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 was not used to this kind of situation, and the variety wasn't something she appreciated. In a world with dragon balls and sensu beans, troubles vanished in the blink of an eye. You needed someone resurrected? No problem! Healed? Bingo!

Every threat had been defeated, every predicament fixed. It was like a fairy-tale where Bulma and her friends could never fail; everything would work out in the end. Even Goku's long-term death had been his own choice, not a consequence forced upon them.

But Bulma was now learning the hard way the kind of hopelessness that had burdened her husband in the decades before they had met. Every day was more frustration, more torture, and nothing seemed to improve. No matter how much time had passed.

And it had been months. Months of watching Vegeta push the boundaries of their agreement as he wrecked his body over and over again for the sake of strength. Months of hostility, of aloofness, of shoving a persistent Trunks away until he eventually gave up, and heated silence at the table. Months of struggling to sleep in a too empty bed, waking yearning after a dream in which he had been normal, realising that he wasn't, not anymore.

Months of a child growing in her womb, neglected for all the troubles going on in the outside world.

Bulma hadn't even had the chance to organise a baby shower.

It was that baby which had forced Bulma up in the early morning. Lights from her charging electronics lit the way to the ensuite as she moved to relieve herself. She thought the worst thing about pregnancy was the terrible weight on her bladder, making her feel like she needed the toilet every five minutes. Bulma had been fortunate to avoid morning sickness both times, but the cravings were another nightmare.

After completing the necessary actions, Bulma noticed a dryness in her throat, and decided to retrieve a glass of water while she was already up and about. Reaching around the beach-ball which was showing far too soon for her liking, Bulma made her way out into the hall, surprise immediately following as she noticed a light filtering out of the bottom of a bedroom door.

It wasn't Trunk's, his fire-engine red door resolutely closed against parents as per teenage behaviour. No, light was emanating from underneath the door leading to the room prepared for a pretending-to-be-single Vegeta. The room which he had stubbornly refused to stay in except in the days when he had been injured.

Trying the handle, wincing at the slight clicking sound it made as it turned, Bulma opened the door a sliver and poked her head in. The sound of soft, regular breathing reached her ears as she took in the sight before her.

There was Vegeta, stretched out on the hard-bed, lying on top of the pristine sheets. Clad in a white singlet and black sweatpants the colour of his hair, it was the first time she had seen him sans gloves and boots since he had finished recovering. She could feel drool building as she took in his naked biceps; it had been so long. And he looked so relaxed, impossibly young as his face lost all of its accumulated tension.

And to make the eye candy even more adorable, his hand was splayed over the open page of a book, having obviously fallen asleep while reading.

The picture was endearing, delectable, and the perfect blackmail material. Carefully shutting the door behind her, Bulma snuck back to her bedroom to grab her phone, and scuttled to Vegeta's room again, grin playing on her lips.

This photo was going to have pride of place on her dresser.

Vegeta frowned as he realised he could see light from behind his eyelids. Had he truly slept that late? Surely Bulma would have come to wake him for breakfast, probably thinking he had grown tired of their agreement and decided to break it. As if he would, a promise was a promise, but it offended him greatly that she had not trusted him enough to keep it. He didn't need her to reprogram the gravity room to shut down for five minutes every hour – all he needed was a clock.

What a mistrustful wife. Why had he married her again?

Speaking of Bulma, though, the spawn within her had grown so powerful as to eclipse Bulma's own ki signature. Not particularly impressive, even for a foetus, since humans were naturally so weak.

But it made him feel things. A protective surge welled up within him whenever he sought out that spark, whenever his gaze fell on that bump. Vegeta was practiced at ignoring instincts, though, so it didn't trouble him too much.

Yet it did, also, because it meant there was a baby on the way. Another life was going to be entering Vegeta's own existence against his will, or at least, against the will he had developed since absorbing the Darkness, because old Vegeta had been very much looking forward to another child, especially, if possible, a daughter. None of that excitement was present now, though. Just dread.

