Chapter Text
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Rory thinks that’s true, to a certain degree. It’s less a ‘flash’ and more of a flood, a rush as you rethink all the things you’ve done up to this point all at once. How much you’ve still got left to do, how much you’ve screwed up, and now it’s too late. You can’t fix it.
Rory’s had this experience twice now.
The first was the bomb. With Knight. He remembers that day far too clearly, and yet it’s also a painful blur.
The second experience?
That was now.
—
It’s kinda funny, in a twisted way. How perfectly in sync two people could be, just for them to completely destroy each other. Two halves too far gone, that separating them at this point would be catastrophic for everyone involved.
It’d be insane to call it fate, luckily, Petey, was just that.
It was fate that planted that bomb.
It was fate that Rory was born from that explosion.
It was fate that brought him and Petey together.
They were both broken, they were both beaten down by the world, they’ve both had something taken from them, in their shared wreckage, they were one in the same.
This psychotic monologue would normally be followed by Rory rushing a fist to Petey’s jaw.
But despite that, the thoughts lingered. No matter how hard Rory tried to smother them, to snuff them out.
They stuck.
They hooked right under his skin, and wormed their way to the very back of his head and planted themselves there.
What if he was right?
How many times had he been kicked down, beaten to the brink? How many times would he have to try and prove—to everyone, including himself—that he was worth it? Worth keeping around, that his existence wasn’t some cosmic mistake.
And how many times, after he struggled to even look at himself in the mirror, would Petey be right there?
Waiting for him.
He wouldn’t say he enjoyed the cat’s company. Far from it. But, in a weird way, he also gave the detective a way to relieve himself.
What they had going on wasn’t okay, or sane.
But did it really matter?
The first time he and Petey had gotten into a scuffle was when he was still on the force. A few months after the surgery.
He recalls sitting in the passenger seat of a police car. Scratching lightly at his neck stitches. Chief was at the wheel, he spots Rory scratching and scolds him for it with a firm, booming voice. One that made Rory both crumble and feel oddly safe. He would sheepishly fold his hands into his lap as a crackling sound over the police radio suddenly filled the air.
“We’ve got a 132 in progress, Chief. StokeTop Drive.”
Chief does a sudden jerk of the steering wheel, swinging them around and flattening Rory into his seat. He reaches for the radio, bringing it up to his mouth.
“Gotcha, me and Rory are on our way.”
They pull up to the scene in minutes, the car comes to a screeching halt at the very front of a bank, there were multiple other police cars outside in a barricade. Chief and Rory hop out together, the latter tailing behind him as the man walks up to another officer on the scene.
“What’s the situation?” Chief asks.
“Bank robbery,” Milly replied, her face grim. “Suspect got away.”
“Any injuries?”
“Two civilian casualties, nothing major. They’re being taken care of.”
As more officers arrived, spreading out to survey the scene, Chief continued asking questions, his voice cutting through the din with practiced authority. Commands were exchanged, radios crackled with updates, and the chaotic rhythm of the scene began to settle into a tense order.
Rory, on the other hand, stood awkwardly beside Chief, feeling like an outsider in his skin.
His hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, before retreating to his pockets as if to anchor him. The bustle of uniforms, the flashing red and blue lights, and the faint hum of engines filled the air, a sensory overload that left him unsure of where he belonged in the moment.
His eyes darted across the scene, catching glimpses of officers ducking in and out of their vehicles, others taking statements from shaken civilians near the barricades.
The air buzzed with tension, heavy and alive, but Rory felt like a bystander watching it all unfold.
The scars on his neck itched beneath his collar. He adjusted his jacket slightly, his fingers brushing against the rough fabric.
His stomach churned. It wasn’t nerves exactly—it was the nagging feeling that he should be doing something. But what?
And then, it hit him.
A scent.
Sharp, distinct, and out of place. Rory froze, his senses heightening as he tilted his head, sniffing the air. It wasn’t just the oil and sweat mingling in the city’s typical cocktail of smells, this was different.
He hesitated for a moment, glancing toward Chief, who was still too engrossed in his exchange with Milly to notice. Rory’s brow furrowed as he sniffed again, turning slightly toward the source.
