Piccolo's eyes opened – to pitch-blackness. He filled his lungs with a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, count to ten, wait to see a light. His eyes would adjust in a moment, and he'd be able to see.

Except that his eyes weren't adjusting.

He felt panic worming its way into his thoughts…had he gone blind? Perhaps it was merely a very dark night…but no, he could feel weight on his face. A very wet weight. He turned his head slightly, and the cloth – for he could see now that that was what it had been – slopped off.

How had that gotten there?

He could make nothing out distinctly…just watery gray on gray on black…was he still dreaming? With an effort, he flexed a hand, closed it. He could move – that was usually a good sign.

Where was he?

He closed his eyes again, trying to think through the pounding in his skull, past the horribly dry feeling in his mouth. Last he remembered, he was in the skeleton of a town…no, that wasn't right. That was years ago. The last time his eyes had been open, he remembered…falling, and…sand, and…blood everywhere, and…

Why was he still alive? Or was he? He forced his lids open again – they were unaccountably heavy – and did his best to focus. For just a moment, he had a sharp, clear view of a stone ceiling; then, the edges went loose again, and the shapes started running into one another. At least he had some idea where he was now: a cave. He'd seen enough of those over the years.

But how had he gotten there? Could he have somehow dragged himself into one and not remembered? No. He dismissed that thought immediately. He had been – and, most likely, still was – beyond moving. Someone must have done it for him.

Phe…that was nearly as ridiculous as assuming that he had made it himself. What kind of idiot would do something like that? Didn't they realize what he was?

More importantly…were they still around?

The thought of anyone, weak human or no, seeing him like this was profoundly disturbing. He turned his head to the side…he could make out a pair of boot prints in the sand beside him, blurring in and out of focus.

That excluded any of his brothers…they all wore soft, treadless constructions on their feet as he did, more like moccasins than anything else. And last he'd checked, he'd been in the middle of nowhere. No one should have found him unless they'd been looking for him. More nonsense. His brothers wouldn't waste the effort, and the only other person who knew he was there was…

No. No, surely not. But then his eyes found the cloth that had been over his eyes, which had fluttered down beside the bootprints. It lay there like a signature. Orange cloth.

It was him, it had to be.

Immediately, Piccolo closed his eyes, straining his ears. No breathing other than his own. No other heartbeats. Wherever Son was, he wasn't in the cave. Piccolo had absolutely no idea how long the man would be gone – perhaps he had only stepped out for a moment. But Piccolo had no intention of being there when he came back.

With a low moan that he was glad no one else was around to hear, he rolled onto his side, then facedown. Slowly, slowly, he moved his hands into pushup position and straightened his arms. They shook as if he were trying to hold up the entire world. He glared at them, but they did not seem the least bit intimidated – they shook harder than ever. At least, he decided, they were holding him. That would be enough.

He had thought that the worst was over until he tried to move his legs. The minute he tried to draw them under himself, his arms seemed to think that their end of the task was over; they folded beneath him like damp paper. Piccolo spent a moment just lying there, thinking of nothing, drinking in air. He couldn't seem to get enough of it – he felt as if he'd been running for days. Then, grinding his teeth together, he tried again. This time, he managed to get to his knees. There, he paused, waiting futilely for his head to stop spinning.

Come on…won't give up, not…not now.

He put a hand against the wall, hoping against hope for handholds. His fingers encountered only smooth sandstone – not much help, but better than nothing. With a growl that seemed to come from the very core of his being, he straightened his legs, leaning against the wall like a child who was first learning to walk. It hurt. Oh yes, it hurt. But he was up.

You can do this…you have to do this…

Steeling his resolve, he transferred his weight from the wall to his own legs, ounce by ounce. He was standing. And he was leaving…if he could only see straight…

The wave of vertigo that hit him then was nothing short of incredible. He didn't even have time to sway before he collapsed…but he didn't fall very far. He had landed against something…something that was holding him up…something blurry and orange and saying, "Woah, you're worse about being sick than I am…I've at least got enough sense to wait 'till I can walk…"

Piccolo closed his eyes. He felt like a coward, but whatever was going to happen next, he didn't want to see it. "You," he growled, aware someplace in the back of his mind that he sounded at least as miserable as he felt. "Why can't you…just kill me and be done with it?"

"What'd I wanna do that for?" The human asked, his words heavy with surprise.

The demon knew that there were reasons, all sorts of reasons, for this being to want him dead, but thinking was becoming more and more like wading through muddy water.

No, idiot, focus! Pull yourself together!

