angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2009-01-17 01:16 am
angelgazing) wrote2009-01-17 01:16 am
Entry tags:
fic: nights spent with you - dr. horrible
Hi! I didn't die again! I've just spent that long trying to think of a title! Also, um, I maybe signed up for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bandombigbang which should both shock and completely no surprise any of you at all. 20,000 words? Ha. Haha. I couldn't stop myself!
The thing is, is that now there isspn_j2_bigbang. They are due on the same day. Yeah, you can see where this is going.
So can I, but it's probably not going to stop me from being a crazy person. /o\
Anyway! Dr. Horrible fic!
title: Nights Spent with You
fandom: Dr. Horrible
summary: Here's the story of a boy.
rating: PG?
disclaimer: I don't own anything, at all. I'm just that kid who plays with everyone else's toys while they're not looking, ok? It's not like I try to pretend they're really mine.
notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
luzdeestrellas for doing like, ten million betas on this thing, and spending 30 minutes discussing veriations of one line. My insanity is all your fault, Laura. Also thanks to sleepismyfriend for listening to me whine about titles for days.
14.
Vindication is sweet. Validation is awesome. The induction ceremony drags on too long. He shifts, thinks her name, and pretends like the music doesn't swell into another sad song.
He got his dreams.
Here's the story of a boy, he thinks. It's hard not to laugh at himself.
It helps that he knows it wouldn't be a happy sound.
49.
He can't eat frozen yogurt anymore.
He still buys it, though.
74.
Everyone expected chaos.
He knows—he's known.
The newspaper always mentions him at least twice, every issue. He used to read every one of the articles into his webcam, until he couldn't keep up.
The papers go straight into the recycling bin, now.
He doesn't know if they got what they thought they would. He doesn't care if they're disappointed.
167.
He's not counting the days, so much. He's keeping a log. Keeping records, keeping track. There's a calendar on the wall that he just forgets to change, with an angry rocket cartoon on the day.
The day.
It was always meant to be a big one, anyway. It was a big one, after all. Even if it hadn't gone as planned.
Plans can be changed. Adjusted. Great performers adapt to the audience. Great leaders take what they get and try to make it seem like something fantastic and perfectly planned.
Penny smiles down at him from long distance photographs thumb tacked to the wall. He still sees her smile every day.
So he thinks about, sometimes. But if it wasn't so easy to remember, he probably wouldn't at all. Chances are it would never cross his mind.
188.
The letters that come in are different now, softer.
"Dear Dr. Horrible," he reads to the webcam, smirking, "Thanks for not forgetting your fans."
If it's her face he sees when he blinks, well, it's misleading. He sees her all the time anyway, when he closes his eyes.
"I would never forget my fans, Jimmy," he says, grinning now. "If you'd sent a self addressed stamped envelope, I'd have even sent you a personally autographed picture of myself in the latest front page article of the—"
He doesn't blink for as long as he can. She wouldn't be smiling anyway.
214.
Someone on the street whispers, into their clasped hands, "This city's gone to hell."
He doesn't stop walking, doesn't even glance their way. He knows the truth.
(He makes sure Moist hands them a blanket and a five dollar bill.)
261.
Captain Hammer gets a blog.
He doesn't read it, and Hammer never mentions That Day.
He just talks about her a lot. About healing, and moving on, and feeling safe again. About her hair, her smile, her generosity. How soft her skin was.
Nothing Hammer ever thought about before.
When he shuts the window, he tries to do it viciously.
278.
"Dear Dr. Horrible," he reads, even though it's late, even though he's bone tired. He doesn't know why; apparently evil is like being a movie star. The more famous you are the less you have to work for. "Boxers or briefs?"
He laughs. It doesn't sound tired or sad or evil. It makes him wince. "Well, Cindy," he answers, "I think that an inappropriate question from someone who still signs their name with a heart over the "I"." He makes sure, though, that it doesn't sound mean. Makes sure that the lighting is dark enough to hide the heat in his cheeks. "It depends on which evil scrubs I'm wearing."
