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Chapter 4

"I'm glad I didn't have to use the trees after all."

"What?"

Chichi was roasting the fish they had caught soon after the attack. The dinosaur's brief submersion hadn't alarmed many fish to human presence. They knew the big boys weren't interested in small fry. Bulma had sat at the edge with a pole while Chichi had leapt across and plucked them out by hand. She had bagged eight, while Bulma seemed to be zoning out, listless in delayed shock as the line went taut and slack in turn. Chichi had placed a hand on her back to gently lead her to the house, and she had started, taken a step away and regarded the body part with wary awe. Now as Chichi handed her one of the fully cooked fish she tried engaging her again. This went against the norms of their relationship, so she was self-conscious. "At first I was thinking, 'how will I do this?' and 'I hope I won't have to snap one', grasping at straws I suppose, the trees seemed important for a bit. I didn't know how so, though," she rattled.

"No, that sounds practical. Aren't fighters supposed to take advantage of their surroundings?" Bulma said this slowly, measuring her words, but Chichi was relieved to see that her eyes agreed with her smile.

"Quite right," she confirmed. "But planning can become a liability if it claims more attention than the fight at hand. I could have done something great if I'd climbed a tree, but it would have taken time. I couldn't afford to take chances with you there."

"That's a first," said Bulma, regaining her jovial manner. "My protector actually thinking of me!" Both women laughed sardonically at first, but gradually the truth of it pulled out genuine carefree laughter. Goku had always been more interested in the opponent than the outcome on that first trek for the dragon balls, and Vegeta would assuredly go out of his way to marginalize consequences of a fight. Bulma caught her hostess' eye, winding down. "Thank goodness," she sighed.

"Would you mind telling me what had you so quiet?" prodded Chichi. "You had me worried. I watched to see if you would faint."

Bulma munched on her trout, looking heavenward for adequate phrasing. "Of all things, after all I've seen, I was afraid of that dinosaur. Because like I mentioned before, I mistook you for someone like me, weak and hopeless like Vegeta says. I forgot you're a fighter, even if you're not in the same league as even your own son."

"Careful, you insult me," said Chichi, trying to joke and smiling widely to prove it.

"Honestly I thought you'd given up your training since you…"

"Since I what?" she asked, heart sinking with the apprehension toward the condemnations she saw coming.

"Well, you never showed interest in fighting, ever since Vegeta first came. After that everyone noticed you weren't very…"

"Supportive?"

Bulma looked carefully at a woman she wanted to remain on good terms with. Nevermind that she and Goku's old pals had made a habit of criticizing her behind her sons' backs and occasionally to their faces; this was the wife of Son Goku, and it was not right to alienate her even when she dared them to. Chichi met her gaze with quiet intensity. Her love and her hate were infamously ferocious. "You've explained it to me clearly before, why you didn't want Gohan to fight Cell."

"He was a little boy."

"He's a Saiyan, and he saved us."

"You tell me, Bulma," Chichi said before it could deteriorate into the same cyclical argument that swirled and boiled over without yielding results. She said it reproachfully, as if she were the older woman, and Bulma was affronted. "Whether you would trust your husband with your son's life. What do I care for the world? That's Goku's job. I'm for my family. I will love them," she said steadily, "and I will always hate when they fight."

"But that's what they are!" Bulma was unable to contain her frustration. "Saiyans live to fight! It's practically stamped on their genetic codes! Don't you realize it's cruel to deny them—"

"It is cruel," said Chichi with new vehemence which startled them both, "to deny them their humanity. I will raise my sons in the way I see fit." And her eyes permitted no argument. The fish in her hands grew cold with the breeze, neglected. She bent her head and nibbled. When she looked up she had thawed, and she looked apologetically to the only other human she could relate to on this level. "Please excuse my untoward anger. Trunks is a very fortunate child, with a loving mother and a strong father, who I hope for your sake is strong enough so he won't have to fight."

