Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun beat down on the prison yard, with the kind of brightness that only seemed to mock Petey’s current situation. He was aimlessly nudging a worn rubber ball towards the chain-link fence, the steady thud a dull rhythm against the growing anger in his chest. Big Jim, his usual dumb shadow, was stuck in the infirmary with some sickness or other, leaving Petey’s already low social energy hovering dangerously near zero, not that it had ever been especially full.

"Stupid Chief," he muttered, giving the ball a more forceful kick. "Brainless television girl. Moronic Mayor. If it weren't for their interfering, my perfectly designed Shark-Eater 2000 would have freed every last fish from the city's fishing market. I'd have an underwater army by now, taking over cargo ships, getting an endless supply of delicious parts for even more impressive robots!" A shiver of real frustration laced his voice. His fifth creation this week, completely destroyed in record time. Though, a small, honest part of him knew it was his own fault. The darn machine hadn't even managed two hundred meters, sputtering out sadly in the middle of the street before any so-called heroes even had a chance to jump in. Chief had simply walked up to the pile of smoking junk and clapped the cuffs on. He'd never felt so deeply humiliated.

This miserable prison was messing with his brain, that had to be it. It couldn’t be that he was really rusting, each next invention more disorganized than the last, a mess of loose nuts and misconnected wires. It was as if his cleverness had simply packed its bags one morning, leaving behind only a dull, constant fog where his once-sharp mind had been.

The throb behind his eyes returned, sharper this time. Petey stopped kicking the ball, squeezing his eyes shut, his paws clenching in a silent protest against his own failing mind. His thoughts, desperate for some sliver of… something, anything to ease the discomfort, pulled up an unwanted image: Dog Man, walking beside him as the Chief led him away in handcuffs. The dog officer had been grinning, his paws shaping a sentence with annoying cheerfulness.

(Shark-Eater? Really? Sounds like a shark machine that eats sharks. Now you're also Gill-ty of bad names, just like Li’l Petey.)

A faint smile he couldn't help touched Petey’s lips. "Stupid Greg," he breathed, and then, with a sudden movement, he emptied all of his small breakfast onto the dusty prison yard.

A sudden quiet fell over the yard. Petey, getting himself together with a grimace, swiped an arm across his mouth, trying to wipe away the evidence. When he turned, he found every other cat inmate staring.

"What?" he snapped, the usual sarcasm returning like a shield. "Never seen a cat throw up before? Get back to your… whatever it is you morons do." The crowd scattered, pretending to be suddenly interested in the cracks in the concrete or the patterns of the clouds.

Petey carefully cleaned the last bits from his muzzle, wiping his paw on his leg as if nothing wrong had happened. It was shower day anyway, no great loss.

Unfortunately, the moment he straightened, he found Buster, one of the guards whose face seemed permanently set in an expression of weary resignation, eyeing him with an unnerving stillness. Like all cops, really, Buster looked as though he was personally contemplating Petey’s demise.

"That's the third time this week," the officer stated, his voice flat.

"And?" Alarm bells went off in Petey’s head. Don't get him wrong, he loved trouble as much as the next supervillain, but purposely annoying the guards in here? They controlled the food. Best to keep one's mouth smartly shut.

"You're coming with me. The nurse will take a look at you."

Petey’s eyes narrowed. He hated doctors. He hated them completely. His only memories of medical places were filled with misery: his father’s… departure, the burning pain of his damaged tail, and the plain white room where his mother had been kept, never to come out again.

"Petey. Unsheathe your claws, or I'll have to cuff you." Buster's voice was firm. Petey startled, realizing his claws had shot out without thinking, just a way to protect himself he hadn't even realized he was doing. He quickly pulled them back.

"Maybe another day…? It's just a cold." he offered weakly.

"What if you're really sick? You've been off for a while. And you haven't been exactly coughing up hairballs for the past month, so you're lying about that. What would Dog Man say?"

Rats. Buster had played the Dog Man card.

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine," Petey grumbled, reluctantly falling into step behind the guard. A strange weakness had been clinging to him lately, an uncomfortable need to be near someone. Otherwise, he felt… exposed. Since Big Jim had taken ill, leaving his side of the cell creepily empty… He’d never admit it aloud, but Big Jim was… someone he understood, an annoying presence, he could, if not precisely trust , at least predict.

