It's not a one-shot, I've decided. There has to be more chapters.

Enjoy (as much as you can enjoy a story like this, I guess).

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokemon.

-O-o-O-

They couldn't afford a box, but there were lots of stones and flowers in the clearing, so they made do. James dug a deep hole to anchor the tombstone (not that someone couldn't easily dig it up). Meowth hammered a smaller rock into the stone for hours. By the time it was too dark to see anymore, all that graced the stone was one jagged, sloping word: JESS. They couldn't even get the ground perfectly smooth over her grave and that was all too fitting.

Dinner was a cheap salad in a nearby village. Neither particularly wanted dead meat after dealing with 120 pounds of it that afternoon (they almost immediately self-flagellated mentally for that thought). Meat was too expensive anyway.

Nobody seemed to notice an oddly dressed blue-haired man and a talking cat. Usually, Meowth would be somewhat taken aback, being used to people reacting with awe at his ability. Today, both were grateful for the silence. Too bad it was the only instance of things going their way.

They retreated back into the woods before anyone really noticed how out of place they were. They tended to avoid towns when they could—less chance of being caught and jailed (though, how anyone could believe they were competent enough to pull off a crime was beyond them).

Fortunately, they weren't sleeping outside or huddling in a cave tonight.

James unlocked the rotting doors on the shack they'd been using as a base. Meowth had the strange urge to wipe his feet before entering, though the ground outside was probably cleaner than the moldy planks of the hut. James barred and locked the door while Meowth felt around for their camping light. He flicked the switch and the single room was flooded with light for a fraction of a second. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the light flickered and died.

Meowth stared at the lantern with a dazed frustration. "That was our last battery."

James pushed the holey curtains open. "Would the moon help?"

"I guess."

As they settled in, Meowth gazed out the window. Behind him, James undressed, removing most of his sweat-drenched and bloodstained Team Rocket uniform. It was funny, Meowth thought, how he didn't notice the bloodstains right on the shoulder until he glanced at the white shirt in a heap on the floor. Maybe that was why nobody talked to them in town. They didn't want to know the story behind the stains lest they become a character in it. Meowth had managed to get most of the blood out of his fur, but there was still a pinkish tint to his paws.

He tried to forget the blood and concentrate on the moon. Watching the moon used to be therapeutic for him; it didn't seem to be working now. Then again, he'd never killed somebody before tonight.

The rustling of fabric behind him was still going. Without turning around, he knew James was brushing all the dirt, leaves, and twigs off of his pants. Meowth kept his eyes on the moon. He always refused (respectfully, he thought) to watch James undress for the night, even though he'd seen James nearly naked and James slept in his underwear and undershirt. He didn't turn away once and he felt like such a pervert—even though she was in the room, talking to James and looking right at him, while they were both undressing.

Meowth jerked his head, which had slowly begun to rotate in the direction of James, back to the moon. What the hell was his problem? Their partner, their only family, their best freaking friend, was laid to rest not twenty-four hours ago. God knows what James was going through. Their lives were draining into the sewer. And Meowth had the nerve to sit there and imagine them both naked. Did he have to fail at showing proper respect, too?

If James saw Meowth glance over or turn, he didn't let on. He now wore a white tank top and black boxer shorts, both plain. He went over to the door to check that it was barred properly.

Meowth was just climbing into the lone battered bed when James gasped, holding his hand.

"What happened?" Meowth was up in a second.

James swore under his breath. "I just cut my hand. Nothing serious." He held his hand as far away from himself as possible.

"Whaddya mean 'nothing serious?' This dump is riddled with rusty nails." Meowth scrambled across the mattress to where James rummaged through their first aid kit, trying hard not to look at the red slash on his palm. Meowth caught a glimpse of it. "Jimmy, half your hand is practically torn off!"

James tittered painfully. "Oh, you're so dramatic." He fumbled for the disinfectant, unable to grip it well.

"Let me help." Meowth grabbed for James's hand, scooping up the peroxide bottle with his other paw. The bottle fell and rolled out of his reach, so he extended his claws and flicked it back toward himself.

James jerked his head away and his hand jerked slightly as well. Meowth, startled, almost dropped the bottle again. Fortunately, he had his claws to catch—oh.

He looked at James, who held back, his wide green eyes fixed on Meowth's paw, with its three sharp claws. His expression was not the usual one of admiration at Meowth's dexterity. It was of pure terror. While his face did not waver, the rest of his body took on a barely perceptible tremor.

Meowth retracted his claws, gripping the bottle normally. He reached toward James less forcefully than he had toward the bottle. "Jimmy…"

James turned away quickly, ashamed. ""I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Let me help you." Meowth took James's hand and sprayed it with peroxide. James winced at the disinfectant sting. Meowth mopped up the excess with cotton, then wound a bandage around James's hand. Only once did James look at his own hand, and from that point on, his face was increasingly moon white.

-O-o-O-

That was kind of depressing to write.