Dragon Ball Z 1. I See Fire

**ATTN: I love this pairing so much that I've broken my own rule of no oneshots to start a collection of VxB themed ones. They're probably going to jump around the timeline, so…yeah. I've never written anything for DBZ before, so I really hope I got the characterization for these two right. Ratings may vary from chapter to chapter.**

**I:**

**I See Fire**

_Rating: T [minor suggestive themes]_

He awakens with a thin layer of perspiration clinging to his scarred skin and the feeling of the sheets sticking to his back. The roaring thunder of battle fades back into the recesses of his mind and the quiet snores of the woman beside him overtake his awareness. Onyx eyes slide to the slender figure draped beneath the covers to his left and they trace over her form, following the curve of her hip up to the soft azure curls splayed across the satin pillowcase. He clenches his jaw and is careful to not awaken her as he slides out of the bed and retrieves his clothing, more out of a desire to be alone than any real consideration for her comfort.

The air carries a chill that makes him bristle when he seeks solitude outside on the woman's balcony. He contemplates taking a flight but decides against it; his energy level was still too low from the day's intensive training to clear the reach of this damned city's light pollution. He settles for stargazing from the balcony, despite the hazy view Capsule Corp has of the nighttime sky.

Vegeta scowls at the dull sound of car horns in the distance and the faint but ever-present scent of smog that seems to hang around this filthy city like a cloak. How he loathes this accursed place. If not for the promise of an exquisite challenge to his abilities come one year's time, he would have already destroyed this pitiful excuse for a civilization himself.

These pathetic creatures, these humans, they remind him of vermin. Clusters of them cropping up everywhere, breeding and devouring everything before them before turning on each other to fight over their diminishing resources like feral animals over a scrap of meat. It disgusts him; these wretched creatures had no sense of honor, no feeling of pride. They scramble over each other, petty and backstabbing in their insatiable quest for wealth and power. Saiyans would never stoop to such underhanded and deceitful methods of conquest: if they wished for something, they would take it with their own two hands. But these humans have no integrity. It reminds him of people he'd like to forget, people long since dead and done away with.

The very thought of the universal tyrant made Vegeta's stomach lurch. All at once he is back in his nightmare, back on Namek with a gaping hole in his chest and the sound of Frieza's laughter echoing from all sides. The intensity of his memories wind him, and his body aches with phantom wounds from the hundreds of thousands of times he's been beaten into the dirt like the dog he was. Vegeta's nostrils flare and his hands clench the metal rail of the balcony hard enough to warp it, the steel creaking and groaning beneath the stress of his grip.

"Vegeta?"

The voice is soft with sleep and with no small hint of concern, but for what Vegeta does not know nor does he care. If it is not concern for her own safety, then he decides that he has grossly misjudged the woman's intelligence. He questions it further when he hears the gentle padding of her bare feet on the concrete behind him. She does not touch him, but he can still sense as she approaches him. She freezes when he bites out for her to leave him.

"Are you stupid? No, I'm not going to leave you! It's freezing out here, you're gonna catch your death." She scolds him, and he can practically hear her teeth chattering as she speaks. He snorts, insulted at how weak she must find him to actually suggest that he would be susceptible to illness at such a measly thing as freezing temperatures, and he tells her so.

"Woman, I am not as weak as your pathetic race. I am more than capable of surviving temperatures such as these. Now for the last time, leave me."

It is the woman's turn to snort, and Vegeta's scowl deepens. "Your pride is gonna be the death of you, you moron." She mutters, crossing her arms before rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm herself. "And my name is not '_Woman'_, it's Bulma."

Despite the lingering doubts of her IQ, her iron resolve cannot be questioned. Vegeta does not turn to her as she continues her stubborn approach to him, nor does he acknowledge her when she leans on the railing beside him. Her warm breath comes in misty puffs that swirl into the darkness surrounding them, and he can feel her shiver. "For real though, why are you out here so late? It's like, thirty degrees out."

"I do not have to explain myself to you." Vegeta snaps, patience waning. He does not look away from the faint glow of the distant stars above them.

Bulma's aquamarine eyes slide over his stoic face, noticing how his dark eyes rapidly scan the heavens above, as if in search of something. A faint realization floats into her mind, and her eyes soften with sympathy. "Oh," She muses. "Are you looking for your planet?" From the way every muscle in Vegeta's body visibly tenses, Bulma thinks that she must have hit a nerve. "Maybe I can help you," She offers, hoping to ease the sting of her unintended faux pas. "You know, I'm really good with constellations and astrono—"

"Hold your tongue, you insolent woman!" Vegeta hisses, turning to face her. "You know nothing of which you speak. Now leave me before I decide to rid this backwater planet of your relentless chattering once and for all. I will not tell you again."

"Well excuse me, _your highness._ I was only trying to help," Bulma snaps, crossing her arms. "And if you're so fed up with this _backwater planet,_ then why don't you just go back to your _own_ planet?"

Vegeta turns on her so quickly it leaves her gasping. In an instant he has her backed against the rails, the cold of the metal and concrete almost piercing against her back. She does not know which is worse; the cold seeping into her body or the burning intensity of the Saiyan's gaze. His voice is low and dripping with poison as he speaks.

"Do you know why I do not return to my home planet?" Vegeta demands, his tone scathing. "It is because there _is_ no planet to return to. It was destroyed years ago by that bastard, Frieza."

Bulma's eyes are wide with shock and her stomach immediately knots itself with guilt at her brashness. "Vegeta," She whispers, and the pity in her voice makes him sick and angry all at once. Her voice thickens with tears when she sees the chaotic storm of emotion in his usually steely eyes. "Vegeta, I didn't know."

"That is because you know _nothing_." He bites, stepping back before turning on his heel. Bulma watches him stalk towards the other end of the balcony and a profound understanding overtakes her. Before her is not a proud prince, but a wounded man. Despite Vegeta's insistence on presenting himself to be an impermeable powerhouse, Bulma has now had a glimpse of a man who has suffered loss on the scale that by the will of Kami she would never know. For the entirety of the time that she has known him she had never once considered the conditions under which he had come to be under Frieza's command. Now that she knows the truth about his home planet, a startling amount of his behavior made sense and it only served to make her heart clench painfully in her chest.

"Vegeta wait," Bulma exclaims, straightening up from her cowering stance against the rail. The Saiyan Prince is poising himself to jet away into the inky night sky, but if she allows him to do that she doesn't think that she could look at herself in the mirror come sunrise. "Vegeta!"

Shock is the first thing that passes through his mind when he feels the woman collide with his back, and anger replaces it when he feels her thin arms snake across his chest. Her cheek is pressed against the curve of his spine, and he can feel the dampness of her tears. It only serves to upset him more.

"Release me, woman." Vegeta demands harshly. Her soft curls tickle his skin as she shakes her head fiercely. He clenches his fists at her insolence, teeth bared. "I said release me!"

"No!" Bulma says defiantly, her grip on the Saiyan tightening. Her voice softens as she shivers in the cold against him. "I'm sorry for what I said. If I had known, I wouldn't have said it."

"Your apology changes nothing." Vegeta says. "My planet is gone, my race is eradicated, and I am trapped here on this abominable planet with you miserable creatures. No amount of repentance or pity will change that."

"Are we really all that bad?" Bulma whispers quietly.

"All that bad?" Vegeta scoffs. "You claim to be an intelligent race, yet every human I have had the extreme misfortune of interacting with has proven the exact opposite. You pride yourselves with acts of charity to soothe your own consciences for the disgustingly underhanded behavior you exhibit in your wars. You believe yourself to be an advanced civilization and yet only a miniscule amount of you humans have ever been beyond the safety of your own solar system. You're a weak, cocky, pathetic race. You all disgust me."

