He was waiting in the cemetery when the black car pulled up.
Piccolo was fairly sure that no one had even noticed him yet. He was leaning against one of the many trees, droplets of rain sliding down his antennae as though they were blades of grass, his gi so wet that it was nearly black. And besides, no one was looking up. Everyone was simply staring at the hole in the ground.
For some reason, Piccolo couldn't bare to look at it, so he didn't. He focused his eyes on Son Gohan. The boy was standing ramrod straight next to his mother, who was so wreathed in black cloth that it was impossible for the Namekian to tell how she was faring.
He hadn't gone to the service - wasn't even sure where it had been held. Temple, church, wherever, he knew that he didn't belong there. Reformed or not, he was Daimao Piccolo, the demon king. He had no idea what would happen if he actually did set foot in a hallowed place, and he had no intention of finding out. Not that he was afraid of Kami…far from it…it just felt wrong.
Not to mention the fact that he made people nervous. And that the way that most people stared at him made him want to blow something up. Sometimes he thought that if he'd just do something destructive around them once, they wouldn't watch him so closely…as if they were sure he was going to flip out someday, and they wanted to see it when it happened.
He would not have come to the burial either, but for Son Gohan. Piccolo was decidedly worried about the boy. He hadn't eaten in the past two days…not since he'd seen his father's body stretched out on the living room floor. He hadn't cried, either.
And, knowing Gohan as Piccolo did, he knew that that was a very bad sign.
Of course, no one in the crowd really looked good. It was the single most despondent group that Piccolo had ever seen - damp clothes clinging to slumping bodies, heads bowed, some fists clenched and trembling, others hanging limp like wilted plants. Even Vegeta lacked his usual, cocky smirk. The crowd that had waited for the Saiyans' first arrival had seemed almost jovial compared to this.
There was a sound, and Piccolo turned his eyes to the black car. They were bringing the coffin out.
It was easy to convince himself that Son Goku wasn't in that box. There was no telltale chi, no sound, no scent that would indicate his presence. It was just a box, a piece of wood they were putting in the ground, covering with earth…the earth that he had loved so much.
Ah, Son…you're not going to give up until you ruin me, are you? he thought miserably, casting his eyes downward.
His only indication that the burial was over was when he heard the car pull away. Only then did he allow himself to return his attention to the field. No one had left.
Wordlessly, one of the smallest of the figures strode forward, all the way to the headstone. It was a simple marker, unadorned with words or carvings, save for a small, circular depression. And into that depression, Krillen placed something small, spherical, the same glowing orange as Son's gi.
The four-star dragonball.
And after that, people began to leave. Slowly, in ones and twos and other small groups. Soon, everyone had gone saver for two - Chichi, who was kneeling by the grave and only then allowing herself to cry, and Gohan, who stood there mutely with his hand on her shoulder.
What are you waiting for? A small voice inside him - he would have liked to think it was Nail - chimed. They need you. Go do something.
Go do something, he thought wryly. Like what? What could I possibly do?
You could be there. That would be enough.
Piccolo didn't go forward for a long time. He stood, and he thought, and he admitted that he was afraid. Irrationally, foolishly afraid. He didn't even know what he was afraid of…that he was growing too dependent, or that they were…that he would make things worse somehow…that they were miserable enough without him intruding...
And for possibly the first time in his life, Piccolo didn't face that fear. Soundlessly, he turned on his heel and walked away from it, leaving only a pair of footprints by a tree.
But they need you…
And he ignored that, too.
Chichi had long since sent her son home. Growing boys like him shouldn't be out in the rain; it wasn't healthy. So she'd told him that she'd be along in a minute.
But that had been several minutes ago.
She knew she needed to go home, too. It was getting late, the rain was developing into a full-fledged storm. Ringlets of dripping hair had been blown loose from her normally-neat bun and were straggling around her face like weeping willow leaves…her hands were cold and wrinkled like an old woman's from being wet so long, holding her shawl closed.
She knew she should go…but not yet.
Would Goku have waited for her for so long? Would he have been so…so empty inside if she had been the one to die? She didn't know. And that hurt maybe worst of all.
She wondered what he was doing in the afterlife. Visiting old friends, familiar places…laughing, fighting, having a wonderful time? She wondered if he'd ever think of them at all…if he was thinking of her and their son right then.
