Corbeau

Corbeau noticed something was wrong. He just hadn’t realized how wrong.

Scolipede was restless—more than usual. Its massive body shifted along the stone floor of the arena in his office, plates scraping faintly as it moved, legs flexing and retracting in a way that spoke of irritation rather than readiness.

Corbeau stood near the doorway, arms folded.

“You’ll work it off,” he said calmly. “You always do.”

Scolipede huffed, mandibles clicking, body curling in on itself with a frustrated twitch.

You watched from Corbeau’s side, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm when you leaned forward. You didn’t miss the way his posture softened at the contact—even if he didn’t comment on it.

“…How long has he been like this?” you asked.

Corbeau glanced at you before looking back at Scolipede. “Since this morning. Maybe earlier.” He paused. “He's molting. Unpleasant, but not dangerous.”

You stepped closer to Scolipede, crouching just enough to see where the old exoskeleton had begun to split—and where it hadn’t.

“That’s true,” you said gently. “But this part shouldn’t still be stuck.”

Scolipede shifted again, clearly uncomfortable, a low chitter rumbling from deep in its thorax.

You looked back at Corbeau. “Do you mind if I help?”

Corbeau studied you for a moment. Not assessing your competence—you’d long since proven that—but measuring the situation. Trust. Risk. Need.

“…Explain,” he said.

“Warm water," you began, "Not hot. It’ll soften the old exoskeleton so it can come off without pulling at the joints. Like helping reptile pokemon with a bad shed.”

Corbeau’s gaze flicked to Scolipede again. Then back to you.

“…I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted.

You smiled faintly. “You don’t have to. You’re busy. But I think it’s been trying to get through this on its own longer than it should.”

That earned a sharp click from Scolipede—half pride, half protest.

Corbeau exhaled slowly. “…Very well.”

With a quite order to Philippe to take over until he returned, Corbeau drove you to his apartment and led you to his bathroom. The bathroom was quiet and expansive, stone and glass softened by steam as he filled the sunken bath with warm water. Corbeau adjusted the temperature carefully, testing it with his hand before nodding once.

Together, you guided Scolipede toward the large tub.

It hesitated, massive body coiling slightly, but when you laid your hand against one of its armored segments, Corbeau felt the shift immediately—how Scolipede stilled at your touch.

“It’ll help,” you murmured. “I promise.”

After a tense beat, Scolipede lowered itself into the warm water. Steam curled faintly around its body, and almost at once, its movements eased.

You rolled up your sleeves. Corbeau stepped closer—not crowding, but close enough that your elbow brushed his hand as you worked.

“There,” you said softly, fingers tracing the split where the old exoskeleton had caught. “This part’s pulling.”

You didn’t pull. Just supported—letting the water do the work, easing the brittle shell away as Scolipede shifted on instinct. Slowly, the old plates began to loosen, peeling back in sections.

Scolipede let out a low, relieved sound.

Corbeau watched in silence, eyes sharp—not just on the process, but on you. The steadiness of your hands. The calm in your voice. The way Scolipede trusted you without question.

“…He's calmer,” he observed.

“Because he's not hurting anymore,” you replied, just as quietly.

You worked methodically, freeing one segment at a time, never rushing. When the last stubborn piece finally slipped away, Scolipede shuddered—and then straightened, posture stronger, cleaner, lighter.

It clicked once, satisfied.

You stepped back, smiling. “There we go.”

Corbeau approached, resting a hand against Scolipede’s side—his usual grounding touch. The Pokémon leaned into it, content.

“…You should have told me,” Corbeau said softly—to Scolipede.

Then he turned to you.

“…And you were right,” he added. “I assumed endurance would be enough.”

You glanced up at him. “It usually is. Just not always.”

For a moment, Corbeau said nothing.

Then—very deliberately—his hand settled at the small of your back. A quiet claim. A quiet acknowledgment.

“…I’ll remember that,” he said.

Scolipede shifted closer to you, mandibles clicking once in approval.

Corbeau watched the interaction, thoughtful.

“…It seems,” he said at last, voice low, “that I trust your judgment more than I realized.”

You smiled.

