The first thing Ash registered was the smell. Not the acrid tang of smoke and wet ash that had clung to his lungs, but the clean, sharp scent of antiseptic and starched linen. The air was cooler here, still, without the roar of fire or the groan of breaking stone.
He was lying on something soft, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. A steady warmth pressed against his left side, and his left hand was caught between his own body and something solid beneath the blanket.
He cracked an eyelid open. The light was dim, filtered through curtains, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. There was a shape beside him under the covers — big enough to make his breath hitch.
With his free right hand, he lifted the blanket just enough to peek. A familiar tuft of yellow hair caught the light. For a heartbeat, his mind supplied Pikachu — but then the hair shifted, and he saw the face.
Yellow's sleeping face.
Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing slow and even. One hand was draped over his chest, the other curled loosely around his arm as if she'd anchored herself there in her sleep. The faint weight of her grip was oddly grounding, a tether holding him in place after hours of chaos.
His gaze drifted to her hand on his chest. The skin was wrapped in fresh bandages, the white marred by a few stubborn flecks of dried red. He thought again of the bandages on her hands, wondering just what she'd had to go through to get those scars, and the image made his chest tighten all over again.
He let his head sink back into the pillow, the ache in his ribs flaring as he moved. The warmth at his side didn't shift. For the first time since the explosion, he let himself breathe without bracing for the next impact.
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the Pokémon Centre's ventilation and the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. Somewhere beyond the walls, he could barely make out the muffled sounds of early morning — a door closing, footsteps on tile, the distant call of a Pidgey greeting the dawn.
Turning his head slowly so as not to wake her, he took in the space. They were in his room at the Centre, the familiar pale walls softened by the dim light. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in the first threads of sunrise. The twilight of the rising sun crept across the floorboards and up the bed, painting the room in muted golds and greys. The coldness and darkness of the previous night seemed to retreat with each passing moment, chased away by the slow, deliberate warmth of the day's beginning.
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After a while, Ash found himself staring at the bandages again. The question pressed at the back of his throat — how badly had she hurt herself, what could have possibly happened in that room? Part of him wanted to wake her, to ask, to thank her, anything to bridge the silence. But another part whispered that she looked too worn out, too peaceful, that disturbing her now might be selfish.
He was still caught in that indecision when the door eased open with a muted creak.
Instinct made him tense. His muscles bunched, his chest rising too sharply. Without meaning to, his fingers curled around the hand resting on him. He felt the faint give of the bandages, then the sudden flinch beneath his grip.
Yellow's eyes snapped open, a soft gasp escaping her as pain pulled her fully awake.
Ash's heart dropped into his stomach.
"Y-Yellow—!" he whispered hoarsely, releasing her hand at once. Guilt shot through him like a fresh burn. He hadn't meant to hurt her — not after everything she'd already gone through.
Yellow blinked rapidly, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts as she instinctively pulled her injured hand closer to her chest. The movement was small, but it made Ash's stomach twist tighter.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words rough and low, almost swallowed by the hum of the ventilation. His eyes searched hers, but she didn't look away — her gaze was steady, if still clouded by sleep and the sting of pain.
The door opened wider, letting in a sliver of brighter morning light that cut across the floorboards. A familiar silhouette stepped inside: Chansey, balancing a tray with fresh bandages and a steaming cup of herbal tea.
Her round eyes softened when they found Yellow awake, then flicked to Ash with quiet understanding, as if she already knew the story without a word spoken.
Yellow stirred, trying to push herself upright; her movements sluggish with sleep. Ash's hand moved before he thought, steadying her shoulder. For a moment, she leaned into him, her weight slight but real, as if she was too tired to pretend otherwise.
Ash's gaze stayed on her face, searching for any sign that she was angry or upset. Instead, he saw the faint crease between her brows smooth out as she shifted her injured hand against her chest, cradling it without looking away from him.
Chansey's eyes flicked to Ash's side, lingering for a moment as if assessing his own injuries, before she set the tray down and nudged it closer to the bed. The steam from the cup curled upward, carrying a scent that was both earthy and faintly sweet, softening the sterile tang of the room.
Yellow's breathing steadied, though her shoulders still held a trace of tension. Ash's voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "We should… get that looked at."
Her lips pressed together, the silence deliberate. But her eyes held his, steady, before she gave a small, weary nod.
From somewhere down the hall came the muted clatter of dishes, the shuffle of footsteps, the low murmur of voices — the Pokémon Centre waking up. Outside, the Pidgey called again, louder and clearer, as if reminding them that the night was over, and the day had already begun.
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Ash shifted the tray closer, careful not to jostle her injured hand. "You shouldn't be doing this yourself," he said, voice low but edged with that stubborn note she knew too well. "Your hands are still recovering. You should've let me— I would've been fine."
