moobloom-mention

[moobloom-mention]

Day 19 | Forgetting the Big Things (The Dog That Weeps After It Kills is No Better Than the Dog That Doesn't. My Guilt Will Not Purify Me)

Summary: Petey doesn't mean to miss Lil Petey's first art gallery and contest. It's just that everything that could go wrong, went wrong, and that happens sometimes!

But it's exactly the kind of shit his father had pulled with him. And that just makes it a hundred times worse.

Content Warning(s): Brief Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Past Child Abuse

Word Count: 3662

I'm just as much of a sucker for found family angst as I am for found family fluff <3

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He's late.

It's a realization that tears ruthlessly through what had been a shady attempt to glue of his common sense and composure back together, blood roaring in his ears. He's forced to abandon the fire extinguisher he'd been strangling for what had seemed like eternity to clasp a paw to his ears, anything to stop the sudden onslaught of both panic and adrenaline that courses through his veins.

Even the sharp, hollow clang of the canister against the kitchen's tiled floor doesn't feel loud enough to drown that damning word strike, strike, striking behind his eyes.

Late. Late. Late.

The doghouse's front door groans as Petey throws his entire weight against it. In his haste he's grabbed two dress shoes that'd once been neatly set by the doorway but now swing impatiently from his paws by their laces.

One thwacks particularly harsh against his knee. It causes his leg to twitch in reflex and almost sends him buckling to the ground before he catches himself on the front door's knob. It doesn't matter, he tells himself between grit teeth. There's bigger fish to fry.

Instead he throws the right shoe to the ground in favor of lifting his left leg into the air to help cram his foot into its footwear. It shouldn't be this hard to part on a damn shoe but it is.

It's difficult because he's already late and the world seems to treasure every moment it can coerce him into an outburst. But that simultaneously doesn't matter because he's late.

With a hiss he finally chucks the left shoe next to its counterpart. He makes due with sliding his feet into the stiff dress shoes as if they were slippers, uncaring for how his weight immediately folds the heel support flat. They're undoubtedly ruined. And that isn't taking into account the fact that the laces remain untied and tangled together.

But Petey doesn't give it a second thought. He's already swiping his ring of miscellaneous house and car keys from the entryway table and flying out the front door before he can take another breath.

He doesn't dare try to lock the door behind him. He's already fumbling trying to hold onto the larger key that designates it to belong to the car. Trying to find the front door's metal one in a keyring of five identical pairs would waste more time he can't afford to lose.

It’s a point accentuated by how furiously the car key digs into the palm of his paw in his sprint down the hill of the doghouse toward a bright red car parked along the street. A single click and the car’s break lights wink, their light fading quickly as if to mock how slow Petey feels despite his haste. He still has to start the damn thing, reverse it, drive into town, and- 

It’s too many steps for someone already late. 

The car door flings open and Petey shoves the key into the ignition between his lungs’ desperate screams for oxygen and his loud pants to supply just that. 

He should've built a car that let him start it from miles away. Or started jogging weeks ago so he wouldn't be so out-of-breath as spots begin to dance ballets before his eyes. He should've done anything that would be saving him each agonizing moment he's here and not where he's supposed to be.

He yanks the gear shifter into reverse. Slams his foot on the gas pedal.

Fuck. He's such a horrible excuse for an original to be cloned in the image of.

Another yank toward "D". A more violently slam on the gas pedal.

But it's not just that, is it? He's just as much as a horrible excuse for a father.

And it's exactly the type of thing that Ralph would pull.

The thought tastes like ash as it hits the back of his throat. He gnashes his teeth like it'll rid himself of the bitter taste that lingers on his tongue. Shudders as though it'd discourage the disgust that crawls beneath his pelt.

That bastard definitely never felt as bad as Petey does about it, but his guilt won't save him from just how badly he's fucked up. He'll still see that damned orange tabby in every reflection that catches Petey's eyes.

Especially after pulling a stunt like this.

It takes far too long for him to race into the heart of Ohkay City even with the amount of corners he cuts- both literally and figuratively -as activating street lamps zip by him in blurs of orange light. At this point he's convinced he's broken about every traffic law he could in the span of five minutes: the speed limit, turn signals, stop signs, red lights. It's earned him more than a few honks from agitated cars but the sound feels distant, heavy against the pound of his heart within his chest.

Couldn't the city for once accept the fact that this was an emergency? God, he should've begged Dogman to leave behind his cruiser- maybe then he would've been able to to just turn the sirens on and have a clear path toward Lil Petey's elementary school.

But there hadn't been a cruiser in the doghouse's nearby street since seven this morning. No, Dogman had already told both him and Lil Petey that he'd drive straight from work to the event before he left with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Petey hadn't planned to be in this much of a rush either. He was supposed to have left for the art showing and contest an hour and a half ago; something that didn't happen because the world can't just let things go smoothly for once.

It has to stick its disgusting little nose into his business and-

Petey violently shakes his head, fingers drumming impatiently against the steering wheel. There's no time for complaints like that.

He weaves through the city's evening traffic with sickening ease, only having just enough sense to slow down at red lights and ensure he won't run into anyone before he slams the gas pedal to the floor of the car once more.

He definitely won't make the event in time if he crashes the car and has to sprint the rest of the way.

Faintly he registers the dull ache in his jaw from how tightly he grinds his teeth together. Even with his total disregard of traffic laws this doesn't feel fast enough. He'd been in car chases with Dogman way faster than this and those chases hadn't been nearly as high of stakes.

There is a decent chance his stunts might land him back in Cat Jail, though.

But whatever. Whatever. It's not like he agreed to obey all laws when he first said he'd try to be "good" nearly two years ago. And who actually obeys traffic laws nowadays?

Besides, if it lands him in jail then Petey would proudly announce his guilt to the judge so long as he gets to see a portion of the art event. Even the tail-end would be good enough.

He draws a sharp inhale between his teeth, working a claw between them to bite down on. He'll make it. He's not sure what he'll do if he doesn't.

The sun's dipped below Ohkay's skyline when Petey finally catches sight of the familiar red-bricked building of Lil Petey's school. As the car barrels closer he finds the parking lot chalk full of cars- no doubt all belonging to the supportive parents of his kid's peers.

...and a sole police cruiser parked neatly in the spot closest to the school's entrance gate. His heart twists. There isn't a single cell in him that doubts the do-gooder was there before any other parent had left their house.

I'm a piece of shit, he thinks miserably.

Petey doesn't try to find a parking spot amongst the maze of empty cars. He pulls straight to the front of the school and slams on the breaks at the area near the entrance gate, eyes fleeting over a sign claiming it to be a "FIRE LANE. NO PARKING ALLOWED". It's a miracle that the car's tires don't bump into the red-painted curb. Actually, what's really a miracle is the fact he didn't plow straight into the annoying sign in the first place.

The hiss of his seatbelt unfastening and soaring behind the front seat barely registers within Petey's mind when he sees-

His heart thuds.

When he sees them.

Dogman and Lil Petey seem to guide the crowd of parents and students alike that spill from the school's courtyard, Dogman's hand holding gently onto Lil Petey's paw. The hybrid's even slightly bent at his knees to help with their immense height difference.

It looks just as awkward of a position as it is endearing.

A trophy of sorts- it's a little hard to see in the moon's thin rays of light -remains tucked delicately in Dogman's arms, brushing against the nice button-up shirt he'd put on for the event. Petey was dressed similar, if a bit more disheveled than he would've liked.

But that doesn't matter. Dogman is carrying a trophy.

His mind stalls just long enough for pride to bully its way between his lungs. He'd won. His kid had won and there Dogman was, walking Lil Petey to victory and no-doubt bathing the kitten in promises for celebratory gelato.

He can feel a piece of himself carefully collect this moment as yet another reminder why Petey tries so hard to stray from his past life of crime. This is what's worth it, to see a mutt- who he doesn't mind as much anymore -carrying his kid- that he'd never thought he'd have -from a won art competition.

It only takes a second for shame to sink its fangs into his throat and drain his moment of pride from him.

Because Lil Petey's jaw is set tight as he walks sternly through the school's gate. It's a far cry from what Petey would've expected the kid to look like for having just accomplished something grand.

But there the kitten walks, eyes searching the ground like it's his only friend whilst Dogman nudges him toward the expansive parking lot.

Toward the cruiser.

Petey hastily throws the car door open, spilling from the vehicle in a way that definitely doesn't bruise his arm nor his ego. It doesn't matter because he's here.

He's here and trying his best not to stumble in his untied, slipper-fied dress shoes as he takes quick strides toward Dogman and Lil Petey.

Petey thinks he sees the smallest flicker of surprise cross Dogman's face. It's ironically unsurprising; he can't imagine how much of a wreck he looks like right now. But the surprise doesn't linger for long. No, it quickly flattens into something more...unreadable.

The unfamiliarity of it all itches painfully at his skin.

A glance proves Lil Petey's expression to be nearly identical, if a bit more conflicted. Or troubled? Petey tries not to think too hard about it. The important part is that it isn't a smile that could rival the sun's morning rays of light.

And that's one hell of a problem.

"Hey kid," Petey greets with a tight grin. It's flimsy and fuck if that doesn't twist his stomach into knots. He'd gotten away with facades made out of so little material that he forces himself to press on, determined that this one of confidence and joy strung together by tissue paper alone will be enough to break the tension drowning the trio in an air of uncertainty. He needs some sort of break in the fog, anything that'll guide the conversation naturally into laughter and let him brush over the fact that Petey's done something he himself can't believe he'd done.

"Dogman," he acknowledges a little more awkwardly, but it does draw Petey's eyes back toward the trophy tucked in the hybrid's arms. It's an opportunity; a natural continuation of the easy conversation he's attempting to craft. He lets his eyes grow wide. "First place, kid?"

"Second-place," Dogman signs slowly. His arms look too stiff, shoulders tense in a manner Petey feels cowed to realize isn't familiar despite their long history with one another.

It's because of the trophy, his mind urges him to believe. It's a mantra he lets himself cling to like a life-line even if his raised fur screams that it's anger. Rightful anger that Petey deserves to endure.

But for now he's safe from it, if only because Dogman is feeding into the conversation. He's still playing his part.

Petey has to do the same.

He hates how mechanical his eye roll feels. It would've been his natural reaction if he hadn't missed the whole event, but his limbs feel pulled taut, high-strung like a bow wound too tight with delayed hysteria.

"Y'know what," Petey tuts, "Those judges wouldn't know talent if it threw a brick through their window-"

"You didn't come."

Petey's tails droops as identical green eye lock onto one another. He feels like a kitten again, caught by his mother after accidentally crashing a lamp through a window pane. He...yeah, no, he hadn't expected the kid to really address it like that.

It forces him to take a deep breath and ignore his knee-jerk reaction to brush it off as little more than an accident. To say that he'll buy the kid three scoops of gelato if they just drop it.

Because Lil Petey might still hold his typical round, rosy face primed with youth but there's something else. Exhaustion in his eyes. Distrust.

He looks a little too much like Petey's did at his age.

Distantly he can't help the nagging feeling that this is what Ralph saw every time Petey demanded to know the reason why his dad had missed yet another one of his badge ceremonies. Another visit he'd gruffly promised he'd make.

Did he feel just as guilty as Petey does staring into his own childish, wide eyes? Did he let pride consume him by brushing off Petey's disappointment or did he simply not care enough to remember it?

Petey's gaze searches within those familiar green eyes for any trace of emotion. Sadness, forgiveness- hell, he'd even take blinding anger at this point. Anything but this strange limbo of numbness that looks so wrong on his kid's face.

"I tried," Petey says. It tastes vile as it rakes itself from his tongue and he practically has to strangle down the tremble that threatens to tear down his facade of authority. "I tried, kid, I tried so hard."

Lil Petey's mouth draws itself into a firm line. Not hard enough, the expression says. You didn't try hard enough.

Petey can't help but agree.

He's barely given a moment before Dogman takes a step forward. Petey's ears pin themselves against his head, tail twitching once behind him as he chooses to glance toward the parents walking around them. When he refocuses back on his own family he finds Lil Petey waiting silently behind the hybrid's leg.

Petey blinks toward the firm word that Dogman signs toward him.

"Wait."

He looks angry. More-so than he ever did whenever Petey escaped jail. Or taunted him. Maybe even more than he did when Petey had dared to rub Knight's demise in his face.

He looks angry if only because Dogman doesn't actually look angry. His expression remains neutral, lacking that common spark of sympathy he's seen the hybrid give to any who come near him looking anything less than joyful.

This anger isn't the violent type. It won't be frightening to anyone but the person it's aimed toward because-

It's the quiet kind.

The kind that causes the fur along Petey's arm to properly raise in alarm. He almost wants to beat the other to the punch, to insult Dogman before he discovers whatever it is he needs to "wait" for.

But Dogman doesn't give him time to protest. No, he simply turns until his back is to Petey and squares his shoulders. It's as close to a whisper as someone signing in ASL will get.

There's a soft jingle as Dogman sticks a hand into his coat before dropping something into the kid's paws.

