Untitled Welcome Home, Said the World Continuation

For some time, the only thing Emmet could think was that it was drafty. Either he’d forgotten an open window somewhere– which was a huge safety violation, unbefitting of a Subway Boss– or Chandelure had smuggled herself into his bedroom.

Eventually, he mustered the willpower to crack his eyes open, and realized that neither of these was true.

He had no worldly idea where he was. It was dark and cold, and, when he tilted his head back, there was a distressingly large hole in the wall behind him.

…he didn’t have the brainpower to deal with this right now. Emmet closed his eyes, laced his fingers with the hand pressed against his, and breathed, focusing on the crisp, undisturbed air.

That last point came to an abrupt halt as the hand he was holding squeezed back.

It was around then that Emmet realized he could remember his deal with Arceus. While the jury was out on where he’d been flung through time and space, he knew who he was, he knew what he’d been doing prior to this, and he knew–

With a burst of energy he hadn’t possessed seventeen seconds ago, he flung himself upright, dragging his dazed twin along with him. Unwilling to lose the point of contact between them, he bit his glove’s pointer finger and tugged it loose, dropping it without a second thought. He needed to make sure– needed to be sure.

Ingo seemed to tune into reality around the time the second hand– still gloved in Emmet’s haste– found the other side of his face and, belatedly, Emmet realized how much of an invasion this was. He’d gone into this knowing that most texts focused on The Warden Ingo’s battle prowess, bond with Lady Sneasler, and amnesia, in that order. He was about to draw away, to content himself with the [contact] he’d already stolen, when his brother’s eyes lit up and he moved to mirror the gesture.

It wasn’t enough, and, within seconds, Emmet found himself bundled into Ingo’s arms. He gleefully returned it, curling one gloved fist and one bare into the tattered fabric under his hands.

“What happened, Emmet?” Ingo said into the space between Emmet’s neck and his collar; it was muffled, quieter than it should have been, but the content was so much more important than that. “Who hurt you?”

“Fuck if I know!” He said brightly, so [happy] he could have– oh. No, he was crying, wasn’t he? Didn’t matter! Didn’t matter! The only person around to see was Ingo– Ingo was here!– and he was allowed.

Ingo gave a halfhearted objection, which turned into a sympathetic noise by the end of the sentence. With a deep, shuddering breath, he emerged from where he’d been stifling his own [emotions idk].

Emmet wasted no time in bumping their heads together, “You remembered my name.”

“I remember your name.”

[…]

He knew they ought to get going– Arceus only knew where or when they might be, and the state of the room around them was a bad omen– but he couldn’t let go. Not just yet. With fortuitous timing, Ingo settled his head on Emmet’s shoulder, which was all the excuse Emmet needed.

He followed suit, resting against his brother, and finally– finally– let go of the [idk] he’d been holding onto since [w/e], basking in how right this felt. Even after all this time, they were still a perfect match.

[…]

There was a tingle of ozone in the air. That was an incredibly blatant clue that they needed to get going, before the Pokemon it was attached to decided to make an appearance. He opened his eyes and made to pull back, intending to give voice to the thought, but didn’t make it much further than that first step.

A large black wing was obstructing most of his vision. What little it wasn’t taking up was, instead, occupied by something white and feathered.

…he was [relatively] certain, based on the relative positions, that that was where his hand was supposed to be. He flexed his fingers. Four claws obliged him, scratching harmlessly against the dark plating beneath them.

“I know. We have an obligation to find whatever is burning and ensure that it’s extinguished.” Ingo sighed. The carapace Emmet was leaning against rumbled in time with his words.

The pressure on his shoulder lifted. It was followed by a [idk], “Uh…?” and a feeling not unlike fingers carding through his hair, but along the back of his neck.

“Emmet?”

“I am Emmet,” He said, half on instinct and half as a grounding mechanism, “I… am aware.”

[…]

It was odd that neither of them had noticed sooner. Even more odd that Ingo’s weight had still felt perfect in his arms… wings? Both? Emmet lifted, and then dropped one of the appendages in question. He was going to go with ‘both’.

[…]

Ingo was far too close to the hole in the wall. Without being able to voice why, exactly, it made him uneasy, Emmet cut between them and tried to herd his brother away from it. Apart from the mildly puzzled look, Ingo didn’t argue.

