He hadn't nearly been this nervous at the pre-op almost two weeks ago, Bulma noted on the way to Western Capital General Hospital, shifting her car into gear and hitting the accelerator. Then, she'd been allowed to accompany Vegeta to the inner rooms of the hospital, where the staff did blood work and took his vital signs. He was even relaxed enough for his respiratory rate and blood pressure to seem normal, a detail that had inherently worried Bulma. No one ever mentioned his unusual blood type. Probably because she'd accidentally hacked into the hospital computer mainframe and accidentally chanced it from "unknown" to "O", a type she knew from experience he was compatible with. No one survives a gravity room explosion without ample assistance from things like sutures and transfusions.
Afterwards the nurse had led the pair to a small office housing a borderline-obsolete desktop computer, and motioned for each to take a seat. Thence came the customary question and answer, 200-question session on the patient's medical history. Bulma had received her next two shocks of the day when Vegeta not only answered the questions calmly, but with an amazing degree of honesty.
Any broken bones?
"Left leg seventeen times, right leg twelve times, left arm twenty-one times, right arm thirty-two times, collar bone eight times, pelvis three times. Ninety-three in all, along with ribs several hundred times. I've also had about fourteen skull fractures and a large number of concussions."
Needless to say, the young nurse had a lot of typing to do.
"Any... um, childhood diseases?" She asked, as if mortified by the prospect of typing anything else into his file.
"When I was fourteen I came down with a sickness similar to polio, I believe. I am unaware of its actual scientific name, but I was waylaid by it for eight months. It is probably the main cause of my lack of height." He leaned back in his chair and frowned at Bulma, perhaps just remembering her presence and not being very happy with it.
"Anything else? Hernia, ulcer, appendicitis..?"
His eyebrows drew together, and his face might have paled the slightest degree, though both women present assumed it was a simple trick of the lighting. "Appendicitis, age ten."
"How was it treated?"
"Surgery." Voice terse and clipped, Vegeta stared intently at a spot on the wall on the opposite side of the tiny room.
"Was the surgery successful?"
"Probably not."
He would not respond to any other questions about the treatment of that particular problem, so the nurse progressed in her data collecting. The rest of the pre-op appointment went by without much of a hitch, except for when the anesthesiologist appeared. The Saiya-jin would not stop glaring the entire time the tall dark man spoke, and frequently interrupted to get assured that the sedation was almost one hundred percent effective and no, he would not remember any of the experience.
Bulma pulled out of her musings as she pulled into a parking place at Western Capital General. This was going to be a long day.
----
"I hate you!"
"Oh yeah? Well I hate you, you little prick!"
"Screw you!"
"Like hell I will! I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole, much less allow your dirty paws on me!"
"Shut the hell up! You're so full of it!"
"I'M full of it?"
"Do I stutter?"
"That's IT! You're sleeping on the couch for the rest of your life!"
"Good! Maybe then I'll actually get some sleep!"
After the relative quietude of the drive there, the volume of the altercation in the waiting room of Western Capital General Hospital served to be an abrupt change for anyone entering the building at that time. Struggling away from the two orderlies attempting to hold her back, a blonde woman was managing to chuck numerous random objects and some pregnancy pamphlets at the red-faced man standing opposite her. He, however, only threw insults.
The commotion was broken for a short time when a tall doctor, carrying a clipboard in her right hand, approached the apparent future mother and spoke to her in hushed tones. That respite was short-lived, for the blonde resumed her frenzied tirade more vehemently than before, screaming, "I can't believe you did this to me, you stupid oaf! TWINS! You f--"
And that was when the father passed out, and Bulma jogged down the hall to catch up with the slowly retreating Vegeta.
The required forms had been filled out and signed during the last appointment, so the pair only needed to sign in at the desk in the hospital waiting room. All such places seemed to require an unbearably long wait, the length of which was directly proportional to the degree of apprehension felt by the patient. Bulma had not wanted to be there all day, so when she'd confirmed this appointment she specifically asked that Vegeta be administered to immediately.
