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Petey turned another page, the soft rustle a counterpoint to the ticking of the clock on the mantel. The reading lamp cast a warm pool of light over his chair, but left the rest of the living room in gentle shadow. He'd chosen this book specifically because it was dense enough to occupy his mind while he waited for Greg to return home from his late shift, but simple enough that he could put it down the moment he heard the key in the door. So far, he'd read the same paragraph four times.
"The Stoic Philosophy of Marcus Aurelius," Petey muttered, adjusting his reading glasses. "Perfect for not worrying about your husband being late." The irony wasn't lost on him – a few years ago, he'd been plotting Greg's destruction. Now he was sitting up waiting for him like some concerned spouse from a 1950s sitcom.
Earlier that evening, he'd tucked Li'l Petey into bed with minimal fuss. The kid had tried his usual stalling tactics – one more story, one more glass of water, one more question about why clouds couldn't be used as trampolines – but Petey had held firm.
"But Papaaa," Li'l Petey had whined, his eyes wide in the dim glow of his night light, "Dad always lets me stay up until he gets home on late nights."
"Nice try, kid." Petey had smoothed the blanket over his son's small form. "Your Dad actually told me you pull this routine every time. Now go to sleep, or I'm canceling Saturday's trip to the theme park.”
Li'l Petey had grumbled but snuggled deeper into the covers. "Will you wake me up when Dad gets home?"
"Only if it's before your bedtime, which it won't be." Petey had leaned down to press a quick kiss to his son's forehead. "Night, kid."
"Night, Papa. Love you."
The words still gave Petey a jolt, even after all this time. "Love you too," he'd replied, voice gruff to hide the emotion.
Now, sitting in the quiet living room, Petey glanced at the clock again. 11:47 PM. Greg had said he'd be home by 11:00. Not unusual to be a bit late, especially when he was working security at some high-profile event downtown. The police department still called him in for special assignments.
Petey tried to focus on his book again. "If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment." He snorted. Easy for Marcus Aurelius to say – the Roman emperor hadn't been married to a dog-headed police officer who regularly threw himself into danger.
By midnight, Petey had abandoned any pretense of reading. He paced the living room, tail swishing in agitation. Greg was never this late without calling. True, the communication could be challenging – it's hard to talk on a phone when you can only speak in barks and whines – but they'd worked out a system. One bark for "I'm fine but running late," two barks for "minor situation, don't worry," three barks for "problem, might need backup."
"It's fine," Petey told himself, straightening a picture frame on the wall – a family photo from their trip to the beach last summer, Greg's tongue lolling happily as he posed with Petey and Li'l Petey building a sandcastle. "He's just busy. Probably caught in the middle of something and can't get to his phone."
At 12:17 AM, Petey caved and called Greg's cell. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Greg's recorded message was just a friendly "Woof!" followed by a beep.
"Hey, it's me," Petey said, trying to keep his voice casual. "Just wondering where you are. Call me back." He paused. "Please."
He tried to distract himself by tidying up the living room, even though it was already spotless. He straightened the pile of Li'l Petey's drawings on the coffee table, smiled briefly at the crayon rendition of their family – Petey with an exaggerated scowl, Greg with his tongue hanging out, and Li'l Petey in the middle, all three holding hands with giant smiles. The kid had labeled it "My Two Dads." Petey still couldn't believe this was his life now.
By 12:45 AM, Petey had called twice more, each message slightly more frantic than the last.
"Greg, it's me again. You're over an hour late and I'm... just call me, okay?"
"Greg, seriously, I'm starting to worry. If you get this, at least send a text or something."
Petey found himself standing in the kitchen, staring at the emergency contact numbers they'd stuck to the refrigerator. Police station (though he knew they'd just tell him Greg was on assignment). Hospital (the thought made his stomach clench). Animal control (an old joke between them that suddenly didn't seem funny).
At 1:23 AM, Petey tried a fourth time, pressing the phone hard against his ear as if that would somehow make Greg answer.
