Doctor Who/Dr. Horrible Crossover Fic
Title: Entrapment
Author:
acidpenguin46
Pairings: Bad Horse/Arthur, hints of Arthur/Doctor (as in the Doctor Who Doctor)
Word Count: 1158
Rating: PG
Warning: crack concept with a dark twist, some liberties taken with the average equine life span, general evil thoughts, unbetaed.
Summary: Why Bad Horse began to consider Dr. Horrible's application for the Evil League of Evil.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately none of these are mine (and neither are any of the things I make pop-culture references to), they belong to the BBC and Joss Whedon respectively.
Notes: Just because fictional horses have to stick together. This was originally just going to be a small piece of complete and utter crack, but it actually took quite a dark turn in the end (hmm, now what does that remind me of...) so I just left it that way. Comments and concrit are much appreciated.
Entrapment
Dreams of grandeur. Visions of a better world, dictated by two sets of iron hoofs. Galloping across fields radiating in their endless seas of emerald green grass. Collapsing into random stables next to each other, hushed whinnies of revolution and the upheaval of the human race heavy in the air between them as two pairs of brown eyes closed in the dying hours of the night. Bad Horse had seen much in his rise to being the Thoroughbred of Sin. He’d seen heroes and villains standing in his way to glory eventually kneeling before his mighty hooves, as they heard his terrible death whinny for the last time. He didn’t feel regret or pain. They all needed to die so he could get what he wanted, and he had learnt to stop feeling anything about anyone a long time ago.
They sometimes used to practice death whinnies. When the sky was dark and they were both too wired with their ideas for the future to sleep. He always was better than Arthur at injecting the right amount of malevolence into his to make it sound imposing. Arthur would always dissolve into giggles right before the end. He never did take it as seriously as Bad Horse wanted him to. He really should have been able to tell even then, that it would never last.
He sat at the head of the table in the Evil League of Evil conference room, looking upon his minions: Dead Bowie, whispering urgently to Fake Thomas Jefferson, Professor Normal tinkering with his goggles, Fury Leika, Snake Bite and Tie-Die all gossiping about some insignificant human matter. They would all do anything for him at the drop of a horse shoe; blindly follow him to the end of the universe. They may argue amongst themselves about the best way to wreak havoc, but they never argued with him. His neigh was law. Sometimes he missed having a slightly different take on a situation to bounce off.
They rarely agreed about where they would go to next. He’d have a bit of a hankering for Moscow, but Arthur wasn’t too excited about the cold. Arthur would want to go to Spain and kick back, but he didn’t care for the dust. So they just tended to trot wherever their hooves would take them. When their hooves eventually took the two of them to Versailles, it hadn’t felt as though it would be a particularly unusual pit stop. In fact, it was like their dreams come true: a place where people reveled in the bloody execution of their own kind. Bad Horse and Arthur’s most gruesome dystopian dreams realised. It was spellbinding. It certainly did not feel like the place where it would come crashing to an end.
When Dead Bowie passed him the list of possible new Evil League applicants, he couldn’t suppress the gleeful shudder that ran down his spine upon reading the name Dr. Horrible. Of course, he was far too under qualified for acceptance just yet, he’d barely achieved many more evil deeds than the average two-year old human, but the name stuck in the back of his mind. Perhaps the best way to bring a self-appointed Doctor whose only apparent qualifications were in smug do-goodery to his knees was to use someone with a self-proclaimed PhD in Horribleness.
The day was sunny, and it was really too bright to be considered entirely healthy. Bad Horse hated days like this, when the weather insisted upon shoving this sort of inherent cheerfulness down everyone’s throats. So when Arthur wanted to head out for a gallop, he barely lifted an eyelid as his white tail swished out of sight beyond the barnyard door. Sometimes it was good to be visibly separated from the other every once and a while. Even in France, two males horse spending every waking and sleeping hour together was bound to raise a few eyebrows. He spent the day quite comfortable snuggling into the hay strewn all over the barn floor, and when Arthur returned that night, neighing about walking in silver hallways filled with flashing lights and a skinny man in a brown suit, he’d just assumed the other horse had nibbled on some bad mushrooms.
