Vicarious
chapter one: had me a blast

When Candice rents a house in Sunyshore, she feels guilty. Of what, she doesn't know, but oh – she feels horribly guilty. Maybe it's because she hopes that no one will know her so far from home, or maybe it's because the city is blistering with life. Maybe, her traitorous subconscious, it's because she wants to find the familiar sight of blond hair and eyes bluer than the skies and sea combined. (And she could use a summer fling, it adds with a flair before she dismisses such thoughts.)

"You'll take it, then?" The salesman glances at her with a smile, and Candice pushes a bang behind her ear. She isn't used to having her hair wild around her shoulders, but her face is plain if she tries, and no one ever gives it a second thought. She doesn't know if she should be relieved or offended that something as silly as her hairdo is the thing most remarkable about her. She decides that she's offended soon enough. But just a little. "The house, I mean."

"Can't I just rent it?" She's having second thoughts, which is so like her, and the man sighs, rolls his eyes theatrically, and puts a hand on his chin. She feels slightly disgusted by the wrongness of the movements, and is aware that this man thinks of her as a source of income when he should think of her as a client. Her face is a blank as he types onto his computer, but she wants to smack him around a bit.

"'Fraid not," he says, "But we do have an apartment near the beach. It's for rent. It's a bit pricey, but it's worth it."

She doubts it, but something inside her compels her to nod and say: "Oh, okay then."

Her first thought is that, it smells like shit in there. It smells like something died and turned back to life, only to die again. Candice, of course, is quick to open the windows, and to pull apart the curtains so that sunlight spills inside. She supposes it could be worse, but then something fuzzy squeaks from under the sink and she contemplates burning the kitchen down. There's a bathroom, and though it's small, it's fairly well-kept, but the shower head doesn't work and the tiles are pasty with what looks like sand.

The bedroom is a masterpiece by itself; with dusty rugs and dustier floors, and why are there no sheets on her bed. Candice wants to cry, but she thinks that she's an adult, and she's perfectly capable of dealing with the situation, and so, she kicks the bed instead, and watches, in woe, as it breaks.

She's sure that the fuzzy thing laughs at her when she lets out a shriek of frustration.

Just a few sidewalks away from her apartment block there's a small park for children. Candice can see it from the terrace – which is bigger than what the pamphlet says, surprisingly – and while she drinks her coffee, she slams her feet on the metallic fence and hears the squeaky swings. It reminds her of the badly-oiled engines of the ships that come and go from her town. It's nostalgic but she feels her heart warm at the thought.

She spends her days carefully slowly, so that she can appreciate everything. After a day of open windows and negotiating with the thing in her sink, everything turns out for the best. The smell is gone, and even though she hasn't gotten to fix the bed yet, it's a delight to wake up feeling the warmness of the sun in her face. In Snowpoint, the sun is weak and cold, so she supposes she's lucky that she could take time off.

Candice haphazardly throws a colorful towel and sunscreen into a bag and she's off, pale blue sandals slapping against the stairs as she runs as fast as she can, enjoying the sun and basking on the weird looks she's getting. It's silly, she knows, and bends over herself when she starts breathing hard, but in this town she isn't a gym leader, she isn't a powerful trainer; she is a woman who's too pale and who totally needs to get a tan.

Her hair flows seamlessly behind her, black and unusual in a town of sunlit blonds, and she breathes in deep when she reaches the beach.

She feels good.

It's only been two days and she gets sunburnt, even though her sunscreen is rather strong. Candice decides against visiting the beach today, and instead she stays home and cleans. It turns out that it's therapeutic in a way, and by lunchtime her room is sparkling and the floors of the house are smelling of wax. She feels somewhat accomplished, and turns to the kitchen. She does a mix of some kind which involves soda pop, lemonade, ice, vodka and a pretty pink straw.

