In Which

Quote. We never talk. Unquote. And that's when I don't answer. Don't you dare ask why, because you don't want to know.

"Quote" – Evans Blue

He looks like his grandfather, my father; I suppose one could call Him that. It's his smirk. The tiny little distortions his face makes as he dreams. Sometimes I could kill him for it. Other times I think I should.

Yet he's still here. His breathing, tranquil. He is as still as the now stagnant air in this once fertile valley. Many things changed upon his advent. It is only with lament that I can say that they have not been for the better. He's like most things upon this planet . . .You know what they say about good intentions and such. He was one of those good intentions, one of the worst.

I know they look upon me with question. Let them. They ask how I can pass such swift judgment on a being that has done no foul to anyone. If only they knew—knew how much I covered these mistakes—then they would see why. It is not a question of love. I have never loved him. At this point it is unlikely that I ever will. He resents me for it, yet remains silent. Those eyes, those cold blue eyes stare at me, willing me to die with an apathetic gaze. Perhaps I'm paranoid, but I prefer to think I'm cautious. Even the harpy has grown to accept him. That's what bothers me the worst. If they could only see.

He stirs.

I feel my breath hitch slightly.

He shifts to the side before settling again in his slumber.

My shoulders relax.

I shouldn't be this way. No, I am not afraid. Such a foolish notion. I could extinguish his life in a moment if I so wished.

I will some day have to. But not tonight. Tonight he will sleep, tremor slightly and awake to peer around and see if I am by his side, then he will drift into his abyss once more before daybreak.

His influence bothers me.

It'll be light soon. The faint scuff of sparrows' wings does not escape me in these early hours. I make no plans to be here when he arises. I never do. Don't you dare ask why. No one really cares.

He is the saddest sight I know.

Gohan should know . . .

He felt the rough, unshaved surface of his chin against the callous surface of his thumb and forefinger. Normally he'd be clean cut and ready for a long day teaching, but not today. His ever-observant students would simply have to tolerate the scrubble and greasy, disheveled hair this morning. Whoever convinced him to teach a 7am class two hours away from his home deserved to issue him a Darwin Award. He groaned slightly as he raised himself off of the corner of the bed where his once-young wife was serenely sleeping, just as he would be if he had any say in the matter.

His feet suck slightly to the hardwood floors as he plodded his way towards laundry room to pull a suitable outfit out of the drier. Normally he'd be starched and pressed, but it had been an especially long week, as finals were soon approaching. Sometimes he swore that he was more haggard that his students over the testing. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he pulled off the shirt he had slept in to replace it with a standard black dress shirt that buttoned up the front and beige khaki pants that had seen better days.

Today, he left his shirt untucked.

His briefcase was crammed with all manner of paper that he had spent countless hours soaking in a sea of red marks and sarcastic comments that denoted the intelligence of certain answers. It seemed as though students hardly tried anymore. What a pity.

For a brief moment, his eyes turned toward the windows. There was something oddly monotonous about this morning. The blue-gray skies did little to lighten his mood. It was suppose to rain later in the morning and probably would start before he made it to the university.

Several things became overwhelmingly apparent to him as he stepped outside that morning. The first of which was that the paperboy had not only missed his front lawn, but had thrown the paper into the fence around the side yard in which Lucifer, Videl's horrible ugly hell dog with an oral fixation lived. It's not like he paid for the paper to read it or anything The second, which in all honesty should have been the first thing he noticed, was the presence of a rather disgruntled namek. Normally he would have jumped in surprise to see him at such an early hour, for it was unusual to see Piccolo postpone his morning meditations for any natural reason. This of course meant that something quite unnatural was going on. Consequently this was making for a rather long, long day.

"Piccolo, what brings you out here so early?" Silently he added 'at all' to the end but thought it best to not address the current lack of communication between him and, well, everyone.

He received a short grunt in response, the kind of grunt that indicated that something was indeed disturbing the natural order of all things in the universe. There must be a teenager behind all this.

