Chapter 2

"Hey, Mr. Piccolo!"

The Namekian started, his eyes going wide. He was very glad in a way that Gohan had come up behind him. He didn't want his pupil to see how off-guard he had been. That was a fine example to set for one's student: daydreaming. "Hmph," he said by way of answer.

He could hear Gohan's bright, cheerful laugh, which was sudden enough to send several birds flapping into the sky from their warm places on snow-coated branches. "Glad to see you, too."

Piccolo turned to face his student, doing his level best to keep his face stoic. That was nothing new around Gohan. Usually, Piccolo had to fight back a smile. This time, he was doing his best to conceal the gaping hole that seemed to have opened where his heart should have been.

Gohan didn't know.

The former demon let his eyes run over the boy. Gohan was what, twelve years old now? Already, the boy was beginning to look less like a child. His arms were knotted with muscle, the baby fat long since peeled away by rigorous training. His hair, in defiance of any and all methods his mother had used to control it, stood up in rebellious spikes: the true Saiyan style. Piccolo smirked, allowing himself a moment of wry amusement. Gohan looked more like his father every day. Who would have thought I'd ever be glad of that?

"Mr. Piccolo, is something wrong?" the boy asked, his brows drawing together in concern.

The Namekian winced internally. I should be more careful… Much against his will, the former demon was beginning to face the fact that his student knew him very well. Lying to the boy was not easy. Especially when he didn't want to lie. "No. Nothing," he said gruffly, hoping against hope that Gohan wouldn't ask any more questions.

"Are you sure? You aren't acting like yourself."

With some difficulty, Piccolo managed to stifle a growl. "I was just…wondering… about your father," he said. There, that was true. Well, half-true, anyway - but there was enough truth to it that Gohan wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Gohan beamed, his smile and big, glittering eyes lighting up the dimness of the cloud-covered day. "Don't worry, Mr. Piccolo. Dad's doing a lot better."

The Namekian raised a browridge. "Is he now?"

"Yeah. He was up walking around this morning. He doesn't eat like he used to, but he still puts away a lot. I guess he has to work his way up after the hospital food." Gohan made a face, which caused Piccolo to smile internally. Gohan's body had grown fast, but he was still a child in all the ways that mattered.

But wait - Goku was feeling better? Something was strange there…

"Dad even asked for you a while ago."

Piccolo wanted very much to check and see if a stake actually had been driven through his chest, because that's what it felt like. However, he thought that would have been kind of obvious… "Did he? Why?" The Namekian was pleased that he had managed to keep his voice level.

Gohan shrugged. "I dunno. He said something about thanking you for bringing him home. I said I'd go thank you for him, since you probably don't want to come over."

Piccolo closed his eyes for a long moment to get his balance back. "It…was nothing," he managed finally.

Gohan smiled to himself. His sensei had always hated being thanked - he was pretty modest that way. "Well, I'd better be off. School starts in fifteen minutes. I'll see ya later, okay?"

The Namekian nodded once, forcing his eyes open. Gohan lifted into the air, waving goodbye in true Son fashion as he vanished into the layers of gray clouds like a fish into the sea.

The onetime Demon King watched the place where he had disappeared for a long time, almost willing the boy to come back. He wanted an excuse to loiter here instead of doing what he knew he had to.

* * *

A pair of glittering, garnet eyes peered through the thin layer of glass, eyeing the two people in the room. Son Goku was standing - yes, standing - on his own two feet, his tail swishing around at his ankles. The man was smiling, his head tilted a little to one side as he listened intently to his wife. Chichi was obviously giving instructions; Piccolo could tell by the wideness of her stance and the sureness of her expression. At first glance, everything was back to normal.

Except…there was something wrong with Son's eyes. They were still bright, but they lacked the old fire. It was like comparing a hundred-watt bulb to a firefly. And the man was rocking on his feet ever so slightly. Only one who was carefully looking for such a thing could have seen it, but Piccolo did. He wished he hadn't.

Apparently satisfied, Chichi left the room wearing a small, relieved smile on her lips. Goku remained on his feet until a few seconds after the door had shut, his eyes closing tightly and a hand raising to grip the fabric over the left part of his chest as if it, not his own heart, were responsible for his pain.

Piccolo could see what was about to happen as clearly as he could see the house in front of him. He had the latch to the window undone before he realized that his fingers were moving, had shed his cape and turban equally quickly when he eyed the tight fit, and was inside the room in time to catch the Saiyan the moment his knees gave out.

