~ Six ~
On Ghastly Companions and Heated Exchanges
I jolt awake.
Around me, it's all pitch black, and very cold, for a summer evening. Too cold, actually. Way too cold. I push up from the dirt, eyes foggy with sleep but senses alert, my skin tight with gooseflesh. My instincts are wired; my breath – coming in short, shallow gasps – steams lightly before my face.
Wait, what? Steams?
I marvel in this abnormal phenomenon, sitting up straighter and brushing the hair from my face. It's clearly still night; there's a heavy, velvet silence to the evening that speaks of the hours before dawn, but there's an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach; I'm edgy and nervous – enough to rouse me from sleep.
Air whispers by my right ear, gently, like a caress. It's freezing cold; I shiver.
From above, closer than I expected but still too far away, comes a mournful, bleak caw. Just one, but it sends chills down my spine. Something is really not right, and I'm spooked beyond belief.
I wish I'd never come to this stupid tower.
The same, cold breath breezes along my neck. I shiver again. And then I sense movement. I don't know how, because I can't see any other shapes in the dimness, but I do. I wiggle my fingers in front of my eyes to be sure my sight is functioning.
No. I'm definitely the only life form here.
Well, apart from El Scorchio.
El Scorchio!
Oh. Right. Wherever the heck he went.
It comes again, that strange, uncomfortable sense that something is moving nearby. It sets my teeth on edge and gets my blood pumping. My throat is so dry it's painful – I kick myself mentally for not packing some water when I left.
And then my thoughts are cut off abruptly, because my hair moves. At first, it's just like a gentle breeze has caught a few tendrils – which, in itself, is odd enough in a place where the air is totally stagnant – but it escalates until it's floating around my head like I'm underwater, and I somehow manage a gurgled rasping scream from my dying voice box.
Ghosts!, my brain shrieks in wild, irrational terror. The place is full of ghosts, and they're going to eat me. This awful tower is haunted, and now I'm trapped and I'm going to have made it a week from home only to perish as finger food for a bunch of cannibalistic, centuries-dead monks, or something. Not my ideal way of going, but it's not like I really have much choice.
I fling my hands about my head, still shrieking like I've lost my marbles, cold, pure fear running my blood cold. A fresh wave of tears I'm surprised to produce spills down my cool cheeks and across my chapped lips. They smart instantly.
I fumble awkwardly to my feet and stagger on legs stiff from rest and sore from injury – in any direction that is away. I trip and sprawl, pushing myself back up somehow, where I stand, trembling fiercely and brushing invisible cobwebs from my arms, for god knows how long.
How do you run from a ghost? Is it even humanely possible? Even as I wonder, I'm hopelessly resigned to the fact that I am going to die here. There's no way out, and even if there was, I wouldn't make it before whatever it is that's down here with me got its nasty claws around me and ate my brains.
Oh, pull yourself together Grace. You're still alive and breathing.
Yeah, but for how much longer?
Shut up.
"El..." I whimper, my lips trembling so violently I struggle to get it out. "El Sc-Scorchio!"
"Ma?"
I jump aggressively; he's right beside me. Gah. Creepy.
"H-holy M-Miltank! You sc-scared the p-pants off me!"
"Ma." He doesn't sound particularly perturbed. A large part of me is overjoyed that he somehow deemed it important enough to return to my side. Good little Slugma.
Wait. Can you say that to a Pokémon? It seems a little condescending.
I'm considering this when the icy breath returns, whispering along my cheek and startling me afresh. God, my poor nerves are being royally frayed tonight. My heart drums steadily in my chest, echoing the throbbing fear in my mind.
"Wh-who are you?" I try bravely, but my courage falters and my voice breaks, falling away mid-sentence. I end up sounding terrifically frightened.
Wah! There it is again; that sense of movement. Cold, inhuman; the uncomfortable sense of invisible existence.
"Ma," El Scorchio says, sounding wary.
I wonder if he's actually trying to talk to me, or if he's just making a fool of me. Somehow, even in a dire situation like this, I'm inclined to think the latter, based on previous experience.
"A-are there g-ghosts here?"
"Slug."
