Chapter Text
If Petey had known he’d end up in a situation like this, he’d have bought a car years ago.
Sure, living in a big city meant he rarely needed one. He could usually get from point A to point B in a matter of minutes, weaving through the maze of streets with the kind of agility that came naturally to him.
The city was built for people like him—compact, bustling, with shops and stalls on nearly every corner selling whatever anyone could possibly want or need. Even his home, while being tucked away in secrecy, was easy enough to slip in and out of unnoticed.
So normally, walking home late at night wouldn’t be a problem for him.
Emphasis on normally.
Because normally, he didn’t have to drag a dying man plus dog hybrid with him.
But tonight he did.
The streets felt endless, stretching out in mocking defiance as the dead—not dead, not yet, not ever—weight of the detective, and the panic buzzing in his chest slowed him down.
Each step seemed heavier than the last.
And he sure wished he had a quick means of transportation to make things easier.
Then again, he was wishing for a lot of things right now.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, please don’t die. I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’
But the car one was the least desperate and pathetic, which made it the easiest to cling to.
Instead of a car, Petey was stuck here.
Cursing through gritted teeth, his half ripped coat sleeve tied haphazardly around Rory’s bleeding midsection in a frantic attempt to stop the flow. His hands were slick with blood, his movements uncoordinated as he half begged, half spoke nonsense to the barely conscious detective.
‘Come on, come on, stay with me, damn it…’
Sometimes, he thought he heard a faint murmur, a weak whimper. His chest filled with hope, and for a moment, he moved with more purpose, as if willing his own feet to move him through the night faster.
He feels as though he’s stumbled on an oasis when he catches the familiar shape of a building, pushed back behind several other abandoned shops.
He decided a long time ago to make his stay in the mostly empty parts of the city, where not a lot of people resided. Though even in the most quiet parts of town, there were still signs of life in the streets most nights.
Petey whipped his head around.
Not a person was in view.
Tonight was not one of those nights, apparently.
Nothing was normal tonight.
His breathing wavered as he hiked forward.
When he finally reached the door—after fumbling with the lock—he shoved it wide open with his shoulder and stepped into the dimly lit entryway, allowing himself the briefest sigh of relief.
He wasn’t done, not by a long shot.
WIth shaky limbs, he shifted the unconscious detective in his arms, trying to give him more dignity than he had in the past, thirty minutes maybe.
The thought of dragging him around like a limp ragdoll didn’t exactly sit right with him in the current moment.
Maybe it wasn’t all that important as long as he actually made sure Rory lasted through the night. He’s not thinking totally straight.
A rapid fire cascade of worries that whizzed past him and stacked on top of one another. Making his head feel heavy, or that it were about to explode.
He pushed all that to the side as he and the detective—more or less, at least—made their laborious descent down the stairs, Petey not allowing himself a chance to pause for more than a breath as he maneuvered Rory carefully down each step.
When they reach even ground again, he flips on a light, quickly scanning the area for something to rest the canine on. He spots a table and his body reacts before he lets himself fully process his train of thought, scurrying off as he swipes off any items that might’ve been on the table.
They clatter to the floor.
With a strained grunt and one final huff, before his arms completely gave out, he heaved Rory up. Slowly, cautiously, laying him down on his back.
The cat’s biceps burn as he spills out heavy gasps of air.
Rory’s body twitches a little, a soft whimper escapes his lips.
A gentle sound that causes an awful, sharp feeling prick at Petey’s chest. A pang of something cold and piercing threading through him and twisting deeper.
Like a thorn nestling sweetly in his heart.
His eyes drop down to the wound in the other’s side, the ripped sleeved wrapped around it is soaked in dark red, but the bleeding has come to a halt. He thinks that’s a good sign, maybe.
He’s not bleeding out, so he’s taking it as a win for now.
Petey looks down at his hands.
They’re both stained red.
He’s used to having other people’s blood on him—especially Rory’s.
But…
This was too much.
“Papa?”
“GAH!” Petey jumps and shrieks, he clutches at his chest dramatically. “Geez, what the hell-”
“Language.” The tiny voice countered, firm but soft.
Petey spun around, squinting towards the source of the sound, he looks down, his eyes landing on a tiny orange tabby kitten at his feet.
The kitten's large eyes stare directly at him, faint residue of sleep still gnawing at their corners.
Petey hides his hands behind his back.
“What the heck are you doing, sneaking around like that!?” He spouts, his tone more exasperated than mad.
Li’l Petey didn’t flinch, he tilts his head to the side as he continues to stare at the older cat with a blank expression, “I wasn’t sneaking.”
Petey scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re all tiny and quiet! What else would you call that!”
The kitten shrugs.
Petey groans, “Ugh, nevermind.”
“What happened to you?” Li’l Petey questions, his voice showing vague concern.
Petey stiffens, mentally cursing himself.
He looked like a mess.
His coat torn, his left sleeve completely gone. His fur was messy and sticking out at wild angles, dried blood smeared across his face from his broken nose.
Sure this is basically normal for him.
But not Li’l Petey.
He’s never let the kid see him like this, he’s always kept him and the more violent parts of his life somewhat separate.
He felt the thorn in his heart twist and sink in deeper.
“I, uh…tripped.” Petey responds lamely.
Li’l Petey’s tiny nose wrinkled, clearly unconvinced.
“...Down a hill.” The lanky cat continues.
The tiny tabby blinks at him.
“...A hill with…rocks.”
