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"You're wrong about him, you know," the little electric nuisance says, and Volcanion blinks. He had not expected the pikachu to still be awake, having long since heard the human boy’s snores and deepened breathing. There had been peace for over an hour now, the cave blissfully quiet, and now that silence has been broken.
It’s looking at him, dark eyes swallowing the light of the moon. Still settled on the boy’s stomach, still curled up and soft-voiced, Pikachu looks like it’s ready to drop off any moment.
He grunts. Maybe if he doesn’t encourage any chatter it will go back to sleep.
“Ash is good. He just wants to help and he loves pokemon so much. Just give him a chance and then-”
No such luck, then. Volcanion groans, shifts so he can properly look at the little creature besides him. It’s smaller than his head and so damn young compared to his own centuries of life. The loyalty to its trainer would be admirable if it weren’t so annoying.
And misguided. Annoying and misguided.
“I don’t know how to tell you this any clearer: humans are all the same, and the sooner you learn that the safer you’ll be.”
Sparks shoot out into the night, brilliant and flickering and brief. Frustrated, then. Electric types can be so easy to read.
“Humans are not all the same! There are bad ones, yes, but so many of them are actually super nice-”
Ridiculous. This whole conversation is ridiculous. They’re circling around from previous clashing points, encountering the same arguments twice. It’s honestly a waste of time and Volcanion hates things that are pointless. Life is too long for pointless things.
“Nice,” he says, and the words come quick and clipped, “does not mean good.”
Pikachu clambers off its human and comes to stand in front of him, tail thrashing, spotlighted by the moon. “I know that. I’m not stupid. You just don’t understand-”
Enough is enough, and Volcanion’s temper flares. Caught pokemon start out are all the same, naive and blind and so trusting of things made to break them. Brainwashed, the whole lot. “No, you don’t understand. This valley is filled with pokemon that have been hurt and it is an insult to pretend that humans are not ultimately greedy and thoughtless at best and cruel at worst. You can never comprehend what they’ve gone through, what we’ve suffered at the hands of people.”
We've . Ah. A slip. The pikachu is staring and Volcanion turns away.
The boy shifts, mumbling softly, and they both go still. It is only a moment before he resettles, but it is enough to calm the flaring tensions of the cave, to make their building argument quieten. It gives Volcanion a chance to breathe, the smell all humidity and distant flowers and clear night.
“Why do you care what I think?” he asks, once he is again in control of his temper and his grief. “Why are you so vehement that I change my ways?”
Pikachu glares at him, fur bristling, a spot of yellow against all the grey. It crosses its forelegs against its chest in a distinctly human gesture, something uncomfortable about its frame, something closed off and small. “Because… because you sound too much like I did, before I learned better. Before I met Ash.”
Volcanion blinks. This is the second time he’s been surprised tonight. The pikachu catches his surprise and shrugs, turning around to look at the moon. Rather difficult, for something so large as him to do anything like creeping, but he manages. It does not glance his way.
“He wasn’t always my partner,” it says, and nothing else. Volcanion needs no more words either way: he can connect the dots, knowing this old song and dance from a lifetime of dealing with healing pokemon putting up a front. He can see when he’s made a fool out of himself. Magearna is always saying his assumptions would get him in trouble one day. She would scold him, if she were here.
“I’m sorry.” It comes out too gruff, too harsh, and he winces. He’s not sure if he’s apologizing for his words or for the small pokemon’s once-pain or both. Either way, it should have been softer than it was.
They sit quietly for a while. The night is full of sounds, wind and snores and all the creatures who come out in the dark. Behind them, the hot spring bubbles, water lapping against stone. In the sky, the moon shines almost full, and it reflects red and metallic off his own self.
He lets the silence keep. Delicate conversations deserve the respect of their quiet moments.
Finally, Pikachu turns to him. It still looks tiny, but there’s something hard in its eyes, something bigger than its small frame, and Volcanion finds himself listening.
“Ash would die for you, for anyone in this valley. He’d do it in a heartbeat with zero hesitations and zero regrets. Even though you don’t like humans and you’re mean to him.” It lets out a little sardonic chuckle. “Believe me, he won’t care about that if it comes down to it.”
What his fellow pokemon is saying is ridiculous, of course. Lies that it must believe in but lies nonetheless. Volcanion is certain of this.
But Pikachu is looking at him with something so knowing in its gaze, like this is a weight it’s been made to carry for lifetimes. Like it’s seen this dumb child besides them throw himself recklessly into danger for the sake of others time and time again. There is something brutal and honest in its voice and the sound is disconcerting. For a moment, Volcanion could swear that, of the two of them, he was not the bearer of centuries.
Caught up in his thoughts, he takes too long to respond, and the pikachu’s ear flicks in annoyance. Then it's turning away from him, away from the bluff, away from that bright moon, and back to its human, trodding the few scant steps to curl into scar-flecked arms again.
Volcanion watches it shift in search of comfort. Watches it close its eyes. The wind blows.
Just when he thinks their conversation is officially over, Pikachu speaks one more time. There’s a certainty to its voice that echoes, even if the words are quiet. “Ash’ll grow on you. He always does.”
There’s an urge to deny any such claim, but he keeps it quiet in his chest. If he is truly honest, already he thinks there’s a certain sort of fondness trickling into his heart, filling his veins. The kid has done nothing but try and help.
But still, still, there is distrust inside of him, too. A century’s worth of disdain will not be ruptured by mere hours of human contact, by a late night talk in a mountain cave high above the rest of the world.
He tells himself this. He tells himself it's true.
Pikachu shuffles in its sleep, curling closer to Ash. The darkness wanes on.
Volcanion keeps watch.