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: Dark themes, adult themes, flashbacks to traumatic episodes, violence (what a surprise), gore, medical situations and 'sad stuff' (without spoiling too much).

NOTES: As stated in the blurb, this is a SEQUEL to the Necromancer's Legacy, and follows on directly from chapter 40. Unless you want to be very confused and have what is, in my opinion, not a bad story ruined for you, please DON'T READ THIS FIRST. Missing Scenes is required reading for this story as well.

I mostly wrote this for my own enjoyment, what was a one-shot idea spiralling out of control with gleeful abandon. I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Vegeta had not enjoyed her plans, not at all, but that was fine because he owed her anyway. And she simply had to try out his new cloning technique in their bedroom.

Humming a made-up tune, bliss overtaking her features, Bulma relaxed on her mattress, feeling her husband lay down to rest beside her. The springs shifted beneath him, minor bulk providing a buttress against the night sky.

It was so good to have him back. Her man, her pride, her perpetual imbecile she called a husband, reticently caring alien all wrapped up in the complete package.

And he wasn't even going to age now; his eternally glorious physique would be all hers for the rest of her life. Probably long after, although she should definitely see about getting him some immortal (or at least very long-living) friends, because she didn't think King Yemma would tolerate him popping in constantly. Nevertheless, a thought occurred to her as she basked in the afterglow, her husband's breathing slowing as he prepared for what little sleep he actually needed.

He would be up early the next morning to return to his healing duties.

"Hey, honey?"

"What is it?" Vegeta mumbled, shuffling around to face the ceiling, turning his gaze towards her.

"You're...umm...you're immortal, now."

"I noticed," he answered, deadpan.

"That means you're going to need to learn to survive without me."

"...to what are you referring to?"

"Well, living on Earth of course. Unless you're planning on leaving once I'm gone."

"I had not given it any thought," he admitted.

"If you stay you'll need to learn all about Earth money, credit cards, shopping centres—"

"Please do not go on," he groaned, "You're making me nauseous."

"Vegeta!"

"I abhor such activities, you know that," he whined, rubbing his face.

"You have to be able to get through it, honey," she emphasised, "I'm not going to be around forever, and neither are my parents. You may not need to buy meat, but you'll need clothing*, and other items as well. Not to mention what will be necessary for the children, depending on their age."

"You will not be dying before the children are fully matured!" Vegeta objected hotly, coal-black eyes blazing as if they were alight.

"Vegeta, you can't control that. I know you're powerful now, but you don't control fate."

"Destiny, and she's a mule."

"Umm..." Bulma didn't know what to make of that one, so she continued as blithely as she could, "Well, the rest of us are beholden to the powers that be, and it doesn't scare me, honey. I'm more worried about what might happen to you."

"Well, I'm hardly going to kill myself to re-unite with you like those young paramours in the play by Shuddering Lance."

"...what. Vegeta, I think you need to update that chip of yours. What are you even talking abo—Shakespear you nimrod!" she slapped him with her pillow for butchering the name of her favourite playwright.

"I thought you liked him."

"I..." Bulma let out a long sigh towards the ceiling. This conversation really wasn't important right now, and frankly, it was hilarious. She was just amassing translation errors to embarrass him with at parties.

"Besides, I don't have a chip anymore. I use magic."

"Really? I guess that makes sense. I swear you've gotten worse, though. Not that I mind the ammunition, of course."

"...I'll...investigate it. I didn't even notice it at first. Perhaps there is a novel way of using magic to translate that doesn't involve...errors."

"The namekians don't murder my language like you do."

"That is because the structure is extremely similar."

"Or maybe they're just smarter than you," she jeered, poking him playfully as she stuck her tongue out.

"Hmph."

Vegeta had never actually been to the 'supermarket', but it was exactly as he had imagined it to be. Loud, cramped, hypnotically aromatic and generally mind-boggling. Signs were everywhere – on the floor, on the walls, on the isles and hanging from the ceiling. The saiyan prince was a quick observer, but even he stood for a few moments at the entrance, absorbing strange looks as his eyes alternated between the long list in his hands and the visual cacophony in front of him.

