Stick or Treat

"Hey there," they say, crouching down to his level. "How did you even get that? It was way up there on the counter."

Gregers barks again, flicks his head. A little blob of oil flies off the end of the spoon and – and somehow doesn't fly any further, hovering there in midair and pulsing irregularly with inner light.

Islay stares. Fennekin. Wooden spoon. Weird haunted oil. There's a pattern here, if only they can …

Plop! and the oil drops like a stone, the lights all fading away in an instant. Gregers whines and drops the spoon in a huff, storming off in a majestic sweep of fluffy tail.

"Hey," says Islay, baffled. "Hey, Gregers, I― is that burning?"

They snatch up the spoon and apply themself desperately to the pan. A few minutes and a narrowly-averted burnt curry later, Gregers and his amazing magic spoon have completely left their head, and the next thing they think of that isn't coconut milk or green chillis is Mags, when she gets in ten minutes later.

"Oh, man," comes her voice, floating down the hall. "Islay. Is. Cookiiiing!"

"Yes, they are," they reply. "You know you love it."

"And I've never denied it," she says, a callback to a joke neither of them remember any more but which lives on forever in this endlessly repeated echo. "What do we got?"

"Fish curry."

"Fish curry." There's a clomping, a clattering, a rustling. Boots being pulled off, a coat being shed. "Fiiiiiish curry. Fish that has – no word of a lie! – been curried."

Whuff.

"Couldn't have put it better myself, Liv. C'mon now, let's get in."

In she comes, Liv scampering along at her heels in that bouncy, fluid way that quilava have. She and Gregers are the reason they first met, when they both stopped at Cinnabar Gym for some fire-type training on their journey. Did the rest of the trip together, kept in touch, met up again when Islay fled Pewter for good – and now here they are as adults, four years into a Saffron flatshare while they try to get their lives in order.

"How's tricks?" asks Mags, dumping her bag and waving Liv over to her basket.

"Decent." Islay glances up, returns their attention to the coriander they're chopping. "Done with the last few bugfixes, so I finished up early for once. You?"

"Bored out of my skull. Afternoon shift is dead." Mags pauses. "Hey, buddy, I'm pretty sure Iz needs tha― ooooookay. That's weird."

Gregers. Islay totally forgot, but – there he is again with that spoon in his mouth. Another blob of hot oil levitating at its tip, locked in midair by the force of his attention.

Mags looks at Islay, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Is it just me or is he doing magic?" she asks.

And Islay realises then, of course, the pattern resolving like the blur of a Magic Eye image suddenly solidifying into a spaceship or a giant squid: fennekin, wooden spoon, weird haunted oil – and magic.

"Oh," they say. "You think he's …"

"Yeah," says Mags. "I actually do."

They both look down at Gregers, sitting there proud as a peacock of his magic oil. And maybe it's just Islay's imagination, but they think his face looks just a tiny bit sharper, his snout a tiny bit longer. Just like how their old nidoran's hind legs started bulking up in the weeks before she became a nidorina. Except that Gregers has been a fennekin for eleven years, and honestly by this point Islay had figured that was just never going to change.

"Well," says Mags. "You know what this means, right?"

Islay looks up.

"I'm gonna need to take him to the Pokémon Centre?"

"No, he's gonna grow hands," she says. "Nothing in this entire flat will ever be safe again." She furrows her brow. "Hey. You all right, Iz?"

"Yeah, I …" Are they? They don't know. It's been so long, and this – this is so unexpected. "I mean …"

A pause. Gregers growls at his bubble of oil; Liv sticks her head up out of her basket. Mags's scowl deepens.

"Okay," she says, putting a hand on their shoulder. "Why don't you finish off that curry, and let's think about this in a minute?"

Islay smiles, relieved. That much they know how to do.

"Yeah," they say. "That, ah … that sounds good."


Twenty minutes later, they're sitting either side of the kitchen table, Liv chewing one of her godawful treats below them and Gregers perched happily on the spare chair, waving the spoon around as if conducting an invisible orchestra. Nothing's levitating this time, but that's probably for the best. Islay has no idea how they're going to deal with a braixen. If indeed that is what's going to happen here.

"When was the last time you took Gregers for a check-up?" asks Mags, mopping out her bowl with a scrap of roti.

"About six months ago, I think?"

"Kessler?"

Saffron's Cranderley Hospital is the biggest pokémon medical centre in Kanto; there are specialists in every elemental type, even rarities like ghosts and dragons. Kessler deals with mammalian fire-types, which in their case means Liv and Gregers.

"Yeah."

"Good old Kessler." She chews for a moment, swallows. "Mm. What did he say?"

"About Gregers not evolving? Nothing, really." Gregers's ears prick up at the sound of his name, but for now it looks like his dog instincts have taken over; he's laid his head on the table and started gnawing the spoon like a bone. Islay should probably take it off him before he destroys it, only they're not quite sure they have it in them. "I mean, he should've evolved about eight years ago, and that's at the latest. And you know his moves are all really weak. We figured he was just low-essence. Not enough fire-type energy."

Mags nods.

"Right, right. I remember now." She inspects the bowl, but there really is nothing left. "This was delicious, by the way."

"Thanks. Nearly burned it."

"But you didn't, though." She swirls her spoon around the bowl for a moment, then lets it drop in with a clatter. "Anyway. Guess you were wrong. He's got enough pokémon juice―"

"Thaaaat's definitely not what it's called."

"―enough pokémon juice to evolve. Or at least he thinks he does." She waves at him, still gnawing on his spoon. "Look at him. He's so ready to wave a wand around."

"But what if he can't?" The words come out all by themselves, so surprising that Islay almost stops right there. They didn't even know they were afraid of that, not until they said it. "What if he's trying and he wants to but he …?"

Mags is silent for a moment. Then she reaches across the table and takes their hand.

"Then he's still Gregers," she says. "And you're still his partner." Her fingers tighten around theirs, tattooed flowers stretching over the back of her hand. "And failing all that, Iz, he's dumb as a box of rocks, so odds are he won't even notice."

Islay has to laugh.

"Yeah," they admit. "Yeah, there's that."

They glance at Gregers. He makes a happy little noise around the spoon in his mouth, happy to be included. Fennekin are fairly social. Not like Liv, who retreats under Mags's bed every few days and refuses to come out until she's done being alone.

"I don't have anything lined up till late next week," says Islay. "I'll see if Kessler can fit him in tomorrow."

"Want me to come with you?"

"No, it's okay. You're back on the evening shift, right? You should sleep."

"I mean. You drove me all the way back to Lavender for Lin's funeral last year―"

"Anyone would―"

"―and you held my hand the whole way through the service, so I deeeefinitely owe you."

"No, really. It's not like Kessler's gonna say anything other than 'he's evolving', is he?"

