Warning(s): Cursing, angst, fluff
Synopsis: Every day is a small step to gaining back your strength.
A month had passed since you'd come home from the hospital, and recovery had been nothing short of grueling. The kind of slow, frustrating process that made every second feel like a battle against your own body.
Every single day, you had to force yourself to move—even if it was just to shuffle from the couch to the kitchen, to reach for a glass of water, or to half-heartedly fold a few shirts before exhaustion made you sit down again. It wasn't just the physical pain; it was the mental strain, the exhaustion of feeling trapped in your own limitations.
And through it all, Piccolo had been there.
Not hovering. Not smothering. Just there. A constant presence, steady and unshakable, like a mountain standing firm against a storm.
On your worst days, the ones where the pain was so unbearable that just breathing felt like knives digging into your ribs, you'd end up on the floor—knees curled to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if that alone could keep you from falling apart. Those were the moments you felt the most vulnerable, the closest to breaking. The kind of pain that made you want to scream or cry or both, but you refused to let yourself.
It was on one of those days that you'd first felt it.
The warmth.
Piccolo never said much when he found you like that—he never needed to. Instead, he would lower himself onto the floor beside you, settling in that familiar cross-legged stance, his movements slow and deliberate. And then, without a word, he would place a large hand on your shoulder, his palm radiating a soft, golden glow.
His energy seeped into you like a slow tide, gentle and steady, never overwhelming. It wasn't a complete fix—he wasn't healing you, not entirely, but he was easing it. Dulling the sharpest edges of your pain, making it just a little more bearable.
But what surprised you the most wasn't the relief.
It was the comfort.
His energy wasn't cold or detached, like you might have expected from someone so reserved. It was warm—alive—like sunlight on a crisp morning, like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
You let out a shaky breath, your body instinctively leaning into the comforting warmth radiating from Piccolo's palm. The gentle pulse of his energy seeped into your aching muscles, dulling the lingering pain that had been gnawing at you for days. It wasn't just the physical relief—it was him, his presence, his quiet dedication, the way he stayed by your side without a single complaint.
The warmth of his ki wrapped around you like a protective cocoon, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt the weight of exhaustion start to lift. The built-up tension in your shoulders, the stiffness in your limbs from bracing against the pain—it all slowly unraveled under his touch.
Then, almost without thinking, you reached out.
Your fingers hesitated for only a second before gently resting atop his much larger hand.
He didn't pull away.
But you felt the smallest, almost imperceptible shift in his posture—a subtle stiffening, the way his fingers twitched beneath yours. Not out of discomfort, but out of surprise.
Piccolo wasn't used to this—wasn't used to being touched like this. He could handle physical combat, had been struck, blasted, and beaten more times than he could count, but this was different. This was deliberate. Gentle.
And that strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in his chest again.
His heart pounded in a way that had nothing to do with battle or adrenaline.
He didn't know what to make of it.
But he did know that he didn't want you to move your hand away.
Later that day, the pain in your chest had dulled to something manageable—still there, but no longer agonizing. Piccolo's ki had worked wonders, granting you enough relief to move without feeling like your body was being torn apart from the inside out. It was a small victory, but you took it.
And so, with this newfound strength, you ventured outside.
The wooden porch creaked beneath your feet as you settled into the cushioned patio chair, your body sinking into its warmth. Closing your eyes, you took in a deep, slow breath, savoring the feeling of the crisp air filling your lungs. The sun was bright, its golden rays spilling over your skin like a long-lost friend. The wind, gentle and cool, whispered against your face, rustling your hair as if greeting you after your long absence.
You had missed this.
Being cooped up inside for an entire month, forced to restrict nearly all movement, had been unbearable. Every fiber of your being longed to move, to stretch, to train—to do something. Your body had grown restless, and your mind even more so. Even now, you could feel the urge creeping up on you, tempting you to push just a little harder. Maybe some light exercise? A few stretches? Some simple techniques to get your body back into rhythm?
But you knew better.
Or rather, Piccolo made sure you knew better.
Every single day, without fail, he reminded you of your limits.
The moment you even thought about doing something beyond what was allowed, he was there. It didn't matter where you were or what you were doing—if you so much as reached for something out of your grasp or attempted to lift something even remotely heavy, he appeared out of thin air, a silent and imposing force beside you.
There were no words, no scolding—just that stare.
