But was it normal, really? Proton still wasn't entirely sure.

The night they spent in HQ was much less relaxing than he'd hoped. Proton spent the night in his bed with the door locked, but instead of sleeping he kept his ears perked—not for the sound of scraping or the ragged breaths of haunting ghosts, but for the quiet steps of Petrel on the prowl or his ditto lying in wait. He waited anxiously through until the morning, unsure if he would lunge to strike first or if this strange tension was really anticipation. The bruises on his neck would twinge, and the electric jolts would shoot down his spine, delectable shivers that kept his mind cloudy and occupied.

How badly he wanted to open that door. How much he desired that absolute thrill. But it was a bad idea. A horrible idea. Petrel was all smiles and teeth, and though he was suddenly acting just as he always had, something about it rang a little differently in Proton's head. He wasn't stupid. He knew Petrel put on an act most of the time. His emotions were rehearsed and his feelings were only skin-deep; it would be a while before Proton felt comfortable again. It didn't really help that in the bowels of the Game Corner, they shared a room.

They'd taken Petrel's car first thing in the morning, speeding down the mountain and onto the freeway as they crossed Kanto's cities and wilderness, and when they got to Celadon they parked in the big loading dock underneath the warehouse, right next to Proton's motorcycle. He was glad to see it in one piece, exactly where he'd left it. Then, they'd gone back to the room Proton had claimed and settled in to wait, just as Master Giovanni ordered.

"It's nice to have a change of scenery," Petrel sighed as he flopped back onto the bed. Proton shifted uncomfortably at the desk. There was still the matter of the shipments being picked off. As far as he knew, no one had made any headway on that in his absence, which would have been a pain in the ass any other day. For now, it was a good excuse to keep his distance and his mouth shut. Petrel, left to his own devices and thoughts, filled the silence without any issue. "You know, my old man helped get this place up and running. Before that our biggest outpost was that whorehouse in Cerulean, but pachinko—that's where the money's at."

Proton flipped through a few pages of reports, trying to let Petrel's voice remain a buzzing in the back of his head. They'd even lost another shipment outside of town. Bullshit. Something would need to be done immediately—but he'd woken up to a sizable bounty on his head and the promise from Giovanni that if he let himself get taken in, he might as well say his prayers, because no one would be coming to help. He didn't feel like that was particularly fair in the grand scheme of things, but at least it was better than getting ganked by one of the others. He swallowed hard, and again his bruises throbbed.

"That's actually why I was in Goldenrod, that week," Petrel continued, and he paused, then scowled. "Hey, are you paying attention?"

"Someone raided our last shipment," Proton mumbled, and he could feel Petrel roll his eyes behind his back.

"Send some admins to take care of it," he demanded, "it's not worth your time. Do you remember that week? I've only been asking for two days, now."

That was the other thing Proton was avidly avoiding: Petrel kept claiming they'd met before. Maybe they had. In fact, Proton was starting to suspect it was the truth, and that didn't particularly bother him. What did was the fact he could hardly remember. The snippets were there, the same as they were in the cabin: the bridge, the body, the presence eagerly egging him on. But the longer he strained himself to remember, the more he just came up blank, and his head would ache. He wanted space to sort it out, but Petrel was clingier than ever.

"I don't want to piss Boss off even more," Proton tried. He flipped through more papers. "I need to curb this while I have the chance."

"Decarli's going to be here isn't he? Make him do it."

He heard the bunk creak again as Petrel got back up, tried to ignore his slow and shuffling steps as he came up behind him. His body went rigid as he felt the fingers curl gently around the back of his neck, and he tried his damnedest not to move as Petrel began to massage the muscle. It irritated his bruises and made him want to squirm in place.

"I want to have a solid lead when he gets here," he tried again, but Petrel shushed him and massaged deeper. The tips of his fingers dug hard into the tender spots, and this time Proton couldn't help but shiver, the smallest of whines escaping as he tried to draw in a comforting breath. "Petrel..."

"Put that shit away and come rest," his partner said in even tones, "you're still recovering."

It was like the wires in his brain were crossed, and Proton suddenly wasn't sure whether to stab him on the spot or to gleefully follow him back to the bunk. Either was starting to look like a good option. Then Petrel's other hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder, and suddenly both thumbs were digging hard into him, rubbing soothing circles deep into his skin. Proton let out a sharp breath and finally gave in, leaning back into Petrel's touch with another low whine.