Something about it tugged at his instincts.
Carefully, almost cautiously, he stepped away from the group. No one seemed to notice as he slipped into the shadows at the edge of the scene. He kept sniffing, tuning out the background noise of the investigation.
Around the corner, he paused and took another deep inhale. His nostrils flared as the smell sharpened, distinct now, unmistakable.
A cat.
His pace quickened as he continued following along with the scent, it took him far away from the initial scene of the crime, the hustle and bustle dying down as he careens down the very back of another shop. The scent stronger now.
Slowing his stride, ears standing on end as he pressed himself flat against the wall of the building, his muscles tensed as he slowly stepped forward.
The sound of maniacal giggling began to bubble over the normal city sounds. Rory peeks over the corner.
A tall, lanky cat perched atop a garbage bin, a heavy sack slung over his lap. The cat’s wiry frame shook with laughter as he dug into the bag, pulling out thick stacks of bills and flipping through them with exaggerated glee.
“Two hundred and seven, two hundred and eight…heehee, that’s practically a hundred grand!” The orange tabby crowed.
He shoved the money back in before swinging the bag over his shoulder. Rory growled under his breath, hand reaching for his holster. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then stepped out from the corner.
Rory let out a loud bark as he pointed the pistol at the cat, who jumped upon the sound, letting out a shriek.
His long frame twisted as he spun to face Rory, the bag swaying heavily on his shoulder. His ears flattened against his head, his tail flicking in agitation as his wide eyes quickly scanned the canine before him. Sizing him up.
For a moment, he just stared, his thin chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. Then, his demeanor shifted. His panic melting into something more akin to sheer confusion mixed with intrigue.
The cat cocked an eyebrow at him, “Who the heck are you?”
Rory didn’t flinch, his pistol remained trained on him. His glare locked onto the other as more low growls emitted from him, teeth bared.
The cat blinks, his ears perking back up. His wide eyes narrowed slightly, their emerald hue catching the faint light, and Rory couldn’t help but notice how striking they were. Something sharp and mischievous sparked within them as a slow, almost predatory smirk spread across his face.
“Oh, I know you.” The cat said, voice dripping with smugness.
Rory looks at him, confused.
The cat chuckled, “You’re that freaky human, dog cop everyone’s yappin’ about!” He lets out a laugh.
Rory felt a twinge in his chest, a tightness that wasn’t fully anger, but close enough.
The tabby’s gaze lingered on him, slowly taking him in with an almost deliberate boldness.
“My, my,” He drawled, his grin widening as his eyes trailed over Rory’s figure. "They sure fixed you up all good, didn’t they?" His teeth flashed in a smirk that felt like a taunt.
Rory swallowed down a whine building up in his throat.
Petey set a hand on his own hip.
“I feel like I should be gettin’ some credit here.” He scoffed, his tone insultingly casual. His tail flicking side to side. “I mean, none of this woulda happened if I hadn’t planted that dang bomb-”
The words hit Rory like a punch to the gut. His heart sank, the pistol in his hands wavering as the weight of the revelation crashed over him. His ears drooped, going flat and hanging sadly on the sides of his head.
The cat notices the obvious shift, his smirk growing wider. He raised a paw to rest his face against it, feigning an inflated look of innocence.
“Oops,” He said, his voice mockingly sweet. “Was that not disclosed to you?” He teases, He lets out a low chuckle, his eyes lighting up in amusement. “Sowwy.” He snickers before throwing his head back in a crazy fit of laughter.
Rory’s throat tightened, a mix of anger, hurt, and disbelief swirling around in his chest. His grip on the gun trembled despite his best efforts to remain composed.
As the cat’s laughter rang out, cutting through the stillness of everything else. Rory’s ears flattened further against his head, his growl deepening as heat flushed his face. Every fiber of his being screaming at him to react.
His grip tightened as his hands steadied, Slowly, he raised the pistol higher, the cold metal of the gun felt heavier now.
His heart pounded in his ears, the rapid thud of it nearly drowning out the cat’s laughter. But not quite enough. His breathing quickened, shallow and ragged as his finger hovered over the trigger. He didn’t blink, his eyes solely transfixed on the cat in front of him.
