Chapter 4 *Author's note – Whoops, wrong chapter 0o. Well, here's the fis….and  Merry Late Christmas, folks ^^

Piccolo didn't know what he had expected to do once he got upstairs. Perhaps he'd had some vague idea of finding out what Son had said to Gohan. In any event, it didn't matter, because he didn't make it past the door. Son was asleep.

Miraculously, the Saiyan wasn't snoring, although he was sprawled across the bed with all of his customary abandon. His legs were hopelessly entangled in the sheets - no doubt he'd trip over them if he tried to get up. Goku's expression was soft, hanging between peaceful and exhausted. Apparently, the Saiyan had been completely worn out by the day's events. Piccolo found his lips curling up quite inexplicably.

Habitually, the Namekian leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. This was not the first time that he had seen his longtime ally asleep; the two of them had often collapsed in the desert after long sparring matches, and Son had actually dozed off on occasion. This was just the first time that he'd really paid attention - usually, he'd simply been trying to block out Son's legendary snores.

Son Goku looked so calm, so still, so…young. He was a bit more muscular than he had been at the 23'rd Budokai, and perhaps a bit taller, but that was all. His face was still open and more or less unlined with worry, save for a single furrow across his forehead - but not even Son could be expected to remain completely unaffected by a lifestyle like his, Piccolo supposed.

It was hard to believe that the man was over thirty. Twelve years older than he was. Gods, he didn't look it. Even in his sleep, the Saiyan's lips were forming the shade of a smile - which made him look all the younger. The scene was very familiar to Piccolo, somehow. Yes, that was it: this was how Son had looked after the battle with Raditz, when he…

The Namekian leaned more heavily against the frame of the door when his legs suddenly refused to hold him up. That was a lifetime ago - or so it seemed, though it had only been about five years - and yet he still remembered the intense feeling of emptiness that had settled inside him at the loss of his enemy. The lack of purpose. He had realized then how little world conquest had actually meant to him. His real goal, all that time, had been to defeat Son Goku. And when he was dead, Piccolo hadn't even been able to enjoy it. He had felt guilty. Never before in his life, with all the people he had killed, had he felt guilt. But Son…Son had always been different.

Sure, he had wanted to think of his rival as just another stupid, weak, drivel-spouting monkey. He had even called him that on many occasions, as if saying it enough would make it true, but there had always been a difference between Goku and the others. At first sight, most humans classified him as a monster, a demon…Daimao. Not Son. To Son, he had always been just another person, no matter how he acted or what he had done.

And because he felt guilty about killing the only person who had ever treated him as anything other than a freak, he had taken on his child to train - and then that brat of his had to turn out to be exactly the same way.

Piccolo hadn't known, after he died, how Son felt about the whole incident. After all, it was one thing to feel more or less amiable toward someone who was strange, but quite another to feel that way about your murderer. He kept telling himself that he didn't care - it was Gohan that he was worried about. And he was worried about his young pupil, very much so, but…

Then, he had heard Son's voice on the other side of the connection that Kioh-sama had set up. The Saiyan had actually sounded glad to see him. Glad that he was at Kioh's place, glad that he was alright. Piccolo had been utterly confused…but that was pretty much normal around Son Goku…

Piccolo realized at that point that his eyes were watering. This time, there was no wind to blame it on…just the faint lamplight in the room, a sleeping Saiyan, and a decade's worth of memories.

And, because there was no one else around, he made no attempt to stop the tears. He did not sob, his breath did not hitch, his breathing pattern didn't even change - a few tears simply rolled down his well-defined cheeks to drop onto the otherwise-spotless floor. "This is your fault too, Son," he muttered. "Do you know I've never cried in my life before now? I didn't think myself capable."

Son whispered something in his sleep, probably pertaining to food, and fell silent. Piccolo smirked in spite of himself. "It's just as well that you aren't awake - I still don't think I could do this in front of you."

* * *

"Gohan, sweetheart? What's wrong?"

Gohan jumped guiltily at the sound of his mother's voice, spilling tea all across the table as he did so. How could he not have heard her come in? He turned sheepishly toward the door, doing his best to say with his facial expression that everything was perfectly fine and there was no reason to worry whatsoever.

The result, of course, was that Chichi knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. "Gohan," she said in her best warning, maternal voice, "what is it?"

Gohan closed his eyes, obviously making an effort to keep his voice steady. "It's…it's about Dad…"

* * *

The minute Piccolo heard the light, precise footfalls on the stairs, he knew that he was going to have some serious trouble on his hands. Trouble with a capital C. He withdrew from the doorframe unhurriedly, closing the door behind him. He was glad of the poor lighting in the hallway. There was no more water pouring from his eyes; all the same, he knew that the trails might still be visible, and he certainly didn't feel like explaining them.