285.
He hasn't taken the calendar down, and if he orders that no one touch anything on his walls, well, he's allowed to give orders now.
There are people who listen when he does.
291.
"Dear Dr. Horrible," Moist reads, just for some change. Even the best shows need a guest star once in a while. And it might be good to have the distance of an interview. Maybe. He gets distracted watching the paper darken when it gets damp, gets a little lost following the way the darkness spreads. "What do you think of Captain Hammer's blog?"
"What do I think of—" He laughs again; this time it sounds mean. There's music in the background, waiting, but it doesn't go anywhere. "Captain Hammer? Wow. I haven't heard that name in a while. He still around?"
Interview style isn't better at all.
Lying is still just as easy, though.
302.
There was a bank robbery three weeks ago that everyone thinks was him. It wasn't. He smirks about it when asked, though, and if he's got men scrambling to figure out who is moving in on his city, well, no one needs to know the truth.
A new shelter opens, and the sign has her name, in big gold letters. The name is followed by "a safe place to go" every time it's spoken.
No one gives him credit for that one.
325.
"I don't know," he says, barely above a whisper. It's just after two a.m. in his Evil Lab, now three times the size and seventy-two percent more evil, when the letter asks, what would you change, if you could.
He can't breathe, for a second, maybe, or more. "'Night," he says, and turns off the camera.
347.
He gets a promotion.
He gets himself a promotion.
Everyone at the conference table is silent when he walks in, heads not down—not yet—but eyes averted.
"Here's the thing," he says, smiling, sitting in the chair at the front of the table. It's the swivelly kind. He swings left and right, right and left, left and right, with the toes of his left foot planted on the floor. "Bad Horse is lame. I'm gonna be in charge around here now."
His men file in slowly, one by one, line themselves up shoulder to shoulder along the oval room. Moist stands at his shoulder, but doesn't dare touch him.
"I assume we won't have any problems there," he says. He barely pauses for a breath before he laughs, claps his hands together. "Alright then, first order of business!"
348.
"Did—Did you really?" Moist asks, swallowing thickly.
He didn't. Bad Horse is on a farm in Montana that caters to tourists looking for a bit of country living. He gets fed and brushed every day. The barns there have better heating and air than half the low income homes in the city. (For now) Bad Horse mostly retired. Fell in love.
He just looks at Moist though, until Moist puts up his hands in surrender and backs away.
350.
Captain Hammer shows up at a job site.
Not that kind. A construction job site.
"Listen," he says, but does it softly. He keeps his eyes on the ground. "I'm not here for trouble, man, I swear."
"Why are you here?" Billy asks, and he is—He is Billy, right now, worn jeans and a brown hoodie with a hole in the cuff of the left sleeve that he can't stop playing with. It smells like the fabric softener she let him use once, when he "ran out", if he turns his head into his shoulder and inhales deep enough.
"This is for Penny," Hammer whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the buzz saws in the distance. "These shelters, the people on the streets, the ones with blankets and meals and clothes they never had before. It's for her."
He doesn't answer, because even Hammer is smart enough to figure that one out.
"I know," Hammer says, still too quiet, fists in his pockets. "I won't say anything to anybody. Just. I know, alright?" He tilts his head, shifts like he's gonna walk away. "I'll keep letting them think it's from me, though, you know, for your sake."
Billy rolls his eyes. Turns his head, and breathes deep.
365.
It's quiet in here, except for the hum of the dryer, but then it's late, too. Plus, he kind of bought the place, when he heard the rumor that it was going to be shut down.
He doesn't come back a lot or anything, just, you know, even evil, doctors of horrible have laundry.
The dryer is pretty loud, really, like maybe he forgot to take the change out of his pocket. He leans, forehead against the window, and watches the empty streets outside.
He thinks, keep your head up, Billy, buddy, and wonders what was supposed to come next.
It wasn't this, he's pretty sure.
366.
He keeps counting the days. Gives up pretending he wasn't.
