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.

She hadn't meant it. Had regretted it sorely not five minutes later. An outburst of epic proportions reminiscent of her younger years and unbecoming for a mature woman of her age. Blame it on the pregnancy as she might, blame it on all the stresses but she should not have lost her temper like that. She was supposed to be setting a good example for Trunks. And taking it out on Vegeta was like condemning a person with a disability for the difficulties that disability presented. It was immoral, inexcusable, and the feelings of guilt within her drove her to the gravity room with an apology on her lips.

Not that she thought Vegeta would listen, she didn't think he had been particularly affected by her words in any case – why should he have been, when she meant so little to him?

But still, she was supposed to be helping him, not hurting him, and if there was any part of her Vegeta left, he would be hurt.

She had told him to get out; out of the room, out of her sight was what she had meant, but he might have interpreted her words as a command to leave her property. She hoped not. Speed being decidedly in Vegeta's favour, there would be no hope of catching up with him if he had left, and no chance of finding him on her own without Trunk's assistance. Or the assistance of someone else who could sense ki. She knew Krillen would be willing to help, even if he wanted to avoid Vegeta as much as possible.

That in mind, Bulma had decided to wait a few hours for them both to calm down, and try to speak with him during his lunch break, if he was still there to have a lunch break.

Standing outside the gravity chamber, capsulised food in hand, Bulma hesitated, hand poised to knock on the door. She could see light emanating from the windows, so Vegeta had to be inside.

But she was struggling to recollect her rehearsed apology, and her many response options for the ways in which the conversation might go.

Taking a deep breath, Bulma knocked decisively on the metal, rapping it loudly and calling out to her husband.

"Vegeta!"

"Vegeta, we need to talk!"

What was he going to be like? What emotions would be on his face? Had she hurt him?

A moment later the lock disengaged, and the door was swung open, revealing a sweaty and panting Vegeta, training suit plastered to his skin.

"What do you want?" he demanded, breathless. Which made Bulma frown, since he wasn't usually so exhausted come lunch time. She wondered what he had been doing to make him so fatigued.

"Can I come in?" she asked, a little timid. He frowned at her, before nodding and stepping back to allow her entrance. Nose crinkling as the smell of sweat hit her, she wondered if perhaps she ought to have invited him out onto the lawn instead. But it was only fair their conversation took place on his territory, when she was the one in the wrong.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did," he didn't sound accusatory, just reasonable.

"Okay, I did. I am sick of this whole situation. But I shouldn't have gotten angry at you."

"Whatever, woman," he looked so unconcerned, as if the fight, if one could call it that, had not affected him in the slightest. If it had, Bulma couldn't tell, being unable to read his eyes anymore. Absent their usual sea of repressed emotions, they were an unrelieved black, like a blank slate. He stared at her in silence for a few moments, arms crossed and scowl marring his features as she fumbled with the food capsule, trying to formulate her words into thoughts.

"I brought you lunch!" she finally burst out, shoving the capsule in his direction, "I thought we could eat in here. Together. Like, you know, a married couple."

Months ago he might have shot her down, but she really needn't have been so convinced that he wasn't improving. His reaction demonstrated that clearly enough.

"Fine."

Not enthusiastic, but not rejecting her either. It was a small victory, but she would take it.

"Are there any chairs in here?" she asked, looking around, knowing the answer already.

"No."

"I guess we'll sit on the floor, then." Acceptable for her ultra-fit husband, but not ideal in her condition. Still she would brave it for Vegeta's sake, since this was the most amicable he had been with her in some time. Actually agreeing to spend time with her, rather than being forced into it after a routine argument? She thought she would be popping open a bottle of something that night to –

Oh, she was pregnant. Maybe a chocolate bar, then. It needed something, couldn't pass unsung.

It took a few moments for Bulma to worm her way onto the floor, cursing her bump. The tiles beneath her were still warm, signifying that Vegeta had still been training until very recently. Not that she hadn't known, of course. She had wanted to catch him before he got it into his head to go off hunting. If he was still on the property, that was.

Uncapsulating the food, Bulma pushed a few plates over to Vegeta, gesturing for him to begin. He ate with gusto, as any saiyan would. For saiyans, meals were a very important part of their culture and life. Food was sacrosanct.

For humans, Bulma considered as she looked down at her hands, mealtimes were a chance to catch up with family and friends, to enjoy their company. The complete opposite to her husband, she picked at her food as she considered what she would say. Because she was going to speak, especially while Vegeta did not seem to be brimming with barely contained rage.

"How have you been?"

"Fine." It was the same answer he would have before all this occurred, and it almost made her smile.