Petey remains still whilst Dogman issues some sort of instructions to the other. He lets himself instead try and connect the dots between what little he can make out beyond the hybrid's shoulders.

"...these...be a minute...turn on the heat..."

Oh. Dogman had given Lil Petey the cruiser keys.

After what seems like an eternity Dogman ruffles Lil Petey's head and forks over the silver trophy he had been carrying. The next signed phrase comes out much easier to recognize.

"You did good."

The kid gives a single nod before he's off marching toward the black and white paint-job of Dogman's car. There isn't a single glance cast Petey's way.

Fuck. Is it too late to dig himself a grave and bury himself alive in it? Maybe it is. Or not if this is Lil Petey's attempt to disown him.

Petey did a version of it to Ralph- he kind of wishes Lil Petey will give him similar graces as he did his own father, though.

"...parked...fire lane."

Petey blinks once. Twice. Then focuses back on the practiced sway of Dogman's hands. "What?"

Dogman points toward Petey's bright red car. It's still parked at the curb with its headlights illuminating one of the school's walls. He swears he can hear the thrum of the engine rattling on.

"The fire lane," the hybrid repeats. "You're parked in it."

Petey manages a hollow laugh despite Dogman's lack of humor in his posture. He feels his lungs squeeze as his mind threatens to cast himself into hysteria, if only because the small traffic violation feels so miniscule when compared to the crime of Lil Petey's absence of a smile.

"Yeah," he finally manages with a weak smile. "I- well, it made a better parking spot than the one for-"

Petey glances at the cruiser just in time to see Lil Petey swing the passenger door open. It closes with an audible slam.

"...for your cruiser," he finishes lamely.

Dogman taps his shoulder once, drawing Petey's attention back toward his hands. "But you missed the event."

There's an odd tilt to the hybrid's head. Like he doesn't understand Petey's failure to show up for his kid even though he'd been there to witness it.

He's not sure if this is better than the scolding he'd expected to receive. It's...tamer. A far cry from the shit he would've thrown Dogman if the hybrid had pulled the same trick.

Petey tosses the thought away as quickly as it comes. He'd never get the opportunity to do so in the first place; Dogman wasn't the type of person to jeopardize Lil Petey's happiness even if it meant saving the world from destruction.

He should've done the same.

"I know," is all he manages to say through the laughter of nearby children.

Dogman's gaze remains unwavering. "You disappointed him."

"Disappointed him?" Petey echoes. He feels breathless as he snorts. "I mean I practically dragged the kid's dreams through the mud and spat on them."

Lil Petey had been so excited that he'd practically begun to spark like a live wire when both Dogman and Petey agreed to be in attendance for his event. And Petey had missed it; had broken his promise.

"Do you have a good reason?"

Petey swallows thickly. He does. In fact, he has plenty of reasons, both truthful and deceitful that he could twist together until he's formed the perfect excuse for his fuck-up. It might even earn him a sympathetic whine from the hybrid.

Still, the truth is more than enough to drum up understanding in its own right from both Dogman and Lil Petey. But in two years Lil Petey will hardly remember this as the night "Papa Saved the House From Burning Down".

It'll just be the night "Petey Forgot My First Art Contest".

No matter how Petey tries to frame the day's events and downfall, he will always ontake the role of "villain". And neither he nor the kid need Dogman trying to dissuade Lil Petey from seeing him that way.

His mind set, he crosses his arms and lets himself glare down at Dogman. "Of course I do," he snaps a little too quickly. "What, you thought I'd miss the contest over nothing? 80-HD managed to spill our last gallon of apple juice in the kitchen before the event and I had to fix it."

Dogman's brows furrow.

"Oh don't act like that doesn't take a long time! It took me half an hour to clean beneath the fridge alone, and don't even ask me about how long mopping took. Then I had to get another gallon of juice because otherwise I'd have to listen to the kid whine all night that all we have in the house is cranberry juice."

He forces his tail to rattle angrily against his leg. "And you came, didn't you? The kid doesn't need me constantly supervising him for some dumb ass competition he didn't even win."

Dogman's fists suddenly clench.

Good.

But there's no angry bark that calls out Petey for blatantly crossing a line over something so petty. Instead the hybrid sets his shoulders square once more and signs a single sentence with a disapproving look.

"Lil Petey and I are going out for ice cream."

There's no room for discussion. Dogman pivots sharply on his heel and marches back toward the cruiser hand in his pocket, leaving the cat to his own devices.

Petey's head still bobs in acknowledgement despite the clear dismissal. He could almost smile with how successfully he'd pulled it off- managing to piss of the two most important people in his life until they couldn't bear to speak with him.

A familiar story, he thinks almost bitterly. Like father, just like son.

[moobloom-mention]

Day 6 | Betrayal (Ignorance Is Bliss)

Summary: Phil teaches Wilbur an important lesson in patience. And in white lies.

Content Warning(s): The Brighton Biter's Dream SMP character

Word Count: 1131

First of all, fuck Wilbur Soot. Second of all, enjoy some Philza Minecraft content.

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"Dad?"

"Yeah, Wil?"

“Will I ever grow wings like you?” 

The Angel of Death spares a loving glance toward his son, attention turning away from the soup he’d previously been attempting to create. The mentioned soot grey feathers fluff in fondness over the child’s doe-like eyes, gaze wide as though Phil had gifted him a puppy. 

It prompts Phil to ruffle the curly brown locks of hair that sit atop his son’s head, an amused smile lining both of their faces. “Of course, Wil. One day, after you’re all grown up and adventuring through the world, the gods will gift you a pair of wings.” 

He sends a wink down to the young child. “I’ve already set you up with a good track-record.” 

The cheerful giggle that tumbles from Wilbur’s lips is enough to melt the avian’s heart, Phil more than happy to spoil his son with sweet words and promises of luxury. The ball of sunlight ensured that there was never a dull moment, Wilbur’s smile capable of igniting a protective flame within the hearts of those he met. The eight-year-old's innocence is a gift that deserves to be preserved and cherished. 

This is his son. 

His pride and joy. 

His little sparrow... 

“Alright, mate,” Phil begins, noting how his son had continued to lurk around the kitchen. “I know that isn’t why you came over here, what do you want?” 

Wilbur appears to fake a hurt expression, his eyebrows furrowing and mouth agape to display his ‘offense’. It isn’t until the boy’s frown is enforced with emotion that he reveals whatever he’s upset about. “The soup’s taking too long,” he grumbles, hands clutched dramatically at his stomach. “I’m starving!” 

Gods has Phil raised an impatient child. 

The sigh that slips free from Phil’s lips holds not an ounce of disappointment, only an exhausted amusement that children have zero concept of cooking. 

Wilbur is definitely going to put up a fight even if Phil insists that he’ll have to wait. 

“It’s done,” he declares with a feigned look of defeat. 

The soup- even to an untrained eye –is very clearly unfinished. 

But Wilbur doesn't appear to mind, the atmosphere gifted with a joyous squeal over dinners ‘official’ readiness. “Gimme, gimme!” 

With a roll of the eyes, Philza lifts his hand to grasp at a bowl and its spoon, swiftly making a minuscule portion for his son. They’ve done this little dramatic display at least once in the past few months, so it’s common knowledge that Wilbur will only take a few bites before realizing his mistake of rushing food. 

Ever the naïve child, the fluff of brown hair eagerly reaches for the food, a frown conquering his expression when the bowl is moved out of his reach. 

“It’s gonna taste like shit,” Phil warns carefully, “Just like all the other times. Do you still want it?” 

Who is he kidding? Of course Wilbur’s still going to want it. 

The excited nod the Angel of Death receives only solidifies such a claim. 

“If you insist.” 

Philza watches with a faked expression of boredom as his son takes the bowl and spoon, practically launching a piece of rabbit and potato into his mouth. He additionally pretends not to notice how Wilbur’s nose scrunches up in distaste, Phil surprisingly able to stifle his laughter. 

“So how is it?” 

“Good.” 

His son’s pride will be the death of him. 

But there’s a way this exchange goes and Phil can’t get out of it, no matter how hard he tries. Wilbur isn’t one to admit defeat and accept that he was wrong. 

The Angel of Death lets out a sad warble, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know, mate, it isn’t my best work.” 

“I think you should let it cook for another thirty minutes...” 

Despite his fake admittance of the stew not being an image of perfection, Phil still gasps in offense. His soot grey wings even flare to solidify the idea that he’s upset within the younger’s mind. “I thought you said it tasted fine!” 

“It does!” Wilbur exclaims defensively, arms outstretching to make himself look bigger and hopefully combat his father’s wing-size. “I just think it could use some more time by the fire!” 

“Mm-hmm,” suspicion leaks into the avian’s tone, hints of thoughtfulness tracing the hum. “I suppose you’re right; the rabbit does look a little pink.” 

“RABBIT?!” 

Laughter swirls around the kitchen’s air over Wilbur’s shocked expression, the eight-year-old clearly disgusted that he’d taken a bite of rabbit. The variety of stew is actually an extremely normal meal in Wilbur’s life, but the kid had recently grown fond of such fluffy creatures. 

He’d even spent a few hours in their pen of bunnies, just petting at their soft coats the other day. 

“You hurt a bunny?"

Oh, Wil’s upset about it. 

Phil kneels to his son’s level before scooping him into his grasp. His grey wings instantly bundle the two together once Wilbur begins to kick in frustration, Philza carefully maneuvering the bowl of raw soup onto the ground. 

Wilbur’s arms are still crossed with a frown and furrowed eyebrows, brown gaze refusing to meet his father’s pair of sapphire. 

“Aw, mate. You know I’d never hurt them,” the avian gently reassures, hugging his son tightly to his chest. 

“But you’re cooking one!” 

“I’m cooking a bad bunny,” Phil corrects with a comically wide smile. It almost hurts to keep up such an exaggerated expression, but Wilbur will surely remain mad if there isn’t faux happiness surrounding him. “I would never hurt a good bunny.” 

“But they’re too cute to be bad,” Wilbur complains, clearly unconvinced. 

Phil quiets for a second, unsure quite how to twist his excuse into a child’s perspective. “Well...I saw him stealing carrots from another bunny.” 

The excuse evokes a shocked gasp from Wilbur. “From a little bunny?” 

“From a little bunny,” the older confirms. 

“That’s mean!” Wilbur growls, shuffling so he could press his head into his father’s shoulder. “That’s not allowed either!” 

“It isn’t,” Phil agrees, running a few fingers through the messy fluff of his son’s hair. It seems like everyday Wilbur grows more and more into the image of his mother. “That’s why he volunteered to hop his way into the kitchen.” 

The Angel of Death uses his fingers to replicate the rabbit’s hypothetical movement, fingers jumping around before landing on Wilbur’s nose with a soft ‘boop’. 

The eight-year-old's nose scrunches as he laughs, the rabbit’s true fate having been long been forgiven by now.

If he had to admit, Phil had merely plucked the plumpest rabbit of the pen to butcher for tonight's stew. Though he didn't doubt it'd stolen food from the others before- rabbits were pretty damn ruthless when they wanted to be.

But what Wilbur didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

[moobloom-mention]

Day 13 | Unsettled (The Divide Between Apathy and Empathy)

Summary: Tommy is given a present.

Content Warning(s): Dehumanization, Psychological and Physical Abuse, Brief Descriptions of Gore

Word Count: 1826

A short continuation of the Within the Restraints of Trust series.

Note: This prompt will not make sense without knowledge of the series. Please read the listed tags/warnings before continuing.

Dream had always preached that to be pristine, was to be perfect.

That achieving such a title could cure the aching sorrow of one's mind.

For how could one gaze upon something untouched by the error of man, and not find so much as a smile?

Perhaps that is why Dream is so rarely burdened until pressed; he maintains a castle in which every item bears the title of pristine, a status that very well includes Tommy's own, red-trimmed outfit. Each piece of cloth hides hours of effortful labor, giddily attempting to shield him from the days the sewer spent with her silence broken only by the incessant scratch of a needle against fabric. His ring- the only one that'd been left entrusted to him -may not be capable of reciting essays of its creator's meticulous work, but Tommy is not foolish enough to undermine its prestigious history.

Even his wings- once riddled with blotches of pink skin where feathers were meant to reside -had been recently tamed and preened by Dream himself, an act that had only nurtured and coddled the loyal flame flickering within the avian's soul.

One day he would be entrusted to sit once more at Dream's side, and things would finally be permitted to return to normal.

But that day would not be today. Not with the ache of unease that'd plagued him since he first awoke.

It had started as a mere nervous chill as he engraved his 70th tally mark into one of his time stones. Naively had he dismissed it as his own concern that Dream had missed his visit the previous tally mark; a missed visit was not something meant to be grieved for anyway.

Tommy was far from his king's first priority, and as hard as it was to imagine at first, the kingdom cared not for his absence.

A soft scraping that arises from beyond the room's walls pulls him cautiously from his thoughts. The noise as it stands is... odd. New.

