Author's Note: This work was inspired by Halfpenny's superior one-shot, When, which introduced me to the pairing and from which Yamcha's nickname for Marron, "baby girl", is stolen. I highly recommend the piece along with Halfpenny's other stories (particularly Gold and Rime and God's Gift to Women). This story is marked AU because while I do not consider GT canon, I take most of my inspiration for the younger characters' designs from it. I may make additional alterations in the future, but those will most likely be superficial; the AU label is, for right now, simply insurance. Please enjoy! ^_^

Late August, age 13

Marron spent as much of the summer she turned thirteen in the water as on land. Having grown up on an island so small she could count the number of steps it took to walk from one end to the other, she could not recall a time in which she hadn't been able to swim; however, that particular summer found her turning the skill into a way of life. She remained in the sea from sunup to sundown—swimsuits in constant rotation, hair perpetually wet, she only emerged from the water to eat, and even then consumed most of her meals still up to her ankles in the surf. After inhaling food that always wound up tasting vaguely of saltwater no matter how hard she tried to keep from dripping on it, she would call a hasty thank you to her father or mother before plunging right back into the ocean, where she'd remain along with Umigame until night fell and her parents called her home.

Because of this schedule, and despite consistent applications of sunscreen, Marron's naturally pale skin endured countless burnings and flakings before her complexion finally darkened into a deep caramel hue. Freckles appeared on her nose and cheekbones like stars emerging with the onset of night, and her wheat-gold hair blanched until it was the color of a peeled banana. She grew over an inch that season, prompting her grinning father to start calling her his little sea-weed. When she protested he switched to "angelfish" and only invoked the first nickname when he wanted to tease her.

That summer was, all-in-all, one of the happiest times Marron could remember. But as all summers did, it ended too soon. She emerged from her room one day wearing a one-piece and clutching a towel in her right arm, ready to locate her sea-turtle friend and spend another day swimming, only to have her father stop her at Kame Hut's screen door.

"Sorry, angel. Your mom wants you dressed to go shopping for school supplies this morning."

Marron regarded him incredulously. "Dad, school's weeks away!" she said. Kuririn's mouth quirked under his moustache.

"Try days. You go back this Monday."

Naked shock settled over the teen's face, along with something akin to despair. "You're kidding."

"'Fraid not," chirped Kuririn. Marron's shoulders slumped, and, sympathetic, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. He had to reach up slightly to do it: even slouching she stood a good couple inches taller than he. "School's not that bad, is it, angel?" he asked quietly.

"I hate it there," mumbled Marron, well aware of the whine in her voice. "I'm not cool. Nobody talks to me."

Kuririn studied her for a moment: the uncertainty on her face, tinged with dread and resignation, the defeated curve of her spine. He remembered many times when he'd worn that look himself. He opened his mouth to reassure her that everything would be fine, that she would find plenty of friends and do well in school because she was his smart, beautiful daughter who could never be anything less than amazing at whatever she set her mind to, but footsteps on the stairs stopped him. #18, her short, pale gold hair pushed sternly behind her ears, paused on the bottom step with an appraising glance at her husband and child.

"Get dressed, Marron. We'll be leaving in ten minutes," she said, not unkindly. Kuririn could detect the barest hint of concern in the android's tone—also curiosity, perhaps. This wasn't the sort of thing most people could pick up on, but Kuririn knew his wife the way a blacksmith knew metal and heat and an artist knew color and light: she was his greatest passion, and as such, he was fully dedicated to understanding as much about what lay beneath her seemingly-impassive surface as he could. He gave her a quick look that said, She's having a hard time, but I'm handling it. Understanding flicked through #18's eyes, though her expression did not shift. Meanwhile Marron, comprehending none of these subtleties, simply muttered her assent before retreating past her mother to obey.