Bulma's small hands fist against his bare chest, and he hears the hesitation in her quiet voice when she asks him, "Do _I_ disgust you?"

Vegeta is silent as he looks down at the small hands on his chest, so pale and delicate against the tan of his own skin that the juxtaposition makes him frown. He thinks about her question, about her. It is true that she infuriates him to no end with her disrespect of his rank and her loud, shrill voice. Bulma can work her way beneath his skin like no other can and it bothers him in more than one way, but despite her brashness and her temper, he will admit to himself and no others that the challenges she poses him gives him some strange form of relief from this excruciating purgatory. He feels her lips press against the span between his shoulder blades, and he grunts.

"You have your uses."

Vegeta ignores the small upwards quirk of her lips as she continues to leave feather-light kisses along the heat of his back. Despite his earlier spite towards her ignorance, the feeling of her fingernails dragging lightly down his chest rekindles the sparks of his growingly familiar desire for her. Vegeta turns in her arms and meets her apologetic blue eyes. Those eyes seem to read him in ways that make him uncomfortable, but the familiar hum of want dulls his sense. He supposes that there is nothing wrong with indulging in the very scarce pleasures that this planet can provide him, especially with one of them waiting so willingly in his arms.

He dips his head low and breathes in the musk of her, hands tracing her form through the thin material of her robe. Bulma's skin is cold to the touch and Vegeta is reminded of just how cold it is outside. She shivers at the heat of his touch, whispering her apologies against his lips as they make their way back into the warmth of her bedroom. As she falls back onto the bed she questions between their mingling breaths, "Does this mean you'll stay?"

Vegeta's calloused hands slide off the fabric from her slim shoulders, indulging in the sweet taste of her neck as he growls low, "If you make yourself of use."

And she does, kissing him hard on the mouth again and again in the hopes that every touch of her fingertips will act as the salve to the wounds in his heart. She moves against him with purpose, holding tight to him and the shard of humanity she saw in him tonight. And as the sun rises and she falls back into a slumber beside the heat of his form, he too returns to a sleep that for the first time in lifetimes is free of blistering reds, replaced by a soothing shade of blue.


	2. Monkey Wrench

**ATTN: Thank you so much for all of the reviews, watches, and favorites! I'm really glad you all liked the first installment. Here's the second oneshot, taking place a little before the first chapter. This one is a little more lighthearted and than last time, complete with some good old Yamcha abuse (**_**I love him, but it's too easy!**_**). These things are just going to keep getting more and more ridiculous, I can feel it. Especially the titles.**

**II: **

**Monkey Wrench**

_Rating: T [minor language, minor suggestive themes]_

"He's _dangerous_, Bulma!"

Vegeta's ears perk up as he rounds the corner of the garage. What is _that_ miserable excuse for a fighter doing here? From the way that the woman had demanded his manhood on a silver platter the previous weekend, he was surprised that the weakling would be brave enough show his scarred face around here so soon. He refrains from emerging to confront the scar-faced moron when he hears the distinctive sound of the noisy woman in question sucking her teeth. His grip on his now-crushed water bottle relaxes at the promise of a show and a marginally sadistic smirk splits his perspiring face as he peers around the corner to watch.

"Well so am I," The heiress growls, white-knuckling the wrench clasped in her glove-clad hand. "Or have you already forgotten the consequences of the last time I caught you two-timing me?" She can hear Yamcha's shocked hacking behind her as she turns back to the engine of her hover car and briefly entertains the image of a blue-faced Yamcha flopping around on the pavement like a dying fish as he chokes on his own spit. _It would serve that promiscuous bastard right,_ she thinks acidly.

Yamcha clears his throat after he recovers from his coughing fit, voice somewhat ragged as he tries to correct his breathing. Vegeta watches him straighten out his evergreen-colored tie, no doubt only worn in the hopes of impressing the Capsule Corp beauty. From the way she doesn't bother to spare him a glance and continues her ministrations on her car's engine, the formal wear fails to achieve its desired effect. Vegeta scoffs and wipes his brow with the thin white towel draped over his shoulders.

"Don't tell me you actually _like_ him, B."

"Well I certainly like him a lot better than you right now. Besides, it's _my_ decision to make. Who I invite to stay in my home is my business and mine only. It does not concern _you._" She says scathingly.

"It does concern me when _we're dating_!" Yamcha shouts. Bulma yanks her wrench hard and swears when the bolt snaps from the force. She turns to him with her aqua eyes crackling with fury, teeth bared and porcelain complexion smeared with grease and motor oil. She stalks towards him with all the violent promises of a jaguar on the hunt, and Vegeta sneers at the nervous step backwards that Yamcha takes in self-defense. Bulma jabs him hard in the chest with her wrench, leaning in close so that the philandering jerk can hear the venom in her every word.

"Oh, I wasn't aware that we were still dating, considering the fact that you've taken it upon yourself to screw every whore from here to East City!" Bulma hisses, jabbing him again. Yamcha takes another step back, which she matches with menace. "So no, Yamcha, it most certainly does _not_ concern you, because we are most certainly _**not dating**_."

"B," He begs as she retreats from her one-woman assault to once again work on her car. She tightens a nut with much more force than necessary as he tries to appease her. "I'm only saying this because I'm worried for your safety!"

"Funny, you weren't too concerned with my safety when I caught you nailing that blonde last weekend."

"Bulma, I'm being serious, here!" Yamcha all but begs her. "Do you really think it's smart to house a psychotic intergalactic mass murderer in your home? Bulma, he's killed thousands, if not _millions_ of people! I mean, that maniac's blown up _planets!"_

"Careful of whom you speak you fool, or I'll be adding one more to my body count."

Yamcha's gulp is audible as Vegeta stalks out from behind the garage, and the Saiyan Prince scoffs at the earthling's now pallor complexion.

"Vegeta. Speak of the Devil," Yamcha offers weakly.

"Continue to run your mouth like that and I will make you wish that it was the Devil that had come for you instead." Vegeta growls. "At least then you would have had some hope of mercy."

"Well if it isn't His Royal Highness here to grace us with his presence." Bulma drawls sarcastically, leaning her elbow on the hood of the car. "To what do I owe _this_ pleasure?"

Vegeta turns to the blue-haired engineer with a scowl, eyes widening at her clothing. "Woman, what on earth are you wearing?!"

"What?" Bulma looks down at her dark black tube top and denim coveralls, pant legs rolled up to her thighs and bulky sleeves tied around her waist. It's a bit more revealing than her usual attire, but it's certainly nothing for him to be pitching a fit about. "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"You are dressed like a harem girl!"

"Well suck it up and deal with it! It's over ninety degrees outside and I'm hot!" Bulma snaps, throwing her arms wide to emphasize the bright summer sunlight bearing down all around them. "Forgive me for not wanting to sweat to death while I work on my car. Which, it seems, _someone_ – " She throws an accusatory glare towards Yamcha, " – doesn't want to get done."

"Whatever," Vegeta says, blaming the heat of his face on prolonged exposure to the scorching summer sun. "Your style of dress is not of my concern at the moment."

"Well if you're not here to critique me on my fashion choices, then what _do _you want?"

"Your pathetic training robots have broken down again and I need you to repair them at once."

"_Again_?" Bulma demands, voice shrill. "That's the third time this week!"

"Do not blame me for your incompetence. If you would build equipment that could adequately keep up with my skill, then we would not have this problem so frequently."

