Chapter 3

Tenko almost drove right by the house because it was so small and well hidden by foliage. Before long, he wished that he had missed the place entirely. He was forced to spend several frustrating moments maneuvering his air car back and forth before he could find a gap in the trees wide enough to accommodate his vehicle, and a few moments after that wondering if anyone would mind that he had inadvertently landed in a flower bed.

Grumbling to himself - whoever made this order had certainly better be a big tipper - he lifted a wheelbarrow from the back seat and set it on the ground. Still muttering under his breath, he opened the trunk…and was immediately buried in the ensuing avalanche of boxes.

Much lifting, kicking, and griping later, the delivery boy had managed to wrestle the offending meals into submission and embarked on the short trip to the door. He knocked a little more loudly than he needed to, but if there was any chance that the caller had been on the level, he wanted to make sure to catch him at home.

He raised his hand to knock again, but the door fell away and he found himself staring at…a belt. He looked up. And up. And up…into a scowling green face. He felt his jaw drop, and dropped it stayed until he realized that he couldn't talk at all.

"Uh…where would you like me to put these…ah…"

The "ah" came when the green man tilted his head, eyeing the wheelbarrow's contents as if judging their weight. The strange creature nodded as if it found whatever it had been looking for satisfactory…at which point all of the packages lifted into the air and went zipping through the open door. Tenko checked his exclamation by biting the inside of his cheek, noting as he did so the vaguely preoccupied look on his…customer's?…face.

"Thanks, but I can take it from here," the man remarked, speaking with reflexive sarcasm. He turned abruptly, obviously intending to reenter the house.

Gathering his courage, Tenko piped, "uh…sir, if it's not too much trouble…could you maybe…pay me?"

The alien being turned, regarding him with one raised eyeridge. "Pay?" he asked incredulously.

Not knowing how else to respond, Tenko nodded.

Rolling his eyes, the demon waved a hand. What looked like a yellow brick clattered on the doorstep. "I trust this will do?" he asked indifferently.

Upon looking closer, the boy noticed that the object was, in fact, a brick. A brick made of solid gold. His jaw dropped again, rendering him completely mute. His customer, probably taking his shocked silence as aquisence, slammed the door practically in his face.

The human promptly fainted.

* * *

Piccolo shot the closed door a last, scathing glance. He had been able to smell the fear of that human and, rather than accepting it as an accolade due his rank as he once would have, he found that it now served only to annoy him. Then again, there had been a time when the mere sight of him would have been enough to send any ordinary human scurrying away like a squirrel from the jaws of a hungry fox.

"Phe, he's too young to remember that," the former demon muttered, shaking his head. "He couldn't have been much older than Gohan…"

Perhaps that was why he had paid the kid rather than blast him for his impudence as he once would have. "Stop making excuses," he growled. "You've just gone soft."

That confession, made only to himself, a few dozen kitchen utensils, and a fridge containing (among other unnamed horrors he had no intention of discovering) stillborn chickens, served to worsen his mood.

* * *

His first thought, when he landed on the grassy expanse of the lawn, was that his mother was going to kill whatever unfortunate person had destroyed her flowerbed. Gohan crept closer for inspection, glancing around furtively lest his mother appear out of nowhere and blame him for the agricultural disaster that was the rose bush. It looked as if a large vehicle had been parked there. He raised one eyebrow in an expression that he had inadvertently picked up from his mentor. "Why in the world would someone drive all the way up here in an aircar that big?"

Gohan turned his head toward the house, a certain sweep of his hair turning him for a brief moment into his father - but then the ebony locks settled, and the illusion was gone. "And what is Piccolo doing here?" A visit from his mentor was nothing unusual, save that his father and the Namekian were both inside, not darting about the sky like a couple of dueling wasps.

He was getting a funny feeling in his stomach, one that seemed bent on twisting his insides into sailor knots and leaving him doubled on the lawn. Though he did not know it, this was one of his mother's gifts to him - she had a penchant for detecting trouble, one that had nothing to do with chi sensing abilities.

He flung the door open, but the sound it made was paltry compared to the wild thundering of his heart. He was in the living room before the heavy oaken portal had finished a full swing, turning his head to and fro in search of his father or his mentor. His restless eyes settled on Piccolo, who was just looking up from his meditation, green lips pursed in a moue of frustration. The pity in his ebony eyes, quickly concealed, confirmed all that Gohan had been dreading. "Piccolo, what is it? Where's dad? What happened? Why did…"

The Namekian raised one hand, fingers gracefully curved, and waved it dismissively. "Control yourself," he said, voice aggravatingly calm. "You know better than that."

Gohan opened his mouth, closed it, bit his lip. Blinked his eyes, stared at the floor. Finally, "Shumashen, Pikkiro-san. Something's wrong, isn't it?"

His mentor looked away, the narrowness of his eyes and the set of his shoulders speaking volumes in the silence between them. "It's not for me to say."

He had never heard Piccolo sound so regretful. "Wh..where is my daddy, Piccolo? He's the one who has to tell me, isn't he?"

A nod.