Her room was almost too small for her—from what Marron understood, the space had been used as a storage closet prior to her birth—but she loved it anyhow. Her furniture was a mismatched collection of pieces left over from her childhood and donated by her parents' friends. Over the years, she'd decorated her plain, cream-colored walls with photos, posters, magazine cutouts, birthday cards and anything else that struck her fancy; she was continually editing her collection, and she took great pride in it. Her favorite part of her room, however, was the flock of paper airplanes suspended from the ceiling by whisper-thin strings. Varying endlessly in color and design, they stirred as a breeze crept in through Marron's half-open window. Every time she looked at them Marron remembered how her father, hovering an inch below the ceiling with his tongue poking from the side of his mouth in concentration, had patiently and carefully hung up each of the planes in turn. Pulling on a sleeveless top and a knee-length skirt, she tried to focus on that memory in place of the prospect of school.

A slight scuffling noise reached her from the other side of her bedroom door. Eyes narrowing, Marron slipped into her sneakers and took a heavy, dragon-shaped bookend from her shelf. She moved soundlessly to her door, keeping away from any of its seams and potential openings. After pausing to gather herself, she wrenched it open to find Master Roshi standing on the other side, eyes wide behind his red-rimmed sunglasses. The look on his face was similar to what a fox caught in a henhouse might have worn. He held up his hands and laughed nervously:

"Marron! Just passing by… Have I mentioned how stunningly beautiful you look tod—"

The bookend flew from Marron's grip and struck the Turtle Sage square on the forehead with a satisfying thud. He flopped to the ground, twitching like an agonized beetle. Marron berated herself mentally for forgetting to cover her keyhole, a precaution she was typically religious about taking.

"Stop peeping at me," she snarled, and made a point to step on the old man as she walked down the hall, "or next time, I'll get Mom."

Master Roshi muttered something about disrespecting one's elders. Marron pretended not to hear him. Feeling a little better in spite of herself—to her own guilt and defiant pleasure, knocking Master Roshi upside the head tended to have that effect on her—she descended the stairs to find her father waiting for her where she'd left him by the door.

"Where's Mom?" she asked him.

"Out by the car. What was that noise?"

"I was squishing a bug."

"Ah." Her father stopped her halfway over the threshold. "Marron."

The girl turned to face him. "Yes?"

The seriousness on Kuririn's face made him look older, somehow. "I never went to school, but I know growing up isn't easy. In fact, I had to fight some of my hardest battles when I was your age…and those had nothing to do with martial arts." Grinning in a slightly self-deprecating way, Kuririn laid a hand on her head. "You're a wonderful girl, Marron. You've got a good heart and a strong spirit. You'll be fine. So don't worry."

Marron managed a smile in return. She knew her father believed everything he'd said—and even if she didn't, his belief was worth a great deal. "Thanks, Dad."

"Go on then," he told her, and watched his daughter hurry out the door and over the sparse lawn to the air car where #18 waited.

Talking to her mother did not come as easily to Marron as talking to her father did. It wasn't that Marron felt uncomfortable around #18, exactly—rather, her mother had the uncanny ability to sense what Marron was thinking or feeling before Marron could even begin to articulate it, leaving her daughter with the idea that small talk would be more a bother to her mother than an effective means of communication. What was more, #18 radiated an aura wholly dissimilar to Kuririn's: a kind of intensity that Marron had yet to encounter elsewhere. Her mother was not like most mothers—most women—most people. Marron, her perspective maturing, had lately developed a newfound awe of her that generally drove her to silence in #18's presence. So it was that she and her mother passed the car ride in relative quiet; neither of them spoke until after they'd reached West City. #18 parked their car in front of the local greengrocer's. Without warning, she turned in her seat and pushed some zeni into Marron's hand.

"It'll go faster," she said simply, "if you go to the office supply store and get your school things while I do my shopping here."

Marron's surprise kept her from feeling too dismayed at the reminder of school. She'd rarely been off on her own before, or been given this much responsibility. She searched her mother's unreadable gaze for some idea of what the normally protective woman was thinking. But #18 simply began gathering up her purse as normal. "Can you handle it?" she asked.

"Of course I can!" The girl's huffy reply was automatic, an arm raised to counter a blow. If #18 was amused at her daughter's defensiveness, she did not show it. She nodded.

