Summary: Before Earth, before his change of heart and before his family, there had been a son he'd never wanted, made from Frieza's seed and born from his body. Then he was dead, and Vegeta made sure to forget he had ever been there at all. Only, he isn't dead. He is alive. Tormented and abused, but alive, and now Vegeta will do what he couldn't have done the first time. He will save him.

Warnings: Rated M for language, abuse, sexual violence, depictions of rape, mpreg, etc.

Every Eye Will See

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Boy

Behold, He is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see Him, even those who pierced Him, and all the tribes of the earth will mourn because of Him. So shall it be.

—Revelations 1:7

Vegeta was not sure how long he had been waiting in the lobby of the medical wing—the now darkened sky being his only point of reference—when, finally, the same doctor with the salt and pepper hair told him he was permitted to enter the room if he so wished.

He wasted not a second, even though despite the permission he only served to be in the way. Doctors dressed in plastic suits with clear shields over their faces flitted around the boy, poking and prodding at him with devices Vegeta could not see from where he stood in the corner. They had advised him to wear such protective gear as well, to which he replied with promises of bodily harm to any who tried to force him into such ridiculous clothing. He was a saiyan warrior, not a weakly human, and in any case, there was no disease or illness his son had that he was unwilling to bear himself.

(And he had lots of them. Lots and lots of them. So many it was a wonder how he functioned at all. So many they were certain he would not have survived untreated for much longer.)

Eventually, the doctors began to filter out one by one. As much as Vegeta had wanted them gone, he just as equally felt displeased by their leaving. How could they be so sure that the boy was in a stable condition? Certainly, once they were gone, the boy would be in need of their medical expertise and they would be too far away to help. They knew this and still dared to leave anyway?

They promised that they were close by and would be alerted if the boy needed attention. They told him that any such event was unlikely. They believed the boy would not be waking again this day.

"Well, since no one else seems to want to ask this," Krillin said, an uncomfortable laugh coloring his words, as one seemingly often did when he was opening his mouth even when he knew he should keep it closed. "Who was that kid you were holding?"

It had taken some choice words from Bulma to keep Trunks away from the sickroom. Vegeta had honestly been quite surprised that Trunks wished to see the boy so badly. In retrospect, he supposed that that was an odd thing to be surprised by, but he knew his son well enough to know that he preferred to be entertained by any and everything he spent his time with. Surely, he knew there would be nothing fun about visiting a not even conscious patient, that of whom he did not even know.

Perhaps it was even more ludicrous to assume that he would not want to see the boy who was apparently his elder brother with his own eyes.

He was honest. He said that the boy was his son.

In any case, Bulma had dealt with it, a feat Vegeta was simply incapable of doing at the time, not when his mind was so feeling so numb it was a wonder he had any thoughts at all. She had made declarations about long journeys, and tiredness, and the inability to heal while pestered by energetic little brothers. She had declared it was time for bed, to which the child groaned at, complaining of the unfairness of designated sleep times. Vegeta graced him with a hand on top of his lavender head for a moment, which made the child smile. Then Bulma had taken him away, and Vegeta had been alone ever since.

He wondered if he was the only one who, even now, was still jarred by the thought of Trunks being a "little brother".

The first response had been a harsh one from Yamcha, who was under the impression that Vegeta had been an unfaithful husband. It was Bulma who clarified that the boy had been born before they had ever even met. Yamcha had the grace to look sheepish. The nerves prickling hotly in his stomach prevented Vegeta from doing much of anything.

Night had fallen quite some time ago. The room was not truly dark, though, despite the unlit bulb on the ceiling. The north facing wall was not really a wall at all, but a window from ceiling to floor, overlooking a patch of the front lawn, several buildings making up the backdrop. The bright, nearly full moon in the cloudless sky, and the lights of the West City nightlife blended together to illuminate the tile floors and plaster walls of the room. It was an interesting combination of man and nature, he thought. Ethereal and worldly all at once.

They were shocked, and he told himself that was understandable. He told them that he had thought the boy was dead. He told them—in a tone he hoped did not imply he was defending himself—the moment he learned otherwise, he went to find him. Kakarot had jumped in then, regaling the tale from his point of view. He, at least, had enough sense to know which parts should remain unsaid.

Vegeta reclined in his chair by the bedside, and looked down at where the boy slept, his little body a beacon against the stark white sheets. The boy's body was completely clean now, every trace of dirt and blood eradicated from his pasty skin. Vegeta could now properly see the bruises around his eyes, from exhaustion and assault alike. He had bruises everywhere, it seemed. Even so, the boy slept peacefully, every worldly pain finally out of reach, if only for a little while.

It was only to be expected that they would next ask who his mother was.