"I'm busy," he forced out, but this time his voice cracked, and he knew then it was over. He'd lost. Petrel laughed; he knew it, too.

"Don't pout," he chastised. He rolled Proton's chair back, and reluctantly, Proton stood and turned to face him. His lips were turned into a sharp and cocky smirk, and as he took Proton by the hand, the younger man had to stop and wonder why—not why Petrel was being so clingy. He knew what that was about. But why he, Proton, suddenly felt so resistant to his advances. Not much longer than a day ago he was ready to ride that man like a prized rapidash; the memory of the way Petrel manhandled him upstairs still made him all hot and bothered. It's not like he had to worry now, right? Boss had given him another chance, and largely, Petrel stayed within the scope of Giovanni's decisions.

Proton said largely only because he knew what happened to grunts who disappeared from the infirm.

He wasn't just a grunt, though, he reminded himself as he followed Petrel to the bed and laid down next to him; regardless of when or how they met, regardless of their backgrounds, they were the same, now. What had he told him in the cabin? That they were "kindred spirits?"

"I really don't remember," he murmured as Petrel adjusted himself with the pillows propping him up, "you said you grew up in Tiksi. Why would we have met?" Petrel's arm coiled protectively around his shoulder, and Proton finally came to settle against his side, pressing his cheek to his chest and feeling the way his sides raised and fell with his breathing. Petrel's hands were always so cold to the touch, but his core was always so warm.

"Isn't this better?" Petrel prompted him, and hesitantly, Proton nodded. With his free hand, Petrel knocked the hat from his head and gently ruffled his hair. Finally, Proton relaxed, his whole weight dropping into Petrel and into the stiff mattress. He couldn't remember the last time they were close like this. Ages—before Petrel went abroad for the winter. It hadn't been always. They each still had their own rooms, after all, and Petrel liked to have his space when he slept. But there were times when they were drunk or tired and ended up in a tangled mess on the couch, and those nights were the best.

"Even if you don't remember, I do," his partner continued, and Proton shifted to look him in the face, waiting anxiously. "It was Goldenrod. '86. Dad and Executive Juno were working the Game Corner opening. I'd just lost Faba looking for a bite, and he had our cash. Then I see you, all alone, just standing there waiting for the bus..."

Proton's head shot up.

"You took my wallet," he blurted out suddenly, and Petrel only laughed. "That was you! "

"You chased me half way across the city to pick a fight. Remember that?"

He did, sort of. It felt so long ago, longer than it really was. A lifetime, even. They had even less money, then, because that was before his part-time work at Mr. Yamaguchi's pokemart. He was hungry and he needed it to eat. He vaguely remembered getting his ass kicked, but most of it was a big blur; somehow the next thing he knew he was sitting with two identical boys in an alley eating junk from the mart and setting garbage on fire. There had been a lot of talking. Both of them had horribly thick accents that Proton had barely understood, and they struggled with the way people talked in Goldenrod, but at some point they all understood each other. They kept finding him after school all that week. He wasn't sure how to tell either of them apart. All he knew was that one of them wanted to deal with the older boy who was picking on Proton at school. That's what led him to the bridge.

"My head hurts," he complained, rubbing his pounding forehead in a useless effort to soothe it. Too much thinking when he ought to be taking it easy, he assumed, and Petrel pushed scruffy bangs away from his face, then with a grunt, leaned to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Proton's eyes fluttered shut. It was a familiar bliss that washed over him, distracting him from his sudden headache. He remembered this, too, from the past few weeks, but he thought it had been a dream or a hallucination. To feel it—to know it was real calmed him in a way he hadn't thought was possible. Not in a long time. Desperate to chase that high, he shifted, adjusting himself until he could press his nose to the crook of Petrel's neck and leave a kiss of his own against his nape.

"God," Petrel laughed, "aren't you supposed to be dangerous, or something? Haven't I seen a police sketch of you on the news?"

"Shut up," Proton mumbled, "I'm not just dangerous. I'm an Executive."

"Then act like it, sweetheart. All I see here is a fluffy meowth. What does my needy scratch-cat want, hmm?"

He wanted to relax. He was so damn close to happily relaxing all day and night without a care in the world. But as Petrel spoke, his fingers dug harshly into Proton's waist. It sent a shiver of excitement up his spine, but somewhere in the middle the wires crossed and the bruises on his neck twinged in time with his throbbing headache, lighting bright, red alarms behind his eyes. His own hand shot down to catch Petrel by the wrist and yank it away before he could think any rational thought, and over and over he replayed their moment in the kitchen in his memories.

