An: Someone made asked this on a guest account on chap 20 so I couldn't respond to them so I'm putting it here, The reason Jack didn't take the Froakie is one the Professor offered her in jest and two (I think this was stated in the earlier chapters) Jackson has no knowledge of the X and Y anime or anything past the X and Y games. That means he knows nothing about the Pokémon from there, the events or the mechanics.

Chapter 22. The Pampering.

Jackson's POV

After switching back, I made my way toward the center of the field. Shade may have gone a bit overboard, but I couldn't argue with results—now, could I? Luna was, as usual, at my side, looking mighty pleased with herself. All that murderous rage had been vented straight into that Braixen's skull.

Ven stood in the center, awaiting my arrival. The spotlight gleamed off his bald head, and a wide grin was plastered across his face. "What a stellar performance! Now, may I get a round of applause for our winners—Jackson and Luna!"

A few claps scattered through the air, along with a couple of half-hearted whistles, but the majority of the crowd remained silent. I caught the subtle way Luna's ears drooped, the slight dimming of her usual confident aura. That pissed me off. She had put in way too much work for these chumps to dampen her spirit.

Without hesitation, I reached for her paw, clasping it in mine and giving a reassuring squeeze. She turned to me, scarlet eyes meeting my own, and I offered her a small, knowing smile. That was enough to bring some of the fire back into her gaze.

Then I turned to Ven and extended a hand for the mic. He complied without hesitation. Bringing it up to my lips, I took a breath and let my words flow, my voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade.

"Well, Ven, after what they just heard and saw, I expected this kind of reaction… and it's a good thing their opinions don't matter in the slightest."

A few murmurs stirred in the audience, but I kept going.

"So go on—cheer, boo, or better yet, just stay quiet. All it does is give me more time to focus on what's actually important. And that, my dear peanut gallery, is not you." I let my gaze sweep over the crowd, watching their reactions shift from shock to annoyance. "You see, the thoughts and opinions of an audience have absolutely zero effect on me or my team's skill. Which means you can hate me all you want, but we'll keep doing what we did today—we'll show up, we'll conquer, and no amount of commentary from the sidelines will change that."

Silence.

Good.

I lowered the mic and turned back to Ven, who remained entirely unfazed by my little speech. If anything, his grin widened.

"Now, Ven—how about my reward?"

He took back the mic, chuckling as if he found my attitude downright amusing. "Well, do you have a Pokédex?"

I pulled the black and purple device from my pocket and handed it over. He waved to some staff members stationed offstage while skimming through my dex. "This makes things easier. The prize money will be transferred to your bank account through your dex, and your TM coupons will be linked to your account. Just visit any PokéMart or League-affiliated store to redeem them."

Then, one of the staff approached, carrying a cylindrical container. The top and bottom were a soft yellow, while the middle was transparent, revealing a large white egg resting on a pillow. Wisps of red markings curled over its smooth shell like delicate flames.

Ven carefully took the container and held it out toward me. His voice took on a rare note of sincerity. "Take extra good care of this little one. It's your responsibility now. And if your Lucario is anything to go by, I have no doubt you'll raise it to be one powerful Pokémon."

That hit me in a way I hadn't expected. I would be raising it.

A strange feeling settled in my chest, something heavy yet grounding. Shaking the thought aside, I locked eyes with Ven and gave him a firm nod.

After collecting my Pokédex, now loaded with my earnings, I turned and left the stadium,

I found myself waiting near the back entrance of the stadium, the cool night air swirling around me as the sounds of the crowd slowly faded into the distance. The tournament had been a spectacle, and Jackson had certainly left an impression—one that had the audience either in awe or entirely unsettled.

I knew he'd come this way eventually, and sure enough, the moment the heavy metal doors swung open, there he was. Jackson stepped through, his usual confident stride carrying him forward with Luna at his side, a silent shadow with watchful scarlet eyes. Even now, in the aftermath of his victory, there was an air of challenge about him, as if he were daring the world to tell him he didn't belong here.

I smirked. What a show-off.

"Well, well," I drawled, crossing my arms as I leaned against the wall. "The man of the hour finally graces me with his presence."

Jackson huffed a breath through his nose, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You make it sound like I was avoiding you."

"Were you?"

He didn't answer that, just rolled his eyes before stepping closer. Luna did too—closer than necessary, actually. I caught the way her red gaze flicked toward me, then to Jackson, then back again, her posture just a little too stiff, her presence just a little too assertive.

Interesting.

