Different Days
by scoutergreen

FRIDAY

A pair of thin stiletto heels clicked across the kitchen floor and stopped at the threshold of the living room.

"Vegeta, I need you to pick up Trunks at school today. All you have to do is wait for him at the front doors at half past two, alright? I won't be home until late tonight, but my mom is already planning dinner for you guys."

"Mmph," the Saiyan responded with a disinterested snort and sat up on the couch, clothing disheveled and hair in need of a shampoo, "Trunks. Two thirty. His school. Fine."

"Vegeta, I'm serious about this. I'll send you a text message to remind you, alright?"

The Saiyan mustered enough energy to actually look up at his wife. She was dressed in a knee-length maroon pencil skirt, white blouse, sheer stockings and smart patent leather heels. "I'm not stupid, woman. I know how to tell time."

It took all of Bulma's strength not to go off on Vegeta. He was going through a period of deep depression, which only worsened his tendency towards hypersensitivity and taking things very personally. "You're not stupid, Vegeta, I just need you to be on the ball with this one. I'm going to work. You should take a shower."

"I said "fine". Go to work," Vegeta pushed himself off the couch and headed upstairs to the washroom without saying another thing to his wife. When he made it into the master bedroom, it actually felt like an unfamiliar space. He hadn't slept in the bed he shared with Bulma for close to six days straight, finding the trek upstairs after a day of doing nothing downstairs too exhausting to even contemplate. The room smelled of a cigarette smoked twenty minutes prior, high-end perfume, clean bedding, and the remnants of one of his wife's luxurious, typically soapy showers.

He found it easy enough to take off the clothing he'd worn for two days straight and step into the shower. When the warm spray of water hit him, he gasped and stood still for a few minutes before telling himself to get with it and wash out his hair already. He used Bulma's shampoo, an expensive tube of opalescent pink gel that smelled like cut grass and produced an incredibly thick lather. The more he cleaned himself, the more alert he felt, and he swore his mood was actually improving as he rinsed out his hair. Vegeta finished his shower under a cool rinse and stepped out of the shower actually feeling better about himself for the first time in a week.

Dressed in a clean pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and opting to remain barefoot until it was time to pick up Trunks, Vegeta went down to the kitchen. He stood facing the refrigerator for a few minutes, wondering when he'd last eaten a proper meal, and tried to figure out what he could even put together. He finally opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents, finding remnants of a roast beef dinner, plenty of fruit, a block of cheese, and a huge cardboard box containing close to a third of a leftover cheese, pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, and green pepper pizza.

This pizza must have been gigantic when it was ordered. Who got this, anyway? It looks delicious.

One of the unwritten rules of the Briefs compound was that any person looking for something to eat was to not consume any take-out food another person had ordered unless given explicit permission to do so, but on that particular Friday, Vegeta really didn't care about that rule. He took the entire box out of the refrigerator, pulled a bottle of hot sauce out of the cupboard, and took his find over to the table.

Three slices into the stolen pizza, Mrs. Briefs returned home from an early morning appointment and greeted Vegeta with a cheerful "hello" as she entered the kitchen.

Vegeta grunted something resembling "hello" in return, his mouth full of pizza crust. He heard her light jacket coming off and being slung over the back of a chair, and her heavy purse was put on the end of the kitchen table. It had taken Vegeta years to realize that these actions weren't meant as an insult, but rather an indication that the person in the kitchen would be leaving the house within a matter of minutes.

"What are you up to today, Vegeta? Nice to see you eating something."

"Picking up the kid from school today."

Mrs. Briefs quietly sucked in her breath. She never got the full story from either her daughter or son in law, but apparently Vegeta had gotten into a very heated argument with another parent the school year prior and was now deeply disliked by members of parent's council, while Bulma's previously glowing reputation was suddenly marred by comments on her choice of husband. "Oh, that's nice," Mrs. Briefs put the kettle on, "Trunks just raves about you to us! He'd love to spend more time with you..."

The Saiyan snorted and caught himself before he began choking. There was no way the six year old brat liked his father- he seemed more frightened of him than anything else. "Spare me, woman. You know how I feel about empty flattery."

"It isn't empty flattery if it's true, sweetheart."

Vegeta rolled his eyes and continued eating his pizza. A few minutes passed before Mrs. Briefs set a mug of tea in front of him, and by the smell of it, she'd made him peppermint tea.

"Pizza and mint tea is a shitty combination," Vegeta muttered, pushing the mug away.

"Well, then drink it little later on. You've been complaining about your stomach hurting the past few days, so I thought this might help. Anyway, sweetheart, I need to go out again. Do you know the address?"

"Yeah," Vegeta finished his final slice of pizza and pushed the plate away, "been there a few times before." After washing down the remains of his pizza with a gulp of water, he reluctantly moved onto the tea. His stomach did hurt a little, come to think of it.

"Okay, Vegeta. I should be home around three thirty. Trunks is going to be my helper in the kitchen tonight, but you're always welcome to join us! Enjoy your day, honey!" Mrs. Briefs pulled her jacket back on, picked up her purse, her travel mug of tea, and headed out the door.