[…]

So, of course, that was when Iris tore into the room, in full champion regalia.

“What the–”

—

One of the Unovan Elite Four and Champion’s duties– added just before Alder retired– was to monitor activity in the Plasma compound. It had never been a problem before– the worst that happened was a trainer got turned around, ended up in that one partially-exposed hallway and subsequently had to be collected– but there was a first time for everything.

Usually, it was safe enough for a single staff member to delve down and retrieve whoever had gotten lost, but the seismic sensors suggested it was something big; though they could be a bit trigger happy, this seemed beyond the scope of a false alarm.

Iris didn’t know why, but there was something exciting about the prospect, so off she went, along with Marshal, to investigate.

It wasn’t that she hoped Team Plasma was trying to make a resurgence– more that Iris knew what the old castle was like, and thought that maybe, just maybe, a dragon might have taken up residence.

(She wasn’t that far from the truth, but she wasn’t very close, either.)

They split up at the hallway, Marshal taking the lower path and Iris following to upper floor, once she verified that there wasn’t anything amiss in the creepy little kid’s room. Beyond, you know. The obvious.

As she reached the landing there was a [sound] from the central [hall/room], and she sped up, rounding the corner with a velocity that sent her skirts flying a completely different direction. Dim though the old castle was, this room was lit well– if [weird, but it starts with im?]– enough, due to embers and sparks at the far side.

For a second, she was certain she’d been right. A Pokemon was living here!

Then she realized what, exactly, she was looking at, and two things happened: she dropped one hand to Hydreigon’s pokeball, and [tag], “What the fuck?”

Reshiram and Zekrom’s heads shot up. In unison, with her brothers’ voices, they shouted, “Language!”

There was a beat of silence. While Reshiram continued to stare at Iris, Zekrom’s attention defaulted to its counterpart, to whom it [grumbled] something incomprehensible. Reshiram tossed its head and gave a petulant hiss; Zekrom rumbled something that was either thunder or laughter in response.

Iris had no idea if they were being friendly with one another or about to start fighting. It was behavior like nothing she’d seen in her dragons, and she didn’t dare let go of Hydreigon’s pokeball until she’d narrowed it down. And– and they were making noises like regular Pokemon now, but what about before? What was that about?!

The pair were at the far end of the room, at least, giving her plenty of space to work with, and she slowly crept the tiniest bit closer. They kept an eye on her, but something about her presence seemed to introduce an energy that hadn’t been there before; Reshiram lunged at its counterpart, and Iris flung Hydreigon into the fray on instinct. She was frantically trying to figure out which dragon’s side she was supposed to be on when she realized that it didn’t seem to be an attack at all, and that Zekrom had easily caught it under the wings.

Hydreigon hovered uncertainly, waiting for Iris to give her a command. The other two dragons stared until, finally, Reshiram said, “That is verrrry rude. I do not sic Haxorus on you when you [w/e].”

[…]

Fears all but evaporated, Iris hefted her skirt’s train and dashed over, skidding to a halt far closer than was wise. She raised a hand and looked up, silently asking permission.

Emmet sighed. “If you must.”

Quickly, so as not to press her luck or make him uncomfortable, Iris ruffled the nearest bit of fur in reach. It was thick, and also longer than she’d expected. Her hand disappeared up to the wrist before she pulled it back.

She was unaware of Zekrom watching over his wing until it said, conversationally, “You’re… Iris, aren’t you?”

The question immediately perked Emmet up, and he barked something Iris couldn’t understand to Zekrom, knocking their heads together affectionately.

If the gears hadn’t been turning before, they definitely were now. Her brothers were identical in all but mannerisms, voices included. Zekrom spoke with Emmet’s voice, but also didn’t, because Emmet didn’t talk like that. Reshiram and Zekrom were, famously, a matched set, and if Emmet was Reshiram– if he’d been acting so familiar with Zekrom…

“I– yeah, I am.” She squeaked, and ducked Emmet’s wing to draw nearer to the subject of her attention, “…Ingo?”

“Yes?”

“Holy shit.” Iris breathed, repeating the gesture she’d offered Emmet and, in addition to the go-ahead, was offered an armored hand. Her eyes gleamed and she took the opportunity, running her own hands over every inch of his wrist plating.

“You’re a horrible influence.” He said over her head, “I hope you realize that.”

[…]

She looped her arms around the arm in a makeshift hug, resting her head against it.