* * *

Goku had closed his eyes, hoping that he could retain control over his body for at least another few seconds. He focused the full of his attention on his fluttering heart, ordering it to stop this nonsense and behave itself. As if in response, it throbbed all the harder.

The Saiyan was concentrating so hard on the new pain in his chest that he completely forgot to chastise his legs for turning to jelly beneath him. He pitched forward, anticipating the lifeless thud of his body striking the ground; instead, he fell into a circle of strong arms, his cheek coming to rest against loose, soft fabric. Goku smiled wearily, his breath coming in ragged gasps that moved him up and down a little. Not bothering to open his eyes, he said "Making a habit out of this, huh?"

Piccolo - for he knew that was who had caught him - snorted. Goku could feel himself being shifted around into a less awkward position, so that the majority of his weight fell against the Namekian's forearms. Funny, why hadn't Piccolo said anything? The Saiyan laboriously opened his eyes and tilted his head up, doing his best to clear his vision. He saw the former demon (although he was somewhat blurry) staring down at him, his expression…sad. There was no other way to describe it. Just sad.

Goku blinked, beyond words for one of the few times in his life.

In the prolonged silence that followed, the former demon picked the man up as if he were a feather and not a full-grown Saiyan. Son really felt like he should have said something, but the dull ache in his chest was spreading, encompassing his lungs as well as his heart, now. He felt like the captain of a mutinying ship, helpless to do anything but watch as one sailor after another took up the revolution.

He was still fighting to keep some semblance of control over his body when Piccolo lowered him onto the bed. The Namekian wasn't particularly gentle about it, but it was the thought that counted, after all. Goku let his eyes flutter shut as a pair of insistent hands pushed him down until he was lying on his back and, for a long time after that, he thought of nothing but following one difficult breath with another.

The pain took a long time to fade. It never left completely anymore, but it did recede to tolerable levels if he gave it enough time. Drawing a shaky sigh, he tried to sit up. A large hand settled on his shoulder, forcing him back down easily. "Don't push it, Son," a low voice rumbled.

The Saiyan's eyes popped open in surprise. "Pic…I thought you'd be long gone."

A scowling green face came slowly into focus. "You think I'd just leave you like this?"

Goku swallowed nervously. He had expected a snappy comment or a quick joke of some sort at his expense. However, when Piccolo had spoken there had been something almost…threatening in his voice. "Sure, I…I mean, no, but…" he realized he wasn't making any sense, yet he couldn't seem to help it.

Shaking his head slowly, the demon sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. Son Goku could feel the mattress depressing in his direction, the springs protesting softly under the added weight. "How is it?" Piccolo asked after a pause, the gruffness in his voice more obvious than usual.

"Not so good, Pic," the Saiyan muttered. He smiled softly at the way the former demon's eyes narrowed. "You were right, I guess…"

"About what?"

Letting his smile grow a little wider, Goku whispered, "You always said…that my soft heart… would be the death of me someday…"

The Namekian looked away as if he had been slapped across the cheek, his hands balling into fists.

Another pang was coming, Son could tell, but he made up his mind that he wouldn't give in to it. At least, he wouldn't until Chichi left the house to go to the store. He turned his head, letting his eyes come to rest on one of Piccolo's clenched hands. Geesh, Pic was acting weird; he was touchier than usual. Goku hadn't meant for his comment to upset his friend this much; he'd just been trying to break the tension a little, that was all. It was too much effort to move his hands - those were beginning to feel like lead weights, cold and dead on the cloth - so he extended his tail, wrapping it carefully around the Namekian's wrist.

Piccolo jumped a little, probably surprised by the feeling of fur against his arm, and looked back at him with dark eyes that glittered like wet onyx stones. "Why did you ask me to come, Son?" he asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

"Because," the Saiyan whispered back, begging his body to wait just a little longer before attacking him, "you know what's happening."

"Hai," Piccolo murmured. His long, graceful fingers uncurled slowly until his palm was flat on the sheet, making no move either to pull away from Son's rather strange gesture or to respond to it. "Why haven't you told them?"

"I don't want them to be sad…" Goku gasped a little at the end, glancing at Piccolo and hoping he hadn't noticed. He had: the man could tell by the suddenly intent look in the former demon's eyes.

