To Dream Again

Author's Notes: Another suddenly inspired story.  The only thing I really have to say though is to not be fooled by the tense of the story; it's written that way for a reason.  Oh, and yes, this is a Vegeta fic.

Warnings: Angst, a Saiya-jin no Ouji's misery.

Obligatory Disclaimer:  I own no part of Vegeta, Trunks, Bulma, or Dragonball Z in general.  They are all copyrighted to Akira Toriyama, Toei Animation, Bird Studios, and whatnot.

To Dream Again

He awakens, breathing hard, lost and disoriented in the realm of the living. Glancing around, he frantically searches for comfort.  He sighs with relief as the realization of his surroundings sinks in; though awakened, he is now free of that twisted kaleidoscope of pained memories and hazed torture that plagues him so in his bleak dreams.  Sweat pours freely down his forehead, dripping down in small rivulets through the curved tones of muscle and skin.

He quivers, somewhat fearful at returning to his nightmarish realm of untold pains and sorrows.  Still, he knows he will eventually have to return to such an unforgiving territory, and he mourns because of that.  A warm breeze flows over him, and his eyes dart towards the open window where white curtains flutter in the sultry draft.  He shivers again, despite the heat, and grasps for something that will reassure that at least he's safe, even if he has no home.

Velvety, tangled tendrils of blue hair find themselves suddenly prisoner in the world-worn hands of the prince.  A sigh sounds from the owner, and the warrior allows them freedom in fear of waking the other occupant of the bed. 

He's still homeless, but at least there's assurance.

Shudders rack his body, and he makes a decision.  He can't stay here, haunted by recollections of terrifying, white emperors  and a familiar, old ache of a red planet exploding into a million tiny jigsaw pieces before his eyes, a puzzle never to be reconstructed again.  Not now, anyway.  Perhaps later he will return, but for now, he must leave.

Small feet pad along a well-worn carpet that is badly in need of replacement. The hallway creaks and groans beneath his feet as he walks the path that continues to the stairs.  When he reaches the destination, he makes his decline down the winding staircase. 

Rapidly, he walks to the large kitchen near the front of the home, stockpiled with the large quantities of food needed for a Saiya-jin and his child.

Trembling hands retrieve a glass from its high, cupboard retreat and fill it silently with only the rush of water to break the oppressive quiet.  The room is too quiet.  Well, he feels it's too quiet for his good, anyhow.

Arms set quivering with the still ingrained terrors of tonight's unrelenting dream stalkers, he reaches for a chair, a stool, anything that will allow him to rest for even just a moment.

The glass reverberates in his hand, the fragile layers resonating in his unsteady grip.  Eventually, the pressure becomes too much, and the glass shatters, bursting into a thousand shards like his planet had done so many years before.

He stares at his wet fingers, dripping blood and water droplets, with incomprehension.  No movement is made for several minutes that are an eternity of waiting.

He finally moves, but not to clean.  Noiselessly, he makes his way from the kitchen, making his way back to the rising staircase.  Subconsciously, he knows his wife will be angry with him for not cleaning his mess, but he fails to acknowledge his mind's warnings, opting to continue his unguided trek.

Slowly, he ascends the staircase, his step a ponderous trod as he makes his way to the upper hallways, the bedraggled carpets of the said place contrasting sharply with the newly polished, hardwood steps.

He reaches the top, and he pauses, silence overcoming his hushed, trembling form.  He doesn't know where to go, where to hide, where to get away from these nightmarish memories. 

So he goes to the one place where foul sin has yet to taint innocence.

He strokes the little one's hair, the soft, lavender strands slipping through his coarse, weathered hands.  He is without understanding or conscious motion; his movements are those of a man who's too long lost his knowledge of love.  To him, the feeling is an alien one, an emotion to be wary of the many entrapments that line its silken insides.

Suddenly, he freezes as a pair of sky blue eyes open themselves to the darkened world, a tiny hand comes to his own, grasping to his thick finger.  A series of gurgles issue from the infant's tiny throat, and a smile takes shape, just for the father.

And he knows not how to react to this.

Fearfully, he steps back, shaking with this startling revelation of unconditional affection.  Fondness, affection, love… for him…Him of all people. A murderer.  He grabs his head; fingers tighten in the raven strands, nearly tearing the coarse fibers in an attempt to silence his tortured mind.

He damns the world to hell and hates himself for not being part of it–for no longer is he of the living, but of the dead.  Grabbing the nearest object, he hurls it across the room in rage, no longer caring what pains he may suffer from doing so.

The chair slams into the near window, the thousand shards ricochet across the room.  He recoils as a piece rebounds back towards him and slices his cheek. He stands, suddenly still, and a hands makes its way to his wet, dribbling cheek.  He's bleeding again, small rivers of it pouring down his fingers, like the blood of so many he's hurt before…and red like the skies of his home planet, lost so many years ago…

The child lets out a cry of fear, and the once mighty Saiya-jin no Ouji falls to his knees once more, clasping his hands and finally allowing a strangled sob to tear from his throat.

And he prays to a goddess whose people have been forgotten in the cruel flow of time, begging her to trade a thousand curses for one night's free, blessed sleep.

Please review, and do tell me if I've thrown Vegeta out of character.   :sighs:  I need to get over this torture-Vegeta-emotionally fad…