Warning(s): Cursing, Comfort

Synopsis: It has been a month since you've been hospitalized, a month since that awful day. Slowly but surely, things were returning back to normal. Except this time, with Piccolo glued to your side.

The soft golden light of dawn filtered through your bedroom window, warming the room with its gentle glow. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, catching the sunlight as they drifted. The once-sterile scent of hospital disinfectant had faded, replaced by the familiar, comforting smell of your home—fresh linens, the lingering trace of lavender from the diffuser you forgot to turn off, and something else… something earthy, grounding.

You stirred under the blankets, shifting slightly. A grave mistake.

Pain.

A sharp, searing agony tore through your chest like wildfire, your body protesting even the smallest movement. It felt like your ribs were wrapped in iron chains, crushing down on you with every breath.

"Fuck—"

The curse slipped past your lips in a hoarse whisper. You grit your teeth, rolling onto your stomach in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure, but it only made things worse. A sharp inhale sent another jolt of pain up your spine, making your vision blur at the edges. Every breath felt like trying to fill a balloon with a hole in it—shallow, strained, ineffective.

You barely noticed the sound of your bedroom door creaking open.

You were too caught up in the pain, too lost in the haze of discomfort, to register the weight of someone's presence. It wasn't until a firm yet careful hand pressed gently against your back that your breath hitched involuntarily.

The warmth of that touch, steady and reassuring, was unmistakable.

"Easy. Don't push yourself."

Piccolo's voice was a low, quiet rumble—rough with lingering sleep, but still holding that ever-present edge of concern.

Your body stiffened for a second before realization hit.

Right.

You weren't in the hospital anymore.

You weren't surrounded by beeping machines and the sterile, impersonal walls of a recovery room.

You were home.

And Piccolo stayed with you.

The moment you first woke up in that hospital still lingered in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream—hazy, blurred at the edges, yet impossible to forget.

Your body had felt like lead, weighed down by exhaustion and the remnants of anesthesia. Every limb was heavy, every movement sluggish. The air smelled sterile—antiseptic mixed with something faintly metallic. The distant, rhythmic beeping of monitors was the only thing keeping you tethered to consciousness.

Then, through the fog, you heard it.

Your name.

A voice deep and steady, yet edged with something you weren't used to hearing from him. Worry? Relief?

You had barely managed to turn your head, your vision swimming. And there he was.

Piccolo.

Standing right beside your hospital bed, hands resting on top of the white sheets, watching you with an unreadable expression. His sharp features were carved from stone, unmoving, yet his eyes… his eyes told another story.

You had wanted to say something—to ask why he was there, how he found you, why he looked at you like that—but your throat had been too dry, your voice too weak. So instead, you just stared, trying to convince yourself that this wasn't some drug-induced hallucination.

Because it didn't make sense.

Wasn't he supposed to be up north, training? Pushing himself beyond limits, as he always did? He never stayed in one place for too long—especially not somewhere as confining as a hospital.

And yet, he was there.

Days passed in a haze. Nurses came and went, checking your vitals, adjusting your medication. Piccolo was always nearby. You weren't sure if he ever left.

Until one day, when he finally did.

It was a small window of time—he had left to track down something more suitable for you to eat since hospital food was, in his words, barely edible garbage.

That was when Michiko, your nurse, entered. She was friendly as always, checking your IV, adjusting your pillows, chatting casually as she worked. But then, in between her usual routine, she offhandedly mentioned something that made your heart stop.

"That friend of yours… the tall one? He never left your side, you know. The staff tried to get him to leave, told him you needed space to recover, but he wouldn't budge. He was adamant about staying with you."

You had just stared at her.

Piccolo?

Staying?

In a hospital?

For you?

It had sounded impossible. Absurd. Completely out of character for someone like him.

And yet…

Now, back in your bed, away from the stiff hospital sheets, away from the suffocating white walls of that recovery room, his presence remained just as unwavering.

His hand rested against your back—not pressing, just there. Steady. Solid. Grounding.

You swallowed thickly, barely able to form the words past your dry throat.

"…It hurts."

His fingers tensed ever so slightly against your back before pulling away. A shift of movement. Then, the weight of the mattress slightly dipped beside you.

A pause.

Then, his voice. Low. Steady.

"I know."

You felt the warmth of something—energy, ki, or just the sheer presence of him—settling near you, wrapping around you like a protective barrier.

Not smothering.

Just there.

For the first time since waking up, you let out a slow, shaky breath.

And for the first time, it didn't hurt quite as much.