"It's going to be harder for them in the end, when they realize that you've kept this from them," Piccolo admonished quietly.

Son sighed. He knew that Piccolo was right; after all, hadn't his conscience been telling him the same from the outset? "I…I hate it when people are unhappy, Piccolo. I don't mind dying so much, but…but I don't want to watch them trying not to cry every time they see me, hear them…ah…" breathing was getting harder. This next attack was going to be bad, made all the worse by the wait… "whispering about me in the next room when they think I can't hear…" he shuddered, knotting his fingers in the tangled sheets beneath him. "I don't think I can deal with that. Am I being…selfish, do you think?"

"No." The Namekian's voice was emotionless, a sure sign that he was trying to hide whatever it was that he was feeling. "Why me, then?"

"Because, you're…" All of a sudden, the Saiyan felt as if a load of bricks had been dropped on his chest. "Ah! Piccolo, is…is Chichi gone yet?"

The demon inclined his head, obviously in search of ki signatures. "No. She's on her way out, I think…why?"

Son felt hot. Very hot - as if he were in an oven. He could feel sweat beginning to come out, pouring down his face in little streams, running inside his gi. He hated that feeling - it was as if dozens of little insects were scampering across his skin. The tightness in his chest wasn't helping, either. It seemed to be working its way up his airway, doing its best to choke him. "I don't want her to hear…when I…"

He meant to finish speaking, he really did, but the pain hit him then, and he couldn't seem to remember where exactly he left off. He doubled over, sitting up and hunching over his knees, his arms crossing over his abdomen protectively. He could feel his face contorting as he clenched his teeth, hoping to keep from making any noise.

"Son?" Piccolo's voice rose a little in alarm.

Goku opened his mouth slightly to tell Piccolo not to worry, that he was alright, but no sound would come out save for a choked gasp. Even that was almost too much for him to deal with - it felt as if his ribs would collapse at the loss of air. One of the Namekian's hands came to rest on his back - awkwardly, but Goku was beyond caring - and he fell against his larger friend, muffling the animal cries he was making with the gi covering his former rival's shoulder. Hot tears were blazing trails down his cheeks, and he could taste their salt in his mouth. Piccolo went rigid, as if he had been turned to stone. Goku wanted to apologize - he knew how much the onetime demon hated to be touched - but he couldn't stop gasping long enough to try to force out words.

The hand that had been on his back tightened marginally, keeping his thrashing to a minimum. The other hand came up and knotted itself in the tangle of his hair with obvious hesitance. If he had not been in so much pain, the Saiyan would have laughed. He knew the Namekian was just trying to keep him from hurting himself, but he could remember - isn't it strange, he noticed, how much a mind wanders when it's hurting? - a time not so long ago…

*He felt the blow from behind drop him like a clay pigeon that had been blasted, and was prepared to land feet-first on the ground. Goku was quite understandably a bit peeved when he landed in the water instead, creating a splash big enough to frighten wildlife for miles..

He came up sputtering, struggling out of his weighted shirt and boots before they could pull him under. Shaking his head wildly to get his dampened hair out of his eyes, he shot Piccolo (who was standing on the bank, smirking and conspicuously dry) the most indignant glare he could manage under the circumstances.

The Namekian grinned wolfishly. "What's the matter, Son? A little water isn't going to ruin the sparring session for you, is it?"

The Saiyan clamored out of the lake, an idea bubbling up in his mind. "No. Actually, I like water. How about you?" Lunging forward suddenly, he caught his unsuspecting sparring partner in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off the ground.

He wished that he would've had a camera to capture the look of utter shock and indignation on Piccolo's face. "Baka!" the former daimao hissed, struggling ineffectively. "Get off me!"

Goku grinned, virtually mirroring Piccolo's earlier expression. "Why? Are you going to let a little water wreck the session for you?"

The Namekian, who was now fairly damp himself, ceased his struggles and glared down at Goku with impressive presence for one in his situation. "I'll show you a wreck if you don't put me down…"

"Whatever you say, Pic!" Goku retorted, his grin growing marginally wider at the sudden look of comprehension on his captive's face. It didn't do him any good to realize what was about to happen, however: by then, Goku had already dropped him.

