[AN] Happy New Year, Guys. Thanks for all the reviews and support throughout 2020.
Enjoy.
Earth
He'd scrambled clumsily from the bed only to find himself alone; no guards and no soldiers. No emperor's, lieutenants, giant pink monsters, and no cold icy floor. In fact, as his feet dangled from the mattress, the ground felt warm beneath his toes.
Then, as he tried to stand, it struck him; the overwhelming dizziness. The emptiness.
The sedative still lingered in his system, buzzing his head and pulling on his limbs as his tail lay listless on the sheets. His eyes squeezed shut for several long seconds as he willed clarity into his mind, enough so he could summon the strength to confront his current situation.
The cells… the emperor… the ship…
Escape.
The first thing he noticed was the nothingness of soft fabric on his skin. Gone was the old spandex bodysuit, filthy and torn from his incarceration. That had been replaced with a clean, white tunic. It was loose-fitting, light and flowing from his sleeves to the pant-legs, and soft, bouncy and airy like cotton.
Comfortable. A far cry from the vice-like grip of ill-fitting combat attire. He'd scavenged them from the Lost Boys' ship when he'd joined their ranks, along with the armour and mismatched boots. Most had been lost when the ship had been commandeered.
The air was ripe with a confusing intrusive tangy sweetness and it took a moment to realise his clothing was the source.
They were clean. And so was he.
It was refreshing, energising even, though it quickly drained into the bottomless pit of his gut and was replaced by weakness and listlessness.
A sleeve had been rolled to the elbow and he noticed the IV dripping fluid into his right arm. Next he noticed the room. It was out of place on a military vessel. Opulent. A simple but soft mattress on an elegant frame; smoothly moulded shelves stacked with books; a desk and a chair close to the door ready with note pads and a pen. It was placed facing a large panel of reinforced which overlooked the vast emptiness of space.
'Take him to East Wing' Coola's voice nudged his mind.
"East Wing…" he muttered inquisitively, eyes darting curiously. This must have been it.
The simplicity was fancier than anything he'd ever had before and his tail stiffened in discomfort.
It was all wrong… His was freezing cold cells with violent guards, the Lost Boys' 'sleeping hole' filled with hammocks and wild furs and old cots, hitching rides and commandeered ships, the tents and grassy fields he'd slept in with Uncle Raditz. Travelled across the galaxy through rain, wind, and scorching son. Fighting over scraps with monsters from across the galaxy. Things that made him strong.
Comfort was key to deception. Trust was bought with comfort, false promises were made when comfort was used to broker the deal. Trust and friends didn't exist in the universe, it was one of the first things his uncle had taught him in one of his typically unconventional ways, when the camp fire had burned brightly against the night. The meat had sizzled over the fire when his Uncle had offered him a freshly pulled portion. He'd smiled and reach for the morsel only to eat a large saiyan hand instead.
'Never trust anyone bearing gifts, boy!' he'd spat, laughing as he tossed the meat into the fire.
His cheek still burned at the smack years later.
Old drunken bastard… though he was right. Cruelty was the way of the universe; ugly and raw but honest. There was no pretext of good will or favour, only an exchange of power and submission. Might makes right. If anyone did offer anything with a kind hand, you could expect the other to be clutching a knife. Uncle Raditz may have forgotten his own lesson but his nephew wouldn't. Not again… He had no idea why he'd been kept alive but he had no intention of finding out.
He needed to get out of there, find an escape pod somewhere on this impossibly huge dreadnaught and kill anyone who got in his way.
That was if his body would cooperate.
It took a second to seize the drip and pull it from his arm, another three to stand to his feet, and another ten for the vertigo to subside. He was in bad shape. Even if he had been in a fit state to make his escape, that could attract a lot of attention, especially from Sauza or even Bolo. His still recoiled mentally at the memory of that blow… the way his legs went numb and his world exploded… If he was going to escape, he'd have to do it quietly; wait by the door, break a neck and sneak his way through the hallway.
And then… then… he'd figure it out later.
It took herculean effort to will his legs forward, rubbery and prickly and numb as they were, and his energy left him with each step. But the metal door wasn't far. He just needed to make a few more steps but those were akin to a mile.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he should wait it out. Rest. Recuperate. Be at full strength before he made his escape and burned the entire ship on his way out.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the doors hissed open and a new figure stepped into the room.
Tall, purple, and mighty.
His stomach sank.
Defeat was a pit.
It was a dry well with no bottom; a black hole that swallowed stars; a deep canyon littered with corpses, bloated and festering with spent pride. It sucked joy, purpose, and life from its victims, leaving only emptiness, bewilderment and pain.
Chief awoke to defeat.
