a/n: For starters thank you all very much for all the reviews, favorites and feedback. I appreciate each and every one. So a few themes I'm seeing; I need to proof-read and edit before posting more, and I need to bring the story line more into the present, and less in the heads of the characters. I am also thrilled that the sensuality and "odd" points of focus are appreciated. Thank you!
This chapter essentially picks up just after the last one and I'll try to resolve some of the questions left in the comments.
Chapter 9
Hoping lightly on a low stool Bulma worked some clean clothing into place in the tall closet. The smell of dinner is beginning to enter the room. Laundry is an unending chore, tedious and monotonous as well. But for once it was giving her an opportunity to think.
Vegeta had very uncharacteristically arrived at her work function. It'd taken all her composure not to rush off stage and intervene between her co-host, and her … what exactly was he anyways? It didn't matter; he would be as he'd always been to her, Vegeta. There was no other way to describe him, or to make her internal feelings materialize into some sort of tangible description.
Although, there was something to be said for his deviation from his norm, it was almost like he'd been marking his territory. She knew though, it was about the note; the one that'd made its way into his pocket, instead of the one with her contact information she'd intended. After the battles between the Androids and Cell had come and gone she'd started sitting at her desk, and her mind would drift.
When he came back from the battlefield he was not the same man she'd last seen cocky and arrogant, assured in himself. The candor was gone, the conceit vanished; he was withdrawn, bitter and angry. It hurt her to think that fledgling relationship she had with him was in such a sudden and real flux. While she was supposed to be upgrading and stocking the ship he'd used before, she was sitting at her desk trying to get her head on straight. With one of the many pens on her desk she let her hand absently trace characters into a blank pad of paper. For the first few days she'd just traced her pen in the tracts of shiny ink that already made up Vegeta's name. It was just something to do.
Since she could not keep her mind away from him, it was almost logical that she indulge in thoughts of him. So she forced herself to reason some of it out and write it on the small little pad of white paper. On the day he left, vanishing, she wrote the last lines, giving herself a small sense of closure. When all was said and done the page was creased from the repetitive tracing and smudged from her having touched it so many times.
Eventually she'd needed the pad for something else and the page had been flipped, the scrawled paper, which read as a letter, was temporarily forgotten about when the alien man had departed from the grounds. Her child had seen to that. In her packing rush for the show she must have somehow grabbed it instead of the page with her accommodations and contact information. If she was honest the outcome hadn't been that bad, and the sex was exceptional. She'd felt more intimate with him then she'd nearly ever felt in all their past encounters. Thinking back on it made butterflies flit in her belly.
Freshly showered Vegeta emerged from the adjoining bath. The towel around his waist was slung low, deep enough that she was tempted to ruin all his hard work getting clean. He sat nude on the bed and used the towel to dry his hair. To avoid distraction she moved into the closet to find something more comfortable to wear for the rest of the afternoon. She emerged dressed in a blue sundress. Vegeta had also begun to dress, having pulled on loose shorts that came to his knees.
As she pulled a brush through her hair she felt like she was being watched. Mid-stroke she turned and he was indeed watching her. He came up behind her, pressing his bare chest to her near-bare back. His hands started at her shoulders, then rounded them for her clavicles and the slope of her chest. Then down around her breasts over her ribs and to the front, down her abdomen to her belly button.
A nibble and the scrape of teeth on her juncture of her neck and shoulder make her watch them in the mirror. Her somewhat startled face, and his heavy-lidded one reflected back to them. He rubbed his palms over her body a few more times, then disengaged himself and returned to the closet to finish dressing.
"Hey!" She accused. "What was that about?"
He pulled a black muscle shirt over his head.
"Well?" Bulma prompted, hands on her hips.
"The boy is crying" He responded casually before stuffing his hands in his pockets and sauntering out of the room. The wail over the monitor stopped her from following, but she knew his destination and it was pointless to try and force him to answer something he didn't want to.
Her mother was twittering to her father who was flipping through printed papers. They both paused to greet their daughter and grandson. Her father stood to embrace her.
"You did well last night." He commented.