“You’re here,” / “Emmet really did it. He really brought you home.”

[…]

“Be gentle.” Emmet said, failing spectacularly at heeding his own advice, “A bastard of a Pokemon decided to play with his mind.”

“Why do I even bother?” Ingo said in the background, sounding more amused than put upon.

[…]

“What happened?”

“Made a deal with Arceus.” Emmet said cheerfully.

After a brief hesitation to [consider that], Ingo added, “I did the same.”

“I was speaking for both of us.” / “I am well aware of what you did.”

Iris frowned– thoughtful, but in a way that suggested she’d come to an uncomfortable realization. “Hilda caught Reshiram, didn’t she?”

Only half listening– trusting his brother to rein his attention in when need be– Emmet automatically said, “Yep,” and so didn’t [notice] the look that passed between Drayden and Elesa. Slowly, the latter turned her attention to the elder twin; none of this escaped his notice, but, absent context, he had no idea what to make of it. He assumed his brother had simply committed a minor faux pas– likely the visibly waning attention.

“Hey Ingo, gut feeling, do you think the weird Plasma kid captured Zekrom?”

“I would assume so.” He said blankly; he wasn’t entirely sure why, but saying things he didn’t understand was hardly a new experience. What was one more instance to toss onto the pile?

She hummed a contemplative affirmative and went on to ask, “You don’t have any idea who I’m talking about, do you?”

“…I’m afraid not.” Ingo admitted, flustered.

[…]

“Uh, anyway, I’m just worried that it could be… you know… still possible?”

“We’re human.” Emmet said flatly, though the angle of his smile suggested there was anxiety lurking somewhere beneath.

“Usually.” [Elesa this time] “But sometimes you’re a big, fluffy dragon, and it’s not always by choice.”

[I don’t want to bother w/ this right now, but we do establish that, in human form it’s fine; in dragon form, not so much. Idk how much this would work, but I kind of like the idea that, even though it was a test and there was absolutely no danger, whichever brother wasn’t the test subject automatically lashes out (just, like, vocally) as it’s proven that, yes, this could be a problem. Since Ingo’s getting a moment in a bit, it might be good to give Emmet this one.]

—

He perked up.

“Do tumblestones still exist? They must, right? It’s just stone, it can’t exactly go extinct…”

Without bothering to peel himself away from his twin’s side, Emmet gave a half-hearted shrug and, after a moment to unfasten it, handed his Xtransceiver over. “Have fun looking for rocks.”

[…]

Looking up from the Xtransceiver, Ingo frowned [not excitedly, but ???], “If we can get the appropriate materials, I can craft some pokeballs. That would circumvent the problems you’ve mentioned, wouldn’t it?”

“You can do what, now?” Elesa asked at the same time that Emmet, peering around his brother’s shoulder, said, “Apricorns?”

Without acknowledging the latter question, Ingo passed the device back to its owner, “It’s not a [craft] I’m particularly well versed in, but we could likely do worse.”

—

Emmet passed one of the pokeballs from hand to hand, considering it. The quality was better than the one that carried Gliscor, likely marking that as an earlier foray into the craft, but still a far cry from the uniform construction of modern pokeballs. It was heavier, for one thing, likely due to the fact that it was partially made of stone and, while cool to the touch, did eventually warm at the points of contact with his palm. He could tell where a tool had dug too deep into the material, only to be caught and the flaw smoothed out, creating a small but noticeable groove along the capsule’s side.

They worked like modern pokeballs, at least– save for the features they were purposefully trying to circumnavigate– and something in him distantly wondered if they felt the same. Emmet pointedly ignored the rogue thought and set the practice ball down. He cast an eye over the dark semicircles that had been carved from the black apricorns, but didn’t dare touch them. As much as he understood having backup materials, it seemed a bit excessive; Ingo clearly understood the process behind the craft, so why all the fuss? Did he not trust the quality of modern apricorns? Was there a difference in the density or the technique involved in carving them? It was an interesting process– and, while not a hobby Emmet particularly wanted to pursue, shone a unique light on the manufacture of the modern day product.

[…]

“If you want it, this is for you,” He said, and placed the capsule securely in Emmet’s palm.

