“You have a fundamental misunderstanding of paternity leave.”

“Oh?” Ingo asked, just into what was technically his fortieth week and still stubborn as a Mudbray hock-deep in a mud pit. “What makes you say that?”

Exasperated, Emmet gestured widely to the office as a whole, alluding to the fact that his twin was here in the first place, and, when that failed to raise a response, narrowed his focus to the sheaf of papers that had held his attention. He’d gotten creative roughly a month prior, when the passengers’ growth made it all but impossible to work at his desk as normal, and taken to sitting parallel to it. It wasn’t perfect, but so long as he kept his dominant hand on the same side as the desk itself, it didn’t cause him too much trouble.

It was certainly beginning to cause Emmet trouble, however.

“Battle Point reform isn’t a pressing issue. It can wait until you’re not imminently due.”

“It can,” Ingo agreed mildly, setting his pen down to lean against that arm, “But why should it when I have the time to spare? It’s not as though my duties extend to much beyond paperwork, advising and the very occasional battle at the moment; I’d like to do what little I can before taking an extended leave of absence.”

“You are doing more than enough. That is not a good thing. Because what you are supposed to be doing is resting.” Just to be a little petty-- and because he knew it would force his brother to stop if only for the few seconds to find a replacement-- he flicked his wrist, batting the pen to the floor like a petulant Purrloin.

It clattered to the floor and, unimpressed, Ingo looked back up to Emmet-- asking if he was proud of himself through sheer judgment-- then to Chandelure, who was happy to fetch it for her trainer.

“I distinctly remember you throwing a fit when your doctor forbade you from coming in post-surgery. You have absolutely no room to speak on this matter.” He said, and the conversational tone was undercut by the hint of annoyance coursing through it. Taking a deep breath, he managed to choke that irritation out before speaking again, “We’re seeing the same underlying issue when it comes down to it: it’s far easier to stay busy than let the engine idle.”

While Emmet understood on some level, there was a world of difference between ensuring they had easily accessible meals and this. “You’re going to have to learn. That is a simple fact.”

Lacking anything to keep it busy, Ingo’s hand migrated to rest with its idle counterpart and began to tap a steady rhythm against the tight drum of his belly. “I believe you may be onto something; we are experiencing a fundamental misunderstanding. Can you explain to me what you believe paternity leave is for?”

“Medical leave is meant to allow a patient time to heal. Paternity leave serves that purpose once a baby has been born. It must also serve a similar function ahead of time. To allow the parent to build up strength before giving birth.” As he spoke, Emmet found himself folding his arms over his chest and, by the time he was done speaking, realized he’d subconsciously mirrored the drumming of fingertips-- against the bicep, in his case.

The crease between Ingo’s brows smoothed out. “Alright. I believe I understand why you’re upset with me, then.”

“I’m not upset with you specifically.” Emmet tried.

His brother snorted at him.

“No? Just generally upset, then.” He shook his head, but his entire demeanor had shifted for the better; the worst it could be called was teasing. “I believe we’re placing a greater emphasis on either side of the birth itself. You’re of the opinion that paternity leave should be utilized for last minute preparation, while I see it somewhat differently. I would rather work until the point that I feel unable to, and spend as much of that leave as possible with the passengers.”

“That seems… hm.”

“Recall your post-ligation recovery period if you would. Now multiply that by six.” It was said in good humor, but accompanied by the unmistakable hint of a grimace, “I don’t doubt that the full range is necessary after such a grueling process, and am certain that there will be plenty to fill it. That said, I don’t relish the idea of spending any extra time idle with nothing to do but dwell. So long as my duties here remain light, I don’t believe any dedicated rest is necessary prior to labor.”

Emmet tilted his head noncommittally, supposing that was fair enough, but still found himself shifting his weight from side to side, nervous.

“I promise I will let you know immediately, once I’m certain labor has begun. Does that help at all?”

He gave a tiny nod, because yes, that would certainly help, but what if it wasn’t enough warning…?

As if reading his thoughts, Ingo said, “It will take hours at the very least and days at most, and you’ve felt the practice contractions for yourself. I believe you’re severely overestimating how quickly things will progress.”

“I hope not.” He said without a second thought-- because even if the idea made him anxious, he’d vastly prefer a short window and a little panic over entire days spent in pain.

“It’s an ideal to keep at heart, I suppose.” Ingo let his head thump back against the chair, knocking his hat into his face. “Believe me when I say that I wish you already had cause to steer me home. As… daunting as the prospect of delivering them is, I cannot overstate how ready I am to be through with this.”

Unseen, Emmet flinched. In lieu of a verbal answer, he stepped forward, curling one arm around his twin’s shoulders and resting his chin atop his head. On the unoccupied side, Chandelure veered even further into Ingo’s space, nestling against him, flames flickering in what might have been excitement at the prospect.

The pen continued to hover, forgotten, in the air.

“I don’t want them to arrive ahead of schedule, but I’m… so tired of being pregnant.”

“They are full term. It’s impossible for them to be early. They are running the risk of being late. Verrrry inconsiderate of them.” Removing himself from his brother’s space, Emmet stopped to right the fallen hat. “You could ask about induction. It is not fail proof. But it would give us a projected timeline.”

“I… might. I can’t imagine they’ll stay onboard long enough to be considered late term, but if we reach the end of the week without change, it’s certainly on the table.” He looked up at Emmet, brows drawn as he seriously considered it. “Would that put your mind at ease? If the passengers don’t arrive before the week is out, I’ll pursue induction and take leave from that point on.”