"You never know. I mean, in this case you probably do, but you never know." Mags pats his hand. "And, uh, Iz?"

"Yeah?"

"You gonna finish that?"

Islay rolls their eyes.

"Here," they say, pushing their almost-empty bowl across the table. "You must have the metabolism of a hummingbird."


"Gregers, Kanetkar. Room 1."

Islay Kanetkar, that's them. They stand up and pat their leg, and Gregers jumps up to follow at their heels. No spoon today. He went for a twig on the way here, but he just chewed it up and burned it – definitely a fennekin impulse, not a braixen one.

The door opens onto a nondescript room, like every other one like it in this hospital: fireproof flooring, slightly chewed desk, outdated PC and monitor.

"Islay, grand." Kessler, swivelling towards them, all smiles and long grey hair. He was a hippy back in the day, Islay's heard, and looking at him, they can believe it. "And Gregers, too. How are you keeping?"

"Uh, I actually think we're probably both okay," says Islay, taking a seat and motioning for Gregers to sit nearby. "You know, all things considered."

"Interesting answer." Kessler looks at them over his glasses. "People don't normally come to see the doctor when they're okay."

"Yeah, well, I kinda think Gregers is a bit too okay." They bend, scratch gently at his fuzzy neck. "I know you said he can't, but I feel like maybe he's evolving."

Kessler raises an eyebrow.

"And why's that?"

"He keeps stealing my spoon."

"Your …?"

"A wooden one, for cooking. And then he like, wiggles it around and levitates things."

"Like a wand." Kessler's face creases along well-worn lines of consideration. "Interesting. Let's see what the man himself has to say, eh?"

Islay lifts Gregers up onto the examination table and tells him to stay there; on the third attempt, he seems to get the message, and doesn't immediately jump into their arms when they pull away.

"That's it, lad, head up," murmurs Kessler, shifting Gregers's head back and feeling along the slim lines of his throat. "Hm. He been burning recently?"

"On the way here. Just a stick, like normal."

"Ah, that'll be it. Hasn't cleared his pipes out yet." His hands move on; Gregers whines, hoping for neck scritches, but Kessler is too professional for that. "Let's see … all right, feeling a little more bulk back here. Fennekin are usually more lightly built. Scavengers and opportunists, not much pouncing."

"Braixen?"

"Aye, maybe. It's not really enough to be sure. He's always been muscular, hasn't he? Compensating for his weak flame." Stethoscope now. Gregers sniffs at it, trying to figure out if it's a toy, but Kessler persists. "Hmm … nothing doing there. You usually get the insides changing first. Braixen lungs are bigger. You can hear the difference right away."

It's all so nerve-wracking, so unclear. His temperature is slightly elevated, which could be evolution raising his fire energy, could be coincidence; he's got a little bigger, but of course fennekin do just grow until they become braixen, which in Gregers's case means forever. Islay just wants certainty, darn it. Is it so hard to tell?

Maybe it is, if you're dealing with a pokémon that should've evolved the better part of a decade ago.

"Not what you'd call conclusive," says Kessler, after a while. "If I take some blood, I can do a proper test for essence activity, but I'll be honest with you, as a non-essential service it'll cost you and you aren't going to get much out of it. Either Gregers evolves or he doesn't."

"Right."

Islay starts to fidget, twisting the end of their thumb in the fingers of their other hand, then realises what they're doing and starts stroking Gregers instead. Trying a little too hard to not seem nervous.

Kessler watches them for a second, then pulls off his glasses and leans in a little.

"That's not what you wanted to know about," he says. "You were already pretty sure, weren't you?"

Busted. Islay hears it in Mags's slangy northwest drawl: Bus-teeeed.

"Well, he was levitating cooking oil," they admit. "Which felt like he was turning magic to me, you know?"

"Looks that way. He's definitely getting ready for it." Pause. Breath. "Why did you come here, Islay?"

That's Kessler. Sharp as an arbok's tooth. Islay sighs and straightens up in their seat, leaving Gregers to whine and put his head on their shoe.

"What if it doesn't work?" they ask quietly. "What if he wants it and it doesn't happen? Or it goes wrong, like that scizor on the news a couple years ago?"

They actually had a nightmare about that one, which is rare for a news story that doesn't involve someone dying. The picture by the article was terrifying, all rust and warped metal, and in Islay's dreams the poor thing shambled after them through the halls of their old primary school, screaming and slashing the walls with broken claws.

"That's almost impossible," says Kessler, with that categorical certainty he seems able to summon up from somewhere deep inside him. "Those mutations are usually caused by a surfeit of essence. Even a pokémon's body can only take so much power before it ruptures. Too little, as with Gregers's hypousia – well, there's no danger of his essence putting any strain on his body at all."

Islay breathes out. It makes sense. And it is a huge relief to know that Gregers isn't going to explode into a horrible H.R. Giger flesh abomination if and when his transformation comes.

"What about if it doesn't happen, then?" they ask. "I don't know how I'd explain it to him."

Kessler nods.

"You said before. About your journey. He didn't like that he couldn't fight as well, did he?"

Shake of the head. Islay remembers Cinnabar Gym, the training with Blaine's fire-type specialists. Gregers trying his hardest to spit out a Flamethrower and barely managing an Ember. The guy they were working with watched, a little concerned, and then suggested diffidently that they leave ranged moves aside and try improvising a Fire Fang with what flame Gregers could muster. But Gregers just couldn't keep up with Islay's nidoran or poliwhirl, and the sight of him whining and staring at the arena as they took on gym challenges he couldn't always pierced Islay to the heart.

"And now you're worried he'll feel like that again."

"Ah. Yeah." Islay laughs a little, though it's mostly just nerves. "Are you a pokémon doctor or a psychiatrist?"

"Mostly a doctor, but enough of a psychiatrist to tell when someone's trying to deflect a serious concern." Kessler leans back in his chair, glasses back on. Islay's got to admit, he really knows how to cut a good, calming figure. "That was then, Islay, and this is now. Gregers doesn't have the pressure to compete, or any reason to be envious. He's happy now, right?"

"Yeah." Islay holds out a hand, and is immediately met with Gregers's wet little nose as he burrows his snout into their palm. "Yeah, I think that's an okay – right, buddy?"

Yahf!

"Sounds like an okay to me," agrees Kessler. "I'd say you don't have a thing to worry about, Islay. Just help Gregers along. If it takes, it takes. If it doesn't, he'll likely never notice. Not if he still has his partner at his side."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." Kessler smiles. "Do what you can, Islay. Help him find a stick he likes; fennekin can't finish evolving till they find their first wand. Worst that can happen is that he ends up with a new favourite stick."

Islay tries to smile back, but it's hard, even if Kessler's sure. They were never the kind of person who's good at certainty. Still. He's the expert, and they should do their best to trust in that.