Wait, does that mean 'yes' or 'no'? It's kind of imperative!
Something brushes against my arm, tracing a light line down my skin. The hairs prickle, as though responding to something static.
God, I wish I had a flashlight.
Or, alternatively, a stick for El Scorchio to set on fire. That would probably work, too.
"Ma!" El Scorchio's sounding mighty uneasy now, and it gets my teeth grinding. I'm trembling with fear, my thoughts jumbling together incoherently.
Then, suddenly, I'm yanked off the ground.
My stomach drops violently and I screech, vertigo rushing in my head. Oh, holy Miltank. I think I'm going to be sick. I flail, trying to free myself from the grasp of whatever the heck's got me. The bizarre thing is, I can't feel hands, or claws, or even a net. I'm just… floating. Unexplainably.
I tire and cease my screaming struggle, peering mournfully down at what I hope is the ground (who knows, really; I could be upside-down for all I know), and catch a thankful glimpse of dim movement. El Scorchio's okay, at least.
"Maaa!"
Wait, what the hell? Around his dimly simmering body dance shadowy forms darker than the night. Realisation crashes around my ears. No wonder he sounds distressed; he's being attacked!
"Leave him alone!"
It's not even a fair fight; he's totally outnumbered. Plus, they're practically part of the night, whatever they are. They have the advantage. The poor little guy's being totally dogged.
And I can't even do anything. I'm pretty damn certain now, though, that whatever's trying to hurt El Scorchio is simultaneously responsible for my being currently awkwardly suspended above the ground.
"Put me down!"
A whisper in my ear, "Haunt!", and I'm falling. I don't even have time to scream. But before I hit the earth, I'm jerked up again. My neck snaps. Bile rises to the back of my throat. My head reels. This time, I'm pretty sure I'm upside down. My hair's falling in front of my face.
"Stop it," I groan dizzily.
There are other voices now; El Scorchio's defensive cries mix with otherworldly moans of amusement. It's creepy as all hell.
"Haunt!" Something says into my face, and bing!, like a light flicking on, there's suddenly a big pair of eyes staring straight into mine – luminous as neon signs. I squeal in surprise.
It cackles, and the glow from its spooky eyes gives it the jagged outline of a body, and a wide mouth. A slimy, pinkish tongue lolls languidly from the lipless, gaping hole in its… uh… face? Body? – I can't tell which – coiling like it has a mind of its own. I wrinkle my nose reflexively.
Seriously gross.
Below, El Scorchio's distressing calls are gut-wrenching.
"Fight back!" I'm shocked to hear myself call, but honestly, what else is he expected to do in this situation? Sitting there letting his attackers pummel him is just cruel. And watching him go down without even an attempt at self-preservation is a completely, depressingly pathetic concept. "Come on! Don't let them get the better of you!"
"Ma!" he bellows back at me, probably unappreciative of my encouraging yet entirely unhelpful comments.
"I'd help you if I could, I swear," I struggle to call; it's all very difficult with the blood rushing to my head and the hair getting caught in my mouth. "But I'm – uh – kind of in a predicament."
"Haunt, Haunt!" my captor snickers. Now that he's (I've decided he's a boy) not faceless anymore, he's not quite as terrifying. Still scary – oh, hell yes; he could easily bite my face off in a second – but less so now that I can see him.
And he's a Pokémon; he has to be. What else could he be?
If I'm right, it means – if I'm lucky, and if I don't offend-slash-provoke him – he might not eat my face, after all.
Fingers crossed.
"Please," I beg. "Put me down."
He ignores me.
"Slug!" El Scorchio bellows, and suddenly he's yanked upward, too. I can see his dim outline struggling.
"Do something!" I call.
"Ma!"
"You're a Fire Pokémon – use a Fire-type move!"
"Ma. Slugma!"
I think he's yelling at me, but I can't be too sure.
"Can't you do an Ember, or something?"
Vvooom!
I almost leap out of my skin (which is awkward, because jerking is difficult when you're hanging upside down) when a brilliant burst of red-hot flame billows in a majestic glowing pillowy cloud, illuminating the darkness for a second, and washing warmth over my face. It licks the air impressively before curling in on itself and disappearing.