And for the rest of the evening, Scolipede remained unusually close—clean, comfortable, and very aware of who had noticed when something was wrong.

==========

Grisham

Grisham knew his Pyroar was dramatic. He just hadn’t fully appreciated how dramatic until now.

She sat across the room, tail flicking irritably, golden eyes fixed on you with open suspicion. Every time you so much as shifted your weight, she let out a low, warning rumble—more attitude than threat, but unmistakably feline.

You, meanwhile, knelt on the floor with a small pouch of treats, a towel folded neatly beside you, and a pair of sturdy clippers in hand.

“It’s just a trim,” you said calmly. “Nothing scary.”

Pyroar responded with a huff and turned her head away.

Grisham watched from nearby, arms folded—not tense, just curious. “I appreciate the offer,” he said carefully, “but… she’s not a dog. Her claws are meant to be sharp.”

You smiled up at him. “They are. But she’s also not living on volcanic rock or rough savanna terrain anymore.”

He blinked. “…Go on.”

You reached out slowly, letting Pyroar sniff your hand before offering her a treat. She took it—grudgingly.

“In the wild, she’d be running, climbing, digging. That wears her nails down naturally,” you explained. “Here in Lumiose? Sure there's hard ground, but how often do you let her run outside? There's not nearly enough abrasion.”

Pyroar flicked her tail again, as if personally offended by the accusation.

“If they get too long,” you continued, “they can split, snag, or throw off her posture. That can lead to joint pain.”

Grisham’s expression softened immediately.

“…I didn’t realize,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said gently. “You’re busy running Cafe Nouveau. That’s why I offered.”

He nodded once, thoughtful. “Alright. I trust you.”

That trust did not extend to Pyroar. The moment you reached for her paw, she pulled it back dramatically, letting out a sharp rrrow.

“Easy, girlie,” you soothed. “I’ve got you.”

She tried again—half-hearted swipe, more warning than attack.

Grisham stepped forward instinctively. “If she’s uncomfortable—”

“I know,” you said, calm as ever. “We’ll go slow.”

You waited. Offered another treat. Let Pyroar take it from your palm this time. When she relaxed just enough, you gently took her paw, fingers firm but respectful.

She tensed.

You paused.

“Good girl,” you murmured.

The first claw snipped cleanly.

Pyroar froze—then looked at her paw like she’d been betrayed.

The second claw earned a dramatic growl.

The third earned a sulky glare.

By the time you reached the fourth, she was clearly over it—but still cooperating, chewing treats with exaggerated annoyance.

Grisham couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his mouth.

“…You’re remarkably patient,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Pokemon respond better when you respect their pace.”

When the last nail was trimmed, you released Pyroar’s paw and leaned back, exhaling in relief. “All done.”

Pyroar sniffed her paw suspiciously. Then—grudgingly—sat, clearly pleased despite herself.

Grisham crouched beside her, resting a hand against her mane. “You did well,” he told her.

She preened.

That was when Charizard stomped over. He glanced at Pyroar. Then at you.

Then—very deliberately—lifted one small paw and placed it directly into your hands.

You burst out laughing.

“Oh—of course,” you said. “Show-off.”

Charizard rumbled happily, tail swaying.

Pyroar’s ears flattened.

Grisham laughed too, quiet and genuine. “I think he’s trying to make a point.”

You quickly clipped Charizard’s three claws. “See? Cooperation.”

Pyroar sniffed, offended.

Grisham looked at you then, expression warm and sincere.

“…Thank you,” he said. “For noticing things I miss.”

You smiled. “That’s what partners are for.”

And as Charizard proudly held out his other paw, Grisham had to admit—

He was very glad you were one of them.

==========

Ivor

Ivor had trained Falinks for strength. Endurance. Formation. Precision. What he had not trained for was… maintenance.

Falinks stood in formation on the mat, six little bodies aligned perfectly, armor dulled from weeks of hard training. Ivor crossed his arms, nodding proudly.

“See?” he said. “They’re solid. Took hits all week.”

You crouched down, examining them more closely. “They did,” you agreed. “But look here.”

You tapped lightly against one of the outer plates. The sound was still firm—but not as clean as it could be.