"Right," they say, Gregers's tongue lapping at their fingers. "Is that the official prescription? A stick?"

"That's the official prescription," he confirms. "I hear the Corrhanos are lovely this time of year."

The Corrhano hills, stretching out long and golden in the summer light. Mags says that when you drive down that stretch of Route 8 where they rise up on either side, that's when you know you're in Hanmere Riding. When you know that there are no more cities, no building larger than a grave tower, all the way down to the sea.

When you know that you and your friends are going home.


"Hiking trip?"

"Hiking trip."

Mags ponders it for a while, swirling her coffee round the glass. Today she is – as always when she peels herself off her bed after the night shift at the bar – wrapped up in her extravagant yellow dressing-gown, her dark face peering groggily out from its depths.

"Monday's my day off," she says. "And I can get Tuesday too. So, if we're back in time for the Wednesday night shift …"

"Is that a yes?"

"As long as you drive. Gonna need to sleep on the way back. And also, you know."

Islay nods: they know. Mags is not a confident driver; being behind the wheel that controls two tons of petrol-fired steel sets her anxiety howling like a dog with its leg in a trap, and after she crashed her dad's car into a lamppost three days after she finally passed her test, she decided that she'd rather not ever do that thing again, all things considered.

"Fine by me," they say. "I like driving. Never get to do it in the city."

"That's teamwork for you. You do the driving, I do the …" She scrunches up her face in a thoughtful kind of way, waving a hand like she could find the words she's after in the air if she tried. "Look, I'm tired, I dunno, I do something, probably."

"You provide the conversation," suggests Islay mischievously, and has to suppress a smile as the joke goes right over her head.

"Yeah. That. Now, uh, Iz, I gotta …"

She lifts her glass, and Islay makes an understanding kind of noise.

"I'll let you and that coffee get properly acquainted," they say, and withdraw back to their room. They have another gig starting Thursday next, a website refresh for the Kanto Board for the Promotion of Dairy Products. Get the prep out of the way now and Gregers can have their full attention right up till the moment the first call starts.


"You are such a nerd."

"And I've never denied it," Islay fires back, taking the car a full two yards forward before having to stop as the traffic seizes up again. "But, uh, just so I'm clear, what's the reason?"

Mags points to the slot in the dashboard.

"Tape deck," she says. "In your car."

They roll their eyes.

"It's an old car, Mags. I needed a replacement and this was what I could afford."

"Yeah, there's old and there's prehistoric." Her lips find the straw poking out of her bubble tea, slurp up a pearl of tapioca. "Besides, you have a bunch of tapes in the glove box, so I know you're using it."

"Well, as long as you're going through my stuff like you're trying to rob me, put something on."

"Hmmm." The cassettes clatter as she sifts through them. "Who is Courtney de Winter?"

"You won't like her."

"Thaaaaat sounds like a challenge to me, Iz."

She unsnaps the case and shoves in the tape. A moment later, the unmistakeable stylings of Kanto's premier jazz saxophonist start rise from the speakers.

Islay looks at Mags. She raises her eyebrows and sucks on her tea.

They shake their head, grinning, and take the car down the street and left onto Grantchester Road, trying to circle round the traffic in Lowside and onto the Saffron ring road. Normally they don't drive much within the city limits, and for good reason; even just keeping this thing parked is a nightmare. But right now, with the sunlight lying heavy and gold on their hands, de Winter in their ears and Mags trying very hard to look like a jazz fan in the seat next to them – well, right now, the traffic seems just fine.

"Everyone okay back there?" they ask, glancing at the rear view mirror. Liv is her usual lazy self, sprawled across most of the back seat; if there's any trouble, it'll come from Gregers, who keeps swatting at her ears in the hope that she might decide to play. "Hey, knock it off. You'd hate if she was flicking your ears."

Gregers lifts his little snout and whines innocently.

"Yeah, I got my eye on you." Islay returns their attention to the road, the once-elegant old buildings of Clacking Hill passing by on either side. Pedestrians and pidgey, squalling horns and street food vendors: truly, this is Saffron. "How d'you like Courtney de Winter, Mags?"

"Love her," she says immediately. "Yeah. Great. I've always said, there's nothing like an oboe."

"Saxophone."

"Yeah. That too, why not."

Through the streets, wriggling between the thinning buildings, up the on-ramp – and suddenly the car seems to shoot forth from Saffron like a cork popping out of its bottle, out onto the open space of the motorway. Suburbs falling away on either side, blown away by the sense of being in motion again, by the great golden hills ahead and the sun climbing up from behind them. By the Corrhanos, dim with distance and unspoiled virgin forest.

Islay breathes out. How long has it been? Too long. Last December, probably, for Christmas with Mags and her mum. Not quite the same, not really. There's no hiking in the hills when they're knee-deep in snow.

"Man," sighs Mags, over her tea. "You forget, don't you?"

"Yeah," says Islay, without needing to ask what it is you forget. "You really do."

They drive on, Gregers and Liv snuffling at each other in the back. De Winter's saxophone builds up to a great brassy roar, the double bass reverberating beneath it.

"Mags," says Islay, after a few seconds.

"Yeah?"

"You can pick a different tape if you like."

"Don't know what you mean."

They sigh and press eject.

"There's a Nova Twins tape in there, you know."

"Oh, really?" she says, as if she's never heard of them, as if she didn't see them in two different cities when they made a rare Tohjo tour. "Guess we might as well give that a try."

The rhythm starts to pound, and Mags's fingers start tapping on the side of her plastic cup of bubble tea. A couple of seconds later, she frowns and looks at Islay.

"What're you grinning about?"


The Corrhano Hills National Park is a special kind of place. Mags took her first steps on her trainer journey here, when she left Lavender as a kid, and it was the last leg of Islay's journey too, when they put off going home by accepting Mags's invitation to visit her in Lavender and see what sights northeast Kanto has to offer.

In the back seat, Gregers and Liv both sit up as they turn off the motorway onto the approach to the park, noses pressed wetly against the glass. They remember too, it seems. Look at Gregers's tail, flicking back and forth with canine joy; look at Liv, shifting on her paws like she's getting ready to dance. It's not till after Islay sees them that they realise how excited they themself are, too. More than afraid for Gregers, more than worried about evolution, they're looking forward to getting out there in the woods.

"Did you book a cabin?" asks Mags, as the road winds between the wooded flanks of the hills.

"Tried to," says Islay. "Nothing doing." They shrug. "We'll manage. There are campsites everywhere."

She makes a face.

"Hope we can get a cabin. I'm too old for tents."

"You're younger than me."

"Too. Old. For. Tents."

"All right, all right." They pause. The first few russet leaves of autumn blow past the windscreen, twisting and flipping on the air. "I did pack you the expensive coffee. If that helps."

