AN: One of the longer things today. "We'll Beat The Darkness And We'll Stay Right Here", title from My Best Friends from Pokemon (not to be confused for Best Friends from Pokemon, completely different song).

Content warning: This one deals with abuse and the effects and traumas of it more than most of my fics, in the context of Norm especially, albeit with the actions in question completely offscreen. Tl;dr Heinz realises he's been treating Norm poorly, through a flashback to his own childhood, and Perry (pov) shows up to deal with the aftermath. Hopeful ending because I like hopeful endings.

It's late. The house is quiet, your boys are asleep in their beds, and you're kneading the blankets, about to join them in slumber. You've had a long day, you've earned this.

Your watch buzzes against your wrist.

Squinting at the screen is an effort with your tired eyes. Really? You've just finished today's paperwork, what the hell does OWCA want now-

That's not Major Monogram.

Instantly awake, you slide off the bed you'd just made yourself comfortable on (Ferb's again) and carefully open the door. Whatever Vanessa needs, you'll do what you can to make it happen. You owe her that.

You'd given her your number a few weeks ago, after her father got caught up in yet another disaster of his own making. As much as you care about your nemesis, he can make some poor decisions sometimes. Or, well, often. That's why you're here.

"Something happened to Dad," she'd said, and you'd been running for your jetpack before the words had left the air.

Knocking at the door now, you wait as patiently as you can, tail twitching from the anxiety you can't quite suppress. Something happened to Heinz. It's your job, your responsibility, to do something about that.

Not hers. Never hers. She's still a child, and no child should have to raise her own parent.

You're glad she called you instead.

The door opens to her worried face and she gestures you in, closing the door behind you. "Thanks, Perry." She wrings her hands together as she says it, a nervous habit you know she picked up from her father. You have the same one, for the same reason. "I don't know what happened, but he's in the kitchen."

Tipping your hat in answer, you gesture her to bed. You'll handle this.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asks, over the muffled sounds you know are sobs. Every one wrenches at your heart, a demand to drop everything and comfort him, but you rein yourself in. If you ran to him now, she'd panic. And that's the last thing you want to do.

You gesture again, more emphatically this time. Of course he will, you're here, so she needs to go and sleep.

That gets you an eyeroll for your trouble. "You're as bad as Dad sometimes, you know that?" But she's smiling, and she does disappear to her bedroom on the other side of the apartment, so you count that as a win.

Following the pained sounds that have tugged at your thoughts since you entered, you step into the kitchen, only seeing him on the second glance. He's hugging his knees tight to his chest, pressed into a corner as far as he can go. The sight pulls at your heart, and you blink away tears of your own.

A step closer and he flinches, visibly shaking.

Chirring, you hold your paws up, flat and open. You won't hurt him. Yes, he's your nemesis, but he needs you here as a friend so a friend you shall be.

After an achingly long wait that's somehow still only seconds long, he lifts his head, tears glistening in his deep blue eyes. "Perry the Platypus?" he whispers, voice cracking.

Only years of training keeps you from launching yourself into his waiting arms at the words. You hold still, with effort (more effort than it should), taking deep breaths to calm yourself. You need to take this slow. Don't scare him. The last thing you want to do is scare him.

So you do your best to smile through the way your heart aches at his pain. You're here for him.

He smiles back, just as brokenly. With a soft exhale of breath, the tight grip around his knees loosens, and he lets his shoulders fall from around his ears. Calmer, and the sight soothes your frayed nerves.

"I don't know what to do, Perry the Platypus." He glances down, at where he's picking at a loose thread on his slacks. "Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

Telegraphing every motion, you step closer. If he wants comforting, if he needs a listening ear, you're here. He'll never ask for comfort. That much is obvious, after the time you've spent together. He can't ask but you know he'll take what he can get, so you'll meet him halfway. Stopping in front of him, you offer your paw. It's all up to him.

He takes it, fingers trembling against yours. "Are you sure?"

Heart aching, you lay your other paw on his knuckles and squeeze. If you can forgive him, after all the ways he's hurt you, anyone can.

"I just..." He crumples, pressing his face into your shoulder. Curling his free arm around you, he clings, his thin frame wracked with sobs. So far from the hard-won confidence he usually displays.

All you can do is hold him close, tucking him under your chin. It doesn't feel like enough. He has so much pain in his past, nothing seems like enough. And yet you try anyway. He needs someone to hear him, so you listen. He needs someone to be there for him, so you stay. He needs someone to put faith in him, so you believe.

Sniffling, he wipes his eyes, giving you a smile that doesn't quite mask the lingering pain. "I'm alright."

You shake your head. No, he's not. Whatever happened, it's still weighing on his mind, filling his thoughts the way his pain fills yours. Letting go of his hand, you bring your paw up around his head, threading your fingers through his hair.

"No, really," he protests, not pulling away, "I'm fine."

Who's he trying to convince, you or himself? Rolling your eyes, you hug him tighter for a brief moment, then let your paw slide down to the small of his back. You shift your feet, adjusting your stance so you can wrap your other arm under his legs and hoist him up.