Sterile air penetrated his nostrils and the beeping of medical equipment punctured his ears. Consecutive defeats had swallowed his fight and vomited a misery and self-loathing that smothered him in a sticky embrace. He could barely move nor summon the will.
Faith in the divine was stupid in this galaxy, the cult had taught him that, but his pool of despair felt like hell. There was no fire or demons or a sea of souls, instead this hell was all the more personal. It was desperate isolation and a coldness that enveloped his spirit; a thick blanket of darkness heavy with the weight of the expectations he'd failed spectacularly to meet.
Leading the empire's forces into a slaughter; freezing in the face of death; losing to a traitor…
"I've only met him once but he was single-minded in his quest for strength, like all pure-blooded saiyans. There's no telling how much stronger he has become in the intervening years."
"Not as strong as me."
Chief had executed soldiers for less.
He escaped the darkness as his eyes fluttered open, tender and framed in purple, and he was surprised to find himself warm and dry instead of puking hot blood onto a freezing arctic deathbed. That had been new… Instead, ceiling tiles greeted him along with the sinking discomfort of a soft bed. A lifetime of rough camping and hard cots had withered his fins; now he drowned in citrus-scented sheets.
Where was he? It was far too nice for a prison cell but he was in no mood to speculate in any depth or even escape. The alien environment didn't confuse him; confusion required investigation, with implied inclination and purpose. Defeat had robbed him of both. He didn't even know how he'd survived the fight and he didn't care. Now he just existed. A bastard son of a dead race… hidden from the world, the galaxy, the empire, Coola…
His heart beat with guilt.
Everything hurt. Bandages itched and peppered the cuts on his back, one of many discomforts. Wounds had been re-opened and half-healed bones had been re-fractured. His muscles ached with the tell-tale warmth of transformational fatigue and his abdomen protested the slightest shift in weight. For all intents and purposes, his body was fucked up. Again.
That had been happening a lot lately.
Soft sheets covered his scar-riddled stomach but left his arms free to rest at his side, colourful and bruised and bathing in warm, itching rays.
"The hell…?" He croaked throatily.
His head rolled listlessly toward the source; neck creaking like old furniture, brow knitted solemnly as he glimpsed the clean, nondescript room. A cabinet, a door, machinery, a hygienic dispenser, panelled lighting… a medical centre. An insignia had be embossed into the far wall; twin C's large and proud in earth characters and shaded eggshell to match the room's colour. Then there was the large window pane was adjacent to it; clear and glowing with sunlight and framed by cloth sheets hanging on either side. They were open and welcoming to the intrusive brightness.
He wanted them drawn.
Day and night… for Chief, they were just rotations; tools to set clocks, plot invasions, and handle planetary affairs. But in the absence of any imperialistic urgency, he noticed the intricacies… the shades the sun painted in the sky and atmosphere that was strangely unique to this world, like artwork. The sun was warm and yellow, lazily shining on a skyline of blue canvas and dome buildings. It was technically his 'home planet', that much Uncle Raditz had told him, but something about the glow struck the Unit Captain with a pang of familiarity he didn't know still existed.
It energised his otherwise lifeless body just enough to sit up, and the sheets slid to his waist to revealed fresh blemishes and a tail draped protectively around his midsection.
How did he get here?
Earth wasn't what he'd imagined. He knew the essentials; atmospheric composition, population centres, strengths and weaknesses… but as he gazed through the window, the scenery seemed ill-fitting.
It hadn't just been revenge that had made the planet such an ideal target; Lord Coola wasn't petty enough to risk so much for trivial shit, instead it was the technology. The kind of technology that could carry a small group of earthlings hundreds of thousands of light-years to a remote planet on the other side of the galaxy. The kind of technology that could tempt someone like Prince Vegeta to stay. The kind of technology that could help elevate the Kold empire to new heights; to continue its evolution and extend its dominance.
Could have… that dream had died with the Commander.
For a technological marvel, he expected cold, passionless steel stretching to the skies, not the quaint buildings and green plots of residential buildings. He expected steel panels to shutter the windows, not quaint and primitive cloth. And something about the shade and warmth of the sunlight and the cloudy blue of the sky…
"Morning, sweetie!" Her voice was airy, bright, and song like as daylight filled the bedroom. "Time for breakfast!"
His hands rest in his lap; worn and vascular and calloused under the sun's scrutiny. His head was dipped lifelessly, black hair brushing his shoulders as he gazed wearily at the digits; thumbs twiddling softly and aimlessly as his senses acted on their own accord. He could almost smell the summer of the grassy lawns, the autumn from the trees, the spring from the flowers, the innocence of it all…
It was exposing.
Exhausting.
"Fucking Argo…" his scoffed weakly. He'd had something to do with this.
Hardened knuckles, refined to iron, felt smooth beneath the pad of his thumb. How many planets had he conquered? How many people had he killed? How many were left?