Rory’s jaw tightened. He squeezes his eyes shut.
And—
Click.
The sound was hollow, anticlimactic, and far too quiet for the tension hanging in the air.
A beat of silence settles, the echo of the click lingering like a cruel joke.
Rory's eyes snapped back open, his vision narrowing on the pistol still clenched in his trembling hands. He felt his breath hitch as confusion washed over him.
Nothing had happened.
The cat stood there motionless, there was a brief flicker in his eyes. He leaned back somewhat, his posture still casual, but no longer entirely at ease.
Rory’s brows furrowed as he stared bewildered at the gun. His fingers tightening around the grip.
“The safeties on, doggy.” The cat says, tossing the bag off to the side.
Before Rory could fully process the words, he felt a sharp thwack to his hands. Stinging pain shot through him, the pistol slipped from his grasp. Clattering loudly against the floor.
Rory yipped in pain, just as a powerful blow slammed into his chest, driving him backwards. His shoulder blades hit the brick wall, the impact stealing air from his lungs. Pain radiated through his ribs as he slumped slightly, his knees threatening to buckle as he attempted to regain his footing.
A few feet away now, the cat stood with an air of smug satisfaction. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he watched Rory struggle.
“Not that quick, are we?” He purred condescendingly.
Rory growled in response, his hands flexing at his sides as he forced himself upright. Feet planted firmly on the ground.
The tabby’s eyes narrowed in playful malice. “Oooh, you got some fight in ya,” He teased, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms lazily over his head.
The canine bared his teeth.
“Alright,” The cat said with a smirk, taking a single step back as his stance shifted. His weight settled evenly. “This should be fun.”
He beckoned Rory with a curl of his fingers, “Come get me, doggy.”
That day would be the first time Rory tasted his own blood. The sharp, metallic tang flooded his mouth, mingling with his shallow, ragged breaths as he winced against the throbbing pain radiating from his nose.
His vision had blurred momentarily from the initial impact, the cat's fist landing with brutal precision, snapping his head back.
The fight had been messy, and unrelenting. Rory’s knuckles were battered and stung with every movement, the skin scraped and bruised from repeatedly colliding with fur and flesh.
Each punch however, felt like a release, a desperate outlet for the searing mix of frustration and adrenaline coursing through him.
The alley echoed with the sounds of their struggle—the grunts, growls, and the dense thuds of bodies crashing against one another.
Rory could feel every collision reverberate through his bones, each hit pushing him closer to the edge of exhaustion.
Finally, with a feral growl, Rory surged forward, using his weight to overpower the cat. The momentum sent them both sprawling to the ground, the impact jarring and unforgiving. Rory ended up on top, his chest heaving as he pinned the tabby beneath him.
The cat writhed and cursed, but Rory’s grip was ironclad, his fingers digging just enough into the other’s wrists to keep him subdued.
He yanked the cat’s arms behind his back, twisting them into a painful hold. Both of them gasped for air, their breaths mingling in the tense silence that followed.
The faint clink of metal broke the quiet as Rory reached for the handcuffs at his belt, he snapped them around the cat’s wrists, the clicking a satisfying punctuation to their violent encounter.
Rory’s muscles ached, his chest still burning from the earlier kick, but he forced himself to his feet. He hauled the subdued tabby up with him, his grip firm on the scruff of his neck as he dragged him back toward the scene of the crime. The weight of the stolen money bag slung over Rory’s free shoulder only added to the strain, but he carried it without complaint.
The bank loomed back into view, the flashing lights of patrol cars cutting through. The officers still surrounding the area turned toward him, their faces a mix of confusion and surprise as he approached.
Rory deposited the cat and the heavy bag into their custody without a word, his bloodied and bruised form a testament to the previous events that had just unfolded.
There’s whispers and murmurs slowly lifting up into the crowd.
The mass of officers parted as Chief stepped forward, his imposing figure cutting through the commotion with ease. His heavy boots thudded against the pavement, the noise commanding attention even amidst the chatter of the gathered police.