"Of course. Have there been any changes in your life? Anything happening?" As if there would have been. Vegeta was a recluse on a planet he still considered alien, he had no social life, no occupation apart from training, and knew no one outside of Bulma's circle. But still, the possibility was there for Vegeta to have done something completely unexpected. Perhaps he had gone on a trip somewhere overnight. He had done so, on occasion, so many years ago when things were blissful and carefree. If he had, she wouldn't know, because they no longer talked. Not at mealtimes, when Bulma forced herself to smile and greet him in spite of her mourning, when Trunks dampened the whole table's mood with his sullenness. Not at night, either. She missed their private conversations, when Vegeta would be more honest than he had ever been to anyone.

When she would discover more about him than she had ever suspected was there.

How she missed him.

"Yes, actually."

Now he had her attention. She had anticipated the answer to be a solid 'no', and her curiosity was peeked.

"I have moved into my room in your house."

Whatever Bulma had expected, it wasn't that. Not when he had made it explicitly clear that he was under no circumstances going to sleep in the same building as them, just a few months previously. The resentment in his voice then had been very real, and frightening. It made her shiver just to remember it.

Something negative must have shown on her face, however, as Vegeta glared at her, continuing.

"You told me it was my room. You told me the house was our shared property, not that I ever believed you. And you told me, even though you didn't trust me to train according to our agreement, that I did not need to keep you informed of my movements so long as I continued to make my home on your property."

That was a loaded paragraph, with a lot of issues that would need rectifying before she could clarify for him just what she was feeling.

"Vegeta, as my husband the house belongs you to, too."

"You say that half the time, and then when we argue you insist it is yours, and I do not contribute whatsoever to the household."

"Vegeta, I tend to stretch the truth when I'm angry, we all do. That doesn't mean what I told you about shared assets was wrong. And I'm sorry about not trusting you. I was worried you were going to hurt yourself more, but I should have trusted you to hold to our agreement, you're right. I'm sorry about that."

She needed to get back on track. This whole concept of property and marriage and sharing things was probably going to dog their relationship forever - it seemed they never could get over the issue. Yes, she did wish sometimes that Vegeta would contribute to the upkeep of their family but there were several reasons why that was impossible. A) Vegeta did not legally exist on their planet, so no one was going to hire him unless it was illicitly, and that would not do for Bulma's reputation. B) They didn't need any extra money. And C) Vegeta was partially responsible for the safety of their planet, and shouldn't be distracted with occupations that were unnecessary. Bulma ought to have been proud that she could earn enough to support her husband in his vocation, rather than resenting him for being a training and fighting-obsessed alien.

All of that was irrelevant, now, though. She had to steer the conversation back to safer waters, to the topic at hand, namely –

"You really moved back into the house?"

"Yes," he replied, an undercurrent of threat to his voice.

"That's wonderful! Vegeta, I'm not angry, I'm," ecstatic, "really happy!"

"Hmph," was all he said, giving his food the proper attention it deserved as a saiyan's meal as Bulma's mind whirled. He was back. In her house. Under the same roof, in the room she had prepared for him, in the room he had stayed in over a decade ago.

He was really back.

She felt like leaping to her feet, jumping for joy and announcing to an uncaring world just how relieved she was. How excited she was. This was what hope felt like, real hope, for the first time in months. Because Vegeta had changed, he had improved. There was something of the man she had married in there, coming closer to the surface.

Finally, Bulma was certain, certain that Vegeta would return to her.

That everything would be okay again, maybe sometime soon.

It was with rose-tinted eyes that Bulma sat down for dinner that night, still reeling from the revelations at lunch. Excitement and hope bubbled within her, only accentuated by the afternoon's activities. Unable to concentrate on her work, a curious Bulma had snuck upstairs to peer into Vegeta's room. It didn't look any different from the night she had found him sleeping with the light on, no nick-knacks or decorations, but that was normal for Vegeta. Nothing on display in their bedroom was his. But now the dresser was filled with training clothes, the towels and soap were used, and she could smell his scent lingering on the bed sheets after she had taken a swift inhale of them.

She wanted her sheets to smell like that, too, but baby steps, she reminded herself. He was in the house. He was in the house! She couldn't wait to share the news with the rest of her family, who were bound to be just as excited as she was.

Nothing seemed to have changed for Vegeta as he took his seat, eying the food with the fullness of his attention. He didn't wait for everyone to arrive before wolfing down his first portion, either, but that was all right.

"My, my, you must have worked hard, today," Panchy commented idly as she re-filled her son-in-law's plate.

"You could wait for everyone else, my boy," Dr Brief reprimanded lightly as he made his way to the table, trailed by his grandson.

Trunks threw himself into his seat, ignoring his father with a disgusted sneer, which withered his vegetables.

"Hello, Trunks!" Bulma greeted animatedly.

He grunted in reply, stabbing at his meal with a force that threatened to break his plate. A few months ago Vegeta himself would have reprimanded him and disciplined him for his attitude. Vegeta was usually the one who dealt with these sorts of problems, although Trunks had never been in a mood this terrible before. She had read all kinds of books of teenagers, but she had to admit in preparing for this phase in their son's life, she had counted on Vegeta's presence to control Trunk's sometimes violent temper.