"Alright. I'll meet you back out here in a half-hour."

They got out of the car. As Marron watched her mother disappear into the supermarket, a sudden knot of anxiety formed in her throat. Swallowing it down, she stuffed the bills into her pocket and started off down the city street, straightening her shoulders and forcing herself not to look back. She was fairly certain the office-supply store her mother had spoken of was in this direction, and, as she warmed to her newfound independence, she felt determined to return to the designated meeting spot before #18, thus proving, in her own mind anyway, that she was grown-up enough to handle so simple a chore as shopping. Face smoothing into a determined expression not unlike the one her father wore when facing an enemy more powerful than he, she picked up her pace, resolute.

The trek was pleasant at first. Alone, Marron found she noticed far more about the city than when she accompanied her mother. A hub for both tourism and trade, West City catered to people of every race and origin; this diversity was reflected in the numerous shops and restaurants Marron passed. And then there were the pedestrians: crowds of them, weaving in and out of an endless succession of multi-hued buildings like insects scrambling through a colony. She had never been around so many unfamiliar faces in her life; seeing the sheer volume and variance of the people of West City made her realize how sheltered she really was. Did that man have feathers for hair? …Wow, that woman's gorgeous... I can't believe those two old ladies were arguing right in the middle of the street…!

Unfortunately for her, twenty minutes later found Marron far less intrigued by her surroundings and far more lost than she cared to admit. Worry that she'd been going the wrong way had morphed from a whisper in the back of her mind to a loud buzz in the front of it. She was tired; her feet felt heavy. Sweat had invaded the nape of her neck and pasted loose strands of sun-bleached hair to her forehead, and she had bitten her lower lip till it broke and bled; the salty tang that came with an instinctive swipe of her tongue reminded Marron of the sea. She wished she were in the ocean now: better the steady waves around her cozy, familiar home than this torrent of strangers that rushed past her too fast, threatening, it felt, to swallow her up completely. Heat seemed to radiate from every angle: above from the sun, below from the blazing concrete walkway, and on either side from buildings that grew increasingly unfamiliar as she walked. Her eyes stung, and she told herself that the perspiration on her brow was to blame.

Finally, unable to continue, Marron gave in and sank down onto a ring-shaped bench. It had been built around the trunk of a great tree that had been allowed to grow up in the middle of the sidewalk, and the smooth stone against her legs felt blessedly cool. She swiped her knuckles hand across her forehead, too tired to feel humiliated. She could manage bitterness, though: Thirteen? Ha! I'm still a stupid baby, she reflected angrily, digging the toe of one sneaker into the concrete and willing it to crack under the force of her frustration. And an idiot. I should have asked Mom which way the store was. If I had only used my head…! The annoyance abruptly left her to be replaced by guilt and fear. Oh, no. Mom. Mom's going to kill me!

Marron was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she failed to notice the man approaching her until his shadow fell across her slumped form. "Is that Marron?"

Marron's head jerked up. For a moment the sun made it difficult for her to make out anything save the newcomer's silhouette. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but… She squinted, then gawked.

"U-Uncle Yamcha?" she stammered.

The man took a small step forward; his features were easier to view at this new angle, and a huge grin split his face. "Hey, it is you! Oh, man. You look so different; I barely recognized you!"

Heart jumping, Marron scrambled to her feet. She took in Yamcha like a gasp before a plunge: short dark hair graying slightly at the temples, black eyes bright, mouth cracked in an unconsciously wolfish smile that stretched and distorted the scars on his face. He wore casual pants, a plain white T-shirt, and what appeared to be designer-brand sneakers. His muscles were well-toned as always, and the set of his jaw as strong as she remembered. Marron looked at him and regretted standing; her knees felt weak. "H-Hello," she managed to stammer.

"Y'know, I was just thinking that I owed you and your dad a visit. And your mom, too, of course," Yamcha added hastily. There was an awkward moment where Marron half-thought he was going to hug her in greeting, but of course he didn't. "So how have you been doing? What brings you to the city?"