What if he was truly sick? What if he’d made Big Jim sick?

No, he’d been careful, curling up every day into a tight ball on the concrete slab of a bed (which it probably was) in the far corner of their cell.

Suddenly, all this talk of illness and friendship brought a fresh wave of sorrow. He missed Li’l Petey with an ache that settled deep in his chest. He longed to see him again, but if he continued this cycle of crime, Dog Man would undoubtedly get full custody.

And the worst part? That idea didn’t scare him as much as it should. Greg was a good person – a bit slobbery, and very easy to trick, yes – but basically good. He could protect Li’l Petey from anything.

That was why he and Greg… a few months before, after the Mayor’s pardon, they’d moved in together. Well, something like that, Petey had spent most of his time at the dog officer’s house, with his son. They had been cautiously building a new life, and he…

And he’d disastrously ruined it. That giant washing machine, a storm of suds and destruction that had destroyed half the neighborhood, ruining lives in the process.

He’d never caused such wide destruction. That creation had been a masterpiece of evil.

He still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d done it. A desperate need to prove his worth? To prove his status again as a real, true villain? Had too much time living a normal home life driven him mad? And had it, in any possible way, been worth it?

He could still clearly remember the faces of the crowd as he’d emerged from the debris, covered in dust from whiskers to tail-tip.

The betrayal. The disappointment.

The fury.

But the expression that had cut deepest belonged to Dog Man.

Because it was the only one filled with sadness. Not anger, not even disappointment. Just the most very sad, doggy face Petey had ever witnessed. And in that instant, he’d known, with an awful certainty, that he had destroyed his own life all by himself. Again.

He’d gone from a second chance to this same grimy, cramped cell, a nobody once more. What, in the end, made him different from his own absent father? He could never see Li’l Petey now, and he’d abandoned Dog Man. He’d abandoned Greg.

"Petey? Are you crying?" The two of them stood before the infirmary door. Buster’s hand hovered over the handle.

"What if I'm sick like my mom?" Petey’s voice was so low, a mere whisper. "What if I only have months to live, like her?" But Buster heard, and the guard's impatient look softened into something like concern.

"I don't want to leave Li’l Petey alone, or Greg. I don't want to die." There it was. The nagging fear that was under everything. He didn’t want to see the doctor because he felt, with a scary feeling, that he already knew what was wrong. His body was simply… giving up. His legs, his stomach, even his face, everything hurt. It hurts to even sit in an awkward position. Was this all life had left to offer him? He wouldn't even live as long as she had. And Li’l Petey? His child, his clone, had he doomed him to this same grim fate? What a terrible father he wa-

"Hey, buddy, easy there," Buster said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He gave Petey’s arm a soft squeeze. "You look like you’re about to lose it. You’re sick, but you’re still standing. It’s probably nothing." In any other universe, Petey would have pulled back, perhaps even swatted the hand away. But today, he just let out a long, shaky breath.

"Yeah," Petey said, his voice carefully neutral, as if the earlier emotional outburst had never occurred. "Probably just nothing." He pushed open the door to the examination room himself. Quicker the diagnosis, quicker the… outcome. Maybe being terminally ill would grant him an early release out of pity. A few precious, final days with his family.

The nurse, a serious woman who looked like she'd seen it all and got things done, finished her checking and removed the blood pressure monitor that had been uncomfortably squeezing his arm. His other arm throbbed where she’d insisted on a blood sample, who wouldn’t want a sample of the world’s evilest cat’s blood? She’d probably try to clone him… So yes, a small fight had happened. It was his blood, after all.

The nurse picked up a chart from her desk, glanced at it, then at Petey, then back at the chart. The cat shifted uncomfortably on the paper-covered examination table.

"Petey," she began, her voice carefully neutral. "You are five months pregnant."

A beat of silence.

"Rats," Petey said. "I knew it."

It wasn't that the idea hadn't briefly crossed his mind, but it had seemed much more likely that he was, in fact, dying, rather than carrying a tiny Greg.

He now had a lot of explaining to do.