Li’l Petey’s tail slowly swayed side to side. “What kinda rocks?”
Petey grumbles, “How the heck am I supposed to know?”
The kitten shrugs again, Petey sighs as Li’l Petey stands up on his tippy toes, peeking over behind the older cat’s thin frame.
“Is that Mr. Rory?” He asks, his voice a tiny curious whisper.
Petey’s heart drops.
He jumps more in front of the kitten to block his view. With a gentle nudge, he hurriedly scoots the kitten back.
“No!” He yelps, the suddenness of it startling even himself.
Li’l Petey stumbles back. Concern and confusion painting his innocent expression.
Petey winces, “I mean, yeah, but-”
“He’s bleeding.” The kitten squeaks, his voice shaking slightly. Petey scoops the kitten in his arms, regretting the actions immediately with the blood staining his paws.
“I know,” Petey murmurs, his voice low and guilty. “He just-”
“Is he okay!?” Li’l Petey’s voice rises, frantic sounding.
“Kid-”
“What happened!?”
“Kid-”
“Is he gonna-”
“Kid!” Petey shouts. Tone more intense than he intended.
Li’l Petey quiets down, his large, round eyes shimmering with unshed tears that threaten to spill over. His bottom lip trembles.
A heavy silence descends between them, like a storm cloud hovering overhead.
Petey exhales a weary sigh. Slowly, he kneels, lowering himself until he’s at the kitten’s level.
With gentle hands, he places Li’l Petey back on the ground.
“Look,” Petey begins, rubbing his palms against the front of his coat, as though trying to wipe away more than just the stains on his hands. “Mr. Rory got hurt. Badly.”
Li’l Petey’s head tilts, his ears perking up with a spark of curiosity. “How’d he get hurt?” he asks.
Petey hesitates. His ears flick as he draws in a slow, measured breath, his gaze briefly darting away before returning to the kitten’s face.
“A bad person hurt him,” He admits, quieter now.
The kitten blinks, his expression shifting, a question laying unspoken on his quivering lips.
“But I’m gonna help him,” Petey quickly and firmly adds as he pulls his hands back, watching Li’l Petey sniff and nod, the motion small but trusting.
“Hey,” Petey’s voice softens further, dipping into a tone so gentle it feels like a warm blanket against the chill of the moment. He leans in slightly, his gaze uncharacteristically kind.
“He’s gonna be alright, I won’t let anything bad happen to him.” He gives a soft grin, raising his hands up to cradle the kitten’s face. Wiping the tears away from his eyes. “I promise.”
“Is there any way I can help?” Li’l Petey asks, his voice soft and achingly sincere. The words pierce through Petey like a dagger, twisting with a painful tenderness.
His grin falters, but Petey quickly pulls it back, flashing a smile that feels a little too tight as he shakes his head.
“Sorry, kid. This is an adult thing,” he says soundly.
Li’l Petey’s brows knit together, his mouth opening as if to protest, but Petey cuts him off before the words can escape.
“You can help,” Petey continues, leaning forward, “By going back to bed. Let Papa work. You got that?”
The kitten hesitates, his little face scrunching up as he considers the supposed ‘offer.’ His tiny tail flicks thoughtfully behind him before he finally looks up, locking eyes with the older cat.
With a small, reluctant nod, he agrees.
Petey lets out a subtle sigh of relief, but it’s short lived. In an instant, a small, warm weight launches itself at him, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Oof,” He grunts as Li’l Petey throws his arms around his neck, holding him tight. The kitten nuzzles against his cheek, his fur soft and warm.
For a moment, Petey freezes, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Then, slowly, he lets them settle around the kitten’s tiny figure, pulling him into a gentle embrace.
His touch is careful, almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.
Li’l Petey holds on for just a second longer before releasing him and hopping down with a little bounce. “Goodnight, Papa!” He chirps as he scampers toward the stairs.
Petey watches him go, his sharp eyes softening as they follow the kitten.
Li’l Petey trips slightly on the edge of a step but recovers quickly, his little paws pitter pattering up the stairs until the sound fades off into silence.
And then, it’s just Petey, standing alone in the quiet.
Well, not completely alone.
He exhales slowly, forcing himself to refocus. He picks himself up, straightening his posture and turns back to the ‘situation’ at hand.
He walks back over to the detective laying on the table, breathing raggedly.
Petey glances over him as he reaches to grab ahold of one end of the torn sleeve tightly wrapped around Rory’s lower body. He slowly undid it, pulling it off from the detective. The sleeve was wet and stained with a deep crimson, Petey set it down somewhere away from him.
While the bleeding had stopped, the wound itself was still a problem. He’s gonna have to sew up the gash in order for it to properly heal however.
His fingers itched.
Petey’s hands trembled as he reached forward. Fumbling with the buttons of the detective’s coat.
The weight of his actions pressing down on him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was crossing some sort of invisible line. Each button he slipped free seemed to echo in his ears, louder than it should have been.
The fabric clung to his fingers, damp and sticky with blood, refusing to part easily from the second layer of cloth beneath. A faint, metallic scent hung in the air.
He moved with painstaking care, trying not to jar the injured canine, but every motion felt clumsy, too slow. Tugging the layers free, he finally pulled the coat and shirt off, his breath hitching as he set them aside in a haphazard pile.
The sharp pang in his chest returned, as he felt warmth bloom across his face. His cheeks burned, the heat radiating up to his ears as he glanced over the other’s frame.
