Warning(s): Angst, Guilt, Self-loathing
Synopsis: Piccolo finally returns from his training and the first thing he does is to pay you a visit.
Piccolo's return was supposed to be simple.
After days of training alone in the freezing northern glaciers, he expected to stop by your place, maybe exchange a few words, and then disappear back into the mountains. But when he arrived, the place was empty.
Your energy was nowhere to be found.
That alone was unusual. Normally, even when you were out, he could at least sense you in the distance. Frowning, he assumed you were at the school and wasted no time flying over, only to find it just as empty. No students. No sign of you.
The unease started creeping in.
Where the hell were you?
His search took him to the nearest city. He walked along the crowded sidewalks, scanning the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of you—maybe hear your voice amidst the city noise. But nothing.
Then he heard your name, vaguely.
He almost didn't register it at first, but something in his gut told him to listen. He stopped mid-step, glancing at a row of televisions in a store display. They were broadcasting the latest news, and a reporter stood on screen, speaking with grim urgency.
"—the incident that took place just days ago at a festival in East City, where a suspect opened fire, injuring a woman who courageously intervened—"
He nearly turned away. It had nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with you.
Then your picture appeared in the top right corner of the screen.
Piccolo froze.
His blood turned to ice as the reporter continued.
"—identified as the martial arts instructor, (Y/n), seen here in her signature gi. Witnesses say she stepped in when the suspect attempted to target a young girl—one of her students—before sustaining multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. The suspect is now in custody, while (Y/n) remains in critical condition at Nicky Town Hospital Center—"
He didn't hear the rest.
In a heartbeat, he was airborne, the city shrinking beneath him as he shot toward the hospital like a meteor.
Your energy was faint—dangerously faint—but it was there. The moment he locked onto it, he pushed harder, his speed ripping through the sky, the air roaring in his ears.
By the time he landed outside the hospital, his patience was already hanging by a thread.
The moment he stepped through the doors, he headed straight for the reception desk.
"I need to see (Y/n)." His voice was sharp, unwavering.
The receptionist blinked up at him, startled by his sudden presence. "I—uh—are you a family member or—?"
"I'm her friend," he snapped.
Her hesitant expression made his patience snap.
"I'm sorry, but visiting hours—"
His fist slammed against the counter. The wood cracked under the force, the entire desk shaking violently. The receptionist flinched, eyes wide with fear as the room fell silent.
"Tell me where she is," he demanded, voice low and seething.
Trembling, the woman quickly typed on her computer. "R-Room C28, 10th floor," she stammered.
That was all he needed. Without another word, he turned and stormed toward the stairwell.
The climb up 10 floors took mere seconds.
The halls were eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of machines behind closed doors. Piccolo's footsteps barely made a sound as he moved, his heart pounding loud in his ears.
And then, he found it.
Room C28.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Your energy was there. Weak, but there.
His fingers twitched at his sides. He should walk in. He should go inside and see for himself.
But for the first time in a long, long time… Piccolo hesitated.
He felt the damage before he even looked. He knew, deep down, that whatever condition you were in—it was bad. Too bad. And it made something twist deep in his chest, something cold and unbearable.
Still, he forced himself forward.
Peering through the glass window, his breath hitched.
There you were.
Lying motionless in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines, tubes hooked up to your nose and mouth. Your chest barely rose with each slow, mechanical breath, your body looking far too still, far too fragile.
Piccolo's fists clenched.
There was no way to describe what he felt. Anger? Guilt? Something worse?
He had been gone for only a few days. A few days. And in his absence, you had nearly died.
His feet felt heavy as he stepped inside. The sterile scent of the hospital filled his nose, but all he could focus on was you. Seeing you like this—so weak, so lifeless—tore something inside him.
This wasn't right.
You weren't supposed to be the one lying here, barely clinging to life. You were strong, stubborn, full of life and fire. Not this.
Slowly, Piccolo stepped around the opposite end of the bed, his moccasins' making barely a sound against the sterile tile floor. His breath was steady, but each step forward felt like dragging a boulder, his body weighed down by an unbearable pressure. He never took his eyes off of you.
The severity of your injuries—something he had tried to brace himself for—hit him all at once.
The moment he reached your bedside, his legs gave out.
With a dull thud, Piccolo dropped to his knees, his arms resting on the edge of the bed. He exhaled shakily before hesitantly reaching out, his large fingers gently wrapping around your hand. The familiar warmth he had grown used to—the warmth that had so often greeted him in training, in conversation, in all those quiet moments you had shared—was gone.
Your hand was cold. Too cold.
His breath hitched in his throat.
He swallowed hard, but the lump in his chest only grew. His grip on your hand tightened, his free hand clenching into a fist against the sheets.
If he hadn't left…
If he had been there…
If he had protected you…
A choked noise escaped him before he could suppress it.
The weight in his chest—what had been building ever since he heard your name on that damned news report—finally broke him.
Piccolo's head bowed forward, his forehead pressing against the mattress as his shoulders trembled. He bit down hard, willing himself to keep control, but the burning sting in his eyes wouldn't stop.