Bulma could have bristled at the presumptuousness of the wish, at the self-righteousness of this woman who worked to stifle her children into weakness. She opened her mouth to rebuke her with the sentiments of the world, grateful and dependent on those this wife and mother would steal for herself, and found she could not. There was something she was missing, something she lacked which she must have in order to justifiably attack the fortress of Chichi's identity. A terrible notion struck her. Could it be the panic of a parent helpless to defend her son? Could it be that for all her efforts to give Trunks a happy life unlike his father's, her showers of kisses and lullabies and sweets and toys, of all generic childhood things—for all her endeavors, she was yet untested? Or had she already revealed herself—and at this thought she froze—that stupid, reckless, inexcusable stunt she pulled, dragging her infant son to the battlefield—shot down—what had possessed her?

Before her was a woman who would never be so insidiously careless, whose extreme demands for caution were all she could give those who rejected them. The pit of her stomach tightened. This woman had fortitude. It was by no means her place to judge, and Bulma realized that the next time Yamcha made a deprecating remark she would smack him. She smiled. "He is lucky. That kid is spoiled rotten, I love him to death." And because Chichi tentatively returned her olive branch with a smile of her own, she grinned. "Don't tell him, but next month for his birthday we're taking him and Goten to a theme park, all the toons from the dawn of television. You and Gohan are welcome to tag along."

"Oh my, that's so generous of you," said Chichi, "but we couldn't possibly impose—" Not even finished here and she's already planning her next getaway…

"But I've got it all worked out already…"

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Hours later, after a short walk to whet their anticipation of the next day's hike and a very brief washup in the chilly mountain water, Bulma had retired to her enormous camping house and Chichi was left to her own devices, namely digging a pit for waste and arranging the firewood in a neat pile for easy access. Once that was finished she entered her tent and, as the pure-hearted do, fell asleep precisely when she was ready.

Her dream was a memory.

Her hands clung to the quilt she had brought as those back then were clenched tightly with anxiety. Her brows furrowed, and her lips trembled. Backward so many years, she was trapped.

Trapped beneath the perturbed and grinding gaze of her husband. "W-what?" she asked.

"Do you hate me?" he repeated. That tone of his, reserved for opponents he must analyze before taking on, was breaking her heart. But she couldn't burst into wails and tears here in their bedroom; Gohan was having his first truly restful night in years, confident that in eight days this hellish three—no, four—years of training for Cell would be enough to clobber the abomination—for his strongest-in-the-universe father to send it away forever. She dare not upset the hastily rebuilt (or were they fabricated?) bonds between herself and her husband, the balance achieved by adoration and loving chastisement. She forced herself to keep her voice at a reasonable adult conversational volume, though she couldn't eliminate the tremor as his eyes bored into her, as if he were searching her thoughts for treachery, making her feel hollow and betrayed.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you keep saying this, when he's not around. You say, 'he is not you', as if I'm someone you don't want him to be. Someone…" he squinted, peering at her core. "…you wouldn't be proud of."

Her eyes widened in horror. "No! No, that's not it!" She wrung her hands, pleading with herself to find the words, with him to understand (but could he?) what she had failed to convey to him, time and time again. "He shouldn't have to fight like you, he's not like that!"

"Like what?" His confusion was palpable, permeating her pores, pinning her ludicrous logic. "You knew I was a fighter all along. I thought you wanted him to learn to fight like me!"

"I did—I wanted us to teach him to defend himself, but not to risk his life!" This was bad. She checked her volume. "If you're around, why should he have that responsibility?"

"It's not just a responsibility, it's what we do. We're not just fighters, we're Saiyans. He needs it." He explained it curtly again. The pressure of this made him impatient.

"No, he doesn't." The direct contradiction caused him to look sharply at her. Her insides were churning, liquefying, but she held her ground. "You've—you were gone for so long you don't know—he doesn't love fighting."

As she feared, he was bewildered, completely uncomprehending. "Of course he does! He's fought with everyone since Vegeta, and been training ever since! Haven't you seen anything?"

"I have! You haven't! Gohan, even that first time, shouting at me in the hospital, he was angry with me because he thought I was being selfish, not wanting him to go and bring them back!"