Rory lay there, his upper body exposed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, uneven rhythm.
Petey’s eyes drifted to the wound on Rory’s lower abdomen, a small but angry puncture sitting just above his right hip. The bleeding had stopped, the dried crimson stark against his skin.
The opening was surprisingly neat, and small.
There was little to no blood on Rory’s backside. The bullet hadn’t pierced it’s way entirely through him.
So it was still inside him.
Petey bit the inside of his cheek, his nerves teetering on the edge of panic as he rushed around the lab. Hands skimming over shelves and drawers as he grabbed what he thought might be useful.
When he finally returned to the table, his arms were full. The centerpiece of his makeshift kit was a face mask hooked to a container of anesthetic. The sight of it gave him a moment of pause.
He didn’t know how much was safe for…someone like Rory.
What if he used too much? What if he didn’t use enough? His stomach twisted, but he pushed the thoughts aside.
There was too much happening for him to second guess now.
Carefully, he placed the mask over Rory’s snout, his fingers brushing against the detective’s fur.
Petey flipped the switch, a soft hiss escaping as the relaxants began to flow. He watched Rory’s chest rise and fall, as the anesthetic took hold.
He didn’t want to risk him waking up in the middle of things.
With a deep breath, Petey swung back around, where a syringe waited for him, filled with a clear fluid.
He steadied himself.
This is for the pain. He shouldn’t feel this.
He stepped back to Rory’s side, the syringe feeling heavier than it should in his grip. Gently, he placed his free hand over Rory’s chest, his palm just barely pressing against the steady rise and fall beneath it.
The contact grounded him in an odd way.
The needle slid in through and past the flesh near the wound, slowly, he pushed the plunger, the clear liquid disappearing into the detective’s body. He counted each breath Rory took as he worked, his focus narrowing to the rhythmic in and out sound of the anesthetic machine, and the slight pressure beneath his hand.
When the vial was empty, Petey carefully withdrew the syringe, setting it aside. His eyes flicked to the wound, then back to Rory’s face.
The detective was still unconscious, his breathing steady, his expression slack. Petey exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his own breath this whole time.
His eyes stayed on Rory's face, caught by the strange calmness that had settled over the canine's features. His face was partially relaxed—soft, in a way that seemed foreign. He looked peaceful, for lack of a better term.
The sight was quietly jarring.
He can't say he's ever seen Rory let his guard down.
Ever.
The idea of it felt wrong, like hearing a secret he wasn't meant to know. And a part of him wondered if Rory looked like this when he slept normally.
Eyes closed, brows unfurrowed, breathing steady. Utterly unbothered, comfortable.
He shook his head, snapping himself out of the thought with a sudden jerk, as if the motion might physically dislodge it from his skull.
He shouldn’t be thinking that.
He’s weird, he’s being weird.
His tail twitched in quiet frustration.
But despite himself, his gaze continued to wander.
It slid down the line of Rory’s neck, tracing the jagged curve of the stitches that wound around his throat. The rough, healed skin folded over itself in uneven patterns, forming a stark boundary where soft fur gave way to bare, textured flesh.
Lower still, Petey's eyes swept over Rory's chest. Much of his skin bore the unmistakable marks of scars and patches of roughened tissue.
It didn’t take much to piece it together that these injuries in particular were from the bomb.
The infamous incident that tied them together.
Before Petey even realized what he was doing, his body moved. His hand snaked forward, almost as if guided by something outside himself, fingers hovering just above Rory’s scarred skin.
The texture beneath his fingertips was rough. Not unpleasant, exactly, but strange in a way that made his chest feel tight.
He couldn’t quite explain to himself why he wanted this. Couldn’t explain the pull that made him want to explore.
To feel.
To…
Petey hesitated, before he pressed down a little firmer than before, curiosity wrapped up in something deeper, urging him to continue.
He shouldn’t be doing this. This wasn’t normal.
But then again, when had his feelings for Rory ever been normal?
His hand moved on it's own, tracing along the ridges of Rory’s torso. His fingertips danced over the rough patches of scar tissue, trailing down to the few smooth stretches of skin that stubbornly resisted damage somehow.
The contrast was fascinating, mesmerizing even, and it pulled him in deeper.
He told himself that this was just curiosity, a need to understand the body that had endured so much. But deep down, he knew better.
This wasn’t just curiosity.
This was longing—a yearning he wasn’t ready to admit.
Petey forced himself to stop, swallowing hard.
What was he hoping to find here? An answer?
Permission to feel the way he did?
His claws lightly scraped the edge of a scar, and he wondered—if Rory knew, if he really knew what was in Petey’s heart, would he stay?
The thought left him breathless, equal parts terrified and desperate. Rory had already taken up too much space in his mind, in his chest. He’d become an ache that Petey couldn’t soothe, and now, here he was, feeding that ache with every forbidden touch.
His hand stayed there against his skin for just a fraction too long, before he pulled it back.
He’s getting distracted.
He skittered backwards, grabbing a spare set of rubber gloves, snapping them on.
Now came the hard part.
—
The air hung heavy with the sterile smell of rubbing alcohol, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. The room was oppressively silent, except for the quiet, irregular rhythm of Rory’s breathing.
The dim lamp Petey had dragged over to his side casted a flickering light over the table, illuminating the flesh around the gaping wound in Rory’s abdomen.
He glanced at Rory’s face, pale but calm, his chest rising and falling.
