Disclaimer: I am only borrowing the characters, the setting and the mythology. This is all just a bit of silliness, really.

Trunks was not going to move. No thing could make him move. No one could make him move. Not even the sun; which if it rose any further would cast its rays directly into his eyes, becoming a complete bother. As it was, the sunlight that seeped through his bedroom blinds only reached his thighs, but in an hour or so, he knew they would be lying across his face and through his eyelids.

That would make him roll over at least.

But at the moment it did not matter. It was a Sunday morning, which meant he did not have to get out of bed, did not have to dress in a suit and did not have to negotiate business at his mother's company. All that was on his schedule for the day was sleeping in far past what was considered polite, eat badly (he knew there was left over take-out downstairs demanding to be eaten cold), and forego all attempts of being civilized such as washing, dressing or looking pleasant.

Today was the day Trunks would be a man.

He stretched lazily, sighed happily, and snuggled back into his bed covers. His arms were wrapped loosely around a pillow that fit under his chin. Another was under his cheek, splayed with his hair that was growing just a bit too long, and a bit too annoying. Today would be a good day to get a haircut.

But he wouldn't. Because this day, Trunks was determined not to lift a finger. He vowed to go the day without accomplishing a single thing. It had been far too long since he had taken a day off – a day to himself. A day where he was not working for Capsule Corporation, or not trying to impress his father a little, or not trying to hide his credit cards from his younger sister.

Sleep would be wonderful, he mused, letting his eyes drift, moving his feet from the patch of sunlight so they wouldn't be overly warm. Sleep would be…

Knock knock knock

… interrupted. Trunks groaned, then muttered something purposely incoherent and rolled so his back was to the door. The person on the other side did not take his hint.

Pound pound pound

They were persistent. But so was he!

"Graaaah!" he yelled, in the sleepiest voice he could muster. Then made a show of arranging his pillows and blankets for sleep, knowing they couldn't see him, but hoping that perhaps they would hear the flutter of cotton and understand.

"I know you're in there, Trunks," came the voice from the other side. Trunks groaned again, turning from his pillow so the person could hear his reply.

"And I know you're out there, Pan. Let's leave it that way," he retorted back, glaring at the door. There was a pause, a slight shuffle, then silence.

Trunks watched his door suspiciously, well aware that the girl on the other side, through no common gene, got her stubbornness from his father. She had given in far too quickly.

He knew she was just waiting. Waiting for him to sigh, smile, and then get comfortable. And just as he was snuggled back in bed, she would pound the door some more, or barge in, or do some practice fighting… perhaps fly through the window?

He glanced at the window briefly, but saw nothing but sunshine through the blinds. He waited. He watched. He coughed lightly. He counted to fifty.

Nothing.

Today was going to be a wonderful, sleepy kind of day.

Trunks sighed, smiled wearily at the door, and flumped back onto his mattress. He stretched a tad and then immediately curled back up, away from the sun, and shut his eyes.

Lazy, lazy Trunks he would be. And he would be this lazy until-

"Bulma said I could come in cause you were doin' nothing important," Pan said, walking to his bed after barging through the door. Trunks did not move. Maybe, if she thought he was asleep…

"You're not asleep, Trunks, don't try it. Your eyes aren't moving. They're supposed to move when you're asleep."

"That's only when dreaming," Trunks said with a sigh, turning over to face the girl. "I wouldn't have been asleep long enough. But still, I am trying to sleep, if you don't mind."

"I do, in fact," Pan replied primly. Trunks blinked up at the sixteen-year old by his bed. Pan was looking down at him, eyebrows raised, and a faint red over her cheeks that was always present when she talked to him now. Her hair seemed a bit longer than when he had last seen her, and while half his brain set to work figuring out when that was, the other half marveled that she still wore that orange bandana tied around her head.

"I have to show you something," Pan said, startling him back to her. Her words brought attention to the object clasped in her hands; a shoebox, quite used, if the creases and scuffed edges were anything to go by. Carefully written along the edge was his name in cursive. Tiny hearts were scattered amongst the writing.

He blinked again, confused.