"Trolley," he muttered to himself, searching the wide yet full expanse for a non-automated vehicle, Bulma's instructions echoing in his mind. He wasn't sure why he couldn't have found a salesperson and given them his list. That was the established practice on the few planets on which he had made purchases with Frieza's meagre pay (and the non-physical remains of his royal inheritance). This free-for-all was a recipe for disaster – how would the store prevent patrons from combatting for supplies, or lifting the shop? He could not see any security personnel stationed amongst the isles or the bustle of people going about their business.

"Do you need any help, sir?"

Vegeta blinked, eyes finding a human watching him, dressed in an outfit identical to a number of people standing behind machines to his right.

A staff member, then.

"No," he answered stiffly, looking down at the flimsy paper in his hands again. It really shouldn't be that intimidating; it was just a collection of grocery items written in a language that was not his native one. He really needed to refine his translation spell because—

"What on Earth is 'Tin Tom'? Why have I been asked to retrieve a person encapsulated in a tin?"

At least he now knew what a 'tin' was, because that had simply been confusing – the element itself was no longer used in the manufacture of those metal containers.

Such a strange language.

Vegeta did eventually manage to locate the trolley deposit, and removed one from its fellows without damaging it. It squeaked terribly and regularly as he pushed it, causing Vegeta to look down in exasperation.

How did humans manage to survive in this universe? They could not even create a reliable metal rolling contraption for transport purposes. He would never understand this species, he knew, never for as long as he lived, and that would be quite a long time.

Still, he would master this 'shopping' business, if only to get his wife off his back.

"Carrots," Vegeta muttered to himself, examining a bunch of the orange vegetables, considering that their furry tops looked similar to Kakarot's annoying head of hair. Dumping them in the trolley he returned to his list, finding it still dauntingly long.

"Cabbage..." now, what exactly did that look like? He normally saw ingredients after they had been used. A less prideful man might have wished that his mother-in-law could have been there to assist him, but Vegeta had learned the importance of exuding confidence and self-assurance as a leader, and wasn't about to submit to internal disquiet.

If he could only work out what sort of milk Bulma was after.

Bulma sighed for the one hundredth time that day, trying and failing to focus on her work. She wished that the company president could afford to take holidays, but when their share price was stagnant, and being overtaken, she was expected to be at the helm to assuage the concerns of her board. She had already spent far too much time being absent or distracted, and although the board was perfunctory only, and couldn't remove her, she relied on her reputation as an intelligent and hard worker within professional circles. That needed to continue for her to maintain access to the best and brightest graduates and talent, information, and lucrative contracts.

She couldn't afford to be wasting time with her head in the clouds, or more correctly, in her memories. But it had only been a day since 'Ternyp' had 'left', and she was still coming to terms with the reality which had been revealed to her. Crying on Vegeta's shoulder had been cathartic, but it hadn't been enough to remove the heavy pain within her heart as every recollection resurfaced, with her husband's face super-imposed over the victim's own. She knew, intellectually, that he could handle pain, that he had been tortured in the past (although how often remained a mystery).

That didn't make her feel any better about the ordeal.

Wiping her fingers against her blouse she attempted to settle the butterflies in her stomach, forcing herself to giggle at Vegeta's reaction to first hearing that phrase. It had been funny at the time, but now she struggled to find anything amusing.

Her husband had been tortured to death.

"Mum?"

Bulma considered that maybe working from home all of the time would not be conducive to catching up on her work, especially taking into account all of the excitement her household dealt with on an almost daily basis.

"What is it, Trunks?" she hoped her frustration with herself hadn't made it into her tone.

"Um...Dad didn't think we ought to disturb you but Bra's having a tantrum."

"Look—" Bulma rubbed her forehead.

"Can Bra drink alcohol?"

"What?! No!"

"But she's part saiyan."