Well, perhaps not a lot. It was pretty simple, really. You see, when two bees love each other too much, and there's wine involved, and you also think that Greg shirtless is sexy...

"No, I don't need the… private details of how it happened," the nurse interrupted his daydreaming, a bit of pink rising on her cheeks. "I'm simply asking if you know the father. No pressure, it’s just for the official forms."

"I told you, lady. Greg. It's not that hard."

The woman gave him an odd look.

"Dog Man," he repeated, saying clearly.

"Wait. As in… Dog Man, Dog Man ?" she asked, her eyes widening with each word.

"Yes?"

An awkward pause hung in the air. Then, the nurse snatched up her phone and made a rapid call, her voice extremely quiet, like she was calling NASA about a matter of top national security. Suddenly, the infirmary door burst open.

"PETEY IS PREGNANT WITH DOG MAN'S BABY?!" Sarah Hatoff shrieked, a microphone already thrust forward like a weapon, a rushed cameraman scrambling behind her, his lens aimed directly at Petey, who watched the developing chaos with a growing feeling of horrified acceptance from the side of the room.

"Alright, folks, Sarah Hatoff here, and you are NOT going to believe this one! THIS MORNING, down at the JAIL DOCTOR OFFICE Yes, the JAIL ONE!- I GOT SUPER EXPLOSIVE NEWS! We're talking about the world's... EVILEST CAT! And he is.... PRE-!"

Okay. This was almost certainly illegal.

And he also knew, that Dogman had a special liking for Sunday morning television.

His only hope was that his beloved officer didn't shatter his favorite coffee mug when the news broke.

Chapter Text

Dog Man’s favorite coffee mug, the one shaped like a miniature fire hydrant, slipped from his hands. The world seemed to slow for a fraction of a second as it fell before shattering against the cold tile floor. The sound was sharp, yet it barely registered over the cacophony roaring to life inside his own head as he stared, unblinking, at the television.

Petey was… pregnant?

What? Wha… WHAT?

The sentence didn’t compute. It hung in the air, nonsensical and absurd. How was that even possible? And then, like a film reel catching on a projector, the memory stuttered into focus. Oh. He remembered. Of course he remembered.

The scent of night-blooming jasmine from the neighbor’s yard, the low hum of the city settling into sleep, the impossible softness in Petey’s eyes as his usual scary cynicism had melted away, leaving something vulnerable and hopeful just for him. A moment when Dog Man had truly, foolishly believed he was getting a friend, no, not a friend, a PARTNER, for life.

And then, just as quickly, everything was ruined.

Why? The question still echoed in the quiet moments of his life. He’d asked him, right there in the wreckage of Petey’s own making. And Petey, for the first time Dog Man could recall, had simply dissolved into tears, stammering apologies and a torrent of confessions that Dog Man never thought he’d hear in a lifetime.

"Because if I stop being the bad guy, I'm just a target! After everything I've done, I'd have it coming, and I know it."

He had forgiven him. Li’l Petey would have, too. But those families, that county… no. The memory of their faces was a scar that wouldn’t fade.

But that didn’t matter right now, nothing that happened before mattered, because Petey was pregnant! With his child? That’s what the shrill news reporter was shrieking, and the news never lied. (The fact that the same station had botched the sky-high weather forecast for four consecutive months was, for the moment, a detail his brain chose to discard.)

More kids! The thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated joy through him, a warmth spreading from his chest to the tips of his phantom wagging tail. Who wouldn’t want more kids? This was amazing!

And then the joy crashed against the cold, hard wall of reality. Petey was in prison. Dog Man was already struggling, his days a chaotic mess of heavy hero work and the beautiful, exhausting responsibility of raising Li’l Petey. Another kid? He wanted to, with every fiber of his being, but it wasn’t right. He already carried a familiar pang of guilt, a constant ache knowing he spent eighty percent of the time with their kitten while Petey was reduced to supervised, heartbreakingly brief visits on weekends.

A low whine escaped his throat, the sound raw with longing. What he wouldn’t give to sleep beside Petey again, to feel the ghost of a sandpaper tong giving a “good morning” nudge to his nose, to feel those familiar paws kneading his cheeks with affection.

