During the midday lull, just after resolving a minor disagreement in the station’s main body, Ingo felt a tug on the end of his coat. He automatically looked down, expecting some manner of Pokemon, but what he found, instead, was a preschooler.

“Hello, Oda,” He said brightly, a fallback in the likely event that his attempt at softening his features failed, “Is there something I can help you with today?”

The little boy gave a small, fast-paced nod that made Ingo dizzy from even an outsider’s perspective and insistently pulled on the fabric again, toward the space designated for staff and subway trainers. Ingo glanced backwards, trying to see if he could signal to someone that he’d be stepping away for a moment; his brother was quite suddenly nowhere to be found, but Josh had seen, and that was perfectly fine, too.

Like any younger trainer in their system, Oda wasn’t allowed into the main thoroughfare by himself-- only those portions of the facility that were dedicated to the Battle Subway. The security system was fantastic for tracking down a lost child, but it went without saying that it was better not to lose track in the first place, and so children under a particular threshold could only come and go with an authorized chaperon. Oda seemed to have forgotten that-- perhaps strategically-- or been banking on the fact that nobody would get mad at him if he was with a staff member.

He led the both of them into the otherwise-quiet study room, but wasn’t forthcoming with his reason for doing so. Instead, he shuffled nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

Even though he knew, without a trace of doubt, that he would live to regret it, Ingo made the effort to carefully, haltingly lower himself so he was kneeling at the boy’s level. Tilting his head in invitation, he asked, “Are you having trouble with your Foongus?”

“Foongus’s good.” Oda mumbled, shaking his head with the exact same fervor as his earlier nod, “Gotta question, but mama didn’t like it.”

Oh no.

Well, that could mean any number of things, none of which Ingo particularly wanted to get involved with, but he couldn’t exactly back out now-- quite literally. “I can answer to the best of my ability, but I may not have the information you’re searching for. Do you understand?”

Oda’s face scrunched, but he nodded again, and Ingo was tempted to steady the child to ensure he didn’t knock himself over.

“Mama’s tummy is bigger than it used to be.” The boy said simply, leaving the question unstated-- and, likewise, his reason for approaching Ingo in particular.

It was a tricky question, but certainly one that could be navigated, so long as he was careful. “There are a number of reasons that might have happened, but that’s your mother’s business, and I’m afraid I can’t answer for her. I simply don’t know.”

The tip of Oda’s tongue poked out between his lips as he thought, and then he turned curious eyes back up. “Okay. Why’s your tummy bigger?”

Damn it. What was the closest he could get to the old ‘the eggs just appeared’ standby? He supposed the truth would fit the bill, by technicality, but there was absolutely no way he was explaining that to Oda. Maybe he could just circumvent the matter entirely…

“Do you know why your mother might not have wanted to talk about being bigger?” He tried, glad that his relief couldn’t show on his face when Oda started following along with the turn, “There are a lot of things people do to change the way they look, but not everyone can change everything. Sometimes, if you ask why someone looks the way they do, it might hurt their feelings. It may be because they can’t change it, or it could be because they don’t like it, and the question served as a reminder.”

Oda went quiet for several seconds, turning the information over. What he returned with was, “Which one?”

“I beg your pardon, which what?”

“She doesn’t like her tummy being bigger?”

Well, if his experience was anything to go by, likely not. It wouldn’t do to say as much, though-- he didn’t even know what the woman’s circumstance was. “I’m sorry, Oda, I really can’t speak for your mother.”

“But why does it happen?” Oda asked again, only momentarily distracted.

Struck with a renewed sympathy for his own mother and an understanding why she’d needed help with a pair of five year olds, Ingo realized the best way to see the matter through was likely to address the question directly. Maybe he could work with it, though, to avoid this kind of issue in the future.

“You’ve heard people say that I’m going to have twin babies, right?” He asked gently, and there was a glimmer of confusion in Oda’s eyes at the change of track, but he nodded, playing along. Ingo lifted a hand and gently-- very gently, so as not to prematurely wake anyone-- gave the top of his stomach a single pat, letting the hand idle there. “This is where they’re parked for now, so I had to get bigger while they grow. That’s just me, though; your mother’s reason may very well be different.”

While the little boy mulled that over, Ingo took the conversation in a different direction.

“I don’t mind that you asked today, but you need to accept it if someone doesn’t want to answer a question like that in the future. It can be hard to recognize what’s an acceptable question and what isn’t, and it’s okay if you make a mistake, but you can’t keep pushing when someone is uncomfortable. If they seem upset, it’s always best to apologize for making them feel bad.”

“...kay.” Oda said after a second, though it was doubtful how much he’d actually heard. His attention had drifted somewhere over Ingo’s shoulder as he’d spoken, and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “How do they get out?”

Over his shoulder-- precisely where Oda had been looking, from the sound of it-- he heard a stifled scoff and, belatedly, he realized that the door had clicked open and shut behind his back at some point in the past forty seconds. That was fantastic, actually. Perfect timing on Emmet’s part.

Not so much on Oda’s.

“Oda,” He said evenly, trying not to sigh, “I want you to know that I’m not upset with you for asking that, but it’s not a question I’m comfortable answering.”

There was a disappointed little grumble, but as he’d been instructed a moment prior, Oda didn’t press. To Ingo’s vindication, the sound was even followed by a mumbled, “Sorry, Mr. Ingo.”

Perhaps they had accomplished something here today.

“It’s alright. Thank you for the apology, though. Now if you don’t have any further questions…?”

He transparently did, but seemed to realize that, in light of what he’d been told, it might not have been the best time to ask them-- or maybe he’d reasoned that Ingo wasn’t the best person to ask. Whatever the cause, Oda shook his head and, with a clumsy combination of a thank you and goodbye-- complicated further by the near simultaneous greeting and sendoff he gave Emmet-- the boy was off.