That intense, unblinking gaze that froze you in place.
And the few times you did manage to sneak in a little movement, thinking you were being clever?
He still caught you. Every. Single. Time.
You weren't sure how—whether it was some sixth sense, his sharp intuition, or just sheer stubbornness—but the moment you tried to push your limits, Piccolo would show up with that same piercing look. No anger. No frustration. Just expectation. A silent demand that you stop before you made things worse.
And honestly?
You had been a little scared.
A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you recalled the memory, shaking your head at your own stubbornness.
"I deserved that," you admitted to yourself with a small smirk.
You knew he was just looking out for you.
Even if it was infuriating.
Suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by the sharp ringing of your phone. The sound startled you for a split second before you reached into the pocket of your shorts, fishing it out. The bright screen flashed a familiar name—Jenny.
A small smile pulled at your lips as you answered.
"Hey, Jen."
"Heey, girl. How's the injury treating ya?"
You huffed loudly, exasperation seeping into your tone. "Terrible. It feels like I'm breathing in nails, and those painkillers? Ass."
There was a pause, followed by the sound of Jenny trying—and failing—to stifle a laugh. "That sounds rough. But it's good to hear you got your spunk back."
"Heh, yeah," you muttered, glancing to your right.
Piccolo stood against the wooden railing of the porch, his massive frame cloaked in the swaying fabric of his weighted cape. His arms were folded across his chest, and his eyes were closed, his face unreadable—calm, as if he had blended seamlessly into the serenity of nature around him. The golden sunlight cast across his deep green skin, highlighting the ridges of his muscles and the stern cut of his features.
Something about the way he stood there, unmoving yet so present, made your chest swell.
You admired him in silence.
Then—Jenny's voice yanked you back to reality.
"Hey, (Y/n), I hope you don't mind if I come by today?"
Your face immediately brightened. "Not at all! Besides, I kinda miss having you around my place." You tilted your head back, staring up at the sky, watching as lazy clouds rolled by. "So, what hour are you thinking?"
"What hour?" Jenny snorted. "Hah! Girl, I'm already driving down the neighborhood. I'm just now taking the turn to your place."
Your heart leapt into your throat.
Your eyes widened in horror.
Jenny was already on her way.
And Piccolo was here.
"What? You're already close—?!"
You shot upright in sheer panic, but the second you did—a sharp, searing pain tore through your chest. You gasped, the phone nearly slipping from your fingers as your free hand instinctively clutched at your injury. A fresh wave of agony rippled through your body, and you knew you had pulled something, maybe even torn a stitch.
Through the pain, you caught movement in the corner of your eye.
Piccolo.
He had pushed off the railing and was already striding toward you with brisk urgency. His entire demeanor had shifted—his muscles tense, his face sharp with concern, his focus entirely on you.
You forced yourself to push through the pain, raising a trembling hand from your chest to wave at him in reassurance, mouthing the words, I'm fine.
He slowed but didn't relax.
His sharp gaze flickered over you, assessing, analyzing. His stance remained rigid, unmoving—still worried, still watching.
Jenny's voice crackled through the speaker. "You good?"
You sucked in a deep breath and somehow managed to let out a strangled, very unconvincing laugh.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I got so excited that I might've pulled something, heh heh—ow…"
You squint your eyes shut, a dramatic pout forming on your lips as comical tears streamed down your face from the pain.
Jenny, of course, laughed. "Dumbass. That's what you get."
You groaned dramatically.
"I'll wait for you outside, okay? See ya, Jen."
With a quick press of your thumb, the call ended, but the tension in your chest didn't ease. If anything, it got worse.
Piccolo was still here.
You sucked in a breath, willing your nerves to settle as you lifted your gaze toward him. He was watching you intently, arms resting at his side, his expression unreadable—except for the way his brow furrowed slightly, a small but telling sign of concern.
Your heart clenched. You hated having to do this.
Bracing yourself, you forced your aching body to move. The pain was a dull throb now, manageable yet persistent, like a constant reminder of just how much your body had endured. Each step toward Piccolo sent a twinge of discomfort up your spine, but you powered through it.
Just as you were about to walk past him, your hand shot out, grabbing hold of his wrist.
Piccolo stiffened slightly, his sharp gaze snapping to yours. "What are you doing?" he asked, voice gruff with confusion.
