Vladimir Makarov.

He certainly wasn’t known to be a dog person. Neither was he a cat person. Hell, he wasn’t even an animal person, barely even tolerated humans most do the time. This guy liked nothing and no one. At least that’s what he let everyone else see.

Time and time again you’d insist to get a pet on base. For morale and responsibility among the soldiers or whatever bullshit you would come up with. Makarov had never really listened anyway.

Recently though, you found a little stray cat and had taken it back to base with you. Without his permission, of course. Despite his vehement protests, this time, you’d been absolutely hellbent on keeping the damn thing.

Not particularly keen on even more of a headache, the commander finally caved. But not without a muttered curse and a comment about 'pest control'. Of course, the animal was your responsibility entirely form that point on.

A knock on the door broke the ever-consistent ticking of the clock that hung in the office, followed by the soft click of an opening door. After no answer had come from inside, you’d gotten impatient and let yourself in. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight that greeted you though.

There Makarov was, sprawled out across the couch, passed out in all his tired glory. Sleeping curled up on his chest, a certain stray cat. The exact one he’d so vehemently claimed to not want.