Disclaimer: For the next-to-last time in this fic, I do not own anything related to DBZ. (Well, except the chibi-Gohan action figure that my roommate gave me last week, but I don't think that counts.)

The Burden of Hope

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A Pair of Surprises; Investments in the Future

The first floor garden of the Capsule Corporation facility, normally only filled with tall fountains, and exotic plants and animals, found itself playing host to well over a few dozen guests. Because of its size, and the fact that it remained undamaged, the freshly-injured and newly-homeless alike made the trek here for medical treatment and shelter. It wasn't the first time that Capsule Corporation had been called upon to fill such roles, and would likely not be the last; so long as the androids existed, there would be a chance that an attack would force people to flock to the building.

Bulma wiped a hand over her face, exhausted. She'd been trying to assist her mother in tending to the wounded as best she could, but she was a technician, not a doctor, and had probably been more harm than help. After she'd attempted to pull a man, who had fallen to his knees in exhaustion from running, to his feet, not realizing that she was grabbing onto a broken arm, her mother had shooed her away and told her to go and handle something else. Thus Bulma had decided to occupy herself by bringing together separated families and offering comfort to those who had lost loved ones.

She almost hated to admit it, but she was jealous of all the family reunions she'd created. It was nearly too much, seeing husbands and wives leaping into each other's arms, crying and professing their love. There was no chance of her doing that with Vegeta---not that there would have been one while he was alive, since neither of them were much for such open displays of affection. What hurt even more was seeing parents reuniting with their children, hugging them tightly and promising that nothing would ever happen to them. There was no chance of that for her, either. Bulma actually quite preferred to be around the bereaved; at least those people were no better off than she was.

Another group of people, most of them looking even worse than those already present, slowly and unsteadily filed into the room, gently ushered in by her father. Some supported those who were either limping, or bleeding all over the grass, changing it from a lovely green to a sickly red. Mothers carried what Bulma sincerely hoped were only mildly injured or tired children, rather than dead ones. Through that crowd, she heard a little boy's voice calling out, "Mama?"

Bulma swallowed a lump in her throat; that little boy sounded so much like Trunks that she wanted to cry. Her imagination was just playing tricks on her, though and she knew it. She wanted her son back so badly that she made out any small boy's voice to be his, and she knew that none of them could be.

Face it, she told herself. You've got to face it, Bulma---you don't have a son anymore. He was killed two weeks ago, and he's not coming back.

"Mama!" the child's voice rang out again, and Bulma found herself wanting to slap the kid who was daring to remind her of her loss. Couldn't he just keep his mouth shut while he looked for whoever his mother was? Did he have to keep shouting that word that insisted on stabbing her in the heart?

A tiny figure stumbled out of the mob of new arrivals; at the sight of that figure, Bulma sank to her knees in shock, thoroughly convinced that she'd lost her sanity. It was a small boy---tiny, actually. The boy was rather slim, but still had a certain amount of baby fat, as befitting his age, and a mop of short lavender hair rested atop a head which was turning this way and that as its owner continued to call, "Mama!"

Reluctantly, fearing that the child would disappear as soon as she opened her mouth, Bulma spoke. "Trunks-chan?"

At the sound of her voice, the little boy finally looked her way with eyes the same deep blue as hers and the same angular shape as his father's. A dark red streak marred the pale skin of his forehead, but he didn't seem to be bothered by it as those eyes widened in joy and a broad smile spread across his lips.

"Mama!" he crowed, rushing toward her, and a second later, Trunks was in her arms.

Bulma ran her hands up and down her son's back, trying to make sure that he was real; it certainly felt as though he were, though she couldn't fathom how it was possible. He'd kept on fleeing with the pack of people who had surely been slaughtered two weeks earlier. How could he have escaped? And how could he have survived on his own for so long when he still struggled with the simple task of tying his shoelaces?

Though she was loath to do so, Bulma pulled back a little, examining Trunks' face. He wore the brightest grin that she'd ever seen and tears had gathered at the corners of his eyes; it wasn't until she saw this that she felt the salty wetness running down her own cheeks. Carefully, she raised one hand, and lightly traced her fingers across the gash on his forehead; Trunks winced at this, but didn't try to pull away.