He broke off long enough to lift the spoon, the steam curling up between them. The scent was warm and earthy, a faint sweetness threading through the sharper tang of antiseptic that still lingered in the room. He held it out, waiting.
Yellow's eyes flicked from the spoon to his face. She took the bite without a word, chewing slowly, her gaze never leaving his. When he started again — "You shouldn't have tried—" — she just looked at him, steady and unblinking.
The words caught in his throat. He thought of the bruises under his shirt, the ache in his ribs, the sting of the cut on his cheek. He didn't have a comeback for that look. Not when she'd seen him stagger, seen him bleed, seen him nearly go down.
He sighed, the fight draining out of his voice. "You were worried," he said, softer now.
Her lips curved — not quite a smile, but close enough. She shifted slightly, the blanket rustling, and for a moment they just sat there in the muted morning light, the quiet between them saying more than any argument could.
Ash let the spoon lower after she swallowed, watching the way her gaze stayed locked on his. The stubborn edge in his voice had already dulled, replaced by something quieter, heavier. His eyes drifted again to the bandages wrapped around her hands, and unease coiled in his chest. He didn't know how she'd gotten them, and the mystery of it felt like another weight from the night before.
Yellow shifted, the blanket sliding against his arm. Her injured hand rested lightly in her lap now, the bandages stark against the muted morning light. The faint herbal scent from Chansey's cup curled between them, warm and grounding, cutting through the sterile tang of the room.
Somewhere down the hall, a trolley rattled over tile, the sound muffled but steady. The Centre was waking up, but here, in this small pocket of quiet, the world felt narrowed to just the two of them.
Ash's ribs ached when he leaned a little closer, but he didn't pull back. "You were worried," he said again, softer, almost as if testing the words.
Her lips curved — not quite a smile, but enough to ease the tension in her shoulders. She didn't answer, but her eyes held his, steady and unblinking, and in that silence, he heard everything she didn't say.
For a moment, neither moved. The muted gold of the sunrise crept higher across the floorboards, chasing the last shadows from the room. Outside, the Pidgey's call rang clear, a reminder that the night — and the battle — were behind them.
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No silence as such is left unattended without being broken.
Just as they were about to continue with what they were doing, two sounds came from beside them that nearly made them jump.
"Pika!" "Vee!"
Both Ash and Yellow jolted, the sudden sound making the spoon tip just enough to spill a splash of broth onto the blanket. Ash blinked down at the mess, then up at the culprits.
Pikachu sat proudly at the edge of the bed, tail swishing in slow arcs, ears pricked forward in perfect focus on the tray. His eyes gleamed with mischief and expectation, the kind that said he'd been waiting for exactly this moment. Beside him, Eevee's paws kneaded the blanket in tiny, impatient motions, nose twitching at the scent of food, eyes wide and bright as if the whole world had narrowed to the promise of a meal.
Ash opened his mouth — When did you—? — but the sound of a door opening and the soft rattle of wheels cut him off.
Brock stepped inside, guiding a cart laden with bowls of fresh Poké food. The warm, savoury smell drifted into the room, mingling with the herbal steam still curling from Chansey's cup. The cart's wheels clicked softly over the tile, a homely sound that seemed to carry the rhythm of the Pokémon Centre waking up.
"Sorry for intruding and disturbing you when you should be resting," Brock said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of apology and cheer. "But your Pokémon wanted to meet you, and Nurse Joy had to look after the counter."
Pikachu's ears flicked at the mention, Eevee's tail wagged harder, and Ash felt the corner of his mouth lift despite himself. Yellow's gaze softened too, her injured hand resting loosely in her lap as she watched the two Pokémon edge closer to the cart, their excitement a welcome contrast to the quiet that had filled the room moments before.
Brock parked the cart beside the bed, his eyes flicking briefly to Ash's ribs, then to the bandages on Yellow's hands. He didn't comment, but the small crease between his brows spoke volumes.
"Figured they'd be happier seeing you than waiting in the lobby," he added, setting down the bowls with a quiet clink. Pikachu hopped closer, sniffing eagerly, while Eevee gave a soft, impatient yip.
Ash reached out to scratch Pikachu behind the ears, feeling the familiar warmth of his fur. Yellow extended her good hand toward Eevee, who pressed his head into her palm with a contented sigh.
For a moment, the room felt fuller — not just with people and Pokémon, but with the kind of energy that made the sterile walls seem less cold. The battle, the explosion, the fear — all of it felt a little further away in the face of wagging tails, bright eyes, and the simple comfort of being together again.
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The Pokémon were still eating, their happy sounds filling the room — the crunch of kibble, the soft clink of bowls, the occasional squeak of delight. Pikachu and Eevee had claimed the bowls closest to the bed, tails swishing in contentment.
