Last time:

"I'm great," I say, giving him my best realistic smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"

And to my surprise it works, and he leaves me alone. Whether or not he believes me, I don't care right now. I think my health is a little more important than him having a happy peppy girlfriend all the time.


After recovering from the initial shock of seeing the medical bracelet and the stack of papers, I found it was harder than I expected, looking at everything in such a two dimensional way. It made me feel useless and ordinary, like every other patient that was ever treated at that hospital, at any hospital. I was just another number, and I didn't matter.

The newspaper articles didn't tell me all that much. It was words I'd already read, stories I already knew. The medical papers—that's where the answer should be, that's what my shrink must have been hinting at. She must know more about me than she's letting on. Stupid sneaky doctors.

I reach into the box and pull the thick stack of papers onto my lap. It looks normal enough. The first page has all my standard information: name, address, etc. Most of the pages are detailed descriptions of my medical history and the condition I was in throughout my three-month stay at the hospital.

I'm about to write-off my shrink completely, when suddenly I notice something. And it's too blatantly obvious! Several of the pages, here and there, have small parts blacked-out. As I flip through the stack more, the blacked-out areas grow in size, until, at the end, most of the pages are black bars with only a few words scattered throughout.

"Where is everything!" I hiss, throwing the papers across the room. I watch them fall like giant snowflakes, covering the area around me.

A moment later Yamcha comes barreling in, his eyes wild with what I perceive as fear.

"What's wrong?" he asks, practically falling to my side.

I lurch back and climb to my feet, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

"Tell me the truth or I'm leaving you," I say through my teeth, my entire body shaking in my rage.

"T-Tell you what?" he stutters, remaining on the floor.

"Did you black-out my medical records?"

His tense eyebrows go lax, and he rises to his feet, resisting the urge to touch me. That's right! Back off mister!

"Of course not," he sighs. "Your doctor gave us everything just the way it is."

"You didn't change anything?"

"No. Why would I?"

I drop to my knees and scramble for the pages I'd thrown down. My doctor—who was my doctor? Finally, I find the page I'm looking for, and I sit back on my heels, allowing my body to relax.

"Dr. Eto," I say aloud, and snatch the phone off the bedside table.

"Honey, what are you doing?" Yamcha asks, but I'm not paying any attention to him right now. There are more important things going on than his need to know every little thing in my life.

Someone on the other line picks up, and it's like Yamcha doesn't even exist. I don't see him anymore, and, if he's speaking, I can't hear him.

"Operator," I say, just the way I've always heard other people do it. "Can you connect me to a Dr. Genjo Eto?"

It's four rings, and then, finally, someone at the Eto residence picks up.

"Dr. Eto?" I ask at the sound of a male voice.

"Yes it is," he replies. "Might I ask who's calling?"

"Bulma Briefs." I give him a moment to let this sit. "I was your patient nine years ago." But I know he hasn't forgotten me. He'd made a little noise, almost inaudible, when I said who I was. I have his complete attention.

"Yes," he says slowly. "I remember you, Miss Briefs. How are you?"

"Right now? Or in general?" I can't help the snotty undertone in my voice. He's the reason I don't know the whole truth. He's the reason I'm not myself. He's the reason I'm not happy.

My shrink might call this line of thinking transfer of responsibility. I call it out and out anger.

"Both," he answers in his doctor voice. Don't patronize me, I want to say.

"My life is hell," I say bluntly. "And I want to know why."

He makes a noise as if he's going to speak, but I don't give him a chance.

"I've looked through all my medical records and most of them are blacked-out. I was told that you were the one who did that. Why? Why can't I have all the information?"

"That's standard procedure, Miss Briefs." Still calm and collected. Still in control. Asshole.

"What happened to me?"

"You got into a car accident and went into a coma for three months. I—"

"No," I say, clenching my fists in an attempt to control the volume of my voice. "I know all that. I want to know what was left out. And if you say nothing I—"

"Miss Briefs." His voice is slightly more stern. He so loves his control. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go. It's very late and—"

"This is how you were taught to treat your patients in need?" I hiss, wishing he was right here in the room with me so I could throw something at his forehead. "Thanks for a hell of a lot of bullshit."

