*Raises eyebrows* Hm…! Here you get a little peek into Vegita's own thoughts and whatnot. He may sound a slight bit out-of-character, but in my opinion, anyone who is as drunk on love as he is bound to act a wee different. ; ) This is the major fluff, the "so sweet it'll clog your arteries and give you a heart-attack" version of the V/Gh pairing. The Surgeon General warns against it.
Warning: This does involve MPREG, otherwise known as male pregnancy, a concept which may be slightly too off-the-wall for some people to grasp. If that is not your cup of tea, please consider yourself forewarned. I will not take responsibility for any disillusionment that may come from reading this. That said, have fun! : )
"Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration."
-- Kahlil Gibran, "Children of Gods, Scions of Apes"
~*~
For the first time in several years, Gohan felt warm, the kind of gentle heat that bubbled up from within his heart and rushed through his veins, sweet as molasses and eager to touch even the remote extremities of his body. Fresh, young cheeks fairly blushed with awe and curiosity as his gaze continued to follow the tanned, foreign fingers tracing tiny circles on his stomach. A small, secretive smile played across his lips at the thought of what would soon lay there, what his body would soon nurture. The responsibility was daunting, yet he knew that it could be weathered as long as he remained here.
With Vegita.
Relaxing back against the aged bark of a stalwart pine, Gohan allowed his gaze to drift up the powerful arm and the compact, square shoulders to rest on a face usually pinched with deadly strength and vicious contempt that was now relaxed, the cold gaze tempered into one never before seen on the prince: affection. Knowing such emotions were reserved for him and him alone brought another flush of rosy heat to his face.
Vegita paused in his own contemplation of the current situation to further study and imprint his younger partner's characteristics onto his mind. For any other being on this planet, nay, the universe, the battle-scarred Saiyajin would never have lowered his guard so much as to allow even the slightest glimmer of positive emotion through, but, as it had always seemed to be, nothing in his being balked at doing so for Gohan. He felt not a hint of resentment towards the half-breed for worming his way underneath the layers of protection he had so carefully constructed. Perhaps it was so because the boy was one of the few who did not try to change him, to tame him and mold his personality to better conform to human morals. No, Gohan accepted him warts and all.
And then there was the boy's sheer beauty.
Vegita could, quite plausibly in his mind, live forever and contentedly off the life that seemed to radiate off of Gohan with a brilliance greater than that of the Sun. His thirst was parched with a simple look from those soulful, ebony eyes; hunger was banished into oblivion when his fingers felt the silken strands of midnight hair. Any need or desire that did not involve the young angel before him was suddenly shuffled to the back of his mind, lost in obscurity, chased away by laughter that tickled his heart and brought a smile, yes, a smile to his own face.
"Vegita-san?"
Always so formal, that boy, Vegita thought briefly, but he held such a proclivity as just another quality for him to care for, to protect, and to encourage. Grunting softly in acknowledgement of Gohan's query, Vegita returned his hands to their protective spot on the boy's stomach, an area that, in a month or so, would begin to swell into visible proof of the couple's loving labour.
"What do we do now, Vegita-san?" Gohan met his lover's eyes, searching for reassurance.
Vegita frowned slightly when he saw the anxiety blossoming in those gentle eyes. He knew that the future held much pain for the young boy, and such a fact tore at his heart, but he knew that it would all be worth it, in the end. "Now we wait." The tenderness in his voice dulled the choppy sentence and Gohan seemed satisfied, as he soon wiggled into a position that found him spooned against Vegita's body and sighed in peace. It did not pass him by that Vegita had used the word we.
For a few minutes the two remained still, the twittering of the birds the only sound about them. But rare was the time where Gohan's mind allowed him reprieve, and the delicious future that lay in wait for him now proffered up hundreds of questions to bestow upon his prince. However, one amongst them all stood out to give him warning: "But… what will we tell everyone else?" Nervous fingers pulled spastically at crisp, emerald stalks, uprooting one hand full at a time and then leaving it to take hold once more in the ground. Though a small sign, the fidgeting did not go unnoticed by Vegita, and he firmly grasped one of the boy's hands in his, stilling his minor destructive fit.
"Exactly what is needed." He almost chuckled as young canines nibbled on tender lips and Gohan frowned in worried consternation. To alleviate the youth's worries: "But no more than what you are comfortable with." This time he did smile, though any other witness to the act would never have noticed: a small curve to his mouth, eyes softening just enough that the angry wrinkles smoothed, slightly crooked nose crinkling upward. Gohan looked up and melted, completely helpless in Vegita's arms – and loving every minute of it.