Vegeta hated the taste of alcohol, but when Krillen had instigated a challenge a few years before, the prideful prince hadn't been able to refuse. He had lamented the poor taste of human beverages, commenting that his own father had thoroughly enjoyed a glass of the finest arsenic with his meals.

Compared to that, alcohol was practically water to him. Except that it was disgusting.

"Part being the key point."

"She really wants to try some."

"Well, she'll just have to deal with it."

"She's really loud."

"I'll put sound-proof headphones on your birthday list."

The door closed with a quiet snick, and Bulma was alone again. Alone with her thoughts, and her e-mails. Now, how should she phrase this? One of her underlings had come up with a fantastic new idea for revamping the company investments. However, she would need to garner some support from the upper levels, particularly her deputy. The woman was loyal, steadfast, and a little too conservative for Bulma's tastes, but there was a good balance between them.

Vegeta would be interested in her conglomerate activities, even though he didn't understand her inventing. He only cared about what it could do, not how it was made.

Darn it, she had wound her way back to him again.

Bulma had that familiar nagging feeling in her brain as she washed away the day's grime, humming to herself as she lathered her beautiful skin with moisturising soap. She was missing something. She had forgotten something.

She didn't do the ironing, so it couldn't be that. She didn't cook either. Perhaps...her computer was on?

She had a feeling that it had something to do with her husband, though. Her husband who ought to have finished his gaming session with Trunks by now because her son needed a good night's sleep.

Not that Vegeta would really understand that. If you asked him he would be able to parrot back the recommended duration of rest for a human of Trunk's age, but he didn't understand it.

That came with marrying someone from a different species, she supposed. And that was certainly a strange thought. It was amazing that two species with extremely different histories could procreate at all. Perhaps she ought to ask Vegeta if he had any insight into that co-incidence.

However, the wayward thought slipped from her mind as she continued her cleansing ritual, moving on to singing a rather irritating song which had been on the radio in her jet, and she hadn't managed to remove.

An earworm.

She wondered if her husband had heard that term.

Speaking of, just as she was finishing up and preparing to dry and dress herself, she heard the tell-tale sounds of a door opening. Another pair of feet padded into the room at an acceptable volume (because she hated it when he crept up on her in that maddeningly predatory way of his) as her own scrubbed the bathmat into a damp heap. Mattress springs creaked, accompanying the rustling of her donning her pyjamas.

Goodness, she hadn't properly spoken with him following his shopping trip, since Trunks had dominated dinner time and promptly dragged his father away immediately afterwards. He would not have enjoyed the outing, that much she was sure of, but he was going to need the skills.

It was time to face the music.

"Hey, honey," she greeted, feeling the lovely new carpet beneath her fresh, bare feet as she traversed its surface toward the bed. He looked up from his caller, the light from which gave him a terribly creepy look.

Mind you, Gemuse was utterly terrifying as she recalled, particularly when he was surrounded by his aura. But she hadn't seen that power since...

"You blew yourself up!"

Vegeta blinked at her, setting aside his device and giving her his full attention.

"I did," he acknowledged, neither confidence nor nervousness present in his tone.

"Darn it, Vegeta! You weren't supposed to do that again!"

"There was no other option."

"Vegeta..." rage and fear warred within her, fighting for dominance as she stalked over to her side of the bed. Her husband rolled onto his side to face her, still failing to react to her ire.

"I never could promise you I wouldn't take that route in future, and there was a reason for that."

"You didn't see yourself afterwards!" she protested, "Your hand was hanging off!"

"What, this time or last time?"

"This time, you twerp!" she crawled over the top of the bedspread, nose finding his own. He merely blinked at her in that infuriatingly calm manner he managed to adopt sometimes.

"Could you be a little more remorseful after what you put me through?"

"You didn't know it was me at the time," he pointed out, as if that was in any way reasonable.

"Vegeta!"

"I'm sorry?" he tried.

"You are not!"

"Bulma, if I had lost there would have been no return. The super dragon balls would have vanished and, with them, my only chance at bringing you all back. I'm sorry that I...traumatised you, but I would rather still have a wife to be traumatised."