Part of his hair had been shaved so the gash on his head could be properly stitched. Marring his exposed chest and arms were IV tubes, held down by stickers and connected to even more tubes. Under the blanket drawn down to his waist, Vegeta knew that his right leg was completely hidden by a plain cast, as were his wrists, tail, and feet. Bandages covered most of his minor injuries. Stitches were present in many places aside from his head as well, including his cheek, and diagonally through his eyebrow.

Immediately, Vegeta's hackles raised, and his skin felt hot with mortification. How could it not? Was there anything more emasculating than being someone's mother?

Strapped to his face was a clear oxygen mask. On the front of it was a print of a cartoon penguin, with happy blue eyes and its orange beak bent in a resemblance of a smile. Even he knew it was a bit age-inappropriate, but he supposed the doctors could not help but to think of him as a young child, not when his body size and little face seemed to say otherwise. They probably hoped the design would be a comfort to him, as it supposedly comforted other children. Vegeta thought it was ridiculous, as were most of the ways humans coddled their young. As if a cute design would make painful treatments, or debilitating illnesses, or the potential of death any easier to bear.

Briefly, he thought to lie. But how could he, especially when both Bulma and Kakarot knew the truth? How could he, when he had promised that he would not allow his son to be tainted by the poison of shame any longer? He could he, when the boy was a prince, one of the last of the saiyan race, and should be proud of that no matter how he had gotten here? How could he, a prince and a warrior and a man who cherished his children, allow himself to feel the weight of shame for this?

Vegeta tried to put it all aside: the bruises, the stitches, the stupid mask, the still too-small body that could not be healed by anything but time. He tried to think only of the positives, few as they were. The boy was alive, was he not?

"He was born through me."

He could have just as easily not been. He could have died on their operating table. He could have died while he waited for Vegeta to come for him. He could have died before Vegeta ever even knew there was someone who needed saving. He hadn't though. He was alive.

No one laughed. That surprised him. He knew that if he had heard such a thing, he would have filled the room with an uproar of his humor. It was hard to be amused when you were shocked, in disbelief, he supposed. It was hard to be amused when his face said there was nothing to be amused about at all.

Still, it was hard to look at him, at peace or otherwise. It was hard to look at his bruises and scars and wasted muscles and sunken skin. It was hard to look at him and know that if things had been different, he might have been a rather handsome boy.

Eventually, there had been questions. Mainly from Gohan, who seemed unable to wrap his head around the concept. Vegeta himself could give no real details on the seemingly anatomical impossibility, and he was not inclined to try.

Vegeta looked down at him again. It was a wonder how the boy's tiny head had not been entirely swallowed by the thick pillow beneath it. He trailed his eyes down and saw that the bumps of his feet beneath the blanket did not reach anywhere near the end of the mattress. Thirteen years, and this was all his body amounted to.

It was Yamcha who asked who the other father was.

How different would he have looked if in those years he had known nothing but full bellies and warm baths and peaceful sleeps under the stars? And what about... deeper? What about the boy he was on the inside? What would he have been like then?

He did not care what they thought of him, Vegeta told himself.

What would he have been like if his hands had never known the handle of a pickaxe, if his tongue had never known the taste of meager rations, if his ankles had never known the weight of chains?

He did not care.

What would he have been like if he had had someone to dry his tears, had had someone to pick him up whenever he fell, had had someone to hold him every night before he fell asleep?

He did not care.

What would he have been like if he had known kind words and blue skies, had known that no scratch or bruise would last forever, had known that no nightmare would ever see the light of day?

He did not care.

What would he have been like if he had had reasons to smile, to laugh, to look forward to every new morning because it held the promises of the future?

(He knew that was a lie.)

What kind of boy would he have been, what kind of man would he have grown to be, if his heart had known love?

"Frieza."

He snapped away from his thoughts when the sound of a small groan reached his ears.

His eyes darted up to the boy's face. The hold the medication had over him was still quite apparent, but it seemed that the doctors had underestimated his strength. That angered Vegeta, worried him. What other things had those doctors "underestimated"? He wanted to storm from the room, find each and every doctor that handled the boy, and demand they reexamine him, but his body stayed rooted to the spot, entranced by the boy as he fought against the hold of the drugs. Beneath the mask, Vegeta could see his lips slowly opening and closing, like he was trying to chew something thick and heavy. His eyelids flickered as if it were a battle to open them, the red of his eyes flashing on and off against the glow of a billboard several streets down.

Eventually, he managed to hold them open—for several seconds at a time anyway. His eyes trailed in a slow circle, from the wall where the television was mounted, to the creme ceiling, then finally to where Vegeta sat beside him. His eyes did not widen, nor did he flinch away, as he often seemed to do when suddenly underneath Vegeta's attention. It seemed that the drugs allowed him to do little more than to stare at him, with a gaze so glazed over it was almost as if he did not see him at all.

The boy could see him though, was aware of his presence, because once he had his sight on him, he did not look away. He looked at Vegeta with that same blank stare, still unnerving even within the haze of anesthesia.

