Things fell back to something approaching normal as February began, starting with the Joltik population revolting against their relative inattention to the swarm, but only truly cemented with a smaller-scale crisis.

In all of the excitement of getting the Battle Subway back in working order, Emmet had forgotten that, the previous summer, he’d agreed to attend a breeders’ meet up in Icirrus City-- and while he’d seen the note on their calendar days in advance, the somewhat-sudden obligation had thrown him off kilter. He’d been unable to entirely move on from it for a solid hour, trying to decide whether or not it was actually okay for him to go with so much happening in other facets of his life.

They’d gotten to the day-of and he was still waffling, in spite of Ingo’s every attempt to steer him on course before he missed the green line’s next departure. When it proved that chasing after Emmet wasn’t having the intended effect, he backed off instead, using that time to lay down while his brother worked through the matter.

“—would understand. There are human babies involved.”

Ingo didn’t bother looking up from the book propped up against his middle, already well aware of what he’d find. Voice low and unimpressed, he said, “By definition, no there aren’t-- but there are fetuses involved. They won’t go on to become newborns for another seven weeks, so there’s no reason to spin your wheels here instead of going.”

“You do not know that for certain.” Emmet argued, pacing past the couch’s length in the opposite direction this time. “We were born at thirty five weeks.”

“The last time I checked, I was two weeks short of that goalpost. How are you doing your math? I would be fascinated to hear the logic that took us from thirty three to thirty five weeks over the course of a single day.” There was a frustrated sound from the couch’s other side, and he sighed, looking up at an uncomfortable angle to watch his twin stalk past again, “You clearly want to go, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. I don’t understand why you risk derailing over the passengers reaching late preterm.”

“They’re viable. You could have them any time.” Emmet turned on his heel and stopped before he could make another circuit, right where he could look over the sofa.

Ingo nudged the book into flopping forward, marking its page against his chest, and leaned back in full so he could maintain eye contact without straining anything. “If they were going to be born the instant they could feasibly survive, it would have happened by now. They’ve been viable for weeks. I promise you, they’re not departing any time soon.”

“You can’t say that for certain.” His twin said, hands curled over the back of the couch, staring down at him.

That he couldn’t-- not with sources, at least-- but he knew, without a trace of doubt, that his sons would go to term. As he’d failed to convince even Emmet, however, he’d been keeping that assurance to himself, only bringing his theory up when it was called for.

“Let’s assume that early labor does begin while you’re gone.” He tried, instead, “Icirrus is on the main subway circuit. Even if, for some unfathomable reason, you were unable to take a westbound train, you could get back well before the shift to active labor.” Ingo reached up, snagging the hand nearest his and carrying it down to hold more comfortably. “Even in the worst case scenario, the situation is well in hand. Go enjoy yourself.”

It was clear in Emmet’s expression that he was seriously considering it, fingers absently-- counterintuitively-- lacing with his twin’s. “And… you will be here the entire time?”

“I don’t intend to move from this spot until someone forces the matter.” Ingo said with complete sincerity.

While his brother lapsed into further deliberation, his eyes flicked over to the clock. Emmet would almost certainly be late, but it was an informal meeting-- and, from those names Ingo recognized, it wouldn’t be held against him. Other breeders recognized how seriously he took the Joltiks’ care, so of course they would expect that behavior when it came to his own human family, too.

“Okay.” He eventually said, reluctance easy to read into every twitch of his expression, “But you have to promise that you will call if anything feels more wrong than usual.”

“I’ll be sure to inform you in the event that I spontaneously go into labor this afternoon.” Ingo said flatly, and teasingly tightened his grip when his brother made to pull his hand away in exasperation. After a second, he released it and switched to his usual intonation instead, “Have fun, and remember that Xtransceivers function both ways. I’m happy to report on the latest drama between the Klinklang if it will allow you to enjoy the day without preoccupation.”

Emmet was smiling again as he took his hand back-- small, but there.

“Have a good rest.” He said and, after lingering just long enough to confirm the presence of an answering not-smile, began to hurry through the last preparations he had to make before leaving.

By the time his twin reached for the door, Ingo had gone back to his book and was only raising his head to bid him a good afternoon-- so he wasn’t entirely sure where it came from when, just prior to his own goodbye, Emmet said, “I will ask if Iris can keep you company while I am gone.”

He… did not follow. Not in the slightest. Had he missed the point where they’d determined that was a condition? Did his brother just think he would be lonely? It was baffling enough that, before three minutes had elapsed, he reached for his Xtransceiver.

Again, contrary to popular belief, there aren’t actually any babies on the premises right now; you don’t have to recruit a sitter. It seems somewhat beneath Iris’s station as regional champion.

The babysitter is for you. You attempted to upstage me the last time I left you alone.

I… did no such thing?

There is security footage that states otherwise.

We call that ‘self defense’.

No. We call it overkill.

What would you have me do? Go easy on the terrorists?

There was a long pause before the next response came in, and when Ingo set his novel down to look, what he found was a stubborn reiteration of:

You’re getting a babysitter.

He let his head fall back against the armrest and groaned.