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.
Bulma was incensed, beyond furious, and itching to snap at something, or someone. No matter what she had said to Vegeta about his and her son's fighting hurting each other, her son had crossed a line. And she was far madder at him. He didn't have a…well, she supposed it must count like a mental illness, but he did not have a dark presence festering within him, influencing his behaviour. This latest transgression, the worst in a long line of words and activities aimed to injure, was deliberate, and inexcusable.
Vegeta had gone off to train, to work off his heightened energy and settle his nerves. She didn't blame him in the least for that, or for wanting to avoid their son. Who knew what he might do before he had a chance to properly calm himself? She was surprised at how well he had taken the prank, considering.
But it must have wounded him, that his son would use his own exclusive and intimate knowledge against him.
So Bulma found herself outside Trunks' door, waiting for him to rise.
Waiting, forming the right words to holler at him in her mind, uncaring if she roused the rest of the household.
Waiting, preparing for what would be an epic show-down between mother and son, between weak human and strong, powerful hybrid.
What did she have that could make him stop, make him listen, when he was undermining her maternal authority at every turn, ignoring her and disobeying her?
What could she do? She questioned herself, waiting, considering, preparing.
Waiting.
And waiting some more.
Frowning, Bulma tried to door handle, finding it ominously unlocked. Trunks was not like his father; he was a teenage boy who did not want to be caught out by his parents.
He was not going to be inside, Bulma knew as she flung open the door, eyes falling on the curtains fluttering in the breeze.
"Son of a -!"
She stopped herself short of insulting herself, and stormed down the hallway. Who knew where the boy was now? He could have high-tailed it to Goten's place.
She would have to corner him at lunch time.
"How dare you?!" Bulma hissed, catching sight of her son at the kitchen table, arriving early for their meal, perhaps in the hope of escaping before his father arrived. He turned to look at her, face wide, innocent, and completely infuriating.
"How could you, Trunks?!"
"How could I what?" he played at being blameless, pretending not to know what she was talking about, but she could see the knowledge in his eyes. He was having fun with her.
"The worms, Trunks." She said threateningly.
He barked out a laugh, facing the food as his grandmother placed a heaped plate before him, oblivious to the storm brewing between her family members.
"How dare you laugh?!"
He just kept at it, chuckles bringing life to his face as he sang, "Dad's afraid of worms! Dad's afraid of worms!"
"Trunks!"
"Did you hear him scream? It was beautiful!"
"Trunks, you little turd!" she hissed, ignoring her mother's pseudo-fainting in the background, "How could you do that to your own father?!"
"Oh, like how Dad ignored me, yelled at me, insulted me—"
"Trunks that was uncalled for! He is trying! He is trying so hard, trying to change, trying to be with you, and you should be encouraging him, not pushing him away!"
Trunks merely shrugged, shovelling a forkful of spaghetti bolognaise into his mouth.
"Trunks, you need to apologise for what you did—"
"Apologise?! As if! Not until he apologises first for his treatment of me!"
"He already has, Trunks!" Bulma bellowed, startling her husband who was waiting by the door, watching their performance.
"What? When?" her son, if she was willing to acknowledge it, seemed to deflate a little.
"In that recording I tried to get you to watch," she hissed in response, shoving her mobile in his face, "So watch it!"
Trunks took the proffered device wordlessly, finding the video easily as she had saved it to the start screen. She turned away, in time to observe her husband slipping silently up the stairs, obviously not in the mood to hear himself being so sentimental.
She was going to be hearing it for the fifth time, having already played it in her bedroom four times, sniffling and running through her supply of tissues as she wondered if she would ever get her husband back. But when the doubts had faded, when Vegeta had started acting differently, she had stopped watching it, content with the Vegeta in the present, no matter how flawed.
Still, as she listened she couldn't help tearing up all over again at the emotion in his voice. Because he had been convinced that this would be his last chance to communicate with them, that he wouldn't be coming back.
It must have broken him.
"Trunks." Vegeta was already up to that part, "My son, I must apologise to you too. Please know that, while I do not regret my decision to sacrifice myself for all of your sakes, I do regret the outcome. I am sorry for snapping at you, for dismissing you, for insulting you. I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me, but if not, I understand."
"Dad…" Trunks whispered at the pixels, tracing his finger down the digital face.
"Dad…I'm sorry…I…"
"Trunks," Bulma broke in softly, "Trunks, honey, he can't hear you. That's a recording. You need to say your apology to the real thing."
"But he isn't the real thing, Mum. He's still…"
"I know he still has a ways to go, Trunks, but he is getting better, I promise you."
"I should…" he looked around for his father, suddenly realising the man was absent, despite it being their established lunch time.
"Your father is in the nursery, with Bra," Bulma informed him, although she thought the insurance blanket would no longer be necessary. Still, that was another issue that would need clearing if the pair were going to fix their relationship. "Why don't you take his lunch up to him?"
Trunks nodded numbly, retrieving the plates in silence and making his way to the stairs, without looking once at a triumphant Bulma.
"Thucydides believes that –"
Vegeta didn't finish the telling Bra about the thoughts of earth-renowned historian, looking up mid-sentence as a knock interrupted him.