"Aw, Iz. I love you too."

"I know."

They pull into the car park. Almost empty, though of course that's not saying much; most trainers take the bus out, and they're far and away the most numerous of the hikers here. Islay remembers that bus. It's somehow even slower than driving out here, and it's already taken them about five hours. Although admittedly quite a lot of that was trying to get out of Saffron.

"Oof. Good to stretch my legs." Mags doesn't so much get out of the car as fall sideways out of it onto her feet. "C'mon, Liv, out you get."

Liv flows out like water; a moment later, Gregers bounces out after, less graceful but just as enthusiastic. Islay ejects the tape – classic Dorothy Donegan right now; it was their turn to choose – returns it to the glove box, and climbs out after them, feeling stiff from long confinement.

"We all ready to go?" they ask. "Gregers?"

He barks, eyes shining, tails wagging up a storm. It really has been too long, hasn't it? For him, as much as for Mags and Islay.

"All right," they say, bending down to pat him between the ears. "Just another sec while Mags helps me unload."

"I'm helping you unload?"


Late summer hangs like a phoenix in the air, golden warmth dripping from its feathers. Mags and Islay walk along the trail under the eaves of the forest, the green leaves limned with amber light. Liv is wriggling and leaping in her war dance, delighted and thrilled to be out here – but all eyes are really on Gregers, scouting ahead with his nose to the ground and his brush held out stiffly behind him. Full-on exploration mode.

"Fox on a log, what will he do," says Mags, as he jumps up onto a fallen branch. "Oh. Guess that's what he'll do."

Gregers locks his jaws around a twig sprouting from the side of the branch and rips it free with a heroic wrench of his neck, almost tumbling over backwards with the force. Islay watches, heart in mouth, wondering if their journey's going to be over already – Gregers trots over, stick dangling from his mouth – and he lays it down at their feet, tail wagging.

Islay stares.

"Oh," they say, realising. "Sure, boy. Fetch!"

They pick up the stick and throw it; Gregers follows like he's been shot out of a cannon, little legs whirring over the dirt. Liv twitches to attention, watching him avidly, and then half a second later rockets after him, mane and tail sparking with excitement.

"Ah, well." Mags's hand, gripping their shoulder. "It's fine. We got time."

"Yeah." Islay smiles, doing their best to put a little heart into it. "And hey, if nothing else, we get a nice hiking holiday."

"Atta … person." She scowls. "Really doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?"

The smile turns real, and now Mags smiles too: seems that's all she wanted.

"There we go," she says, adjusting the strap of her pack. "C'mon, let's try and catch up with those two before they get beaten up by a kangaskhan or whatever."

Moments like these, they just love her so much. Best friend. Sister, really, after all this time. Islay hasn't spoken to their parents in Pewter for many years now, and God willing, they never will again; when Mags brought them back to Lavender, suitcase in hand, her mum took one look at them and instantly stepped in to fill the gap.

"Sure," they agree. "Let's get going. I wanna hit the Drake Crest before it gets dark."

She snaps her fingers.

"Iz, you are a just a fountain of good ideas lately. Let's get the heck on."

They look on down the path. See pops of red and blue down the way as Gregers and Liv disturb the undergrowth.


These trails are full of trainers, nursing new appreciation for nature after their first summer out on the journey. Only an hour or so in, as the trail slopes up through a grove of gorgeous cypresses, Islay hears Gregers barking up ahead, and rounds a corner to see him jumping excitedly around a tween and his lickitung. They start to hurry, but after a moment it becomes clear that neither kid nor pokémon seems to mind, the boy kneeling to scratch between Gregers's ears and the lickitung watching him with its big, vacant eyes.

He asks if Mags or Islay want to battle. Mags is tempted, Islay can tell, but in the end she turns him down, same as they do. Liv's not bad in a scrap, but she's out of practice, and of course Gregers doesn't have many tricks in his arsenal other than biting and scratching. More fox than fennekin, even now.

They run into several others as the ground rises and the sun sinks: some rookies, their pokémon naïve as they are, and one or two veterans, one teenager and one their own age, each trailing a string of monsters who look like they could take Kessler's whole ward by themselves. It's nice; Islay says hello, and they in return say what a cute fennekin they have, something they're well aware of but which never hurts to hear again. They compete with Mags to see whether Gregers or Liv can get the most compliments, but it's not really a fair contest, not when Liv hunkers down and stares at strangers and Gregers goes right up to them to see if they have scritches to give.

They walk, up the hill and down, then up the next and down, and again, and again, a little higher each time. Chestnuts and cypresses, wild birds and the shadow of circling fearow high above. Gregers goes for sticks a few times, and every time they hold their breath – but both times he's just chewing them up for fuel, heat haze rippling from his ears as the sparks dance between his teeth.


Drake's Crest – so named because a pair of dragonite nested there for over a hundred years, until one died and the other flew out to sea, never to be seen again – is the first of the major Corrhanos peaks, close enough to the trailhead that even those who aren't in it for the long haul come up here on their journey. Mags and Islay walk out of the woods and straight into the sunset, the forest below the hilltop aflame with crimson light.

"Wow," breathes Mags. "That's an omen, y'know."

Islay frowns.

"What, is this some old country wisdom from Lavender?"

She laughs.

"Nah, man, I just mean, like. Looks all fiery. Which is what we want for our buddy here, right?"

"Oh. Right."

They stand there for a while and watch the sun sink into the distant grey smear of Saffron, Gregers and Liv scampering up to join them. Liv is a little tired – she's not in as good shape as she was back in their journeying days – but of course Gregers never grew out of his boundless puppy energy, and he looks ready to keep jumping on passers-by for another hour or so at least.

"C'mon," says Mags, touching Islay's arm. "We should set up before it gets dark."

"What, so you can Instagram it? Hashtag thegreatoutdoors?"

"Pfft. Like there's signal up here anyway."

"So you did think about it?"


A night under canvas, under the stars. Islay wakes first, because they have a normal sleep schedule that hasn't been irrevocably ruined by working nights and also because Gregers is licking their face with all the enthusiasm of a child enjoying an illicit Calippo.

"Ouhm," they grunt, blinking into wakefulness and trying to ease him gently off their chest. "Gregers, what …?"

He yips, happy to see them wake, and Islay winces, motions for him to quiet down.

"Hey, c'mon." They sit up, bleary-eyed. Mags comes into focus, fortunately still asleep. She was up later than they were. The cabin was full, but there are plenty of other people camped out around here, and once they'd put their tent up, the two of them spent a very pleasant evening drinking indifferent Sinnish beer with some like-minded hikers. Islay bowed out after an hour, but Mags was still out there at midnight. "Let Mags sleep," they say, fumbling with the tent flap. "Go on, get out. Be with you in a minute."

