Oceans

Author’s Note: Yes, I know, you guys want to kill me now. But this isn’t the end, I promise. ~.^


The landing was unexpectedly gentle. Piccolo had hoped for something a little more jarring – a concrete slap to say, “This is it, you’re here.” Instead, the spacecraft settled down on the slope of a small hill just like an elevator reaching the right floor. The result was that it still didn’t feel real.

Piccolo tried to stand for it calmly anyway. His back, he knew, was too stiff, but the cape should cover that, and his arms were crossed too hard, and he was grinding his teeth, just a little, but no one would notice that.

That is, no one but Son would notice that.

Piccolo closed his eyes and took a deep breath when he felt the Saiyan’s fingers brush across the small of his back. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.

Goku chuckled. “Sure you are. I just don’t get why you’re so worried, Pic – Gohan and Krillen have been back here for months now. No one’s going to freak out when they see you, I promise.”

Piccolo huffed, wondering how it was that Son Goku was so good at reading his moods and so bad at reading his mind. He was worried, and tense, and nervous, and all of that, but it had absolutely nothing to do with people “freaking out.” “Freaking out” was normal, and as long as no one had a pitchfork or a strategic nuke, he didn’t think it would wind up being that big a deal.

What worried him would happen after that – after the initial scramble, and chaos, and general human inefficiency. He’d do his best to put up with it. He would. But it wouldn’t last long, because crowds made him uncomfortable, and because they made him feel like the bull in the proverbial china shop. And he would fly away, and Son Goku would go back to his life, and Piccolo would go back to his.

Then, there would be demands in these other lives. Piccolo would not be able to be around the other Z-fighters, even the ones he didn’t hate – he might try, but he knew it would go badly. They were too noisy, too close-minded, and honestly, too smart. Someone would notice what was happening between them if he gave them enough chances to observe it, and Piccolo could simply NOT let that happen.

And of course, Son would have a family, friends, things that he had to do. Things that he wouldn’t be able to do well if he kept running out to see Piccolo, at least for more than the occasional sparring jaunt.

The worst of it was that Son didn’t realize it, even now, and Piccolo didn’t have the heart to tell him. So he took a deep breath, let it out through his nose, and forced himself to relax.

“There, see?” Son said. “Piece of cake.”

Trust a Saiyan to fall back on food metaphors, Piccolo thought, but he nodded once to show he was listening.

“Ready?” Goku asked, reaching out to the directional pad by the door.

No, Piccolo thought, I’m not. And had the very strong impulse to wrap his hand around Son’s wrist, drag him away from said door, and punch in a launching sequence in the control room. Or latch onto him, just that, wrap his arms around him for a few seconds, because he had the very strong feeling he wouldn’t see him again like this. Or just tell him that he’d miss him, for the gods’ sakes, or say something, anything at all, about the way he thought his stomach was going to claw its way right out of his body.

But Son would never stand for leaving again, Piccolo would never be able to let him GO if he latched on right now, and there just weren’t any words to describe a feeling like that, or if there were, Piccolo didn’t know them. So he just nodded again.

Goku paused before touching the “open” button, reached over, and gave Piccolo’s arm a quick squeeze, no doubt still able to sense that he was NOT any calmer. “Honestly, Pic. They might be a little weird at first, but they’re gonna l..er..like you. I promise.”

“Hmph,” Piccolo managed through his very dry mouth. “If you say so.”

Goku winked at him. And pushed the button.

The door opened with a heavy SWHOOSH – and instantly blinded both of them as they got their first full dose of sunlight in over a year. Piccolo threw up a forearm and muffled a curse, and he could hear Son Goku make some kind of sound beside him and stumble back a little bit. Piccolo thought sourly that it would have served them right if yet another world-ending bad guy attacked them right then, when they were standing in the doorway of a ship, completely blind and looking like a perfect pair of targets. Yes, they should have seen that one coming. But Son Goku never thought of things like that, and Piccolo was…distracted, so he hadn’t thought of it either.

They stood silently for what felt like a long time at the top of the ramp, but it was probably only seconds. If that. And it was so quiet, in that first few seconds. Then chaos erupted, several familiar voices calling out names that barely registered, the sound of several pairs of feet running up the ramp.

I’m not ready, Piccolo thought again, forcefully. As if that had ever stopped anything from happening. As if being ready had ever helped. As if he would ever, ever be ready.