"Right…" Gohan found his eyes once again drawn towards his stomach and he shivered in excitement. To think that he was carrying a child… Vegita's child. His child. "Ours." The enigmatic smile was back. Here he had something special, something he and Vegita shared that linked them deeper than anything ever had before.
Vegita snorted. "Don't go all woman on me, now, gaki."
Reluctantly, Gohan shifted away from the prince. The sun's once golden flame had dimmed and set the sky awash with the deep hues of twilight. The air quivered with a balmy heat, and Gohan caught the brief flicker of the first adventurous lightening bug. In the swiftly failing half-light, he stood and glanced at his partner's vague form, watching as Saiyajin muscles worked effortlessly to bring the man to his feet. Even with such a simple act Vegita employed feline grace and regality with each deliberate movement. Unconsciously, Gohan took a small step towards him, intending to bid him good-bye, but he caught himself. The older man was not fond of farewells, especially when he knew he would soon come in contact with the one he was parting with. Such adieux, he believed, only came when the separation was infinitely permanent.
The two nodded, one face once again an empty mask, the other filled with love enough for the both of them, and then they took to the sky and went their separate ways.
~*~
A silent, slumbering household greeted Vegita upon his belated return. As the Brief family was wont to sup early, he was not surprised to find the kitchen empty of life. Several dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink, waiting patiently as they did every night for someone to notice them and so bend to clean their crumb-caked surfaces. A half-used bottle of soap sat on the counter; someone had apparently intended to perform the task, but had verily been distracted. Against the far wall of the kitchen was a worn, scarred table, its once pristine white paint now chipped and peeling from the constant abuse. Upon the oaken table lay a neatly scribed note and an impressive amount of food. With not even a curious glance towards the written message, he settled himself quietly in a creaky, whitewashed chair and took it upon himself to dutifully dispose of every last morsel of sustenance.
With his body thus occupied, Vegita's mind was free to wander, and invariably he found his thoughts drawn to the one subject that did not entail any sort of negative or ornery emotions: one Son Gohan.
Well, perhaps that was not completely true.
Vegita was not one to feel apprehension. Worry and fear held no place on a battlefield and thus had never managed to take root in the active parts of his mind. However, an ineluctable twinge had developed in some distant niche of his psyche, which, unbeknownst to him, remained unimpressed by his many years as Evil's right hand, having splintered from the whole of his consciousness at a point early on in his life. And there it lay, in plain sight yet unobserved, and thus retained full capacity of those instinctual emotions every cognizant being enters the world equipped with.
He perhaps felt the greatest unease towards Gohan's own naïveté of the ramifications his condition so produced. Hardened as he was from his years of warfare, Vegita had not the heart to tell the boy of the pains that lay ahead, although the results almost always vindicated any previous ordeals. Truthfully, Vegita himself did not understand the circumstances well enough to fully inform his mate. His exposure to the Saiyajin culture had been restricted to already abridged textbooks censured even further by Aeesujin culture control organizations and the few years he spent as a child on his home planet. From his readings, he had gleaned only ideas of the whole process; the slim book on Saiyajin reproduction primarily focused on the torment of the child-bearers in the throes of complications, some rare and others rather commonplace; on how sudden convulsions could strike with deadly intent, leaving the victim damaged beyond repair; on the often gory reality of the birth, which involved any number of dangerous techniques to free the child from its vessel; and on, of course, the deaths of those unable to cope with such obstacles. Such depictions, he knew, were used as deterrents to prevent the Saiyajin population from multiplying to a level that the Aeesujin could not constrain and were at times subject to the most obvious exaggerations, but the graphic portrayals still did their job.
These being the only resources on which the prince could draw on, Vegita understandably looked towards the future with nothing but trepidation.
~*~
The moment Gohan awoke, he quickly counted each and every one of his blessings and promised the kami a lengthened, gratuitous prayer once evening came. With his mother five months into her pregnancy, Gohan was well versed in the various discomforts brought on by the added weight and wildly shifting chemical imbalances of the body. The sun's waking moments often saw the young demi-Saiyajin futilely endeavoring to assuage his mother's pains with every remedy his text-book mind could think of. Such experiences had, unfortunately, deeply impressed Gohan with a sense of fear about his current condition and he was grateful that, today at least, he need not worry over his secret.
He knew he should tell her.