"Greg, this isn't funny anymore. I'm worried sick. If you don't call me back in the next fifteen minutes, I'm going to... I don't know what I'm going to do, but you won't like it."
The threat was empty, and they both knew it. There had been a time when Petey's threats made the entire city tremble. Now he couldn't even convince Li'l Petey to eat his vegetables.
By 2:00 AM, Petey was a wreck. He paced the living room, wearing a path in the carpet, his tail rigid with anxiety. The house felt too quiet, too empty. Three hours late. No call, no text, nothing.
His mind cycled through increasingly dark scenarios. Car accident. Shootout. Villain attack. Kidnapping. That new villain had escaped prison again last month – what if he'd targeted Greg for revenge? What if Greg was hurt somewhere, alone, unable to call for help?
Or worse, what if he was fine and just... didn't want to come home? What if, after all this time, Greg had finally remembered that Petey was the villain who had tried to destroy him countless times? That Petey was the reason his head had been sewn onto his owner’s body in the first place?
Petey's hands trembled as he checked his phone again. No messages. He found himself standing in front of the framed newspaper headline they kept as a joke in the hallway: "WORLD'S MOST EVILEST CAT STRIKES AGAIN!" He stared at the photo of his younger self, eyes narrowed in malice, mouth twisted in a sinister grin.
"I'm not him anymore," Petey whispered to the empty house. "I'm not."
But in the silence of the night, with his husband missing and his own imagination torturing him, Petey wasn't entirely sure who he was anymore. Ex-villain? Devoted spouse? Worried partner? The categories seemed to blur together like watercolors in rain.
He checked the clock again. 2:07 AM. Three hours and seven minutes late.
Petey sank into the armchair, his body heavy with dread. The book of stoic philosophy mocked him from the side table. He picked it up just to have something to hold, his claws digging into the cover.
The sound of the front door opening hit Petey like an electric shock. He was on his feet before his brain had fully registered what he'd heard, book tumbling forgotten to the floor. There, silhouetted in the doorway, was Greg – uniform disheveled, a streak of dried blood running from his nose down to his chin, and a sheepish tilt to his dog-head that Petey knew all too well. Relief and anger collided in Petey's chest with such force that for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
"Greg!" Petey crossed the room in three quick strides, throwing his arms around his husband. The embrace lasted only seconds before Petey pulled back, his relief rapidly converting to fury. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is? I've been calling you for hours!"
Greg's ears drooped in that particularly guilty way that made him look like a scolded puppy – which, technically, he half was. He let out a soft whine, hands moving in the practiced patterns of sign language they'd developed over years. “I'm sorry. Phone died. Couldn't call.”
"Three hours late and all you can say is your phone died?" Petey's voice cracked despite his effort to maintain his anger. "I was worried sick! I thought you were—" He cut himself off, noticing how Greg was favoring his right side, the way his uniform jacket was torn at the shoulder. "You're hurt."
Greg attempted a casual shrug that ended in a wince. “Not bad. Just scratches.”
"Just scratches my tail," Petey muttered, taking Greg's arm with surprising gentleness given his agitation. "Come on. Bedroom. Now."
Greg followed obediently, his phantom tail giving a tentative wag that suggested he was relieved Petey's worry had redirected itself to his injuries rather than his tardiness. Petey guided him down the hallway, careful to stay quiet as they passed Li'l Petey's room. The soft sound of their son's breathing was audible through the partially open door – at least someone in this house was getting some sleep tonight.
In their bedroom, Petey pointed to the edge of the bed. "Sit. Don't move."
Greg sat, watching as Petey disappeared into their bathroom. He returned moments later with the first-aid kit – not the small household version most families kept, but a comprehensive medical kit that had become necessary when you lived with someone who regularly got into altercations with the city's criminal element.
"So what happened?" Petey asked, setting the kit on the nightstand and opening it with practiced efficiency. "And don't tell me it was nothing if you're coming home looking like you lost a fight with a weed whacker."
