Oceans

Nearly six months post Nameksei, Piccolo opened his eyes to a quiet room. It took him a moment to realize that it was quiet because Son wasn’t snoring next to him. It was unusual for Son to wake up first; usually, the Saiyan was content to lounge in bed far after Piccolo became restless and wandered to the training room.

Unhurriedly, the former demon turned onto his side and eyed the depression in the mattress where his…he paused a moment, trying to decide what he should call him. Not in person – he had that covered. But in his head. Because he doubted seriously that they were enemies anymore, unless they were both taking the old “keep your enemies closer” adage to a before-unprecedented extreme. “Friends” didn’t seem right either – lovers? No. Well, maybe technically. But that word felt a little bit too easy…too human…for whatever it was they were doing.

Piccolo lowered his head slightly to the depression in the pillow and sniffed lightly, flaring his nostrils to catch the other’s scent…deep and musky, a little wild…and smirked to himself. Yes. Much too human.

Briefly, he toyed with the idea of getting up – but for one of the few times in his life, he was feeling lazy. He stretched out on his back, letting his eyes half-lid, and wondering when in the Hell he’d gotten so lethargic. Sure, he’d been training hard the past several months. They both had. But he no longer felt the need to spend so many hours in meditation as he had before; no longer wished to spend whole days sealing himself off from the rest of the world. Two, three hours a day, that was enough.

At first, he had wondered why that was. He had blamed it on lacking a specific goal. In the past, it had been defeating Son Goku; after that, he’d had Saiyans all over the damn place, and after that, it had been Frieza. Now there was no one to beat up on next, and he figured that psychologically, that should have been pretty upsetting. It wasn’t.

Then he realized why. He was…well…content. Of course, he wasn’t deliriously-happy like earth sitcoms claimed should be the ultimate life goal. He got frustrated sometimes. And sometimes, when he thought too hard about the future, his insides still tied themselves in awkward knots. But he’d fallen into something with Son Goku. It had happened at once too fast to notice, and too slowly to register.

He blamed it on space travel. Really, Piccolo had more sense than to let something like what he and Son were doing turn into routine. It should have been a dalliance at best, something to keep them entertained on what was sure to be a short trip back to reality.

Then he’d come to realize, after much scowling at manuals, that it would take months for them to get back to earth (not counting layovers), and that the ship’s warp drive was in desperate need of repairs, and that whoever stocked the ship’s pantry had NOT done so with a Saiyan’s appetite in mind. In other words, he and the monkey were going to be stuck with each other for a very long time.
In this case, time was not Piccolo’s friend. It was impossible NOT to relax around Son Goku. He was possibly the least-threatening creature that Piccolo had ever been around, for all the power he had. And it was just impossible to keep your guard up around someone who would, in the evenings, curl up beside you on the couch and rest his head on your lap…or smile up at you lazily from a chair at the kitchen table…or come to stand beside you as you look out the bay window, and bump his shoulder lightly against yours without saying anything at all. Without *needing* to say anything at all.

So, much to his own consternation, Piccolo felt his guard lowering. He stopped jumping at incidental touches. Stopped shoving the other off him when he woke up in the morning and found Son curled against his side like an oversized cat. Stopped telling himself that he was going to remember to hate the Saiyan tomorrow.

Other things changed as well. Though it never got to be exactly easy, he learned, sometimes, to lean back and let the other touch him, sometimes even on his back, sometimes even face down. Though it was outright hard, he could lie still while Son kissed the back of his neck, slid his hands up and down his sides, whispered things that Piccolo tried not to hear into his ear.

And, gradually, Piccolo had started to feel…different. Not all the time, at first, just once in a while. Like, late at night, when Son was asleep – when he would brush the back of his hand across the other’s face, smooth the bangs away from his eyes, and wish for…but he never knew for what, and figured it was probably stupid anyway. So the *idea* of wishing was as far as he got.

“Love” never came up again. At least, not from Son Goku.

It did happen once on Yardrat.

They’d landed on the planet out of a need to restock and resupply…do a few quick repairs. The ship directory – which Piccolo had figured out with some effort – had listed Yardrat as a good planet for that kind of thing, so there they had stopped.

Piccolo set foot off the ship and instantly felt out of place. Which, for him, was almost like feeling at home. None of the inhabitants of Yardrat came much above his waist; they made weird clicking noises, and as far as he could tell, they stole most of their fashion ideas from earthling broadcasts of circuses. He resolved to interact with them as little as possible.