He heard a distinctive “houff” from Goku as several people no doubt barreled into him. Then, something barreled into him, and it was only the past year he’d spent with Son Goku around to dull his reflexes that prevented him from hurling whatever-it-was across the room like a shot-put.

He opened one eye to find Gohan clinging to his torso like a leech, and laughing, and crying, and saying things that Piccolo really couldn’t hear so well. Because his ears weren’t working, and his eyes were weird. He looked over at Son like, on Nameksei, he’d looked at him right before the Spirit Bomb, when Frieza was going to kill them both and he knew it, and he’d been trying to say goodbye with just a look. He hadn’t been very good at it then, either.

Son wasn’t looking back at him. At least, not really. Point of fact, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything except maybe the wall, as Chichi had thrown both her arms around his shoulders and was kissing him with her eyes closed, and Son’s eyes looked like they might actually pop out of his head.

The room wavered, and Piccolo had to face the very embarrassing possibility that he might either faint or throw up (very hopefully not both at once). His chest closed up, his vision swam, and in spite of all that, he said something nice to Gohan. He wasn’t sure what. Then, as gently as he knew how (which wasn’t very), he detached himself from the kid, pointed Gohan at his father, and took big, fast steps down the ramp, drawing deep, steadying breaths past his fangs. Because, for a very intense moment, all he’d been able to think about was ripping that woman’s head right off her shoulders and…

He had to get out of there. Only with an effort did he manage not to take off immediately and fly as far and as fast as he could. But no. He made himself wait. He made himself look back.

This time, Son met his eyes. He looked dazed, lost even, and maybe like he was just starting to understand as he stood there, Chichi still with her arms around his waist, Krillen pounding him on the back, so many people…

Piccolo swallowed hard. Took a deep breath. And did the right thing.

*It’s okay,* he tried to tell Son Goku with his eyes. *It’ll be okay.*

They were coming down the ramp in something more or less like a mob. Chattering, laughing, happy. Son looked overwhelmed and out of place, pulled along as if he were a canoe on a well-meaning, chattery river. They walked by Piccolo, most without seeming to see him, no doubt headed back toward capsule corp on the Kami house. One or two nodded to him, or waved. He swallowed again, more subtly, and nodded back, just once. Shook his head when someone – Krillen maybe? – invited him along.

They were approaching the capsule plane that Bulma had had the foresight to bring along. Piccolo stayed by the ship, crossed his arms, leaned against it. He forced himself to look steady and calm – because he would only have to be steady and calm for the next few seconds, and then he could go beat something up, pitch a tantrum, or have a minor breakdown, whichever felt the most necessary at the time. He might do all three, alternately or in succession.

Almost through the door, Son Goku looked back at him, over his shoulder. For the first time in years, he looked nervous, maybe afraid. Also, growingly, like he felt something was off, not right. Maybe even like he was going to dig his heels in, turn around, and come back to him, or at the very least try to deal with this, right here in front of everyone, which for Son’s sake more than his, could NOT happen.

Piccolo managed, somehow, to smirk at him. To wink. Go on, he urged mentally, and hoped that Son would see it on his face even if he couldn’t hear it in his head. Go on. It’s better this way, Goku, it is.

Still, he hesitated, his narrowed glare softening again into confusion. They were pulling him into the ship.

*Go,* Piccolo thought again, harder, and waved with two fingers.

Son let himself be pulled the rest of the way. The door closed. Still, Piccolo stood steady, smirking a little in case someone was looking out a window, letting the jets from the departing aircraft ruffle through his cape and throw stinging dirt at his face.

He let himself fly away only after it was long gone. And he flew so fast he almost had to close his eyes against the wind.

He didn’t feel angry anymore. Just empty and raw, used up. A little sick.

He flew harder. Like he could leave it behind. Like he even wanted to.

*Goodbye, Son Goku,* he thought, like writing a postcard. *It’s been…fun. Annoying, most of the time. Weird. Sometimes really painful, boring – a lot of things.

But mostly, it was fun.*

He chuckled to himself, under his breath, and turned his flight path toward the Tsumi Tsubris. After all, what the Hell could it hurt at this point? He could at least act a LITTLE like a man, face it himself. Because for all he’d fought it, it came true anyway.

*And yeah. Sure. I love you, too.*