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.

A full day had passed in a flurry of activity from the doctor and nurses.

Broken ribs, one threatening to pierce his right lung; a broken finger; third degree burns; bruises like an animal's spots all over his body, the torso a nightmare of marine blue; severe dehydration; malnutrition, even though Bulma was sure he had been hunting.

The list had droned on, and Bulma had found herself sitting on the bed beside her husband, legs unable to hold her weight any longer. The doctor was thorough and calm – he had treated Vegeta before, and knew what to expect from a saiyan body. After the examination, he had given some instructions to the nurses, and informed Bulma that Vegeta would need to rest for a week in no uncertain terms.

He wasn't going to like that, but Bulma would talk some sense into him by force if she had to.

It was now morning, after an uneasy night spent at an awkward angle in her chair. Fresh sunlight spilled onto the prone form on her King-sized bed. King-sized because Vegeta had been unable to resist the name, not because they needed the largest option. Bandages peeked out from under the soft covers as an otherwise bare chest moved gently with breath. One arm rested on top of the blankets, an IV line strapped securely into the elbow, while a monitor was clipped to a finger. His index finger on the other hand was broken, Bulma had been told. But she couldn't see it, couldn't see very much of him at all, now, which was a good thing. While they had dressed him she had been unable to look away from the train wreck that was her husband, in spite of the nausea that had eventually forced her into the bathroom, panting over the vanity just wanting her stomach to get it over with.

At least he wasn't on oxygen this time, she told herself. He was breathing fine, despite the broken ribs. He would be fine, she knew that even before the doctor had informed her.

That didn't make looking at him any easier, but she still forced herself to.

Thankfully Trunks had not witnessed the full extent of his father's injuries, for Vegeta was dressed and covered in blankets by the time he had been allowed entrance. Even so, the boy had wept bitterly, before surging with anger, wanting to pummel in whoever had done the deed. Which Bulma had expressly forbidden, because Vegeta had done it to himself, and although he needed a good talking to, more injuries were not a good idea.

No matter how much she wanted to slap him.

His face was a bruise with eyes. She just couldn't.

All she could do was watch him sleep, in the bed they had shared together, taunting her. She had wanted so badly for him to sleep there again, on his side of the mattress, radiating heat and security and home. This was certainly not what she had intended when wishing for that.

Because Vegeta was injured, shattered, and he was lying in their bed against his own will. Would leave as soon as he was able, of that she had no doubt. With that in mind, his old bedroom had been prepared for him, this time with shelving to hold a collection of books on military history, which he had occupied himself with in later years. He would need something to do because she sure wasn't going to let him train for that week the doctor had prescribed, maybe even longer.

They needed to talk. She had to convince him to tone it down. There was no way she could prevent him from training, prevent him from pushing himself to exhaustion. She didn't want to pressure him into leaving. But she had to make him change somehow. He wasn't going to survive this.

The sound of a doorbell reverberated throughout the house, breaking her out of her reverie. While it was the weekend, Bulma also thought it was a little early in the morning for visitors. Not that she minded the distraction. She reached out to squeeze her husband's hand, gently, although injured or not he was tough as nails, and slid her mobile phone into the deep pocket of her lab coat. There was an app on it connected to Vegeta's monitoring machine, which would allow her to observe his vital signs from a distance. There had been no change, just a slow and steady beat, but she couldn't leave the room without it.

Bulma absently patted the device, double checking it was on her person, before floating out of the door, as if in a daze. The doorbell rang again, chiming merrily as she made her way to the ground floor, hoping it wasn't a salesperson. She didn't think she would able to keep her temper if it was. Whoever had dragged her away from her vigil was sure to feel her wrath.

It was Krillin.

"H-hi Bulma," he stuttered under her glare, before pushing forward a plastic container as a peace offering, "Can I come in?"

Weighing the alternatives, Bulma eventually decided that she deserved some time spent with Krillen to gather her thoughts and run through her options for controlling Vegeta.

And unload some of the tension in her shoulders.