More, the Supreme Commander's voice echoed through his mind; the mission sharp and assured against his soft heart. Always more. Until the cycle has been broken. Until the galaxy has been purged of chaos and brought to order. Until suffering has been brought to an end and peace reigns across the cosmos.
Until the enemies of order have been crushed and all life knew the name Lord Coola, another voice jumped in. Bolo's… heavy but rhythmic and comforting in its certainty; Until they could sit back and smile at a grateful universe.
A teardrop softened the callus.
The weight of defeat sank his stomach as the stench of the bodies wafted from the canyon, so much so that he failed to notice the muffled voices and commotion brewing behind the eggshell walls.
"Chi-Chi."
"No!"
Two women… one calm the other hysterical.
"Chi-Chi… Please."
"Out of the way!"
A scuffle… then the door swung open, cracking the far wall and snapping him to attention as the hysterical woman stormed urgently into the room. She was tailed closely by a shorter woman with blue hair, a fitted red dress, and an oversized white lab coat draped over it. A doctor or a scientist, but her pleas were ineffectual.
Both froze when they saw him; they hadn't expected him to be awake.
She was small and unassuming, the first woman… pale-skinned, slim build, jet black hair tied in a practical knot, and a long robe-like dress. Her eyes looked tired and worn though her presence demanded attention. Through reddened eyes, he watched the hysterics fade to disbelief and the blue-haired woman did the same. She eyed him cautiously, as if he were a threat, but the black haired woman gazed with familiarity.
"Gohan…?" Her voice cracked in a whisper.
His tail tightened around his waist.
He sniffed wetly, weak and exposed as more tears soaked his cheeks and softened his hands. Moments stretched endlessly as the black-haired woman approached almost tentatively, a trembling hand touching her bottom lip and old, weary eyes watering.
"Chi-Chi…" The other woman's tone pleaded caution, though she knew it was futile. 'Chi-Chi' wouldn't listen.
Inexplicably, he didn't react as she crossed the foot of the bed, nor as she claimed a seat on the mattress beside him, nor as her hand kneaded and examined his face and cleared errant black locks from his eyes. He only watched, transfixed both by her boldness and overfamiliarity, and his inability to take action.
"Sweetie, i-is… is it you?"
Her eyes bored into his own, scrutinous and wet and hopeful and disbelieving and absorbing every feature. And paralysing… he couldn't reject this uninvited proximity. It usually meant death or harm. The fight had fled him but it wasn't emptiness that shackled him.
"W-What have they done to you…!" She breathed sharply, eyes wide with alarm and concern as they spotted the stretch of hardened flesh around his left eye.
Then they inspected his torso and his followed meekly… For the first time, he took in the severity of it… his bandages and the catalogue of scars they failed to conceal. He knew his eyes mimicked her own as she caught each one. Sauza's blade once again felt hot against his abdomen as he caught sight of that particular patch of thick, knotted skin. Suddenly he felt self-conscious and mentally fumbled for assuaging words to minimise each scar's implication, but nothing came. His mind was as paralysed as his body.
For the woman, it was the final drop that burst the dam.
Her eyes fell apart, face melting with tears, and she enveloped him in a tight embrace. Her body shook and trembled with sobs but he could only offer statuesque stiffness in response. His face was unmoving, black eyes pearlescent and vacant, ears perked.
"I'm so sorry-I'm so sorry! I-I didn't… but he… a-and you… and I-I thought…!"
She blabbed sincere apologetic nonsense as the blue haired lab coat watched on with a face that valiantly concealed her emotion. But Chief didn't focus on the words, only her smell, like autumn, summer and spring.
"Mommy's here. And I'm not going anywhere."
Stiffly, he blinked more tears onto her dress.
"Modi…"
"No."
"Modi!"
"I will not do it, Kai!"
King Kai's antennae twitched in agitation as he glared inwardly at the obstinate guardian.
"We need him!" He insisted, but the Yardrat was resolute from his Lookout perch.
"I will not further engager the planet! I will not train a monster, regardless of who sired him." He scoffed. "You must think me insanely irresponsible to even suggest it!"
"Two super saiyans aren't enough; you said it yourself. Right now we need all the help we can get."
King Kai quivered with earnest, both at Modi's stubbornness and his tiresome dismissal.
"As if one sociopathic miscreant wasn't enough." The latter muttered. "Now you bring a second!"
Kai blinked; incredulous.
I brought…?
"Are you implying I sent him to earth…?"
"I don't believe in coincidences, especially when they involve super-powered psychopaths."
As soon as the words registered, his cheeks puffed even further and he quivered with rage.
"How dare you! As if I would do something so reckless!"
If he wasn't an interim Guardian…
"Then how did he get here?" Modi demanded. "Not two minutes since his arrival and he's already killed two earthlings and near crippled Krillin."