"So," I continued, shifting my attention back to him. "You really caused a scene out there."

"That's the idea," he replied, his tone dry. "It's a tournament, not a talent show."

I arched a brow. "Depends on who you ask."

Jackson gave me a look, and I laughed. "Relax, I'm just saying you do have a way of stirring things up. Not that I minded. Honestly, watching the looks on their faces? Totally worth it."

His smirk wavered, his expression turning a shade more serious. "Right. About that."

I blinked. "About what?"

"You standing up for me," he said bluntly. "That was… nice."

Luna made a barely audible noise beside him. Not quite a growl, but something close, like a huff of irritation.

I tilted my head. "You're welcome?"

Jackson sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I appreciate it. I do. But that was also really stupid of you."

I blinked again, thrown off by the sudden shift. "Excuse me?"

"You need people to like you, Aria," he said, his voice firm. "You're a performer. Your whole career revolves around public image, and here you are, throwing yourself into controversy like it's a damn hobby."

I scowled. "So what, I was supposed to just let people trash you?"

"Yes," he snapped, then sighed again, dragging a hand down his face. "No. I don't know. It's not that I don't appreciate it—I do. But I expect people to hate me. That's nothing new. You? You don't need that kind of press. You shouldn't have to deal with whatever backlash comes from defending me."

Luna shifted closer to him, her tail flicking, her expression unreadable.

I exhaled, crossing my arms again. "You think I care what they say about me?"

"You should," he said. "I can afford to have people hate me. You can't."

There was a beat of silence. He was serious about this—actually concerned. Which, I supposed, was sweet in a very Jackson sort of way.

"Well," I said finally, "maybe I don't give a damn what people think. Ever consider that?"

Jackson scoffed. "Figures."

Luna's ear twitched, and I caught the subtle way her eyes narrowed.

Then, just as I was about to tease him for being dramatic, Jackson reached into his bag and pulled out a familiar cylindrical container—the one that had held his tournament prize. He held it out to me.

I frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Giving this to you," he said simply.

My eyes flicked to the egg inside, its white shell streaked with wisps of red. I hesitated. "Jackson, this is yours."

"And now it's yours," he countered, still holding it out. "Consider it a thanks for putting yourself on the line for me, even if it was a dumb decision."

I hesitated again, glancing between him and the egg. Then, just as I reached to take it, Luna shifted.

It was small—barely noticeable—but it was there. A tightening of her jaw. A flick of her ear. The subtlest twitch of her tail.

I took the container carefully, watching as Jackson immediately shoved his hands into his pockets, as if washing them of the decision.

"You sure about this?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. You'll take care of it."

There was something unspoken in his tone—something heavy. But before I could comment on it, Jackson stretched his arms over his head and let out a sigh.

"Anyway," he said, "I need to head back."

I raised a brow. "Already?"

"Yeah," he said, his gaze sliding toward Luna. His smirk returned, slow and knowing. "There's a certain jackal I know that's earned some pampering."

Luna straightened immediately, ears perked, eyes brightening just enough to be noticeable.

I laughed, shaking my head. "Spoiled."

Jackson just grinned. "Damn right."

Then, with one last nod in my direction, he turned on his heel and walked off, Luna right at his side, looking just a little more smug than before.

I watched them go, then looked down at the egg in my hands.

Yeah. Totally worth it.

…

Luna's POV

The lab was eerily quiet when we arrived, the only sounds being the faint creak of wooden floorboards beneath our steps and the distant ticking of a clock. The air carried the familiar scents of parchment, ink, and the faint tang of berries—likely remnants of whatever concoctions the professor had been meddling with earlier.

Jackson scanned the dimly lit room, his violet eyes gleaming with mischief before he smirked. "Huh. Guess the old man actually went to bed on time."

I huffed softly, my tail flicking in mild amusement. Professor Rowan had a notorious habit of working himself into exhaustion, poring over his research long into the night. Seeing the lab so still, without its usual hum of activity, felt almost unnatural.

Jackson rolled his shoulders, stretching with an exaggerated groan before exhaling. "C'mon, let's head up. You've earned yourself some serious R ."

I flicked an ear at the unfamiliar term. "R ?"

"Rest and relaxation," he explained, already trudging toward our room with the easy confidence of someone who belonged here.

Understatement.

The so-called "tournament" had been less of a competition and more of a performance—an exhibition of Jackson's skill rather than an actual test of it. As for my match… well, calling it a fight would be generous. Blaze had barely lasted long enough to make an impression.

