"Piccolo…can I…do you think we could go outside?" Goku asked, his voice wistful.
The Namekian made it a point not to turn around - he intended to make Son work for this one. The Look wasn't going to help him this time. "Do you feel up to it?" He asked, aware that his voice sounded more gruff than usual and hating himself for it.
A weary chuckle. "Sa…not really. It's just that breathing's getting kinda hard."
Piccolo took a deep breath of his own. He could handle this. He knew that he could. "Whatever," he managed finally, sounding far too casual even to his own ears. "Can you walk?" Could Son Goku walk. Could the most powerful warrior he had ever met manage to get himself from the bed to the door.
"Sure," the Saiyan responded far too quickly.
Piccolo wanted so badly to tell his former nemesis that he most certainly was not going to make that trek by himself. It wasn't safe for him to push his heart so…not at this point. He should just relax and…and what? And wait around to die?
"Let's go then," the Namekian muttered.
He could hear the springs creaking behind him, though he still did not turn around. Seconds later, he could hear the Saiyan's labored tread across the floor. Then he did look. Goku was walking slowly but steadily, his head slightly bowed, his eyes invisible under his bangs. He stumbled once, and Piccolo made as if to catch him…but Son regained his balance and held up a hand, obviously signaling the Namekian to keep his distance.
Piccolo growled softly, as near as he would come to voicing his concern. Goku did not look up, but he did speak: "Pic…please."
He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood - the taste it left in his mouth was acrid and bitter. Son needed to do this on his own; Piccolo could see that, but he didn't have to like it. Goku left the room under his own power, and Piccolo trailed slightly behind like some sort of honor guard.
The Saiya-jinn paused at the top of the stairs, and Piccolo began to hope that he had reconsidered. A second later, though, he squared his shoulders and started down the flight. One step, two, clutching the railing with a knuckle whitening grip. Three. Pause. Heavy breathing. Piccolo saw beads of sweat trickling down Goku's neck. Four.
"Son," he began in a sparse whisper.
The Saiyan shook his head. A fifth step. A sixth. Seventh. Eighth. And then he was on the first floor. Piccolo realized then that he had been holding his breath. Hoping that Son hadn't noticed, he exhaled slowly and moved into step beside his shorter companion. Piccolo had even dared to relax a bit before he remembered that they'd have to cross through the kitchen in order to get outside.
He had the feeling that this wasn't going to be pretty.
Sure enough, the moment they set foot in the kitchen, her voice rang heavy in their ears, "Goku, where are you going?"
Piccolo immediately swiveled his head in the direction of her voice, more out of a sense of self-preservation than of curiosity. She had her back to them and was chopping carrots. The steady thwacks of the knife rang through the small room, each one as assured and final as the falling of an executioner's axe.
The Saiya-jinn grinned at her back reassuringly, or tried to. "Ah, Chichi-san, we're just stepping out for a minute. I think I need some fresh air."
"You shouldn't go out, Goku." Her voice was assertive as always, but steeped in something that sounded suspiciously like fear.
"Don't worry so much, Chichi. It's just for a little while - what can it hurt?"
She stopped chopping, and her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. "Alright, Goku. You go ahead - I just need to speak with Piccolo for a minute first."
The tone she used to say his name reminded Piccolo a great deal of the tone that most people used to describe cockroaches.
Goku apparently caught a bit of that, too; he looked askance at Piccolo. The Namekian offered him a quick nod in return, and the man walked slowly, slowly out the door. Leaving Piccolo completely alone with Chichi.
Given a choice between being trapped on a deserted planet with Frieza, Raditzu, and Nappa or being there, in that kitchen with that woman, he would have cheerfully accepted the first scenario and thrown in the whole Ginyu force and King Kai for good measure.
But he didn't have that option, so he waited silently for the verbal lashing he was certain would come.
Seconds passed. Nothing happened. He cleared his throat, taking a step forward, hoping to get whatever-it-was over with - she rounded on him abruptly, and he was both astonished and a little alarmed to find the point of a carving knife pressed against his chest.
"You listen to me," she all but hissed, her eyes suspiciously wet. "You take care of him out there. Understand?"
Piccolo knew full well that she couldn't kill him. He was fast enough to dodge, most likely he would only take a slight scratch…phe, he knew that. At least, part of him knew that. The rest of him was so paralyzed with shock, indignation, and outright nervousness that he found himself simply nodding, wide-eyed.
