Chapter 6:
Yamcha ends up in the hospital. He's lucky, Bulma knows, that he hadn't suffered anything more than a broken arm.
After Vegeta had caught his last strike, he'd twisted his arm grotesquely until the awful sound of bone cracking had snapped through the room, followed fast by Yamcha's choked screams.
Bulma hadn't had time to get her mouth open to beg the Saiyan to stop.
Vegeta had dropped Yamcha a moment later before blasting off from inside the living room, blowing through the ceiling and disappearing into the sky, leaving a gaping hole in the roof of Capsule Corps main compound.
Bulma hasn't seen him since, and has tried to put the anxiety that fact is causing her from her mind by immersing herself in work.
Sometimes it works. Most of the time it doesn't.
She'd felt bad for Yamcha, in a way. But she also knows what happened to him was his own fault. Only an idiot would antagonize Vegeta the way he had.
Bulma thinks they're all lucky the world hasn't exploded. It was weird, realizing Vegeta had the power to destroy the planet, and that had been a very real fear of hers when he'd left. But as the days had gone on and the planet remained, she'd begun to relax on that front.
She just hopes the Saiyan prince returns soon.
She's worried about him, she can't deny it.
She glances at her watch, her eyes widening slightly as she realizes it's already well into the evening.
She's been down here in the lab for nearly eight hours.
Standing from her chair, she stretches, and realizes she should probably get herself something to eat.
She turns for the exit and nearly chokes on the sharp gasp which sticks in her throat before coming out.
Vegeta is standing there in the doorway, leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, staring back at her impassively.
He's dressed in a tank top and sweat pants, the hems stuffed into a pair of soft, CC boots.
He looks good. Handsome, Bulma thinks absently as her shocked nerves finally settle.
She swallows, straightening and looking back at him.
"You're back." She says, proud of how she keeps her voice from shaking.
"Mmm." He answers, not moving from his spot.
Bulma's thoughts take a moment longer to start really moving, and she blinks.
"When?" She blurts.
"... Today." He answers after a long moment.
A slight embarrassment begins to come over Bulma then, realizing that he'd been watching her and she hadn't even realized it.
"How... how long have you been standing there?" She goes on.
Vegeta shrugs.
"... Some minutes." He answers vaguely.
Sometimes, Bulma thinks, this man's refusal to really talk drives her absolutely crazy.
She pushes past her frustration and her dissipating unease, stepping forward.
"Well, I was just about to go to the kitchen to get something to eat. You wanna come with me?"
Now it's Vegeta's turn to look uncertain. He stares back at her with a perplexed expression.
"... You aren't angry with me?" He asks finally.
"Angry with you?" Bulma asks in return, confused.
Vegeta straightens, giving her room to move past in the doorway.
"For breaking your buffoon of a mates arm and putting a whole in the roof of your home." He says flatly.
He's careful to keep any emotion out of his voice, Bulma notes. But underneath the controlled tone, she thinks she can hear an almost kind of trepidation. It's probably her imagination, but still, she can't quite help the small smile which tugs at her lips, at the thought that he might actually be worried about upsetting her.
"Well, first of all," she starts, moving past him, out into the corridor. She hopes he'll follow, and is deeply pleased when he moves behind her, keeping behind her shoulder by a pace or two as she makes her way to the elevators. "He's not my mate any more. I broke up with him, remember?"
"Then you were earnest?" He asks.
"Yes." She says, pressing the elevators call button. "I've had it with Yamcha's cheating and immaturity. He's a good person, underneath it all, but a girl can only put up with so much. As to your other question," she glances back at Vegeta, seeing him standing back from her, staring at her intently.
He looks cute, she thinks, and she smiles again.
"I can't say I approve of what you did. I mean, I don't like to see anyone get hurt, ever. And you certainly cost my parents a hefty bill with the repairs to our ceiling. But... I can't say Yamcha didn't deserve it either. He was being a straight up asshole."
The elevator doors come open and she moves on, turning and looking at him expectantly to follow.
He seems to hesitate a moment before following suit, situating himself in the opposite corner, almost pressing himself into it as he crossed his arms over his chest tightly and fixes his gaze on the floor.
