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He should have won that battle.
Stupid cramped subway cars, stupid weirdo Pokémon, stupid Subway Master, he curses to himself. He was totally prepared to beat Emmet's team into the ground, but he just got unlucky back there. A silly distraction that wasn't his fault. He made it so far, he was so close, only to crash and burn at the very end. It isn't fair.
Without bothering to listen to any congratulations on his loss or eavesdrop on the boss praising his strange team, the man trudges towards the open doors of the car with a deep scowl and a dragging pace.
It's the last stop of the day for the Battle Subway, so the platform is sparse save for facility employees and a few lingering fans.
Something taps him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. I am Emmet. I would like to pass."
He clicks his tongue and jerks his shoulder. "What, eager to head home after all your wins today?"
"Yes, actually."
Incredulous, he stands aside for the Subway Boss to stride onto the platform, arms swinging and head held high. That prideful little...
Before he can shake off his irritation, Emmet stops, heels clacking together upon the tiled floor. Then he spins around, coat flaring, and fixes his wide smile right upon him.
"Thank you again for the battle, passenger. I only wish it lasted longer!"
What.
"...The fuck did you say?"
Emmet's head tilts. "I wish our battle lasted longer. It was over far too quickly." His arms sweep out in a showy shrug. "You looked strong, so I got excited. But oh well. Maybe next time!"
Excuse me?
Baffled, he stands there gaping until the Boss spins around yet again and begins to march off.
Oh no he won't.
His arm shoots out and grabs the Boss by his shoulder. Emmet freezes underneath the clutch, one leg and one arm still stuck out mid-stride.
"Next time, huh?" he snarls.
"Yes," Emmet says without turning around. "You are free to ride the Battle Subway again to test your skills! I look forward to another battle with you!"
This freak wants to curbstomp him all over again, is that it? Typical. Strong trainers love grinding others into the dirt. He won't give this arrogant jerkwad the satisfaction.
"Nah, fuck you. I don't wanna fight you again." He releases Emmet's shoulder as if he's touching something disgusting. "Acting like you're hot shit with your creepy-ass team. The fuck kinda boss uses a Crustle, anyways?" he sneers. "It's like you're not even serious about this. It's insulting."
He tilts back a step when Emmet suddenly whisks around to face him, smile bright as always. "I am Emmet. And I am a Subway Boss for a reason, passenger."
The man leers and shoves himself right into Emmet's space. "Guess they hire any old freaks then, huh?"
"If they are strong enough to win many battles. Yes."
It's infuriating that Emmet's expression won't crack. He's smiling like he always does, creepy as hell about it, too. It feels fake. Condescending. All high and mighty after wiping the floor with another insignificant challenger.
A brief fantasy flashes through his mind. His hand curls into a fist to sate the itch. There's one thing that should wipe that smile off this bastard's face... Too many witnesses, though. Not many people, but enough to deter any action.
In fact, there's that other Boss, too, tied up by some older ladies trying to fuss over him on the other end of the platform.
Oh? Their eyes just met.
Ingo's gaze flicks between him and Emmet, and he stands taller with a puffed out chest, and makes a show of dragging his gaze back to the twin before him.
In his peripherals, Ingo stiffens. The other Boss shakes his head, tries to get his attention with jerky waves below the belt that won't be noticed by the tiny crowd of aunties around him. Well now, someone's protective over his twin. How cute.
He steps into Emmet's space with a nasty leer.
"Looks like your brother there's trying to watch out for you," he says under his breath. "Aww, so overprotective of little old you, thinkin' you can't handle yourself?"
Emmet's eye twitches. Struck a nerve; excellent. Finally a crack in that infuriating mask.
"I suggest you stop talking about Ingo like that," Emmet says.
Stop when he just struck gold? As if.
"Does that guy baby you? Pathetic. Bet you're sick of listening to his shit all the time. He sounds like a strict pain in the ass. Creepier than you, too, and that's saying something."
Emmet's jaw clenches.
"But hey, I get it." He steps back with a non-confrontational shrug. "Older siblings can be naggy as shit. Hard to get their overbearing asses off your back if you're a pussy. If I were you, I'd have told that stiff robot motherfucker to shut up long ag—"
A hot burst of pain explodes across his face.
He staggers back and touches his face with a nasty curse. Warm, wet, vibrancy on his fingertips. What the fuck—is this blood? He can taste it, smell it, feel a wet trickle down his lip riding over the sprawling burn in his face.
Before him, the Subway Boss idly tugs his glove off by its middle finger, and holds it up at eye level to inspect. Pristine white fabric, knuckles spotted with bright red. Emmet tilts his head and clicks his tongue lightly at the minor inconvenience of a ruined glove.
"You..." The man smears the blood from his mouth with his sleeve. His nose hurts like a bitch, it better not be broken. "You're fuckin' crazy! I'll call the cops!"