Still, fatigue crept into my limbs, a dull ache settling beneath my fur. Not from struggle, but from sheer exertion. The weight of the day pressed down on me, and I found myself relenting.

Perhaps I had earned whatever pampering he had in mind.

Steam curled around us in soft, rolling waves, clinging to the air like a misty veil. The bathwater lapped gently at my fur, its warmth sinking into my muscles, easing away the tension of the day. Jackson sat across from me, a towel loosely wrapped around his waist, his violet eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but still carrying that ever-present spark of amusement.

He dipped his hand into the water, testing the temperature one last time before nodding in approval. "Alright, this should do. Not too hot, not too cold. I know how picky you are."

I flicked an ear, pretending to ignore the teasing lilt in his voice. "I simply have standards."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, reaching for a bottle sitting on the edge of the tub. As soon as he flipped the cap, the scent hit me—sweet and rich, but with a tart edge that tingled in my nose.

I inhaled slightly, intrigued. "That is… pleasant."

"Razz Berry shampoo," he supplied, squeezing some into his palm. "Apparently good for sheen and softness. I picked up this whole fur-care set from the groomer's. Figured you'd like it."

I eyed him. "You thought of that on your own?"

Jackson smirked. "Hey, I can be thoughtful when I wanna be. Now hold still."

Before I could question him further, his hands were in my fur, massaging the shampoo into my shoulders and back with slow, deliberate strokes. I tensed at first—out of habit, not discomfort—but the tension faded almost instantly under his firm, practiced touch. He worked with the ease of someone who had done this before, his fingers kneading away the soreness I hadn't even realized was there.

I hummed in approval. "A good choice."

"Knew it," he said smugly, rubbing the shampoo into a rich lather.

I took my own handful, mirroring his movements as I worked the soap into my arms and chest. The lather clung to my fur in thick, shimmering foam before vanishing beneath the water as I rinsed.

Jackson's hands moved up, his fingers sliding gently over my ears. I stiffened slightly out of reflex, but he was careful. He took his time, massaging the base before rubbing the soft, velvety edges with slow, methodical circles before moving onto my neck.

"You've got a lot of tension here," he noted, his voice quieter, more focused.

I exhaled, the warmth of his touch melting the last bit of resistance I had. "It has been a long day."

"Yeah," he murmured, fingers still working through the lather. "Which brings me to my next question—how satisfying was it, beating Blaze into the floor?"

I smirked. "More satisfying than it should have been."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, I figured. You had that look."

I raised a brow, eyes half-lidded in relaxation. "What look?"

"The 'I'm about to end this man's entire career' look."

A scoff left me, and I flicked water at him with a casual swipe of my paw. The droplets splashed against his chest, making him flinch before he let out a breathy laugh.

"Alright, alright," he conceded, holding up a hand. "I get it. You don't just win, you obliterate."

I gave a satisfied nod. "It is a matter of pride. Had I lost to him, after all that talk, it would have been disgraceful."

Jackson's smirk faded into something softer, something quieter. His hands had slowed, now simply running through my fur in smooth, comforting strokes. "You were never gonna lose. That fight wasn't even close. You're stronger than most Lucario, and you know it."

I didn't argue. Because he was right.

The bath continued in an easy rhythm, our movements unhurried. His hands worked through my fur with practiced care, mine doing the same, the warmth of the water wrapping around us both like a cocoon.

This wasn't just about washing off the day's grime.

This was care.

And for once, I allowed myself to sink into it.

Jackson dried himself quickly, tossing his towel aside before grabbing another one—this one for me.

He kneeled in front of me where I sat on the edge of the bed, unfolding the towel with practiced ease before pressing it against my fur. His movements were slow, deliberate, neither hurried nor hesitant. He worked with a quiet focus, ensuring the fabric soaked up every drop without pulling at my fur.

I watched him in silence, feeling the warmth of his hands through the towel as he dragged it along my arms, my shoulders, then lower, sweeping across my torso with meticulous care. He never rushed, never treated this as a chore to be done quickly. He handled me like something precious—something worth his time.

When he reached my tail, his movements became even more measured, his fingers carefully squeezing out the excess water before smoothing the fur down.

A small shudder ran through me.

He paused. "Sensitive?"

I flicked my ears, refusing to acknowledge the question.

His lips quirked, but he didn't press. Instead, he continued his work with that maddening patience, his hands steady, his touch gentle.

Once satisfied, he gestured for me to lie down. I obeyed, settling onto my stomach as he placed a thick foam brick beneath my chest to keep my spike from damaging the bed.