Rory stood frozen in place, his heart hammering against his ribs as Chief’s intense gaze locked onto him.
The older man’s eyes scanned Rory carefully, taking in the blood smeared across his nose, the disheveled fur, and the battered state of his hands. Rory swallowed hard, fighting the urge to shrink right then and there.
Chief’s attention shifted to the restrained cat and the heavy bag of stolen money now resting on the ground. He lingered for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his face softened into a grin.
He raised a large hand, resting it firmly atop Rory’s head and giving it a single, approving pat.
“Good job, Rory.” Chief said, his deep voice carrying a warmth there.
The words hit Rory like a shock of electricity, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to react. His chest swelled with pride, his throat tightening with emotion.
His tail betrayed him almost instantly, wagging wildly behind him despite his best efforts to maintain composure. It thumped against the back of his legs, a steady rhythm that echoed his excitement.
His ears perked up, and a faint smile tugged at the edges of his mouth despite how sore his face felt.
Chief gave him another pat, this time lighter, before stepping back to address the other officers. Rory remained where he was, standing a little taller, the Chief’s words still ringing in his ears.
He straightened up as best he could, his breaths still uneven, and gave the cat one final, pointed glare.
For all the pain and chaos, he’d won.
That’s what he had thought, atleast.
He would later learn that the name of that cat was Petey, and their paths would continue to cross from then on out. To the point they were practically interwoven together by the end of it.
—
That was a long time ago.
Now, as Rory and Petey stood facing each other—in an alley, of all places. Ain’t that cute—the world seemed to shrink around them, everything outside fading into insignificance. The air was thick, each breath a struggle against the inevitable.
Rory couldn’t admit it to himself back then, but there was something disturbingly cathartic about those moments. The raw, unfiltered satisfaction of repeatedly pummeling the one person he held responsible for everything wrong in his life. Each swing of his fist, each connection with flesh, carried with it a release, a chance to expel the anger and pain that had simmered inside him for so long.
It was a sick rush, an intoxicating blend of adrenaline and something darker. Every time they clashed, it was as if nothing else mattered, leaving only the two of them locked in a chaotic, destructive rhythm.
A part of him hated it, but another part—a part he wasn’t ready to acknowledge—craved it.
Rory assumed Petey felt the same. Maybe even more so.
But while Rory’s satisfaction came from a place of anger and loss, Petey’s seemed entirely unhinged.
There was a mad gleam in the cat’s eyes during their fights, a wild, almost gleeful energy that suggested he relished the chaos for it’s own sake.
It wasn’t just a fight for him. It was a game. A twisted, brutal game that he seemed to enjoy far too much.
And despite himself, Rory kept playing.
Rory's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles pale with the effort of holding back. Petey's jaw tightened. They were both on edge, teetering on the brink of an explosion that had been building for far too long.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. The tension in the air was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse with each heartbeat.
Rory craned his neck to one side.
Petey’s response was a barely perceptible nod, his gaze never wavering.
They were ready to go.
Without warning, Rory lunged forward, his fist aiming for Petey's jaw. Petey dodged, his reflexes sharp, and countered with a kick to Rory's side. The impact sent Rory faltering back, but he quickly regained his footing, a fierce determination burning in his eyes.
The fight began, a brutal dance, each move calculated yet driven by pure emotion. They were perfectly in sync, yet utterly at odds, every strike a testament to the twisted bond that tied them together and yet kept them apart.
Their own little routine.
"Oh, Mr. Detective!" Petey sang, delivering a swift kick to Rory's stomach. Rory staggered backward, doubling over as he felt the threat of vomit in his throat.
He weakly looked up, watching as Petey sauntered forward. Snatching the hat off Rory's head, Petey ran a finger along the rim before placing it on his own head. He then gently cupped Rory's chin, lifting it.
The gesture only made the detective more nauseous.
"You must be tired of this by now," Petey cooed, his tone sweet but his intent sickeningly clear, like the artificial taste of cough medicine trying to mask it’s bitterness. It didn't work, and Rory scowled.
The canine brought up a shaky hand, clutching at Petey’s wrist.
