Chapter Text
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Chi-Chi kept the calendar above the stove. Eight years of circles—red for anniversaries, blue for birthdays, green for school events. The red circles had no marks inside them. Neither did most of the blue ones.
Last spring she'd sat in that tiny chair across from Gohan's teacher, smiling through clenched teeth, explaining that her husband was "detained by work." Piccolo had shown up at the door wanting to spar. Goku had left with him. No note. No "be back in an hour." Just gone.
The door had opened a hundred times since then. Goku in the entryway, gi torn, grinning, rice on his chin. "What's for dinner?" And Chi-Chi would turn back to the stove.
---
The carrot went chunk chunk chunk under the blade. Steady. Controlled. Each cut the same width as the last.
Gohan sat at the table, workbook open, pencil paused mid-equation. His eyes moved between his mother's shoulders and the set of her jaw. His pencil stayed hovering.
The front door slid open.
"Hey! I'm back!"
Goku landed in the entryway, gi torn at the shoulder, grass in his hair, grinning.
"Hey Chi-Chi! Hey Gohan! What's for lunch? I'm starving!"
The cleaver came down. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk.
Chi-Chi did not turn around.
"Sit down, dear."
"Okay!" He sat, bouncing lightly on the cushion. "So I was out training with Krillin—he's gotten way faster, by the way—and then this wild boar came out of nowhere near the east ridge, so I chased it for like twenty minutes, and—"
Chunk chunk chunk.
"—and Krillin said I should try that new restaurant in town, the one with the meat buns, but I told him your cooking's way better, Chi-Chi! Nobody makes rice like you—"
Chunkchunkchunkchunk.
"—oh! And I found this really cool rock near the river, it's got this swirly pattern inside, I thought Gohan might like it for his collection—"
"Goku."
"—yeah? Oh! Also, I think I figured out a new way to channel ki through the elbow, it's like a—"
"*Goku.*"
The chopping stopped.
She still hadn't turned around. Her shoulders were rigid, knuckles pale around the cleaver handle.
Goku blinked. "Huh? What is it?"
Chi-Chi set the cleaver down slowly. She turned. Her face was smooth. Flat. The lines around her mouth pulled tight.
"Honey. What day is it today?"
"Uh..." He scratched his head. "Thursday?"
Gohan's pencil snapped against his workbook.
Chi-Chi's expression didn't change. "What's special about today?"
Goku's brow furrowed. His mouth worked silently. He looked at the ceiling, then the floor, then the window—as if the answer might be written somewhere in the yard.
"Special... uh... is it... a festival? Wait—did I forget to fix the fence? I knew I was supposed to—"
"Goku."
"—no wait, is it Gohan's school thing? I can go! When is it? Tomorrow? Next week? I'll write it on my—"
"*What is my birthday?*"
The kitchen went deathly quiet.
Goku's grin faltered. His eyes shifted left. Then right. Then left again.
"Your... birthday..."
"Yes. My birthday. Which is today."
"Today?! It's—I mean—of course I—"
His face moved before his mouth could catch up. The grin came back but wrong—lopsided, desperate.
"Chi-Chi... I definitely... it's..."
His eyes slid toward Gohan.
Gohan felt his father's gaze land on him. He stared at his broken pencil, at his workbook, at the grain of the table—anywhere but those pleading eyes.
Goku leaned slightly toward his son. His hand came up beside his mouth.
"*Hey Gohan,*" he whispered, loud enough for the entire house to hear, "*what's your mom's birthday?*"
Gohan opened his mouth to answer—
"Goku."
Chi-Chi's voice cut through the air. She hadn't moved. Her arms were crossed now, chin lifted, shoulders squared back against the cabinets.
"Don't you dare ask our son for the answer."
Goku straightened up.
"I... uh..."
"It's May twelfth," Chi-Chi said. "May twelfth. The same day it's been since we were kids. Since the tournament. Since you promised to marry me and then forgot my face for five years. The same day it was last year, when you were off on Yardrat. The same day it was three years ago, when you brought me a fish you'd caught and said 'happy Tuesday.'"
Goku winced at that last one.
"I..." He looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry, Chi-Chi."
