The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree

Author: Mystic Dodo

Published: August 2014

A/N: Slowly but surely exercising my writing muscles!

Gohan had been brooding for months now. In a way it was understandable; he had lost his father, lost control of his Saiyan power and almost lost his mind. Piccolo was worried, not that he would say it aloud. His young friend was usually so sweet tempered unless provoked and even the birth of his younger brother only minimally improved the teenagers' mood.

Piccolo occasionally popped over to the Son residence late at night when everyone was asleep. Just to check that things were okay as Gohan made them out to be during the rare, midnight visits. Chichi, forever the overbearing wrench, restricted any and all training to absolute zero and had Gohan study from dawn to dusk while rocking a newborn baby in her arms. Gohan seemed to take it without much complaint but the number of broken pens suggested that the boy was more upset than he let on.

Memories of Gohan's anger still shook Piccolo to the core. Never, not once, had he ever expected for Gohan to turn, so… so Saiyan. Never had he once thought that the happy, easy going boy would one day become ravaged with bloodlust and brutality and a superior complex. He was not stupid; he knew Gohan was part Saiyan and there was the potential… but to have it so viciously exposed by his own father, of all people, and for the severity of the reaction…

When he closed his eyes, Piccolo could still see the cold, merciless concrete in the boys' emerald orbs. The smirk. The way that power, so dangerous and seductive, danced around the pre-adolescent's body, teasing blonde hair and unnatural bulging muscles. Everybody had been surprised at the radical change. Nobody expected the consequences, least of all the boy's father.

Piccolo felt angry too, on Gohan's behalf. That foolish man. That single minded, bloody, ignorant Saiyan. And Piccolo watched as after months of grieving, Gohan's mourning had turned into bitterness, into hurt, and then into what seemed to be pure hatred.

Piccolo never knew what to say, so he kept silent whenever the boy would escape during the night to seek his company. Piccolo was never too far away. Most of the time Gohan did not want to talk anyway, just sit with his mentor next to a waterfall and think. Occasional spikes in ki levels told Piccolo more than words ever could.

Yet he wasn't exactly surprised when Gohan, 3 years after the event, began to speak, glaring out over the wilderness.

"I hate him, you know," the teenager said, his voice growing deeper as he spoke, almost like he was ashamed of what he was admitting. Piccolo made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat, keeping his eyes closed and mind focused. Beside him, Gohan shifted uncomfortably. "Not Cell, though I don't like him either. I struggled for so long trying to figure out what this feeling was and, well, I hate him." Silence stretched and Piccolo could feel Gohan's burning gaze on his face. "Piccolo, what sort of kid hates their own father?"

At that, the Namekian opened his eyes and turned towards the boy. Raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Gohan seemed flustered. "I'm being serious. Whenever I think about him I just, I… this rage, a deeper more animalistic rage, thunders in my veins and I just get so angry. You're supposed to love your parents for Kami's sake, and everyone keeps on going on about how wonderful my Dad is and yeah, he done some great stuff but…" here he faltered, his shoulders tense as he visually slaughtered a rock in front of him. "But…"

"You hate him," Piccolo repeated.

"And I hate myself for hating him," Gohan burst out. He was breathing hard, a frown between his eyes, chest heaving with pent up emotion. "He's done so much but…"

"Can you really say that?" Piccolo asked his friend, without judgement or condemning in his voice. "Goku. That he has done so much."

"What do you mean? Of course he has. He protected the Earth so many times, saved billions of lives, constantly trained and prepared for the next battle –"

"He done so much for other people," Piccolo interrupted, staring at the teenager. "But think. Did he ever do much for you?"

Gohan's eyebrows twitched. "He saved my life…"

"Anything else?"

"He trained me."

"And?"

"…" Gohan's eyes clouded as he thought.

"Exactly. He did a lot for other people, but yet not much at all in terms of his family."

Gohan sharply returned his focus to the Namekian. "But he's a good guy. He sacrificed himself when I messed up. He died protecting us."

Piccolo turned his body towards Gohan, settled a deep stare on the kid. "Which he wouldn't have had to have done, if he bothered to know his son at all," he growled.

The boy had a cocktail of emotions on his face; disbelief, hurt, anger, hope, validation... "Do… you think so?"

"Why else would you be angry? Think, Gohan. His actions nearly killed you."

"But if he hadn't had done what he did, then Earth –"

"Forget the Earth," Piccolo snapped. "From what I gather from humans, there are more important things, such as your loved ones. Your father conveniently neglected that in favour of his insatiable desire to maintain his claim as being the strongest person on this planet."

Gohan still had that look of disbelieving hope on his face. But his voice wavered during his next sentence. "But my father wasn't a human. He was Saiyan."

"That does not give him the right to disregard his son," Piccolo snarled. "To refuse to look at things from another point of view. To bother asking you if you believed you could handle the task of taking on Cell by yourself, no matter your strength. You were 11, Gohan. A child. A father doesn't carelessly risk their flesh and blood like that; no decent father at the very least. He stood by, Gohan, and listened to you scream and cry without so much as flinching."

Gohan flinched at that. After a heartbeat had passed, Gohan's face still tense, he looked up at the night sky as he worried his lower lip. "He was a bad father?"

Piccolo snorted.

Gohan returned his eyes to Piccolo's, curiosity on his face. "You're angry at him too," he stated.

Piccolo rolled his eyes. "Even an infant could figure that one out," he said dryly. At the unanswered question, he snapped, "You almost died, kid. He used you. He manipulated you. He forgot that you are you and not a miniature version of him. His misplaced pride blinded him and he was stupid, idiotic, foolish, thoughtless Saiyan." He spat the word. It felt bitter on his tongue. "He was never a father to you. Angry? Gohan, I'm just as furious, if not more so, than you are."

Gohan's eyes were glistening as he swallowed thickly. "You… don't think I'm being unfair, then?"

"No."

At that, the tension in the boys' shoulders seemed to melt away and he exhaled heavily, leaning back on the damp grass. "I feel like I'm being selfish for being angry," Gohan admitted, voice slightly muffled due to the arm over his face. "Nobody else seems to think of it the same way as we do."

Piccolo snorted again. "Kid, feel whatever the hell you need to feel. Screw what everybody else thinks or says."

Gohan's face broke into a small grin at the venom in the Namekian's voice but quickly fell into despair again. "But the thing is, I love him too. Despite everything, I still love him and miss him."

Piccolo stared at the kid before him. "You humans and your complex emotions," he grumbled, closing his eyes and returning to his meditating position.

Gohan made a small sound of amusement again. Quite some time passed before either spoke and when they did, Piccolo couldn't reply due to the lump in his throat.

"You've always been a father to me, Mr Piccolo," Gohan said softly and sincerely. When he turned to look at the boy, whose gaze looked certain yet insecure, Piccolo could not find the right words to return. Instead, he reached out a hand and pushed back the dark hair that hung into the even darker eyes, a smirk tugging up one side of his lips.

Gohan returned the smile, the biggest he had seen in a long time, and after a sudden, tired yawn announced his time to return home to bed. He flew away swiftly and silently, Piccolo staring after the boy with intense eyes. When he was out of sight, Piccolo turned his attention to the heavens. He could not articulate the most appropriate response to the prior conversation and instead settled for one of his famous glares, hands clenched at his side.

He allowed himself to feel the warming sensation of affection and pride fill his being. Like a father to the kid, eh? He never expected to hear that.