Chapter 5

Piccolo could hear the sounds coming from the kitchen plainly, even from the second floor. Muted crashes, harsh clatters, scattered thumping - the sounds of vegetables…and occasionally china…meeting violent ends.

This had been going on for the past three days. He had begun to wonder how there could possibly be any serviceable glassware left in the house.

A by-now-familiar cadence on the stairs announced that Chichi was coming, most likely to bring food. He did not look up. He remained as he was, leaning casually against the hallway wall, arms folded. Outwardly, he knew, he looked calm. Unruffled. As completely and utterly unconcerned as a Grecian statue.

Which he was.

Or so he'd kept telling himself over and over - to the point that it had nearly become a mantra: I don't care, I don't care, I DO NOT care…. It was the only way he managed to keep from dissolving into a very unbecoming, undignified, un-Piccoloish emotional tangle. He dared not meditate. Not until it was over, and he could get away from these people long enough to deal with…

Phe. There was nothing to deal with. He was fine. Calm. Neutral.

The way I'm going, it's gonna take me a solid year of meditation to get my head on straight again.

Then, he heard Chichi reach his floor. He kept his face cast downward in an attitude of thought…but he let his eyes stray long enough to assess her. She was walking with the same smooth, purposeful stride she always used. Her head was high; she was even humming softly under her breath. She didn't even spare him a glance; she acted as though he simply did not exist.

He wondered how long she'd go on pretending that everything was alright.

He wondered how long he would.

And, morbidly, he wondered which of them would break first.

That was when he heard the knock at the door. He wasn't unduly surprised - Son's friends had been stopping in a great deal over the past few days. Gohan had made it his personal mission to notify them all, and the boy worked fast. He hadn't been home in the past two days, save to fall into his bed to sleep. Piccolo supposed it was his way of dealing with his grief: working too hard to realize how miserable he was.

So he wasn't surprised that someone had knocked. He was surprised at who had knocked. He knew who it was the moment he heard the sound; he knew without even exerting his chi senses. There was only one person who could make a knock sound condescending.

So, asparagus-head's finally come to pay his last 'respects.'

He saw Chichi come darting out of Goku's room, all but flying down the stairs, sidelocks streaming behind her like banners. He wondered if she'd be in such a hurry if she knew who was out there. He would have told her…probably should have…but they hadn't spoken in three days, and he certainly wasn't going to break the stalemate.

He tensed when he heard the door open.

He wasn't afraid so much that Vegeta would hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway. True, if Chichi spoke to the Saiyan prince the way she had spoken to him, Piccolo would most likely have to go down there and scrape her off the walls…but he doubted that would happen. She hated the Demon King far more than she could ever hate Vegeta, who had merely come to destroy the planet, not to steal her child and kill her husband.

And, in retrospect, Piccolo couldn't really blame her.

In a way, he was almost glad that she reserved her greatest loathing for him. If Chichi hated him more than Vegeta, it would keep her from being blown to smithereens…and save him from having to explain to Gohan that his mother was now a thin layer of dust in the house she'd so long strived to keep clean.

It was himself he was worried about now. Vegeta had always had a talent for getting under his skin…and Piccolo didn't think he was up to a verbal sparring match.

Quietly, he began making bets with himself as to whether he'd come out of the conversation fuming…or burnt.

He could hear the prince's footsteps on the stairs: heavy, purposeful. He obviously didn't care who knew he was there. But then, Vegeta seldom bothered with stealth, anyway. Someone that powerful didn't have to.

Piccolo didn't look up at him, either. He heart that solid tread reach the top of the stairs, heard it moving down the hall toward him…heard it stop right in front of him.

* * *

Vegeta felt his lips twitch upward in amusement. He knew that the Namekian had noticed him, even though Piccolo had yet to open his eyes - he could tell by the obvious tension in the other warrior's shoulders, the snarl lines that were beginning to deepen on his nose.

There were very few beings who dared to ignore the Prince of the Saiyans.

There were far fewer beings that he'd let live, should they ignore him.

"Namek," he drawled in his usual, mocking tone - one that he intentionally emphasized now. "Fancy meeting you here. I hadn't pegged you for the nursemaid type…"

Piccolo's eyes still did not open. "Phe. Shows how much you know. I just left my ugly white dress in my other cape, that's all…"

Vegeta felt his smirk grow a bit broader. That was what he appreciated about Piccolo - he talked like a Saiyan. Exactly like a Saiyan. Matter of fact, that was probably why he hadn't had a serious fight with the other man since…well, since the first one. "Too bad, Namek - it would have been an improvement over what you're wearing now."