My eyes water, smarting from the heat and blinded by the light.
Pain smacks through the side of my head and down my neck into my shoulder, and it takes me a few confusing seconds to realise I've been dropped, for real this time. I clench my fingers thankfully in the gravelly dirt, dragging myself upright.
"El Scorchio? You okay? Where are you?" I call anxiously.
"Ma."
Funny; he didn't sound so collected a few seconds ago.
"What the heck was that?"
"Maa."
My heart's pounding something shocking, but the weird feeling is gone; the air less frigid. I lie there in the quiet, listening to El Scorchio crawling around in the dirt and waiting for my pulse to calm. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow, my body's various injuries stinging, throbbing, smarting and aching, respectively – all meshed into one gigantic ball of pain so I can't distinguish the individual hurts.
"Hey," I croak, coughing grains of dirt from my tongue. Bleargh. "Nice work."
"Ma."
With my brain having decided the immediate threat of danger is gone, every muscle in my body relaxes at once, and I'm suddenly out so fast I can't actually tell if I've fallen asleep or passed out.
X3
When I wake up (or come to – take your pick), sunlight is filtering down through the floorboards, way overhead, warm and golden.
I lie there, trying to work out which parts of me aren't damaged, so I can get them working, and simultaneously attempting to ignore the pain seizing everywhere else.
It's hard. Oh, it's so hard.
Eventually, I manage to blink the grit out of my eyes and turn my head slowly to the side, pressing my cheek into the dirt.
El Scorchio's yellow eyes are massively disproportionate; they're so big my eyes blur them together until he's a Cyclops. He's sitting right next to my head, his goopy face pressed up close to mine, heat radiating slowly from his gooey skin. If I had any energy, I'd jump with fright.
"Ma," he says, seeming distinctly disappointed that I'm awake.
Or alive.
Or both.
"You're doing that creepy stare thing again."
Oh god, is that my voice? I sound like a chain-smoker.
El Scorchio blinks at me.
"Stop hoping I'll die," I growl irritably. "I'm not dying."
"Ma," he complains, bored, and obediently slithers away from my face, visibly let down. Ungrateful little–!
He's doing wonders for my self-esteem.
"Hello?" a male voice calls.
Oh, music to my ears! Relief floods through me, so powerful I could cry.
I call out, but my voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. "Hello?"
"Hey!" the voice calls again, and now I can hear other, distant voices. "There's someone down here!"
I struggle to sit up – oh man, my body hates me – and wait a moment for my head to stop reeling so I can look around. It appears I fell into some kind of underground cavern. There are stone tablets dotted here and there, and – ah ha ha, so embarrassing – a narrow set of stone stairs in the far corner.
Heat flushes my cheeks. I could have just walked out all along.
What a shame I didn't find those in my hours of painful scouring last night. Just my luck.
In my defence, it was pitch-black.
And I was crippled. Kind of.
"Hey!" The voice is closer now; above me. "Are you okay? What're you doing down there?"
I tilt my head back – woo, head spin; I'm going to have to watch that. No sudden movements, Grace – and squint into the sunlight. A face peers down through a jagged hole in the decrepit floorboards (probably the one I made last night when the boards broke), male, square-jawed and mature, framed with spiked blonde hair.
"I'm okay," I call back weakly. Liar face! You're not okay in the slightest, Grace Buckthorn. You can't even move! Tsk, tsk. "I fell…"
"Don't move," the stranger calls. "I'm coming to get you."
A few minutes later, I'm up on dry land.
Well, you know what I mean.
It took the stranger all of a minute to reach me, and another two to scoop me up effortlessly and carry me up the stairs and outside, where I'm greeted by a uniformed rescue team and Officer Jenny, who's delegating loudly, her scooter lights flashing importantly.
It's all very exciting – and such a huge fuss.
If I wasn't so exhausted, I'd be pretty damn humiliated right now.