Gohan was not one to lie. In fact, his personality was almost disturbingly honest. And it was for this very reason that Gohan was terrified of what was going to happen to him, because this pregnancy- yes, he could say the word- had driven him into a corner and, for the first time in his life, was forcing Gohan to hide from his own mother, she who had raised him, ingrained into his mind from the moment his toddler ears could decipher language that to speak anything but the truth constituted as a crime punishable by nothing less than Hell. Thus the boy's dilemma. The terrible fear of rejection, of losing the faith of one of the only constants in his unstable life gave him pause every time he thought to inform his mother. He did not think that he could handle her disapproval.
His sensitive ears twitched reflexively as they caught the familiar morning chimes of pots and pans, the static hiss of the sink's spigot, and his mother's own light voice skipping up and down in a soft timbre that nearly soothed Gohan back down into slumber. And then the fresh scents of breakfast, a homey combination of sweet honey and cool melon, sent his nose into a sensory orgasm that dutifully dissolved any and all thought of sleep from his mind. With a spry leap from his bed, Gohan hurried down the hall and outside, snatching the clothing his mother had previously set out for him on his way out. He then commenced to fill the large bathing barrel with water from the nearby lake and set fire to a small armful of wood to begin the process of heating the crystalline liquid.
Once the water had warmed to the desirable temperature, Gohan eased himself into the ancient tub, sighing involuntarily as the liquid wrapped its gentle fingers about his body in its own maternal embrace, soothing taught muscles and tired joints. The weightlessness he felt allowed him a welcome reprieve from the worries that had plagued his mind for over a week now; his mind drifted through downy-soft clouds of pure contentment just as his physical body floated idly in the tender grasp of the water.
His mother's call for breakfast, however, wormed its way through the delicate haze all too soon, and he left the sanctity of the water with a great reluctance tempered only slightly with the promise of food. A brief fluctuation of power sufficiently dried his body, and Gohan scurried back to the house, bouncing slightly as he worked himself into his clothes. He had just finished clasping the final button of the soft white shirt when he entered the door, greeting his mother with a peck on the cheek and an appreciative exclamation, "That smells wonderful, Okaasan!"
Chichi smiled in gratitude as Gohan settled before the feast. And a feast it was, enough for a king and all its court, but meant only for the adolescent appetite of a young half-Saiyajin. Steaming rice, drizzled in honey; plump, juicy dumplings filled with all manner of sweet meats and vegetables; warm flatbread, fresh from the oven and bursting with the tangy flavor of the wild berries so common in the nearby forest; and other indescribable delicacies filled the round table to its limits. Chichi lowered herself into a chair, and Gohan, through manners and will power deeply trained into him since he was a child, waited for her to fill her plate before diving headlong into the meal, though somehow managing to pull off an almost civil appearance – almost being the operative word.
And for one brief moment, the Son household felt normal again.
~*~
Delicately manicured fingers clenched into twin fists as Bulma slowly drew a breath and prepared to confront the Saiyajin prince lounging on the other side of the door. She cast one last glance at a mirror that rested upon a small hallway table, inspecting it for any clear signs of stress. Once certain that every aspect of her appearance was in proper order, she watched as her expression schooled itself into a resolute frown, just enough to convey her determination to pry an answer from the prince's unforgiving mouth.
An answer was what she was looking for; an answer she would get.
For a moment she stood before the bland, off-white door, its surface marred with remnants of crayons deftly wielded by young demi-Saiyajin fingers, and she could feel a voice building in the back of her mind, telling her to turn back, that she did not want to know the truth, for it could only bring her pain. But she quickly swung the door open before the urge to turn and flee became too strong and revealed the prince, Vegita, in all his masculine glory…
… sound asleep, his face thrown back over the edge of the rounded arm of the couch, hiding the sharp angles of his countenance. One arm dangled pendulous down the front, rough fingertips barely drifting across the soft beige expanse of carpet; the other rested across his compact stomach swathed lightly in blue pinstripes. Both legs were obscured in a mass of downy blue blanket. Lying discarded upon the low coffee table was a paper plate littered with sugary crumbs, the last remnants, Bulma realized with vague annoyance, of the raspberry pie her mother had baked for Trunks and Goten.
But the disarming sight of her husband-through-association splayed so haphazardly across the quilted, burnished orange of the family couch nearly shoved all prior intentions completely out of her mind. Nearly.
Bulma was not one to overlook opportunities such as this one.
Knowing from a year and a half of bed fellowship that Vegita never fell too deeply into sleep – some genetic Saiyajin trait, she had decided, as both Goku and Gohan exhibited it as well -, Bulma spread her stance, crossed her arms and, after settling the proper expectant frown once again upon her façade, cleared her throat as loud as she could manage.
