A/N: Ok, I'll keep this note short and sweet, mostly because I'm going to attach more notes as a "second chapter" for those of you that are actually interested in anything I have to say about this. However, I did want to post about the artwork for the story, saying that it's not mine, and you can find the artist's work here (obviously take out the spaces, because FFNet won't let me post links): angelwingkitsune. deviantart art/ Super-Saiyan- 200742265. And, obviously, the song isn't mine-it's The Calling's "Wherever You Will Go." Other things I have to say about this story can be found in the other chapter if you're interested. Thanks, and enjoy!
The Darkest of Your Days
So lately, been wondering
Who will be there to take my place?
When I'm gone, you'll need love
To light the shadows on your face
Vegeta stood silently at the doorway, arms crossed, watching her impatiently as she stared numbly out the window. The storm was raging outside, and he could hear their son crying downstairs. Bulma didn't seem to have noticed. She continued to watch, unblinking, as the rain continued to pound against the glass and the wind hurled the leaves of the willow tree outside at a horizontal angle, revealing the gravestone underneath. Vegeta grit his teeth— damned woman, sentimental as ever. Under other circumstances, it was a trait that he would never admit to anyone (except maybe begrudgingly to himself) that he secretly admired. Her genuine devotion to those she loved is what finally convinced him that maybe, just maybe, a family was something more than a weakness; it was something to live for—to die for. Now, however, that devotion was becoming a problem, and a serious one at that. It was keeping her from looking after their child, of focusing on things that truly mattered, and it simply had to stop.
The thunder exploded overhead once more, and the child's cries instantly became louder, causing Bulma to snap out of it. Vegeta watched as she shook her head, dried her eyes on the back of her hand, locked the window, and pulled the blinds before heading off to check on the baby. He just didn't understand—it had been six months since the day he had fallen in battle at the hands of the androids. Why hadn't that ludicrous woman moved on? She certainly had more important things to worry about than his rotting corpse that was buried six feet under. It just didn't make any sense. If only she were able to hear him, then he'd certainly give her an earful. He would tell her exactly how asinine she was acting, and how she needed to get over it and move on. She needed to look after their son—she had to teach him, care for him, protect him. There was no time for all of this ridiculous sentimentality. If she were thinking clearly, she would know this. So why was she so preoccupied with it?
Vegeta frowned; he just didn't understand what the woman saw in him—what kept her so hung up over his death. He gave her no reason to care for him in the first place. Why did she choose him over her last mate, and why was she still so devastated by Vegeta's absence? He snorted then; not even that scar-faced fool could've survived so he could check on her now. He should've just stayed at home—it wasn't as though he really had anything to contribute anyway; his death was pointless. That way, he would be here with her now, telling her that Vegeta's death was something she needed to move on from. The Prince scowled at that; at least that would be something they would agree on, although he was positive they would more than disagree on where (or with whom) she should continue next.
Vegeta turned, uncrossing his arms, as he heard Bulma's soft footsteps on the carpet as she came back into the bedroom. She obviously must have finished feeding the child and rocking him back to sleep, because he could no longer hear his wailing. He watched her as she padded barefoot over to the closet, pulling her shirt off and tossing it carelessly in the clothes basket along the way. He smirked at that; oh, the things he would do to her right now if he could. Damned spectral limitations. He continued to stare at her bare back as she picked out a black sleeveless nightgown, undressed completely, and pulled it over her head before heading over to the bed and crawling under the blankets. He walked over to stand beside her and watched as she pulled a pillow—his pillow— close to her, cuddling against it. She inhaled the scent that was probably long gone by now, and Vegeta frowned when he saw tears begin to fall down her cheeks. Within moments, she was gasping as violent sobs racked her body. Vegeta sighed, crawled into the bed next to her, and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his cheek comfortingly to the back of her head. She obviously couldn't feel him; that much he knew—but for some reason, within moments of him doing so, her sobs quieted, and he stayed with her as she fell into an uneasy sleep.
If a greater wave shall fall
And fall upon us all
Then between the sand and stone
Could you make it on your own?
Vegeta thought he knew what it was to be a failure when he was working toward his ineffectual goal of achieving his ascension and reclaiming himself. He had strived for years—three whole years of beating himself into the ground, day and night, never relenting, refusing to give up—only to have the image of Kakarot flashing Super Saiyan burned mercilessly into his mind each time he failed to reach it. It was infuriating. Why could that lower third class dog achieve what was meant for him and him alone, and he couldn't even obtain a glimmer of it? No matter how hard he tried, how far he pushed his body—he couldn't harness the power. As the asteroids plummeted down around him, it was only when he let go of caring about anything—a man left with nothing left to lose, nothing (in his mind) to live for, a man pushed to the brink of his limits—only then was he able to reach the coveted level of greatness. He had finally achieved that which had been his goal his entire life. He was then more eager than ever to return to Earth and challenge Kakarot to a final battle, where he would once and for all prove his place as the true Prince of Saiyans.
Only upon that arrival, his bitterness was brought to new heights; the fool went and died of a stupid heart virus before Vegeta could even get his chance at retribution. A heart virus. A microscopic piece of filth robbed his chances of ever taking back what was rightfully his. He thought, then, that this was the epitome of failure.
He thought wrong.
No, failure was looking into the eyes of his death-dealer, as he was now, and knowing what was inevitably true: his best, everything he had… wasn't good enough. But that wasn't what bothered Vegeta the most. As he lay there, gasping for air in the mud and the rain, feeling his blood drain out from underneath him, he realized with a sinking feeling that his best wasn't enough to protect his family. Bulma and Trunks… they would be in danger, and he wouldn't be able to save them. They would either die or live out their days in a world of anguish. His son would grow up living a life of fear, death, and destruction just as he had. It would be no different. And Bulma… well, he knew the woman was strong, but her strong spirit alone wouldn't be enough to make the androids back down. They would have fun with her before they killed her, at the very least. And at the most…
He grimaced as he felt his life leaving him. Who would protect her—them—if not him? Vegeta drew in his last breaths, gulping the air and shuddering from the pain as the male Android came to stand over him, smirking. As he raised a glowing hand to the Prince's face, Vegeta closed his eyes and held on to his last thoughts—that if Kami had any care of his wishes in the world, he just wanted his son and mate to be at peace.
The chill of the rain hitting his face is what finally brought Vegeta out of it. Slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting as the rain spattered into them. He frowned when he realized that the mind-numbing pain from his abdomen was no longer present. Odd. Vegeta ran a hand gingerly over his stomach, feeling the chipped armor and tattered shreds of his uniform against his fingertips—the hole wasn't there. He was healed. He pushed himself to his feet; what was going on? Had they wished him back?
No; that wasn't possible. He had seen when the Namekian had been blasted apart by the Androids. And unfortunately, if that fool was gone, then so were the Dragon Balls. Therefore, being brought back was out of the question. So then what had healed him? Vegeta scanned the area, looking for any sign that could tell him what had happened. The Androids were no longer here. If they weren't here…
In a panic, Vegeta took off to the sky towards West City. He had to make sure his mate and son were safe. Damn those Androids. Two artificial humanoids that weren't even traceable by ki signature… the only way to determine their location was to either spot them himself or wait until their rampage began. It was frustrating beyond belief. He could only hope that they hadn't chosen West City as their next location for destruction.
In moments, he saw the yellow dome of Capsule Corporation appear over the horizon, and sighed in relief; it was untouched. He put on a burst of speed, and when he reached the edge of the property, touched down on the front lawn. He walked briskly up the steps, and was about to open the front door when a fist passed in front of him to knock.
"What in the hell do you think—" he snarled, turning to glare at the person who had interrupted, when the door flew open and caught his interest instead. Bulma stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, tears threatening to spill from them. Vegeta rolled his eyes and snorted at the gesture. "Woman, don't be absurd. Have you—"
"Gohan? No…" she said in disbelief, and rushed past Vegeta over to the adolescent. Vegeta grit his teeth, turning around, a verbal assault already on the tip of his tongue—how dare that woman blatantly ignore him…
Instead, he froze, the image meeting his eyes making his blood run cold. Bulma was taking a bloodied body from the half-Saiyan, falling to the cement as her tears began to flow. Blue spandex. Saiyan armor with gold links. White boots and gloves. Black, spiky hair. His body. It was his body. He was dead. He had died. He had failed. Again.