It wasn't like the sharp scrape of weapons against one another, nor of them against the ground. He had been allowed to watch Dream spar far too many times to have forgotten the sound of battle. The commotion could not belong to human nails either; they were far too flimsy- too soft to be audible when they met stone.

If not for the consistent, and increasing volume of the noise, he would've excused the noise as a door having been opened. It wasn't uncommon for Punz to carry out duties within the Plaza unrelated to Tommy's care. He was merely a misbehaving avian tucked neatly beneath a bustling castle, one that could require equipment to be stored below its halls.

He's almost able to breathe a sigh of relief when the scraping ceases, only to jump at the loud screech that replaces the newfound silence. It's a sound that sets Tommy's instincts alight, his throat closing with panic that his nest may be in danger.

That whatever stands beyond the Dream Room's walls should be kept far away from.

But Tommy had always been told to be better than his instincts.

He inches closer to the door.

The noise had sounded far too human to belong to some door like his past suspicions had advised. He would almost be impressed with how loud it must've been to make it past the Dream Room's walls if it wasn't concerning as to why someone had screamed in the first place.

The Plaza had never been used to house prisoners before; it seems impossible to think of why Dream would have begun such a routine now. He doubts anyone had managed to sneak within the labrinth's winding hallways either; Punz would have stopped them at the staircase entrance.

Perhaps Dream had smashed his finger on his way to visit? The ground may very well worship every step his king takes, but Tommy had learned long ago that doors do not abide by the same adoration. It would matter not if Fate herself walked through a door. It would still have the audacity to attempt to graze and splinter her heels upon its closing.

Tommy quickly finds himself retreating toward the small pile of blankets he calls his nest as something slams harshly against the room's outer walls, feathers ruffling in preparation for a possible threat to be encountered.

It could be somewhat believable that Dream had been too enraptured by the day's visit to realize his finger had caught in a doorway, but to believe his king would also throw himself at a wall?

Dream would have had to of gone mad.

Yet the familiar click of the room's door unlocking imposes itself sweetly on Tommy's ears. The single copy of the Dream Room's key had indeed been inserted.

The knob turns and chaos blooms.

As though the door had weighed nothing, something grey, white and massive is thrown in the direction of his nest, kicking and spitting mantras that Tommy resides far too panicked to attempt to decipher.

It isn't until the creature stumbles a little too close to his nest that his instincts make themselves present, wings fighting furiously against their bindings as an animalistic hiss tears itself from his throat. Surprisingly does the sound send the thing stuttering back toward the Dream Room's door, which clicks shut before it can even attempt to escape his startled gaze.

Stop-surrender-mercy-hurt.

And Tommy's heart stutters.

For once, it was as though Lady Fate had stumbled. That the world had kissed the top of her hand, whispered that it was okay to let her creations be free. That she no longer needed to drag along her gilded opus of tragedy. 

Can't you see how it weighs upon your conscious? What fun is worth the risk of your own joy?

He isn't sure whether to mourn or grow joyous over how foreign his native language feels ringing within his ears.

That- is an avian. A heron, if his memory serves correctly.

Tommy’s gaze flees toward the Dream Room’s door, uncertain whether this occurrence was supposed to serve as some cruel prank. That Punz would return at any second, tear faux wings from the back of some poor prisoner before dragging the weeping thing away. 

Oh. 

It's weeping.

With how still the room had grown, it was easier to make out the steady stream of tears stemming from its bright green eyes- eyes that hold a spark Tommy still mourned his own loss of. Its pair of wings consist of blue and silver feathers, the limbs unpreened and residing unbound as they hover cautiously over the heron's shoulders.

He forces his gaze not to harden with jealousy. After all, Dream had never once tolerated such a venomous look before.

Instead he focuses upon how both of its trembling hands remain cupped over its left ear as if to protect it from the room's stale air.

Didn't the heron say something about being-

Hurt? Tommy asks, voice raw with disuse of his mother tongue. He can't chase away the shameful part of him that buzzes with pride over being able to replicate the proper whistle.

Hurt, it agrees, words far more cautious. 

The room plunges into silence. 

So much for a first line of communication being established. 

“Do you speak English?” he attempts, cheeks reddening over his own question. “I don't know Avian...uh, very well.” 

The heron’s green eyes tiredly squint as a humorless laugh escapes its mouth. “What kind of avian can’t speak his own language?” 

“It’s been a few years,” he admits, voice thick with relief in spite of the offending comment. He’s more so relieved to of met a non-predatory avian, even if it’s rather snobbish. “You said that you were hurt, right?” 

When no response is given, Tommy finds himself carefully approaching with his hands raised in surrender. He only hesitates when the heron flinches backward, signifying he’d gone too close for its comfort. "Kinda hard to help if you don't let me see it."

Tommy’s lungs squeeze over how much he sounds like Dream- over how much the heron’s entrancing wings remind him of his king. 

But the heron removes its hands all the same, allowing Tommy to cup its face and tilt its head to better inspect the injured ear. 

He chooses to ignore the fear bleeding into the heron’s gaze in exchange for examining a hole- one far too perfect to not be the doing of a human being –where it’s earlobe once was. Blood had already begun to clot around the area, leaving small droplets to glide down the side of its neck. 

Admittedly, it was an odd place to create such a defining scar, and an interesting occurrence that neither avian had been given bandages to wrap the wound in. 

It was bound to get infected if they weren’t careful about it; perhaps he could ask Dream for a plaster of sorts when the king felt that it was time to check on his avians. 

He’d only ever check on you, his mind croons in spite of himself. He wouldn’t want something already broken. 

Tommy supposes that was the strange thing- Dream would never settle for an item of his to be smudged, let alone for one of his avians to be missing a chunk of their ear. 

“Why?” he finds himself whispering, carefully withdrawing himself from the heron as to give it space. 

“I don’t know,” it confesses, voice just as soft as his. There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Oh P-Prime- I can’t- I can’t feel them-” 

Tommy's lips form into an "Oh."

It had a flock.

His eyes sting with the familiar ache of unshed tears.

Although dulled, the ache of losing his family’s earring had never parted with him. Losing Dream’s permission to bare their flock earring had only raked at old wounds- reminders that he’d never able to maintain the very bond that stabilized avians alike. 

The heron makes a heaving sound, and Tommy finds himself grabbing it’s hand out of instinct. He would never wish the pain of forcefully losing one’s flock upon anyone, let alone stand aside and let them go through it alone. The least he could do was offer comfort where he could. 

"It's, uh, okay," he murmurs, settling its hand against his chest. He cares not for how awkward the praise feels dripping from his throat, having grown more used to hearing it than uttering it himself. After all, Dream had never had reason to be given reassurance.

“Let’s just focus on some deep breaths.... panicking won’t help us fix this situation, yeah? Deep breath in... deep breath out-"

A deep, ragged breath engraves itself within his mind.

"You're doing good, Heron."

"Xyris."

“I’m not just some fuckin’ avian. I have a name.” 

“Xyris,” he echoes. “You’re doing amazing, Xyris.” 

Again comes a humorless laugh. “I’m being soothed by a fledgling-” 

Tommy knows not what to make of its words.

[moobloom-mention]

Day 11 | Pet Peeves (Short Fuses and Even Shorter Tempers)

Summary: Petey has a lot of pet peeves. Like a lot. But nothing frustrates him more than being interrupted while he's workshopping inventions. Especially not for some game of fetch.

Content Warning(s): Swearing

Word Count: 2067

I'm not late, ya'll are just early.

Not that he'd ever admit it aloud, but Petey's gotta say he's grown to look more fondly toward the strange company that both Dogman and Lil Petey provide him with. Really. It had already been mostly difficult to stay frustrated over their antics for long. Moving in with Dogman had only made it harder and harder.

After all, who else other than Lil Petey would make drawings for him to hang on the fridge? Not Petey, that's for sure. It'd been decades since he last picked up a pen for something other than writing a note or sketching an invention out.

And who else other than Dogman would make coffee for him in the morning when he's half asleep? With the perfect amount of creamer to espresso ratio? He supposes he could program that information into 80-HD, but it felt... better- warmer to think Dogman had gone through the trouble to learn such a thing on his own.

At least that or Petey had just yelled at him about it too many times. That could've very-well incentivized the mutt to start actually measuring out creamer and espresso.

Either way, for all he snaps and hisses at Dogman, the mutt has a damn-good tendency to wriggle his way back into Petey's decent graces within the next hour or so. Whether that be a peace-offering like coffee or dinner or even just giving his off-putting but effective "puppy dog eyes", Petey was bound to view Dogman on neutral terms eventually.

Actually, Lil Petey was starting to take up such a habit too. Though Petey much preferred to blame his moments of forgiveness more on the way they wore kindness so freely on their face. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Or how they happily supplied energy to make up for Petey's usual lack of it.

Though god forbid the feline forget to keep them on an invisible leash when they're in the same room as one another. They seemed to bounce energy off one another in an endless loop until a random force interrupted them. It could be just as endearing annoying as it could be described as an endless torment of hell.

Especially for someone trying to get something done.

Which had led into today's predicament. It'd been hours since Petey had wished Lil Petey and Dogman a goodbye before he disappeared within his newly constructed lab to try and fix a device he'd come to name the "Grab-ity 2000". While he'd built it to defy gravity with picking up things on a grander scale than usual, the only thing it seemed to be good for was turning his fur grey from the stress of it all.

And as if things couldn't get worse, the deadline to finish such a project was today.

Not that said deadline had been implemented by a boss of sorts- he still refuses to work beneath anyone after the whole "Dr. Scab" or "Dr. Scam" fiasco -but he'd argue all day long that personal deadlines were just as important as ones set by other people. If not more-so considering he was just about ready to chuck the Grab-ity 2000 into a hole and set fire to it if he didn't fix it by the end of the day.

Either that or add it to the growing pile of unfinished projects in one of Dogman's spare bedrooms.

He shudders. They hadn't been able to open that room's door for months now. His leading theory was that some failure of a project had fallen against the door- an issue that likely would be fixed if he could just get the Grab-ity 2000 to turn on.

But no, it just had to be an issue. So unless he wanted to sneak into the spare bedroom via a window to stash yet another failed device away, he needed to focus.

He couldn't afford distractions.

It hadn't even been four hours into his mind-numbing attempt to troubleshoot the device when a knock rattles the walls of the workshop. It rattles his stool, his pliers just barely missing cutting into the wrong wire by a whisker. It draws his patience thin, ears laid flat against his head as he waits for the walls to settle once more.

God, he didn't have anything even hung up within the workshop and a simple knock was still enough to throw the whole room into chaos.

Petey lets the pliers clatter onto his workbench alongside the Grab-ity 2000. Of all times Lil Petey needed help now? He couldn't seek out anyone else more willing to help?

Dogman could help with homework. 80-HD could help with the kid's inventions. Hell, even Flippy was higher on the "to-contact" list than Petey on a day like this-

Another knock rattles the walls. This time it's more confident and far too loud to belong to the kid.

Petey carefully moves his goggles onto his forehead, eyebrows knit. Dogman then?

That's...weird. No, no, it's a little more than just weird. He'd call it "off-putting" if the word count wasn't already so long.

But that still didn't detract from the situation at hand. Dogman rarely ever bothered him whilst he was workshopping things at the house. There seemed to be an unspoken- or rather previously spoken snap to "Leave me the fuck alone" -between them that Petey needed space to think and breathe while he worked. It's his best guess that if the yelling hadn't swayed Dogman's opinion, then the mutt must've drawn parallels between needing his own personal space when conducting investigations.

If Dogman had gone through the trouble of seeking him out knowing Petey was in his workshop...

It has to be important.

And so Petey hesitantly pulls himself away from his workbench, rolling himself still hunched on his stool toward the door. His paw feels too warm against the knob it grabs and twists.

Someone better be sick, dead, or worse.

But there's no panicked whine as the door creaks open. Neither does Dogman burst into the room frantically attempting to sign the situation at hand. Instead Petey comes face-to-face with Dogman's rather cheerful stare and smile with a bright yellow tennis ball between his teeth.

It's fetch. The mutt wants to play fetch.

Petey's fur bristles, the broken shards of patience he'd managed to tape together shattering once more over the realization. He drags a paw down his face, hissing when such a move causes his goggle to cup annoyingly at his eye.

He fixes his goggles just as quickly as he fixes Dogman a glare. Really? Dogman had interrupted him to try and bait him into playing fetch?

To give himself some much-deserved credit, Petey doesn't immediately throw himself into a loud, furious rant at the mutt. He instead remains painfully cordial as he tells Dogman "no". And he very pointedly avoids the following way Dogman's expression changes to focus on his newly saddened, wide eyes.

"No," Petey repeats through grit teeth. Puppy dog eyes weren't gonna work this time; Dogman would have to drag his cold dead body from the workshop if he was that desperate for company.

With that he begins to- in a very dignified manner -wheel his stool back toward is miserable project. He feels pretty confident that Dogman will appreciate the smidgen of kindness Petey offered in his dismissal and scamper of with both his ears intact.

