"You are actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" the prince accused.
His wife sipped away at her coffee, unaffected by his actions. "Please," she answered in a mocking tone. "If I really wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead." She watched him open his mouth, but she preempted his next accusation. "You're right, I really am sadistic enough to drive you slowly and painfully insane so that your death could be that agonizing. But in this particular instance, I'm not trying to screw with your head."
Vegeta hardly seemed appeased. "You're always trying to screw with my head."
But Bulma simply offered an indifferent shrug. "Gotta stay entertained somehow. Now come on. It starts at two on Saturday, and we expect you to be there."
"Who the hell would expect me to be there?" he countered.
Again, though, Bulma was unaffected. "Someone who knows you like I do would expect it."
"So, the psychotically deranged?"
"You got it."
The prince had to fight to suppress the groan. Why, oh why, did his children have to do things with humans? Humans wanted so much attention for so little work, and for some very odd reason that Vegeta had never understood, they did not think that any demonstration of skill, regardless of how poorly it was pulled off, deserved anything less than high praise. Apparently telling a child that their artwork looked like a regurgitated meal was not met well.
As such, he went out of his way to avoid humanity as often as possible. And the overwhelming majority of the time, he was quite successful at the task. However, if it was something that his offspring were directly involved in, and it was deemed important enough by the children and the woman to warrant his presence, he was usually trapped. He was still trying to figure out how they managed to get him to do such things, and had a sinking feeling that he would never hold an answer to that question.
But where he had begrudgingly gone to commencement ceremonies and the odd back-to-school night, the torture that lay ahead for the weekend was one he was honestly not certain he would be able to survive. "This is absurd," he informed his spouse yet again. "There is no way in hell I'm going to this!"
"Okay," Bulma calmly answered, taking another calm sip.
Okay? Since when did that lunatic ever say okay to such a refusal? There was a trap. Oh, crap, there had to be a trap. "So, you are not upset with my decision to stay here?"
"Oh, no, not at all," she lazily drawled. "Why would I be upset?"
Yes, he knew that tone well enough. She was definitely going to be murdering him in his sleep.
"You just stay right here and train your little heart out," Bulma went on, swirling her beverage. "And when your little girl looks at you with those big blue eyes of hers, all magnified with her welled up tears, asking why her daddy wasn't there on her big day, you go right ahead and tell her that you think she's less important than push-ups."
"You know that's not true!" he snapped. "I am not refusing to go because she is not of importance to me, I am refusing to go because it is going to be two hours of tone deaf brats belting out your planet's pitiful excuse for music!"
"Okay," Bulma said again. "I understand. She won't, but hey, she's a twelve year old girl. They're just such a forgiving bunch at that tender age."
Vegeta let out a small huff and left the room, ignoring what remained of his own breakfast. The woman was right, his daughter would never forgive him after the fact for an offense like that. But maybe, if he was lucky, he could bargain in advance.
Cautiously, he approached the young heiress' room. Bra had only recently discovered the joy of adolescent mood swings, and it made her almost totally unpredictable. If she happened to be in a good mood, he could state his claim, and she would let him off the hook. If she was in a foul mood, half the house would be gone before his sentence could finish. He sincerely hoped that luck would be on his side, but that had never been the case before, and he was not particularly expecting it to change.
He knocked on her door, an action he only took when he knew he was going in for a tough negotiation. Though he did not show it on the outside, he was greatly relieved when his daughter opened the door and smiled up at him, greeting him with a simple, "Hi, Daddy!"
So far, so good. "There is something that needs to be discussed," he said in a matter of fact tone.
Bra frowned. "You're not coming on Saturday," she glumly figured out.
Well, so much for good luck. "Bra…"
"No. Whatever. Have fun training." And with that, she closed the door on his face.
A slight groan escaped Vegeta's throat. Had it been Trunks, he would have simply have walked in, even if it meant destroying the door in the process, and given an extremely blunt explanation. The boy would pout slightly, be lectured longer, pout a little more, and eventually cave. Twenty minutes later, everything would be fine and in the past.
But Bra was a radically different creature. Being blunt with her often resulted in a silent treatment that could go on for weeks at a time, and the girl could cause a lot more damage in a temper tantrum. Trunks certainly held more power, but Bra was more likely to use precision during a meltdown. No matter how worked up she was, that girl knew how to go for the proverbial throat. She would take her outrage out not only on the party responsible for ruining her mood, but on any other unfortunate creature that happened to cross her path as well.
Vegeta opted to take a little time and consider his strategic options before attempting to discuss anything with his daughter. After all, one wrong move on his behalf could end up with the entire household calling for his blood by the end of the day.
