Reference: 4-5 months after the previous chapter.
Vegeta and Bulma: mid 40s
Trunks: 10
Bra: 0
The night was dark, cool, and calm. General Kakarot flew off the Capsule Core balcony towards the Saiyan Embassy located in the center of West City, while King Vegeta stayed behind, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. They were not very tumultuous or stressful, but it had been a while since he could take a breather. Nearly a year had passed since he last saw his woman, and he figured he could grace her with his presence since things back home had slowed down.
Besides, he had a curiosity about the new babe.
Barely a thought had really penetrated his mind on his mate and new child these last few months. What with the loss of General Nappa and the inexhaustible brat that lived within the palace walls, Vegeta felt he was due some down time. Who knew Nappa did so much when alive? Who knew Trunks demanded such attention from the seasoned warrior? The boy was a regular energy bubble, always ready to train, learn, and fight. Vegeta should be pleased, but how could he be when he was trying to train the elite soldiers? Trying to run a whole planet! Ugh. It was very embarrassing having the brat show up randomly, in the middle of spars or meetings, shouting: "Hey, dad! Look what I can do!" Or "Hey, dad! Did you know that so and so did such and such?" Or "Hey, Dad! Remember when Nappa did this really disgusting thing?"
Hey, Dad! Hey, Dad! Hey, Dad!
No matter how many times Vegeta demanded to be recognized as "father" or "my king", the brat refused to comply. It wouldn't be so bad if Trunks chose to interrupt him while he was alone, but no, the imbecile did it very publicly. It is all Bulma's fault, he is sure. He can only be grateful that a second childish burden would not "enrich" his life.
But... said second child is a daughter. No female had been born of the royal line for centuries. He knows, Nappa forced him as a child to read those dusty tomes. And later, when Bulma was living on planet Vegeta, and interested in her mate's history, they had read that same tome together. He smirked; definitely better reading the second time around…
When they reached the section on the royal family's history, and the bit about the offspring, Bulma had coyly suggested they try for a little girl. It had been in jest, neither one of them truly wanted more children, especially with their already strained relationship. But it had been a shining moment in their history together: making believe, and then going at it like earthling bunnies as a result of those adult imaginations.
But now, years later, when they were not even living together, a little girl had indeed been conceived. And if his timetables were correct, born as well; the first Saiyan Princess ever in living memory... he did not know what that signified. If anything, it was just the influence of human blood... but genetics (Thanks for that non-scintillating lesson, Bulma...) ruled that the male held the key for ... well... the sex of the babe.
Vegeta sighed. The girl would be raised human, as Trunks was raised Saiyan. If there is anything of significance, they would deal with it later. Right now, all he wanted was some damn sleep. With the only person he allowed to see his weakness, since his heritage prevented him from being an emotionless... thing.
That's what mates were for, anyway, or else Saiyan probably would not bother. Aside from the sex and procreation, mates took care of sadness, happiness, anger, and any other emotions threatening to weaken a warrior. If Vegeta had no one to shed his tears in front of, he doubts very much that he would have been an effective ruler after Nappa's death. After only relatively five minutes of allowing his tears to flow within the arms of Bulma, he had been fit and strong once more. And she never blabbered on his weakness either, something all mates instinctively did for their other halves. The vulnerability was an unfortunate need, and one entrusted to only the most strong of mates. And as far as Vegeta is concerned, Bulma is the strongest woman to hold on to, and protect, his emotions.
Thus thinking, he walked into the room connected to the balcony, inhaling the scent of his mate, and cataloging the new smell that must be his daughter. Taking another moment to still, to memorize the new presence, and smile. Then his stoicism returns.
He sits beside the slumbering woman, relishing her soothing heat behind his back as he takes off his boots, gloves, and chest armor. She barely stirs then, and even when he brushes a few hair strands from her face, she hardly moves, just utters a few weak whimpers.