"In self-defence…" King Kai stressed, though he knew it would do little to dissuade the chieftain of his antipathy.
Self-defence or not, it had been a painful mismatch. Even he himself had winced at the suffering and death Gohan had wrought upon his arrival. King Kai despised unnecessary death, no matter the perpetrator, and he lamented the demise of the soldiers on Earth as much as he lamented those consumed by the World Eater's forces.
"Either way," he continued "it doesn't matter!"
The response was a silent, almost offended incredulity.
"Doesn't matter…?"
"Yes! Two deaths are inconsequential to the billions lost already. We're running out of time!" King Kai stressed. "Stop allowing your personal prejudices to cloud your judgement!"
Modi bristled at the accusation, proud as he was, and King Kai felt it.
"Any prejudices I hold are warranted, I assure you." He stated firmly. "Or has your fondness for my student made you forget the atrocities their species have committed? No doubt this boy has a few of his own."
Tiny blue hands were balled into tight, quivering fists. The tiny God shook so hard, Gregory was sure he would burst.
"Why you… stubborn… self-important… insubordinate… nincompoop!"
Modi blinked.
"Nincompoop?"
"You are the guardian of Earth! Your job is to act in the planet's best interests and, right now, they align with the galaxy's."
"I am-"
"Regardless of how you feel about it!"
The Yardrat's eyes narrowed at the chastening.
"As guardian of Earth, I would be remiss in my duties if-"
"I know your duties!" The elder snapped, then sighed. "But this is Goku's son. He's strong and we can use him."
A long and contemplative pause gave Kai hope.
"You're asking me to train a monster who will one day pose a threat to this planet."
"I'm asking you to re-unite a father with his son."
And hopefully heal Goku's trauma… though the Kai remained silent, allowing the implication to hang in the air.
Modi sniffed, obstinate wall cracked enough to allow consideration.
"Train him." King Kai pleaded.
"He's not like you."
He stood in the eggshell halls of Capsule Corporation's medical compound; cooking under bright lights and breathing in the sterile air. Four innocuous words stoked a storm in his mind. A door stood in front of him; dark wood, polished and fragile in the face of his otherworldly strength, but a near insurmountable obstacle when guarded by his own fear.
His little boy was in there.
His family's happiness… the glue that would piece them back together after countless light-years and a full decade had separated them for so long. Yet he hesitated; as a whirlwind of apprehension swirled through his gut, stretching seconds into minutes into hours and smothering whatever excitement and urgency he'd felt. It warped reality too; the compound heaved with lab-coated activity most days but today the hallway was desolate.
Bulma's doing he was sure.
His friends were behind him. Yamcha, Puar, Tien, Chiaotzu, his father in law, all were in attendance offering support and strength for what would be a momentous occasion. Though they did so from a respectful distance of the compound's main foyer. Privacy was paramount here. Only Krillin was absent, though Goku didn't hold grudges. He didn't have the emotional capacity to do so today either way.
Bulma had stood beside him too, offering updates and words of encouragement though her optimism was tempered. She'd seen Gohan's armour.
"It's been a long time, Goku." She'd warned. "He might have changed."
Her fingers pressed his shoulder reassuringly but he'd been optimistically defiant, offering an awkward smile. Still his hesitancy betrayed his fear. The two had become estranged over the years… Goku and fear… ever since his brother had torn their family apart. His son had been taken from him and he'd faced death; what else was there to be afraid of? But today it reared its head again, ugly and paralysing and uglier than he'd ever seen it, and Bulma sensed it.
"Be careful." Was all she said, then she stepped back and left him to his task.
Her words echoed Vegeta's, though with far less spiteful poison. Despite the nervous hammering of his heart, four words hissed like a snare in the saiyan prince's trademark gravel.
"He's not like you."
They transported him back to their confrontation the previous day as his nerves relived the biting northern cold.
They'd stood over the glaciers in a tense standoff as Tien and Chiaotzu had tended to his long lost son. Overlapping absence and mutual interests on Earth had fostered a steady truce between Goku and the Saiyan Prince, but Vegeta's attack on his son had changed all that. Now a fuse had been lit, igniting both their hair, and their decade-long detente was about to turn hot.
Paternalistic fury had raged through him when he'd caught site of his lifeless son. Vegeta had growled at the blindsided provocation, lip cut and chin blemished by a thin trail of blood, while Goku's knuckles still throbbed from the blow he'd dealt him. He'd scowled right back, antipathy brewing in his heart just as it had against Frieza and King Kold, though this had been all the more personal. Vegeta had tried to kill Gohan.