Bad Horse was a horse with many an evil deed under his belt, but he always remained honest. What was the point of deceit, when the real truth would be revealed eventually? If he said you were going to die, then you better start making piece with your sweet fluffy Lord. If he said that London really needed to be physically purged of the debris and filth that rotted away in every street, you better get out of town before he sets it on fire (well, it was a lot easier than actually cleaning the London streets in 1666. They were disgusting). And if he said the only way the League were going to accept your application was if you killed someone, then he wouldn’t even consider you until you had done just that. Dr. Horrible needed to prove that he would kill anyone if it was in Bad Horse’s interests. If he couldn’t do that, then there was no point in his membership, was there?
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. T.S. Eliot had a pretty intelligent view of the universe. For a human. He and Arthur didn’t separate after a big fight, after a bloody clash of hooves and insulting whinnies. Instead it was repeated replies of “the Doctor wouldn’t like that” to almost every idea he suggested. Every time he heard Arthur neigh that name under his breath, another brick was added to the wall between them. The way Arthur went on, you’d be hard pressed to tell that he had ever wanted violent social upheaval in the first place. Their lives were slowly approaching a crossroad, and when Arthur mentioned that reviled name just one time too many, it was only a question of who would have the guts to veer off on to the other fork. It always filled him with ice-cold rage that it was Arthur who managed to do it first.
It was splattered across the front page of every newspaper in the state. Dr. Horrible had caused the bloody demise of Captain Hammer’s girlfriend. He had sacrificed the life of another for his own ends, just because someone told him to, and Bad Horse admired that in his League members. He now knew that Dr. Horrible would kill anyone on his command, including brown-suited skinny men with shared predilections for self-appointed Doctorates. That was the only way Arthur was going to see that he’d made a mistake, choosing to side against his long term companion. And Bad Horse was going to make sure that Arthur realised just how big a mistake it was, when he would let him hear that terrifying death whinny one last time.
Author:
acidpenguin46
Pairings: Bad Horse/Arthur, hints of Arthur/Doctor (as in the Doctor Who Doctor)
Word Count: 1158
Rating: PG
Warning: crack concept with a dark twist, some liberties taken with the average equine life span, general evil thoughts, unbetaed.
Summary: Why Bad Horse began to consider Dr. Horrible's application for the Evil League of Evil.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately none of these are mine (and neither are any of the things I make pop-culture references to), they belong to the BBC and Joss Whedon respectively.
Notes: Just because fictional horses have to stick together. This was originally just going to be a small piece of complete and utter crack, but it actually took quite a dark turn in the end (hmm, now what does that remind me of...) so I just left it that way. Comments and concrit are much appreciated.
Entrapment
Dreams of grandeur. Visions of a better world, dictated by two sets of iron hoofs. Galloping across fields radiating in their endless seas of emerald green grass. Collapsing into random stables next to each other, hushed whinnies of revolution and the upheaval of the human race heavy in the air between them as two pairs of brown eyes closed in the dying hours of the night. Bad Horse had seen much in his rise to being the Thoroughbred of Sin. He’d seen heroes and villains standing in his way to glory eventually kneeling before his mighty hooves, as they heard his terrible death whinny for the last time. He didn’t feel regret or pain. They all needed to die so he could get what he wanted, and he had learnt to stop feeling anything about anyone a long time ago.
They sometimes used to practice death whinnies. When the sky was dark and they were both too wired with their ideas for the future to sleep. He always was better than Arthur at injecting the right amount of malevolence into his to make it sound imposing. Arthur would always dissolve into giggles right before the end. He never did take it as seriously as Bad Horse wanted him to. He really should have been able to tell even then, that it would never last.