"Does he want me to put him in his place?" Petrel continued, and his brow twitched. Proton bit his lip as he studied his face. It was real. Wasn't it? This was real, and not another way to lure him in. Giovanni had given him the okay because he needed what Proton had offered. He sent him here to work. Not to die. So this was real, and Petrel wasn't trying to hurt him. Was he? Swallowing around his nerves, Proton let go of his wrist and slid his palm into Petrel's, lacing their fingers together. He needed to know for sure.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, and Petrel frowned.

"I already told you I did," he answered, "you didn't believe me?"

"You tried to poison me."

"That's how I say 'good morning.'"

"Petrel," he begged, "please. I just... I need to know it wasn't an act. Okay? Please."

Petrel sighed, and Proton knew he'd just spoiled the mood. His friend—were they still friends?—pulled away from him like he'd climbed into bed covered in mud, grunting as he shoved himself to his feet. Proton quickly pushed himself up onto his palms as though to chase him, but Petrel had already taken his cane and limped towards the door.

"I'm going upstairs," he grouched, "text me if you get any leads on the shipments."

Proton remained where he was after the door swung shut, staring after him as his heart sank deep into his gut. Then, when he could bear it no more, he went back to the desk and sat, taking his work up right where he left off.


It was noon when Decarli finally was able to pull himself away from his work and head into town. It had been an uphill battle getting away from the crew. Carillo kept pestering him for dating advice while they were supposed to be working, and it was starting to drive him up the wall. Decarli was very happy he was finally going to ask Forhan out instead of pining after her whenever he thought she wasn't paying attention, because there was only so long he could listen to his friend gripe and moan about how lovesick he was. To his memory, in spite of the odd lay, Carillo had never been on a proper date since Rocket sprang him from the slammer during one of their big breaks. Forhan, on the other hand, had a few boyfriends Decarli could remember. She also knew about Carillo's crush for years, now, and liked to make him sweat. Decarli supposed she had to get her kicks somewhere.

All of that, of course, was the least of Decarli's worries, because not only had he made little to no headway on the Game Corner shipments, but somehow he'd lost both Peng and Heim. One morning he'd gone in to check on everyone and had found Jung struggling to take care of both of their responsibilities for the week on top of his own. Jung swore up and down he had no idea where they'd gone, but Decarli suspected he was covering for them—he was better than Proton at lying through his teeth, but that was a low bar to begin with. He was willing to let it slip, for now, because he was more worried about Proton.

He had been surprised to get the text. Proton had been missing for weeks, then all of a sudden Decarli had been treated to a long string of emoticons setting his phone buzzing non-stop for a good three or four minutes. From what he understood—because it was by and large the same sort of effort as it took to decipher an interpretive dance—Proton was back to work, looking for some kind of truck or possibly an oddly-shaped rock, and demanding a steady supply of wasabi snacks and soft drinks to be delivered to him ASAP. It helped that Decarli already had something to deliver, and so as soon as he was able to peel Carillo off like a particularly stubborn bandaid, he gathered what he needed and came to Celadon.

Like the rest of Proton's crew, Decarli much preferred the Rocket facilities in Blackthorn to the ones in Celadon, or even anywhere else in Kanto for that matter of fact. Parking was easier, at least, and cheaper. The garage he'd found was going to bankrupt him, but it was close to the Game Corner, and as he marched under the neon lights hanging above the door, he resolved to get this mess taken care of as quickly as possible. It would be nice to see Proton again, too.

He was almost to the front desk to get his clearance to go down when a deep voice called out to him across the blaring noise of slots and pachinko machines.

"Leo! Leo Decarli, right on time."

Halting on the spot, Decarli slowly turned, searching the rows with a frown until his eyes set upon the lanky frame and bright violet hair of Executive Petrel. He was smiling over one of the machines, his hand high in the air to wave Decarli down, and swallowing hard, he shifted on his feet, shooting an anxious glance towards the desk. Petrel laughed.

"Oh, no you don't," he called out again, "come here." He motioned him on, and after another moment of hesitation, Decarli obeyed. As he came around the aisle, Petrel patted the open spot next to him, his smile never once faltering as he sat. "Good boy," he laughed. He passed over a handful of coins, then slotted a few into his machine and pulled the lever.