Lying down behind her, Vegeta wraps her in his arms, allowing her to actively snuggle, to readjust to being moved. She stills, and he brings a hand beneath her tank top, seeking the smooth flesh of her body. He meets a scar, though, and stalls. She has been forever flawless, and he is stunned to find an imperfection on her now.
He traces the scar, realizing that their daughter came into the world with complications. At once, he worries, and an instant later he mentally slaps himself. Bulma is here, in his arms, breathing fine. The new brat's smell is hale and strong. The scar is a testament to Bulma's strength and endurance; pride blooms within Vegeta's heart. Never has his mate been so... Saiyan like: battling for her life, for another's life, and winning. He imagines looking at the scar, witnessing her trophy, kissing it, kissing her...
Vegeta kisses his mate's ear, and neck, liking the little endearing moans she makes, and how she wiggles her butt, unintentionally, against him. He buries his nose in her hair, stilling the beating of his heart. Soon after she settles again, he follows her into slumber.
A few hours later into the night, his sensitive ears pick up the whimpers of a babe. As full consciousness returns, those whimpers turn into cries, ones his mate can hear. Amused, he watches her squirm, wake, and walk towards the door as if in a daze, all without acknowledging him. He smirks when she stills, tiling her head with confusion as she finally realizes she was not alone in the bed, that there is an intruder.
Gasping, she spins around, and he watches her face go one from shock, to recognition, to happiness. "Vegeta." She whispers.
There is a pause in the room, and then their daughter starts screaming now, as if the earlier quiet was just her taking a breath. Vegeta winces, "I see she inherited your mouth, woman."
"As if." She replied, no doubt too tired for a wittier comeback. "She has your demanding nature and hunger, though." And while he chuckles, she turns towards the door again to take care of the brat.
He sits up on the bed, but moves no further. He listens with heightened senses as his woman coos at the baby, murmurs and moves around in the adjacent room. His hands clench upon the bedspread, undecided as to whether or not he wants to meet his offspring.
He hears gurgling, and his woman's giggles. She sighs as well, accompanied by a creaking sound. She must have sat in the rocking chair...
When Bulma starts to hum a song, Vegeta stands and moves to the hallway. He had witnessed motherhood on Bulma once before, and mesmerized by such evocative power, he wanted to see it again. Suffice to say, "Motherhood" did not suit very many Saiyan females, if any. There were hints of it here and there; at times showing deference or kindness towards their offspring, or when a female defended a brat for longer then was necessary; Saiyan brats usually able to fend for themselves after half a year.
However, the power that human mothers had in their aura was something completely different, and not seen in any other species Vegeta had come across. Human brats were weak, so it made sense their mothers became... more then they seemingly were. Even then, it rarely reached a level of poignancy that stunned him.
Publicly, Bulma treated baby Trunks as a "friend", albeit one who needed help with nearly everything. Vegeta recalls her talking to Trunks, asking him questions and teasing with him about others, as if the brat understood, and could offer a reply of some kind. But in private, with just her and Trunks, and perhaps with Vegeta as well, her aura shifted, as if it were a physical thing capable of overcoming all odds, and her tone with her baby was vastly different. Something Vegeta had to acknowledge as beautiful, wonderful, and downright emotional. It would never topple any kind of powers that be, but it was the closest to being a physical thing an abstract concept could be.
Vegeta would never admit it so, but he knew Bulma knew, and was no longer afraid of breaking down his own walls in the face of such awesome power. There had been many times in the two years that he, Bulma, and Trunks were all together that Vegeta took it upon himself to stare at mother and son, to memorize the mother's unassuming love, the baby's content dependency. Trying to pinpoint the shifting emotions, the physical bond where there was only weak abstractions, but forced to admit... it was much stronger then that. Stronger then her own love for her husband and mate. It went without saying, stronger then his own love for her.
Perhaps what made it so awesome to Vegeta was that it is not, like most human emotions, flaunted, or demanded of. It just is. A mother's love, a baby's love: there is no equal on earth, let alone the universe.
Vegeta wondered if such a thing still existed, years later.