I slam the phone on the receiver before he has a chance to respond.

Sitting on the bed, Yamcha stares at me in muted horror.

"What?"

"Bulma, what did you just do?"

"I called my doctor and yelled at him," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "He wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know, what I have a right to know. I should slap him with a nice big lawsuit, see how he likes it. He can't hide my medical information from me! It's not right!"

"Bulma!" He lunges forward and grabs me almost roughly by the shoulders. For a moment I'm startled. He never acts this way with me. "Please, calm down. You're scaring me."

"Well that makes two of us," I snap, wrenching myself from his hold. I'm halfway out of the room, when it hits me, and I crumble to the floor, crying into my knees. What I've been hiding room, what I've been avoiding all this time, is the fact that the whole situation is scaring the life out of me. I've never been this terrified in all my life, and I don't even know what's making me afraid.

"Bulma, I love you," Yamcha whispers, wrapping strong arms around my shoulders. I allow this, curling into his warm body. I'm giving up for today. I'm too tired and too angry to continue another moment.

My head hits the pillow before I realize that Yamcha had lifted me up. He says something generic, like "sleep well", then leaves me to my rest.

And the last thing I think, as sleep begins to take its hold, is, "Will I ever know?"


I run into the lab, my heart pounding. It's 9:30 and I'm so late.

Luckily, Vegeta isn't in the room to razz me about being late. And, strangely, 17 is nowhere in sight either. Absently I wonder where they are, but that's not my focus. When I crashed into my desk—in my great big hurry—my purse fell from my shoulder and its contents spilled all over.

"Kuso," I mutter, pushing everything clumsily back into my bag. But then something catches my eye, something I can't ignore, and it feels like my heart has stopped beating right in my chest. My legs go out from under me and I crash to the floor—my stool follows shortly thereafter. It's a good thing that I'm the only one in the lab right now; but my mind is in a completely different place. "No," I whisper. "No, this isn't right…"

But, as reality sinks in more firmly, I realize that I'd been so preoccupied lately that something like this was bound to happen.

After my breathing has returned to normal, I stand, on shaky legs, steadying myself with my desk. And before another thought can come to me, Vegeta comes strolling into the room, 17 in toe.

"Morning B," 17 says, sweeping over to my desk to pull me into a gentle embrace. He kisses my lips lightly, the way a father or brother might, then steps back, his eyes focused hard on mine.

"What?" I manage to squeeze out. It takes all my strength not to look over at Vegeta, who sits at his desk, arm perched and holding his head up. I know he's looking at me, staring, wanting. And, of course, knowing that I want just as much as he does.

"You look like death."

"Thanks," I say, trying my best to give my usual sarcasm. I don't think it's working, and I think Vegeta's caught the something's-not-right vibe. "You too."

"B, are you alright? Do you feel sick?"

"I feel fine," I lie. I lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. He smells gorgeous, like oranges and fresh-cut grass. A strange combination—and I wouldn't know where to begin to think of how he smells such a way—but it works. How is it that gay men can always seem to be so clean and fresh, but a straight man can't even keep a bar of soap clean? "My alarm didn't go off this morning. I just flustered about being late."

"I was wondering where you were." He studies me for a moment, gauging my expression, trying to decide whether I'm telling the truth or not. Fortunately for me, he can't read my emotions as well as Goku can.

"I really need to get to work, kid."

He chuckles at my old nickname for him. And I laugh too. I haven't called him that in so long.

"Fine, fine," he sighs. "We'll talk later."


It's 9:30 in the morning the next day and, again, I'm not at work. But I'm not at home either. I'm sitting on a stiff plastic-covered chair, my fingers laced, and my heart twisted in a hundred and one knots.

I almost get up to see what's taking so long, when the door creaks open and a small blonde woman enters the room. She's wearing a long white coat and her natural hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail. She has hardly any make-up on, but she's still very pretty and, judging by the gold band on her left ring finger, I assume she's married. Probably to an equally good-looking man. And they must have children, both boys and girls, all very smart and well-mannered.