"_**Excuse me?**_"

Yamcha watches the two bicker back and forth, and it shocks him how completely –how completely _Bulma_ –Bulma _is_ with him. She is just as brash and sarcastic with him as she is with everyone else, blowing off his threats of decapitation and vaporization just as one would regard the inflated tantrums of a child. Even with the knowledge of the alien prince's catastrophic potential, she does not hesitate to cut into him like she _damn well probably should._ But then again Bulma wouldn't be Bulma if she didn't fight tooth and nail, and the feeling of affection that this thought makes him feel also brings him a stabbing pang of guilt. He is brought out of his thoughts by Vegeta's shouting.

"_Woman!_ If you do not fix the training bots _this instant_, then I will do what I should have done to your infuriating blabbermouth back on Namek!"

When he sees Vegeta take a threatening step towards Bulma (who remains unphased, standing hands-on-hip and defiant as always, that _idiot!_) Yamcha springs into action. He leaps between the feuding pair, pushing Bulma farther behind him. She makes a startled cry of surprise as she almost loses her footing and catches herself roughly on the bumper of her car.

"Stay back, you beast!" Yamcha shouts, holding his arms wide to shield the infuriated woman behind him. Vegeta at first seems bewildered, but then the look instantly gives way to irritation as he continues his annoyed advance towards the two.

"Get out of the way or I'll _blast_ you out of the way, cretin." Vegeta warns, tossing the towel from around his neck over towards the lushly trimmed grass of the lawn beside them in preparation for a fight. He cracks his knuckles as Yamcha takes up a defensive stance.

"Make me!"

"What the _hell_, Yamcha?" Bulma demands, pounding on his back with her fists. "Move or he's gonna kick your ass!"

"No!" Yamcha says valiantly, rolling up the sleeves of his white button-up. "I won't let him hurt you! If he want's to get to you, he's going to have to get through me, first!"

"Gladly," Vegeta sneers.

Bulma growls. "Yamcha, stop being an idiot. He's not going to hurt me!"

Yamcha throws a confused look over his shoulder to Bulma, making sure to keep a weary eye on Vegeta as well. "How do you know? He's nuts, Bulma!"

"Oh please," Bulma snorts. "He wouldn't dare hurt me. Who else would rebuild his precious Gravity Room when he's a reckless moron and breaks it again?"

"Watch it, woman."

"See?" Bulma says confidently, pushing Yamcha's arms down to gesture to Vegeta who aside from the crossed arms and irked expression, looks a far cry from a man about ready to commit a homicide. "He wouldn't dare."

"I don't know, B." Yamcha says, glaring at the Saiyan. "I still don't trust him."

"Well it's a good thing you're not the one living with him then, isn't it?" Bulma says with irritation. As her former flame opens his mouth to retaliate, Bulma gives him a shove towards the end of the driveway. When he makes to dig his heels in defiantly, she stomps on the back of his feet to get him moving again. "Now get out of here before _I _kick your ass!"

Her former suitor is wide-eyed and flabbergasted at her threat. "But Bulma," He whines angrily, and the once endearing sound now fills her with barely-contained annoyance. She gives him another shove.

"Don't you '_but Bulma_' me, you cheating pig!" She shouts. "I am more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you, so I am in no need of your BS heroics. Now get out of here before I let him pummel your sorry butt!"

"Well fine then, but this isn't over!" Yamcha says, turning with bravado to point threateningly at Vegeta. "You listen to me, pal, if you so much as lay a finger on her, I'll – "

But Yamcha doesn't finish his bold statement. The words shrivel and die in his throat as a bright ball of _ki_ comes barreling towards him, exploding at his feet. With a high-pitched yelp, the (_pathetic excuse for_ _a_) man turns tail and bolts down the driveway and clear down the street. In the distance she can hear his cry of "_I'll call you later!"_ Bulma only looks on with disgust, shaking her head before turning to the smirking Saiyan beside her. She frowns at his still-raised hand, sighing.

"Was that really necessary? You scorched the pavement."

Vegeta huffs and lowers his hand. "I do not understand what you see in such a fool."

"That makes two of us," Bulma agrees. "I can't believe I dated him for so long. What a moron."

"Indeed. To think that he was stupid enough to actually get in between us." Vegeta smirks before taking a swig of water from his bottle. "The only being in the entire galaxy duller than that weakling is Kakarot."

Bulma chuckles as she walks towards the lawn, picking up his towel. She walks over to where Vegeta stands and drapes the towel over his shoulder. He finishes taking a drink and follows her into the backyard where the woman has decided to sprawl out on her stomach across the soft green grass like a napping cat. Vegeta raises a brow as she turns over on her back, tucking her arms behind her head.

"I can't believe that jerk actually had the audacity to come to my home and try to tell me who I can and can't have as my guest!" She says, pulling off her gloves to wipe the sweat off of her brow with the back of her hand. "_Especially_ after the crap he's pulled!"

Vegeta smirks and watches her twist her gloves violently in her hands. She throttles them as if it were said jerk's throat. "I must admit, it was amusing to watch you use your shrew powers on that brainless oaf."

"For your sake I'm going to take that as a compliment," Bulma grinned. "Y'know, it actually feels nice out here when I'm not working."

She stretches happily, and by her pleased-sounding sighs Vegeta can hardly tell that she had just been threatening the bodily well being of a former lover. This is hardly the first time since Vegeta has come to reside at Capsule Corp that he has seen her moods fluctuate so drastically, and it never ceases to astound him.

The woman is a bloody enigma, plain and simple.

Vegeta looks down at her disheveled appearance with mild curiosity. She's absolutely filthy; covered from head to toe in some sort of black grime and her lightly tanned skin is slick with a thin sheen of sweat that makes her azure curls stick to the sides of her flushed face and the little amount of fabric she had on cling to her like a second skin. He doesn't understand how she could have become so dirty short of rolling around in the dirt in much the same fashion that she is doing presently, and against his will a brief image of her rolling around in _other_ places, much more comfortable, inviting, _clean _places flashes through his mind. He shakes his head and scowls, once again blaming the sun for this damnable burn on his face and her less than conservative outfit for this even more damnable burn on his brain. He turns away to take a drink of his now crushed water bottle before clearing his throat loudly.

"Hmm?" Bulma hums from her perch in the grass.

"If you're quite done with rolling around in the dirt like an animal, perhaps you can actually be of some use and build me more robots."

When she begins her banshee tirade on him for once again destroying her hard work, he decides that he actually doesn't half mind the view – that is, when she keeps her mouth shut.


	3. Gone Away

**ATTN: Thank you all so much for your continued support! I can't even begin to say how grateful I am for all of the new followers and reviews I've received! I've decided that, as per request, that I will be alternating between serious and lighthearted oneshots, this particular one being the former. Timing for this one is right after Vegeta leaves to train in space before the arrival of the Androids. Hope you guys like it!**

**III.**

**Gone Away**

_Rating: T [minor language, minor sexual themes]_

Bulma stares blankly into the cup of coffee that is clenched in her hands. She's unsure of how long she's been there or how long ago she had even poured it, but from the way that the mug is no longer scalding her palms, she assumes that it's been a good while. Or maybe it could be that she's finally succeeded in burning off her nerve endings. She's not really sure how time or thermodynamics work anymore. When she takes her first sip, it's cold and bitter on her tongue.

It didn't surprise her when she woke up that morning that he was already gone. This is how it always goes; once the darkness of night settles upon West City he appears like a phantom in her doorway, drinking her in until the first rays of light break the horizon where he'll then whisk himself away before she stirs. But that day had been different. Her chest tightens as the sound of jet engines echo in her head. She can't tell if it's just the vividness of the launch's memory that makes the cup rattle or if it's her hands shaking. Either way, it spells out the same bitter truth:

He's gone.