Vegeta's head began to swim. What was going on? Where was he? This hadn't happened before—why wasn't he in Hell already? Why was he seeing this?
Bulma cried out in heartbreaking agony as the sobs shook through her, cradling his lifeless body in her arms. "Vegeta… no… Oh, God, no…" She ran her fingertips through his hair as she stared down at him. "You arrogant asshole. Why—?" her voice broke, and she hugged him tighter as she began to hyperventilate, her tears dripping onto his blood-stained armor.
Vegeta gripped at his hair, closing his eyes. As he focused on tuning out her cries to think, a burning sensation began to gnaw at his insides. It was annoying at first, but within moments, it became downright excruciating. He hugged his arms to his torso, doubling over and falling to the ground, panting hard. It felt like he was on fire. He opened his eyes, screaming now, and watched as the world disappeared around him. As his world faded to black, all he could focus on was the torment, his flesh feeling like it was melting to his bones, yearning for it to stop.
If I could, then I would
I'll go wherever you will go
Way up high, or down low
I'll go wherever you will go
The next thing Vegeta was aware of was the chill of the air around him. What had happened to the heat? His eyes fluttered open, and as his vision came into focus, he stared at the bleak, grey sky overhead. It was filled with clouds (or fog—he wasn't quite sure which), and even though a dull light seemed to emanate from the sky, no sun was present. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, taking in his surroundings. The ground was dry and barren, with deep crevices marring the surface. Despite the chill in the atmosphere, the air was suffocating and heavy, making it difficult to breathe; Vegeta was sweating from his effort to take in air within moments.
This was Hell—he knew it, and yet, didn't know how he did. This wasn't anything like the Hell he knew before; he remembered that with excruciatingly accurate clarity. In that time, it was unbearably hot, the blood-red stormy sky crackling with lightning between the dark, looming clouds. The sky promised rainfall, but it never did quench the ground. He remembered crying out in agony as he relived every last one of his horrific memories under Frieza—every last detail of every single torture seared into his mind as he experienced it firsthand again and again, never relenting, and endless barrage of sadism with no way out—until suddenly, he was crawling his way out of the dirt on Namek, gasping gratefully at the air.
But this was different. There was no pain or torture—only a haunting emptiness that struck him to his very core. It didn't matter how or why it was so very different from the last time; maybe it was the way the hairs stood on the back of his neck, or the sickening feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach—whatever it was, Vegeta was as sure as he was of anything in life that he was in Hell, and even if the physical pain did not accompany it this time, he knew he would be no better off. Reluctantly, he began to walk through the haze, if for no other reason than to rid himself of his apprehension and find out what Hell had in store for him already. Might as well get it over with, he thought. He walked in silence, with no clue as to where he was going or what he would find, the only sound being the crunch of the dry, cracked earth under his boots. After some time, the haze seemed to dissipate a little, and he thought he could hear a noise—a woman, crying. As he came closer, he realized that it wasn't just any woman crying. It was his woman. Bulma.
He stepped closer to her, taking in her form. She was slumped on her knees, sobbing inconsolably as she cradled something in her arms—a child. He watched as the blood flowed slowly down her forearms, dripping to the ground. Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut, looking away as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd have known who the child was even if he hadn't seen the shock of purple hair falling near her elbow. He opened his eyes, staring at the two of them, at a loss for what to do.
"Trunks… oh, God… baby, no…" she sobbed, cradling the toddler close to her, his blood soaking through and staining her dress.
Vegeta walked over to his mate and crouched down next to her. "Bulma…" he breathed, reaching out for her. His gloved hand passed right through her forearm. He closed his eyes again, taking a breath and clenching his teeth. Get a hold of yourself, he thought. She isn't real. None of this is. He began to walk away, leaving her there to grieve alone in the dirt. She couldn't even hear or see him—why should he stick around? There was no point. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, though, it didn't make hearing her cries any easier. He kept walking, holding tightly to his pride and the fact that Hell would not break him; he was anything but weak. Vegeta had made little distance between them, however, when he heard a sickeningly familiar, frigid voice that made him stop in his tracks.
"So the little monkey left his mate alone in the end after all… what a pity."
Vegeta blanched, spinning around instantly, eyes wide. Frieza was standing a few feet away from him, obviously unaware of his presence as he smirked at the woman on the ground. "He never was strong enough to avenge what was his. His father, his planet…" Frieza uncrossed his arms, walking slowly over to Bulma. "His attempt to overthrow me was laughable. And now, he's not even here to protect his son… or you." Bulma raised her head slowly, her defeated eyes meeting Frieza's cold, deadly ones. Vegeta's breath caught in his throat, his blood pounding in his ears as Frieza trailed his icy fingers along her collarbone, moving to stand behind her. Vegeta clenched his eyes shut, frowning, trying to will the image away.
It isn't real… none of this is real…
"Not even strong enough to put his family out of its misery… oh well. I suppose I'll be cleaning up that mess of his, too…"
Vegeta listened to the pounding in his ears, focusing on it in an effort to ebb the building tension and anxiety coursing through his body. He counted each rush that he heard: One… two…
There was a sickening crack, and Vegeta felt something warm spray over his face. Instinctively, he wiped at his eyes and looked down at his gloved hands—they were stained crimson. His hands began shaking, his brain refusing to accept what his logic was telling him.
It isn't real… this isn't happening…
Hesitantly, he lowered his hands, and scene he was met with made his head swim. Bulma's beautiful blue eyes stared up at him, blank and unseeing, her mouth parted slightly. Her body lay a few feet away. Vegeta was unaware of his own screaming as his vision blurred, darkening, the nausea overpowering as he collapsed to the ground.
And maybe, I'll find out
A way to make it back someday
To watch you, to guide you
Through the darkest of your days
Vegeta exhaled slowly through his nose, reveling in the warmth and comfort. Vaguely, he was aware of the scent of Bulma's shampoo as he breathed back in. He could also feel the soft linens of his pillow on the side of his face, and he settled himself a little deeper into the cotton. Sighing, he lifted his right hand, hesitantly searching beside him. He was surprised when his hand made contact with warm, smooth skin. What the hell? He was almost afraid to open his eyes. It had to be a dream; it had to be. It was just too comforting to be real.
Curiosity got the best of the Prince, however, and he slowly opened his eyes. Bulma was lying on the bed, curled up next to him as they both lay on their left sides. Obviously, he was in his own bed with his mate, and she was fine— head still on her shoulders, breathing softly as she slept. How was that possible? What was this? What did Hell have in store for him next? Vegeta ran his hand down her upper arm before hesitantly edging closer to her, wrapping his arms around her midsection. It didn't matter right now; she was here, and he wanted to hold onto the moment as long as he could. He buried his face between her neck and shoulder, unable to get enough of her scent, his fingertips trailing lightly across her stomach. He felt her relax and melt into him as she sighed into her pillow. They lay there quietly for a few moments, Vegeta listening to the soft, rhythmic fall of her breathing as it slowly lulled him into peace.
Finally, she spoke, so quietly even Vegeta almost didn't hear her. "Please don't go," she whispered. "I miss you so much when you're gone. Just stay here with me."
Vegeta frowned at that. He had no idea how long he would be able to stay in this moment, and refused to make a promise he couldn't keep. After all, if there was one thing he had learned from all his years of humiliating servitude, it was that promises were made to be broken.
"I'll stay as long as I can," he finally grumbled, tightening his hold around her slightly.
"Will you still be here when I wake up?"
Vegeta hesitated, not wanting to think about the answer. Who knew how long he had? Why couldn't the damned woman just shut up and stop making him think about things? He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the creeping apprehension. He lowered his lips to her skin, pulling the thin strap of her black nightgown down and trailing soft kisses along her shoulder, feeling her slow intake of breath, before burying his face in her hair again.
