Her neck hurt, there was a crink in it that just wouldn’t go away.
Pan sat up, rubbing the back of her neck, and winced as she tore raw flesh.
“Ow!” she hissed, pulling her head off of her knees and pushing at it, popping it with two loud snaps to either side.
Why she hurt she couldn’t figure out, and the most puzzling question was the raw skin she had just reopened. She moved her hand in front of her face, confused at the semi-healed gashes in her palm, the lines of dried blood on her hands and fingers, why the cuffs of the shirt she’d stolen from Trunks were stained…
Ah, that was it. Trunks.
As great a kid you are...You know what I think, Panny? I think you want me to...I just can’t see us happening in ~that~ way...
Sighing, she remembered the kiss, and then the terrible hurting anger...her heart dying, and telling him that it was alright, she understood...turning off the downstairs light and sneaking out onto the roof.
But it didn’t make sense. Her father had been asleep downstairs and had surely woke up sometime after she retreated up the stairs and to her room...and yet, here she was, still on the roof. Did he not wake up? For once? she thought to herself, feeling a single tear trace the line of her jaw as she though of what had happened between her and Trunks last night. Or does he not know I’m up here?
She wiped the tear away with a sleeve, and pushed herself to her feet, lightly jumping off and landing on the ground below with a quiet and delicate whump.
Yawning and stretching her stiff and aching limbs, she opened her front door and stepped inside. The living room was empty, aside from her father’s discarded paper lying on the ground next to his chair, neatly folded, but wrinkled from his slumber. Shaking her head and laughing quietly to herself, Pan crossed the living room, and picked up the paper to toss it in the basket with the others.
As she knelt to pick it up, a picture on the front page drew her attention.
CC President to unveil new invention tomorrow at dark! screamed the caption, under a large picture of a blushing and shy Trunks. He was standing in the Capsule Corps conference room, his hand frozen at his glasses, Bulma beside him with a stern look on her face, as if to say that he had no say in the matter whatsoever.
“Panny? I didn’t hear you come downstairs.” Gohan’s words jolted her out of her reverie, and she started, realizing that she had been staring at the picture for quite a while.
“I...I was outside, Daddy. That’s probably why.”
“Oh.” He walked over to her, innocently oblivious, like always, beaming. She casually smooth the paper on her knees and tossed it into his chair. “Panny? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” she repeated, looking up at him curiously. Dimly, she was aware that anything “wrong” would be last night, and what had happened between her and Trunks, but for some reason, it didn’t bother her as much as she’d thought it would. She blinked curiously, and lowered her head to stare at the paper on her father’s chair. It had landed ever so perfectly, and Trunks’ face looked up at hers, begging she rescue him.
She smiled to herself. “No, Daddy, nothing’s wrong. Why would you think that?”
Gohan’s eyes darted to the paper before they locked on hers, but Pan didn’t miss it. She pretended she did.
“Panny, you’re awfully subdued this morning…not to mention that you got home late last night.” It was just fatherly concern in his voice, but Pan heard the glint of Daddy-trying-to-find-out-what-had-happened-so-that-he-could-make-it-better-by-beating-Trunks-to-a-bloody-pulp that he tried to hide.
“I’m still a little tired, that’s all. And nothing happened last night, Trunks and I just went to the beach and talked about life and Grandpa Goku.” Gohan seemed to soften, and Pan stepped closer to her father and ducked into his arms the second he held them out to her.
The tears came again, but not as rapidly, and less painfully, then the night before. She missed her grandfather, but missing him would never bring him back.
“I’m sorry, Panny,” Gohan mumbled into her hair, and his words took all of the pain away, all of the anger, leaving her vulerable and exposed. But it was nice…so much easier then hiding behind anger and tough words. She felt renewed, refreshed. She’d been gone from home far too long. “I wish he were here too…you don’t know what I’d do to bring him back. But it wouldn’t last…trouble follows him like…” Gohan paused, unsure of how to finish the analogy.
“Like he follows the scent of Grandma ChiChi’s cooking,” Pan giggled into her father’s chest, looking up at him with bright and innocent eyes.
Gohan laughed and looked down at his daughter, seeing the little girl he had raised, eyes bright and large, hanging onto his every word, living only to make her father happy…dreaming to someday match his strength.
“Panny, what happened to you?” he asked quietly, and she grinned, pulling back and dropping into a combat crouch. Jokingly, Gohan mirrored her position.
“HEY!”
The two whirled their heads around to see an older, yet still strikingly beautiful woman, with healthy black hair, standing in the doorway, arms crossed menacingly over her chest, glaring at them.
“How many times do you to have to be told—no fighting in the house!!!”
They flinched at her voice, drawing back and cowering, but still loving her just the same.
“Yes Mom.”
“Good. Now, Videl has your breakfasts waiting for you. I suppose you two will be finishing that sparring session either outside or in the gravity room after you eat?”
Gohan and Pan flashed ChiChi the famous Son smile that they had inherited from Goku, and flew past her toward the kitchen, where the delicious and enticing smells of bacon, sausages, pancakes, eggs, and other breakfast foods beckoned they come.
ChiChi laughed and shook her head.
“Saiyans.”