Emmet almost turned it over, conditioned to assume the white half of a pokeball was the bottom, but the distribution of weight suggested that wasn’t the case. These handmade pokeballs put the stone at the top, and, thinking back on it, it was plainly obvious which material was which: black apricorn, white tumblestone. He was holding it right side up already.

He liked it, he decided after the surprise wore off. He liked it a lot– a unique design, a combination no one else could lay claim to.

Excepting, of course…

“Did you make one for yourself?”

“That’s yours.” Ingo said easily, [idk action tag?] “I made it for you, so it’s your call whether you want to match or not. I can put another one together, or use one of the pokeballs I already made.”

What kind of statement was that? Of course Emmet wanted to match. It would throw everything off to put the monochrome pokeball next to the red and tan.

[he says as much for now, but before the day is out, decides on something else.]

That explained the four extra tops and bottoms; Ingo had been giving himself room to learn from the last, and, ultimately able to pick from the best of the lot.

Emmet paused and turned back around, picking the black and white capsule up. As he’d done with the prototype, he [turned it over in his hands], considering it. Still nothing like a regulation pokeball, but orders better than the one he remembered inspecting– no odd grooves or spots where the apricorn hadn’t sanded down properly. It was lighter, too; more of the material had been carved away to make for a sleeker product.

He hadn’t noticed at first– hadn’t appreciated it at first– but a lot of work had gone into making it the best it could be. Emmet set it down again, further back than before so no curious limbs could snag it and knock it off, and crept into the living room.

His twin was on the far end of the couch– Excadrill draped over his lap and soaking up every bit of absent-minded attention she could get– skimming an outdated report on Galarian battle facilities. Newer [editions] were stacked on the arm next to him, suggesting he was trying to make up for lost time. Emmet rounded behind him and leaned against the backrest, wordlessly announcing his presence.

“Show me how to make a pokeball.” He said without preamble.

“You would hate it.” Ingo said just as immediately, failing to look away from his reading material.

“Doesn’t matter.” / “You spent a great deal of time and effort crafting something you knew I would like. I can at least attempt to do the same.”

Finally, his twin looked up, meeting his eyes, “It’s a nice sentiment, but I didn’t make it expecting anything from you. There are enough pieces for four perfectly good pokeballs, and I’m happy to use one of those– really, it would be a waste not to put any of them to use.”

“It just feels unfair. Imbalanced. I don’t like it.”

Ingo considered him for a moment and then, with a rueful pat, uprooted Excadrill to the next cushion over. He pivoted to sit on his knees, an elbow braced against the backrest so they could look each other head-on, “Think of it this way, then: I happened to have a skill that could be immediately put to use. I didn’t have to spend any time learning how to conduct it, only to acquire the materials and shape them– and I was happy to do so. That’s what I want that pokeball to embody. If you have to be tied to something, it should represent that truth: that it was made because I love you.”

Emmet shot him a look and made to interrupt– because if that was meant to dissuade him, it was an incredibly counterintuitive argument– but Ingo pointedly charged full steam ahead.

“And I understand that you want to show the same, but please trust me, you would not enjoy learning this craft. Carving an apricorn would wreak sensory havoc, and I don’t want that for you; knowing that you’d put yourself in an uncomfortable position to make this hypothetical pokeball would really, truly bother me.”

There was a long silence as Emmet considered that, and, eventually, said, “At least guide me through carving a tumblestone. We can compromise and use one of your apricorn halves.”

For the [x] time that day, Ingo shot a look Emmet’s way. For the [x] time, he was waved off, only for his twin to resume the irritated rubbing at his arm a minute later.

Emmet had long since insisted that it wasn’t an allergic reaction; there was an itch, but duller than an allergen would inspire, like a bramble wrapped in a layer of cotton. From there, the next logical leap would be a sensory issue, but they’d determined that the offending button-up had been in rotation for months, and was the same material as the rest of their work shirts. Ingo had begun to wonder whether Garbodor had somehow gotten her hands on poison ivy or some other irritant, and unknowingly secreted the compound. It was a long shot– he was the one who’d been battling with her today, not Emmet– but he just couldn’t come up with any other reasonable explanation.

A telltale pressure began to bud between his eyes and Ingo turned, about to suggest they take a break long enough to resolve the matter, since little was being accomplished with the distraction– but stopped short, considering the stripe of white fur running down his brother’s face. He raised a hand, looking for permission to touch, and once he got it, ran a gloved finger along the bridge of Emmet’s nose.