They stayed that way for a long time, Vegeta reveling in the simple, blissful pleasure of being close to his mate. He winced as the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the window. Bulma seemed undisturbed by them, and slowly, the Prince opened his eyes and lifted his head. The rays hadn't yet touched her face. He was settling his forehead once again against her hair when he felt a familiar burning in the pit of his stomach—dull at first, then rapidly growing in intensity. He grimaced, his heart beginning to race as the panic and dawning realization spread. No…
He tightened his hold on her, desperate to hold on to anything that was real. "Bulma…" he panted, struggling to breathe. She didn't stir. Vegeta cried out in anguish as the fire coursed through his veins. His vision blurred and darkened as vivid, crisp images of her mangled and beheaded body seared themselves into his mind instead. Flashes of her blank, unseeing eyes staring up at him. Her sickeningly pale skin. Blood. So much blood. Hot tears spilled from his eyes onto her soft blue hair as he held his eyes shut, attempting in vain to recover. What… is happening to me?
"Bulma—!" he pleaded against her ear, desperate now. As his world blackened and burned around him, the last he saw before the images took over was his mate stirring, the rays of sunshine finally waking her.
As soon as coherent thought returned to him, Vegeta knew where he was. He didn't have to see to know the familiar chill, the suffocating air. He was back in Hell.
He gripped at the dirt underneath him, wincing, bringing his face slowly from the ground as he shifted onto his hands and knees. Vegeta reluctantly opened his eyes and was met with the familiar bleak, grey abyss from before. He groaned, falling back to the dirt and closing his eyes again. Why should he get back up? Hell would come for him no matter how much he fought it. What was the point? If only he could just lay here and sink into nothing…
The Prince heard footsteps grinding rapidly into the dirt as someone ran in his direction. No; he would not give in this time. He would lay here as long as he wanted, uninterrupted. Hell be damned if it thought it would lure him in again.
"Vegeta? Oh… thank God…" Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut tighter, blocking her out. Not this again…
The footfalls became louder as Bulma approached him, and as she did, he heard her drop to her knees beside him. "Vegeta, come on, we have to go," she said, her voice urgent. He merely gave a frown in response; nothing more. Vegeta could practically see her look of concern as she began to shake his arm. He ignored it.
"Vegeta, seriously, wake up. We have to go. Now." Her voice was strained; still, he didn't answer. "Vegeta—he's coming! Please!" She shook him hard, desperation seeping into her voice. Then he heard her gasp.
"You will do well to remember to stand respectfully in my presence, boy," a gruff voice said over his head. Vegeta opened his eyes in shock and looked up in spite of himself. There, bearing over him, was his father, black cape catching on a gust of wind as he looked down at the Prince, absolutely livid. It wasn't real, and yet… Vegeta couldn't shake the feeling of shame that overwhelmed him from the look in his father's eyes. Slowly, he got to his feet. Bulma stayed where she was, falling to a sitting position behind him, trembling in fear.
"Vegeta…what have you done?" his father spoke softly; the hard, underlying edge to his tone was evident. "You have polluted the royal line with your filth. With her."
Vegeta looked down in shame. "Father… I—"
"How could you? You alone were to showcase the true potential of the Saiyan race. It was your sole duty to continue to uphold its legacy. Now, with your obscene procreation, it has become the laughing stock of the galaxies, with you parading at the forefront of its demise."
Vegeta steeled his resolve, looking up to meet his father's eyes. "My son, he's—"
"An abomination. That hair, those eyes… there are no Saiyan traits to speak of. He doesn't even possess a tail. He is an abhorrent addition to the royal lineage, which is why he had to be disposed of." Vegeta's breath caught in his throat. No… he shook his head. Stay focused. This isn't real.
Vegeta grit his teeth, his jaw setting, staring straight into his father's eyes. "You know the laws you've broken. You know she must be dealt with accordingly for your crimes," his father said.
"You won't lay a hand on her," he growled. "Why? Because you're nothing but a figment in this pathetic excuse of a realm for torment, you low-level piece of trash."
Vegeta didn't even see the hit coming. He grunted, eyes wide in shock, as his father's fist connected hard with his stomach. Vegeta fell to his knees, trying to catch his breath as he clutched at his ribs, gasping. He wiped the blood from his mouth on the back of his white-gloved hand.
"I can assure you, I'm quite real. Don't you dare speak to me that way again." The King sidestepped his son and walked over to Bulma, who began backing away in fear. "Now, Vegeta, you will watch as I handle this so that you will know never to make the same mistake again."
The Saiyan King hauled Bulma up by her wrist, pulling her so hard that her wrist snapped from the force. She cried out in agony. Vegeta grit his teeth, struggling to get to his feet—but he couldn't. Had the blow weakened him that much? He pushed from the ground using his hands; it was no use. No matter how much he tried, he was forced to stay down.
"As for you, you filthy little whore," the King spat, "you will understand the magnitude of your transgressions against the Saiyan race long before you die for them." He grabbed Bulma's hand, bringing it close to her eyes, which were brimming with tears of pain she was fighting to hold back. Fear spread quickly across her face. "We'll make sure these hands never touch another man again." With a swift motion, the King clutched the hand holding hers tightly; Vegeta could hear the bones as they crushed under the pressure. Bulma screamed, struggling to pull her arm free to no avail. The Prince let out a feral growl, pushing harder against whatever was keeping him down.
"Please…" she whimpered, cowering under his grip. "Please, stop…" The King reached for her other hand and gripped it tight, crushing it as well. Her screams filled Vegeta with a blinding rage, his vision white-hot and unseeing as he struggled with every fiber of his being to stand and rush to her aid. He roared in frustration, panting, clawing desperately at the ground and fighting with an animalistic rage against the unseen force. Her screams continued, unyielding, each one more amplified than the last as the torture progressed. He slipped further and further into delirium as he heard the snap of each bone.
"VEGETA!" she cried out in anguish, and the Prince felt his consciousness begin to waver. He couldn't move—couldn't save her. It was too much. His limbs gave out, and he sank completely to the ground, her screams echoing in his head as his world faded to nothingness.
If a great wave shall fall
And fall upon us all
Well then I hope there's someone out there
Who can bring me back to you
Everything was fuzzy. There was a buzzing in his brain that he couldn't quite shake, and every muscle in his body ached. He sighed as he pushed his face further into the pillow. Wait. Why was he back here again? Vegeta slid his right arm out from under his stomach and across the bed sheets, searching subconsciously for her. His hand found nothing, and one eye squinted open as he lifted his head a couple of inches from the pillow. Bulma was pacing around the room, solemnly getting dressed, seemingly unperturbed by her wailing son downstairs. What the hell?
"Woman, go feed your son before I blast him to bits," Vegeta ordered, irritated. The buzzing resounded in his head with a vengeance at every wail he heard, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Bulma didn't answer, and Trunks's cries grew more persistent. "Woman! Are you deaf? Look after your son at once!"
She proceeded to ignore him. Vegeta sat up immediately and stared at her, glaring. No matter how upset she was in the past, Bulma had never blatantly ignored him, especially whenever he gave her orders. She generally had some sharp retort at the ready; Vegeta loved and hated her for that. Within moments, however, the baby's cries quieted, and Vegeta could hear a soothing female voice as someone came to his aid. The Prince sighed, his head falling back to the pillow. She must not be able to see or hear me whenever she's actually conscious. The thought came to him, and even though it was obviously ridiculous, the nagging voice inside him persuaded him to give in and test the theory. He stubbornly wiped at his eyes before getting determinedly to his feet. She had paused in the process of getting dressed, standing in her bra and a pair of jeans, shirt hanging limply from her hand as she stared out of the window at the willow tree below. Vegeta paused and followed her line of vision—underneath the tree was a gravestone, obviously his. He squinted as he looked at what was etched upon it—the woman had actually used his native language to write on the stone. The fact that she had given that much thought and consideration to his background filled him with a pride he couldn't quite express. Vegeta looked back over at her and saw that she was still staring numbly out of the window. He rolled his eyes at the gesture, and he walked over to stand directly in front of her, reaching out to graze her naked stomach with his fingertips.