She stared at him. Her jaw worked side to side—the motion she made when she was holding something behind her teeth. The cleaver wasn't in her hand anymore but her fingers curled around air, gripping the shape of it.
Three in the morning. The left side of the bed. The parent-teacher conferences she attended alone. These things lived in her face now, in the lines around her mouth that hadn't been there when she was eighteen.
Chi-Chi turned back to the cutting board. Picked up the cleaver. A fresh carrot went under the blade.
Chunk.
"Chi-Chi, I'll make it up to you—"
Chunk.
"Whatever you want, I'll—"
Chunk chunk.
"Please. Just tell me what I can do."
Goku watched her back, the rigid shoulders, the precise mechanical rhythm. The clock on the wall ticked. The space between them stretched.
Then he tried something different.
"Chi-Chi... you're beautiful."
Chunk.
No reaction.
"I mean it," Goku said, leaning forward slightly. "You're... really beautiful."
Chunk chunk.
Still nothing. But Goku caught the slight hesitation in her wrist—the tiniest pause before the blade came down.
He pressed harder.
"And you're strong. And you make the best food I've ever tasted. And you're an amazing mom. And—"
Chunk chunk chunk.
He scrambled for something bigger. His brain rifled through every conversation he'd ever had about women, about wives, about what to say when things went wrong—
And then it surfaced. Master Roshi's voice, slurred and cheerful, from some afternoon on the island when Krillin had been complaining about girls:
*"If your woman's ever real mad at you, kid, just say something real sweet. Something that'll make her brain go all mushy. Trust me."*
Goku's face lit up.
"Chi-Chi!"
The chopping paused.
"If you were a meat bun I'd eat you!"
---
The cleaver stopped.
For one full second, the kitchen was perfectly, impossibly silent.
Her ears went red first. Then her neck. Then her cheeks. Then everything—her whole face, her shoulders, her arms, the visible skin above her apron—all of it, crimson, like someone had turned a valve and flooded her entire body with heat.
The cleaver slipped from her fingers. Her foot caught the carrot piece. Her balance went.
And Chi-Chi went down—back hitting the kitchen floor with a solid *thwack* that rattled the dishes in the cabinet.
She lay flat on her back, apron splayed, ponytail fanned out across the tile. A carrot piece rested on her forehead. Her face was the color of a tomato.
Gohan's chair scraped back. "MOM!"
Goku was already on his feet. "Chi-Chi! Are you okay?!"
They both rushed to her side. Goku dropped to his knees, reaching for her hand. Gohan crouched by her head, eyes wide.
"Mom—Mom, can you hear me?!"
"Chi-Chi, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—Master Roshi said it would work—"
They leaned in closer, both faces hovering above hers—
Chi-Chi's eyes opened.
Wide. Wet at the edges. Her mouth was a hard line but her chin was trembling—small, rapid pulses, her whole jaw locked tight around whatever was climbing up her throat.
Both Goku and Gohan froze mid-reach. They were close. Very close. To a woman who could split a boulder with her bare hands.
"Uh..." Goku said softly.
"Mom..." Gohan whispered.
Chi-Chi's legs drew up to her chest. Her hands planted behind her shoulders. Her entire body coiled—
And then she *kipped up*—legs snapping forward, back arching, body launching vertical in one explosive motion. She landed in a perfect fighting stance, feet planted, hands raised, ponytail whipping around her shoulder.
Goku caught Gohan before the boy fell into the table.
They stared at her.
She stared at them.
The carrot piece was still stuck to her forehead.
Her entire body was still red.
Gohan's mouth opened and closed. He looked at his father. His father looked at him. They both looked at Chi-Chi, who was breathing hard, cheeks burning so hot you could probably cook rice on them.
"Mom," Gohan said carefully, "that was... really cool, actually."
"Shut up, Gohan."
"Yes ma'am."
Goku opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Chi-Chi—"
"Say one more word, *dear*, and I'll put you through the wall."
Goku closed his mouth.
Silence. The clock ticked. The carrot piece finally slid off Chi-Chi's forehead and landed on the floor with a soft, pathetic *tap*.
She stood there, fighting stance still held, breathing evening out. The flush hadn't faded—if anything it was spreading, creeping down past her collar, up past her hairline. Her eyes glistened.