Bulma bites her lip, studying him for a moment.
He's plainly uncomfortable, but she can't figure out if it's because of what she's said or because he's stuck in such a tight space with her.
Maybe both.
She remembers what he'd said about never being with anyone intimately, and it strikes her again as such a bizarre irony. Here he is, a hardened, tested and no doubt world weary soldier, and he's probably never even been kissed by a girl.
"Thank you, by the way." She says after a moment. That gets him to look up at her. "For standing up for me like that before, with Yamcha I mean."
"Tch." Vegeta scoffs lightly, turning his face away. "He is a fool."
"Hey, you don't have to convince me." Bulma laughs lightly. "Yamcha's proven, if nothing else, that he needs to grow the fuck up."
Bulma sees Vegeta's lips twitch, almost like he's going to smile, but his expression remains placid, unmoved.
"... How come you let him hit you like that?" She asks after a moment, her voice quieter with uncertainty. She doesn't want to piss him off, but the question had been bothering her since the whole incident occurred.
He doesn't move, doesn't answer for long seconds, and Bulma thinks for a moment that she's effectively ended their conversation with her prying, when his voice suddenly breaks the silence.
"Psychological manipulation." He says softly, his face casting down once more. "You let the enemy think they have a chance. Lure them into overconfidence. Essentially then, they make their own defeat that much easier."
He's speaking from experience, that much seems obvious to Bulma.
Though whether the experience was of him playing the mental game or the game being played on him, she was less certain.
More than that, Bulma knows Vegeta wouldn't have to rely on any such means to beat Yamcha. He could have simply overpowered him at any point. Could have out skilled him too.
She opens her mouth to point that obvious fact out, when he abruptly continues.
"I needed to be hit." He says, and Bulma blinks, not understanding.
He looks up at her then, face eerily blank.
"I don't feel right... not being hit."
/
Vegeta wakes in the dead of night, starting violently up from the hard slab he calls a bed.
Sweat drenches his forehead, a thick sheen covering his bare torso. There's some nightmare he'd been having, but already the memory of what it had been is fading fast away, and his breaths come short and quick, the bitter after taste of fear filling his mouth.
He blinks against the darkness of the room, glancing to his left, and he can't quite help the relief which floods him as he makes out the black outline of Raditz' form, lying on the cot adjacent, turned on his side, his back to Vegeta. The older boy is breathing deeply and evenly, fully asleep, and the Prince shoves down a childish urge to crawl into the bed beside him and bury himself against his back.
He turns away, spotting Nappa's massive frame draped over his own bed on the side opposite, practically spilling over the sides, his limbs and torso far too long and broad to properly fit on the small mattress. Vegeta's wondered more than his fair share of times how his guardian can fall asleep at all on such an ill-fitting cot, but then, Nappa has proven again and again an ability sleep anywhere with little difficulty at all.
Vegeta guesses that's from years of spending long nights on fields of battle.
He's only just started to experience that himself.
Turning away from Nappa, he gropes blindly for a moment in the dark, his small hand sweeping underneath his pillow for his scouter.
When he finds it he switches the power on, reading the time in the upper left hand corner of its lens.
2:20 in the morning.
He sighs, switching the scouter back off and replacing it under his pillow. He'd started keeping it there ever since that bastard Cui had snuck into their quarters in the middle of the night that one time and stolen it.
Zarbon had given him a severe thrashing because he'd "lost" it. Frieza's right hand lieutenant hadn't been interested in hearing the reasons for why. He'd said Vegeta needed to learn to keep better track of his things.
"The only thing you idiot monkey's seem to understand is violence, so I'm going to beat the lesson into you until you realize the importance of keeping track of what's provided you by the PTO. You own nothing, you little swine. Not even the clothes on your back. You lose Frieza's money each time you display such caviler and thoughtless conduct, not your own. And that just simply won't do."
Cui had gotten what seemed like endless mileage out of the whole thing, especially after he'd gotten a look at the prince's battered face the next day. He'd laughed and laughed, Vegeta remembered.
Shaking his head of the memory, Vegeta silently slips from his bed, standing there for long moments, not knowing what to do.
