After spending the greater portion of a day in his brother’s body, Emmet found himself incredibly receptive to small signals that might indicate something was amiss. While it had been established that Ingo didn’t find the passengers’ presence nearly as distressing as Emmet had, that hardly meant that the achiness or awkward movement was any more enjoyable for him.

What was going on that morning was less a subtle flag and more on the order of a signal flare.

He wanted to say he understood, but even having firsthand experience in his twin’s place, Emmet simply didn’t know why Ingo was so reluctant to leave his bedroom.

It had panicked him at first, leaving him to wonder if his prediction hadn’t rung true-- if labor hadn’t started early after all-- but upon further questioning, that didn’t seem to be the case. Ingo himself had admitted, through the door, that it was ridiculous to be upset-- that he didn’t even know why he was upset, really-- but he just couldn’t help it.

“Okay.” Emmet said after several minutes of debate through said door, “Is it that you would rather not leave? Or do you not want to be seen?”

If it was the former, then it might be on the order of the late-stage nesting instinct: rising anxiety combined with the urge to ensure the apartment was ready could easily translate into a resistance to leaving perceived safety. If it was the latter… Emmet didn’t really have anything for that, but couldn’t blame his brother when he’d had similar thoughts the previous week. Hopefully it was some variant on nesting.

When the question went unanswered-- whether it was due to reluctance or an actual lack of an answer-- he tried something else. “May I come in?”

That, at least, garnered a miserable sounding affirmative.

Given the all-clear, he opened the door. The issue was immediately obvious.

“Well. That’s a good thing.” Emmet hazarded, folding his arms over his chest as he studied his sibling, “It means they will arrive in something between two and four weeks. If not sooner.”

Leaning sideways to bury his face in Excadrill’s neck, Ingo managed, “Yes. Thank you. That’s completely new information. It’s not as though they would be to term by that point in the itinerary.”

Uh oh. His syntax had changed. It would be easy enough to chalk it up to stress and exhaustion, but the whole of his demeanor suggested there was some other factor that Emmet hadn't caught.

Having already received permission, he stepped inside and gauged the rest of the scene. Crustle was idling near his trainer, necktie laying atop his shell as he tried to help prepare for the day, and he caught a glimpse of Durant lurking under the bed, intentions yet unknown. The main point of interest were those atop the bed: Excadrill and the man with his arms wrapped around her.

Deciding there was little to be accomplished where he stood, Emmet crossed the space and circumnavigated Crustle to sit next to his brother. As he did, he almost immediately felt something nip his ankle, and didn’t bother to hide a roll of the eyes.

“Isn’t it a good thing?” He tried instead of his last approach, “It’s supposed to be more comfortable.”

Eventually, Ingo relented and released Excadrill-- only for her to cuddle right back against him, trying to offer whatever comfort she could.

“It’s somewhat easier to breathe.” He admitted, and Emmet fought back a shudder at the reminder of how it felt. How was this a normal function of the human body? Anything that prevented a full breath was a problem in his opinion. The fact that people elected to go through this process-- some more than once-- was beyond his understanding. “That’s welcome. But I’m not certain it’s worth the trade off. They feel less like two human children and more like a singular Roggenrola.”

Emmet distinctly remembered making a similar observation when he’d taken a turn carrying them, so that wasn’t terribly surprising to hear. It was a little impressive that they’d found a way to make themselves feel heavier, actually, even if their actual weight couldn’t have changed so drastically. It was only a matter of one pound per week.

“Because they are lower down?”

His brother nodded stiffly, “It’s nerve wracking in a way I hadn’t anticipated.”

It seemed he may have been on the mark with his second guess, after all-- just not in regards to the nesting instinct. Aloud, he asked, “And so you do not want to move?”

“I will.” Ingo groused, a bit defensively, “We still have to get to work. It’s more that…”

He shifted his weight backwards, arms braced to help lever himself up; unable to fight the urge to assist, one of Emmet’s hands ghosted after him, just in case he stumbled. For just a fraction of a second, he did waver-- still unused to the new distribution of weight-- but remedied the issue in short order. From where it was hovering, Crustle clicked through its anxiety, catching onto that small tremor.