“You left.” Emmet said as he circled around, a simple observation, no hint of accusation or question anywhere on his face, “I see why.”

“Oda had some… pressing questions for me.” Ingo said, and, resigned to the fact that he was currently at his brother’s mercy, held a hand up in silent request.

Emmet regarded it for a second, and then him, but left his hands where they were for the moment, arms folded casually over his chest. “I heard. Is his mother also pregnant?

Ingo’s free hand joined the first, tossed up this time in exasperation. “Do I need to have the same conversation with you? About why it’s not polite to comment on other people’s bodies?”

“That was not commentary. It was speculation. There is a difference.”

He narrowed his eyes, and-- laughing-- his twin relented, moving to help him up.

“You said I’m not allowed to speculate on other people’s bodies.” Emmet asserted, holding on while Ingo regained his balance. “But since we are identical—”

“That’s enough of that.” Ingo said hastily, pulling free of the lingering grip and, because of it, wobbling unsteadily for half a second. Emmet lurched forward in response, looping an arm around his back without quite making contact, just in case gravity won this round. Ingo allowed himself a second to catch his breath and went on. “Was there a reason you followed me, or did you simply suspect you might get a show out of it?”

It was with a begrudging air that Emmet pulled back and followed the topic, “Both. Crustle’s assistance is required in the store room. Somebody ordered too many Iron Balls in one lot. They have been unable to move the crate to its proper location.”

“I see. In that case, there’s hardly any reason to stall out here.” He said, and started forward. Before he’d made it half a dozen steps, however, he realized someone had stalled, and turned back to regard his brother-- who was looking the correct direction, but hadn’t seen fit to move yet. “Emmet? Is something the matter?”

At the sound of his name, Emmet shook his head and focused back on reality. “Nope. No problem. You are good with children. I was just… taking notes.”

“Ah. Are you nervous?”

Emmet shot him a look that was caught firmly between frustration and something piteous, suggesting that he knew Ingo could see the answer perfectly well-- so why would he make Emmet say it out loud?

Ingo reached out, beckoning at first, and then to hook that arm over his twin’s shoulders as he drew nearer. “Don’t let Oda intimidate you. He’s five years old, and I’ll remind you that there’s a world of difference between a preschooler and an infant. By the time we have to field any conversations as complex as that one, we’ll have had the time to figure the passengers out, and I’m quite certain you’ll have developed half a dozen scripts for any situation.”

He relaxed-- marginally-- but still protested. “It does not feel fair for me to be anxious. You are doing all the hard work. My primary responsibility is reminding you not to listen when your brain screams at you.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve made that a full-time job, so I’m uncertain how it’s meant to support your argument.” As he turned them where they needed to go, Ingo’s hand slid to the nearer shoulder, allowing him to balance a bit more naturally, but he made a point of maintaining the contact. “There’s a complete overhaul on the itinerary, which will introduce entirely new routes to our system; not only is it acceptable to be nervous, but it’s the correct course. It doesn’t make any difference who is responsible for what, because, by the end of the line, you’re still going to be a father. Why wouldn’t that make you anxious?”

Somewhat mollified, Emmet allowed himself to be herded out the door without further complaint, but the look on his face made it clear he hadn’t quite bought into Ingo’s reasoning.

“A different direction, then. Are you excited?”

He thought nothing of the beat of silence it took for his twin to follow the track change.

“Yes.” Emmet said, about as soon as it registered.

“Then you recognize that it’s natural to be nervous, too. They’re the same thing, just expressed in different ways, and either can be counterproductive in excess. It’s just far easier to notice what’s happening when it makes you feel poorly.”

“I am glad your research into coping mechanisms has paid off. But you are going to put me out of a job if you continue to apply them.” The flatness of his voice didn’t help to sell the joke, but that was more due to the fact that he hadn’t put much effort into it.

Ingo still stifled a snort anyway. No. No, absolutely not. There was no world in which that would happen. For all that he could-- sometimes-- recognize when his own thinking fell into the realm of ‘unproductive’, it was far more difficult to address it independently than when Emmet called it out for him. He supposed that was just the way of things; it was easier to help a loved one than it was to help oneself.

The corners of his mouth twitching into something vulnerable, Emmet asked what he likely knew was a silly question. Given where it came from, though-- a place of rationalizing that what he felt was, in fact, okay-- Ingo wouldn’t comment on it.

“You’re excited too?”

“Of course.”

His brother’s expression eased, legitimately this time. “Because you get to resume your medications?”

“That certainly doesn’t hurt.” He said dryly-- unable to ignore that particular benefit-- though it was far from his only motivation, “It’s rather silly, considering the amount of time I’ve spent with them, but I’m eager to meet the passengers properly-- and I’m looking forward to you meeting them as well.”

“Just don’t embarrass me. I want to make a good first impression.” The anxiousness was still there to be found in the subtleties of his expression, but he was making an effort to push past it into something approaching their usual dynamic.

Ingo went along with it. “I hate to break this to you, but they’ve been able to hear for months, now. They know exactly how goofy their dad is.”

“I’m going to assume you are referring to yourself.”

“I’m not disincluded from that statement, but I am being quite serious,” Watching from the corner of his eyes, he gave his twin’s shoulder a bracing squeeze. “I’ve noticed that they react on occasion, when you speak. There are plenty of reasons to be nervous, but I hope that isn’t one of them; they already love you.”

Haltingly, scouring Ingo’s expression for any sign that he shouldn’t, Emmet reached up with a free hand and gave his abdomen a soft pat, attention skirting down for the two paces the gesture lasted. He hadn’t even waited to see whether or not they might be active.

Softly enough that, even at this distance, Ingo had a difficult time hearing, he said, “I love you, too.”