Chichi turned abruptly, attacking the carrots with renewed venom. It was as clear a dismissal as Piccolo had ever seen and, as soon as he was positive that his heart wasn't going to oscillate right out of his chest, he turned and fairly bolted out the door.
He found Son leaning against one of the walls and, strangely enough, Son did look better - like a wilting flower that's been placed near a window at last. He had tilted his head back, letting the afternoon sun fall full upon his face. A faint, faint smile touched his whitened lips, and the Nameksei-jinn almost dared to hope that Son might pull through this after all.
A moment later, though, the Saiya-jinn's already-taxed reserves were spent, and he swayed slightly on his feet as he had before. Piccolo looped an arm around him, and Son sagged into his support almost gratefully. "It's too bad," Son muttered. His eyes had never left the sky.
"What is?" Piccolo asked, turning his eyes upward as well, though mostly to avoid looking at the man he held.
"I'd sorta wanted to fly, ya know…one last time."
Piccolo silently thanked any gods who were listening that he could remain standing in the face of a comment like that. Then, he said something that he had never expected to say, something that should not have come from him: "Do you…" he started, finding it suddenly hard to talk around the lump that was forming in his throat, "want me to carry you?" It couldn't have been he who had asked that, could it? Not he, the lord of demons.
He could feel Son tense against him, obviously as surprised as he was.
"Would you?" Goku asked, equally softly.
Piccolo somehow managed to sound casual. "I said I would, didn't I?"
Son chuckled, the same soft sound that the Nameksei-jinn had grown so accustomed to over the past few months. "Yeah, sure. You also said you were gonna take over the world, if I remember right."
"Who says I haven't? Whattaya think I've been doing while you've been napping the past few days, hmm?"
Goku shook his head. "Very funny. I might've bought that a few years ago, Pic. You're not the person you used to be."
"That's mostly your doing, Son," Piccolo answered before he thought to deny it. He cursed himself soundly as soon as the words left his mouth…but he was perversely glad to have said them.
The silence stretched on for a few moments, then Son slapped himself lightly on the forehead. "Oi, this virus thing must've made me dumber than usual. I forgot!" He abruptly brought two fingers two his mouth and whistled.
Piccolo cringed visibly, his eyes closed for a moment in obvious pain. He opened them in time to catch Son's apologetic grin. "Sorry…forgot that, too. Are you okay?"
"Hmph. What was that? I can't hear you."
The Saiya-jinn rolled his eyes. "You're still impossible," he said, looking again to the sky. Kintoen came hurtling through the blue to land obediently before the pair.
Piccolo shook his head, unsure whether to be more amused or…something else…as Son reached down with one hand to pat the little yellow cloud affectionately. "Hey, Kintoen…long time, no see, huh?"
The Nameksei-jinn helped Son onto the magic cloud as carefully as he could without showing that he was taking unusual care. Goku sat Indian-style on the fluff, easily as balanced as ever. Piccolo took a step back, waiting for the cloud to take off. There was really no need for him to tag along…no doubt Son would want to do this on his own, anyway.
Yet, the cloud did not leave.
Piccolo lost track of how long he stood there, staring at his former rival's back. He could sense that the other was expecting him to say something, though he had no idea what that something could be. Then, Son broke the silence with a strange, strained voice.
"So, Piccolo…do you think you can keep up with the flying nimbus?"
Those words. Those same words as that first day…the first time that they had been something other than enemies. The world blurred for a moment, and Piccolo was profoundly glad that Son could not see how close he had come to tears. "Please," he retorted, his voice steady, filled with the same heavy scorn as it had held years ago. "I'd be embarrassed if you could keep up with me on that toy."
Then, Kintoen did leave the ground, with Piccolo following behind it like a shadow in the evening light. The Nameksei-jinn didn't bother to keep track of where they were going; it didn't matter much to him. The whole journey, he kept his eyes fastened on the fluttering back of Son's gi. While they were flying, it was as though past and present had been plaited together like braided hair; they were a couple of young warriors again, off to face a new challenge, confident of victory.
Because, for once, they were fighting together.
It was disconcerting, to say the least. Piccolo felt as though there were two of him, one superimposed over the other. On one hand, the cocky, detached warrior that he had been. On the other, an older, more mature fighter, one who had long since traded in his easy confidence for a kind of field wisdom and his detachment for…associations. Alliances. Even…friendships.
