Rights: All rights belong to Akira Toriyama, Toyotarou and Toei Animation

This is based on the manga cannon, so there may be some discrepancies with the anime.

WARNINGS: This story is very, very dark, with a large amount of violence, gore, and sexual references, including references to non-consensual sex.

Bulma and Vegeta hadn't exactly made up as a result of their family game, but Bulma was at least withholding most of her judgment until she had more information. She had declined to pursue the matter further with him, knowing he would reveal nothing, and was instead waiting for something else to occur. Vegeta was bound to let a crucial piece of information slip as he attempted to win her over, to re-establish their relationship. It was merely a matter of waiting.

She had, however, in the time since Gohan left, been absorbed in Vegeta's writing after finally agreeing to look over it. She had to admit, even though she was still annoyed at him for his underhanded tactics making her not as angry with him (and she wanted to still be angry, darn it! It was fun!), that his work was incredibly talented. Well phrased, gripping, with minimal translation or grammatical errors.

The information was truly fascinating, opening up sides of Vegeta that she had never dreamed of, explaining so many aspects of his character, of his history. It enlightened her on so much about him that she had never considered might be related to his heritage. Told her things he had never been able, or saw the need, to say to her face.

"This is really good, Vegeta," she admitted to him that Sunday night as he came out of the shower, towelling the hair which hung down his back amusingly when wet. She was gratified to see he was no longer changing in the bathroom, comfortable to expose himself to her fully, making her regret her vexation with him.

But hopefully she would have moved on enough to save face with him by the end of his recovery week. Yet, Vegeta's make-up sex was incredibly rewarding, and always tempted her to pretend to be annoyed with him for far longer than she actually was in order to prompt such acts from him.

"Hn," he answered her comment, climbing into his pyjama pants.

"Are you thinking of publishing it?" she queried, setting the laptop aside with reluctance, intent on finishing off the section on food culture the next day.

"Publishing? Who would want to publish a book on a species no one on your planet has ever heard of?"

"You never know. It's very interesting."

"I'd rather not," he admitted, "I don't want any Earthlings knowing about us. But…" he trailed off, pensive for a moment, "I would like it to join the intergalactic database. Otherwise saiyans will be lost to history once living memory ends. We weren't a species to consent to study, or to the translation of our texts. What little is written about us is woefully inadequate, painting us as cultureless creatures bent on destruction alone, which is a very one-dimensional picture. We were much more than that, and I want the universe to know that when the last full-blooded saiyans are gone. The hybrids may take after us in terms of strength, perhaps surpass us, if they inherited that saiyan drive, but their attitudes are entirely different. Human. Indeed, Broly and I are the last saiyans in that respect, the only saiyans with true instinct. Tarble was exiled for its absence within him, or at least, that is what I was told. Perhaps he was merely relocated for his own safety. Mother seemed rather taken with him, more so than I."

"Honey?"

He shook his head, climbing into bed with her.

"Let's not reopen old wounds. The point is, there are not many – no," he said, considering, "There are no more saiyans according to the logic of nature and instinct. Broly is unusual, I suppress my instincts, and Tarble and Kakarot are not subjected to them. I am the last who knows what it is like to live as a true saiyan on our home planet, even if I was unsatisfactory in my father's eyes. I do not want this knowledge to be lost. I want the universe to know we were more than mindless killers. We had customs, traditions. We lived, even if we did not love. The saiyans were complex and diverse, for all that we look so similar, and I could not begin to record the deep sub-culture of the lower classes. I am afraid that may be lost permanently."

"That's a real pity," she commiserated, "I'm sure that would be interesting."

"It is unfortunate, then, that father forbade me from interacting with such people."

"Say, Vegeta?" she asked, not sure how to pry into this matter, into his thinking, "You never did give me an answer on Gohan's suggestion."

"I suppose I was thinking too much like a saiyan when I initially declined," he admitted, "A result of all of this typing, dredging up old memories."

"Do you want to stop?"

"No! No. I think it is…cathartic. And a good investment for the future. But I should not have immediately dismissed Gohan's suggestion; it has some merit."

"You mean you'll do it?" Bulma leaned over to extinguish the bedside lamp.

"I never said that! I only admitted that it had some merit! There remains a whole host of problems with the idea."

"Forging some documents for you won't be an issue."

"It's not just that. How can I convince them to let me in to visit the patients? What would I be? For all that the dragon balls are magical and your world has been invaded by aliens, humans continue to be very limited in their ways of thinking. I doubt they would be open to the idea of magic."

