It wasn’t that Ingo minded spending time with Iris in the slightest-- he would be happy to see her again, in fact-- it was just how wholly unnecessary it was to pull her from whatever she had planned for the day. He was an adult. He was trusted to ensure the safety of those commuters utilizing the subway system. Emmet wasn’t allowed to say he was wrong for thinking the quality of his work had decreased one week, and then turn around and pull this the next. They would have words tonight.

None of his objections were Iris’s fault, however. Purposefully leaving Emmet’s comment marked ‘read’ out of petty annoyance, he switched away from the previous conversation in its entirety to see what Iris’s take on the situation might be.

Alright! How’s company sound? We won’t do anything crazy, promise!

You’re welcome to visit if that’s truly what you want, but Emmet is being ridiculous. There’s no need to trouble yourself if you have other matters to attend to.

No trouble! And champ stuff has been suuuuper dull lately. I’ve barely seen you guys at all since the Linking Pass, and everyone was a little freaked then.

Again, my apologies. I had no intention of bringing the event down.

Oh, nononono! It’s not your fault! Don’t worry. That’s bad for the babies, right? So stop it.

Give me like, an hour and I’ll be by, okay?

He sent back confirmation, blowing out a sigh. That meant he had to get dressed properly, didn’t it? Not to the full extent of his work uniform, but something more presentable than an over-large hooded sweatshirt and paternity pants that were still half a size too big. He didn’t care if Emmet saw him dressed like this, but it seemed impolite not to at least make an effort for someone who was taking the time to visit him.

It just figured that the individual who would ultimately drive him from his spot was the same one he’d reassured that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Returning to his book was all but impossible now that he knew he was on a time limit, so he set it aside and pushed himself upright; his back cracked unpleasantly, and series of impacts in the area above his hip suggested he wasn’t the only one displeased with this development. He was conscious of the hand that automatically raised to sooth his son down, and allowed himself a moment of pride, still somewhat surprised that he’d gotten to a point where he could do so without being constantly plagued by dysphoria. What a difference from when he’d first forced himself to confront the matter.

They were so much bigger now, and it was… somewhat easier to bear because of that, in a certain sense. Back then, the passengers had been little more than a flutter behind his navel, a sensation that felt largely disconnected from his swollen abdomen, just another in a host of symptoms-- but now the two phenomena were so intrinsically linked. It was orders easier to disregard the extra bulk when his focus was instead on the fact that his twins were active, constantly getting stronger. He sometimes wondered if they kicked one another, too, or if he was the only one fortunate enough to experience that.

Durant accompanied him down the hall, and then rested its mandibles in an idle threat against one of his bedposts. It was difficult to heft the ant up the way it wanted, but with some cooperation, it began circling on his bed like a Purrloin. The instant he shed and set the sweatshirt down, Durant pounced on the opportunity and made that his new nest, chittering happily as he soaked up the residual warmth.

Unfortunately, that left Ingo to contend with the fact that he was currently in between Unovan sizes, and by the time he’d settled on something that looked halfway decent, his mood had soured considerably. Determined not to let it color today’s visit, though, he channeled it into several aggressive circuits around the apartment. Far from agitating the passengers, the motion seemed to settle the one who’d been active before, and it was only when he changed course to get the door that Ingo realized he’d accumulated a procession. Both of those facts helped immeasurably, and he went to meet Iris in substantially better spirits, awkwardly-- but genially-- pushing past Crustle and Klinklang.

To his immense surprise, he opened the door to two people.

Funny. Given the trajectory of his life, one would think he'd have become accustomed to that by now.

“Hi, Ingo!” Iris chirped, unfazed by his moment of confusion, and promptly invited herself in, “It’s okay we’re early, right? I thought I’d have to battle my way out of the league, but they didn’t fight me.”

“No problem whatsoever,” He said, and turned his attention to the young man who was still waiting for the go-ahead, “Please, come in; it’s wonderful to see you again, Cilan.”

“Likewise!” Cilan said, somehow still starry-eyed in spite of the fact that they’d been friends for some time now. He adjusted the strap of the shoulder bag he’d brought with him and finally stepped into the apartment, waiting politely for Ingo to close the door in direct contrast to Iris, who’d immediately bounded over to the lingering brigade of Pokemon.

It was tempting to ask what brought Cilan out this afternoon, but the answer was blatantly obvious, and he didn’t want to make him feel as though his presence was a burden. “I’m afraid I may not be a particularly entertaining host at the moment, so please forgive me if I struggle to keep up today.”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that.” Cilan assured him and, instead of taking the offer to hang his bag up, took an experimental step toward the kitchen. When the only response he got was a puzzled Subway Boss trailing behind him, he continued. “I thought we might be able to lend you a hand, actually! Your diet must be pretty strict right now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t sneak a treat in. How does baking cookies sound?”

