Okay, so I don't know if anybody would actually want to read this but I decided to post it anyway. Third year uni DESTROYED me and I mostly got through my exams by binge watching Pokemon (Indigo League), during which time Charmander became my firm favorite. Because my brain is still in a post-exam slump, and functioning at only about 30% of it's normal capacity, I decided to give it a little indulgence and try this, which I freely admit is not my best work.

I'm convinced that Charizard's behaviour towards Ash is due to something a little more profound than just arrogance, and is probably rooted in abandonment issues and the (lets call it abuse) of his former trainer. So this is my attempt to explore this in the episode Charizard Chills, taking a little creative liberty.

I don't own anything. I make no profit.

Fire Tail (Charizard)

The cold was overwhelming. It pierced his skin like a thousand Beedrill stings: paralysing and toxic. He felt the flame on his tail – already doused – sputter and shrink, and with it all heat leech from his body into the icy cocoon which imprisoned him. Not enough, however, to melt the powerful attack.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. The only thing which registered as he hit the sand was the sight of Ash's face, distorted through the glassy planes, drawn by horror and confusion; his mouth forming the shapes of soundless, emphatic cries.

And he was powerless to look away.

Powerless to turn his head disdainfully from the trainer he didn't trust, who misguidedly placed friendship before strength and took away the one thing he understood.

Then something struck the ice, hard.

It struck again and again with unwavering force, until fissures split deep across the frozen capsule, and Ash's voice filtered through:

'Charizard, hang on! I'll get you out of there.'

He tried to protest, force out a low, guttural warning that he was frightened and disorientated, but the ice was like a belt around his chest. It transmuted the sound into a pitiful, drawn-out whine, which only caused Ash to redouble his efforts.

Ash pounded against the freezing chrysalis again and finally, in one fluid motion of collapse, it shattered up to his shoulders.

With a gritty hum of relief, he quickly began to draw in shallow, panting breaths. The muscles in his tail and neck – the only parts of him exposed to the open air – already beginning to tremble violently, in a futile effort to try and regenerate some warmth.

Ash's voice rung out again, pressing and urgent.

'Charizard, are you okay?!'

And with it the world began to fall away.

As darkness slithered across his vision, his last thoughts were of weakness.

He remembered, as part of a different lifetime, waiting naïvely on a rock in the pouring rain for a trainer who promised he'd return. He remembered how friendship and loyalty had only ever lead into him getting hurt: that strength, dominance, was the only sure means of survival. And he wondered now, even after he had evolved, even after he had become so much more powerful, would this trainer abandon him too because he had lost a battle?

~#****#~

The cold drained him, and he wandered somewhere between dreams and imagination; somewhere where only the darkest aspects of himself were capable of finding him.

He'd heard it said, long ago, that there were no bad Pokémon, only bad trainers. Except most Pokémon would never recognise their trainers for such anyway – he hadn't, despite overwhelming evidence. In general terms, if a Pokémon attacked then it was more likely through fear than violence; if it disobeyed then this was as a result of distrust not obstinacy. Pokémon, in their own right, had little conception of good and evil, which made them vulnerable to exploitation.

But Pokémon were a reflection of their trainers …

Out of the darkness Damian's figure materialized: tall, imposing and inferious, his mouth turned down into a cruel, sardonic slash.

Charizard was reduced to a juvenile by the mere image of him.

'You've got to toughen up, Charmander,' Damian taunted. 'I don't have any use for a weak Pokémon. And neither does anyone else.'

'Charmander, char char!' He begged, fervently.

He had tried to be tough, but the Pokémon Damian sent him out against were always faster, stronger, more cunning, always had an edge over him. And that Zubat's confusion attack had left him so frighteningly disorientated that he couldn't even recognise his trainer's commands, couldn't remember his own name.

He didn't want to be a disappointment! He wanted to be strong, powerful, ferocious. He wanted to make his trainer proud, and he would do anything to prove himself.

To his relief, Damian's expression reformed into one he recognised as leniency, and he felt a small spark of hope bolster the flame on his tail. But when the magnanimous trainer spoke there was a cold distance and disconnect in his tone:

'Okay, I'll give you one last chance. But you have to do it right this time.'

'Charmander!' he promised.

As Damian's hands reached out and lifted him he gave a purring 'chaaar' of contentment, his feet kicking luxuriantly in the breeze. The next moment, however, he found himself deposited roughly onto the cold, hard plateau of a rock.