Petey swallowed, his throat dry, and tightened his grip on the scalpel, the cold metal biting into his gloved palm. The weight of the task ahead forcing down on him, suffocating.
His hands hovered above the wound, shaking slightly.
The bullet was buried deep, hidden in layers of torn flesh and muscle, and every second he hesitated felt like a second stolen from Rory’s already fragile condition.
The silence of the room magnified the sound of his own breathing, loud and ragged in his ears.
Petey inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and made the first incision. The scalpel bit through the skin with terrifying ease, the flesh parting beneath the blade. Blood welled up instantly, thick and dark, spilling over his fingers as he reached for the gauze.
He pressed it firmly to the wound, his hands already stained. The metallic tang of fresh blood was overwhelming, his pulse roared in his ears as he peeled back the edges of the torn skin.
The deeper he went, the worse it got. The gash revealed layers of muscle shredded and swollen, twitching faintly beneath his touch. Each cut sent another wave of blood pooling, forcing him to pause and mop it away, only for it to return.
The exposed tissue glistened under the lamp’s harsh light, and Petey’s stomach churned.
Adjusting the lamp with his elbow, Petey angled the light directly into the wound. The shadows shifted, revealing more of the torn depths where the bullet was hidden.
He picked up a pair of forceps, their tips gleaming with sterilizer. With excruciating care, he slid them into the wound, probing deeper. The soft give of flesh and sinew resisted his efforts, and every movement sent fresh rivulets of blood dripping.
“Come on,” He muttered, his voice trembling as he pushed aside a jagged flap of muscle. “Come on, where are you?”
The tip of the forceps scraped against something hard. He froze, his breath catching in his throat.
There it was.
The bullet.
Lodged deep, surrounded by swollen tissue. He adjusted his grip, his hands slick with blood, and eased the tool deeper.
The resistance was maddening, his fingers aching from the strain, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
With a sharp, deliberate tug, the bullet came free. A glossy, jagged piece of metal, coated in blood and gleaming under the light.
For a moment, Petey just stared at it, a wave of relief crashing over him, but it didn't last long.
Blood surged in the bullet’s absence, spilling faster now, staining the gauze beneath his fingers.
He pressed down hard, his chest heaving as he fumbled for the needle and thread. The suture wire glinted in the lamplight, and his fingers shook as he threaded it, blood smearing over the fine thread.
With slow, deliberate movements, he began stitching the torn flesh back together. Each pass of the needle dragged the wound closed, the thread pulling taut against Rory’s skin.
Every stitch felt like an eternity, each one a prayer muttered under Petey’s breath.
By the time the final stitch was tied, the knot tight and secure, and a bandage wrapped around over the wound, Petey’s arms felt like lead, the corner’s of his vision blurred with exhaustion.
Rory’s breathing continued, still uneven but steady, and Petey finally allowed himself to collapse onto the floor.
His blood soaked hands shook uncontrollably as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving behind a deep, bone weary ache.
Moments pass.
After cleaning up the mess of bloody gauze, surgical tools, and every surface where Rory’s blood had so much as grazed, Petey finally exhaled a shaky breath. The stench of copper and sterilizer still hung heavy in the room. He cast a weary glance at the detective, sprawled unconscious on the makeshift operating table, then carefully slipped his arms beneath him.
Every muscle in Petey’s body screamed in protest as he lifted Rory. Grunting softly, he carried the canine across the room, his steps deliberately slow and overly cautious to avoid jarring the fresh stitches lining Rory’s side.
On the far end of the room, an old couch waited. It was a fixture the cat had dragged in long ago for moments where he’d work too deeply into the night and didn’t want to bother the journey back up the stairs to sleep.
Which was often.
Petey eased Rory down onto the couch with painstaking care, his movements almost reverent as he adjusted the detective into a position that wouldn’t disturb his stitches.
The canine stirred faintly as his body met the worn cushions, huffing and letting out a series of soft yips in his sleep. His ears twitched, and his brow furrowed as if caught in some distant dream, but after a moment, the noises faded to occasional whines and gentle barks.
Petey lingered for a beat, his gaze fixed on Rory as a whole.
Finally, he straightened with a groan, rolling his shoulders to ease the tightness there. His body felt like it had been through a war—and perhaps, in a way, it had.
He’s not sure what exact ungodly hour it must be, but at the very least it had to have been well past midnight.
He rubbed at his eyes. They stung and burned.
His fur felt somewhat sticky, yet oily, an invisible residue left on them.
He grimaced, a shower soon would do him good.
He sighed as he sinks back down to the floor in front of the couch, the events from the whole night, and how truly tired he felt catching up to him. He rests his back against the couch, leaning his head back as he stares up at the empty ceiling.
He weakly turns his head off to the side, Rory turns over a little. His movements sluggish, as though even when incapacitated his body refused to fully relax.
One of his arms being used to prop his head up partially like a makeshift pillow. The other hung over the very edge of the cushions, Petey glanced at his hands.
Neatly encased in leather gloves.
The gloves were well used, the fingertips softened and scuffed from years of wear. Small scratches etched across the surface, with faint creases forming where the leather had molded to the shape of his hands. Once a rich dark brown, faded and muddied.
Petey extended a wobbly hand forward, his fingers brushing against the detective’s. He pressed the flat of his palm against the other’s, the leather smooth and cool to the touch.
He stayed there, a buzzing building up in his head then slowly stretching down towards his limbs, and settling itself in his chest.
A dull hum that refused to leave.
Rory grumbled softly in his sleep, before pulling his hand back as he turned over.
