Helloooo all you wonderful readers! QuartzClaw here!

So as some of you may know, I sometimes write random one-shots. This is one of them... except it got really long so I broke it up into three parts. I guess this is a three-shot, then? Either way, hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokemon in any way, shape or size, and it's probably going to stay that way for the entirety of this three-shot, so I'll just say it here and have it count for the rest of the fic.

Crackers

how he got there

It wasn't every day Paul found himself tangled in a pathetic situation like this one.

Scratch that: Paul ended up in these kinds of situations more times than he could count, but it was usually due to his friends' ridiculous antics than his own folly.

Although I didn't do anything to deserve this, Paul thought miserably as he, soaking wet and vaguely nauseous, rang the doorbell for the umpteenth time, mentally screaming at Dawn to open the door already because contrary to whatever she was probably thinking right now, he was not some criminal trying to break into her house at three in the morning, he was her most hated friend, stuck in an absolutely absurd and humiliating predicament in the middle of the night.

I, he thought, weakly banging on the door with his fist, am never making dinner ever again.

Because that was how it had all started.

A couple of days ago, his older brother, Reggie, had suddenly fallen into the delusion that forcing dinner preparations on a teenager with no culinary skill was an excellent idea ("It builds character!" he'd proclaimed), and no matter how much Paul had protested, Reggie had refused to let him out of the kitchen until he fixed some sort of meal for that evening.

Needless to say, Paul's atrocious cooking had landed them both with a horrible case of food poisoning.

This night, like all the nights since he'd made that dinner, Paul had awoken suddenly, stomach lurching, sweat glazing his skin. He sat up dizzily and felt around his side table for his smartphone. The time that flashed on the screen read past two in the morning, which meant the reason he felt extra crappy at the moment was due to having a fairly decent sleep unpleasantly interrupted. He dropped his phone back onto his side table, not caring that he accidentally knocked over the box of crackers he'd been nibbling on yesterday, and headed for the washroom in the hall.

Which turned out to be locked.

Which wasn't too surprising, really. While Paul's condition had been steadily improving, Reggie didn't seem to be getting better at the same pace. This was because Paul had choked down only half a plate of the monstrosity he'd presented as food before managing to convince Reggie he was full. Reggie, on the other hand, had insisted on finishing everything in the cooking pot - he said it was because they shouldn't waste food, but Paul suspected it was his brother's attempt to pretend it wasn't as bad as they both knew it was so Paul wouldn't feel discouraged from trying again.

Judging from the sound of Reggie's retching coming from the washroom, it probably hadn't been such a good idea to let his brother devour so much of that abomination.

Paul considered obnoxiously knocking on the door to tell Reggie to hurry up, but in the end he decided to let him puke his guts out in peace. Hopefully, the experience would scar him enough to dissuade him from forcing Paul to cook again.

The washroom on the main floor of the house was out of order as well - some plumbing issue they were too sick to try to fix at the moment - so Paul went all the way down to the basement.

They hardly ever went to the basement. It had been unfinished when they'd moved into this house some years back, and Reggie was still saving money to eventually turn it into livable space. But, at least, the cramped excuse of a washroom worked.

Paul meandered barefoot through the clutter and dust, careful not to step on any loose nails, and found the washroom tucked in the darkest corner, door open like that of a coffin. It was a quiet, private area, especially when the only other person in the house was too busy suffering to come down here, but Paul still shut the door behind him out of habit.

Then he proceeded to throw up the meager remains of his stomach into the sink.

After, as Paul splashed water in his face, he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. Even in the flickering light, he could tell he looked terrible. His brown skin had paled too much, there was a hollow look about his features, and even though he'd only been sick a couple of days, he'd almost definitely lost weight. At least he didn't look as bad as Reggie.

He was about to turn away when his eyes caught the reflection of the shower behind him. It was a tiny glass stall that neither he nor Reggie used, mostly because they didn't need to (the shower in the upstairs washroom worked just fine), but besides that, the shower door had been poorly fitted. It hung crookedly from its hinges in a way that would let all the water out if someone turned on the tap.

For some reason, in that moment, it bothered Paul. It wasn't an overwhelming frustration - just a tiny twinge of annoyance. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself making his way over to the shower door and, with the remainder of his strength, he pulled and shoved the door into the right position.

There, he thought with satisfaction, stepping back to look at his work. Sure, the exertion on an empty stomach and weak body had left him somewhat fatigued, but there was something calming about seeing the door nicely straightened out.

