(A/N): Ah the ikarishipping bug has bitten me. This is the outcome. Hopefully I can make the shippers proud...Review if you like!

In the Spaces Between Words

The leather bound journal felt heavy in her hands.

It wasn't so much the weight of the stories it contained: endless paragraphs dedicated to epic fantasy lands, ones which were brought to life through a litany of potent creatures and sparks of power that spawned seemingly from out of nowhere. And it wasn't the weight of the heavy printed words that hid inside, rough against her fingertips and bleeding through the paper. Not that either. It wasn't even the fact that in her hands she held something so very beautiful: written verses unseen from the world's eyes - unborn creation ready to break through the surface. No, it was heavy for another reason entirely.

It wasn't hers.

She had just found it. Out in the open. For the whole world to see and Dawn, if she were being completely honest, couldn't help herself. So she did what any other normal person in her position would do: she read it.

And now...now it's owner was staring at her with a scowl on his face that could burn a hole through her heart.

Dawn paled considerably, swallowing the lump in her throat and trying not to fold under the intense pressure of his gaze. She took a step back and her shoulders hit the cool metal of their school lockers. She gulped.

"That's my journal," he said coldly, his words delivered without hesitation. Even though there was no name on the journal (nothing to piece together the identity of its owner) somehow, Dawn knew he was telling the truth. From the beginning she had wanted to find the author behind the work, but she imagined it would go down differently, maybe in a way that wasn't so intimidating. After all, the boy looked like he wanted to absolutely murder her. She imagined his fists clenched from within his pockets - his cargo pants hid them with skilled precision.

Well, if she was going to die, she might as well check him out first.

She regarded him thoughtfully. He was taller than her. She had to tilt her head up to look at his eyes - ones grey and flickering with anger. She frowned. Looking again, Dawn saw more emotions swimming in their depth: confusion, defensiveness, and...embarrassment? She didn't blame him. She had just read his journal. But still, after doing so she didn't know what there was to be embarrassed about. His stories were...incredible.

This boy, this moody kid with purple hair and a biting attitude, was utterly and unforgettably incredible. His words were poetry infused with an amazing narration. He breathed life into his work, and Dawn, for all of her guilt, was so glad she read it.

As for the boy, he was still steaming. "Are you an idiot or something?" he spoke again, his voice deep and gruff, "did you even hear me?"

Before her mind could keep up with her, she blurted out, "I'm in love with your writing."

If it was even possible, the boy's scowl grew deeper. She felt her face bloom with color. Dawn fumbled with her words. "I mean," she reiterated, "I found your, um, journal near the bleachers after cheer practice and I just kind of opened it to see whose it was, and I couldn't help myself and just read your stories and you have no idea how amazing you are a-"

"Oh my god, do you ever shut up?" he interrupted her, hands coming out from his pockets to rub his temples. Dawn bristled.

"Hey, you don't have to act so harsh. I know that you're mad but still, chill out!"

"Whatever, just give me back my journal." His hand reached out for said object, but Dawn's body had other plans. She reeled her hand away from his grasp, tugging the notebook securely toward her chest. The boy almost looked surprised. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Please, just wait!" she pleaded. Their eyes held one another. A spark of defiance flickered across her face; a flash of anger flickered across his. "Listen to what I have to say." The boy folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

When Dawn was little, she had wanted to be an actress. She loved going to the theatre with her mother, watching the beautiful productions that left her speechless and inspired. She wanted to do the same. So when she turned ten, her mother had signed her up for some classes. After some time, she realized that it wasn't the acting part that was able to evoke a twinge of feeling within her: it was the story being conveyed. She gave up acting in return for reading books and watching movies - trading her position of an actress for one of a spectator. She was entirely content. Now, her role as a member of an audience was clear and explicit, all of it leading up to this seemingly unassuming piece of literature. If he was the creator she would stand before him ready to take his genius in.

Only, he had to know...there was something about his work that didn't feel right. Something was missing. Dawn knew she had to say it.

"What could you possibly have to tell me?" the boy barked. His eyes flickered to the journal, a possessiveness firing through him.

"You should know," she said pointedly, "that your work is admirable, but…"

"But what?"

"But you have no idea about human interaction."