---
Then Chi-Chi reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small folded paper. She held it out between two fingers, arm extended, face turned slightly away.
Goku took it. Unfolded it.
His lips moved as he read—each word carefully parsed, finger tracing the lines left to right.
*A pair of diamond heels. Size 7. Polished band. No cubic zirconia. Real diamonds. Greek foot fit—second toe longer. Not narrow. Not wide. Greek.*
Chi-Chi watched his finger move slowly across the paper. Her chin lifted a fraction—then dropped back.
"At least you can read now," she said.
Goku looked up. "Huh?"
Her gaze slid toward Gohan. Their eyes met.
Gohan gave the smallest nod.
Chi-Chi hardened again. "Greek... foot?" Goku read the note a second time. "What's a Greek foot?"
Her ears went pink. "My second toe is longer than my big toe. Both feet. Most shoes don't fit right because of it. The heel has to be made for it or it pinches."
She said it fast. Flat. Each word clipped off at the end.
Goku looked down at her house slippers. The second toe did stick out a little further.
"Stop looking at my feet, Goku."
"Sorry!"
He read the note a third time. Brow furrowed. Slow, deliberate. "Diamond heels... Greek foot... size seven..." He nodded. "Okay. I think I got it."
"You *don't* got it," Chi-Chi said sharply. She pointed at the note. "Bring it back. I want you to write something on the back."
Goku blinked. "Write something?"
"Your own words. Whatever you want to say. But *you* write it. Not Gohan. Not Bulma. You."
Goku looked at the note. Then at Gohan's broken pencil on the table.
"I'll... need a pencil."
"Then take one," Chi-Chi said. "And figure it out."
Goku stared at her. The grin faded. His eyes settled on the note. His jaw set.
He walked to the table. Picked up the broken pencil. Looked at it. Looked at the note.
"I'll do it."
"I know you will, dear," Chi-Chi said, turning back to the cutting board. "Don't come back without the heels *or* the writing."
"Got it!" Goku said, tucking both into his gi. "Back before—"
"Dad, wait."
Gohan's hand was half-raised, hesitant.
"Your medicine. The heart virus one. You still have it, right?"
Goku patted his gi. Paused. Patted again. His face went blank.
"...I think it's in the bedroom?"
"It's in the kitchen."
Both Goku and Gohan turned.
Chi-Chi hadn't stopped chopping.
"I've kept it next to the stove since you got back." She reached up to the shelf without looking—muscle memory, the bottle exactly where her hand expected it to be—and set it on the counter. "Where I can see it every morning."
"Take it with you."
Goku stared at the bottle. "Chi-Chi, I—"
"Don't lose it." The cleaver came down. "Don't leave it in your gi through three sparring sessions. Don't forget it exists until you're on the ground and can't breathe."
"I won't—"
"It hits fast. You won't see it coming." She finally looked at him. Her eyes stayed on his face a beat too long—then she looked away first. "Keep it *on you*. Don't take it until the virus starts. But when it does—"
"I know. Trunks told me—"
"Trunks told you a lot of things." Her voice dropped. "And you forgot half of them. So say it back to me."
Goku held the bottle. For once, he didn't grin.
"...I'll keep it on me."
"And?"
"...and I won't lose it."
"And?"
"...and I won't take it until the virus hits, but when it does, I take it right away."
"And?"
"...and I won't trade it to Master Roshi?"
"That's right." She turned back to the cutting board. "Go."
The door slid shut.
Gohan looked up. His pencil was gone. His equation was unfinished. His mother was attacking her fifth carrot. Each cut landed in the same spot on the board. The same angle. The same force.
"Mom... why diamond heels?"
The chopping slowed.
"Because your father gives everything to everyone," she said quietly. "To the world. To his friends. To complete strangers. He'd fight a god for someone he met five minutes ago."
She set the cleaver down.
"But he never gives anything to *me*. Not something he chose. Something that says—I was on his mind."
"So this isn't about heels."
Chi-Chi picked the cleaver back up.
"And the writing?"
Her hand tightened on the handle.
"Because I spent two years teaching that man how to hold a pencil," she said, voice low. "And he's never written me a single word that wasn't a grocery list."
Chunk.
"Finish your math, Gohan."
"But my pencil—"
"Use a pen."
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