Ignoring the heat that crept up your neck at his reaction, you started dragging him across the porch with as much strength as you could muster. He didn't resist—at least, not physically—but his sheer weight alone made moving him an effort.
Once you managed to pull him closer, you turned to face him, gripping onto his wrist like your life depended on it.
"My friend, Jenny is coming, and you have to hide. Like, now."
He blinked, unimpressed. "So?"
Your frustration spiked. "So?!" You threw your hands up in exasperation, then pointed at him frantically. "Piccolo, she doesn't know that we've been friends for two years—she'll flip! I never told her about you because I know how much you prefer solitude above all else, and I didn't want to overstep because you have a right to set boundaries!"
The words spilled out so quickly you barely had time to register them yourself, but the moment they did, something in Piccolo's expression shifted.
His posture went rigid—not in offense, but in realization.
You saw it in the way his eyes slightly widened, the way his jaw subtly tensed as the weight of your words settled over him.
You had kept him a secret, not out of shame or fear of judgment, but out of respect.
You had protected his solitude, had given him space without even being asked to, had thought of him—his comfort, his preferences—before even considering your own.
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest.
For a moment, he said nothing, merely studying you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
Then, with a deep exhale, he muttered, "Fine."
Relief flooded through you like a crashing wave. "Thank you!"
Wasting no time, you whirled around to scan the area, your brain immediately trying to scramble to find a hiding spot. The trees? No, too obvious. The roof? No, if she looked up, she'd see him. Maybe—
Before you could come to a decision, a sudden shift in the air made you pause.
You blinked and went to look over your shoulder.
Piccolo was gone.
Not gone as in flew away—gone as in vanished into the environment so seamlessly that if you didn't know he was there, you wouldn't have even felt his presence.
Your mouth fell open slightly in awe.
It was uncanny how he could disappear like that. The way his white cloak melted into the shadows, the way his stillness made him blend into the background—it was like he was never there to begin with.
Just as the awe settled in, the familiar sound of tires rolling up the dirt road made your stomach lurch into your throat.
You barely had enough time to fix your expression before Jenny's car pulled up in front of your porch, her window rolling down.
"Hey, loser!" she called out with a grin. "You gonna stand there gawking at the trees, or are you gonna help me with these groceries?"
You forced out a breathless laugh, trying your best to act normal. "Yeah! Yeah, of course!"
You started toward her, but you swore—just barely—you could still feel Piccolo's presence lingering nearby.
Watching.
Slowly, you made your way down the wooden steps of your porch, taking care with each movement as a faint twinge of pain lingered in your chest. The warm afternoon breeze carried the scent of pine and earth, rustling through the trees as you approached Jenny's car.
Just as you reached the side of the vehicle, the driver's door swung open, and Jenny stepped out. The moment her amber eyes landed on you, they widened with relief. Without hesitation, she quickly closed the distance between you and wrapped her arms around you in a gentle yet firm hug.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to slow as you melted into the familiar warmth of your best friend's embrace. Her touch was careful, mindful of your injuries, but her presence alone brought a sense of comfort that you hadn't realized you needed.
Neither of you spoke right away, simply holding onto each other until Jenny finally pulled back, her hands resting on your shoulders as she scanned you from head to toe. A small frown tugged at her lips.
"You look like shit."
A laugh bubbled from your throat before you could stop it. "Gee, thanks. Like I don't know that already."
Jenny hummed, shaking her head with an amused smirk. Her faux locs bobbed softly with the motion, catching the sunlight.
"Come on, help me bring the groceries inside."
She turned on her heel and made her way to the back of the car, popping open the trunk to reveal an almost comical amount of grocery bags stacked neatly inside. Your eyes widened at the sheer quantity.
"Uh, Jen… was all of this really necessary?" you asked hesitantly, unsure whether to be impressed or overwhelmed.
Jenny paused, glancing up at you as she hoisted a handful of bags into her arms. "Of course it was! You've been stuck inside for a month recovering—I know your fridge is looking sad right now." She shifted the weight of the bags before shooting you a pointed look. "Besides, it's the least I can do. And let me remind you, missy—" she lifted a finger at you in mock warning, "you are in no way, shape, or form allowed to do anything physical. Got it?"
You shook your head, scoffing in disbelief. What would you do without her?
As you reached out to take one of the bags she held, but at the last second, you hesitated.
"By any chance… is this bag heavy?"