Then, the first tear fell.
Followed by another.
And another.
His body convulsed as quiet, guttural sobs ripped from his chest, the sound muffled against the sheets. He didn't care. Not if anyone saw. Not if the whole damn hospital could hear him.
Nothing outside this room mattered.
Only you.
"(Y/n)…" His voice cracked, barely a whisper.
He clenched his teeth, screwing his eyes shut, but the flood didn't stop. A gut-wrenching sob wracked his body as he clutched your limp hand.
"...Please…" His breath stuttered, his grip tightening as if it could somehow tether you back to him. "I—I can't lose you…"
For what felt like an eternity, Piccolo stayed there—shattered, breaking apart at the seams.
Eventually, exhaustion took its toll. His body, so used to enduring battle after battle, had finally reached its limit. His breathing slowed, and his sobs quieted until they were nothing more than sharp, uneven breaths.
Still, even as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he never let go of your hand.
A sliver of light peeked through the curtains, casting over his slumped form. His face, stained with silent tears, remained turned toward you as if he feared you'd vanish if he looked away.
Hours later, Piccolo stirred.
His body ached—not from battle, not from training, but from the unbearable heaviness in his chest. The reminder of why he was here settled in instantly, sending a fresh wave of agony through him.
He considered staying where he was, allowing himself a few more moments of reprieve, but a thought struck him.
A solution.
His stomach twisted at the realization.
He had to leave.
His fingers twitched as he hesitated—one last look. Then, with considerable effort, he forced himself up and turned away from your still form.
He had to go to Korin's Tower.
The journey was swift, fueled by desperation.
Piccolo didn't waste a second as he descended onto Korin's Tower, his moccasins slamming into the tiled platform. His chest rose and fell heavily from the flight, but he ignored the exhaustion clawing at him. There was no time for it.
"Korin," he barked, his voice firm yet edged with something uncharacteristically frantic. "I need a senzu bean."
The white feline turned, staff in hand, his usual calm expression unreadable. "Hate to say it, but you're out of luck, Piccolo."
The words barely registered.
"…What?"
Korin let out a long sigh, shaking his head. "Not a single one left. We ran out."
Piccolo's breath hitched. His jaw tightened, and his fingers twitched at his sides. His mind refused to accept what he had just heard. He needed one. You needed one. His shoulders rose and fell as he bit the inside of his cheek, desperately keeping himself composed.
Korin, ever perceptive, narrowed his eyes. Piccolo wasn't one to openly display his emotions, but the subtle shift in his usually hardened features didn't go unnoticed. The slight furrow of his brow, the tense set of his jaw, and—most telling of all—the shadow of something pained flickering in his onyx eyes.
He was worried.
The realization caught Korin off guard, and he had to resist the urge to flick his tail in surprise.
"Why do you need a senzu bean?" the cat asked, his voice laced with curiosity. "It's not like we're dealing with something worse than Majin Buu, ya know?"
"Yeah," another voice chimed in, coming from the staircase below. "You actin' like the world's ending or somethin'."
Yajirobe.
The overweight, unkempt swordsman strolled onto the platform, arms crossed, his expression full of lazy disinterest. "No offense, but last I checked, you don't just show up demanding senzu beans without a damn good reason."
That did it.
Piccolo's eyes snapped to Yajirobe, his fangs bared in a sharp snarl. His voice dropped into a low, dangerous growl.
"That is none of your damn business," he spat through clenched teeth. "I don't need to explain myself—only that I need a senzu bean."
Yajirobe blinked, then feigned a bored yawn, though the way his body stiffened gave away his nerves. "Sheesh, touchy much? What, is someone dying or something?"
The words struck like a knife to the gut.
Piccolo's breath hitched as an image flashed through his mind—you, lying motionless in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, barely holding on. The steady beep of the monitor. The shallow rise and fall of your chest.
His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Damn it.
Korin immediately took notice, ears twitching as he caught the abnormal hostility rolling off the Namekian in waves. He turned sharply toward Yajirobe, voice firm.
"Alright, that's enough," he warned. "If you know what's good for you, Yajirobe, you'll shut your mouth before Piccolo blasts you off this tower."
Yajirobe's mouth opened—then snapped shut.
Korin sighed, his feline features softening as he looked back at Piccolo. "I wish I could help, Piccolo, I do. But like I said, we're fresh out." His tail flicked before he added, "However, a new batch is growin' as we speak. They'll be ready in about five months. As soon as they're good to go, I'll let you know."
Piccolo said nothing at first. His breathing was still shallow, his muscles taut, but he forced himself to exhale through his nose, regaining some semblance of control.
Finally, he gave a stiff nod.
Without another word, he turned back toward the sky, his cape billowing in the wind.
His only thought was getting back to you.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Piccolo refused to leave your side.
The hospital staff tried to convince him otherwise, but his resolve was unwavering. Eventually, they gave up.
The second week came, and with it, a shift.
A nurse and a surgeon arrived to remove you from life support. Piccolo stood rigid, hands clenched, watching their every movement with unwavering intensity.