Leaving Petey with his hand still hanging in the air pathetically.
—
Rory was never really a morning person.
The soft glow of dawn spilling through half closed blinds always felt less like an invitation and more like an insult. The world waking up with it’s golden light had it's charm, sure, but Rory wasn’t convinced it was meant for him.
He tried, of course. There had been a few ambitious weeks of setting alarms, and promising himself that he’d seize the day. But those mornings always felt hollow, like he was playing a role in someone else’s life.
By noon, the fatigue crept in, mocking him for daring to try.
But morning always returns, dragging him out of his daze. Sometimes he wonders if it’s the light he resents, or the promise of another day with it’s expectations.
Either way, he wasn’t the biggest fan of waking up any earlier than ten in the morning.
Except this morning, apparently.
Rory groggily opened his eyes, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. The room around him was dimly lit, a soft, sterile glow. Even so, the light felt searing, stabbing at his sensitive retinas as though the room itself had a grudge against him. He groaned softly, squinting against the assault.
Pushing himself upright, his limbs felt overly heavy. His muscles protested, sluggish and stiff, he barely made it halfway up before a sudden, nauseating wave swept over him, forcing him to freeze and clutch the edge of the couch he was lying on.
He grumbles and wets his lips, attempting to shift and stretch out the stiffness, but his effort was cut short. A poorly calculated twist sent a jolt of pain lancing through his side. He hissed, sucking in air through clenched teeth, a pitiful whimper escaping as he sank back against the cushions.
Rory looked down at himself.
His chest and torso bare—when had that happened—his gaze trailed lower, catching on the long bandage wrapped around him. He runs his hand across it, pressing down partially, feeling a long stitched up slit stretching across his lower abdomen. The realization of it hit him like a slap.
His heart stumbled in his chest, bringing a hand up to his face, his memory foggy.
He rubs at his temples as if the pressure might clear the dense fog clouding his thoughts. Fragments of memory teased at the edges of his awareness.
He recalls going out the night before, remembers meeting Petey in an alley. Remembers their scuffle, remembers…
Darkness.
His ears perk up.
There was something else.
Something missing.
The gun.
He sat up more, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him that briefly muffled the ache in his side, sifting around on the couch like he’d just find it sitting right there waiting for him.
He cursed to himself internally.
The muffled thud of approaching footsteps yanked him from his spiral. Rory jumps and stiffens, pressing his back into the couch, a low growl escaping his throat, shaky and thin but filled with defiance. A weak attempt to seem like he had any upper hand here.
He looked towards the far end of the room where the stairs resided, and watched as a familiar shade of orange fur came into view.
Rory felt a lump build up in his throat.
Petey stared down at each step he took, a hand gripping the railing, with his other hand holding something that Rory couldn’t quite make out yet due to their distance.
He looked, different however.
Not actually, he was just dressed differently. Either way it took Rory for a ride, having grown accustomed to the cat’s usual attire.
Here he seemed more, casual.
Petey reached the final step, coming into full view, allowing Rory to really drink in the sight before him.
In place of the open collared coat and sleek pants, the cat wore a loose fitting t-shirt, it's fabric slightly wrinkled and an off white color that softened the sharpness of his usual appearance. The shirt draped casually over his slender frame, brushing just above the waistband of his dark shorts.
Without the structured lines of his typical attire, the cat's natural features seemed to take center stage. The patterns of stripes running down his limbs were now visible, bold against his fur.
He looked...soft.
Rory’s growling subsided just from how caught off guard he was from the other’s ‘new look.’
Petey looked up, stopping in his tracks as their eyes met.
His eyes widened, pupils dilating a bit.
Though that could’ve just been a trick of the light.
Maybe.
“You’re up.” Petey says tentatively, though it sounded more like a question. Rory’s not exactly sure to whom.
The cat splutters for a moment, breaking eye contact as he whips his head over towards a table and setting down what he had in his hands. Which Rory now sees is a plate filled with food.
He watches as the cat hurriedly scurries off to a corner, grabbing a pile of neatly folded clothes in a pile.
His clothes.
Petey scoops them up in his hands, carrying them over to deliver them to the canine.
He stops about two feet away from where Rory stayed. Like there was a physical barrier around him, preventing the feline from stepping further.
“I washed your clothes for you,” Petey says, extending the clean and folded pile of clothes out for the detective to take.
Rory stays there, his eyes flitting down to the clothes, then to the cat himself. After a moment he simply reaches forward and takes it, taken back by everything in general.
Petey nodded quickly, retreating just as fast to retrieve the plate he had previously set down.
He stepped forward again, stopping just shy of Rory’s personal space. Holding it out at arm’s length.
“I also got you something to eat.” He adds.
Rory stared down at the plate—which admittedly, looked and smelled very nice—it was a typical breakfast spread. Eggs, potatoes, sausage. Nothing fancy, but it was clear it was made with care.
It was also only then that he realized the platter was the first real clue to the time of day.
Once more, after a beat, Rory takes it.
He gazes down at the plate of food in his hands, the warmth radiates through the ceramic, seeping into his palms and spreading up his arms, a small but unusually comforting sensation. He breathes in the faint aroma rising from the meal, though his stomach churns more from unease than hunger.
Petey lingers a few feet away, his posture stiff, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.
Not knowing where exactly to place himself or what to do.
The moment feels, off.
They both knew, as the cat’s eyes locked on Rory like a silent observer.