Jenny raised an eyebrow at your question. "A little. Why?"
You averted your gaze, guilt creeping into your voice. "I, uh… I can't really carry heavy stuff until I fully recover." You offered her a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of your neck. "Doctor's orders."
It wasn't exactly a lie. Your doctor had been very clear—no lifting, no exercise, no strenuous activity of any kind until you had fully healed. And if the doctor's orders weren't enough, there was Piccolo.
He had taken it upon himself to personally enforce those restrictions, watching over you like a hawk. No matter where you were, no matter how quiet you tried to be, he always knew when you were about to push your limits.
On the rare occasions you managed to sneak a heavy object into your hands, you never got far. Without fail, Piccolo would appear out of nowhere, silently plucking you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. He never said a word while doing it, just effortlessly lifting you by the waist and carrying you out of the room—ignoring your flailing arms and dramatic protests the entire way.
Jenny's expression softened immediately. Without missing a beat, she set the heavier bags aside and instead held out a lighter one.
"Then let's work around it." She grinned. "Think you can manage this one, tough guy?"
Relieved, you took the bag from her hands with a grateful smile.
"Yeah. This, I can handle."
After what felt like an eternity of sorting through the absurd amount of groceries—stocking your fridge to near bursting and cramming every spare inch of your pantry with bags and boxes—you and Jenny finally settled outside on the porch. The cushioned patio chairs creaked slightly as you both sank into them, the warm afternoon air wrapping around you like a familiar embrace.
And oh, did you two talk.
You hadn't realized just how much you missed this—having Jenny over, sharing stories, laughing until your stomach hurt. It wasn't often that she got the chance to visit, what with her hectic schedule as a tattoo artist and managing her bar in Niki Town. But even with life pulling you both in different directions, you always made the effort to meet up, to keep that thread of connection alive.
Jenny was in the middle of telling you about some buff dude who came into her shop for a palm tattoo, only to nearly break down in tears from the pain. She clutched her stomach, laughing so hard that she had to wipe away tears.
You couldn't help but grin, rubbing your own cheeks from how much you had been smiling. Damn, it felt good to laugh again.
"Oh my god," you wheezed between chuckles. "I mean… what did he expect? That it wasn't going to hurt? Did he not know that the hand is one of the most sensitive fucking areas on the body?"
Jenny took a deep breath, still giggling. "Apparently not! But hey, in the end, he got his tattoo, and he was very happy about it."
Shaking your head, you leaned against the armrest of your chair, propping your cheek up on your hand. The sun had started its slow descent, casting everything in a warm orange glow. The sky bled into soft hues of pink and purple, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to soak in the peace of it all.
It was nice having Jenny drop by.
Even though you had to frantically shove Piccolo into hiding.
You could still feel his presence lingering nearby—watching from the tree line nearby. A twinge of guilt pulled at your chest. You weren't ashamed of him, far from it, but you weren't ready to tell Jenny about him just yet. And with the way he had been practically glued to your side since you were discharged from the hospital, it only made things more complicated.
But then a thought crept into your mind—one you hadn't dared to voice before. You glanced over at Jenny as she took a slow sip of her cranberry juice, her eyes fixed on the sunset.
You hesitated for a moment before finally gathering the nerve to ask.
"Hey, Jen?"
She hummed in acknowledgment but didn't turn to face you.
You took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Whatever happened to the shooter?"
The shift in Jenny's mood was immediate. The relaxed warmth she had carried vanished, replaced by something sharp, something angry. Her carefree smile twisted into a deep scowl, and her amber eyes darkened as she finally turned to meet your gaze.
"In prison," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Where he fucking belongs. Didn't you hear the news?"
You shook your head. "To be completely honest with you, Jen… I haven't really been keeping up with the news since I got discharged. The nurse that took care of me—Michiko—told me he got arrested and that the police were still investigating his motives. Was there something else I should've known?"
Jenny let out a sharp exhale, her grip tightening around her cup. "YES. That motherfucker is being charged with attempted murder, illegal possession of a firearm, and a whole laundry list of other charges. I hope he rots in that prison."
Her words were filled with such raw fury that it almost startled you. You knew Jenny had a temper, but this was different. This was personal.
Your mind shifted to the young girl—the one you had thrown yourself in front of.
"And… what about the girl I protected?" Your voice was quieter now, hesitant. "Is she okay?"