But goddamn if the sound of Dogman's footsteps following him deeper into the workshop doesn't feel grating against his pinned ears. The world truly just hates him, doesn't it?

Y'know what, fuck trying to be cordial to Dogman. The mutt had impeded on Petey's own time in his own goddamn workshop. It didn't matter that Dogman had arranged for it to be built. It still didn't mean he could just waltz in whenever he wanted.

"Hey," Petey snaps, claws sinking into the palm of his hand. "Do you mind? I'm kinda in the middle of-"

Light from the hallway shines into the workshop and effectively cuts his rant short. Fuck. As much as he wants to, he can't even blame the mutt entirely for following him into the workshop. It'd been Petey's fault that he'd forgotten the very crucial step of slamming the door in Dogman's face.

Whatever, just another regret to keep him up at night. Besides, maybe seeing Dogman pout in the corner of his workshop will brighten his spirits while he strangles the Grab-ity 2000 and threatens it until it fixes itself.

For now he merely slips the previous pair of pliers into a random box before snagging a wrench from an open drawer. He's barely begun to tweak a bolt on the Grab-ity 2000 when Dogman- going completely off script from what was supposed to be his pouting session -suddenly drops his wet tennis ball on the workbench. Petey can only stare blankly as it bounces once onto the device's blueprints before it lies still, soaking the paper beneath it in dog slobber.

Oh-kay. Yeah, no biggie. What cat would mind a slobbery tennis ball contaminating the blueprints to an already frustrating project?

Welp, there's no use in trying to rescue the blueprints now. He'll just have to decipher the blurred ink through disgusting spit and trash it after the Grab-ity 2000 is either marked a success or failure.

...it's not gonna be a success, is it?

He forces his mind back toward the task at hand. "Go get Lil Petey to play fetch with you," he grunts between the effort it takes to loosen a bolt. "Kid's never rejected you before."

He lifts the Grab-ity 2000 off the table just barely enough to see Dogman signing behind it.

"He's drawing."

Petey's eyebrow lifts, nudging at his goggles. "And?"

"I don't want to disturb him."

Oh, that's sweet.

Wait-

Petey immediately grabs the traitorous thought and hurls it as far as Dogman would've preferred his tennis ball to be thrown. He's pissed. Furious. Dogman shouldn't be bothering him with the Grab-ity 2000's deadline ending in just a few hours.

He forces his eyebrows to knit in a disgruntled expression like it'll scrub the thought from his mind. It does little to hide the sudden color in his cheeks but Dogman doesn't call him out on it. "So go watch the kid draw."

Dogman gentle nudges the ball with his muzzle.

Petey drops the wrench into his lap in his haste to rescue a pencil from touching the ball with a huff of breath, placing it between his teeth for a lack of a better way to keep it from being contaminated.

God he hopes Dogman hasn't slobbered over his workbench without his knowledge. Otherwise he'll be brushing his teeth for an hour after this. Scratch that. He'll be scrubbing his gums with a bar of soap.

There's another nudge at the ball and a soft whine.

"No," he growls through the pencil. "Go 'way."

Dogman's ears droop.

"You're on t'in ice," Petey warns. He plucks his wrench back into his grasp and tugs at the bolt again. He twists. And twists. And makes the mistake of glancing back at Dogman just in time to find those wide brown eyes turn glassy.

Fuck. No.

He practically slams both the wrench and the Grab-ity 2000 onto the workbench with a loud clang before he stands. It's far too easy to loom over the mutt- he guesses Officer Knight had always been pretty short.

"What are you, blind?" he snaps, fur raising. "Can't you see I'm busy? I tried to give you the benefit of a doubt and opportunities to leave, but noooo- Dogman's gotta bother the big bad cat he can't stop chasing! Either go bother the kid about it or throw you ball yourself! You got human hands, don't you? They'll throw plenty far!"

Okay, maybe that was a little mean. But it was hard to think with his blood boiling beneath his skin. "I don't need you distracting me when I'm already stressed to high hell! And yet here you still are, with your stupid fucking tennis ball like you haven't got anything better to do-!"

"Papa?"

Petey's heart drops into his stomach. He's drowning. He has to be. Otherwise it wouldn't be this hard to breathe. Otherwise his vision wouldn't be so blurry from the crashing waves of raw anger pounding against his skull.

"Papa, why is Dogman sad?"

"THAT'S IT. EVERYBODY OUT!"

[moobloom-mention]

Day 4 | A Good Night's Rest [Warm-Up]

Summary: Macaque's well-deserved sleep gets interrupted by the Heaven's biggest nuisance.

Content Warning(s): Tooth-Rotting Fluff

Word Count: 914

----------

"Ma...que...

"...caque...."

Macaque's eyebrows crease, the harsh whisper having just begun to cut through the fog of sleep. Thankfully the sound doesn't linger for long, replaced with silence almost as cold as the air around him.

His tail sways, the shadow's features smoothing out once the appendage brushes against the familiar body heat of another.

It isn't long before a gentle purr becomes the only sound within the dark cave.

"Macaaaaaaaa..."

Six ears flutter again beneath the breath that fans across them, their heat a welcomed feeling against the crisp air beyond the nest's comforting embrace. There's a soft "chirrup" that rumbles every second or so- a peaceful thrum of chirping crickets.

Macaque's nose twitches.

The crickets should've stopped a while ago if Wukong was trying to wake him up. The king always tended to awake with the sun.

But the sounds beyond the cave still give way to the chirp of crickets and gentle "hoot" of an owl.

"Mac-?"

"Wu'ong," he manages to mumble through the tendrils of sleep wrapped snuggly around his mind. They lift just barely enough for Macaque to blindly reach for the monkey trying to wake him. It only takes a few seconds for his claws to finally snag warm fur and Macaque gives an appreciate hum when the fur draws itself closer. "Go ba' to sleep."

For a moment the world begins to drift away once more. He doesn't even mind the subtle dip of the nest to signal that Wukong was climbing back in. In fact, it's good news; a sign of retreat from whatever had roused the king awake.

Macaque can only thank the Heavens for such a thing. Being awake so early should've been declared a crime a long time ago.

"...Macaque."

His ears flatten themselves against his head.

"Wukong," he groans, voice rough with displeasure. "The world's not awake yet."

"Au contraire," his annoyance grins. "The crickets are awake."

"The crickets. Not the monkeys. And last I checked you're not a cricket."

Macaque’s eyes squeeze themselves shut as a sudden light floods the room, causing ribbons of red and green to flash behind his eyelids. He doesn’t dare reopen his eyes, all too familiar with what that light meant. 

It’s only confirmed when Wukong’s tail disappears from his own and a sudden high-pitched laugh over near his ear. 

"I'm dreaming," he tells himself, more out of disbelief for Wukong's antics than anything else. "Transformations don't exist in my dreamworld, get out."

Another light flashes and the nest jostles as Wukong, now far heavier than his cricket form, settles back upon it.

Macaque merely smushes his face deeper into the nest. They'd done this song and dance far too many times for him to expect the antics to drop there.

As expected, not even a moment later Macaque's ears twitch against the hovering of familiar hands. They cup three of the shadow's namesakes, the touch as gentle as Macaque had ever known. He lets himself melt into the whispered chirps of adoration and circles that are rubbed into each lotus-petaled ear. It feels like Heaven at such a late hour.

"My moon," the king croons sweetly. "I wanna show you something."

Macaque gives a soft hum. "When the sun comes up," he murmurs. It's hard to think of the world beyond the cave's walls when Wukong lays at his side and showers him in attention so freely. He curls himself as tightly as he can against Wukong, praying silently to the Heavens that the rambunctious king will settle down.

Much to his own dismay, but just as unsurprisingly, Wukong has plenty more to say.

"It won't be here when the sun comes up."

Macaque can already imagine the pout to accompany such a whine. Black eyebrows knitted above faux saddened eyes and a completed with a puffed-out lip. 

Truth be told, the imagined image itself feels like it could star in one of his dreams. If only its owner would let such a thing occur. 

“Then it can wait til’ tomorrow.” 

The hand that had been attending to Macaque’s ears lift. At an instant he growls, pushing his head into Wukong’s arm. He feels far too awake for this time of night. 

“Wukong,” he repeats for the third time. He can feel the venom dripping from his tongue, tail whacking irritated against the nest. “You can tell me about it in the morning. Go check it out by yourself if it’s so important.” 

“...I already did.” 

Of course he did, Macaque thinks miserably. 

“Then wait until morning to tell me.” 

“But Mihou-”

And oh does the king sound so heartbroken, a downtrodden chirp raking itself down his ears. It's a sound that carves a hole within his heart, and snarls that it wouldn't be filled until Wukong smiled again.

With a groan Macaque finally chases what little bits of sleep he'd still held and sits up within the nest. His lips smack as he finally opens his eyes and reaches over to carefully comb through auburn fur.

It's the nicest apology he can offer for the time being. At least that and-

"Fine. I'll come see this dumb thing."

“Hey! It’s not dumb-” Wukong protests, but Macaque can see the vibrant wag of his tail even through the darkness. It’s nothing less than movement in open air, but the subtle breeze it causes feeds itself sweetly through six ears. 

[moobloom-mention]

another silly mspaint comic (with inaccurate colors) a few good years into the future. that is all. :3

[moobloom-mention]

Day 3 | Flower Crowns (Flower Crowns and Friendly Conversations)

Summary: Lil Petey wants to make a crown for his Papa. Thankfully, Molly and Flippy are both prepared to help in any way they can.

Content Warning(s): N/A

Word Count: 1445

----------

“...what are you doing?” 

Lil Petey’s eyes lift from the sea of grass he’d been scouring, expression brightening once he finds both Flippy and Molly floating only a few steps away. 

The first thing he notices is the kind, patient smile on the psychokinetic fish’s face. The type that usually made Lil Petey wonder why smiling wasn’t a language in itself and smile back. 

He does so as he carefully stands up from the grass, struggling a bit to find his balance with one paw held tensely in the air to protect the bouquet of flowers he’d acquired. Most of them are the big white ones with yellow insides he’d found sticking out of a nearby pond. Their long stems sweep all the way to the ground, even with him standing at his full height. 

“I’m picking flowers for my Papa,” Lil Petey finally chirps. He then stoops down again, cutting the bottom of a flower’s stem with his claw before adding it to his collection. It’d look really nice with the bigger white ones. After all, if drawing had taught him anything it was that any color looked nice against a white sheet of paper. 

“Isn’t that lovely,” Flippy praises, the question sounding strangely final- like the psychokinetic fish didn’t expect a response. 

Lil Petey’s brows furrow. It must be one of those “re-tore-ick" questions Papa liked to ask. The ones that didn’t need an answer. 

Still, the kitten nods his head just in case. It would be pretty rude otherwise if Flippy had been asking a question. 

Molly’s head tilt is much easier to decipher as confusion. She swims a little closer, peering at his flowers. 

Lil Petey quickly holds them out for his friend to get a closer look. 

“I didn’t know Wally liked flowers.” 

Lil Petey blinks. 

...he hadn’t really thought about that. He knew that his Papa liked pretty things, though. Things like his drawings and looking at the stars. Flowers were pretty too. He’d have to like them. 

He’s drawn from the thought by Flippy’s subtle “shoo” motion he makes toward Molly with his metal claws. Only once the tadpole swims back to his side does the psychokinetic fish speak again. 

“Of course Petey likes flowers,” Flippy says loudly. It sounds kinda funny, almost like how Papa did whenever Lil Petey said something unknowingly rude to someone. “Would you like me to get a vase for them?” His claw comes up to tap at his chin in thought. “I reckon I could find a bottle to put them in.” 

Lil Petey’s head shakes. “That’s okay. I’m gonna make Papa a flower crown.” 

“A flower crown?” Molly asks, curious. 

“Mhm! So that Papa can wear them on his head!” 

He plucks another flower from the ground, measuring the length of the stem to his claw before adding it to the bouquet. “I think that was the last one I needed. Now I just gotta make it.” 

“Oh, can I help?” 

Lil Petey nods vigorously. Nothing sounded better than making a flower crown for Papa with his best friend. She could help make silly songs while they arranged the flowers. And then tied them. And then- 

“I’ll leave you kids to it then,” Flippy announces with another smile. “You two have fun and stay out of trouble!” 

“Bye Flippy!” Molly and Lil Petey call in unison, watching as the psychokinetic fish swam back toward the main pond. 

Left back to his own devices with Molly now at his side, Lil Petey glances down at his collection of flowers. 

"Wanna help me tie the flowers together?" 

Molly suddenly frowns, looking toward the grass below her. "I don't know how to tie them." 

"Oh. That's okay. Wanna help me find more flowers while I tie them?" 

"Okay!" 

Lil Petey lets himself fall back onto the grass as Molly begins to scour the field. He carefully sets the flowers down before him, picking one up before scratching a small slit into the stem. 

Flower by flower he begins to feed the next one into the slit and slice another hole into its stem. He then loops the stem like Papa had taught him to tie his shoes. Except this time there weren't any bunny ears. Just two different times he'd cross the stem and then tuck it under the bridge they made. 