He turned his head to inform Son Goku of this resolution. But Son was gone, already walking out into the crowd. The Saiyan had both hands raised in front of him, palms out and at the level of his shoulders, on what Earthlings would recognize as a sign of peace. Piccolo figured that, knowing their luck, it was some kind of grave insult in Yardratian, and he resigned himself to beginning his stay with a very violent encounter with the local law enforcement.

Much to his surprise…no one shot anyone.

The aliens…natives, Piccolo reminded himself…looked at each other in obvious confusion. Then they surged forward, and Piccolo readied himself for a bad day. But it didn’t happen. The Yardratians crowded around Son like a herd of eager children, chattering what sounded like greetings. One latched on to each wrist, and they surged forward, obviously intending for him to come along.

“Hey, Pic – wanna take the tour?” he called back over his shoulder, obviously amused at the situation, and not even a little bit worried about where they might be dragging him. To a meat house, for all he knew, or an incinerator…but Piccolo supposed that paranoia wasn’t always necessary when you were damn near indestructible.

Piccolo rolled his eyes and waved him to go on. But of course, he had every intention of following.

“Okay, have it your way,” Son said. And winked. So of course, he knew. *You worry too much,* he seemed to say – but then they were dragging him, and he went along.

Piccolo discarded the bright cape and turban, bent his knees, and took to the air. He didn’t want to be seen, and he was willing to chance that he could see farther away than the Yardratians.

He watched the whole thing from about two miles up. Arms crossed, scowling, he was sure he would have been all kinds of intimidating if anyone could have seen him that far up. And just because they couldn’t was no reason to slack off in the intimidation department. He squinted slightly, capitalizing on the telescopic vision that Kami had so often used, and brought the scenes below him into focus.

It was only a matter of time until something terrible happened. He intended to see it for two reasons. The first? Those Yardratians would get the surprise of their soon-to-be-much-shorter lives. The second? He was NOT going to miss a chance to smack Son upside the head for doing something as genuinely stupid as wandering off by himself with what could easily turn into a mob.

The crowd went to the center of town…then to what looked like a park…later to some strange structures that Piccolo supposed were either monuments, some form of art, or weird gods demanding sacrifice…he half expected them to bring out an altar and some barbecue sauce, though they didn’t. Nothing bad happened.

Then they started toward the outskirts of town, and Piccolo was dead convinced that this was it. He tried to decide whether or not a chi blast would be helpful, when the cue came – Son was way too close to the mass of them, and he didn’t like that at all, but odds were good that Son would survive whatever he shot at him anyway.

Maybe his best bet was to drop in. Experience had taught him that this strategy could be useful AND amusing.

But they got to the outside of town, and sat down on various structures that looked a little like benches. And just sat there, chattering at each other.

He noticed that Yardrat’s two suns were setting.

*Oh, for…* Piccolo slapped a hand to his eyes, dragged it down his face. He’d followed them all the way out there just to watch a sunset. But he supposed there was nothing he could do about it but wait. He drew his legs up, sat in the air, and decided to spend the next half hour or so in much-needed, calming meditation.

When he felt the coolness of night, he opened his eyes again. No one had moved.

He was just wondering if they were going to sleep when he heard Son’s voice, distantly: “Find him? Oh, sure, that’s easy.”

Piccolo looked down.

Son met his eyes somehow, directly, from two miles away. Grinned, and waved him down.

*And what makes you think I come when I’m called?* Piccolo thought sourly. He was half tempted to fly away just to spite him. But his curiosity got the better of him. He straightened his legs and let himself drop.

He didn’t bother slowing down until he was maybe ten yards off the ground…then it happened suddenly, catch and settle, and he landed easily in front of Son Goku. “This better be good,” he grumbled.

Goku grinned over at the person next to him – an older-looking alien who was probably some kind of leader. “See? I told you. He’s kind of anti-social.”

The older alien looked Piccolo over, said something chattery, and nodded his head sagely. Piccolo was reminded in a very unfortunate way of Kami.

Piccolo gave Son a look that could melt iron. Son, as usual, didn’t seem to notice.

“They’re gonna put us up for the night while they work on the ship,” Goku said.

*Oh, I’m just SURE they are,* Piccolo thought. He considered picking Son up and shaking him. Or maybe giving him a stern lecture on not talking to strangers. Neither of these ideas seemed likely to help much.

The elder chattered something at Son. Son’s eyes widened. “Uh, no…not exactly.”