He blinked up at his trainer with confusion.

'Since you've failed to show me your strength in battle, I'll allow you to demonstrate it in endurance.'

'Char …?'

'I want you to wait here on this rock until I come back for you.' As he spoke Damian forced him into a low, bowed position, until the rough surface grated uncomfortably against the delicate skin on his stomach. He hissed his displeasure.

'If you wait here until I return, then you'll have proved your strength. If you don't –' Damian's black eyes flashed, hard and unyielding as carapaces, 'then I have no further use for you. No-one wants a disobedient Pokémon.'

He took in his surroundings timidly, shrinking back from the silent animosity of the closely packed trees and thick undergrowth, which surrounded him on all sides and threatened a thousand horrors. He didn't want to stay here. There had to be some other way.

He looked up into the face of his trainer, but saw no leniency there this time.

The flame on his tail trembled.

He knew it was fear which stopped him from being strong; fear which caused him to hesitate in battles; and fear,

weakness, which Damian abhorred above all else. But he couldn't help being afraid, could he?

'Char charmander char,' he pleaded.

I'll do better. I'll BE better.

But his words fell on deaf ears.

As Damian turned away from him he rushed forward and anchored his claws deep into his sleeve.

Please, don't leave. With a tight, painful pressure in his chest, he watched his trainer's lip curl with distaste as he had seen it do many times before. Then the hands, which had so recently cradled him, reached out and pushed him roughly away.

'On the rock, Charmander,' Damian ordered unsparingly. 'Show me how tough you can be and I promise I'll come back for you.'

… I promise I'll come back …

… I promise …

Liar.

Charizard's eyes opened to a throbbing haze of shadow and sound. He blinked and gazed around blearily, but could make out nothing of his surroundings beyond a thick, white smoke which swirled in velveteen tendrils. The cold which had infected his unconscious found him here too, reducing his internal furnace to a carpet of embers, and making it difficult, almost impossible to breathe.

What had happened to him, he wondered with alarm.

'… have to - … Charizard's - … alright, Pikachu.'

His ears pricked at the sound of the voice but, broken and distorted, reaching him as if through the length of a tunnel, he didn't recognise it. He growled a warning deep and powerful in the centre of his chest. What had happened?

And then he felt it.

Damian's hands trying to push him away. Trying to push away a weak and pathetic Pokémon who wasn't even worth the trouble of raising.

Except he was no longer weak.

Surfeited on a compound of hatred and pride, he had grown strong, and now he wanted no master. He needed no master.

Roaring with anger and betrayal, he began to rear into a fighting stance, but at that same moment his muscles trembled and seized beneath him, unwilling to take his weight. Horrified, his roars changed in pitch from violence to panic and he began to thrash wildly, trying to gain a footing, unfold his wings, anything to give himself some modicum of advantage. The arms slung across his stomach, holding him down, only incensed him further, as well as the urgent shouts of:

'Argh, take it easy! Ugh, okay, settle down!'

Though he thought, at least, he recognised them this time.

He stopped struggling long enough to allow the figure crouching over him to come into focus. And, for a moment, he saw Ash completely unobscured, eyes warm and wide with concern; felt the desperate plea 'you've got to rest' lay over him like a shawl.

But then his vision blurred again, and he watched Ash's lip curl into Damian's signature torsion – mocking his vulnerability once more.

He shook his head fervently, loosing one final angry roar. He didn't want either of them near him right now. He didn't want either of their pity or derision.

Drawing in oxygen, he prepared to launch a savage flamethrower – … but the only thing he could muster was a single puff of smoke.
Like the pulse of a heartbeat, he felt his internal fire all but extinguish, and darkness rush indomitably in. The cold, which had been creeping up on him since he awoke, now flooded through his body in waves, plunging him once again into unconsciousness.

~#****#~

He didn't know how long he was out; only that the next time he woke it was slower, more gradual, and he remembered the battle.

His defeat.

He could still feel the hands running back and forth across his body, but now he began to recognise their pressure as something comforting, tender: the kind of physical contact he had once, so long ago, craved. Their massaging quelled the shivers which shook him from wing-tip to talon, but it was not enough to completely drive out the cold which had settled like a paralysing agent deep within his core.

He lay still and exhausted, with his eyes closed, trying to will the heat from the fires he could feel around him back into his body. He knew without them that he wouldn't have survived even this long.

Without Ash –

As it had done before, his trainer's voice penetrated the darkness which threatened him and provided an anchor.

