It likely had to do with the fact that gashes in his palm were also deeper than anything he’d experienced prior, but that was far from the only factor involved. The water tipped over the cuts had been breathtakingly cold, even from the first few seconds, and repeatedly applied to wash any contaminates out. While he’d called the solution that followed antiseptic, it was something of an exaggeration; surely it had been refined to fill the purpose, but it didn’t have that distinctive sterile scent, and instead left a lingering pungency. He had no doubt that it was doing its job, though, because it certainly burned like a proper antiseptic, and he locked his elbows into his sides to resist the urge to flap his hands and dull the sting.

 

At the motion, Ingo looked up, judging what was going on, and turned back to his work.

 

“The burning sensation should die down.” He said plainly, “If it does continue to hurt, however, inform me posthaste; I have a persim balm that can numb the area.”

 

Bizarre. It was absolutely bizarre to watch. They were conductors-- and Depot Agents before that-- so of course they had some measure of medical training, but most of it only went so far as to stabilizing the affected party until professionals could arrive at the scene. He couldn’t speak for his brother, but the most Emmet had ever had to use it-- apart from treating small scrapes and cuts that happened from time to time-- had been assisting a passenger who’d gone into anaphylaxis upon departing their train.

 

This went beyond that. It was one thing to be able to pull medicine off of a pharmacy shelf and follow its instructions; it was another entirely to pick over unlabeled jars and confidently apply them in order.

 

Emmet understood that it was in good practice, but… out here? He had no qualm with the fact that Wardens cared for the territory and those who dwelt within, but the only others out here were Pokemon and that Diamond snob. This wasn’t the kind of medical attention you paid to Pokemon-- Emmet knew for a fact the potions his brother kept for that purpose were stored elsewhere entirely, having been offered access-- and he somewhat doubted pretty boy would humor it, even if the alternative was death.

 

Maybe the Galaxy people needed help here and there, but they seemed relatively self sufficient. And insular.

 

It was a running theme, Emmet had noticed; it seemed everyone needed a reason to help another person. That mindset was so incredibly far removed from everything he’d grown up with-- everything they’d grown up with. The world was a dangerous place, but inhabited by people and Pokemon who made it worth braving.

 

Hence the claw marks that tore through his palms and down his forearm. They were worth it, so long as that Yanma had been spared the Luxray’s ire.

 

A thin, slimy, vaguely green substance was spread over the cuts; a far cry from the uniform ointments back home, it had been imperfectly blended by a human hand. Emmet hated the way the red showed through the green tint, and turned his attention to the collection of bottles and jars littering the tent’s floor. There was a sympathetic hum in front of him, but Ingo didn’t look up from where he was gauging a length of bandage.

 

The silence that had settled over them wasn’t an uncomfortable one, it was just the natural conclusion of two people existing in the same space, focused on different things. Or, well… focused on the same thing, from different perspectives. As much as he disliked the green-whatever-it-was, Emmet quickly found his eyes drawn to the motion of bandages winding around his hand, and then down his arm. Specifically, he was distracted by the odd combination of experienced wrapping and sudden hesitation.

 

Almost absently, as he tucked the end into the weave, Ingo said, “That was easier than I’d expected.”

 

“I take it your usual patients try to poison you at some point in the process.”

 

His brother snorted, but didn’t deny it, moving onto the remaining palm. Strangely, Ingo hit the exact same stumbling block here as well, in the angle of the wrist. He must not have had that much practice with it-- and understandably so. Emmet notwithstanding, who out in the mountains had a wrist that would need wrapping?

 

Minor foible aside, it only took a few minutes for him to finish treating the hand, and, after testing the bandage’s compression, he deemed the job acceptable. There was a pop from some joint or other as he straightened up, but he paid it no heed.

 

“Now then,” Ingo said, settling his armful of jars and fixing Emmet with an amused look, “Would you like a pinap berry for being such a brave Sneasel?”