There's a subtle rhythm the repetitiveness gives him; a natural flow like Molly and Flippy and the tadpole's pond. Or Dogman's ability to make songs from the piano. 

He's just barely connected the last flower when Molly returns with a new, pretty green plant. Water drips from its leaves, leftover droplets sparkling in the sunlight. 

"We should add some duckweed!" the tadpole cheers. 

Lil Petey's nose scrunches. A weed? But Papa said weeds could only be ugly- not pretty like the one in Molly’s telekinetic grip. 

Still, “Papa doesn’t like weeds.” 

“Why not?” 

“He says they’re dirty.” 

“But this got washed off by the water.” 

“Oh.” 

...the light green would look nice wrapped around the flower stems. Surely Papa would understand its incorporation and make an exception for “duckweed”. 

“Okay!” 

Lil Petey proudly holds the flower crown out for Molly to set the duckweed onto, gesturing toward one of the segments of tied stems. As expected, the green looks really pretty next to the white and purple flowers. 

But it isn’t a second later that the segment with the duckweed suddenly comes undone, breaking the crown into an unfinished line once more. 

He blinks. Looks at Molly who blinks back. 

“I think it’s too heavy,” the kitten begins. He’d tied the stems as tight as he could, but that didn’t mean the crown was invincible. 

“Maybe the water’s making it heavy?” 

Lil Petey nods. “We can put them on a rock for the sun to dry out.” 

Molly quickly moves the duckweed onto a nearby rock, the rock's surface turning a darker grey from the weed's water. Geez, he didn't know a weed could have so much water in it! 

While they wait patiently for the sun to help dry it Lil Petey makes quick work re-forming the crown. This time he ties the flower stems three times instead of two. 

He even gives it a gentle tug for good measure. He could never be too safe, even if Papa treated his presents with far more carefulness than he did with his own inventions. 

"I think they're dry," Molly pipes up, her telekinetic powers poking at the weeds. It makes a weird noise reminiscent of the "crunch" of a potato chip. 

It's not a pretty sound, but it still looks pretty. 

Mind made up Lil Petey maneuvers the re-fortified flower crown back toward the rock. His tail sways eagerly behind him as Molly sets the duckweed onto the crown once more. 

Much to both of their reliefs the crown doesn't fall apart this time. In fact, the flower crown looks far more regal and strong with the bit of duckweed wrapped around it. 

"It looks beautiful," Molly gushes. "I'm glad we figured out how to put duckweed on it!" 

"Me too! I think it looks so pretty that Papa will forget that he doesn't like weeds.” 

“We should put duckweed on our flower crowns next time we make some.” 

Lil Petey's eyes widen. Of course! He should've thought about that. "Let's make them today," he suggests cheerfully. "But first we should show Flippy so he can keep Papa's safe while we make more." 

"Good idea," the tadpole agrees easily. There's a gentle hum as Molly picks the flower crown up with her powers again. "I can carry it in case you trip." 

"Thanks!" 

He can't believe how lucky he got to be friends with someone like Molly. Even if Papa didn't always have the nicest things to say about her. 

Lil Petey keeps his pace slow as they make their way back toward the main pond, his eyes lighting up when Flippy finally begins to appear in the distance. The fish's back remains to them, seemingly mid-conversation with a group of Molly's siblings. 

"Flippy!" Lil Petey calls out. "We finished the crown for Papa!" 

Flippy immediately turns around, his previously seeming upset gaze rounding out in surprise at the sight. "Whoo-hoo," he cheers with a grin. "It looks magnificent!" 

Lil Petey's tail wags. "Really? Do you think Papa will like it?" 

The psychokinetic fish gazes at the crown again, placing a claw at his chin as he analyzes the crafty work. 

Unwelcomed butterflies have just begun to flutter within Lil Petey's chest when Flippy pulls back to give the verdict. 

"After looking at it...I think he'd be stupid not to love it." 

[moobloom-mention]

Day 2 | "I can't trust you" (Fool Me Once, Shame On You. Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me. But Fool Me Three Times-)

Summary: Petey takes Lil Petey on their weekly gelato outing.

Content Warning(s): Swearing

Word Count: 1523

I know chocolate is dangerous for cats, but we're gonna ignore that part for the sake of the prompt.

--------------

The shop’s bulky door groans, the bells tied clumsily around its handle singing as he pushes it open for Lil Petey to slip through. 

Like clockwork the employee behind the register springs to life, her back straightening from where it’d been slouched over a counter only a moment ago. 

“Welcome in,” she chirps pleasantly, tossing a white rag into one of the sink basins before sliding toward the front register. If the genuine smile on her face is anything to go by, she likely had been searching for an excuse not to repolish the shop’s already sparkling counters for the fifth time. 

Petey could sympathize. Boredom wasn’t for the weak. 

Though maybe that wasn’t entirely it. As the door behind him finally seals the night air from the shop he takes quick note of the subtle spark in her eyes. Of the tune she’s humming to herself in-time with the elevator music hissing from the overhead speakers. 

...it’s not weird to think that’s weird, is it? 

Don’t get him wrong, good for her for keeping the whole “positive mindset” in a florescent lighting hellscape like this. But there’s just no way someone liked their job this much. Especially not someone working in a dead-end industry like gelato shops. She’s gotta be new. 

Either that or some psychopath. 

The employee finally finishes tapping away at the register, glancing toward Lil Petey with a smile before refocusing her attention back onto the adult between the two. “What can I get for you guys?” 

“Yeah, let me get a-” 

A small paw tugs at the fur on his leg. 

“Papa, can I order?” 

His eyes roll, far too used to how this story usually went. Still, he obliges, bending down before hoisting the kid into his arms to oversee the counter. It even earns him a joyous “Whee!” for his troubles; a sound that almost makes the following exchange worth it. 

Almost. 

“I want a large-” 

“Small.” 

“-waffle-” 

“Waffle cone.” 

“-with five-” 

“One.” 

“-scoops of the pink and brown and white flavor!” 

“Neapolitan,” Petey finishes with a tired sigh. He pauses, eyes narrowing down at the kitten now staring off into space far too innocently in his arms. A single poke at Lil Petey’s ear draws the kid’s attention back to him. “Hey, I thought I banned you from ordering Neapolitan.” 

Lil Petey’s arms cross. If it wasn’t such a staple expression of “I’m about to become a problem” Petey would’ve been proud of the kid for picking up such a mannerism. “Why?” 

“Because you only like the chocolate part. 

“Why?” 

“Kid, it’s your tastebuds. I don’t know why you don’t like strawberry or vanilla. Probably because they’re terrible flavors.” 

Lil Petey’s whole face scrunches up. Like he’d only now recalled how much he hated the “pink” and “white” flavor. 

“But I want the pink and brown and white one. It’s more ice cream!” 

Petey would’ve face-palmed if Lil Petey wasn’t currently trying to violently shake the arm not holding him up. “Neapolitan,” he repeats as evenly as he can. “That’s not how that works- y'know what, just no. You’re not getting it. You always get a third through your cone and then demand to have mine.” 

The shaking at his arm stops and Petey can help the grin that forms on his face. He’d finally stumped the kid. 

At least until an innocent but all-too-knowing smile stamps itself onto his face. “Dogman said sharing is caring.” 

Nope. He’s definitely not letting that mutt’s lessons about fairness interrupt this. 

“Yeah, well news flash kid: Dogman hasn’t had his gelato stolen twice from under his nose because someone didn’t like the flavor they picked.” 

Petey can help the slight bitterness that creeps into his tone. Sue him, gelato was the one treat he allowed himself to eat every week. Like hell he’s about to let it get swiped from him yet another time. 

Fool him once, shame on the kid. Fool him twice, shame on Petey. But fool him three times- 

Well, it doesn't matter. Point is, he's not being fooled a third time. No matter how damn cute the kid's latest attempt at "puppy eyes" is.  

When Petey's decision still doesn't shift, the kid grabs at the fur on his arm. "I won't do that this time!" he protests. "I promise!" 

His eyes squint. "Yeah, no. I don't trust you by a long shot. You get chocolate or strawberry. Pick."  

Lil Petey's arms cross again- now frustrated, no doubt. Then the kid mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "stupid" under his breath.  

God, he can't win, can he?  

"Hey," Petey huffs, jostling the kitten in his arms. "That better not have been you calling me stupid. Because if it was, I guess I'll just have to order you a strawberry scoop in a boring old cup-"  

"No!” 

Petey's ears flatten as small orange paws push against his face, silencing the feigned threat at an instant.  

"I want chocolate."  

Despite the grimacing thought of having kitten paws anywhere near his mouth, Petey can't help but grin. He nods once before Lil Petey lets him speak again.  

"Good. We'll take one small waffle cone with a scoop of chocolate. And another small waffle cone with a scoop of mint."  

Lil Petey makes a face. "Yuck, mint's the worst flavor."  

"I gotta stay miserable somehow," Petey responds easily. He then lowers the kitten back to the ground in order to search for his wallet. "Alright, how much do I owe you?"  

"For two small waffle cones with one scoop each," the employee echoes, typing away at the cash register. "It'll be $10."  

Petey's tail kinks. Damn, ten bucks for gelato? It might as well be highway robbery for that price. 

Still, he pulls a $10 bill out, handing it to the employee. He'd already struggled through the “Neapolitan Argument” and couldn’t imagine the ensuing argument if he ditched now for another shady gelato parlor. 

"I'll have those right out," the employee says, her smile a little too wide for Petey's liking. But hey, it's not his business. Maybe it's just been a while since he last saw a genuine smile from an Ohkay citizen.  

Once again Lil Petey pulls at the fur on his leg. "Papa?"  

"Yeah?"  

"Can we feed the ducks after this?"  

“Kid, it’s 9 PM. The ducks are already asleep by now.”  

“Oh.”  

Yeah, oh.  

“Can we feed them tomorrow?”  

“...sure,” he agrees slowly. “But only if Dogman takes you.”  

Lil Petey frowns. “But Dogman always barks at them.”  

“Tough luck, kiddo.” 

"Here's that mint," the employee announces, Petey glancing up to catch her wrapping a napkin around the waffle cone. He quickly takes it, licking up the side that's already begun to melt.  

He's halfway through ensuring his hand won't be covered in melted gelato when he suddenly freezes, eyes locking onto the next cone held in the employee's hand.  

It's massive, with a mockingly big scoop of Neapolitan gelato plopped right into the center.  

There's no way in hell that's for Lil Petey.  

Petey quickly glances around the shop, dread sinking its claws into his throat as he realizes they're the only two patrons there.  

Lil Petey's eyes suddenly sparkle.  

Fuck.  

"Wait, wait-"  

He quickly uses his tail to keep Lil Petey from trying to reach for the cone. "Hey, I said a scoop of chocolate, not Neapolitan!"  

The employee only tilts her head. "Your child said he wanted the brown, pink, and white one." 

“Pink and brown and white!” Lil Petey chirps helpfully. 

"Yeah, sure, but he’s a kid, he- he doesn’t know what he wants. Can’t you just remake it with chocolate?” 

"I already made the cone," the employee replies, at least trying to sound apologetic. "I'd have to charge you again for a chocolate scoop if you don't want this one."  

Petey's eye twitches again. Great. Great.  

Then, between gritted teeth. "Just give me the damn cone."  

"Yay!"  

Lil Petey eagerly snatches the Neapolitan cone away before he begins to lick the chocolate side. It isn't a moment later that the kitten pulls Petey's free hand toward the shop's door. "Let's go, Papa! I wanna see the stars!"  

He curses the world that he doesn't have a free hand to flip the now-smug employee off. Just an elbow to push the shop's door open and greet the open city air.  

"That lady sure was nice!" the kitten cheers.  

"I wouldn't say that," Petey grunts. But Lil Petey just seems to ignore him.  

"Look at how big she made my scoop!" 

Petey nods along, taking another lick of his own gelato. A glance does prove how big the scoop is- though the chocolate side seems to already be half-eaten. 

His ears flatten. For once in his life, why couldn't he be proven wrong? 

It's barely even two minutes into their walk home that Lil Petey suddenly stops dead in his tracks.  

“Hey, Papa?”  

“Yeah, kid?”  

“I don’t like mine anymore...can we trade?” 

Goddamnit. 

With a huff- and pointedly ignoring the germs and diseases he’s probably about to contract –Petey kneels onto the sidewalk. 

He stares at the awaiting gelato cone, a third of it already eaten and the rest likely covered in kitten slobber. He sighs. “Ya sure, kid? This one’s mint, the gross flavor.” 

Lil Petey nods. 

He weighs his options. Trading his barely-eaten cone for one doused in kitten slobber and the two worst flavors of gelato definitely wouldn’t be the smartest trade he’s ever made in his life. Especially not after having just paid $10 for it. 

But Lil Petey’s eyes remain wide, a small childish glint of excitement in them as though the kitten couldn’t wait to trade gelato cones. 

“...yeah. We can trade.” 

“Yay!” 