And then—his hands were on me again.

Warm. Firm. Careful.

His fingers dug into my shoulders, kneading the tension from my muscles with the kind of precision that spoke of both skill and experience. He pressed in slow, measured circles, working out knots I hadn't even realized were there.

A breath slipped past my lips, slower than usual, tinged with something close to relief.

"Where did you learn this?" I asked, my voice softer than before.

Jackson was quiet for a moment, his aura shifting—darkening.

"Learned a little before," he said at last, his tone even, though his energy told a different story. "For humans. But I did some research… asked some professionals at the groomers to teach me the rest."

That last part made me blink. "You sought out professionals? Specifically for me?"

He huffed, rubbing his thumb over a particularly stubborn knot near my shoulder blade. "Takes a different approach for furred folks, y'know? Figured if I was gonna do it, might as well do it right."

Something warm unfurled in my chest, settling deep.

I let my eyes slip shut, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of his hands—down my back, tracing the lines of my spine, then to my legs, his thumbs pressing into my calves with slow, deliberate pressure.

My tail flicked lazily behind me, my body melting beneath his touch.

By the time he finished with my back and shoulders, he had me sit up on the bed, one leg stretched toward him as he took my paw in his hands. His thumbs rolled over my pads, pressing in slow, rhythmic circles. I exhaled, the sensation oddly soothing.

He smirked. "That good?"

"…It is acceptable."

His chuckle was quiet, but undeniably pleased. He continued, tracing the natural contours of my paw, pressing along the arch before sliding toward my toes. Then—suddenly—he pressed against one of my pads, forcing my claws to extend.

I twitched in surprise.

Jackson blinked, then grinned. "Huh. Neat trick."

Before I could respond, he did it again, pressing the pad just enough to watch my claws slip out before releasing, watching them retract.

"…Are you playing with my paws?" I asked flatly.

"Maybe." His grin widened. "Can you blame me? It's kinda fun."

I narrowed my eyes at him but didn't pull away.

He continued for a moment longer, alternating between actual massage work and what could only be described as mild amusement at my retractable claws. Eventually, he finished, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh.

"Alright. I think that about does it."

I let out a slow breath, curling onto my side. "You have earned my approval."

Jackson smirked, leaning back against the bedframe with that insufferable confidence. "Oh good. Would've been real upset if I didn't."

I watched him, my body still pleasantly loose from his care, my mind fogged with lingering warmth. And yet, beneath it all, something nagged at me—something that had lingered in my thoughts for too long.

For days, I had wondered. Turned the thought over and over, trying to piece together the answer myself. But no matter how I looked at it, something wasn't right. Something was missing.

So, I asked.

"Why did you give Aria the egg?"

Jackson's smirk faltered.

It was barely noticeable—just a small flicker in his expression—but I caught it. I felt it.

His posture stiffened ever so slightly, just enough for me to see the moment he decided to guard himself. To deflect.

He blinked, tilting his head with casual ease. "What?"

"The egg," I repeated, keeping my voice steady. "I understand why you were grateful to her for standing up for you. But that wasn't the whole reason, was it?"

His expression didn't change immediately. Instead, he studied me, his violet eyes unreadable, his aura carefully blank.

Then, he scoffed lightly. "What, you don't think I'm just that generous?"

I didn't answer. I just looked at him.

His jaw clenched. His fingers drummed against his knee, restless. He was searching for an escape, for an easy way to end this conversation.

I didn't let him have it.

"Jackson." My voice was softer now, but firm. Insistent.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something under his breath. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether he could change the subject or laugh this off. But the longer I sat there—silent, patient—the more his resolve frayed.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then, finally, he gave in.

"…Ven said I'd raise the kid well," he murmured. His voice was quieter than before, rough. "And the more I thought about it, the more I knew he was wrong."

That bitterness in his tone—it was sharp, filled with something deeper than just doubt.

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "And the more I thought about that, the more I knew… I would be a shit father."

I felt my chest tighten.

He ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. "I curse like an Irish sailor, I'm an arrogant, egotistical prick, I've got violent tendencies, and I'm only a pale imitation of a sane man because of you." He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "If it weren't for you, Luna… I don't know what I'd be. Or what I'd do."

The weight of his words pressed between us, heavy and raw.

And I knew—I knew—this wasn't just about the egg. This was about something deeper, something buried so far within him that even he was afraid to look at it for too long.