A little helplessly, Ingo said, “Just watch.”

It was several paces before Emmet realized what he was supposed to be watching for. In this context, it was difficult to judge speed, but the gait was slightly different: a bit more wide-set, strides shorter and slightly offset from the usual. Frankly speaking, it wasn’t so different from what he’d observed in the previous weeks, but if it felt distinct enough as to cause distress, he wasn’t about to tell his brother that the change had been visible so far in advance. And it wasn’t as though there was no difference at all-- just that the bulk of it seemed to be most noticeable from a first person perspective.

“I won’t be able to get around the station like this.” Ingo admitted, clearly finding a new worst case scenario in this development.

Attention turning from where he’d been considering the stance, Emmet cocked his head to one side and gave a single-shouldered shrug. “Just continue to be patient with your body. No one will hurry you. There’s no need to hurry yourself.”

He’d acknowledge any unrealistic fears if they came up, but trusted that, unless Ingo gave voice to them, he had it handled. Right now, it was best to stick to the facts.

As he stood, Emmet scooped up the tie that Crustle had been holding onto and cast it over Ingo’s head to loop around his neck. “You are not expected to catch any trains. Anyone who requests your assistance will not need it urgently. And you will be far harder on yourself than the Depot Agents would dream of being.”

“I still have an obligation to meet challengers in a timely manner.” His twin argued.

Flapping a hand dismissively, Emmet backed off to let him get on with the rest of the morning routine, “They will survive. Anyone too impatient to recognize the time it takes to commute would not be worth the battle in the first place. Barely any strategy or variation. Just the same move over and over.”

“You’re being uncharitable.” Ingo said, and while his sentences remained clipped, his tone was the slightest bit more lively. That was better. Now Emmet knew for a fact he would be alright to face the workday.

“I am not.” He said, sticking his nose into the air and folding his arms. He was mindful of the pace he set: not too fast but not deliberate enough as to draw attention to the minor correction. “We both know it’s worse in singles. All it is is Surf, Surf, Surf. No fun at all. It’s why you need a second Pokemon on the field.”

Ingo toyed with the ends of his tie as they headed to the kitchen, not yet confident enough to tie it as they went, but hands insistent that he try. “Your argument is understandable. But I don’t see why you picked Surf as an example. It’s just as viable in doubles.”

“Yes. That would be your takeaway, wouldn’t it?” Emmet said, working up to a juncture that might set them on a better track for the day, “The move that causes collateral damage is just as useful in single and double matches. Good job, Ingo.”

He promptly found the back of his head slapped by a tie, and decided he would bear the indignity of it if that was the price for a little normalcy.

(There were any number of reasons why, upon returning from a challenge late that same day, Ingo opted to veer off course and thunk his forehead heavily against Emmet’s shoulder. One of the few things Emmet wouldn’t have anticipated, however, was, “I’d like to rescind my earlier judgment.”

Without moving, so as not to dislodge his brother, Emmet asked, “Meaning?”

“You weren’t being uncharitable. I may have been giving our opponents too much credit.”

A chuckle rose in his throat, “Were they a recoil spammer?”

“No.” He lifted his head, allowing Emmet to turn toward him properly. “His tactics were not bad at all. He actually came quite close to charging ahead to the super course.”

“Then what is your complaint?”

“He became irate upon losing.” Ingo said, disquieted in a way that suggested there was more to it than that; people raged against a loss all the time, so it was not new development in any sense. “He implied that it should have been easier to win while I remain gravid.”

It was stupid enough that the meaning didn’t sink in immediately, sitting on the surface of his thoughts like a particularly ill-conceived oil slick. On the bright side, that gave him time to find a suitable retort.

“An easy mistake.” Emmet said and, recognizing the approach, the angle of Ingo’s eyes twitched ever-so-slightly in a preemptive not-smile, “But despite the name, ‘kid gloves’ are not paternity clothes. I know. It’s confusing. Difficult for someone so simple minded to understand.”)