Author's Notes: Thanks for stopping by. This will be a collection of Vegebul drabbles that try their best to stay canon. I'm new to the universe here, so feel free to critique as needed. And as always, please note that I do not own Dragon Ball Super, any likenesses to characters either fictional or non-fictional, ect are property of their respective owners. Just an adult writing fanfiction here, folks.
Three Minutes
(Post DBS Ep 27)
When she realizes everyone around her has a plate and is otherwise occupied, their faces begin to blur and she knows her hands are shaking enough now to draw attention to herself.
She's not stupid, knows what this is. The bile rises in her throat and she presses the back of a shaking hand over her mouth, taking two calm steps backward into the nearest doorway before turning and taking the halls at a clear sprint. Her eyes begin to water in a way that betrays her fight against her gag reflux.
Somehow overriding her body's natural response, she makes it to the basement lab. Fresh air isn't what she needs right now.
The red emergency lights are soothing and familiar, and though it doesn't stop her from vomiting in the large washtub in the corner, she knows that it will pass soon enough. She stuffs her fist in her mouth, teeth biting into the flesh just beyond her knuckle without breaking delicate skin. Wills her body to stop it's incessant shaking lest it draw attention while she bends over the washtub.
The thing about being a genius was that it came with the shitty perk of knowing how the people around you were going to behave before they did it. And that meant putting on a brave front lest her softy-on-the-inside-Super-Saiyan-God-Prince-of-all-Saiyans husband discover that watching the earth – not to mention everyone she gave a true fuck about – get blown to bits in front of her induced a panic attack the likes of which she hadn't had since she found out she was pregnant with their fucking child a month after he headed to space to go Super. As far as she knows, he doesn't have a clue, and she'll take this secret to her grave, thank you very much.
She backs herself to the wall because her legs feel like jello, and if she's grounded no one can see her from the door. The whirring of machines will disrupt their ability to hear her heartbeat, and the energies mingling upstairs will prevent them from really feeling the changes in her ki. Sliding to the floor, curled in on herself while her heart bangs in her chest sounding suspiciously like the explosion she sees on repeat when she squeezes her eyes shut, Bulma recognizes that she's going to bid her husband goodbye after this meal is over. There will always be more training for him. She signed up for this willingly. Loving him would never be easy, but it was worth it and Bulma didn't like easy things very much anyway.
The shaking returns as the feelings of imminent loss wash over her. Who knew how long he'd be gone this time? She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus on the whirring sounds to recalibrate her volatile state into something functional. She doesn't see the electric blue glow as Whis appears instantly before her.
"Ara ara," He tuts. "Here I was, hoping for some sort of private buffet."
Her watery eyes open wide as she jolts in surprise, but she doesn't look up, her gaze trained on Whis's feet. Still too sensory overloaded.
"Shall I keep Vegeta-san home for a while?" He asks in his most velvet voice. She hears the concern. Hates it. Hates herself. They're friends, after all – even if it had stemmed from her selfish desire to keep her family alive.
Violently shaking her head, she bites down on her fist again, hard. Teeth marks worrying the skin of the fist from the pressure now. The tears flow treacherously down her cheeks, but she fights her body to prevent the sobs from escaping while she attempts to reign herself back in.
"No," She says after a moment of breathing around her fist, letting the breath dry the saliva that had accumulated on it. It's practically a mumble. "Please, don't do that."
"His absence hurts you." It isn't a question.
"Vegeta willNOT be shackled by my insecurity."
"This wasn't the only instance," Whis guesses – or maybe he knows, Bulma hasn't quite cracked the code on him yet. His eyes are calculating and cold for a moment, his version of cataloging, she thinks to herself. He's studying her, and she has a strange feeling he's more god-like than Beerus-sama in more ways than one.
"It wasn't even three fucking minutes that they were dead. I've lived with worse, and I'm sure I will again." Her words are like venom. Whis likes this earthling woman when she's playing nice, but he likes the viper of a temper that's coiled under her skin far better. She's not lying to herself. He can respect that.
"You're an interesting person, Bulma-san."
"Likewise," she says, pushing herself up. The blood that was rushing, pumping in her ears with each thump of her heart has quieted to a level she can maintain without detection. These moments don't keep her down long – nor will she let them.
They return to the party – no one notices she's been gone, and Whis makes a scene about not being able to find his way out of the Briefs' castle of a house after leaving the bathroom. Bulma is an excellent actor. Whis can almost believe she's not faking it, that she's as joyous as she pretends to be. Beerus's narrowed eyes on his teacher suggest he might know something went amiss, but he certainly doesn't mention it. Neither makes any attempt to prolong the visit. They finish their meals, say their goodbyes, and return to Beerus-sama's home.
"Perhaps you two should go home more often," Beerus-sama says through a cough while they're traveling back. "Whis is getting soft having you two around to do his chores for him."
"Oh, ho, is that so, Beerus-sama?"
"Tch."
"No thanks, I gotta get stronger! We'll try and be quieter so you can sleep, Beerus-sama."
Whis shook his head. Subtle approaches were hardly effective with these Saiyans.