Before they'd even managed to get comfortable on the padded benches lining the walls, a short middle-aged nurse with graying hair and arthritic fingers approached and beckoned them to follow her. "We have a bed ready for you, Vegeta. There's a hospital gown on it you'll need to change in to, and then when you're ready I'll insert the IV and start giving you some sedation. Is that all right?"
He nodded silently in response, and when they came to the curtained partition, he stepped out of view. Bulma took a seat in a nearby chair and, to pass the time, pulled out a banned book about a mental hospital run by a rather large female medical practitioner. A few seconds later?
"What the HELL is this, some sort of DRESS?" an enraged voice demanded.
Bulma chuckled. "It's just a hospital gown, Vegeta. The open part goes in the back. Do you need me to tie it for you?"
"NO! What is it with you always trying to get me into women's clothing?!"
The chuckle turned into an outright laugh. "No reason, Vegeta. No reason at all."
When the nurse returned with the IV and pulled the curtain back, Vegeta was sitting up on the bed with the thin hospital blanket pulled up to his midsection. He sent a pointed look to Bulma. "Your presence is not required."
"You want me to leave?"
The look on his face above the neckline of that light blue fabric affirmed it.
"What? How come?" She asked, confused.
"Because I don't want you here, obviously! Can't you take a hint? Get the hell out!"
Standing, she eyed him testily and before storming out the swinging door, said in a scornful tone, "Fine! I'll just go sit in the waiting room, where there are nice, friendly people to talk to! Not like here."
Vegeta watched her go, and sighed. The nurse, who had been present during the entire exchange preparing his left hand for the IV, raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Embarrassed?"
He glowered.
"Thought so. She a friend or a girlfriend?"
"Neither."
"Ah. Love. So much worse for you, isn't it?" She inserted the needle under his skin. "It'll feel weird at first, but after a while, once everything kicks in, you'll be glad it's there."
----
In the waiting room, that first hour of, well, waiting, was longer than it should have been for Bulma, sitting on the bench by herself. The only other people present were either coughing so hard they were probably infecting everyone within a ten foot radius with whatever was ailing them, or were too busy filling out forms to spare a moment to chat with the blue-haired woman holding perfectly acceptable reading material. And it was a good book. Banned, too. Even better. But one can only read the same page over and over so many times before having it memorized well enough not to need to read it. Bulma knew how that was like.
Finally, that same nurse who'd been laughing on the inside while observing her and Vegeta's little spat earlier, stuck her head in the door and motioned her inside. "They're getting ready to take him into the operating room, so you can come in and say something quick to him if you like before he goes in."
Bulma stood slowly and in the same manner walked through the door; she didn't want to seem anxious or rushed. Because she wasn't. Not at all.
He was completely horizontal now, the IV tube taped to his hand and the blankets pulled further up his chest. Slightly drowsy, he was nevertheless alert enough to scowl when he noticed her approach.
"Don't even start with that, Vegeta, I only came to wish you luck, that's all, I'm not going to deride you or call you weak or take pictures of you in a hospital gown so just chill the hell out."
"It's cold enough in here," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Keep talking so it will warm up."
"Ha. Ha. Point for you. Yay. When I catch up you're really going to get it, you know that?"
He continued rubbing his eyes and didn't respond. It was getting near the time for him to be moved to the operating room, an annoying prospect in itself. As if on cue, a young intern who might have been considered eye candy had Bulma not been looking at the smorgasbord on the bed, came forward and took hold of the end railing.
"Ready to go, Vegeta?" The nurse asked, much to her own chagrin. To her, simply observing the patients was more enjoyable than treating them. Not for the first time did she wish she'd gone into experimental psychology instead of the nursing profession.
"Vegeta? We're going to go down to the operating room now, okay?"
The patient in question did not respond, nor did he even seem to hear her as he stared up at the ceiling, memories flickering across his mind, more noticeable now thanks to the uninhibiting effects of the preliminary sedation. Bulma in turn looked at his face, wondering at his naturally indifferent expression but obvious lack of composure. A hand trembled; he clenched his fist. Eyebrows drawn, his eyes squeezed shut, and he took a deep breath, relaxing slightly as he released the air.