"I'll think of something, Vegeta. The only issue here is you. Your decision."

"I haven't decided yet. It would be a big change for me. Demand something from me that I haven't been willing to give before. And I'm not even sure I could do it."

"How so?" Bulma was annoyed that she could not see him, in the dark. Only his outline.

"I am far more powerful now, and I'm not sure I could control that power when applying it to healing. Yardratians and of course myself have greater resilience, greater ki than humans. I might harm them. And then there's the issue of species. I know that saiyan and human anatomy are practically identical, but our power levels are vastly different. That could have an impact on the healing process."

"You could always speak to Dende about it."

"Perhaps."

Bulma was gobsmacked he would even consider the idea, despite her own approval. A Vegeta of years past would have dismissed the suggestion without a second's thought. A support role, helping normal humans? Not a chance! But her Vegeta had come a long way in his development as a person, and she found that she could not muster up her previous anger when remembering that. She was so proud of him for entertaining the idea, for allowing himself to consider his options, to work out whether such an arrangement would be possible.

Bulma wasn't sure how to organise such a venture, but that was alright, she was certain she would figure it out. And she really hoped that Vegeta would agree. Really. Because she thought he needed to do something helpful on a more personal level to relieve his guilt. To feel that he was making a difference when it was always Goku saving the world after Vegeta had already given it his best effort. He could do so much good in the world with this new ability, if he would only allow himself to. She knew he wouldn't go into the medical field full-time, and certainly wasn't about to ask him to, since training and growing stronger was still so important to him. But she felt another goal, another purpose, would be beneficial to him. Something to be proud of which set him apart from the rival always showing him up and belittling his progress.

Falsifying documents wasn't a hassle, and even though Vegeta still hadn't given his consent to the move, she decided to begin on the task anyway. Mid-way through the week she finally found a nice photo of him which would be perfect for a passport. Vegeta didn't drive and had rebuffed her attempts to teach him, so a driver's licence wouldn't have been the best option. He might have been tripped up in a simple conversation on vehicles and the whole charade would be blown. But he had visited other countries in his travels over the Earth, especially in his first years residing on the 'mudball'. He could convincingly speak about his experiences overseas.

Fabricating a passport was not difficult for Bulma, technical genius that she was, and she was just trying to think of what date to choose as a birth-date, because Vegeta did not know the exact Earth equivalent and looked far younger than he was in any case, when a sudden blast rocked the compound, causing her ears to ring.

Leaping to her feet, Bulma was out the door in an instant, cursing the impractical but stylish shoes she had worn for an important meeting earlier that morning. She nearly tripped as she tumbled up the stairs, taking them two at a time in her haste.

"Trunks! Vegeta!" she shouted as she hurried along the corridors, searching for the source of the explosion, "Mum! Dad! Bra!"

Logically, there were only three places on the compound which could play host to such a blast: the kitchen, which she was currently heading towards, the lab, which contained the home office she had just left, and the gravity room.

As Bulma nearly fell into the kitchen, her eyes caught sight of smoke billowing into the cloudless sky outside. And it was coming from a mass of twisted metal, glowing red with heat, electrical wiring zapping as it was exposed to the morning air.

The gravity room.

"Vegeta!" Bulma exclaimed, breath coming in sharp pants as she hastened outside, tripping and falling on the steps from the back door. Climbing to her feet her mind returned to a time long ago, a time eerily similar to this one, when Vegeta had blown up the gravity chamber in his bid to ascend to the legendary. She remembered how she had found him, broken and bleeding, shuddering on his feet amongst the ruined ship. Remembered how she had remained beside his wrecked form as he recovered, wondering why she was there when all he was doing was breathing.

She hadn't understood her attraction to him back then. In those days, he had only been eye candy.

"Vegeta!" she cried, limping, pondering whether she had managed to twist her ankle in the fall. She hoped not; that would be just what she needed.

Realistically, she knew that such an explosion couldn't possibly injure him this time around, not considering how powerful he had grown over the intervening years. But she couldn't help but worry until she finally found him, picking his way out from the wreckage. He winced as a panel clattered behind him, before finally spotting her.

"Ah, Bulma," an enormous blush had spread over his cheeks, making him look even more adorable than he usually did in the outfit he was currently wearing. Clad in shorts, like those which had done terrible things to her in her younger years, sans gloves and boots, his whole glorious physique was on display for her, hunched over from the examination.

She could not find a mark on him, apart from his older scars, as she reached him.