Bulma didn't want to believe it when she felt the floor beneath her shake. She had leapt from her bed with panic, grabbing her robe and bolting to her balcony to see why she was hearing the familiar sounds of a shuttle being readied for launch. Bulma didn't even need to look to see who the pilot was. She glanced backwards at the empty side of her bed, where the sheets were still warm and the pillows still smelled of him. Before she could even run to stop him, the spacecraft had shot into the early morning sky, streaking the atmosphere with light. She had watched it until all that was left of it was its fading tail of smoke.

That had been two weeks, twenty-two hours, and seventeen minutes ago. Bulma counts the ticks of the clock in the kitchen even though it feels like the countdown to her own destruction. The only reason why she can even differentiate the days is because she's late.

At first she hadn't been too concerned about it. Living such a hectic lifestyle occasionally made Bulma's cycles irregular. Even the rare missed period was never a huge cause for concern. But that was when she had been dutiful with her birth control. Between a frantic work schedule, numerous public appearances, countless all-nighters in the lab and the oftentimes unpredictable urges of her lover, her intake of the pill had recently been infrequent at best. It was only after going to take it earlier that night and seeing all of the skipped pills that Bulma had realized just how forgetful she'd been with it. Now she sits alone in her kitchen at three in the morning drinking cold black coffee, trying to muster the courage to go upstairs and do what needs to be done.

Oh, God, what if she _is_ pregnant? She pales with dread. Bulma doesn't know the first thing about raising a child aside from the offhand experience she had gotten from travelling with Goku in her youth. And her career! It has only just begun to get off the ground; how could she possibly train to take over Capsule Corp if she has to take care of a baby? And the media, oh hell, the media. She could picture the tabloid covers now: '_Capsule Corp Heiress Knocked Up', 'Bulma Briefs: Trading Engineering Formulas for Baby Formulas', 'From Diamonds to Diapers'_. Just the thought of having to fend off the paparazzi makes her feel sick to her stomach.

At that moment Bulma feels a hatred for the Saiyan so strong that it nearly winds her. How could he leave her like this? How could he go flying off to space without a care in the world, while she's left here to deal with this on her own? He didn't even say goodbye! Tears sting her aquamarine eyes, and she wipes them away furiously with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt. It had been his, given to him by her mother to wear last autumn when it dawned on them that he had nothing to wear in the cold aside from his summer training gear. Bulma had practically been living in it for the past two weeks, but she could still smell the faint trace of his scent on the navy blue fabric. It makes her chest ache.

Leaving her still-full mug of coffee on the table, Bulma makes her way upstairs to her bedroom where the little pink box she had purchased earlier awaits her on her dresser. She closes and locks her door despite knowing that no one would even be awake this late. Finally she approaches her dresser and picks up the box before locking herself away in her personal bathroom. The pregnancy test is only cardboard and plastic, but it feels as heavy as a brick as she tears open the cellophane covering. She reads the directions once, twice, three times through before she administers the test.

Bulma sits on the edge of her bathtub, staring down at the thin white piece of plastic in her trembling hands. The two minutes stretch on far longer than she thinks possible and it gives her more than enough time to think through all of the events that have led up to this hapless moment.

She thinks to the first time they had kissed; in the humid garage in the dead of summer. It was after she had finally ended things with Yamcha once and for all, and he had caught her crying as she finally tried to finish her car. He had mocked her for mourning a relationship with that fool, and she had started shouting at him. Things had escalated into a full-blown screaming match that ended with her back to the wall and his lips on hers. The kiss had been anything but gentle; his lips were rough and his hands were rougher, calloused and cracked from training. She could remember the shivers of desire that had rocked her spine when those fingers had traced across the bare flesh of her stomach. Absentmindedly, her hands drift across her abdomen in a ghostlike imitation of her lover, but the action only causes her grief.

Bulma wonders how she could ever have let herself get into this. At first it had been the perfect arrangement; the two would bicker throughout the day as some sort of queer verbal foreplay before avoiding each other altogether. That is, until he would darken her door as soon as the rest of the compound had retired for the evening. Then they would simply enjoy one another until dawn broke. No pillow talk. No courtship. No strings attached.

The sex itself had been phenomenal. Where Yamcha was slow and sweet, he had been raw, unrelenting power. He would take her with such passion that it would make her body quake and her voice hoarse. There had been nothing gentle about the way he would bite at her neck or the way he would pin her down, make her beg. It was intense, animalistic, and it was exactly what she had needed. But soon Bulma would catch herself wanting more: more time to be pressed against him. More opportunities to kiss him simply for the hell of it. More words to be exchanged beyond their demands to go harder, to go faster. Soon Bulma had found herself looking forward to the afterglow just as much as she looked forward to the sex itself. She had begun to question him, and had begun to crave his answers. What he likes (_which is little,_) what he hates (_which is a lot,_) where he comes from, what the stories were behind each scar that littered his skin. Soon she wanted more than his body. Bulma wanted _him_.

But she should have known better. The Prince of Saiyans cares for no one.

As she waits for the timer on her watch to go off, another dreadful thought materializes in her mind. What if he _does_ come back? What if he finds her again, but this time with a child that bears a striking similarity to him? He is not the kind of man to love, and even less likely to be the kind of man to want children. No matter the outcome on this little white stick, Bulma knows that she will be facing it alone.

And it is alone that she feels when she finally looks at the test and sees the little pink plus.


	4. Be Comfortable, Creature

**ATTN: I'm sensing a pattern with Vegeta and nightmares and bonding time with Bulma. I'm also sensing a pattern with song titles becoming chapter titles. Interesting. Anyway, thank you so much for the reviews, watches, and favorites! Your continued support makes this possible!**

**General disclaimer: I own nothing or DBZ would have had a lot more BxV moments.**

**IV.**

**Be Comfortable, Creature**

_Rating: T [mild violence]_

This is not the first time that Vegeta has been stirred from his sleep by the nightmares. They crawl into the cracks in his mind that have long been thought to have been spackled back together and fester there until he awakens soaked in sweat and gasping for air. When he jolts awake in their bedroom beside his still and slumbering wife, he has trouble recalling anything at all. The only hints as to his mind's tapestry of horrors are the tendrils of sensations left lingering on the edge of his consciousness. Nothing tangible, just fleeting sensations of blistering pain and a bottomless terror that makes him shake in a fear he doesn't like admitting to. There are no images to recall, simply obscure shapes or colors such as crimsons, inky blacks, and blue.

_Blue._

His onyx eyes fall on the porcelain skin of his wife, soft features muted with sleep and complexion unblemished with blood. Vegeta leans over and brushes a blue strand of hair out of her eyes before he places a soft hand on her cheek. He strokes it with his thumb and she hums quietly, nuzzling against the palm of his hand.

She's _warm_. She's warm and breathing and alive and the proof is enough to refill his burning lungs with air. For a moment it's as if the nightmares are a million miles away and it is just the two of them. He leans over to press his face into nape of her neck and inhales deeply. The woman smells of her floral shampoo and baby powder, which do well to overpower the slight scent of afterbirth and disinfectant. Vegeta wrinkles his nose because while it is her first night home from the hospital since giving birth, he still dislikes the unwelcoming smells of that damn place that linger on her skin.