The Namekian hit the water with a considerable sploosh, getting Son wet all over again, but in his opinion it was worth it. Piccolo shot out of the lake (minus weighted cape and turban, of course) like an angry green torpedo, and the match was on again…*

A fresh jolt of pain cut Goku's reminiscing short, as if the film to a movie had been cut. The Saiyan clutched fistfuls of fabric in his trembling fingers, lips moving in an unconscious, unvoiced chant: stop, stop, please stop…

He barely even noticed when a trickle of blood painted its way down his lower lip.

"Son, she's gone," Piccolo said, his voice hardly audible. "You can let it go."

And he did, sobbing out loud for the first time since he had found his Grandpa Gohan dead in the forest. He registered vaguely that Piccolo was saying something to him - something in Namekian, over and over. He wished he knew what it meant…

* * *

The first thing he thought of, when he could think of anything at all, was that it was strange for someone to be stroking his hair. He struggled back in to consciousness with an effort, opening his eyes yet again. Immediately, the hand stopped moving - so immediately, in fact, that Son wondered if he had imagined it. "Piccolo?" he murmured drowsily, his face still buried against what he imagined was the Namekian's shoulder.

"What?" was the familiar, baritone response.

"I'm sorry."

He could hear the raised eyebrow in Piccolo's voice. "Phe. For what?"

Goku would have shrugged, but he just didn't feel up to it. "You know. For everything."

"Forget it."

Blinking to clear the salty tear residue from his eyes, the Saiyan said, "I think I bled on you."

A wry chuckle. "It's not the first time."

"Piccolo," Goku asked with sudden urgency, "where's Vegeta?"

Goku could actually feel the low rumble of a growl vibrating in Piccolo's chest. It was an interesting sound this close, he noted. "Off in space somewhere, trying to become a Super Saiyan so he can beat you. As per usual."

Not daring to laugh, even though he felt like it, Son said, "The joke's on him, then. He already can."

"Shut up," the Namekian snapped, although without much conviction. "Don't talk that way."

"Why not? It's the truth…" Goku wondered again why Piccolo was acting so strangely. He was about to ask him, but something else occurred to him first. Shifting slightly, the Saiyan confirmed his suspicion. His tail was still wrapped around the Namekian's wrist. That made him a little nervous - probably because his tail had just grown back at the outset of his illness, and he wasn't used to having it yet - so he unwound his extra appendage and tucked it around his waist. "Piccolo, if you see him, will you tell him that I want to talk to him?"

The former demon drew in a long breath and released it slowly. Son wondered if that had been a sigh. It wasn't Piccolo's usual, exasperated sigh…but it sounded like one, anyway. "On one condition," he growled.

"What's that?" Son asked.

Two hands clasped firmly on his shoulders, pushing him away a little, and Goku found himself staring into two very determined garnet eyes. "You have to drop this act."

Gulping once, the Saiyan said, "Pic, I…I can't. This'll kill them…"

"No it won't, Son. It's killing you, and it's killing…" the former demon trailed off, obviously changing his mind about what he was going to say. "If you don't tell them, I will."

Goku bowed his head. "Okay, deal. I'll tell them." He was lowered onto his back again, and he felt the mattress spring back up - Piccolo was no longer sitting on the bed. Son sighed - he really didn't want to be alone, but he didn't feel like he could ask the Namekian to stay, either. He heard footsteps cross the room, a moment of silence, and then the brisk click of a closing window.

Letting his head loll to one side, the Saiyan wondered how exactly he was going to tell his son that he was dying…and his eyes went a wide. Piccolo was standing with his back to him, fingers still resting on the window he had closed. "You know how your wife gets when people forget to close these," he said by way of explanation.

Son grinned. "You still here?"

A snort. "Yeah. You're stuck with me for the time being." Piccolo eyed Goku critically, his nose wrinkling the slightest bit, just enough to make the snarl lines apparent.

"That bad, huh?" the Saiyan asked ruefully.

"No, worse." Piccolo glanced at the bureau beside the window, picked up a handheld mirror, and tossed it in his direction nonchalantly. Son Goku might not have been in full fighting form, but his reflexes were as good as ever. He caught the mirror easily with one hand and, not bothering to sit up, he took a good look at his reflection.

At first glance, he didn't recognize himself. His hair was damp with cold sweat, he could tell by the way it was drooping. Purple bags that looked a lot like bruises had appeared under his eyes, which were marked by two distinct, salty trails where unaccustomed tears had run. His lip was bloody - he must have bitten it. Either that, or he had been coughing up blood, but he didn't want to think about what that would mean. Even the more permanent aspects of his face were changed. His cheeks were slightly sunken; of course, if he hadn't been so pale, that would have been hard to notice. His eyes, too - those were tired. He couldn't remember a time when he had looked so worn out.