She stays put on her folding chair and watches the clouds go by. Candice goes aware that she has twelve days, and she better make the best of it, but somehow she doesn't think she'll manage to do it alone. With a pensive slurp and a giddy smile, she gets up from her chair and decides that today, she'll go to the beach even if her shoulders are cherry red. She stretches and promptly whimpers at the burning sensation.

This, she figures, requires a change of plans. It isn't as if she's going to go with her skin like that, but staying home all day doesn't seem like a good way to spend her day. She puts on a t-shirt, one with a neckline that goes low, because it's summer and it's hot and for once Candice wants to turn some heads (and, either way, she's still wearing her bikini). She slips inside a pair of shorts and as soon as she finds her flip-flops, she goes out.

She goes to the market. It's a wide building, and it spreads its shadow across the whole street, and inside it smells of fish and fresh vegetables, but it's the colorful ribbons the ones that catch her attention. Candice fingers a lock of hair and buys three ribbons. She ties her hair then, and sighs in relief when the back of her neck enjoys the rare gust of sea-scented wind. The market is great and full of people, and she feels happy, just from being there.

When she returns home, it's dinnertime and she has bags full of fresh fruit, vegetables and fish. It's a bit foolish, but she gets the itch to cook, and she can't wait to grab a knife and do a salad. And a dessert. And when she faces her door, she puts one hand on her pockets and realizes that she doesn't have her keys.

To say her wail of grief echoes throughout the apartment block would be an understatement.

She sits down by her door and does her best to remain logical even though she wants do destroy something. She thinks about her pokémon, and wonders if her trainees are taking good care of them. She wishes they were here right now, because then all she'd have to would be to order an ice beam to destroy the lock. But no, she mentally adds, she had to be stubborn and she had to go without them to fully enjoy her holiday.

Candice curses for the first time in a few months, and peers inside the paper bags. And she's paid a good price for all this food; it's a shame to see it rot away while she struggles to find a solution for her predicament. Getting new keys, she knows, will take a week at least. The landlord had warned her of this.

She buries her head in her hands and groans, feeling her rear sore and her pride even sorer. The question in her mind is, how could she think to lose her keys? While she's lost inside her head, the door in front of hers open, and she looks up to find a pair of blue eyes and pretty blond hair.

For the second time in a few months, Candice swears.

Volkner, at least, looks amused (as far as that goes, she thinks, and snorts).

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, and it comes out dry. She hopes he's not doing on purpose, because, to be honest, she's had enough for one day. "Is everything all right?"

"I – lost my keys. Don't laugh!" she says, and feels her cheeks heat.

His face doesn't change. He glances towards the bags leaned against the wooden door, then at her. Then at the bags. Candice wants to kick him in the shin, if only to see whether he'd react at all. Volkner frowns just slightly, eyes so very clear under his brow, and he bends over and grabs her bags. She suppresses the urge to squeak, and wonders, for a split second, whether he's stealing her food.

"What are you doing?" she says, getting up from the floor and stomping after him, momentarily forgotten that the floor isn't snow but marble instead. Volkner turns to her, and she notices just how much taller he is, in comparison to her. He has a funny expression on his face, like he's afraid and confused and amused. Candice doesn't like it very much. She frowns at him and suppresses the urge to stick her tongue out.

"I was under the assumption that it was obvious that you'd stay in my apartment while you wait for your keys," he says, dryly (and – ugh! – she's starting to get annoyed), "It is only evident that one should help colleagues in need – " and he smiles a little, just a little, " – unless I'm wrong, which in that case I apologize, but it seems that you could use a little help."

Candice doesn't know why she shyly nods and why, when he walks inside, she walks after him. Her subconscious, though, has a pretty good idea.

Volkner's apartment is nothing like her own. She wonders if he lives here or if he's just renting it, like she's doing, because it's decorated in shades of yellows and whites, and there is more furniture than in her apartment. It looks good, and she's a little jealous because her apartment is a mess. His kitchen is clean, and he has a washing machine in spite of having a sink. And Volkner has no animals living in his sink.

She is a little jealous.

