Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this fic so far – it's reached 400 reviews! Yay! I really do appreciate each and every one.
I know it's been months since I last updated – all I can say is I've had the busiest year in my life so far. Full time work + study + a big promotion = lots of sleep deprivation and tears (as well as excitement). Next year should be more settled (read: no more study), so I can get back into being more active in fandom.
The good news: This chapter only took me a few sessions to write, so I'm hoping I can have a productive holiday season in terms of fanfiction writing!
Vegeta
Year 756
They sit on the edge of the lake in the dark, and he listens to Bulma's childhood stories – the ones he always told her he was not interested in hearing – for over an hour. When given the chance she could talk forever, and it takes what seems like an eternity for her to get to her point: the magical balls, and the question that she baited him with at the start of this conversation.
"The dragonballs were so much about magic – Kami's magic – and I saw Kami die," she pauses, throwing her arms in the air dramatically, "that it never even occurred to me that the same kind of magic could exist outside of Earth."
"I thought you were a woman of science."
"Science requires evidence. I've seen this magic – I've seen the proof. Besides, I made a radar that could detect dragonballs, back when I was a kid. So yes it's magic, but magic that gives off certain electromagnetic waves that I can tap into."
"So what are you telling me?" He knows exactly what she's telling him, but he needs to hear it from her lips.
She hesitates, and the pause – no longer than a heartbeat – is enough for him to notice.
"I'm telling you that I searched for 'green aliens' with Kami's characteristics – antennae, pointy ears, you name it – in the universal database and I found a match. Namekians. From the planet Namek. They look just like Kami."
He remains silent for a long time after she finishes talking; long enough to make her begin to squirm, kicking her legs our over the ledge they sit on like a bored child. The moon has dipped low in the sky now, and she's cold; he can see it in the gooseflesh that ripples over her arms. Still, he makes her wait. Let her crack first.
He needs the time to process his own thoughts, anyway. What would you wish for? The prospect of wishing for anything is tempting, and yet it seems almost shameful. Could he wish to become a Super Saiyan? Would he? No, that would be too easy – the Legendary cannot be something you wish for, it must be something that you do, without help. Still, there are other wishes that could be made; imagine, if he were immortal –
"Vegeta," Bulma interrupts. "Tell me what you're thinking." There's a hint of fear in her demand. She's nervous about passing this information onto him, unsure of how he will react. She has trusted him with a great many things over the past few years, but she does not fully trust him on this matter. The fact that she doesn't stings more than he would like to admit.
"How do you even know that more of these dragonballs will exist?" he asks, snarling more than he means to. "Your Kami told you they would disappear with his death."
"I don't." She's picked up on his mood, and her hand lifts to touch his cheek. She's almost completely blind in the dark, but her eyes still dance across his face, trying to read him. "The first step would be to build a radar. I've done it before, but to try and build one that could detect dragonballs on an intergalactic scale… I'd need very specific tech, stuff we don't have here. We'd have to leave this planet."
"Then we'll leave."
She nods without a hint of surprise, and catches his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. "Obviously, we'll all have to agree on a wish."
Ah, there it is. This is what she doesn't trust him with; the wish. He can sense the tension running through her arm, her fingers gripping his hand a little too tightly. She's afraid of what he might plan. "Agree?" he questions, just to piss her off. "You seem to have forgotten who I am. I am a Prince. There is no such thing as democracy in Saiyan culture."
"Then I won't build your radar and you won't find your dragonballs," she quips, but there's no humour in her response. She's deadly serious, afraid, and they might as well be back on Frieza's ship when they first met, back when she so desperately bargained with him for her escape.
He's pissed off now. He grips her arm and leans into her, until his lips brush against the shell of her ear. "You're afraid of me."
She's tense under his hands. He counts the long breaths she takes, five, six, seven, until she seems to melt, and her head bows until it rests on his shoulder. "Maybe I'm afraid of parts of you," she whispers. "I know I have nothing to be afraid of. I know you'll never hurt me. I've known that for a very long time. I care about you, more than you probably realise, and I think you care for me more than you'll ever admit to yourself, but… you're still a terrifying man." She pauses again, for longer this time, reaching for his hands once more, her breath feathering across his neck. "It would be easier if we could just stay on this planet forever, but we can't. And we'll either die, or you'll win. Frieza will be destroyed, and you'll lay his head at my feet like you promised me, and then what? Sometimes I wonder if I am just helping the next monster rise to the top. You won't hurt me, but you'll mow down anyone else that gets in your way. What does that say about me?"
"I am not the same as Frieza," he snarls, and her nails dig into his palms.
"I know that!" she snaps.
"Do you?" He wants to shake her. He wants to fuck her out here in the open, to prove to her that he is the man she wants him to be, and not the man she fears. He wants to know why she has so little faith in him.
He wants to tell her that he is afraid of becoming like Frieza. He wants to tell her that he has never had a chance to decide his own fate until now. He wants her to realise that Frieza made him the man he is today; that until now he has had no choice over how his life unfolded.
He wants to tell her that she is as culpable as he is; that he has seen her ki whips and guns and chains out on the battlefield, that he has seen a thousand men die facing the barrels of her weapons. He wants to remind her that she is a murderer, too.
He can't say any of it. The words won't form on his lips.
Perhaps she knows what he is thinking. Her lower lip trembles, and tears run down her face. She brushes them away angrily, shaking her head.
"I am afraid," she says quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you. Just everything else."
You think I am not? he almost asks, but there are things his pride will not let him say, even to her.
They sit in silence once more, until she says "I'm cold," and he picks her up and flies her back to the ship. Once in their room he does fuck her, long and slow, telling her with his hands and his body what he cannot say with his voice – that she's the only good thing that has ever happened in his life – and she falls apart under him.
Later, he watches Bulma sleep, her limbs thrown haphazardly over him as he replays their conversation again in his mind.
"Sometimes I wonder if I am just helping the next monster rise to the top."
"No," he tells her sleeping form. "You're not."