"Vegeta..." she sighed towards her hands, clenched around the familiar fabric of their marital bed. Of course, were their circumstances swapped, she would have made the same decision, but it still hurt immensely.

Something about what he had said was niggling at her, though, as she slumped back against the pillows.

"Wait..." he made an enquiring noise in response, "if you had lost, wouldn't Lord Zeno have just erased you as well? You wouldn't have had the power to resist."

"That would have made no difference. I am immune to the technique."

Now, that was interesting. She hadn't known such a thing was possible.

"It is similar to that game Trunks has been encouraging me to play, with all of the alien pet creatures. Some types of moves have no effect on certain varieties of the pocket monsters."

"I know what you meant, just..." oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh no.

"Vegeta," she continued in a low voice, "how does your immunity work? Is it body? Soul? Both together?"

"Ah," she watched as he rubbed his chin, "It would be soul, and the First One's body, I believe. They wouldn't need to be together...Is this important?"

Was it important? Considering the state her husband had been in when he first assumed his new body, starved and exhausted on a hospital bed, sleeping for days on end. Considering the vast expanse of nothingness, the lack of any other person, the lack of food, of oxygen.

"Bulma?" Something must have shown on her face as one of her worst nightmares materialised in front of her vision. All this time. All this time! While she had been playing, laughing, dealing with her own crises, enjoying the contours of her husband in their shared bed.

Never realising.

"Bulma?"

"You...you're all alone..."

"I'm sorry?"

"In the future you idiot!" she slapped his overgrown forehead for good measure, "Trunks' future! The whole timeline was erased!"

"Ah," she could just make out him paling in the light of her bedside lamp, "That...can't have been pleasant."

"Can't have been pleasant?!"

"Bulma, calm down."

Twisting around, Bulma made to surge out of bed. But she had barely moved before Vegeta arrested her, gently but firmly, by the wrist.

"Wait," he instructed calmly.

"I'm not waiting another second! You're suffering out there and I have the means to bring you back!"

"Bulma."

"Let me go!" There really wasn't any point trying to remove herself from Vegeta's grip, but she tried it anyway, "Why are you stopping me?!"

"Bulma, sit down. Now, don't over-react to this, but I'm...not sure bringing him back is a good idea."

"Vegeta!" she screeched, palm finding his jaw with force, "What is wrong with you?! How could you let yourself suffer like that?!"

"He isn't me, Bulma," her husband explained calmly, not even rubbing his cheek in acknowledgement of her most powerful attack.

"I know he's lived a different life—"

"No, Bulma. He isn't me. He is not Prince Vegeta IV. According to policy, I am re-incarnated every time I die."

"But...you've died."

"It takes time for the cleansing process to remove all of my sense of self. But after so long, I would certainly have made a new life for myself in a new body. Most likely a saiyan from universe six. My soul is stubborn and my sister poetic."

He didn't give her a chance to parse out his meaning before continuing.

"And Bulma, that is where the problem lies. I am able to control myself because I am familiar with resisting a saiyan's primal urges. However, the universe six saiyans are cut from very different fabric – don't ask me why, the First One wanted them to be the same but...biological creation wasn't...his forte, shall we say."

"So?"

"So this 'new me' will not be able to control the First One's vile inclinations, Bulma."

"That's no reason to leave him there!"

"Bulma, I cannot unleash that on the omniverse."

"Who are you, Beerus?!"

"Bulma, please."

"A person is dying painfully and continuously, all alone in a timeline of nothingness, and you're just going to wash your hands of it?!"

"Wash my...?"

"Let me go, Vegeta," her voice was like the Antarctic, not bothering to explain a phrase he had surely heard before, if he would only pay attention when she spoke.

"Bulma, I won't allow—"

"I don't even have the fuel, yet," she spat, "I just want to sleep on the couch."

"Oh, for pity's sake!"

* Yes, Vegeta can make his own clothing now, but Bulma has yet to find this out.