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II.
Freak Out
Bulma fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt, pacing back and forth in the master bedroom. Ironic, she thought, how much better she would feel if she could just have a cigarette. She cleared her throat, preparing to rehearse again. "Hey, Vegeta, you Legendary Super Saiyan, Prince of All Saiyans, you," she grimaced and shook her head. "Yo, Homeboy, you put a bun in this oven!" Alas, it was no use. There was going to be no good, easy, or even possible way to break this news. She was at a complete loss.
"I can assure you, no one has put anything in the oven as of late. I certainly haven't, so don't go and blame me for something your idiot mother probably did," Vegeta's gruff voice interrupted the scientist's pessimistic musings, appearing, arms ever crossed, in the doorway.
Bulma jumped, face bright red. "How long have you been standing there!?" she demanded, hoping he really was just that oblivious, and not trying to make a bad joke.
The Saiyan Prince raised an eyebrow. "Long enough to hear you blabbering to yourself," he replied coolly. He looked at his wife, her cheeks flushed and demeanor flustered, ki unfamiliar and behavior undecipherable. Something was amiss, and he knew it. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded, his intense gaze unyielding.
"Nothing is wrong with me," the blue-haired vixen replied, placing her hands on her hips indignantly.
"Unacceptable. Tell me," Vegeta persisted, now fixated on her ki and what in the world was awry with it. "Or I will make you tell me."
Bulma sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. Her husband could be a real brute, sometimes. She knew he'd never lay a hand (an unwanted one, anyway) on her, but she also knew between both of their stubborn ways, they would spend the whole day standing there, staring each other down. "Ok, I'm going to tell you, but don't freak out," she relented.
Vegeta said nothing, but did not break eye contact, a silent signal for his wife to continue.
Taking a deep breath, the scientist closed her eyes and finally spit out the words she had been choking on all morning: "I'm pregnant." Slowly opening her eyes, one and then the other, Bulma studied her husband. He was still staring at her, as if she had said nothing. Maybe she didn't say it; maybe she just thought she said it. Maybe he didn't hear her? With a little more confidence, she tried again. "I'm pregnant, Vegeta."
"I heard you the first time," the Saiyan replied through gritted teeth.
"Then, HELLO, say something!" Bulma snapped, hands returning to their sassy perch on her shapely hips.
Vegeta's eye twitched. "What do you want me to say, woman?" He shot, teeth stilled barred and fists clenched.
"How about, gee, that's great, Bulma! Or wow, I'm so excited! At this point, even a freak out would be preferable! I think I have some spaceships parked outside—it's not too late if ya wanna hop in one and hide in space for the next seven months! Like LAST TIME!" The beautiful scientist promptly slapped her shaking husband, then pushed past him and stormed down the hallway.
Once she had reached the opposite end of the house, Bulma let out a great sigh of relief. "Well, that went better than expected," she admitted triumphantly, smirking. There had been no explosions, no attempted Saiyan suicides, and minimal verbal abuse. Although she accepted the flaw in this line of reasoning, she let it slide; she was married to Vegeta, after all, so her standards needed to be a little lower in some regards.
After Vegeta had the chance to calm down, and was quite sure he wouldn't literally tear the woman limb from limb, he went to find his mate and offer some sort of olive branch. "Please be a son," he muttered under his breath, quite sure any daughter of Bulma Brief's would be the death of him—a death infinitely more insufferable than the other two he'd experienced.