"You're hurt," she observed, her voice husky.

"It doesn't hurt very bad, Mama. I'm okay," Trunks reassured her, his soft voice sounding strangely calm. He leaned in and hugged her again. "I missed you lots, Mama."

A low chuckle escaped Bulma's lips as she finally allowed herself to smile, and she hugged him back. "I missed you lots, too, Trunks-chan. But everything's okay, now. Mama's got you. Everything's fine." She pulled back a second time, and squeezed his hands reassuringly.

"Ouch!" Trunks gasped, jerking away.

Blinking in confusion, Bulma shifted her gaze slightly downward to see Trunks gingerly rubbing his right hand with his left one. She pried his fingers away and lifted his wrist as she instructed, "Let me see that."

Gently, she prodded his hand with her own fingers, noticing several small cracks in it; Trunks flinched at each touch, and tried to pull back, but she held him firmly until she finished her examination. She may not have been a doctor, but she didn't need to be in order to make her diagnosis. "Your hand is broken. Trunks-chan, how did this happen?" Trunks opened his mouth to answer, but Bulma stopped him before he could speak. "Nevermind. Tell me later, after I get your Gramma and Grampa to help me bandage that up."

She started to rise as Trunks nodded in agreement, but then halted as he tugged on the hem of her shirt, urging her to stay on her knees. A worried frown creased the tiny boy's face, and she stared back at him quizzically. "Trunks-chan, what's wrong?"

"He… he said he'd catch up. Did he get here? Is he okay?" he asked anxiously, his voice half-choked.

Bulma wrinkled her brow even further, not understanding who Trunks could possibly be talking about. "Trunks-chan, I don't know who you mean," she said, encouraging her son to give the name. She received her second shock of the day when Trunks responded.

"Gohan-san."

Android Eighteen sighed boredly, tucking her hair behind her ear as she watched the kid's golden aura wink out after a few well-placed blows from her brother; the kid went limp, and dropped to the ground. The fight, brief and pitiful as it had been, was finished.

Shaking her head in disgust, she lowered herself to the street, gracefully landing next to the kid's body, which lay broken and motionless on the pavement. His hair was black again, instead of blond, and a few messy locks were plastered to his forehead by blood, some of which must have sprayed out when Seventeen had evidently broken his nose. The kid's face was frozen in a grimace, as though he could still feel pain even though he was probably dead. One arm lay at an odd angle, indicating that it was broken, as well; his hideous orange gi was tattered, and sported generous amounts of dirt and blood.

"Weakling," Eighteen muttered. She couldn't understand where the stupid kid had ever gotten it into his head that he was capable of challenging her and Seventeen; he was barely worth their time.

She didn't look up as her brother touched down beside her. Instead, she lightly prodded the kid with the toe of her boot; he let out a small, pathetic noise that sounded like a strange mixture of a moan and a whimper. "You didn't kill him."

"Well, I was going to," Seventeen began nonchalantly, "but then I got thinking. Things have gotten a lot more fun these past couple of weeks. You, especially, were getting bored before he started showing up. Why get rid of him so soon? If he gets stronger, he could become a very entertaining toy."

Eighteen frowned, considering her brother's logic. He was right---she had been enjoying herself more ever since the kid had started trying to fight them. The kid was a sorry excuse for a challenge right now, which caused his amusement value to steadily decline if a battle somehow lasted for a while, but if they let him increase his strength, he may eventually become interesting. It wasn't as though he'd ever be powerful enough to destroy them; the very idea was ludicrous.

"Fine," she agreed at last, and glared over her shoulder at her brother. "We'll let him go, but this had better turn out to be a worthwhile investment."

Seventeen just chuckled. "Don't worry, Eighteen. It will. And even if it doesn't, at least we've got someone we can play with longer before we make the kill." He rose into the air a little. "Come on. We've gotten all we're going to get from him for now."

Eighteen watched her brother fly off, then glanced at the kid again. "You'd better be worth this, brat. Otherwise, you're not going to end up thankful that we spared your life this time."

Without another word she took off after Seventeen, away from the city.