And Son…Son had no duality because he was exactly the same as he had always been.
It was selfish, he knew, but Piccolo found himself wishing that this flight could extend forever. That they could forget about viruses and funerals and mourning and families and explanations, that all the complexities of life and death could fade and leave behind only the simple challenge of flight, the relaxed silence, and the red light of the setting sun on ebony bangs and indigo gi. It wouldn't happen, and he was foolish to hope for it, but he had long since learned that his heart was the least reasonable part of him.
Then, Kintoen stopped as Piccolo had known that it must. Son stood slowly, unshaking, silhouetted against the crimson, western sky. Piccolo took note of their surroundings - an open field. The grass far, far beneath them was rippling like an earthbound ocean…he half-expected Son's wild-haired brother to come striding forth to challenge them, but soon shook his head. He really was getting nostalgic…
Son continued to stand perfectly still, knees bent ever so slightly. With alarming suddenness, he tore the still-present hospital bracelet from his wrist and tossed it vehemently into the grass. The bandage that held the cold compress to his head quickly followed suit. Then, a strange, surreal expression crossed the Saiya-jinn's face, and he turned toward the sunset. Which meant that he was facing away from his Nameksei-jinn companion.
"That should do it Piccolo," he said softly, and was Piccolo imagining the slight catch in his voice? "Unless you can think of anything else."
Piccolo wondered briefly if he would be able to continue; the lump in his throat seemed too large to speak around. "What am I," he asked softy, too softly, "your tailor?"
There was a long, depthless, bottomless silence before Son spoke again. "No. You're my friend…you know what, Pic? I think I'm gonna miss you."
That was too much; Son had crossed the line that Piccolo had long since drawn in the sand. Admit to respect, never to affection. Accept gratitude, never sympathy. Display tolerance, not…not love. Son knew the rules; he'd discovered them through very prickly, several-year-long trial and error. And here he was, deliberately violating them. Piccolo felt as if he should have been furious. He should have snapped at this impudent warrior, should have left, then and there. But he did not.
And then, Son took it a step further. "Will you miss me?"
He felt as though he had backed into some sort of trap; he could no more leave than he could have answered a question like that. He had spent too much of his life building walls - he certainly couldn't tear them all down right at that moment. Yet…he could see that Son's hands had balled slightly…there was a barely-perceptible tremor in his shoulders. Was it that important to him?
"Son," he started hoarsely, then cleared his throat. "I…don't ask me to answer that. I can't, but…" he closed his eyes, drew a shuddering sigh. "You'll notice that I haven't denied it yet."
Goku still did not look at him, but he nodded once. "You were wrong, Piccolo. You did answer…and thank you."
Piccolo snorted softly. "Sentimental idiot. If you keep this up, you're gonna need a crying towel."
"You're right, I guess," Son answered calmly. "But you know what I think I really need…some exercise." And with that, he and the cloud floated down to earth.
The Namekian blinked. Exercise? The man could barely walk…he followed him down, the faintest pinpricks of foreboding worrying at the back of his mind like a stubborn dog at a rope. He reached the tops of the long grasses just in time to see Son hop off the cloud. The man spoke softly to it for perhaps a minute - then it rose up and flitted away.
The minute Son turned to look at him, Piccolo knew exactly what he had in mind. He was so sure, in fact, that he took a step back. So sure that he was unable to control his expression for just a moment - he felt it twist into a familiar set. Pain.
There was a playful light in the Saiyan's eyes, a trace of the famous grin on his lips. "Hey, what's wrong? I was just gonna ask you to spar with me."
It took Piccolo a moment to force the words past his stiffened lips, his frozen tongue. "…Son, it'll kill you."
Goku shrugged, his attitude still incongruously cheery. "Naw, Pic - let's both face it, I'm already dead."
The rush of…feeling…that washed through the Namekian was enough to really, truly scare him. They were raw, utterly unchanneled…wild. They tore through his chest like bats from a cave…for an agonizing moment, he thought that he too was going to die. But somehow or other, he kept himself grounded…he swallowed the ache in his throat. "I can't."
It was quite possibly the first time he had ever uttered those two words in sequence. I can't. Never in his life had he admitted that he could not do something. I don't, yes. I won't, all the time. But I can't….
The worst of it, Piccolo decided, was that Son Goku knew.
"Look - I've already said all my goodbyes and everything…there's nothing left for me to do but die, right? I mean, I know people don't really get ready for death, not ever…but I think my family's about as ready as they're gonna be."