"My little girl, so pretty, and on the television!" Her mother chimed in. "Trunksie was so happy to see you on the big screen. Even Vegeta got all excited over it. He shot out of here so quickly…" The elder woman trailed off.
"Mhhm." She nodded as she sat her son on her lap to eat breakfast.
"Mr. Yotoshimoto was quite bold last night." Her mother started in as she put pieces of fruit in the child's hands.
The boy's father sat down, without a word he began to fill himself with the home cooked extravagant meal on the table. Given the speed at which he consumed his meal it appeared as if he was ignoring the table conversation when in fact he was not.
"He made me really uncomfortable Mom." Bulma countered. "Every time we'd leave the stage he'd run off, sometimes barely making it back in time. The way he looked at me was just plain wrong."
A grunt-gaffaw was heard simultaneously as Vegeta reached forwards and pulled a large roasted bird towards his plate. No one commented afterwards instead, eating their meal in the quiet of clanking dishware.
{}{}{}{}{}
There was a chilly afternoon a few weeks later that Bulma arrived home and the house was completely empty. When she'd left her son was inside the recently rebuilt Gravity Room with his father and her parents were preparing for an afternoon outing. To her knowledge Vegeta had rarely, if ever, left the compound for any purpose that was not training. Had he possibly taken their son somewhere outdoors to train? Not particularly worried, just missing her son, and partially hoping for a quick moment alone with Vegeta, she went to her office to work.
When she returned to her room to wash up and begin making dinner Vegeta was just exiting the bathroom. Trunks, gnawing on one of the pillow corners on the bed, was asleep. While Vegeta would or could, never be a typical parent given his atypical upbringing, unique heritage non-withstanding, he still seemed to have some semblance of an idea on what to do.
Since she'd shown him the marks Trunks' had left on her body Vegeta had done an exceptional job in her opinion with training their child. As well her little boy adored his father, and had an innate connection with him that seemed to transcend Trunk's human side. With a look the boy could move from an outright tantrum to a silent well behaved child. It was as if the emotional boundaries the boy's father set for his world also made sense in his. It marveled Bulma that her son was so aware at such a young age. Mindlessly she gathered the dirty laundry from the room, and with a child on one hip and a basket on the other she left Vegeta to dress.
While Trunks played at repeatedly tipping the full laundry basket over Bulma began sorting the laundry. There were bills and loose change in one of the pockets of Vegeta's pants. Odd, he rarely left the compound, and she'd never before seen him with money that wasn't a crisp bill she'd given him. After the machine began chugging she gathered the money to return it, amongst the bills were receipts; food, and to a museum, her breath caught, halfway around the planet, and the ticket read as admission for two. Had Vegeta taken their son out? To a museum so far from home? By themselves? In public? He surprised her, and now she was curious, oh so curious.
As she put painted racks of ribs in barbeque sauce and put them on the hot grill to begin cooking, Bulma ran scenarios in her head about why they'd gone where they had. She had to know, what was there that drew them? She decided she would begin researching after dinner, and perhaps after she'd attempted at least once to pry the reason out of the tight lipped man.
Trunks' grandparents came in the door, his Grandmother bearing baked goods from down the street. The small boy smiled and pulled himself upright and began to alternate between standing and falling to make a path to the newcomers. Once at their feet, he sat down heavily, babbling, he began to play with the laces and straps on their shoes. With a pop one of the thin laces of his grandfather's shoes snapped and immediately the boy pushed the free end into his mouth and began sucking on it.
"Eww, Trunks! Spit that out right now!" His mother demanded.
Trunks thought it was hilarious and clapped his hands, chewing more readily.
"Trunks, spit it out now." She said picking up the boy and hardening her tone.
"Bwahwha ah ah." He replied and shook his head from side to side.
When his mother tried to force her fingers into his mouth to retrieve the contraband he clamped his mouth shut and began to whine loudly.
"Enough brat." Vegeta's gravelly voice cut clearly through the noises of the three adults and squirming child. Immediately Trunks stopped and spit out the wet lace into his mother's proffered hand. His blue eyes looked past his mother and directly to his father as if waiting for his next instructions. The older man was already leaving the room.
