Oceans

There was something unfair about it, Piccolo thought as he flew through the air like a tossed doll, trying in vain to fly against the insane force of the wind, to right himself…if only he knew which way was “right.”

He thought he might be close to figuring it out when his shoulder struck something solid. That must be down, he decided sourly. Spray flew into his eyes – *it’s water, I’ve landed in the water* – as he struck Nameksei’s great ocean with enough force that he didn’t sink immediately. No. He bounced. Skipped along the top like a pebble flung at the still surface of a pond. Once. Twice. A third time. And then there was a sensation like a gasp in reverse, a tightening, and he was sinking in a rush of bubbles all around him, just like flying through a cloud.

There was some sort of monumental injustice, Piccolo thought, in this whole “good guy” thing. When he’d been a self-serving, malicious bastard, he hadn’t gotten blown up nearly this much. It was unreal. No, he thought abruptly as he realized that he was sinking to the very, very bottom of his ancestral home. *No way in Hell,* he thought. *I’ve been beaten, ripped up, shot with about a million chi blasts in the past five minutes, and blown halfway across the damn planet. I will NOT be drowned. That’s overkill.*

With a growl that he was sure scared several fish, he started to fight, to force his aching limbs to cut through the water. There was a horrible moment or two where he was striking out blindly, where he might have been pulling himself deeper….but no, he could see the sun waving in its disjointed, toffee-pulled streamers…see the difference in light and darkness. He began to move toward it, though slowly – too slowly.

From the corner of his eye, he caught an unexpected flash of orange. He was surprised enough to turn his head into the deep, blue darkness of it…and caught sight of his former rival drifting down past him. It was exactly like watching Son Goku fall out of the sky…he was sinking back-first, limbs loose…hair a waving, black curtain that seemed to reach up toward the light.

*Not my problem,* Piccolo thought automatically, fiercely. *I held the cross-dressing lizard off, I DID my part, and I damn near died doing it…*

*Yeah, and who was it who got him off you, genius?*

Words, in his mind, from before, tinged with the colors of campfires and twilight…

*Mr. Piccolo? Why do you and my dad fight all the time?

I…you wouldn’t understand.

Do you? Understand, I mean.

Gohan. Stop asking stupid questions.*

With a growl that erupted from between fangs in a thin stream of bubbles, Piccolo reversed himself in the water, swimming after the man that he was supposed to hate with every fiber of his being. He was amazed at how fast the other sank…as if his body were somehow denser than a normal body, as if he were a rock.

Piccolo’s lungs were burning by the time he caught him, fisting a hand in the back of the other’s shirt, kicking his legs hard to try to slow their downward momentum.

Son Goku’s eyes opened, pupils wide…dilated…dazed. They widened a little in surprise when he felt the pull. Piccolo ignored him, hoping the imbecile would have the sense to start kicking. His legs were tired.

It seemed a long way to the surface. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Piccolo’s lungs grew hotter, on fire….it reminded him, in a horrible way, of his own death, not so long ago. The burning, even as cold as his skin was…the slowing-down, the feeling of each small motion etched into super-clarity.

And then the break through the surface, like hatching, like being born – just as painful as drowning, but in reverse. As with hatching, the light blinded his eyes…as with hatching, he wanted nothing more than to breathe….breathe…

But there was Goku’s weight, suddenly almost too much for him, dragging him back down…his head slipped beneath the surface. The shell sucked him back in.

Ignoring the natural, survivor’s impulse to let his burden go, Piccolo reached out for purchase with the other hand, to move more water…there was a moment of ineffectual struggle, of nothing-working…

Piccolo felt Son Goku’s hand close around his wrist – and at first he thought he was panicking…*Son? Panic? First time for everything…*until he felt the sharp motion the other’s hand gave, and realized that the Saiyan was actually trying to force him to drop him.

The former demon clenched his hand so hard that his talons drove into his own palm, no doubt releasing little threads of indigo blood into Nameksei’s otherwise-pure ocean. *I don’t think so, moron. Not now. Not after all this. I STILL have to beat your ass for dragging me into this godsdamned mess in the first place.*

Even so, Piccolo realized that he was spent, that all the anger in the world wouldn’t get them to the surface again, and even if it did….even if it did, how far could he swim, how…it didn’t matter. He had to try.

As if by magic, his talons found stone, sank in.