No reaction whatsoever—she didn't even look at him. After a moment, the shirt fell from her hand, breaking her trance. She walked slowly to the adjoining bathroom, as if in a daze, closing the door behind her. Vegeta sighed, wiping furiously at his eyes again. This was ridiculous. He was tired of being pulled from dimension to dimension like a damned marionette. He was the only one in control of himself. Unless…
Vegeta faltered. The two times he had been drawn back to Bulma were when he hadn't, in fact, been in control of himself at all. The first time, he had lost it when he saw her severed head staring up at him, and now, he was here because her screams had driven him insane with anger and hopelessness. It seemed as though any time his soul had had enough… when it couldn't take any more torment… his consciousness faded, and he wound up back here. Ludicrous. He had seen so many horrific things in his lifetime: he had witnessed thousands upon thousands brutally slaughtered under Frieza's reign. Hell, he had even murdered a large portion of those people himself. They were meaningless cretins. Their deaths meant nothing.
Now, all of the sudden, that woman's death bothered him deeply; it struck him to his very core. She was someone he had genuinely cared for. Vegeta frowned; attachments were for the weak. It was the code he had always lived by, and now, that was the reason he was in this predicament. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he didn't care, the truth was that his instincts had kicked in both times when faced with her endangerment. He clenched his fists tightly. What was he supposed to do? He was strong enough to take anything Hell unleashed upon him. And yet…
Nothing felt more peaceful, more right, than when he was back in this dimension. Even if the woman couldn't hear or see him, and even though she seemed to be falling to pieces daily, nothing gave him more satisfaction than seeing her face, and knowing, eventually, she was going to be alright, and so was their son. He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated with his dilemma. To choose where he wanted to be and how long he wanted to stay (if he could learn to control it, that is) would give him ultimate control over himself. But in order to have that power, he would have to succumb to the weakness in his mind during his torment, all in order to see his mate and son again. He sighed deeply—Hell had placed him in his own ultimate paradox, where he had to choose between power and pride. In fact, his power would come from his weakness. He shook his head, feeling the bitter taste in his mouth at the thought.
Finally, she emerged from the bathroom, went to grab her shirt from the floor, and, while slipping it on over her head, walked out of the room and began to descend the staircase. He already knew where she was headed. There probably wasn't a day that went by that she didn't go visit that damned grave, judging by the way she looked at it. He sighed in frustration, heading off after her. Might as well see if she offered any temporary distraction from this predicament. And, if he was being completely honest with himself, he really just wanted to see her face.
If I could, then I would
I'll go wherever you will go
Way up high, or down low
I'll go wherever you will go
He had done it. It had taken hundreds of attempts, tuning into his mind, concentrating, learning to recognize the weakness as he began to fall into nothing, pushing it away, honing onto it only when it he welcomed it (not when it washed over him)… but over time, he had learned to control it. He had learned the feel of the warmth as he was pulled from one dimension to the next, and what was more, he was learning to resist the pull when it beckoned him back. Of course, it didn't always work; sometimes, the pull was just too strong, and no matter how hard he fought it, he was thrust back into the abyss, being forced to watch his mate and son die in horrific ways over and over again. But if that was the price for failure, so be it. He deserved it if he couldn't be any stronger than that. It only pushed him more to learn how to be in control, and over time, the length of his stays on Earth began to increase.
Still, even Vegeta's mastery over his own will disgusted him. To willingly give in to his own weakness… it was shameful. It was as if he were a worthless human fainting at the slightest glimpse of blood, or as if he were submitting in battle like a helpless weakling. Disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful. The only thing that seemed to help alleviate was when he could prolong his stay; that took willpower that did not hinge on weakness. Unless your weakness for the woman is accounted for, a voice nastily countered in his mind.
He pushed the thought away. Where was that woman, anyway? The child wasn't crying, which was odd; he was always wailing for some reason or another. Vegeta frowned, unfolding his arms, and went to check on his son. When he reached the boy's bedroom, he could hear murmuring from within, and he stepped into the doorframe. A young female with dark hair was sitting on the floor, reading to his son from one of those asinine storybooks. He had never seen this woman before in his life.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked harshly, and he sneered for good measure. The effect was lost, of course; as he had stupidly forgotten before the words had left his mouth, the woman couldn't see or hear him. She continued the story in a hushed, excited voice, regaling the boy about some "engine that could." Whatever said engine was capable of was lost on the Prince—stupid humans and their ridiculous folklore. Vegeta stared at the boy, and for the first time, felt a twinge of regret that he and his son would never spend any time together. The boy would never know the ways of the Saiyan race. The Prince's heritage had died with him in the mud six months ago. His son would grow up on these ridiculous stories instead of the tales of his ancestors, and Vegeta would never have the pride of teaching his own son the ways of battle. He lingered a moment longer, but grew tired of the female's voice quickly and instead walked off in search of his mate. Then he would confront her about why in the hell a strange woman had taken over her maternal duties. Fool. She can't hear you… how many times do you need that demonstrated for your idiotic brain to comprehend?
He growled, becoming increasingly frustrated. His continuance as a spectral entity was really becoming the bane of his existence. He stormed off in the direction of the labs, thinking the woman had her nose buried in whatever project had become her latest obsession. That would be the only foreseeable reason the woman would have hired a stranger to take on such tasks. But when he entered, he found her office abandoned. Judging from the disarray and number of papers and memos piled on her desk, she hadn't been in here for days. Strange. He stared into the room a few minutes more, eyes narrowing as he contemplated before turning to walk back out. The woman never abandoned work; sometimes, it was only when Vegeta finally lost his temper that the woman even bothered to look away from a project. But now, it was obvious that she hadn't set foot in the room for weeks. Now that he thought about it… he had never seen the woman anywhere else besides their bedroom and his gravesite. He reentered the house and jogged quickly up the stairs, walking determinedly to the bedroom. If that woman was sleeping…
He froze when he entered the room. She was, in fact, deep in slumber, but it was anything but peaceful. She was clinging desperately to his pillow again, tears that she had been crying beginning to dry on her face. Judging from her appearance and the assortment of half-eaten dishes that littered the room, accompanied by his knowledge of the state of her office, Bulma hadn't left this bedroom in days. He didn't know why, but in some ways, this felt just as unsettling as watching her die in Hell. It disturbed him—it felt as though someone had pulled out the bottom of his stomach, or as though he were falling and unable to stop.
This wasn't the woman he knew at all—that woman would fight anyone and anything until her dying breath. Kami have mercy on anyone who dared linger for the incessant waves of her screeching; the words "give up" were just not in her vocabulary. But this woman… this woman had ceased to live, and instead spent her life merely existing from one day to the next. No ambition. No spark in her once fiery blue eyes. Vegeta had died a few months ago; this woman in front of him was walking death. Now the reason there was a strange female downstairs made sense—she was hired as the boy's caregiver so Bulma no longer had any maternal obligations to the child whatsoever. She could isolate herself completely from the world.
Vegeta knew very little about human sentiments, but he was certain with every fiber of his being that this was not healthy grieving behavior. He just didn't understand; what had her this fixated on his death? He knew the woman was sentimental—she always had been; but he figured she would simply cry for a few days and move on. But this… this was a whole other area of grief, pain, and emotion that he just could not comprehend. The woman was getting worse by the day, not better, and Vegeta was seriously beginning to doubt if she would ever recover. He sank onto the bed beside her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern as he bulled the blankets over her. Vegeta brushed his lips against hers, and he watched as the pain slowly faded from her face. Somehow, she had to pull through this. She had to. He would make sure of that. The question was, how was he to help her when she wasn't even aware of his presence?