Piccolo probably didn’t want to know. But he asked anyway. “What did he say?”

Goku looked at him sheepishly. “He wants to know if you’re my mother.”

Piccolo figured he MUST have looked about two seconds short of blowing his top. Because Son promptly turned him around put his hands on his shoulders, and started pushing him toward one of the buildings VERY quickly. “This one over here?” he asked the elder over his shoulder, tone more cheerful than before.

The elder must have nodded. Before Piccolo found time to really collect himself, they were inside, Son was locking the door (as if that would help somehow), and the moment had most definitely passed.

Piccolo huffed, made an attempt to recover his dignity.

Son grinned at him. “Sorry,” he said. “But I know that look. It usually happens right before you blow something up.”

“Hmph.”

Goku chuckled. “Yeah, yeah…I know. But I couldn’t let you do it.”

Piccolo smirked in spite of himself. “Which implies that you think you could’ve stopped me.”

“You willing to find out?”

And Piccolo had not WANTED to ask. But he had to. Morbid curiosity, again. “Do you even think you could fight me now?” he asked him.

Goku looked startled at that, as if he hadn’t thought of it. Actually paused, gave it due consideration. Then he looked up at him. And it was unusual for Son to look sad, but he did. “I could do it,” he said. “If you made me, I could. But…I wouldn’t want to”

He didn’t say the rest. He never would. But Piccolo could hear it, anyway. *It would break my heart*

Piccolo looked away, sharply.

“I’m not going to have to worry about that, though,” Goku said. “Because you wouldn’t make me.”

“And just how the Hell can you know something like that.” It sounded harsher than he meant it to. And Piccolo still did not look at him. He pretended to study a crack on the wall. A nonexistent crack.

“I just do. I mean, I think I know you pretty well.”

Piccolo snorted. The crack on the wall, he decided, would double back on itself two or three times, start at the ceiling. “You sure as Hell got nervous out there. You can’t possibly think I’ve changed so much.”

Goku chuckled. “That’s different,” he said.

“Oh, let’s hear this one,” he said.

Goku put a light hand on his arm, one that was crossed over his chest. “You’ve been edgy all afternoon, Pic,” he said. “You don’t like crowds at all. And sometimes, that makes you blow up. That’s pretty different from ‘kill everyone and take over the world,’ right?”

Piccolo scowled very hard at the crack-that-wasn’t-there.

Son patted his arm lightly. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you meditate for a little while? I’m gonna go take a shower, or whatever they do here, and we can talk about it later.”

Piccolo listened to the sound of his leaving. Then he sat down on the nearest piece of furniture, heavily. It looked like something between a bed and a couch. He felt tired. Exhausted, in fact, and his hand was shaking a little.

He was glad to have some time to compose himself.

By the time Son came back out, he felt almost normal again.

Goku was wearing something that had apparently been left out – a pair of the baggiest white pants Piccolo had ever seen - and toweling his hair with something that looked a good bit like a ball of fuzz. “Just to warn you, Pic,” he said. “These bathrooms are weird.”

Piccolo decided that weird was a pretty good way to describe his life at the moment anyway. He nodded.

“They say we’ll be okay to leave in a few weeks, unless they find something else wrong,” Goku said. He sat down beside him. “We can stay here in the meantime.”

“You understand their language?” Piccolo asked, a little surprised. Son never struck him as much of a linguist. He couldn’t even handle his own damn language.
“Not the words, no,” he said.

“So how do you know? Charades?”

Goku grinned over at him. “They’re mildly telepathic,” he said. “Not real strong, or anything…you really have to strain to hear it, and it’s mostly pictures. But it works out okay. You’d hear them too, if you’d drop your shields a little – but they went up the minute we got here.” The Saiyan poked his side lightly. “I can barely hear you at all.”

Piccolo just stared at him, blankly. Tried to wrap his head around it. And then asked, before he thought better of it, “How in the Hell do you do it?”

Goku blinked. “It’s easy. See, you just relax a little, and push down, and away they go.”

“No, not lowering shields. I meant…” Piccolo made a sweeping gesture to indicate the outside world, frustrated. The right words weren’t coming.

Goku thought for a moment, then nodded. “I just…acted like everything would be alright. That helps sometimes, y’know?”

Piccolo turned his head to look at him. And found Goku looking back. And saw a little light go on in the other’s head.

This, he realized, was bad. He cleared his throat, and started to stand up, having every intention of walking into another room and ending this conversation.

Son caught his wrist, and pulled him back down – easily. It was easy to forget sometimes how strong he was.

