Disclaimer: No, I don't own Pokémon.
"Jessie?"
She freezes in her step, and looks toward the source of the strangled cry. He approaches. There is gauntness in his face, dark shadows beneath his eyes and an unsteadiness in his gait—his hurried scramble—not unlike that of a drunken giant's. His is the look of the sleepless; his every feature telling tales of nights spent staring up at the stars, mornings spent trying to rise and face the day when one no longer finds reason to, and afternoons spent alone, brooding silently in the shade of a tree, finding company only in its wide branches.
Except for his eyes. They blink once, twice. He is still unable to believe what he is seeing.
She looks into them, and sees a fire, wild and feral; a bonfire of emotions burning bright as a beacon in his emerald pools.
So unlike him. Who are you?
Yet when he crushes his lips to hers desperately, she recognizes him. As he kisses her passionately, hungrily, his lips melding with hers softly yet urgently, she recognizes the strange power he seems to hold over her—a power she always hated.
She starts to pull away; an angry, fiery remark ready on her tongue.
Cracks form on her careful walls.
With his mind as muddled as it is, he lets his emotions take the reins. His gentle hands pull her closer to him.
She wonders why she does not move, does not run; her feet seeming rooted to the place, refusing to obey the screams coming from the part of her brain that managed to stay sane. She wonders why she responds, why she suddenly finds her fingers entangling themselves in his hair, why she brings her lips to move against his with the same passion, the same need.
The walls come crashing down.
When he finally pulls away, collapsing in her arms, she finds herself missing the sweetness of his lips.
"You're alive." She barely hears the quiet, awed whisper, but she sure can feel it; his ticklish breath on the crook of her neck, the movement of his lips against her sensitive skin. She finds herself liking it a bit more—a lot more, actually—than she thinks she should.
Shit.
Suddenly, she hears a small cough, and looks around frantically in search of the source. She spots the scratch-cat, the golden charm atop his head glinting in the moonlight.
He stands, his furry arms crossed, looking on with a knowing smirk upon his features and a mischievous glint in his feline eyes, eyes that regarded her with a strange curiosity.
She knows, she expects. Any time now; it's sure to come. A sly remark, a burning insult, a witty jest, or a round of unending, insensitive, persistent teasing.
She shudders at the thought of what sort of hell Meowth is going to bring in the next few weeks.
But no. As she continues to glare at him-daring him to so much as open his mouth-she sees his expression soften, ever-so-slightly.
"He missed ya."
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