It would be easy to say that Hoenn wasn’t normally so chaotic. It would also be wrong.

If it’s not cultists gathering in the hills, it’s war bubbling at the fringes of everyone’s vision. Bash would be lying if he said it didn’t seem like the region was balancing on a needle’s point. Maybe this rolling Voltorb death embargo was just a symptom.

Luckily enough, his injured man looks like he’ll pull through-- his leg has a gash in it, likely the result of some shrapnel or debris, but the blood is stemming, his color looks good, and he’s still breathing. Sort of.

A weak hand-- a large weak hand-- flaps at his forearms and Bash clicks his tongue. “God save me from the delicate flower of Hoennian manhood,” he grumbled, reaching out to take Fragarach in hand and sliding out of his jacket at the same time. With a quick slice he removed one sleeve and used it to hack-patch up the guy’s leg.

Flashing lights and more yells cut through the din. Emergency services have arrived, thankfully.

“What are you going to do? Crawl?” the sarcasm in his voice was bitter, but he pushed himself up, and continued to help, anyway. “Frag, help me get him up.”

The Doublade swiveled in the air, proffering her handles to the downed man to help lift him into some semblance of standing, wherein Bash could interject himself under an arm, and they could hobble to the next poor sod.

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“You have to worry about yourself too, you know,” Bash tried to argue, especially when a thin trickle of blood rolled down the man’s leg and smeared against his own.

Maybe it was petulant of him. Maybe he’d spent so long on his own, self-serving in the face of other’s self-serving, that he was unused to the idea of someone being self-less.

“I-- watch a lot of movies,” he half-babbles away his sudden disaster-preparedness in a pseudo-explanation. It is not a lie, but it is not the whole truth, either.

The man was significantly taller than him-- Bash was dwarfed even in the crook of his shoulder-- but between acting as a human walking stick and Fragarach levitating here and there to offset his hindered balance, they managed.

In their hobbling, they passed someone getting wheeled by on a stretcher, and paused as a Voltorb rolled across their own path, like an ominous red-and-white tumbleweed.

“Ok, doctor mister, where too?”

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Bash fought the urge to grunt when the man-- the doctor-- shifted awkwardly and leaned more of his weight on him than anticipated. It wasn’t his fault, really, that the size different was so awkward. “Counterweight, Fragarach,” he instructed, and the Doublade flexed and tugged, and that, in tandem with the guy’s shifting, made the going easier.

“No training. Just common sense.”

They pulled up to let the Voltorb pass, then hobbled together in the indicated direction.

“Do we let you down, now?”

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Bash was not expecting small talk, and his head whips round, blue eyes blinking owlishly, like he could not believe what he was hearing. But they have more important things to be doing.

He tries his best to set the good doctor down without dropping him, angling himself and bending at the knees to lower him, whilst also trying to stay out of his way enough to let him do his job. And, he had to admit, the guy was good; he was gentle, but insistent, and his Pokemon team came forward to help fill in the blanks, smoothing the way for him to do his job.

There was an art to it, Bash realized. This kind of softness. It wasn’t as simple as it seemed. He was so engrossed in the act of healing and the cadence of the man’s voice that he almost physically jumped when he was addressed next, turning that slight start into a swift nod.

He releases his Dartrix and Flaaffy. “Striga, Baro, search the area. Help anyone else you see get to safety.”

Bash stood, taking Fragarach in hand.

“It’s a mythological sword,” he said, unprompted and, quite honestly, wondering where the words were coming from, “Fragarach. It means ‘the answerer’, because with it at your throat, you can’t tell a lie.” Why was he saying this? It didn’t matter. “We’ll stay and run interference.”

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At first glance-- at first word, maybe, more like-- the man seemed… flippant, almost. Thin, or shallow. Like his roots didn’t go too deep. But the way he moved his hands, the way he healed, spoke to a different sort of depth.

Watching him was like watching an artist, in a way. The gentle touch of his (giant) hands. The intensity in his eyes that was not matched by the airy nature of his words.

“Yes,” Bash said, feeling like he was giving a part of himself away-- had he become so adverse to the truth? He didn’t say more as he became very engrossed in what the doctor (veterinarian? Question mark?) was doing. He found himself leaning in almost as much as the little girl, though he was standing and had a sword in his hand.

The mispronunciation of Fragarach cut at him like a sharp edge-- he so strove for perfection in everything-- but then, inexplicably, he found himself smiling, genuinely, not fake, not plastered on to soothe the way, but a real, actual, smile, with real, actual, laughter behind it, and he sort of kind of melted, a little, in the face of the guy’s 40-watt grin.

He’s very cute.

“Down in Fraggle Rock,” he sing-songed, quietly.

A shrill screech interrupted them, and the spell was broken. Bash stepped back, averting his gaze, as his Dartrix flew in leading a concerned looking gentleman in tow, who stooped to wrap his arms around the young girl.

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