Pan stared down at him with a slight scowl before rolling her eyes and dropping onto his bed. He sat up quickly, pulling his legs to his chest, to avoid being sat upon. Pan was looking quite non-repentive at the end of his bed, cross legged, and hands resting on top of her box.

"What is it, Pan?" he asked, scrubbing his palms into his closed eyes wearily. Perhaps if he just let her talk, she would finish, then leave, and he could get back to his day of nothing. Of sleep. His pillow was beckoning to him softly yet strongly, and it took most of his might to keep his attention on the girl in front of him.

"It's a box," Pan replied finally. Trunks didn't even bother to roll his eyes. He didn't even give her the satisfaction of a glare. Unnerved by his expressionless face, Pan stuttered a bit as she went on.

"It's a box… a box of… erm," Pan trailed off, her shoulders slumping slightly, as if whatever nerve she had used to stroll into his room and sit on his bed was completely used up now. She sighed heavily and lifted off the lid. Curious despite himself, Trunks leaned over and peered inside.

Inside was a wide assortment of… junk. A small cloth covered book, some feathers, beads, scraps of paper, photographs… He glanced slowly from the box to meet Pan's expectant eyes.

She was looking at him with a very odd expression of hope. He looked in the box again trying to find exactly what these objects were supposed to be other than… well, a book, some feathers, beads…

He felt like he was playing a child's game, trying to figure out how each of the items were linked to the other. A quick glance at Pan confirmed she was still staring at him. Her expression of hope had slipped to one much lonelier, guessing correctly that Trunks did not understand what she was trying to show him.

With a nervous sigh she pulled a couple of crayons from the box and held them out to him in her palm; showing them. Light green, yellow and a very run down violet.

"Remember when I was little? You used to baby-sit me…" Pan said, eyes not raising from the crayons to meet his. He nodded though she could not see it.

"Of course," Trunks said with a laugh, realizing what these crayons were. "We used to colour all of the time, didn't we?" he asked, still laughing. He reached out and lifted the violet into his fingers, examining it closely. The paper cover was almost completely peeled off, the perfect tip long since dulled down to a round dome, and even the bottom looked like it had been used once or twice.

Colouring had been a favourite of Pan's. Nearing eighteen himself at the time, colouring was a much more pleasant way to spend time than playing dolls as his own sister had usually requested. In fact, being able to avoid playing dolls, dress-up, or impossible games of hide and seek was what kept Trunks coming back to the Sons. How easy it was to spend his evening calmly drawing with crayons for a few hours, and making a fair amount of pocket money on the side. And this particular crayon had always been Pan's favourite.

"Look Pan, look what Trunks drew." He held up a childish picture of the Sons house, with strangely accurate stick-figures of the family standing in front. A three-year old Pan looked up from her own picture and cast a critical eye over it.

"You forgot Fish," Pan said matter-of-factly. Trunks glanced at his picture, and smacked his hand to his head.

"How silly of me." He drew a circle by the hands of the picture-Pan, and taking the orange crayon, drew a little bow inside. "There," he said proudly. "Fish."

Pan had become quite obsessed with her pet fish recently. It was only a common fish her father had caught from a nearby pond and put in a bowl for her. But Pan had become immediately attached to it, naming it with impeccable originality. Unfortunately, obsessed as she was, Pan was often over zealous in the feeding of Fish, and more than once Pan had come to her father, upset as to why Fish was not moving on the surface.

Gohan had become good at making Fish 'better', a process he never let Pan see ("It's a Daddy job, Pan. It's a secret.") which involved a flush of the toilet and a trip to the pond. By the end of the day though, Fish was always well and moving again and Pan was none the wiser.

"That doesn't look like Fish," Pan criticized. Trunks sighed.

"I guess I'm just no good at drawing. You're much better. Let's see what you have, then?" Trunks said, putting aside his picture and clasping his hands. He wasn't at all upset with Pan's words; she said it all the time. Trunks drew his stick people, Pan said they were bad, and by the next week his picture would be taped to one of her walls.

Pan turned a light shade of red, put down her crayon, and held up her picture. The purple she had been using so fiercely was used to colour in hair. Hair that was no more than large scribbles framing a wide, lopsided circle which was meant to be a face .