"Executive," Decarli said quietly, "is there something you need? I'm supposed to be delivering—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm in on the whole thing," Petrel dismissed him. He tapped, tapped, tapped, and Decarli watched three cherries line up along the screen. The machine beeped and blared, coins clinking out of the dispenser. Petrel scooped them up and dropped them into his cup. "You've got his new toy with you, right? I'll take it." He slotted in three more coins, pulled the lever, and held his hand palm-up towards him.

"Proton asked me to deliver it," Decarli tried again, "but, uh... Well, I do have something for you." He reached into his bag and withdrew a small package wrapped tightly in a white plastic envelope and secured with duct tape, placing it into Petrel's outstretched hand. The executive eyed it briefly, then placed it on the machine in front of him as the reels came to a stop on a losing game. His brow twitched and he held his palm back out, but said nothing. Decarli eyed the front desk once more and gathered his courage. Then, he turned on his heel and went. No limping steps followed behind him; when he chanced a glance back, Petrel was still seated at the slots machines, idly pulling the lever and tapping the button with a blank expression.

He flashed his ID at the grunt behind the desk, who waved him on in. Kei wasn't working the door, anymore, but instead a irritable grunt with straight orange hair who eyed Decarli warily as they tapped the button behind the poster to let him in. The Game Corner was always eerily quiet, and if it wasn't such an easy stop on the way to Vermilion, he probably wouldn't stop by so often. But where the upstairs was always bursting with noise, activity, smells, life, downstairs it was a handful of grunts and even less admins using maybe a handful of offices and rooms at a time while field agents came and went in a revolving door of faces. Besides that, there were servers that hummed ominously in empty rooms, storage areas for pokemon to sell off at the prize corner next door, spinny tiles to discombobulate the pokemon that got out and made a break for it but were completely unavoidable for the people for some reason. It was enough to disorient anyone coming and going, and though Carillo always teased him for it, the spinning tended to make Decarli feel a bit nauseated and pretty damn confused when he got through. It didn't help that Proton was a certified gremlin and liked to stay in the darkest, most remote pits he could find.

So, still dazed and swaying with each step, Decarli took his delivery down the hall to Proton's room, where only every few lights remained on overhead and his footsteps echoed around him. It was quiet enough to hear the air circulating through the vents. Quiet enough that, suddenly, Decarli stopped in his tracks, straining his ears as he was certain another pair of steps stopped behind him, too. He waited. Waited. Nothing. Then, he turned to look over his shoulder back down the hall. No one else there. But he was certain... He squinted back through the intermittent shadows, but still nothing.

"Echoes," he mumbled to himself, "just echoes. That's all. C'mon, man, pull yourself together." He took a deep breath and pushed on, quickening his pace. His steps echoed. The steps behind him did, too. It wasn't even a full beat—most people wouldn't have noticed. But it as unmistakable. Someone was there. Someone had to be there. He didn't stop this time, moving more and more quickly until he'd nearly broken into a jog. The steps always followed just behind, and as he skidded to a stop in front of Proton's door and knocked frantically on it, he could have sworn he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright, alright, jeez!" The door swung open, and Decarli nearly flattened Proton as he rushed in. Proton watched him go with a raised brow. "Hey, man, where's the fire?"

"Close the door!" Decarli shouted, "there's someone—there's—" He almost lunged to pull Proton back in as, completely unaffected, he leaned his head out the door and looked up and down the hall. Then with a shrug, he shut the door and came back in.

"I dunno what Peng's putting in his sponge cake, but I think you need to lay off a while," he said as he crossed to the desk and sat. "Hey, you got the toys for me?"

"W–wait—what do you...?" Decarli went back to the door and stuck his head out, too. Left, right, nothing at all. Just a long and empty hallway, dark and fit for the likes of Proton. That didn't make sense. He was absolutely sure someone had been there. They'd been coming right at him. "Okay... okay, okay, uh..."

"Yo, Decarli, close the door and come here." Proton was motioning him over. "It was probably just one of the grunts fucking with you. C'mon."

Right. Right, right, right. Decarli took another deep breath. That made sense. The grunts who got cooped up here had to get their rocks off, somehow. It was silly. He was an admin, for Arceus's sake. Proton's lieutenant, in fact. It should take more than that to freak him out. He closed the door and went to take a seat next to Proton.

"Sorry," he mumbled, voice still strained as he began to calm, "this place sets me on-edge. I hate coming here."

"Then let's get this taken care of so you can fuck off," Proton answered with a grin, "how's your girl, by the way?"