Pidgeotto perched on the back of a chair, feathers fluffed as it dipped its beak into a shallow dish, occasionally lifting its head to glance protectively toward Ash. Butterfree hovered nearby, wings beating in a slow, steady rhythm as it sipped from a nectar mix Nurse Joy had prepared, the faint hum of its wings blending with the Centre's ventilation.
Spearow pecked noisily at its share, feathers bristling with restless energy, though every so often it cast a sharp eye toward the door as if daring anyone to intrude again. Doduo bent both heads over a wide bowl, the two beaks clinking against each other in their eagerness, earning a soft laugh from Chansey as she tidied the tray.
The ordinary noise was oddly comforting, a reminder that life could still be simple after everything that had happened.
Brock pulled a chair closer to Ash's bedside and sat heavily, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were tired, but steady. "You probably don't remember much after the mob got to you," he began, his voice low, careful not to disturb the fragile calm.
Ash shook his head faintly. His ribs ached with the motion.
"You were half-conscious when Flint carried you in," Brock continued. His gaze flicked to Yellow, then back to Ash. "You slipped out of his grip right as we got through the door. She caught you before you hit the ground. Wouldn't let go of you, even when she was hurt herself. She… she tore her hands up trying to break through to you after the blast."
Ash's stomach twisted. He looked at Yellow's bandaged fingers, resting in her lap, and guilt pressed down on him like a weight. Without thinking, he reached out and clasped her hand gently in his own. She startled slightly, then let him hold it.
Brock's voice softened. "You called her name, Ash. Right before you blacked out. Chansey's Heal Pulse eased you for a moment, but then you were gone. She was scared out of her mind after that — fussing over you, crying, wouldn't let anyone take you from her. Flint had to step in before the crowd, or Jenny could do worse."
Ash's head snapped up at that. "Jenny?" His voice cracked.
Brock nodded grimly, his gaze distant as he recalled the chaos. "She was leading them, the mob. Even after I managed to get them to back off inside, they weren't gone. They were there... waiting in the streets."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Flint took one look out the door and said there was no way we were walking you through that, not with Jenny looking for another chance. He didn't trust them not to try something again the second we were exposed."
Ash pictured it—the angry faces, the stones—and his chest tightened.
"So," Brock continued, "he made a tactical call. He had his Rhydon dig a tunnel straight from the gym's sublevels to the Pokémon Centre's emergency access. We went under the city. He left his other Pokémon behind to guard my siblings and lead them out once the coast was clear."
"When we got here," Brock went on, "Nurse Joy nearly exploded herself. She was furious. Furious and scared. She took one look at us and sent the Pokémon straight to treatment. Then she shoved us into a medical room and had Chansey patch you and Yellow up first. Flint and I… we were worse off, so she handled us after."
Ash glanced at Chansey, who was quietly tidying the tray. He remembered flashes of warmth, the glow of Heal Pulse, Yellow's arms around him, her voice breaking as she said his name back.
Brock gave a humourless chuckle. "When Joy came back later, she brought you both here. Judging by the time she took… and the fact your clothes were clean… I'd say she or Chansey changed you while you were out."
Ash flushed faintly, but Brock's tone wasn't teasing. It was a matter‑of‑fact, softened by the exhaustion in his eyes.
"After that," Brock said, leaning back slightly, "Flint and I explained everything — the match, the explosion, the mob, and Jenny leading them." His jaw tightened. "Joy wasn't just angry at them. She was angry at us, too. Said we should've known better, should've stopped it before it got that far. And… she wasn't wrong."
The words hung in the air, heavy. Ash felt Yellow's fingers twitch faintly in his grasp, and he tightened his hold, grounding himself in the simple fact that she was here, alive, beside him.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the Pokémon finishing their food and the faint hum of the Centre's ventilation. Ash swallowed hard, his voice rough when it finally came.
"…Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was speaking to Brock, to Chansey, or to Yellow. Maybe all of them.
Yellow's eyes softened, and though she said nothing, her hand squeezed his back.
Brock looked at them with a smile and then, as if remembering something, went for one of his jacket pockets. "While we are on the topic of the gym and everything, here take it." Brock handed Ash a rectangular wooden box with a few stone engravings on it under the curious gazes of the rest of the room occupants.
"What's this?" Ash asked while opening the box. His eyes widened upon seeing the Shiny Boulder Badge in the foam bottom of the box. He gently took out the badge from the box after setting his plate and spoon on the tray, while the rest of the Pokémon and Yellow gathered around him to see the badge as well, which depicted their struggles up to the point of the match. Turning it around, all of them saw the silver 'S' on its underside. Knitting his eyebrows, Ash thought that it was something important, but he had only a vague understanding of what it was and was not able to remember what it was.