“These scuffs?” you continued. “That’s stress wear. It doesn’t mean they’re weak—but it does mean they’re working harder than they need to.”

Ivor blinked. “…Huh.”

Falinks shifted, a few of them turning their little eye-slits toward you.

“You ever polish them?” you asked.

Ivor laughed. “What—like a trophy?”

“Like armor,” you corrected, already reaching for the supplies you’d brought. “And after that, wax.”

The laughter died instantly.

“…Wax?” he repeated.

You nodded. “Protective coating. Helps keep the surface smooth, seals micro-cracks, and reduces impact drag when they charge.”

Ivor stared at you. Then at Falinks. Then back at you.

“…That’s genius.”

You grinned. “Sit them down. One at a time.”

Falinks didn’t need to be told twice. One of them immediately shuffled forward, stance proud.

You showed Ivor how to polish first—small circular motions, firm but careful. He mimicked you, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he worked.

“Oh wow,” he said. “Look at that shine!”

Falinks puffed up visibly.

Then came the wax.

You demonstrated again, thinner layer this time, explaining how it reinforced the outer shell without restricting movement. Ivor followed your lead, enthusiasm growing with every step.

“This is like pre-battle buffing,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Why does nobody talk about this?”

“Because most people just train harder instead of smarter,” you replied.

He gasped. “That’s—wow. That’s profound.”

You snorted, and shook your head.

By the time all six were done, Falinks stood gleaming—armor smooth, edges clean, posture somehow even prouder than before. They snapped into formation with a sharp clack.

Ivor stared at them, awed. “…They look incredible,” he said softly.

Falinks saluted.

You laughed, brushing your hands off. “Told you.”

Ivor turned to you suddenly, eyes bright. “You have to teach me everything you know.”

You raised a brow. “Everything?”

“About how to care for Falinks and the others,” he clarified quickly—then flushed. “I mean—unless—”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll teach you,” you said warmly.

He froze. Then grinned so hard it was a miracle his face didn’t hurt.

Falinks immediately erupted into excited movement, clearly celebrating.

Ivor laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “Best girlfriend ever!”

==========

Urbain

Urbain noticed the smell first. Not because it was unpleasant—but because it was stronger than usual.

Meganium stood near the window, head lowered slightly, massive body still in a way that didn’t suit her. The petals around her neck drooped, dusted faintly with golden pollen that caught the light when she shifted.

Urbain frowned. “Hey… you alright, girl?”

Meganium let out a soft, low sound—not distressed, but clearly uncomfortable.

You stepped closer, inhaling carefully. “That’s a lot of pollen.”

Urbain blinked. “Is it?”

You nodded. “Yeah. She’s probably overdue for a clean.”

He laughed lightly. “She’s a plant Pokémon. Isn’t pollen kind of the point?”

“It is,” you agreed. “But not like this.”

You reached up slowly, brushing a finger near one of the petals. A faint cloud puffed free.

Meganium sneezed, followed by you coughing.

Urbain stared. “…Oh.”

“In the wild,” you explained, catching your breath, “she’d be moving constantly. Wind, rain, other Pokémon brushing past her—pollen disperses naturally. But here?” You gestured around the apartment. “It settles. Builds up. Gets heavy. Especially if you don't let her out a lot.”

Meganium shifted, clearly relieved just hearing it explained.

Urbain scratched the back of his neck. “…So she’s uncomfortable because she’s too well taken care of.”

You smiled. “Basically.”

He exhaled, then brightened immediately. “Alright! What do we do?”

You grabbed a soft brush and a cloth you’d prepared. “We help her out.”

Out in the courtyard in front of Hotel Z, Meganium watched you approach, wary but trusting. When you began brushing gently along the outer petals, more pollen lifted into the air, drifting lazily.

Meganium sighed.

Urbain’s eyes widened. “Did—did she just relax?”

You laughed. “Yup.”

He knelt beside you, clearly fascinated. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“I don't blame you. Besides, we had bigger fish to fry” you said kindly. “Though, they don't teach things like this in pokemon school, too many pokemon to keep track of. You'd only know something like this either from experience, or from an expert like a breeder. Or even a professor.”

He nodded seriously. “Will you teach me?”