He yanked him forward, sending a punch straight into his gut in return. The satisfying thud was followed by a sharp, breathless choke from Petey. Falling forward as he rested his hands on his knees.
Rory brings himself up. Petey growls deep within his chest, before pouncing on him.
The two hit the ground with a jarring thud, Rory’s back slamming into the concrete as the air was knocked from his lungs again.
Petey sitting on top of him, his claws dug into Rory’s shoulders, pinning him down with a strength that belied his thin frame.
Rory growled through gritted teeth, thrashing against the weight pressing him down. The sting of Petey’s claws biting into his skin only fueled the fire burning in his chest.
Petey leaned in closer, his grin back, wild and toothy. "Oh, you’re just so predictable," he hissed, his voice filled with tainted delight. "Always so serious. So angry. You really oughta lighten up, Detective."
Rory responded with a sharp headbutt, his forehead colliding with Petey’s nose. The cat yowled, jerking back and clutching his face. Rory took the opportunity to shove him off, rolling to the side and scrambling to his feet.
His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he tried to shake off the dizziness from the impact.
His thoughts were a chaotic blur, frustration and rage battling with the pain radiating through his body. He clenched his fists as he fixed Petey with a glare.
Petey was already recovering, staggering upright with a hand still pressed to his nose. When he pulled it away, a streak of blood stained his fingers.
His green eyes sparkled with something almost euphoric as he licked the corner of his mouth, tasting the blood with a crooked smirk.
"You’re feisty today," Petey said, his voice breathy but tinged with amusement. "I like it."
Rory didn’t waste time with a response. He charged forward, his movements fueled by adrenaline. His fist swung out, but the cat was faster.
Petey ducked under the punch, his agility allowing him to twist around Rory with ease.
Before the detective could react, Petey’s foot lashed out, catching him in the back of the knee. Rory stumbled, his leg buckling as he dropped down to one knee.
Petey was on him in an instant, grabbing the back of his collar and pulling him up just to slam him back down into the pavement.
Pain exploded in Rory’s chest, but he refused to stay down. With a growl, he twisted his body and lashed out with a kick, catching Petey square in the stomach. The force sent the cat staggering back, his smug expression faltering as he clutched his midsection.
Rory rose to his feet, swaying slightly but standing tall. His heart pounded in his ears, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
Petey paused to trace over the canine’s expression, his grin returned—though it was laced with a wince—Like he knew just what the canine was thinking with one look.
‘Is this fun for you?’
"Of course it is," Petey said, unprompted, his tone light but unsteady. "What’s life without a little excitement, huh? You should be thanking me, mutt."
The words only made Rory’s blood boil hotter. He lunged again, this time aiming low. Petey tried to dodge, but Rory anticipated the move, slamming his shoulder into the cat’s torso and driving him into the wall behind them.
Petey let out a gasp and a grunt as Rory pressed him against the brick, one hand gripping the front of his jacket collar while the other drew back, ready to deliver another punch.
But as he stared into Petey’s face—still grinning despite the blood trickling down his chin—something in Rory hesitated.
Petey saw the flicker of doubt, tilting his head off to the side as he lidded his eyes.
“What’s wrong, doggy?” He purred, “Cat got your tongue?”
Rory didn’t have time to respond as Petey took advantage of the moment. He brought his knee up sharply, catching Rory in the ribs. He stumbled back, gasping for air as Petey slipped free, laughing breathlessly.
A taunting sound that rang out in Rory’s ears.
As he fumbled, coughing and trying to draw a breath through the sharp pain in his chest, a sudden metallic clank shattered the chaos. Drawing both participant’s eyes downward towards the noise.
There, in the dim hazy light filtering in the alley, a small object glinted against the concrete. The faint glimmer of steel, sharp and unmistakable.
A pistol.
They both looked up simultaneously, locking eyes with one another for a split second.
Petey was the first to move as he ducked down, snatching up the weapon.
Rory tried jumping forward to grab it back, but he winced. His ribs scraping painfully against his insides as he whimpered in pain, causing him to fall back.
Petey straightened as he jumped back, his fingers curling around the grip of the gun. A quick flash in his eyes as he inspected it like it was some shiny new toy.