With a subtle sigh, Rory sets the plate down beside him.
He shifts, his focus drawn to the pile of freshly laundered clothes folded neatly nearby. They carry a faint lavender scent, his fingers rifle through the stack, disturbing it's careful order as though the thing he’s searching for might materialize if he just looks hard enough.
“Are you looking for your gun?” Petey’s voice breaks through the quiet.
Rory freezes mid motion. His hands pause on the fabric, his fingers brushing the corner of his under shirt. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, his eyes flicking down to the clothes before shifting to meet Petey’s.
Petey exhales softly, the sound almost too quiet to notice.
“I’m pretty sure I left it in that alley after…” He trails off, his voice faltering.
Rory’s head lifts slightly, his expression unreadable.
“…You remember what happened, right?” Petey ventures, his nose wrinkling as though bracing for something unpleasant.
Rory doesn’t reply right away. His gaze lingers on Petey, his face blank but his posture tense. Finally, he rolls his shoulders and gives a single, slow nod.
Petey grimaces, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah, ‘course you do,” He mutters, mostly to himself. “Just makin’ sure.”
The silence comes back in, settling over and smothering the both of them like a thick weighted blanket.
Rory makes a small noise in the back of his throat as he pulls his shirt out, unfolding it and disturbing the neatly made solitude of the pile.
It’s wrinkled, and there’s a small yet clean puncture where a bullet passed through.
He doesn’t give any sign that he acknowledged it, but Petey knows he’s not stupid.
Rory slowly slips it on, fiddling with the buttons one by one as it trailed up.
“I did the best I could,” Petey says, turning himself around and walking off towards a random table. “With your, injury, I mean.”
“You still lost a fair bit of blood, you should probably go to a real hospital to sort that out.” He continues, filling the oncoming silence before it had a chance to fully reach a simmer.
“Squishy science isn't exactly my forte,” He sorted through random equipment on his table, purposefully trying to avoid looking at the detective in his lair. “But I tried.” He turned on his heels, leaning back on the table as Rory searched the room.
When he pictured ‘Petey's Top Secret Lab’ in his head he imagined something more…dingy.
Maybe some brains in jars or something, cobwebs strung in the corners. But it was surprisingly normal.
Or, as normal as you could get to an ‘evil lab’ anyhow.
“You bark in your sleep.” Petey says so suddenly, it felt like he said it by accident. Rory turned over, tilting his head quizzically at the cat.
“Has anyone ever told you that?” He picks up a small device from the table, turning it over in his hands. “Probably not, actually. Uh, never mind.” He sets the trinket back down, glancing up.
Rory furrowed his brows at him.
Petey squirms, his tail flicking back and forth behind him.
“Don't look at me like that.”
The canine shook his head, a faint huff escaping him as he secured the final button on his shirt.
Petey picks up a small L-wrench off the table, inspecting it and spinning it around in his hands.
“Guess you finally figured out how to take the safety off that thing, huh?” The cat speaks up out of nowhere, not looking up.
Rory stops in the middle of pulling his coat on over himself, his coat hanging loosely off one shoulder as his jaw tightened. He looked over to the feline.
The aforementioned cat’s ears subtly flick, the only sign that he noticed Rory’s reaction. He twirls the wrench about in his hands, “Too soon, I get it.” He grumbles.
Rory resumed pulling on his coat, not bothering to button it up this time as Petey set the L-wrench back onto the table.
He ruffled with the cuffs of his coat, folding over the fabric on itself, his gloved hands rubbing against the material, the feeling grounding.
“You should eat.” Petey announces, finger tips tapping at the table rhythmically.
Rory looks up at the other, then back to the plate of food he had abandoned.
“I worked hard on it, the kid seemed to like it.”
The detective blinked, that was right. Li’l Petey was here too.
A wink of unease wormed it’s way into Rory’s thoughts.
Did he know he was here?
Did he know what happened?
He hoped not.
Rory stared at the cat, lolling his head off to one side as he brought his hands up. Pointing up as he cocked an eyebrow at the other.
Petey paused mid tap, his brows lifting in understanding. “Oh, yeah,” He begins, “He knows you’re here.”
Great.
“He won’t come down here, though, ‘least not for a while. 80-HDs’ keeping him occupied.”
Rory tilts his head again, this time in confusion.
Petey catches this, shakes his head and continues.
“80-HDs’ like this little nanny robot I made when the kid first popped up. Keeps him busy when I need to get stuff done.”
Rory crosses his arms over his chest as he listens, partially impressed and partially feeling like maybe a robot shouldn’t be taking care of a whole child.
“Oh relax,” Petey adds, ever perceptive of whatever the canine must’ve been thinking based purely on his expression. “I don’t use 'em a lot.” His tone was breezy, though carried a light of defensiveness with it.
His tail flicks, “Anyway,” He growls, “Again, you should eat.” He repeated, more seriously this time. Jabbing a finger in the direction of Rory’s forgotten plate.
Rory stays there, eyeing the food silently.
A moment passes, then Petey scoffs.
“You gonna listen, or just keep sittin’ there, brooding like you’re in a noir film?” Petey teases, and grins. More akin to the behaviour Rory was used to. A heat flaring up within him.
He shuffles, still not touching the plate.
Petey’s grin falters, “You think I laced it or something?”
The canine doesn’t do anything, not looking at him as he stared daggers into the plate like it had personally insulted him.
Petey’s ears flatten a little, placing a hand on his hip.