Peeking through the door like a young brat instead of full grown warrior and ruler of a planet, Vegeta gazed with wonder upon his mate, upon his daughter. A knitted blanket wrapped around the two, and he could see the little girl's head peeking out, suckling upon the breast that was bared. Thin blue wisps covered the otherwise bald head, and outlined the alabaster baby against the mother's equally pale arm. He tracked Bulma's arm, and shoulder, finally gazing into the vision of "motherhood".
Bulma is smiling softly at her child, and stroking the cheek of the suckling babe. She was serene, calm, beautiful. Who is this woman who is not the fiery temptress that he knew? He would have hated Bulma in the beginning, if she constantly had treated him like that. It was, however, perfect in this moment, in a way he could not describe, or understand.
His own mother never looked at him like that. Not that it was her fault, or his, not that he really wanted such, but... perhaps it was something the Saiyan race could benefit from, Vegeta mused. He shook his head: Blasted humans and their damned emotions.
The baby gurgled, and cooed, and was thoroughly being cute. Returning his attention to his new brat, he asked her name.
Not looking up from maneuvering the babe to her shoulder to burp, Bulma replied, "Bra."
Grunting in reply, he eyed the little babe from head to toe, or at least the misshapen bundle underneath the blanket. She is small, smaller then Trunks had been, and he had been smaller then Saiyan babies to being with. "Is she... malformed?" He asked.
Chuckling, Bulma replied, "No. She was just born early. There were... complications." silence but for the creaking rocking chair descends upon them. Had he been human, Vegeta probably would have asked what complications, if they were both OK. But, of course they were fine, they are both hale and healthy, there before him, and the past was just that, the past. Those types of questions are moot.
"Thank the stars you did not choose your mother's name." He spoke into the silence, breaking the tension. The creaking of the chair stopped for a second, and then continued. Rather then become annoyed (another symptom of "motherhood": the calm patience), his mate only smirked in reply.
Bra burped.
The chair stops again. "Do you want to hold your daughter, Vegeta?"
Not knowing how to answer, Vegeta just stands in the doorway, staring his mate in the eyes, conveying indecisiveness.
Bulma looks away, folding the blanket away, fixing her shirt, and cradling the child in her arms. Slowly, she stands, and looking only at the brat in her arms, she walks closer to him. She angles herself and the baby so that both parents have an unhindered view of the newest addition to their family. If their unit can be called such; it is indeed too emotional to be a Saiyan family, but too estranged to be a human one. Somewhere in between, a hybrid as much as their children were hybrids.
Vegeta brings a hand to Bra's head, marveling how his whole palm could engulf the fragile crown. Skin does not meet skin, but he can feel her minute heat, and her tiny ki, bridging the gap between her head and his palm. He smirks when he realizes her tiny ki, in comparison to Saiyan babes, is still larger then his woman's ki. She will grow to be a strong woman, whether a warrior or not. Well, with him and Bulma as parents, was there any doubt?
Almost as if flinching, he palms Bra's head. Bulma says nothing, does nothing, but he can feel her smile forming. Ignoring it, he focuses on the little being in his mate's arms, stroking his thumb on her forehead, in awe as he was only once before. And it is still different now, then it was with Trunks.
Bra was the first female heir of a king in centuries. She is his, she is his daughter, a miracle in the making among Saiyan culture, and the best of him and his mate. She would be beautiful like Bulma if her blue hair was any indication, and she would be strong like her father, as her ki suggested. Vegeta suddenly realized, he would do anything for her. Anything.
Gasping, removing his hand as if burned, he turned around as if to stomp away, yet he stayed in the doorway. He listened as behind him, Bulma sighed and went through the motions of laying her child back in the crib, while he internally struggled to grip reality again.