Jenny's anger softened, if only slightly, and she gave you a small nod. "Yeah… she's unharmed. Thanks to you."
Relief flooded through you, and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. "Oh, thank god. I don't even want to think about what could've happened to her if—"
You cut yourself off.
Jenny was still staring at you. But her expression had changed again—no longer furious, no longer teasing. There was something else there now, something heavy.
"(Y/n)," she said, voice quieter than before. "We almost lost you."
You forced a small smile, hoping to ease whatever was weighing on her, but it did nothing. She wasn't having it.
"Jenny, I'm fine. I mean, sure, I got shot, but I'm here now!"
"No." Jenny shook her head, frustration flickering across her features. "You don't get it, do you?" She swallowed hard, her voice wavering. "Your heart stopped beating the moment the paramedics got to you."
Your stomach dropped.
"...What?"
Jenny's hands clenched into fists in her lap. "Do you know how fucking scared I was for you?! Do you have any idea how helpless I felt—watching those paramedics try to bring you back?!" Her voice cracked, her amber eyes glossing over with unshed tears. "You were clinically dead for three minutes—three fucking minutes!"
You stared at her, feeling like all the air had been sucked from your lungs.
Three minutes.
Three minutes where you were gone.
Jenny turned away, leaning forward in her chair as if the weight of her emotions had become too much to bear. Her elbows rested on her knees, and her hands clenched into trembling fists. The tension in her body was unmistakable.
"You were dead, (Y/n)," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "You were—"
She cut herself off, shaking her head as if saying it out loud would make it all too real. Her faux locs bobbed gently as she let her head hang, shoulders rising and falling with an unsteady breath.
You didn't know what to say. What could you say? What words existed that could possibly make this any easier for her?
Your gaze drifted off toward the trees, toward where Piccolo was hiding just beyond sight. Was he listening? What were you even saying? Of course he was. You didn't even have to wonder. Somehow, you just knew he heard every word.
And if he already blamed himself for not being there to protect you, then this? This was only going to make it worse.
A deep ache settled in your chest—not just from your healing wound but from the sheer weight of it all. The pain you had inadvertently caused the people who cared about you. The fear they had felt. The helplessness.
Your attention shifted back to Jenny. She looked so… defeated.
You reached out without thinking, your hand resting gently against her back. The warmth of your touch made her stiffen for just a moment before she turned her head slowly, her amber eyes meeting yours. They were glossy, filled with emotions she refused to let spill over.
"Jenny." Your voice was soft, but it carried everything you couldn't put into words.
She held your gaze, waiting.
"I'm sorry," you said, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her shirt. "I'm sorry for putting you through this—all of you."
Jenny said nothing. Just watched you, listening.
You exhaled, glancing away for a brief second before forcing yourself to look back at her. "I can't change what happened. I know that. But one thing's for sure…"
You leaned forward slightly, your eyes locking with hers, steady and unwavering.
"If I hadn't stepped in when I did… that little girl wouldn't have survived. I barely survived it, but she wouldn't have had a chance."
Jenny clenched her jaw, looking away as she wiped at her face roughly with the back of her hand. "Doesn't mean you had to play hero," she muttered, voice thick with emotion.
A small, sad smile tugged at your lips. "Maybe not. But if I had to do it all over again…." You swallowed. "I'd make the same choice."
Jenny let out a shaky breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before nodding. She didn't like it. She probably never would. But deep down, she understood.
And that was enough.
The two of you sat there in silence, the weight of unspoken emotions settling between you like a heavy mist. But it wasn't an uncomfortable silence—if anything, it was grounding. Jenny's presence was warm, a steady anchor in the aftermath of everything that had happened. Just having her here, even for a little while, made the world feel a little less heavy.
By the time the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and the stars scattered across the vast night sky, Jenny sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "Welp, guess I should get going."
You didn't want her to leave, not really, but you knew she had to. So you followed her and stood with her beside her car, the driver's side door wide open. Yet, she didn't get in right away.
She hesitated.
Jenny turned to face you, her expression uncertain. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
You huffed, shaking your head with a small smile. "Jenny, we've been over this. I'll be fine. You don't have to keep worrying about me. If there's anything I need, I promise I'll let you know."
Jenny didn't look convinced. "Promise?"
"I promise."