The silence stretched between them. If the boy wanted to be spoken to, he gave no indication. His barely focused gaze seemed content to just stare at him. Vegeta, however, could hardly bear the silence, and looking at him, Vegeta found himself suddenly hit with a wave of disbelief.

The boy was here, right before his eyes. He could see him, could hear the sound of his breathing under the mask, could smell the scent of antiseptic that clung to his skin, and yet he could not believe it. In his mind's eye, the boy was far away and growing farther. He was growing so far away that he almost could not see him any longer, like he was a dream that Vegeta remembered less and less as each second passed in wakefulness.

He was hit abruptly with the desire to reach out, to feel him underneath his fingers, to ensure that he was truly there.

His first instinct was to not do that, the heat of embarrassment already burning underneath his skin just from the thought. Then, after the initial wave of mortification had passed, he thought, why not? Was it not the goal to be more gentle, more outward with his affection?

Trunks, he was sure, was aware of the deep regard Vegeta felt for him. He had been distant, had indeed only held him enough times he could count each time, but he was not so awful that Trunks had to doubt what he meant to his father, he was sure. The boy before him, however, did not. How could he, when Vegeta had never had the opportunity to prove it?

Vegeta was not at a point where he could allow himself to say the words out loud—just the thought made his tongue tie in a knot—but he could at least try to show it, right?

He laid a hand on the boy's hair. His little eyes widened the slightest bit, but nothing more. Vegeta ran his hand slowly over the boy's hair, long since dried from the washing of earlier. The strands were brittle, partially from genetics but mostly from neglect. Another thing—like the bruises, and the broken bones, and the diseases in his blood—that would need to heal.

Suddenly, a wave of protectiveness soared through him. It was odd, and unnecessary, there were no enemies or threats, yet he felt it all the same.

The boy's eyes began to drift close, seemingly soothed by the light stroking. Vegeta stilled his hand, nestled it solidly on his head in a grounding touch.

He asked, "How do you feel?"

Just as all the times before, he received no answer, though he had not truly expected one. The boy's eyes did open with a more clear, focused gaze, so Vegeta decided to take that as: "I'm doing fine, thanks for asking."

The silence that came next was a peaceful one, like being submerged just underneath the surface of a calm sea. Not even seconds into it, the boy's eyelids started to drop again, his eyes crossing in a way that one might call endearing every time he momentarily lost the battle.

Now would be the perfect time to leave. The boy was at peace for now, and Vegeta himself was not being spared from exhaustion's pull. Almost all at once, several days with no sleep, and the long hours of training with only a nap as a recovery hit him with unforgiving force. He knew that he should return to his and Bulma's bedroom to finally rest, and leave the boy to his, but his body stayed rooted to the chair.

He could not leave yet. He just couldn't. How would the boy react if he woke up alone, and no longer tempered by the medication? How could Vegeta sleep—several hallways and floors away on his memory foam mattress while the boy slept alone on what was only a step above a cot—when his mind still could not be sure that all of this was not just a merciless dream?

There had to be more to say, he thought, more truths to reveal and discover. In reality, he knew there were not—there was no need for any further words, especially when the boy could not even keep his eyes open. He had said all that he needed to say back on Tene'mareen, or at least, everything he could say. There was nothing else he had to offer.

Still, he did not leave. How could he possibly leave, when even with the boy laying right next to him, he felt unfulfilled?

It was an awful thought, even he knew. The bitter taste of guilt made sure he knew it. How could he feel unsatisfied? How dare he? He had rescued his son, had the boy laying here, in his home, safe and perhaps not whole but not broken either. That should be enough.

But it wasn't enough. He did not know what, but something was still wrong, still missing, still unresolved.

He searched for something to say, though try as he might, he came up blank. His eyes darted around the room once more, trailing up the walls until they landed on the air vent of all things—a grey grate with trails of dust blowing away from it. He thought that it was sort of odd that it was on. The part of Earth they lived in had not yet reached the point of snowfall, but it had grown considerably colder. There was no reason why the artificial air needed to be on, and it was only then that he noticed there as a bit of a chill to the room.

He froze. Then, the same heat of anger he had long since welcomed back into his normal daily life pulsated once more.

He knew that word, that one innocent word, was ruined for him forever.

Frieza had to have done it purely to spite him, Vegeta thought, irrationally, but no less certainly. Why else would he have done it? Why else would he have given a half-bred bastard a name of his origin if not only to make Vegeta's very blood boil?

It was something he would never know, just as he would never know why Frieza had allowed the boy to live at all. The latter he was forever thankful for, but the former...

His anger must have shone on his face, or perhaps affected the gentleness of his hand, for the boy's contented look suddenly fell away. It was replaced by a look that was nearly wary, as much as it could possibly be given how high in the clouds the boy must be floating around now.

Vegeta quickly resumed the hair stroking until his body relaxed and his face softened again.