He didn't know what to expect from a newborn. Trunks had been at least a few months old when Vegeta had moved in after the fight with Cell. He wasn't sure how old, exactly, but there were certainly phases he had missed, and even more phases he had ignored, not really wanting to spend time with a drooling baby even if he had grown to care for the older version.

Saiyan babies spent their first days in an incubator, before being sent off to conquer worlds at just a few days old for the glory of the empire. Saiyan babies could walk within hours of their birth, were born with teeth, and ate meat from the very beginning of their life.

Vegeta had discovered from Bulma's shrieking, after trying to feed a slab of steak to the bawling infant, that this was not the case for human babies. They developed slowly, so terribly and painfully slowly. He had just wanted to start training to boy. He hadn't wanted to wait for him to learn to walk. Trunks should already have been doing that, as far as Vegeta was concerned!

But Vegeta had not bothered to correct his lack of knowledge, since he had not, at the time, been planning a second. Old Vegeta was going to run the gauntlet of asking Panchy, instead of admitting his continued ignorance to his wife.

Then Vegeta remembered that the quarters beneath the gravity chamber did not have windows, so the light could not be coming from them, and he realised he could feel a strange, scratchy material underneath his fingertips. Paper. From a book.

He had fallen asleep while reading! How embarrassing!

Snapping the book closed with a huff, feeling his cheeks burn, Vegeta sat up on the bed and stretched. The soft lilac of dawn was peeking nervously through the windows, telling Vegeta that he had not missed breakfast, or more importantly, training. Vegeta replaced the book on his shelf, relying on memory rather than a bookmark to find his place again, and headed towards the window. He was only in that room to read, because the books did not fit in the cramped room that even Vegeta could barely stand in. He wasn't sure how Kakarot had managed.

Huh. Kakarot. Vegeta hadn't thought about him in weeks, and found there was not as much anger resulting from it as there used to be.

Was he calming down?

He hoped not – raged fuelled a saiyan's fire like nothing else.

Vegeta shook his head as he launched himself out in the direction of the gravity chamber. No, not to train, not yet, although the reminder of Kakarot and their power gap made his knuckles itch to feel something against them. He was going to have a shower. Usually he would do that at the end of the day, just before retiring to bed. In that tiny room which he had just been thinking about. Nestled between the powerful engines, the room below the gravity chamber was just a bed, a toilet, a shower and a basin. There was nothing else in it, no room for anything else, apart from under-bed storage where he kept his training clothes.

Getting changed in there every morning was a nightmare. And performing his morning ablutions in such a cramped space reminded him painfully of the packed quarters he had once shared with Nappa and Raditz. He didn't like to think of them. The last of his people. His least favourite saiyans, because Raditz was a weak fool and Nappa should have been executed for failing his king. For failing his prince. Frieza had tortured and murdered the saiyans, those few remaining saiyans of an entire species that Vegeta had, against his better judgment, liked. He had been forced to watch. Forced to keep a straight face and not cry because that would be an insult to his people.

He had given their deaths what honour he had been able.

It was irrational, but Vegeta had hated Raditz and Nappa for being the only ones to survive. And survive they had, because Vegeta had been taught cruelly but effectively to make no more mistakes. Had thought the tendency had been beaten out of him before it happened one last time, to Parsnyppe. What Frieza had done to her was unforgivable.

Vegeta had decided after that to make sure, if another mistake occurred (they 'occurred' by that point; Vegeta did not make mistakes, they happened to him, mostly because Frieza set unreasonable targets) that the remaining saiyans would die by his hand. Quick, clean, honourable. It was considered a privilege for a saiyan to die at the hands of their prince.

Undressing in that room was difficult, as per usual, and it was a good thing that Vegeta was not claustrophobic. He couldn't have afforded to be, really, with all that time he spent waiting for or waking from sleep in a space pod, or healing in a tank.

There had been a lot of healing in a tank, Vegeta recalled, stepping into the shower. Frieza had not been a kind master, not in the least. Vegeta was an angel by comparison. And he still had the scars, which he ran over with soap, from the times when he had been forbidden the luxury of a healing tank.