This isn't the first time you've done this. He's used to it by now, holding on tight while you carry him through the apartment, even opening doors for you.

Reaching his darkened bedroom, you set him down beside the edge of the bed, and turn to close the door behind you. This time, this space, is just for the two of you. Behind you, soft moonlight streams in through the large windows, the only light you need. Once it's firmly shut you jump up onto the mattress, tugging at the collar of the lab coat you know he would have fallen asleep in otherwise, until he stands and shrugs it off.

Without it, he looks smaller, stripped of the bulk it gives him. And of the armour it's become, a shield against the disdain of those who'd point their fingers at him.

You run your paws over the thin black shirt he's still wearing, that hides the scars both physical and not, then pull at the hem of it. Why does he need armour here, in this space, away from prying eyes? He's safe with you.

Pulling that off as well, he turns back to you, taking your offered paws. "If you wanted me naked you could have asked," he grumbles, no force in the words.

Another eyeroll and you point at his trousers too. This is asking.

"Fine, Perry the Bossypus." He squeezes your fingers, flashing you an aching smile before he drops his hands to his belt.

While he's doing that, you turn your attention to the bed itself. He's left it a mess, blankets rumpled and pillows scattered across the floor, the mess of a man desperate to be elsewhere. From creative inspiration, you think, sneaking a glance at his face in the darkened room. Not a nightmare. The bags under his eyes are no more pronounced than usual, suggesting he's slept as well these last few days as he ever does.

Part of you is glad. The rest worries about him anyway, that this is what a good day for him looks like. That whatever's bothering him is in the present, not the past. All the more reason for you to stay tonight.

Hauling the pillows back onto the bed, you fluff them up with all the restrained aggression you can't keep in check any longer. Every instinct is screaming at you to fight something, ideally whoever hurt your nemesis, and it won't help him feel better in this moment so you channel it all into the helpless cotton and polyester in your paws.

He laughs, the sound brittle in the soft darkness. "What did my pillow ever do to you?" he says, setting his large hands on your shoulders and digging his thumbs into the tense muscle. "Besides, I think you've thwarted it already."

What can you say? That when you twist it in your paws you're picturing the necks of everyone who's ever hurt him?

Exhaling, you set it down and turn back around. He's still staring at you, expression guarded, unreadable, and this, too, twists in your heart. It's not that he doesn't trust you, because he does. You've saved each other often enough to know what trust looks like.

You point at his underwear, the last scrap of fabric covering his body, and raise an eyebrow. Even that's armour. Something to hide behind, so he doesn't have to be vulnerable.

"You first," he insists, tone laden with stubbornness, his folded arms a shield against your gaze.

Instinct screams at you to refuse, but if it's what he needs to feel better, you'll do it. Vulnerability's hard (dangerous) for you too, but this is part of trusting him: compromise. Facing him as an equal. Stepping out of the role you're most comfortable in, the role that, height aside, stands over him. You owe him that much.

Slowly, while he watches, you take your own hat off, setting it carefully on the bedside table before turning back to face him as just Perry the Platypus. Not as an agent, not as his nemesis, but as his friend.

He sighs and lets his arms fall, deflating. "I don't know what you think you're doing, Perry the Platypus, but it won't work on me."

Like hell it won't. It already has. His smile's stronger now, his voice steadier, and his hands have almost ceased their shaking. So far from the panic you'd heard when you'd first walked through the door.

Not far enough.

Moving back in front of him, you hook your fingers over the waistband of his underwear, glancing up at his eyes. They're almost black in the near-darkness, pupils wide. His breath comes faster, loud in the silence, and you brush a thumb against his skin in reassurance.

"Yeah, you're right," he admits quietly, sliding the thin fabric down his skinny legs. "I just..." Kicking it off, he gives you another soft smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's hard, you know?"

Taking his hand again, you squeeze his fingers, gently tugging him towards the bed. It is hard, and you're proud of him for coming this far anyway.

He flops forward onto the mattress, letting your paw fall. Squirming up to the newly-fluffed pillow, he buries his face in it with a sigh, and reaches for the blanket to pull over him completely. His breath hitches, not quite muffled by the soft fabric.

Crying.

The sound wrenches at your heart, pulling an answering cry from your throat as you fall to your paws. You crawl forwards, tugging at the blanket, until at last you find an opening and slide in next to his naked form.

Twisting to face you, he furrows his brows in the not-quite-total darkness. "Oh," he says, in a tone you can't quite identify. "You're still here."

You nod, brushing a paw over his cheek where a tear has left its mark. It's the most selfish thing you could do, to stay when your family's expecting you home. To stay where you're surrounded by the comfortable warmth of him. To stay just so you can reassure yourself he's going to be fine.

"If I asked you to leave, would you?"

Yes.

The thought of it, of leaving when he's like this, aches. But if it's what he needs, who are you to deny him?

With a sigh, he untwists, turning away. Hiding his face from you. When he speaks again, when the silence is too heavy, his voice is quieter, hesitant. "And if I ask you to stay?"

You pull his head to your chest, combing your fingers gently through his messy hair. Whether you'd stay isn't the question. You'll stay regardless, for as long as you're welcome in his arms. (In his bed.) But if he asks you to, if he voices his want for you to hear, you'll be so damn proud of him for asking.