His son who'd been stolen from him by a Saiyan just like him. Just as bloodthirsty. Just as vindictive. Forgiveness had been forgotten in those long moments. Tension had thickened the atmosphere, unnerving Chiaotzu and Tien, as instinct screamed at both combatants to finish it. This… After all these years, shared experiences, rivalries and enemies, despite even the sliver of camaraderie and respect that had developed between the two, this was how it would end. It was inevitable.
That was… until Vegeta had pulled them back from the brink. Despite his opponent being exhausted and depleted, despite the Saiyan Prince's knowledge of that… his tense gate had eased. His eyes had closed, his hair had faded to black, and a smirk had spread across his face as his eyes drifted from his eternal rival to the limp teenager slumped in Tien's arms. Somewhere deep within that widows-peaked head, wires had connected and pieces had clicked.
"So… this is your boy." He'd chuckled, eyes drifting back to Goku.
Silence had been Goku's response, though he'd followed suit; tense stance easing to a passive one. A feat of herculean strength.
Then Vegeta had uttered those four words with a grin of pure indulgence; those four words that still reverberated in Goku's mind nearly thirty-six hours later, as did Vegeta's smirk as he'd taken to the skies.
"He's not like you."
Yesterday, his desperate heartbeat had mercifully drowned out his rival's spiteful words as they'd raced through time zones toward West City. While his son had lay unmoving in his arms. Korin's tower had been his desired destination until Tien had informed him that they were out of senzu beans. Then he'd wanted to take his son back to Mount Paozu but he didn't want his mother to see him this way. That left Bulma.
His best friend; cool under pressure. His best friend who'd been stunned at his sudden and near hysterical appearance with his son, near death, in his arms. His best friend who'd taken over with trademark certainty and whisked his son away with a team of scientists to a medical wing. Who'd been the only one to resist his attempts to follow the doctors into the ward, to convince him his son wouldn't appreciate seeing him this was and assured him he'd be fine under the care of their doctors.
Exhaustion had claimed him shortly thereafter.
"He's not like you."
He'd woken up to find his son unconscious but stable. Alive. Relief and joy had flowed through him, opening his mind to nonsensical optimism and their possibilities.
They could be a family again; he, Chi-Chi and Gohan. His powerful son, with an energy so great it had dwarfed Vegeta at its peak!
It could only mean he was a super saiyan and at a ridiculously young age too! Pride had flooded through him at that, he couldn't help himself. That explained why he was been so beat up; Gohan had just overindulged a little bit but that was fine, it just meant he'd need a few lessons in controlling it. They could train after they caught up over dinner and fishing and-.
"He's not like you."
Those words, they nagged at him as the adrenaline faded.
Raditz had taken his son away… his evil brother… His son had come back in person but would he be there in spirit? The two brothers perfectly illustrated the dichotomy of good and evil in Goku's mind. If his son wasn't like him, and he'd been raised by his big brother…
…then what was he?
Was he a 'true saiyan'? Like Raditz?
Like Vegeta?
It was that thought that had put hesitancy into his steps now, cementing his boots to the ground front of the perfectly polished door. He wrung the small cap in his hands.
It was a gift for his son; a small lump of red fabric trimmed with gold. Chi-Chi had kept it. The hat had faded slightly over the years, with the once vibrant red undercut by a tinge of purple, though it still held as firm as they day it had been made. It was missing the trademark four-star dragon ball too but the boy who'd worn it was the real treasure. He clutched it close to his stomach though it did little to ease the flip-flopping.
He'd flown to Mount Paozu to retrieve it after he'd woken up, while his son had been unconscious. When the uncertainty had crept in.
It was a memento from the last time they'd seen each other and it encapsulated his son's innocence. Maybe he'd remember it when he saw it… his little boy, his pure hearted son. Besides, Chi-Chi was in there with him now, Bulma had told him. And if it was safe enough for his wife to be there, then his son remembered them right? He had to.
"He's not like you."
It was time to be with his family.
With herculean courage, Goku grabbed the handle, turned the knob, and confronted fate.
It was almost dreamlike.
The hollow echo of his footsteps faded when he crossed the threshold and, as he did, a silence seemed to permeate the room. Birds chirped as the midday sun shone through the window, bathing the walls in an ethereal glow that accented the eggshell shade and elm wood cabinets. The scene glowed a serene orange and yellow. In all respects, the small room looked more like a home than a hospital, and as Goku stepped into it, there was his family.
His heart caught in his throat.
His wife and his son.
Chi-Chi had taken her place on a chair beside him; silent, hands clasped around one of his own and kneading the palm with years of unspent motherly affection. Her face was stained with dried tears as she smiled an exhausted smile.
And his son… Gohan… Goku didn't recognise him.
His mind had locked him in time; tiny, timid, gold tunic, red hat with a dragon-ball perched on top, endlessly curious but endlessly shy too. The boy in the bed looked nothing like his son, and, stupid as that was, it surprised him.
