Disclaimer: *has duct taped her mouth shut because she doesn't trust herself*

A/N: *mrfl mrfl* *holds up sign that says "Behold! The longest chapter I've ever written in my life!"*

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Petrified Tears
chapter 108



Work had been, somehow, bearable today.

For the first time in years, he'd worked a full shift, rather than goofing off for the majority of one, or letting the stress of being cooped up in the box get to him. By ten o'clock, he'd found himself completely finished with all the tasks that he did on a daily basis, all the grants that needed approval and projects that needed funding by twelve, and three o'clock had found him deep in the company's budget, freeing up funds for the more expensive divisions and for projects that he'd been wanting to get underway for years.

At three-fifteen, his mother had walked in and taken a serious interest in his sanity.

He sighed, dropping the for-once-empty briefcase onto his dresser, yanking off his tie and setting it on top.

He'd consulted the Sock Puppet of Smelly Death today about his problems, and the Sock had dutifully informed him that he worried too much, worked too hard, really did need an assistant, and that He was hungry and the Xerox machine was threatening to eat hapless employees alive and destroy original documents unless its faithful priestess was returned.

Trunks sighed and hung up his blazer, dropping his shirt into the hamper.

Pan.

He wouldn't deny that her flight had upset him, but he also was also relieved to have finally said something.

Yes, the look of dawning that held neither horror nor hope that had spread across her face had been disconcerting. But the fear that had seemed to grip her hadn't been one of disgust or at the mere thought of him thinking that she might have felt the same. Try as he might, he couldn't place what that fear had been for, and he'd tried all day Sunday as he had helped his mother and sister clean up after the party.

Hanging up his slacks and grabbing an old pair of worn and stained jeans from a shelf he'd built into the closet a few summers ago, he shook his head, stepping easily into the heavy denim, careful not to shove his foot through the hole in the right knee.

After he'd told her, Pan had smiled nervously, her eyes darting away, fingers giving his a tight squeeze, and mumbled something about her parents waiting before leaving him there, walking away with a hand raised to her head, fingers barely touching her forehead as she seemed to stumble away, back straight and her steps stiff. His father had walked up to him, standing beside him as she slowed before Gohan, who looked at her worriedly and then back at him, a meek, thin-lipped smile on his face. And then the Sons had left, Goten watching his niece with something akin to disappointment before throwing a wave and walking off.

No one else seemed to have noticed what had gone on between them. Bra had run over to say good-bye to her, but she'd stopped as Pan walked right by, not seeming to see her.

"I'll see to your mother and sister," his father had said quietly, their eyes never meeting. And in the day and a half since, neither Bulma nor Bra had said anything, though there was a mild air of curiosity about the house.

Trunks sighed and walked downstairs, picking up the planks of sheetrock, the can of plaster, and the palate knife he'd left by the front door. Setting them next to the wall that had once separated the stairway from the living room, he turned stood and headed downstairs to his mother's playroom, pulling a tarp from a storage cabinet and a straightedge from a workbench.

"Trunks?"

He paused, level on top of the cabinet, hands pulling the tarp from within. He glanced over to where his mother was emerging from behind one of her contraptions.

"I thought I heard someone else in here." She paused, wiping her hands on her shirt, leaving spots of grease on a shirt that had to be as old as he was. "What are you doing in here, Hun? How long have you been home? You weren't here when I got home…"

He shrugged, pulling out the tarp and closing the cabinet. "I stopped to have my windshield replaced and ducked into a hardware store while I waited. I want to fix that wall since I'm home."

She smiled. "There are some 2x4's in the back if you need any." She paused and then set her hand on his arm as he reached up and grabbed the straightedge. "Sweetie, I don't know what happened at your sister's party, but whatever it was, it's probably for the best."

He smiled and turned, giving her a one armed hug.

She smiled as he let go, opening her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the doorbell.

"Wonder who that could be?" she mused quietly, then shook her head. "I'll get that. You fix my wall."

He shook his head as she wandered off, then moved back to find boards to replace the studs he had destroyed. A few minutes later found him back on the main floor, two 2x4s slung over a shoulder, tarp under an arm, red metal toolbox swinging freely in his hand.