Vegeta's blood pressure spikes again at the thought of his newborn child and he slides out of bed with hurry. Anxiety twines around his stomach like the end of a noose as he flies down the hall with inhuman speed. The only hesitancy he experiences is when he finds himself standing between two doors in the hallway; the one to his right belonging to his son, and the one on his left, his young daughter. He swallows thickly, panic building in his throat as the muscle memory of his nightmares takes hold. Who does he check on? This choice makes him sick. It is no longer the choice of whom to check first, but of which one he will sacrifice to the starving wolves of his mind. Surely the moment he opens one's door, the other will perish to the demons lurking in the shadows.

He locks his legs to keep them from shaking, gnashes his teeth in any attempt to rein in the growing sense of hysteria that plagues him. He does a ki sweep out of habit, and is unsurprised to find no one else in the compound aside from his wife and his children. This reassurance is wafer-thin. He will not believe that the threat lays only in his dreams until he sees both of his children asleep, alive, and unharmed.

_But_ _which door?_

Vegeta fists his hands into his thick mane of hair, nostrils flaring as Frieza's voice echoes in his head like a gunshot. He is thrown back into a dream he cannot see but can vividly recall: the screams of his children ringing in his ears, the scent of their blood so thick in the air that bile rises in his throat. The hallucination is so lifelike that Vegeta nearly falls to the floor, shaking wildly.

_You think you deserve this, you stupid ape?_ Frieza mocks. _Monsters don't deserve happiness._

The unmistakable crunch of a bone splintering followed by the chilling shriek of a young boy. Frieza's psychotic laughter grows with every act of violence. This time he hears the wet tearing of flesh and the shrill cries of an infant. The sound is almost too much to bear. The blood hangs around him like a veil, so fresh and putrid that it makes him vomit in his mouth.

Stop, stop, _stop oh God just __**stop –**_

_This will never stop._ Vegeta can hear the sadistic grin in the tyrant's voice. _Not until you and your woman and those disgusting half-breeds are torn into a thousand pieces and buried in the ground._

"You're dead," Vegeta growls out to the air around him, biting on his lower lip so hard it draws blood. The scent only makes him more hysterical. "You can do no more harm to anyone!"

_Can't I?_ Frieza grins. _You'd best choose a door soon, or you'll only just begin to see the harm I can do._

"Vegeta?"

He cracks open an eye to peer over his shoulder and sees his wife standing in the hallway, clutching her hands over her heart in concern.

_How easy it would be to just reach into her chest and crush that weak little heart_ –

Vegeta growls and staggers to his feet. He leans heavily on the wall, and she rushes to his side in an instant.

"Hon, what's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I'm fine," He bites out as he tries to reclaim his wits. "Check on the boy."

"What?"

"Check on the boy, woman, hurry!"

Azure eyes widen in panic as she bolts from his side and into Trunks' room.

Grateful to have one child taken care of, he forces his legs to cooperate long enough to stagger into his daughter's nursery. When he finally reaches her crib a bone-deep fear overwhelms him, one he has scarcely ever felt before. He takes one breath, two, three before he peers into her crib to see her: untouched, asleep on her back as her mobile spins lazily overhead. He leans over and sniffs her with the expectation of finding blood, but the baby girl smells only of powder and baby shampoo. He hesitantly brushes the knuckle of his finger against her cheek and her skin feels so unbelievably soft, but warm like it should. This is how Bulma finds him, bent over their newborn daughter's crib with a hollow look of disbelief etched into his marble features.

"What the hell was that about, Vegeta?" She demands.

His voice is distant, almost hesitant when he asks her. "The boy?"

"Is right where he should be, safe and sound asleep in his bed." She confirms, and the Saiyan Prince's muscles visibly relax. She wants to be angry with him for frightening her so badly, but she can't bring herself to feel anything but worry over her husband. "Vegeta, what was that?"

"Hn?"

"First you jump out of bed like it's on fire, then you nearly collapse in the hallway, and when I find you the first thing you tell me is to check on Trunks like he's in some sort of danger. You scared me to death!" But her words fall on deaf ears. Vegeta is visibly entranced by their young daughter and the unguarded look on his face makes her uneasy. She walks up beside him and hooks her hand on the crook of his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder. Bulma watches him stroke Bra's cheek for a moment before she asks him again. "Vegeta, what happened?"

The stroking stops. She can feel his bicep tensing beneath her hand. He pulls away roughly before stalking back out into the hallway. His jaw visibly clenches when he mutters, "Nothing."

It's so low that Bulma misses it at first. "What?"

"I said it was nothing."

"Don't give me that!" Bulma says. "I've been married to you long enough to know when you're lying, mister!"

Vegeta sighs. It's a worn, aged sound that does not match his youthful appearance. "Woman, enough. I do not have the strength to argue with you right now."

This makes Bulma hold her tongue. Since when does he not have the energy to bicker with her? Even after his most spending battles he always has fire enough to spare. Whatever this episode was, it has him rattled and the thought makes her nervous.

"Hon, talk to me." She pleads softly as she follows him out into the hall. "What happened?"

Vegeta closes his eyes and rubs them, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bulma can see the dark circles hanging beneath them, his lids puffy from lack of sleep. Everything about him screams exhaustion, and this coupled with his earlier tossing and turning makes the gears in her head begin to turn. Finally a theory materializes, but she is unsure. It has been almost six years since his last nightmare, but she can't ignore the signs. So she takes her guess.

"What was your dream about?"

Vegeta growls low, the sound tired with only half of the menace it usually has. "Get out of my head, woman."

"A-ha, so I was right." She says. Wrapping her arms around his neck from behind, she leans her head gently against his back. "What was it about?"

For a split second he can hear the screams and the next, the low hum of the machinery downstairs in the labs. He closes his eyes and sighs again. "Nothing you need to know about." Vegeta says, and he can't help himself from turning his head to peer into his son's open bedroom door. True as his wife had said, he could spot the top of his lavender head, not a hair on it out of place.

"Was it about the kids?" Bulma ventures. By her husband's sudden transformation into living granite, she assumes that she has once again hit the nail on the head. However, if it is enough to shake up Vegeta, she is unsure if she wants to know the details. Instead of asking, she offers quietly: "You know, we could have them sleep with us for the night. The bed is big enough to fit –"

"Absolutely not." Vegeta snaps. "Just because I cannot distinguish reality from fiction does not mean that we have to drag the brats into our bed."

"They're not brats you ass, they're your children. And you have the right to be concerned about them, tough guy or no." Bulma huffs, going back into the nursery to get Bra. She returns with the infant still asleep, nestled in her arms.

"Put her back. There is nothing to be concerned about," Vegeta insists. "Dreams are merely that – dreams. Just because I happen to have one bad one does not mean that we should cause any sort of alarm."

"Hon, this is your first nightmare in six years."

"And Frieza has been dead for nearly twenty. Neither can hurt us, so I fail to see the reasoning behind such concern."

"That didn't stop you ten minutes ago from checking on them, did it?" Bulma challenges, and for once Vegeta fails to have a comeback. He merely sucks his teeth before stalking off down the hall. "Wait!"

Vegeta pauses and turns towards his wife and is more than a bit surprised when he feels her hand over Bra. He does not think he will ever get over how warm and delicate she feels in his arms, and this feeling only reminds him of the devastating potential his arms hold. He is almost nervous to be left holding her while Bulma storms down the hallway with a determined look on her face. He calls after her, bewildered, but still low enough to not wake the baby. "Woman, where are you going?"

"To get a solution to this!" She says cryptically, and says nothing more before disappearing into the darkness of the far end of the hall.

Vegeta frowns, agitated and exhausted, but he cannot deny that having Bra in his hold helps to soothe some of his earlier anxieties. He sighs in defeat before wandering across the hall to her brother's room where the prince silently observes his son sleeping peacefully. He counts the exhales of Trunks' breathing like a mantra. He is at thirty-two when he feels Bulma's ki approach again.