"I'm fine," lied Marron, wincing internally at how obviously un-fine she knew she appeared. Her shirt was dappled with sweat, her low pigtails ragged and mussed. "I was going shopping for school supplies."

Yamcha looked perplexed. "Really? There aren't any stores for that sort of thing near here…"

"Um." Marron's throat dried. She dropped her eyes from Yamcha's. "Well, I… My mom went grocery shopping, and she told me to… I mean… I sort of… got lost." The final two words came out in a whisper. She felt herself wilt in embarrassment. He'll laugh at me, she anticipated, humiliation spiking. Or worse, he won't, and he'll just think I'm some idiot kid. "Oh, poor girl, we'd better get you home to your mommy..."

To her shame, Yamcha did laugh; to her surprise, there was no patronization in it. In fact, it was less a laugh than a sympathetic chuckle. "Yeah, it's not hard to do in a city this big," he said easily. Marron stared at him, stunned by his nonchalance. The older man was gazing off to the side, head tilted as though he were looking through the anthill of buildings and roads at a distant horizon that only he could see. He seemed to be lost in thought—or memory. Marron found herself recalling her father's accounts of the many adventures he, Goku, and the others had had together over the years, told to her at bedtimes for as long as she could remember. In her mind they had blended together into a storybook-bright kaleidoscope of armies and emperors, monsters and thieves, gods and demons and heroes greater than either: brilliant and exciting, but slightly unreal as well. Her father's stories were distant in the way of myths and legends: she did not, upon hearing his tales, feel the pain of the battles or the terror of the monsters they featured (The closest reference she had to the latter was a vague memory of clinging to her mother on Kami's lookout, frozen by the sight of a black-eyed creature with sharp teeth and bubblegum skin). And though she had always known intellectually that it was different for her father and his friends, that they had experienced far more terrible and wonderful things than she could even begin to imagine or quantify, what she saw in Yamcha's face made her truly comprehend the gulf between her perception and their memories for the first time. It was a strange and abstract revelation, and Marron had no idea what to do with it.

Then, as though they'd never been, the clouds lifted from Yamcha's eyes. He returned his attention to her, his smile again fixed at that elusive point between roguish, laid-back, and kind. "School supplies, huh? What year will you be in?" he asked.

"Um. Second year of junior high. Seventh grade."

"Geez, make me feel old, why don't you?" laughed the former Z-warrior. Marron forced a weak smile. She was so focused on trying not to appear as nervous as she felt that she almost missed Yamcha's next statement entirely:

"…go with you?"

Blue eyes blinked. "Eh?"

Yamcha repeated, "Well, if you're still planning on shopping, why don't I come with you? I'd hate to leave you here alone."

"I can take care of myself." The indignant statement escaped her before she could check it, and she very nearly kicked herself for it. Yamcha took it in stride, however.

"Of course you can. I just figured it would be a shame for a beautiful young lady to go unaccompanied. I can beat off all the boys so you won't have to," he said, brandishing a fist with a teasing grin.

Tan though she was, Marron knew her face was blazing strawberry red. "I couldn't ask you to do that," she protested. Yamcha waved off her concern.

"It's not a bother," he assured her. "I don't have anything going on right now. Come on, it'll be fun! We can do lunch."

Lunch, thought Marron faintly. He called me beautiful, and he's inviting me to lunch! Then her stomach sank as she remembered: "My mother…"

Catching her drift, Yamcha shook his head. "Not a problem," he said, and pulled a mobile phone from his pants pocket. Marron looked at it with interest as he mashed a few buttons: she recognized it as one of Capsule Corporation's latest models. Dad said Uncle Yamcha used to play pro baseball; I guess he has enough money to afford that kind of thing. The dark-eyed man turned his back to Marron and put the phone to his ear. A few seconds later he spoke:

"Hey, #18! …No, it's not an emergency. I just ran into your daughter over here. Yeah, she's fine. I was only wondering if I could steal her for the afternoon… Oh, getting some lunch and finishing up her shopping. Maybe a movie, too, if she wants…Yeah. No worries, I get it… Yes, I promise not to spoil her." Half-turning, Yamcha caught Marron's eye and winked. She giggled, hiding her mouth behind one hand. "I'll have her home by four. Alright. Great. See you then." Yamcha snapped the phone's cover shut and flashed Marron a thumbs-up. "We're good to go!"