Bulma sat frozen for a moment, staring at Trunks in disbelief, and was quite certain that his head wound had damaged his mind. Something of that nature had to have happened if he thought that Gohan had ever been with him.

"Um… Trunks-chan…" she began hesitantly, mindful of the fact that her son wholly believed what he had just said. "We talked about this before. The bad robots got Gohan a long time ago…"

Trunks shook his head furiously. "No! No they didn't! He's been taking care of me!"

"Trunks-chan, that's impossible," Bulma countered.

"No, it isn't!" he insisted, stomping his foot. "He came and saved me from the bad robots, and took care of me, and took me to Chichi-obasan's house, and teached me how to fly and everything!"

Blinking, Bulma sat back, trying to absorb the story. Trunks was as imaginative as any four-year-old, and often came up with the most improbable tales… but he was rarely this insistent on anything. That in itself was rather compelling proof that everything he'd said was true. And, Bulma admitted, she wanted to believe that it was true; the thought that one of her friends might have escaped death at the hands of the androids was an extremely tempting one. She hadn't found Gohan's body on that long-ago day, so it was possible that he had survived, but still…

"Trunks-chan, do you think you could show Mama how you can fly?" she asked, in need of concrete evidence. If Trunks really could do it, now, it would confirm his story; after all, how likely was it that he had figured out flight entirely on his own?

She was somewhat surprised to see Trunks give her a simple nod, as though her request were no big deal. The next thing Bulma knew, she was looking up at the bottoms of his shoes as he floated in the air just in front of her.

"See?" he said, lowering himself back to the ground. "Gohan-san teached me."

"H… hai. I see," Bulma mumbled absently, her mind reeling. It was true. All of it was true. Every word that Trunks had told her. And the story made so much sense, too, she realized. Gohan, being the sole survivor of the androids' attack, would have been the only one who could have possibly helped Trunks escape from them. Also, Gohan knew how to live on his own, so he would have known how to take care of someone else in such a situation. And communications had been---and were still---down, so Chichi would have been unable to contact Bulma to tell her anything while Trunks and Gohan would have been at the Son household.

"Mama?" Trunks prompted, shaking her out of her stupor.

"Trunks-chan, when did you last see Gohan?"

The little boy frowned, his lower lip trembling. "Outside. He made his hair go yellow and was fighting the bad lady-robot, but she was beating him up real bad."

"Outside…" Bulma whispered, then tightened her lips in determination. Rising to her feet, she took Trunks' uninjured hand in hers and sprinted toward the door, where her father continued to usher people inside. She couldn't see him well while the refugees streamed past him, as neither of them were particularly tall, but she could make out the bushy white hair on his head, and the top of the rims of his glasses. "Otousan!"

Her father stood on his toes so that he could see her. "Oh, it's you, my dear. What is it?"

"Are the androids still out there?"

"I don't think so, dear. There hasn't been a sound or any flashes of light for several minutes, now. Why?" he finished as the last of the group limped by him. He looked down a little and his eyes widened.

"Hi, Grampa," Trunks greeted almost casually.

"Great. Perfect," Bulma responded quickly, not even taking note of her father's surprise. "I think that Gohan might be out there. Come on, Trunks-chan."

"Bye, Grampa," Trunks called as she tugged on his wrist, all but dragging him out of the building with her.

Bulma slowed her pace once she and Trunks were off the Capsule Corporation grounds, on the thought that it was only a possibility that the androids were gone, not a certainty. She suddenly wished that she hadn't acted so impulsively, as was her wont to do in intense situations, since, if the androids were still around, death was a disturbingly plausible outcome. At the very least, she wished that she hadn't taken Trunks with her; she didn't want to risk losing him again. Nevertheless, she refused to turn back; she had made her decision, and now she would have to handle whatever consequences it may have generated.

"Stay close to Mama, all right?" she said, looking down at Trunks and giving his little hand a gentle squeeze. "She's going to look for Gohan."

Trunks nodded, returning the squeeze. "I'm gonna help you look."

