Author's Note: This one turned out a lot longer and more angsty than the first. Don't worry, there'll be more fluff soon.


"Gotta watch out when you're driving this far out of town," Danny's dad says cheerfully, his big hands loose on the steering wheel. "Lotta deerling try to run across the road, and where there's deerling, you'll always find sawsbuck alongside."

Sam peers out the window, Danny leaning across to look over his shoulder. The trees race by on either side of the narrow dirt road and while he can see flashes of movement - a tranquill flitting past, a watchog popping up in alarm, a crustle trundling along - there's no sign of either deerling or sawsbuck. "Why do you need to watch out for sawsbuck, Mr. Wheeler?" Sam asks.

Danny's dad laughs. "Because they stand in the middle of the road and try to ram the car. People think they're real pretty with all those flowers in their horns in the spring, but they forget that a sawsbuck's about as solid as a tree. And it ain't pretty if you hit one, for us or for the sawsbuck."

"Dad clipped a deerling once," Danny tells him with this grin on his face like what he's about to say is an almighty joke. "We'd slowed down enough that it only got knocked over a little, but the mama sawsbuck came outta the woods and charged us. We had to replace the side door right where you're sitting."

Sam shivers at that and the conversation turns to other things. By the time they reach the campsite, he's forgotten the remark and the afternoon sun's sweeping long and warm through the branches, lighting up the leaves all orange-green-gold. Mr Wheeler lets out his conkeldurr Lanyon, who lumbers off to inspect a nearby sapling, and Danny lets out his herdier Pep, who immediately starts sniffing at a swadloon huddled under a bush.

Even though he knows it's stupid, that Danny and his dad already know he doesn't have a pokemon and that they wouldn't say anything bad if he never wanted one at all, Sam still feels a pang of awkwardness and shame. He's been asking his dad to come out and catch something with him and his dad keeps saying yes, yes, next weekend, but somehow every time next weekend comes around, his dad's too busy or he's too tired. And Danny's dad had invited them both along on this camping trip ("Goddamnit, Steve! Neglecting Sam won't make Valerie fall in love with you again-" no, he hadn't heard that, he hadn't heard Mr Wheeler shouting at his dad), but his dad had decided to stay at home and send Sam along by himself.

"Hey, Sam, check out the markings on the ground over here! You think they're from a whirlipede?" Danny's grinning at him wide and hopeful, so Sam goes over to look. Sure enough, there's a deep groove carved through the leaf-litter and into the soft earth, with grey-brown feathers scattered nearby. There's no sign of the whirlipede itself, though.

"Maybe it got eaten by the unfezant?" Sam suggests.

Danny makes a face. "No way. They're nearly the same size! An unfezant couldn't carry one of those bugs. It'd get spiked if it tried."

"But then where'd the whirlipede go? If it'd rolled off, there'd be a trail."

"Boys, would you mind givin' your old man a hand over here?" Both of them jump a little, looking over to where Mr. Wheeler and Lanyon are trying to set up a four-man tent. (Sam ignores the guilty curl of warmth that 'your' sends through him). They go over to help, hoisting the flycover and hammering guy-rope pegs in, and between the four of them, the tent is up in no time and they can move their bags in from the car.

Sam collects kindling from the edge of the clearing and Danny finds a couple of larger logs, Pep dragging a giant branch along behind her, then Danny's dad pulls out a steel knife and what looks like half a fire stone. "An old trick from my Ranger days," he says with a wink, striking the knife along the broken edge of the stone. Bright hot sparks flare up and fall onto the carefully arranged grid of sticks, catching quickly and settling into a warm steady flickering of flames.

They sit for a while as the night slowly envelops them: the humans chatting idly, Pep curling up pressed against Danny's side, Lanyon examining scratchmarks in the five-foot steel bar he carries. Sam remembers hearing the story from his dad a long time ago: Lanyon had originally belonged to Sam's mom, Valerie. She and Sam and Danny's fathers had travelled together as teenagers on a six-month road trip of south-west Unova and north Orre, Valerie practising for her League challenge and the boys along for the fun.