Greg's hands moved in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “Bank robbery. Three guys. Had guns.”
Petey's paws stilled for a moment as he was removing an antiseptic wipe from its package. "Armed robbery? That's not your jurisdiction anymore. You're supposed to be doing security detail, not playing hero."
Greg's eyes, so human despite being set in a dog's face, held a mixture of apology and pride. “Happened across the street. Heard screaming. Had to help.”
"Of course you did," Petey sighed, wetting a clean cloth with warm water. "Because God forbid Officer Greg ever ignore someone in trouble." There was no real bite to his words, just the resigned affection of someone who had long ago accepted that he'd fallen in love with an incurable do-gooder.
He began cleaning the blood from Greg's face, his touch gentle despite his exasperation. Greg winced as the cloth made contact with his nose.
"Is it broken?" Petey asked, tilting Greg's head to examine it better.
Greg shook his head carefully. “Just sore. One guy got lucky.”
"Lucky, right." Petey dabbed at the congealed blood, revealing a small cut across the bridge of Greg's nose. "So the three armed robbers just happened to get lucky against the dog with police training and superpowered senses?"
Greg had the decency to look embarrassed. “Was protecting hostages. Couldn't fight back properly.”
Something in Petey's chest tightened at that. Of course Greg had been protecting someone else. He always was.
"Hold still," Petey muttered, opening an alcohol wipe. "This is going to sting."
Greg tensed as Petey applied the antiseptic, a small whimper escaping him that made Petey's ears flatten with sympathy despite himself. As he worked, Petey noticed a dark stain on Greg's uniform shirt, partially hidden by the blue fabric.
"What else are you hiding?" Petey asked sharply, his paw already moving to unbutton Greg's shirt.
Greg hesitated, then nodded, wincing as he shrugged out of his uniform jacket. His movements were stiff, clearly pained as he started on the buttons of his shirt. Petey batted his hands away after a moment, taking over the task himself.
"For someone so keen on rushing into danger, you're awfully shy about the aftermath," Petey grumbled, his claws making quick work of the buttons.
As the shirt fell open, Petey's breath caught. Greg's torso – human from the neck down, slightly muscled and fit from years of police work – was marked with several fresh bruises blooming across his ribs, and a nasty gash ran along his right side, just below his ribcage.
"Just scratches, huh?" Petey's voice was tight. "What did they do, try to fillet you?"
Greg's hands moved quickly. “Knife. Barely got me.”
"Barely?" Petey's tail lashed behind him in agitation. "This needs stitches, Greg."
“No hospitals,” Greg signed immediately. “You can do it.”
Petey wanted to argue, but he knew his husband’s fear of hospitals would only get in the way. A trip to the emergency room would mean paperwork, questions about how a security detail had gotten involved in an armed robbery, and worst of all, probably a call to Chief. The last thing Greg needed was another lecture about overstepping his jurisdiction.
"Fine," Petey conceded, helping Greg out of his shirt completely. "But if it gets infected, I'm taking you in and telling them you fell on a particularly aggressive hedge trimmer."
Greg's mouth opened in what would have been a laugh if he could make human sounds, instead coming out as a soft "wuff." The familiarity of it made something warm bloom in Petey's chest, pushing back against the cold fear that had gripped him all evening.
Petey worked methodically, cleaning the wound with antiseptic, applying butterfly bandages to the shallower parts, and carefully stitching the deeper section. His paws, once used for building doomsday devices and operating complex machinery of destruction, were now surprisingly deft at these delicate tasks. Greg hardly moved during the process, only the occasional twitch of his ears betraying his discomfort.
As Petey wrapped a clean bandage around Greg's torso, securing it in place, he couldn't help but notice the interplay of light and shadow across his husband's body. Despite the injuries, Greg was still impressively built – broad shoulders tapering to a soft stomach, slightly defined even when relaxed. It was a strange contrast to his canine head, but Petey had long since stopped seeing it as unusual. This was just Greg, the strange hybrid creature who had somehow become the center of Petey's world.