That sentence nearly made Bulma freeze, finding another reason that she should have left Trunks inside with her parents. If Gohan had indeed been fighting the androids, he was more than likely badly hurt… or worse; sadly, Trunks had seen many wounded and dead before, but that didn't mean that Bulma wanted him to see any more, especially someone about whom he cared. It was quite clear that her son had become very attached to Gohan over the past couple of weeks, and she was afraid of how he might react when---if---they found him.

Come on, Mama! Hurry up!" Trunks urged, running ahead of her as much as he could and tugging her forward with all of the strength he was able to muster. "We gotta find Gohan-san!"

Almost numbly, Bulma allowed Trunks to pull her along, her eyes searching for any sign of Gohan's presence---his body, or a limb peeking out from beneath a pile of rubble… anything. The area that she and Trunks were currently searching was strangely empty of people, and wasn't in very rough shape; a few buildings here and there had crumbled to the ground, but most stood upright and untouched. The further they ventured away from Capsule Corporation, however, the worse the devastation became. One area, Bulma noted, was ravaged to a degree she had never seen; even the ground had been torn asunder almost beyond recognition, jagged chunks of concrete sticking up at every angle imaginable. That the spot wasn't merely wiped off the face of the planet was a miracle. What had caused the androids to attack this particular place so viciously?

Bulma wasn't sure how long she and Trunks had been searching, but it felt like days. In truth, she was on the verge of taking him back home; it didn't seem as though they were going to find anything, and besides, Trunks was hurt, and needed to be treated… but before she could act, a shriek of horror pierced her ears and sliced through her thoughts.

"Gohan-san!" Trunks tore his hand from her grasp and rushed forward to kneel beside a body that lay a short distance in front of them. After a few seconds of startled blinking, Bulma hurried to her child's side, and Trunks buried his face in her leg, sobbing violently.

Her eyes fastened upon the eerily still form that lay at her feet, which was dressed in a tattered and bloodstained gi that was reminiscent of the one that Goku had always worn; the figure's hair was dark and wild, sticking out in strange directions save for a few locks that seemed pasted to his forehead. Though his face was smashed in a bit, Bulma could recognize familiar features---ones she remembered as being childlike---matured into adolescence. There could be, in her mind, no doubt that she was standing over the crumpled form of a teenaged Son Gohan.

"Mama… is he… did they…" Trunks choked between sobs, unable to finish his questions. "He… he's… gonna be okay… isn't he, Mama?"

"I don't know, Trunks-chan," Bulma answered softly, trying to keep her voice steady for her son's sake, and doing a poor job of it. Gently, she pried Trunks off her leg so that she could kneel. "I need you to let me check, okay?"

Trunks nodded obediently before smothering his face into her shirt as he continued to cry. Tentatively, Bulma reached out to check for a pulse while praying that Gohan had the decency to be alive; she didn't think that Trunks would be able to handle it if he was dead. Though she wanted to protect her son's feelings, she wasn't going to lie to him.

The skin underneath her fingers was warm---an encouraging sign. Her fingers traced their way up the side of Gohan's neck, coming to a rest just before the place where it met his jawline. She held this position for a moment, her heart thumping wildly in her chest as she waited…

"Thank Kami," she breathed. A slow, but even throb existed beneath the boy's flesh. Bulma used her free hand to rub the back of Trunks' head comfortingly. "It's all right, Trunks-chan. The bad robots didn't get him. He's just hurt."

Slowly, Trunks lifted his head, and stared at her with tear-filled eyes tinged with hope. "He's really okay? He's not gonna…"

"He'll be fine as long as we take him back home with us. When we're there, we can make him better," she promised, though her voice was a bit hesitant. Her own words felt like a half-truth; while she was sure, given the relative strength of his pulse, that Gohan had a good chance of recovery, there was also the very real possibility that he might still die. She didn't know what kind of internal injuries he may have suffered that could overwhelm him.

Trunks sniffled loudly, and wiped his left hand across his eyes a few times. "Then let's go. Let's take him back and make him better."

Bulma tightened her lips, once again cursing her impulsiveness. If she'd been thinking, she would have brought her capsule case with her, so that she'd have had a car or something into which she could load Gohan's body. For a moment, she considered making a run back home to get the case, but the expression on Trunks' face sunk that idea before it had any real chance to float; he wasn't about to leave his friend's side, and there was no way that she'd let him stay here on his own. She guessed that she would have to do this the hard way.