After eating, Vegeta decided he may as well take the time to ensure he looked decent for his trip to Trunks' school. During his brief interactions with the parents of other students, he'd found them thoroughly unpleasant in almost every way possible. When a mother had remarked on Vegeta's "lack of a career", as she had put it, Vegeta told her to "eat shit and die". What followed next was an argument that Bulma was forced to break up. After that incident, Bulma had warned him to always remain on his very best behaviour at Trunks' school.

Vegeta had responded to Bulma's warning by refusing to go to Trunks' school, but a year later, he found himself being forced to do just that.

He brushed his hair through until it shone and fell into its natural shape, trimmed his fingernails, and paired his black t-shirt and jeans with a grey sports jacket. Upon closer inspection in a full-length mirror, Vegeta actually felt pretty good about himself for the first time in several months.

At two o'clock, Vegeta started his walk over to Trunks' school. When he arrived at two twenty, he found there was already a long line-up of parents waiting to pick up their children. Feeling a bit awkward in such a large crowd of strangers, Vegeta hung back until the majority of the parents had picked up their children.

"Daddy!" A young voice called out, and Vegeta caught a blur of violet hair and bright clothing bounding towards him.

"Hey, kid. C'mon," Vegeta went to leave the schoolyard when Trunks gently tugged on the bottom of his coat and pointed at a young teacher holding a clipboard.

"You gotta sign me out, Papa..." Trunks couldn't believe his father didn't know about the sign-in/sign-out process. There were only four adults who could pick him up or drop him off at school: Mom, Dad, Gramma, and Grampa. More often than not, it was Gramma or Grampa who picked him up. Mom would pick him up on occasion, almost always driving and in a real rush. As for Dad... he picked up Trunks maybe once or twice per school year, and he was never happy about it. Once, he'd been a half hour late.

"Oh, right. That shit. Alright," he approached the teacher, "where do I sign?"

"So you're Trunks' father? It's nice to meet you," she extended her hand and her smile grew when Vegeta shook her hand, albeit with some hesitation, "and it's a pleasure having Trunks in my classroom this year. He's a very bright boy. By the way, here's his quarter-year report," she reached into a bag slung over her shoulder and retrieved a single page of paper folded in half.

"Mm," Vegeta took the paper and lazily scrawled his signature next to Trunks' name and student number, unsure of how to respond, "I'm sure my wife will be interested in seeing this report. Good bye."

It wasn't until he and Trunks were off school property did Vegeta realize he'd signed his name using Galactic Standard script. He cracked up laughing at his own error and wondered if the teacher had noticed yet.

"Since we're walking, I may as well look at your report card, kid," Vegeta retrieved the now twice-folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and began skimming it, "I see you have 96 in math. What's that number out of?"

"One hundred. Dad, did you go to a school that used letter grades?"

No, just physical and psychological abuse and so much boring, unrelenting travel...

"Kind of. I went to school so long ago, you'd have to read about it in a history book. Hm... 97 in English, 94 in... why the hell are you studying German, kid? Is your mother making you do that shit? Well, whatever, good for you... it's probably a good idea to become multilingual. What do you do in "visual art", anyway?"

"It's where we make art. This week we made bowls out of clay. My art teacher says she is putting them in a ki-ki... um, a kiln this weekend. I think it's called a kiln. I like it when we get to paint!"

"Okay. You must be a decent artist if you have a 93 in the class. Your lowest mark is in "physical education". What the fuck is physical education? Do they make you undergo training at that school?"

Trunks stared up at his father, bright blue eyes wide and mouth open with amazement. "You said a bad word..."

"You didn't answer my question. What is physical education, and why do you have 72 out of 100 in it?"

Trunks stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, gripped a bar of a wrought iron fence, and bent it two inches to the left. "Ugh, I hate gym class!"

"Gym class?"

"You know, sports and stuff. This week we played baseball and the teacher made me sit out the entire class, because he says I throw the balls too hard and that I hurt people! I don't mean to! I'm not throwing hard, Dad! He's a liar! He just doesn't like me!"

When tears welled up in Trunks' eyes, Vegeta found himself setting his teeth on edge and hissing with annoyance. "Don't cry, boy! Your teacher is a fucking idiot."

"You said a bad word again..."

" I say bad words all the time. Get used to it. Ugh... Ican'tbelieveI'msayingthis," he muttered, "what does your mother or grandmother usually do when you earn a decent report from school?"

"Well, Mommy takes me for hamburgers, but Gramma takes me to the movies and lets me play at the arcade there too."

"Ugh," Vegeta was put off by the idea of being stuck in a crowded cinema, likely surrounded by children and their insufferable parents, "no movies. How about ice cream? I've got money for that..." Vegeta fished several coins out of his jeans pocket and determined he had enough for something good.

"Yay!" Trunks' mood brightened in an instant and he hopped around his father excitedly, "you're so cool!"

