The humming grew louder and louder as she stomped her way through the undecorated hall. Around her, the walls seemed to vibrate with energy and with such force. Bulma thought for a moment her very bones were quivering as she neared the the end of the passage. She sighed heavily and approached with caution, the floors quaking under her feet as, for a fraction of a second, she hesitated.
An energetic holler sounded from behind the solid doors, and Bulma frowned. Her hanging fist rapped sharply and she shouted into the steel face of the portal, "Guys! Open up!" A beat, "NOW!"
When no response came, the woman sneered to herself and reached into the back pocket of her jeans, withdrawing a tiny silver key. "They don't want to do it the easy way, fine," she mumbled under her breath, inserting the jagged end into a small opening located beside the doors. A panel flipped open from the wall, revealing an interior set of squares and a mass of intertwined wires. Blithely, Bulma pressed her index finger into a vibrant green button and at once the humming silenced and her heart ceased its reverberating within her chest.
The reaction from inside was instantaneous. Vegeta's roar of frustration and Trunks' whines of equal agitation echoed within the otherwise silent chamber. As the doors parted to reveal the scene to Bulma, the sounds of their aggravation amplified, and she could not hide her victorious smirk.
"I don't know what's wrong with it, otousan!" Trunks' tiny grumbles sounded from the control panel where he was crouched, sweaty and red-faced, prodding at the dull colored knobs. "Maybe we should get okaasan—"
"She's already here," Vegeta growled thickly, his onyx eyes riveted on the woman across from him.
When her son whipped around, Bulma offered the boy a vague wave of greeting, though her insolent gaze never slipped from the Saiyan bristling mere steps apart from her. "Hi," she greeted, a dazzling smile stretching over her mouth as Vegeta's eyes narrowed inward. "Am I interrupting?"
"Mama, what's up with this crap? I thought otousan's machine couldn't break!" Trunks shouted unnecessarily, his face reddening further in irritation.
"Did you do this?" Vegeta queried in a tone just above a whisper, for Bulma's ears only.
A shoulder hitched, and the woman tilted her head ambiguously to the side. His deathly look should've withered her from the inside out – once upon a time, it probably would have – but now it simply fueled her amusement. "Training time is over, boys," she announced.
Riotous was Trunks' reaction, and he earned a sharp glare from his mother off his angry curse. "You want to try that again, Trunks?"
The boy faltered and shut his mouth. His head shook slowly, and his eyes dove toward the floor between his feet. "No, ma'am," he muttered to his shoes.
"Good," Bulma snapped, the man across from her forgotten momentarily. "Let's get going, then, ne? Shower, teeth brushed, tucked in," she rattled off and swung her arm dramatically toward the entryway, her finger gestured outward for direction. Nose held high in the air and her eyes firmly shut, Bulma waited patiently for her son's obedience. When it didn't come, however, she opened a single blue orb.
She didn't have time for a reprimand, as Vegeta had stepped up for her. "Your feet should be moving, boy."
"But otousan—" Trunks began to protest, large blue eyes shot in his father's direction.
"Don't look at your father," Bulma spat, and the boy twisted toward her. "You listen to me. You've got a big day tomorrow – both of you," she glanced pointedly toward Vegeta, who snorted and turned his profile upon her. "And everyone needs a good night's sleep."
A silent struggle resumed between the young child and his mother, but it fettered out in moments. With an overdramatic heave, Trunks lurched toward the doors, rounding widely about his mother. Bulma squinted after him before stepping ahead, and she lifted the face of her foot to boot his bottom just lightly enough. Squeaking loudly (Vegeta grimaced violently to himself), Trunks trotted faster toward the doors, sparing his parents a final, hurtful look before he sprinted into the hall with an unkind grumble.
Bulma huffed in her agitation, blowing the fringe out of her face. "Little smartass," she mumbled, and she shot the statue beside her an amused look. "He gets that from you, y'know. I was an obedient child," she preened and was rewarded with the threat of a smirk from Vegeta.
It settled, however, and he turned completely toward her once more. "The boy's gone. Now, turn the machine back on, onna," he ordered easily, those strong arms crossing firmly over his broad chest.
Her eyebrows soared upward into her bangs, and the woman's hands characteristically found her hips. "You thought that was just for Trunks? It's bedtime for you, too, Vegeta," she half-laughed, despite his sudden advancement upon her. She smiled thinly at him, her eyes leveling with his. In her peripheral, she noticed his jaw tensing.