"He might have changed."
Gohan was sat up, swathed in bandages as he had been yesterday, and his head was dipped almost solemnly.
His hair was wild and long and shiny and black as the night as it swallowed his shoulders. Errant locks fell over his eyes and hid his face from the world. His skin was rich with a gentle brown that almost eluded Goku in the room's ethereal orange glow, and it pulled tightly to a lean frame. Weakened as he was, he was strong. But what caught Goku's attention the most were the scars; large and small swaths of warped skin proudly peppered his torso.
He was a survivor… a smile pulled at Goku's lips.
He was so lost spectating the masterpiece that he'd forgotten his purpose there, until the door clicked shut behind him and his wife and son both looked up at him.
His heart had never beaten harder.
Goku had half expected animosity from Chi-Chi; for his negligence, for not coming home. Instead she was happy. Joy filled her eyes in a way he hadn't seen in ten years, as if the years of silent accusation had disappeared and she'd forgiven him. Unspoken forgiveness for unspoken accusations. Could they be a family again?
Goku's mouth opened as his mind grasped for something fitting to say but nothing came. Luckily, Chi-Chi stepped in.
"That's your father, Gohan. Do you remember?" She prodded, eyes hopeful as they darted between the two, almost as if to will some kind of recognition.
Gohan looked to her, brows furrowed in silent contemplation, then they looked to Goku for the first time in ten years. In that moment, fear gripped Goku in a way he'd never felt before. He was twenty-five again, on Namek and facing down Frieza for the first time. That was the intensity.
"Uh… Hi." He heard himself say. "I'm your dad."
Stupid and lame.
Gohan didn't respond. Instead, he stared. His eyes were eerily piercing, even through those rebellious locks of black hair, and a subtle frown marred his face in a way that nagged at Goku relentlessly. He shouldn't look like that, not his son.
Something was wrong.
"He's not like you."
Still he pressed on.
"I know it's been a long time and… uh… But… we've really missed you… And you're really strong!" Goku grinned nervously, hand scratching his thick black hair as he fumbled for words. "I mean, you really gave Vegeta a run for his money!"
For all the days he'd dreamed of reconciliation with his little boy, it had never occurred to Goku that he wouldn't know what he'd say. But Chi-Chi's laugh eased his anxiety. It was a laugh heavy in equal parts with adrenaline and relief and happiness, and playful with ridicule at his endearingly ridiculous words. Of course he'd say something about fighting. Unfortunately, Gohan's morose gate was like a rock. Unmoving. He staring through black eyes, cold and distant, and Goku wilted and stumbled with guilt.
Did he hate him…?
"I just want you to know that… I love you and I'm so glad you're back and I never wanted anything to happen to you and… and…"
Gohan's eyes flicked to the hat, and Goku's followed suit.
Of course!
He'd forgotten he was even carrying it. And with his fraught nerves, he'd wrung it to a crumpled mess.
"Oh." He said almost to himself, hastily puffing and pulling in a futile attempt at tugging out the now numerous creases. "It's yours. You dropped it when…"
Raditz flashed into his mind's eye, large and superior and tossing his son into the space pod.
Goku tailed off, guilt and grief fresh in his heart, potent as it was the day his son was taken. Gohan just scrutinised, eyes investigative as Goku composes himself.
"Anyway, I thought you should have it so… here."
He offered the precious time capsule to his beloved son lamely, heart straining with hope. His mind pleaded for the boy to take it… but it was futile. He just stared at it for several long seconds before his brow furrowed and his eyes returned to Goku.
Defeated, he could only place the hat gently at the foot of the mattress and his eyes remained rooted to that lonesome pieces of crumpled fabric with gold trim.
"I thought that… y'know…" he began, eyes downcast, "you might recognise it and remember-"
"Get out."
A punch, or at least it felt like it. And Goku recoiled physically. He remembered… his son remembered his failure and hated him for it. It was a reality the Goku couldn't bear. But as he looked up, shocked, towards Gohan, his son was looking at Chi-Chi. He'd been talking to her.
It was a prospect equally as horrifying and her face spoke as much. She was frozen.
"Gohan…" Chi-Chi protested gently, eyes desperate.
"Get. Out."
"Sweetie please…!"
Goku could only watch as her grip tightened possessively on his young hand but he slipped it free as if hers were diseased. The rejection cut so sharply, Goku's heart bled. He opened his mouth to protest his wife's innocence but his son's cold eyes and hard scowl suddenly rooted him to the spot.
Vegeta's hard scowl.
"He's not like you."
For Chi-Chi, happy and hopeful as Goku knew she'd been, desperate as she'd been, briefly connected with her son as she'd been… the humiliation was too much. Her eyes melted into tears, a shaky hand found her lips, and a soft cry shattered the serene, reconciliatory silence of the room as she dashed for the door.