"Point taken," he admitted, dropping the mirror unceremoniously beside the bed.

Neither of them seemed to know what to do at that point. The situation might have gotten uncomfortable, but Son's stomach growled. The Saiyan proceeded to look sheepish while Piccolo rolled his eyes. "Figures," the former demon muttered.

"Uh, Pic…I'm really hungry. Do you think you could…"

A look of horror crossed the onetime demon's face, comparable to the one he had worn when the driving test was suggested. It was quickly concealed with a glare. "No."

Somehow, despite his tiredness, despite all that had happened to him, Goku managed to give the look as effectively as ever. This time, Piccolo succumbed to the urge to slap his forehead. "Son, all the puppy eyes in the world aren't gonna get me to cook, alright? Give it up."

"Aw, c'mon Pic. It's not that hard. There's bound to be something canned - just stick it in the microwave." He wondered as soon as the words left his mouth if Piccolo knew what a microwave was.

"Can't you wait until someone else gets home?" He asked, his voice holding a note of - well, it sounded like desperation, but Goku dismissed that idea immediately. No one would get desperate over heating instructions, would they?

Son didn't say a word in response, he just re-applied the look. Piccolo sighed, and this time it was his normal, exasperated one. "Fine. You owe me BIG, Son. And I don't want to hear about it if I blow up the kitchen. YOU can explain it to Chichi."

It didn't occur to Goku that he might have made a mistake until long after the Namekian had swept out of the room.

* * *

Piccolo let his eyes roam resignedly over the many shelves and cabinets that had been jammed into the modest Son kitchen. I must have the word "sucker" tattooed on my forehead or something… how did I let him talk me into this?

He didn't talk at all, Piccolo reminded himself, growing all the more irritable because he couldn't deny it. You just gave in.

Pushing that thought (and what it implied) as far away as possible, he returned his attention to finding something edible. The first thing that caught his eye was a box - obviously some kind of mix. He picked it up gingerly, as if he were handling an explosive, and began skimming over the directions.

1) Pour into large mixing bowl. 2) Add two eggs…

The Namekian did a double take. No, he couldn't have read that right - could he? With slight nervousness, he opened the refrigerator. His eyes went remarkably wide when he saw a carton marked "One Dozen Large Chicken Eggs."

"That's just…sick," he growled, shutting the door a bit more forcibly than was necessary. He glanced at the box, then back at the now-closed refrigerator, feeling vaguely nauseated for one of the few times in his life. Tossing the box unceremoniously over one shoulder, he muttered, "And they call me demonic."

Even when he had somewhat recovered from the shock, he didn't feel at all like seeing what other atrocities a human cookbook might hold. He turned his head slowly, eyes roaming over the kitchen. They finally settled on two items: a phone and a book labeled "Telephone Directory for Southern Japan."

After thoroughly berating himself for not thinking of this sooner, he walked over to the appliance. He paused a moment - he had never had occasion to use a phone before, but if Krillen could do it, it couldn't be that difficult. He opened the book, hoping to find instructions. Instead, he found long lists of names and corresponding numbers.

"Hmm…" The former demon glanced at the telephone. There were number-coded buttons on the device. Rocket science was not required to figure out what should be done with the listed numbers. Piccolo began flipping through the pages, his long fingers moving with increasing speed.

* * *

Tenko was about ready to go on his lunch break when the phone rang. He fairly dove across the counter to answer it - after all, business had been slow lately. "Flying Dragon Takeout, what would you like to order?"

"Hmmm…good question," he heard a voice mutter on the other end of the line. Then, a bit louder, "What would you suggest?"

Tenko blinked. "Um…we have several value meals, like…"

"Fine."

"Uh, sir…you didn't tell me which one…" he said, feeling a bit confused.

"I don't care. Just bring about fifty of them to…" a moment of silence and the sound of shuffling paper, "Ye gods, I don't even know the address. Mt. Paozo. Do you know where that is?"

This was beginning to sound suspiciously like a crank call. Oh well, who cares? I get paid extra for each delivery, prank or not… "Sure do. I'll be right over," he said, doing his best to sound cheerful.

That was going to be one heck of a long trip by bicycle…maybe he should rent a car…



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