The boy seemed to have moved past the moment, but Vegeta still felt as though he needed an explanation. Part of him also just felt the need to say it. "I didn't mean to unsettle you. I had just been thinking about rather unpleasant things."

The boy's eyes widened again, and through the milky haze, Vegeta could see the sparks of curiosity.

Vegeta hesitated, but only for a moment. He wasn't quite sure how his son would take this topic, but he was never one to beat around the bush. He bluntly stated, "I was thinking about your name."

A beat passed, and then the boy's whole body stiffened. Sort of. Given the drugs, it looked more like all his muscles twitching at once, but it was more than enough to communicate his unease.

Vegeta knew that he probably should stop, let the conversation die here and now. Why should he burden the boy—who was so injured it was only the morphine in his system that allowed him any sort of contentment at all—with the ill thoughts of his mind? Particularly thoughts that were beyond the boy's control, and not within his own rights to disrelish. He may not like the name, but it was the boy's all the same and it had been for thirteen years. That was something—like the flinches and the muteness and the scars—that Vegeta was going to have to accept.

Still, Vegeta had to explain. Even if it would change nothing, he needed the boy to understand.

"I did not choose it," he said, even though the boy ought to have known at least that much. He carried on, trying not to think about how much his next words might hurt. "I'll be honest with you. When I held you that one time, to give you a name had not even crossed my mind."

He forged on, before the guilt could lock his tongue. "Why Frieza chose to give you an Ice-jin name, I couldn't say. It angers me, though."

He knew that he probably should have used the past tense. Angered. How must the boy feel to know that he, of all people, hated his name? His name, that was perhaps the only thing that had ever truly been his own?

But to say otherwise would have been a lie. It angers him. It angers him. It makes his blood boil, like an oven just before it burned everything to the ground.

If that shocked the boy, his face did not show it, though his face was not showing much at all in this moment. There was something in his eyes, though. Attentiveness, intrigue, uncertainty, it seemed. He looked like someone who had something to say but could not find the words to say it.

Vegeta furrowed his brow. "What is it?"

As expected, the boy said nothing. He only looked back at him with his two bright eyes. Vegeta thought that he could hear the words he was not saying, regardless. He thought that maybe, he knew exactly what it was that the boy wanted to say.

Vegeta leaned forward. "If I had named you," he prompted. "I would have given you a proper name. One befitting what you are: a prince of the saiyans."

There was a shine in his eyes, from the moonlight and something else. Something like wonderment, Vegeta thought. Vegeta leaned in even closer. The metal bars of the hospital bed creaked underneath his hands.

"Would you like that? If I gave you a new name? One you deserve to have?"

One long, long moment passed.

Vegeta was not sure who was more surprised when the boy's little, bruised chin dipped in a small nod. There was hesitancy in his eyes, but they said 'yes' too.

Perhaps Vegeta was the most surprised, for the shock rendered him speechless for so long that the boy's face began to fall, the most panic that the drugs would allow beginning to take hold.

Vegeta said quickly, "Alright then, I'll give you one."

He turned away then, his eyes going back towards the window wall. He watched everything that moved beyond the glass—the blowing leaves on the trees, the flashing lights of electric advertisements, the raucous bar-hoppers looking for more trouble to get into—as he thought very hard.

Now that he had permission, he was not going to hesitate, but what would he change it too? It was reprehensible in retrospect, but truly, during that short time he had held the baby, the concept of a "name" had not even crossed his mind. Now here he was, thirteen years later, coming up short on something so important.

Tradition dictated that the eldest child of the ruling monarch or crowned heir be named 'Vegeta'. It was only right that they inherit the name of the kingdom that was their blood right, after all. That should have made it simple. The boy was his firstborn and by all laws of succession, if there was still a throne to pass down, it would be his. His name, by all rights, should be 'Vegeta'.

But how could he name him 'Vegeta' when he already had a son with that very name?

Technically, Bulma—a non-royal and non-saiyan at that—had had no right to name her then-bastard child such a thing, especially not to name him that and expect it to hold any weight. Vegeta had allowed it though, because to put up a fuss would have implied that he cared at all, and it had seemed so very important to him to maintain that lie.

And in all actuality, no matter how awful a truth, Trunks was his first son.

Not in birth, of course, but in every other aspect, he had come first. Even when he wanted nothing to do with the family he was creating on Earth, he had never denied Trunks was his child. How could he have when it was so clear that his blood ran through his half-bred veins? Regarding... Chill, though, Vegeta had not even properly wrapped his head around the fact that he was more than a parasite that had invaded his body before he was gone.

Beyond that, Trunks may not have been the first son he held, but he had been the first he had held more than once, the first he had seen wake up with the morning sun, the first he had watched grow, the first he had been able to admit that the feeling he felt for him was the purest of love.

There was honor in that, and Vegeta could not take that away from Trunks, second son or not.