He saw one of the corners of the Namek's lips lift up in a smirk worthy of any elite fighter of Vegetasei. "If you say so, Badman."

Vegeta blinked, looked down at the glaring pink shirt he was wearing, then back up at the green warrior with an expression that meandered from incredulous to irritated. "I don't know how you saw this blasted shirt with your eyes closed, Namek, but…"

"Oh, it wasn't hard," the Namekian interjected smoothly. "It's bright enough to burn right through my eyelids."

"Cute," Vegeta snapped in return, crossing his arms in an unconscious mirroring of the other being's posture. "The accursed thing wasn't my idea."

"Much like this visit," Piccolo muttered under his breath.

Vegeta snorted. "Yes. Exactly."

At that point, one of Piccolo's eyes did open. There was something genuinely disturbing in it, Vegeta decided - and not just because it was empty of the usual scorn. A moment later, he reluctantly classified that expression as resignation.

For the first time in a long time, Vegeta felt a weight in his gut like a lead balloon: foreboding. Which immediately made him huffy."I don't know what you people are getting so worked up about, anyhow," the prince snapped at last. "Kakkarottto isn't going to die."

That one, green-lidded eye seemed to solidify - liquid black to black ice. "Vegeta," Piccolo all but growled, his voice low and rough as always, "I'm in no mood for your Saiyan Supremacy speech. Take my word for it - I don't care what you have to say about real Saiyans not getting sick, real Saiyans not having heart attacks…this isn't Vegetasei. He is sick. And…" he continued, more quietly, "he is dying."

Vegeta didn't bother to hide his skepticism - or muffle his derisive snort. "You don't know the first thing about us, Namek."

"I know that when Son," the Namekian countered, putting a stronger emphasis on the man's name than usual - phe, since when did he object to 'Kakkarotto?' - "tells me that he's going to die, I believe him."

Vegeta blinked. Kakkarotto had admitted that he was…no. Impossible. Completely impossible. "Don't be any more ridiculous than you already are. He knows he isn't permitted to die," the prince snapped angrily, "except by my hand."

Piccolo chuckled dryly. "Looks like the bug didn't ask for your permission, Veg. I'm sure it's very sorry to have offended you."

Vegeta had a retort on the tip of his tongue…and he nearly spat it out, save for one thing. One tiny little thing that had begun to develop as of late…or maybe it had always been there, and he'd just been better at ignoring it.

'It' was a sort of knowing…a gut feeling. The same one that had told him that blowing this planet to space dust after the Frieza battle would accomplish nothing…the same one that prodded him whenever he looked in the direction of a certain, blue-haired woman. The one that, just now, was telling him that Piccolo was speaking the truth.

Even though he didn't want to believe it. Even though his pride screamed in outrage and some buried, unidentified part of himself seemed to resonate with emptiness. Even though he had not been the one to cause this death to happen. Even though he'd sworn he would.

It was true.

But, because he was Vegeta, he wasn't about to admit that he was wrong. Particularly not to a smug, cold-blooded lizard man. With a contemptuous shake of the head, he stormed by the other warrior, flashing him his best glare as he did so. "We'll just see about that, Namek," he shot over one shoulder.

And Piccolo didn't answer. Which was, the prince reflected, quite possibly the best retort of all.

* * *

Piccolo knew better than to enter that room.

There were things going on in there beyond his understanding…things that were none of his business. Perhaps delicate things that he could disrupt with his presence alone, perhaps shouting matches that he would only make worse.

Those two were the last of a dying race. Different as sun and moon, yes - but also the same in so many ways. So he waited quietly for the door to either be opened or blown off its hinges…

The door creaked open.

The man who came out looked a great deal like the prince of the Saiyans, Piccolo thought. Same hair, same height, same clothes…but something was missing. Something that had been so much a part of the other warrior that Piccolo could pinpoint its absence immediately. His confidence.

Piccolo had never seen Vegeta look so truly shaken in his life.

The prince's stride was as bold and steady as ever, his shoulders were squared instead of stooped - but his normally-olive complexion was ashen, his eyes were narrowed more than usual, his hands clenched and unclenched sporadically…

"Not one word, Namek," he all but spat as he stormed by.

Which was just as well. Piccolo wouldn't have had any idea what to say anyway, except that he was sorry.

But he had the feeling Vegeta would have blasted him for that.

Sighing heavily - gods, he was doing that a lot lately - Piccolo strode into the room. He had the distinct feeling that Son would want to see him after…after that. The Namekian walked through the door casually, almost as though it were an everyday occurrence for him to visit a dying man. He strode smoothly by the bed, stopping with his face toward the window.

Where he waited, outwardly patient, for Son to speak.