Instead, I just meekly let my saviour set me on a Chansey-guided stretcher that arrives with a small ambulance, thankful to be lying on something – anything – softer than the rocky earth for the first time in god knows how long. I don't listen to the conversations babbling around me; I can't be bothered. I just lie there and let the authoritative people be authoritative. There's a sharp, slow pain in my arm, and I quickly grow sleepy.
Sedative, anyone?
Finally, I'm loaded into the back of the ambulance. An alarming thought hits me sharply, and I try to sit up. A firm arm restrains me.
"Wait," I mumble, my thoughts a jumbled mess. "El Scorchio."
"What?" someone asks, confused.
"El… Scorchio," I repeat drowsily; the drugs are taking effect. "My… Slugma…"
And then it's just too hard to fight the overwhelming pressure in my head. In a matter of moments, I'm out again.
X3
I wake up in a clean, white hospital room, up to my neck in soft white blankets. The sky outside the simple window is periwinkle blue. I have absolutely no idea what time it is. My memory is foggy. I can't remember much – all I've got is Rex chewing holes in the hotel carpet.
The room is eerily quiet. I hone in on the silence, tuning in my ears for noise, and catch a faint ticking. A bedside cabinet houses a covered plastic tray, El Scorchio's Pokéball box, and a little round-faced clock. How convenient.
It's four twenty-eight. In the afternoon.
Holy Miltank. What day is it? How long have I been here?
I push myself up in bed, fully awake now, and full of questions. My muscles protest, but the pain is nowhere near as bad as it was in the tower. Thank god for that.
Oh – the Tower!
And bam – there are all my memories! I missed you, darlings.
A nurse walks past my room, the clip-clopping of her shoes fading away behind the closed door.
It's another ten minutes before anything exciting happens, and it's one of the most boring ten minutes of my entire life. There is absolutely nothing remotely of entertainment value in this room. I can't even reach El Scorchio's box –whoever so very kindly returned him to me left his Pokéball not so very kindly out of reach. I stretch my fingers vainly and give up.
My tummy rumbles unhappily.
The door opens, presenting to me a nurse in scrubs. She smiles upon seeing me awake. "Good afternoon. I'll bet you're feeling better."
Well, no. Not really.
Hungry? Yes. Confused? Hell yes.
Better? Not quite.
"Are you hungry?" the nurse asks. She has a pleasant smile, so I stop sassing her in my mind and focus on being pleasant in return. "You slept a long time."
"How long?"
Damn, my voice is still scratchy.
"Try to rest your voice, sweetheart. Don't talk too much. And you've just slept about eleven hours straight."
And I could totally go some more.
"I'll bring you some food," the nurse says. "We'll try to get something into you before you go back to sleep."
She leaves, and I'm left with the silence until she returns with a new tray. She sets it down beside the bed, removing the lid to reveal its steaming contents. Miso soup, steaming rice with what looks like grilled Remoraid, and a small carton of juice.
You know what? I don't even care that I don't like fish meat. Just give me the tray.
My stomach growls again in anticipation.
The nurse sits beside the bed while I hoover the meal, chatting away good-naturedly.
"I'm sure you've got lots of questions," she says. "So, I'll fill you in with what I know. This morning, a missing persons report was filed at the police station, and after attempts to contact you, a team was dispatched to look for you. It was our Leader, Morty, who found you in Burned Tower–"
I spit my mouthful of soup violently, spluttering in shock. Did she just say 'Leader'? As in Gym Leader?
"Are you okay?"
"Sorry – who found me?"
"Morty," she repeats with a smile. "The Ecruteak City Gym Leader."
Holy Miltank. Well now I feel like a total nuisance. Not to mention a complete idiot. And surely my being stuck in the tower wasn't seriously so big a deal that the Gym Leader needed to get involved.
I blush, my stomach curling.
"Don't worry," the nurse assures me. "He was very careful with your injuries."
Oh, man. So not what I'm angsting out about right now. "D-does he normally help lost people in the tower?"
The nurse laughs. "Morty specialises in Ghost-type Pokémon; he has a strong connection with them. Apparently he was alerted to abnormal activity in the tower last night–" Which would have been when those scary ghosts were trying to eat me and El Scorchio "–but it subsided. He decided to head out first thing this morning to investigate. Luckily for you, he crossed paths with the search party."
