The brick walkway made a noisy clacking under his trainers as Vegeta made his way to the blue and white front door. Bulma had asked him if he still remembered where her parents lived. Tendril-like memories stretched out across his mind as he looked up at the grey and white cottage style two-story.
He recalled sneaking into her room through her bottom floor window in the dead of night. He had broken a garden lantern or two, maybe trampled through a bed of cosmos in a hurry to climb through before her parents noticed. Her hushed giddy voice, full of exhilaration as they spent hours in her bed like carefree early 20 yea olds, partner athletes just in it for the fun. Her home was like his home before she moved out into an apartment, before they got too attached, before the yelling, the anger, the breakup.
Yes, he remembered where it was. The two of them may have matured 4 years since then but her parents and that house were something he could admit he missed after their relationship dissolved. He understood why she could move back in with them. Her parents were good people.
He raised his fist to knock then paused, his jaw muscles working as he stared at the brass door knocker. Was this a mistake? Couldn't be his kid, right? His fist held aloft and vertical to the wood, he wondered if it would be better to just leave so he wouldn't have to drag himself over the threshold. His brows cinched. What if the boy didn't like him?
Breath caught at his lips, he startled when the door opened suddenly.
"Hey. You're early." Bulma smiled warmly despite the touch of nervous energy in her demeanor, present in her fingers that scratched lightly at the wooden door frame.
"I could leave and come back." He replied flatly, wondering if he was bearing the same vibe. It was hard for him to internally admit he was apprehensive of the whole thing. Evidently, they both were. Wouldn't back out now.
She chuckled and clicked her tongue, opening the door wider. "Come in. We're just setting down for lunch."
She led him through the foyer that appeared unchanged. Despite an almost 2 year lapse since the last time he'd been in the house, the walls were still covered in family photos, an arrangement of fresh flowers from Bulma's mother's garden in the same ugly yellow and orange vase at the entryway, the wood flooring with scuffs in the same places that still clicked with every step just as before. The only real difference he noticed was a collection of block toys littering the floor, a rain slicker, much too small for an adult, hung on a coatrack and the light permeation of baby powder on the air.
He stepped over small red shoes with velcro buckles in the hallway and stared far too long at them that Bulma had to touch his arm to refocus. A noise carried through the open foyer and that mere sound stilled his footsteps.
"Are you okay?" Bulma glanced over her shoulder, gauging his reaction.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he replied tersely, which came off more tense than intended. He rounded the corner into the kitchen. The large open breakfast nook held a spread of sandwiches and lemonade where both her parents were seated, a purple-haired child between them. With scrutinizing eyes, Vegeta assessed the toddler.
There he was. A boy as she described in a dark blue and white flannel shirt, teddy bear buttons down the front and a blue cat-eared hat on his head, a violet tuft peeking out beneath it, sat behind a tray table piled with bite-size cucumbers and crackers, some mashed between his pudgy fingers.
His wide blue eyes scanned the new occupants, searching, and fell on his mother, eliciting a happy squeal and outstretched chubby arms.
"Mama." The child called, his focus entirely on her. As she strode across the room cooing at the toddler, Vegeta observed the child from a distance. The kid was hers, for sure. Her eyes, her straight hair. The color even came from her side. Despite the salt and pepper from age, her father once had a light purple shade in the older photographs displayed around the house. All in all, Vegeta felt very little similarity with the child. It's entirely possible it wasn't his. Wariness still present, the tension ebbed somewhat as he took an empty chair at the table.
"Would you like something to eat?" Bulma held a plate of chicken salad sandwiches between them as she sat down to his left.
"Sure." He replied, resolving to be mannered until the appropriate time to leave.
The boy watched the plate of food shift under Vegeta's hand and grunted with irritation as he attempted to fight his restraints to reach it. His mother tsked, offering up string cheese and soft crackers as a substitute. Vegeta mildly smirked at the tyke's boldness. Bulma appeared to have figured out the parenting thing. The boy seemed to be adequately dressed, had boundaries enforced, well-fed. For that fact, he'd give her credit. More than he'd expected himself to do in the situation.
"He needs more protein." He heard Bulma remark to no one in particular and her own mother hummed in agreement. Vegeta assumed this kind of chatter was probably normal. Fussing over meals or clothing or toys for the toddler inanely, like running through mental checklists out loud.
"I wonder if he's able to really chew more solid foods, dear." Her father added between bites of his own sandwich. Bulma replied airily about something else while Vegeta's mind wandered away from the mindless conversation of which he did not feel intimately a part of.
He recalled something similar somewhere in his childhood with his family. Remembering how he had devoted so much of his own time raising his kid brother made the edges of his eyes crease with the unpleasant memories. He wondered for a moment what they were all doing now. The last time he had even seen Tarble was…
"So, Vegeta, how's practice coming? Almost ready for the new season?" He heard in the background of his thoughts in a high-pitched, cheerful feminine tone.