She sighed, nodding slowly. "Okay, okay. Just… make sure not to overdo it."
You rolled your eyes playfully and unfolded your arms, gently pushing her toward the driver's seat. "Yeah, yeah, I will, you worrywart. Now go, you have a long shift tomorrow at the bar."
"Alright, alright, I'm going, sheesh!" Jenny laughed as she shut the door and started the engine. The low hum filled the quiet night as she rolled down the window. "Take care of yourself, alright, (Y/n)? I'll see you next time!"
"See you next time, Jen."
You stood there, watching as Jenny drove off down the dirt road, her hand sticking out the window in a lazy wave. You lifted your own hand, waving back until the car's headlights disappeared into the dense tree tunnel, swallowed by the night.
Then, silence.
You lowered your hand, staring off into the darkness, lost in thought. The sounds of the night—the rustling leaves, the distant hum of cicadas—became more pronounced, wrapping around you like a whisper.
And then… the air shifted.
You felt it before you heard him. The subtle shift of energy behind you, the way the wind seemed to bend around his presence. You didn't have to turn around to know that Piccolo was there, finally emerging from the shadows of the trees.
The gentle night breeze caressed your skin, tousling your shoulder-length hair as you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper.
"By any chance… did you hear our conversation?"
A pause.
You waited, patient, until he finally answered.
"I have a keen sense of hearing, (Y/n)." His voice was low, quieter than usual. "It was hard not to overhear everything."
Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist. He had heard everything.
He shifted slightly behind you, his eyes locked onto your back, as if trying to see through you. When he spoke again, it was barely more than a murmur, but you caught it.
"I… never knew your heart stopped when you got shot."
Your chest tightened. There was something in his voice that made it hurt—like the weight of that knowledge crushed him in a way neither of you were prepared for.
You swallowed hard. "I—" The words caught in your throat. You lowered your head, gripping the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly. When you finally found your voice again, it was softer, more fragile than you intended.
"I didn't know I was dead… until Jenny said that."
A heavy silence settled between you, thicker than before. You didn't need to turn around to know what kind of expression he was wearing.
But you could feel it.
And somehow… that made it worse.
Your face scrunched up as you fought against the overwhelming emotions swelling inside you. You tried—tried so damn hard—not to let the tears fall, not to crumble under the weight of seeing Piccolo so hurt. It was unbearable, knowing that he was blaming himself, that he was silently carrying the guilt of not being there when you needed him most.
But it wasn't his fault.
A lump formed in your throat, tightening painfully as your vision blurred. You could already feel the hot sting of tears welling up in your eyes, threatening to spill. Your breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, you squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to push through it—to say something, do something to make him understand that none of this was on him.
You wanted to tell him that he couldn't have known. That while he was up north, dedicating himself to his training, there was no way he could have predicted something this terrible happening to you. That if anyone should bear the weight of guilt, it shouldn't be him.
Not him.
Never him.
Before you could even process it, your body moved on its own.
One moment, your back was facing Piccolo. The next, you turned sharply—and without hesitation, threw yourself onto him.
Your arms wrapped around him in an unexpected, desperate embrace, clutching onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely. Your face pressed against the firm fabric of his gi, muffling the soft sobs that finally broke free. His scent—earthy, familiar, grounding—filled your senses, only making your chest tighten even more.
Piccolo didn't react at first. He remained still, rigid beneath your touch, as if unsure of what to do. But you didn't let go. You couldn't let go. Your small figure trembled against him, your fingers curling into the thick fabric of his gi like a lifeline.
And then, finally—finally—you choked out the words that had been burning in your chest.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry." Your voice cracked, your breath shuddering as you tried to steady it, but it was useless. The tears kept falling, soaking into the fabric beneath your cheek. "None of this… none of this is your fault, Piccolo."
Your grip on him tightened, as if holding him closer would somehow make him believe you.
"Please don't—don't blame yourself." Your voice was pleading now, raw with emotion. "Never blame yourself for not being there."
You sucked in a breath, trying to control the way your body trembled. But you knew—you knew—that he had heard everything. He had overheard every painful word from your conversation with Jenny. He knew the truth.
So you lifted your head just slightly, pressing your forehead against his chest.
"You… you heard our conversations," you whispered, voice barely above a breath. "So you know why."
Piccolo still hadn't moved, but his silence spoke volumes.