For background noise Bulma turned on the television, but it was her mother that switched the channel. As the younger woman carried some rattling dishware to the table she could hear Trunks.
"Dddaahh ddaah!" A giggle. "Dddaaah Dddaaahh!" Another giggle.
"Trunks, honey, your father isn't here." Bulma replied without turning around while placing out the dinnerware.
"…adorable little boy of Bulma Briefs and this man, pictured here." Came the foreign voice of the television correspondent. The last of the plates clattered on the table as the woman rushed to see the screen. Her mouth dropped open a bit as her jaw went slack. There in high definition video was Vegeta and Trunks. They walked to the ticket booth, Trunks sitting in his father's arms, hands clenching at the dark sweater for support and head swiveling to look around. There is a cut scene, and now the quality of the video decreases slightly, but the purple and upwards styled hair of the two were easily recognizable in the distance. The video ends and the screen begins to scroll through candid shots of the pair; One in front of a display of ancient weapons and armor, the next at the feet of a tall brown skeleton. To Bulma it appeared as if Vegeta was pointing out the vital organs, and she imagined him explaining to her son how this knowledge related back to fighting. The idea made her smile.
Eventually it appeared as if a photographer had followed the pair their entire visit. And Vegeta had let this happen? She narrowed her eyes and kept watching suddenly suspicious about the whole thing. If he could hear electronic hum of a digital camera in her noisy lab, and demanded that she turn it off while they engaged in a hot session of sex, distracted by her body, then he would definitely know if someone was photographing him even from a distance. It was impossible; Vegeta was just too paranoid to have not readily and knowingly allowed this. The photos were cute though.
The next scenes took her breath away. There was a shot from behind and above, one of Trunks' small arms was looped partly behind his father's neck, the other pointed forwards. If she blurred her eyes slightly she could place the colors and the shape behind her two men. It was the kimono she'd worn for it's anniversary. The photographer then followed the pair further as they visited a street food vendor, a bookshop, and then another food shop. The voice over finished up her story commenting on Vegeta's good looks and finally closing with questions about their marital status and how he'd escaped the media's eye before now. With a grin on her face and an extra flutter in her heart and belly Bulma finished preparing for dinner.
The meal vanished quickly and everyone went their separate ways. Afterwards Bulma followed Vegeta upstairs, she wanted to question him about the tickets. He was opening and closing drawers in the bathroom. Immediately she went to one of the furthest drawers and pulled out a new package of dental floss and passed it to him. Of all the strange items and devices Earth had introduced him to floss seemed to be his favorite. It was hard to fault good hygiene she never asked, just dutifully purchased package after package.
As she ran the water to bathe Trunks she stripped the boy on their bed tickling him as she went. On the nightstand was a brand new stack of books, the spines each aligned perfectly with the title beneath it. Interesting reading was all she could muster as she skimmed the titles; the bath was waiting. Quickly she pulled off her own clothes until she was only in her underwear. On her knees she washed and played with the boy over the side of the tub, somewhat lost as she washed him, reflecting on how much he must have seen today. He'd always been an inquisitive child, and she knew he got squirmy and wiggled when he could not immediately gratify his curiosity.
"Dddaahh ddaah!" The boy grasped one of his floating toys then cocked his arm back and released the would-be projectile. His release was off and the toy bounced off the ledge of the bath and back towards him, making solid contact with his forehead. Bulma bit her tongue and struggled to keep a straight face at what she'd just seen. Her son found no humor in it and scowled, pouting. The bath finished, it was time for bed.
Tucked in a towel Bulma brought her son out of the warm bathroom. She was cooing to him and he was fussing quietly. The closer the pair got the easier it was for Vegeta to see; his son was attempting to feed from his mother, and she was trying to convince him otherwise. A couple of months ago she'd have raised an eyebrow at his hanging around after dinner, but lately she'd noticed that he'd adjusted his schedule.