He knew he missed Petey, but seeing him there on the screen, a glaring “BREAKING NEWS” banner plastered across his chest like a brand, made Dog Man realize it was something deeper. He didn’t just miss Petey (he did, a lot), but he also missed the feeling of being a whole family. A barely functional, deeply weird family, but a family nonetheless.

His own family.

With another dramatic whine, Dog Man threw himself onto the sofa, his eyes glued to the TV. He really had a kid on the way? For real? Now all of Ohkay City knew. A fresh wave of guilt washed over him, knowing how much Petey, despite his public persona, valued his privacy. Did that even matter anymore? Were they still a thing? He desperately, desperately hoped so. The framed picture of the orange tabby on his desk at the police station, the one he dutifully dusted off at the start of every shift, spoke for itself. He was all in for Petey, and he was sure, deep down, that Petey felt the same.

He had to do something. Could he visit? Just say hello? Legal or not, a primal, undeniable urge took over. He snatched his police cap, a pair of cuffs (just in case, for bad guys. Petey would never be a bad guy again, he was sure of it), and a handful of dog treats to share. He was going to get people to give Petey a third chance.

He had to.

He had to hear those gentle paws playing the ukulele to the sound of his piano again. Because while Petey couldn’t speak his heart, he could always, always play it for him.

“It’s not visiting hours, Dog Man. Stop it.” The officer at the front desk looked bored.

Dog Man launched into an urgent, complex explanation using sign language, only to be met with a blank stare. The glaring flaw in sign language, he was quickly discovering, was its complete dependence on the other person also knowing the signs. He was left with a thoughtful expression, a single, glistening drop of drool dangling from his tongue. Maybe he could call Chief?

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. He answered with an excited bark.

“DOG MAN, YOU BAD DOG! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO PETEY? WHY IS HE PREGNANT?!”

(Greg-nant) Dog Man thought, a goofy, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. He let out a bark that was, perhaps, a little too pleased with itself.

“NO, NO, NO, YOU CAN’T USE THAT TONE WITH ME… YOU ARE A BAD, BAD-wait, what?”

The line suddenly went silent, save for the faint, tinny static sound and muffled voices that seemed to be coming from somewhere very far away, or very close; it was hard to tell with phone speakers. The officer at his side was looking at the tiny TV in the room, and Dog Man turned his head too, just in time as Chief screamed.

“That cat- he’s… is he escaping again?!”

Yes. On national television. Because of course he was.

The image of Petey, a blur of orange fury against the drab prison wall, launching himself out of a conveniently open infirmary window with the determination of someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose. Dog Man watched, his face frozen in a mask of pure, undiluted horror as Petey plummeted toward what should have been certain death, or at least a very bad Tuesday.

He landed on all four paws, with the practiced grace of a falling leaf.

Right. He always forgot that cats did that. He’d nearly lost his soul for a second there.

The camera zoomed in, because Sarah Hatoff’s cameraman knew good television when he saw it. Dog Man could see the cat’s figure more clearly now as he darted between bushes, slower than usual, his movements just a fraction less fluid.

He suddenly felt dumber than before. The strange, new scent on the tabby’s fur last week, a hint of something milky and sweet beneath the sterile prison soap, the slight puffiness of his stomach that he’d mistaken for better nutrition, unlike at home, where he didn’t eat that much because he was all the time behind closed doors working on his robots.

Of course. He’d been pregnant for a while. Dog Man had been living with a pregnant cat and somehow, somehow, hadn’t noticed. Before Dog Man could form another coherent thought, his feet had a life of their own, launching him toward the forbidden door with the single-minded determination of a guided missile. He heard the distant shouts of his co-workers, a chorus of “Dog Man, NO!” and “Somebody stop him!” but they were just noise, background static to the roaring in his ears. He was Dog Man, after all, and that meant he was a little stupid.

Petey heard screams while he was running between the stupid and thorny (ouch! A splinter! Right in the paw pad!) bushes, and for a second, he almost didn’t look back. Looking back was for people who made good life choices, and he’d left those behind around the time he’d decided to rob his first bank. 

But then he heard a familiar, frantic bark, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his tail puffing up.