He sat at the head of the table in the Evil League of Evil conference room, looking upon his minions: Dead Bowie, whispering urgently to Fake Thomas Jefferson, Professor Normal tinkering with his goggles, Fury Leika, Snake Bite and Tie-Die all gossiping about some insignificant human matter. They would all do anything for him at the drop of a horse shoe; blindly follow him to the end of the universe. They may argue amongst themselves about the best way to wreak havoc, but they never argued with him. His neigh was law. Sometimes he missed having a slightly different take on a situation to bounce off.
They rarely agreed about where they would go to next. He’d have a bit of a hankering for Moscow, but Arthur wasn’t too excited about the cold. Arthur would want to go to Spain and kick back, but he didn’t care for the dust. So they just tended to trot wherever their hooves would take them. When their hooves eventually took the two of them to Versailles, it hadn’t felt as though it would be a particularly unusual pit stop. In fact, it was like their dreams come true: a place where people reveled in the bloody execution of their own kind. Bad Horse and Arthur’s most gruesome dystopian dreams realised. It was spellbinding. It certainly did not feel like the place where it would come crashing to an end.
When Dead Bowie passed him the list of possible new Evil League applicants, he couldn’t suppress the gleeful shudder that ran down his spine upon reading the name Dr. Horrible. Of course, he was far too under qualified for acceptance just yet, he’d barely achieved many more evil deeds than the average two-year old human, but the name stuck in the back of his mind. Perhaps the best way to bring a self-appointed Doctor whose only apparent qualifications were in smug do-goodery to his knees was to use someone with a self-proclaimed PhD in Horribleness.
The day was sunny, and it was really too bright to be considered entirely healthy. Bad Horse hated days like this, when the weather insisted upon shoving this sort of inherent cheerfulness down everyone’s throats. So when Arthur wanted to head out for a gallop, he barely lifted an eyelid as his white tail swished out of sight beyond the barnyard door. Sometimes it was good to be visibly separated from the other every once and a while. Even in France, two males horse spending every waking and sleeping hour together was bound to raise a few eyebrows. He spent the day quite comfortable snuggling into the hay strewn all over the barn floor, and when Arthur returned that night, neighing about walking in silver hallways filled with flashing lights and a skinny man in a brown suit, he’d just assumed the other horse had nibbled on some bad mushrooms.
Bad Horse was a horse with many an evil deed under his belt, but he always remained honest. What was the point of deceit, when the real truth would be revealed eventually? If he said you were going to die, then you better start making piece with your sweet fluffy Lord. If he said that London really needed to be physically purged of the debris and filth that rotted away in every street, you better get out of town before he sets it on fire (well, it was a lot easier than actually cleaning the London streets in 1666. They were disgusting). And if he said the only way the League were going to accept your application was if you killed someone, then he wouldn’t even consider you until you had done just that. Dr. Horrible needed to prove that he would kill anyone if it was in Bad Horse’s interests. If he couldn’t do that, then there was no point in his membership, was there?
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. T.S. Eliot had a pretty intelligent view of the universe. For a human. He and Arthur didn’t separate after a big fight, after a bloody clash of hooves and insulting whinnies. Instead it was repeated replies of “the Doctor wouldn’t like that” to almost every idea he suggested. Every time he heard Arthur neigh that name under his breath, another brick was added to the wall between them. The way Arthur went on, you’d be hard pressed to tell that he had ever wanted violent social upheaval in the first place. Their lives were slowly approaching a crossroad, and when Arthur mentioned that reviled name just one time too many, it was only a question of who would have the guts to veer off on to the other fork. It always filled him with ice-cold rage that it was Arthur who managed to do it first.
It was splattered across the front page of every newspaper in the state. Dr. Horrible had caused the bloody demise of Captain Hammer’s girlfriend. He had sacrificed the life of another for his own ends, just because someone told him to, and Bad Horse admired that in his League members. He now knew that Dr. Horrible would kill anyone on his command, including brown-suited skinny men with shared predilections for self-appointed Doctorates. That was the only way Arthur was going to see that he’d made a mistake, choosing to side against his long term companion. And Bad Horse was going to make sure that Arthur realised just how big a mistake it was, when he would let him hear that terrifying death whinny one last time.