Bulma sat at the foot of the bed and reached behind herself to unsnap her bra. She held it ahead of herself and kept her back to the man on the bed, as if to hide herself. The boy gave up his whining for his prize and he settled himself in his favorite place on her lap.
"Found new books did you?" She smiled at Vegeta over her shoulder.
Leaning up against the headboard he looked up at her from his thick hard cover book and nodded after holding her gaze for a moment too long. He did that often, keep their eyes on each other for long periods of time, she knew not many could hold his stare and it often made the heat rise in her cheeks or on her chest.
"Can I read the one on top when you're done?" Another nod.
He went back to the large and heavy book when the boy fussed, but he kept listening. He learned that she was in fact weaning the boy completely off her milk. He wondered what the boy was thinking as his blue eyes watched him, holding onto his mother possessively as he ate a second dinner. For the boy it was over too soon and he was back to fussing. His mother cooed to him some more, there was nothing left for the child. They stayed in silence as she let their son fall asleep in her lap.
In her robe she came back to the room and abandoned it on her way to take her own shower. Emerging in a towel she is surprised to see the slackness of his face, the softness in the skin around his eyes, and slight part to his lips. As she approached the bed to see what'd caused this the book was closed and placed on the nightstand at the bottom of the stack.
"I would have never thought you to be a reader." She confessed as she opened her drawers for fresh clothing. He raised a brow at her and watched as she let the loosened towel fall to the ground. He made a noise and beckoned her over when she moved to put on underclothes, with a soft tug at her arm he had her crawling naked onto the bed. There were a few beads of water clinging to her shoulders, her dark hair hung damply around her face highlighting her bright clear skin and pink lips.
His hands ghosted up her bare back as he left open mouth kisses on the slopes of her shoulders. It was effortless for him to adjust his hands beneath her and swing her to a position on her back. Smoothing a warm palm up and down her thigh and tight backside he hitched one leg over his hip, letting her use it to grind herself into his pelvis. He half laid his weight on her to free up a hand, which he used to stroke at the soft skin of her face; her cheek, her eyelids, her lips.
Later when she laid panting next to his deep even breaths she watched his profile in the dim light. He was a beautiful man, and in the last little while she'd started to let go of the idea that he would leave again. While the conception of their son had seemed like a chanced meeting of the two, the longer she spent interacting with Vegeta, the more she realized that something tangible had drawn them together. There was a casual laziness in the air, everything felt comfortable and sedate.
"Was the birth difficult?"
She didn't quite know what to make of his question. Yes, three days of labor had been tough. Even if she'd denied it was happening for the first while. So she flipped over to her belly and looked up at him. "He made it here didn't he?" She replied. "Why so curious."
"You didn't answer."
"Its birth, it's supposed to hurt."
He was quiet after that so she tentatively set her head on his shoulder and watched his chest move. They didn't talk about it again that night.
In the morning chill. "I miss the pregnancy sex sometimes." She whispered knowing he was awake already. If he ever remained in bed until she awoke it was either sex or injury.
If she'd been watching she would have seen the slight tug upwards at the corners of his mouth, a subtle smirk. He too could remember it and the mental note he'd left himself about how enjoyable the frequent couplings could be.
"You didn't answer." She added, "but, I wouldn't mind have another baby with you. Not now, Trunks is enough."
Vegeta had no comment. He hadn't been there for the birth of his son. He'd watched the woman start the process, but had sequestered himself when the appointed hour arrived. Lately with the media having focused on her family situation and the boy, questions had been waking and distracting him. Something in him was changing, and it'd started with that note. Since that moment he'd begun to notice small changes in his relationship with the woman.
She touched him more now then before. Little things, brushes of leg under the table during meals, the brush of her fingers through the hair behind her ears when she grabs his head to press her own kisses onto his face. Its in the moments that she draws out before sex, telling him she is teaching him patience. This morning as she used the sheets to cleverly hide herself, extending each press of the lips, and touch until the sexual tension had risen in anticipation.