"You will turn it back on, and don't think to speak to me like that again," he ground out and leaned in, all but looming over the unphased woman.
She should argue – she could. But Bulma certainly recognized that gleam beneath his eyes. Heavily, she exhaled, and she dropped her hands to her sides dejectedly. "Come on, Vegeta," she prodded, even as his glare seemed to close in on her. "It's not as though you're suddenly going to make great leaps in the handful of hours between now and the tournament." While she thought her logic was, of course, logical, it was apparent that Vegeta considered differently. She groaned and threw her hands up, a scowl tugging her mouth southward.
"Fine, do it your way, then," Bulma groused and moved toward the opening. "Just, please shower before crawling into bed, alright?" Her request was made with a flutter of hopeful lashes, as she tacked on over her shoulder, "Given that you should eventually come to bed, that is."
He did not respond. Vegeta had been in the process of spinning away from her, when he seemed suddenly caught by something against the wall. Bulma followed his gaze curiously to the thick tiles lining the surface, but she found nothing of interest. Returning her attentions upon him, she allowed herself a last once-over of the Saiyan, before beginning once again for the doors.
"Bulma."
Her name falling from his mouth halted her instantly. A hand fell upon the door frame and Bulma twisted at the waist to blink back at him cautiously. He still hadn't moved to face her; continued to be held captive by whatever lay beyond the wall. "Nani, Vegeta?" She asked of him – she wasn't sure why her voice had fallen into a hush.
The room had suddenly become dense and heavy under the weight of … what? Bulma couldn't place it, but it seemed to roll in waves from Vegeta's shoulders. Unconsciously, she shuffled closer toward him, her eyebrows creasing into a frown. "Vegeta, what is it—"
"Which one of us is better, Bulma?"
The breath in her throat caught, and Bulma found the words dying on her tongue. He wasn't looking at her, but she knew he was sensing her – she could see his hands trembling at his sides, in an effort to…
"I don't know what you mean," she replied, half-honest – half-dreading. Her gaze scoured his tightly knit features.
"Kakarotto," Vegeta clarified, still unmoving. "And you know what I mean."
Her mouth fell open soundlessly. Which was better? That translated into, which of them was stronger, she knew that. Bulma thought of those massive entities, the two men who'd shaped and molded her life more so than any pivotal forces could have or would have. She fondly imagined Son-kun and his eager grin, the one that always graced his timeless features just before battle, the one that she was a day away from seeing once again. Squinting, she tried to remember Baba's crystal ball and the first time she'd ever laid eyes upon the ugly, vile mug she'd eventually come to enjoy and look upon with comfort and—
And, truthfully, she hated this debate, this comparison; whether it was with their friends, or if it was on her own. Bulma despised the guilty nag that came with contesting their strength. In what seemed like a different life, she would have used it to her advantage in a quarrel or with her wants when concerning the man across form her. But she'd come to fight it later during the development of their relationship (for the lack of an appropriate term).
His growl of displeasure ripped her from her reverie. "Forget it. Why am I asking you? Like you'd know shit about--"
"Back then, it was you," she caught him by his arm as he began to brush past her. He froze at her chilled fingertips. When his eyes hit her French manicure, Bulma relinquished him and took a step back. "I mean, I remember it. We were all watching, at Muten Roshi's place," she saw his eyebrows dip, his mouth slant unpleasantly. "If Son-kun hadn't had Gohan-chan and Kurririn-chan and," she paused for a deprecating snort and a roll of her eyes as she added, "Yajirobe, you'd … you'd have won."
Vegeta's eyes widened indiscernibly, and Bulma ducked her head from him almost shamefully. "You'd have won," she mumbled again, the words hitting the back of her throat discordantly. "You probably would've killed us all. But you'd have won."
The silence rushed between them, filling the space and their ears.
His voice pierced the quiet first. "And then what happened?"
"Then … he let you go," Bulma sighed, the barest of grins ghosting over her lips. How stupid it had seemed, then. Where would she be now, without Son-kun's mercy? "For whatever reason, he let you go." Her eyes lifted and met his, and she found his stare far-off and glassy; he was remembering, too. Questioning? "And then he got stronger. He—He wanted it more."
Vegeta seemed to stir to life again, his pupils dilating, his gaze tearing feverishly into her. She faltered briefly as her moved forward, toward her, and she tilted her chin up at him boldly.