Brows drawn together, Ingo braced himself to be scoffed at, and asked, “Could you be shedding?”

Emmet blinked at him, waved the hand away, and reached up to scrub at his nose himself. The friction sent a cloud of short white fur flying everywhere, readily answering the question. He raised both hands to flap it out of his face and Ingo hastily stepped back, trying to avoid the sudden blizzard.

“Yup. That would be the problem.” Emmet eventually said, flatter than usual as he gave up on escaping the eye of his self-made storm. Frustration aside, he had, at least, calmed enough for the inhuman features to recede.

“Well, that should be easy enough to [resolve].” Brushing a tuft of fur from his sleeve, [idk], “I doubt Excadrill’s brush will stand up to your fur, though; we’ll have to stop by a grooming store on the way home. Can you make it through the rest of our shift, or should we depart as soon as possible?”

The [idk] look he got in response was all the answer Ingo needed, and just as well, since a pair of challengers arrived shortly thereafter.

When he released Probopass, it took her a full ten seconds to stop sneezing.

—

That evening found the living room’s furniture pushed to the perimeter so Emmet could sulk in the explosion of fur that heralded Reshiram’s manifestation. Ingo didn’t dare say anything for a solid minute, lest he get a mouthful of it, but gave an [unimpressed], “Mhmm” at the state of things.

Emmet squinted at him and deliberately huffed into a nearly-settled clump of fur, sending it fluttering back into the air. Rolling his eyes, Ingo ignored the [retaliation] and considered the various brushes they’d since acquired, trying to figure out where to start.

Eventually, he decided the best starting point was the kitchen, where he grabbed their entire supply of non-ambulatory trash bags and shook one into a usable shape where it wouldn’t kickstart the maelstrom again. The sound immediately caught Garbodor’s attention, and he had to spend the next few minutes fending her off with the promise that no, she didn’t want this because it was an empty bag, and that she’d get actual trash later. Fortunately, Tangrowth chose that moment to [idk what nonsense], and the two kept each other distracted for some time thereafter.

When he finally got back to the workspace, Emmet had settled onto his front and seemed to be in a substantially better mood.

“I almost want to let her have the shed fur.” / “I’m verrry curious what kind of poison she would synthesize from it.”

“It’s mostly keratin, no? I’m not sure it would affect the potency of her poison at all, but maybe its consistency– possibly something like the slime produced by deep ocean-dwelling Eelektross.”

“Take that back. You’re going to give him a complex.”

Ingo looked past his brother– to the couch where Eelektross was curled in loose, content loops around [?], eyes closed and not paying a lick of attention– then turned back to say, “You’re right, I’ve traumatized him.”

Humoring a snicker that hissed with built-up heat, he ran a hand fondly along his twin’s muzzle, utterly [unsurprised] when he came away with a fistful of [fur].

“Where should I start?”

There was a short, self-conscious hesitation.

“That was nice. Just now.”

“You just want to be pet, don’t you?” Ingo asked. It successfully dispelled the nervous energy that had been building, and, as he jokingly called for Machamp– citing a need for the fighting type’s many hands– an unnecessarily large wing pushed him to the floor. He managed to pull himself free at a perfect angle for Emmet to stick his muzzle into his face.

“Are you going to help or not?”

Heedless of the fur that would cling to him– and having changed for just that reason– Ingo pressed his forehead to the curve of his brother’s snout, “Of course I am; please don’t be embarrassed to direct my attention where you need it.”

There was another pause, and Ingo might have worried that he’d only made matters worse had it not ended in, “I missed you so much.”

It was strange how the sentiment could still hurt so [keenly], even [x] months after the fact.

“Don’t apologize.” Emmet said preemptively, finally lifting his wing, “We know whose fault it was.”

Frowning silently– and meaning it– Ingo righted himself and gave his hands a vigorous shake, trying to rid them of both fur and the tense static cling drawing said fur in. Attention on a Pokemon leaning around the corner, Emmet didn’t call him on it.

“He was joking, Machamp. Go back to… never mind. I no longer want to know.” When Ingo looked over his shoulder to gauge what was going on, the offending wing raised again, corralling him, “No. You said you would help. No more distractions.”

“No more distractions,” He agreed, settling on the brush with softer bristles, “It’s not as irritating in this form, is it?”