"Do prdele."
"I take it that's some sort of swear word?"
He opened his eyes and gave the blue one staring above him a quick glance and raised eyebrow. "You don't get points for guesses."
In turn, she smirked much like he was prone to, as she walked alongside the rolling bed. The double doors, through which she'd already been informed she was not permitted to foray, were opening just ahead of them. "Maybe not, but I must get some points for this."
She bent over and gave him a quick smack on the mouth, then stepped away, grinning cheekily. He brought his hand to his lips in surprise, and as the doors shut behind him, they cut off his yell of, "WHAT the FU--"
By the time Vegeta, the nurse, and the intern had reached their final destination, he was still grumbling quite loudly to himself. He barely noticed when the operating room staff transferred him from the bed to the table, placed four electrodes on his chest to monitor his heart and breathing, and injected the necessary anesthesia into his IV. When the oxygen mask was placed over his mouth, he got a vague impression that he'd worn one before, and immediately went to sleep, without once wondering where the evil white lizard with a scalpel was.
That was probably the point.
----
Vegeta had been wheeled back to his cubicle on the gurney several hours ago. Bulma sat in a chair near his head, alternating between reading the last chapter of her book and glancing at the still-unconscious man next to her. In the middle of one of these surreptitious actions, she started upon seeing Goku shimmer into the previously empty air before her. Needless to say, she was slightly surprised.
"Goku! What the hell are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?"
Eyes wide, he took in their surroundings and replied, "Well, if I did, you sure are in the right place!"
"What do you want, Goku?"
As affronted as the chronically cheerful man could be, "Hey, is that the way you treat me? Your oldest friend?"
"Yes," she said shortly. "What do you want?"
"Okay fine then. Chichi sent me to find you. She wants to borrow one of your banned books for Gohan. Something about trying to further his studies and awareness of the world beyond martial arts. Whatever that means." He shrugged.
Bulma tossed her current reading material at his chest and grinned at the thought of little Gohan gaining her unique appreciation for literature. "And there's more where that came from, make no mistake."
"Thanks a million, Bulma." Goku returned the smile with an incredibly less malevolent version of his own, then turned to look at the third occupant of their semi-private room. "Say, how's Vegeta doing? Your mom told me about the surgery a few weeks ago when I stopped in. How's he taking it?"
"Oh, he was too angry at me when he was going into it to have any other kind of problems."
"Why's that? What did you do?"
Bulma blushed waggled her eyebrows.
"Oh. That." He laughed outright, needing no further explanation. They weren't best friends for nothing. "Well, tell him I said hi. Seeya later!"
And with that, he popped back out of sight.
About twenty minutes later, Bulma returned from the bathroom to find Vegeta awake, blinking and looking around the room. In a quieter and less imperious version of his usual voice, he demanded, "Where the hell have you been?"
She raised her arms in defeat and, to hide her relief at his apparent lucidity, deadpanned, "Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go."
"Whatever."
Returning to her seat after hitting the call button on the side of the bed, "Your grasp of the human art of expression is truly astounding."
At that, the same nurse from earlier parted the curtain and stepped in, several crackers and a cup of ginger ale in hand. "Bickering already? You two should get married. But first, I need you, Vegeta, to eat some of this. Just as much as your stomach allows, don't go making yourself nauseous."
He complied and, taking a bite out of the first saltine, passed out before swallowing it.
"He won't remember any of today because of his meds. Try to make sure the majority of his food goes down the right pipe," she admonished Bulma before walking off to perform other nursely duties.
Vegeta woke up again a few seconds later and continued chewing as if he never stopped.
"I suggest you swallow first, then fall asleep."
He finished eating, sparing her his customary Evil Glare, too intent on completing his task.
Bulma took the empty wrappers and paper cup off the table and tossed them in the trash can behind her chair, then asked, "How are you feeling?"
He frowned. "So this is what it's like to be on pain medication."
Intrigued, she took advantage of this new openness of his to gain more information, "Haven't you ever been on it before?"