Candice is surprised because everything's very clean, and, well, he's a man, right, so isn't he supposed to be a bit messy? She quickly squishes her thoughts when he puts her bags on top of the counter. He looks genuinely curious and confused at the sight of the colorful vegetables, and she takes advantage of that to create small talk.

"It's just food," she says, and shoves him aside gently with her hip as she starts taking them out of the paper bag, "It's not like it'll kill you. See – " she organizes the tubers and the fruits on the counter, " – tomatoes, lettuce, onions, garlic, potatoes, cucumbers, mushrooms, carrots, radishes, and fish – "

She stops talking when she realizes that he's hanging to her every word, listening attentively, like a student does to a teacher. She's not quite sure of that makes her feel, but then Volkner raises his eyes from the food to her own, and frowns. She's worried that perhaps she babbled, but then: "You – you can cook?"

The question is so ridiculous, so unlike him, that she can't hide the bubble of laughter that tears from her lips as she leans over the counter. Once Candice manages to calm herself down, she breathes in and stares at him again. Volkner is frowning, a subtle tinge of pink in his cheeks, and she feels a sharp hit of compunction from having laughed at him. She rests her hands on her hips, and sighs.

"Of course I can. And I'd be happy to cook for you, if you'd like."

The sudden intake of breath and the sudden stiffening of his shoulder, followed by a very tightly controlled nod tell her that yes, he'd like it.

While Candice is never the one to brag about her skills as a cook, she admits to herself that she is a pretty darn good cook. And it isn't often that she gets to work with fresh food; that's why she amuses herself so much while she goes off from one counter to another, chopping and seasoning and frying. The bad thing about a city in which a day without snow is rare, is that there are hardly fresh veggies. Not that there's a lack of food, no, the ships that come and go are full of it.

But there's something different about buying food in disorganized stalls and bringing it on bags, without having to worry about an unwanted freezing of her newly acquired vegetables. She likes it, a lot, and even while she's busy having fun with Volkner's olive oil and pepper, he's sitting on a chair, watching her. It's a little unnerving, because his gaze is very piercing, even if his eyes are half-lidded. But the woman doesn't think to complain, because she knows it takes a lot of delicacy for someone to so openly invite another person into one's house.

When she steals a peek, their eyes meet. She turns to the oven again, and feels her cheeks heat; then Candice finds herself wondering whether her hair is a mess.

"And this is…"

"Risotto."

"…I've never eaten any."

"Well, it's good, if that's what you're wondering about. I made it, so it's bound to be tasty."

Talking Volkner into eating the dish proves to be surprisingly difficult. Candice is starting to lose her patience, because not only does she feel slightly insulted, but she also feels that he is taking some kind of dark pleasure in teasing her. She rolls her eyes, smiles at him and picks up her fork: "If you're not going to eat it, then I will."

That does the trick. Volkner jumps a little in his seat and grabs his fork clumsily. Candice tries to do her best not to laugh at his flustered expression, but she figures her smile widens because he frowns at her: "I'm trying to be a good host," he says dryly.

And in all honesty, she supposes that he is, in fact, trying. Before she's done with dinner, he's already set the table, outside, in his terrace. Candice can hardly complain; and even if she could, she doubts she'd manage to. It's no secret that Volkner is the most complicated of the leaders – being the one at the top assures that hardly any trainers get to him, and the ones who do very seldom win. Candice avoids boredom by teaching the kids in Snowpoint, but her city is small and every job is a blessing. Sunyshore, on the other hand, is big and commercial, and she's highly doubtful that there's anything else that he can do to escape tedium.

"You're not trying very hard then," she retorts, smiling cheekily at him as she watches him serve himself, "What kind of host gives the food the stink-eye?"

"Excuse me," he says in response, and there's a little twitch in the edge of his lip, "I didn't know that staring at a dish before eating it made it clear that I was internally despising it."

"Well," she grumbles, and steals the bigger plate, where her risotto is, away from him, "With a face like yours, it's hard to tell the difference."