Indeed. Very lucky for me, if it means I could still be down in that stupid pit right now.
Shudder.
I distract myself by asking, "Is my Slugma okay?"
"He's perfectly fine," she assures me. "The young man who filed the missing persons report came by when we contacted him with the news that you'd been found. He took your Pokémon to the Pokémon Centre while you were sleeping, then brought it back again."
Well, that was awfully nice of Zeke – assuming that it was Zeke who reported me missing. Wait, what if it wasn't? What if he doesn't even realise I'm gone?
Then who's been watching over me?
Oh, that's awkward.
I have another question. "Did anyone find my bag in the tower? I lost it."
The nurse brightens. "Yes, actually. It's in the cabinet. Your cell phone was found, too, but…" She laughs nervously. "I'm afraid it sustained… irreparable damage."
Well, that's a shame.
"Oh well." I shrug. "I'll just get a new one."
The nurse gives me a strange look, like my nonchalance is abnormal, but says nothing. (I don't really get it; it's just a phone). Instead, she nods at my empty tray. "Are you finished?"
"Yes, thanks."
The sun is starting to set now; the blue is fading from the sky like watercolour paints washing off a canvas. There's a peachy glow brushing the clouds, kind of like they're all blushing. I smile at the simile. The nurse pulls the blinds and picks up the tray. I'm startled to find I'm already getting sleepy again.
She says something as she leaves, but I'm too busy embracing my warm drowsiness to catch it.
The room is cast into darkness with the closing of the door, and before I realise it, my muddled thoughts melt seamlessly into colourful dreams.
X3
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
I look around in surprise as the door swings open. Zeke storms in, blue eyes blazing. I frown, reflexively defensive.
"Wrong with me as in 'Why have you been hospitalised, oh beloved sister', or–"
"No, as in I'm literally asking if there's some sort of small retardation in your brain. There's no other legitimate explanation for the stupid mess you got yourself into last night."
Nice. The jerk isn't even concerned about how I'm doing. He's just angry.
"There's a perfectly legitimate explanation," I retort. "I went to the wrong tower by mistake, and the floor caved in."
"Did you ever think to just use your cell and call someone?" Zeke demands.
"Don't insult me, you stupid jerk!" I snap, misting up. "Of course I did – I couldn't find it in the dark. And anyway, the stupid thing smashed when I fell, so I couldn't have used it even if I'd had it. I also tried screaming at the top of my lungs for a few hours, in case my stupid man-voice isn't enough of a giveaway. You seriously think I just sat there all night, quietly twiddling my thumbs and waiting for someone to realise I was missing?"
Zeke crosses to the window, glaring heatedly out at the sky. After a long, tense silence, he exhales through his nose and says flatly, "I told you not to do anything reckless."
"I didn't mean to get stuck in a creepy old tower all night!" I exclaim, a few angry tears dripping down my cheeks. I hastily swipe at them. "It was an accident! And I'm okay, by the way. Thanks for asking. Even though I twisted my hip and sprained my stupid ankle when I fell, I'm fine now. Never mind that it was literally the worst night of my life and I've probably sustained permanent psychological scarring."
"Stop being such a drama queen." Zeke rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. "You could thank me, you know. I did hike all the way back to that stupid tower to find your stupid Slugma."
I sniffle. "So it was you."
"Of course it was me," Zeke scoffs. "Who else could it have been?"
"I don't know," I shoot back, fed up with his derision and general lack of concern for my well-being. "Maybe some dashing young hero, come to fill the romantic void in my life, and generally make it more pleasant." I sigh heavily, exaggeratedly dramatic. "That's a bummer."
Zeke just stares at me for a moment. Then he shakes his head, appalled. "You're so…" He makes a noise of frustration and throws his hands in the air. "I'm getting coffee."
He stalks to the door and pulls it sharply behind him. I'm left with only the silence and my own irritation for company.
X3
I sleep for most of the day, but I'm discharged late in the afternoon after a check up and the doctor's nod of approval. I'm surprised how tired I still am; my body's exhausted, and all I want is more sleep.