Gohan spun on his heel, dashing toward the stairs. He did not see the flash of purple in front of him until he had slammed into it, so he knocked his mentor back a full pace before the larger being could stop the both of them. The boy looked up (and up) at Piccolo, disbelieving, and tried to step around his teacher. The Namekian moved as well, still blocking his way, and looked down at him with a disapproving frown. "You can't go up there like that," he growled.

Blinking - his eyes seemed to have grown blurry for some reason, he couldn't see - he stammered, "L…like what, Mr. Piccolo?"

A clawed finger brushed lightly across his cheek, and the half-Saiyan flushed when it came away moist. "Pull yourself together, boy."

"Dad doesn't care if I cry, Piccolo," Gohan said flatly. Piccolo obviously didn't miss the resentment in his voice - his dark eyes narrowed farther. Regret twinkled in the boy's mind for the space of a heartbeat before he stifled it and started again around his mentor. There would be time for apologies later.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice, a gasp slipped from the space between his lips. Piccolo's grip was painful - he never hurts me outside of sparring, what…

He met the former demon's eyes again, wondering if he had gone too far and really made Piccolo mad at him. He hadn't thought he'd said anything too severe, but with Piccolo it was hard to tell - his mentor had several deep scars running across his soul, and he rarely bared them to view…usually only after one of them had been reopened. The Namekian was looking back at him with the blank, schooled mask that Gohan had not borne the brunt of since before the Saiyans had come. "Mr. Piccolo," he started, heart clenching. "I'm sorry, I…I didn't mean…"

"I know what you meant." The same cold, toneless, soulless voice as before - no trace of care anywhere. "I… Gohan, listen to me." The Namekian did something he had never done before. He lowered himself to one knee, the hand on Gohan's shoulder relaxing slightly, fingers now swastikas in the fabric, not the talons of some large bird. "Your father…he's a very strong man, and one of the bravest, I think, that has ever lived." The garnet eyes softened for a moment, prompting another twinge of fear to dig into the boy's heart. "That doesn't mean he's never been scared, kid."

Gohan, shaking his head in denial, tried to step back, but the hand on his shoulder prevented him from moving. "Ossu…I know. You've never seen him scared. That's because he's always tried to be brave for you, for his friends, for…for the rest of us," the Namekian continued, looking away abruptly.

"This time…I can't explain, but it's different. I don't think I've ever seen Son so…" the former demon cleared his throat. "Never mind. Just…he needs you to be strong for him this time. Can you do that?"

Gohan nodded, not because he thought he could do what Piccolo asked, not because it was the quickest way to get upstairs, not out of curiosity, not even out of fear, but because he couldn't stand to see such an imploring look in the eyes of a man who had never begged for anything in his life. "It's really bad, isn't it?" he whispered, not trusting his voice to stay steady.

Piccolo refused to meet his eyes, but he stepped out of the way, and Gohan was past him, taking the stairs three and four at a time. The Namekian took a step forward as if to follow him, but changed his mind. Best if I don't, Son can handle it. He'd better be able to.

It occurred to him that it might be a good idea to make some tea. Some very strong tea. Humans drank that when they were upset, didn't they?

* * *

It wasn't Gohan who staggered into the kitchen an hour or so later, Piccolo noted, but a haggard, empty zombie wearing his student's face. Wordlessly, he shoved a steaming mug in the boy's direction, trying his best not to wrinkle his nose at the strong smell of the liquid.

At first, it was obvious that Gohan did not recognize the object that had been forced into his hand - he stared down at it as if it were an artifact from a forgotten age, dated sometime BC…before crisis. Then, he shook his head, bangs lifting and then settling down around eyes that were dull, dry stones, not the shining pools that Piccolo had become so familiar with. "Oh. Thanks, Mr. Piccolo."

The former demon raised an eyeridge. The boy was not drinking; instead, he hunched down in a forlorn little wicker chair and stared at his reflection in the surface of the tea.

"Kid," the Namekian said softly, reverting to the only pet name he had ever allowed himself to fall into the habit of using. That was all, just that one word, and yet somehow it was all he needed to say - it was question, consolation, and heartfelt apology all at once.

"How long have you known?" The boy was now swishing the tea in little circles in the cup.

"Since I brought him home." There was no more trace of apology in his voice, he would not allow it.

"He made you promise not to tell, didn't he?"

Nod.

Gohan nodded as well, then threw his head back and drank deeply while Piccolo managed not to sigh in relief. "You alright?" he asked instead, more gruffly than usual.

"No." The boy resorted to tapping his fingers listlessly against the sides of his mug. "How long are you going to stay?"

Piccolo flinched at the question. How long would he wait? Son didn't really need him now that the others knew, and Gohan would have his mother and his friends to help him. Obligation-wise, he was free to go.

Well, except for one tiny little detail. One small, insignificant, virtually unnoticeable problem. The thought of walking out and washing his hands of the whole, messy situation made his heart do strange things. He could never explain something like that, so he dodged the question in true Piccolo style. "I'm going to go check up on him," he muttered, exiting the room a bit too quickly.

He wasn't running, though. Not at all. At least, that's what he kept telling himself on his too-short trip up the stairs. And he almost believed it. Almost.