"She's still at work right now, but I don't think she would mind if you went into her room," he heard his mother say to whoever was at the front door.

"Thanks. I'll only be a minute or two."

"Take your time, Sweetie."

Trunks crouched, rolling the 2x4s from his shoulder and setting them on floor, shaking out the tarp and stomping it lightly against the wall, careful to keep his workboots from touching the clean plaster. Shaking his hand a little, he warmed a little of his ki into his fingertips, holding the level straight against the remaining wall until it was parallel to the floor before running his fingers along the plaster, using his energy as a knife, carefully cleaning the remaining sheetrock on this side of the wall into straight line.

"Pan's here," his mother said quietly, setting a trashcan near him as he started on the lower end of the hole. "She came to get the clothes she left here Saturday night."

He nodded mutely; he'd had a pretty good idea who was at the door before he'd even reached the top of the stairs. As much as he wanted to talk to her, to find out what he'd done wrong, what had caused that response, he was willing to let it die; he wasn't looking forward to seeing her anytime soon.

"You know, Trunks," his mother said, picking up a few pieces of plaster from the ground, dropping them into the receptacle, "I've pushed you into working hard for the last few years, but I never really realized how much you hated it. If you think an assistant would take some of the weight from your shoulders, maybe even allow you to be home more often…"

He nodded, struggling to get the little bubble in the center of the old yellow level to line up. "It would. Especially with weeks like last week, when the new fiscal year's getting back underway and there are hundreds of clients all vying for mass production and more money. Or when the research facilities are overbooked or understaffed or so confused that they need someone to hold their hands. I know that cutting back my hours is impossible right now, but it at least might let me free up some of the hours that I'm there so that I might be able to start some of those projects I've been wanting to do for a long time."

Blue hair bobbed in the corner of his eye as he checked the level, the bubble finally seeming to cooperate.

"Do you think Pan would…"

He shook his head. "She hated it in there. And while most of the employees miss her, and today's ambassador of the fanclub looked disappointed at the fact that there wasn't going to be any competition for my attention, it's still her choice. And I don't think she wants an office job."

Bulma looked at him curiously, something seeming to fall into place in her eyes. Shaking out his fingers once more, he looked up at her through his hair, almost challenging her to say something.

"I guess what I'm asking you is if you'd want her there."

He looked back to the wall, jaw clenched, shoulders taut. He forced himself to calm down before he charged his ki into his finger tips once more and started to clean away the torn plaster. Beside him, his mother shifted awkwardly. He lifted his fingers from the wall and closed his eyes.

"It's her decision," he managed, quite proud that he managed to keep the bitterness of her flight from his voice. He didn't move until he heard his mother sigh and walk away. Only then did he open his eyes and allow himself to stare dejectedly at the wall.

He didn't want to hate her, or be mad at her; it wasn't necessarily her fault if she didn't feel the same way as he did. But just the same, she could have said something. She could have offered him a least a smile. Maybe she was just confused, or was scared of getting close to him.

Or maybe…

"You know, when Bra told me you'd put a hole in the wall, she didn't say anything about it being the size of a door."

Trunks blinked as the small voice reached him, looking up from where he was hedging away the debris. He was first met with white socks, but white socks couldn't talk-at least, most white socks-so he looked farther up, past the blue jeans and the orange shirt, to the face that looked down at him almost sheepishly, like she felt she had no right to say anything.

He blinked and shrugged, looking back down at what he was doing, feeling quite dead inside, though his heart still beat. He didn't know what was worse-the death he had suffered this time last week, when his heart had died as well, leaving him completely empty, or this.

On the other side of the wall, Pan heaved a quiet sigh and sat down, lightly hugging her knees.

"You must have been pretty mad at me last weekend," she said, trying again to get him to say something.

Coughing lightly, he relented, some little voice in his ear telling him that she was setting aside her pride and was trying to say something he might want to hear. Regardless that he'd done the same and she'd only run away. It was finally time he act his age.

All thirty-five years of it.

"I was upset with myself," he replied, internally wincing at the monotone his voice had adapted. But so long as he wasn't being bitter, he supposed it was alright.