It's going to be hours before morning, hours before either Raditz or Nappa wakes up, and the prince knows with certainty that he isn't going to be able to fall asleep again tonight.
Once he wakes, he's up for good. It's been that way for a few years now.
It's so early that none of the base facilities will be in operation yet, most everyone else asleep too, except the night patrol guards. And anyway, Vegeta knows better than to wander outside their quarters alone at this hour. Nappa had warned him against it enough times, but as usual, Vegeta had had to see for himself once, when he'd woken in the early morning hours like now.
He'd managed to fight off his assailants that night. Only he'd killed one, and Frieza had starved him nearly a week for the infraction. That wasn't something the prince ever wanted to experience again. They were allowed precious little food as it was, the only meals given without cost the once daily lunch they were served in the canteen. Everything else had to be paid for from the credits they were given upon completion of successful missions, and the credits, along with the missions, were limited. The three of them lived on a strict budget for it.
There wasn't any point in the last three years that Vegeta had had a full stomach. There was always the ache of hunger, floating at the periphery of his consciousness. He'd learned to ignore it, for the most part. But when he wasn't allowed any food at all... It was worse than most beatings, except for when Frieza himself decided to doll out punishment. Those times... Those times, Vegeta was always certain he was going to die.
Sometimes he thought it would be better if he did. At least Frieza wouldn't own him anymore, then... At least that.
Standing motionless for some seconds longer, he finally starts, making his way across the tiny space, towards a back corner where they keep a small dresser and desk. It's behind the dresser that Vegeta spends most nights when he wakes like this, curled between it and the wall. It's also where he keeps hidden behind the grate of an air vent a small stash of personal belongings which he's managed to acquire over the few years he's been here. Some pretty rocks he's collected from the various worlds they've gone to, some small trinkets and baubles. It's nothing, in truth. But Vegeta knows if the things were to be discovered, they would be taken from him, and he would be punished for looting.
It's also where he keeps a small book which he sometimes writes in. He always keeps this nearest the back of the vent, more fearful of it being discovered than the other items.
It's with this book he keeps himself occupied nights like this.
Were Raditz or Nappa to ever discover it, he would be humiliated, and the thought alone is enough to bring a flush to his face. But if Zarbon or Dodoria or Frieza were to discover it... it would be bad. That was all Vegeta knew.
He wrote often about his father. About how much he missed him. About how he hoped he would come for him soon, though with each day passed without word from the King of Vegetasei, that hope grew more and more dim.
He wrote about how much he hated Frieza. He hated him. Wrote his secret desires to someday grow strong enough to topple the tyrant. To defeat him in one on one battle, and liberate his people.
He dreamed of what his father would say to him, when that day came. Imagined his eyes clear and bright with pride for his son.
Dropping down to his knees, Vegeta presses himself quietly between the dresser and the wall, being as silent as possible as he scoots farther in and reaches for the loose vent grating, pulling it carefully free.
He reaches in, rooting around until he feels his fingers brush against the rough cloth of the bag filled with his small collection, pulling it out.
He holds it for a moment, before untying the string and gently dumping the contents out onto the floor.
For a while then he just looks at the things. Beads and rocks and pieces of jewelery. Things he'd found scattered and lost across the scorched surfaces of ruined planets.
He wondered sometimes who the things he'd collected once belonged to.
But those thoughts he would always push quickly away.
They'll be another purge mission coming up for them in the next few days.
He wishes it was today. He wishes they could leave when the light came, and he could get away from here for a while. Just a little while.
He doesn't want to go out there. Doesn't want to have his training session with Zarbon. Doesn't want to eat breakfast in the canteen and have to face Cui or the Ginyu's, or any of the other soldiers that always fuck with them. Doesn't want them to pull his tail, or call him names, doesn't want to hear again how he's a dumb, stinking monkey, an ignorant savage.
Doesn't want to end up back in medical, doesn't want to spend another half a day in a rejuvenation tank.
He wants to go home.
He wants to see Father.
He gathers his small collection back into the cloth bag and holds it against his chest, sinking down onto his side, curling himself into a tight ball.
He wants to go home so much.
/
AN: Thank you so much for your support again guys! Please leave a review if you get a chance.