He appreciated the effort, and so he ran a hand over his face and took a moment to collect himself. "She's doing great," he said, "real well. You know, she got accepted to a pokemon nursing program?" Proton grinned and slapped him on the back.

"Hey, tell her congrats from me!"

"Yeah. Just wish I could help out. I'm barely making anything once the big boss takes his cut." It wasn't something he liked to dwell on. He ought to be grateful he was still in one piece. They dealt with a lot of deadbeats who borrowed cash from Giovanni and never made good on payments; he could have ended up like one of them. He much preferred things this way. He began to take things out of the bags.

"Hell yeah," Proton said as Decarli tossed him his wasabi snacks, "my man. Way to pull through. And the baton?" Decarli handed that over too, and he couldn't help but grin himself at the look in his friend's eye as he flicked it out from its collapsed state and flicked the switch. They heard an electric short of hum, then with his tongue between his teeth, Proton reached one finger towards the tip. There was a sudden spark of electricity, and he yanked his hand away reflexivel and whistled. "Gotta hand it to Chiho, she sure knows her shit. Remind me to get her something nice on the way back."

He switched it off and collapsed it back down, leaving it on the desk as he turned back to his paperwork. He shoved half the stack back towards Decarli, who took it without complaint and stole a pen and a handful of wasabi snacks. It was print outs regarding their shipments, with maps and approximate coordinates of where each one had been jumped so far. Some were minor, some TMs and inorganic goods that went missing. Some were shipments of rare pokemon. All of it was worth more than Decarli would make in years.

"How about you, chief?" he asked as they worked, "how's things with Executive Petrel?"

"Mm?" Proton glanced back and shrugged one shoulder. "Oh. It's fine. Everything same as always."

"You glad to see him again?"

"Yeah."

"He was kind of a pill upstairs."

"He's always kind of a pill. You get used to it. He wants to take me to a fancy restaurant... I think."

"Only think?"

"Well, he tried to poison me after he said it."

"He what?" Proton shrugged again, and Decarli eyed him strangely.

"It's how he says 'good morning.' Except..." Proton paused at his work, twirling his pen between his fingers as he sat back. "Ugh. He really is an ass. I just wanted to make sure he meant it. You know, fooling around, it's one thing, but—" He let out a deep, frustrated sigh and finally just tossed his pen to the side and stacked his feet on the desk, tipping his chair back dangerously onto two wheels, then made a vague and dismissive gesture with one hand. "Sometimes I feel like things were easier when he didn't know I existed."

Yeah, they were. They sure as hell were. Decarli ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. Things were definitely much, much easier before Proton was an executive. They got to see more of him, too, but work kept him busy now. But it didn't do to dwell on the past, and it certainly didn't do to dwell on Proton's strange obsessions for very long.

"I mean, I don't even have anything to wear. I'd love to go. I want to go. I just ain't sure I'm cut out for that kinda scene. Besides, he always dresses nice when we go out. Just once, I want to see him in—"

"And that's my cue," Decarli cut him off. Proton pouted. "I'm going to head to the security room and pull some reels."

"You're no fun!" Proton called after him as he stood and went. "Hey, find Kei for me. He's supposed to have more documents. And my pizza."

"You got it, Chief."

He stepped out into the dark hallway and turned to head the way he came, but stopped short and wide-eyed as he came face-to-face with Executive Petrel, smiling his weird, mechanical smile down at him. He took a step forward, and Decarli took a step back. Again. Again. Petrel kept coming towards him, and he retreated until he bumped back against the wall. Petrel leaned down, craning his neck to look him in the eye. There was never anything there. To this day, Decarli wasn't quite sure what Proton saw in him.

"It's cute to know you gossip about me," Petrel said softly, "but when I tell you to stay away, you stay away. Do you understand?" When Decarli didn't answer, he reached out, and Decarli flinched—but Petrel merely straightened some stray strands of hair, adjusted his uniform collar for him, the smile unfaltering even as his brow twitched. "I know Proton hasn't had the time to whip you all into shape, yet. That's why he has me. So, my cute little gossip, when an Executive gives you an order, what do you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy."

He backed off, and before he could say another word, Decarli sped off back towards the spinny tiles. He'd rather throw up on those damn things a hundred and one times than hang around the executive.

"Sweetheart," he heard Petrel's voice float as he ducked into his and Proton's room, "I'm sorry I ran off. What's this about what you want to see me in?"