“You’ve been waiting all day for something bad to happen. That’s why you followed me. You thought I was going to need help.”

Piccolo narrowed his eyes. “I did not think…”

“Something happened to you, didn’t it. With a crowd. Back on earth.”

Little flashes danced on the edge of Piccolo’s brain like fireflies. Red light, gravel, scrape, swimming corners of buildings. He pushed it out, hard. “You’re not my damn therapist,” he growled. He started to stand up again.

Son’s fingers tightened on his wrist. “What was it,” he said, and he actually sounded angry. “What did they do to you?”

Piccolo wrenched his hand from the other’s grip. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you a damned thing,” he said, and he stood up to leave.

Goku actually threw him.

Piccolo’s eyes widened for the point five seconds he was in the air. Then he slammed face-first into the floor, growled, and kicked Son’s legs out from under him – because of course, the Saiyan would have had to stand for something like that.

As soon as Son hit the floor, he was on him – faster, probably, than the other had expected him to move. He managed to get his knees to dig into the other’s shoulders, and drew a fist back with absolutely every intention of punching the other in the face. A lot.

But Goku made no effort to throw him off, which, from that position, would have been at least possible. And his hair didn’t turn gold. Piccolo hesitated, for one of the few times in his life, ever.

Goku looked up at him, tilted his head a little. “Go ahead,” he said.

Piccolo growled in a way that bared ALL of his teeth. “Don’t you EVEN test me now,” he said. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why the Hell are you just…”

Goku chuckled. “Because it might make you feel better,” he said. He shrugged, or tried to. “And you can’t hurt me all that bad just punching me. If you were gonna use claws, I’d be worried. But this is okay.”

Piccolo’s hand wavered. Dropped. He sat back on his heels very suddenly, taking his weight off Goku’s shoulders. He wasn’t snarling anymore. It had all gone out of him somehow, and he didn’t know how…or where it went…or what was replacing it, except that it hurt. A lot.

Son scooted up, then sat up.

“You’d let me hit you,” Piccolo said.

“I dunno – do you want to?”

“No. Not if…” he struggled briefly. “Not if you let me.”

Goku grinned slightly. “So maybe not.” He scooted back a little, so that he could sit up more easily.

Piccolo wasn’t sure what to do next. They’d never aborted a fight midway before. He settled for standing up, and…though he was very much aware of the awkwardness, offering the other a hand up.

Son took it, and let Piccolo pull him to his feet. “So,” he said, quietly. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Piccolo felt like he should have been angry again. But he wasn’t. Just…wasn’t. Son just wanted to help, no matter how misguided the sentiment. “It wasn’t anything,” he said. “Years ago,” he added, as if that might make a difference.

Goku remained quiet.

And Piccolo almost wanted to tell him, for some reason he didn’t know. But then he didn’t want to, either. He settled for a quick outline. “I passed out,” he said. “In the desert. Near a village. From…the heat.”

It had been hot that day, that was true. And no water, and he didn’t know how to fly yet. He had been training hard anyway…and smelling water, he had forced himself to run. That had been stupid. He’d even known, at the time, that it was stupid. But he’d done it anyway.

The world shook around him, and every inch of him had felt so hot, burning, like being on fire. Midstep, his legs stopped working, and he fell.

Goku didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

“Some of them found me.”

Chattering around him, the sense of someone prodding at his side with a foot. He’d struggled to open his eyes around the crustiness of the edges, the particles of sand. Three or four men in loose-flowing clothing, a little boy, a camel, all watery and blurry at the edges as if underwater. His memories flared in the back of his mind, and he struggled to wake, but he couldn’t move at all.

One of them opened a goatskin and poured some water over his face…it made him cough, felt sticky. Then he was being moved; the world lurched around him, hands on either of his arms to lift him up. He didn’t remember anything else. It disappeared in a sand-colored blur.

“They took me back with them. Gave me some water. I guess I didn’t stay conscious. I don’t really remember.”

He was quiet for a long time after that. Goku finally said, “And?”

“…and they tried to sacrifice me to their river god in exchange for rain,” he finished wryly. “By fire. There were a lot of people.”

‘A lot of people’ was not doing the situation justice. He had vague recollections of being passed along, of not being able to tell one person from the next, feeling pressed in, like he couldn’t breathe, and none of them were very strong by themselves, but all together…

Piccolo slammed a door on that part of his brain. “It didn’t end as badly as it could have,” he said. “But I learned a lesson about being off my guard.”