He turned to leave when a creaking sound made him pause. The shower door was slipping out of position again.

Paul gave a huff of annoyance, expecting the door to return to its original state, but it didn't stop there. As Paul looked on, the hinges broke, and the glass door came crashing down in front of the washroom door, cracking and causing bits of shards to fly off in every direction. Paul stumbled back to avoid the glass, and then another cracking noise from above caught his attention. The impact of the glass door had undone some kind of stability that was keeping the ceiling beams aloft, and several of the thick, wooden beams came plummeting down, wedging themselves between the walls and across the washroom door.

Covering his face from the flying splinters as he coughed and blinked away dust, Paul managed to move a safe distance away to the opposite wall (which wasn't that far, to be honest). He waited for the dust to settle before slowly lowering his arms from his face and gaping at the mess in front of him.

This... didn't look good.

Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, Paul slowly made his way over and gave the beams as hard a push as he could. They didn't budge. Not only that, the washroom door opened inwards, so he couldn't even try to open it and slip through the spaces between the beams. Maybe if he weren't so weak and ill, he could have broken through himself, but in his current state, it simply wasn't possible.

His only exit had been completely barricaded by the fallen beams.

And as the reality of his predicament hit him, he could only utter a single word: "Crap."

He tried calling for Reggie, but he knew it was no use. Reggie couldn't hear him, not when he was all the way upstairs and Paul was in the most secluded part of the basement. Paul wasn't sure he could call loudly enough anyways - his voice was weak from days of illness, and hoarse and scratchy from all that throwing up.

Well, Reggie would notice he'd disappeared sooner or later.

Although considering it was the middle of the night and, in his condition, Reggie would probably sleep in well past noon, it was most likely going to be a long, long time.

Paul pulled at his hair. What in the world was he supposed to do now? He didn't want to possibly spend a whole day stuck in this claustrophobic space!

It's not hopeless just yet, he lied to himself. There might still be a way. I just need to take a moment to think.

He backed away from the door and the beams and the glass and shut the toilet lid to sit on it. Then, he let out a slow breath.

"It's not too bad," he muttered. If he got hungry, well, he hadn't been able to properly eat anything lately anyways. And he might be able to get some water from the sink if he needed a drink (not likely, considering how much debris and glass had crashed onto it). And at least he had miraculously managed to avoid stepping in any of the broken glass.

All in all, it could be worse.

Paul froze.

"I did not just think that," he said. "I did not just think that."

He knew how it was: the second someone started thinking their situation couldn't get any worse, it did. He held his breath, waiting for the moment he would suddenly discover a shard stuck in his foot, or some pipe would suddenly explode, or the rest of the ceiling beams would fall in.

Nothing. He was still uninjured, neither the sink nor the shower leaked, and the ceiling seemed to be holding up just fine. He counted a minute, then two, then three, then ten...

Nothing.

He slowly exhaled. "Okay," he muttered to himself reassuringly. "You're okay."

And then the room fell into pitch darkness.

Paul sat still for a moment, trying to blink away the disorientation and figure out what had happened. Then it clicked: the single flickering light bulb had gone out.

"Are you kidding me?" he whispered. "Are you actually kidding me?!"

There was no response, the darkness remaining mockingly silent, so Paul spat out every obscenity in his vocabulary until his throat hurt too much to continue.

He leaned back, panting and seething, when he realized it wasn't as pitch dark as he'd thought it was. His eyes had adjusted, and he could now see the silhouettes of everything around him. Which meant there had to be light coming from somewhere.

The light beneath the door couldn't be the source: it was too dim and mostly covered up from the debris. Paul scanned the room and finally, his eyes landed on a small window in a corner near the ceiling overlooking the toilet.

It was dark outside, but there was a kind of faint glow seeping in through the window, maybe the moonlight or a nearby streetlamp. For someone so overly reliant on vision like he was, it was at least some comfort to know he could see, at least.

And maybe even get out.

The window wasn't too high, and even though it was small, there was a possibility Paul could squeeze through, what with the apparent weight he'd lost.

That, or get stuck halfway. Either or.

Paul climbed onto the toilet tank, hoping his sense of balance hadn't deteriorated, and sure enough, as he steadily stood, he found he could reach the window just enough. It was jammed shut, and it wouldn't budge no matter how much he yanked and cussed, until he realized it was locked from the side. Which, in hindsight, should have been obvious, but being ill and empty-stomached and sleep-deprived were good enough excuses for not thinking of it sooner.