This is all different, more then he thought possible. Trunks did not cause such strong sensations to course through Vegeta. Those who did not know Vegeta well would hazard that he did not love his son. It was both false, yet appropriate. There would always be an arm's distance, a level of anger whenever father spoke to son, but it worked for both men; no one would think to use Trunks to hurt Vegeta, nor vice versa. Enemies would think it would be futile, and while it was not true, it worked for the defense of the royal Saiyan family.
And it had always been like that, even when Trunks was a fragile infant. While Vegeta did not plan for his existence, there was always some sort of mental awareness that any offspring that should chance to be conceived would be male, strong, and need to be protected from not only enemies, but from dangerous emotions. Especially when born of a human, as Vegeta once started thinking after the first few months mating with Bulma.
Vegeta does not think the same situation could arise for Bra.
Bra is dangerous to Vegeta, a weakness even more damning than his son, than his damned mate! He growled, clenching his fists, distraught over how much he wanted to do things for Bra. To protect, to provide, to watch over, to learn of, to teach, to listen; there was no end to how much he wanted to be there for her, and he falls to his knees in anguish that he had already given her up.
And then frustration mounts, anger at himself over his next thought: he would not be an effective Saiyan ruler if someone, even if that someone was his own daughter, with that much hold over his emotions was a constant presence. He at once hates himself for such thoughts and, for the first time in his memory, hatred over his lot in life. What could he be for Bra had he not been prince of his race? Had he been, like Kakarot, a mere citizen of their planet, without the responsibility of their people resting on his shoulders? His hatred of the clown rose as his frustrations mounted.
Soon enough, Bulma had turned her soothing nature from her child to her mate, coming and enveloping him in her scent and arms, her chin falling on his forehead. "Vegeta." She whispers over his head, "What's wrong?"
Strong arms surround his mate, fingers grasping at her shirt and gripping harshly. "How hard was it?" He rasps, struggling not to tear up. "How could you release Trunks to me like that?"
"Oh, Vegeta." She sighs. "I don't know how I did it. Even now, I struggle to say that I'd do it again. Some days I regret leaving him and you..." She starts to rub Vegeta's back, like he was another child. But he does nothing to stop her.
"Do you regret our separation?" She asks.
Snapping up to face her, he considers the question. "No." He finally says. "Earth is not for me. Vegeta is not for you." In a rare show of affection, he strokes her cheek. "You have sacrificed a lot of your human values for me, woman, and I have never realized how painful that was for you, until now."
He wipes away errant tears off his wife's face. She leans into his hand, "You want to keep Bra, don't you?"
"Hn. Perceptive as usual. Shh..." he whispers, recognizing the blooming fear in her eyes, "I will not take her from you, woman. Come," he says, standing up and offering her his hand, "Let us go to bed." He decides not to share his thoughts of Bra's power over him, knowing she would not take kindly to that interpretation of Bra being a "weakness".
They settle again on her bed, the woman lying atop his chest. With how much he yearns for his daughter, he wonders, "Woman, how come you never asked to see Trunks in all these years?"
He does not receive an answer for quite a few minutes, the silence stretching in the darkness. He expected to receive an overlong explanation, and was gearing himself for that, because he really needed to know how he could possibly give up his own daughter. Then, "It would get harder and harder to give him up, Vegeta."
Short. Succinct. And it made complete sense. No doubt she could say much more about the subject, but he was thankful for the short version for once. He mused on Bulma's strength, knowing she at least had two years with Trunks, and had been able to say 'goodbye' to the brat. Or perhaps she had been lucky? Vegeta had two minutes with Bra, and could hardly stand the distance between the two rooms... For his own protection, nay, his daughter's protection, he'd leave her on earth in the capable hands of her mother. And the Z Warriors, he supposes.
Making up his mind, he whispers, "I will not ask to see Bra again, nor will you ask it of me."
She nods against his chest, recognizing the command in his tone. Though she hates it when he makes demands of her, he does it rarely in recent years, and only when in need. He feels tears fall on his chest, and wonder if it is in sympathy, or regret. Perhaps both. He runs a hand up and down her spine, soothing her, hoping she knows he does feel the same...
