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There it is again. That strange clutching sensation in your stomach, sadness and stress and other disagreeable emotions combined into an unpleasantly churning weight. You're gamely trying to get on with things, as you do, but it would seem that the uncomfortable knot isn’t planning to depart any time soon.
It’s silly, you chastise yourself as you go about your duties. You’re an adult. You have no time for this. You have a good team who obey your every command, friends in the village and the clans, you’re respected in your role and it’s a nice day, dammit. This pervasive sense of misery is quite unnecessary.
The sun shines, the people you pass by are cordial and kind, the Galaxy Team have nothing but praise for the quality of your work, but still the sensation persists, nagging and tugging at you, overriding and underpinning everything. Do you actually understand Pokémon well? Have you always held on to your principles? Where is your destination?
Eventually, slumping down in the shade of a stout Sitrus tree on the pretense of taking a break, that despair decides to rifle through your memories, because it’s spiteful like that. How fun. Every perceived slight, every time you said something that came out wrong, every tiny error or failure is on parade. Try as you might to ignore them, they still flicker on the edge of your mind like a magic lantern show.
Not all of it makes sense, silly recriminations to which ordinarily you wouldn't give the time of day. But right now they linger, intrusive and pervasive, unrelenting, a tumbling sequence of regrets and frustrations and worries. A small, defiant voice says that it's all nonsense, there's no reason to let it take over, but it's faint and easily ignored. You failed to meet expectations.
You are a burden.
Unexpectedly your name registers through the internal tirade, echoing across the meadow until you manage to tear your eyes from the ground. Ingo hails you, waving delightedly, his voice carrying clear and strong over the bitter, venomous whisper in your head. Striding up to you he's all enthusiasm, coat billowing dramatically behind him, his cap tilted rakishly.
Once he draws near enough to register your expression, however, his own face pinches briefly, and your name becomes a gentle query.
“What’s the matter?” he says, leaning against the trunk so that he can slide down next to you, shredding his coat a little further, his pale, shrewd eyes trained on you all the while.
You gesture vaguely with a wan grimace. You can't begin to articulate what in fact is the matter. But you don't need to. Ingo is as attuned to you as he is his treasured ward, as he was to the schedule he kept in a distant, unknowable land. He can read the tightness in your smile and posture. Without fuss he pulls you into a firm embrace, immediately passing long, sweeping strokes of his hand down your back as you lean against his chest and let yourself be held, a welcome reprieve from the tyranny of your thoughts.
When you try to babble an apology for being ridiculous you don’t get far, Ingo hugging you close so that the words are half lost in his lapel. He rests his cheek on top of your head, a comforting familiarity to the weight and heat, his breath tickling across the roots of your hair.
“It's alright. I am here, darling. All will be well.” Ingo shushes you gently, clutching you to his breast while he caresses you. It’s a catch-all comfort, which is precisely why it works: It doesn’t matter what the problem is, whether you’ve turned your ankle, lost a battle or the world is about to end. Ingo will make it right by sheer force of presence alone. He doesn't let go of you, keeping you pressed against him right where he likes you, resting his chin on your crown now, the action squashing his neat little beard against your scalp. You are enveloped in his scent and warmth and the calm, composed essence that is your warden.
The two of you stay wrapped together, Ingo humming that nameless tune he carries in the heart of his memory, a soothing sound that thrums through his chest and yours. There's no pressure for you to say anything, only the feeling of safety and affection, his arms firm and strong around you, his coat smelling of home, stability, the familiar and consistent depth of his adoration. He holds you for what feels like a long time, whispering a stream of affection and praise into your hair, your nose tucked into his neck, the slight scrape of stubble across your temple as he shifts to press a kiss there. Always the slow, patient strokes across your back and shoulders, the occasional foray up to your nape, tender and gentle like the man himself. He doesn’t try to draw you out of the funk or suggest solutions, though you know every part of his being wants to do so. His support and reassurance is implicit, absolute, unwavering. There's the threat of tears, that thin trickle in your throat, but clinging to him is enough to keep them at bay.
It could be hours, it could be minutes, but Ingo simply lets you melt into him for as long as you need until at last the tangle of unexpected lies your brain latched onto loosens and the tension evaporates from your frame. You give a slightly absurd hiccup of laughter at your self-indulgence, considering that he has greater justification for bouts of melancholy and yet he just powers through. Your soft 'Sorry' is met with a squeeze before the warm, loving pressure of his lips against your hairline.
"What on earth would you have to apologize for?"
There is no judgement or impatience in his voice. There never will be. Only kindness. You're safe.
"It's just..." You still struggle to word the irrational belief you fell victim to.
"Hush," he soothes, another kiss pressed into your hair, a careful hand cupping the base of your skull. "Whatever it is, there's no need to fret. Take as long as you need, my darling. I'm not going anywhere."
Indeed he is not. He would sit there with you until dusk fell and beyond, should you require it of him.
“Thank you,” you mumble into the prominence of his Adam’s apple, and he gives you another squeeze that feels like he’s trying to imbue you with his serenity. He doesn’t let go, not yet. With your arms around each other, slotted together as neatly as the components of a puzzle box, the steadfast sincerity of his regard buoying you, you start to feel a little more settled.
When the knot has unraveled itself entirely, when you feel strong enough to face the world again, he kisses your forehead, lips brushing against your skin in a murmur.
"How are you feeling, my love?"
"A bit better." You can't help but smile when the term of endearment escapes his lips.
"Glad to hear it." Ingo pulls back a fraction to echo your smile with his own, slight, sweet and fleeting, but it lingers always in his eyes. "Come, let's go, I think the Galaxy Team can manage without you for the rest of the day."
He helps you to your feet, keeps an arm around you as the pair of you set off together, Ingo pointing out interesting things he's noticed while patrolling as he leads you home, the same way the two of you have done since the first time you became acquainted, before he had the chance to ask you for the honor of courting you. His company and devotion is a cherished solace, the remnants of your dejection dispersing like smoke in a breeze.
Whatever the problem, whether real or imagined, Ingo will always be there no matter what. You are accomplished, valued, his love, and there is nothing that can change that.
And all will be well, darling. All will be well.