He unlocked the window and, with a little heaving, succeeded in sliding it open. A blast of chilly air blew on his face, and Paul couldn't help but be grateful he'd opted to wear sweatpants tonight instead of the knee-length shorts he usually wore to bed during summer heatwaves. Clearly the heatwave from this morning hadn't lasted. Although his half-sleeved t-shirt left his arms bare and begging for warmth.

"Soon," Paul muttered to himself as he removed the mosquito net. If he could manage to get outside, he could simply ring the doorbell enough times until Reggie let him in, and then he could return to his nice, warm bed.

Summoning all the strength he'd built from doing chin-ups during his workouts, Paul grasped the windowsill and hauled himself up until he could fit his head through the window. Then, stomach against the sill for balance, he started to wriggle through the opening onto the outside lawn. First an arm, then his shoulder, then his head, then his other shoulder, then he was stuck.

Paul closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the dewy grass.

"Please please please don't be stuck, please don't be stuck," he pleaded with his shoulder.

When he felt his shoulder had gotten the message, he took a calming breath and began carefully wriggling bit by bit until he could feel himself making progress.

It was uncomfortable, exhausting, sort of painful (it was a very tight fit - if he'd been even slightly bigger, he wouldn't have managed to squeeze through), but finally - finally - he was out, lying on the grassy lawn, utterly winded. The feel of freedom and fresh air was so comforting, he considered not getting up at all.

I could just spend the night out here, he thought drowsily. It's not that cold. If I close my eyes, I could just fall asleep on the spot and— Oh crap, no, never mind, these mosquitoes are going to eat me.

He begrudgingly sat up, using his hand to crush the mosquito that had had the audacity to taste the blood in his arm. He swatting at his neck too, where he could feel several other insects preparing for a feast, and managed to close the window he'd climbed through, so as not to tempt intruders and thieves. He got to his feet - too fast, apparently, because his head twirled with a wave of dizziness, not helped in the slightest by the sudden surge of nausea in his stomach. He didn't throw up, fortunately. Not that he had anything left in him to throw up anymore.

After his mind calmed somewhat and his guts settled, Paul surveyed his surroundings. From the looks of it, he was in the backyard.

Huh, he thought, glancing down at the window. I guess that means this window goes to basement washroom, then.

He'd noticed it long ago and figured it went to the lowest level, but he'd never investigated. He made a mental note to tell Reggie to have the basement windows expanded when they renovated.

With careful, steady steps, Paul made his way to the front of the house. The ground was damp (had it rained?) and his feet were slick with mud and bits of grass, but honestly, Paul couldn't care less. Most of the house was surrounded by lawn, and Paul didn't mind walking barefoot on grass. As long as he didn't have to go onto the ill-maintained cement sidewalk, or the rough tarmac road, he was fine.

He got to the front porch and rang the doorbell. Then, he waited.

It didn't seem like anyone was coming to open the door, so he rang the bell again.

And again.

And again.

"What the heck, Reggie?" Paul muttered as he repeatedly jabbed the doorbell. He glared at the windows of the upper level. "Why aren't you coming?"

But he couldn't hear movement inside the house. Had Reggie gone back to bed? How could the incessant chime of the doorbell not wake him up?

"I swear, if you're ignoring me..." He rang the bell again and again. When his brother still didn't come, he let out a frustrated growl and thumped his fist against the door. "Come on!"

It wasn't any use. Reggie's condition must be worse than Paul thought, if it made him exhausted enough to sleep through the racket Paul was making.

Paul stepped back, struck with the realization that he didn't have a backup plan for this scenario. He'd gotten out of the basement washroom, yes, but this wasn't much of an improvement. There had to be a way inside.

Of course there is, Paul told himself. I figured a way out of that washroom, didn't I?

The thought reminded him: windows.

He looked up to the second floor, and sure enough, the window to his room was open halfway. He might have to rip the mosquito net to get through, but oh well. Getting inside was his priority at the moment.

Can I even climb properly in this condition? Paul wondered, walking up to the side of the house beneath his bedroom window. He'd done it before, of course. He knew all the spots he could use as footholds, all the points he should avoid. It was very useful to know how to climb up into (or down out of) your bedroom window without a ladder. But trying to when you were food-poisoned was another story.

Whatever. If I fall and die, I'll just tell Reggie I was too sleep-deprived to make rational life choices.

