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.
Bulma wasn't pleased with the agreement they had struck.
Then again, neither was Vegeta. Wasn't that the way with compromises?
Vegeta would not start training in the morning until 7am, after eating breakfast with the family. He would then be allowed to train until lunch, with an hour break to, again, eat with the family. Then he could resume training until dinner, at 7pm. It was more time than Bulma had been planning on conceding, but she had managed to gain a five minute break every hour for him to rehydrate. In the end, she had even produced a written contract for him to sign, his signature looking childlike and innocent when drawn with his non-dominant hand.
And as much as she would like to trust Vegeta's word, she would be programming the schedule into the gravity chamber's schematics.
Vegeta was still resting on his side of the bed, slipping in and out of sleep at all hours of the day and requiring food at the most inconvenient times. It appeared he had been skipping lunch in favour of training without interruption, which had caused his malnutrition. He had found the strength to shower and relieve himself, but nothing further, so the room down the hall had stood empty for another night.
And would for the time being, too, because Vegeta was adamantly refused sleep in the same building as his family.
Not yet, at least, Bulma hoped.
Come morning a few days later, Vegeta was finally deemed well enough to leave the bed in search of the kitchen table. Dressed in casual clothing, that blue shirt and dark trousers which made Bulma squirm, Vegeta walked the hall at a sedate pace, arms folded as if to prevent him from leaning against the wall. Bulma followed behind, trailing him like a lost puppy as her eyes raked the form she was forbidden from touching.
After so many years, how was it he still did this to her? Maybe it was the hormones.
Reaching the kitchen at last, Vegeta slid into his usual chair as if nothing had changed, looking expectantly at Panchy.
"Good morning, Vegeta!" the older woman was exuberant, "It's so good to see you! We've all missed you, you know?"
"Whatever. Have you prepared the food?"
"In a minute, dear," she quelled, turning back to the industrial fry pan. Cooking for a household with saiyans in it was a herculean task, and Bulma remembered with guilt that she and Vegeta were adding yet another insatiable mouth to the tally.
And where was Trunks?
Bulma poured herself and Vegeta a glass of juice, sliding it over to him as she found her eyes could not look away. That shirt was doing her no favours, not just because it accentuated his attractiveness, but because it did not hide the bandages holding him together.
"What?" Vegeta growled at her, hunching in on himself slightly as he grabbed the glass.
Bulma finally managed to turn away, shaking her head as she headed for the stairs towards Trunks' room. Idly tracing his fingers along the wall, Bulma's gaze fell on a photo of the three of them on a family holiday, Vegeta looking very uncomfortable with Trunks hanging off him like the monkey painted onto his face. That day was such a treasure, now that Bulma had to battle just to get Vegeta to dine with them.
She rapped her knuckles against the red door, decorated with a flashy sword that said 'Trunks'. For years he had no idea of the symbolism of that, and his face when he had realised was priceless. She wished she had snapped a photo of that.
"Trunks! Get up, now!"
She could hear a muffled groan from inside, and the movement of blankets. Teenagers.
"Trunks! Your father's waiting for you!"
That was a lie – Vegeta would certainly by tucking into the food as soon as it was ready, no patience on display, but it got Trunks moving. The door was wrenched open, revealing a wide-eyed Trunks, hair flying out in all directions as though he was summoning his power.
"Dad's waiting…for me?"
"Not exactly, honey," she admitted, "But he's breakfasting with us at least, you remember?"
"Oh yeah," Trunks recalled, deflating.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," he grimaced at that, too old for such names, "but the best way for your father to recover is to spend time with you. He needs exposure therapy. And, of course, you need to get to class."
Trunks grumbled unintelligibly at her, rubbing one eye as he adjusted his pyjamas. Poor Trunks still hadn't hit his growth spurt, and was forced to continue to wear the clothing of a younger child, complete with cartoonish dogs. Sure, Bulma could afford a custom tailor, but she wasn't about to call on such a service for pyjamas.
"Hey, Dad," Trunks mumbled as he took his seat at the table, not bothering, Bulma noted with disappointment, to summon some energy for the interaction. Vegeta was sitting with them, at the table, eating the same food as them at the same time as them. For Bulma, that alone, in spite of the glares and snarls, was enough to celebrate.
"Vegeta…" she prompted, "Your son just greeted you."
His eyes met hers in challenge as he viciously stabbed an offending sausage.
"So?"
"So, you say, 'good morning Trunks'."
"I most certainly do not. It's not a good morning when I have to spend it with all of you!"