Not perfect in the event that the last of Ingo’s predictions rang true, and the passengers arrived at precisely forty weeks time, down to the day, but it was a concession he hadn’t expected to get. “Okay. It’s a fair compromise.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence from there, either moving to get back to work. It took a few seconds for Chandelure to relinquish the pen, however, more interested in watching her trainer try to catch it than permitting him to do his job. Eventually, Ingo pivoted the chair without warning, allowing him the opportunity to catch the writing utensil before his partner Pokemon could jerk it away, and gave her a light, playful tap on the crown with it when she complained that the game had ended.

“Let me finish this.” He told her in a stern-but-affectionate voice that Emmet suspected they’d be hearing a lot more often in the coming years, “If you’re patient, we’ll take a walk when it’s done.”

She gave a two-tone agreement to his terms and settled in more comfortably, nudging his idle arm into position to nest in its crook. When attention strayed to Emmet-- who had been putting his own task off just a little bit longer, so as to watch the spectacle playing out before him-- he nodded, taking no issue with the idea. It would be nice to walk the facility, having lacked any responsibilities that required him to venture beyond the portions reserved for employees and volunteers. Strange as it might sound to an outside observer, he did miss the hectic nature of being a Subway Boss.

He just had higher priorities at the moment.

Time ticked by slowly, broken by the occasional question tossed back and forth, but eventually the conversion sheets were tentatively marked complete, and he heard Ingo shift Chandelure into the air by his elbow. Kicking against his own desk, he spun around just in time to find his brother braced against either armrest, hauling himself upright with no small amount of difficulty.

That was just silly. He could have asked for help-- and Chandelure certainly hadn’t made the process any easier, still all but glued to her trainer’s side.

“Flue, you’re being incredibly sweet, but I’m afraid you’re also making this difficult.” Ingo paused and mentally backtracked, “More difficult, at least. I can hardly blame you for the passengers’ role in things.”

She gave a pitiful whine-- not the teakettle screech of being denied what she wanted, but something softer with a confused undertone. Her internal fire continued to crackle on, more intense than its usual resting state.

After trying and failing to pry her away, Ingo sighed, but offered a genuine-- if tired-- not-smile, “Do you know something we don’t? Has all this talk of induction been for nothing?”

Cooing in pure innocence, she tilted her globe and went back to whatever it was she was trying to accomplish.

He shot a look over her head, which Emmet mirrored, but after taking the time to adjust, they continued on their way.

Their entire slow circuit through the station, she stayed put, as close as physically possible without phasing into a semi-corporeal form. It drew attention, but by this point, Ingo was somewhat past caring about the general public’s opinion on the matter; the only notable instance was Ramses’ comment about how the ghost was clearly ready to meet her grand-trainers.

Her clinginess was precisely why it came as such a surprise when they settled back in the office and she shot off through a wall.

“Should we be concerned about that?” Emmet asked after a second, wherein they both stared at her exit point: an informally annotated map of the tunnel system.

“Just… give her a moment.” Ingo said, halting but more puzzled than worried, trusting that there was some kind of logic behind her actions.

Several minutes later, she came back with one of the dummy eggs for Galvantula to brood over when the spider didn’t have any of her own, and immediately shoved it at Emmet. He took it without fuss, but also without any idea what she wanted it for. Chandelure stared insistently for a long moment, flames crackling in concentration, until its internal thermometer let out a chime meant to indicate it was at proper incubating temperature.

Mimicking the chime beat for beat, as if confirming with the device, she made an abrupt about-face and cuddled back up to Ingo’s side.

There was a peal of laughter, and when Emmet followed it to the source, his twin was trying to stifle amusement behind a hand-- while he failed at that, he raised other raised to pet down Chandelure’s globe.

“Okay, okay, if that’s where you want to be, I won’t obstruct you.” He said to her and, doing his best to sign single-handedly, added for Emmet’s benefit, “Flame Body.”

Emmet blinked at the fake egg in his hands, and then turned that attention toward the ghost who, it seemed, was doing everything she knew to help speed things up for her human.

“Verrrrry sweet,” He agreed, then set the sensor down and signed, “And verrrry misguided.”

Ingo shushed him, and silently-- vehemently-- devoted both hands to defending her, “She’s doing her best! If you were a Pokemon, the logic would track.”

“You are not a Pokemon. That’s the entire problem.” He shot back, grinning.

With a small noise of affront on his partner’s behalf, Ingo said, aloud, “Well I appreciate your efforts, Chandelure.”

Muffled against his abdomen, she trilled: gratitude, affection and excitement all in one sustained note.

What a wonderful partner she was; how lucky they were to have her.

(When they arrived at home that afternoon and split off to attend to their individual priorities, Emmet heard a loud snort from behind his brother’s bedroom door. There could have been any number of reasons for it, and he didn’t see any cause to speculate.

He did, however, find himself sputtering on his own laughter when he realized what had happened-- and, more to the point, that Ingo had decided to go along with it.

“Pictures are uncomfortable. I know that.” He said, one hand curled and pressed lightly to his lips as he watched Chandelure’s continued attempt to help with incubation. While funny enough on its own, it was made all the better by a paternity shirt he’d all but forgotten about: the Lampent’s third trimester evolution. “But Elesa will murder me if she does not get to see this.”

His brother laughed and waved the concern off, permitting it.

It was met with an explosive “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.” several minutes later, and the very real threat that Elesa would come bursting through their door the moment she was able.

In hushed tones, as if attempting to keep Arceus itself from hearing the admission, Ingo leaned into Emmet’s space, “I suppose it was worth one more day of carrying them, just for that.”)