Anger Management

By scoutergreen

I'm back, bitches! With a new story, too! Thanks for being so patient during my hiatus, and I hope you enjoy the first short chapter of "Anger Management".

I will also resume updating my other fics as well.

Chapter 1

When the loud click of stiletto heels passed the living room and finally came to a rest on the adjacent kitchen tile floors, Vegeta rolled over onto his stomach and covered himself with the plush black blanket he'd used for sleeping over the last several days.

"Where is Vegeta? Mom, have you seen him?" Bulma's tone was edgy with anger and the clicking of the high heels resumed.

"Not this morning, honey," Mrs. Briefs voice was sweet as always, "why don't you sit down? He might have gone out..."

Bulma scoffed and the heel clicking came into the living room. "Like he'd go out," she snarled, "all he does is laze around and occupy space," she moved back into the kitchen and finally sat down, "like a one hundred and thirty pound lump of useless. I need to talk to him, and he'd better listen if he knows what's good for him. I've just about had it with him and this funk he's in! He needs to get it together!"

The quiet scrape of knives and forks on plates. Bulma lit a cigarette and Vegeta could smell the secondhand smoke through the thick blanket covering him from head to toe. He realized with at least a little amusement that his wife hadn't been able to see him underneath the blankets because the black leather of the couch blended perfectly with the blanket.

"I'm here," Vegeta threw back the blanket and sat up, eyes stinging as they took in the bright morning sunlight, "what do you want?"

Startled, Bulma choked on her cigarette smoke and a large puff of smoke pushed past her lips all at once, "did you sleep on the couch again, Vegeta? You look like hell! Are those the same clothes, again?"

Heaving a raspy sigh, Vegeta pushed himself off the furniture he'd been occupying for the last several days and walked into the kitchen, feeling as though he had to drag himself in there.

"What's it to you? Just get off my case," Vegeta wanted to snarl, but his voice was barely above a whisper. He went to the refrigerator, pulled open the door, and grabbed the first thing he saw- a large bottle of whole milk.

Dropping into a seat at the kitchen table, Vegeta twisted open the cap and took a long sip from the bottle. He wasn't hungry, but Vegeta felt that his stomach was empty and knew that he needed to consume at least something before he started feeling really ill. Bulma's voice started up again, but he could only somewhat hear her as he tried to recall the last thing he had eaten; what had it been, and when? Had it been the tortilla with a smear of jam, or had it been the can of lemonade? When exactly had he consumed that small yellow apple in thin slices? Had he really eaten a salami sandwich one afternoon, or had that been a dream?

"Oh, whatever," he finally whispered before taking another long sip.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!" Bulma snarled and stubbed her cigarette into an ashtray with enough force to shake the table, snapping Vegeta back into reality.

"Nothing, nothing," Vegeta stammered, trying to piece together what exactly he had missed before his wife started screaming at him again. She was always so angry with him, and he was just too exhausted to try and decipher what was so wrong and what exactly he'd done to make her so angry in the first place.

"Did you hear any of what I just said? Anything at all?" Bulma lit another cigarette and made no effort to direct the smoke away from Vegeta's face as she exhaled.

The Saiyan shrugged. "Obviously not."

"First of all," began Bulma, "you look, and smell, like absolute hell. When is the last time you showered?"

"The ninth," he recalled, "I saw it on the calendar."

Mrs. Briefs sighed and stood up to get her son-in-law a cup of coffee. He really was starting to smell bad. She had mentioned the day before that there was plenty of clean clothing and a fresh bottle of the minty shampoo he preferred waiting for him upstairs, but all he did was grunt in response before rolling over on the couch.

"Ew," Bulma sneered, "it's the thirteenth, Vegeta! You need to shower, and that's not a request! Do you have any idea how bad you smell? The couch probably smells as bad as you do at this point!"

Again, Vegeta sighed. He finished the remaining pint of milk in three long sips and then twisted the cap back on the top.

"Second of all, you're supposed to drink from a glass! What have I told you about that? Trunks notices everything you do, and I am trying my best to ensure he doesn't pick up your table manners, Vegeta! It's bad enough that he notices what's going on as it is! Do you think your son really doesn't notice what's wrong with you?"

"Then what do you want me to say, woman? Please, tell me, so you can stop exhausting me with your bitching!" Vegeta's voice grew louder and clenched his fists, fighting the urge to punch the table.

"I don't want you say anything! I want you to take a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and for the love of God, DO SOMETHING with yourself today! Do you know what phrase your son kept repeating last night at dinner, Vegeta? He kept saying, "Dad is sad", over and over again," Bulma's voice got caught in her throat and her eyes grew shiny with welling tears, "because he could see you on that damn couch!"

Mrs. Briefs returned with the cup of coffee for Vegeta and gave him a slow nod. In the hollow, numb spot where he stomach was supposed to be, Vegeta felt a strangely detached twinge of something vaguely resembling embarrassment.

"Are you done?" Vegeta took a sip of coffee and was suddenly conscious of his stomach, which hadn't vanished into nothingness after all, "I heard you. I'll take a shower and change and do something," he made air quotations with his fingers, "with my day. I mean, I will if you stop finally stop bitching at me."

Bulma threw her hands up and pushed her chair back quite quickly. "Okay, I'm done. Mom, I should be back five with Trunks. I'm going to take him to his swimming lesson. Vegeta," she glared at him, "do as I say. See you tonight."

Vegeta shrugged and focused on his coffee as Mrs. Briefs accompanied Bulma do the front door and saw her leave for the day. When she returned, Vegeta looked up at his mother-in-law and gave her a small smirk that did not reach his eyes.

"So I smell that bad, huh?"