Ingo legitimately didn’t know. Short of hazy memories where they’d ‘helped’ their father bake or utilizing pre-packaged cookie dough, he wasn’t terribly familiar with the process. He somewhat doubted that it would require much in the way of dexterity, however, which meant it was probably something he could manage.

“Are you certain you didn’t come up with this plan to spite my brother?” He asked jovially, allowing Cilan to take charge in what was unquestionably his area of expertise.

The young man laughed, “Well, I did know he was concerned, but it didn’t cross my mind that cookies might be considered retaliation.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting that anything can be retribution against one’s siblings if you’re creative enough.”

“Should I be worried about that?” Iris asked, head popping up from behind Crustle’s shell.

Technically she did fall into the same car as Emmet, having invited someone to the apartment without warning him first, but hers was a milder transgression-- benign, even. She’d done it with good intentions, and his twin’s motivations were decidedly suspect. “You may opt out if you prefer.”

“Cool,” She said, climbing atop and sitting cross-legged onto Crustle’s rock as it crept in, mindful of its cargo, “I love being Schrodinger’s sister.”

Ingo backed off to allow Crustle as wide a path as possible and, as it passed, Iris gave her two fellow humans an exaggerated Galarian wrist-based wave, as though the crab were a float and she the princess it was bearing. Cilan laughed and turned to dig through his bag.

When Crustle reached the water dish it had been headed for, she hopped off and trotted over to join them. “So! Cookies. Where do we start?”

Without looking up from his sorting of the ingredients he’d brought along, Cilan said, “A good first step is usually a mixing bowl-- or two, in this case. Could you tell us where you keep them, Ingo?”

Ingo turned to the cupboard in question and stopped just shy of craning up to access it. That wasn’t going to work; the shelf was too high to comfortably reach given the mysterious obstacle in his way. Normally, he’d turn to Chandelure for help, but she was with Emmet, her ability relevant to the day’s topic of discussion.

He settled for placing a hand on the cabinet door. “In here, but I’m afraid I’m currently incapable of reaching them. I can get the stepladder if one of you wouldn’t mind--”

“On it!” Iris chirped, and immediately hauled herself up onto the countertop.

As she returned to floor-level with the mixing bowls, Ingo glanced at Crustle, and then to Cilan, “Perhaps I should have seen that coming.”

“Perhaps.” Cilan echoed, amused, as he began setting ingredients out.

With the patience of a saint-- tolerant of both curious Pokemon and the number of bizarre tangents they went down-- Cilan walked them through the methodology behind mixing wet and dry ingredients; it turned out to be a much simpler process than four-year-old Ingo had remembered.

That was actually very doable. Maybe once the passengers were old enough, he could try to repeat it for them, or maybe even with them if temperaments allowed.

...he was excited, and that in and of itself was also exciting. It wasn’t new, per se-- there had been a building anticipation prior to this-- but this was a unique hope for their future. It wasn’t speculating endlessly as to what Pokemon they might tend towards or planning how to accommodate their needs; it was something small that he’d realized he’d quite like to share with his sons someday.

As any given batch of cookies would only take ten minutes in the oven, they elected to stay close, the electric kettle warming up for tea in the meantime-- and about half a minute after everyone had found a spot around the table, Cilan spoke up. “If it’s not too sensitive a subject, I actually had a question about the attack at Gear Station.”

The statement was more subdued than Ingo might have expected, especially considering the deluge of concerned texts he’d fielded from Cilan alone, asking after the state of the team, the facility itself and operations. He inclined his head, prompting him to go on.

Cilan toyed with the cuff of his shirt, eyes slightly downcast, “You haven’t happened to hear anything else about Team Plasma since then, have you?”

“Nothing of substance, I’m afraid; if you’re concerned that their maneuvers might signal a resurgence in the future… well, I can hardly blame you for thinking that. It’s something Emmet and I have discussed, as well.” Which was to say nothing of the occasional message from Looker. He’d never given the agent his Xtransceiver’s number, and was choosing chalk that up to the man’s investigative ability rather than Interpol overreaching.

“I think there may be something to it.” Cilan said, “This week, we had three of their agents show up at the gym, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were the same ones you battled.”

Ingo leaned awkwardly forward on one elbow, intrigued and worried in equal measure. “That’s possible, but highly unlikely; I believe those individuals I faced on the Single Line are still in custody. Could you describe them at all?”

“They had their faces covered, but seemed identical from what I could see: tall with long, pale hair, and dressed in all black. All three of them were vicious battlers.” His expression as he spoke was odd, disquieted even.

“Uh, Cilan…?” Iris said, sympathetic, but also unable to contain herself, “Minus the thing about long hair, I think you just described Ingo.”

He shook his head adamantly, “It’s not the same. I just don’t know how else to describe them. We could only assume they’re the Shadow Triad, but I can't tell what their appearance meant, or if they were just playing with us.”

“What do you mean?” Ingo asked.