Marron couldn't resist the grin that spread across her face. Yamcha returned it. "There's that happy girl I know. I was beginning to wonder where she'd gone."

"I'm here," Marron assured him shyly. She stood, forgetting about the heat and the sweat and how terrible she knew she looked, forgetting how close she'd been to tears mere minutes ago. "You have my mom on speed-dial?" she asked.

Yamcha nodded. "Yeah. Bulma set a phone system up for everyone after Majin Buu. She figured it'd be good to have a means of easy communication in case of trouble. Of course, we can all sense ki energy, so we'd probably realize if danger was coming anyhow, but it helps to be prepared. And hey, it's a free phone!" With another conspiratorial wink, Yamcha offered her his elbow. "Milady," he said solemnly. Marron giggled, took his arm—I can't believe I'm doing this! she squealed internally— and allowed him to lead her down the busy street.

Yamcha had his own car, but they didn't drive it ("The streets are crazy this time of day. Traffic's a pain," he told her. "It'll be faster if we walk."). Instead, they simply stored their bags in its trunk after they finished getting Marron's school supplies; as it turned out, Yamcha had parked the car in a public garage less than two blocks away from the office supply store. "It was destiny," Yamcha said with mock-seriousness when she commented on the coincidence. "We were meant to meet today." Marron laughed dutifully, though her heart secretly warmed at the idea.

Shopping for school supplies had never been so much fun. Like her father, Yamcha had never received a formal education, and so the purpose of some of the requisite items was a mystery to him. He had questioned her as they'd perused the aisles, him with his hands in his pockets, her with a plastic green basket on her arm:

"What's this do?"

"It's a compass. It helps you draw accurate angles."

"And this?"

"That's a protractor. It measures angles."

"And this?"

"That's a straightedge. It helps you draw the angles neatly…"

"What's the big deal about all these angles?"

"I don't know," she'd admitted. "I haven't taken Geometry yet."

Once they'd reached the notebook aisle, Yamcha had fallen silent while Marron, who had been taking great care in picking out what she needed, had evaluated her options. Face set in thoughtful lines, she'd compared two binders—one pale blue and printed with a silvery seashell pattern, the other dark green and plain—before returning the blue one and moving to place the second in her basket.

"Why'd you do that?" Yamcha had asked.

The thirteen-year-old had blinked up at him. "Do what?"

"Put the shell one back. You obviously liked it more. What makes that one," Here he'd pointed to the binder in her hand, "better than that first one?"

Understanding had lit her face. "Oh, that. It's cheaper."

"Don't you have enough money?"

"I do! My mom gave me enough," Marron had answered quickly. "It's…I mean, well, not a lot of people will hire my dad because he doesn't have much experience and because of the height and no-nose thing, and my mom can't even get a proper job because she's not in the public records, plus she's busy taking care of me. Right now we're living off the money she got from the 25th Budokai, but that won't last forever. So I try never to spend more than I have to." Realizing that she might have said too much, Marron had closed her mouth then, but not before flushing and adding, without looking at Yamcha, "Anyway, it's only a binder. They get worn out by the end of the year anyhow."

She had paid for her school things shortly afterward, and had felt very grown-up doing so, even if she had used her mother's money rather than her own. Now, as she laid her bags in the trunk of Yamcha's car, Marron felt confident enough to risk glancing up at the former Z-fighter. To her surprise she found he was gazing back at her. He stood to her right, his hip between the rearview mirror and the front door handle, his arm braced easily against the vehicle's roof. There was something in his eyes that Marron couldn't read, though the way his mouth quirked made him seem simultaneously perplexed and amused.

