Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon ball Z or any of the character's except for my OC's

Summary: Yasai never thought he'd end up in a place like this. A new family that wasn't really his, and a life that did not belong to him. His body has healed, but his mind hasn't, and he is still scared. Of what, he isn't sure. But this is a fear he is not sure he can let go of. Especially not with the lingering thoughts that he still isn't safe. Not yet, not ever... Sequel to BWTB

Warning: Rated M for language, abuse, rape, mpreg, etc.

Yay, I'm so excited to get this out! Now I don't really have much a plan for how this is going to go, because I am not sure how exactly to write hurt/comfort type stuff. I am excited to start this, as I can't wait to continue my journey with this universe!

So as of right now, I have this story planned to go in a Vegeta/Goku direction. I've got some people who requested of this, and I actually wouldn't mind taking this fanfiction in that direction. That obviously won't be the main focus, but there will definitely be hints, or possibly full out romance if I think it fits into my story.

ALSO, the "nameless man" from chapter 15 of BWTB, is NOT an OC. Aricot is (and I absolutely adore him!) but that is it. I'll let you guys ponder that information :)

Blind Eyes Opened

Chapter one:

"Breaking news!" a feminine voice blared from the television, "three sixteen year olds, Eleanora White, Caleb Smith, and Justin Williams were found over 4,000 miles from their Australian homes in Satan City police station, after being pronounced missing nearly four days ago, on November 11th. The teenagers were last seen near Bondi Beach, Australia, before their disappearance. I have spoken with the three teenagers, who all claim to have been kidnapped by—"

Vegeta clicked the off switch on the remote control, being careful not to use too much strength and crush the device. He was not quite sure why he was even watching the television; it had never been that interesting to him. The only times he ever watched it was when he was relaxing after finishing a work out, and Trunks was watching some strange—American, he learned. Trunks was sure to tell him that there was nothing wrong with the Japanese ones, but between three o clock and five, the Americans had the, quoted "best freaking shows on!"—animated atrocity (most of them including a talking yellow rectangle—to which he learned was supposed to be a sea sponge—or life-sized crime fighting turtles, and one that had involved a talking snake and a boy who seemed to think everything involving butts was funny, to which Vegeta quickly proclaimed that Trunks was never allowed to watch again), or when Bulma forced him to watch "dramatic" shows (General Hospital, but nowhere in the episode he watched did it involve a hospital) or "romantic comedies" (the ones he had watched were always focused on some strange sexual situation, and were so corny, he could not even remember one scene to be able to individually describe them) with her at night, which were so boring that he actually would prefer sitting through the cartoon with the turtles. Or perhaps the one with the children who could manipulate the four elements to do their bidding. Unrealistic, but still intriguing.

Vegeta scrubbed his hands over his face, annoyed that he was thinking so in-depth about a human television, and seriously referring to a children's show as intriguing.

His vision was blurred when he pulled his hands away, and he blinked a couple of times to refocus them. He huffed a breath through his nose, and looked out the window. It was bright out, and tiny flakes of white were falling from the sky, but seemed to melt before they even made it to the grass. He was surprised he did not see Trunks outside, playing in the strange Earth weather; snow, it was called. No such thing existed on his home planet, the climate was far too warm for that. Not that he remembered much of it.

He leaned his head back on the couch, and closed his eyes. He was alone in the living room, but he could still hear Bunny bounding around in the kitchen, humming a tune in her ditzy head as she cooked up lunch.

He debated heading down to the GR to train, but he had just come back from a work-out session not twenty minutes ago, and he was not in the mood to have Bulma berate him again for "training all the damn day, and never spending time with her and their son (now sons)". Besides, he was in the process of lowering his hours spent training. While it made him a bit restless, he figured he was handling the sudden withdrawal quite well.

Perhaps he would go and see his eldest son. Vegeta had spent quite some time in that beige hospital room, in the burgundy same chair just a few feet from the metal-barred, occupied bed. He was there quite unnecessarily; most of the time the boy was asleep (seemed more like he was unconscious from how hard he slept), or either being so completely surrounded by doctors that he did not even notice Vegeta was there. Not that they ever spoke to each other. If Vegeta ever attempted conversation, it was always one-sided, so he simply did not speak unless necessary. He did not mind the silence. If it was not to ridicule someone, or gloat about himself, he was not all that talkative.