She wasn't really sure what to do. All the books in the world couldn't help her because knowing wasn't the same as doing, and Trunks was only half-human anyway. Who knew how his saiyan genetics would affect this stage in his life?

If only Bulma had spoken more to Vegeta about his time with Gohan at the same age. That boy had become a surrogate nephew of Vegeta's in the absence of his father, when he was suffering from a host of physical changes a namekian couldn't comprehend. Bulma had been more occupied with supporting an overwrought Chichi or watching two very young hybrids play than questioning her husband on his experiences.

But perhaps she could speak to him, now. Maybe he would be more open to conversation, in a way he hadn't been for months. He had moved into the room down the hall, after all. She could hope.

"Trunks, your father has something to say to you," Bulma smiled at the boy, finally having some good news to tell him.

"I don't want to hear it!" he snapped back, fire in his eyes as he looked at her, still refusing to acknowledge his father, "Besides," he continued with ferocity, "It's not like Dad wants to speak with me!"

"He's right, you know," Vegeta commented, uncaring about adding fuel to the inferno building in their son, "I'd much rather eat my dinner."

Trunks finally turned his gaze towards his father, but only to level at him an expression reminiscent of how Vegeta might once have looked at Frieza when the latter was not paying attention. Pure, unadulterated loathing. Where had their son picked up so much anger? It couldn't have been the Darkness, for he had been normal to begin with, slowly spiralling downwards in melancholy and aggression the more Vegeta pushed him away.

The boy seemed unable to speak, redirecting his focus towards his dinner as he shook in his seat. Still, he should know that his father was improving. Maybe it would calm him down.

"Trunks, your father has moved in to the room down the hall," she tried to keep her voice steady, calm, even as her son turned the heat on her.

"You think I care?! And stop calling him my father!"

"Trunks," she tried to be reasonable, "He is your –"

"He is not a father! A father doesn't neglect his son! A father spends time with his son! A father plays with his son, asks about his son, cares about his son! Vegeta is no father to me!"

"Trunks—"

"No! You shut up!"

"Don't speak to your mother like that." A familiar voice bit out, in a familiar tone. Bulma had forgotten the way her husband used to speak to their son, holding in his anger like a pressurised rice-cooker. It was a warning tone, dangerous, but controlled.

Hearing it only riled Trunks up more.

"You don't get to say that! You don't have the right! Not with how you've been treating me, yelling at me for being a disgrace, when you refused to train me anyway! Don't act like a parent now, you lost that privilege!"

"I'm not interested in acting like a parent," Vegeta said, tone even, but the words twisted like a knife in Bulma's stomach, where yet another child resided. Another child who would likely feel the same if this state of affairs continued. Why had she thought, just minutes ago, that everything was going to be all right? What had she been thinking?

"I just want to eat in peace," Vegeta continued, as if unfazed by the outburst, "and I think your grandparents feel the same. Stop the angsty teenager rubbish or leave, I don't care which."

Trunks snarled at his father, shooting up from his chair and snatching up his plate. Bulma felt nauseous as he tipped the whole contents into his mouth, swallowing in one go.

"Fuck you." He spat, throwing the crockery at Vegeta with a force he hadn't used in months, being uninterested in training without his father's approval. Vegeta caught it inches from his nose, simply looking coolly at his son as the boy pivoted and left, having clearly made his point.

Bulma let out a stream of air, rubbing her chest and looking at her parents. Panchy was leaning heavily against the counter, fanning herself just like that morning. Dr Brief had managed to abscond somewhere in the chaos.

They wouldn't be any help here.

"Hmph." Was Vegeta's only vocal response, stacking the thrown plate on top of his own as he deposited it by the sink. He displayed no reaction, no emotions as he too approached the stairs, heading, she knew, to his room down the hall, not to confront their son.

Probably wise, considering his mood, but when Trunks had been in a snit before (though never as bad as now) Vegeta had not let sleeping dogs lie. He would not let such disrespect stand.

Vegeta felt that parents were to be shown the upmost respect, an attitude fostered not by the respect he had held for his father due to their shared blood, but because his father had been king, and fealty was an essential part of the saiyan way of life. Vegeta expected to be treated similarly by his children, as prince, insisting that his son act like a saiyan should.

The only saiyan in a long time who had shown any deference to him had been that very son.

But Vegeta did not just expect regard because of his position, but for all parents in general. All adults, really. He had disciplined Trunks quite severely for disparaging Chichi where he could hear. That had been a surprise. She supposed it might have been because they outranked children?

No, she came back to her original train of thought, her Vegeta would certainly have challenged Trunks over the attitude, have taken him down a peg (not physically, though, never physically. Which, for a fight-hungry culture was surprising). This was not her Vegeta, though, and he obviously did not care enough to address the problem.

What was she going to do?