The sudden intrusion of the silence was more than enough to rip the prince unforgivingly from a once peaceful and enjoyable sleep. An inarticulate rumble of noise escaped his mouth as he immediately rose to wakefulness and struggled to extricate himself from the thick grasp of the blanket. Once his roving midnight eyes settled upon the fool who roused him, however, and once he noticed the strange expression upon her face, Vegita stilled and straightened, reaching for an air of dignity not easily come by when one is freshly awoken and ensnared in a mass of baby-blue blanket.
"What could you possibly want, onna?!"
Never was very agreeable so soon after waking. Through careful control, Bulma managed to prevent even a hint of the amused smile that wanted to dance haughtily across her face; angering Vegita even more would not help her in her current endeavors. "I have a few questions that require answers." Inwardly, Bulma applauded herself for sounding so collected and in control, "And you are going to answer them."
Vegita snorted, finally breaking free and rising to his feet. "I will decide that." And then he leaned back, somehow managing to give the impression of staring down his nose at stubborn woman despite his lack of height. One coal-black eyebrow lifted from its scowl as he watched Bulma with blatant impatience. Slim legs shifted slightly and hard, cerulean eyes blinked and darted to the side for a brief moment before returning to the imposing form of the former monarch. "Well?"
Bulma covered up her shaky breath by absently smoothing down her hair and consequently noticed that nervous tremors shook her slim fingers. Get it together, Bulma. It's a simple question, nothing more and nothing less. But even this reassurance seemed weak compared to the reality that, if the answer was not what she hoped, her entire life could crumble before her eyes. She clasped one hand over the other in front of her, effectively stilling the fidgeting digits, and finally spoke: "Have you been loyal to me?" Bulma stalwartly resisted wincing at the hint of a pleading tone that snuck into her voice. When Vegita merely continued staring at her, frown still in place, she decided to elaborate. "I have.. noticed that you have been, oh, a bit.. distracted, lately." Smooth, Bulma. You're a regular poet. "What I mean to say is- "
"I know what you mean, onna," Vegita cut in, forcing the young woman to squelch a reflexive burst of annoyance at the interruption. She was about to continue, but then took a long look at Vegita's face. Though still creased with irritation, it had also softened almost imperceptibly. He looked resigned – no, relieved, almost. Like Bulma had just provided the prince an opening he had waited for for a long time, given him a chance he had previously been afraid to take, but now felt sufficient justification to take advantage of whatever position Bulma had led him into. And then her breath caught in her throat, for he looked like a man on the verge of pleading guilty to judge and jury, worried about the repercussions, but incredibly grateful for the opportunity to cleanse his conscience. It was an image that made her want to flee and never hear the answer she had so adamantly demanded before.
"I have taken another partner."
Some remote point of her mind vaguely acknowledged these words; she heard them as if from a great distance, muted and inconsequential compared to the heavy buzzing that overpowered her senses. An odd weight settled upon her, dragging on her mind and all intelligible thought, squeezing her chest so that even the mere thought of breathing lost possibility. He need say no more, for she knew the truth, could see clearly the entire story in that one subtle expression. His lips continued to move, but she had fallen deaf to the world around her and heard none of his further elaborations upon the subject. With mechanical coolness, she felt her physical body calmly but swiftly stride back out of the room, the complete antithesis of the roaring bedlam of her mental state.
Only when she had placed several hundred feet of drywall and steel between her and the prince did she give thought to the troubling question of whom.
~*~
Thank you for reading thus far – may the Valar bless you all! But before you have a chance to work yourselves into a right state, you should know that this indeed is not the end. In a personal experiment with my motivation, I have decided to try to write this in installments, chapters if you will. Many a promising story has fallen into decay within the rotting depths of my hard drive because I had been bent on finishing it all in one fell swoop. So, in high hopes that I will in fact complete at least this small mind-child, I have given you chapter one! I hope also that you can find it in your hearts to give me response – constructive, mind you! That said, feel free to leave any manner of thought you might have on the beginning thread of this tale. Although I must warn you all: Gohan's pregnancy, though an obvious instigator of the entire story, does not steal the full limelight. : ) In fact, I have planned to only go as far as two weeks into the term, and no more. I rather like the aura of unknown I can give to it. Bah! I'm rambling; I should stop before this becomes as long as the chapter itself! Goodnight, everyone. Namarië!