Petey nearly gasps at how violently the Neapolitan cone is thrust at his chest, Lil Petey eagerly swiping the barely eaten and- previously described to be the worst -mint flavored gelato into his tiny paws. 

He rolls his eyes. “Happy now?” 

“Mhm!” the kitten replies cheerily, the fur around his mouth caked in bright green gelato. It might even just become the kid’s favorite. Like creator like clone and all that jazz. 

He then stands, glancing around before tossing the Neapolitan cone into the nearest trash can. It’s not like he’d been too hungry anyway. 

Lil Petey quickly takes his paw as they begin to walk back down the street. 

As much as Petey wants to mourn the loss of his gelato, he supposes it’s a better habit for the kid to have than a lot of others. Not to mention Lil Petey would have to grow out of it eventually. Maybe not by next week. Or even the next month if he's being realistic. But eventually.  

Until then, he'll just keep fooling himself over and over again. 

[moobloom-mention]

Day 1 | Fully Present (Misguided Misery)

Summary: MK would like to call himself an optimistic person. After all, there's hardly a day he'd describe to be terrible all-around.

...but today? Yeah, no. Meditation is new kind of misery he's not ready to face.

OR

"Fully Present"

Content Warning(s): N/A

Word Count: 1238

We're going back to season 1, folks

--------------

It's not uncommon for MK to find himself trying to cram his day into a single word. It'd turned into a fun mental game- almost like he was trying to compact each treasured day to fit into his memory.

Some days were best categorized as "boring", settled on after taking into account the slow, sluggish pace of patrons ordering noodles at that time. But there were always days he could slap the label of "exciting" onto, the word just enough to encapsulate the adrenaline-driven high that came with stopping demons from terrorizing the city.

It really wasn't often that he could really call a day "miserable". Maybe whenever he had to be dragged into a dentist appointment. Or deep-clean the kitchen because "the stove ain't gonna scrub itself. And it definitely isn't gonna clean the wall behind it either."

His optimistic nature usually kept him from dwelling too harshly on the "worser" parts of his day, trying to focus on whatever inch of positivity the world had given him to work with. After all, if you're given an inch, you might as well take a mile.

But he hardly thought there'd come a day when he had to describe a day with the Monkey King as "miserable". And yet...

Here he sits. Legs already sore from the awkward butterfly stretch Monkey King had maneuvered him into, the bitter bite of the cold having already sunk into his bones from the occasional spray of mist from a nearby waterfall, and stewing in the rawest form of misery.

"Aw, c'mon bud. It really isn't that bad."

MK forces his eyes away from Monkey King's crossed arms. Because yeah, it is that bad. And no mildly disappointed frown from his idol is going to change such a fact.

He's wet. Cold. And should've been sparring with Monkey King an hour ago.

But no, meditation was just sooooooo important.

He pointedly watches the thump of his mentor's tail against the grass. "You can hate it all you want, but we aren't moving on until I get five minutes of pure meditation."

MK could practically hear the rest of his day being torn to shreds. Gone were the plans he'd made with Mei to go to the arcade tonight. And his plans to go to bed early- even if the arcade plan had already disregarded that idea anyway.

Getting five minutes of meditation would take days, especially at the rate this butterfly stretch had his thighs burning.

"Bud, you're killing me here."

MK finally lets himself fall onto his back in a sprawl of limbs. The ground isn't nearly as unforgiving as he wished- maybe then he could've faked some hurt to get out of this boring lesson. "Five minutes will take forever," he groans.

He's barely given a moment to drown in his sorrows before something tail-like wraps around his leg, yanking him into the air with a yelp before dropping him back onto his feet.

"It isn't forever," Monkey King says. Like he isn't lying through his teeth. "It's just five minutes. 'Sides, don't you wanna get to the more fun side of training?"

MK makes a face. "So this is the miserable part."

"Only in the beginning," his mentor admits with a soft smile. "Took me a decade to find true peace in it, but once you're there, you're there."

MK's eyes widen. "A decade-!"

Monkey King quickly waves a dismissive wave, his smile turning quickly into a cheeky grin. "Ah, decade-schecade. Maybe we just gotta try a different approach with you. Sit back down."

Begrudgingly, MK drops back down onto the grass, beginning to bow his legs awkwardly and remake the butterfly shape. He's almost embarrassed at the subtle tremble they hold.

Monkey King's head suddenly tilts. "Oh."

Nope. Nevermind. He's fully embarrassed.

"I see the problem," his mentor murmurs to what MK thinks is himself. Then, louder, "See your legs?"

MK glances back down at them. They haven't lost their tremble, his knees lifting slightly every now and again in a weak attempt to relieve the stress.

"They're trying to bend, right?"

"Uh...yeah?"

"Try crossing them instead."

MK almost sags with relief at the order. He quickly pulls one leg over the other, the burn in his thighs lessening into a dull ache of the past. The new position he finds himself in he can only describe as "criss cross applesauce".

Monkey King gives a knowing look. "Better?"

"Waaaay better."

"Alright, now straighten your back."

MK does as he's told, even lifting his chin high like he'd been taught by Pigsy. The pig demon definitely didn't mess around when it came to posture.

Though the amused expression on his mentor's face told him that the monkey likely didn't share such a sentiment.

"Not all the way, bud. Save that stiff posture for the Celestial Court. You want to slouch and then slowly stack your spine until it feels comfortable."

MK nods, folding over before carefully beginning to straighten his back until it felt right. Not too slouched, not too straight. Just enough to feel relaxed.

"Now arms out. Drop them right onto your legs. How does that feel?"

MK hums as he takes a mental account of himself. He legs feel better than they had earlier, his spine straightened and yet not strained with the fear of Pigsy's reprimand. His arms don't feel overstretched either, palms resting comfortably against the fabric of his pants.

"Good," he admits with a grin. "Really good."

Monkey King gives a single, proud nod. "Now we're talking! Drop your chin a little and slowly close your eyes."

Slowly but surely the world around MK grows darker, the black canvas behind his eyelids still vibrant with neon shades of green and red ribbon from the sun's rays of light.

"Aaaaaaand relax."

Bit by bit the noises of Flower Fruit Mountain begin to swell in volume. The growl of the nearby waterfall swells, contrasting itself smoothly with the soft hiss of water dropping into the pond below.

When the wind blows past to play with his hair it seems to whisper in his ears, first sweetly and then as if to apologize for the faint "pitter patter" of the water droplets it casts onto his jacket.

Somewhere to his left Monkey King's tail sweeps mindlessly through the grass, flattening each blade with a calm swish.

It was almost odd. How loud the quiet paradise of Flower Fruit Mountain could grow if he chose to hear its chaotic melody. Chaotic- because even as they sung sweetly with each melody braiding itself seamlessly into their song, it still followed an organized chaos that kept MK guessing what would come next.

A leaf falling from to the ground? The eager rustle of leaves from little monkey's playing nearby?

As it turns out, the most prominent sound to join the mountain's tune is the muted tap of a boot growing near. It's the only signal he gets before Monkey King speaks once more.

"That's five minutes, bud. See, I knew you could do it."

MK inhales slowly, taking in the soft, warm air around him. It seems to stop his mentor in his tracks. Or at least he thinks so, judging by the lack of footsteps that would've followed otherwise. "Can we do five more?"

His eyes close just hard enough for him to hear the smile in Monkey King's voice.

"'Course. Want me to keep track again?"

"...nah."

[moobloom-mention]

Doghouse Blues

Summary: It's been two weeks since Dogman last saw Petey. Not that the ex-felon was missing...he'd just stopped coming by the house for some odd reason.

Thankfully Lil Petey is there to help try and solve such a mystery.

Content Warning(s): Mentions of Sickness/Vomiting, Swearing

Word Count: 1908

Sorry for the wait, this one was supposed to be a 600 word warm-up. That did not happen.

--------------

"Papa doesn't feel good."

Like a rubber band Dogman's head snaps to attention from where it'd been resting upon the kitchen table, ears angled eagerly toward Lil Petey. Despite the concern and sympathy such a confession should elicit, a majority of him can't help but silently cheer.

It felt like an eternity had passed since he'd last heard from the ex-felon- even if the fridge calendar claimed it'd only been two weeks. It was still eight days too long if Dogman had anything to say about it.

And god did he have something to say about it.

Not out loud, of course. Otherwise he would've asked the small kitten about Petey's abrupt silence the first day it occurred. But he hadn't, if only because questions Dogman asked about him usually ended in an hour lecture from the short-tempered cat to "mind his own beeswax".

Instead he'd resigned himself to spending hours waiting patiently by the front door, pleading to the world that it'd someday opened with a loud- though just as welcomed -complaint about the front yard being a mess.

That familiar, heavy footsteps would pass through the doorway and Petey would collapse onto the living room couch, smothering it in his scent as he slept the rest of the day away.

The endless game of waiting had continued throughout the past week. Then into the next. Still, no other cat had walked through the door except for Lil Petey.

But if Petey was sick…

It would explain the cat's abrupt disappearance. If a bit conveniently.

Not to imply that Petey couldn't get sick. Dogman had had his fair share of noticing the subtle symptoms of the cat being sick throughout the past few years of their rivalry. Chases in which the cat's taunts sounded scratchy and strained. Car rides to Cat Jail absent of familiar, snarky commentary. The warm, sluggish scent that would linger from the backseat. Hell, he'd even caught the cat subtly coughing into his elbow once while Knight filed arrest paperwork.

It'd usually end in Petey escaping from Cat Jail once more, though without the usual fanfare the cat so-readily indulged in. Such a break in routine had always unnerved the department. But Dogman knew better.

Greg had known better.

Slowly, the pieces begin to fall smoothly back into place. Only this time around Dogman knew Petey wasn't cooping himself in his lab drafting up a new scheme to destroy the city. He was likely just catching up on sleep and soaking in the misery of being sick.

Dogman's foot taps against the tiled floor. Still, it's…more than a little disappointing that Petey hadn't admitted such a thing himself. Even an irritated "What? Never seen a sick cat before?" would've sufficed. In fact, any explanation that wasn't sudden silence would've long put to rest the restlessness that'd been itching at his fur since last Sunday.

Hm. Sick.

Distantly Lil Petey slurps loudly at his cup of milk.

Would it be weird to ask if the ex-felon needed anything? Food? Water? A throw-up bucket in case the other one got full? Maybe even someone to throw said bucket out…?

The cup rattles dangerously on the table. It doesn't topple over, but it does draw Dogman's eyes toward a newly formed milk-mustache at the top of Lil Petey's mouth. He quickly leans over, swiping away the faux facial hair and eliciting a soft giggle from the kitten.

"So, where is Pa- Petey?" Dogman signs, forcing himself not to grimace at the slip-up. Thankfully, the kitten doesn't call him out on it.

"In his lab with 80-HD."

He barely manages to contain the disappointed whine that'd worked itself up his throat. So Petey did already have someone for his buckets. What a shame.

As if able to sense his woes, Lil Petey pipes up once more. "80-HD accidentally got juice in his vents."

He could feel the faint phantom wag of his tail. If 80-HD needed repairs then the robot likely wouldn't be too useful with getting Petey anything he needed. Dogman might be needed after all.

Still, "…is 80-HD taking care of him?"

Lil Petey's head tilts. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then, confused, "Why would Papa need someone to take care of him?"

Dogman's eyebrows knit. Petey might be good at hiding being sick, but he definitely isn't "able-to-hide-it-from-his-curious-kitten" good. Lil Petey would've picked up on his dad's more sluggish nature, or at the very least him throwing up.

…unless "not feeling good" hadn't been in reference to being sick.

He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. "He isn't sick?"

Lil Petey's nose twitches. "What?"

"Sick," Dogman repeats, carefully signing the word once more.

The kitten's eyebrows only furrow, troubled.

Huh. Had they really not covered "sick" before? Actually, now that he thinks about it, Lil Petey had yet to get sick under his care. For being a six-year-old dead-set on constant adventure, he'd maintained a shockingly clean bill of health.

"S-I-C-K," he slowly spells out before signing again for "sick". "Petey isn't sick?"

"Oh, Papa's not sick."

Small, orange ears suddenly flatten as Lil Petey seems to curl into himself. He's never seen the kitten look so small.

"He's sad."

He swears the world stops. But Lil Petey continues on.

"I tried to do the thing with him," the kitten murmurs, gaze pointed toward the tiled floor. "The-" Lil Petey suddenly makes a soft whine. It's not unlike the type Dogman would make when trying to cheer someone up. "-that. But then he got sadder."

Swallowing down the dread that burrows itself deep within his chest, Dogman pulls the kitten into a hug. He carefully tilts his muzzle down, nuzzling into Lil Petey's shoulder until it elicits a laugh. A sad one, but a laugh nonetheless. Only then does he let himself pull away. "It's okay," he affirms with a reassuring smile. "You did your best."

Much to his relief Lil Petey seems to brighten back up, paws clasping around his cup of milk to take another gulp.

Dogman lets himself rest in the odd silence that follows. It's a welcomed distraction; his heart still needed to recover from seeing Lil Petey so downtrodden after all.