"Here, let me get him," she ordered, scooting Trunks over to one side. She slid her arms under Gohan's shoulders and stood, stumbling a bit because of his weight; he'd looked quite a bit lighter than he felt. "All right, Trunks-chan, let's go. You keep an eye out to help make sure Mama doesn't bump into anything."

Slowly, and with Trunks acting as her guide, Bulma dragged Gohan's limp form along the ground, making the trek back to the Capsule Corporation. She just hoped that she was right about his survival odds. It would be heart-wrenching to lose someone again who had only just returned.

Darkness. Pain. Those were the only two things of which he was consistently conscious. Occasionally, other sensations or even sights invaded him---the face of an aqua-haired woman, or a strange, confined feeling over various parts of his body---but such things were fleeting. Yet they were intriguing, as well, and he wanted to know what they meant; his curiosity, and a nagging feeling that he knew the face pushed him to find them again, be conscious of them long enough to figure out why they seemed so important.

It would have been easier, so much easier, to simply relax, to sink into the place where he would feel no pain; that place seductively beckoned him, and he was so very tempted… And yet he refused its advances, struggling to surface instead of drown. He had to know. Quite a simple desire, but it kept him fighting. Fighting. He'd done that for so long, and, for whatever reason, could not find any logic in stopping. Battle was something he knew well.

True as that may have been, it didn't make the struggle any less difficult; the call was more powerful than any enemy he had ever faced and it constantly reversed his progress… But unlike he'd been able to do to most of his powerful foes, he had defeated the call many times, more times than he could have counted even if he were capable of counting right now. And, he reasoned as he made another lunge for the surface, there was no reason that he shouldn't be able to do it again…

He lifted his lids; it was an agonizingly slow process, but he managed it. Light stabbed into his eyes almost painfully, but was dulled by the blurriness of his vision. Moaning a little, he shifted slightly, taking note that he rested upon something soft, and blinked numerous times to clear his eyes. For several minutes---or what he assumed was several minutes, anyway---he stared blankly up at what he was quite sure was a ceiling, something which he found rather odd, as he didn't remember being inside.

"Hey there, kiddo. Are you finally going to stay with us, this time?"

Slowly, he turned his head in the direction from which he'd heard the voice; he blinked a few more times to ensure that he could see properly, and his eyes focused upon the aqua-haired woman of whom he'd caught the occasional fleeting glimpse while he'd been floating in the area between consciousness and unconsciousness. While he was aware that he should know the woman's name, he couldn't seem to recall it at the moment.

The woman raised one eyebrow inquisitively. "I know you must have heard me, Gohan. You can talk, you know---it's not like there's any vocal chord damage."

Gohan blinked again at those words, and suddenly snapped out of his grogginess. "Bulma-san?" he croaked.

"Hai. Glad you remembered," Bulma responded, chuckling a bit. "I guess it's safe to say that that hard head of yours has healed up perfectly."

Gohan ignored the joke, trying to discern his location; only one possibility made any sense at all, so he decided that it must be correct: Capsule Corporation. But how? Had Bulma found him and brought him back here? If so, that would have to have meant that she'd made it a habit to search ruins for survivors… Now that he thought of it, how had he survived, anyway? He was sure that the androids would have made certain they finished him, this time. Just like they had with Trunks…

Bulma looked so calm, so relieved. How could she be if she'd just lost her son? Of course, she would have thought that she'd lost him a while before now, so perhaps she had recovered somewhat? Gohan hated the idea of hurting her, but she deserved to know the truth. He opened his mouth to speak---

"You were in and out of it a lot, but it looks like you'll be fine, now," Bulma said before Gohan could tell her anything. "Gave us more than a few scares, though."

"Gomen nasai, Bulma-san. I…" he began slowly, hating how weak his voice sounded. He was about to try explaining things again, when he was struck by her choice of words. "Us?"

"Hai," Bulma answered casually. "Trunks-chan, especially, has been worried sick about you."