'You'll be okay, Charizard.'

This time, however, it was echoed by two others. One female and encouraging, slightly closer at hand. Misty.

'Yeah, we'll warm you up, Charizard.'

And one mellow, further away and pinched with worry. Tracey.

'Charizard's still freezing cold.'

This prognosis was met with a renewed round of rubbing, the retreat and return of footsteps, and then the soft whoosh of something being laid over him. Something heavy and dense which carried a vague, briny tang of the ocean.

'You better massage Charizard through the blanket,' Misty fretted. 'Your hands will be rubbed raw otherwise.'

Ash gave a hum of defiant determination.

'Maybe. But if I can help Charizard get better faster I don't care.'

Lying helpless and defeated, depending on the combined efforts of these three trainers to save him, the fire lizard was struck by shame.

Shame, primarily, for his own crushing loss at the hands of a Pokémon not even a third his size, but also the first beginnings of shame in himself.

Damian had prized absolute power and strength, so Charizard learned to be ruthless, and condescending to all but the strongest Pokémon. Damian had used his Pokémon disrespectfully in personal battles, so Charizard, in turn, learned to be disrespectful to his trainer. And Damian had treated him with simultaneous states of amiability and abuse, so Charizard learned to be close, distrusting and temperamental as the best way of defending himself. Now, when faced with care, kindness and self-sacrifice, he didn't know how to possibly react.

Had never known how to react to compassion, except but to scorn it as weakness.

With his thoughts on Damian, he felt his tail-flame shrink, and the cold grow denser inside him, smothering the breath from his lungs. He found himself wondering weakly, not for the first time that night, whether it was Polywrath's attack or the imprint of his former master which was the real poison he was trying to purge from his body …

And that thought sparked something fierce inside him.

A fire which no amount of coldness could ever put out.

With an effort, he forced himself to focus on the motion of Ash's hands, dulled now through the blanket; forced himself to do the one thing he did best – the one thing he had never had less energy to do – and fight.

Even if only for the sake of pride, he would not let himself be defeated by a trainer who he had long outgrown. He would not allow himself to be hurt by a memory. And, most of all, he would not willingly lay down his life for Damian – not a second time

As the minutes stretched by, he sought out every word, every impression, every modicum of hateful identity which Damian had formatively deposited within him and he burned each one systematically. He drove out all of the anger, grief and confusion he had nurtured so long for the single purpose of hating the world. And, as he did so, he felt the coldness begin to withdraw; felt himself, against all odds, begin to grow stronger again.

'I think Charizard feels a little warmer,' Tracy reported hopefully.

'Mmm,' Ash agreed, pausing in his ministrations for a moment, 'but …'

He heard Pikachu lament the still pitiful size of his tail-flame.

Ash's hands renewed their rubbing, not prepared to give up.

'Come on, Charizard, you can't let your flame go out!'

They were words which reached across all three of his evolutions; words he had heard before, the first time Ash stepped out of the night and saved him.

He opened his eyes slowly and this time his vision was clear. He could see the writhing, acid reds and oranges of the flames as sharply as he had ever seen them – and even just the sight of them made him feel warm.

'It's awake,' Tracey called excitedly.

Determined to show them how renouncing Damian had cured him, Charizard raised his head with dignity, drew in a lungful of air and prepared, once again, to launch a powerful flamethrower attack.

But just like before, the fire sputtered and died in his throat. He chocked as the cold rushed back in, managing, at least, to stay conscious this time.

Mistaking his coughs for a threat display, Tracey moved back slightly, but he felt Ash's arms wrap around him: imploring, not restraining, now.

'Charizard, you shouldn't try to get up just yet.'

He gave a growl of frustration which Ash seemed to understand.

'Once you've warmed up a little more you can do whatever you want,' he offered. 'You'll be able to fly around. You can ever use your flamethrower on me -'

He blinked at his trainer with disgruntled confusion. How could Ash possibly take something he did out of complete disdain and turn it almost into a gesture of affection? He didn't trust it! … But, for the first time, he maybe began to regard Ash's persistence as admirable. After all, how many other trainers would persevere with a Pokémon who showed them absolute disloyalty? How many other trainers would be willing, even after all this time, to
keep trying to build a relationship with him? He knew the answer. None.

'But for now,' Ash continued earnestly, 'you've got to take it easy.' And his unspoken words: you've got to let me take care of you, like I've been trying
all along.