He did not turn his head when he heard her approach. Not even when he heard her stop, heard her tapping one foot impatiently. "Well?" She snapped at last, her voice a choked whisper.

Choking on anger? Piccolo wondered briefly. Anger or grief? Maybe both. "Well," he repeated softly, without inflection - long practice had taught him to keep his voice level, even when he was falling apart inside.

"How long have you known?"

He managed not to flinch - the question tore through the silence like a whip. "A while."

"How long?" She repeated emphatically.

"Since he told me."

"Which was…" she pressed. Piccolo could hear a slight tremor in her voice.

"The night I brought him home."

Silence. He waited, unsure if he expected more for her to burst into tears or start screaming at him - or perhaps some combination of the two. Finally, unable to contain his morbid curiosity, he turned his head to look at her. The woman was staring at him with watery brown eyes; her skin had paled from peach to porcelain. Her veins showed blue beneath, so white had she gone. He blinked, feeling the faintest stirring of commiseration. It wasn't much at all, and he'd certainly never experienced such a feeling before, but it was definitely there.

He was just beginning to wonder what he should say when she slapped him.

She hit him hard. Any other human woman would have broken her hand, but Chichi had actually succeeded in turning his head. He could feel jolts of pain creeping down his cheekbone, feel the blood rushing in gleefully to form a new bruise.

Ten years ago, he would have killed her before he'd even realized that he'd killed her. Now, Piccolo had time to clamp a stranglehold on his instinctual response, which would have been to bat her aside like a fly. And he was no small amount frightened that he'd been able to prevent himself from snuffing her life out…who was he turning into, anyway? Son Goku?

His pent-up frustration at the situation, at his own helplessness, at whatever had enabled him to feel frustrated or helpless, bubbled to the surface like oil separating from water. He drew himself up to his full height, his graceful ears nearly brushing the ceiling, and glared down and down…and down at the woman.

* * *

Chichi wondered for a brief moment if her husband might outlive her, after all.

When she had come across Piccolo, he had met her with a detachment that had positively infuriated her. She could have dealt easily with scorn by returning scorn, sympathy by returning sympathy…but schooled indifference she would not and could not reflect. Not when her husband was dying. And not when this creature had known and not told her.

Not when this monster had known before she had.

Still, she scolded herself for striking him. It was a wonder he hadn't fried her on the spot…or perhaps, she thought, noting the vibrating tautness of his shoulders, he considered that too quick a death for her. Well, regardless, she wouldn't let him see that his presence was shaking her. Chichi drew herself up proudly, hoping that she had managed to make the upward tilt of her head look defiant and not as though she were trying to see his face.

"If I were you," the Namekian hissed abruptly, his voice seeming to slither from his lips, "I would never do that again."

Chichi balled her hands into fists and jammed those fists onto her hips, the very picture of maternal indignation. Who was he to threaten her in her own house? "And if I were you," she shot back snappily, "I'd see to it that I learned some manners."

"Manners?" The former demon repeated incredulously. He tapped one long, taloned finger against his cheek before crossing his arms. "This from a hostess who slaps her guests?"

"I didn't invite you."

A snort. "Good thing - I wouldn't have come."

"Then what are you doing here?" She retorted tartly.

One of Piccolo's lips curled back to reveal a single fang. It was far larger than she'd remembered - it curled almost like a cat's, and gleamed wetly even though there was little light. She wondered if he was snarling on purpose, or just doing it from habit.

"He asked for me," Piccolo replied in a tone as barren as the wilderness he'd come from.

"Well, Gohan isn't allowed to invite his…friends …over without permission, so if you'll…"

"Friends," the former demon spat, snarl lines crossing his nose like creases on a map. "Why don't you say what's on your mind, woman? You don't want him to bring all the freaks he's run across lately into your quiet, comfortable little domestic fantasy - isn't that a bit closer the mark?"

Chichi took a sharp breath. She opened her mouth, but there were so many words clamoring to come out that they got tangled up in her throat. She made no sound for several moments, during which she felt an angry flush coloring her cheeks. Then, the strongest of the words came tumbling out: "It was quiet and comfortable - right up until you got involved in it. Nothing's been the same since."

Piccolo uncrossed his arms, pulling them down to his sides in taut, trembling fists. A warning tickled the back of Chichi's mind - a warning that this being had once been the demon king, that he had killed for far less reason than she was giving him. She irritably told that little warning voice to shut up.