It shattered Goku's heart like glass.
She loved him more than anything. She wasn't the one who lost their son. She'd suffered more than anyone else that day.
"Chi-Chi, wait!"
He instinctively moved to protect his wife. He wanted to console her and protect her and reassure her that she wasn't a terrible mother and she did nothing wrong. That Gohan didn't mean it and he was just confused and angry. That he wasn't mad at her but mad at him and didn't know how to deal with his anger. He started after her until Gohan's voice, raspy with adolescence and incident, stopped him in his tracks.
"He said you were weak."
He turned back to his son, confused. Instinct told him to leave and be a husband to his wife but long-held desire rooted him to the spot.
"Wha…?"
"Kakarot. That's your name, right? That's what he called you"
Recognition flashed on Goku's face and Gohan studied his father intently. He failed at husbandry but he could still succeed at fatherhood. He could still piece his family back together.
"He said you were weak; a no account failure he had to put down. That my mom was an earthling whore you knocked up. That he did me a mercy and saved me from a life of disgrace on this shithole planet."
The sharpness and viciousness shocked him, as did the juxtaposition.
It was like looking in a mirror; his son looked so much like him, and he'd had the same thought when he was born. In fact now, under his son's unflinchingly gaze, Goku noted that time had only enhanced the similarity. His features were now even more angular with age though they were unmistakably Gohan's.
The time spell had been broken, his son was indeed a teenager now. Unfortunately, the words coming from his mouth were unlike anything he'd imagine himself saying, and they were delivered with a certainty that half convinced Goku that his son was gone.
"Well he… the dragon balls…" He wilted as Gohan's intense gaze morphed into a quizzical one.
What could he say; 'your uncle killed me but seven mystical balls brought me back to life'?
"It's complicated." He sighed, defeated.
"Not that complicated. You're alive." Gohan scoffed, sinking tenderly back onto his pillow as his eyes drifted toward the afternoon sun. His face glowed. "He always was full of shit… about most things anyway."
It took a moment for Goku to realise the 'he' Gohan was referring to was Raditz and his heart throbbed with hatred.
"Where is he?" He asked.
"Dead."
Goku blinked in mild surprise.
"How?"
"I killed him."
The words, sighed with such nonchalance, struck like a punch to the gut. Goku stated wide-eyed and open-mouthed at his son, whose eyes remained fixed to the window. He was oblivious to the turmoil racing through his father's mind. What? When? How? Did Raditz hurt him? Did they fight? Did he suffer…?
There were so many things Goku wanted to say in that moment but he could only croak inarticulately.
"Why…?"
Gohan spared him a brief glance as if it was the dumbest question in the world, until his expression eased, his tongue rolled in contemplation and he turned to stared out the window once more.
"Doesn't matter."
That's it? Goku didn't know what to say. He stood awkwardly as his son's face glowed hauntingly in the sun. Part of him was proud but another part was horrified; his son was supposed to be gentle and kind and scared, not a ruthless killer. How could he talk about murder so casually… without even a trace of remorse?
No, his mind protested. No, he's too young to be a killer. This isn't what they wanted for him at all.
Suddenly the crushing weight of failure fell upon Goku's heart; he'd failed to protect his son from this but the punishment was too cruel. He tried to think of something to say but his mind was blank. This was far from the reunion he'd dreamt of.
"You killed Frieza."
Gohan broke the silence. It was more a statement than a question, but it caught Goku off guard none the less. He opened his mouth as if to protest his innocence but he couldn't argue with it. He may not have dealt the killing blow but his inaction allowed Frieza to die. But how did Gohan find out about that; his greatest shame?
Did it even matter?
"It was you, wasn't it?" He continued, oblivious. In fact, he even seemed proud. "Namek. The biggest bastard in the galaxy killed by a monkey from Earth. My father, it had to be." His words were filled with conviction, as if arguing with Raditz himself. "I didn't know who you were, all I knew was that you were strong. And I was so… proud."
Goku said nothing, curious as to where his son was leading him.
"But then it made me wonder; if my dad was so strong… how did he lose to Uncle Raditz? I mean, he was a surly fuck but… he's Raditz." He argued contemplatively. "Maybe my dad didn't lose to him. Maybe Uncle was a liar and my dad just tossed me away."
Shock.
"Never!"
"Maybe he was disgusted by his bastard half breed son."
What kind of poison had Raditz fed him…?
"No! That's not…! I wouldn't-"
"But that didn't make sense either." Gohan continued as if he hadn't heard a word. "I figured if my dad didn't want me then he would have just killed me like any 'true' saiyan would. It was a mystery and I just couldn't figure it out… But I knew I'd find out when I met him. I'd get some answers."
