Chapter Text
LOS ANGELES: THE LAIR OF THE EVIL LEAGUE OF EVIL
As Dr. Horrible leaves the meeting-room, he feels the sweat inching down from under his collar, soaking the back of his crisp crimson lab coat. It reminds him unpleasantly of the feeling he has long been familiar with- his sixth sense warning him of impending danger. In the past, this feeling has been defended by Captain Hammer hurling a car at his head, or smashing in one of his inventions, more often than not an invention that had taken special painstaking care, along with a clandestine operation to obtain its materials and/or fuel. He stops outside the door, blinking as his eyes adjust behind the dark shades of his goggles to the dim light of the smoky room beyond, so different from the meeting-room’s quiet antiseptic glare.
He coughs as he inhaled the dark cloud of nicotine and other, less legal substances, which seemed to fill the room. Honestly, a small part of his brain scolds, those lower-level villains and henchmen were just asking for a nice bout of mouth and throat cancer. Though a glowing cigarette did add a level of badassery to any operation, and created a husky layer of dead throat tissue to an evil laugh, the eventual addiction and decreased lung capacity weren’t at all desirable. He was glad for the barrier that his goggles provided between the acrid smoke and his sensitive corneas.
He slowly moves into the blurred vision of flashing lights and gyrating bodies, headed toward the restrooms at the rear of the room. Unfortunately he has to pass the drinks bar to get there.
“Dr. Horrible!” Moist hails him, Bait on one arm, Switch on the other. He is supremely drunk- his face is completely dry of all moisture, and his eyes are glazed.
“You’re in the League now! Everything you ever wanted, Doctor!” he laughs, freeing his arms from the twins and lurching toward Dr. Horrible, who flinches, more from the unintended pain from Moist’s words than from his strangely dry embrace. Actually, the embrace almost feels… normal. He lifts one of Moist’s hands, and stares at the dry skin, almost desiccated from lack of moisture.
“Moist, you don’t look good at all,” he says. “You’ve completely dehydrated yourself with all that alcohol.”
“Have a drink,” says Moist inanely. He is apparently speaking to himself, as he lifts up his stein glass (at least Dr Horrible sincerely hopes it’s his stein glass) from a table, and tries to dump the near-full glass down his throat. Dr. Horrible relieves Moist of his drink, handing it to Bait, who is nowhere as inebriated as his friend. Bait's sister Switch comes up behind Dr. Horrible, and tugged Moist off, shepherding his drunken friend to a couch.
Somebody hands Dr. Horrible a glass of something alcoholic, he doesn’t know what, but when he downs it, the sensation of approaching doom relaxes its hold on his tense shoulders. He takes another, and another, chugging the drinks without really tasting them. Someone proposes a toast, in his honor, and he smiles and is gracious, but he just can’t make himself care. He escapes as the company downs their glasses in unison, into the bathroom (his original destination). The sensation is back, a hundred times worse, as if someone’s replaced the skin on his back with earthworms. The alcohol’s only made it worse. He sits down heavily on a toilet seat, closing the stall firmly behind him, as he tries to ignore the sounds of retching going on in the other stalls. Apart from the sensation, he’s numb, through and through. The sensation has to mean something if it can make it past the walls of nothing that surrounds his heart.
Why is he so on edge? He’s a member of the Evil League of Evil, something he’s longed for since the age of eight. The noise outside is a party in his honor, and he’s finally infamous beyond his haziest dreams. For the moment, he ignores the festering emptiness where his heart- where she should- He ends that train of thought-after all, he knows how it ends.
“It’s the Evil League of EVIL,” he repeats to himself. “Come on, you should be celebrating your victory, not chasing phantom worries about that ham-handed corporate tool!”
The problem is that he isn’t worried about Captain Hammer, maybe for the first time since- well- ever. He’s more worried about the other member of the Evil League of Evil. He’d seen the incredulous ways that the other villains had looked at him, as if judging him for the thing that had granted him acceptance into the League, and finding him decidedly lacking. Not all the members were happy with him, he knew that. And he knew that he wasn’t a full member yet, by any means. There would be more challenges, more missions, to keep up membership, and since he was the newest, the least desirable jobs would fall to him. He didn’t have any illusions that acceptance alone would cement his place in the Evil League of Evil. He’d have to do well at his new missions, or he’d be quickly, quietly disposed of. If anything, his rite of acceptance into the Evil League of Evil would only increase in intensity. He’d have to top the stunt that put him here, and then top it again.