They stopped at an ice cream parlour on their way back to the Capsule compound; Vegeta was fond of caramel ice cream, while Trunks immediately went for a chocolate milkshake. As much as the Saiyan hated being in crowded spaces filled with strange humans, he mentally coached himself through the process of placing the orders and paying for them without cursing or displaying severe anger. Three minutes later, with his ice cream cone in hand (and several extra napkins stuffed into his pocket) and Trunks contentedly sipping away at his treat, they continued the walk back home.

They were quiet for close to an entire city block when Trunks spoke up: "I think getting ice cream is pretty cool, Dad. You don't pick me up often."

"Everybody else was busy today."

Trunks went back to his milkshake. "I wish you could pick me up more often. You're funny."

Vegeta rolled his eyes. He wasn't funny- or at least he didn't try to be funny. "I thought you were scared of me, kid."

Trunks paused to take another sip of his milkshake. "Not really. You just seem scary."

The Saiyan wasn't sure if he was insulted or encouraged by this remark. "Oh, I see how it is. If you aren't scared of me, then it's time we began training you so that you can get a handle on your strength for situations like gym class, kid. You're old enough to begin serious training now. No more fun stuff."

Trunks swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. He'd never been in the "gravity room" his father used, and his mother and grandparents had warned him to stay out of there until given permission to enter. If there was one thing that Trunks found frightening about his father, it was that he was extremely strong and had incredible powers. He'd seen his father floating midair, sending currents of electricity through his fingertips. If his father got upset, sometimes nearby objects would begin to shake. He was sure he'd seen his father send a carton of milk sliding across the table one day using only his thoughts. Once, he'd even seen his father effortlessly holding up the front end of a truck as his mother worked underneath.

The young half-Saiyan knew his father was different from other people, and Trunks was becoming more aware by the day that he wasn't like his classmates. He looked different from them and thought differently too. Even though Trunks had just started first grade three months prior, he found his classes (aside from gym class, anyway) weren't very challenging.

"Well, okay... will you teach me how to fly like you?"

"It'll happen if you train with me. And I'm willing to sweeten the deal, kid, so listen up: you get your mark up in that "gym class", and I'll start picking you up from school on Fridays. But that needs to be a secret for right now, alright?"

"Really?! You're so cool!"

They reached the compound, and Vegeta punched the security code to open the wrought-iron gate and led his son inside. See, I can remember to pick up the kid and complete the task, he thought bitterly, still irritated by how his wife had spoken to him in the morning.

Trunks ran inside, excited to be home, and ran straight to the kitchen. "Gramma, Gramma! Dad got me a milkshake!"

"Oh, he did? Isn't your Daddy nice, Trunks?" Mrs. Briefs knelt down to smooth her grandchild's hair and gave him a welcome home kiss on the forehead. As Vegeta strolled into the kitchen, intent on taking something (anything) to snack on, Mrs. Briefs rose to her full height and gave her son in law an approving nod.

"Did you get yourself something too, Vegeta?"

"Yeah, yeah," the Saiyan tried to brush the whole thing off, acting like he was more interested in the pantry than conversation. After a few minutes, he decided it would be wise to just wait for dinner.

"Trunks, why don't you go wash up before we get to making meatballs for tonight's dinner, hmm? What's Grandma's rule about cooking in the kitchen?"

"We gotta wash our hands and scrub underneath our fingernails!" Trunks set his nearly-empty milkshake on the kitchen counter and ran out of the room. Seconds later and the sound of a child bounding up the stairs reached the room.

"So," Mrs. Briefs looked back at Vegeta, her unusual smile returning, "did you enjoy getting out a bit today?"

"Mm, yeah. The kid's alright, I guess. Oh," he reached into his pocket and passed her the folded report card, "here's his report. He reports good progress in all subjects except for his "gym" class- apparently the teacher's making him sit out certain activities because Trunks can't exactly play within the confines of human strength and abilities."

The woman took the report card and gave Vegeta a knowing nod. "He's a very rambunctious boy. Very strong, too."

"Of course he is. The woman gets upset whenever I suggest that it's time he begin intensive training under my watch- thinks he's going to get hurt..."

"Well, that's a valid concern..." Mrs. Briefs was also uneasy with the idea of her grandson adopting some of his father's behaviours. She too worried that her grandson would sustain injuries within the GR.

"He won't be thrown into the deep end, woman. Believe me, I have an idea of where he needs to start and where he needs to go. I'm bringing him into the GR tomorrow. Anyway, I'll leave you and the boy to your little kitchen activity. I must train and prepare myself, along with the GR, for Trunks to begin his training in the morning."

Vegeta turned and left the kitchen before his mother in law could object. He went straight to the GR, a room he hadn't visited in a while, switched on all the lights, and took a deep breath as he stood in the centre of the room and took in the space. It had been a better day than he'd expected, and knowing that he had a goal set for the following day only made it that much better. A small tendril of something close to hope, actually eager to begin training his offspring, sparked somewhere in his chest. For the first time in what surely had been years by that point, Vegeta felt as though he had renewed purpose and importance within the strange family that had become his own.

He was already looking forward to Saturday morning.

End