To Piccolo's credit, he tried. He reached deep down inside himself, deeper than he'd ever gone before, but there was simply nothing left to draw upon. He was spent, completely…it had taken the last of his reserves to get as far as he had.

Hands, light on his back, transferring his weight. "On the bright side, you're awake…right? Piccolo? Can you hear me?"

At least, Piccolo was fairly sure that was what he said…he was having a great deal of difficulty separating one word from another, for some strange reason…the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back again, with the dim figure leaning over him. Bleary eyes or no, Piccolo could easily make out concern on those indistinct features. "Pic, say something, alright? Anything?"

"Anything," the demon repeated dazedly. Wasn't that what this odd person had asked him to say? Who was that person, anyway? He had the feeling that he should remember…

"Hooo boy, you're really out of it, aren't you?"

Out of what? Piccolo wondered – but it wasn't worth the energy it would take to ask. He saw a hand coming down and flinched involuntarily, closing his eyes, gripped by a sudden fear that he couldn't understand. He didn't even think to question why he was pulling back; something told him that he should.

"Relax…I'm not going to hurt you." He felt fingers brush his forehead, heard a low whistle from…whoever was beside him. "Still got it, huh? Feels better, though."

Sounds of something sloshing in water – something cold draped over his eyes. "Try to keep it on this time, okay?" He couldn't see again, but it didn't seem to matter. With or without that thing on his eyes, everything was too blurry to make out…

Something damp at his lips…felt …cold… "You should really drink some water…it'll help, I think."

A part of him – most likely some small vestige of his mind that was keeping track of what was going on and not liking it one bit – demanded that he refuse. Told him he would be better off dead. But, despite that strange feeling of foreboding, the rest of him was simply tired beyond all endurance. So he drank, more from instinct than from actual decision.

He heard a relieved sigh, and the other resumed talking to him in a low, jumbled murmur that seemed to ebb and flow like the tides. It came to him wordless, most likely because he couldn't seem to concentrate on separating syllables. He didn't really care what this strange person was saying, anyway. Only that he was there.

It was strange, he decided, to hear something other than the wind when he was drifting in and out of wakefulness. A part of him resented it. Hated knowing he was being watched. And yet…there was something almost soothing about that droning sound.

Thinking thusly, he slipped back into sleep…sleep that was mercifully without dreams.

* * *

The feeling that greeted Piccolo when next he woke was one that any drunk would be familiar with. It was the feeling that he had done something monumentally stupid, something that he would no doubt regret, just as soon as he could remember what it was. He hurt. He knew that immediately. He hurt practically everywhere. Something had happened. Something big…yes, a fight…worse than the usual.

He had a vague memory of waking up once before, and…

With a snarl, he reached up to his face with one hand, snatching a fistful of damp cloth and peeling it from his eyes. He sat up slowly, staring at the fabric twined around his fingers with outright animosity. Impossible. It was impossible. What had happened…could not have happened.

Bits and pieces were coming back to him, though, and he could not deny them. He realized that his hand was shaking again – but this time, rage had more to do with it than anything else.

How…how dare he just…

"Hey, Piccolo. Feel any better?"

Millimeter by millimeter, the demon turned his head so that he was looking at his rival. Son Goku was crouched a little more than an arm's length away – from the look of him, he had not slept. His hair was more disheveled than normal; it resembled some live animal that had decided to perch on his head. His eyes were bloodshot. His grin was even subdued.

Piccolo glanced down at himself, briefly. He tried not to think about what he saw…and what it meant.

Son Goku apparently noticed, because he spoke in a voice that was brimming with hesitance, "I…uh…went ahead and cleaned your wounds for you. I hope you don't mind, but…"

"Why," Piccolo hissed, fastening his eyes on the human.

Goku blinked. "Because I was afraid you were gonna die or something, and…"

"No," the demon interrupted harshly. He was having a very hard time deciding whether he was more humiliated, angry, or confused – he opted for angry. He could forget the other two for a time, if only he could be angry enough. "Not that. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

The other warrior looked at him owlishly. "I…what?"

A growl tore free of Piccolo's throat before he could stop it. "Idiotic human…you'd won. It was over. But you couldn't let it end as it should have. At least," he continued, his voice little more than a crescendoing growl, "you could tell me why."

Son shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? I just…didn't want you to die, that's all."

Piccolo stared at him for perhaps a minute before he spoke again. "You…didn't want me to die."

The human nodded…then, apparently thinking better of it, shook his head. "No."

The demon felt snarl lines furrowing the bridge of his nose. "And you expect me to believe that you s…that you did what you did simply because you wanted to keep me alive. Nothing beyond that?"