Wakes up to an empty bed, or in his giant armchair, or with his cheek pressed to the table in his evil lab. He looks at the calendar. Thinks--here's a story.
bandombigbang which should both shock and completely no surprise any of you at all. 20,000 words? Ha. Haha. I couldn't stop myself!The thing is, is that now there is
spn_j2_bigbang. They are due on the same day. Yeah, you can see where this is going.So can I, but it's probably not going to stop me from being a crazy person. /o\
Anyway! Dr. Horrible fic!
title: Nights Spent with You
fandom: Dr. Horrible
summary: Here's the story of a boy.
rating: PG?
disclaimer: I don't own anything, at all. I'm just that kid who plays with everyone else's toys while they're not looking, ok? It's not like I try to pretend they're really mine.
notes: Thanks to
luzdeestrellas for doing like, ten million betas on this thing, and spending 30 minutes discussing veriations of one line. My insanity is all your fault, Laura. Also thanks to sleepismyfriend for listening to me whine about titles for days.14.
Vindication is sweet. Validation is awesome. The induction ceremony drags on too long. He shifts, thinks her name, and pretends like the music doesn't swell into another sad song.
He got his dreams.
Here's the story of a boy, he thinks. It's hard not to laugh at himself.
It helps that he knows it wouldn't be a happy sound.
49.
He can't eat frozen yogurt anymore.
He still buys it, though.
74.
Everyone expected chaos.
He knows—he's known.
The newspaper always mentions him at least twice, every issue. He used to read every one of the articles into his webcam, until he couldn't keep up.
The papers go straight into the recycling bin, now.
He doesn't know if they got what they thought they would. He doesn't care if they're disappointed.
167.
He's not counting the days, so much. He's keeping a log. Keeping records, keeping track. There's a calendar on the wall that he just forgets to change, with an angry rocket cartoon on the day.
The day.
It was always meant to be a big one, anyway. It was a big one, after all. Even if it hadn't gone as planned.
Plans can be changed. Adjusted. Great performers adapt to the audience. Great leaders take what they get and try to make it seem like something fantastic and perfectly planned.
Penny smiles down at him from long distance photographs thumb tacked to the wall. He still sees her smile every day.
So he thinks about, sometimes. But if it wasn't so easy to remember, he probably wouldn't at all. Chances are it would never cross his mind.
188.
The letters that come in are different now, softer.
"Dear Dr. Horrible," he reads to the webcam, smirking, "Thanks for not forgetting your fans."
If it's her face he sees when he blinks, well, it's misleading. He sees her all the time anyway, when he closes his eyes.
"I would never forget my fans, Jimmy," he says, grinning now. "If you'd sent a self addressed stamped envelope, I'd have even sent you a personally autographed picture of myself in the latest front page article of the—"
He doesn't blink for as long as he can. She wouldn't be smiling anyway.
214.
Someone on the street whispers, into their clasped hands, "This city's gone to hell."
He doesn't stop walking, doesn't even glance their way. He knows the truth.
(He makes sure Moist hands them a blanket and a five dollar bill.)
261.
Captain Hammer gets a blog.
He doesn't read it, and Hammer never mentions That Day.
He just talks about her a lot. About healing, and moving on, and feeling safe again. About her hair, her smile, her generosity. How soft her skin was.
Nothing Hammer ever thought about before.
When he shuts the window, he tries to do it viciously.
278.
"Dear Dr. Horrible," he reads, even though it's late, even though he's bone tired. He doesn't know why; apparently evil is like being a movie star. The more famous you are the less you have to work for. "Boxers or briefs?"
He laughs. It doesn't sound tired or sad or evil. It makes him wince. "Well, Cindy," he answers, "I think that an inappropriate question from someone who still signs their name with a heart over the "I"." He makes sure, though, that it doesn't sound mean. Makes sure that the lighting is dark enough to hide the heat in his cheeks. "It depends on which evil scrubs I'm wearing."
285.
He hasn't taken the calendar down, and if he orders that no one touch anything on his walls, well, he's allowed to give orders now.
