Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z or any of its characters.
Vegeta, Eighteen and other characters will appear in later chapters.
Young Hearts and Old Bones
Chapter Two
The way we are
Pale morning light wavered against the walls, swaying with the curtains in the breeze. Piccolo's eyes opened but barely, and his pupils fought against the light. He recognised the room, it was one of the pleasantly neutral spare rooms in Gohan's modest home. He closed his eyes again and breathed in; the scent of sap, faint flowers and dew felt so familiar as to be melodic. Keen ears picked up the distant clatter of kitchen utensils and the hum of a tenor, and the sound made him smirk. Gohan had taken him home before, either not trusting the Namek to heal in the confines of his waterfall, or because he was lonely. Piccolo suspected it may be a combination of both. It was unnecessary, his bones and tissues would knit together as well as they ever did, whether he was cocooned in cotton or if Gohan had left him face down in the dirt and soil, bloodied and broken. Such is the curse of being Namekian.
He sat up in the bedclothes and they slid down his chest. The cuts and scrapes were still present and he traced a finger over the jagged violet tinged skin. The injured bones beneath had taken precedence, he supposed. Climbing out of bed hurt a little, kind of like the pains Videl had complained of, arthritis, if he recalled correctly. Like his bones were protesting about the weight he had just shoved upon them. He used to weigh more.
His gi pants were torn, streaked with dried mud and he felt somewhat remorseful about the white bed sheets being white no longer. Videl would have playfully teased him about it, if she had still been around. He padded slowly to the adjoining bathroom and oddly it felt a little like home. The tiles felt surprisingly cold against the souls of his feet and he almost picked up his foot to curl his toes inwards. He hadn't noticed that Gohan had removed his shoes. The sink ahead was simple but efficient, the walls a pale blue and a painted canvas of the ocean with colourful boats bobbing on the false sea spanned the gap between the mirror and the shower. Piccolo leaned down and turned the faucet delicately, his strong fingers always struggled with these fiddly human tasks. Splashing water onto his face, he scrubbed the dirt and dried blood from his cheeks, feeling the sharpness of his cheekbones under his skin. Gohan had commented that the weight loss in his face almost made him look even younger, unlike humans, who could look hollow and gaunt. Elf like, were Gohan's exact words. Piccolo didn't really appreciate the comparison.
The pain of defeat made itself known as he looked in the mirror, seeing the evidence of slower healing than he was used to. He was still broad, still trained constantly and remained strong, but the underlying structure was betraying him. His mind wasn't as strong, too much time around all these humans perhaps. He craved sleep, rest, meditation and herbal tea. Even read a book or two from Dende's many collections, though he would adamantly deny it if asked. The Kami often asked him to the Lookout with some barely legitimate request, and Piccolo always indulged him. The young Namek still felt like a child to him, but he had grown into an admirable man, who was wise well beyond his years. He materialised a new gi, and although he wasn't fastidiously clean, it would do until he reached the waterfall.
He thought back to the fight, felt the crushing blow driving through his rib cage and a foot into his spine. How Gohan effortlessly crushed him. Gohan, who was ageing gracefully, who hadn't fought in years, who's main concern was when Pan would be visiting and would she bring the kids when she did. He flinched as sharp pain beat in his skull, the headache brewing reminded him not to think too deeply. Jade fingers grasped the small handle for the bathroom's cabinet door and pulled it open gently. A cacophony of pills and medications, balms and salves, greeted him in unfamiliar packaging. Another symptom of growing older, he wondered. He searched for the one Gohan had picked out before, he had known for some time that the Namek suffered from migraines but had the sense not to really discuss it. He picked out the small white bottle with a grey label and ripped the cap off, swallowed two with some water from the faucet and put the unsealed bottle back. Gohan was still humming downstairs, and he could smell spiced tea.
For a brief moment he did consider going downstairs, going to sit with his old student on one of those precarious pine chairs, sipping tea whilst he listened to Gohan's gentle tones. Looking at the deepening creases around his eyes and mouth, listen to him complain about Piccolo's lack of wrinkles. He thought of Videl's ring, sparkling in the moonlight, and the pain so clearly evident in Gohan's eyes. Haunted. His own embarrassment, of not only being defeated so brutally, but knowing that he would outlive all those who were stronger than him, and the legacy of his meaningless existence would be forever tangible, seemed to pale in comparison. Vegeta grasped this more than Gohan, the guilt, and knowing, Piccolo could see it in the deep black eyes of the smaller, older Saiyan. Gohan saw the bright side in almost everything, despite his own pain, and although he didn't understand, the Namek did love him for it. He did love him.
Piccolo walked back into the bedroom and to the window, glancing down to the pretty garden below. He thought again of going downstairs, joining Gohan for tea like the younger man so obviously wanted. After all this time, he still didn't feel comfortable. Like Videl was still there, watching. Only she knew more now, could see through Piccolo and into his soul, into his shadows. He felt, more than heard, Gohan arrive in the doorway behind him but he didn't turn around. The half Saiyan smiled sadly, knowing that his friend would be desperate to jump out of the window and put distance between himself and anything human, unfamiliar, or comfortable. Even after all these years. He leaned against the doorway and listened to the turning thoughts in the other man's head. Absently, he rubbed one of the many bruises on his arm; Piccolo had fought as viciously as ever.
The Namek jumped swiftly, and landed in the garden gracefully. Gohan was disappointed, but not surprised. Even in the silence he knew that they would see eachother again, later in the week perhaps, for tea. After he visited the graves of his mother and Videl. Piccolo had a way of knowing when he was needed.
Until next time.