Despite their quiet visits, he did not like to leave his son. He tried to think rationally, and decided that the time he wasted by the sick boy's beside, could be used for more productive things, like spending time with his youngest—did you know that Trunks dislikes animals just as much as his father? Vegeta hadn't until yesterday when a dog from Mrs. Brief's "animal farm" (as Vegeta so eloquently referred to it as) had tried to lick him, and the boy batted it away in annoyance—, or Bulma—sex—, or even training for an hour or so with Kakarot—they never actually train per se, but Vegeta did get a punch or six in when the younger man annoyed him enough (... which was quite often...). Even with all these new added options to his daily life, he still found time to sit with beside his eldest. Even a couple of times when he was awake.

The boy was improving remarkably. The doctors, despite being informed of his alien heritage, were still baffled by his rapid recovery. He had only been home for just over a week, and was already putting on weight, breathing on his own, requiring less and less painkillers and other drugs, and they predicted they may be able to remove his casts in another week or so. It was quite indefinite when the boy would be able to walk again, but the doctors were quite confident that he would, and that it would be soon. It was quite a wonder how he could all of a sudden be doing so well, when he was doing so poorly before.

His first day or so had been quite unsettling, given that he had gone into cardiac arrest almost twice. He had seizures quite frequently, nothing life-threatening, but still frightening all the same. He would vomit blood and black fluid (the only things he could vomit, because there was nothing else in there). He was completely filled with disease (it would be much easier to describe which diseases he didn't have): pneumonia, genital herpes, tuberculosis, gastritis (Vegeta didn't even know what the hell that was), gonorrhea, malaria, multiple viruses: including Ebola, hepatitis, rabies... the list was endless. Thankfully, nearly half of those things were either completely cured, or close to being. The boy was truly astounding. Then again, the boy was a of saiyan blood, Vegeta expected nothing less.

Yes, he would go and see his son.

But first, he would eat, because it was past noon, and the meats that Mrs. Brief was cooking smelled quite delectable.

Red eyes blinked open, only to close again in irritation from the bright light. He slowly opened his eyes again, and stared up at the blurred bright ceiling. He no longer had the disoriented confusion of wondering where he was, because he had been waking up to the same crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks for quite some time now. He woke up calmly, which surprised even him, given the shakiness he normally felt when arising himself from sleep. It seemed like he should be MUCH worse, taking in account of the place he was waking up in. It really was a wonder that he was keeping a handle on himself (when he was awake, it did not always go so smoothly), except for a few days ago. It wasn't really his fault in his opinion. He had in fact woken up to a weapon (which he was later told was called a syringe). It was only simple instinct that he screamed and thrashed, which had in turn caused the IV tubes to rip clean from his body.

After his "episode", his once-white bed sheets soiled with urine and blood were changed, and he was restrained to his bed.

Aside from that, he had woken up quite peacefully. He didn't have nightmares, actually, he didn't dream much at all. He simply went to sleep—quite frequently in fact—and woke up to the familiar crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks. He would lie there very still for quite some time, staring up the ceiling, memorizing the dot patterns (which wasn't really a pattern, he learned), trying his best to ignore the strangers that meddled with his body, which was very hard. For some unknown reason, he really did not have much a choice against fighting them. Aside from being restrained, he did not have the strength to move. He did not know why this was, and he did not like it. Vegeta often assured him that it was only the so-called "drugs" that they forced into his body, but that did not make him feel any better. If anything, that made him feel worse. He had always been vulnerable, had always been weak, but at least he had the opportunity to struggle if he so wanted. That choice was no longer welcome here.

Occasionally the strangers would ask him questions ("Can you feel this?" "Does this hurt?"), to which he would sometimes nod, or shake his head 'no'. Most of the time he would act as if he could not hear them, and would only stare up at the crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks, the stranger's shadowed bodies looming over him in his peripheral vision. They often wore long dark-tinted white robes, or deep mint green pants and shirts. Their heads were covered by tight blue caps, and the place where their mouths and noses should be was hidden by white or blue masks. Their bodies blocked out the lighting source, giving their large bodies a shadowed, ominous effect. Or perhaps that was all in his head. It did not matter; how could anyone possibly feel safe around these strangers with only half of their faces and the sharp weapons they prodded his body with? The strangers were not always there though, and the solitude was what he enjoyed the most.