"Woman, what are you doing?"

Cradled in his wife's arms is their comforter and two blankets with as many of their pillows as she could carry thrown on top of the heap. She throws the bundle to the ground before wiping her brow.

"I'm solving our problem."

Vegeta rolls his eyes. "You say this like it is a joint predicament."

"Newsflash, bud. I sleep less than a foot away from you. Knowing you, you're going to be tossing and turning all night before getting in and out of bed so you can keep checking on the kids. So since I need to sleep and you're a stubborn jerk and won't let me bring the kids to our room, I'm bringing our room to the kids."

"You cannot be serious." He deadpans.

Bulma begins to lay down the blankets on the floor of the hall, right between their son and daughter's rooms. "Oh I am, pal. Now go put Bra back in her crib so you can help me set up the pillows."

Doing as he is told, Vegeta deposits his daughter back into her crib. "Your mother is a mad woman." He whispers to the slumbering child.

"I heard that," Bulma's voice drifts through the open door of the nursery. He rolls his eyes again before giving his princess one last brush on the cheek. "Goodnight Bra," He says softly.

In the hallway he finds his wife crawling around on her hands and knees, trying to arrange the pillows in the most comfortable manner. "Are you not supposed to be doing anything exuberant, woman? You're going to tear your stitches." He says. She sticks her tongue out and chucks a pillow at him, which Vegeta catches with ease.

"Shut up and come to bed."

Too tired to argue but still lively enough to smirk at his wife, Vegeta settles in beside her on the floor. He does not say it, but he is pleased to see that from their position in the hall he has a clear view of both children in their beds. Curled beside him, Bulma has already begun to doze off.

"Better?" She yawns.

"Hush, woman." He says, but she can tell by the gentle squeeze of his arms around her that it is.


	5. A Song For Our Fathers

**ATTN: This one is a bit strange, but I really wanted to write it after listening to this song. This one isn't focused so much on Bulma and Vegeta's relationship as it is on Vegeta's relationship with Trunks, his **_**own**_** father, and his family as a whole. I wanted to try my take on Vegeta's own thoughts and possible emotions during this scene.**

**Set during Vegeta's "Final Atonement" against Buu. Forgive me if I added/removed/changed some dialogue. It's been about a billion years since I've seen this particular episode. I hope you guys like it, and I can't thank you guys enough for all of your continued support on these little oneshots.**

**V.**

**A Song For Our Fathers**

_Rating: K+ [mild implied violence]_

"_Dad!"_

This is it. This is the exact feeling that Vegeta has hoped for the entirety of his life to avoid: this feeling of vulnerability, this black tangled mass of fear knotting in his throat that makes it hard to breathe. While trying to fend off the threat of Majin Buu, he had momentarily forgotten the presence of his young son. He glances over to Trunks with teal eyes before sliding them back to the bubblegum wad of nightmares in the distance. Buu seems effectively distracted for the moment, and Vegeta knows that this is the only moment he is going to get.

"Trunks, listen to me." Vegeta says calmly. "I need you to take good care of your mother, understand?"

"Take care of mom…? But…you can do that too, right?" Trunks' voice sounds small, pleading as he asks him. "You can take care of her too, can't you? Can't you, Dad?"

Vegeta has heard this tone before—never before used by his son, but he has heard it all the same. It is one that betrays a bone-deep sense of fear, a fear of losing someone precious. He's heard it over a thousand times: during purges, on missions, in fights. He just never thought he would ever have someone address _him_ with it. Then again, nine years ago he wouldn't in his wildest dreams have imagined having a son to come home to, much less one that would actually want him there.

He meets his son's eyes again, and just briefly he sees Bulma's face. It is undeniable that the boy is dominantly Saiyan, but his mother's genes lay dormant beneath the sharp angles of his cheeks or the sturdy cut of his chin. They're like the sun; blind to them if you look into his face directly, but strong and prevalent from the corner of your eye; if you take a quick glance. Everyone has always said how much Trunks looks like his father, but all Vegeta has ever been able to see in the boy is Bulma.

"Trunks, I need you two to get as far away from here as possible. Now." Vegeta says carefully. His voice is as hard as stone and carefully measured with no room in it for arguing. But damn him, if Trunks is not his mother's son. The golden haired youth stares disbelievingly at his father, and Vegeta does not need to look at him to know that he is angry. He can feel his eyes, tainted teal now but still clear and blue and _innocent_—like his mother's—burning holes through what is left of his bloodstained spandex battle suit.

"No way!" Trunks protests. "Goten and I can fight! We'll fight with you!"

"Absolutely not," Vegeta says stiffly. The last thing he needs in this battle is to have to play the spotter. He cannot unleash his unbridled fury if he's too concerned with his son potentially being caught in the crosshairs. "I will be facing Buu by myself, but I cannot eliminate this threat with you and Kakarot's clone distracting me. Leave. I will not tell you again, boy."

"But Dad—!"

"No, Trunks. This is one battle I cannot let you fight."

And he means it. The momentary resentment licks at his heels, stinging and bitter before Vegeta squashes them down and locks them back into the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. It's a confused and bumbling kind of resentment that has no real place or reason, but it burns in his chest like acid. He resents these emotions that claw at his gut and make him check over his shoulder to check on his son. Vegeta resents the boy for standing there, for being here, for existing in a world where for all intents and purposes he should never have even been conceived. He resents these attachments that compromise his ability to win by any means, and he resents the fact that these attachments are making him deny his son his birthright. The boy is a royal-blooded, able-bodied Saiyan being denied his inane nature to fight because of the weakness of his mother and the perverse sense of duty his mere existence has given his father.

"We have to help you! You don't want to die, do you?!" The last question betrays that strange worry again, the one that makes Vegeta realize that for once in his life he's actually cared for. "We'll fight with you, Dad! Goten and I are strong!"

Vegeta closes his eyes tightly as he listens to Trunks and Goten protest. The boy is vehement, and it cannot be helped that he is reminded of the dark days before the destruction of Vegeta-Sei. Years ago he had been in Trunks' position, fighting the same fight from a different side. He had this conversation with his own father when Vegeta himself had been Trunks' age. The vehement desire to help rises like a phoenix from the ashes of his childhood. He knows his son's struggle. He knows it well: The need to fight to defend his planet, his people. The will to die for his cause despite barely understanding the concept of living. The steadfast determination to stand tall beside his father to face the flames of Hell together.

Buu's bubbly coos echo loudly in the distance, and he is snapped out of his trance. He cracks open his eyes and tunes back into his son's arguments, and he is stricken by a startling realization.

"I haven't held you since you were an infant, have I?"

Vegeta says it out loud in a way that almost sounds like he is saying it to himself, and Trunks is caught off guard.

"Wha?"

Vegeta looks back at the boy and raises his arm. "Come here."

Trunks takes a step back before he approaches hesitantly, baffled. His confusion and boyish embarrassment is clear in his voice as he shuffles from foot to foot. "Uh…Dad?"

But Vegeta does not answer him. He merely drapes his heavy forearm across the boy's narrow shoulders, pressing him against his chest. He feels so small against him, and the vision of his blue-haired mother dances across his mind. She's thousands of miles away right now, far and safe from the immediate aftermath of this battle. Vegeta reaches outwards with his ki enough to sense her, a dull flicker no stronger than that of an animal, but not without the familiar, distinct sharpness that he has come to associate with her. He can feel it in the way her ki is pulsing: she's worried, for both of them.