"You drew me, Pan?" Trunks asked. He didn't know why he bothered to ask. She always drew him, so this-

"I did not."

"What?" Trunks asked, looking up from the crayon.

"I did not always draw you. I drew lots of other things too. I drew Fish many times, for instance, and they always turned out better than yours," Pan said, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth turned in a scowl. Trunks leaned back, and held up his hands.

"Okay, sorry," he said hastily. Pan reached over and took the crayon back. She held it in her palm for a moment, looking at it carefully, before returning it to the box. She looked again at Trunks expectantly.

He wasn't sure what she was looking at him for, obviously waiting for him to speak. Slowly he said,

"So, this is a box of your childhood things?" he guessed. Pan sighed with clear disappointment.

"Not exactly," she amended. She reached in the box and pulled out another item. This was a string of beads, brightly coloured, and with two large beads near the middle of the string with the initials T.P.

"You found this remember?" she asked him, holding it out for him to better see.

"No," he replied honestly.

"Yes, when you snuck me into the city that one day."

"I snuck you in?"

"You had to, I wasn't allowed."

"…a girlfriend? Pan, it's Goten that wants to 'get all gross' with a girl, the only girl I want to spend the day with is you. How 'bout it? I'll take you out to lunch and everything."

"Oh, Trunks. I understand now. Yes, I'd love to go with you. I'll even stop being a brat because you're such a kind, considerate, handsome-"

"I did not say that," Pan interrupted hotly, arms crossed, cheeks flaring. "You know, faulty memory is a classic sign of old age," she said, emphasizing 'old' with a raise of her eyebrows and a slight smirk. Trunks decided to ignore her, and put down the string of beads from that day's adventures.

"You've collected mementos of all the things you've put me through. Alright then, Pandora, what else do you have in your box?"

"Oh, ha ha," Pan replied sarcastically while Trunks lifted a folded cloth from under some old brochures and tickets. He groaned, though he was smiling.

"Saiyan Attack?"

"Yep, it's a game I made up on my own," Pan replied, the perfect pride of a child in her voice. Trunks folded his arms and looked skeptically down at the little girl crouched and sparring by herself. On her back she had pinned a worn-out symbol that did not belong to anyone in her family.

"You're wearing Piccolo's insignia, you do know?"

"Of course," she said, throwing him a look, and going back to her fighting.

"If you're playing a game called 'Saiyan Attack', why are you wearing the sign of a Namek?"

"Cause two Saiyans are gonna come to the Earth in one year. I've been kidnapped by Mr. Piccolo and he's gonna make me strong enough to fight them." She stopped her punches for a moment and glanced over at Trunks, one arm still extended in a fist, the other drawn back. "Are you gonna play, too?"

"No, I'm too old for pretend."

"It's not pretend, really, cause I'm training, see?" Pan demonstrated several kicks and a rather impressive flip that almost landed her on her backside. She stuck out her tongue at him and resumed punching the air with determination. She paused and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "You can be Krillen."

"I am not being Krillen," Trunks said, folding his arms. He was not going to play her stupid game at all, but if he were, he certainly would want to play someone who was more… fierce. She sighed, and dropped her arms to her side.

"Well, who are you gonna be then? You can't be Dad, cause I'm him."

"I'm not going to be anyone, Pan."

"Yes, you are, cause I can't beat the Saiyans all on my own, and you don't want the earth to be destroyed, do you?"

"I'm not going to be anyone," he repeated.

"Yes, you are!"

"No, Pan, I'm really not. In fact, I'm leaving, I came to see Goten, but have fun saving the earth and all, okay?"

"You're a Saiyan!" she shouted, grinning widely. He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised. Of course he was a Saiyan… or half anyway…. "You're going away, but come back in a year, okay? And attack me, when I'll be ready." Trunks tried not to be affected by the genuine smile spreading over her face, but found it futile.

"Okay, I'll be back in a year," he laughed.

"Where are you going for a full year?"

Both Pan and Trunks whirled at the voice, and Pan jumped excitedly up and down at the newcomer. "Grandpa!"