“Correct. Likely because it is no longer being contained.”

[…]

At some point between the even brush strokes, Emmet had dozed off. He woke with his head pillowed on an incredibly full garbage bag, and a steady sweeping through the fur of his left haunch.

He must have made some kind of noise upon [waking], because he was almost immediately met by, “Do you feel any better?”

A drowsy rumble escaped him before any proper answer, and he shifted, trying to gauge [idk]– only for something to squawk and a weight to drop from his right wing. When he moved to look, he caught Archeops darting away with a mouthful of shed feathers, and then had to twist in the opposite direction to find him hiding behind Ingo, regarding the limb with suspicion.

“He’s been very helpful.” Ingo said with a conversational frown, not bothering to look up as he shoved a handful of fur into another trash bag. Belatedly, Emmet thought to take stock of them, and found two others beyond his pillow.

Yikes.

But, ignoring the unreasonable amount of fur everywhere, he did feel better. Much better. Way better than he’d expected to come of this.

“Thank you.” He said, instead of any actual [assessment], trusting Ingo to understand, “…do you think you need to shed, as well?”

“Probably not? I mostly just have plating….”

[…]

Midway through the morning routine the next day, Ingo discovered that, even a room over, his coat hadn’t come out of the experience unscathed. They still made it to the station on time, perfectly presentable– but only because they spent the entire commute frantically going over the dark fabric with an industrial strength lint roller.

It was a learning experience, and when shedding season came back around in [season?], they made sure to ferret the coat away at the very back of the closet.

—

Emmet liked to think he’d gotten quite good at recognizing a bad pain day, and he’d been seeing all the hallmark signs. Slow, deliberate movements were the most obvious, indicative of difficulty maneuvering and fatigue, followed shortly thereafter by the reluctance to eat and a foggy distraction.

When he called his twin on the fact, Ingo had denied it– claiming that he felt stiff, but wasn’t hurting. Emmet hadn’t bought into it until Machamp, excited from a battle well fought, slapped Ingo’s shoulder to little reaction. At that point, he had decided that it must have been a fluke and moved on.

Two days later, on their lunch break, Ingo reluctantly amended the [claim].

“It’s beginning to hurt,” He admitted, but only once Elesa [had gone to do something], “I don’t know why; it doesn’t match up with any injuries.”

By the end of the second sentence, Emmet had already taken his brother’s hand and dropped a pair of pain killers into it. Ingo offered him a grateful twitch of the lips and took them dry, like a monster.

When he asked for a takeaway box and packed a good 90% of his food into it, unable to stomach any more, Emmet decided enough was enough, and that they were going home after this. He was in the middle of tapping out a message to [agent] when Elesa rejoined them.

[…]

As he closed out of his calendar app, an upcoming reminder pertaining to Galvantula’s care caught his eye, planting an idea in his head.

“I do not mean to be rude. Apologies.” He said to the table as a whole, before leaning over Ingo’s shoulder to quietly ask, “You said before you felt stiff before. Tight. Does it itch at all?”

He murmured, “It’s difficult to tell for certain. A little, maybe?”

“Ah,” [???], easing back, and into a teasing smile, “That answers that. You do shed.”

“Emmet.” He hissed, looking over his shoulder to ensure there was nobody nearby, but the only person who could have– and had in fact– heard, was Elesa, who [idk] in confusion.

She [idk] her straw in a circle, sending the ice in her drink swirling around the glass’s perimeter, “Keeping secrets, boys?”

Emmet almost said something, but reined himself in. He couldn’t [shame] his brother when Ingo had followed through and [admitted] it to him when he was in pain; that would put him on a one-way track to never speaking up when it was wearing on him. Instead, he shrugged, “Ingo assisted me with Pokemon care several weeks ago. I’m offering to return the favor.”

Meaningfully tracing a line up the bridge of her nose, Elesa quirked a brow, leaving the actual question unspoken.

[…]

“Wait, did you say ‘shed’?”/”Is that where that silly ‘ran into a Zoroark– wait, no an Absol’ cover story came from?” At the unenthusiastic affirmative, she went on, “Why, exactly, was Zoroark your default?”

“They’re… white sometimes?”

“Where?”

“I think you can infer the answer to that question.”