/
Bra arrived home from school that day in a foul mood. Hearing that her father had no intention of going to her concert had royally pissed her off, and the day had only gone downhill from there. She had left her math book at home, she had accidentally cracked her blue pen in her anger and gotten blue ink all over her green skirt, and worst of all, her older brother was sitting in her bedroom when she returned.
"Get the hell out," she snipped, launching her book bag onto her bed.
But Trunks just lazily swayed in her chair, a smug look on his face. "Pretending to be Dad does not make you intimidating."
The princess picked up a very sharp letter opener and glared hard at her brother. "How about telling you that if you don't get the hell out right now, I am going to ram this into the first body part of yours that is available to me?"
"Meh," Trunks dismissed. "A little intimidating, but not enough to get me to move."
Bra was ready to scream, but she knew well enough that when Trunks was camped in her bedroom, getting him to leave before he spoke his mind was virtually impossible without assistance. And as the only assistance with enough power to forcibly remove the boy was the reason for her bad mood in the first place, she knew that she was, to a certain extent, stuck. "Talk and get out," she commanded.
"See, you're pretending to be Dad again," he brother pointed out, "which is interesting, considering how pissed you are at him."
"Well, wouldn't you be?" she screeched at the boy. "I mean, do you even know what he had the audacity to say to me this morning?"
Trunks rolled his eyes and spun around in his chair. "I do, actually," he informed her. "In case you forgot, moron, my room is next to yours."
"And you're still defending him?" she shouted.
But the young prince let out an arrogant snort. "From what I heard, he didn't actually get the chance to do anything wrong."
Glowering, Bra demanded to know what her brother was implying.
"I'm not implying," he retorted. "I'm flat out stating that he said he needed to talk to you about something, you jumped to a conclusion, and the only other word he got out was your name. Did you even ask what he was there for?"
"Well, no, but…"
"Did he flat out say he wasn't going to show up on Saturday?" her big brother interrupted.
"Well, no, but…"
Once again, she was interrupted. "So why, exactly, did you slam a door in his face?"
Bra frowned. "Trunks, he was using that tone that says he's going to bail on something."
"Yeah, I get that," Trunks agreed, "but he usually only does a total bail if it's something that's not for one of us. You know, like when Mom invites people over or when you were really little and got invited to that birthday party that insisted that kids bring their parents and siblings with them?"
The young princess shuddered. "Yeah, I'm impressed Dad lasted as long as he did on that one."
"I'm impressed Mom lasted as long as she did on that one," her brother laughed. "Remember when she called that woman an overstuffed sausage?"
"You mean right after Dad left and that cow made some comment about seducing him?" the girl giggled. "Oh, man, I thought Mom was going to go ballistic on that one."
Trunks nodded. "But," he said, using that 'I know more than you' big brother tone, "even though we all knew it was going to be a miserable experience, especially for a human hater like him, he still showed up for a while."
The younger sister groaned and flopped down on her bed, dramatically draping an arm over her eyes. "I blew it, didn't I?"
"Yep!"
Bra's glare was dark and intense as she shifted her arm just enough for her brother to catch it. "You know, you don't have to be so enthusiastic about this."
"Oh, sure I do," her brother teased, finally getting to his feet. "As the only level headed member of this family, it is my natural born right to make fun of the rest of you when you blow it."
"Level headed?" his sister balked. "Need I remind you of the time you…"
"No, no, that's quite unnecessary," Trunks chuckled, moving for the door. "I think we all learned a lesson today, don't you?"
As he left her alone, Bra frowned deeply. Looking back on it, she had overreacted. Her father had not actually said that he was not going to attend her performance, and even if he had, he probably had a reason. It might not be one that she would agree with, but she at least owed him the opportunity to explain. It was only fair.
"Damn it," she cursed. "I hate it when I'm not right!"
/
Saturday morning rolled around, but it seemed that no one in the Briefs household was talking to one another. Bulma and Trunks were staying uncharacteristically quiet, both hoping that it would force father and daughter to start talking. So far, the strategy was not working. In large part, it was failing because Vegeta had been noticeably absent for twenty-four hours, and no one knew what to say about it.
At a quarter to one, the three remaining members climbed into the family car and made their way toward the auditorium. Bra stared at her lap the entire time, barely playing with the black case in her lap as she wondered just what she had done. Ever since Trunks had talked with her, she had realized more and more that she really had been unreasonable with her father. Yes, there was a chance that he had been planning to bail, but she had taken that chance and managed to turn it in to a certainty. If he had even come in to the residential area during the night, he had done it without any of them noticing.