And in that moment, you could only hope—pray—that he truly understood.
You didn't have to wait long.
Just as your body trembled against him, just as you were bracing yourself for the crushing weight of silence, you felt it—a touch.
His touch.
Piccolo's large, calloused hand came to rest against your back, and the moment his palm pressed lightly between your shoulder blades, you froze.
It wasn't just the unexpectedness of it—it was how he touched you. He wasn't just placing his hand there, wasn't just resting it idly like an afterthought. His fingers curled ever so slightly, applying the faintest pressure, grounding you in a way that sent warmth flooding through your chest. His grip was steady, deliberate, but above all, it was gentle.
And coming from him—someone who wasn't one for physical contact—that meant everything.
Before you could even begin to process it, his voice rumbled softly above you, his usual gruff tone laced with something raw, something achingly tender.
"I'm not mad at you for what you did," he murmured, his words so impossibly gentle that they made your already aching heart clench even tighter. "Never at you."
Your breath hitched.
It wasn't what you were expecting. You thought he'd scold you—maybe not harshly, but enough to make you feel how reckless he believed you had been. You thought he'd tell you how stupid it was to put yourself in the line of fire, how you nearly lost your life because of it.
But no.
He wasn't mad at you.
His grip on your back tightened slightly—not painfully, but firmly, as though reinforcing his next words.
"I'm just angry that I couldn't—" His voice wavered, just for a second, but his frustration burned through. "That I couldn't beat the shooter senseless for harming you!"
His tone darkened, seething with barely contained fury, and you felt his muscles tense beneath your touch. His energy shifted, sparking like a wildfire beneath his skin, but even through his rage, his hand on your back never wavered.
That was what made it all the more devastating.
He wasn't angry at your actions.
He was angry at his own helplessness.
Angry that he wasn't there to stop it. That someone had dared to hurt you, that he couldn't unleash his wrath on the one who put you through this hell.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his gi, gripping it tighter.
You could feel his pain. His frustration. His regret.
And it hurt more than anything.
It made you cry harder into him.
The dam you had so carefully built, the one that held back all the emotions you had been too afraid to let surface, shattered completely. Your sobs were muffled against the fabric of his gi, your fingers curling even tighter into the cloth as if letting go would somehow make this moment slip away.
And Piccolo—
Piccolo had no idea what to do.
He looked down at you, the uncertainty etched across his usually unshakable features. His sharp brows knit together, his piercing gaze softening in a way that was rare for him.
He wasn't used to this.
He wasn't used to someone crying into him for comfort, not even Gohan—not like this. Sure, the kid had shed tears in front of him before, but those were different. Those were from exhaustion after training or frustration when he hit a wall he couldn't push past.
But this?
This was raw. This was something fragile. Something he didn't know how to handle.
You weren't crying out of frustration. You weren't crying because you lost a battle or because you were struggling to keep up in a fight.
You were crying because you almost died. Because you had to come face-to-face with your own mortality. Because you knew that if things had gone just a little differently, you wouldn't be here right now—clutching onto him, feeling his warmth, hearing his voice.
And that—that realization made his chest ache.
He hated seeing you cry.
More than that, he hated that he didn't know how to make it stop.
"Hey, hey, stop crying—" His voice came out rough, strained, but there was an underlying panic beneath it. His hand on your back hesitated, then rubbed small, awkward circles against your trembling form. "Shit, I don't know what to do."
The last part was mostly mumbled to himself, a rare confession of his helplessness. His mind raced, grasping at anything—what do people do in moments like this? What would Chi-Chi do?
She was good at this emotional stuff. She always knew what to say when Gohan was upset. She had a way of making things feel okay, even when they weren't.
But he wasn't Chi-Chi.
He was a warrior, strategist, and a protector. He could face down an enemy with unwavering resolve, fight battles that would determine the fate of the world, stand tall in the face of any danger.
This was a different kind of battle.
One he wasn't sure how to win.
Piccolo's mind was still racing, grasping for some kind of solution to ease your crying when your voice—soft, shaky, but filled with a familiar warmth—broke through the heavy silence.
"Piccolo… you're terrible at this."
He froze.
His body stiffened, his muscles going rigid as his brain took a second to process what you had just said.
What?!
A deep shade of purple rushed to his cheeks and the tips of his long ears, betraying the irritation and embarrassment bubbling beneath his surface. He recoiled slightly, but with you still clinging to him, he didn't pull away completely.