"Sure," she stepped back, holding the door open politely as he made his way inside. The two settled onto couches in the living room, Bulma sighing as the felt softness was much more comfortable than the chair she did her make-up on.

It probably hadn't been a good idea to sleep on that, but she wasn't about to join an injured Vegeta in bed, especially not while he was in his current mood. That was a recipe for another glowing palm in front of her face. And this time he might not stop himself.

Cracking her neck and stretching, Bulma watched as Krillen carefully unpackaged a box full of delicious looking cupcakes, complete with baby pink icing and –

"Are those strawberries?"

"Indeed they are." Krillen grinned at her.

"Can I try one?" At Krillen's nod, Bulma's hand snapped out to snag one of the enticing delights. The texture was perfect, not too dry, crumbling in her mouth, sweet icing swirling through the flavours as she chewed. Eating around the edges like a child, she deliberately kept the strawberry on top until last, causing Krillen to laugh at her antics.

She had another.

"Marron made them," Krillen commented as she was half way through her second.

"They're good. She should bake more," Bulma replied with her mouth full, the picture of manners.

"So…" Krillen began, eyes looking anywhere but Bulma. She knew what he was about to say, but wanted to put off the subject for another few minutes. She had been enjoying those cupcakes, letting their deliciousness fill her whole consciousness until there was nothing left to pay attention to.

"How is Vegeta?"

Bulma wasn't sure how to answer that question. How much should she tell Krillen about her husband's struggles, about his injuries? On the one hand, she wanted someone to unburden all her feelings of frustration and helplessness on, but on the other hand, she was also obliged to maintain her husband's secrets and his dignity. Vegeta would not want Krillen knowing he had fallen so low.

In the end, wrought emotions won out and Bulma unleashed the full brunt of her feelings.

"He's a wreck, Krillen! He's completely psychotic and I don't know what to do!"

Krillen was on his feet in an instant, "Is he hurting you?!"

"What? No!" Vegeta would never harm her, not on purpose, but he wasn't exactly looking out for her wellbeing either. If she was shot out of the sky again, would he intervene? She wasn't sure. Those feelings which had compelled them to the altar, they had to still be inside him, somewhere. They had to be.

Even if she couldn't no longer find them in his eyes.

"He's hurting himself, Krillen," she explained, "Destroying himself with a ridiculous training regime."

"Ah…and this is new?" Krillen quirked an eyebrow at her as he seated himself again.

"It's worse than before. I've never seen him so…reckless about his own health. He's upstairs now, bedridden with broken ribs, a broken finger, dehydration, burns and all manner of other problems I can't list right now. He collapsed the day before yesterday, unconscious, and hasn't woken since."

"Sounds pretty serious."

"It's dreadfully serious. He's going to kill himself if he keeps this up. And I don't know how to stop him!"

"Can't you just shut down the gravity room?"

"I could, but there are so many reasons why I shouldn't. He could leave, go somewhere else where I can't find him or help him. At least he's here now, home where I can run surveillance and where there's treatment available. Secondly, I don't want to incur his wrath, not in this condition. Mine or his. He was so angry when he realised I wouldn't let him leave. It scared me," she confessed softly, looking at that photo, that precious photo.

"And then, I promised him that I'd never be an obstacle to his ambitions. The gravity room is his, Krillen. He doesn't own much but I've tried to make it clear that it belongs to him. There are some things a wife shouldn't do. I'm trying to get him to trust me again, to love me. I don't…I don't want him to hate me."

"Okay, so a total shut down is out," Krillen replied, thoughtful, "But could you set some ground rules? Make a deal with him or something?"

"That was my plan," she sighed, "But I just don't enjoy fighting with him, anymore."

"You mean you used to?"

"Well, yeah. There's nothing like anger to fuel passion, and the make-up sex—"

"I do not want to know! I didn't ask, I will never ask, please do not tell me!"