"I-Is something wrong?" she asked, doing a mental inventory to ensure that she didn't have anything stuck to her face, teeth, or clothes.

Yamcha shook his head. "I was only wondering: Do your parents talk about money in front of you, Marron?"

"No. But Kame House is pretty small, so I still hear them sometimes." A thought occurred to Marron then, and her eyes widened. "Uncle Yamcha…!"

"Hmm?"

"Please don't tell my parents that I told you about the money and the jobs and all that! It's not a big deal. I mean, we're really okay. I'm okay. I shouldn't have mentioned it in the first place, so please don't tell them. Please?" Marron bit her lip again, eyes trained beseechingly on her father's friend, who held up his hands and nodded.

"Don't worry; my lips are sealed."

Marron sighed in relief. Yamcha smiled, an edge of concern at the corners of his mouth.

"Marron, has anyone ever told you that you worry way too much?" he asked.

"Um." Come to think of it, hadn't her father said something to that effect that morning? "Yes."

"That doesn't surprise me." The older fighter ran a hand through his close-cut hair, unconsciously sending Marron's heart into overdrive. He shook his head. "Well, I guess I should be praising you. Not many people my age are as considerate as you are. It's hard to believe that you're only twelve."

"Thirteen," she corrected before she could stop herself.

Yamcha blinked rapidly in confusion. "Huh?"

"I'm, uh, thirteen, actually."

It took a moment for the information to sink in; then the older man's eyes widened. "You're serious? But when I called your dad a month ago, he said you were still twelve!"

"I turned thirteen on the 6th." Marron told him, both happy at the implication that Yamcha had asked about her and vaguely alarmed at how shocked he looked by the news. He now seemed to need to lean on the car for support.

"Thirteen," he said softly, as if he were tasting a new food that he wasn't sure he appreciated. "Thirteen. Damn."

"Uncle Yamcha, it's really not…"

"I didn't get you a birthday present."

Now it was Marron's turn to look confused. "W-What?"

"I didn't get you a present or a card or anything."

"That…!" Blood rushed to Marron's face. She scrambled to reassure him: "Y-You don't have to worry about that at all! I really don't care about that sort of thing. This is more than enough, I've had a great time, so please don't worry on my account! I didn't mean to make you feel guilty, I probably shouldn't have even mentioned it. I still act and feel more like a twelve-year-old than a thirteen-year-old anyway and Uncle Tien didn't get me anything either but he's been sort of avoiding everyone since the whole Saiyan thing, not that I'm saying you're avoiding us, but the point is I wasn't disappointed at all so you shouldn't-"

She was cut off suddenly when, in one swift, fluid movement, Yamcha knelt in front of her and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Marron," he said, voice as serious as if he were vocalizing a plan of attack, "breathe."

She did. With his face so suddenly close to hers, she found she could hardly find the presence of mind to do anything but what he suggested. The sound of air rushing in and out her lungs echoed slightly in the otherwise-silent parking garage. At length Marron calmed herself, and she averted her eyes to the ground. "Sorry," she murmured.

Yamcha's commanding gaze softened. He let out a breath in a small laugh. "Geez, baby girl. I thought you were going to have a heart attack or something," he said, releasing her and rising to his feet.

"I'm really sorr—" she began, but he cut in.

"You apologize too much, too; has anyone ever told you that? Don't worry about it." Yamcha pushed his fingers through his hair again and looked off to the side, much as he had earlier that day. After a long moment he seemed to come to some kind of decision; turning to Marron, he flashed a quick smile and asked, "Hey, you mind if we hold off on lunch for a little longer? There's this one store I wanna check out before we eat."

"O-Of course," Marron answered. She was eager for a distraction from their conversation; inside, she berated herself for overreacting. Nice job. He probably thinks you're crazy now. But she pushed the thought aside when Yamcha turned and made for the exit without another word; Marron scrambled to follow, her small, worn purse knocking against her hip. Neither of them noticed or sensed the man watching them from a corner of the garage, arms folded, sharp eyes appraising.