"You think I wanted this?" Piccolo shot back in a low, penetrating rumble. "You think I wanted everything in my life to be completely disrupted…"

"You? Disrupted? I'll tell you what disrupted is, mister…" Chichi said in a voice that could only have been described as a muted screech. "Disrupted is waiting for months and months for your baby to come home, never hearing a word about whether or not he's okay, knowing he's out in the middle of nowhere with some lunatic who's killed your husband. Disrupted is not being able to sleep at night because you're afraid that when you wake up, the people you care about will be gone - again. Disrupted is coming home to find a demon in your upper hallway…"

"…because your husband sent for me," Piccolo interjected flatly.

Chichi stopped in mid-spiel, her mind snowballing from the sudden halt. "…What?"

"He asked Gohan to bring me, so I came. Not that I've particularly enjoyed the visit, but…" he shrugged. "I don't usually enjoy being around humans. They jump to so many conclusions."

Chichi stared blankly at him for perhaps a full minute, willing the wheels in her mind to start turning. Goku had asked for him? Why? Why Piccolo? And she realized something else, something that swelled her throat and chilled her heart. "He told you?" she repeated his words numbly.

The Namekian raised one brow ridge. His expression didn't warm in the least, but she noted that he seemed far less threatening when he was puzzled.

"He told you he was dying. That's how you knew. That's why you brought him home." She was repeating those words slowly in her mind, beginning to realize just why they disturbed her so…

Piccolo made a sound deep in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. "I honor last requests when they make sense."

Her tongue felt heavy and thick, as if it had somehow been turned to a slab of leather. "He told you before he told me."

The Namekian tilted his head slightly. His facial expression relaxed only slightly before slipping back into the indifferent mask that she knew so well - but something happened in his eyes. It only lasted a moment; it was a twitch, a reflexive shudder of an emotion that she didn't have time to identify.

"Why?" She asked numbly.

Wryly, "I don't know. It might have something to do with the way you're reacting."

That one hurt. Chichi looked down sharply, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes, fighting it. She wasn't going to let him see her cry - not even if he was right.

Especially because he was right.

Had Goku been afraid to tell her? Or had he just not wanted to deal with her response? Either way, the results were the same. Goku had confided in the man who had killed him more than he'd confided in his wife. And, looking back on her behavior of the past few minutes, she couldn't blame him. Piccolo obviously wasn't phased in the least by the news - it must not bother him at all. So naturally, he'd act exactly the same. No wonder Goku had told him; he'd always hated to be fussed over.

"…I knew before he told me."

Chichi blinked, looking up before she remembered that she was supposed to be hiding the tears in her eyes. Had that been a concession? From Piccolo? He had said the words abruptly, flatly as always….but there was something placating about them, all the same. "What?" She said softly, managing somehow not to sound incredulous.

Piccolo was no longer looking at her - rather, he seemed to be looking through her, or past her, or over her…she couldn't tell. "…I already knew. That's why he told me. That's the only reason he told me. That, and he needed me to take him home. I wouldn't do it without an explanation."

She blinked. Was he trying to make her feel better? That was absurd, wasn't it? He hated her. At least…she was fairly sure that he hated her. After all, she hated him…

Didn't she?

More to stop herself from thinking than to find out, she asked, "How much longer does he have?"

"Not very."

She was forced to clench her teeth against angry words at his brusqueness. They were speaking civilly now - that was an improvement. And she wasn't going to wreck it by berating him for talking about her husband's death as though it was a baseball game. "Long enough to get the dragonballs? Could we possibly…

"We could," Piccolo replied with unsettling quickness; obviously, he'd been thinking about the same thing himself. "Wouldn't help. Sickness counts as a natural cause of death."

She felt a sudden, painful constriction in her gut. She hadn't realized that this time, her husband might be going away for more than a year or two. This time, it might be forever.

She was going to lose him. Really lose him. She swayed once on her feet, put one hand against the wall to steady herself. The other fluttered to her forehead like a wounded bird. "Dear Kami…"

"Don't say that."

She blinked hazily, looking at Piccolo with one eyebrow raised.

"There's nothing dear about that old man."

Chichi wasn't sure whether she wanted more to laugh, or cry until her eyes ran dry of tears. She looked down, not even lifting her eyes when she realized that Piccolo had moved a step closer to her.

Not even when she heard his gruff, gravelly question: "Can you stand?"

She looked up at him then, seeing his outline blurring. She blamed the poor light, because it couldn't have been tears. She had made up her mind not to cry in front of him, hadn't she?

"I'm…fine. Listen, Piccolo, I'm going to go back downstairs and talk to Gohan for…for a while, alright?"

A low snort. "Your house. Do what you want."

She nearly bit her tongue before the next words left her mouth. "Would…would you stay up here just in case he wakes up?"

Quietly, "I'd planned on doing that anyway."

Chichi nodded once, turned, and all but fled down the stairs, aware all the while of a pair of sharp, garnet eyes boring into her back until long after she had disappeared around a corner.