"Well, it's not as if that's going to happen any time soon. He's clearly not interested, and not going to be performing for my benefit until he fixes that attitude. It's just so frustrating, though. I mean, he's lying half-naked in our bed right now and I can't even jump him!"

"Bulma," Krillen moaned from behind his palms, "I'm not one of your girlfriends. Please don't offload all your sordid details on me. I don't know if I'll be able to look Vegeta in the face again."

"But I barely said anything! We didn't even get to how—"

"I DON'T want to know!"

"Now I've just got an itch that –"

Bulma suckled on the strawberry as Krillen shoved another cupcake in her mouth. Really, a man who read the same magazines as Master Roshi shouldn't be blushing so much. But he was, and it was adorable.

"So," she redirected after swallowing, "How's your wife?"

If Vegeta were human, he might describe the feeling currently assaulting his body as being as if he had been run down by a steam roller.

But Vegeta was not human, and had been in far more dangerous situations than the average life form. He had a wide collection of experiences with which to compare his current condition to.

He concluded that he felt like the aftermath of a session with Frieza when, a young and naïve recruit, he had assumed that one spared those who surrendered, like an honourable warrior. He had learnt never to do that again, both from the vicious beating, and also because Frieza had decided to torture and execute his companion, Cabba, as an example.

Universe Six's Cabba looked astonishingly like his similarly named friend of long ago, and their encounter had twisted his heart strings.

Vegeta did not like to recall that day, one of his worst 'lessons', and also the first. He had been so naïve then, thinking that Frieza just wanted to talk, maybe throw him into a wall like Father had done.

No. No, he had most certainly done more than that. More that Vegeta did not care to remember.

But back to his body. It hurt. Good gosh, did it hurt. More so than every other morning when he woke up and –

What had happened? He thought, suddenly realising that something was off.

In terms of his injuries, nothing was completely out of the ordinary for recent days. Every breath was a challenge that he had to congratulate himself for achieving. Each exhalation a trial not to moan, attempting to get some comfort for the lava which had pored through his veins.

Muscles refused to function properly, shaking threateningly when he managed to raise a limb off the surface of his bed.

With eyelids uncooperative and ears ringing, a splitting headache zinging across his temples, Vegeta's senses were shot.

Except for smell.

And it was his finely honed sense of smell which told him something out of the ordinary was going on.

He wasn't in the cramped quarters beneath the gravity chamber, stinking to high heaven of sweat and oil. No, here he could smell women's perfume, soap, and the laundry detergent used to wash the sheets.

It was all familiar, as was the feeling of the mattress underneath him.

He was in the room he had shared with Bulma. Not his room (because Bulma owned everything), but a room terribly nostalgic to him nonetheless. But he would not have agreed to sleep there, under any circumstances, which meant he was there against his will.

What was the last thing he could remember?

Training. His body a thousand miles past exhausted and still counting, hot, burnt and trembling from another round with the drones. He had sense enough to dismiss them, but not long after that his memory ended.

A blank gap until he had woken in this unforgettable room.

And there was something pricking into his arm, not nearly as painful as anything else he was going through, but inexplicable and therefore noticeable.

"Vegeta?"

Of course the irritating woman would be present, it was her room after all. The question was, what was he doing there?

"Vegeta?" he could smell her approaching him, the sweet scent of her perfume wafting past his nose, which twitched with recognition.

Even as Vegeta combatted with his inconsiderate eyelids, he refused to acknowledge her.

"Vegeta, I know you're awake. Your heart rate's increased."

How did she know his heart rate?

That's when he felt the light pressure on his finger. A monitor. Fantastic. He just wanted to leave, go back to his training and not bother with anyone or anything else.

Vegeta's eyebrows spasmed as he tried to force movement into his eyelids.

Come on…!

A pitiful moan slipped out as his lids peeled open, blinking heavily under the bedroom's sterile lighting. It had always reminded him of the artificial moon he had used to transform into a Great Ape.

He recognised the figure standing at his bedside, but only because of the blurred blue streak at its top. Eventually, after a few hard blinks, he managed to focus on her.