I'm not ready, Piccolo thought frantically…but he didn't say it. He couldn't say it.
"…an' I think it's just gonna be harder if they have to watch me…stop being me, ya know?" Then, as if he saw that his green companion was still undecided, Goku hit Piccolo with the one argument he couldn't possibly refute. "Come on, Pic - if it was you instead of me, how would you want it? Lying in a bed, bored out of your mind, not able to do anything for yourself, watching while everybody around you tries not to let you see how sad they are…or having one last, really good fight?"
No question there. None at all.
So why did he feel as though his heart was coming unraveled, thread by thread?
Son, you can't just ask me to kill you - those words were on the tip of his tongue, but they would have been a lie. Goku could. He already had once, a lifetime ago. And Piccolo had complied. It had been completely different, back then…but he had done it.
And he knew that he could no more refuse Son this death than the other. He drew into his standard, defensive position, offering his former rival a nod, hoping that he looked more composed than he felt.
* * *
Seeing the pain written clearly in the lines around his companion's eyes, Son experienced a moment's regret at what he was asking him to do. The gods knew he wouldn't have been able to do the same for Piccolo.
Flashing the other warrior an apologetic smile, Goku shifted into a crouch, looking for an opening, knowing full well that he wasn't going to find one. Piccolo knew his style too well.
Alright. Head-on it is, then.
Goku launched himself forward, one knee pulled up in a hurdle position any gymnast would have envied, one fist cocked back for a punch. The Namekian countered easily, almost without seeming to move.
Undaunted, he swung his leg in a roundhouse kick, following up with an uppercut - both of which his opponent dodged easily.
Already, Goku could feel his heart hammering in his ears like a whole drum corps - his breath came as short and fast as if he'd been fighting for hours. He pulled back as quickly as he could…far, far too slow…noticing as he did so that the Namekian didn't follow up as he should have. He merely stood there, face blank, eyes wavering.
"Piccolo," Goku snapped, shaking his head once to send a spray of sweat flying from his forehead, away from his eyes. "Don't hold back with me. That's the whole point of this - you're supposed to win, remember?"
The Namekian opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head mutely.
Son would have complained further, but he had the feeling that it just wouldn't do any good. So he decided to try another track. He let a scream build up in his chest, a scream that seemed to start at the very back of his memory, at the first time someone hurt him or his friends - a scream that built through all those years - and, throwing his head back, he let it go.
When next he opened his eyes, the hair that was falling down around them was gold, not black. And Piccolo was staring at him as if he had lost his mind.
"Fight me now?" Goku panted, doing his best to ignore the shooting pains in his chest - as though someone had clamped a hand around each of his lungs and was squeezing…
He didn't give the Namekian time to answer - he merely dove at him again.
Goku couldn't have said what was happening. His eyes were too weary to make out much beyond blurs of green and purple, crimson and orange. His heart was so wild in his ears that he could not hear, his breath so frantic in his lungs that he could not feel.
It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't moving anymore. That he was lying on the ground - that a familiar, if indistinct, green figure was kneeling beside him, indistinguishable from the long grass that danced around him.
It took him another moment to realize that the pain in his chest had stopped. Utterly stopped.
It took him yet another moment to realize why that was. He flashed a genuinely relieved smile in the direction that he hoped Piccolo was in. "Thanks," he said, though his voice was more a breath than even a whisper.
He could hear Piccolo shifting beside him - the sound of his own heart seemed to have muted considerably because he could hear everything, even the grass hissing - he could feel a pair of fingers firm against the side of his neck .
"Don't bother checking," he managed to gasp out. "S'not gonna be that way much longer."
"…"
He turned his head a bit, found himself staring into the gray on gray of the sky. Must've gotten cloudy while we were fighting…looks like we're gonna get wet…
He couldn't make out where one cloud ended and another began. A few moments later, he wasn't so sure where the division between him and the clouds was…it seemed like a big, thick gray blanket was wrapping around him. It was kind of cold, but not really unpleasant…
"Son…" A voice, familiar. Piccolo? Ah, right, they'd been sparring, just like always…but it was time for him to go home.
"Bye, Pic," he murmured, feeling oddly sleepy. And then, though he did not close his eyes, he stopped seeing.