He stays very still and Candice suddenly wonders whether she's gone too far, because Volkner is socially awkward – everyone knows that much – and she is a bit of a social butterfly; she glances at him, and bites down on her lip, concerned. Her fork clinks against her plate, momentarily forgotten.

And then, Volkner laughs. It's a hoarse chuckle, velvety and deep, just like his voice, with a dash of melody in between the roughness and the latent amusement. And what can she do but to stare at him in wonder, as he covers his mouth with his hand, almost as if trying to contain the rest of his laughter from coming out? She's vaguely aware that her mouth is slack and that her wonderfully executed risotto is cooling, but she doesn't really mind.

"You're… peculiar," he says, after he regains his composure.

She doesn't think it's an insult.

They hit their first bump when she realizes that he probably doesn't have an extra bed. There is the couch, which is – surprise – yellow and fluffy but not terribly wide. Candice is in no position to complain, though, and as she sits down on it just to feel what it's like, Volkner gives her a Look.

"You won't be sleeping in the couch," he states, as if it's obvious, "I can't permit that a fellow gym leader would sleep in a couch."

It's hilarious to her, because he almost sounds offended. In retrospection, she supposes he was, at least a little bit, because maybe he thought that she thought he was a lousy host. Candice shrugs and smiles at him: "I'm good, trust me." As if to make her point across, she settles in a little more, relaxes her sore legs. "Not like I'll have you sleeping on the couch, Volkner."

He gives her another Look, a very immovable and sharp one, and when Candice turns to return the glare, he slumps his shoulders: "You're impossible to deal with."

"I prefer to think of myself as determined," she retorts, and gives him a little smirk and a wink.

His cheeks go scarlet, and he excuses himself from the room. Candice feels accomplished.

Volkner is a morning person, even though Candice would've never thought of him as such. He wakes up rather early, and he takes a shower, and he takes breakfast. All of it while Candice is still asleep. When he tells her that he's been up for two hours already, she feels mortified. Not only does she seems lazy, she's also sure that Volkner has seen her sleeping. The image in her mind is not the most pleasant.

"So, now what," she says offhandedly, focusing on him, "Do you happen to ever hit the beach?"

He stares at her peculiarly, and shakes his head, looking up from his coffee mug: "I'm not very fond of beaches."

She wants to smack him. God gives candies to those who cannot chew them; and Candice, for one, would very much like to have a beach in her hometown. It seems silly to her that he'd waste a beach, and then she remembers that maybe he isn't on holidays. She bites the inside of her cheek thoughtfully and sits in front of him, staring intently at him until he stops to pretend he is ignoring her.

"Yes?" he asks, and it sound gruff, "What is it?"

"And what do you do, then?" She tries to keep the annoyance off her voice, but she's sure that it came out a little strong. She tries to correct it. "It's summer. You can't stay home doing nothing, like a teenager without friends who make him get out of the house."

He sounds offended: "If I stay in my house, it's because I'm working on a project – " she doesn't ask about it, because she knows that Volkner is fond of machinery and robotics, they've discussed the impact of his activities in meetings, before, " – but I usually head out to my gym."

"What!" Candice gasps dramatically, and arches in her chair, placing a hand on her forehead mockingly. Then, more seriously: "I thought you were in holidays. You should enjoy them, for once. Then, when you return to your gym, it'll make things much sweeter."

There's a silence none of them wants to fill. Candice feels her stomach do a little jump when she stares down at his coffee and his buttered bread, and she rises from the chair to search for food in the fridge. She wonders if she should ask him to help her find anything, but she thinks she can handle it, and either way it's not like she wants to disturb him. Volkner surprises her when he finishes his coffee, because he gets up and opens one of the cupboards: "You have coffee, some tea if that's your thing, bread is on that basket on the counter, you have milk, butter and jelly on the fridge. Enjoy your breakfast," he says, and smiles a little.

She thinks that she will.

…

to be continued

A/N: This was supposed to be for a prompt, "summer skins", for a lj community. But, eh.

Critique is appreciated.