But to also reflect on the odd news of Petey's sadness. If there was one thing Dogman could describe Petey to be, "sad" would never be one of them. The cat was too animated- too reliant on anger where sadness might've been more appropriate.

Not that he was judging, just that a fair assessment would be that "Petey" and "sadness" went about as well together as Dogman and a squirrel.

Though Lil Petey was only six. He might not know the proper term for what he witnessed from his dad. It's very possible Petey could've looked lost in thought that could maybe be categorized as "sad". Or expressing his irritation over a project via an expression of hopelessness where he was usually furious.

Dogman sighs. There were still far too many unanswered questions to let this topic drop. And judging by Petey's two-week disappearance, the ex-felon definitely wasn't going to show up and answer them himself. Dogman would just have to endure interrogating Lil Petey as light-heartedly as he could.

…though maybe he could arrange a happy medium.

He carefully stands up from the table, ruffling the top of Lil Petey's head before he opens one of the kitchen's many junk-drawers. From it he pulls out a few pieces of paper, snagging a 64-crayon pack too before putting them onto the kitchen table.

"We should draw," Dogman suggests as he sits back down and plucks a red crayon from its packaging.

Like a fish in water Lil Petey takes to the materials in front of him, small paws swiping an assortment of crayons. Dogman barely counts to three before the kitten's scribbling away on a piece of paper.

Only then does Dogman begin his own mindless sketch, beginning to construct a fire hydrant before he taps on the table to bring Lil Petey's attention back to his hands.

"Do you think that's why he hasn't been picking you up from the house?"

Lil Petey shrugs. "He said I had to take the bus from now on. But he did give me pepper spray!"

Dogman barely contains his disapproving huff. Less so over the pepper spray fiasco and more toward Petey’s words, though giving pepper spray to a six-year-old might not have been the best of ideas.

There weren't many reasons why Petey would start refusing to take him to Dogman's house directly, but there was one that stood out among the others.

He scribbles in a red car beside the fire hydrant.

"Is he taking you to school on the bus?"

"No, he drives me."

Dogman's brows furrow. So it wasn't a car problem.

He lets his crayon drift across the page. "Is he still taking you to get gelato on Fridays?"

"Yup! Papa even tried their bubblegum flavor last time. Can I have the red crayon?"

Dogman nods, handing it over. He snags an orange one from the box.

"Still getting groceries?"

"Yeah, but I don't come with him," the kitten's nose wrinkles. "He always makes me push the cart."

Now that gets a small smile from Dogman. It was almost as reassuring as it was confusing. There were no noticeable change in habits, then. Just… possibly misdescribed sadness and a change in pickup routines.

He adds an orange sun to the corner of the paper.

Then what could be bothering the cat? An inability to fix 80-HD? Maybe even a mourning for his "past" life as a felon?

Dogman softly growls. That couldn't be it. Petey hadn't even sworn off trying to take over the city- he just happened to eventually fall out of such a habit with Lil Petey around. Even more surprising to hear was that he hadn't even cheered up after Lil Petey's imitation of Dogman. Which had to mean something truly weird was going on.

Maybe some common denominator he's missing? Surely the answer shouldn't be that hard to figure out-

"Finished!" Lil Petey suddenly sings. He stands from the chair, puffing out his chest and raising the drawing up toward Dogman's eyes. "Look, look!"

Gingerly Dogman takes the picture from Lil Petey’s hands. It’s pretty clearly a drawing of the doghouse, even complete with a bright blue door and leaf-filled tree behind it. But in front of the house stands a depiction of Dogman, his hand holding onto a smaller orange depiction of Lil Petey.

Dogman's heart swells. It's as sweet as sweet could be.

His eyes float toward the bottom left corner of the paper, a familiar, red car scribbled with another orange depiction inside of it parked just down the street. Keeping its distance.

Petey.

…Petey.

He carefully hands the drawing back to Lil Petey, careful not to crease the edges by accident. "Good job," he signs with a gentle smile. "Wanna put it on the fridge?"

Lil Petey's eyes widen with awe. "Yes! Yes!"

The kitten does a small spin with a spout of laughter, darting toward the fridge.

Only with Lil Petey's back turned does Dogman let his ears finally droop.

If the only change in habit had truly been their pickup routine, and Petey had grown more upset by Lil Petey's imitation of him, then-

His chest squeezes.

Then Petey isn't sick. His car isn't broken down. Hell, he's not even sad.

He's just avoiding Dogman.

[moobloom-mention]

Petey and Dogman definitely own one of those shitty aprons that schools put your kid's artwork on. There's just no way they wouldn’t buy one for the hell of it

[moobloom-mention]

a collection of Dog Man drawings, this movie is very cute and fun

[moobloom-mention]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dog Man (2025), Dog Man (Comics) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dog Man/Petey (Dog Man), Li'l Petey & Dog Man, Li'l Petey & Petey (Dog Man) Characters: Dog Man (Dog Man), Petey (Dog Man), Li'l Petey (Dog Man) Additional Tags: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Insomnia, just try and take petey with insomnia and ocd headcanon away from me, Thunder and Lightning, dogman and petey are partners - do with that what you will, they can be husbands or boyfriends or platonic life partners - dealers choice, li'l petey has two dads, Literal Sleeping Together, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepy Cuddles, grampa gets mentioned a couple times but he never shows up Summary:

Lighting illuminated the room as thunder roared in the near distance, rattling the house just enough to shake Dogman from his light dose. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep all night, waiting for the storm to begin. Finally, he thought, letting out a deep sign that rumbled through out his body.

—-

After a week of insomnia plaguing Petey and worrying Dogman, a much needed thunderstorm comes along.

[moobloom-mention]

How Hard Is It to Keep a Clone Child Out of Trouble? (Extremely Hard, Apparently)

Summary: Y'know, for only being a few weeks into coparenting Lil Petey, Petey's gotta admit that he's beginning to get the hang of it. Now if only he could get Dogman to start taking it as seriously as he is.

Content Warning(s): Swearing

Word Count: 2048

Please accept this humble sacrifice, Dogman fandom. I am eternally in your debt.

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Y’know, for only being a few weeks into coparenting Lil Petey, Petey’s gotta admit he’d gotten pretty damn good at knowing what the kid got up to in his free time. 

Not that it’s exactly hard to figure out, the kid is his clone after all. Anything Petey had shown interest towards in his youth was bound to be explored too by Lil Petey- so far with a lot more enthusiasm than his past self had shown. 

Though there were a few twists and adjustments to the kid's interests. Like his favorite superhero being Spiderman instead of Batman. Or his favorite animal being a dog of all creatures. 

Ha! A dog. 

His eyes roll, the familiar itch of annoyance redirecting itself toward his latest attempt to shuffle a paper bag of groceries into the crook of his right arm. He grins pointedly as the bag finally slouches into his shoulder without a single item escaping. 

With his newly freed hand he dives impatiently into his coat's pocket, pawing at the fabric for the spare house key Dogman had given him a few weeks back. 

"In emergencies," the mutt had signed, a disgustingly pleasant smile on his face. 

It'd been a... surprisingly sweet gesture. One that Petey had easily disguised his shock beneath an angry shout of "-fine!" before he'd swiped the key from Dogman's hands. "Anything to get you off my back about it." 

And it had. Dogman never mentioned the house key's existence again. Not after Petey used it in the occasional emergency. Not whenever he used it to collect Lil Petey while Dogman was out. Hell, there wasn't even a knowing grin after Petey began to use it to come-and-go as he pleased. 

For once, the mutt had nothing to say. 

Good, Petey grunts to himself. Dogman already had too many opinions for someone with such a limited range of verbal speech. 

He lets himself grin at the thought as he refocuses on rummaging for the key. It really shouldn't be this difficult of a task; he's only got two pockets and he's pretty damn sure he put the spare in the left one. 

And yet every small object he feels within his coat seems to be everything but a key. 

The crinkling wrapper of something Petey's 98% sure is gum. 

An unfolded plastic paperclip for whatever strange reason. 

That monkey wrench he'd been looking everywhere for yesterday. 

For god's sake, a crayon?  

Petey's ears flatten. How many times had he asked Lil Petey to not wear his coat during playtime? 

He drags the collection of useless crap from his pocket, eyes scouring the pile to ensure he hadn't accidentally grabbed the key in his thinning patience. When that's proven futile he dumps the junk unceremoniously into his right coat pocket and returns for another search. 

Nothing. Nothing. Yet another crayon he somehow missed the first time. Nothing. Something that feels suspiciously like a key- 

"Ha-ha!" Petey cheers as his paw fastens around the key at last. He could almost kiss it if it weren't just in the world's saddest equivalent of a junk drawer. 

He settles for a less-disgruntled expression as he continues his walk back toward Dogman's house, tail flicking in the park's light breeze. He's got better things than kissing a key to worry about. Things like- 

Uh. What was it he'd been complaining about earlier? 

The key? Couldn't be, he'd just finished that tangent a moment ago. It had something to do with his clone. 

God, like the kid didn't take up enough of his thoughts already. Seriously, how on Earth did Grace ever raise him? His clone caused enough trouble even with parenting help from Dogman, he couldn't imagine going through it without assistance. 

She must've been a whole different animal to- 

Oh-ho, that's the one! Lil Petey's favorite animal. 

Again, Petey's eyes roll. Pfft, like a dog could ever be considered better than a cat. There were too many things to complain about, like how they shed everywhere and barked up a storm at anyone undeserving of it. Not to mention their tendency to stick their noses in places it didn't belong- both physically and metaphorically. 

But whatever, bygones be bygones and that whole mumbo-jumbo. Just because the kid's got an opinion doesn't mean he's right. 

Terrible choices in "favorite animals" aside, it still doesn't take away from the fact that Lil Petey was beginning to step in Petey's much heavier footprints in more ways than one. The kid was already inventing things left and right- whether it be some contraption, comic book, or obnoxiously catchy song. 

He can only hope that he'll be able to save the kid from his past spout of "teenage angst". Petey shudders. Yeah, he'd rather put up with an underwater adventure than go through that. 

Petey shakes the thought just as he's greeted with the familiar blue-tinted wood of the doghouse's front door. He stoops just barely low enough to fit the key into its lock, gaze flickering between the suspicious tilt of his grocery bag and the door. 

One of these days he'd get around to inventing and installing a cat-sized door. Or just bug Dogman about it until it got replaced. Whichever came first- which knowing the do-good mutt, was probably the latter. 

Finally he's able to twist the door knob, shuffling the grocery bag into both hands only after he's able to wedge a paw in the doorway. His foot nudges the door fully open to reveal the bright red carpeting of the entryway with Lil Petey and Dogman- 

Huh. Y'know what, maybe it'll take a few more weeks for him to fully grasp the mischief one small Petey can cause. Because where he'd expected the kid to be drawing, tinkering with something metal, or even just entertaining Dogman in a game of fetch, this is... 

Worse. So, so much worse. 

Lil Petey sits proudly atop Dogman's back at the end of the entryway, the mutt reared up on his hind legs not unlike that of a horse. The kitten's head is practically drowning in a cowboy hat that came from god-knows-where, a sight that Petey would usually burn into his memory before feigning annoyance over. 

But for once he can't. His shoulders remain square, rigid even as the door bumps into his shoulder in its feeble attempt to close behind him. 

Wide, green eyes remain ensnared by the sickeningly familiar device that sits innocently in the paws of Lil Petey. A device with blue and pink components and a simple heart engraved deep into the barrel of a gun - 

Petey tail kinks just as a strangled cry tears itself from his throat. In a flash of orange and black stripes he flings the bag of groceries in the general direction of the kitchen, using the force of his throw to propel himself and snatch Lil Petey from Dogman's back. 

"Papa!" the kitten cheers as he's swept into Petey's arms. God, what Petey wouldn't give to be as ignorant as this kid- to smile and cheer like he hadn't just been holding a very real and dangerous weapon. 

Er- maybe "dangerous" isn't quite the right word...but it definitely isn't meant to be used in some game of "cowboy"! 

Lil Petey doesn't protest when he's set on the edge of the kitchen counter, even going as far as to giggle when Petey almost trips over the now forgotten bag of groceries. The mess doesn't matter. 

Not when his focus is on scouring the kid for something- anything that could be amiss. 

Orange paws cup Lil Petey's cheeks, turning the kitten's head from side to side. 

No love-heart eyes. No bruises or scrapes. No words of undying devotion. 

Petey drags a paw down his face, heaving out a loud breath of relief. Thank god the kid isn't traumatized. At least any more than the usual. 

He gives another glance over Lil Petey before he finally lets the familiar bite of anger sink its teeth into his veins. "Who gave you this!" Petey demands, unceremoniously dumping the Love Ray(c) into the sink basin. He doesn't even wait for the kitten to respond, instead whirling toward Dogman. 

Petey's pupils shrink. The mutt at least has enough decency to look sheepish. Not that it'll save Dogman from his pre-dug grave. 