"The hell do you mean, onna? No one has ever, ever," the syllables were guttural and brutal, and his irises glinted as he finished, "wanted it more than I."
She had heard this spiel. She'd seen him live it. And yet, the eons of sympathy died somewhere in her stomach. "Son-kun wanted it for us. Not for himself. He needed it."
"Pathetic," Vegeta breathed in her face, disbelieving and disgusted.
"It's not! That's why he was bet—stronger," she stumbled to correct herself, noticing his flashing teeth as he caught her slip. Bulma shivered through her spine. "But it was different, Vegeta! It always has been. You can't make the comparison—"
"How is it different?" He barked, a forceful hand grabbing and yanking at the crook of her arm, ignoring her yelp of surprise. "You tell me how it's different!"
Nose to nose with him now, she contemplated distantly on that certain terribleness that still perhaps laid dormant within him. Bulma had long forgotten the tight coil of fear and anxiety that accompanied his fierce countenance, the grip of his hand. She swallowed dumbly and studied him with large eyes, reflecting suddenly upon her little crevice on a green and unfamiliar planet and her infinite panic and worry that he'd seize her just like this – with just that dangerous look in his eye.
"I, I don't know," she stammered. "It just is!" He released her harshly, and Bulma stumbled back a few uneasy steps. "I mean, you did it all for you! Son-kun needed it for us. It holds different value, Vegeta," she dropped her voice low, and her hand rose to rub at the lingering ache where he had clutched her. "And then it just— it never happened," Bulma finished lamely and she watched his shoulders roll involuntarily with her words. "We never got to know. Something just kept getting in the way."
Catching his gaze, she wondered if he had understood her at all. His eyes wandered over the hand still at her arm, and Bulma thought she could see a flicker of an apology within them. Yet just as quickly, he had turned his face from her with a snarl. The rumble of indignation began to build in the pit of her belly and Bulma's eyes abruptly began to burn with her fury. With a resentful puff, she pivoted and strode through the wide door, abandoning the Saiyajin no Ouji there.
Later in the night, when she pretended to be curled up and fast asleep, Bulma felt him enter her bedroom quietly. Artfully, he slipped into the large bed beside her without bumping her recumbent figure. He laid with his back to her, and the scent of his cleanliness wafted around her. It seemed like an eternity before Bulma finally drudged up the courage and roll over onto her side to face the mass of naked flesh. His skin was hued a deep purple under the darkness that engulfed her room and tempted to touch though she was, she refrained and remained content to observe his gentle inhale-exhale movements.
One-on-one, she considered to herself, was it really even that debatable? Or was it just easy to carry around such preconceived notions, like Son-kun's virtuousness and his infallible success in any struggle? Or like Vegeta always happened to play second fiddle to the prodigy warrior, while his thirst for victory seemed infinitely unquenchable and far more important than anything and everything else?
"What do you think?" She asked softly of his slumbering figure, seeking an answer from out of the purple shadows etched between his muscles. They responded with emptiness, and Bulma bowed her head until her forehead touched his skin. She felt his muscles twitch there and relax. She was suddenly swallowed within a sticky and overwhelming instant of dread and terror; the kind that rose unwarranted, swiftly devouring everything in its wake. Her palms lay flat over his back, and her fingers splayed nervously.
Something ominous and threatening settled over her, and this bone-deep unease heralded memories of ignited skies and the promise of apocalypse.
From the depths of sleep, Vegeta crankily wondered, "What is it now?"
"It's—" Bulma breathed in shakily, then stopped. She shook her head against his back, willing a smile to spread across her mouth. "Nothing. I'm just excited for tomorrow."
He grunted and settled deeper into the pillow. Quelled and secure, Bulma pressed a kiss into his warm shoulder and sighed against him.
Hours into the evening, as she dozed contentedly behind him, Vegeta lay with eyes wide open. His vision strained upon the curtains of the window. Awaiting and begging for dawn.
Knowing that there would be nothing in the way, this time.
Author's Note: Okay, so this was RIDICULOUSLY LONG compared to the other chapters, and I know I updated last night but when I suddenly got the idea for how I wanted the next chapter to go, I had to write it down. And then it just flowed from there. So here it is. I'm really pleased with this chapter and the emotions I got to play with between Bulma and Vegeta.
This chapter takes place the night before the Tenkaichi Budokai. Next chapter is the end, and I am sad, but still kind of glad I'm finishing this baby up. I can't believe I've written this much, even!