She held her breath. He was frowning, gravely, because now he was fighting within himself to push one of the two things he cherished most over the other, and the other was winning. "Aren't you? Even now…" She would be sick. He was accusing her, like the others, like his greedy, spiteful friends, and he must be right, he the hero must be—"Being selfish?" And if he said it, it must be so, and she was filthy, detestable, an iniquitous wretch for supposing that while he fought for the world, she must also fight…

"This family is all I ever wanted." But she couldn't. Perhaps this would be her only chance for her feelings, but she must redirect her self-loathing into energy to spend on him, infinitely more worthy than her. She must rather than pour out herself (useless, like sludge) make him understand. "Because you don't put this family first, I do. Goku, do what you need to do. You're my husband. I love you too much to stop you. But every time you drag our son into your problems, know that I will fight it. I will fight for our happiness." Because someone has to, and no one else has the audacity.

He was desperate. He knew she had given him something he should work with, but didn't know what. "…I don't understand. What is it you want? You want the Earth to be destroyed so I can be with my family?"

"No, Goku. The Earth is our home, and I love it. I'm saying whenever you won't act as head of this family, I must. So I guess I want you to know why I act the way I do. Is that…enough?"

"I don't know." So smoothly that it seemed too sudden, he drifted to her, and lay his hands on her shoulders. It was his way of caressing her, telling her he held her dear to him and had claimed her, no matter what, as his to protect. "I know that even more that you're mad at me, you're sad. I know you love Gohan more than you love me, but I know you love me very much." She ached; he pulled her in: you're for me and I'm for you. "And I know there's no other way." Nestled against his broad chest, her favorite place in the world, she could only surrender to the truth as he made it, accepting reality as he painted it. Don't you know that I love you? His heart sang to hers; they were united. All I've done and will do is for you…please, please take it and know that I do love you.

Her subconscious objected, 'didn't I imagine those extra things?' but the memory of it was clear. Underlying his spoken response throughout was a stream of his being, even more definitively him than his ki signature, and it was for her heart only. To receive, to treasure; she held it to remind herslf of why he was worth fighting for.

Now they had come apart. He was saying, "I'd never let Gohan die, you gotta trust me," with is thousand-suns smile and she, the willing fool, believed in him once more—

SSSKEEEEEEEE!

Screaming!

She shot up in her sleeping bag, instantly awake. No, it was a machine. It wasn't metal against metal, a scraping, but an unbroken high frequency, like that of a bat or a cicada. She freed herself from the confines of the lined burrito blanket. On a trip to West City for clothing she had waited in line behind a pack of teenagers, and one of the animals experimenting with her ringtones had activated an abominable shrieking (Chichi had wasted no time in swiping and stomping it out of her misery, paying al charges gracefully) like this. She whipped past the tent flap and zipped to Bulma's camping house. Deducing the sound wasn't being produced there, she pounded lightly enough on the door not to knock it in.

Bulma opened it, bleary-eyed. "Chi-chan, whassa matter—" She clapped her hands to her ears. Apparently the walls kept out high pitches but not vibrations. "What is going on?" she yelled, disoriented and angry.

"I was hoping you would tell me," Chichi yelled back.

"How the hell should I—" Just then it cut off. Bulma let down her arms. The forest immediately surrounding them had no sign of intrusion. A toad croaked, puncturing the restored silence.

Presently there was a series of clicks, fuzzy like those ending telephone calls. An intercom, mouthed Bulma, uselessly as Chichi was looking upward, listening raptly. "Good evening," said a tinny voice. "We have traced the most powerful ki signatures of the planet to this location and have reason to believe this to be the Son residence. If Son Gohan would kindly come out with your hands up, we would like to have a word with you. This is the Red Ribbon Reborn Army."

Bulma groaned.

A/N: How did that stream-of-consciousness treat you? Don't worry, I only plan on one more of those heart-to-heart GCC flashbacks, if only to refer to the story title vaguely. If it looks like I took a jab at Bulma, I did; VB fics are great, and I love them, but they sometimes ignore troubling aspects of her personality and Breifs family life. This marks the beginning of the real story. The next chapter's already finished, but I don't want to upload it till I've written the one after it, so I don't contradict myself. I realize there are few Chichi fans, but I see folks reading and not reviewing, so please, please drop me a line! Approve or disapprove?