Well, maybe some food first. Then more sleep.
I walk back to the inn with Zeke, who's refusing to talk, but is very gallantly carrying my things for me, including my new cell phone, still in its box. He'd brought a change of clothes when I was admitted, and the bag containing my dirty things is tossed casually over his shoulder.
As it turns out, while I'd spent the night fending off hungry ghost Pokémon, crawling around in pain and screaming myself hoarse, Zeke had enjoyed a leisurely evening at the Theatre, after being invited by Kyoko, whose elder sister was one of the "chorus" Kimono Girls.
"Romantic date," I'd commented dryly, and Zeke had flushed all the way up his neck to his ears.
"It wasn't a date."
But he'd struggled and failed to conceal his smug smile.
"Sure," I'd quipped. "It was an innocent night of sushi and origami lessons. Whatever."
"Origami?" Zeke repeated, raising one eyebrow questioningly.
I'd grinned. "Well, she had to teach you how to re-tie her kimono, right? I've heard it's a real art."
That shut him up.
Zing. Point to Grace.
The sun is setting when we finally make it back to the inn. Kyoko is helping a customer at the desk, but blushes a pretty shade of pink when she sees Zeke, and glances away, fighting a small smile. He clears his throat, valiantly looking anywhere but at her, or at me, because I'm grinning like a mad woman.
We walk straight through the foyer without stopping, and I make an excuse about being tired (which, you know, actually isn't really much of an excuse, considering it's true), thankfully retreating to my room. I've just changed into my pyjamas (flannelette Skitty-print pants and one of dad's old grey 'Silph Co.' t-shirts I've always been unreasonably attached to), when there's a soft knock at the sliding door.
Kyoko enters, politely apologetic for the interruption, and sets a tray of food on the table. She shoots me a tentative smile – I read it as one of guilt, because she knows I know she's been out with my step-brother and it's making things a little awkward – and quickly exits. I use 'exited' here as loosely synonymous for 'fled'. She couldn't have bailed faster if she'd run.
Dinner is a selection of Japanese cuisine: octopus balls, oysters, sashimi, dishes of beef and chicken. I plonk myself down enthusiastically and snap apart the complimentary el cheapo wooden chopsticks, which I pretend I know how to use.
I release El Scorchio while I dine, with the hopes that maybe our traumatic ordeal in Burned Tower might have fostered some kind of bond between us, or at least lessened some of the malice he routinely bestows upon me.
Sadly, he's as disdainful as ever, and I'm forced to recall him when he scorches the tatami mats.
Whoops.
I'll have to remember to drag the futon over the mark before we leave.
Even though El Scorchio still despises me, and more of my dinner ends up on the floor than in my mouth, I have fun playing with the chopsticks, and it's nice to be sleeping somewhere that isn't either a dank cavern or a sterile hospital room, even if the futon has nothing on my plush, king-size bed back home.
The point is, I'm a very contented little girl when I finally curl up under the covers for some much-needed sleep.
X3
The next morning, I'm thoroughly confused to find the odd thumping in my dream is actually the sound of someone pounding against my door, loudly enough to rouse me from my slumber.
"Wass' goin' on?" I ask groggily, my voice thick with sleep.
Evidently, the interruptor doesn't hear; the knocking comes again, louder and more insistent this time.
I groan and clear my throat. "What?"
"It's six thirty," Zeke's voice says matter-of-factly.
I'm very confused by this. "And?"
"Get up," he replies. "We're leaving."
"What? Why?"
"We need to keep moving."
"No, we don't," I reply, sitting up in bed as the gravity of this sentiment hits me. "We've got loads of time."
"The longer we sit around, the longer it'll take us to get to Olivine," Zeke says simply.
"But we don't have to be there tomorrow."
"Luckily," he agrees smartly. "We wouldn't have made it."
"Ha-ha," I grumble sarcastically. "Go away. I'm going back to sleep, and when I wake up, I'm going to pretend this was all a bad dream."
"Get up, Grace," Zeke repeats firmly. "Pack your stuff. I'm leaving at eight, and whether you're with me or not is inconsequential."
"I love you, too," I say dryly.
