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The Emperor hadn’t planned for this.
Yes, he had known the broad strokes; Magnus would pick up the broken pieces of Kitten, drag him off-world and forge the Custodian into what he needed to be. The journey was plotted, the destination known, all without the participants being aware.
And yet, when Magnus returned, the Emperor sensed a change in him; one that went beyond the ridiculous chicken wings and head-nipples, the frustration and back pain.
The big red nerd had gotten laid. A lot.
It hadn’t done much for the daemon’s attitude, but the Emperor could still tell. He’d made even more sexual conquests than military ones in his day, and had so many notches on his bedpost that there was simply no bed left at all. In fact, he could destroy an entire warehouse worth of beds with his notches alone.
The point was, he knew fucking, and his big red baby boy had clearly spent much of his time away dancing the horizontal tango. The Emperor wanted to give his son a pat on the back for finally getting some after so long. He’d spent millennia on the Planet of the Nerds, far from any decent human honeys or hunks, so this was a good step.
Yeah, the Emperor knew his son batted for both teams, when he bothered to bat at all. It was fine, as long as he didn’t act all weird about it like the creepy naked Custodes...
Oh fuck!
Kitten. There had been nobody else on the ship aside from the crew, who had literally zero screen time and only existed by inference. Magnus had been basically alone with a fucking Custodian, for months years. Kitten had seemed harmless, but what if he wasn’t? What if he’d spent the last 1,154 days working his wicked, well-oiled wiles on the innocent nerd? It wasn’t like the Primarch was hard to manipulate.
The not-god mentally reached for the ban-hammer; Kitten was on Mars, well within easy smiting range, and he could survive a slight mangling well enough to do his job. The rest of the Custodian’s punishment could wait until after Kitten had played his part; the Emperor had just deleted one quivering creep for hitting on his son, and the mangy feline had done far, far worse.
His fractured psyche screamed in agony as he sent his thoughts to Mars, and it was just as he’d suspected; Kitten was radiating the glow of the well-fucked, even through his armor. It was time to lay down the pain -
Then the Emperor stopped. There was something clinging to Kitten, a tiny hint of... Magnus? Yes, there was no mistaking the daemonic aura for anything other than a fragment of the Crimson Chicken. It lacked the main part’s extensive psychic shielding, so the Emperor could read its emotions like they were written in neon.
This mini-Magnus was curled up against Kitten like, well, a kitten, and doing the psychic equivalent of purring. It was radiating affection, happiness and trust; the prickly Primarch had literally given the Custodian a piece of himself, and that piece was glowing with joy, more joy than the whole had expressed since... when?
Maybe this thing between them was OK after all? Kitten had tended to the Emperor for millennia, gotten the TTS device installed, and generally been a good, loyal servant. He’d been awkwardly enthusiastic to an annoying degree, as well as developing some passive-aggressive snarkiness, but he wasn’t a nudist lunatic like the rest of his ilk. He was dedicated, reliable, earnest, even sweet. Yeah he was an idiot, a dork, a nerd, a total sap...
Oh fuck it, he was fucking perfect for Magnus. They were peas in a big red-and-gold pod, a pod full of books and other geeky shit. They probably read poetry while gazing into each other’s eye(s) or something, in between all the obvious boning. If anything, the Emperor was kind of jealous. He’d never had someone who could handle his fiery greatsword more than once, and here was his nerdy, crimson, one-eyed daemon son, wielding the Blade of Magnus consequence-free.
He very carefully grazed the surface of Kitten’s thoughts, not going deep enough to be noticed or see mental images he couldn’t unsee. He was only partly surprised to find emotions, emotions he had not created the Custodes to possess, and many were directed towards Magnus: affection, respect, wry annoyance and an attraction that was more than simply physical.
The Custodian liked Magnus and Magnus liked him, and the Emperor wasn’t sure which was rarer.
The not-god withdrew his mind back into his own body, returning the ban-hammer to its immaterial pocket. This might all end in tears, but somehow the Emperor doubted it. There was real potential there, the seeds of a relationship planted and already blossoming. Still, knowing Magnus, it would take the two a few centuries to work their shit out.
That was fine. It would take that long to sift the ashes of Prospero for baby pictures to show Kitten, in the tradition of embarrassing parents everywhere.
Perhaps he should send the Ultramarines when they get back from that dance-off...