While his older son could not have the name that should have been his, he deserved a name no less regal. There were others, of course, names that were just as suitable for a saiyan prince as 'Vegeta' was. 'Tarble', for example, was a well enough name for a second prince. Not that he was considering that one. Vegeta had no desire to name his son after his estranged weakling of a brother.

When he tried to think of others, though, his mind drew blank. It rankled his pride to admit, but he could not remember many saiyan names. He was sure at one point he could have recited histories of noble houses, of past kings and their conniving siblings, of usurpers and conquerors and warriors so renowned their names became bedtime stories. Now, after so many years, his mind remembered hardly any of it. Aside from his own name, his brother's, and his mother's, he could not think of any befitting a prince.

Ah, he thought, as it clicked. He looked back down at the boy, who looked back at him with expectant eyes. Though it was not just his face that he was seeing but also another, an older one, thin and feminine and only somewhat memorable because photographs had once immortalized it.

His mother.

Vegeta did not know much about her. He had been very young when Planet Vegeta's true queen—one who had not just a pretty, former concubine whose low-class genes had, in the end, sullied his father's second son—had died. His father had not been shy of speaking of her, though. He had told him that she had been even braver than she was beautiful. He had told him she had been a fierce warrior, that she had died a death worthy of a saiyan. He had told him that she had loved her son immensely.

(His father had not said that last one in as many words, but Vegeta, like all saiyans, knew how to read that sort of thing between the lines. It made him wonder how many times she had held him while she had the chance.)

Vegeta regarded the boy, every minute detail of his face underneath the wounds. The boy's eyes were Frieza's color, but closer to Vegeta's shape. His nose and his chin and his lips belonged to one of them in some way, but his hair—those spikes and that split bang down the middle...

That hair was his mother's.

It could work. His parents had been first cousins, his mother the daughter of his father's uncle, and thus she had been bestowed a name of royal birth. She had been powerful, both as a child and as a woman, supposedly the best in her school year and in every moment beyond. Vegeta was lacking in much information about her, but he had no doubt that she had proven herself to be worthy of the weight of her name.

He just as equally held no doubt that she was worthy of a namesake.

Vegeta nearly hesitated at that. What was it that Bulma had said? That he put too much expectation on Trunks, who was just a child and not at all the kind he himself had been? Would this be doing that very thing?

Vegeta would not delude himself by claiming he knew his son. The simple fact was that he didn't. He hardly knew anything about him at all. He had birthed him, had held him, had fought for his life as hard as he could have, but he did not know him. He did not know what made him laugh, or if the ability to do so had been beaten out of him. He did not know if he had likes, or only things that he disliked. He did not know the sound of his voice, did not know if it had ever existed at all or if it had been snatched away by horrors he would never comprehend. He did not know if he had ever known peaceful dreams, or if nightmares were all he ever had and would ever see. He did not know if he would ever know the thrill of the fight, or if the sight of fists and the feel of pain would only bring about fear.

He did not know how the boy, so nearly grown up yet still so young at the same time, would handle the weight of such a name.

But how could he, as a parent, not want his son to strive for greatness? How could he look at this boy, defeated by every foe except death and not wish for him to be better? How could he not, after helping him stand, want him to know for himself how to never fall again? How could he not want him to be strong, to be brave, to feel joy and anger and pride in himself and every other emotion a man could feel? How could he possibly not want him to have all those things and more?

He was not a conventional child by any means, not the clean slate that most other parents were given to work with. He was broken because he had been hurt, and timid because he was weak, but did that matter? Did the fact that he had never been given a chance to be anything else suddenly make him any less Vegeta's son?

No, it did not, and was it not his greatest duty, after making sure they were well taken care of, to ensure that his children thrived? And was the boy not, by default of being his son and for no other reason, worthy of all Vegeta had to give him?

And Vegeta could give him this: a name he could be proud of, a name that he could strive to reach, a name that, if nothing else, he could make his own.

"Yasai," he said. "That is what your name will be."

The boy's wide, red eyes blinked up at him.

"It was my mother's name," Vegeta explained. "I didn't really know her, but your hair looks just like hers. And she had been a formidable woman in her life. I think you will wear the name well."

The boy blinked a few more times. Then, to Vegeta's astonishment, a grin bloomed beneath the oxygen mask, doppy and drugged but no less real. The boy's first smile for him.

He hoped he had had reasons to smile before. He would make sure he would have reasons to smile again.

If Vegeta were another man, he might have smiled back. Since he was no one other than himself, he simply laid a hand on the top of the boy's hair, smoothing it down once more. "Rest now, Yasai. When you wake, I will be right here."

I will always be here, was heard loud and clear.

The boy relaxed underneath his touch. Happy though he had seemed, in the end it was still not enough to combat the exhaustion. It was not long before the boy was asleep once more, peacefully, like he knew he was safe.

"Yasai, huh?" came Bulma's voice, then.