"Hi Pan! Hi Trunks, Goten was looking for you, but Chichi's almost finished lunch, so he stopped. You can come have some if you want, as long as Goten hasn't eaten it all." Trunks nodded to Goku. Ever since his first memory of Goku, back when he was still dead at the tournament, he hadn't changed at all. From conversations with his mother, he hadn't ever changed since her first meeting with him as well. It startled him sometimes, because when he looked at Goku, it made him think no time had passed; if it weren't for the absence of a halo, he would believe it. Believe that he was still a little kid coming over to play fight with Goten. Now the only kid fighting was right in front of him.

Only, she had stopped fighting, and was giving him a smirking look that gave him a quick chill. He made to excuse himself from the two when she stopped him with a yell.

"One year's over! The Saiyans are here, and they're winning, cause lots of people are dead, and I'm hurt, and Mr. Piccolo is dead, so the dragonballs are dead, and now I'm almost dead cause Trunks is a bad Saiyan and he's attacking earth, and I'm dying," Pan shouted out in a repetitive speech, before dramatically falling to the ground. She lay there for a moment before realizing no one was making a move to play in her game. She sat up a bit, looking at Goku. "I'm Dad, Grandpa, and you have to save me from the Saiyans, remember?"

She fell back down. Goku glanced over at Trunks, and Trunks shared a 'Haha, kids are so cute, what will they be doing next' look with him, except Goku wasn't sharing the look back, he was concentrating very closely on his face, his eyes flickering back to Pan's prone body, before he grinned.

"Ah! Of course, I came to save you, right, Pan?"

"I'm Dad!"

"Oh! … right, Gohan?"

"Right!" came the shout from the 'dead' body. "Quick, while he's alone! His Saiyan friend Vegeta might come back."

"Waitaminute," Trunks breathed out, hands held up in a surrender, a pose he seemed to employ frequently while in the girl's presence. He had never thought one could surpass the child terror that was his sister, but he was beginning to have a deeper sympathy for when Goten called begging for babysitting support.

Pan was sitting up a bit, leaving her acting for a moment, while Goku still held his beginning spar stance. "I thought you were your dad and I was mine," he said, confused, and feeling completely foolish for even taking part in this.

"You're not cool enough to be your dad," Pan said, face serious and holding no tease. "You're the other one. That gets killed. So get em, Grandpa! I mean, Daddy!"

Goku waved at his little granddaughter with a grin, then crouched down facing Trunks. His grin had turned into the slight concentrating look he held when practicing his martial arts; the same his own father got, though Goku's was far far more subdued. He was feverishly trying to think of a way to gracefully back away from the whole situation when Goku's fist came at him. He shrieked like a girl and fell to the ground in cowardly surrender, while Goku-

"Are you mad?" Trunks demanded, arms folded in a stance that was second nature to him. "I've never shrieked in my life, nor have I fallen out of a fight. Now whose memory is faulty? I can't believe you set Goku on me."

Pan shrugged quickly. "It wasn't the first time, and you know it wasn't the last." She smirked a bit at this, and Trunks had to ward off a slight cringe. Almost an entire year in a spaceship with both her and said grandfather had left for many similar opportunities, though thankfully, 'Saiyan Attack' had lost its appeal once the age of six crept upon her.

Still, these were the memories they had, the times, no matter how embarrassing, mortifying or horrifying that they had shared. All collected together for his perusal. He ignored her still smirking face and reached over to her box again, sifting through the items. His fingers brushed on sharp objects like old bottle caps from forgotten drinks, to feather soft items like pieces of hair saved from when he they gave each other haircuts while in space. It was a stack of thin papers that caught his interest however, their edges were softened, and were enough of a beige colour to attest to their age. Pan's smirk disappeared as she realized what he was holding.

"Wait! Gimme that!" Pan shrieked, she reached out, but could not grab them back. He was sitting up in bed now, legs crossed with the shoebox sitting between him and Pan's own crossed feet. He had both height and longer arms to his advantage in this game, waving the papers far above her head. He pulled his hand down to read the ill-practiced handwriting, using his free hand to block Pan's attempts to grab them back.