* * *
Piccolo sat there, just staring at the still, silent body of his first real enemy…one of his few real friends. A man who had never quite been able to stay still while he was alive…
…and he wasn't moving at all now.
He couldn't believe it. Not even when he felt for a pulse and found nothing. Not even when he watched for breath and saw none. Not even when he touched his arm and found it as cool to the touch as the faint droplets of rain that were beginning to pelt his face. Not even though his chi senses fairly screamed that the man was gone.
It had finally happened. He was dead. For good. Forever.
The Namekian felt suddenly very, very empty. There seemed to be a hole in his chest - a vacuum that threatened to suck him in, compress him to nothing. All he could think of was that it wasn't right. Son'd had enough to deal with in his life. Why not let someone else take the virus? Someone who didn't have a family, a life, a whole world to take care of.
It should have been me.
He noticed that sweat had plastered the Saiyan's bangs to his forehead. Somehow, seeing even that gods-awful hair subdued seemed to catch in his throat - with one long, clawed finger, he pried the strands up. They sprang almost joyfully to their accustomed place, weaving in the slight breeze.
It didn't seem to help. He still felt as though something had torn right through him - much like a memory of his father's. And both times, it had been Son Goku that had ripped the hole…but now he was gone. And even if it still hurt, he had to get over it. He had to let him go.
"Goodbye, S…" he paused, turned his head, clenched his eyes shut so tightly they actually hurt. No. He couldn't do it halfway. He had to really let him go. "…Goku," he finished at last, his voice unaccountably hoarse.
It was the very first time he'd ever called the other man by name. It had started out as an insult, once upon a time…calling him only by his family name. Later, he'd done it from habit…still later, almost as an honorific…
…and because calling him 'Goku' would have been as much as admitting that absolutely everything had changed. Saying it seemed to break something inside: that last little record in his mind that kept screaming that none of this mattered.
It did matter. More than mattered. It was the most painful thing that had ever happened to him - worse than losing, worse than dying, worse than having Chichi scream at him. Much to his surprise, he felt something hot - not warm, hot - running down his face…as if someone were tracing his cheeks with fired pokers. He wondered if it was because he was clamping his eyes so tightly shut that they bled. Hesitantly, he opened them, brushing a hand across his cheek and pulling it away.
Tears. He'd never known that tears could burn.
He heard an odd whistling sound and looked to his right languidly - he didn't much care at that moment who had come, be it Vegeta and his whole family from ten generations back…
He blinked. Floating there, looking as forlorn as is possible for a cloud to look, was Kintoen. "You've gotta be kidding me," Piccolo muttered. Then, feeling horribly conscious of the shell of his former nemesis, cold and still beneath his still-present hand, he whispered, "he's not here."
The cloud weaved slightly back and forth, swirling far more slowly than usual…it even seemed a bit darker, bronze rather than gold…
Piccolo looked away abruptly, feeling his throat close again. "Get lost," he muttered, hesitantly scooping the body of his…his ally…up in his arms. Dead weight. Dead. "I've got enough problems without a moping puff of condensation following me around."
He didn't know how he knew that Kintoen was still there - he just did. He turned around and glared halfheartedly at the little cloud. "What's the matter with you, anyway? He's…he's gone. Let him go."
He wondered if he was talking more to the cloud or to himself. Of course, neither of them could…and the cloud didn't seem inclined to leave.
"What do you want from me?" He all but hissed. He felt another stream of warmth down the left side of his face and cursed himself silently.
The cloud seemed to waver.
Piccolo sighed before he could stop himself. Yelling wasn't going to help. That little cloud had just lost one of the only real friends it had ever had.
"Yeah," he muttered at last. "I know how you feel, but there's nothing more you can do here. So just… go wherever you go, and do the best you can, alright?"
He didn't wait for an answer - he merely took flight, a kind of numbness settling over him like the cloak he usually wore.
Likewise, he didn't take any notice of the rain. He just flew, not permitting himself to think until he set foot in the clearing that marked the house. There, he couldn't help pausing. It was rain pouring down instead of snow. Son was dead, not sleeping. But it still felt like that first night.
And then, as he had before, Piccolo couldn't quite help pulling his burden a bit closer to himself, couldn't help staring hopelessly at the golden light that trickled from the windows.
"You…do realize she's going to throw a vase or something at me the minute I walk through that door, Son." He said in a broken whisper before he had time to think. And for once in his life, he was glad it was raining - the trails on his cheeks were as warm as ever.