The boy balked at her words. "What the hell do you mean?" His voice was louder than he intended, and he cringed. She could tell he wanted to be anywhere but where they were standing. A sea of people migrated through the hall, skillfully avoiding them. No one stopped to stare at the pretty girl being glared to death by some angry boy; no one questioned it. Probably no one would. Even so, she could tell he wanted to be as far away from her as possible.

"Your narration is great, the setting is a work of art, and my God, these creatures you've crafted - all of it is amazing! You have a knack for writing and creativity, but there is something completely wrong about one thing," she took a breath, preparing herself, "your characters have no substance."

He looked offended. He looked like he wanted to kill her too.

(He also looked kind of cute with the embarrassed flush tinging his neck).

"My characters?" He repeated, as if at a loss. "Look troublesome, I don't think that's-"

"My name is Dawn," she said pointedly, "but that's besides the point. Your characters are lacking in depth. I'm talking about the human characters, by the way, not the...what did you call them? Pokemon? Whatever, I'm just trying to say that, how can you even claim to write a love story when your characters can't even interact properly? The dialogue is a mess!"

The boy's scowl turned into a look of confusion. Then, his hand reached up to the back of his neck - Dawn almost laughed at the embarrassed demeanor he tried to hide. His voice was no longer so rough. Maybe his anger was subsiding.

And then he spoke, bewildered and open, "Why do you think my story was about love?"

Dawn blinked.

She had his attention.

"You mean it's not?"

Paul Shinji, that was his name, funny how someone you only met once could show up so many times after. He was like the plague, spreading into the nooks and crannies of her life in ways she never noticed before. For example, apparently his locker was two spaces down from her own, next to the water fountain. He could stand to open it; she had to crouch down to get to hers.

She ran into him constantly, and it was some sort of sick trick played by the universe, because why else would he become a constant in her life? He hadn't spoken to her since their first encounter, and he had made it pretty clear that it was going to stay that way. He didn't even hesitate when he ripped the journal out of her hands.

It had been a week.

Personally, she was offended. Then relieved. Then a little sad. This was most likely because, if she were being completely honest with herself, she really wanted to talk to him, maybe about his novel. After all, the stories he had pieced together were beautiful, and Dawn wanted more than anything to make him understand that.

So what if she had critiqued one thing?

All she had said was that it resembled a love story. Whether it was true or not, she didn't know. Sure, the story was filled to the brim with action and adventure, but Dawn knew that romance flowed deeply through his characters, despite their flawed make-up. Call it, woman's intuition.

Dawn sighed, his story really was amazing. There existed within those sandy pages a world unlike their own, one teeming with creatures that breathed fire, raged tsunamis, fired sharp leaves, and even sparked with electricity: unique and otherworldly powers that one could only dream of. Painstaking detail was put into the assembly of each creature, and he had even drew some sketches next to the ones he deemed worthy. These creatures had trainers and those trainers would capture and make the creatures fight. There was a whole strategic battle system marked in red ink, awash with type advantages and type disadvantages, HP and PP, and a whole array of moves. It was incredible how he could piece together such a world.

Yet, for all of Paul's talent, there were still parts of his stories where it was hard to read. Not for any gore or uncomfortable scenes, but rather the fact that he could not, for the life of him, write about human interaction.

His characters were 2D, flat, and unappealing. Perhaps it was not the crafting of the characters themselves, but rather the actions made to carry out any emotion that made them so. Dialogue was weak. Relationships were too implicit.

It almost made her want to pull her hair out!

There were two main characters in the story, both of whom were trainers. The thing about them was that they were close, close enough that when they battled side by side, they would just know: know which moves to call, which strategies to use, and how to position their Pokemon in just the right way. There wasn't a need for any direction. Paul may not have meant to convey this meaning, but Dawn found it, amid the many battles and the regions they traveled, and in the spaces between the written words. Their actions spoke loudly enough.

Perhaps what really exemplified Dawn's claim was the plot. It wasn't one trainer's path to greatness. It wasn't the destruction of some dangerous group. (Yes, both of these were included, but at the end of the day, it went deeper). In truth, his stories were about two people meeting against all odds: an encounter random and spontaneous that somehow developed into a formidable partnership.

It was about learning to trust someone, learning to accept the hand extended toward your own.

Paul just needed someone to help him convey this.

So Dawn was relieved one day when he finally did approach her. She was exiting her French class when she felt her hand enveloped with another's. There was a pull, a tug, and suddenly her body was whisked away around the nearest corner. The hallway was beginning to be filtered out of its people, and soon the two of them were alone.