Vegeta accidentally kicked the shower screen as he turned, trying to work out a particularly stubborn knot in his muscles underneath the soothing spray. Yes, he thought as he banged his forearm on the hot tap, the spray was the only soothing thing about this facility.

Maybe he should consider moving into that other room permanently, as in to sleep, rather than simply to read on the more comfortable bed. He had been adamant in his refusal, some months ago, but now…Now he found he did not care quite so much. Bulma was letting him have his space, Trunks had practically given up trying to engage with him, which gave Vegeta an odd feeling in his chest that he ignored. There wasn't so much danger in staying the night after his reading session. He could sleep in a larger, wider bed, with room to stretch out his aching limbs. He could have a proper bathroom, with a vanity and enough room that the toothbrush didn't balance precariously in a soap-shaped indent. A proper shower where he could stretch out his arms and wash his hair without bumping his elbows or hitting the shower head.

Bulma had made it crystal clear that the room was his, he needed no permission to use it, and could come and go as he pleased. No need to notify her. Her way of trying to make him come back to her house if not to her room.

Maybe he would, now, though. The idea wasn't as repulsive as it had been.

Extricating himself with some difficulty from the tiny shower, Vegeta stepped over to his training clothes, lying neatly on the bed. These were more of a hassle to put on than his sleeping clothes, and he accidentally knocked his toothbrush over for the 100th time, cementing his decision.

He was moving back in.

Bulma had only been to the toilet five minutes before, but now, sitting at the table waiting for breakfast, and the appearance of her elusive husband, she needed to go again. She could not wait for the parasite to be gone from within her, even though said partner was most certainly not in the right frame of mind to receive it. He had stalled, stagnating in his detached demeanour, failing to become more like his former self as the days passed and their hopes waned. A tiny face might be just the catalyst to help him recover.

Or another child would be neglected by their father.

Trunks was being a right nuisance throughout this whole business, turning away from his mother even as he lost contact with his father. Bulma had tried to talk with him, tried to support him during this emotionally difficult time, but nothing seemed to be working. He was withdrawn, sulking, and acting very much like the father he was developing an unhealthy hatred for. He would not listen when Bulma tried to reason with him, tell him that it was not Vegeta's fault, he was unwell and needed their help.

Bulma was ashamed to admit she was at her wit's end with him. He had even thrown a pen at her when she had last tried to discuss things with him. That didn't stop her from trying, though, even as her every attempt was rebuffed.

"Good morning, Trunks!" she chirped, hoping today would be the day he acted more like his old self. His old, non-teenage self. She didn't know how much of his attitude was just because of his age.

"'morning," he groused, still better than some of his responses over the previous months.

"Did you sleep well?"

He shrugged, plonking himself down into his seat with two cereal bowls filled to the brim.

"Have you seen your father this morning?"

That earned her a fierce scowl, "Of course not! Why should I have?! Why would he want anything to do with me?!"

"Calm down, Trunks, I was just asking!" she protested as Panchy gasped at the tone, fanning herself in shock as if he hadn't been like this for weeks. Dr Brief hid behind his daily newspaper, determined not to be caught in the crossfire.

Vegeta chose that very moment to stroll in, looking as if he wasn't the cause of a severe family spat, casually making his way over to the cupboards to retrieve a plate and bowl.

"Hello Vegeta, dear!" Panchy called out, smiling genuinely at her son-in-law as Bulma tried to force a similar expression on her face. Because she shouldn't be blaming Vegeta for the position they were now in. He was sick, unwell, unable to be the man she had married because of a sacrifice he had made. Because of a sacrifice that Bulma, in her weakness, had forced him to make. She couldn't forget that this whole situation was her fault.

"Don't call me that," Vegeta replied absently, dishing himself up a plate full of cooked breakfast, supremely unconcerned with Trunks trying to ignite him with his eyes.

Bulma thought there might have been a little less hostility in the way he addressed her mother, but maybe she was just imagining this. Hoping too much. Because she was desperate for a change. They all were.