Thus, with very nearly the last of his strength, Piccolo began to pull. It was agony through burnt shoulders and a back aching from too many impacts – but he was doing it, his shoulder was on the ground – then his body – and then, with a heave he hadn’t thought himself capable of…he brought the other out.

Son Goku landed on the island beside him with a choking gasp. Piccolo watched in morbid fascination as the other fell forward, landing on his elbows, gagging up water before sucking in great, ragged breaths. His body for a few moments racked so hard that his hair moved in great, slow sweeps. A small eternity passed, spent in emptying pained lungs. Finally, the earth-raised Saiyan’s body seemed to accept that it was going to live through its odd rebirth. With a last, shaky breath, Son Goku turned his head so that he faced Piccolo. His eyes, the Namekian noticed, were wide with surprise – surprise and the barest dawning of full comprehension.

They both reached the same realization at the same time – though Goku was the only one to voice it. “Piccolo,” he said. “You…you saved me.”

For a moment, the Namekian did not know what to do. He wanted to deny it – especially as, for a crazy second, he thought that the Saiyan looked like he actually wanted to put his arms around him as Gohan did sometimes when he was being grateful – but finally, an option came to him. He snorted noncommittally. “Call us even,” he said.

Goku grinned.

“That wasn’t a concession, Son,” he growled.

Goku grinned wider.

Piccolo was genuinely concerned that the other actually WAS going to do something undignified – like hug him - when help came from an unexpected source. “Mr. Piccolo!” a voice cried out from directly above.

Even as he was saved from possible disaster, Piccolo wondered if this meant that he’d actually had witnesses to one of his first semi-altruistic impulses. He really hoped not. He had a reputation to keep up, after all…he began to stand slowly, offering his student an absent, two-fingered wave to indicate that he’d heard and he was fine.

Two forms landed nearby. Gohan, of course, ran past him, throwing both his arms around his now-kneeling father. Krillen…the small monk…was grinning like a fool, but hanging back a bit. That wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t dignified for a grown man to be running around hugging people, no matter how short that person was.

About then, he decided to tune into the reunion between father and son going on a few feet to his right. It has all of the expected trappings – Gohan with his arms around his father, talking about how glad he was that he was alright, how glad…

Piccolo briefly envisioned how it would have been to explain to the boy that his father had died…how different it would have been…and for that reason more than any other, he was glad that he had thought to save the other. Even if Gohan hadn’t been the entire reason. Even if he hadn’t thought of it until just then.

He turned his head to gauge what the monk thought of this mess. Just as he turned and looked, he realized that the other man didn’t seem to be so easily happy as he had before. In fact, his eyes were widening, a growing attitude of horror settling over his face like a pall. “Oh no…” Krillen whispered. “NO!”

All went silent. Piccolo felt himself leaning forward, wary. He didn’t even want to think about what else might have gone wrong that day. Goku turned his head sharply, and Gohan, with fear in his eyes, turned to face his friend.

“We forgot about Bulma!” Krillen exclaimed. “She’s gonna KILL us.”

Piccolo blinked. Bulma? The blue-haired girl that Ginyu had briefly inhabited... “You’re not serious,” he said.

“Oh man,” Krillen said, burying his face in his hands. “You don’t even understand – we left her on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. And when she gets mad, she’s even worse than Frieza! Oh, we’re dead for sure this time…”

There was a moment of silence before Gohan clamped both hands to his mouth, trying futilely not to laugh. “What do you mean we, Krillen? She’ll probably just kill you…”

As the monk’s face fell in dejection, Gohan lost control of his laughter altogether. The boy dissolved into a helpless fit of giggles, which Goku soon followed. After a few moments of straining to keep a straight face, Krillen joined in as well.

Piccolo looked between them all, wondering if there was some trait in earthlings that led them to go insane at the first sign of stress. His experience indicated, at least, that this was true…

Piccolo was distracted from his musings when Gohan actually broke from his father, and ran over to him. Granted, the boy only came up to Piccolo’s knees, but he was a distracting presence when he wanted to be all the same – he just…radiated emotion like a spiky-haired little air-freshener. “Mr. Piccolo!” he cried, “you guys did it!”