They pull on a shirt and crawl out with their razor and the can of coffee, intending to shave and caffeinate, but the morning light is so rich and the air so crisp that for a long moment they just stand there, looking out at the rippling tents and scudding clouds.

Gregers bounds into view around the tent in that fluid vulpine way. Jaws wide. Tongue lolling.

Islay smiles.

"All right, boy," they say, setting down the can. "Guess coffee can wait."

Yahrf!

They pick their way between the tents, Gregers scampering on ahead with a purposefulness that Islay can't help but hope might mean something. The campsite is fringed with trees to break the wind, and no sooner have they reached the boundary Gregers shoots off underneath them, tail waving like a knight's pennant.

"Gregers?"

Islay's body tries to break into a jog to catch up, but it's too early in the morning and they just sort of slump back into a walk.

"Gregers," they grumble, pushing branches aside. "When I said the coffee could wait, what I meant was that we could like, go round the campsite, not hack through the jungle with a machete."

Rustling. Flashes of sandy fur in between the leaves. Islay groans and knees their way awkwardly through a bush, almost tripping on a root, and stumbles out into a clear patch to see―

Their eyes widen.

"Gregers?"

Gregers looks up at them, a long stick in between his teeth. Smooth, near stripped of bark. One small fork near the end.

Ymph, he barks, muffled by the stick, and all around him the earth trembles, little clods of dirt skipping over its surface as if kicked up by a breeze. But there is no breeze, just small red nubs that push up from the dirt like worms, or not worms, Islay sees, but embers, a perfect ring of glowing coals like a ruby circlet, unfolding in puffs of smoke from the black earth―

Tzsou, sneezes Gregers, the stick flying out of his mouth, and the embers melt away like they were never there. He looks around, ears and tail akimbo in his surprise, then whines and puts his head on their shoe in a please fix this kind of way.

For a second, Islay can't do anything except stare at him. That was … that was magic. Or a smoke illusion, maybe; braixen can only do so much, can't bend the flame to true sorcery the way delphox can. But still. Close enough.

They bend down. Pick up Gregers's stick, warm with something more than sunlight.

"Here you go, boy," they say, holding it out.

Gregers examines it for a moment, then realises it's the same one and literally jumps in his surprise and delight. He seizes it in his jaws, alight with the joy a dog feels when his faith in his human has been proven right, and leans eagerly into Islay's hand.

"Good boy," they murmur, running their fingers through his fur, cupping his little skull in their palm. "Good darn boy."


"You're always making coffee right when I'm waking up. It's like you have the gift of prophecy, and you're like, completely wasting it on determining exactly when I regain consciousness."

"And I've never denied it," says Islay. "Also, you know, when you stop snoring it's kind of a giveaway."

Mags's face, poking out of the tent, distorts in a giant gasp.

"I. Do. Not snore."

"Sure you don't." They pour out a cup. "Here."

"You're lucky you have coffee, Iz." She grabs the cup, winces, then disentangles herself from the tent flap so she can take it by the handle. "Ow. Why do we have metal cups? Who thought that was a good idea?"

"Would you have preferred plastic?"

"Euch. No." She sips. "Ah. Man, I miss my coffee machine, but this is actually―" Scowl. Squint. "Hang on."

Islay follows her gaze to Gregers, sitting there pawing at his stick like he knows he's only weeks away from growing hands.

"Stick?" she asks.

"Stick," they confirm. "I think we have a winner."

"Aaaaah!" she squeals, somehow contriving to tumble out of the tent without spilling her drink. "Our boy is growing up! Liv! Liv, come look at Gregers and his stick!"

Liv hisses from deep within the tent.

"Oh well, your loss." Mags shrugs, then starts petting Gregers. "Who's a good boy?"

Yahrf, he barks.

"That's right! It's you, Gregers. You magnificent little thing."

Islay rolls their eyes.

"You spoil him rotten, y'know."

"So do you."

"… touché."

They switch off the camping stove and leave it to cool off, lifting their own cup to their lips. (Tea. Coffee is Mags's vice; for themself, they brought a little ziplock full of the weird High Mountain Red Ai Lao they're currently in love with.)

"So," says Mags, as Gregers rolls over and looks up in expectation of belly rubs. "What's the plan now, then?"

They shrug.

"We have what we came for. Dunno if I wanna go back right away, though."

"Same."

They sit there for a minute, watching the campsite slowly come to life around them. Tents rustling, people talking. Smell of coffee and bacon drifting on the air.

"Wanna do a loop?" asks Mags, scratching gently at Gregers's belly. "Back around the falls? We can be back at the car park by like, two o'clock."

Islay considers. They could be back home tonight that way. Mags would have the whole of tomorrow to rest up ahead of her night shift.

"Sure. I like the falls."

"Cool." A brief pause. Sip of coffee, sip of tea. A mottled grey Tohjo buzzard circling high overhead, no doubt hoping the campers will leave behind some trash it can eat. "So, like. Are you feeling okay?"

"What?"

"Gregers." She prods his tummy; he yips and rolls over, butting his head playfully against her hand. "I know you're still worried about him evolving, Iz."

"Oh."

This pause is longer. Mags puts down her cup and takes Islay's hand.

"I'm gonna take that as something like 'I have really mixed feelings about all this'," she says. "That about cover it?"

"Hah. Yeah, uh … something like that."

A little squeeze.

"It's gonna be okay," she says. "Like Kessler said. We just watch and see what happens, yeah?"

"Yeah, I know," they reply. They're not quite sure they believe it, but they have to get a handle on this, have to put the lid on their anxiety before it boils over and spoils the whole trip. "He knows what he's doing. I trusted him to find the stick, so … guess I can trust him to sort the rest out too."

"That's the spirit. Gregers! C'mere and celebrate your human's newfound resolve."

He looks at the pair of them with absolute, total incomprehension, then decides they probably just want to spoil him some more and jumps in Islay's lap, burrowing his head into their midriff.

"Ego the size of a planet," says Islay, stroking him. "You think it's all about you, huh boy?"

"It is all about him. We drove for five hours just to get him a stick."

"I mean. Kind of also for us, too."

"Can't deny that." Mags stretches dramatically, the light catching the edges of her arms and the shaved sides of her head. "God, this place is beautiful. Kinda wish I'd been up early enough to see the sunrise."

"You absolutely do not."

Her turn to laugh now.

"Wow. Called the heck out." She knocks back the rest of her coffee. "Mm. You packed like, breakfast stuff, right?"

"Mini brioche roll things and pains au chocolats okay with you?"

"Oh, Islay, Islay, Islay, sometimes I think I could kiss you."

"Mmm, not till you're that hot Greek guy from the yoghurt commercial."