“This is the same one from when we first met, isn’t it?” Petey mused, bringing a paw up to his face, exaggerating a swooning motion. “D’awww, how romantic.” He batted his eyes at him.
Rory growled low in his throat, he took a single step forward.
Petey raised the weapon, pointing it directly at him.
Rory froze.
The sudden stillness in the air was deafening, his own labored breathing and erratic pounding of his heart against his bruised ribs filled his ears.
The muzzle of the pistol hovered in the air, a threat too real to ignore.
Everything up until now had felt okay, Rory knew, if he really wanted to, if Petey ever actually tried to do anything, he’d be able to take care of it.
He felt completely vulnerable here.
The moment stretched impossibly long, the weight pressing down on him like lead. He’s not exactly sure how long he stood there.
It couldn’t have been longer than a single minute, honestly. But it felt like an eternity.
Then, to Rory’s surprise and relief, Petey lowered the gun. His posture shifted.
“What do you take me for, Detective?” He asked, his voice lilting with faux indignation. “Some kinda monster?”
The sharp edge of his chuckle split through the air, and Rory exhaled shakily. His muscles loosening somewhat.
“This thing sure is a pretty little number, though,” The cat quipped, he takes the weapon in his hands, turning it over. Rory felt panic rising back up in his throat.
He faltered forward, letting out a small noise of protest as Petey spun the gun between his fingers, Rory shook his head, reaching out to try and stop him before—
BANG!
The crack of the shot was ear splitting in the enclosed space, reverberating off the brick walls.
Petey stood still, the playful smirk on his face completely wiped. Replaced by a wide eyed, slack jawed stare. The gun remained in his grip, motionless, his fingers trembling ever so slightly.
No one moved, the silence now impossibly louder and suffocating than the shot itself. Each second stretching and crawling into a daze.
Eventually though, Rory’s body betrayed him.The sharp pain in his side flared up as he sucked in a breath, radiating outward like a wildfire.
His knees threatened to give out underneath him as warmth blossomed low on his abdomen. His gaze dropped, his heart nearly stopped all together.
He’d been hit.
The world tilted slightly, his vision blurring as a dizziness began to take hold of him. Rory pressed a hand to his side, his hand coming back slick and crimson. The warmth was quickly giving way to cold, a creeping chill that made his limbs feel heavy.
Things begin to spin, once solid ground shifting like water beneath him. He feels the sky come crashing down on him.
Before his head could hit solid concrete however, something stopped him.
A firm yet careful pressure catching him mid collapse. He feels a gentle weight hosting him up, being hyper cautious of his injury.
The sharp ringing in Rory’s ears drowned out the finer details, but through the static, he could just barely make out the sound of a shrill voice yelling at him.
The words blurred together, but the tone was unmistakable.
Desperation.
Pleading with him to stay awake.
He did not listen.
He couldn’t.
His eyelids grew heavier with every passing second, fluttering weakly as darkness began to creep in. The fight to keep them open was a losing one, and part of him welcomed the pull into oblivion.
He felt himself being shifted again, a hand squeezed his shoulder, the warmth of it interrupting the encroaching chill. Another hand came to his face, cradling it with a tenderness that felt almost out of place amidst the chaos.
The touch was deliberate, firm enough to keep him grounded yet impossibly gentle.
So gentle.
It felt like an anchor, pulling him back from the edge, even as the darkness continued to close around him.
Commotion continues to happen above him, a distant blur, muffled and disjointed. He can barely register it as his consciousness finally begins to slip.
He feels himself being forced onto his feet, though his legs refused to truly cooperate. His weight leaned heavily against a thin trembling figure, their movements shaky and unsteady. They clung to him as though sheer will power would keep him upright.
Their voice continued to babble nonsensically—words spilling out in a frantic, desperate stream.
He couldn’t tell for sure, but they might have also been crying.
Maybe.
The sound sharpened briefly, parting through the haze just before it claimed him.
“I’m sorry,” The voice—now familiar sounding—stammered, words laced with anguish.
It was the last thing Rory heard before everything went quiet.