Run away with my heart
Run away with my hope
Run away with my love
The only sound echoing through the dismal grey haze was the crunch of each footfall as Vegeta's boots connected with the ground. Where was she? She couldn't have gone far. He had to give her credit—wherever she was, she had hidden well and hadn't made the slightest sound. No matter. He would find her soon enough.
As he kept walking, the desecrated city came into view, some of the buildings still smoldering from the rampage. Apart from the occasional shifting noises as a building collapsed, the town was eerily quiet. He continued on, slowly, his eyes searching the abandoned remains as ashes fell silently from the colorless sky. Just when he was about to give up and move on to a different area, a quiet, subtle stirring of the dirt to his left caused him to halt in his tracks. It was the slightest of sounds—he doubted anyone else would've heard it. He watched, listening intently, head tilted curiously as the large plank of wood shifted a few mere millimeters. Slowly, a malicious smirk spread over his face. He took a few steps toward the debris and stopped, breathing in deeply. Yes, he could smell it now. The scent of her fear was absolutely intoxicating. It was rich and heady, like the metallic taste that accompanied blood, and Vegeta closed his eyes, inhaling once more. He could feel the smell hit him like a drug as its effects coursed through his veins.
He opened his eyes and, bending down swiftly, grabbed the debris with one hand and threw it aside like it was nothing. The woman let out a shriek and pressed her back to the dirt wall, cowering. Bits of dirt flaked off of the wall as she did, falling into her blue hair. Vegeta's smirk only grew.
"P-Please… you don't have to do this," she pleaded, her blue eyes glassing over as her voice wavered. Vegeta cackled in response, and the woman sank further to the ground in fear. Vegeta grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her out of the hole to stand next to him, his face inches from hers.
"You're right, I don't," he conceded softly. His gloved hand brushed some tendrils of loose hair from her face before his eyes narrowed dangerously. "But I want to."
Her eyes barely had time to widen in terror before Vegeta's hands were around her throat. Her hands flew instinctively to his, trying desperately to pull them away from her neck. Vegeta widened his stance as she began kicking and thrashing, allowing her to sink to the ground as she lost her footing.
What are you doing?! Stop!
She pulled at his hands with everything she had, her face reddening as she struggled to kick at him. Vegeta simply watched her, enraptured, as she continued her futile efforts. His eyes were locked on hers, watching as the panic clouded them. Within moments, he could see her eyes beginning to hemorrhage.
You're killing her! Why can't I—you have to stop!
He could feel her strength beginning to dwindle, and it caused him to smirk in triumph, his eyes lit with exhilaration. Slowly, her struggling became less forceful, and her hands slid limply away from his. Her eyes searched his intense stare, and she mouthed his name wordlessly. "Vegeta…"
I can't… I can't stop… I can't control it…She's dying…
Vegeta continued to watch as she drifted from consciousness, the light ebbing from her eyes. Inwardly, his soul howled in rage and despair, feeling the familiar pull and latching onto it as everything faded to darkness.
Vegeta jolted awake in a panic, panting and simultaneously clambering to push his back against the headboard of the bed. After a few moments and realizing where he was, his breathing slowed, and he sighed as he rubbed at his eyes. He then stared at his hands for a few moments before looking away, disgusted with himself. He wiped them vigorously against his legs as if they offended him. Glancing over, he saw that Bulma was still asleep next to him. He knew that she would be; still, he had just craved the reassurance of seeing her there, breathing beside him. He looked away again, a scowl on his face as memories of his most recent stint in Hell flooded back to him. This one had by far been the worst yet. During other times, he had watched as his son and his mate were brutally slaughtered by those he (begrudgingly) held in reverence. He had thought that was agonizing enough. No; this time he was the one who held her fragile life in his hands, and he was powerless to stop it. It was as if he was trapped in his own body, able to see, smell, feel, hear, and taste everything, but unable to control his body to his own will. He could smell the panic and fear emanating from her because of his presence. Could taste the metallic scent that resonated in his mouth. Could see her eyes dilate in terror as he gripped her neck, see the blood vessels as the hemorrhaging began. Could hear her gasping for air, gasping to say his name. Could feel her life as it slipped away from him. And what was worse? He had reveled in it; it had excited him; aroused him even. He hadn't felt such an intoxicating bloodlust since his days of serving Frieza. And the fact that killing her with his bare hands affected him in such a way disgusted him. It was sickening. He was murdering his mate—someone he had sworn to protect at all costs, someone he cared for, someone he…
Bulma exhaled sharply as she flipped over onto her other side, her hand searching the side of the bed next to her. When she couldn't find Vegeta, her face contorted with anxiety, and her reaching became more desperate. Vegeta sighed, reaching for her hand as he settled down in bed again next to her. He pressed his body close to hers, and she draped her left leg over his, sighing as she rested her free hand next to her face on his chest. Vegeta scowled then, at war with himself. The longer he stayed here, the easier it was for him to realize that she was not getting any better, and he was the cause of it. The way she clung to him so desperately was proof of its own. He wanted to shake her, yell at her, berate her, anything… but he couldn't, because she couldn't see, hear, or feel him, apart from when she was sleeping. It made him feel completely powerless for the first time in his life. His lingering presence was the only thing she could sense from him while awake, and it was continuing to weigh her down. Just as he had slowly strangled her to death while in Hell, now his existence in this reality was suffocating the life out of her. But being here… it was his escape, his indulgence. He needed it. Even if they couldn't see or hear him, even if they weren't aware he was really here at all… seeing his mate and his son alive and breathing afforded him the strength he needed to continue on. Hell wouldn't break him because he had something worth going back to. But if he couldn't come back…
No. He knew before even finishing the thought that he couldn't stay there. He simply didn't have the strength. The damned woman had engrained herself so deeply into his very being that he knew he could never last an eternity without her. And if he wasn't leaving… well, he would just have to make certain his presence wasn't as prominent; that they couldn't feel him in the room at every waking moment. In truth, he hadn't even been trying. He wanted her to know he was there. It was comforting to know someone else knew he existed. To not feel the intense loneliness he hadn't felt since his days before Earth. But that accomplished nothing. She had to get away from him. Otherwise, she would lose herself completely to this despair, and he simply refused to let that happen.
He heard the door creak open, and the strange dark-haired female that cared for his son entered the room. She walked over to lay some objects near the window before carefully and quietly picking up the forgotten dishes littering the room. Then she silently walked back out, shifting the dishes and carefully closing the door behind her. Vegeta frowned as he looked down at his mate. She was snoring softly on his chest, and he watched silently as her own chest rose and fell in unison with his. "You have to keep going without me," he finally murmured. "The woman I knew before all of this never gave up." He closed his eyes then, settling even closer to her. He already knew exactly what he was going to do; all that was left now was to enjoy the moment while it lasted.
I know now, just quite how
My life and love might still go on
In your heart, in your mind
I'll stay with you for all of time
Vegeta sat at the kitchen table next to his son, who was in his high chair, banging his spoon annoyingly against his plate. The Prince, in an effort to retain his patience, concentrated instead on the sizzle of bacon and eggs as the servant-female cooked breakfast. He sighed in disappointment, his chin in his right hand and the fingers of his left drumming against the table. If there was one thing he missed apart from his family, it was the food. He didn't consider himself an indulgent type of man—he could survive on the bare essentials, no questions asked. But since he had come to Earth, he had grown accustomed to the planet's food choices, taking for granted just how much he enjoyed it. There was nothing more enjoyable and satisfying… well, except for sex, he supposed. A wicked grin spread over his face at the thought. It had been so long…
At that same moment, the boy stopped the irritating racket and, holding his spoon mid-swing, grinned in Vegeta's general direction. The Prince lifted his head a little in shock. Was the boy looking at him? Impossible. It couldn't be…
…Well, he supposed it could. He recalled hearing somewhere that children were often much more susceptible to energy than their adult counterparts, but still…
Before the Prince could dwell on it any longer, the female wandered over to the both of them, scooping some scrambled eggs from the skillet onto the boy's plate, the moment lost as he stopped grinning and instead watched her in anticipation. She was just starting to tear bits of toast for him when they heard a noise by the stairs that made all three of them jump. Bulma was descending the staircase, lab coat on and dressed for work. Apart from her slightly disheveled hair and the dark circles under her eyes she hadn't quite managed to cover with makeup, she looked more composed than she had in months. She stopped at the end of the stairs, staring at the television set that had been left turned on and forgotten in the other room.