His brain, usually so clear (he blamed this on the alcohol) stutters, restarts, and then mutters sibilantly, “You’ll need to do worse than murder.”
That mutter, from the recesses of his brain, resounds through his body, shoving his head down into his palms without his knowledge.
“No, it won’t be murder,” he counters weakly. “That’s so- unimaginative.” The new bit of brain chuckles, “You think that the League cares about originality? You got in for murder- do you think they care about her?”
“Shut up!” he screams at his own brain. No one outside reacts- yelling threats is pretty common here.
Dr. Horrible (or is he Billy now? He can’t remember) slams his gloved hands against the dirty beige dividers of the stalls, until his hands are sore and his insides are more numb than before. Tears are fogging up the space behind his eyes. The pain silences the nagging voice in his brain, but does nothing for the yawning gulf inside.
If he doesn’t care, it shouldn’t hurt this much.
NIGHT VALE: CECIL’S HOUSE
Cecil is so glad to be home. Every day seems like a long day now, and this long day was longer than most. He steps carefully inside the bloodstone circle that surrounds his apartment building, and pushes open his own door. Once inside, he let out a sigh of relief as he sets his messenger bag down on the counter. He murmurs a quick chant, turning outward to face the bloodstones. Though he considers himself to be strictly non-practicing, after days like this one, it’s a nice fallback.
Strong arms grip his shoulders in a hug, and he has to restrain himself from reaching for the pistol he keeps in his suit pocket. The distinctive smell of miscellaneous chemicals and aftershave fills his nostrils, and he leans into the embrace.
“Carlos,” he growls. “What did I tell you about stealth hugs?”
Despite three years in Night Vale, Carlos still had not realized that hugging from behind was a bad idea, as most ancient eldritch abominations attacked in a similar fashion.
“Sorry,” Carlos replies, turning him loose, and turning away to do up the dead-bolts and padlocks on the door. “You really, really looked like you needed a hug.”
He looks so sad, Cecil gives him a hug in return. “I did,” he whispers against Carlos’ chest. “Just not a kraken-y one.”
Carlos snorts. “I picked up some pizza from Big Rico’s on the way home. You haven’t had your mandatory slice this week, have you?”
“Carlos?!”
“Sorry, what?”
“You are perfect.”
Carlos gives half a smile.
“No, I’m not. Why can I remember Big Rico’s, but I can’t remember basic stuff like how to hug properly?”
He turns his head away as Cecil tries to steal a kiss.
“It’s ok,” he whispers. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be perfect.”
Carlos smiles, a full, normal smile. “You’d better eat. I know you forgot to eat lunch. You’re probably light-headed or something.”
“How did you know I forgot?” Cecil asks, wondering if Carlos’ third eye has begun to form yet.
Carlos points to the unopened paper bag still inside Cecil’s workbag.
“Damn,” says Cecil, with feeling. “Between the mutating homicidal band instruments and the weather, I forgot.”
“But you found my note,” Carlos says, touching the purple rose in Cecil’s lapel. Cecil puts his hands up to the rose, his face going all hot.
“I love your note, Carlos. It’s beautiful.”
Carlos flushes. “New rule, ok? No reading Carlos’ notes until after the lunch (and all the lunch, mind you) is eaten.”
Cecil pretends to sulk, but really he’s secretly happy that Carlos thought to remind him. While reaching for the napkins, he shyly passes a purple coneflower onto Carlos’ plate. Carlos almost stabs the flower with his fork before freezing.
“Oh, Cecil,” he breathes. “A note for me, too?”
After eating, they put on a movie- one of Carlos’ choice.
“It’s the first science-fiction movie ever,” he says, staring forward at the screen in rapt attention. “It’s the first movie to have a robot in it.”
Cecil wraps himself around Carlos, on the couch. Metropolis is a silent film, so Cecil is expecting to be bored, but he finds himself wrapped up in the storyline. He especially likes the part with the evil double of the female lead. When the final supertitle appears, he leans back and kisses Carlos, who kisses back, slowly, sleepily.
As they both drift off to sleep, Cecil can’t think of a happier time.
Of course, it won’t last long.