"Eight o'clock," he repeats, then footsteps indicate he's walking away. I groan loudly and fall back against the pillows.
X3
"Have I ever told you how incredibly insensitive you can be?"
"Once or twice. But, by all means, tell me again."
"You can be incredibly insensitive."
"So I've heard."
I groan, my brain thick with tiredness, and resist the urge to face-plant my plate of pancakes and use it as a pillow. The communal dining area is quiet, since the other guests are obviously too intelligent to see the feeble logic in waking up at seven thirty, and I slouch in my seat, leaning heavily against the wall, the only thing keeping me vertical right now.
"Keep eating," Zeke says, engrossed in one of Kyoko's guidebooks.
"Leave me alone."
"I will in ten minutes if you're not done."
"I was in hospital yesterday," I whine. "Doesn't that maybe indicate that I probably shouldn't be hiking all day in my current condition?"
"What condition?" Zeke mutters.
I flick a piece of pancake at him. "Stop being a jerk."
"Look, you rested up in the hospital, and then you rested up again last night. You'll be fine."
"What if I pass out?" I demand. "What if my bung hip collapses on me? What if–"
"What if, what if?" Zeke mimics me, rolling his eyes. "You'll. Be. Fine. Stop being melodramatic and finish your pancakes."
"Yes, daddy," I quip, sneering childishly at him.
He glares at me over the guidebook. I shrug my shoulders. "What?"
"Eat."
"What if I didn't want pancakes?"
"I swear to God, Grace. Shut up."
"No, you shut up."
He slams the guidebook closed and pushes his chair out. "I'm not sitting here playing childish games with you. Meet me in the lobby when you're done. If you're not there by eight, I'm leaving without you. End of story."
He stalks out, and I poke at the pancakes with my fork, pouting at nothing in particular. I know I'm being unreasonably immature, but there is nothing fair or reasonable in Zeke making us leave today, especially this early. We're not in any particular rush, so why can't I just have one more day to relax? If he was the one who'd fallen in the hole and spent the night in a spooky old tower, we'd be here for an extra week. At least.
So unfair.
Nevertheless, I scarf down the rest of my breakfast (well, I am hungry) and purposefully watch the clock slowly ticking down to eight. At precisely one minute past, I pull together as much pride as I've got and drag myself out reluctantly to the lobby.
Kyoko greets me with a smile.
"Where's Zeke?" I ask suspiciously.
She looks surprised. "He already left."
"He what?"
That stupid, selfish, insensitive–!
"He said you knew the arrangements and would catch him up," Kyoko continues.
"Oh, he did, did he?" I say, grinding my teeth together. I snatch my pack up, hauling it onto my shoulders. "Thanks for everything; you've been extremely hospitable."
"Thank you for staying with us," she says customarily, but I've stomped out before she's even halfway through the sentence.
The morning is bright and sunny in contrast to my thunderous fury. My almost-better hip complains as I storm down the street, but I ignore it. In fact, I almost lavish it; the pain exacerbates my anger, and it brews up like a coiled spring inside me, ready to explode at Zeke when I find him. My head fills with all the things I could possibly shout at him, and I relish in them savagely, making my way through Ecruteak City.
Of course, in none of my internal rage-ramblings do I actually seriously think he's left without me, or that I'm actually going to head off down Route 38 by myself.
So I'm not surprised when I hear a warning, "Grace!" from behind.
I don't slow down.
"Grace!" Zeke shouts again, and I can tell he's pissed. Oh man, he's seriously pissed. "Slow down!
"No!" I bellow petulantly, without turning around.
He catches me up quickly, grabbing my shoulder angrily. "Grace, what the hell?"
"You what the hell!" I snap, seething up at him. His eyes are a blaze of ice blue. "I can't believe you actually left without me."
"You weren't there at eight!"
"I was one minute late!"
"I said be out the front at eight!"
"So what?" I practically scream. People are watching, but I ignore them. "You don't get to make all the rules. And you shouldn't have left without me!"
"The world isn't going to stop for you, Grace!" Zeke yells.
"I never asked it to!" I cry. "But would it have killed you to wait an extra minute?"