He didn't bother knocking at the door of the Son house - he merely walked in. No calling to whoever else was there - they'd find him soon enough. He merely strode into the living room the Saiyan down on the couch automatically, as he had the night he'd brought the man home. By then, a sense of numbness had pervaded his senses…it was too much to grasp. Too much.
He couldn't have said later where Chichi had come from, or whether the lights in the room were on or off. He could never remember what he'd said, or even if he'd spoken.
He didn't notice much of anything, in fact, save for the limp, lifeless form lying in front of him.
He didn't even really hear what Chichi was screaming at him.
* * *
It was perhaps the first Saturday of her married life that Chichi hadn't done any laundry.
She'd finished chopping the carrots. She'd washed the dishes. And then she'd walked right into the living room in the middle of the afternoon, curled up in the armchair, and wept like a lost kitten. She told herself again and again that he would come back. He would. He'd come back home. At least, she told herself that for the first hour or two.
Deep down, though, she knew. She'd known all along.
Even so, when she heard the door open, her head snapped up. Someone had come home. She listened carefully to the footsteps…the one set of footsteps. Still, a part of her hoped. Maybe Piccolo had finally taken the hint and left. Or maybe he was carrying her husband…
Sure enough, she saw the green fighter turning sideways to get through the door, a familiar, limp form in her arms. Chichi was on her feet and at his side before she even realized that she'd moved, looking at her husband's unusual pallor concernedly.
"Is he alright?" She asked before she remembered that she was not speaking to the Namekian.
Piccolo just looked down at her wearily, as though he didn't really see her or anything else - he looked like a man she'd seen once sitting on a street corner, with nothing to his name but a patch of concrete and a newspaper. A drop of water plummeted from one of his antennae to land on her upturned nose.
"Piccolo!" she snapped, concern making her voice sharper even than usual. "For the gods' sakes don't just stand there. You're both soaking wet - take him upstairs and…"
The Namekian walked by her as though she weren't even there, depositing her husband on the couch. Only then did he look at her again, something in his expression giving her warning and answer all at once.
But she didn't know him well enough to read what exactly those answers were, only that they were there. It was like seeing the signals she'd learned to understand in other humans, but in a different language. She strode purposefully up to the couch, of half a mind to drag him upstairs herself. She put a hand on his arm to shake him awake…
He was cold.
It took exactly three seconds for her to realize what that meant. Three seconds to completely collapse inside. Three seconds to drench her face and shrivel her heart. Three seconds to realize that he was gone. He was really, truly gone. And she hadn't even fully said goodbye.
There were a million things she wanted to say, a billion things flashing through her mind…memories, dreams, bits and pieces of the past. He wasn't coming home ever again. He'd left her, left their son, and what was she going to do without him? "I…" she whispered numbly, "I asked you to take care of him."
The green warrior's eyes flicked in her direction, but he did not speak.
"I asked you to bring him home."
"…"
"I meant…" her breath hitched, but she forced her voice to hold almost steady. "I meant bring him home alive. Didn't you know that, Piccolo?"
"…I'm sorry."
Only that. No explanations. He wasn't going to tell her about her husband's last moments, his last words…she doubted that any of them had been for her, anyway. His last goodbye had been for his Namekian companion, not his wife.
She wished she could be angry with Piccolo. She really did. After all, 'I'm sorry' fixed nothing. He'd let her husband die. But then…her husband had been dying anyway. And at least he had brought him home. He'd done what she asked, for whatever reason. And he was sorry. Or he'd said he was sorry.
He was probably lying, she thought miserably. Probably just trying to get the nagging woman off his back. Probably one more person who wanted to wash his hands of her. But right then, she couldn't bring herself to care.
* * *
Piccolo knew with a grim certainty that Chichi was going to do something drastic, human, and foolish. He wasn't exactly sure what that thing might be, but he could tell that it was coming in the way that she bit her lip, the brief tremolo that passed through her, the way her shoulders suddenly slumped and her whole form seemed to shrink.
He'd been trying to guess what said stupid thing was going to be for about three seconds before she fell against him again, sobbing as though there was nothing inside her but grief and water. He felt himself freeze before his mind had even processed what was happening…
Son Goku's widow. Crying. On him, no less.
He merely stood there and let her cry, wondering for perhaps the sixtieth time that week what exactly was wrong with the world, that such bizarre things should happen…and what was wrong with him, that he should allow it.