Then came the dreaded moment—you had to stand up.

You didn't want to. Every part of you screamed to stay in bed, to sink back into the safety of the blankets and let sleep reclaim you. But you knew better. You knew that, eventually, you had to move. You had to try.

Still, even thinking about it made exhaustion settle deeper in your bones.

Your arms felt impossibly heavy, like they were made of stone, weak and uncooperative after so much time spent motionless. Just the mere thought of pushing yourself upright was enough to make you hesitate.

But you wanted to try.

Slowly, you placed your hands on either side of the mattress, bracing yourself, gathering what little strength you had left. You sucked in a breath, mentally counting down, willing yourself to move.

Piccolo, who had been sitting quietly beside you, watching with that ever-present air of silent attentiveness, saw what you were attempting. Before you could even struggle, before the pain could fully take hold, he reached out and—without a word—helped you sit up.

His movements were slow, careful, as if he had already anticipated the pain this would cause you. And fuck, was there pain.

The moment you were upright, a sharp, burning sensation flared through your muscles, radiating from your chest outward like white-hot fire. Your breath hitched, your eyes instinctively squeezing shut as a wince twisted your face.

"Shit—" you hissed through gritted teeth, the pain making your head spin. Your fingers instinctively latched onto Piccolo's arm, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

He didn't flinch.

Of course, he didn't. His skin was thick, durable—battle-worn in ways most people couldn't begin to understand. A grip like yours was nothing to him.

But still, he stayed put.

He let you hold on, his arm a steady, unwavering presence beneath your fingers. He didn't rush you, didn't scold you, didn't tell you to push through it or act like this was some kind of endurance test.

He simply waited.

Waited for you to catch your breath.

Waited for the pain to dull, even if only slightly.

Waited for you to let go when you were ready.

It took a long moment before you could manage even a shallow, steady breath. Your muscles still ached, and you knew they would for a while. But you had moved. You had sat up. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Finally, you pried your fingers from his arm, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at how tightly you had been holding onto him. You didn't meet his gaze, just exhaled shakily and muttered,

"Well… that sucked."

A quiet snort. Low, brief, almost imperceptible. But there.

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. "Did you just laugh at me?"

Piccolo didn't answer. His expression remained neutral, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something amused, something fond.

You rolled your eyes. "Great. Love that for me."

But even as you grumbled, you could still feel the warmth of his presence beside you, unwavering as ever.

With Piccolo's help, you had managed to make it down the stairs—though at an agonizingly slow pace. Every step felt like a trial, your legs barely able to support your own weight. More than once, your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, but each time, Piccolo was there, steady and unwavering. His arm, firm and solid beneath your grip, kept you from collapsing entirely, guiding you with a patience you couldn't help but be grateful for.

By the time you reached the couch, you were practically sagging against him. Piccolo lowered you down carefully, making sure you were settled before stepping back. Without his help, you knew there was no way you would have made it out of bed today.

Still, even after all that effort, you hadn't moved since.

Morning turned to afternoon, and there you remained—sunk deep into the cushions, unmoving, eyes half-lidded in a medicated haze. The painkillers had done their job almost too well, leaving you feeling distant, disconnected, and sluggish. It was a feeling you hated.

Your head lolled back against the couch, your gaze fixed on nothing, body too drained to do anything but exist. You let out a slow, controlled breath, trying to will away the fog in your mind.

Then—

Your phone rang.

You cracked an eye open, groaning softly.

I should've left it on mute.

The shrill ringtone felt like a personal attack, grating against your already exhausted nerves. For a brief moment, you debated ignoring it, letting it ring until whoever it was gave up.

But what if it was important?

With a tired sigh, you forced yourself forward, pushing off the backrest of the couch with sluggish effort. Every movement felt heavier than it should have, but you eventually leaned over far enough to snatch your phone from the table.

Jenny's name flashed across the screen.

Your brows furrowed slightly, but you answered.

"…Yeah?" Your voice was hoarse, groggy.

A beat of silence. Then—

"What the hell, dude?!" Jenny's voice exploded through the speaker, her tone laced with frustration and something else—something sharper. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were out of the hospital?!"

You let out a quiet sigh, head hanging low. "...Because I was in pain? Not to mention I'm on some heavy pain meds."

"Okay, okay, but that still doesn't explain how you got home. Who even took you, huh?"

You paused, lifting your head to glance toward the kitchen. Piccolo stood there, missing his usual white cape and turban. When your eyes met, he raised a brow, arms crossed. Without breaking eye contact, you slowly answered Jenny, still on the phone.