Tears began to form in the corner of the princess' eyes. She and her father had minor disagreements in the past, but never had they been in an honest to goodness fight. And never, ever, had her daddy not been there for her, at least in some way. It was not always with his presence, but even when he held no intention of showing up to something, she had always had a note or a small gift to hold on to, letting her know that he was thinking of her. But there was no note left behind, no small gift to tide her over. She had checked her room, all of her pockets, and even her case, hoping to find any sign from her father. But there was nothing.
Bulma turned off the engine and sighed. She did not understand what, exactly, had caused the rift between Bra and Vegeta, but it was clearly much deeper than she had given it credit for. And while Trunks had informed her that Bra had started the fight, Vegeta was clearly the one refusing to let it go. And she was not happy about it.
Leaning over, she kissed her daughter on the forehead. "Alright," she said, her voice far more cheerful than her actual heart, "it's time for you to get going. After all, you need to get good and warmed up for your performance!"
Bra silently nodded her head and got out of the car, listlessly closing the door behind her. Bulma and Trunks watched as the twelve year old girl forlornly walked for the stage door. As soon as the girl was in, Bulma turned around and shot her son an intense glare.
"Before you tell me you don't know where he is," she informed him, ice lacing every word, "let me remind you that I know damn well you can sense him, so long as his heart is still beating. So unless you're about to tell me that your father managed to die this morning without me figuring it out, you had sure as hell tell me where he is."
Trunks huffed and slouched against the seat. "Mom, I'm not a tracking system," he grumpily informed her.
"Yeah, actually, you are," his mother countered. "Where is he?"
"Around," Trunks bit back. "Look, what do you want from me? You want me to figure out where he is and then to try to wrestle him over here? Even if I somehow managed to magically get the raw power needed to even hope to beat him, I sincerely doubt that dragging him kicking and screaming into an auditorium is going to make Bra feel better at all. So can we just go inside and do this?"
Bulma was not at all happy with the tone her son was using with her, but she could admit that he had a point. Trunks being able to locate Vegeta was a useless skill when there was no way to force Vegeta to return. And putting Trunks in that position of responsibility was not fair. However, she was starting to get worried. While Vegeta used to pull disappearing acts all the time, vanishing for a few days only to mysteriously and quietly return, he had not done so in years. And from what she and Trunks had been able to ascertain, the tension between father and daughter hardly warranted such methods.
She would have to worry about the roots of the problem later, though. Bra was already backstage, getting warmed up, and it was time for Bulma and Trunks to park the car and find their seats for the show. They knew they were still fairly early, but there was nothing nearby that would only take thirty minutes to do.
Bit by bit the auditorium filled, and Bulma began to grow more anxious as she looked at the empty seat beside her. There was a very real part of her that had been expecting her husband to quietly show up and act like nothing had happened, but as they got closer to show time, she was starting to truly doubt.
"Mom, relax," Trunks instructed from her other side. "We're here for Bra, remember?"
"I know," Bulma sighed, still looking at the empty seat.
Several minutes later, the lights dimmed and an announcer came out, introducing the middle school band and orchestra. The audience applauded as the curtain rose, revealing almost two hundred children and their instruments. The first few numbers were played by the band, and considering the fact that they were still middle school students and that many of them were new to music, they were not that bad. Not great, with the occasional squeaking clarinet or off beat trombone, but not bad either. Bulma was having a difficult time enjoying it, though, as her eyes were fixed on the glum looking girl in the orchestra.
The music director came out and spoke briefly about the program before shifting over to the strings. Bulma gave the empty seat one final forlorn glance, swearing bloody vengeance on her husband for his actions. However, as she turned away from it, she noticed Trunks looking up and smiling. "What is it?" she softly whispered. But Trunks simply nodded toward the ceiling with his chin, a grin on his face, before looking down at his sister.
On stage, Bra adjusted her sheet music as she watched the director approach. How could he miss it? How could her daddy not even talk to her about it? Why was he doing this to her?
Suddenly, her eyes widened as she felt something. As subtly as she could, she brought her eyes up to the catwalk. She had to squint, but there was no mistaking the image. Up in the rafters, behind the lights, was the unmistakable silhouette of her father pulling out ear plugs. She would later learn from Trunks that he had been there the whole time, keeping his energy low to stay hidden, and that his absence at breakfast and dinner had been because he had been in the auditorium, figuring out where to hear her, specifically, the best. Listening to the others for too long would have caused a splitting headache with his sensitive hearing, but he would not miss his daughter's first concert.
The baton rose and Bra brought her viola up to her chin, positively beaming. She should have known her daddy would come.