“After all the work I put into making’ sure you lasted, why would I do somethin’ like that?” He grumbles, his voice a little more shaky however.
He pauses, pulling in a breath.
“You think I want to actually kill you?” He asks, sounding incredulous. Like it’s the most absurd thing in the world that Rory would even think like that. Like he didn’t get a thrill out of making him bleed on a regular basis.
But seeing him truly on the brink…
That was too far, supposedly.
Rory shot him a look, throwing his hands in the air like the answer was obvious. Petey spluttered, stepping forward.
“Oh c’mon, sure we have our little thing going on,” He gestured between himself and the detective. “But that’s for fun.”
Rory grunted and huffed with a roll of his eyes at the notion.
“Don’t act all high and mighty now,” He snapped, tail flicking in agitation. “I know you get just as much enjoyment from pummeling me as I do.”
Rory’s growl rumbled low in his chest, a sound that was more reflex than deliberate. His sharp eyes narrowed at the cat, the tension between them crackling in the air. But instead of responding, he dropped his gaze, his head tilting down as if the floor had suddenly become very fascinating.
A stubborn warmth spread across his cheeks, exposing him in ways he hated.
Because Petey wasn’t wrong.
The truth clawed at him, unwelcome but undeniable. This whole thing—the back and forth, the scraps, the dangerous game they played—it wasn’t just Petey. It was him, too.
He allowed it. He engaged in it. Even when he knew better. Even when he’d been warned—repeatedly—that this was reckless, that he was walking a razor’s edge.
But Petey had a way of getting under his skin, of drawing him in with that manic energy, those sharp smiles, the chaos he seemed to revel in. And every time Rory retaliated, every time he indulged in the chase or the fight, he wasn’t just reacting. He was encouraging it.
Rewarding him.
The realization made him sick, his hands clenching briefly at his sides. Petey’s grin, a little too wide, a little too self assured, flickered in the corner of his vision, feeding into the gnawing sense that he was perpetuating something dangerous.
Something neither of them could seem to stop.
Rory continued to stew in silence.
Petey made a ‘tsk’ sound between his teeth.
“That’s what I thought.”
Rory whipped his head around, his movements sharp and sudden, like a storm breaking loose.
Before Petey could react, the detective was on him, closing the distance in a few heavy steps. His gloved hand fisted into the front of the cat’s shirt, yanking him forward with a force that sent equipment rattling on the nearby table.
Petey let out a startled hiss, his own claws instinctively clutching at Rory’s hands as the canine snarled, teeth bared and eyes blazing. The growl that rumbled from Rory’s chest was low and feral, a sound that vibrated in the air between them.
Petey’s claws dug into Rory’s hands, sharp tips pressing against the leather of his gloves, but the detective didn’t flinch.
“I didn’t have to save you,” The cat hissed, his breath coming quick and shallow. His words were laced with venom, though his eyes showed something different. “I could’ve left you there, let you bleed out in that alley.”
Rory’s grip tightened, and with a sharp shove, he forced Petey backward. The feline stumbled, his back hitting the edge of the table with a dull thud. Rory didn’t relent, stepping closer and looming over him, his presence imposing.
Petey glared down at him, defiance flickering like embers in his gaze, but he was cornered now—trapped between the table and the detective’s form.
Rory’s eyes burned with intensity, his emotions raw and unfiltered. They spoke louder than any words, carrying a silent question that cut through the tension like a blade.
His growl deepened into a bark. Short, clipped.
The unspoken question hung heavy in the air.
‘Then why didn’t you?’
Petey’s expression wavered, his glare softening ever so slightly as the weight of the question settled between them.
“Because…Because I…” He stammered, his gaze flew from the detective, to the floor, and back. He shifted a little, like trying to physically escape the eyes on him.
He sucks in a breath, Rory’s body flush against his front, the warmth he felt radiating off of the canine making his train of thought run off it’s tracks for a second or two.
“Because we’re one in the same,” Petey starts, and Rory immediately groans and rolls his eyes, stepping back. He didn’t need to hear this spiel again, this whole speech.
“I’m serious!” The cat leaps forward, grabbing a hold of the detective’s shoulder. Pulling him back.
Rory glanced over his shoulder, his expression one of irritation, but he didn’t shake him off.
Petey’s grip softened slightly, his voice lowering as he pressed on.
“We’ve both been through a lot, I know you have.” His voice softens, and it makes Rory feel nervous. “They hurt you, they ostracized you, turned their backs on you when all you did was try and help.”
Rory fell silent, the sharp edge of his resistance dulling as his hands hung limply at his sides. The weight of Petey’s words settled over him like an unwanted burden, one he didn’t have the strength to push away.
Taking the opening, Petey stepped closer, his movements cautious.
“I know how that feels,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, raw with something unspoken. “It stings. It eats away at you. You start to wonder if it’s worth it, if you’re worth it.”
Rory turned himself around, his ears twitched, his head dipping slightly as if the words weighed more than he wanted to show.
Petey moved closer, his tone holding that signature smugness, though the sincerity remained.
“C’mon, Detective. You can hate me all you want,” He raised his arm, slowly. “And trust me, I know you do most of the time,” He reached towards Rory, his fingertips ghosting over the canine’s cheek.
Rory flinched, but let him in.
“But you can’t deny, we’re cut from the same cloth. Two sides of the same coin.”
Rory finally met his eyes, his own gaze heavy with an unreadable emotion. He didn’t respond, the silence stretching out between them like a taut wire, neither ready to snap nor let go.