Lanyon had been one of her strongest team members, caught before they'd left and evolving quickly, blitzing through battle after battle with the solid steel she'd bought for him. Valerie was a great trainer, Dad had said, firm but kind and skilled at helping a pokemon bring out their potential, but Lanyon hadn't enjoyed battling like the rest of the team, had only stuck with it out of loyalty for his trainer. So she'd traded Lanyon to her good friend David Wheeler and they'd kept in touch throughout the years, through college and Valerie going professional and Lanyon evolving, through marriage and jobs and kids.

Sam wonders if it hurts his dad, seeing Lanyon now.

The conversation had lulled, Sam lost in his thoughts, and when he looks up, the moon is visible through the branches. Danny's starting to nod off, yawning as much as he's speaking.

"Sam…" Danny's dad says. "You know… we're just down the road if you ever need us, alright? You or your dad. If anything happens…" He hesitates. "If anything happens, anything at all, you come to us. Danny and I'll look after you."

Sam nods. "Thanks, Mr. Wheeler," he says quietly.

"An' in the morning, we'll help you catch something, if that's what you want. Probably do you good." Do you good to have something to distract you, is what he isn't saying, but Sam doesn't mind. The sentiment's true, and if he has a pokemon, he can travel and battle and maybe meet up with his mom somewhere on the road.


Sam wakes slowly to the warm press of sunlight against the tent, the cooing of pidove and the subtle rasp-and-click of leavanny weaving, the distant creaking of trees. Danny's still asleep, snoring away with his hair in messy tufts, but when Sam clambers out from the tent, he sees Mr Wheeler sitting next to the relit campfire with a piece of bread speared on a stick.

"Mornin', Sam!" he calls cheerfully. "Want some toast?" Sam joins him by the fire and they cook breakfast, chatting about school. Danny comes out about fifteen minutes later, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and everything feels easygoing and relaxed. It's nice.

"Look at that," Danny whispers, going still as he gestures at the edge of the clearing. There's a deerling picking its way through the bushes towards them, ears pointed forward and its tail flicking back and forth. Its coat is dappled green fading towards orange along its chest and flanks, mirroring the coming change in the leaves above them. In the trees further back, there's a few more deerling and a pair of sawsbuck, watching but making no move.

Danny's dad chuckles and tosses a corner of bread to the deerling. It comes forward, gives the bread a cursory sniff, then eats it in a few quick bites before lifting its head and looking at them for more. "That's one that's used to humans," he says. "Say, a deerling wouldn't be a bad choice for a starter. If they can get sunlight, then they don't need to eat much, you've got enough of a garden to keep it happy, and when it evolves you'd be able to ride it. What do you say, Sam?"

At Danny's whistle, Pep trots over. The deerling startles a little, but lowers its head to touch its nose to Pep's. Pep yips and licks it, wagging her tail, and the deerling huffs at her. "Pep likes her," Danny says with a grin.

Sam's torn. On the one hand, the idea of running next to his deerling at track practice, of stroking his hand down its neck, of seeing it relaxing in the sun in their backyard, fills his chest with a swelling warmth. On the other, though… "What about my dad?" he says doubtfully. "I don't know if he'd like me bringing home a pokemon without asking."

For a moment, Mr Wheeler looks old and sad. "You let me talk to your dad, Sammy. I'll make sure he ain't angry at you." Then it passes and he grins like his son, the same expression despite their different features. He carefully stands, crosses to the car, and pulls out a pokeball from the glovebox, tossing it over to Sam. "Give it a shot."

Sam slowly moves over to the deerling, bread in one hand and pokeball in the other. He holds out the bread and the deerling barely hesitates before nibbling at it, so he gently, gently stretches out his fingertips and brushes them against its chest. Its coat is warm like he'd expected, but the texture is odd, each hair wide and flat and smooth like grass. It pushes its nose into his chest, snuffling for more bread, and Sam giggles a little. Then he clicks the button on the pokeball and presses it to the deerling.

The pokeball wiggles a little, then stills. One of the sawsbuck lets out a sharp snort and stomps a foot, so he lets the deerling out and it bounds over to the sawsbuck to nuzzle at it before coming back to him. The rest of the herd keeps watching, some of the other deerling bleating to each other, but none of them move to do anything.

"Well, look at that! One of the smoothest captures I've seen," Mr Wheeler says. "You got your mother's touch, Sam."

And that brings all those old worries and fears rushing back, torn between wanting to go find his mother and wanting to stay with his dad, but now it feels like he might actually be able to make that choice. He doesn't know if he wants to smile or cry.