Of course. It was his dumb boyfriend, attempting to jump from the very same window in a misguided, heroically idiotic attempt to follow him. Because apparently, today was the day everyone decided to throw themselves out of windows.

He wanted to die right there on the spot from pure, secondhand embarrassment. But he turned back anyway, because someone had to save this dumb dog’s life. So he turned around toward where all the damn police were congregating. He was so, so stupid.

But he also was, however, a little impressed (he’d never admit it out loud) when Dog Man managed to grab onto a drainpipe and slide the rest of the way down, landing in a heroic, three-point superhero pose.

Petey stared, frozen in a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to affection, but he didn’t have time to run before the furry cannonball launched himself forward, a frantic, joyful whirlwind of slobber and absolutely zero regard for personal space.

“No, Dog Man, not on the mouth! Not in public!” the tabby yelled, the words muffled against Dog Man’s fur, which smelled like coffee and that cheap police station soap and… home. “There are cameras everywhere, you-mmph!”

(I MISSED YOU SO MUCH,) Dog Man signed, his hands moving slowly, deliberately, his entire focus on making the movements clear for Petey, even as he continued to assault him with affectionate licks.

“Well, I also missed you, Greg,” Petey admitted, his voice softening into something raw and uncomfortable for him. (Dog Man nearly started to cry right there, a little whimper escaping his throat. How many months had it been since he’d heard his real name?) “In fact, I… I missed you a lot.”

(Really?)

“Yes, of course! In case you stupidly forgot, I am never not thinking about you, you absolute buffoon- THE MOUTH! COULD YOU NOT?! I JUST SAID NOT IN PUBLIC!”

The wail of sirens cut through the moment. Dog Man stood, his movements careful as he put himself up again like a shield between Petey and the arriving officers.

He barked, a single, defiant sound that echoed across the park. Chief climbed out of his car, moving with the energy of a man who’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes, and looked at the disheveled cat still sprawled on the ground, orange fur sticking up at odd angles, and at Dog Man standing over him like a very determined guard dog, and for a moment, all the anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too much paperwork.

“Petey,” he said, his voice tired. “We need to talk.”

“The city council is willing to give you a last chance.”

“What? Why?” Petey’s ears flicked forward, suspicion written in every line of his body.

“Because it’s a favor to Dog Man. He’s a hero. The city’s hero, in fact. And maybe if he thinks you deserve another chance, the people will, too. Also,” Chief added, lowering his voice and glancing around, “we don’t have facilities for pregnant cats, and frankly, we don’t want to play with fire. The lawsuit potential alone is giving our lawyers nightmares.”

“Who’s pregnant?” Petey asked, genuinely confused for a moment.

“You, Petey.”

“Oh. Right.” He blinked. “That.”

“You’re fine with that?”

“Of course.” The answer came too quickly, too smoothly.

“You don’t seem fine.”

“I’m fine. Why do you think I’m not fine?” Petey’s voice went up an octave, the universal sign of someone who was absolutely not fine.

“Your tail looks like it’s having a seizure, and Dog Man can clearly smell your discomfort. Also, you’re doing that thing where you won’t make eye contact but keep that creepy smile all over your face.”

“I already have a child! This isn’t new for me,” Petey protested, his claws digging into his own palms.

Dog Man gently touched his shoulder, his movements tender. (You know this is not… exactly the same,) he signed, his expression soft with concern.

(It’s pretty much the same,) Petey signed back dismissively, his hands moving too fast. (Instead of a metal machine giving me a son, it’s a flesh machine. Same principle. Science.)

“That’s… an off-putting way to say it,” Chief muttered, making a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Also, very disturbing. Please never refer to yourself as ‘flesh machine’ again.”

Petey let out a huff, his ears flattening as he remembered that Chief also could speak sign language, which was inconvenient when you were trying to have a private breakdown.

Dog Man moved his hands again, slowly, almost out of Chief’s view, like he was trying to give them privacy. (Are you okay?)

Petey wanted so badly to lie. To put on the comfortable mask, to be the villain, to say something cutting and clever that would make everyone laugh or leave him alone. But instead, he just shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch somebody, preferably someone who deserved it, but honestly at this point he wasn’t picky. His entire body ached in ways he didn’t have words for, and he missed his home so much. He wanted to sleep next to Li’l Petey, to read a book without fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, to eat some of Greg’s horrible, wonderful cooking that somehow tasted like love despite being objectively terrible.