"Alright, let's see. 'He's the first thought in my mind when my day comes to a start. He's the last thought at night, and the most treasured of my heart. I'd like to tell him what-' Hey!" Trunks exclaimed as two hands found his chest and shoved down hard. He toppled backward, his posture uneven from holding Pan off. With a fury not witnessed since Goten had stolen a favourite toy from her as a child, Pan pried his fingers apart none too gently and snatched the papers from him.

Cheeks burning a shade that matched her bandana in brightness, she shoved the notes back in the box and pulled the worn cardboard into her lap, away from Trunks' curiosity. Trunks sat up and felt a smirk begin to tug at his still sleepy face.

"You wrote poetry about me?" Pan glared at him, her blush not dying, and pulled the box closer to her. "Love poetry, yes?"

"When I was like eight! Shut up, Trunks."

"'The most treasured of my heart', Pan? It was looooove poetry. You looooove me. You lo-"

"Yes, Trunks! Yes. I love you. There. I said it." She looked furious. He had never heard someone say those three words in such exasperation and anger before. His jaw wasn't working, but hers wouldn't stop. "I've always liked you, but now that I'm going to high school, it has started to affect me. Remember before how I could never keep a date, because the boys were scared of me? And then we went on the dragonball hunt and I learned how to control my powers better, so I don't scare the boys anymore. But I also spent a year learning you and that is messing me up. I finally stop scaring boys away, and now I can't go out with any of them, because no matter what I tell my brain, my heart still knows that they aren't you, and it knows that all it wants is a healthy dosage of Capsule Corp. president.

"So yes, Trunks. Yes, I love you. See?" Pan stopped her ranting for a moment and pulled out some worn keychains, "Remember you won me these at that festival when we were on vacation? Or this?" she flipped through a pile of photographs, even from his angle, Trunks could see his and her faces smiling up.

Trunks and Pan at a picnic. Trunks and Pan sneaking to Dende's Lookout. Trunks and Pan playing with a baby dinosaur. Trunks and Pan snoring on a couch…

There was tickets to shows he had taken her to, old birthday cards (the accompanying money no longer there), song lyrics, more bad poetry, more drawings (both from as a child, and ones far more realistic and less worn), rumpled valentines, small condiment packages from their favourite restaurants, and were those… his old glasses!

"You made a shrine," Trunks said, in half in awe and half in horror. There was something endearing about their entire relationship packed into a small rectangular box, knowing its entire contents would have been saved and treasured for years.

But… there was also something quite disturbing about their entire relationship packed into a small rectangular box, knowing its entire contents would have been saved and treasured for years, carefully put away to not be forgotten.

"It's not a shrine," Pan said, finally. "But… you do understand that this is… well, pretty much everything, right? This is us," she said with the dramatics only a teenager could muster. "And Us has become a… burden to me. I have tried for quite some time now to let Us go, but it is being quite stubborn, so I am forced to take somewhat drastic and permanent measures."

Pan looked up at him solemnly. Her lower lip was drawn in slightly behind her teeth and her fingers were gripping the box similar to how his mother held her coffee mug on bad mornings.

"I'm going to burn this box," she said in one breath, quickly, before any resolve could waver further. "I am going to burn it. I will destroy all that is Us, and then my love for you will be destroyed as well."

Trunks waited for the punch line of her joke. It didn't come.

"Uh… I don't think that's how it works…"

"It does too," Pan countered, with a certainty that chilled him somewhat. "It's like exorcising my love for you by burning all of the… physical proof of it."

"You can't burn all of that. You've got, like, a Trunks and Pan museum in there."

"I can and I will. You don't know how desperate I've become. If I have to lose another boyfriend because of you…"

"Because of me? Pan, this is not my fault!"

"Well it's not mine either. But I can't take it anymore. I have to put a stop to it. And this is how it's going to be done. The only reason I'm telling you this, and the reason I came here at all, is because I need one more thing for my box before I can burn it. There's no point in any of this otherwise. I need to burn you from my heart, too. You do understand, don't you?

"I can't live like this anymore, Trunks. I can never be a normal girl, but I can have a normal boyfriend if I can get you out of my head, and that's what I need to do. And so, it comes to this. I need your blood, Trunks," she said, her face quite serious, hand reached out palm-up as if he could just drop some blood onto it for her.