This part of the park is a little less well-travelled. Paurilla Falls are, for Islay's money, the prettiest waterfall in Kanto (Tohjo Falls are nice, sure, but technically that's Johto, even if there's no border checkpoint till you hit the New Bark side), but nobody outside of Lavender seems to have heard of them. Once they've finally coaxed Liv out of the tent and taken it all down – and after Mags has said goodbye to all her new friends from last night – they set off down the little-used southeastern trail, underneath the sprawling eaves of the ancient red cedars.

It's like a little kingdom all their own, no kid trainers or holiday hikers. The wild animals are comfortable coming right up to the trail; around ten, they see a couple of grazing muntjac that look up like startled vampires at their approach and bolt into the undergrowth, and a little after that a wild fearow descends from the treetops like that terrifying angel on the church wall in Lavender, spreading its wings like it wants a fight. It takes several long, tense minutes to convince it that they're not trainers and don't have teams it could join, at which it snaps its beak peevishly and takes off with a great hoarse scream.

"Wouldn't it be cool if we saw a kangaskhan?" asks Mags, like she says every single time they come out here.

"I think that'd be pretty scary, honestly," replies Islay. Like every time. "They're really mean."

The trail winds through the hills, between the cedars and cypresses that let you know you truly are in the northeast, between huge knuckles of cracked red rock and the gurgling lucidity of the River Catterac. Muntjac and murkrow, venonat and vale finches. Leaves twisting on the breeze with the damp smell of green things. They keep walking, Liv at their heels and Gregers running ahead with his stick, until all at once they can hear the sound of crashing water and they emerge from the trees to see the great white fist of the falls pounding the river before them.

They stand and watch, the white mist and water spray rising up the banks to lap affectionately at their calves. There's a little railing, but it's hardly anything, really. Islay feels like they could step forward and fall right into the river, to be swept away forever. Food for the fishes and the bears that feast on them.

"Nice!" cries Mags, raising her voice above the roar. "Race you to the top?"

"What are you, twelve?"

"In my heart? One hundred per cent, yeah. C'mon!"

"Wha― hey, wait!"

She takes off up the hill with all the speed and energy of a growlithe just let off the leash, utterly unencumbered by the tent currently strapped to her back. Islay has honestly never been able to match her stamina, but they give it a go anyway, breaking into their best approximation of a run as Gregers and Liv take off like rockets on either side.

"How," they gasp, wishing ardently that they'd spent more time working out and less time on web design, "how are you – doing – this – with the – oof – the tent on your―"

"What, like it's hard?" she tosses back over her shoulder, taking the slope a yard at a time. "C'mon, Iz, catch― whoa, Gregers!"

There he is, legs a sandy blur beneath him, getting much too close to Mags in his enthusiasm; Islay can see it before it happens, can see his tail tangling, see her tripping, see Gregers yelping, see the stick fly from his mouth―

It hits the dirt once. Rolls neatly under the railing. And drops right over the edge into the ceaseless white howl of the waterfall.

"Ow, Gregers!" Mags picks herself up, rubbing her arm where she hit it. "I appreciate your loyalty to Islay, but you didn't have to sabotage me like that. I coulda really hurt myself."

Her voice comes from somewhere impossibly distant, from the dark side of the moon, from Jupiter, from lonely Charon out there making its little circles on the fringes of the solar system. Islay is still staring at that gap in the railing. Only a couple of inches wide. The designers never thought it would be a problem. And they were right, really. Nobody's going to be falling through that.

Their eyes find Gregers, standing there stock-still with his ears up and his brush outstretched, jaw hanging open. Watching the place where, up till a moment ago, his stick used to be.

"Iz?"

It's like this: they're responsible. There's a reason they picked Gregers to keep, after their journey when they couldn't handle three pokémon any more; they felt he was their responsibility, that a pokémon without powers needed help. And sure, the world is full of regular animals that do just fine – Saffron is full of foxes, after all, just as capable of surviving on the street as the feral meowth and the grimer that ooze up through the storm drains.

But Gregers isn't an animal, isn't born to an essenceless life. He's a pokémon. A disabled pokémon, Islay's pokémon, their partner. Their responsibility to care for.

Some carer they are now.

"Islay?"

Hand on their arm. They jump at the sudden contact like it's a snake bite, but it's just Mags, looking worried.

"What's up?" she asks. "Sorry, I was just teasing, it's … it's not about that, is it?"

Islay doesn't know if they have words, so they just point. Mags follows their finger, sees Gregers. A second passes, and then she breathes in.

"Where's his …?"

Islay points again.

"Oh." Mags curses once, softly, with great feeling. "God, I'm sorry, that's totally my fault, this dumb race, I―" She breaks off, shakes her head. "We can find another one, okay? Gregers can, I mean. He can do it."

"I don't," they start, but the sentence dries up and dies halfway through like a worm in the sun. "Mags, I … I messed up, I …"

"No, Iz, it's okay." Her arms around them, her breath on their cheek. "It's all right, we're gonna fix this―"

"We just broke it!" snaps Islay, pulling away. "We just – look at him, Mags, he's …"

Looking at Islay, now. Just like he did when he sneezed out his stick earlier. Big eyes, little whine leaking out the corner of his mouth. Saying: fix this, please. Because that's who Islay is. His partner. The one who fixes things.

"Gregers," they murmur, kneeling, hand out towards him. "Gregers, I can't … it's gone, I'm sorry."

He scurries over, brushes his head against their hand in a cursory kind of way, but it's just because he knows that's what they want; the next moment, he's turned away again, muzzle pointed firmly towards the railing and the long drop down to the river below.

"It's gone," they repeat, uselessly. "It's gone."

He whines again. Less hopeful this time. Liv's here now, rubbing up against Gregers with that affection she keeps hidden inside her like a switchblade in a coat, to be brought out only in times of desperate need. He shudders, fur rippling from nose to tail as he fights it – then abruptly gives in, bending his head close close as she nuzzles him.

"Gregers," says Islay. "I'm sorry."

"Hey." Mags, kneeling at their side, hand between their shoulder blades. "Hey, c'mon. It's gonna be okay, I promise. You just need to calm down a little bit."

"How can I?"

"Breathe. Leave Gregers a second, okay? Liv's taking good care of him. You hold my hand and you breathe."

"Mags―"

"Iz, I love you, but I need you to shut up and breathe."

Her tone brooks no argument, and Islay has always been more of a follower than a leader, can never resist Mags when she's this insistent. They hold her hand, staring at Liv and Gregers in their warm furry knot of shared affection, and breathe.

In and out. Warm air, bright sun. Sound of water, wind. Faint sharp smell of foxes and ferrets. Rocks beneath their knees. Islay lets the sensations hit them one by one, sense by sense, and after what feels like forever their chest unclenches and they let their head fall, ashamed.