[…]

[Elesa offers to help re: scale care]

Something twitched in Ingo’s expression, and even without the visual cue, Emmet would have been able to read the self-consciousness in his [behavior]. He understood. Of course he understood; he’d had a hard enough time working up the nerve to ask for what he needed, and that was after they’d already made the decision to brush his fur out.

Being cared for like that– in the form of a Pokemon with human sensibilities– was mortifying. The only reason he’d eased into it at all was the fact that it had been his brother [caring for him]. Much as he loved Elesa, he couldn’t imagine going through with it with her there; he would have just lived with that infernal cotton-swathed irritation.

“That’s unnecessary. But thank you.” Emmet said, keenly aware of the [small decrease] in tension that followed,

[…]

“Well go on.” Emmet said as they regarded one another in the newly-cleared center of the living room.

Ingo shot him a withering look and, with a subtle grimace, first straightened from his slouch, then allowed his form to shift. There was no [?] of fur this time, for obvious reasons, but it still felt somewhat unfair. It had been embarrassing. Not that he wanted to make this any worse on his brother, but why was Emmet the only one who had to deal with it?

Galvantula scuttled across the couch, and, when Ingo leaned down, parked herself directly in front of him. With a series of rapidfire chirps, she excitedly climbed up and ran her pedipalps over his horn. Haxorus, too, crooned from nearby, but was more sedate in the path she picked; without a trace of hesitation, she followed Galvantula’s lead and got in her trainer’s face, lightly scraping one of her tusks along his crest.

It made sense that they would be the first to recognize what was going on; Emmet couldn’t even count the number of molts they’d been through, so of course they were old lack-of-hands at this.

And, to be frank, the conclusion wasn’t a difficult one to reach when looking at his twin. The spots of true black on Zekrom’s body were relatively few, but right now, all of his plating was a dull grey; the faded scales badly needed to be removed, to make room for the healthy [plating] beneath. It was little wonder Ingo had been so tense with this lurking under the surface.

Emmet clapped his hands, and Galvantula looked up at him; Haxorus paused for just a moment, but went right back to her self-appointed task.

“This is verrrry sweet, girls. However, I need you to move.”

Galvantula peeped an inquisitive protest, but allowed herself to be removed in return for wrapping her legs around Emmet instead. He idly pet down her back, humoring her for the short commute to the couch, where she was promptly deposited.

With his back turned, Emmet failed to notice the shape crawling along the ceiling, nor did he consider that Galvantula and Haxorus weren’t the only of their Pokemon familiar with the process of molting an exoskeleton.

He was made aware, however, with the [?] of a [fondly] warning, “Gliscor.”

Emmet looked up to find the bat in question hanging from his tail, cackling a screech. Pincers reached down and scrabbled wildly, eventually seizing upon the tips of Haxorus’s tusks, and he flipped right-side up, tail swinging to the floor with a heavy thump.

“I’m not sure how that’s meant to help.” Emmet said mildly, “But good job.”

[humors, then removes Gliscor, gets him to settle with Galvantula]

“He really likes you. You know that, right?” / “You might consider taking him for Doubles some time; I wholeheartedly believe that you’d have fun together.”

Emmet snorted, “Only once he stopped throwing a tantrum over your absence.”

There was a long pause, and then, “He’s… not that bad.”

“How would you know? By definition, you cannot be there to witness.” / “He’s verrrry loyal. It’s a good thing! He’s also verrrry needy.” / “We’ve gotten off topic!”

With a thoughtful hum, Ingo reached a set of claws over to the opposite wrist’s plating and tentatively scratched at it. “I’m not sure how to go about this. It’s clear enough that the scales need to be shed, but they still seem quite solid. Do you think we should give it a few more days?”

“No.” Emmet said at once, “You did not see yourself today. It was bad. You shouldn’t have to endure it any longer.” He’d already had a plan in mind, after watching Haxorus’s [attempts] [fail], and he turned on his heel to set it into motion, “I have an idea. Wait here.”

“Where, exactly, would I be going like this?”

[…]

[he’s since draped several warm, wet towels over the first areas of interest; has to let them set/soften the scale beneath]

In the lull, his eyes were drawn to a spot of movement along his twin’s tail–  yellow [spots] standing out against the dormant generator. Normally, he’d be all for it, but for now he moved to pluck the pair up and away.