They worked in silence, carefully removing the tubes keeping you breathing. His stomach coiled into knots as he waited—prayed—for something, anything.
Then, a breath.
Your chest rose and fell on its own.
The nurse monitored you closely, ensuring your body adjusted. Piccolo remained as still as stone, watching with sharp eyes, waiting for any sign of distress.
But none came.
Relief washed over the room like a silent wave.
Still, Piccolo didn't allow himself to breathe until twenty-four hours had passed with no complications.
The early morning hours were quiet.
Piccolo sat on the floor, arms folded, head bowed. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't truly asleep—merely allowing himself to drift in and out of thought, the constant hum of the ventilation shaft above filling the silence.
No one bothered him anymore.
Except for her.
Michiko.
A nurse he had come to tolerate, perhaps even appreciate. She had been the one to allow him to stay when others would have sent him away. She never forced conversation, never made him feel like an outsider.
She simply existed in the space, like he did.
Michiko always checked on you first, never rushing. Then, wordlessly, she would set down a bottle of water for him before leaving.
He never acknowledged it, but he noticed.
A quiet show of kindness he wasn't used to.
But all his thoughts scattered in an instant when—
"...Ngh…"
Piccolo's eyes snapped open.
His body moved before his mind could catch up, rising to his feet in a flash and stepping toward your bedside.
His heart pounded.
His breath caught.
His hands clenched at his sides as he waited.
Anticipation twisted in his chest like a vice.
And then—
Your fingers twitched.
A soft, rhythmic beeping.
That was the first thing you registered as your mind swam through a thick, disorienting haze.
Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and sluggish. The ceiling above you was stark white, unfamiliar, and sterile. A faint antiseptic scent lingered in the air, mingling with something softer—something warm.
Your vision wavered, struggling to focus. As you attempted to move, a dull ache spread through your body, dragging you down like an anchor. Your breaths came slow and uneven, each inhale rattling in your chest.
Confusion clouded your thoughts. Where…?
Your eyes darted across the room, searching for any clue, but the details blurred together—until you heard it.
A voice.
"(Y/n)?"
Low. Strained.
Familiar.
You turned your head with effort, your neck protesting the movement. A shadowed figure stood to your right, the light from the monitor casting a faint glow over their form. Your vision wavered again, the world sluggishly coming into focus.
It wasn't until the figure leaned closer that recognition settled in.
"P…Picc-olo…"
It took everything in you to say his name. The word left your lips in a breathy whisper, but it was enough.
Something flickered in his dark eyes—something raw, unreadable. Pain? Relief? Both?
A single tear traced down his cheek, glistening under the dim light.
His expression remained still, calm even, but the way his hands curled into fists—the way his breath came just a little too sharp—told another story.
You felt the warmth of his hand near yours, his knuckles barely brushing against your fingers. With what little strength you had, you reached out, pressing your palm against his.
He flinched.
His breath caught as his eyes widened, staring at you as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked.
"…W…why… are you… crying…?"
Piccolo's body stiffened.
Whatever composure he had been clinging to—whatever walls he had built—shattered.
His head dropped, shoulders shaking as he released a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a ragged breath. More tears spilled, trailing down his cheeks in silent devastation.
"Why?" His voice broke, raw with emotion. "Because you could've died, that's why!"
His hands clenched into the sheets, his breathing uneven.
"If I hadn't left—if I had stayed—this wouldn't have happened!" He gritted his teeth, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. "I could've protected you. I should've protected you! I—"
"Not…your…fault…"
The words came in a whisper, weak but firm.
Piccolo's breath hitched. His eyes snapped to yours, searching, desperate.
You inhaled deeply, summoning what little strength you had left.
"Not… your… fa-a-ault."
Something inside him crumbled.
He exhaled sharply, almost shakily, before slowly—hesitantly—lifting a hand. His fingers trembled, betraying the emotions he tried so hard to suppress.
Then, with infinite gentleness, he cupped your cheek.
His touch was warm, steady. His thumb brushed over your skin in slow, deliberate strokes, as if grounding himself in the moment.
And then—you leaned into him.
His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid at the feeling of your warmth pressing into his palm.
His stomach twisted, flipping over itself in an unfamiliar sensation that sent a tremor through his very core.
It was unsettling. Addicting.
A foolish, intoxicating feeling—one that he couldn't understand, yet craved all the same.
And maybe—just maybe—he was a fool for feeling this way.
But if being a fool meant keeping you by his side…
Then he was the luckiest fool alive.
(a/n)
To be completely honest with you guys,
this chapter has been written for over a year now, and I knew that this specific event had to happen. Because I love a good angsty chapter in my stories~
I did cry when I had to write out Piccolo's emotional turmoil.
I love him to bits but like having to write him slowly breaking at the seams is something that I never usually see in some fics. Maybe it's because he has a tough guy/stoic mask to hide how he's truly feeling. Maybe I wanted it to hurt. Maybe even cry a little? (ok but that crying scene of him thoo? broke me when I was writing it )
I hope you lovely readers enjoyed this chapter as much as I did (what am I saying? I wrote it, of course I would enjoy it lol)
Until next time~