As an alien both literally and figuratively, human intimacy was proving to be a river far wider and deeper then he'd ever expected. Furthermore he was unsure how much he'd experienced. He came to realize that what he was facing was not a Human-Alien miss-communication, but a Man-Woman one, something well documented on Earth. All he'd wanted to know was if his heir had done any lasting harm to the woman. He'd, unintentionally and unwillingly, heard much in media about how quickly she'd regained her 'pre-pregnancy body'. Somehow her feminine brain had rephrased the question, and in her reply she'd insinuated about wanting more brats. One was enough.
On the occasional afternoon Vegeta would find a quiet moment in their room. Cracking open the large book he'd flipped the thick colourful pages until he found the spread he'd bought the book for. It was a spread about the kimono, it's historical significance and a listing of the famous figures who'd crossed paths with it. The photos were focused on the exquisite kimono, but it was the blur of blue hair and the soft lines of a pale neck that drew him in. As he took in each shot he appreciated the elegant beauty in her poise and form; she a stunning woman.
A couple of days after his trip to the museum Bunny had unearthed a thick brown envelope which she'd left on the small table-desk in their room. It was filled with original prints from the photo session along with some promotional items. At the very back of the package was another envelope and a canister. The risqué photos the woman had described to him stared back at him. There was nothing tasteless about them he found. Instead they were erotic, hot, and arousing.
She stood tall, bold, and elegantly in dark underwear edged in wide lace. The front of the kimono was held open by one hand on her hip; the other was reaching forwards towards the camera. Her breasts were pert and rounded on her chest, nipples tight and rosey. Her red lips were pursed ever so slightly, painted a shade that drew his eyes in.
In a second shot she was walking as the robe was sliding off her arms. She was nude and the clever lead of her leg tastefully made the photo what it was. The motion of her legs, the tightening of the muscles in her calf and thigh made him wish to run his hands up the real ones. Frozen forever midstride he lusted over the lines of her body, the fullness of her chest, and the determined look on her face.
One of the final photos in the set was of her holding the silk to her chest while looking over her shoulder. It focused on the long curve of her spine and the shape of her ribs and waist. She sat on nothing but a low lacquered dark stool in underwear that was made up of nothing more then wide crossing silk ribbons, the setup highlighted the contrast between her bright skin and the dark colours of the kimono. He recognized the undergarment she wore in the photo, he'd picked up and incinerated the pieces of those very underwear the morning after he'd slept with the woman for the first time.
From the pile he removed three of the erotic prints and slipped them into the pages of the large book. Afterwards he laid back on the soft mattress and reflected on that particular day. She'd come into the house from the backdoor with a new hairstyle, and bounce in her step. He was at the kitchen table finishing off his meal debating on how to train since his new Gravity Room had seized up. Furious at what he'd termed a design flaw he stalked up the stairs to unleash his displeasure at the designer.
Readily she'd engaged him, but her heart hadn't seemed to be in it. Everything appeared to take a sexual slant. For months he had ignored the sexual tension between them, denying that he took each and every opportunity to glance, watch, and take in the woman who'd explicitly prohibited him from being attracted to her. Sometime that same day he'd come to realize that what she'd actually done by warning him about her beauty on his first post-Namek day on Earth was to set a trap. It was a clever trap, by telling him no, she was telling him yes, or at least that was how his subconscious had justified it just long enough for him act on the sexual feelings he'd developed.
They kept exchanging verbal potshots as she moved off into her closet to change. From where he stood he was generously aligned with a mirror reflection depicting the inside of her closet. Wherein she was pulling up the dress she wore, exposing those same panties he would later see in photos, and burn away as incriminating evidence.
Now lying in the bed they shared he thought back to the museum. The boy had made his first reference to his mother all day. Although when he spoke about his father his speech emphasis was on the d in 'Dada', but with his mother it was on the a, as such it came out 'AmAma'. The boy had adamantly pointed to the robe and repeated himself until his father had quieted him.
Back on his plush bed he cupped his hands behind his head in reflection. Yes, no more children, Trunks was sufficient. Now where was that woman of his, he wondered if she was still as flexible as she'd been at their first encounter, when they'd conceived the boy. He could feel her ki approaching the room, it seemed he would get to find out.