“I want to go home,” his mouth betrayed him, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His ears drooped as he met Chief’s gaze with genuine, weary sincerity, all his defenses finally crumbling, it felt awful.

Chief opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again like a fish. He pushed a stack of papers toward Petey. It was the same stupid stuff as always: oaths that once held no value but now had to be taken as gospel, promises he’d broken before but somehow had to mean something this time. Petey took the pen, its weight feeling heavier than it should. The scratch of the nib on cheap paper was the only sound in the room. He signed, and this time it was his real signature, clean and deliberate, not the mocking scrawl he usually used.

“So, can I go?” Petey asked, his voice hollow, like he was afraid the answer might change if he sounded too hopeful.

Chief waved a hand in a gesture that was half dismissal, half benediction. “Get out of here. Before I change my mind.”

They stood, Petey’s movements slower than usual, careful. He turned to leave, and Dog Man started to follow like a shadow, but Chief called him back with a sharp whistle.

“Dog Man, we still need to talk. Tomorrow morning. My office. I can’t believe the ‘sweetheart’ you’ve been asking me for romance tips about was our most wanted criminal. Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is going to generate?”

Dog Man looked everywhere but at Chief, his eyes darting around the room. Distraction… distraction… he needed a distraction… IDEA! The best idea he’d ever had, probably!

(You get to be the godfather.)

Chief’s tired face lit up, all his exhaustion vanishing in an instant. “REALLY?!” he screamed, loud enough to wake the dead. “WHO’S A GOOD… partially good dog?! WHO IS IT?! IT’S YOU!”

Dog Man launched himself at Chief, tackling him in a flurry of enthusiastic licks before Petey’s hands were tugging at his armpits with the strength of someone who’d had quite enough excitement for one day.

“Yes, yes, we’re all happy. Very touching. Now we need to go home. Li’l Petey is waiting with his nanny,” Petey said, his voice dripping with suspicion to something he already knew the answer to. Greg’s expression confirmed it, that familiar, guilty look of someone who had absolutely not done the responsible thing.

“You did leave Li’l Petey with a nanny, right?”

Silence. Damning, terrible silence.

“Dog Man… did you just leave our seven-year-old, hyperactive, highly dangerous son home alone? Our son who once figured out how to make a working flamethrower out of a toaster?”

Dog Man blasted off like a rocket.

“Sorry, Chief. Gotta follow. Thanks for the… everything,” Petey said, walking peacefully after him.

“Don’t worry, I-” Chief watched the door close with a decisive click. “Did he just say… sorry? To me?! Did Petey the cat just apologize?!”

His elation was cut short by his crackling radio, because of course it was.

“Uhhh, Chief, we got a lost cat kid… found him in the supermarket. He just vomited on a lot of gummy worms in aisle two… and aisle three… and part of aisle four…”

A tiny voice piped up in the background, bright and cheerful.
“Knock, knock.”

“If it’s another diarrhea joke…” the officer on the other end sighed.

Chief let out a deep, soul-crushing sigh, and with his other hand he was already getting up to catch the parents, because somebody had to be responsible around here, and apparently it wasn’t going to be them.

“HI, CHIEF!” the radio blared, nearly breaking his eardrum and probably several FCC regulations.

“Hi, buddy. Where are your parents?” He already knew the answer, but he had to ask anyway, for the paperwork.

“Dog Man left, and I got hungry. Hey, do you wanna hear a joke?”

“Li’l Petey, I don’t-”

“I know someone who talks like an owl!”

“Who?” Chief fell for it. He always fell for it.

A child’s giggle could be heard, joined by the exhausted officer on the scene who couldn’t help but laugh despite everything.

 “Who? Why are you laughing? HEY, YOU TWO! FREDERIK, WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT?!”

One cat made him mad. Two made him crazy. Three? Oh, good heavens. Somebody save this police station. At this point they might need an extra pair of hands… or honestly, just send him on a permanent beach vacation.

Either would work.