I want to vomit.

"Good morning," she says, glancing at the clipboard she's holding, "Bulma. How are we feeling today?"

"I could complain," I say, straightening my back, "but I won't."

She laughs accordingly, leaning against the counter behind her. But her pretty smile fades when she sees that I lack one.

"I can see that you want your answer now." How observant of her. "But may I ask one question first?"

"Sure." I really should lay off the cynicism. Especially with people that are trying to help me. Clearly it doesn't help most situations.

"Why did you wait so long to come in? Surely you noticed—"

"I've had a lot on my mind," I sigh. "I haven't noticed much."

"What do you want the answer to be, Bulma?"

And, searching my thoughts—and my heart—I find that I want the answer to be: yes, more than anything in the world.

"Yes," I whisper, my voice full of hope and despair all at once.

She smiles professionally at me—a smile that's warm and friendly, yet hides all—and hands me the clipboard she'd been holding. My eyes scan the page, quivering and ready to cry for whatever the answer is.

"Congratulations," she says when I've looked up, my cheeks moist and pink. "It's always so nice when a patient wants the answer I give them."

I couldn't have stopped my smile with a bear trap.

"More than anything…"


My fingers can hardly dial the buttons, my eyes can hardly see them, but I manage to get the number right. The ringing is unbearable, and I hug my pillow to my chest, wishing it was a warm body beside me instead of an unresponsive lump of cotton.

"Yeah?" comes a voice on the other line. My breath catches for a moment.

"Vegeta?"

"You're late," he says, sighing loudly.

"I know," I whisper.

"Woman?"

But I can't find the words to answer.

"Woman!" he snaps.

"Vegeta," I say, my voice so low I can hardly hear it. "You're going to need to come over…"


"What are we going to do?" I ask calmly, but inside I can't help but feel almost giddy. This is what I've always wanted!

"What do you want to do?" I sit up and just stare at him. He's actually asking me what I want? He's not demanding? He's not—

"You're not freaking out," I point out.

"Neither are you," he counters, equally poignantly. In his hands he holds my open birth control pack, my last week's pills' staring back at me incriminatingly.

"I've always wanted to be pregnant," I answer honestly. "I want to be a mother more than anything in the world. Why would I freak out?"

"But the baby's mine," he says, as if I don't already know that. I did call him, if he remembers correctly.

"I'm fully aware of that, Vegeta. That's why I called you, and not Yamcha."

"But—"

"I'm having the baby and me and Yamcha are going to raise him or her."

"I don't think so!" he hisses, passionate all of a sudden, and jumps to his feet. "That's my child and I will not sit by and watch as he takes that away from me too! No! Not again!"

I smile at his reaction. That's exactly what I thought he would say.

"I think you should start telling me the truth if we're going to raise a baby together, Vegeta."

His eyes widen and he sits on the edge of the bed, taking me into his arms.

"You'll leave him?" he asks, hopeful. I realize my mistake and sigh. How does he expect us to be together? How can I leave Yamcha? After ten years? It's too impossible to even consider.

"Vegeta, I—" But, at the look in his eyes, I can't bear to tell him what I'm thinking. "You have to tell me. I need to know."

"I know," he sighs, "but—"

"Bulma!"

My head snaps in the direction of the bedroom door. It's Yamcha, and Vegeta has nowhere to go. That morning I'd woken up sick to my stomach and told Yamcha to call in sick for me. He must be here to check on me, bring me lunch or something ridiculous like that.

And, surprising myself, I find that I'm not all that scared of him walking in here and finding me and Vegeta alone together. I suppose he had to find out sooner or later.

"Bulma?…Bul—"

"What are you doing here?" I ask. He hasn't seen Vegeta; he's not completely in the room yet.

"I came to see how you were. I made some chicken noodle—What's he doing here?"

Vegeta smirks despite the seriousness of the situation. What the hell could he be thinking?

"Yamcha," I say, gently slipping from Vegeta's desirable hold. "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."


Chapter 10…I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. It still might need some work…Let me know what you think.

REVIEW!

Next time: Excitement and fun!