Something ignites in Vegeta's chest, blazing hotter than a star. It burns the way his pride does, strong and steady but where his pride is a scorching fire, this is a mass of pure energy. Its warmth floods his body, pulsating in time with the flickering of his son's ki and growing with the memory of his mother. It soothes him, calms the storm of his mind until the answer is clear in his mind. Before this it was a last-ditch effort, a final ace. But Vegeta knows now that to protect the boy in his arms and the woman he so resembles, there can't be any chances.

He is brought back to the despairing final moments he had, had with his own father right before he had left Vegeta-Sei for the last time. His father had clasped his thin shoulder, back then so much like his own son's, in his large, strong hand. _'We are Saiyans.'_ The king had told him. _'We do not fall. You will fight until your dying breath for the honor of your race. You will not break, and you will not mourn. You will be strong.'_

'_I will bring you pride, Father.'_ He had promised, but Vegeta does not know if he has made any good on it. His pride as Prince of Vegeta-Sei is all that has kept him alive in the past, but he awakens still at night and wonders if the King could ever find pride in what he was, and what has now become. He looks down at Trunks who knows nothing of his bloodline's legacy, knows nothing of his own father's blood-soaked past or promises, nothing of beatings and doubts and guilt and duty. He knows nothing but a loving home and a family that wants no more but for him to come back safely to it. The star in his chest burns away the fog of doubt and it makes Vegeta realize that this is all he ever wants his son to know.

"Trunks, there is something you must know." Vegeta says, and it shocks him just how sincere he is when he says it. "You've made me proud, my son."

Trunks seems so in awe of his father's words that he never sees the hit coming. Vegeta strikes the bundle of nerves right at the base of his skull, knocking him out instantly. He watches the boy's eyes widen with shock before fluttering shut, the golden locks of his hair fading away to his natural shade of lavender. Vegeta lets him fall before dealing with Goten who demands a reason for such betrayal. He jabs him hard in the gut before he too passes out, golden hair darkening to his own father's shade of ebony. Piccolo appears beside him and gathers the children, one under each arm.

Vegeta doesn't wince as he licks his split lip, but rather revels in the taste of the blood on his tongue. It is a comfortable taste, one that is familiar to him. It helps him to focus his mind, to center his ki. To the surviving prince of a warrior race, victory tastes like copper and aches like hell. Unlike others, he is able to ignore the way his torn muscles scream at him for rest and the way his throat begs him for water. Even in his wildest training, Vegeta has never pushed himself like this and he taps back into long-dormant training to force the adrenaline through his veins. He was bred to fight and taught to kill.

But this doesn't feel like victory as he stands there battered and bloody awaiting his death. It is a bitter irony that befalls him, the man who once sought immortality to be offering himself up so willingly to die. He tears his eyes away from the fat pink bastard in the distance to meet the Namekian's gaze.

"You take them far, far away from here." He says. Piccolo nods. A silent understanding is made between them, and Piccolo offers him the only words he can.

"I understand what you're about to do," He says, "and one day Trunks will too."

Vegeta almost grins as the green-skinned fighter turns to leave. "What will it be like?" He wonders out loud. There is no need for him to specify just what '_it_' he means. He expects nothing good and when Piccolo confirms his thoughts, he almost barks out a laugh. Death was not very pleasant the first time around, and with the blood on his hands despite his reformation, he still did not expect much of an improvement. But still, he does not feel his resolve waver.

Once he feels his comrade's ki clear a safe distance, Vegeta begins to call upon every ounce of energy he can. Buu comes bounding towards him with a lethal gaiety, and the dread of anticipation fills him. He will die here, and he will not be coming back. The thought makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and it takes all of his carefully harnessed self-control to suppress his survival instincts. But the thought of fleeing never once crosses his mind.

Instead, he is flooded with thoughts of his family. Of the woman who somehow matched him and outplayed him in every way that counts, of the crooked kind of smile she wears and the exact shade of blue that has hypnotized him since day one. Those blue eyes that she has given their son, the boy that he cannot believe he ever once rejected.

He thinks of Mirai Trunks and how all he ever longed for was his father's acknowledgement, to know that he had made his father proud. He thinks of the way he had died, ignored and unsure if he had ever meant something to the one man whom to him meant the world. Vegeta's throat tightens and his energy spikes. He does not want his son to know such a pain. He feels a sense of relief knowing that Trunks will never feel the uncertainty of his father's pride in him, the uncertainty that Mirai Trunks had been born with and the kind that Vegeta has been plagued with all of his own life. He knows that Trunks may hate him for this, but at least he will know the truth.

Suddenly, it comes full-circle. Had this been what his own father had felt, facing off against Frieza? Knowing that he very well would not be coming back, uncertain if his home and people would survive his last stand? In this moment he is stricken with a profound sense of understanding. Did he send his son away not in payment to appease a tyrant, but to know that it was for his own safety? It was far from ideal, but among Frieza's ranks Vegeta had been able to stay alive. He may have hated his father, but he was alive for his choice.

Standing now where his father had stood on the cusp of annihilation, his choices do not seem so obscene. His own father had died for what he had cared for, and Vegeta now understands this as he prepares to do the same.

Buu is closing in now, his ridiculous humming growing louder with his approach. He roots himself to the ground, the energy in his chest bursting forth from him in waves with each thought of his family. With a roar, he aims his hand.

_Bulma, Trunks: I do this for you._

And when the explosion goes off, his star burns as bright as the sun.


	6. Say Something

**ATTN: Okay so I've had the Majin Buu saga on my mind a lot lately. It's kind of the first place where we see Vegeta genuinely start to show his love for his family, and from a development standpoint it's a huge milestone for him.**

**In this chapter I wrote what I think his first real conversation with Bulma was like after the whole ordeal was over. Still family-ish, but mainly centered around BxV. Inspired by the song "Say Something" by A Great Big World, since I think the lyrics are perfect for Bulma's feelings after it. I hope you all like it and as always, thank you so much for the support!**

**VI.**

**Say Something**

_Rated: T [language]_

The first time they speak is weeks after the entire ordeal is over and long after Trunks is tucked away safely into his bed, asleep and oblivious to the dark clouds rolling in around their home. The two are alone in the dark in their kitchen. Vegeta has yet to move a muscle since the end of dinner, perched in a dining chair by the table while Bulma is over at the sink, scrubbing the dishes in silence.

Silence seems to be their new norm and Vegeta is angry with himself that he can't even bring himself to enjoy it. How many times has he asked for this? For once in his life the woman isn't jabbering on about trivial things or prodding him to share. Ever since the night he had told her, Bulma had only spoken to him in short sentences, one-word answers when they would suffice. Instead of comfortable lulls in conversation, the gaps were deep and barren and cold. He knows why she's doing it, and as much as it irritates him, he cannot exactly say that she does not have the right. Not after he had told her how he had willingly handed over his sanity.

For a long time the only sound that fills the shadowy room is the sound of the scouring pad scraping against the cast-iron skillets and the occasional stream of water from the faucet. It is as if each _scratch-scratch_ of her scrubbing grates on his patience, but he vehemently keeps his lips sealed shut.

Bulma stares down at the suds floating on the top of the water and how they shimmer in the moonlight that streams in through the kitchen window. It's a full moon out tonight, and the celestial happening tightens a clamp in her chest. It is something she has come to associate with the man sitting behind her and the few precious moments that he has ever let that mask of his fall. Bulma takes in a shaky breath as she mechanically scrubs circles into the pan in her hands. She turns on the faucet. Rinses it. Places it into the drying rack. Picks up a glass. Returns with a sponge to continue.