You showed him how to brush with the curve of the petals, how to shake excess pollen free without tugging, how to wipe the base where it tended to collect. Urbain followed along eagerly, movements careful despite his usual energy.

Meganium leaned subtly into his touch.

“Oh,” Urbain murmured. “I think she likes this.”

"It probably feels good," you said.

Meganium hummed in agreement.

Pollen floated everywhere now—golden, warm, faintly glowing in the afternoon light. Urbain sneezed suddenly.

“Oh no,” you laughed.

Meganium absolutely did not laugh—but she did flick her petals smugly.

Urbain wiped his nose, grinning. “Worth it.”

When you finished, Meganium lifted her head higher, posture lighter, petals clean and free. She took a deep breath and released a much softer, balanced scent.

Urbain rested a hand against her neck. “Better?”

Meganium cried happily.

He turned to you, eyes warm and a little awed. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You raised a brow. “For brushing pollen?”

“For noticing,” Urbain corrected. “For knowing how to help.”

He leaned in and kissed you—quick, affectionate, full of gratitude.

Behind you, Meganium gave a pleased little trill, petals fluttering gently now that they weren’t weighed down.

Urbain laughed softly. “Alright. New rule.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Petal care is officially a team activity.”

"Uh...I don't think Lida or Naveen would appreciate this new rule."

Meganium agreed.

Urbain turned thoughtful. "Hmm, you're probably right," he said. Then his eyes widened as he shot you a cheeky grin.

"Alright, then. Petal care is officially a couple activity!"

==========

Vinnie

You noticed the fur first.

Drampa’s long, cloudlike mane was usually immaculate—soft, flowing, a quiet extension of his calm presence. Tonight, it was uneven, puffed in places where it had been absentmindedly raked through, strands clumping instead of drifting.

Drampa stood near the window, tail flicking, eyes sharp with irritation.

You didn’t hesitate.

You reached for the brush and stepped right up to him, familiar enough that he only glanced your way before lowering his head expectantly.

“There you are. I wondered where you went,” you murmured, already working the brush through his mane.

Drampa let out a low, pleased sound, leaning into you at once.

As you brushed, loose fur lifted and settled, tension easing with every slow stroke. Drampa’s restless shifting slowed, his posture softening as the brush followed familiar paths.

Vinnie came into the room, brows knit—not worried, just… tired.

“He’s been irritable all evening,” he said. “I thought it was the weather.”

You shook your head gently. “It’s not just that.”

You brushed a little more firmly, smoothing a place near his neck where the fur had tangled most. Drampa sighed, heavy and relieved.

“This is stress,” you continued. “His fur shows it before anything else.”

Vinnie exhaled slowly.

“…My daughter usually does this,” he admitted after a moment. “She brushes him every night she’s here. Talks to him while she does it.”

Your hand stilled—but only for a second.

“And she’s not here right now,” you said softly.

He shook his head. “She's with her mother this week.” A pause. “The place feels louder without her.”

Drampa shifted, pressing closer to you both.

Vinnie’s voice dropped. “She keeps me grounded. Both of them do.” He rubbed at his temple. “With work, and Urbain leaning on me, and the house being quiet… I didn’t realize how much I was carrying.”

You reached back and gently took his hand, guiding it to the brush.

“Then let’s do it together,” you said.

He hesitated—then nodded.

You showed him the rhythm his daughter used, the pressure Drampa liked best. His movements were careful at first, almost reverent, but Drampa leaned into his touch immediately, curling closer with a soft, contented rumble.

Vinnie swallowed.

“…He’s calmer,” he said.

“So are you,” you replied.

He gave a small, tired smile.

Drampa finally settled down, massive body folding comfortably, tail curling around the space where you and Vinnie sat. His breathing evened out, fur smooth once more beneath the brush.

You leaned lightly against Vinnie’s shoulder.

He didn’t pull away.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You don’t have to hold everything by yourself.”

Drampa shifted, nudging you both insistently closer until neither of you had much choice but to stay.

Vinnie let out a soft huff of laughter. “Guess we’re not going anywhere.”

You set the brush aside and turned toward him instead, slipping closer until his shoulder met yours. He hesitated for half a heartbeat—then relaxed, arm coming around you naturally, like his body had been waiting for permission.