Emmet's attention snaps to him and he falters. Those grey eyes, normally so neutral and annoyingly pleasant, now wield a steely glint, sharp and cutting as a razor above a rictus smile that's never faltered.
"I am merely enforcing a rule, passenger."
A commotion in the distance catches his eye. Ingo, peeling away from the crowd around him, frantically trying to reach them.
"What fucking rule is that?" he spits.
"One of my own." Emmet tucks the sullied glove into his coat pocket. "You see, passenger, you can say all the rude things you like about me and I will not care one bit. But nobody," he presses, leaning closer, eyes flashing sharper over the slash of his grin, "is allowed to make fun of my brother. You have broken the rules and have earned your—"
"Emmet. That's enough."
A white-gloved hand claps over Emmet's shoulder from behind, and just like magic, the dangerous, frigid air surrounding him melts away as if it never existed in the first place.
"I am Emmet. Ingo! This person was being verrry rude! He will apologize now!"
The man sputters. "The fuck I'm gonna—"
"He will apologize now," Emmet repeats, that murderous glimmer flickering back to life in his eyes.
A chill races up the man's spine. He knows when to listen to his survival instincts.
Suddenly sober and not minding the throbbing of his nose so much, he drops into a mumble and forces out something that can pass as an apology. Arceus, he doesn't wanna give that psycho any more reason to snap. Even if it looks like Emmet holds back when Ingo is near. No chances.
He can't even look the two in the eye.
Once his 'apology' is more or less presented, he fidgets in place and rubs at his nose again. It doesn't feel broken and the blood has started to crust. His teeth are probably pink from what's leaked past his lips. Copper on his tongue.
He's probably lucky he only got punched once.
"I'm very sorry, sir."
His head snaps up.
Expression robotic as always, the darker-clad twin pulls something out of a pocket and holds it out.
A folded... handkerchief? This isn't some kind of sick joke, is it?
After squinting at Ingo's offering long enough, he hesitantly takes the handkerchief.
Emmet's smile strains.
He avoids the Boss's gaze as he presses the cloth to his nose.
"You should get yourself to the hospital, sir," Ingo says. "There is a clinic two blocks south of this station's exit. I apologize for this incident and humbly ask that you do not bother contacting any authorities."
The hairs on the back of his neck lift. A glance confirms that Emmet is staring straight at him, expression pleasant on the surface, but with a pinpoint, frosty gaze. A warning. He's pretty sure that psycho will murder him in his sleep if he so much as breathes wrong right now.
"Uh... Y-Yeah, whatever. Just a misunderstanding."
"I am glad!" says Ingo. "Altercations on the subway are regretfully common, and as the Bosses of this facility, we prefer to resolve things ourselves. This won't happen again, I assure you. Now, see yourself to a clinic, please!"
"Yes, yes, you should go." Emmet beams. "If you want to ride the Battle Subway again in the future, I hope you will have improved your tactics by then!"
He knows Emmet isn't talking about his battle skills one bit.
He tries not to sound like he's sweating from the stress. He's gotta get out of here. "Sure, yeah, sure... Tactics..."
As if he's ever gonna come back to this crazy place.
A sharp laugh cuts into his ears and he flinches when a bare hand claps him on the back hard enough that he stumbles towards the stairs leading out.
"Goodbye! Farewell! Away with you!"
"Emmet."
Fuck all this.
He doesn't stick around to hear whatever happens next.
This is not the first time this has happened. Emmet's usually so patient, able to shrug off the slag unruly passengers love to hurl their way without so much as a blink. But every so often, when his back is turned...
Ingo sighs and sets the carafe back into place.
They're in the break room, away from all prying eyes. Most of the Depot Agents have gone home already. It's the perfect time to have a talk without fear of interruption.
As the older twin, it's his responsibility to find out what bothered Emmet to the degree he socked a passenger square in the face. Granted, he could see that the passenger was obviously the antagonistic force in the interaction, but as a Subway Master, Emmet should know better.
He tried to silently warn the man, but alas...
Ingo walks to the center of the room and sets the steaming coffee cup down with a light papery clack. Black, no sugar or cream. Ingo could never put straight bitter coffee into his mouth, but this is what his brother likes.
Emmet pulls the cup closer and wraps both hands around it. On the way here, he had removed his remaining glove to leave himself symmetrically barehanded.
His knuckles look completely fine. It was an extremely precise strike he inflicted, Ingo has to admit.
"You're lucky nobody really saw," he says to break the ice.
"I do not care who sees."
"I know you don't." He drops into a chair opposite his brother. "But I do. You'll get yourself into big trouble one day if you keep letting strangers under your skin like that. I don't want to see you tangled up in trouble that could have been avoided with a little patience."
