Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z. I don't own Bulma. I don't own Vegeta. Hell, I don't even own this poem. It was written by my extremely talented friend, who didn't even realise how brilliant she was, so I didn't even know about it until Friday, when she read me some of her poems.

That Night

That night as black as fear
But nowhere near what that night had
Shifty eyes, sweaty palms, butterflies in your stomach
Close. Closer than the breath I could feel against mine
Now entwined. Together as one gazing into each other's eyes
Falling into paradise
The soft feel of his lips, the way he came close
Right up to your face.
Now on top of you.
The only thing holding you together was him
The sighs, moans and groans, signs of pleasure and excitement
Hands fumbling down her waist
Hers down his
Things getting a little more complicated now
But that didn't stop them.
That night just plays over and over in her head
As she hides herself and her baby in the shadows ahead.

Bulma stared miserably at the pregnancy test in her hand. Positive. She was pregnant. By Vegeta. She was going to have Vegeta's child. She was still having trouble digesting this. Vegeta's child.

"Vegeta's child. Vegeta's child. Vegeta's child."

She continued to whisper this mantra for a good few minutes, stressing each word. Neither seemed right in her mouth. Vegeta. A father. That was just plain ludicrous.

She wondered vaguely what the child would look like. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it take after her or him? She tried very hard to convince herself it was alright, tried desperately to picture Vegeta taking a little blue eyed girl out for ice cream, or a little black haired boy to the park. It was no good; she just couldn't imagine it. Vegeta just wouldn't do those things. He would not be a good father to this child. He didn't know how. She'd worked out as much a month ago, gleaned it from the scraps of information she's managed to coax out of him. The trick was not to ask him straight out, not to ask at all in fact, just sort of work your way around to what you wanted to know, and hope he'd offer the information himself, without letting him know what you were doing.

She remembered that night so clearly. When she closed her eyes, she could feel his hands running down her body, holding her waist, caressing her neck with his lips. But he was so much stronger than her and it had hurt. Yet, it had still been pleasurable, beautiful, wonderful, and she'd wanted more. But she couldn't keep up with him. She'd been exhausted, she hadn't even heard him get up, get dressed and leave.

She knew he didn't love her. He'd taken what he wanted and then left, like he'd no doubt done to countless other alien women. It was just sex, that was all, nothing more, no expression of any great feeling, just lust. He didn't love her.

So why did she still want him so badly? All she wanted right now was for him to come wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be alright.

It had been pitched black in his room. His dark features caused him to be almost completely hidden; if not for his eyes she probably wouldn't have even known he was there. Those obsidian orbs, the whites shining in the darkness, turned to her, concealing the fear and horror with the speed and ease of a master. But not quite fast enough. She'd seen the haunted look before he'd wiped it off.

And she so desperately wanted to help.

But it seemed she hadn't. Because if she had, why would he have left? All she'd done was make him feel even more miserable and confused. She'd done more harm than good.

He'd glared at her. When she'd first entered, he'd glared at her so viciously she almost left again. Since he'd been living with her, she'd gotten very good at interpreting his varying glowers, from the small irritated one that he might give if she didn't fix the stupid gravity machine quick enough, to the full on death glare, that he'd given again. She'd found it incredible that he could look furious and stoic at the same time. She didn't know it was possible, but he managed it.

Shaking her head, she stared down at the pregnancy test again, maybe in the vain hope that it would somehow have changed since she last looked. It hadn't.

Frustrated, she threw it across the room. As this was unsuccessful at alleviating her feelings, she hurled the nearest thing to hand as well. Lip gloss. Why she had left her lip gloss in the bathroom, she didn't know, but it didn't really matter. The little pot clattered to the tiled floor too. The lid got knocked off and went skidding under the sink. She sighed.

His lips had been so nice. He'd been so close she'd felt his breath, his lips over her neck, her face, her shoulders. They were so soft. She vaguely registered now how strange that was. The rest of his body was calloused, covered in scars, from battles, or Frieza, or his father.

He'd spoken about his father. Very briefly, when she'd first run her fingers down one of his scars and said, "you've been in so many battles, Vegeta."

He'd muttered, so quietly that she almost didn't hear, "I didn't get that from a battle."

"Frieza?"

he'd shaken his head. She'd frowned, "who then?"

"My father," and with that, he'd grabbed her and kissed her. Not a gentle, loving kiss, but rough and longing.

It wasn't exactly how you would expect your Prince Charming to act, she reflected to herself now. Really, you'd expect something a bit more loving, a bit more romantic, than him telling you his father had beaten him hard enough to leave scars, and then locking you in a lustful kiss that made you dizzy from lack of oxygen.

And yet it was still soft. Despite how hard he was pressing his lips against hers, she could still feel the softness of his lips. And that made her trust him.

Just another one of his contradictions.

But now he was gone. He'd stolen one of her father's ships, and left without a word. Left her all alone to deal with this new life growing inside of her.

Bastard.

She tried very hard to hate him for this, to feel some kind of anger or bitterness or resentment at the very least, but she couldn't. It was very unusual for her to not to be able to conjure up these feelings, but she just didn't seem able to and apply them to Vegeta.

Because, while she tried to convince herself, and she knew her friends would try as well, that he was just an insensitive asshole who'd only wanted her for one thing, there was something she knew that they didn't, and would never believe if they did.

When he'd been holding her, when he'd been lying on top of her, hands everywhere, down her waist, her legs, her chest, it was carefully, almost uncertainly, as though he wasn't quite sure how to do it. She knew he'd done this before, done it to dozens of screaming, pleading alien women most probably, and then killed them once he'd had his fun, but he'd been gentle with her.

He'd been trying not to hurt her.

Bulma knew that the times ahead were going to be hard. It was going to be filled with shadows, assuming Vegeta ever returned.

She knew he would. She couldn't explain how, she just…did. He hadn't slept with her for the hell of it. He'd slept with her because he felt something for her. She didn't know it if was love, he was so unaccustomed to those kind of feelings, that she doubted he knew either. But she did know he'd be back.

He'd come back for her.