Slender fingers reached down and picked away a chunk of waste before it could fall within the skeleton of the wall, tossing it past him into the trash can his mother had left. She seemed to hesitate a little before continuing.

"You know…I'd never imagined you knew anything about carpentry." She'd forced a little bit of laughter into her voice, but it was strained, the kind of laughter that you push into a sentence to take the edge off of nervousness.

He shrugged again, the movement a welcome relief to the taut and knotted muscles across his back and his neck. "Goten and I helped Gohan build your house years ago," he said, relenting to conversation, his voice carrying a little more inflection now, not quite as dead as before. "A way to keep us from practically killing each other on our own. After the third incident with the nailgun and the rotary saw, we weren't allowed to use anything that had more power than a hammer."

She smiled and he sat back on his heals, looking up at her as he set aside the level. She wore her bandana for once, two pigtail braids snaking down onto either side of her neck. The picture of her and Jack flashed into his mind, but he forced it away.

"Why are you here, Pan?" he asked quietly. She seemed to flinch, but the movement was so miniscule that he almost missed it. Letting go of her knees, she tugged a little at the sleeves of the shirt, pulling them down over her hands.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm leaving again."

He nodded and turned away, opening the bright red toolbox and pulling out the tape measurer his sister had given him a couple years ago. The bright green casing had blinded him when he'd first started using it, but over time he'd come to realize that the glow-in-the-dark quality of it was especially helpful when he was crawling under one of his mother's inventions to find out what measurements were off.

"You're good at running away," he mumbled beneath his breath, almost unaware he was speaking.

"I'm not running away," she spat vehemently, the first real emotion she'd expressed since she'd started talking. He met her glare and she caved, looking back down at her hands, tugging at the sleeves again. "Jack needs moral support and I need to figure a few things out for myself."

He snorted, shifting his weight to pull one leg from under him, leaning onto his knee and he ran the tape across the gap. She bristled and answered the question she knew was coming.

"He's been in love with a friend of ours for years but he's never had the courage to say anything. I'm heading back for a week or two so that maybe I can help the two of them get together." Her voice caught as if she suddenly realized what she was saying and she looked away again. "I mean…um…well, I know she pretty much feels the same way about him but has too much pride to admit it."

"Is this supposed to be some sort of metaphor?" he snapped, resisting the urge to throw down the tape measurer. Blue eyes bore into the side of her face. "Is this conversation supposed to-"

Her head whirled back around to face him and she glared down at his face. "What the hell are you talking about? A metaphor? Trunks, Jack wants to marry Molly but Molly is too terrified of getting hurt."

He met her stare dead on, taking a small victory when she snorted and looked away, hands white-knuckled on her knees. "You sound a lot like your uncle right now," he grumbled, standing and pulling out the tape to mark the top of the gap.

She said nothing, and he ground his teeth.

"You're really not the one to be giving anyone moral support about this sort of thing anyways," he continued, hands overhead, working mechanically.

Pan growled, but didn't dispute him. "You make it sound like I did that intentionally. You scared me shitless. What the fuck was I supposed to do, Trunks?"

She wasn't really asking him, but was asking the wall that wasn't there. A corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't give into the smirk; instead, he gave up with the wall and tossed the tape down to rest at his feet.

"You know, I'd really wish you'd make up your mind, Pan, you know that?"

All the vehemence seemed to drain right out of her and she looked at him, almost naively. He resisted the urge to start laughing with sardonic mirth.

"What? What are you talking about, make up my mind?"

He caught her gaze, eye to eye without stooping. Despite the tension that was roiling within him, he was relaxed-if he was any more relaxed, he'd call himself defeated.

"You sit and you complain and complain about being nothing but a tomboy. That none of us see you the way you are or as anything more than what you'd always been. About how you want someone to wake up and see you. But when somebody finally does, you throw it back in his face and act like it never happened."

The shock on her face was somewhere between indignant and honestly surprised. If it weren't for the curl in her lower lip, he'd almost feel sorry for what he'd said. But the truth was, he'd stopped feeling. He'd had enough of her pity trips.

"What?!"

He stared at her pointedly, blue eyes boring into blue. After a moment, he turned away. "You're not worth it," he muttered to himself and moved to leave the room. Leave the house. Find some innocent and inanimate object to pound out his pent up frustrations on.