"Stop shouting!" he snaps, red-faced. "You're making a scene!"
"I'm making a scene?" I lose my temper all over again, my voice rising to impressively higher decibels. "You're the one who came running up like a raving loony! Don't tell me off for shouting, you stupid hypocrite!"
"Where did you think you were going?" he demands. "Did you seriously think you were going to make it out there on your own?"
"Well, I didn't have much choice, did I?" I retort snidely.
He throws his hands up. "You're impossible!"
"No, you're impossible!" I snap, for the sake of arguing. The last word will be mine, damn it!
"No, Grace. You're impossible," he reiterates furiously, and when I stalk away he matches his stride easily to keep up. "You know why you're impossible? Because I knew you were going to be all spiteful and deliberately not be there at eight, so you know what I did to kill time?"
I refuse to answer. I don't care if he slayed a freaking Gyarados to kill time.
"Do you know, Grace?" Zeke repeats. "Do you?"
"No, Zeke! I don't!" Fine. Let's play the condescending game. "Why don't you tell me? Though I don't give a–"
"Keep it tidy," he interrupts loudly, eyes glittering dangeorusly. "People are watching."
"Why don't you just go kiss their asses?" I stalk off again. A second later, he's back in my peripheral, like an annoying Bug Pokémon I'd kill to swat right now.
"Buzz off, Zeke, or I can't promise I won't punch you in the face."
"With your injured hand? Go ahead." He laughs shortly. "I'd love to see you try."
"I hate you!"
"Feeling's mutual," he assures me scathingly.
I growl into the sky, exasperated. "Leave me alone! God damn it!"
"Can't do that," Zeke says smugly. "You told me to tell you."
"What?" I demand, getting sick of him and his stupid games. "Tell me what?"
"What I did to kill time."
"I really don't care!"
"Oh, I think you will."
"Oh, I really think I won't."
"But I really think you will."
"Shut up, Zeke!" I finally lose it, whirling on him. "Don't you get it? I do not care what you did with your precious time, but if it's so imperative that you flaunt your own stupid brilliance in my face, go ahead. Get it over with so we can get the hell out of here, like you wanted."
I'm out of breath from being so enraged, and I'm getting light-headed from shouting. I glare up at him and he stares back, his expression unreadable.
I'm pretty sure it's some variation of fury, though.
"Fine," he snaps, and shoves a small round pot at me. "Take it. Let's go."
He storms off. I look at the small jar.
Red Petal ointment.
My initial astonishment is eclipsed by an unpreventable stab of immense guilt. And, just like that, I'm deflating. I stare at Zeke's back, utterly at a loss for words.
It's just so unbelievably… nice. And Zeke doesn't do nice.
But the evidence is right here, in my hand, ugly and unavoidable. He did something thoughtful for me (though I'm not even going to attempt to analyse why; I probably owe him a massive favour now), and I was a complete jerk.
I can see no other option.
I'm going to have to apologise.
And be grateful.
Ugh. This is less than ideal.
I sigh and start after him. "Zeke."
He ignores me pointedly. I suck in a sharp breath, fighting the urge to snap at him again. Don't get mad, Grace. Be nice.
"Zeke!"
"What?" he snaps shortly. I've caught him up. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then looks stonily – and firmly – ahead.
Suck it up. Be a man. Come on, Grace.
Good god, but it's so hard to be humble around him!
Blushing furiously, I stare intently at the little pot in my hands and mutter, "Thanks."
"What was that?"
My heart is thumping in my ears; my pride doesn't like eating its words.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," Zeke presses, clearly enjoying my embarrassment.
"I said 'thanks'," I snap. "Don't push it."
I shoot him a dark look and push past him, stomping away in humiliation. In a few seconds he's walking quietly beside me, and for a while we're both completely silent.
Finally, I'm calm and composed enough to be the bigger person. "Sorry."
"Me too," he says gruffly, and says nothing else, but he doesn't need to; I'm more than thankful for the chance to drop the subject before he starts smugly rubbing it in my face.
And thus we begin the next leg of our journey, welcomed by the sunny blue skies and sprawling pastures of rural Route 38.