A bit of the tension Vegeta carried lessened at the sound of it. He had sensed her presence in the doorway a while ago, very aware of the words she was hearing, of the things she was witnessing. Still, he had not asked her to leave, had let her stand and watch and see the man he was behind closed doors, as he had learned to let her do from time to time.

Without meeting her gaze, he said, even though she had heard this much, "It was my mother's name."

Even so, she looked a bit confused. "Your mother's?"

It took a moment for him to realize why. Even now, there were human customs he would never get used to. "Saiyans do not put gender to names. Any name can be used for either sex."

She hummed at that, thoughtful. Then she gave him a smile. "It's a good name. I might have taken it for Trunks had you told me about it," she teased.

He grunted at that, as he often did at her teasing's, because it was easier than trying to figure out any other response.

The amusement danced in her smile for a moment, before her it softened into something warmer. "I'm glad I didn't, though. It's good that both of the boys have a name from their father."

He was a bit taken aback by that. Father. Vegeta had not consciously allowed himself to ponder on just who he would be to the boy, but the moment she said it, he knew it was true.

He was no mother, not even for the boy, for Yasai. He had introduced him to the world, yes, had given him life, but he could not be what Bulma was to their son. He could not name quite what it was that made a mother so different from a father, but he felt it all the same.

Also, philosophy aside... he was a man.

She lifted her body from where it leaned against the doorframe and came into the room. His eyes regarded her then, took in her silk, maroon pajamas top and matching silk bottoms. In her arms was a folded-up blanket with a single pillow on top. She held them out to him, and he nodded his gratitude, marveling just a bit at how well his wife knew him, as he took them from her. He dropped them onto the decorative plush ottomans not far from the boy's bed and arranged them until they resembled a makeshift bed.

He had meant it when he said he would be here when the boy woke.

When he was finished, he turned back around and was met with the sight of Bulma standing over Yasai. The low light did not allow for a proper observation, but he could see the makings of a small smile on her face, and a gentle look in her blue eyes. It was not unlike the kind of face she would make at Trunks when she would tuck him into bed at night.

Vegeta felt his chest tighten at the sight. What could he say in the face of that? How could he possibly express just how it made him feel for his wife to look at his son that way?

He could not say how much it pleased him that she accepted his son from the very first moment she laid eyes on him. He could not tell her how thankful he was that she cared about his son, despite having no reason to do so. He could not say how much it meant to him that she was willing for the boy to be their son. He just did not have the words to say it all, to say it right.

Before he could try and say it anyway, her face suddenly changed. Not by much, but her smile did falter, and the corners of her eyes spasmed and wavered.

Then the tears came.

Like every other time he was confronted by the physical manifestations of her emotions, he froze.

"Why are you crying?" He demanded in an incredulous, though undeniably concerned tone.

"Sorry," she said as she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. She sniffed several times, looking so very pathetic and so very sad.

Needing something to do, he went over to the nightstand and grabbed the tissue box. He handed it to her, and asked in a tone so soft his cheeks nearly flushed in embarrassment, "What is it?"

"It's just..." she took a deep breath, pulling a tissue weakly from the box. "He looks so bad."

She paused to wipe at her eyes properly. Vegeta tried to imagine what he had felt the first time he had seen the boy, but he had felt so much rage these past few days it was nearly impossible to tell what times it had been worse than other times.

In all that time though, he never expected her to feel the same way.

"I knew to expect the worst, but I still... how?" she looked at him then, her eyes begging him to have the answer. "How could they do this to him?"

He did not have an answer. Not one she wanted to hear, anyway. The only answer he could give was one that no one wanted to hear, that there were people out there who could not be satisfied with a win in combat or even in death. There were people who would only be satisfied with pain, with defeated minds, with broken spirits. There were people who saw two monsters in the face of a child, and not even his innocence was enough to cleanse the stain.

They did it because Frieza had sired him and Vegeta had birthed him, and while he would always have some level of pride in himself, it would never be the same. He had been mocked, bested, defeated at so many turns, but they paled in comparison to what he felt now. He could not have that type of pride again, not when he would feel this guilt for the rest of his life.

He could not say that, but truthfully, he did not have to. Bulma already knew that much... but knowing did not always make the truth easier to swallow.

At that same time though, he said "I don't know," because just as truthfully, he did not know. He knew the facts, the motivations, the justifications, but his mind would never be able to comprehend them, not truly. He would never be able to understand how someone could look at his child, his precious son, his innocent baby, and do what they had done.

She accepted his answer, for all that it wasn't an answer at all. She finished wiping her face, smearing the makeup she had had yet to wash off, then tossed the tissue into the waste bin.

Then, she turned to him. One of her slim hands slipped into his, soft against the callouses and scars of his own. Her eyes, bluer than the sky and ocean combined, pinned him down. They shone with determination, with stubbornness, with all the things that made him love her.

"He'll be okay," she said, in a tone that left no room for argument, a tone that spoke only the truth. "It might not be easy, but he will be. We'll make sure of it."