Dawn waited with anticipation curling throughout her body.

Paul (not surprisingly) scowled. He held his hand outward toward her own. There was something white poking out from within his knuckles. "Take this," he urged.

Confused, Dawn complied. Their skin brushed one another, and Dawn felt something resembling heat kiss her cheeks. "Okay?" she spoke cautiously. He had handed her a piece of paper, folded into a near square. "But what's going on?"

He didn't reply. He left just as quick as he came, rounding the corner before Dawn even had a chance to stop him. Her body deflated a little. With a sigh, the dark haired girl looked down at her hand where the paper sat ready for her to open. She could just faintly make out the outline of its contents.

Black ink. Neat penmanship. The word, after.

Dawn's heart thumped widely in her chest. She was worried about what it would say, but also excited. The latter far outweighed the former, and Dawn quickly unfolded the letter, watching the creases marr the paper. "Alright Paul Shinji, let's see what you have in store for me now," she giggled.

And so, she read:

Troublesome,

You're annoying as hell, you know. I don't care if that makes you cry. All I want is for you to get the hell out of my head and your review of my journal, which I am still pissed that you read by the way, is not helping.

Meet me at Delia's after school.

-P

Delia's was a diner.

It was owned by the mother of one of Dawn's classmates - a popular, funny kind of kid who was probably way too immature for his own good, clueless about most things in life but all around one of the sweetest, most kind hearted people Dawn had ever met. He was her friend, but part of her wished he wouldn't be working his shift when she got there. Partly because he would load her up with a million meals (because mom said that friends are family and family shouldn't go hungry) and partly because he would never leave her alone if he thought she was on a date.

A date...the prospect hadn't occurred to her before. This definitely wasn't a date. It was just Paul after all. He wanted her out of his head, not to establish herself further into his life. Not that her friend would know that…

Dawn shook her head. No, there was no need to worry about what if's. She needed to dive into the situation head first.

She rode her bike to the diner. It was pink, freshly returned from the repair shop (after an incident that she'd rather not say) and rode like a charm. As soon as she got there, she made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping to fix her helmet hair before anyone saw her. Then, she took a seat in one of the red colored booths, folding her hands on the table and waiting.

Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Until, a red haired girl came to take her order.

"What will it be?" the waitress asked, cocking her hip to the side and offering her a smile. She looked familiar. Maybe it was the side ponytail. Or the bangs.

Dawn grimaced. "I'm uh, actually waiting on someone," she replied.

"Oh, so you've got a hot date, huh?" The girl grinned cheekily, her sea-green eyes lighting up dangerously. Dawn felt her cheeks flush instantly.

"N-no! It's just-" Dawn was interrupted by the chime of a bell. The doorway opened and there, walking in the restaurant in all his glory, was Paul. Her stomach jumped. The red-haired girl, the devil incarnate, followed her eyes and gave a little smirk at what she saw.

"Ah," she spoke appreciatively, "there's a hard one to crack." She gave a little wink. "Paul Shinji is an emotionless bastard when you first meet him, but he'll come around." Before Dawn could question her, there was a loud crash sounding from the kitchen. The girl twitched. "ASH KETCHUM! I SWEAR TO GOD, IF THAT WAS YOU." She didn't finish. Instead she stormed off, away from Dawn's line of vision.

Dawn swore she heard a whimper of, "I'm sorry, Mist!"

She face palmed. Right, today was the day Misty Waterflower and Ash Ketchum were working. Ash was Dawn's friend and the son of the owner. As for the girl, she was like his best friend. That or his personal bully.

"Do I even want to know?" came the sound of Paul's voice, and Dawn whipped her head around at the intrusion. His face was pinched. Dawn wanted to even it out.

"No," she breathed, "not really."

Two milkshakes and a boat of fries later, Paul was finally ready to talk to her.

He had mostly been quiet throughout the course of their meal. Dawn had done most of the talking for them, but now Paul was ready to tell her the reason why he invited her here in the first place.

Dawn watched as his shoulders tensed up, his eyes cast downwards - a refusal to meet her own. He spoke gruffly, scratching his throat with his words, "Did you really like my story that much?" His grey eyes suddenly flashed against her own: grey on blue.

She was caught off guard at the action, nearly choking on a fry. She reached for a glass of water to try and calm her nerves.

Yes, she wanted to scream, so very very much.