Bulma had told him to read to Bra, to create the right atmosphere for when Trunks arrived.
He hoped she knew what she was doing, because he did not want a fight while his daughter lay nearby, wriggling and vulnerable in her crib. He had tried his best to tone down his volume the previous night, even though Trunks obviously hadn't bothered, an oversight which worried Vegeta.
"Come in," he called, shutting his book and making to put it down on the-
Changing table-
Revolting! He would just have to hold onto it.
Behind him, the door opened and Trunks shuffled in.
"Umm…" the intruder began, placing a pile of plates on the drawers by the door, the prince trying not to think about what might have been put on top of them at some point or other. Vegeta sighed, making his way to the easy chair and taking shelter in it, preparing for whatever his son was going to unleash at him now. He was beyond disappointed in the boy for using the knowledge he had freely given against him, for exploiting his greatest fear, just as Frieza had done so very long ago when Vegeta had been eight years old and very alone, still pushing the other saiyans aside in his grief.
"I'm sorry, Dad," the boy broke in, causing Vegeta to jerk in surprise, noting that the boy sounded sincere.
"Trunks…" he whispered, astounded as the boy fixated on his sneakers.
"I'm sorry, for the worms…and the yelling…I shouldn't have done any of that."
"No, you shouldn't have," Vegeta confirmed, watching the boy's face fall, "but I accept your apology."
Trunks' head whipped up, lavender hair flying about at the speed, a grin breaking out on his face, before his eyes fell on the little bundle in the crib, sleeping and completely innocent of whatever was going through his mind.
"I'm still upset, though." Trunks said, eyes remaining on that motionless form.
"Well, of course you are," Vegeta replied dismissively, wondering when he could go back to reading his book. He and the boy had spoken, Trunks had apologised, so everything was fine, wasn't it? They would work through whatever else was wrong with a little more time, he thought.
"Bra," the boy said, "Why do you like her more than me?"
"What are you talking about, boy? Explain yourself," Vegeta was not in the mood for any more emotional discussions, not after his repressed feelings about Celer had been laid raw with an influx of worm-induced panic.
"Bra. You're better because of her; ever since she was born, you've been more parental. And you're holding her and reading to her. According to Mum in one of her rants, you didn't do that with me."
Vegeta winced as one of his many regrets was exposed.
"Two things, boy. Firstly, you are failing to consider that my improvement may have been due, not to Bra's birth, but to my transformation to super saiyan blue." It was the truth. Vegeta definitely considered it a possibility, either on its own or in combination with the latest addition to their family.
"And secondly," he added, "I deeply regret not doing such things when you were born. Your mother and I…were not on good terms at the time and when I did eventually move back in, I didn't know what to do with you. Saiyans weren't reared, we were 'born', or rather, released from the incubator, don't ask, ready to tackle life. I thought I would be able to start training you straight away, since that was all I prepared for. Instead, you needed more time to develop and I will confess to being a little lost. But believe me, if I could do it all over again, I would have been different."
"Oh. You know, you don't talk much about the saiyans, even though you're their prince and you want me to be proud to be one."
"There isn't much to say about them that you don't already know, or at least, anything good. They were a warrior race, Trunks, rather like these Spartans," Vegeta held up the book he had been enjoying. "Try to think about what that might mean."
"They liked fighting?" Trunks frowned, clearly not following.
Vegeta sighed.
"Like the Spartans, saiyans were recruited into the army at young ages, usually just after their release from the incubator, i.e., just after birth. We are capable of walking within minutes, of fighting within hours, although nothing very refined, mind you. As a result of the arduous workload set by Frieza, our overlord, we sent out babies to fight."
"Wow." Trunks breathed, the frowned, "wait, overlord?"
Darn. He hadn't meant to let that slip out. Trunks didn't need to know about the mercurial tormentor of Vegeta's childhood. Still, the word had been aired, so he would need to explain.
"We weren't a free people, Trunks. I may have been destined to rule, but only as a puppet king. Nothing more. We were under Frieza's command."
"Frieza, huh? Didn't he join you in the tournament?"
Vegeta was surprised the boy remembered, given he had nothing to do with the tyrant.
"Yes," he replied shortly, "and the subject is closed."
"Aw, but were just getting started," Trunks pleaded as Vegeta rose to his feet, intent on dismissing either his child, or himself.
"No."
"But Dad, I want to learn about my heritage."
Vegeta paused, considering. He supposed he wouldn't mind, as long as it wasn't about Frieza. It would be nice to have some use for all of the historical and cultural knowledge stored in his brain, made redundant with the destruction of his planet. He should probably focus on ancient history though, he thought, the days before the Great Darkness had corrupted his people, turning them from the path their god had originally intended for them.
Trunks could learn all about Keel Saiya Vegeta, the hero Vegeta had looked up to, and in his weaker moments, despised, for leaving him with a burden he sometimes didn't know how to carry.
The Vegeta of the present understood his decision, however, agreed with it even. He couldn't blame the man when he had made the same choice.
Still, though, as appealing as the prospect sounded, Vegeta had training to get back to. And lunch.
"Later, Trunks. After dinner. We'll talk then."
It would give him some time to work out what he was going to say without obviously censoring himself.