"Vegeta!" Dr Brief reprimanded, eyebrows near his hairline as he entered the room, newspaper in hand. Bulma hastily shushed him, shooting him a glare not to interfere. This was her battle, and her area of expertise. If anyone knew how to talk with Vegeta, it was her. But he had been exceedingly difficult, not conforming exactly to her memories of him. He swung like a pendulum between open amusement at their arguments, barely tolerating her, and not tolerating her in the slightest. Sometimes the change was so fast it was dizzying.
"Well, I think it's a wonderful morning!" Panchy piped up, dumping another round of pancakes on the table, which Vegeta quickly snapped up.
"My family is all here, the weather is nice, and my walking group is taking a new route today," she tittered, cracking yet more eggs into her frypan, "How can it not be a good morning?"
Vegeta harrumphed, and Bulma couldn't help but agree with him. Her mother was too positive, at times. She had handled the old Vegeta exceptionally well, and was not rebuffed by his attempts to remain distant.
Bulma, on the other hand, was still adjusting, although it had been a fortnight. The darkness in his eyes kept surprising her, unnerving her, reminding her that although her husband was physically present, finally with them for a meal, he was not really there. Not whole. Not well.
A jittering fireball of hostility and determination, trapping her in those ebony eyes – pulling her in and pushing her away like two sides of magnet.
Inclined to eat in silence, with her thoughts for company, Bulma fought down the urge and tried to engage Trunks in conversation.
"So, what have you been learning about in class, Trunks?"
"We're starting on economics today," he grumbled.
"Not looking forward to it?" She hadn't liked that subject either, and had been very excited to leave it behind.
"Why do I need to learn about economic systems? It's not like I'll use that information."
"I don't know, Trunks, it could be very useful." Bulma stole a glance at Vegeta. It was the kind of knowledge for those who ruled a kingdom, the kind of knowledge tutored to a young saiyan prince shipped away from his home planet too soon.
"Maybe you could help him, Vegeta?" because she had to try, no matter how futile.
"Don't be ridiculous," he sneered polishing off his plate and rising to put the dirty dish on the bench.
"You can't train at the moment. What else are you going to be doing?"
"Reading, I suppose," he conceded, looking up at where his single-occupancy room was located, "Alone."
Bulma took the hint, remaining with her own breakfast as Vegeta took to the stairs again. She wondered, briefly, if staying in that room would encourage him to move in there permanently. At least then he would be in the same house. But Vegeta would not do that, she knew for certain, because Vegeta was nothing if not stubborn, and he had set his mind on unrelieved solitude in the gravity ship for as long as he was able.
"Why did you ask Dad to help me?" Trunks asked behind a mouthful of half-chewed cereal.
"Well, I wasn't very hopeful but I thought I'd try…"
"No, I meant it's Dad. What would he know about economics?"
"Have a care with what your implying, Trunks," Bulma warned, trying and failing to pierce him with her glower as he watched on, unfazed.
"Oh please, Mum. We both know who I get my brains from."
"Your father is a very intelligent man, Trunks."
"Oh yeah? Tell that to the computer."
"He just struggles to get his head around this planet's technology, that's all. He's very clever, actually."
"Yeah, he's smart at punching people," Trunks replied sarcastically, giving her the stink eye. No, she was very much not looking forward to when her bun in the oven reached this age.
"Trunks, your father was raised to rule an empire. He was educated in politics, history, law, economics and management. Most of that knowledge was rendered obsolete when his planet was destroyed, but he picked up all aspects of Earth's governance systems with ease. Your father is not an idiot, Trunks. You only have to talk to him about one of those topics to see that."
"Is that how you got together, then?"
"Wh—Trunks, how our relationship started is none of your business!"
"Hey, I'm the result of that relationship! It is so my business!"
"You know, I'm rather curious myself," Panchy threw in her two cents, causing Bulma to put her head in her hands.
To be honest, though, Bulma didn't answer not because she was determined to keep it a secret, but because she really didn't know why Vegeta had ended up in her arms. Sure, they had grown closer over the years together, even becoming something like friends. But what had driven Vegeta to want something more, that fateful night, Bulma still did not know. He had blamed it on hormones and implied she had taken advantage of him in a vulnerable state when he awoke the next morning, trying immediately to extricate himself from any kind of bond with her. But hormones, to do with that subject at least, did not have such an influence on saiyans as they did humans. Not enough to drive out all semblance of hesitance, as he had implied.
She really didn't know what he was thinking, in those early years of knowing him, and really wished she'd asked for more clarification. She felt blind now, facing that Vegeta all over again.
At least she had the experience of dealing with him the first time around to help guide her.