He raised a hand up, his movements hesitant and careful. He placed it atop of where Petey’s hand rested on his face. The warmth of the contact growing into an odd tingly feeling.
The cat blinked, his ears twitching from surprise. A grin creeping up on his face.
Rory’s fingers curled gently around Petey’s hand, his grip firm but lacking any malice. The detective drew the feline’s hand away from his cheek, holding it suspended in the air between them. For a moment, it was quiet, his gaze lowering as if searching for something that refused to come.
A quiet breath slipped past Rory’s lips, the sound barely audible over the steady hum of the room.
His brows knitted together, the subtle furrow revealing a flicker of internal conflict. He held onto Petey’s hand for just a moment longer, the stillness charged with something neither of them wanted to name.
And then, with a slight shift of his weight, Rory pushed Petey back.
The motion was firm but measured, not an act of violence but one of intentional distance.
Petey staggered slightly, his grin fading as he was forced back a step, the separation clear.
Rory’s hand lingered in the air for a second before dropping to his side. His expression hardened again, though a faint trace of something else clung to his features.
The rejection took a minute to truly settle over the cat, hanging in the air like a phantom. He stood there unmoving, staring at Rory blankly, his eyes glossed over.
He blinked, the action slow and mechanical as though his body wasn’t quite catching up with his mind. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened once more, but nothing had come out. He clamped his jaw shut, giving up.
Rory knew, he couldn’t let this continue.
They were balancing on an already unstable foundation, just waiting for it to crack and crumble beneath them both.
If everything from last night was any indicator, he had to stop this sooner rather than later.
If he allowed this strange, volatile connection between them to fester any further, he knew exactly where it would lead. And he knew that nothing good would come of it.
His chest tightened with resolve as he stepped back, widening the space between them. His shoes scuffed lightly against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet.
Petey’s gaze followed him, unblinking, a trace of desperation flickering behind his pupils.
But Rory didn’t stop moving. His eyes locked onto the cat’s, and for the first time, it was Petey who flinched.
There, in the detective’s stare, was an emotion Petey hadn’t seen from him before—something quiet and deeply buried, yet unmistakable.
It was sorrow.
It was regret.
Rory held Petey’s gaze for a second longer before turning away, an unspoken finality in them that made Petey’s chest hurt.
The silence between them was deafening, and for once, Petey had no clever remark, no sly grin to break it.
It rang throughout the room, and in a desperate attempt to stop it, the cat reached forward.
“Rory,” Petey said, his voice wavering, so quiet it might as well have been a whisper. Though it did get the canine to stop.
His actual name dancing on the cat’s tongue an unfamiliar, yet not totally unpleasant sound.
He looked back.
Petey swallowed around a lump forming in his throat.
“I…I’m…” He trailed off. The words caught in his throat like a hook, refusing to come out.
The detective’s gaze softened ever so slightly, just enough to let a vague pause of understanding pass between them. But it was that softness—so fleeting, so alien—that caused something inside Petey to snap.
No.
No, no, no.
He wasn’t going to be the one left exposed, vulnerable.
The cat straightened abruptly, his expression hardening into something colder, sharper. A sardonic grin curled at the corners of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You know what? Forget it,” Petey spat, his voice rising, cracking slightly at the edges. He waved a hand dismissively, as though brushing off the weight of the moment. “Go ahead and walk out, Detective. It’s not like I care.”
Rory blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.
“Really,” Petey continued, his tone taking on that familiar mocking lilt.
“You think you’re so noble, so righteous, with all your brooding and walking away like some tragic hero. But newsflash, pal—you’re not better than me. You’re just a coward who doesn’t want to admit he likes playing in the mud as much as I do.”
The words came fast and sharp, each one burning like acid in his throat. His tail lashed behind him, his claws raking against the edges of his sides as he leaned forward, throwing the verbal punches harder and faster.
“You think leaving makes you the bigger man? Please. You’re just scared. Scared of me, scared of this,” he gestured wildly between them, “And scared of what it says about you.
He jabs a finger at him.
Rory’s eyes narrowed, his ears flattening slightly as the words hit their mark.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Petey sneered, stepping back now, his grin wide but brittle, cracking at the corners.
“Go ahead, walk away. You’re doing me a favor. I don’t need you. Never did. Hell, I’m better off without you.”
The detective stayed there, his gaze steady but unreadable. His silence only seemed to fuel the fire burning in Petey’s chest.
“Go on, then!” Petey shouted, his voice breaking, raw and trembling despite the bravado. “Get out! You think I care? You’re nothing special!”
But as Rory finally turned away, his steps measured, Petey’s voice cracked on the last word, the weight of his own bridge burning pressing down on him like a boulder.
He stood there, panting, his chest heaving with the force of his outburst. Rory made his way up the stairs, and presumably, out of Petey’s house.
And his life.
Petey’s grin faltered, slipping away entirely as the silence returned, heavier than before. He stepped back, his claws scraped the edge of the table, and he let out a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
He stood there in an empty room, his breathing the only thing audible.
The words rang hollow, and the ache in his chest told a different story entirely.
He squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand to his face.
His eyes stung, throat hoarse as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
He sniffed, lifting himself up, his tail tucked low to the ground. Almost coiling around himself.
He pushed himself up.
He dragged himself to the couch, where an untouched plate full of food remained.
Without a word, he picked it up. The warmth from the plate gone.
“What a waste.” He mumbled, hiking himself up the stairs.