Drampa settled fully then, massive form curling protectively around the space you shared, tail a warm barrier at your backs. His breathing evened out, slow and deep, the room filling with that familiar calm he carried when everything was finally right.

You tucked yourself against Vinnie’s chest, his chin resting lightly against your hair.

“…This is nice,” he murmured, voice already soft with sleep.

You smiled.

You drifted off together—unrushed, unburdened—held in place by a dragon who refused to let either of you go anywhere at all.

==========

Philippe

Philippe adored Skarmory. That, at least, was obvious.

What wasn’t obvious—until you pointed it out—was why Skarmory had spent the better part of the afternoon pacing, wings twitching, feathers rattling irritably every time she shifted.

“I’ve checked her joints,” Philippe said, hands fluttering as he listed things off. “Sharpened her talons, polished her feathers and plates—everything is as it should be.”

Skarmory snapped her beak in sharp disagreement.

You stepped closer, eyeing the base of her wings. “May I take a look?”

Philippe immediately moved aside. “Of course.”

You leaned in carefully, fingers hovering near the overlapping feathers. There—thin, rigid sheaths clustered near the shoulder joint, barely visible unless you knew to look.

“Pin feathers,” you said.

Philippe blinked. “But she’s Steel-type.”

“She’s also a bird,” you replied gently. “And in the wild, she wouldn’t deal with this alone.”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

You glanced at Skarmory, who had very deliberately turned her body to block you from getting closer.

“A mate,” you explained. “Or even just another Skarmory she trusts. They’d help break down the sheaths—preen the spots she can’t reach herself.”

Skarmory puffed up slightly at that, clearly unimpressed with the comparison.

Philippe looked between you and his Pokémon, then softened. “…Oh.”

He crouched beside Skarmory at once. “You should have told me, my dear.”

She huffed, wings rattling sharply.

You smiled faintly. “She’s bonded to you. That’s why she’s uncomfortable—and why she’s being difficult with me.”

Difficult was an understatement.

The moment you reached toward her wing, Skarmory snapped—not close enough to hurt you, but very clear in her opinion. You pulled your hand back immediately.

Philippe straightened. “Skarmory.”

She froze.

“That is enough,” he said firmly—not angry, but unmistakably serious. “She is trying to help you.”

Skarmory clicked her beak, indignant, but didn’t move away this time.

You waited. Didn’t rush. Let Skarmory watch you. Then you reached for a cloth and a small vial of oil.

“Slow,” you murmured—not just to Skarmory, but to Philippe too. “These spots are sensitive.”

Skarmory flinched when you touched the first sheath, wings twitching irritably.

Philippe leaned closer, placing a hand near her beak in case she were to snap again. “Easy,” he said, tone gentler now. “You trust me.”

She stilled—just barely.

You worked carefully, rubbing oil between your fingers before massaging the base of the pin feather. The sheath resisted at first, then slowly began to crumble away, revealing a newly formed steel feather beneath.

Skarmory shuddered, then relaxed.

Philippe inhaled sharply. “Did you feel that?”

You smiled. “Relief.”

He didn’t hesitate after that. When you handed him the cloth, he took it seriously—hands steady, expression focused as he mimicked your movements.

“Like this?” he asked.

“Perfect,” you said.

Skarmory tried to pull away once more, clearly testing boundaries.

Philippe cleared his throat. “Skarmory.”

She paused.

“…Behave.”

She grumbled—but stayed.

Bit by bit, the pin feathers were freed. Skarmory’s wings lifted more easily now, posture loosening as irritation faded into grudging acceptance.

When the last stubborn sheath came away, Skarmory gave a sharp shake—then settled, preening proudly.

Philippe let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“…Thank you,” he said softly, turning to you. “I would never have thought of this.”

You shrugged lightly. “And how could you? You're busy helping Corbeau with the Rust Syndicate. Do you even get a break?”

He smiled—warm, sincere, unmistakably Philippe.

Before you could react, he leaned down and kissed you—quick, affectionate, full of gratitude, mindful of his spikey sideburns.

Skarmory clanged her wings sharply.

Philippe laughed. “Yes, yes—I know.”