"Make up my mind?" she cried, getting up and staring after him as if he'd truly wounded her. "Make up my mind?!" She hesitated as her voice filled the house, but then shook her head and stormed after him, following him into the kitchen where his mother was making herself a sandwich.

"Yes Pan," he replied curtly as he tried to continue through the kitchen to the back door. He could feel her fuming in the doorway behind him, could almost imagine her there with tight fists and indignant rage.

"You're one to talk!" she spat after him as he started through the other door. Between them, at the sink, his mother was looking back and forth like a trapped wild animal, both of them blocking the only means of escape. "How can you expect me to believe you when you literally dumped me into the sand last weekend? One minute you don't want me and the next you do?! Who needs to make up their mind, Trunks?"

He whirled, framed in the doorway, just as angry as she was at this point.

"Don't tell me-Saturday was your version of petty revenge, right?"

"I certainly wish I'd thought of that then!" she cried back, her face white with anger, hands held away from her sides as she stood there stiffly. "But I'm not as petty as you, asshole!"

He shook, angrily, hands clenching into fists at his own sides, hackles raised. He set one foot forward and leaned on it, a stance he'd unconsciously adopted from his father.

"Me? Petty? Name one petty thing I've done to you since you came home, Pan."

"Fear my father," she snapped, shoulders hunched up and slightly behind her.

"You're one to talk-what the fuck are you so afraid of? You walked away like you'd just seen someone die!"

She trembled a little. Between them, Bulma armed herself with a butter knife, trying to pretend she wasn't listening as she nervously smeared mustard and mayonnaise onto bread.

"How the hell was I supposed to act, Trunks? Ecstatic? Morose? What."

"Your age, maybe?" he retorted. She bristled immediately.

"Oh, so I was supposed to throw myself into your arms and start crying over and over that I love you? It's a big word Trunks, one that can completely carry the fate of a human being!"

He ground his teeth, eyes flashing. "I think I'm perfectly aware of that, Pan." He trembled a little, eyes glazed over red. "Trust me, I know how completely world shattering that word can be. First hand."

She threw up her hands in frustration.

"Excuse me! I don't even know what the word means?"

"Then how do you have such insight into other people, Pan? How can you know how others feel, how deeply someone can love another, and not even have felt a little bit of it yourself?" Something changed in her stance, but he was too busy fighting down his emotions to see what it was. "And trying to help someone realize how they feel, you're only setting them up for disaster. You'll just set up the people around you and fuck around with their feelings. You've done it enough with me, and quite frankly, you're acting like a spoiled little gir-"

He hardly saw her move. But there she was, standing before him, her hand still hovering in the air. His face stung horribly, and as he stared at her hand, he realized she'd slapped him. Slapped. Not punched him, not hit him. Slapped him.

Blinking, anger replaced by bewilderment, he looked back at her. Tears rimmed the edges of her eyes but she was too proud to cry. She looked absolutely defeated.

She'd been trying to tell him something. But he'd been too absorbed with his own self-pity to realize it. His hands relaxed at his sides and he opened his mouth to say something, but she threw herself at him, into his chest, knocking him back into the doorway, arms wrapped lightly around him, face buried in his shirt. Stunned, he shakily lifted his arms, still staring at where her face had been. At the betrayal that had been in her eyes. Almost unaware of himself, his arms circled her gently. He could feel her tears against his chest, her hands clenching at the thin cotton of the wife beater, her body shaking against him.

Slowly, he came back to himself, the bewilderment leaving his eyes, his arms shifting around her, tightening around her into a real hug. He looked to his mother, who stood by the sink, face white, hands shaking, still clutching the butter knife. But she smiled supportively, slinking quietly from the room, butter knife in one hand, sandwich in the other.

He looked down at Pan, then let all of the startled anger drain away, and buried his face into her hair.

And cried.

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A/N: And now we know why I labelled this "angst". *shifts awkwardly* God this chapter and the next two (last two) were hard to write. Anyways, um...yeah...I just had to give Bulma the butter knife. The image was too perfect, I couldn't resist.

Reviews?

-Panabelle ;P
All will be explained in time. And time is all but gone.