"Bulma! I… I didn't realize you'd be joining us for breakfast! What can I get for you?" the servant-woman asked in a nervous tone, rushing over to the refrigerator as she spoke. "I just finished making Trunks some eggs and bacon…"
"No, that's alright, Angelina, I'm not hungry," Bulma replied absently, watching the television as if in a daze. Vegeta looked into the next room at the screen to see what had her so enraptured—the woman was so air-headed these days. A news report was on display, and the reporter was describing yet another city that had been destroyed by the Androids. Vegeta scowled, looking from the television to his mate; that city was less than thirty miles from where he had been killed. From the distance in her eyes, he could tell that the same thought had occurred to her, and she was struggling to keep it together. The Prince looked away. For some reason, as much pain as he had inflicted in the past, he just couldn't bear to see that pain in her eyes. And since he had sworn to distance himself from her…
The reporter continued to voice more statistics, relaying that the Earth's population of nearly six billion had dwindled to less than 100,000. Vegeta didn't hear much after that; he hadn't even realized he had lost himself in thought until the servant-woman's voice shook him out of it.
"Bulma? Um… Are you listening to me? I said, is there anything else I can get for you?" the woman asked tentatively.
Bulma blinked rapidly a few times, snapping out of it. "No, Angelina, thank you. I'm fine. I'm just going to head down to the lab," she said, already heading off to the door. Vegeta frowned at that. The woman didn't even look in her son's direction. But at least she's going back to doing something normal… He listened as she closed the front door behind her. Seeing that the boy, as usual, was cared for by his appointed guardian, Vegeta set off after his mate, intent on seeing what exactly she was up to.
Vegeta watched as Bulma sat at her desk, unmoving, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of her. What the hell was she doing? He had thought she'd finally pulled herself together for some reason, and now was going to get back to some sort of normal routine. But here she was, sitting in her desk chair, staring at the screen like some brainless idiot. The Prince exhaled sharply in frustration. Something had to happen, and it had to happen now.
He took the photograph he had taken from their bedroom out from where he had secured it in his Saiyan armor. It was a photo that he saw her looking at pretty frequently after his death, and she always had a hint of a smile on her face when she did. He didn't know why—it was just a stupid image on a piece of paper. He rolled his eyes—more human feelings and sentiments that didn't make any sense. Still, he studied the photo carefully for a few moments, reliving the moment the photo was taken. The woman had just been awarded some kind of honor for her theory that she'd been working on—something to do with time and space. Vegeta had never felt unintelligent before in his life—in fact, that was yet another thing that he prided himself on; his enemies could never outsmart him, and it gave him even more of an upper hand. But this woman's research gave the Prince a headache. He recalled with a frown the first time she had tried to explain it all to him; within moments of her discussing her research, Vegeta had gotten frustrated and angry, yelled at her to stop talking nonsense and wasting his time, and stalked off to the Gravity Room to train. Oh, there had been a magnificent row after that; after the usual yelling and screaming for hours that always accompanied their arguments (and one of them following the other in a fury as they progressed from room to room), the woman shoved him out of the room they shared, and they didn't speak to one another for days. When they finally reconciled in the quiet, early morning hours of their bedroom two weeks later, Vegeta conceded to himself that, despite what he had originally thought, there was at least one person in existence who could outsmart him, and that woman was sleeping soundly on his chest. And that woman, for no reasons that Vegeta could easily see, genuinely cared about him instead of wanting to kill him in his sleep like everyone else, so he could at least suffer in agonizing silence while the woman ranted about her absurd epiphanies.
The Prince concentrated on the photograph again, flashing ahead in his mind to the moment it was taken. The woman was almost irritatingly happy with being recognized for her ideas that day. She had been buzzing about all day long, gushing in a high-pitched tone to anyone within a thirty-foot radius about what her team had finally accomplished. Later in the evening, they were sitting at the picnic table during the festivity her mother had arranged, the woman holding their son in a standing position on the table as she made those ridiculous noises she reserved only for the child. He himself was hovering over his plate, thoroughly enjoying the food in front of him. In the photo, however, the person taking the photograph had caught him in mid-stare at his mate and son, and Vegeta recalled with distinct clarity the thoughts that were running through his mind at the time.
Despite the ear-shattering screams of glee she had emitted that day (and on a semi-frequent basis), despite the mind-numbing cheerful tone of her voice, despite the ludicrous baby noises… Vegeta realized with a force as stunning as a blow to the back of the head how fortunate he was to have this woman with him. Of course, she was infuriating as hell; there was no doubt about that. There were several days that the female made him want to rip every single hair out of his head, and then proceed to set himself on fire with his own ki blasts. The boy had similar traits, just as annoying, that he had obviously inherited from his mother. But deep down… he knew that he would never change a thing about either of them, even if he could. For whatever reason, the both of them still looked forward to seeing him each day—despite his past, despite everything he had done, and despite the countless occasions he had lashed out at them. Even though he had never before had a family (and, indeed, sneered in disgust at anyone who did have such petty attachments), he certainly had one now, and it was one that he knew he would die to protect. As the alpha male of said family, it was his duty. And as the Prince of all Saiyans, it was a duty he would accept with honor and integrity. Hell would have no fury to match the torment in store for the worthless scum who would come at either of them.
Vegeta flipped the photograph over, looking again at the words he had written much earlier this morning—"Keep going." It had exhausted so much of his effort just to get those two simple words on the back. Who knew that, as nothing more than energy, it would be so damned difficult to interact with the physical world? It had confused him. Why was he able to touch Bulma when she was asleep, but couldn't get her to notice him in waking hours? Why did it take so much effort just to grip the pen in his hand, to force it to make contact with the paper as he moved it?
He supposed it had something to do with susceptibility. The woman so wanted him in her waking life that, when she faded to unconsciousness, her logical perceptions were lowered, and he could make contact with her. If she was awake, that guard was back up without her even knowing it, and even if he was touching her, she couldn't feel it. Vegeta ventured that this also explained the physical interaction with the pen; since it had no awareness, it took him much more effort to use it. He shrugged, looking at the words once more. "Keep going." He had died to protect them so they could live, not exist. The tyrannical world he had lived through was not one that he wanted for them. And if the woman could get it together, she could ensure that that didn't happen, he was sure of it. No, she wasn't a warrior, but she had a warrior's spirit, and had the most intelligence he had ever known. He wouldn't have stayed with her this long if she didn't. She could use that spirit and genius and find a way to beat the Androids at their own game, maybe even by using this same theory she had worked on in the past. She just had to keep going without him. He would always be there—he could never abandon them completely, even if it was the best thing for both of them. He just couldn't. But rather than having her haunted by terrible memories of his death and aching over what could've been, he wanted her to look back on their past with the fondness that she used to. And maybe, if she could ever actually feel him around in her conscious state… just maybe she would feel him and smile again, instead of being brought to tears. The sadness and weakness didn't suit her—it was the annoyingly happy, gleeful, and fiery-willed wench that he had staked his life for.
As carefully as he could, he concentrated all his efforts on silently opening the top drawer to her left. He decided to place the photo here, because any time he was in this room with her, she was always rummaging through this drawer for something. He figured it was less invasive and frightening than leaving it on her desk, where she would likely lose the damned thing anyway. It took several moments just to barely crack it open, and he was actually somewhat thankful that she was so lost in her thoughts. The drawer was packed full of documents, pill bottles, writing instruments, and several other things, and the Prince sneered in disgust. The damned woman was such a slob. He slipped the photograph into the open slot, and then pushed the door until it was nearly closed. When he did, he heard several papers fall back into the drawer; they must've caught on the frame and bent when he opened it. He groaned in exasperation—now the damned photo was buried under Kami-knows-how-many papers and various bits of junk, and the woman would probably never see it.