"Nani? Trunks? Where…" Gohan shot upright in shock, only to have waves of pain sweep through him; with a shallow gasp, he fell back, and panted heavily as he tried to keep himself from fainting.

"Easy there, Gohan," Bulma admonished, firmly placing a hand on one of his shoulders for a moment to ensure that he wouldn't try to get up again. "You may be healing, but you're not in that great of shape, yet."

Gradually, the pain dissipated, and Gohan managed to calm his breathing to the point where he could speak. "Trunks… Where is he?"

He watched Bulma's gaze slide to one side before following her eyes himself; curled into a slumbering ball upon a plush black couch was a tiny figure of a child with lavender hair and a bandaged hand. The child stirred a bit, mumbling something unintelligible, then resettled himself.

"I… I don't…" Gohan stammered disbelievingly. "The androids told me that Seventeen killed him…"

Trunks---looking quite healthy, and most certainly not dead---stirred again, and yawned audibly, this time pushing himself up into a sitting position. With his unbandaged hand, he sleepily knuckled his eyes; when he lowered the hand, his face was still scrunched with weariness. "Mama?" he called out drowsily.

Gohan stared silently as the toddler slid off the couch and stretched his short limbs. How could the kid have escaped? He was supposed to have been buried…

Despite his relieved shock at his young friend's safety, Gohan was barely able to restrain a chuckle when Trunks' gaze finally fell upon him and the child's face lit up more brilliantly than twenty suns. "Gohan-san!" The toddler charged forward, and tried to excitedly attach himself to Bulma's leg, only succeeding in knocking the startled woman to the floor.

Now, though doing so caused stabbing pains to ripple through his chest, Gohan couldn't help but laugh---the sight was just too comical. Trunks was jumping up and down in absolute glee, repeatedly shouting, "Look, Mama! Look! Gohan-san woke up!" and totally oblivious to the fact that he'd accidentally pushed his mother to the floor. Meanwhile, Bulma appeared too stunned at the moment to do much more than shoot him a mildly irritated glare.

After a few minutes, Trunks had composed himself to a certain degree and leaned his elbows on the edge of Gohan's bed, grin as wide as ever. "You been sleeping lotsa days, Gohan-san. Sometimes I got scared that you weren't gonna wake up, but Mama always said you were gonna be okay."

"Yeah, yeah, your mother reassures you and you don't even bother to help her up," Bulma grumbled as she finally pulled herself to her feet, though Gohan could see a smile tugging at the corners of her lips; Trunks didn't look as though he had paid any attention to the comment. "Oh, that's okay, Trunks-chan. Don't even glance at me or anything."

Gohan nearly laughed again as Trunks obediently kept his eyes off his mother, but then furrowed his brow in seriousness; there was something about which he was curious. "So, Trunks… What happened to you? How'd you get away?"

"I hid in a pushed-in door, just like when you saved me, so all the rocks couldn't get me. Then I teached myself how to shoot my ki and made a hole to crawl out of," Trunks stated; he'd stood up straight during his explanation, his chest puffing out with pride.

Gohan smiled at the toddler's ingenuity, though in the back of his mind was a bit disturbed that Trunks was already firing ki blasts. How long would it be before he had the desire to use such a skill in combat? Quite a while, Gohan hoped. But that subject could be worried about later. "You're a smart kid, Trunks."

Trunks' smile widened as though that were the nicest thing that Gohan had ever said to him---and after a moment's thought, the older boy realized that it probably was. He hadn't exactly been in the habit of openly complimenting the kid, after all.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and made him groan. "Asleep for days? I'd promised Kaasan that I'd go straight home after I brought Trunks back here… She's going to kill me for worrying her like this." He turned his head to look at Bulma, and added as an afterthought, "She and Ojiisan say 'hi', by the way."

Bulma only shook her head, smirking ruefully. "Don't worry, Gohan; if you can survive a fight with the androids, then not even your mother could do you in. In any case, kiddo, you're going to have a few days of grace; communication lines for out of the city aren't exactly in working order right now."