"I'm not hungry anymore," Trunks announced, shoving his half-filled plate away from him and launching up out of his seat.

"What? Trunks, you haven't eaten enough!"

But he was already at the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Trunks, get back here!"

Bulma cursed her baby as she accidentally bumped the bump rising from the table herself. Muttering darkly under her breath and massaging the distressed spot, she too reached the stairwell, leaning on the banister as she made her way up much at a much slower pace than her son had. Making her way to the red door she had been seeing too much of recently, Bulma tried to think of what she should say. Pulling the 'I'm your mother and you will obey me' card hadn't worked in the past and wouldn't now, and she didn't have the strength to force him, wouldn't have even if he was human. His genes still made it worse, though, yet another thing to be angry with Vegeta for, although she shouldn't be upset with him. She had already been over that in her mind.

"Trunks?"

"Go away." Sullen, but not yelling.

"Trunks, can I come in?"

"No! I just told you to go away!" scratch the not yelling part.

"Trunks, I know you're upset—"

"No you don't know! You don't understand what I'm going through! Nothing's changed for you! You two always fought, were always at each other's throats—"

Surely the boy was exaggerating; they weren't that bad!

"Always one of you in the gravity chamber, the other in the labs! It's different for me! He used to spend time with me! Play games with me! Train me!"

"And – and," Trunks was continuing, sounding as if he were close to tears, "He would tell me he was proud of me, tell me he cared about me, only to leave to train with someone in outer space or hide himself away in his own head!"

Vegeta had been worried about what Bulma had thought of his training habits – he had never even considered Trunks. She hadn't either – Trunks had just always seemed to understand his father.

"Trunks," she tried, "Your father is an alien. Outer space is where he belongs." Because it was, he had been so much more settled, more at ease with himself, when he returned from his trips away. He didn't spend the nights staring longingly up at the starlit sky.

"It wasn't before."

"And do you remember your father from before? Really remember? Try to think back, Trunks, to how he was then and you'll realise that this is better. Or, at least, it was better. Getting out there in space grounds him Trunks, it helps him stay sane. Didn't he speak to you about what it meant to be a saiyan?"

"Excuses," Trunks spat from his room.

"A biological necessity, Trunks. His species is one of space-faring warriors, evolved for that very purpose."

"Then I wish I had a human father. I wish he wasn't my Dad."

"Trunks…" she whispered, backing away from the door because she couldn't hear any more, couldn't take any more of their family falling apart. Everything was breaking around her, shattering into tiny pieces which sliced her when she tried to pick them up. And she was helpless against the hurt her son was feeling, against the Darkness that had taken her husband, even against the unease affecting her parents. Her world was crumbling, everyone she loved was leaving her and she couldn't take it anymore. Her frustration needed an outlet, and it found one chowing down on breakfast as if there was nothing wrong.

"You!" she roared, shoving her index finger in Vegeta's direction, causing him to look up, a slight smirk playing on his lips. She wasn't in the mood for the amusement their fights caused him.

"This is all your fault!"

No it isn't, an accusatory voice whispered in her mind. It's your fault. But she ignored it.

"My son! Our son, Vegeta, is incredibly upset!"

Vegeta didn't seem in the least bit concerned, smiling at her as if this was just antics.

She was over it. She was done.

"He wishes you weren't his father!" Her Vegeta would have been lacerated by such a remark, but this was not her Vegeta, and never would be again. This Vegeta made no reaction except to smile wider, enjoying her rage, enjoying the fight.

"And so do I!" she roared, shocking her mother into a pretend faint, and her father into hiding amongst the comics.

"I'm sick of waiting for you! Sick of watching for any sign of the man I loved! I'm sick of this! I can't take anymore!"

"Woman, you—" he began, before she reached over and slapped him. In the face. As hard as she could. Which wasn't very hard, and she managed to hurt her hand rather badly on those granite features, but it wiped the smirk off his face.

"Get out." She said in a low voice, nothing but disgust present in her tone.