The sound must've shaken her from her reverie, because she blinked a couple of times, rubbed her face vigorously with her hands, and pinched at the bridge of her nose with her eyes squeezed shut, as if in pain. Vegeta watched as she hauled the drawer back open, his body tense as she dug in the drawer. After a few moments, she emerged with the photograph, whatever she was looking for long forgotten. He watched as she stared at it, a smile forming on her lips. It wasn't her usual, light-up-her-entire-face smile; it was very strained, and he could see the aching longing in her eyes while she took in the photo. Still, even if it was strained, the smile was a welcome sight he hadn't seen in months, and he damn near smiled himself. That's more like it.
After she sat taking in the photo for a few moments, Vegeta watched as she flipped the photograph over. Her gasp of shock brought his tension back as he watched the photo fall to the floor. She sat there for a moment, unmoving and eyes wide as she stared at the photograph, obviously stunned into silence. The Prince grew more and more anxious as the seconds passed—the last thing he needed was for this to backfire and for her to have another breakdown…
Finally, after what seemed like hours, she bent down to retrieve the photograph from the floor, studying the words once again. He watched as the tears gathered in her eyes and began to fall, one hitting the photograph as she continued to stare at it. He sighed in frustration, beginning to berate himself. Damn it. This had completely backfired, and now she was going to be a sobbing, emotional mess. Who knew how far back this would set her now? Now, not only was she stuck on his death, but she had proof that he was trying to communicate with her, and now she'd be stuck on that as well…
But then, as he continued to watch her face and reprimand himself for his own stupidity—he saw something change in her eyes that caused him to stop. That overwhelming sadness that had been there was suddenly replaced with an enlightening epiphany, and as he continued to watch, slowly, that epiphany rekindled a spark in her eyes. That spark quickly engulfed into flames, and he knew that the fiery-willed woman he had first met on Namek was finally back where she belonged. He sighed in relief, a smirk spreading over his face. It had worked. Hope was not lost. With unwavering certainty now, he knew that, in time, everything would be alright.
If I could, then I would
I'll go wherever you will go
Way up high, or down low
I'll go wherever you will go
Two weeks had passed since the woman had found his message on the back of the photograph. The three of them were sitting in the kitchen now, and the Prince was watching his mate and son as they had a quiet, peaceful dinner by themselves. Well, as quiet as could be expected when the boy was in the room, he supposed. On that day two weeks ago, Bulma had almost immediately dismissed the servant-female, thanking her (in his opinion, way too generously) for her help, but kindly explaining that her services were no longer needed. She would be the boy's keeper from that point forward. Now, two weeks later, they were sitting at the kitchen table, the woman watching as their son banged his fists repeatedly on the table and chanted in some ear-splitting tone while stuffing his face full of chicken bits. Vegeta sneered in disgust; the boy was going to be just as much of a slob as his mother. He grew more appalled by the second as the boy dropped and smashed food all over the table and floor. The woman, on the other hand, exhibited far more patience; she sighed and smiled before asking, "Here, baby, don't you want to try and use your fork?"
She handed the boy the utensil, and she was met with a hard glare. Vegeta shook his head. There was all that temper, too, straight from his mother. She laughed in response. "Sorry, Trunks, but even young princes have to learn not to eat like wild animals."
The title took Vegeta a bit off guard—"young prince"? He had never really thought of his son that way before. It didn't even really matter now, to be honest. Planet Vegeta was long gone. The only Saiyans left were his son and Kakarot's, and at that, they were both only half-Saiyan. Still, the fact that his heritage was always on the woman's brain never failed to create a stirring within him that Vegeta never could express. And now, in her mind, she was carrying that legacy on to their son…
The boy had taken the utensil from her and began eating, but a scowl was still on his face. Vegeta had to smirk a bit at that; even he knew that was a trait that had come distinctly from him. He noticed, however, that Bulma's smile had become slightly more forced at the sight of it. Before he could dwell on it for too long, however, the baby was banging his plate against the table. The boy made so much damned noise.
Bulma shook her head as she looked at him. "Trunks, what have I told you about that?" she sighed, taking the plate from him. "We say 'more, please.'" Vegeta scoffed. The woman was trying to teach the boy manners—it was as if he were witnessing the blind leading the blind.
"More, peease," the Prince head him echo, watching his son clap his hands as Bulma got up from the table get him another helping.
Vegeta regarded her quietly as she cut more chicken pieces onto the boy's plate. Ever since he had the breakthrough with her that day, things had been different. Bulma didn't stay in bed anymore; instead, she was slowly getting back to her normal routine. She took charge of taking care of their son again, caring for him, playing with him, teaching him… and as of a couple of days ago, she had started working on her theories once again. No, she obviously wasn't perfectly fine; that much could've been witnessed just a few moments ago by the change in her demeanor. However, her renewed vigor put Vegeta's mind at ease. Now that he thought about it, he wondered if her newfound willpower had had some similar effect on him. Since the day he had shown her the message, he hadn't been sucked back into Hell once. That in itself was strange; he normally wasn't able to stay longer than a few hours, no matter how hard he tried. But now, for whatever reason, the pull just wasn't as strong. Sure, it was fantastic and all, not having to deal with the endless torment, but that wasn't what really mattered anymore. What mattered to him was continuing to make sure she stayed on track, that she kept going for herself and their son. Maybe that was why Hell had allowed him to stay. For once, something besides his desire for his own selfish tendencies pervaded his mind—he actually gave a damn about someone else, no matter what he got out of it himself. Maybe that was why he had escaped to begin with. It allowed him the freedom to help them reconcile and move on.
The Prince shook his head. Karma had never made any kind of goddamned sense to him; good and evil were objective. A person's actions in those regards always depended on who was judging those actions. The only verifiable attribute was physical and emotional strength, and how much a person had. But since Karma seemed to be the deciding factor on where he stayed, he couldn't help but wonder—did caring about what happened to his family really atone for everything he had done in his past? He pinched at his temples with his thumb and middle finger; he was starting to give himself a headache.
Bulma sat down next to him again, handing their son his food. He didn't even realize he was staring at the boy, lost in thought, until said boy smiled, mouth full of food, reaching towards him. Reaching towards him. Vegeta's eyes widened in shock—there it was again! Could the boy see him?!
"What is it, baby?" Bulma asked, looking from the boy to the direction he was reaching for. "What do you want?"
Vegeta got up from the table and went to stand in front of his son. At that moment, however, he quit reaching in the direction he had been; he looked around, as if confused, slowly putting his hand down. At one point, he looked right through Vegeta. The Prince sighed—there was no mistaking it; this was the second time it had happened. The boy could definitely see him. But judging from his confused expression, he could only see flashes of him, not a continuous image as if he were physically there. He supposed the logic barrier that kept the woman (and anyone else) from seeing him wasn't yet present in his son's mind.
Bulma looked in Vegeta's direction a moment longer before smiling at the kid. "C'mon, buddy. Let's go get you cleaned up and ready for bed." Vegeta watched as she pulled the boy from the high chair and took him to his bedroom. All the while, he couldn't help the smirk that came to his face— his son could sometimes see him… he knew that he was there, and his mate and son, all of them… despite everything, they were all going to be just fine.
Ten years had passed since the day he had fallen in battle. Things on the surface were going perfectly well, and that wasn't to say that inwardly they weren't, either. Vegeta never was summoned back to Hell, and for that, he was extremely thankful. He instead got to watch as his mate and son took the steps to reconstructing their lives without him, and it was something that outwardly made him feel quite proud. He'd never allow his family such a weakness as being consumed by pain, grief, and survivor's guilt. His woman was too strong-willed for that, and his son would be, too. Bulma had gotten back to the things she had used to do, including taking care of their son and finding time for her work again. The amazing part was that she did it all on her own—from what Vegeta could tell, the thought of re-hiring help never reentered her mind. The boy was doing rather well, too—much better than the Prince would've originally thought. It turned out that Kakarot's spawn was actually a somewhat competent sparring partner and teacher, even if there were several things Vegeta would show his son differently. No, they both still didn't have a chance in Hell if the Androids ever did decide to attack them, but at least they wouldn't die cowering in the fetal position under a table like the rest of these pathetic humans. Vegeta scoffed; his son was a warrior. The mental image alone made him want to hang his head in shame. Besides, even if it wasn't enough right now, the boy would at least know some form of combat until his mother could figure out something to turn the odds in their favor.