He punctuated his point by locking eyes with his father.
"Gohan… I-" Goku began, struggling valiantly to find the words to capture the storm of emotions.
"You what?"
His brows were furrowed, eyes piercing and almost admonishing, face framed by a severe shock of thick black hair. In that moment, he looked much older than his fourteen years.
"I'm… I'm sorry."
Silence hung in the air.
The apology had caught Gohan entirely off guard and he stared blankly.
"…Huh?"
"I'm sorry… For everything. I know you've been through a lot and I'm sorry for not protecting you… for everything you had to go through."
For once, he looked like a kid again. His eyelids narrow to slits as he examined Goku's face, as if searching for sincerity, and Goku watched on awkwardly with eyes begging for forgiveness and to continue their reconciliation. He didn't know what kind of response his words would have; maybe a scoff of dismissal or even a softening of his features, tears or even a smile.
The last thing he expected was a laugh.
"Wha…?"
Goku was perplexed as his son's face split into a grin, then he barked. It was sharp and understated, not maniacal but far from joyful. Instead it was mocking, and cutting… A Vegeta-like laugh, undercut by a cough and a grimace of pain.
"He's not like you."
"Gohan?" He began, concern plastered on his face.
"I gotta say, I've never heard a saiyan apologise before. Ever. Especially not Uncle Raditz. There isn't even a word for it in the language." Gohan appraised his father. "Coming to think of it, there isn't a word for 'love' either. You two are so different, it's a mind fuck."
Goku bristled at the curse, knowing Chi-Chi wouldn't like it, but he doubted this version of his son would care.
"I grew up on Earth."
"Maybe that's why he beat you so easily." Gohan sneered, shaking his head in mild disgust. "Love… It's been five minutes and I can already tell you're soft. Unsure of yourself. Maybe you just rolled over and begged for your life and Uncle wanted to spare me the embarrassment of knowing."
For the first time, Goku felt anger stir.
"Gohan, stop! I know you're angry but… but you don't know what you're saying!"
"Don't I?"
The anger faded to a desperate plea.
"You have to know I'd never have given you up. Ever. I'm a lot stronger than I was back then."
"I'll believe it when I see it… Maybe all that intel about you killing Frieza was bullshit… because any saiyan with that kind of power would have conquered this planet a long time ago." The words were acidic and dripped with bitterness, and Goku inwardly recoiled at the heat. "That's all they're good for; violence and chaos."
"Maybe that's how they did things back on Vegeta but not now. I don't kill innocent people, I protect them."
The two lock eyes once again, only this time Goku's were filled with conviction. Still, Gohan laughed and Goku found the sound loathsome… as if the idea of protecting innocent people was somehow funny.
"The legend, my father, the noble Saiyan." He mocked derisively. "Disappointing."
His face was a mask of anger and resentment, but Goku couldn't help but see the scars beneath it all.
"Gohan-"
"I don't know that name." He snapped back. "I humoured that Chi-Chi woman; I won't humour you."
"She's-"
"Mom? So she keeps saying." He stated flatly. "Uncle Raditz was wrong again; she looks more like a housewife than a whore."
Goku bristled once again but he held his tongue. Anger would be counterproductive. He needed him back.
"She's missed you. We all have… but she's missed you more than anyone. All she's ever wanted is you back."
There was a pause in Gohan's demeanour. Empathy. It was there, raw and naked, as father and son locked eyes… but it disappeared again as Gohan's brows furrowed toward the bedsheets. He smirked humourlessly as he glanced at his father.
"Sometimes you don't get what you want."
"He might not be the same…"
"What happened to you?"
It was an honest question and Gohan's face flashed something vengeful… but it disappeared as soon as it came.
"I'm tired." He rasped, sinking back into the pillow; eyes closing.
"I-"
"Get out."
Goku recoiled at the abruptness. He tried to think of something to say but his mind went blank. In that moment, he hated Raditz more than anyone he'd ever fought, but it paled in comparison to the hatred he had for himself. As he stared at his hate-filled son, he was confronted with the full consequences of his weakness all those years ago. Both for him and his family.
It had taken a herculean effort just to enter the room and confront tragedy, now it took the same strength to resist the tears brimming in his eyes. He couldn't cry in front of this rage-filled alien possessing his son. He wasn't ready for this. But he would be. If there was any hope of rediscovering the little boy he'd lost, he'd move heaven and earth to do it.
"Get some rest, Gohan." He stated softly, energy spent on elation and depression. Despite everything, a smile pulled at his face. "I don't know what happened to you or how you came back but… I'm glad you're home."
He turned toward the door, eager to escape the pressure cooker, until the boy threw one final insult.
"It's not Gohan." He rasped darkly. "It's Chief."