It was quite strange really, that he enjoyed being alone, when he always hated it before. Sure, he liked to be left alone (who wanted to be punished all the time?), but being alone was a completely different situation entirely. Then again, things were a completely different situation now as well.

When was by himself (truly by himself, the few moments when not even Vegeta was there), there was quiet, only the sounds of his erratic breathing (they had officially gotten rid of the oxygen mask with the bird he learned was called "penguin" printed on it just a few days ago) and the beeps of the machines around him permeated the room. That, actually, was another contradiction in itself. He hated, and loved noise, but that wasn't a really new, he had always been that way. Loud noises he did not enjoy. He hated how the volume would ring in his ears (similar to the way screaming does), but the silence, well, that made him feel alone, and as of right now he was on the fence about whether he liked that or not. Little noises though, like the rhythmic beeping of the machine beside him was soothing, and made him feel a little less alone than he really was.

During these times, when he was by himself, he would stare up at the ceiling. It didn't seem like that much of a difference (considering he did this all the time anyway), but it felt like it was to him. He could stare up at the ceiling without his heart pumping painfully from the fear he always experienced when he was breaking a rule. The doctors never seemed to care. They barely looked at them, only when they were making eye contact to ask him questions, and other times when they used a black instrument to shine a bright light into them (which always causes his heart to pound and a line of sweat to form on his forehead, as if they were looking for the evil that must be embedded in them somewhere). He knew that he was allowed to open his eyes, and that Vegeta claimed there really was nothing wrong with them, but old habits die hard, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to open his eyes around other people without some sort of discomfort.

But when he was all by himself, the anxiety that always seemed to lick at the back of his subconscious was gone, and he was able to look freely up at the ceiling. It was a nice past time really. Studying the crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks, which seemed to change shades depending on the lighting of the room. It busied his mind, and helped him ignore the pain he felt.

The pain—or more discomfort—annoyed him immensely. It was not as bad as he figured it could be, probably because of the strange fluids they pumped into his body, but it still annoyed him nonetheless. His muscles ached, his feet tinged with a slight burn, and his bottom was sore from constantly lying in the same position. Normally he could have quite literally walked off his discomfort, but Vegeta had explained to him that he had to remain in bed—not that he had a choice, he was tied to it—which only intensified his discomfort and made him restless. He had no choice but to lie there and stare at the ceiling or sleep.

They would not even let him use the bathroom! Not that he particularly needed to, which was probably because of the needle that was inserted into penis (which had hurt like hell when it was dislodged during his "episode"). If he strained his eyes enough, he was able to indulge in his weird fascination of watching the bright yellow liquid—it had been a very dark yellow when he first arrived—travel through the clear tube, before it disappeared into the bag that was taped to the foot of his bed, only knowing that it existed from watching the strangers replace the clear flimsy container once it became full.

He huffed with boredom. He wanted to eat. He had not eaten a thing since he was on the other planet, and the "doctors" (strangers) would not feed him. He was not necessarily hungry though, surprisingly. He had once overheard a white-haired, wrinkly man telling Vegeta something about his stomach being too weak to sustain food, and nutrient-filled IV tubes, and something about an internal rupture, but he did not understand much of it, and he did not quite frankly care. All he knew was that he missed food. He wanted something to put in his mouth, to feel the mushy chewed-up texture slide down his throat, and settle in his belly. Again, that was making him dreadfully restless.

Despite his pain and hunger and restlessness, he oddly felt... better.

It was strange really. The pains that normally coursed his body was either numb, or non-existent. He was always tired, but never so tired that his head would hurt and his eyes would burn. His muscles did not hurt, just felt numb, possibly a little strained. His throat hurt, but not terribly so, more along the lines of a common cold. He no longer felt the irritation of dehydration, as his tongue was never dry, and his lips were no longer chapped and brittle. His ears no longer burned and pounded, and his nose no longer was stuffed—his nose still ran, but it was mostly mucus—not that he could breathe through it yet, considering the tubes that were lodged in there. While his vision was blurry, his eyes did not sting.