"My… blood?" he asked, kneeling across from her, gazing uncertainly at her outstretched hand, and the small phial in her other, fearful that any second she would spring a knife from somewhere. "Pan, isn't this like voodoo?"

"I'm not going to use it to hurt you, idiot."

"Only to burn me out of existence!"

"Not existence, just my heart!"

"But why?"

"Because it's a pain to love you when you will never love me back!"

Trunks blinked at her outburst. She looked startled at her exclamation and wouldn't meet his eyes. The room was silent but it felt like her words were still circling above them, heavy in presence, and unprepared to be forgotten anytime soon. He smiled. He reached out his hands and rested them on Pan's shoulders. She stared down at them and he was positive her cheeks took on a slight red hue. He leaned forward.

"You want to exorcise me from your heart because you don't think I can love you back? Pan, you are adorable," he said, and while still smiling and holding her in place, he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers.

She moved back a bit in shock, but with the ease that comes from experience he followed her and their lips remained connected. It was gentle, and soft, and sweet.

And over before Pan could truly recognize what had happened.

Trunks leaned back and grinned. She was staring at him, blinking rapidly, her fingers twitching around her box, and her mouth now slightly agape.

"You-you-"

"You're welcome."

"I wanted your blood not your saliva!" she screeched, cheeks aflame, and reached over to shove him. Unprepared he fell back on his bed, but raised himself to his elbows in time to see her stomping to his bedroom door. She turned, her fingers on the handle, the box under her arm, and glared. "I'm going to be stuck this way forever," she said, though he was fairly sure there was no regret in her voice.

Trunks stared at the door once she closed it.

Pan had to be the weirdest girl he had ever met. Which, of course, was why he adored her. When she wasn't interrupting his peaceful day of laze, in any case. He glanced behind him, at his pile of pillows, the blankets still cocooned to the shape of his body, teasingly inviting him back into their comfortable depths.

Return he would, but first…

Trunks reached over to the end of his bed, rumpled not from his sleep but from the girl that had been sitting there moments before. Resting between folds in the blanket was the phial she had brought intending to hold his blood. He lifted it into his palm, studying it for a moment before leaning over the side of his bed. Reaching his free hand down, he dug under his bed for a moment before he pulled out a dusty box.

Without care or grace, he dumped the loafers his mother had bought but had never seen anywhere other than the dark of his under bed. Bringing the now-empty box to his lap, he set the glass tube carefully in its center. It rolled to the side and settled against the side.

Stretching so he wouldn't have to get out of bed, he grabbed a lidless pen on his night stand, and turned the box to its side.

He wrote the familiar characters messily along the side, and with a slight smirk, drew a few sketchy hearts. He put the lid back on the box and set it on the floor.

He had wanted the day to himself to be as slothful and unproductive as possible. Instead, he was hounded awake, taken down a memory lane with a rather angry and excitable tour guide, asked to participate in the eccentric voodoo of a crazy teenager, and was the recipient of a reluctant love.

His bed was still calling him, and he had neglected it long enough. Lying down, he turned his back to the room, keeping his face away from the sunlight creeping in. But not before one glance, and one grin, at the name scrawled across the side of his old shoebox.

He laughed aloud, quietly. The whole situation rather demanded it. He tried to picture what Pan would be doing when she got back to her house. If she would be angry that she had failed her mission, or resigned. If she would shove her box away from sight, or put it somewhere nearby, prepared should she gain any new additions for it. He found that thought to be oddly appealing.

He buried his head under his arm as the sunlight began its attack to force him to wakefulness. His sister was blaring some adolescent singer from her bedroom, loud enough to thankfully drown out her own attempts at accompanying vocals. He was beginning to smell something burning downstairs, and his parents' subsequent argument over it, though he could not tell which one of them had tried to experiment with the kitchen equipment and which one was angry at them for failing. Trunks sighed, slowly leaving overcooked food and off key singing to return to sleep.

He had wanted to accomplish nothing, and though he inherited his pride and stubbornness from both his parents, in this one instance of failure, Trunks found himself not minding in the slightest.