"Ah, I see . . .He's been giving you troubles again, I presume?" Gohan shoved his hands in his pocket; a small smile crept upon his features as he discovered some loose change. Ohohoho, the vending machine in the teacher's lounge was going to get a visit tonight.

Piccolo lidded his eyes for what seemed like an eternity before he opened them again and gave the most vestigial nod that Gohan had ever seen. He knew about their problems, Piccolo and The Boy, as he was affectionately called. From what little he had actually seen of their interactions, The Boy was fairly well mannered and docile—at least he was around Videl and he. But the way Piccolo acted, it just seemed suspect. Sure, the issue had come up several times before but it was just recently that things had become, oh, how should one say it, more urgent? Piccolo seemed on edge all the time. He was always the type to be constantly aware of any fluctuation in his surroundings, but this was different. He seemed almost . . .

. . .Scared?

The lines at the corners of Gohan's mouth pulled downward faintly.

"What's he done now?" He set his briefcase down and flexed his hand. Too far removed he was from the throes of troubling children, as Pan had fled the nest many years ago.

The breeze caught the tail of Piccolo's cape and played with it in the chilled morning air. It was far too cold to be April.

"Nothing"

Gohan quirked his brow. So tense over nothing? Surely Piccolo did not think him so gullible to believe that petty excuse.

"I've never known nothing to coax such a reaction out of you."

A snort.

With a half-hearted sigh, Gohan picked up his briefcase again and advanced toward Piccolo, eyeing him steadily as he did. If Piccolo was not ready to tell him, then there would be no hearing it, at least for the time being. A visit to his grotto was called for later, but as for now; he needed to start another marvelous day teaching the grateful freshman how to write a sentence.

"He's not like me."

Gohan stopped a few steps past Piccolo and half turned to face his back. "You can't expect him to be."

Piccolo merely shook his head at that, not bothering to face his former pupil. The powerful muscles of his back tensed then relaxed hesitantly and the furrow where his eyebrow ridges met deepened. These past few years had aged him; not greatly by Namekian standards, but enough for anyone who knew him to be able to tell that the years were catching up.

"He reminds me of my sire."

Quixotically Gohan cocked his head to the side.

"That look he gives me. The grin."

"Piccolo."

The air stilled.

"He looks like you."

In the moment of silence, Gohan could have sworn he heard the tendons in Piccolo's now clench fist on the verge of snapping.

The loon cried about his lake on the edge of the Son property and with silent grace Gohan blessed the creature for all its worth. The air remained in its deadened state and the color returned to his once boyish cheeks. An awkward period had not quite passed, but seemed to reside languidly above the two.

A raindrop found its mark squarely on Gohan's nose. Shortly after another one found its way into the tiny gap between his collar and neck and slid quickly down his spine. With a shiver, Gohan looked towards his capsule car and then back to Piccolo, who was as motionless and resolute in his self-imposed misery as the already weeded patch of semi-dead grass they were standing on.

"I better get going" Gohan uttered somewhat too hastily for his own nature.

No response met him as he walked to the driver's side door and with a little more trouble than ought to be exerted, opened the aging door and got in. The engine sputtered then groaned into life, kicking up a small cloud of dust as it did. For one last time, Gohan looked to his former mentor whose heart had hardened with age. Silence. Silence as he slowly rolled off of the driveway onto the old, weathered road. Silence as he lost sight of his house. Silence has his friend was soon lost from his mind.

"The kid will never be like me."

Notations: I stated awhile ago that I was not going to resurrect any of my fanfiction. Obviously that statement is all but nullified. This story (which I pray will not be a one-shot) is set approximately twenty years after the climax of Dragonball Z in what can be considered a alternate universe. For all of those who are not familiar with my crack fics, this story will center on Piccolo's relationship with his illegitimate son, who is my original character, and Gohan. This will be a slowly building story and will be handled with care.