"...I did?" It sounded more like a question than a statement, but you hoped she wouldn't catch the lie—that it had actually been Piccolo who brought you home.

Luckily, she didn't. But what came next wasn't much better.

"YOU WHAT?!"

Her sudden yell made you yank the phone away from your ear, face twisting in discomfort.

"ARE YOU NUTS? YOU COULD'VE CALLED ME!"

Keeping the phone at a safe distance, you muttered, "I was exhausted, ok?! Plus, it was late, I didn't want to wake you up at 3 in the fucking morning. Besides, I got a taxi driver to take me home. What's the big deal?"

Jenny was not having it.

"Oh, it's a big deal, alright!" she snapped, her voice still loud enough that you swore Piccolo could hear it from across the room. "You just got out of the hospital, dumbass! You could barely move the last time I saw you! What if something happened? What if you collapsed or—or got in the wrong cab and some weirdo tried to kidnap your ass?"

You sighed again, dragging a tired hand down your face. "Jenny…"

"No, don't 'Jenny' me! You know I would've picked you up, no hesitation! You didn't even text me?"

You shot an exasperated look at Piccolo, but as always, his face remained unreadable—a mask of stoicism that rarely cracked. Yet, in the dim light of the kitchen, his dark, intense eyes softened just enough to offer something unspoken. Sympathy, perhaps. Understanding. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it. A quiet reassurance hidden beneath his usual guarded exterior.

Running a hand through your hair, you tried to soothe the storm brewing on the other end of the call. "Look, I'm sorry… really, I am."

Jenny's heavy silence was almost worse than the yelling.

Then, in a quieter, slightly more strained voice, she asked, "You're really okay?"

Your gaze flickered back toward Piccolo, who was still watching you with that unreadable expression. His arms remained folded, his posture relaxed, but you knew better. You could tell by the way he stayed nearby, by the way he kept his energy just barely extended, subtly keeping tabs on you.

The truth was, you weren't okay. Not really.

But you also knew Jenny. If you told her that, she'd be on your doorstep in seconds, and you were too tired to deal with the whirlwind that was Jenny At Full Concern.

So, you forced a smile—one she couldn't see but maybe, just maybe, she could hear it in your voice.

"Yeah," you murmured, shifting slightly against the couch. "I'm okay."

Another long silence. Then—

"…Alright," Jenny finally said, though she still sounded doubtful. "But I swear, if you do something reckless again and don't tell me, I will hunt you down."

You let out a small chuckle. "Noted."

"Damn right."

There was a pause, followed by a sigh on her end this time. "…Get some rest, dude."

"You too, Jen."

With that, you ended the call with a soft tap, letting the phone rest on your chest as you exhaled slowly. The conversation had drained what little energy you had left, leaving you feeling even heavier against the couch cushions.

Jenny's concern had been genuine—always was—but you hated making people worry. Especially her.

Piccolo's deep voice broke through your thoughts.

"You didn't tell her the truth."

You let out a short laugh, dry and humorless. "What, that I feel like I got hit by a truck, thrown off a cliff, and then hit by another truck?" You gave a weak shrug. "Didn't seem necessary."

Piccolo studied you, his piercing gaze making it clear that he wasn't fooled by your deflections. "And when she finds out you lied?"

"If she finds out," you corrected, wincing as you adjusted your position. "And besides… what was I supposed to say? 'Hey Jenny, I'm actually a mess and barely holding it together, but don't worry, my seven-foot alien bodyguard has been babysitting me'?" You shook your head, running a tired hand over your face. "She'd lose her mind."

Piccolo didn't respond immediately. Instead, he just watched you, unreadable as always, though his silence carried weight. He knew you well enough to see past the sarcasm, past the forced humor.

Finally, he let out a quiet huff. "You shouldn't push yourself so soon."

You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. "Yeah, well, I've never been good at sitting still."

Piccolo rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation in his expression. If anything, he just looked… resigned.

"You should sleep," he said, voice softer now, less of an order and more of a suggestion.

You didn't argue. Not this time. The exhaustion was clawing at you, the painkillers making your limbs feel like lead. You gave him a half-hearted thumbs-up before letting your head fall back against the couch cushions, eyes slipping shut.

As the haze of sleep began to pull you under, you were vaguely aware of Piccolo shifting nearby. He didn't leave. Didn't retreat to his usual spot outside.

Instead, he stayed.

Silent. Watchful.

Just like always.