Goku didn’t say anything. He seemed uncertain as to what to even do.

“There, you see?” Piccolo said. He took a step back, and his voice got sharper. “Now what the Hell good did that do? You’re going t…”

Son reached out, took his hand again. “It’s not your fault,” he said.

Piccolo looked at him incredulously. “What isn’t?”

“That it works out for me, and not for you.”

He huffed. “Damn it, Son…”

Son took a step forward and slid his arms around his waist. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said. He leaned against him. Rested his cheek against his chest, in spite of the fact that, not five minutes before, Piccolo had been dangerously close to beating the ever-loving Hell out of him, and very possibly blowing up a goodly portion of the population of Yardrat.

“You’re way too trusting,” he growled. “You always have been.”

Son chuckled. “Yeah,” he said.

Piccolo tangled his fingers in his hair, tilted his head back harshly, just short of snapping his neck. Son didn’t even tense.

He growled. “You’re so damned sure,” he said.

Goku closed his eyes. Smiled, just slightly. “Yeah,” he said.

Piccolo lowered his head. Growled, again, an inch from his skin. Brushed fangs over the too-soft places on the other’s neck. “You sure about that?” he rasped. “Maybe I’ll press too hard, and it’ll happen.”

“Maybe,” Goku conceded after a moment.
Piccolo pressed his fangs a little harder into his neck…enough to dent skin. Goku shivered, but he didn’t move at all beyond that. His hands fisted against Piccolo’s back.

“But you don’t think I will.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Goku shrugged. “I just know,” he said. “You’re not like Vegeta, are you? You’re pretty practical.”

“Which should lead to me killing you right now,” Piccolo pointed out.

“Should, I guess, if that’s what you wanted. But you don’t. Because your head doesn’t work like that. You wouldn’t waste all afternoon keeping an eye on me if you really wanted me dead, right? You’d just sit tight back at the ship and hope it happened. Or leave without me. Something like that.”

Piccolo gave the other’s hair a firmer tug. “You don’t know everything,” he said.

“That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Piccolo slid his other hand around to the small of the other’s back, pressing talons to it lightly, threatening to dig in deep. “Oh, is *that* all.”

Goku bit his lip. “M’not sure how to answer that,” he said.

“Then shut up.” Piccolo grabbed one of the other’s wrists from around his own waist, and forced it back suddenly into an arm-bar behind Son’s back. He twisted it hard, making the other arch to relieve the pressure, and pulled his hair enough to keep him from moving.

Son bit his lip a little harder. Shifted his wait a little to try to make the position less uncomfortable. But even someone at his power level couldn’t move in a position like that without a lot of risk, so he kept mostly still.

Piccolo lowered his head a little more to breathe into the other’s ear. “Still so sure of yourself, Son Goku?” he asked. He gave the other’s wrist a slight twist, and smirked a little when Son made a noise of discomfort.

“Yeah,” he breathed out when nodding didn’t work.

Piccolo smirked. “I don’t believe you,” he said. And he bit the other’s ear lightly, gave it a little tug.

Son went up on his toes, suddenly. But he couldn’t move his head to alleviate the pressure. Piccolo saw to that. And something dark inside him reared up, something he’d touched on and not quite thought his way away from, and it was hungry. He stepped forward suddenly, which made Son step back. Once, twice, too quickly, he knew – but he forced him to sit and then lie back on the couch/bed…thing. Flipped him over so that he was facedown, pushed his face into the soft cloth so hard that he had to struggle to breathe, and drove a knee between his legs. “Just tell me,” he purred in his ear, “when you get nervous, Son. I want to know.”

The Saiyan struggled under him, very briefly – but Piccolo had enough leverage by then that it wouldn’t have mattered. He made him arch his back more, chuckled at the sound the other made. Bit his shoulder, deliberately drawing blood. And it was hitting all those sharp-edged memories and feelings inside him just right for some reason.

This time, he was rough with him on purpose. Leaned his weight on him, sometimes made it hard for him to breathe…didn’t bother to undress himself fully, or the other fully, just a shove down, brief slick, and then in, so hard he was surprised he didn’t break him in half.

They moved together, more like a fight than fighting had been between them lately. He bit him, and dug fingers into his hip, forced the Saiyan up partway onto his knees to improve the angle. Laughed, roughly, when the other pushed back, when he made those muffled sounds. Wasn’t gentle at all when he reached down and closed his fingers around him. Made him respond. Made him whimper and gasp and push into his hand for all the good it did him. Made him wait so that they both let go at the same time.