Hands on hips, leaning over him with a grim expression on her face. He really didn't want to deal with those fireworks right now. Under normal circumstances he might enjoy the match, but he was really too tired for it. Too sore.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Well, what?" he croaked back, wincing at the weakness in his voice. Her expression shifted to something like pity, which made him sneer as she turned away from him to fetch a glass of water. Unable to sit up under his own power, Vegeta was forced to endure her tender assistance as she raised him with her weak arms.

"Gosh, Vegeta," she huffed, "You need to lose weight."

Vegeta wondered, as the cool liquid soothed his parched throat, when he had last drunk. He had been so caught up in his training he kept forgetting to take a breather for much needed hydration.

"Vegeta, we need to talk," Bulma began, voice serious and close to his ear as she seated herself beside him.

"What about?" he concentrated on the ceiling above them. Its bland, colourless and shapeless design was not interesting in the slightest, but he pretended it was.

"What about? What about?! Vegeta, do I need to give you the list?!"

"What list?"

"Your injuries!" Her voice was reaching decibels his ears, and headache, did not appreciate.

"I am fine, woman," he certainly wasn't, but it was nothing a good few nights rest wouldn't fix. Not that he planned on resting for long, though, not when he was still so weak.

"You are not!" she snatched up a piece of paper from the bedside table which still held his favourite photographs, tucked away from prying eyes. But he really did not care, at that moment, if they were destroyed in a house fire or a fit of rage.

"Broken ribs, broken index finger, third degree burns -!"

"All of that will heal, woman."

"Vegeta, please…" her voice cracked, summoning Vegeta's eyes to her against his will. Paper scrunched up in clenched fists, saltwater was brimming in those blue eyes he had once admired so much. An odd, unwelcome feeling crept up on him, urging him to comfort her.

He resisted.

"You're killing yourself. I can't watch you kill yourself."

"Then don't watch, if it's so shameful to you."

"Shameful?" now she just sounded confused. That was infinitely preferable according to the unwanted and soon to be eliminated heart that Vegeta had rediscovered upon witnessing her tears.

"I have brought dishonour upon your house for my weakness."

"Vegeta," her voice echoed with forced patience, "We've been over this. No one is ashamed of you. You don't need to be the most powerful warrior in the universe."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't! And besides, you can't be if you're dead!"

"I was not—"

"You were unconscious, with all of these injuries-!" she waved the obnoxious sheet in front of his nose, "-being crushed underneath 500 times earth's gravity! If I hadn't installed an alarm system you would be dead, and we would not be having this conversation!"

"What a pity. I'd like very much not to have to listen to your incessant shrieking."

"I. Am. Your. Wife." She reminded him, emphasising every word, "You will listen to me! No more of this!"

"No more of what?"

"This training!"

"What?! Woman, you promised me—" his eyes bugged. She couldn't possibly be threatening, not after all of her reassurances that she would never use her skills to take away his purpose in life. Like he did not use his power over her.

"I know what I promised you, Vegeta, but circumstances have changed. I'm willing to bargain with you, to reach a compromise agreement, but if we can't settle on some better arrangement than this—" she gestured to his form, prone on the bed beneath an embarrassing amount of medical paraphernalia,"—then I will be shutting down the gravity room permanently."

"Y-you can't!" he gasped, trying to sit up, but his stomach cramped painfully and would not obey him.

"I can and I will! I'm serious, Vegeta! My creations will not be what kills you, I won't stand for you abusing them like that."

"Then what…do you want?" he huffed, resigned, idly trying to flex his broken finger. No dice there, he thought, as a lightning strike of pain travelled up his arm.

"An agreement, an acceptable training schedule that doesn't end up with you collapsing."

"I was doing fine—"

" .Ta!" she enunciated, biting each syllable, hair frazzled and standing up as if she had ki to wield.

There was no nonsense on her face, just rigid determination as her fury bore down on him.

He was going to have to negotiate. With his own wife.

Good grief.

Now, what had his tutor taught him about negotiation…?