He let his eyes take her in. He thought of her that night so many years ago, after she had gone through hell and back birthing their son all alone. He thought of how her frazzled hair and sickly skin had looked that night. He thought about how even though he scarcely allowed himself to look at her, he had thought that he had never seen anyone look just as beautiful in the light of the moon as they did in the sun.

She looked that way now, a new mother once more. Her hair—though the efforts she had undoubtedly indulged in that morning were by now obsolete—was not quite as frazzled, and her skin was not pallidly pale, but even so he felt the same he had felt that night. She was only more beautiful now because he could see her eyes, could see the way the moon played in the cerulean, could she what she felt for him reflecting in the stellar light.

"I love you," he said.

They both were shocked, and he could not say who was more so. Probably him, for while Bulma's only reaction was a widening of eyes, he felt a bit like the floor had given out underneath him. Then he felt like he wanted the floor to give out underneath him.

After a moment, her wide eyes softened. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet.

"I know," she said.

"Very smooth," he might have said if the last vestiges of his nerves were not still prickling his skin, and if he were the type of man to make such a joke. Instead, all he did was grunt in a way that he hoped sounded unimpressed. It didn't, if the way she nearly giggled in response was anything to go by.

She turned away from him then and faced the boy once more. She grabbed the blanket, and pulled it further up his body, Yasai none the wiser. After she had tucked it nearly to his chin, she bent at the waist, bringing her face down to his level. The same hand that had held Vegeta's now stroked over the boy's forehead, smoothing back the bang and fly-away hairs.

"And I love you," she said, pressing an even sweeter kiss where her hand once ran. It was a display of affection, but it was also a promise. A promise for sweet dreams. A promise for healing. A promise of unconditional devotion. A promise for the future. A promise between a mother and her child.

He would be okay, she had said. They would make sure it happened, she had said.

Yes, he thought. They would.

In Aricot's opinion, the corridor to his Lord's main hall was not nearly long enough.

He acknowledged that his opinion was rather skewed, given that at the other end of the hall would be the deliverance of bad news that would come from his lips, and he knew just how well it would all work out for him.

He walked as slow as he dared, the tap of his well-worn boots against the linoleum floor betraying his lack of urgency. It was shameful, he knew, to disparage his Lord with his attitude. He should walk with pride every time he sought out his Lord's presence. While his faction was not one that was particularly large or well-known as of yet, it was still one worth fearing, and Aricot, a boy scarcely past his sixteenth year, had the honor of being his right hand man. It was here that Aricot found respect, was on his way to gaining prestige, and he dared to dislike any part of this?

He acknowledged those truths, and yet he still walked with a fear that grew heavier with each step. It was hard not to feel it when he knew just how well his Lord took bad news. The black bruises that often marred his yellow skin in the aftermath was all the proof he needed.

On the way, he passed a soldier tending to a chest plate that had long outlived its usefulness. The nerves eating away at everything inside of him must have shown on his face, because instead of making depreciating remarks about his young age or his admittedly abysmal battle skills as many of the men often did, he simply regarded him with a raised brow.

"Going to see the Lord, boy?"

Aricot could not even muster up the usual irritation he felt when called such a belittling thing. "Yes. There has been... a grave incident."

He did not know why he felt inclined to share. Perhaps if another person knew, the gravity of the situation would not be so heavy. So far, it wasn't working.

The man grunted, and it almost sounded sympathetic. "Best of luck to you."

"Yes, I hope so," he admitted.

Long before he was ready, he reached the door leading into the main hall. He knew there was no point in trying to hide his presence now, not when his Lord could sense him. In all actuality probably knew he was coming the moment he began his way over, sensed him walking down the long hallways, sensed him stopping to chat when he was supposed to be delivering news, sensed the terrified thoughts bouncing through his head...

Both the motion sensor and the manual button had malfunctioned some time back, so he reached over, and squeezed his fingers in against the edge of the door. If by some twist of fate his Lord had not already noticed him, it was ruined by his grunts of labor, and the creaking of the door sliding along the track of the threshold.

He stepped inside, and the door slid mercilessly shut.

"Aricot," said his Lord.

His back was to him, and before him was the long expanse of space through glass that was, thankfully, sturdier than the rest of the ship. Aricot wondered what it was he saw out there, why seemingly every time he came here his Lord was doing this very thing. He doubted simple stars would captivate his attention so.

"My Lord," he replied, dropping down to his knee. Several strands of long, shamrock green hair fell into his face when he bent his head forward. It was a useless, though no less comforting barrier.

"Why are you here unannounced? I don't recall requesting your presence."

"My apologies, my Lord, but there is something"—he swallowed thickly—"urgent I must tell you."

His Lord hummed, and waved one hand, his fingers gliding through the air like silk blades, beckoning him to speak. Aricot blinked several times, fighting every moment to ensure his words came out evenly. A useless endeavor—his Lord knew just how terrified he was—but it was the only way he could bear to speak at all.