"Sorry," they murmur. "I was upset."

"You still are. And that's okay." This time, they really feel Mags's hug, and actually they are a little better for it. "We can fix this, all right? We can find another stick. Gregers can, I mean. Trust his instincts, okay?"

If they open their mouth, they'll argue. Islay holds their tongue and nods, because she's right, they should trust him, and lets her help them back up.

"C'mon then, up you get. Ain't anyone feeling good about themselves when they're kneeling in the dirt." She brushes some dirt off their jacket, though they don't know how it got there. "Liv? Gregers?"

They look up as one, the sharp lines of their faces like reflections of one another. Almost normal.

"Time to go," she says, jerking her head at the path. "Long walk ahead of us."

Gregers shifts on his feet uncertainly – but Liv isn't having any of it; she twists around and bites him gently on the neck, like they used to do when they played as kits. Gregers freezes, surprised – Liv squeaks softly and sprints on ahead – Gregers stares, looks apologetically at Islay, and runs off after her.

"See?" Mags nudges Islay's arm. "He'll be fine."

"I hope so."

"He'll be fine," she repeats, a little more firmly. "And so will you. Promise. Now let's get going, you're gonna enjoy this walk if it kills me."


It's not the day either of them were looking for. The world is beautiful still; the river is bright, the sun is warm, the trees are rich and verdant. Liv and Gregers still run ahead and root about among the shrubs and serpentine ferns. Mags makes her dumb jokes and Islay tries to smile at them.

But it's not the same, not even when Liv flushes a gorgeous banded viper from a bush or when a brief shower of rain sends slices of rainbow tumbling down through the branches. Islay can't take their eyes off Gregers, can't stop themselves finding trauma in every twitch of his ears, every moment when his energy seems to falter. Even when he jumps back up and trots off to investigate another bush, that's just a sign that he's trying to distract himself from the nightmare atop the waterfall.

From Islay's failure, bluntly. But if they say that, Mags will make a whole big deal out of it, trying to be nice and all, so better they just stay quiet and do their best to enjoy it.


They make good time, probably better than if things had gone as planned. At about half past two, they hear engines, and it seems like only a moment later when the trail curves around and the trees part to unveil the grey spread of the car park.

"I call first choice on the tape player," says Mags immediately. Her arms are full of Liv, sleepy-eyed and irascible. Probably a good thing they're heading back. Islay's not sure how much more patience Liv really has for sniffing the wildlife and chasing Gregers round the bushes.

"Sure," says Islay, without much enthusiasm. "I don't mind."

"Sweet as."

They pile stuff back into the boot and hold open the back door for the pokémon. Liv slithers in with palpable relief and immediately goes to sleep; Gregers hangs back, looking up with what Islay instantly assumes is a but I haven't got my stick back yet sort of expression.

They pause, aware of Mags's eyes on the back of their head. If they apologise like they want to, she'll get unbearably sympathetic, and Islay honestly doesn't think they can take that again right now.

"Come on, boy," they say, giving him a cursory pat. "Time to go."

He keeps looking at them for a moment, horribly accusatory. Then he barks once and hops up onto the back seat, curling up next to Liv with every evidence of contentment.

Islay looks up, sees Mags. She looks back, one eyebrow raised.


Long drive, and a quiet one. Somewhere around the second hour, after Mags has dozed off and started muttering quietly at dream customers, Islay lifts their eyes from the unspooling Möbius strip of the motorway to the rear view mirror. There's the two pokémon, tucked up on the back seat. Liv in a knot of fluff and tufty fur; Gregers practically draped over her, his foreleg curled over her and his head resting on her back. He loves how warm she is, always has done. (Liv barely ever throws him off, which from her is pretty much a profession of undying love.)

As Islay watches, a thin wisp of smoke coils off Liv's back as she vents residue from her mane and Gregers's nose twitches as he takes in the smell. His eyes open. Meet Islay's.

They're so bright. And his ears perk up happily, just because he's seen his human looking at him. He doesn't quite understand the witchcraft of mirrors, but he knows who that is behind the glass.

He looks okay. But then, he's a tame fox, which is most of the way to a dog, and a dog will love people who don't deserve it just the same as anyone else.

Islay sighs.

"Love you," they tell him.

"I love you too," mumbles Mags, still asleep, and despite everything Islay laughs.

"Whuh?" Mags's eyes twitch open, bleary and sleep-sticky. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Talking to Gregers."

She glances at the back seat; Islay, into the mirror. Both see Gregers asleep again, still using Liv as a pillow.

"Jeez, never thought we'd manage to tire him out as well," she says, scrabbling around in her bag for her phone. "Cute, though. I'mma Instagram these two."

"Solid choice."

"Can't go wrong."

Mags taps and swipes at filters, tongue pinned between her teeth to aid concentration. Then she scowls, taps more insistently, and finally tosses her phone into her lap.

"No signal," she says. "Anyway. You doing okay, Iz?"

They sigh again. They're doing a lot of that today – enough that they hear their mum's voice echoing down the years, what do you have to sigh about, you spoiled brat? – but it can't be helped. Just keeps on coming out.

"Dunno. Calmer."

"Calmer's good. Calmer's a start."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Well, no, it ain't gonna, not to you. But it is."

"How d'you know?"

"'Cause we've been here before. You always say you can't ever see the way out till you stumble through it."

"Hm."

Islay doesn't know what else to say. A few moments pass; a big rig rumbles past, canvas sides rippling loudly in the wind. EASTWATER DAIRY, says the cartoon miltank on the logo. A QUALITY PRODUCT SINCE 1943.

Roadside lights going past like military tent poles. Low-flying pidgeot, trailing its great crest like a river of blood.

"We've been here before," repeats Mags. "Now. Hate to make problems―"

"Liar."

"―but I just noticed we don't have any music playing."

"Didn't wanna wake you."

"Iz, you are the sweetest person I've ever met, but I am no longer asleep and I am ready to rock."

"All right there, uh … darn it, wanted to go with like a rock star, but I couldn't think of one."

"Course you couldn't," says Mags, reaching for the radio. "You listen to people like that Courtney DeSoto."

"De Winter."

"Whatever. Point is, it's dad music. Whereas – this is what I'm talking about! Bit of Big Joanie to play us home."

Islay shakes their head.


Mags suggests a takeaway, which Islay interprets as you don't need to cook if you're still upset, and which they accept gratefully. The evening finds the pair of them home again, in their bolthole on the ninth floor, an eighteen ninety-nine blowout special from Spice of India spread out across the table between them.

"Y'know, much as I love the hills, the city has its perks," says Mags, shovelling up tarka dal with a chunk of paratha. "Can't have this much cholesterol fired directly into your heart in the middle of the woods."