He barked out in defense, his voice gruff and just a little too quick. "It's not my fault! I'm not used to this kind of shit—I never had to comfort anyone before!"
He kept his hand on your back, fingers twitching slightly as if they didn't quite know what to do. It was true—he had never been in a situation like this before. He had fought alongside warriors, trained fighters to withstand grueling battles, even guided Gohan through some of his toughest years.
But this?
This was uncharted territory.
You let out a small, soft hum, and despite the heaviness lingering in the air, your voice carried a hint of amusement. Slowly, you shifted, pressing your cheek against his chest. His gi was warm against your skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat echoing in your ears.
"Hold me."
Piccolo blinked.
"What?"
He didn't mean to sound so caught off guard, but the request took him by surprise. He looked down at you, his usually sharp eyes softened with something unreadable. He held you, didn't he? He was already doing that, wasn't he?
But then you spoke again, voice quieter this time, more vulnerable.
"You don't have to do anything special. Just holding me is enough, Piccolo."
For a moment, he just stared at you.
Was it really that simple?
He thought you needed words—comfort, reassurance, something profound that would make all of this hurt less. But… maybe you didn't need any of that. Maybe you just needed to feel that you weren't alone. That he was here. That he wasn't going anywhere.
Piccolo's expression softened, the tension in his body melting away.
Wordlessly, he adjusted his hold, his large arms carefully wrapping around you, securing you against him with quiet intent. His hand never left your back, his touch firm yet cautious, as if he feared you might break if he held you too tightly.
And just like that—
The weight you had been carrying alone for so long didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.
As the warmth of Piccolo's embrace settled over you, the tension in your body slowly began to fade. His arms, strong and unwavering, held you in a way that made you feel grounded—safe. The kind of safety that didn't just come from physical strength but from something deeper, something unspoken.
Your fingers, which had been gripping onto his gi with desperation before, relaxed slightly as exhaustion finally caught up to you. His scent, an earthy mix of fresh rain and something uniquely him, filled your senses, lulling you further into much-needed rest.
Noticing the way your hold on him was loosening, Piccolo shifted slightly, his sharp eyes scanning your face. Your breathing had evened out, your lashes fluttering slightly as sleep threatened to take over completely.
With practiced ease, he carefully adjusted his stance before scooping you up into his arms, cradling you as though you weighed nothing. His movements were controlled, deliberate—he handled you like something precious.
His large, calloused hands pressed against your back and the bend of your knees, securing you against his chest as he ascended the wooden steps of the porch.
It was then, in the midst of your exhaustion, that you spoke.
"Thank you… for watching over me, Piccolo."
Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it struck something deep within him.
Piccolo's breath hitched for a fraction of a second, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly before he let out a low grunt. He turned his head just enough to glance down at you, ignoring the way his heart was suddenly hammering against his ribs when you leaned further into him.
"Yeah, well… someone has to watch over you. It's not like I have anything better to do than play babysitter for someone who refuses to stay in bed like a normal, sane person."
His words were gruff, laced with the usual edge of irritation, but the warmth in his tone betrayed him.
He felt it—the way your lips curled faintly into a tired, amused smile against his chest.
Then, without warning—
You laughed.
It was barely more than a breath, but it was there—a soft, sleepy chuckle that sent a wave of warmth across his skin.
And then, as if to torment him further, your warm breath fanned lightly against his collarbone, tickling the sensitive green skin beneath his cape.
A violent shiver ran down Piccolo's spine, his entire body stiffening on instinct.
What the hell were you doing to him?
His grip on you faltered for a split second before he forced himself to focus, his jaw clenching as he quickened his pace towards your bedroom.
This was ridiculous. He was a warrior, who had trained with some of Earth's strongest fighters.
And yet—
Here he was, feeling like a complete and utter fool because of you.
(a/n)
This chapter is longer than I had anticipated with a whooping 7.3k words... (oopsies!) I do try and write around 2k at most! I have no self-control when it comes to writing and once I am into it, sometimes surpass my word count goal by a lot.
I do plan on re-writing the first two chapter of this story (maybe the third one while I'm at it), cause uh... their so damn short for my liking. Not sure when I'll get around to it but it will happen eventually.
Hope you all enjoyed this super long chapter c:
Until next time! xoxo
