The dichotomy of what did and didn’t come as a surprise during the anatomy scan had been somewhat fascinating.

Ingo went in expecting it to be just as unpleasant as the last ultrasound, but it hadn’t been nearly as bad as he might have thought. The gel still made his skin crawl, but the sensation of the transducer gliding over it had been far more tolerable. In hindsight, there was a good chance that his efforts toward desensitization had paid off in this specific instance.

On the opposite track, there was the picture itself. It seemed important. It was important.

It changed nothing.

As he’d followed along with what the technician showed him, he’d become very suddenly aware of how ridiculous that expectation had been. Of course it didn’t change anything; he may not have realized it until that moment, but he’d already made a decision. There hadn’t been any reason to dwell on the epiphany right then, and, instead, he’d focused on the image in front of him. On his sons.

The picture hadn’t been the best, but it was the first time he’d seen them in two months. The first he’d seen them since deciding their place was with him.

When offered a copy, he’d accepted. He didn’t really know what he intended to do with it, but it was better than wishing he’d taken the opportunity after it passed. Maybe, depending on how things went this evening, he’d show it to Emmet.

For now, Ingo put it away in one of his desk drawers and moved to sit on his bed. It was a familiar sensation by now, and he found himself reaching up out of muscle memory, resting both of his hands atop the modest curve of his belly. That in and of itself felt like a hard-won victory. There were still days he felt disconnected from himself, but luckily this hadn’t been one of them. Not only could he leave the light on but, as he laid back, there wasn’t so much as a ghost of disquiet; the direct contrast between his bedroom and the clinical office from earlier made it far easier to keep himself grounded in reality.

Strictly speaking, he was probably at a point where he didn’t need to do this anymore to remain functional, but he found that he wanted to in this instance. While the transducer hadn’t been nearly as revolting as he’d remembered, there was something soothing about erasing the sense memory of it with the slow wandering of his own palms, in feeling the potent heat built up in his skin.

He was nervous, still, but realized he was also making peace with it.

One of the passengers started moving, not far from where his hand idled, and he traced over the spot again.

“You’re home,” He promised the little boys in his womb, “You’re safe.”

What had done it? When had he made up his mind? It had only become a serious consideration within the past month, but he found he couldn’t locate the turning point. If it had been temporally possible, could one go back day by day, asking his intentions to pinpoint the track switch?

A silly part of him was tempted to blame Emmet-- this was why you didn’t nickname things you didn’t want to get attached to, after all-- but that wasn’t exactly fair to anyone involved.

Ingo sighed, gazing up at the ceiling. That was another concern he had. It wasn’t the nature of his brother’s response that was wearing on him, though; he already knew what the answer would be, and that was part of his frustration. He needed Emmet to think this all the way through, about what all he would be giving up and the totality of the new responsibilities involved. The last thing he wanted was for his twin to go along with this if it would only make him miserable. If that was the case… well, it would be hard, but he knew they would come up with some way to make it work.

It was Ingo’s job to ensure the passengers’ wellbeing now, but he had the same duty to his brother. He always had, and he always would.

He heard a chiming through the walls, and that was all the warning he got before Chandelure phased through. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and he barely even startled, didn’t tear his hands away from where they rested. He’d been mortified at first, which was a little ridiculous, because Chandelure’s takeaway had been that obviously the sight meant it was time for her to cuddle up to his stomach.

There was a similar excitement building in her now, but it hadn’t been ignited by any sudden movements. Instead, Ingo looked up at her and asked, “Is there something I can help you with, flue?”

Reluctantly, she righted herself from where she’d tilted to look at him, and then zoomed across the room, to the clock.

“Ah,” He said, propping himself upright and smoothing down his rumpled shirt, “Thank you, the time had gotten away from me. Do you want to assist in dinner preparations?”

She twirled blithely in the air-- largely indifferent to what she was being asked, but happy to be included-- and he stood up. Motion caught his attention as he began to cross the room, and he realized it was the reflection of Chandelure’s spinning in his mirror.

He drew even with it and hesitated, studying his profile. There was only a gap of three weeks between now and when he’d first put the effort into finding common ground with his body, and already there was a marked difference to be seen, if only from his perspective. This was only the halfway point.

Swallowing against the thrill of fear that shot to his core, he let himself look away. There was nothing for him to be afraid of at this point; there was no fear that someone would find out, as his pregnancy had since been made public. The not-so-slow growth was a good thing, indicating that his body was doing its job and his sons were healthy. He had absolutely no reason to dread gaining a little weight.

Chandelure cooed behind him, hovering over his shoulder to get in his face. She couldn’t know why he’d suddenly grown so anxious, but she’d recognized it and wanted to help. He tilted his head against her, savoring the feeling of smooth glass against his cheek.

“Right, dinner.” He reminded himself, resuming his track, and what had been a mild chore moments prior suddenly became a welcome distraction.

The process of chopping vegetables was a familiar one, and while he still had to hold back a visceral reaction to handling the Basculin fillets, it was infinitely preferable to letting himself spiral. The pieces came together quickly, and there wasn’t anything more to be done until it came out of the oven, so he washed up and sat himself at the kitchen table to address requests for the Battle Subway’s library of study material.

He’d just decided they would need to review the previous year’s Ever Grande Conference when the door clicked open, his brother stepped in, and he processed the abundance of coats.

In spite of himself, he felt a little bit of the tension fade away.