Instead she nodded.

He seemed to calculate her response. "I want to become a writer," he confided, his gaze shifting from her own. She wanted him to stop sliding away from her. She wanted to meet him square on - wanted trust to magnify between them. Why?

She hadn't a clue.

"Really?" she asked, her voice filled with excitement.

"Yeah…"

"You should."

There were things unspoken hidden behind his tongue. She could see it in eyes, on his features, and in the way he tensed his shoulders. She looked at him; she looked through him.

What if I'm not good enough? What if I can't make it?

No...those weren't his worries. She looked harder.

What if nobody understands me? What if the meaning gets lost to my audience?

Ah, there it was. Wait, Dawn tilted her head to the side. His gaze was questioning, staring at her as if trying to decipher her mind too. She saw it, the words swimming through his mind:

How the hell did you understand?

"You have to!" she suddenly blurted out, her voice nervous but urging. "J-just because people may not understand the meaning behind your work, or understand why you're writing in the first place, doesn't mean you shouldn't try." Dawn saw his eyes go wide. There she was, reading his thoughts exactly. He scowled, as if angry about the fact.

What could she say? She was a people person.

"I don't care about that," he mumbled, lying through his teeth.

"Then what is stopping you?" she countered. Her eyes were steel; his were fire.

"Nothing is stopping me!" Paul barked. "Nothing," he repeated again, as if trying to convince himself. Dawn remained silent at the outburst. "Just...let me finish."

"Okay."

He breathed deeply, starting over, "I want to be a writer. If I want to do that I need to be open to criticism. I...also need to know how to improve." His hands fiddled with his drink straw. "I asked you to come here for that very reason."

Dawn's eyes went wide.

"I need you to teach me about...people. More specifically about the relationships people have," he told her.

They made a deal: she would help him with his social life, and in return would get to read his novel. At the end of the day it was a fair trade off.

"This is for research," he reminded her, as the two of them trekked through the woods behind his house. The path they were on would lead them into town. The evening air was cool on her skin, fall's mighty leaves crunching under their boots.

"Mm hmm," she hummed in agreement, sending him a blinding smile.

They had been hanging out for almost a month now. It took a while for him to open up to her, but she did not press for him to do so, nor expect him to. Paul reminded her constantly that their daily rendez-vous was a no strings attached kind of relationship, and Dawn would usually counter that, saying he should be happy to be hanging out with another human for once. Now the two comments were something resembling a joke between the two of them.

He was opening up to her. She would almost say they were friends.

After all, friends did things like walk to the nearest gas station for junk food, back packs heavy with homework they promised to (but probably wouldn't) do. Friends took walks in the woods just to talk, sometimes about school or family or dreams, other times about nothing. Friends had plans to drink cold bottles of orange soda on top of a roof and stare at the moon all night. Paul and Dawn had those kind of plans.

So they did them. They filled their bags with candy and chips, juice and soda, and climbed up the metal ladder of the gas station roof (Paul told her he used to work there, and because he was still on good terms with the owner, they wouldn't get busted).

The moon was bright that night.

"And then, Giovanni-"

"The leader of Team Rocket?" Dawn inquired, interrupting Paul.

Paul smirked a little. "Yeah," he answered, "now quit talking over me troublesome." Dawn pouted, but let him continue. He was telling her the latest addition to his story. "Giovanni will take their Pokemon. They'll be kept in a big electric cage, too." Dawn listened intently. "And Sacha," that was the same of the first trainer, "will be taken away. Giovanni's gonna have a gun to his head. He's gonna threaten Kat," the second trainer, "to give over her last pokeball or else he'll shoot Sacha." Paul breathed in slowly, sadly. "But Giovanni doesn't stop there. When she does hand over her last Pokemon, he plans on tormenting her more. He gives her a choice: it's Sacha or their Pokemon."

"W-what do you mean?" Dawn asked, enthralled. The night air whipped her hair to the side and caused goosebumps to rise to her skin. She wrapped her arms around her body.

Paul met her eyes, firm and unwavering. "He's going to kill one of the two," he answered.

"No."

"Yes."

"B-but-"

"How do you pick between your best friend and your best friends?" Paul finished her thought. He shrugged. "It's like asking to pick between family members; for most people it's an impossible choice. When your loved ones are pitted against each other...what do you do?"

Dawn stayed quiet.