Mrs. Briefs gave Vegeta a small nod and a strained smile. "I don't think you can go four days between showers," she spoke in her normal sweet tone, "most of us really can't..."

For the first time in a long while, Vegeta actually laughed; a single abrupt "hah" that actually broke the softness of the Saiyan's voice and pushed it back into a normal register. "Don't worry, I'll shower. And change."

"And if you're interested, I need to pick up groceries today. I'd love your company, Vegeta!"

"Does that really count as doing something?" Vegeta drained his cup of coffee. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

"Sure it does," Mrs. Briefs smiled at her son-in-law, "let's make a date of it! I'll even take you out for something to eat, how about that? Unless that wasn't your rumbling stomach I just heard..."

Vegeta responded by pushing his cup of coffee away and heading upstairs to take a shower. The climb up the stairs alone was exhausting, and after sitting on the edge of the bathtub for close to twenty minutes, Vegeta finally turned on the water.

It was coming up to eleven thirty when Vegeta waited for his mother-in-law to finish cutting fresh flowers from her extensive garden. He could see her out there through the large kitchen window, taking the time to inspect every flower until she found the best one and cut it at just the right spot.

He did feel much better after his shower; a bit more aware, somehow, although with this rediscovered awareness came the awful realization that he had barely moved from that black leather couch in the living room for five days. And how long had it been since he'd trained properly? When had he last had sex, or been remotely interested in it? It was late September, and his mental health had first started to seriously decline sometime in mid-July. Things were not good, and no longer being able to deny it made Vegeta terribly uncomfortable with himself. He was an embarrassment. No wonder his wife was so disappointed. Even his son, now almost four years old, was able to pick up on his father's depression and was literally announcing it at the dinner table.

"Oh, come on," he muttered, his hunger steadily increasing, "they're fucking flowers. Just pick some..."

His gaze turned to the stove. Maybe I'll make a cup of tea, he rose from his seat and turned on the front burner before going to fill the kettle with water. When he returned to the stove, he stared at the red-hot burner, set the kettle on an unlit burner, and without thinking he pressed the tips of his left index, middle, and ring fingers directly on the glowing centre of the burner.

Mrs. Briefs came inside just as Vegeta's face pulled into an agonized grimace and she gasped. He quickly pulled his hand away and his wide eyes met hers. "Oh, it's hot after all," he mumbled and pulled the kettle onto the lit burner with his uninjured hand.

"Come here," she turned the taps on and practically forced Vegeta to hold his hand underneath a stream of cool water, "keep your hand there for five minutes. Are you okay?"

"Mm," he smirked when she turned off the stove before fetching the First Aid kid, "I'm fine. My fingers are calloused, you know."

Four minutes passed with nothing said before Mrs. Briefs pulled his hand out from underneath the running water. She gently dried his hand with a towel, dabbed a numbing antibiotic cream on the blistering skin, and finally bandaged his fingertips. All the while, the tension in the air growing thicker with every passing minute, Mrs. Briefs resisted questioning why the Saiyan had deliberately hurt himself. She wanted to know why, but knew Vegeta was unlikely to tell her the truth. He probably didn't want to talk about it anyway.

"Are you still interested in going out for something to eat, sweetheart?"

"If it gets Bulma off my case..."

Mrs. Briefs smile was sympathetic. "Just let me arrange these flowers, and we'll go. I discovered this beautiful little cafe that you'd just love!"

Vegeta pushed the other half of his chicken salad sandwich over to Mrs. Briefs. His stomach was already uncomfortably full. "You take it. I'm not hungry."

"Why don't you have it packed up, sweetheart? You might enjoy it in an hour or two."

Vegeta shrugged. "Maybe. But maybe not."

Mrs. Briefs finished her sandwich and sighed contentedly. "I just love this cafe! Don't you, Vegeta?"

Vegeta had never been to The Beatnik Cafe before, but he knew it wasn't the sort of place he would actively seek out. The walls were painted black and then covered in dozens of abstract paintings, apparently all created by the same artist and most of them for sale. A tiny stage stood in the far corner of the cafe, where a long-haired young man strummed on an acoustic guitar and sang in an inoffensive soft voice. The seating was purposefully mismatched; a mix of restored wing-chairs and sturdy wooden seats painted in psychedelic colours. Several tall bookshelves were stuffed with an array of paperback pulp novels and hardcover tomes. Vegeta had heard the word "artsy" thrown around before but had never fully understood what it meant, but decided this cafe his mother-in-law had chosen could succinctly define the word.

Another shrug. Vegeta chastised himself as he started to lean back in his seat. "It's a cafe. I have no feelings about it."

He looked at his bandaged fingertips and grimaced. What a dumb thing I've done, he thought, the woman must think I've gone totally off the deep-end. Why did I do that?

"Well, please tell me you have some feelings about your new jacket, which looks so smart on you!"

The Saiyan felt his cheeks going a bit hot. The days were still warm, but the nights grew ever cooler as autumn approached, and Mrs. Briefs had been very insistent that he at least try on the cognac coloured leather jacket on display in the neighbouring boutique before they ate lunch. He was quite surprised with how well it fit him, and Mrs. Briefs was so complimentary when he inspected himself in the mirror.

"It will be good when it gets cold," he finally offered. Vegeta not only knew how to converse, but considered it to be an art form he was skilled in, and his failure to engage in conversation was embarrassing him. "It's, ah, a nice colour."

Mrs. Briefs gave Vegeta another smile. "I'm so happy you agreed to go out with me. I think this is just what we needed to do today. Besides, now you can show Bulma that you went out and did some shopping today!"

With quite a bit of effort, Vegeta managed to turn his smirk into an actual smile for a few seconds before he broke into another heavy sigh. They had yet to visit the grocery store, and Vegeta just wanted to go home and sleep.