Emmet sits up straighter. "In my defense. The people who ask for it are asking for it. He was giving me an open invitation to punch his face."
"Emmet..."
Bare fingers drum along the table. Three sharp rolls, then stillness.
Emmet's voice dials softer. "I can't stand there and do nothing when people say bad things about my brother. Who works verrry hard, and is the kindest person I know. You do not deserve it. Those people are cruel and ignorant. I will not apologize."
Ingo's mind stutters, and he stares in surprise. Under the table he can hear Emmet's legs swinging in the tempo that means his twin is feeling confident.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "He was saying bad things about me?" he awkwardly asks.
Emmet nods, smile tinting vicious. "I would not have hit him if he was not insulting you. I am able to endure everything else. But not when someone is insulting my brother."
"Wait... wait, you mean those other times were all—"
Emmet perks up. "Of course!"
Like his strings were cut, Ingo slumps back in the cheap plastic chair. All those times he thought his twin simply lost his temper and lashed out without thinking, Emmet was simply... defending his name?
No, no, that shouldn't make him happy. It's wrong to hurt people.
Ingo's hand drifts up to cover his mouth, and he pretends it's for contemplative reasons, and not because he's weirdly, inappropriately flattered.
Emmet, of course, reads right through him. The coffee cup is pushed aside and Emmet leans forward across the table, tie hanging down and eyes glinting with mischief.
"Aren't you going to scold me more, brother? Like you always do."
Ingo sharply clears his throat and shifts in his seat. "I didn't have all the context those previous times. I know you've always been protective of me, but..."
"But what? Hm?"
"You. You're far too smug over this. Sit back down."
Pleased as punch, Emmet leans back and takes the coffee cup for a self-satisfied sip.
That rascal knows exactly what he can and can't get away with, and Ingo has a hard time feeling guilty over letting Emmet run freely around those bounds. Especially when, apparently, the major driving force behind Emmet's actions has been wanting to defend him.
It's true that he's prone to letting too many personal slights slide when he should probably stand up for himself more. Restraint is admirable, but he actually can recall many times where he only felt shame for letting someone else walk all over him—all while Emmet wasn't around to see—out of a desire to be non-confrontational and not be rude.
Look at him. He's supposed to be the older twin, the protector, and Emmet's here picking up his slack.
Oddly, he doesn't mind it. They've always been a pair who covers each other's weaknesses. One cannot be all strength and no weakness. He's glad he has Emmet, and glad that there's someone out there willing to throw punches without hesitation for his sake.
"...Thank you," he places. "For wanting to go that far for me."
"Of course! You are my brother. The only one allowed to make fun of you is me."
Ingo hums, grateful for the veer away from his own embarrassment. "Is that so."
"Oh, yes. For example, you can be verrrry irresponsible. You still have not put away the dishes or replaced the—"
Ingo's chair clatters back and his arm shoots over the table. Emmet ducks on instinct, and all that happens is his hat gets knocked off and tumbles to the floor. Ingo still finds his target and ruffles his twin's hair as messily as he can while ignoring all the squawks and fussing and swatting hands.
"Ingo! I styled that this morning!"
"We wear hats all day anyways, nobody sees your hairstyle."
"But I know it's there!"
"Not anymore," he smugly says, and sits back after giving his younger twin one last gentle grind of knuckles against his scalp.
Emmet huffs and dips to one side to fish for his hat. It comes up dusty, and he knocks it several times against the table before giving it a few annoyed sweeps with his hand and fixing it onto his head. A few stray locks of hair stick out from under the brim, and Ingo hides his snort.
"I'll put the dishes away as soon as we get home. Promise."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Emmet goads.
"And you will. As soon as we get home."
Emmet hops up from the table and grabs the coffee cup that, miraculously, didn't spill during their brief tussle. And lifts it.
"Wait, you probably shouldn't—"
Too late. Emmet's already drained the whole thing, and is smacking his lips obnoxiously.
"What was that, Ingo?"
He lowers his arm with a sigh. "Nothing. Just don't blame me if you can't get any sleep tonight."
"Hmm, but who made coffee for me in the first place? It'd be rude to not drink all of what my dear and precious sibling made for me, with all the love in his heart."
...Dammit.
Ingo does his best not to look like he lost in this interaction. He straightens the collar of his coat and pushes his chair in.
"Let's just go home. Ah," he says, noticing Emmet rubbing his hand after tossing the paper cup in the waste bin, "is your hand okay?"
Emmet holds it up and beams. "It's never felt better!"
Ingo fondly rolls his eyes and ushers his sibling out of the break room alongside him. He plans on looking at Emmet's hand properly once they get home, even before addressing the dishes despite knowing he'll be mocked for going back on his promise the moment they enter their home.
There are more important responsibilities than emptying the dishwasher, and that includes looking out for his brother when his brother is always so keen on looking out for him.