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Piccolo growled to himself as he covered his ears, seriously contemplating tearing them off. He remembered Gohan’s solemn promise and felt another flash of rage.
It’ll be fine, Gohan had said, his tone soft and sincere. She barely ever cries. You’ll be great!
Great. Sure. Perfect. Now Gohan’s baby was screaming her little head off and he had no idea what to do. He was furious, at himself more than anything else. He had never felt so helpless in his whole life. Not when facing some of the most vicious threats in the known universe. Give him Frieza any day.
He approached the cot, all seven feet of him, his spine ramrod straight and his hands balled into fists, and looked helplessly at the tiny baby within.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Pan glowered at him with Gohan’s eyes, still crying. Piccolo flexed his fingers, trying to relax the tension in his hands, and reached uncertainly into the cot. She fit easily in his palms and he held her awkwardly to his chest. Immediately the wails stopped. She nuzzled into him, cooing and smiling, and tension eased from his shoulders.
Maybe being a godfather wasn’t so hard after all.