The former demon looked down at the boy. Gohan was grinning up at him with that open, trusting face of his – and the expression on it was so clear, even to him, that it made his chest hurt. A little embarrassed at his own sentimentality, he brushed it off like dust from the sleeves and smirked down at his smaller pupil. “You didn’t think we could do it, huh?”

Sheepishly, Gohan put a hand behind his head. “Well…you gotta admit, it WAS kind of scary there for a little bit, Mr. Piccolo.”

“Honestly, you should have more faith in your father than that,” Piccolo said, unable to help smirking a little wider.

Gohan looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Oh, come on – you weren’t scared at all?”

Of course, Piccolo shouldn’t have answered that – but having just survived such a battle, he was feeling a little…well…strange. His expression, of its own accord, morphed into almost a grin. “Out of my mind.”

There was a moment of shocked silence in which Goku and Krillen apparently tried to come to the grips with the fact that he’d just made a joke. And then, everyone was laughing again. He was disturbingly tempted to join in, actually – it was just so senseless. Post-battle nerves. That had to be it. Well, what could it…

*No, wait, something’s wrong.*

He didn’t really see anything – didn’t really sense anything, either. It was more just a knowing…an unshakable sureness that something very bad was about to happen. Worse than usual. And then, looking past Goku and Gohan…he saw a flash of white. Not cloud-white or snow-white, but that unnatural, enamel polish he’d come to dread.

It was stepping up over the hill. No, not it, he. Frieza. Standing, only able to see through one eye, purple blood pouring from many wounds. But standing. Living. Pissed. *Not a delusion,* Piccolo thought, *not a dream...*

And no one else had noticed, as Frieza pointed a black, manicured nail at something, squinting his inhuman eye…

Piccolo might, even a month ago, have thrown himself behind the nearest rock and let the others take their chances…but for some reason, all he could feel at that moment was an eerie sort of calm. After all, Frieza wasn’t aiming at him. That would have been stupid. Frieza was aiming at the dangerous one, the one whose attack had nearly killed him. Piccolo saw that finger come even with Son Goku’s chest as if drawing a line to his heart – the same action that had killed Vegeta.

None of them had much strength left – Piccolo knew that. But against Frieza, only one of them stood a chance, only one of them had ever stood a chance.

“Son, move,” he snarled, knowing the other wouldn’t react in time. It didn’t matter. Piccolo had already left the ground in an extended dive, was already stretched out. His shoulder impacted Goku’s side with a sound like a fish being dashed against a rock. And then his chest burned with a horrible pain – so horrible that at first, it didn’t register. Blood – his own, dark indigo – flew up before his face as his breath raged and gurgled in a lung. He gasped again, like coming out of the water, tried to pull back from it, as if he could step out of this aching. *So this,* he thought, *is how Vegeta died…*

Piccolo hoped, absently, that the little spiky-haired ingrate was still waiting in line. He had a few choice words for him.

But in the meantime...he was dimly aware of falling, bowling the other over, landing in an inglorious heap at Son Goku’s feet as the other likewise lay stretched out on the ground. *Did I do it?* He heard Son move*…yes…*he coughed.

“Piccolo,” Son’s voice, disbelieving. Then hands, turning him over – oh, that hurt – a light shake. “Piccolo, don’t do this, come on – we need you.”

Piccolo wondered why he couldn’t see for a second or two…remembered that his eyes weren’t open. He couldn’t seem to…no wait, he could get that one eyelid open a little. Son’s blurry face, leaning over him, came into focus – the man, he realized with some shock and a little indignation, was cradling him. But, he thought, it’s alright. Not maybe the most dignified thing, but he could already feel the life leaving him. He could feel the cold – dying was always so cold – and it was almost…well. He’d never been held before. If he closed his eyes and didn’t think too hard, he could actually hear the other’s heartbeat.

He gradually became aware that Gohan was calling his name, would have run to him if Krillen had let him go. He wished he could say something that would help. He wished that he could say anything…but there was no time for that. He couldn’t make his chest rise.

“Piccolo, no – not now, not after all this, please.” Son’s voice, low and urgent as he touched his face, as…gingerly, he shook him.

The former demon wanted to do so many things – to laugh at the futility of it, to tell the man it was hopeless, that he should pay attention to the battle, that he was going to have to be sharper than that… to tell Gohan that it hadn’t been his fault, that none of it had been his fault, ever – but he couldn’t, and around him, the blackness got heavier. He sank.