In the back of his mind, he heard the pattering of feet against the hard flooring. It wasn't near enough that he could tell the direction it was approaching from, but he closed his eyes anyway. He evened his breath, and forced his eyes to remain still underneath the closed eyelids to simulate sleep. A skill he was quite successful at.

His heart thumped a bit as the feet grew closer. He figured that they were coming from the entrance to his right. Still, it did not necessarily matter where the feet were coming from, he knew who it was either way.

The pattering grew ever louder, and he was starting to have trouble keeping his rate down. Louder and louder the pattering feet grew, entering his room, then crossing it, until they finally ended right by his bedside.

"Brother, wake up," a little voice whispered loudly in his ear, a hot breath causing tingles to form over the seemingly asleep boy's skin.

He ignored it.

"Come on, Yasai," the voice whispered a little louder.

Yasai. It was so strange to be addressed that way. Earlier, when he had first arrived at this foreign place, he was not addressed as neither Yasai nor Chill. Those moments, when his father had first left him, and he was at the mercy of the strangers who poked and prodded at his body while he lay helpless and mute on the cot, he was addressed by strange names. Some had called him John, others called him Doe, and few called him both at the same time. They were strange titles, and he did not understand why he was being called those things, but by then he was slipping in and out of consciousness, and was quite unable to ask (not that he actually would have). But this name, Yasai, was something entirely different.

Perhaps it was because it was his official name, a completely new title, in a completely new place. But that name, it did not feel as though it belonged to him. That name was so pretty, it rolled of the tongue in such a passionate way. The 'S' coming out as a mere breath, gracing the air with a gentleness that just did not seem to belong to him. That name was exotic, like it would belong to someone of royalty, perhaps a warden. The name had expectations, a high honor surrounding it, only deserving greatness. A greatness that he would never have. A greatness that he could never hope to display. That name meant something, like it should belong to the young lavender-headed boy that stood beside him now. It did not fit him—the poor excuse for a son that amounted to nothing but a useless vessel that lied in his own sickness all day—at all.

But strangely... it felt like it did...

The boy, his brother, was still standing there, his fingers clutching the metal bar of Yasai's bed. "Come on, I know you want to wake up. You've been sleeping for a week! Don't you want to talk to me?"

Yasai felt a pang in his chest, because he really did not want to talk to him.

"Dad told me you sleep so much because you're sick and trying to heal. But Goten was sick a while ago–had a really bad cough and everything, a high fever too–and he was better after only four days! And, he wasn't sleep nearly as much as you do, we were still able to play his board games!" Trunks exclaimed.

Yasai continued to sleep.

"Trunks!" a familiar feminine voice called out, her voice sounding right from the doorway, "you better not be in Yasai's room again!"

The sickly boy forced his heart to still.

The only thing just as bad as the brother, was the mother.

"But, Mom," Trunks whined as she crossed the room, "he's been sleeping for a—"

"I know, Honey," the woman said, her voice barely softening as she grabbed him, and forced a mask over his lips, "but you cannot be in here without an adult, and especially without any covering. Do you want to get sick?"

"No... But he doesn't look all that sick!" he exclaimed, earning him narrowed eyes and a shush from his mother.

"Trust me, Trunks, he is very sick, and you can very easy catch them. Do you understand?

The boy begrudgingly nodded, and reached his hand out to grab one a disposable hospital gown from the portable dispenser, when his mother stopped him.

"Mom..." he whined, as the woman pulled him away from the bed.

"Lower your voice, Trunks. We have to leave him be, or he'll stay sick longer."

The boy pouted as he was led out of the room. He muttered back softly, "I know. But when will he wake up?"

"I don't know, but bothering him isn't going to make it sooner; he needs his rest. Come on, let's go mess with your dad."

Trunks gave a small smile, and his eyes brightened up a bit. "Alright. Do you think I can get him to drive air cars with me?"

The sick boy did not hear the answer, as two disappeared from the room, closing the door behind them.

Yasai waited a few more minutes before he opened his eyes. The pumping in his heart slowed, as guilty relief washed over him. He tried to ignore it, and only stared up at the crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks.

TBC

I hope you enjoyed! I really wasn't sure how to start this, but I am pleased with this chapter. Review! Let me know your thoughts and suggestions! They will really help, especially this early in the story!