Son grinned again. "Hai, that's right. I knew you'd understand. You just needed a little time, that's all, and…"

Piccolo wondered briefly if he was dreaming again – this was definitely strange enough to be a dream… "You're right – I do not understand," he hissed. "And I don't wish to."

Son stopped in mid-stream, tilting his head. "Why not?"

"Because you're…" Picolo trailed off, shook his head. "Gods, you're impossible."

"I just want to help you, you know," the man remarked earnestly.

Without another thought, Piccolo flung the rag at his rival. Son caught it easily, his brow practically doubling over in bemusement.

"That is exactly what I don't need: your help," he snapped.

To add insult to…well, everything else…the human actually looked hurt.

Piccolo pointedly looked away. He had a fair idea as to what was going to happen sooner or later. Son had to want something from him, be it information or merely the satisfaction of seeing him suffer. Surreptitiously, the demon reached inside himself and found…nothing. Still nothing. His chi had been thoroughly depleted…it would be days, maybe a week, before he could fight again. That wasn't even taking into account the fact that he felt as though his whole body was laced with needles - he felt a sharp pain every time he drew a breath. That meant broken ribs. He didn't even like to think about his shoulder…

What that all amounted to was that he couldn't even fight back. At least, not effectively…but Enma Daio take him if he didn't make that blasted human work for whatever he got. "I've had enough of your pleasantries, human," he said, spitting out the last word as if it were the worst insult he could think of. "Why don't you just do whatever it is that you came here to do?"

"Kami-sama! I've met some difficult people before, but you…" Son, obviously having exhausted his limited vocabulary, gestured expansively. "Why can't you just accept that maybe the whole world isn't out to get you?"

"Isn't it?" Piccolo shot back, feeling bitterness rise like bile in the back of his mouth.

"No! I mean, I'm not, and…"

"Fine," Piccolo snapped, still glaring at the wall as if it were somehow responsible for his problems. "Let's suspend reality for a second or two and say that I believed that you aren't my enemy. That would mean you and who else?"

"Alright. Me, and…and…" he trailed off. Piccolo could well imagine the look on his face – he could hear it in his voice.

"My point exactly," the demon stated, pounding out every word as if on an anvil. "Just you, if I believed you…and you're lying. So you may as well tell me what you really want."

* * *

Goku stared at the demon's back for perhaps a minute before he could think of anything else to say. "Piccolo," he began at last, "there has to be something I can do to help you – some way I can make you believe me."

Another low growl from Piccolo's direction. Then, in an amused half-whisper, "The only way you could do that would be to let me go."

"Let you go?" The human asked, feeling a little lost. Then, like a light bulb coming on, understanding hit. "You think you're a prisoner?"

Silence.

Son grinned – this wasn't going to be so hard after all. "Okay, sure. You can leave if you want."

"…repeat that."

"I…um…said you're free to go." Son watched the demon's back carefully, seeking any sign as to what he was thinking. His lone clue was that Piccolo's hands had clenched into fists. Still, he couldn't help smiling slightly at the fact that Piccolo had almost spoken civilly to him. True, only two words, but hey, progress was progress. And admittedly, he hadn't said anything else yet. Goku opted to continue cheerfully, "Any time you want to go, you can walk right out of here. I won't stop you."

The demon's head turned slowly, and Son found himself staring into a pair of polished garnet eyes. Eyes that held something that he couldn't quite identify. "I don't believe you." Funny, the demon didn't sound incredulous. He sounded more disgusted than anything else.

Still grinning, Son stood up. He could see the demon's muscles tense, as if he were trying to keep from flinching, but Son said nothing about it. Taking a step back, he gestured toward the cave entrance. "No, I mean it! Go ahead."

The demon smirked, but it was not the same expression that he had worn during their fight. This one was wry and self-mocking. "Oh, that's funny, human. You're a riot."

Goku blinked. He didn't remember making a joke. "What's funny?"

Piccolo's only answer was to glare at him with smoldering eyes.

Lacking any other option, the man began thinking. What had he said that was so…well, Piccolo had said 'funny,' but the way that he was looking at him then didn't seem amused. He had just said that the demon could walk right out if he…could…walk. Which he probably couldn't. Wonderful.

Son fought the urge to slap his forehead. Kami's right – my foot and my mouth are a perfect fit. He thinks I'm taunting him or baiting him or something…geesh, who am I kidding? I don't know how to talk to someone like him…

But he needed help. And there was simply no one else to do it.

Son had the distinct impression that it was going to be a very long few days.