Venom drips from his hiss. "You- " 

"80-HD did," Lil Petey pipes up. He can practically hear the smile in the kid's voice. "I asked him to find me a cowboy gun!" 

Petey's eye twitches, the target of his fury transferring seamlessly from Dogman onto the thought of 80-HD. One day he'd dismantle that robot and rebuild it with "common sense" as its main function. For now, though- "It doesn't even look like a cowboy gun," he bites out. "It's got a heart on it for crying out loud!" 

Small, orange eyebrows furrow. "Why?" 

"Because it's a Love Ray!" 

"Why?" 

"Because I needed a Love Ray at the time." 

"Why?" 

"Because it was a part of one of my many masterful plans to take over the city!" 

"Why?" 

"Kid -" 

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. This isn't something to get this angry over- 

Petey pauses. Wait, no- this is exactly the type of thing to be furious over. 

It doesn't matter that the Love Ray led to a disaster in its own right. Or that 80-HD gave the kid the device. it never should've happened because there was an adult present, watching. An adult that's easily bribed and slobbers over everything, but an adult nonetheless! 

His gaze hardens onto Dogman. It's not even as satisfying as it usually is to watch the mutt's ears droop and guilt fill those big, brown eyes. 

"You were supposed to watch the kid!" he snaps. "Is this what usually happens when I'm not here? You let him play with dangerous weapons?" 

Dogman's head shakes, his hands coming up in an attempt to sign a response. "I-" 

"Ah-at," Petey hisses. "I don't wanna hear it. Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!" 

"Wait!" Lil Petey calls, leaping from the kitchen counter. Petey almost stumbles from just how fiercely the little kitten attaches himself to his leg. "It wasn't Dogman's fault!" he protests. "He tried to take it away until I said I'd keep the safety on!" 

"Wha-? There's no safety button on that thing!" 

Dogman's guilt-filled expression suddenly dissipates, brows furrowing as he glares sternly toward Lil Petey. 

Ever the con artist, the kitten only scratches the back of his neck with a shy smile. "...oops?" 

"Morons," Petey mutters miserably. "I got a moron cop dog to watch my moron of a clone." 

Dogman barks his complaint just as Lil Petey manages an offended "Hey!" 

"I don't wanna hear it! You're grounded, kiddo." 

"But-!" 

"No 'buts'!" 

Petey pointedly ignores the soft giggle the word "but" draws from the kid, his orange tail unraveling Lil Petey from his leg and pushing him toward the stairs. 

Neither Dogman nor Petey move even once the kitten- and his giggle fit -disappear upstairs, the trouble-maker likely beginning to formulate his attempt to lessen his grounding sentence rather than heading to bed like Petey would hope. 

His ears flatten. He seriously didn’t want to physically wrangle the kid into bed tonight. More often than not it led to having Lil Petey ask to sleep with him, and at that point Dogman just had to be invited as well. 

In the corner of his eye Dogman's hand twitches. 

"Petey," Dogman signs.

"Don't," the cat interrupts, pressing a hand to his brows. "You're lucky I'm not packing a suitcase right now.” 

He smiles pleasantly as Dogman's expression turns panicked, though it quickly falls as a high-pitched whine interrupts Petey's moment of triumph. 

"Hey, I just said I'm staying! It's like you don’t even listen someTIMES-!” 

Dogman crashes into Petey in a pile of limbs, the mutt barking joyously as he licks at the fur on Petey’s arm. He grimaces. At least it isn’t his face this time. 

“Get off!” Petey snaps, shoving Dogman aside far kinder than the mutt deserves. Thankfully Dogman keeps his distance this time around. “Go put the kid to bed, I’ve got shit to do.” 

Like putting the Love Ray back in storage, he thinks. Or dealing with the groceries. 

Fuck, when did he become so domesticated?

[moobloom-mention]

Y'all ever think about how movie Knuckles and Shadow (in his youth at least) seem to be two sides of the same coin when it comes to not understanding human traditions/things?

I do. Probably a lot more than I should.

[moobloom-mention]

Making Amends Through the Splinters of My Patience

Summary: Shadow regrets ever accepting Sonic's offer to teach him how to play a video game. The blue hedgehog cheats more than Maria ever had when a sick day was on the line, and he's even better at denying Maddie and Tom's suspicious involvement with G.U.N.

Content Warning(s): Themes of Dehumanization

Word Count: 1629

I wanted to try my hand at writing some Sonic and Shadow interactions. Also, thank Blame for the title, she's been a really good sport about helping me with them lmao

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"You're annoying me, hedgehog."

Shadow's eyebrows remain furrowed intensely, his discontent merely half to blame for such a drastic expression. The other half centers entirely on his attempts to focus on the video game before him, the Wachowski's living room television a flash of blinding colors Shadow has only just begun to grow used to.

He'd never seen anything like it back with...well, back at the underground facility. The movies that scientists had managed to sneak past military personnel usually consisted solely of shades of black, grey, and white. Only a handful bared color.

Though even then all the footage still had an odd, grainy look to them. He'd always compared it to a crumpled piece of paper that'd been flattened out once more.

It was still a piece of paper. There was just something...off about it.

The Wachowski's television didn't have the familiar grainy texture, Shadow's character jumping ecstatically to an upper platform. A clearly defined ring of blue light forms beneath its feet as Shadow presses the jump button twice with a satisfying click-click.

Sonic's character zips away from an attack in a flurry of blue shades, and for once Sonic doesn't even offer a knowing smirk toward the very real threat beneath the black hedgehog's words. The threat that says Shadow can and will bury him alive if Sonic doesn't stop trying to "discreetly" jostle the controller from his grasp.

The first time that blue elbows had knocked into his, Shadow had naively passed off the notion that Sonic simply couldn't sit still. It'd made enough sense in the moment- being the fastest thing alive meant Sonic had plenty of energy reserves that needed to be drained constantly. It must have been infuriating trying to stay in one place for so long, even if playing "Smash-something-Ultimate" had been Sonic's idea in the first place.

The second time it happened Shadow had to refrain from instinctively decking Sonic over just how violent his jab had been, black and red quills flared amidst his cold glare. Sonic had only slightly shrunk back at the sight baring a frustratingly innocent expression.

He's starting to regret the fact that he'd forced himself to relax and carry on with the game. He'd figured the subtle bruise to his ego was a small price to pay if it helped to rebuild the fragile bit of trust Sonic's handlers had given him.

It'd already been shocking enough when they agreed to let him into their home. He wouldn't let Sonic's less-than-subtle attempts to rile him up break such a thing.

A few well-timed clicks of his attack button send Sonic's character into the sky in a blaze of grey clouds. It triggers an entourage of frantic clicks from Sonic's controller, the blue mechanical character trying its hardest to scramble back onto the platform.

Maroon eyes flash with triumph. Even if Sonic were to make it and save himself, Shadow would only need a single hit to be declared the game's winner.

His finger barely flicks over the attack button before a warm glove suddenly latches onto his shoulder. His neck aches from how quickly his head twists, his expression contorted in raw confusion.

Sonic's wild grin feels blinding as his canine's flash in the television's light and for a moment Shadow swears the world stops. A part of him, desperate and exasperated, hopes that the hedgehog will simply continue on with a half-assed "congrats" and whiny demand for a rematch. After all, they hadn't bet anything for this round.

The only real thing to accomplish would be the preservation of the winner's pride.

...oh god. He was fucked the moment he let his guard down enough for Sonic to grab him.

The world resumes just in time for Sonic to throw him to the living room floor in a graceless pile of limbs.

Shadow doesn't let himself sulk, a spark of red illuminating the room as he teleports himself back to a standing position. He tenses, fully expectant that Sonic will continue his odd definition of "rough-housing", but Sonic doesn't move from his seat.

In fact, the blue hedgehog remains a perfect image of tranquility, a pleasant smile on his muzzle with that damned controller still clicking away in his hands.

"GAME!"

No. There's no way.

Shadow whirls. The three platforms from the game's arena are gone, replaced with a clip of Sonic's character shooting off into the distance. It stops only after a golden "1" appears to the left of the screen. A less than favorable taunt in the room's dim lighting.

His jaw aches with how harshly he grits his teeth. "I don't know how your handlers haven't given up on you," he bites out. It's petty, he knows it, but under different- more preferable -circumstances, Shadow would've just sent Sonic flying across the room for such a childish stunt.

Even worse, it seems his hesitancy to instigate a proper fight only seems to embolden Sonic, the subtle tension Shadow hadn't even noticed lining the hedgehog's shoulders releasing. Pride stakes its claim on Sonic's voice as he tuts. "For the last time, Shads-"

A low growl rumbles in his throat. And there goes that god-forsaken nickname Sonic refuses to drop.

Sonic's grin widens. "-Tom and Maddie aren't my 'handlers'."

Shadow scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. "You're a terrible liar, hedgehog."

An odd mix between a faux gasp of offense and dejected huff escape Sonic's throat. It certainly doesn't help the blue hedgehog's attempt to look convincing.

When there's no additional commentary Shadow rolls his eyes. He plucks his own controller from the ground, setting it neatly back onto the living room's coffee table. His eyebrows knit only as he focuses on the stage select menu.

They'd only gotten through a handful of games, surely he could goad Sonic into a rematch.

A sharp gust of wind halts Shadow's thought much quicker than he would've liked. His unimpressed glance proves the blue hedgehog to have moved into an upside-down position; definitely suboptimal for video games.

Gloved fingers twiddle themselves on the peach color of Sonic's stomach.

"Hey, Shadow?"

"Hm."

"Why would I have handlers?"

Shadow's ear flicks. Sonic can't be seriously asking why the bright blue alien hedgehog from space might have been given government handlers to watch over him.

His silence must've spoken such because Sonic at least has enough decency to look embarrassed.

"Fine, fine," Sonic huffs. His expression morphs into something amused, a short "pft" of laughter escaping his mouth. "But why would Tom and Maddie be my handlers? They, I dunno, hate G.U.N?"

They certainly didn't seem like they hated G.U.N. enough to stop Sonic or his companions from being sent to Tokyo.

"They monitor you."

Blue eyebrows draw themselves downcast. "I mean, yeah, but not in a creepy government way. They just make sure I'm safe."

"But they track you."

"You make it sound gross," Sonic complains loudly. "Having Life360 isn't some government ploy to keep me contained. 'Sides, Maddie and Tom let me leave Green Hills whenever I want. Don't think that sounds like 'handler behavior', pal."

Begrudgingly Shadow gives a curt nod. It certainly isn't handler behavior he's familiar with, though it wouldn't be surprising if some handlers decided to take more liberties than others.

The important part was that the asset was where it needed to be when necessary. A part that the Wachowskis had previously played swimmingly for G.U.N.

"You have your own medical personnel," Shadow offers instead. "And someone who works directly in law enforcement."

"Y'know, we call those 'careers' around here," Sonic snarks. "Tom and Maddie had their jobs long before they met me. And they haven't changed even after G.U.N. became involved."

"Hmm."

The air feels stifling as an oddly charged spout of silence finally filters into the atmosphere. Shadow hadn't thought Sonic would be so defensive about such a subject.

Denial? He wonders.

Shadow stares as blue ears suddenly flatten against Sonic's head, green eyes looking pointedly toward the ground before he takes a sharp breath. He looks nervous. No, uncertain.

"...was Maria your handler?"

Something ugly curls within his throat, Shadow's expression hardening for reasons he isn't quite sure of. If anyone had been his handler under G.U.N. it had been the Professor, an arrangement that Shadow still looks back on quite fondly. There shouldn't be a negative connotation there.

And yet...

His fists clench.

And yet Maria never would've- even if she had been old enough, she would've refused such a title.

Black quills slowly flatten themselves.

"No," Shadow finally admits softly. "She... was a friend. Someone more than just a too-friendly face to track my whereabouts."

Despite the somber tone Sonic brightens immediately. He zips onto his feet, pumping his fist into the air in celebration of something Shadow isn't quite sure of.

"Oh-ho! That's the one! Tom and Maddie are friends. Er, well, parental figures? I dunno, I'm still not sure how my answer will affect canon."

Shadow blinks. Once. Twice.

Oh. Oh.

He's not quite prepared to address Sonic's implication that humans are capable of taking a more... parental role for beings outside of their species. It would rewrite much of his time in the facility under a new light.

A light that ignites an odd spout of jealousy to swell within his chest.

"...interesting."

The word doesn't nearly encompass the world of uncertainty Sonic's awakened, but it's all he manages to mutter amidst the crashing waves of his own thoughts.

"I try not to think too hard about it," Sonic admits with a wink. It's hardly the comforting notion Sonic must think it is. "But whaddaya say to another game of Smash, Shads?"

"That sounds..."

Like trouble? Like it'll end in even more demands for a rematch?

"...nice. That sounds nice."

[moobloom-mention]

ALL of my younger siblings are watching sonic.

Boys…… I might be next.

Im going to fall farther down the sonic fandom hole despite spending YEARS barely toeing the edge, knowing stuff about it but not getting into it. But now….. NOW????