Jackson Bram did not fear many things. But I could feel his fear now, woven into his aura, into the way his body remained tense, waiting for judgment.

Waiting for me to agree with him.

Waiting for me to confirm every awful thing he thought about himself.

He thought I would see him as broken.

Instead, I moved closer.

I didn't hesitate. I reached for him, wrapping my arms around him in a firm, unwavering embrace. His body stiffened at the sudden contact, caught off guard. But I didn't let go. I held him tight, letting my warmth sink into him, letting my presence tell him what words could not.

His breath hitched.

I pressed my forehead against his shoulder, closing my eyes. "You are an arrogant, egotistical prick," I murmured. "And yes, you curse excessively."

A low huff of laughter rumbled from his chest, but it was shaky, fragile. He wasn't really laughing.

I squeezed him just slightly. "But you are also kind. And patient. And loyal beyond reason."

His hands slowly—slowly—came to rest against my back, hesitant, uncertain. But he didn't push me away.

I took a slow breath. "You have flaws, Jackson. But so do I."

He went still beneath me.

I swallowed. "My father raised me to be something I hated. He shaped me into a leader through coldness, through force. And for a long time, I believed that was all I could be. That I could only be 'Glacia'—someone distant, someone untouchable." I let out a quiet breath. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to separate myself fully from that. From her."

Jackson didn't speak, but his arms tightened around me.

"I am not whole, Jackson." My voice barely rose above a whisper. "Neither are you."

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, to let him see the sincerity in my gaze.

"But we don't have to be whole to be worth something."

His expression cracked. Just for a moment.

Raw emotion flickered across his face, gone in an instant, but I felt it. The part of him that wanted to believe me. The part of him that ached to believe me.

I reached up, gently brushing my fingers along his jawline. "Together, we can work through it."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His hands curled into the fabric of my fur, gripping it like an anchor. Like he was afraid that if he let go, something inside him might shatter.

And then, softly—so softly I almost missed it—he whispered, "I wouldn't even know where to start."

I smiled, small but certain. "Then we start here."

Silence stretched between us, thick with something unspoken. Something neither of us were entirely ready to put into words.

And that was okay.

Jackson let out a slow, unsteady breath, resting his forehead against mine. His grip on me didn't loosen. I didn't let go either.

For now, this was enough.

And as the tension in his body finally began to ease, I let the last of my thoughts slip free, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Personally?" I murmured. "I think you'd make a wonderful father."

Jackson stilled.

His breath caught, and for just a moment, I wondered if I had said too much—if I had pushed too far.

But then, slowly, slowly, he exhaled. His grip on me softened, not letting go, but accepting.

He didn't answer right away. But he didn't have to.

Instead, he held me closer, his forehead pressing against mine, his aura steady, quiet.

And for the first time since I had met him, Jackson Bram let himself be vulnerable.

Silence had settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable, heavy but not suffocating. Jackson hadn't said much after my last words.

I could feel the tension in him, lingering like a ghost, even as he tried to shake it off with a slow breath. He always did that—pretended things didn't cut as deep as they did, like if he ignored his wounds long enough, they'd simply stop bleeding.

But I knew him too well.

So I stayed close, letting my presence speak where words failed.

Eventually, Jackson sighed, rolling his shoulders like he could physically force away whatever thoughts still gnawed at him. "C'mon," he muttered, voice quieter than usual. "Let's get some sleep."

I nodded, watching as he moved to the bed, tossing the blankets back before sliding in. I followed, settling onto my side, my back resting against his chest.

Familiar warmth enveloped me.

Then—subtle, but unmistakable—Jackson's arm draped over my waist. A touch heavier than usual. His fingers splayed against my stomach, not possessive, not desperate, just… steady. Solid. As if grounding himself in something real.

And then—he pulled me just a bit closer.

The shift was small, but I felt it. The way his chest pressed more firmly against my back, the quiet way he exhaled as if letting go of something too heavy to carry into sleep.

I relaxed into him, letting my eyes drift shut.

Jackson would never say it outright, but I could feel it in the way he held me, in the way his grip lingered like he was afraid to lose the warmth, the weight, the certainty of me.

And in that moment, I knew—no matter how broken we were, no matter how sharp our edges, we fit together.

Piece by jagged piece.

"Goodnight, Jackson," I murmured, my voice softer than usual.

There was a pause, a heartbeat of hesitation, then his voice—low, rough, but undeniably warm.

"...Goodnight, Luna."

His arm didn't loosen.

And I fell asleep feeling more at home than I ever had before