At the mention of his name, he brought his attention back to Panchy and swallowed what was currently turning to cud in his mouth without realizing he had been chewing mechanically.
"The team's doing well. It should be a good season." He replied, feeling no reason to expound any further.
He twitched with startled agitation as a series of loud bangs on a plastic surface diverted attention to the impatient red-faced youth, who was busily smashing cucumbers and crackers repeatedly into a green and yellow paste. Vegeta watched as the boy's face construed to a familiar pouty scowl.
"He wants something else," Panchy suggested soothingly as she rose from the table to the pantry, passing Trunks fully immersed in a fitful howl.
Bulma cooed as she attempted to clean off the remainder of food scraps of the squirming child. Trunks glared, eyebrows pulled cross with that unnerving familiar scowl again.
"What about peaches," he heard the older woman say, muffled by the pantry door.
"No," Bulma replied with a grunt as she fashioned a clean bib around his chubby neck. "He doesn't like those, remember."
Vegeta's gaze flitted between Bulma and Panchy, noticing in all the commotion of trying to pacify an irate toddler, the entirety of the back and forth occurred almost as if he wasn't in the room. The child kept squealing and squirming. He really just wanted things to go back to being somewhat quiet.
Without thinking, he blurted, "pears?"
"Hm?" Bulma queried as she glanced over curiously.
"Do you have pears?" He suggested more directly.
"I think so." He heard Panchy respond, seemingly unaware of who posed the question.
With a container of the mashed fruit brought to the table, Trunks happily, and silently, took every bite with glee. When the first container finished, Bulma opened a second as she smiled, thankful for the quiet as last.
"Ugh, I hate pears. But he can't get enough." She said, scooping the last of it into her son's mouth. "How did you know he'd want it?" She wondered with a raised, amused eyebrow.
Vegeta cocked his head, scrutinizing the mannerisms of the boy. The way his eyes cut across the table, and the scowl. The same sort of traits he saw in himself. Despite all the physical characteristics that divided them, he could actually see facets of himself in the brat.
The food preferences clinched it. Without any further doubt, he knew the tantrumed ball of purple hair and baby fat had to be his own. The stunning revelation sunk to the pit of his stomach. He felt Bulma's eyes on him as the color slowly drained from his face and the room felt suddenly smaller.
"You like pears, don't you?" She said, understanding dawning on her.
It was too much to handle. Vegeta suddenly lifted himself from the table to the alerted looks of the other adults. This child was his son. He was sure. Fuck.
"Vegeta, wait." Bulma sputtered for a second as he turned and walked to the front hall and out the door, desperately needing some air, suddenly claustrophobic.
He took a seat on the red brick garden edging just to the right of the front door to clear his thoughts. After a few minutes with the anxious energy gradually subsiding, he heard the portal lightly open then close. He didn't need to look up to know who was sidling up, cross-legged beside him.
"So," Bulma began, drawing it out, "that went well."
Vegeta grunted disapprovingly, grinding a small weed coming up between the grout and paving stone beneath his shoe.
It took a good 5 minutes of silence, listening to the birds chirp overhead as they flew from tree to tree, for Bulma to hum softly to herself and glance over. She leaned back on her hands with an air of reflection. "You know, I had no idea what to expect when you'd show up. Or even if . For what it's worth, I appreciate you coming over and -"
"I'm not cut out for this." He interrupted. "I'm not ready. I didn't want this to happen this way. I'm not a father." He said adamantly.
"I get it. It's a lot to take in. I'm still getting used to being a mom and he's already one. This is new and scary and… I'm not asking you to do anything that you don't want to."
When he didn't react further, Bulma sighed as she took a second to collect her thoughts. "Vegeta, If all I get from you is that we only work together, that's fine. I can live with that. What I couldn't live with was you not knowing. I understand not telling you was a shitty thing to do. I wanted to make it right. I'll be fine with whatever you choose. Honest."
In an effort to find some semblance of direction, he looked at her smiling empathetic face. She didn't look to be a parent of a one-year-old. She appeared perpetually youthful and beautiful as before. Yet, in her eyes, he could tell she had just grown up. He realized they both had in their own way. He could adjust.
"Where do we go from here?" He asked, mentally accepting to meet her halfway.
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to help. What do you need?"
She looked pensive and softly smiled. "I'll think about it."
Nodding with a grunt of consideration, Vegeta rose and glanced back at the house where his son was inside. His son. It would take time to get used to that.
The boy reminded him of his younger brother of whom he had no connection with anymore. There was a stack of envelopes in the back of his sock drawer with the careful script of someone under ten then teens, letters all addressed to him, opened and read, but all unreplied. There remained a bitterness from the difficulties in his youth, and with lingering anger, he had kept his distance from his family for years.
In some way, he still wanted to know how they all fared. If his father still held him accountable for leaving. If his mother was still alive. If his brother grew up well without him. Vegeta considered his son in the situation. With determined consideration, he concluded he wouldn't leave the boy to fend for himself without a father, no matter how unprepared he currently was.