"This is the moment," Paul told her steadily, "where Kat realizes she loves Sacha."

It was a rare and vulnerable moment for Paul. He was open before her for the first time in a long time - open in a way that invited her into his mind.

"But she also loves her Pokemon," Paul said, "loves them to death." He looked toward the sky. "She's at a crossroads with herself. Time is running out. Giovanni is laughing. Sacha, being the brave soul he is, is screaming for her to leave him behind - the classic go on without me kind of situation. But Kat can't physically bring herself to do either."

"What does she do?" Dawn asked, holding her breath.

"She offers herself. Of course, Giovanni refuses the very prospect. Tells her, if she doesn't pick, both of them will go down."

"Paul," Dawn whined, "come on tell me already." She tried giving him a puppy-dog pout, hoping she could cute her way into the answer. Paul remained stone cold as always, although for a moment his lips quirked upwards just a little.

"That's the problem. Us authors are always forced into a wall with our stories...we have to present our characters with the hardest choice imaginable and somehow figure out a way to solve that problem." He gave her a hard look. "It's hard to find a happy ending all the time. Sometimes I think it would be easier just to let Giovanni shoot all of them: turn the story into some sick tragedy where the villain comes out on top."

The stars didn't look so bright anymore.

"But I knew I couldn't do that. What kind of lesson is that? What am I conveying to my audience?" Paul sighed. "So I started thinking, what if I were Kat?" He met her eyes: grey and blue swirled together effortlessly. "What if you were Sacha? Would I really be able to let someone shoot you?"

"Paul…" Dawn breathed.

"Thinking about it this way...I was finally able to understand Kat." He chuckled quietly. "Funny, how a story can make you feel things in real life. I guess that's why I like writing...you can be in a new world, but there's always a bit of reality behind every word."

"That's why you're an amazing author, Paul," said Dawn. "That's why I've always liked your stories." She shifted in her seat. "So...have you figured out an ending?"

"Not yet..."

"You'll figure something out."

Paul and Dawn stared at each other as if it were the first time. She had unraveled Paul, made him crack his stony exterior, if only for this night. He surprised her in this way. She'd never imagine that she would be able to provoke such strong emotions within himself. After all, it was her he imagined when thinking of Sacha.

In a roundabout way, he told her he cared for her.

"Troublesome?" he asked, the nickname fonder than she remembered.

"Yeah?" she replied. For some reason, something resembling anticipation was curling through her stomach.

His cheeks were flushed. "If I asked you to do something, to help me with this story...would you do it?"

"Of course, Paul," Dawn affirmed. Her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. "Haven't I always?"

"Yeah but this kind of research is…" Paul's cheeks were definitely red. He was glaring at the floor as if aware of the fact.

"Paul, whatever it is I'm fine with i-" he cut her off.

Not with his words, or with some gesture, but something else entirely.

He kissed her.

Paul Shinji was kissing her.

What more could she do than kiss back?

"This is for research?" she inquired, her heavy breaths ghosting across his face. Heat was curling in the pit of her stomach. His hands were burning against her skin.

"Y-yeah," he confirmed, stealing another kiss.

"Are," she gasped as his lips landed on her collar bone. "A-are Sacha and Kat going to-"

"Troublesome," he growled, "for once just be quiet."

Needless to say, Paul didn't have any more trouble conveying characters' emotions. He also didn't have problems writing the more...intimate scenes.

He also found what Dawn had seen in his story from the very beginning: trust.

"Giovanni's plan comes undone, because he makes a fatal mistake," Paul told her.

"What's the mistake?" she asked, wonder circling her brain.

"He laughs," Paul mumbled.

"Laughs?"

Paul nodded. "Yeah." She must have looked confused, because he furthered his explanation, "he starts laughing. Laughing at Kat and Sacha - about the whole situation. A sadistic laugh at that. And then, in his hysteria, he accidentally touches the electric cage."

Dawn gasped.

"It's a lot of electricity, maybe enough to kill a man," Paul informed her. "One thing leads to the other, and Sacha and Kat are escaping. The only thing on their minds is, God we have to get these pokemon to safety, and, God this place is coming up in smoke."

"And then what?" The Dawn pressed. She was ready for the ending; she had been waiting in anticipation for months. She knew Paul was ready too.

"And then...they break through the surface. Into the light. To safety."

"Together?"

"Yeah," Paul nodded, "together."