The tension makes everything aggravating and sluggish, as if she's fighting to run through water. With each passing moment the silence grows heavier. It seems to have a direct correlation with the gravity in the room, because as the minutes drag on it becomes more and more difficult for Bulma to keep lifting her arms.

The sound of the chair's legs scraping across the tiled floor rings out like a gunshot. Bulma slams the glass in her hands down on the counter with such force that it nearly shatters. Her voice is low, and in the one word she utters there is more emotion than in anything she has said in days.

"Why?"

Vegeta pauses in the doorway but does not answer her, nor does he look back. His hand is on the doorframe, and Bulma can faintly hear the wood splintering beneath his grip. His silence adds kerosene to her growing fury. She is the first to turn around, and her voice is as hard as stone when she demands again,

"_Why?_"

The muscles of his back flex and tense and the doorframe groans and splinters. Bulma's voice nearly cracks. "Answer me, damn it!"

Vegeta whirls around, onyx eyes now blistering coals. "Why _what_?" He spits and Bulma flinches back as if burned by the acid in his tone. She recovers and stomps her foot forward, fists balled so tightly that her fingernails pinch at the skin of her palms.

"You know what," She says. "Don't you dare act like you don't."

"What? If you're so upset about it woman, have the guts to say it." Vegeta sneers. "Go ahead. Say how I killed all those people. How I lost my damned mind from the power. How _disgusting_ you find me now. How much of a _monster_ I am."

"_You gave us up!_" Bulma cries. Her face is flushed and her eyes sting with tears that only burn more at his cruel mockery. "And for _what,_ Vegeta? What did he offer you that was so damn enticing?"

Vegeta snarls as Bulma's voice grows louder. "Well, what was it? Was it strength? Fame? _Power_?" Her eyes grow cold at the unconscious flash of guilt that lights in his eyes and she straightens up. "Of course. Power. That's all that's ever mattered to you, isn't it? _Beating Goku._"

Vegeta is strung tight like a catapult and ready to snap at the sound of his rival's name. The spite in Bulma's voice pierces him like bullets and it's maddening. Her nerve and her ignorance enrage him. How _dare_ she? How dare she speak of these matters as if she understands them? As if she is intimately acquainted with the feelings of worthlessness and rejection. Failure is something he doubts that she has ever experienced in her life and it repulses him. Resentment towards this weak, stupid human female burns hot in his gut and it makes his words loaded.

"Shut up!" He roars. "You know _nothing_ of how I feel, you pretentious, spoiled _bitch_!"

Bulma staggers back as if slapped, tears streaking down her face at his scathing tone. He takes a step closer to her, reveling in her pain. The sight of her shaking uproots a deeply seeded desire to destroy, to hurt. Berating her does nothing to soothe his wounded pride, but it helps to numb the stinging of his ego.

"Do you understand what it is like to fail over and over again? What it is like to know that no matter what you do, or how hard you train, or how badly you want it, that it will never be enough?" He demands, his own voice growing steadily louder until it seems like the room is shaking from its might. "You are exactly like _him_; everything comes effortlessly, never having to try, given to you on a silver platter. You understand _nothing_ about failure! _Nothing at all!_

So you ask me what I traded for you and the boy. Do you truly want to know?" Vegeta bites out, voice frigid. "I gained the ability to be who I was again! Ruthless and callous and all-powerful! None of this emotional bullshit that you seem so fond of forcing down my throat. When I let Babidi take control of me I could finally defeat Kakarot! I was powerful because when I turned Majin _nothing mattered! _Not you, not the boy, not this pathetic planet—_"_

She slaps him, hard. As expected, his cheek is as sturdy as steel and while Bulma may be the one who gets bruised from the strike, seeing the look of shock on his features helps to heal her pain. But the shock is only momentary before it melts into pure rage. He opens his mouth to scream at her but Bulma beats him to it, and the resentment in her voice makes his shrivel in his throat.

"You think I don't know anything about failure?" Bulma asks quietly, but the night is still enough around them that Vegeta has no trouble hearing it at all. Her head is bowed with her shoulders bent and shaking, hand still raised and beginning to purple from the force of her blow. "That I don't know what it's like to try my hardest and still have it all thrown back in my face?"

Her eyes are fierce when she finally looks him in the face again. Tears stream steadily down her face and he gives her credit for holding his smoldering gaze. Bulma's hand in the air clenches into a fist and she bites her lip to hide the obvious pain it causes her. It only seems to fuel her further.

"Vegeta, I love you. I have for a long time and I still do, even after learning just how much of a bastard you truly are."

Her strike cannot possibly have had any hope of hurting him, but for some reason the words make the warm imprint of her hand on his cheek sting.

"I've done everything I can. I welcomed you in where everyone else would have been happy to see you rot in the gutter. I stood up for you, defended you against every ill word people would speak about you because hey, _everyone deserves a second chance, right?_" She gives a snipped laugh, but it is humorless and bitter. The sound is wrong coming from her.

"I tried to talk to you. Learn more about you. I tried to get to know you and understand you. Not as a warrior or as a threat, but as a _person_. Something you probably haven't even considered _yourself_ for quite some time. I cared for you. I _loved _you. I would have given anything, done anything, _been_ _anything_ for you." Bulma chokes back a sob, covering her mouth with her shaking fist. It's beginning to swell and throb and she is positive that it's broken, but it is only one of many, many broken things within her right now.

"But no matter what I say or what I do, no matter how much I love you, nothing is going to get through to you, is it?" She sounds tired and defeated, something that Vegeta has never associated with her before. All at once Bulma curls in upon herself, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and withering away like a dying flower. Her eyes are rimmed with red and she doesn't bother trying to mask the deep sense of betrayal she feels.

"Tell me, Vegeta. Was it worth it? Was it worth giving up your home and the family that loves you? Was it really that easy to throw me away? To throw _Trunks_ away?"

The shame is so all-consuming that it crushes his lungs. Vegeta turns his head away and bites his tongue so hard it draws blood. What is he supposed to say? Yes; yes it _was_ that easy to throw them away like garbage? That in that one moment his pride and envy were so terribly blinding that he had eagerly jumped on the chance like a starving animal thrown a scrap of meat? That Babidi's offer was so enticing, so deliciously filled with promises of power and glory that he was willing to give up the only two people who have ever truly mattered?

Bulma cannot contain the agony that his hesitation causes her. She is so desperate to hear him deny these accusations that she's begging him. She's crying and shaking, ready to shatter into a million irreparable pieces and she's not sure that she can keep herself together much longer.

"_Say something!_"

But he can't, because there is nothing to say. There is nothing that he could possibly say that could justify his actions or bring sense to his decision. Shame makes any words he has sound hollow, and the guilt constricts his throat so tightly that it's difficult to breathe. Never in his life has he felt more worthless than he does in this second. He feels Trunks' ki fluttering calmly in sleep upstairs, blissfully ignorant to his beloved father's cutting betrayal.

He needs to hit something. He needs to smash and destroy and decimate but these instincts bring back flashbacks of when he shot so carelessly into the crowd at the tournament. He had killed innocents with ease, but what was so sickening now was that the woman standing in front of him and the child slumbering above him were there. In that moment he could have killed them and he would not have cared. Self-contempt washes over him with nauseating intensity, and he no longer has the will to meet Bulma's eyes.

So he turns away from her without uttering a single word. Because he doesn't trust himself to speak, and he doesn't deserve to have her hear his pathetic excuses. Vegeta has never deserved any of what he has, and he has never felt more undeserving than the moment he passes through the doorway and down the darkened halls, followed only by her shuddering sobs as she collapses into his discarded chair and mourns their loss in the dark.


End file.