Watching his son grow gave Vegeta very conflicting feelings. On the one hand, the fact that he was actually doing fairly well made his heart swell with pride. He was intelligent like his mother, and he carried that and the Prince's own arrogance he had inherited with him into combat and anything else he pursued. They both certainly gave him an edge, and the fact that his son was so much like him despite never having known him was something Vegeta could never quite articulately describe. The boy had also been able to catch glimpses of his father when he was younger, and it was those instances that kept Vegeta grounded. It made him feel connected to this world even though he was no longer a part of it. Over time, though, those instances became less and less frequent—now, the boy never appeared to see him at all. It was a terrible feeling. His son was doing just fine, which was great, but he didn't need his father at all anymore. Vegeta had never felt more useless in his life.
A similar situation seemed to be forming with Bulma as well. Like he had said before, she was doing just fine, too. She had even started doing things like going shopping, which Vegeta found ridiculous—the world might very well soon be coming to an end, and the woman just had to find a new pair of shoes. But again, even though knowing that she was getting back to some semblance of a routine, Vegeta couldn't help but feel like he was losing footing in a world that didn't need him anymore. In the beginning, Bulma would go to visit his gravesite every day. Some days, he would watch as she'd lay there for hours—sometimes crying, sometimes just lost in thought. After some time had passed with the photograph incident, she would still go visit the site, but she seemed much happier about being there for some reason. Instead of crying or seeming lost in some sort of haze, the woman would lay beside the stone, eyes closed and with a faint smile on her lips as she just reveled in the sunshine that peaked between the limbs to touch her face. Sometimes, she'd even lay there and talk to him—which, again, Vegeta found completely absurd. From the woman's perspective, she didn't actually know he was there—she couldn't see or hear him. Did she actually expect some kind of response? He scoffed. His body was dead and buried in the ground, most likely with worms and other disgusting vermin feasting on it. Vegeta then had the sickening image of worms crawling through his mouth, nose, and eye sockets, and immediately felt queasy. Those things were so goddamned disgusting.
However, her visits became less and less, and Vegeta had to admit that, as pointless as those visits were, the fact that she no longer needed him as much bothered him. It finally dawned on him, then, that maybe this was his alternate punishment—instead of suffering torment in Hell, he would watch as he became obsolete. At least as an object of torment, he was being noticed. But now, the prideful Prince of all Saiyans would learn the true meaning of insignificance. He shook his head as the message became quite clear—in many ways, he had left Hell for Purgatory.
If I could turn back time
I'll go wherever you will go
If I could make you mine
I'll go wherever you will go
I'll go wherever you will go
It was a sunny day, and the soft breeze fluttered the leaves in the willow tree as Vegeta and his mate lay next to each other on the grass. Bulma had her eyes closed, smiling as the sun kissed her skin and gave her warmth. Vegeta had his head turned to the left, watching her intently as she sighed dreamily. He could honestly lay here forever and not be bothered to ever move again. It had been such a long time since she'd returned here, since she'd actually set time aside to acknowledge him. But tomorrow brought significant change—tomorrow, the woman was sending their son back in time to meet with the Prince's former self and the other warriors. After Kakarot's son had died in battle four years ago, Trunks simply didn't stand a chance on his own. Hopefully, taking the heart medicine back to Kakarot would alter the events in that timeline, and maybe, at the very least, he could learn something worthwhile during his stay that would give him an edge in this time. Vegeta could tell the boy was incredibly anxious—he had been wandering around like a brainless fool for the last few days now. He was always misplacing something, or muttering to himself, or exceedingly easy to be startled. The Prince rolled his eyes—no son of his training would ever respond in such a manner.
Still, Bulma didn't seem overly worried. Trunks had asked her once during her testing procedures why she didn't just travel back herself—Vegeta had to resist the urge to backhand the boy's head for such an idiotic question (even though it would've had no effect anyway). She had calmly explained that they would immediately recognize her and be incredibly confused. It was much less risky for everyone involved if Trunks went because no one from that time knew who he was. Vegeta shook his head—that much should have been obvious.
Bulma sighed, stretching her arms and running her fingers through the grass. Then she moved one arm to rest under her head as she drifted off. Vegeta hesitated a moment before slowly taking her other hand in his. Sure, she couldn't feel it, but that didn't matter to him now. He just needed to act upon the gesture. They lay there together in silence as Bulma rested, Vegeta caressing his thumb against her hand. He wasn't certain if she was daydreaming or sleeping. The Prince closed his eyes as well, breathing in deeply as he drifted into a restful peace of his own. After a few moments, his eyes fluttered back open as he heard rushing through the house. Sure enough, seconds later, Trunks was yelling out of the door in a panic.
"Mom, have you seen my katana? I can't find it!" Vegeta exhaled sharply, wiping his other hand over his face—that air-headed trait certainly didn't come from him. He frowned in disappointment as he felt Bulma shifting to get to her feet—so much for that. Goddamned kid.
"I thought I saw it in the corner of your room, next to your bed!" Bulma called back. She then turned to take one last look at the gravestone. She paused for a few moments, as if gathering her thoughts. "He is so much like you, after all," she said after a moment. The Prince rolled his eyes—here she was, starting with the sentimental bullshit. And on top of that, she was trying to blame the boy's erratic behavior on him. Ridiculous. He was the most level-headed person of the three of them.
She continued on. "I know he's going to save us all. And you know what? I'm going to be okay, too." She kissed the marble before turning to walk away, walking a few paces before she stopped, turning her head to the side. "Thank you for helping me to keep going, Vegeta."
The Prince was left at a loss for words as the wind picked up and she walked back inside. Now, with a simple statement, she had made it abundantly clear for him that his presence was no longer needed. Without even realizing it, she had dismissed him from the one driving force that had kept him here—as long as she needed him, he had a purpose. But now, that was all lost. "I'm going to be okay, too." She was finally letting go. For him, it was simultaneously a moment of triumph and a moment of complete loss. Wasn't this what he wanted? For them to be at peace? To keep going without him? On the surface, yes, it was; but now, after all this time, he needed both of them more than they would ever know. After everything he had endured, he would live out the rest of eternity in this world being completely insignificant—a bystander to everything his death had caused him to miss. He exhaled slowly, suddenly overcome with regret. He brought a hand to his face as he reflected on everything he should've done differently. Maybe he should've considered a different combat strategy for the Androids. Maybe then he'd still be alive. He certainly should've spent more time with his son—he'd never even held the boy. Hell, he was barely in the same room with him for longer than five minutes. He was still so stuck on being bitter because the boy was only half-Saiyan, but what did that matter now? It was his son, just as Bulma was his mate. Bulma… she'd talked frequently during their time together about getting married. It was a stupid human tradition that meant nothing to him. But looking back now…maybe he should've done it. It was something that had meant so much to her, and he'd never given it a second thought. Sure, there were many things that had haunted his dreams when he was alive that he wished that he could take back, but nothing made him feel more guilt and remorse than the things he should have done for his family.
…And now, those opportunities were long gone. They were scattered like ashes to the wind. He looked up and watched his family through the distant window as they talked to one another, going over the procedures again for tomorrow. From this point on, this would be his existence—always watching, as if through glass, and never interacting. Never again. They didn't need him anymore. He fell into a sitting position on top of his grave, bringing his knees up so his elbows could rest on them. For the first time, the Prince didn't have a driving goal in his grasp to work toward. There was nothing to guide him. And for the first time, and for the rest of his existence… the Prince had never felt more incredibly lost.