The climb started off good enough. He was a little wobbly, and a part of him was confident his body was going to give up on him any minute, but he was also very persistent and a little (very) stubborn, and while he thought things through in normal circumstances, these were not normal circumstances, and he was too tired to not be reckless.

I wonder if anyone can see me, he thought. The last thing he wanted was one of the neighbours calling the police about someone scaling his house and sneaking into one of the rooms. He didn't want to go through the hassle of having to explain to the police what was going on; he just wanted to tuck back into his warm bed and sleep away the next two days. And a cold drink of water for his burning throat would be nice too.

The second the thought crossed his mind, a drop of something cold and wet fell on his face. Paul looked up, and down came another drop.

"Oh God, please no—"

And then it was raining.

At first it was light and more pestering than anything. Then, it sped up until Paul could barely see, and his foot slipped and his hand slipped and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, dazed.

His brain slowly processed the fact that he'd fallen, and he groaned, rolling over to sit upright. There, in the pouring rain, he was forced to check over every one of his limbs to make sure he was wholly uninjured. Besides a little soreness (probably would be a lot more soreness later), the worse seemed to be a couple of bruises. A miracle, really, considering how far he'd fallen.

Paul stood up, wincing when he put pressure on his foot (a sign of a particularly vicious bruise, if he had to guess). Glancing up to the second floor, he decided it wasn't very safe to try climbing up again, though he grimaced at the thought of all that rain soaking his curtains through the open window. Instead, he returned to the front door and rang the bell and banged on the door, desperate for Reggie to hear him and come to his rescue. This wasn't some minor inconvenience, it was a crisis!

Nothing.

"Okay, fine," Paul snarled, though nobody - let alone Reggie - could hear him through the pounding of precipitation. "I hope you feel bad when you find me here dying of hypothermia in the morning."

He sat down beside the door, back against the wall, wondering what he should do because, now that he thought about it, that hypothermia scenario didn't seem too far off. If he had his phone with him he could call someone to come get him (probably leaving them ill-tempered in the process - he knew he would be if someone woke him at three in the morning), but that electronic rectangle that gave access to worldwide communication sat out of reach on his bedside table where he'd left it.

Could he knock on someone else's door and hope they let him in...? No, that wouldn't work. In the years he'd lived around here, he'd done an excellent job using his silent, intimidating glares to give his neighbours the impression he was a delinquent waiting for an excuse to unleash a barrage of violence. It was the perfect way to ensure no unwanted human interaction when he was out for a walk, but if he went around knocking on doors right now, it would probably result in the inhabitants giving a call to the police.

At least it would if the inhabitants didn't know him.

Who do I know who lives closest to here?

Drew was out of the question - even if Paul somehow did manage to make it all the way to his street, someone would call the police the moment he stepped foot into that posh neighbourhood. May...? No, it would probably be morning by the time he reached May's place. Gary, Leaf, Ash and Misty were the closest, he supposed (the four of them lived in approximately the same area), but it would take too long to get there, and considering the downpour and the fact that Paul was shivering quite violently at this point, he wasn't so sure he wouldn't collapse halfway.

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. If Reggie finds me too late, I am so coming back as a ghost to haunt him. And, just for the heck of it, I'll haunt the others too for every time I felt mildly annoyed by their presence. Gary, Ash, Drew, Leaf, Misty, May...

Paul frowned.

He was forgetting someone. Who was he forgetting?

His eyes shot open.

Dawn.

Dawn was the one who lived closest to here. Sure, her house was a few blocks away, but he could make the journey, if he tried. Probably.

But was he really so desperate as to resort to Dawn of all people?

Let's see, I'm stuck outside in the pouring rain, Reggie will likely not realize I'm missing till morning, I'm tired and sleepy and sick and there's a chance I'll get a lot worse if I stay here... Yeah, I'm desperate enough for Dawn.

Paul forced himself to stand. His clothes were soaked through at this point, and it felt like he was moving around with weights strapped to every inch of him. After one final ring of the doorbell to make sure Reggie wasn't going to suddenly decide to pay attention to the teenager drowning on his front porch, Paul headed to the sidewalk and started to make his way in the direction of Dawn's house.

What'd you think? Let me know in your reviews - constructive feedback is greatly appreciated!

If all goes as planned, the next update should be in the next couple of days. Hope to see you all then!

Bye bye for now! Have a great day and smile all the way! :)