Giving a hum, Brock replied, which brought the attention of the rest, "Figures, you were semi-conscious during the time dad explained it to you about what it was and signified. Let me tell it to you so that all of you can remember and understand the implications." With that, Brock recited what Flint had tried to tell Ash the previous day about the badges, while the rest continued eating, listening to him.
Brock leaned back, watching Pikachu lick the last of the kibble from its bowl. "There's one more thing Flint didn't tell you clearly," he said, lowering his voice. "Winning Survival or Dual matches doesn't just mean stronger badges. The League pays out more for those victories — hazard pay, you could call it. And if you know where to look, the badge opens doors."
Ash blinked. "Doors?"
Brock nodded and continued, "PokéMarts, department stores, any place with League sanction. Show them an S‑badge, and suddenly prices drop, stock appears that wasn't there before. Better deals, better supplies. But don't expect it everywhere. Independent shops won't honour it, and most trainers don't even know the difference. The League keeps that quiet — hidden perks for those who survive the harder fights."
Ash frowned faintly, trying to take it in. Yellow tilted her head, her hand still resting in his.
Brock's gaze lingered on them for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his tired eyes. He rubbed at his temple and muttered, almost to himself, the words barely audible under the hum of the Centre's vents.
"Ten years old, and the law calls you grown… gives you contracts, badges, even markets to bend. And here you are, clinging to each other like the children you still are."
Ash blinked, unsure if he'd heard right. Yellow's brow furrowed faintly, but Brock had already leaned back, eyes closed, as though the words had slipped out without him meaning them.
For a few moments, the room was filled only with the soft clink of bowls and the hum of the Centre's vents. Then Brock drew in a long breath, pushed himself up from the chair, and started toward the door. His steps were heavy, the kind of weight that came from more than just exhaustion.
He stopped at the doorway when Ash's voice, still hoarse, broke the silence.
"What about them?"
Brock froze, shoulders stiffening. He didn't need to ask who Ash meant. He turned his head just enough to glance back, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Rest easy," he said finally, his tone gentler than his face. "You don't have to worry about that anymore. I've covered it."
He hesitated, then added under his breath, "Even if it means I'll be watching some outrageous battles for the next few days and drowning in complaints."
The corner of his mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. His mind flicked back to the moment with Nurse Joy — her sharp eyes, her fury, and his own slip of the tongue. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, hadn't meant to tell the waiting trainers that he hadn't known Stun Spore could ignite like that, that if he had, he never would've ordered Dragon Breath. But the words had spilt out anyway, and the looks on their faces told him enough. He'd given away the truth of what caused the explosion.
He wouldn't even have pieced it together himself if not for the blast that rattled the streets that morning. He'd run toward the sound, seen the mob swarming a boy, a fire‑type straining at its leash, and a grass‑type blackened and smoking at its side. The memory of the previous day's battle was still raw in his mind, and the connection had been immediate.
The trainer's explanation had been halting and ashamed, but it had been enough. Brock had told him — firmly, maybe too firmly — that no one should put their Pokémon in that kind of danger. The words had tasted hypocritical even as he said them, but he couldn't take them back.
And then there had been the others. The trainers were waiting for their turn at the Gym, their faces shifting from confusion to anger as he explained that the building was too damaged to host battles for the foreseeable future. That the League's representative would have to be called, which meant delays, paperwork, and the kind of bureaucratic crawl that could stretch into weeks. Jenny's presence was unexpected, but it might have just complicated things more. Seeing her tense shoulders as she tried to 'control' the crowd of people, Brock understood that now that he had clarified what had happened at the gym, she had no legal authority to arrest them anymore, as it was proven to be an accident from the gym leader's side. The crowd might have been a bit ashamed of themselves, but not Jenny. She must have been seething right now, and she might try something drastic. He would have to be vigilant for the coming days, along with his father, who had gone undercover again.
But none of that — not the mob, not the explosion, not the hypocrisy that gnawed at him — was something Ash or Yellow needed to carry right now. They had had enough.
He turned back to the present, forcing his voice into something steadier.
"You should head to Cerulean City for your next badge," he said. "The Gym there specialises in water‑types, so prepare accordingly. To get there, you'll need to pass through Mount Moon. I have written my phone number on that paper in the badge box. Call me when you need it. If I am unable to get it, one of my siblings will."
He lingered a moment longer in the doorway, his gaze flicking once more to their joined hands as Ash picked out a piece of paper from the underside of the top of the box that he had given. Something tightened in his chest — pride, envy, weariness, he couldn't tell. He rubbed at his temple, muttering so softly it was almost lost to the hum of the vents.
"Ten years old, and they call you grown… send you into mountains, into battles, into laws you don't even know you're bound by. And here you are, holding on like the children you still are."
Ash blinked, unsure if he'd heard right. Yellow tilted her head faintly, but Brock was already pulling the door open, his voice brisk again as he added, "Rest. You'll need your strength for the road."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room quieter than before.