“Not today. He’s not feeling well.” He told them, depositing both onto Galvantula’s back. One nestled in, but the other immediately began to scale Gliscor, searching in vain for an electric charge, and temporarily got itself wedged in the crease of his wing. Gliscor chirped, bemused, and pulled the wing in. The trapped Joltik whined in protest.

“It’s still just a baby, Gliscor; be gentle.”

[…]

“It isn’t too much trouble?”

Emmet scoffed and leaned in against his brother’s neck, “You have a lot of nerve asking that.”

“I just– this isn’t a particularly quick method. You’re really alright with it?”

“Remind me again what you found [somewhere] this morning?” / “Yup. It was fur. Though this process will take several hours, I do not see us finding scales [w/e] through next month.”

Though he went quiet, Ingo still didn’t seem convinced.

“I know. This is verrry uncomfortable. But it needs to be done.” / “Please refrain from worrying and allow me to take care of you.”

[…]

He tossed this last bit of shed plating into the bag and cinched it shut, stepping back to admire the shiny black scales he’d uncovered. Interest piqued, Ingo raised his head.

“Are you finished?”

“Hm. Nope. Not yet.” Without any further [explanation], Emmet turned and hauled the bag toward the door, masking the fact that he was shifting bits of furniture just a bit further to the walls as he went. When he was satisfied that he wasn’t about to break anything, he blew out a long breath before shifting, himself, and resting his chin on the back of his brother’s neck.

“Now we are done.”

[…]

He was roused by the ringing of his Xtransceiver, laying forgotten on the other side of the room. When he raised his head to respond to it, Chandelure grumbled a discordant chime from her spot between them and, once she’d properly scolded him, levitated the device over so he could see without getting up.

It was Elesa. Judging by the time, it seemed likely she’d just left the Gym or was in the middle of wrapping up for the day and, considering the note they’d parted ways on, it was only right to assure her that nothing was truly amiss. Beneath him, Ingo began to stir and was promptly favored with the same [scolding] Emmet had gotten a moment prior– joined, this time, by a throaty hiss from Eelektross.

Clumsily, Emmet navigated a talon over to pick the call up.

“Hey Emmet, I just w–” / “–wanted to make sure everything’s alright. Can I, uh. Ask what’s up?”

[answers telepathically]

It took a second for him to realize why that hadn’t worked and try to formulate a non-psychic response. Unfortunately, his still-[drowsy] vocal chords didn’t seem inclined to work with him, and what he ultimately voiced was a sleep-heavy whine. Humming in [worried/tired] response, Ingo looked up far enough to see what was going on.

Elesa stifled a laugh, “You know what? Stay where you are; I’ll be by in fifteen, okay?”

The Xtransceiver clicked off and Chandelure unceremoniously tossed it to the couch, nestling back into her spot now that her task was finished. Emmet blinked after it, processing the implications behind the otherwise empty sofa. Galvantula wasn’t hard to find, tucked in at an incriminating lack of distance from Ingo’s tail while the two Joltiks shamelessly clung to the generator.

As usual, the oxymoronic surprise was Gliscor; Archeops was roosting amongst Emmet’s own feathers, Durant warming itself by his tail, Tangrowth and Garbodor curled up together on Ingo’s opposite side, and the weight against his free side suggested either Probopass or Haxorus had invited herself along. Though he didn’t have eyes on either Excadrill or Magnezone, their respective snoring and buzzing made it clear that they weren’t far. Alakazam was hovering nearby, letting Machamp rest against his shoulder, the Klinklang contentedly turning together in their sleep, and Crustle, upon hearing a human voice, was scuttling his way back from the kitchen, suggesting he’d been up to something illicit. That was everyone else accounted for, and, just in case, Emmet looked up at the ceiling to no avail.

[…] He flexed his wing, trying to inch it free from what he was just realizing had to be Haxorus and Excadrill, awake enough now to remember the full extent of Probopass’s weight. The movement was met with a series of disapproving clicks, and he finally realized that there was something clinging to the fur beneath that wing; thinking back to the way Gliscor had wrapped the Joltik up earlier, he ceased all movement and let it fall back into place, chided.

He’d thought Ingo was just being idealistic– had wanted Emmet to bond with his dearest Hisuian friend– but maybe there had been an element of truth to it, after all.

[…]

There was a knock at the door, “Alright, boys, unless someone barks at me, I’m coming in.”

Neither of them made any noise, but it seemed improbable that it would have stopped her, either.