A/N: LAST MINUTE SUBMISSION, WOO. So, this is for the Picture challenge issued by MayMay B on We're Just Saiyan... If you haven't looked it up, do it now. We're pretty cool.
Anyhow, quick note: you'll notice this layout is a little...well, jumbled. It's a form I'm playing with, for those unfamiliar it's called a Modular story, meaning the segments are out of order. You should be able to figure out what happens when pretty easily. If you're confused, let me know in a review so I don't repeat the mistake. Anyhow! Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball/Z/GT.
"I am no warrior, and I shall never fight again."
This Is Me Never Fighting Again
Somehow, the world was less interesting than it had been before. He couldn't quite name what was wrong or what was off about the cragged red landscape or the vast sky painted with shades of pinks and oranges and reds. Whatever it was lent the world a certain peculiar dullness, as if the paint had been pulled from the art. The sun was setting before him, on the other side of the world from his Opponent's grave, and Vegeta figured it was about time he admitted to himself: he was only putting off the inevitable. He had to make a choice.
I will never fight again.
He regretted saying that. It was a complete lie. If danger arose, he'd rise with it. Shame be damned, he was a Saiyan after all. He would fight for domination, victory, or the sheer thrill of it.
Blue the shade of alien oceans passed through his mind. An ache deep in his stomach, brother to that of losing his rival, battled for his attention. Rage and desire warred with one another to the cadence of a tired breath.
She would not let him never fight again. She liked their fights as much as he did.
He had to make a choice.
When he stepped out of the private bathroom attached to his old room, the one he occupied before vanishing into Bulma's bed and, later, the depths of space, the heiress was resting on his bed, dozing on his pillow. He was frustrated by her insistence and decided he would deal with her later. Digging through his dresser, however, proved fruitless; his mind chose that time to inform him that his Earth clothes had probably been encapsulated and stored – at the hands of the banshee on his bed. Groaning, the Prince pulled on his bloody, tattered pants (if you could really call them that) of his battle armor. They would have to do while he dashed through her room and found the capsule he needed.
He was through his bedroom door, half-way into the hallway, when he heard, "Vegeta," being called softly, halting his steps. His body felt so heavy, all he wanted to do was find somewhere to sleep – and possibly hibernate through the summer. When he didn't respond, Bulma said, "Come here."
Sighing, he stepped backwards, returning to her. Her silly purple dress-negligée-thing was slipping off of one shoulder and didn't seem to be covering up much of anything at all. His mind distantly wondered if she knew; more at the forefront, he knew she did. Probably some damn plot to sleep with him again.
She was watching him in an odd way, a way he wasn't familiar with. She looked as tired as he felt and indignance reared its ugly head.
"What do you want?" he tried to snap at her, but his voice was still quiet. Bulma's sweet face melted as metal before a star. Her hand patted the place next to her. When he did as she asked, she got to her feet and vanished into another room. Vegeta tried to protest, but his bed was really comfortable.
She reappeared, a pale ghost in an empty house, bandages in hand.
He looked so lonely when he stood at the balcony, arms crossed over his chest, staring out the window at the city in front of him. The great Saiyan Prince didn't wear his customary scowl on those nights; his face fell into an impassive mask of disinterest. He focused his mind internally, and the bright lights from the city, like a reflection of the sky, were just boring enough for Vegeta to think without distraction.
Trunks gazed at the man that should have been his father. He had never known him, not until he had come to the past and met him, close to the man's age now. Vegeta was a gruff, proud man, accustomed to being harsh and strong and completely alone. He never offered up information unless he had something snide to say, and rarely did he admit a personal liking for another being. He was a walking display of exaggerated hubris.
He had his guard down.
"What happened?" she asked as she approached. Vegeta shrugged and looked out the window. He wished Earth had a moon. Above all, he wondered what she looked like bathed in moonlight. He didn't really want to talk about the cuts and bruises that littered his body.
"I thought you were on the Lookout with the others," he mumbled, staring at her shoulder. The purple strap was still falling past her collarbone. He resisted the urge to put it back. "Why are you asking me?"
Bulma didn't seem to have a response for that, so she lifted his arms over his head and set to pushing on his chest; her keen eyes caught the minute tug of his eyebrows and prodded harder around that area. Unconsciously, he growled and watched her smile. Her hands deftly stretched the bandage and began to wrap his ribs.
"Yamcha told us what you did," she whispered, staring intently at his battered skin.
"Suicidal," he grumbled, more to himself than to her.
"Very noble, actually," she replied, tearing the bandage and securing it with a clasp he hadn't seen her bring. "I guess Trunks warmed up to you after all."
He was quiet, staring still at her pale shoulder. She moved on to his arm, began wrapping around his bicep where a nasty gash had scabbed and been ripped open in the shower.
"Why won't you look at me?" Vegeta asked finally.
Something moved in the shadows, and Trunks took an automatic step back, further into the darkness. Ivory arms emerged into the pale light and touched the warrior's bare back, followed by a slender, feminine form with blue hair. Vegeta turned his head slightly.
"What do you want?" he grumbled.
"I came to find you," Bulma replied simply, resting her chin on his shoulder. He grunted and turned back to look at the city, but he offered no response. Bulma's left hand idly ran along the curve of his shoulder. "What are you looking so intently at, huh?" Again, the Saiyan made no move to answer. The two stood in silence for several minutes, looking out from the balcony and at nothing in particular. Once, Bulma turned her head and kissed his shoulder.
"I'm glad you came back, Vegeta," she whispered, eyes closed, lips grazing his skin. "Even if it wasn't for me."
