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Perry loves Heinz. There was a time when this would have been beyond his rudimentary grasp of a language he only ever used in relation to the humans in his life.
Words, terms and phrases, had strict definitions then—love was modeled off a dictionary entry, modified slightly by his exposure to the human familiar structure. He had only slowly learned to define words by examples, and then even more slowly to question those examples. He’s been learning language with terrifying speed and depth since he met Heinz, each day bringing staggering new subtleties to these collections of verbal syllables. But he thinks that Heinz often forgets that he is an animal, first and foremost, and that words do not come as easily to him.
Perry loves Heinz, and that isn’t anything new. Love, like Candace loves her brothers, with exasperation and strictness and a fierce protectiveness that feels almost too huge for either of their species. Love, like Linda and Lawrence, two strangers coming together with unexpected compatible oddness. Love, like the organic sensation of being near Heinz, an unquantifiable emotion that has driven him to ignore his own training on countless different occasions. He’d thought it was hate for a long time because that was the human designation for this relationship, their official designation. He hadn’t considered that fondness and loyalty are not parts of the word hate.
Okay, so he loves the man. He still doesn’t understand half the things he says.
Perry is napping in the back yard under the yellow thickness of falling sunlight, but he is napping fitfully. It’s often like this after one of their more stressful adventures, while he waits to see if this is finally the scheme that will have long term consequences, repercussions that he won’t be able to soften with a pamphlet or a covert fly-over. He’s had his body altered a few times, but this one was by far the most disturbing. The kids don’t seem to remember the transformation, but animal minds—he’s communicated to some extent with the other agents since last night—hold tightly to memories of pain and terror and refuse to relinquish. Perry remembers faintly being Candace, and he can only imagine that humans must all walk around in a faint pink haze of sensory dullness. A few of his fellow agents have taken the whole experience pretty hard. Agent M called in sick today and actually got the day off.
Being Heinz was—well, it wasn’t really being him, but it was close enough to unsettle. They were all poor copies, but the shape of the thing informs the mind, doesn’t it? Candace’s shape remembered shoes, Heinz’s shape remembered… other things.
Dull resentment, that was a given. Spend an hour with the man and you’d know. But he remembers how the change came over him in sharp pops and twists, and he remembers seeing the real Heinz on the balcony, and he remembers being repulsed. He knows that word, it’s the word that goes with sidewalk gum and sniggering cruelty, it’s a gut sensation, like a pulse pushing you away from this awful thing. He knows that wasn’t coming from him. He sees Heinz every day, and sometimes looking at him inspires irritation (itchy, wriggle-out-of-your-cage-before-you-should) or exasperation (sighing, press-the-button-for-him), but he’s never felt that physical punch of loathing, not even in the early days when the scientist’s ramblings were just a disjointed jumble of syllables to him.
That, he can only assume, came from Heinz.
Perry wriggles in the grass, but he can’t seem to get comfortable. The kids are out in the yard but their chatter is muted, today they’ve limited themselves to an every-flavor-bubblegum machine and they all look up, every so often, like they’re waiting for a storm. They’re good kids, and he’s so proud of them, but they’ve been through a lot. Humans may wear a pink haze of insulation from their own pain, but they spend a lot of time mulling things over, worrying about the implications of their choices. Heinz is a perfect example.
Perry is more like a human now than he’s ever been. He’s thinking about implications.
The repulsinator. Perry thinks now that it must have been reacting to the intentions of its creator. He’s aware that Rodger doesn’t think much of Heinz, but he also knows that Roger doesn’t hold a grudge. He’d make up if Heinz would let him, although the apology wouldn’t cover any of the things that have really hurt Heinz. There are certain kind of wounds that can't be patched, and certain wrongs that can't be righted with words. So Perry doesn't think Heinz is mistaken, exactly, for refusing to make up, he just knows that the olive branch is out there waiting. Roger isn't the problem. One way or another, there’s no real animosity pumping through those pipes.
The repulsion must have come from Heinz. And, logically, when Perry assembles his knowledge base, he thinks he can see where that heart of darkness grows from. He’s educated, in his own way, he’s taken some psychology courses with the agency, earned a couple certificates in the hopes of getting a raise. It’s an incentive program Carl’s been pushing for years. He knows you can train an animal to press a button with enough reinforcement, and he knows you can teach a child to hate himself with even less effort. Humans get hung up on physical features. He remembers the handsome episode; he’s never known how to feel about that. The sanctity of small town democracy is serious business, and his job—his job—is literally to thwart all wiles great and small. The decision should have been clear cut. It was clear cut. It doesn’t matter what he might want to be able to give his nemesis, there is the law and the law can be bent but it cannot be broken. The moment he crosses that line, he’ll be gone.
He looks across the yard. Phineas has a sort of over-zealousness for the bubblegum machine. It sounds like he’s trying to get it to produce everlasting gobstoppers and bertie-bots-every-flavor-beans all in one go. Ferb has spent about half of the afternoon watching the gate. Perry knows they’ll be okay, but he also knows it was him who flew that helicopter into the DEI building, and he’s so human right now, he keeps wondering about the chopper blades and his children, about Vanessa and the real Heinz.
The real Heinz, who allowed his own self loathing to nearly annihilate the few people he loves.
The thing is, Perry doesn’t get it. Heinz is funny, in an accidental sort of way, and he’s earnest and he’s so willing underneath all of the Evil Scientist posturing. You can tune him out and he doesn’t even notice. He’s… well, he’s… he has a really excellent nose, it’s a remarkable improvement on the usual human appendage. Honestly Perry would never be rude enough to point it out but most human noses have this distinct knob shape, it’s really a bit off-putting when you look too hard. Frankly, whatever it is that Heinz sees when he looks in the mirror is a mystery to Perry. It's hard to imagine not loving him.
And Perry does. Perry loves him.
Perry’s thoughts wander after that, slipping off down a track that eventually leads into the territory of sleep, and the sky stays clear and the gate stays closed. He has suspected for a long time that someone needs to talk to Heinz about his strange words—the things he says that Perry can barely comprehend—but now, drifting into sleep, Perry is becoming more and more certain that, somehow, that someone will have to be him.