 

---

 

They repeated the process the next day; the only variation, at first, was a slightly more confident approach to wrists. Ingo was convinced that the cuts looked right for this stage of healing, and, lacking any real knowledge on the subject, Emmet was inclined to believe him.

 

It took a slightly different turn as his brother sat back on his haunches, away from the bed Emmet had been perched on, and told him he was free to go. Notably, he hadn’t gathered the jars up, or made any motion to put the various materials away.

 

Emmet obeyed, stepping past the setup, but didn’t leave the tent. Instead, he idled near the small area set aside for crafting, careful not to knock over the leeks resting on its surface.

 

Ingo didn’t pay him any attention, shuffling loose from his coat and the Pearl Clan tunic, then working his left arm free of the dark undershirt. That made sense, then; there was no point in putting the supplies away if he had further use for them. But wouldn’t he need help? He may have been working with his dominant hand, but he’d still be short one.

 

The thought didn’t seem to occur to the older twin, who took his scissors back up and angled them beneath the bandage winding around his bicep. Before even trying to slice through, he dipped his head and took the tied-off excess between his teeth, pulling taut, and easily cut it away. The wound it slowly uncovered didn’t look great, but even Emmet’s inexpert medical know-how told him that it was just part of the healing process, neither freshly inflicted nor entirely mended.

 

More than that, though, he got caught on the fact that this was routine. There was no confusion in what to do first or hesitation in the motions; Ingo hadn’t even bothered to test the bandage before leaning toward the scissors’ blade. He was used to this.

 

Emmet, himself, had observed that nobody lingered around Mt. Coronet seeking first aid-- and by the same stroke, there would be no one to assist in a medical emergency. You had to take care of it for yourself. This wasn’t a skill Ingo had developed as part of a Warden’s duties, was it? It was just a basic part of survival in Hisui’s wilderness.

 

The procedure of washing and then disinfecting went exactly as it had with Emmet’s array of wounds, but wasn’t immediately followed by the green slime. Instead, Ingo’s hands gravitated toward a separate jar-- the contents of which he’d actually created only a few days prior. There was pecha in it-- Emmet remembered that much-- and some leek juice, he thought. The two ingredients hadn’t belonged anywhere near each other in a culinary sense, but it tracked that someone who dealt with poison types so regularly would know how to mix a general purpose antivenom.

 

That it was being applied now suggested one such creature had been the cut’s source. Shock of shocks.

 

When Ingo put it away and moved onto the jar of goop, Emmet moved closer, earning himself a sideways look. The same way he’d watched the bandages wind around his palms, he watched the process of this wound being wrapped, and found none of the indecision, no awkward angles or uncertainty what to do with-- as it turned out-- an extra hand. Ever so slightly, he nodded to himself, and knelt down as the remaining bandage dwindled to the point where it had to be tied off.

 

“Here,” He said gently, reaching over to take the material just below where his twin held it pinned, “Let me.”

 

In several smooth motions, he cinched the bandage and tied it into a knot. When he pulled away, Ingo reached over and plucked at the topmost layer, then moved his arm this way and that, testing it. He glanced briefly to Emmet, then away, bemused, and with a quick word of thanks, moved to clear the supplies away.

 

There was an odd edge to the silence this time-- not tense, but… flustered, taken off guard. Once he’d pulled his coat back on, Ingo put the jars away one after another; his lips parted as if to say something, but he seemed to think better of it.

 

Eventually, though, he ran out of excuses and was forced to face the tent at large. It was alright. Apparently he’d bought himself enough time to pool his wits.

 

“Thank you,” He said again, properly, but still awkward in an endearing sort of way, “That was… far easier than I’d expected.”

 

“I am happy to assist.” Emmet said as a promise.

 

He took something from one pocket and offered it without opening his thickly-bandaged hand; perhaps there was some glimpse into the past that caused Ingo to hesitate, or maybe it was just an inherent part of interacting with one’s sibling. After a second, he relented and held his own palm up to accept it.

 

“Verrrry good! Yup, bashful Sneasels get a sitrus berry!”