"Tene'mareen has been destroyed, sir."

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Then: "What?"

"The planet was destroyed, sir," he repeated uselessly, the sweat coming in so thickly now it nearly ran into his eyes. "Our sources report that Tene'mareen exploded only hours ago. A handful of escape ships have been recorded exiting the atmosphere before the explosion, though our intel runs dry there."

Here came the hardest thing to say. "There has been no word about Chill. It is highly possible that he perished along with the planet."

There was silence once more, such painful silence. The foreboding sense of danger had begun to permeate the air, but even if running would do any good, Aricot could not manage it. His body stayed rooted to the floor, trembling from shoulders to feet, waiting for the blow that would come and would possibly be his last.

Then, without warning, the danger vanished. The weight lifted and the air cleared, like it had never been there at all.

"He lives," said his Lord.

"Sir..."

"I feel him," his Lord went on, his voice sounding far away, like his body had left this realm entirely for some place much nicer. "He is far, but I feel him. He sleeps, somewhere warm, somewhere safe, somewhere..."

His Lord stopped. Aricot waited with bated breaths.

"He is with his mother," he said eventually, and the peace from before was gone, replaced with the bitter taste of displeasure, one that was at least not so oppressive as before.

Of all things he expected his Lord to say though, that had not been one of them. "Sir, I..." he began, but when he could think of nothing to follow up with, he ended lamely, "I'm sorry, sir."

"Are you?" asked his Lord. "Why ever so?"

The tone of his voice sounded genuinely curious, but Aricot knew better. He had miss-stepped, but it was too late to backtrack. All he could do was try and manage the damage as much as possible. "He has escaped your... justice."

"No, you're wrong, Aricot," he said, the pleasantness in his voice a falsehood of safety. "I told you I can feel him. He is far but not out of reach."

"B-But sir!" He should keep his mouth shut, it was not his place to speak against him, but how could he listen to his Lord speak so recklessly? "You said you've left the saiyans be because you said you could not win against him in a test of raw power. To seek them out now would be a grave mistake!"

Perhaps that was too far. Who was he too blatantly doubt his Lord's judgement? Thankfully, his Lord did not seem offended by the disrespect. Instead, he asked, "What is a body, Aricot?"

"I—sir?" he questioned, thoroughly thrown off.

"What is a body, Aricot?" he repeated. "Truly, the essence of it."

"I... I'm not sure what answer you're looking for, sir," he admitted.

His Lord hummed again, the sound pleasant and indulging, like a teacher guiding along an ignorant student to the truth.

"It is a husk, Aricot," he said. "An outer shell. It is a protective shield, because it is what is inside that is far more precious."

His Lord turned on his heel to face him, and Aricot was pinned down by his gaze. He could see it all in his eyes: the joy, the rage, the mania.

"I've had a revelation," his Lord told him, sounding so profoundly pleased. "There are other ways, better ways to defeat a man. Ways only a true pest could accomplish."

In that instant, Aricot knew exactly what he meant.

"Yes, sir," he said, because that was what a good soldier said in the face of true genius, of true power, of something truly deserving to be feared.

His Lord turned back to the window. "This is a setback, but not an impossibility. In fact, it might even be a gift in disguise. What is pain without pleasure to negate it? It is nothing. But to know love and have it ripped away..."

His Lord paused then, so overcome with the pleasure that seemed to invoke that his body visibly trembled from it. Aricot tried not to wonder what kind of expression was on his face. He tried not to think about how his stomach stomach twisted and turned with unease.

"I will find him, and finish what I started, what I should have ended long ago," his Lord said, though Aricot knew he was not speaking to him. His mind was gone, flying somewhere far from this room. His words were meant for ears that were far away but would not be for long.

To the glass, to the stars, to a little boy resting in a hospital bed, he said, "Wait for me, Chill. I'm coming for you, and when I have you, I'll see to it that you get exactly what you deserve. Permanently."

THE END

So, after about a year and a half of rewriting, I have finally finished this story. Thank you to everyone who supported me during this 5-year hiatus. You all mean the world to me!

A lot of you wanted me to change his name to something Saiyan, and while that had not been my plan at first, I decided that I liked the idea. Yasai is the Japanese word for 'Vegetable'. Seeing as how 'Vegeta' and 'Tarble' are very obvious plays on the word, 'Yasai' seemed like it would be fitting as a royal saiyan name.

REGARDING THE SEQUEL. I decided to post this story even though the sequel, currently titled 'Blind Eyes Opened' has not been revised as of 9/2/2020. I advise all to NOT read it until after it has been updated, because there will be major changes... also, because it sucks lol. I've spent so time rewriting this that I need a bit of a mental break from this universe. Even so, I wholeheartedly promise it won't be another five years for an update from me. The sequel, when updated, will be renamed 'Let Your Eyes Look Straight Ahead'.