I think your father loved me, Trunks, even if he never said it.
Vegeta turned his eyes toward the woman next to him; she did the same.
"Don't think this means I won't leave again," he said softly, though there was no threat in his voice. Bulma nodded, and her face seemed to fall ever so slightly as he looked away.
"Will you see Trunks off tomorrow?" A moment's hesitation, and then he nodded once. Bulma smiled and kissed his cheek before she turned to leave.
Only then did Trunks realize his father had never once turned Bulma away or scorned her contact. As cold as he may have been, Vegeta had not refused her touch. He had met her eyes, spoken softly and honestly, and when the warrior left the balcony at last, he entered the room Bulma had disappeared into.
Trunks smiled.
He sensed her before he saw her, and smelled her before that. Some damn chemical compound of distilled animal fat and oils derived from specific plants – well, he thought that's what she'd told him. She stirred on the couch when he came padding into the living room. She wore a thin, purple dress of some kind, too solid to be her usual lingerie.
"You're late," she mumbled, quiet even to his keen ears. Moonlight shone from her eyes when she sat up. "What kept you? Everyone already came back."
Despite being pleased that Bulma had waited for him, the prince crossed his arms. "I did not realize I was under a time constraint. Bearing my scion gives you no say over me."
Those big moonstone eyes rolled in their sockets. "Can it, Vegeta. I'm not trying to control you – I never have. You know that."
He looked away because, yes, he did know; she had tried very hard to convey that to him on many occasions. At a loss for words or arguments – by the Gods above, when did it become so difficult to stir a fight with her? Child-rearing seemed to have calmed her too much; he missed (needed) her rage, her push, her flushed cheeks, quivering hands, and scorching eyes – Vegeta turned to leave. He wanted to wash away the filth of humiliation and disappointment.
Bulma looked up at him, sheepish, and looked away. He frowned. "That's what I mean. You always scold, yell, berate when you do this menial work of patching me. What's wrong with you?"
"Why do you automatically assume there's something wrong with me?" she replied, very focused on his arm. Her wrapping became steadily slower, until she tore that, too, and moved on to his other arm. "You can't assume that it's not you. Maybe I don't want to look at your ugly mug."
His eyes narrowed and, though she was grinning, he didn't sense much humor in what she was saying. "Tell me what is on your mind or so help me-"
"What?" she snapped. "You gonna blast me, Prince? You're so damn grouchy, I don't-"
"Bulma."
Her chest heaved with a deep breath and when she looked up, meeting his eyes, he realized what she was looking at. His reflection was blond. When did he-?
"You've been like this since you came back." Her hand touched his face. "So this is a Super Saiyan. ChiChi was complaining that Goku and Gohan had a difficult time not breaking things in this…state. You're doing very well."
He scoffed. "Do not categorize me with that oaf. Of course I'm not breaking everything I come into contact with."
Bulma had returned to wrapping his arm, and he watched her lazily as she worked. "I feel strange administering first aid to a Super Saiyan, you know? I mean, you guys are basically Gods in this form, and I'm just like, 'here, let me wrap up that little gash for you.' Geeze, Bulma, way to help."
Vegeta chuckled. He didn't say it, but he agreed, what she was doing was a little useless, but he'd learned that was her way of coping with these Impossible Warriors that shouldn't, by her people's standard, exist. She was resting her head on his arm now, wrapping his bleeding knuckles.
"Piccolo mentioned that you'd wanted to be alone," she continued, not looking at him, watching her work, her little bit of work. "I was worried you were going to go back to space. I'm sure it crossed your mind, I know you better than you think, Vegeta, but I'm really glad you came back. Trunks could stand to have his father around."
She wasn't working, wasn't moving anymore, only laying her head against his raw arm, her Super Saiyan, mumbling aloud about things he was sure she didn't mean to say aloud. Vegeta didn't like what she was saying, but it was true. Future Trunks, that silly, strange dope, had strived so hard for his attention and, when he'd finally grown tired, abandoned hope for and faith in his would-be father. That need for approval was tied to another man, this Vegeta knew with a painful clarity that resonated deep in his chest, but that shame was for him, not the counterpart that had died in battle no, for the man that had lead the world into certain destruction.
Vegeta sighed looked at Bulma; her ki was low and steady. She'd fallen asleep. Shaking his head, he lifted her easily into his arms and carried her to her own bed, debating whether he would join her shortly or if he would return to his "own" bed.
From Earth, the star was distant and vague, barely visible to the naked eye. Up close, it was actually two stars, one giant and one dwarf, orbited by rocks and dust and asteroids now. He had a sneaking suspicion that the larger star didn't used to be so big; though youth and time had warped his memory, Vegeta remembered the stars being roughly the same size before.
The bigger star, he couldn't remember the name for it, was dying; he'd seen it first-hand during his time traveling in space, reaching for Super Saiyan. Perhaps it was a good thing Vegetasei had already been destroyed. He didn't know exactly what the death of a star did to a planet, only that it wasn't pretty.
From his place by the window, the star still sparkled like the woman's jewelry. Diamonds, she had told him, could last forever, since it was one of the hardest substances on the planet. They were made, she said, from the same substance as a white dwarf star – a hot, dying, carbon ember, a corpse of a star.
He sighed and turned his back to the skyline. The star's light would continue to reach the planet for many years to come, until the death caught up to the distance. The glimmering rocks that adorned his woman would outlive that star, one of the last remnants of his home.
Vegeta vowed to never return to that dust again.
There was no need – not for him, anyway.