With a hesitant, rumbling growl of assent, he decided to try something he hadn't done in a long while, and trust. The flame on his tail flickered and grew a little stronger.

But at the same moment the effects of Polywrath's attack made themselves known with renewed vigour, and he began to shiver bodily once again.

He lowered his head miserably back onto the sand.

'It's still cold …' Misty worried, and there was a sudden rush to gather more wood and re-stoke the fires.

Ash alone remained by his side, rubbing kindness and warmth into his skin and speaking calmly, as if he had no fear that his flying/fire-type could survive this.

'Just take it easy, Charizard.'

~#****#~

For what felt like hours, Charizard simply lay looking up at the stars, watching their lonely silver lights wink in the great massy beyond.

He had thought that renouncing his past would be enough to heal him; that by destroying the cold and inhospitable parts of his nature he could make himself warm. But the removal of those drives which had sustained him for so long only left him feeling empty – and emptiness was, ultimately, the worst kind of coldness.

With the fires roaring, Misty and Tracey returned to massaging him as well, and he lay still, docile and permitted them. The rhythm of their hands guided him into a trance-like state where he began to imagine himself as part of a different life: one filled to the brim with kindness, loyalty and friendship,
instead of being coloured by shades of strength and power.

But was he willing to give Ash – inexperienced, reckless and naïve – a chance?

Was he willing to give any second trainer a chance?

He didn't know.

Damian was right when he said no-body wanted a disobedient Pokémon, and that was exactly why he had become one. He wanted no trainer to ever want him again: he wanted to be the one, this time, to do the rejecting. But Ash had foiled him from the start. Far from seeing his disobedience as unworkable, Ash had viewed it as a challenge – one he was determined to keep trying to work through.

Even now, when it would have been so easy, so effortless, to just let the flame on the end of his tail go out, Ash had done everything in his power and more to keep him alive – the Pokémon which had single-handedly cost him the Indigo League, the Pokémon which had shown him nothing but contempt.

A pool of warmth ignited deep in his chest.

He gazed almost dreamily up at the black-haired boy, whose face was a shadow-theatre for determination, sadness and hope in the firelight. Transfixed by the shifting angles, it was a moment before he fully appreciated that he was speaking.

'Look, Charizard,' Ash began earnestly, 'I might not be the greatest trainer in the world. Sometimes I don't do the smartest things and I make lots of mistakes, but I always try to do what's best by my Pokémon, and I know I'm getting better.' He laughed nervously. 'I think.'

Charizard released a small, amused snort of smoke.

'We've been together since you were a Charmander, and then when you evolved into Charmeleon, and all I want to do is be good enough for you so we can battle side-by-side as a team.' Instead of against each other.

As he watched them, the lonely, silver lights of the stars began to melt into a canvas of his own memories. He saw himself once again on the rock in the pouring rain, but this time it was with Ash and Brock beside him, bundling him into their waterproof coats; Ash making sure his tail-flame stayed lit – even as he was doing now. He saw all the times he and Ash had battled together, how he had made his trainer proud, not just through the victories he won or the strength he displayed but through the simple act of trying. And he saw himself trusting, admiring, loving a trainer so much that he selflessly risked exposure just to keep him warm.

These memories, which he had lost somewhere between his rapid evolutions, now reconnected with his identity, and filled the emptiness inside him.

Ash had helped him become what he had always wanted to be: strong. But, by focusing on that single purpose, he had prevented himself from absorbing any of the kindness, integrity and compassion which set Ash apart from trainers like Damian. He had made himself into a bad Pokémon – angry, violent and out of control.

And he didn't want to be that way anymore.

He decided it in a moment.

That he would take this young, imperfect trainer as his, just as he had once before. And, by so doing, would give himself as well as Ash a second chance.

~#****#~

As the night wore away into dawn, he felt Misty and Tracey retreat, and the rubbing of Ash's hands begin to falter. But that didn't matter now; he was long able to sustain his own warmth, and the flame on the tip of his tail burned brighter and stronger with each passing hour: a testament to the trainer who had refused to give up.

He waited until Ash succumbed to sleep, draped over the blanket which still covered his middle, before allowing his eyes to flutter closed.

As his breathing evened out he focused on his trainer's heartbeat, which he could feel just below his elbow, and allowed it to guide the rhythm of his own.

Two lives moving to the same vital tempo:

Survive. Survive. Survive.

Thank you for reading :)