"Are you okay?" she puffed.

"Yes, of course."

She still inspected him thoroughly, trying to keep herself focused on the task at hand rather than admiring his handsome form. Her eyes were drawn to a strip of material wrapped around the top of his hips: a sash of chiffon, tied securely at the side.

"Is that my scarf?"

He receded even further into himself as he replied, "Yes."

"Vegeta, why are you wearing my scarf around your hips?"

"It's to hide my tail," he confessed in a low voice.

She rolled her eyes, still unsure why he was so set on keeping the return of the appendage a secret. It may have been a clue of some sort for whatever had happened to him, but everyone other than her was likely to overlook it, not understanding the intricacies of saiyan tail regrowth mechanisms.

"You were going to train with my scarf? What if it was damaged?" she cocked a dangerous eyebrow at him.

"You never wear it! You always say it clashes terribly with your hair! Why you still have it is beyond me."

"It was a gift from my grandmother. I have to keep it."

Vegeta harrumphed, "Humans and your sentimentality."

"You should keep a few mementos too you know. They're great to look back on and reminisce."

He was looking at her strangely, clearly not understanding the whole business.

"Leaving that aside," she allowed, "You should have just asked me to tweak your training suits. Not that I mind the view, of course, but I could easily add a stylish belt to your current outfits."

"Oh. I would appreciate that."

"So, you mind telling me what happened here?"

"I was hoping you might have forgotten," he confessed.

"Seriously, Vegeta? There is a pile of rubble in my backyard. Right in front of me, in fact. It's not as if it's going to slip my mind. Besides, you're going to need me to fix it."

"I suppose…I just…" he flexed his hands, "I underestimated the power boost I had attained."

"Really? I guess you're in the market for some upgrades, then?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

Bulma blinked at him, "Of course I wouldn't mind, I'm your wife aren't I? But what's with the attitude?"

"What attitude?" he retreated a little.

"This," she gestured to him, stance not projecting the confidence it once did, "This submission, these apologies, the use of manners."

"I am a prince. It is to be expected for me to display a modicum of decorum."

"Please, Vegeta. That's human princes. You're a saiyan. I doubt politeness was ever the order of the day. You would have commanded respect by force, not by courtesy. So what's with this change?"

"I been conducting myself in a more upright manner for a while now," he pointed out reasonably.

"Yes, but not with apologies. Not with saying 'if you wouldn't mind'. It's unlike you, Vegeta."

"Maybe I have decided to turn over a new sheet of paper, so to speak," he folded his arms.

"It's 'turn over a new leaf'," she rubbed her forehead, "and it seems really out of the blue. Mind telling me what's brought it on?"

"As a matter of fact, I would."

"Vegeta…"

"What about those belts you were talking about?"

"Not now," she sighed, "If you're okay, and you're not going to explain yourself, then I need to go back to work. Someone has to pay the bills in this household."

Just as she was turning to leave, Vegeta interrupted, blindsiding her.

"I refuse to take monetary recompense for my healing services," he warned, wagging his finger at her.

"You mean you'll do it?" she pivoted to face him.

"Once I have my power under control, then yes, I shall attempt the venture. But I will not accept payment. I refuse to be 'employed' on this planet. It is an insult to my station."

"I thought Frieza paid you?" she frowned, suddenly shivering at the simmering anger in his voice as he replied.

"He did. He had to maintain the veneer of proper conduct, to support his lie to the civilian populations that we weren't slaves. Only, we had no access to the money. I tried to refuse, as befitted a prince, but he would not accept. The suggestion," he turned his eyes away, "infuriated him."

"Oh, ah, okay," she fingered her palms, wiping up sweat, either from the terrifying explosion and subsequent worry, or the attractive picture of her husband dressed in only shorts, "Well, I'm glad you're agreeing to help. Only, I'll need a bit of time to sort it all out. I'm still working on your passport, then it's a matter of them accepting your…unique qualifications. With your speed and your healing abilities, you'd be a real asset to any ambulance department. But I'm not sure they'd believe me if I told them what you could do. I'll think of something, though. Just give me some time, okay?"

He nodded, "I also need to prepare. To adjust to my new power level and ascertain whether I can, in fact, heal humans."

"Maybe you should have that talk with Dende?" she reminded him.

He considered her for a moment, before admitting, "Maybe I should. But not yet, I would like to acclimatise to my power level first. Nothing else can follow if that is not accomplished."

