Work Text:
Bartholomew "Perry" Fletcher prides himself in many, well-justified, things. He takes pride in his charm, which had helped him keep a leg over and one step further than his peers even while life kept the odds stacked against him. He prides in his family; their kindness, their love, their sheer unbridled optimism for life and peerless brilliance.
He prides himself in his career, and his indomitable professionalism. His reputation as one of OWCA's top agents was one hard-earned, and that he strives to maintain to the very best of his ability; if not for OWCA's sake, then for his own ego. Few things, if ever, could slip by him; and for all the warnings he had heeded, he had not realized the threat Heinz Doofenshmirtz posed to his being until he was trapped- literally and figuratively-too little, too late.
Oh, Perry thinks, squeezed inside the sticky web keeping him stuck to the ceiling as Heinz twirls his one-man kickline, belting his lungs to the tune of a musical number likely weeks in the making. He's cute.
He catches the thought red-handed as it attempts to flit back inside through the recesses of his mind like a light-footed criminal. Perry wishes he didn't. Shit, he thinks urgently. He could feel his ears burning-his most annoying, uncontrollable tell. How comfortable had he allowed himself to get within Heinz's presence to allow such judgements? Why? When had they begun?
He realizes, with no small amount of mortification, that he knew perfectly well the answer to two of those questions, but not the third. Who can tell when Heinz's role and personhood began to appeal beyond professional courtesy, when their nemesis-ship began to grow beyond the typical regard of work acquaintanceship, much less a distant friend? Had he always noticed the bright spark of Heinz's baby blue eyes whenever Perry humoured the steps of their routine; the songs, the monologue, even their daily fights? When had the sharp angles of Heinz's features; the long slope of his half-broken nose, too sharp teeth, skinny legs and trim waist began to appear into something so lovingly familiar instead of something jarring and irritating? Had he always danced so joyously, tried so hard, loved so fiercely, blushed so sweetly?
Scarier than the idea he had only just noticed these features now, Perry thinks, was the possibility that they weren't new at all.
Heinz carries an impressive high note as he lets himself be lifted on an impromptu platform stage above the bulk of his Pothole-Inator, looking to all the world like the sun of Perry's very own planetary system, and he can't help himself from thinking Oh, with some degree of panic. I love him.
Pinky's never going to let him live this down.