"Nobody's making you eat that much."

"Not true. I'm making me eat that much. Speaking of, pass that biryani."

"Metabolism of a hummingbird."

"Have I ever denied it?"

"Whoa. Off script, much?"

"What can I say? I'm a rebel."

They eat for a little while in silence, the TV burbling pleasantly in the background. Liv is making a horrible crunching noise from beneath the table as she works her way through one of her treats; Gregers is sitting up at Islay's feet and doing his best to look like a very good boy who deserves a crack at his human's plate. (He doesn't seem upset any more. But you know.)

"Mm. Delicious." Mags spoons yet more rice onto her plate and dollops bhuna on top. Most of this is for her, really. Islay is not a big eater at the best of times. "Not as good as yours, obviously. Except the paratha."

"I don't make those. That's like, work."

"Pouring one out for the stalwart chefs of the Spice of India," says Mags, topping up her glass. "They made this stuff so you didn't have to."

"I like how you appreciated that it wasn't going to be you."

"Natch. More wine?"

"All right. Quick one."

Bloop of falling liquid, and she lifts her glass.

"Well, it didn't quite go according to plan," she says, "but I had a really nice break. Saw a great sunset, made Liv do some exercise, enjoyed some time with my favourite person."

Islay does their best to summon up some positivity. She's right, isn't she? They had a good time, mostly. It's nice to get out of the city, get some exercise, get a little sunlight. Pallid chubby city kid that they are, they probably don't get enough of any of these things. And Gregers and Liv enjoyed it. And – and that sunset really was beautiful.

But then there was the waterfall. And the stick. And the moment they proved they were no partner at all to the one person in this world whose love for them won't waver even if they kick him.

That poisons the whole well, if they're honest. Not that they can tell Mags any of that, not when she's all mellow with food and wine.

"It was nice," they agree. "Right up till it … well, it was nice."

"That's the spirit." Mags clinks her glass against theirs. "Cheers, Izzie."

"Izzie? What's that about, Magdalena?"

"Just livening things u―"

Whoosh!

"What the―?"

Islay's eyes fly to the spot where Gregers was, every anxious bone in their body screaming like an aviary at dawn, and find him absent―

"Oh wow," says Mags, jumping up and knocking her chair clean over. "Is that …?"

It's Gregers. In the middle of the kitchen. Up on his hind legs, forepaws outstretched, the air around him rippling and sparking with heat. And up there, clutched awkwardly between his paws―

"Is that my wooden spoon?"

Nraaaaow, says Gregers, a full-throated yowl like no fennekin has ever made before. Liv shoots out from under the table, hissing and igniting her mane in a panic – but the fire curls right off her back and up into the air, swirling into Gregers's heat haze like water circling the drain.

"Liv!" yells Mags, leaping to grab her.

"Gregers!" yells Islay, tripping over Liv and falling directly into Mags.

Raaahf, says Gregers, and drops the spoon.

Foumph.

The haze dissipates; the flame bursts; the smoke alarm begins to ring. Islay and Mags try to sit up, bash their heads together and immediately fall back down again.

"Ouch," mumbles Islay, disentangling themself and trying to clear their head. "Gregers? Gregers, are you …?"

They blink, bring their vision into focus. There's Gregers, back on all fours like nothing ever happened. As they watch, he scoops up the spoon in his jaws and flicks it adroitly into the corner of his mouth.

He sniffs happily to himself. Then he trots over and deposits himself firmly in Islay's lap.

There is a long silence, or there would be if the smoke alarm wasn't screeching in their ears. Mags and Islay stare at Gregers, then lock eyes above his tufty head.

"Are you gonna say it or am I?" asks Mags.

Islay opens their mouth – fails – shrugs.

"We could've saved so much petrol money," she says. "Sorry about that, Iz."

They hold each other's gaze for a long, long moment. Then they both burst out laughing so hard Islay half thinks they're about to lose a lung.

"Oh god," they splutter. "Oh god, Mags, that's – I mean you didn't even have to suffer through Courtney de Winter …"

"Oh my god, Iz, don't even …."

It's out of control now. They're both howling like Gregers does in the spring when his ears flush bright purple and he starts sniffing around for female company, the laughter coming up from somewhere down below the guts and barrelling right up and through them with the unstoppable force of the maglev train heading west to Goldenrod.

All that anger! All that anxiety, all that worry, and now – solved. Like nothing. Because Islay was overreacting and Mags was right, they should've trusted Gregers to solve it all on his own.

"Oh god," gasps Mags, wiping her eyes. "Oh god, oh god, I … I'm gonna turn the smoke alarm off before the neighbours call the fire brigade."

She climbs up, scooping Liv up in her arms to settle her, and staggers out to the hall, still giggling. Islay stays down there on the floor a moment longer, cradling Gregers, then they stand up themself and carry him over to the table.

"I think I owe you an apology, boy," they say, setting him down by their chair. His legs look a little longer already. It's really happening, isn't it? Islay's seen it before, with their nidoran. He'll be up on his hind legs more and more, until one day he never comes down again and suddenly Islay realises he's been a braixen for a week and a half already. "Shouldn't be treating you like you're made of glass, should I?"

Gregers looks up at them, uncomprehending. Not a single thought in his dumb little head. But that's all right; it's on Islay to do this properly, not him.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe in you, Gregers," they say, putting their hand on his little shoulder. "You're not a problem for me to solve, huh? You're your own man."

Yahrf, says Gregers, wriggling free so he can lick their curry-scented fingers.

"That's right." They boop him on the nose; he yaps and jolts into some kind of canine paroxysm of joy. "Gonna try and be less neurotic about you in future, okay? Just … gonna trust you. Like everyone told me and I kept not believing." They sigh. "Promise. And you know I can't break a promise to you."

"Aww."

They jump a mile: Mags, in the doorway, Liv staring huffily out from her arms.

"Jeez," they say. "Didn't hear you come in."

"Well, I didn't want to spoil the moment." She skips over, moving far too lightly for someone who's just eaten about half a pound of rice and intends to pack some more in very soon, and bends down to sling an arm around their shoulders. "Good on you, Iz."

"Mags …"

"Hey, no jokes. I mean it." Quick squeeze of their arm. "I know it's not easy."

"Yeah, you're telling me." They shrug. "Kick me if I slip up?"

"Sure thing, Iz. Now, you gonna help me finish this sag paneer or am I gonna have to do it myself?"

"Well." They give Gregers one last scritch behind the ears and turn back to the table. "Guess I could give it a go."

"Knew I could count on you. You're a good friend, you know that?"

"And I've never denied it."

Gregers jumps up onto their lap, chancing his luck with the old mother, please feed your starving son look. And no, obviously Islay isn't going to give him any table scraps. But tonight, they think they'll let him sit there all the same.