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“Charmander, I can’t solve a problem if I don’t know what it is.” “I don’t–” The fire-type clicks his tongue, his frame curling up tighter. “Guhh don’t make me say it.” Squirtle doesn’t quite know when it started – years of unwilling companionship made certain chains of behavior morph too seamlessly for him to properly trace – but somewhere along the line Charmander appeared to have come to the assumption that Squirtle was some sort of mind-reader. That no matter how convoluted the fire-type’s behavior was, his know-it-all companion would be able to just know things as if their connection was beyond language. Or, more-so, beyond the need for Charmander to use language. The problem is very simple: it’s bullshit. Squirtle might have thought the same sometimes sure – that he understood his companion more than anyone else could – but if recent events had taught him anything is that he didn’t. At best, he knows certain parameters based on Charmander’s conduct, but that’s about it. Squirtle shifts closer, shell scratching against rough stone. He doesn't push – gods know pushing is bound to make Charmander dig his heels deeper than a digglet – so he waits. Stares. Lets the silence stretch until the fire-type's own pressure cooker of a brain bursts into something. Anything, at this point.