"Nope," he responded, making as if to shake his head and then stopping before he unwittingly gave himself a headache.
"But what about all those injuries you talked about at the pre-op?"
"Either I was unconscious and couldn't feel it or I just didn't get anything. Duh."
Bulma leaned towards him, elbows on the bed, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. "It seems your medication has done something to your vocabulary inhibitions, Vegeta. As in, removed them."
"I know. Pisses me off, too. Almost as much as the time Frieza cut off my hair with one of his lame-assed frizbee attacks. Took me months to grow it back. He took a picture while I was in the tank and put it up all over the ship. Every where I looked some poor excuse for a warrior was laughing at a poster of me with no clothes on and a buzz cut." He paused. "Gods, why the hell am I talking so much?"
"It's the medication, I told you that before."
Frowning, "You did? No you didn't."
"Yes I did, and don't you dare start a brain battle with me today, Vegeta, because you're in no shape for it and when I win I intend to beat you fair and bloody square, got that?"
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking me so many question? Just get to the point and then shut up."
"Why do you have such a fear of getting operated on?" She winced, waiting for a scathing reply or some such defense mechanism.
"Early childhood experiences, isn't that what your famous human psychoanalyst decided?"
"Yes, but what happened? It was something to do with that case of appendicitis, right?"
His eyes closed, but whether or not it was of his own accord was unknown to his audience. "Yes. I got sick. I needed surgery. Frieza decided to..."
"To what?"
"He decided he wanted to..."
The Saija-jin prince passed out.
"Damn."
----
"How's he holding up?"
Bulma glanced up at the nurse from her perusal of Vegeta's facial profile. "He wakes up, eats half a cracker, grumbles about being perfectly fine and ready to go back home... And then falls back asleep again."
"Well, as soon as he can keep himself conscious for five minutes, we'll load him up and get him out of here," she replied, much against her will. This pair danced around each other more than the contestants at a tango competition -- except their contest was more along the lines of the horizontal mambo. I give it six weeks.
A whispered curse came from the bed, and both females looked at its occupant. Vegeta was rubbing his eyes with his hand; when his fingers left his face it was noticeable that the drugs for the most part had worn off -- the frown lines on his forehead had returned. "When the hell can I get out of here?"
The nurse began bustling in her familiar manner. She called for an attendant to fetch the wheelchair that would be taking her prickly patient to the parking circle by the front door. The anesthesiologist appeared and checked on him one last time, removing the IV and quickly leaving before the patient burned holes in his lab coat. Bulma left the room while said patient changed back into his street clothes.
"You've got a script here for Darvoset from Dr. Taber," the nurse said as Vegeta reluctantly settled in the wheelchair and Bulma returned to his side. "Take one every four to six hours or when the pain returns, but don't exceed six per day, all right?"
She waited for his short nod before continuing. "These are effective, but they'll leave you feeling a little loopy right after each dose. Don't operate any heavy machinery, and I suggest not making any life-changing decisions while you're on these, as you might have trouble remembering at a later date all the things you've said and did while taking this medication. Once the pain goes down in a week or two, you can shift back to taking regular painkillers like Ibuprofen. Okay?"
He waved his hand in a dismissive manner, clearly done with her ramblings. Bulma smiled and said conspiratorially, "Don't worry, I've got it."
They signed out at the desk, then walked, or in the prince's case, rolled down the hallway they'd gone up early that morning, to the front door of the hospital. Doing her best not to let him see her grin, the nurse waited with Vegeta as Bulma pulled the car into the pick-up circle. The prince crossed the short distance to the passenger seat as dignified as he could, hopping on one foot, and once there, leaned back, closing his eyes.
Bulma glanced at him out of the corner of her eye every so often on the drive back to Capsule Corporation. In all appearances he seemed to be asleep. Except his breathing. Controlled intakes of air without the steadiness the unconscious afforded it. She took her hand off the gearshift and placed it over his own -- squeezing slightly, not expecting a response. But one was elicited; she felt her worry slip away as his fingers squeezed back.