few seconds before jotting down the name and date. "Alright sport, what seems to be the problem?"

"It's his leg doctor," Linda intervened before I could even think of what to say, "He's been in pain last night and all morning. Nothing seemed to help ease the pain either." The scribbling of the pen on the board replaced the temporary silence after my wife paused, waiting for a response, when none came she continued. "I was hoping you would help."

Finishing his notes, he looked at my wife with a silly smile. "Well, I mean, don't you think you're kind of, I don't know, jumping the gun? It may just be the classic case of a pulled, or twisted muscle."

I gave her a knowing look, and she rolled her eyes. "I didn't want to take a chance."

The doctor's smile broadened at the cute exchange. "Well, there's no harm in that."

He placed the clipboard back on the counter and pulled out rubber gloves. The familiar snap of a glove-slapping-wrist echoed in the room as I lied on the bed and allowed the doctor to roll up my jeans. He pressed various points all along the leg, turning it over every so often to get to other areas that were hard to reach. He did this for about five minutes before unrolling my jeans back into place. He took off the sticky gloves and threw them away in a nearby trash can. He picked up the clipboard once again and sat back with his pen in hand.

"Hmm...There's definitely a lot stress and constriction," He looked up for a brief minute as I sat back up again before continuing, "Can you please describe your pain?"

I looked down at my leg, still feeling the tight, throbbing pulses shoot through me like an elastic band constantly snapping. "It...hurts like hell," I started hesitantly, "like as if someone is grabbing my leg and pulling and twisting it to go the wrong way."

The doctor paused and my wife looked at me worriedly. "That's quite...the description." The doctor continued writing down on his clipboard before looking back up at me. "I may have an idea as to what it may be, but it's too soon to tell. In the meantime, I'm going to subscribe to you a muscle relaxer and see if that helps." The doctor tore off a piece of the paper and handed it to my wife. "Give this to the pharmacist and they should help."

The doctor got up and swung the stethoscope back to the front. He patted his coat and wiped off the excess eraser shavings on his clipboard. "I want you to come back in two weeks for a follow-up. Though, if the pain is getting worse I want you to come back as soon as possible. In the meantime," He gave me a warm smile, "try to relax and limit as much strain on the leg as possible. I've got some work to do." He nodded his farewells and left me with the Misses.

Time has passed, and it didn't get better. It only got worse. The spasms were more frequent, and they hurt like hell. But it wasn't just my leg anymore, my whole body started jerking uncontrollably, and I felt extra heavy, like all my energy was sucked dry.

My wife called the doctor again, except this time he was coming here because I couldn't get out of bed without collapsing into a ball because of agonizing pain.

When he arrived, he pulled my covers off and immediately examined my leg like the previous appointment, except this time his touch felt like needles pricking into my skin. He hummed grimly as he placed the covers back over my leg.

"Not good. Not good." He mumbled as he reached into the bag he brought and pulled out a very small vial and syringe. "Alright, I think I know what you're problem is and I believe this is going to help." Infusing the shot with the unknown liquid, he uncovered my leg again and inserted it into my upper thigh. I gagged from the unsuspecting surge of pain and tightened my grip on the covers until my knuckles were white as snow. "I know, I know. That should do it." He placed the syringe back into his bag and covered my leg again.

My wife, who's been watching this entire time from the back of the room, made her way to the edge of my bed. "What's wrong with him doctor?" She whispered hoarsely.

My brain couldn't think from all the pain. In a vain attempt to make it stop, I threw the covers over my head and shut my eyes.

"I believe this to be a generalized dystonia; perhaps a dopa-responsive type." The words were muffled but I could still hear them. "Tell me, has your husband experienced any trauma in the head or spine?"

"N-no. He hasn't. His work doesn't really involve him doing a lot of exercise since he's an animator."

"Any previous jobs?"

"He used to work at a local factory, but that was before we met so I don't know that much about it." I could feel my wife sit on the bed, drumming her fingers on the bed sheets. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Is there anything I can do to make it better?"

The doctor hummed thoughtfully as he picked up his bag. "I'm sorry to say there isn't. The medicine I gave him should help but unfortunately it may take a long time for it to take effect. Make sure he keeps taking the muscle relaxants, it should help the process. Luckily, what he has isn't fatal so you don't need to worry about that."

The doctor was about to leave when a sudden thought occurred to him. "He can still work, but I advise against walking at all costs. I recommend a wheelchair in the meantime. I shall take my leave now."

With that he was gone, and I was finally able to get some sleep.

"So...that's gist of it." I finished relaying what happened the past ten days to Joey who only listened in silence with a very stern look on his face. "I can still work, but I will need to take more breaks, and my pace may not be the same as before, but I'll make sure everything reaches its deadline."

Joey nodded in understanding. "I see, no worries Hen. I'll make sure everyone is aware of your new condition."

Hen. That's a nickname I haven't heard in a long time. I've forgotten how much Joey teased me for acting like a mother hen when it came to making sure my drafts were perfectly correlated into the animation sequence. "You need to stop fluffing your feathers whenever someone made a mistake, Ms. Hen," He would say. Which I found hypocritical considering he was more of a perfectionist than me.

Thinking on it now, I didn't realize until now that Joey seems more...himself than before. In fact, the opposite. He seemed like he was full of life. The last week and a half or so really threw me for a loop with days full of pain and others filled with soggy thinking and heavy breathing that I didn't notice the slight shift in the atmosphere in the studio.

It wasn't just Joey that changed either. There were a lot of maintenance going on with new pipe installments, and some kind of plan for machine? I only heard rumors, but I didn't think much of it. But still, I had absolutely no idea as to why Joey needed such large pipes, but I figured that'd be something I could ask later. Right now I just needed to focus back on getting into the swing of things again.

"But I'm glad to see you're back at work, I don't know what I'd do without you." Probably go out of business was what I wanted to say but I didn't want to sour his mood after the weeks of downcast I had to deal with from him and everyone else.

Actually, now that I think about it, I haven't seen as many people around; no Sammy, Susie, Norman, not even Thomas. I thought for sure I would've ran into at least one of them on my to Joey's office, especially with the new maintenance going on, but it's been extra quiet lately.

Well, excluding the sounds of drills and pumps everywhere.

I decided to ignore the thought. "Me too." Was all I said. I placed my hands on the cold wheels of my chair and awkwardly turned around to head out the door. "If you need anything, let me know."

"Actually…" His voice cut me off and I turned my head to look over shoulder to stare at the sly grin plastered on his aging face. "...there is something you can do for me." He chuckled to himself as he pulled out a book from one of his drawers and placed it on the desk. From what I could tell it was black and newly published, but it was too far away for me to make out the words. "Could you meet me downstairs after hours?"