His paw lingered on Greg's side, where the fresh bandage covered the knife wound. As he did, his fingers brushed against another mark on Greg's skin – older, creased, the silvery-white of a long-healed scar. Recognition hit Petey like a physical blow.
That scar wasn't from tonight's heroics, or even from last month's encounter with the jewelry store robbers. That scar was from years ago – from a serrated blade attached to one of Petey's own inventions, a blade designed specifically to hurt the very person he now tended to with such care.
Petey's paw trembled as it hovered over the scar. His eyes traveled across Greg's torso, now seeing what he'd been subconsciously avoiding: the roadmap of their shared past written in Greg's flesh. Here, a burn mark from the Laser-Matic 3000. There, a small puckered reminder of the Exploding Robo-Bees. Across his shoulder, the faint line where the Slice-O-Matic had nearly taken off his arm.
All Petey's work. All Petey's fault.
Greg noticed the shift in Petey's demeanor, the sudden stillness of his usually animated tail. He tilted his head questioningly, then followed Petey's gaze to the old scars. Understanding dawned in his eyes.
“Not your fault,” Greg signed, his movements gentle but firm.
"Yes, it is," Petey whispered, voice barely audible. "I did this to you. All of it."
Greg shook his head emphatically. “Past. Different people then.”
"Were we?" Petey asked, his paw still hovering over the oldest scar, unable to bring himself to touch it. "I remember building that thing. I remember being proud of how much it would hurt you."
Greg captured Petey's paw in his hand, his fingers wrapping around Petey's smaller ones. Their eyes met – Greg's warm brown, impossibly expressive despite being set in a canine face, Petey's wide with remorse.
"You've changed," Greg signed with his free hand. "We both have. We're not like cats and dogs anymore."
The attempted joke fell flat as Petey's eyes welled with unexpected tears. "How can you even look at me?" he asked, voice cracking. "How can you lie there and let me touch you, knowing what these hands have done to you?"
Greg's expression softened. He guided Petey's paw to rest directly on the scar, holding it there deliberately. “These hands heal now.”
Something broke inside Petey then, some dam he hadn't even known he was maintaining. "I'm sorry," he choked out, the words feeling wholly inadequate. "I'm so sorry, Greg. For everything. For the machines, for the traps, for trying to—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
Greg pulled him forward, careful of his fresh injuries, and wrapped his arms around Petey. The embrace was gentle but firm, a physical refutation of Petey's guilt. Greg nuzzled the top of Petey's head, a dog-like gesture of affection that had once made Petey roll his eyes but now brought fresh tears.
"I don't deserve this," Petey whispered against Greg's chest. "I don't deserve you or Li'l Petey or any of this."
Greg made a soft whining sound of disagreement, then pulled back just enough to sign: “Everyone deserves second chances.”
"Not everyone," Petey argued weakly. "Not someone who did the things I did."
Greg's response was to pull him close again, one hand moving to stroke the fur between Petey's ears in a way he knew Petey found soothing, though the cat would never admit it. The gesture was so tender, so forgiving, that Petey couldn't hold back the quiet sobs that had been building all night – first from fear, now from a complex mix of relief and remorse.
Greg held him through it, his solid presence an anchor as Petey's emotions finally overflowed. Years of guilt spilled out in those tears, washing away some small portion of the weight Petey had carried since they'd moved from enemies to allies to friends to something much more.
Eventually, Petey's tears subsided, leaving him drained and slightly embarrassed at his outburst. He made a halfhearted attempt to pull away, but Greg kept him close, his steady heartbeat a reassuring rhythm against Petey's ear.
“Stay,” Greg signed simply.
Too exhausted to argue, Petey settled against Greg's chest, careful to avoid the fresh bandages. The last thing he remembered before drifting off was the feeling of Greg's fingers gently stroking his fur, and the strangely comforting thought that maybe – just maybe – there was a path to forgiveness for even the world's most evilest cat.