Disclaimer: Not my Doc, only my situation.

A/N: Loosely based on the prompt "Hours". I'm still trying to decide how to refer to Billy/Horrible (See?) and when. I don't like thinking of him as though he were two people, Billy and Dr. Horrible, so I'm leaning more toward in-uniform, Horrible, and out, Billy. It works for Superman... if you overlook the occasional referring-to-yourself-in-the-third-person. ^.^

It was one of those dreams where, for a moment, he knew it wasn't real. Nothing more than little electrical impulses in his brain, memories and possibilities playing out in his head as he slept. It wasn't real. It wasn't...

He'd been here before, hiding under the heavy red cloth meant to conceal Captain Hammer's statue. Head bowed slightly to prevent the goggles he wore from creating a telltale bulge in the material surrounding him, Dr. Horrible concentrated on remaining absolutely still. It was hard not to react to Hammer's blatherings onstage. How could people actually take that buffoon seriously?

He checked the Freeze Ray again, gloved fingers brushing lightly, carefully, across the controls. Switches and triggers were reassuring protrusions felt through thick leather, his measured movements leaving the cloth motionless around him.

It was dark and warm under there, trapped heat pressing in like a second blanket until, abruptly, it was. Eight again, Billy curled deep under his covers, the sheets pulled over his head. He was safe, shielded from the monsters prowling throughout the dim house as long as not a single strand of hair stuck out to betray him. Billy was a smart boy, he knew that monsters didn't exist– even if they did, the odds of one being in his house were...

"Stop trying to calculate it!" The child whispered to himself, briefly squeezing his eyes shut to squish the math-riddled thought away. Besides, he also knew that, monsters in the house or not, a couple of layers of woven cloth wouldn't stop anything from hurting him if it really wanted to. He couldn't help it, though: those thin sheets, the illusion of protection, made him feel safe.

Regardless of the reality of the matter, as long as no one could see him, no one could touch him, and he was safe.

Under a large red sheet again, Dr. Horrible was safe. He could hear Hammer belting out what had to be the final lines of his address to his adoring public. Perfect time for dramatic entrance– now.

Cool air rushed against his face as Horrible swept aside the concealing curtain and fired his Freeze Ray directly at the broad chest of L.A's unsuspecting hero. Opening his mouth, he prepared to release the evil laugh his vocal coach had finally approved as 'appropriately spine-chilling.' But something was wrong. He blinked, and then it wasn't Hammer standing at the podium but Penny. And– oh god, that wasn't the cool blue beam of his Freeze Ray impacting against, through, her chest.

He cried out, one arm outstretched as if he could pluck that baleful red blast of energy out of the air. His hand was already full, however, with his imaginatively named Death Ray. Horrible stared dumbly at the device, then up at the stage where Penny lay sprawled, a charred crater in her chest. He couldn't tell if the shot had gone all the way through, if it had severed the spine– nor did he want to know. Laughter, his laughter, echoed throughout the room, but while his lips were parted he wasn't the one making the sound.

The audience was watching him, fear and awe in their eyes, just as he'd imagined. It was his words they'd be hanging onto now, his desires they'd be fulfilling... why weren't they shocked, horrified? Couldn't they see what he'd done?! He looked around for Hammer, desperate to find someone who knew, who wasn't blind, for despite the esteemed Captain's amazing denseness, this had to be something even he could comprehend.

But Captain Hammer had already faded away, intangible as a ghost, forgotten. Dr. Horrible realized that, although he could still see Penny's body on the stage, to everyone else she was invisible, nonexistent. Less relevant than disregarded Hammer. And the people... the people were commending him, respecting, fearing him, and it was just as he'd imagined until eventually he, too, was caught up in the whirlwind of sights and sounds and sensations. Penny began to dim, to disappear, and by the time Horrible noticed...

It might not have been too late, but he just stood there, watching, until it was too late and Penny had vanished. Too late, she was gone for good now, and– he didn't even care.

Billy awoke with a jerk. Relief came as a long, shaky exhalation when he realized it wasn't real. It was all a dream.

All a dream. He wished.

Strained, washed-out blue eyes sought the vibrant cobalt numbers on his digital clock. Two in the morning. As much as he'd have liked to get up and head into the lab, tinker with something, he'd promised Moist he would try to get some sleep. His roommate-slash-henchman could tell he wasn't getting more than a couple of hours here and there, if that, despite his avoidance of the subject.

A promise to a henchman wasn't what was keeping him in bed, he told himself. He really did need to rest; yesterday he'd almost dropped half his stock of wonderflonium when he'd nodded off. Still...

Billy glanced longingly at the door, then directed his gaze up to the ceiling. He sighed, knowing it would probably be daybreak before he started to feel any kind of drowsiness. After several minutes he rolled restlessly up on one side, back to the clock, studying the wall. In the faint light he could barely see the penciled equations scrawled there from times when inspiration struck without a notepad in reach.

About to roll over again, Billy hesitated. It wasn't likely he'd get caught, Moist never entered without knocking and besides, the door was shut. He'd probably hear his friend fumbling with the doorknob in time to avoid being seen.

Tugging his pillow with him, he retreated beneath his sheets and drew the covers well up beyond his head. In the warm, already slightly stuffy darkness he lay still, listening to his own quiet breathing. He doubted he'd be able to hide from anything under there any better than he had as a boy– not the all-too-real monsters he knew now to exist, disguised as human beings; not his thoughts, nor the reality of what had happened... was happening. Not the nightmare. Not the hours until morning, which would pass torturously slow until sleep with all its haunting dreams seemed desirable in comparison.

Billy waited for sleep, for that old sense of security, to come as he curled underneath the covers, half-clutching his pillow to him.

He waited a long time.