Then, as the spasms left, when he lay with his forehead pressed against the other’s shoulder, his hand still fisted roughly in his hair, it all went out of him. His heart slowed down. His eyes weren’t as red. He tasted blood. And he became very aware of the stillness of the body under him, the way it was just breathing, making no sound. A shudder crawled its way through his body.

Slowly, he removed his hand from the other’s hair…relaxing his fingers, so it was not a jerk. Very gently, trailed through. Lifted himself a little off the other so that he could move, catch his breath. Son didn’t move immediately. He didn’t move at all.

He was afraid to ask. But he did anyway. “Son?”

The other shifted a little, lifted his head from the mattress. Spat out fluff. He was still breathing heavily. Coughed once. Then chuckled. “Man, I didn’t know I made you *that* mad.”

Piccolo felt his throat close up. “Are you…”

Goku turned slightly under him so that he was on his back. Grinned up at him, no trace of anger, or hurt, or…anything that should have been there. “Relax,” he said. “I would’ve told you if I got nervous. Or if it was too much.”

“So you’re not…”

“M’not what? Upset?” Goku shook his head. “Pic, seriously.”

Piccolo didn’t believe it. Stared at him.

“Besides. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything. It’s not something I’d want to do every day. But…” he put a hand to the side of his own neck, feeling one or two of the bruises, and winked. “It’s kind of good to see you sometimes when you’re not so…I dunno…reserved?”

Piccolo needed his hands to hold himself up. He exhaled, closed his eyes. “You shouldn’t let me hurt you,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t ever let anybody…”

He felt Son’s hands on his shoulders, let him pull him down. “I don’t,” he said. “And you didn’t.”

“Liar.”

Goku laughed. “Alright,” he admitted. “But not in a bad way. Now will you stop with that?”

Piccolo nodded. And kissed his cheek in a way that was its own apology.

“You didn’t get mad at me about the gravity room,” Son pointed out.

“That was different.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Piccolo had to concede that this was probably true. And it made him feel a little better, but only a very little. “Why did you let me?” he asked him. “There wasn’t any gravity.”

“What, you don’t feel like getting beaten up sometimes?”

Piccolo looked at him oddly.

“You’re thinking too much,” Goku advised. Stroked the back of his neck gently. “Get some rest.”

Piccolo settled down against him. Then rolled them so that he was on the bottom, letting the Saiyan drape over his chest. “So…you’re really okay with this.”

“I might hit you tomorrow,” Goku said, grinning. “I mean, I really might. But right now, it’s fine.”

The rest of the trip had been uneventful. Son had spent a lot of time with the Yardratians…he was especially a big hit with the kids. And Piccolo spent a lot of time poking around the planet, finding meditation spots, generally being “antisocial.”

During their stay, Son picked up a new technique of sorts that proved to be fairly annoying. He called it the instant transmission – and it meant that he could just appear suddenly, out of nowhere, with no warning whatsoever. The first time he did it, Piccolo jumped a solid five feet into the air. But as it turned out, you really could get used to anything, so Piccolo eventually resigned himself to having Saiyans pop out of the air.

All in all, the rest of their stay on Yardrat had gone almost too quickly. Piccolo was surprised when it was time to leave.

And then there had been the ship again. For weeks.

It was weird at first. Piccolo didn’t so much as make contact with Son for days after the incident, keeping an almost forcible three-foot-distance between them. Which had lasted until Son tackled him out of the blue, smacked him upside the head, and told him he was being an idiot.

To which Piccolo conceded he probably was.

Things went back to what passed for normal.

Piccolo was starting to really like normal. That was, he knew, a bad move. He knew, intellectually, that this “normal” was very temporary. It was hard to believe that, though. After so much time, it was hard to fathom that someday…

The bedroom door wooshed open in the manner of ship doors. “Hey, Pic!” Goku called, framed by hallway lights. “Better get up.”

Piccolo didn’t even jump. He just slid his eyes lazily over to the doorway and smirked. “Are we being boarded by space pirates?”

“Um…no.”

“Are we about to crash into a meteor belt?”

Goku put his hand behind his head. “No.”

“Is anything threatening our lives right now in *any* way.”

“No, but…”

“Good.” Piccolo very deliberately turned onto his side, his back facing his shipmate, and drew the cover up over his head. “Then I’m not getting up.”

“But Pic, we’re landing in half an hour.”

Piccolo fell out of bed.