A/N: Written for the 10_titles challenge on LiveJournal. Beta'd by Syen-thank you!
There are some things that are beyond the call of friendship. Moist knows this because he's done most of them. Of course, with Dr. Horrible, it's never the embarrassing-but-easy ones, like rolling your passed-out drunk bro into bed after a long night out, or lying to his would-be landlady when she calls to get a reference you didn't know you were going to have to give and you know that it was his shoddy cooking skills that burned down his last apartment.
No, with the Doc, it's things like "help dig up dead girlfriend so she can be reanimated" and "fake own death so you can help said girlfriend get out of country." Difficult, emotionally taxing things with a high risk level.
And he does it. He always does it. He's doing it now, even though nothing's going to be the same for him after this.
This is the way it's been since the first time they met, back when Dr. Horrible was a struggling wanna-be, and Moist was a disillusioned twenty-something who was tired of the revulsion he got every time he tried to shake someone's hand. He'd been a bit worried about the whole henchman-thing at first, but being Evil wasn't nearly as hard as he'd thought it would be.
It was Dr. Horrible who ended up not being what Moist had expected. They guy was a genius, certainly, and fit the mad scientist bill to a T, but he lacked…focus. As soon as one invention was almost finished, he'd move on to whatever shiny new thing caught his attention, leaving a trail of half thought-out Evil Plans and Weapons of Destruction and Terror that were only good at their current stage of completion for boiling eggs.
So Moist tried to help him. He gave him hints, tried to steer him on the Evil path, because he couldn't speak for the Doc, but he was in this for the infamy and the cash, which he would prefer to not be in squishy sandwich baggies. For a while, it looked like everything was working out perfectly. Dr. Horrible was in the ELE, the city feared him, and Moist was the right hand man of one of the most wanted men in America. Dr. Horrible had been miserable though, Moist could tell. He'd hid it well, behind his new costume and his perpetually lowered goggles, but Moist knows him better than that. Just like he knows that now, when everything they've worked for is going up in flames, Dr. Horrible's never been happier.
Somehow, that makes Moist feel better about this whole mess of a crazy, convoluted, will-never-work plan. Like it just might be worth it.
Dr. Horrible is standing by Moist's grave, but he's looking towards the edge of the cemetery. Moist can see the sunlight reflecting off the blank mirrors of his goggles. Then he goes still as he finds Moist's car parked in the shade of the trees that line the drive, and Moist can imagine his look of irritation, but there's not much Dr. Horrible can do about it. It's not like any of the League or Union members are going to recognize the car; it's a well-kept secret that the Horriblemobile is a battered, quarter-century-old white hatchback.
Also, if he thought Moist was going to miss his own funeral, he's crazy.
By this time tomorrow, there's going to be a terrible lab accident, and Dr. Horrible's going to be dead too. An hour and a half after that, Moist, Billy, and the newly resurrected Penny are going to be on a plane to—somewhere. Moist isn't quite sure where they're going, but Billy's promised him somewhere dry.
He'll be fine there, too, wherever it is. Because this—keeping an eye out, watching Billy's back—this is what he does. If he's not a henchman anymore, he can still be a friend.
Moist thinks that might be kind of fun.