Caught up in his own thoughts, Cilan didn’t answer straightaway. “They challenged us to a battle, three-on-three, and destroyed us. Really, we can’t even be sure if it’s that they were overwhelmingly strong, or if we’re... you know. A full-fledged trainer between the three of us.”

“What!?” Iris half-shouted at the same time Ingo hissed an inhalation.

Using her incredulity as a jumping off point, he added, “That’s a horribly unkind way to think about yourselves. Speaking from experience, Team Plasma has taken efforts to learn from their mistakes; losing is never something to be ashamed of, but in this instance particularly, I would ask that you not be so critical.”

Cilan sighed, turning into a weak laugh at the end, “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Ingo, it doesn’t really help coming from you. Our circumstances were basically the same, only there were three of us to battle three of them, and we still couldn’t do it.” He went quiet, but not the sort of quiet that suggested he was done speaking. It was the sort that meant he was steeling himself to say something difficult. “It’s not something we’ve told anyone else yet, but Cress, Chili and I… we’re going to resign as gym leaders. We need to do a lot more work before we can be gym leaders again.”

“What!?” Iris demanded in the exact intonation as before, several octaves higher. “Losing a battle doesn’t mean you have to quit!” She glanced from one side of the table to the other and, a touch frantically, said, “Ingo, tell him-- the thing about the terminal.”

“‘There is no terminal called End’, is that what you’re referring to? I suspect he’s already aware, Iris; taking a detour isn’t the same as pulling the brakes outright.” He pushed back from the table, not to get up, but give himself a bit of breathing room from her ferocity; finding it marginally more comfortable, he kept the distance even as his attention strayed to Cilan, “It’s unfortunate that you feel this is your best course of action, but quite understandable. If I can be candid with you, there was a point at which I was considering something similar.”

The full intensity of Iris’s stare turned on him, and he found himself grateful that he hadn’t moved back.

“If retraining is what it takes to find your confidence again, then you should run toward it, full speed ahead. Should it help, please remember that you’re always welcome at the Battle Subway.”

On the other side of the room, the oven timer chose that moment to go off, and both Cilan and Ingo made to get it. The former waved the latter down, using it as an excuse to avert his eyes-- but his lips quirked the smallest amount at the reminder. Before he stepped away from the table, Cilan said, “I can’t say I went into this looking for a particular reaction, but thank you, both of you. It’s nice to hear your thoughts.”

The ‘both of them’ in question politely stayed seated as he went to deal with the oven. Iris’s sharp look wasn’t any easier to weather this time, either, and she hissed, “What do you mean you thought ‘something similar’?”

“Again, Iris, a detour isn’t a full stop. Even in the event that I hadn’t been convinced otherwise, it was always meant to be temporary.” Ingo said, somewhat surprised to find that he’d rested a hand on his abdomen absent any kicking-- and so, instead of illustrating his point by laying a hand on the obstacle that this hypothetical detour navigated around, he drew attention by gently drumming his fingers upon its arc.

She backed off marginally, though there was still an argument brewing in her expression; before she could articulate it, however, Cilan finished with whatever else he’d been doing at the counter and spoke up. “That’s enough of that, though! If it’s not too inappropriate, I have a present for your passengers!”

“Wh-- hey! I was gonna do that!” Iris sputtered and began frantically pawing through her mane of hair.

An assortment of battle items and several dollars in change fell onto the table before she found whatever it was she was looking for and Cilan, familiar with having a hot-blooded sibling, stood back and allowed her to take charge.

“There are Galarian Darumaka!” She announced as she extracted a depiction of one such Pokemon: a child sized maraca. A second Unovan version joined it shortly thereafter. “They’re blue, and ours are red! It’s perfect!”

“Does that make those Darumaracas?” Cilan asked, amused, as he drew nearer to get a better look.

Already turning one over in his hands, Ingo bit back a snort. “You’re incredibly fortunate Emmet wasn’t present to hear that.”

“What Emmet doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The younger man returned, which had been his thesis for the afternoon. Setting something down on the table, he added, “My gift isn’t quite as musical, but I thought these might come in handy.”

A trio of printed monkeys posed on a piece of cloth, and when Ingo took the time to process the full shape of it, he realized it was a cotton bib-- the first in a stack of four.

“You should take a look at the second pattern, too.” Cilan said, excited even in the face of Ingo’s visibly null reaction, “There are two of both.”

Sure enough, below the monkeys there was another distinct print to be discovered, this time cutesy railroad imagery. Perhaps for a second too long, Ingo was quiet as he studied the both of them.

“Oooh,” Iris drawled, leaning conspiratorially toward Cilan, “I think he likes it!”

“Of course!” In his haste, it came out more loudly than Ingo had meant, but that only seemed to encourage the two all but flanking him, “These are all incredibly thoughtful gifts! You have my sincerest thanks!”

Cilan beamed, and Iris shook one of the maracas in victory.

In the collective excitement, none of them remembered what they were meant to be doing until well after the first batch of cookies had cooled.