She wondered if she'd be able to find him once she died, or if he'd even bother to come looking for her.
She wondered just how much longer she was going to stand by his grave, waiting for him to let her know somehow…
A low, gruff voice from close behind caused her to jump. "We're going to have to dig one for you, too, if you stay out here much longer."
Spinning with all the grace of the fighter she had once been, Chichi found herself staring up at a very familiar being… "I thought you left," she said, unsure whether she sounded more bewildered or cross.
The Namekian folded his arms in apparent unconcern, speaking in as few clipped, terse words as possible. "I did. Hours ago. I came back."
Chichi tried to brush some of her hair out of her eyes so that she could actually see a bit better, but it merely tumbled back down. She was suddenly aware of what she must look like - unruly hair, eyes red from crying, wrapped in shapeless, soaking clothes, the very picture of grieving widowhood. She drew herself up to her full height, lifting her head with all the pride she had left. "Why? No one asked you to."
Piccolo merely snorted. "Listen, woman. I'm not doing this for you."
"Then why?" she shot back, surprised at the anger in her own voice. She wasn't really mad at him…in a way, she was almost touched that he'd come back to check up on her. It was just…she was used to yelling at him. It was the only way she knew to communicate with him - it was the only thing he seemed to understand. That, and she was tired, and she was grieved, and she didn't need him pitying her, and she hated that he had seen her this way when she'd spent every waking moment of the past few days making sure he couldn't see how weak she felt inside…
"I don't know. But it isn't for you," he responded flatly. "Now go home," he continued, tilting his head in the direction of her house.
Chichi blinked. He'd as much as told her that he was completely unconcerned with her, and in the next breath he was telling her what to do! "A lot you care," she snapped. "And if you think I'm going to let you order me around, you have another think coming, you overgrown houseplant! I don't need you."
Piccolo narrowed her eyes at her - beads of water raced down his brow-ridges to drip down his nose. "Anyone who doesn't have enough sense to get out of the rain - much less a storm - "
"Well, you might be afraid of a little lightning, Mr. Super-Warrior, but I…"
At that point, a peal of thunder that roared like the end of the world caused her to jump, drawing an involuntary gasp from her as well.
"You were saying?" he shot back, 'I thought so' stamped all over his normally blank face.
She very nearly slapped him from sheer pique. Instead, she merely huffed and brushed by him, headed in some random direction, which just so happened to be toward her home. She fervently hoped he wouldn't notice and decide that he'd actually won the argument.
She was suddenly aware that he was following her. She wasn't sure how she knew - he wasn't making a sound - but she knew he was there. "Did you want something?" she asked sharply, feeling a nervous little knot tighten in her gut.
"No."
"Then what do you think you're doing, following me?"
"You're the one who's big on all this human courtesy nonsense. I'm walking you home."
She snorted. Yeah, right. "More like making sure I actually go."
His voice was wry when next he spoke. "Yeah. It's like that."
She very nearly told him exactly what he could go and do, but at that point, a flash of lightning like nothing she'd ever seen tore through the night like a train through a tunnel. She gasped involuntarily, taking a step backward - and directly into Piccolo.
Which startled her yet again. She might have fallen, had a pair of strong hands not clasped her at the elbows. "Watch it," that low, gruff voice said in an annoyed tone - she could feel his breath on her ear, much to her disconcertion. "I said I'd walk you home, not carry you."
With an indignant little growl, Chichi jerked out of his grasp and stormed toward her home, well aware that he was still following her, albeit from a greater distance.
Which was why she slammed the door with a particular vengeance once she was through it. She hoped she caught him right on that hawk-sharp nose of his. Still feeling irrationally angry, she stormed up the stairs, pulling the door to her room shut behind her. With a little sigh, she flopped down on the bed.
It felt wrong.
A few moments later, she understood why. Over the past few years, she'd grown accustomed to having Goku sleep beside her. She'd always been able to tell when he was there - the mattress would slope in his direction. If he were close enough, she'd slide right down against him, just from gravity. It was a comfortable feeling, a warm feeling…
For the first time since she was a very, very little girl, Chichi cried into her pillow until long after the first morning birdsong had pierced the sky.
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