When Vegeta had not returned for lunch, Bulma had been annoyed. Lunch was an important time for the family, a crucial opportunity for Vegeta to connect with his children, since he followed the schedule of a human worker, and didn't have much time during the hours when Bra in particular was awake. Trunks was staying up later and often caught up with his father over a video game, something that Vegeta did not excel in, and it irritated him endlessly. Bra called out for her absent father all through the meal as Bulma attempted to shush her, answering Trunks' question in the negative – she did not know where his father had disappeared to.

When Vegeta still did not show up for dinner, Bulma began to fret. It wasn't like him to miss two meals in a row, certainly not in recent years when he placed more emphasis on being with his family. Bra complained yet again, getting a cheek-full of mushed food for her troubles, and Trunks sulked into his plate. Apparently, he and his father had planned to tackle a boss that night, a leisure activity looking more and more unlikely by the second. And following their meal, as the hours ticked by, Bulma's worry only grew. Still using god-ki, unable to switch it off, perhaps, neither Trunks nor Gohan, who Bulma had called in a frazzle, were able to tell where he was.

Or even if he was alive.

The thought was ridiculous – Vegeta was immensely powerful, and there was nothing native to this planet, or this galaxy, which stood a chance against him. That didn't mean much, though, with the hordes of aliens who had appeared recently to shatter their harmony. Jaco and his goons had proven that Vegeta could be subdued by such creatures, that he could be kidnapped.

Or worse.

After waiting up until midnight, Dr Brief, rubbing his eyes in the living room lights, had finally entreated her to go to bed. There was nothing that could be gained from worrying except lack of sleep, which would only hinder her investigation. Vegeta would return, or he would not, and they would deal with such a calamity in the morning, refreshed and ready to tackle anything.

Bulma had reluctantly given in to her father's pleas, trudging up to the bedroom she shared with Vegeta, smoothing her hands over his empty side of the bed.

"Please come back," she whispered to the manchester, which was characteristically stoic in the face of her fears. Sniffling, biting back tears, she found her way to the ensuite and began to peel off her make up. Surrounded by cosmetic paraphernalia, Bulma initially thought she had merely knocked something over when she heard a tiny, glassy thump. But a quick perusal of her undisturbed collection dismissed that idea, and she clambered to the door, scooping up a can of deodorant and held it before her, ready to ward off an assailant.

But opening the door only revealed –

"Vegeta!"

Bulma dropped her makeshift weapon, launching herself into her husband's waiting arms as tension evaporated from her shoulders. He seemed fine, a few bruises and scrapes but nothing serious.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" she gasped, hiccupping as she drew back from him, "You idiot!" she added for good measure, slapping him on his grazed cheek.

He reached up to rub it absently as he considered her.

"I apologise," he said, "I lost track of time."

"Lost track of time?! The sun has set!" then she reconsidered, knowing that Vegeta could easily traverse multiple time-zones without breaking a sweat, "Where were you?"

"The south pole," he divulged, dropping onto the bed and gazing up at her dilapidated tower of ire without a hint of trepidation.

"The south pole?!" she gasped, "What on Earth were you doing there?!"

"It seemed a nice spot."

"I suppose. See any penguins?"

"Yes, actually. They tasted delicious."

Bulma stared at him for a moment, reminding herself that her husband was a proud predominantly-carnivore who had even consumed the corpses of his defeated foes. Penguins were hardly an issue when considering his past food choices. Still, she found those animals unendingly cute, and didn't appreciate imagining him eating them.

"Really, Vegeta?" she tried to convey her exasperation and horror, "You should have come back here when you noticed you were hungry, anyway."

He looked down at his hands for a moment, before confessing, "I didn't want to admit defeat."

"You mean you didn't manage to control your power?"

"No," he sighed, "Not yet. But I will."

"Of course you will," she nodded, "I have every faith in you."

This seemed to ease some of the tautness in his shoulders, helping him relax as he rubbed his knuckles. She was amazed at how much an arrogant and cocky person like Vegeta actually needed that assurance, how much he relied on the conviction of others for his own concept of self-worth even as he blustered, boasting of his supremacy. All because, she believed, Vegeta had not received commendation from his father, as no matter how desperately he had fought for approval, it had always been denied him. And his mother had been very distant as well, clearly favouring Tarble even after his exile. So it fell to Bulma to reassure her husband of her belief in him, to both ground and buoy him before a fight.

She gave him a pat on the shoulder, before shoving his pyjamas in his face, determined to make him ready to sleep no matter how much she liked that minimal outfit.

"Bed," she commanded.