There are people who listen when he does.
291.
"Dear Dr. Horrible," Moist reads, just for some change. Even the best shows need a guest star once in a while. And it might be good to have the distance of an interview. Maybe. He gets distracted watching the paper darken when it gets damp, gets a little lost following the way the darkness spreads. "What do you think of Captain Hammer's blog?"
"What do I think of—" He laughs again; this time it sounds mean. There's music in the background, waiting, but it doesn't go anywhere. "Captain Hammer? Wow. I haven't heard that name in a while. He still around?"
Interview style isn't better at all.
Lying is still just as easy, though.
302.
There was a bank robbery three weeks ago that everyone thinks was him. It wasn't. He smirks about it when asked, though, and if he's got men scrambling to figure out who is moving in on his city, well, no one needs to know the truth.
A new shelter opens, and the sign has her name, in big gold letters. The name is followed by "a safe place to go" every time it's spoken.
No one gives him credit for that one.
325.
"I don't know," he says, barely above a whisper. It's just after two a.m. in his Evil Lab, now three times the size and seventy-two percent more evil, when the letter asks, what would you change, if you could.
He can't breathe, for a second, maybe, or more. "'Night," he says, and turns off the camera.
347.
He gets a promotion.
He gets himself a promotion.
Everyone at the conference table is silent when he walks in, heads not down—not yet—but eyes averted.
"Here's the thing," he says, smiling, sitting in the chair at the front of the table. It's the swivelly kind. He swings left and right, right and left, left and right, with the toes of his left foot planted on the floor. "Bad Horse is lame. I'm gonna be in charge around here now."
His men file in slowly, one by one, line themselves up shoulder to shoulder along the oval room. Moist stands at his shoulder, but doesn't dare touch him.
"I assume we won't have any problems there," he says. He barely pauses for a breath before he laughs, claps his hands together. "Alright then, first order of business!"
348.
"Did—Did you really?" Moist asks, swallowing thickly.
He didn't. Bad Horse is on a farm in Montana that caters to tourists looking for a bit of country living. He gets fed and brushed every day. The barns there have better heating and air than half the low income homes in the city. (For now) Bad Horse mostly retired. Fell in love.
He just looks at Moist though, until Moist puts up his hands in surrender and backs away.
350.
Captain Hammer shows up at a job site.
Not that kind. A construction job site.
"Listen," he says, but does it softly. He keeps his eyes on the ground. "I'm not here for trouble, man, I swear."
"Why are you here?" Billy asks, and he is—He is Billy, right now, worn jeans and a brown hoodie with a hole in the cuff of the left sleeve that he can't stop playing with. It smells like the fabric softener she let him use once, when he "ran out", if he turns his head into his shoulder and inhales deep enough.
"This is for Penny," Hammer whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the buzz saws in the distance. "These shelters, the people on the streets, the ones with blankets and meals and clothes they never had before. It's for her."
He doesn't answer, because even Hammer is smart enough to figure that one out.
"I know," Hammer says, still too quiet, fists in his pockets. "I won't say anything to anybody. Just. I know, alright?" He tilts his head, shifts like he's gonna walk away. "I'll keep letting them think it's from me, though, you know, for your sake."
Billy rolls his eyes. Turns his head, and breathes deep.
365.
It's quiet in here, except for the hum of the dryer, but then it's late, too. Plus, he kind of bought the place, when he heard the rumor that it was going to be shut down.
He doesn't come back a lot or anything, just, you know, even evil, doctors of horrible have laundry.
The dryer is pretty loud, really, like maybe he forgot to take the change out of his pocket. He leans, forehead against the window, and watches the empty streets outside.
He thinks, keep your head up, Billy, buddy, and wonders what was supposed to come next.
It wasn't this, he's pretty sure.
366.
He keeps counting the days. Gives up pretending he wasn't.
Wakes up to an empty bed, or in his giant armchair, or with his cheek pressed to the table in his evil lab. He looks at the calendar. Thinks--here's a story.