Gohan sighed heavily, not in relief, but in pleasure of the fact that he could now concern himself with normal problems, such as evading his mother's wrath. No more guilt over his friends' deaths, no more fearing for Trunks' life, and no more risking his own. The last of those was only temporary, however, since he had a feeling that he would be back to doing that one within a matter of months, or even weeks. More than once, the androids had crushed his world, and he couldn't just stand by anymore and let them crush the worlds of others---no one should have to experience the things that he had. A few weeks ago, he didn't care---if people suffered, they suffered, and nothing could be done, so there was no point in worrying about it---but so much had changed for him.

"Trunks-chan, how about you go check if your Gramma is finished making supper yet?" suggested Bulma, drawing Gohan's attention back to her.

Trunks frowned in disapproval. "But I wanna stay here with Gohan-san!"

"Do what your mom says, Trunks-kun," Gohan reinforced, choosing to ignore Trunks' wide eyes and Bulma's raised eyebrows at his use of the term. Again disregarding their surprise, he carefully lifted his right arm---he couldn't move his left very much, considering that that shoulder was apparently broken---and brought his hand down gently on the toddler's head, ruffling his hair. "I'm fine. Now, go on."

Trunks appeared confused by the affectionate gesture for a few seconds, before giving a small smile and a brief nod. "Okay," he agreed at last. He frowned again, and gave an authoritative air to his voice as he added, "But I'm gonna come right back."

With that, the child trotted out of the room.

"Hmph. Well, how do you like that?" Bulma huffed, though Gohan could detect a note of amusement in her voice. "He already listens to you more than he listens to me!"

"Well, of course he does," Gohan joked for the first time in years, uncharacteristically lighthearted. "I'm not old."

"Old?" Bulma exploded, her normally pale cheeks flushed a dark, furious red. "Just what is that supposed to mean, Gohan? I can't believe you of all people called me that! I am not old!"

Half-panicked, Gohan tried to shrink more deeply into the bed and desperately attempted to placate her. "Bulma-san, calm down! I was only kidding! Of course you're not old!"

To his immense relief, Bulma took several deep breaths to calm herself, apparently accepting his hasty explanation. It seemed as though she were still the same Bulma that he remembered, and he was glad of that, no matter how much his eardrums were disagreeing with him at the moment.

"Anyway," Bulma began once she could breathe and her face had returned to its normal colour. "I asked Trunks to leave, because… I just wanted to thank you, for taking care of him out there. I'd really thought I'd lost him."

Gohan said nothing, simply absorbed her words; Bulma, in turn, lifted a pale eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" she asked. "Something like: 'No problem, Bulma-san. He was no trouble'?"

"That would be lying," Gohan returned smartly as a mischievous smirk crept onto his face. "He was nothing but."

Bulma chuckled softly. "I bet. I guess I'd better go make sure he doesn't cajole Okaasan into giving him a pre-supper snack, again. They think I don't know about it, but I figured it out a long time ago. You'll be okay on your own for a bit, right Gohan?"

"I'll be fine."

"Great." She started to leave, but halted in the doorway and turned back to him. "You know, if I catch Trunks-chan in the act, he's probably going to run back here and ask you to protect him from me. I'd be ready, if I were you. See you in a bit, kiddo," she said, then completed her exit.

Now alone in the room, Gohan stretched as much as he could, mindful of his injuries. He quickly grew bored staring at the ceiling, so turned his head and was pleased to find a window. The sight that greeted him at close range was pleasant enough---it seemed that restoration crews sprang up rather quickly, for so many people having surely been killed---but his eyes were drawn further away, where their acuteness could still read the signs of mass devastation, of a ravaged world which once perfectly mirrored a ravaged soul. The mirror was no longer perfect, though the soul would never again carry the same light that it once had, for too much had happened for it to regain its old brilliance.

That world was the place where Trunks had nearly gotten him killed time and again, where Trunks had made him think the painful thoughts about his own family and shamed him for his previous behaviours. The place where Trunks had forced him to go home and relive the two most torturous events of his past, and where Trunks had ripped his heart in half by making him believe that he was dead.

"Nothing but trouble," Gohan repeated aloud, not caring that he was the only one around to hear. "And one of these days, kid, I'm going to have to thank you for that."