But he doesn't. Instead, he hugs his legs closer, making himself smaller, and you push down the urge to cry out in shared anguish. This isn't about you. It's about him, this broken man letting himself fall apart in your arms.

"Am I a bad father?"

Barely a whisper, his words linger in the air. There's a weight to them, cold and heavy in the stillness, born of fears left unspoken until this moment.

You close your eyes, stilling your paw in his hair. How do you answer that? You've never known a father of your own, raised into OWCA from hatching as you were, so the whole idea's, quite frankly, alien to you. All you can be sure of is that he would do anything for Vanessa.

Shifting against you, he exhales a shaky breath. "I called Mother earlier. She... I mean, I know I don't measure up, I'm not successful like Roger, but. Just once, I'd like to know I'm not a complete failure of a son."

The last thing you'd call him is a failure. He's a stubborn man who never knows when to quit, who throws his whole self into his projects and damn the consequences, but he's not a failure.

"I know, you've heard it all before, the Heinz Doofenshmirtz Insecurity Hour, whatever. That's all beside the point. So, phone call with Mother, that goes about as well as usual, and then Norm-" He hisses through his teeth, a pained sound that sets your paw running through his hair again. "All he did was trip, some parts got left out, and I... He looked so... I sounded like Mother."

You've never known how to respond to his troubles with family, but he sounds so dejected you can't help but hug him closer, wrapping all five limbs around him.

Sucking in a breath, he shifts again in the darkness. "I didn't mean it, Perry the Platypus, I promise I didn't mean to, I didn't realise-" He presses into you, almost desperately, not quite able to suppress his whimper. "What do I do?"

You let out a soft chirr, nuzzling at his hair. Relax. Keep talking. Monologuing lets him ease the burden on his mind, shift some of it onto your shoulders as you stay by his side.

"He... is that what I looked like? When Father yelled, or Mother..." His breath hitches in a sob. "All I ever wanted was to be a good son, but I couldn't even be a good lawn gnome, I... I wanted to be part of the family, not a burden, not. Not me. And he... it's like looking in a mirror, except, you know, I'm not a robot, well I mean my arms- The point is, I-" Exhaling, he reaches for your paws, covering them with shaking hands. "It's my fault. I should have realised... But I didn't, I'm too much of a-"

A tug at his ear, because you've come too far to listen to him repeating the lies he's been taught, and he stops with a shudder. Not pulling away, for which you're relieved. You don't want to scare him into silence, not here and now, when he's already hurting so much.

He squeezes your paw, tight enough to ache. "Thank you, Perry the Platypus, I just..." Trailing off, he swallows, loud in the stillness. "He's my son."

Son? You're, admittedly, not that familiar with human family structures, but-

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, it makes sense! I brought him into the world. By myself, which I guess makes me his father and mother- well, just father, really. But he's, well, he's not just a robot. He has feelings, and... and I hurt them." Breath hitching, he lets go of your paw, rubbing at his eyes. "I hurt him," he whispers, barely more than a breath. "I know I'm supposed to be Evil and shouldn't care who gets in my way but he's... I made him. He's my son, and he doesn't have anyone else to look out for him. Except you, probably, you're over here often enough. But that's it. No one else. Zilch. Nada. Just me, and I haven't exactly done the best job of... of being his father."

His voice cracks at the last word, the sound echoing through your mind long after silence has fallen. Only the sound of both your hearts, the sound of both your breathing, disturbs the empty air around you both.

How do you respond to that? Is there something you could say to dull the ache of it?

Because he's right. As lonely as Heinz is (and he is, you can see through his claims to the contrary), he still has you. Norm barely even has that much. Yes, you're here all the time, but that's for work, for Heinz.

Not for Norm.

He leans his head against you, letting out a sigh. "I want to fix this," he continues, more tired than you've ever heard him, "but I don't even know if he'll want anything to do with me now. Or if he ever did. I mean, sure, he thinks I'm his father, well I am, but, how much of that is because he doesn't know any better? Or because I don't? My father never- I mean, I was a lawn gnome! Vanessa turned out alright, but what if that was all Charlene? She always was the normal one, her family- I-"

A sob wrenches through him, cutting off the flow of words, and you chirr softly. You've seen him with Vanessa. There's no doubt that he tries, and it may be misguided sometimes but that's what you're for, to make sure his intentions shine through when his actions get in the way. To piece this broken family together. You've taken that task upon yourself, by choice, using your paws (your weapons) to dull the edges and heal the cracks.

"I need to be a better father to him, Perry the Platypus." Rolling over, he sets an almost-steady hand on your side, avoiding your eyes, teeth tugging at his lip. Nervous, not scared. "Will you help me?"

You nod, still brushing your fingers through his hair. Of course you'll help. You're glad to, for the way his eyes light up now, relief visible on his tired face. In the meantime, he's smiling as he kisses you, and it's enough to know he'll be okay.

Someday, he'll be okay.

AN: Norm deserves so much more than he got, starting with his father being a father. (Both his fathers, because Perry's his other father.)