A/N : Minor Bulma x Vejita. Set during the three year gap. Just a little angst fix for myself, because I guess I've been too happy lately. XD
This is not a side to 'Lines on a Page' exactly, however... It could be, if you wanted it to be, because in anything my head-canon for Vejita is that he entirely suppressed the idea of his father's death and for that refuses to call himself 'king'. So it would fit as a side to that, should you wish it to be (though it's implied here that his mother was alive when he left home). Whatever floats yer boat.
(formatting letters was easier on AO3, so sorry if it's clunky here but I can't figure out FFN anymore, I swear. :/)
WANDERER
There were certain aspects of 'those sort of men', Bulma supposed, that were more annoying than others. Ego. Pride. Narcissism. That undeserved sense of self-satisfaction. It had always been Bulma's fault, really, for being attracted to the 'bad boy' sort. Men like that always had a lot of baggage attached, and lord knew this one was no exception.
Bulma glanced over at unconscious Vejita through bleary, blood-shot eyes, pulling her second all-nighter, and sighed.
Too much trouble, this one.
And she had thought that Yamcha was a handful. Yamcha had nothing on Vejita, this guy made Yamcha look like a saint in comparison.
All the same, Bulma had invited Vejita to stay, had taken him in, had extended her hand to him in kindness because he had nowhere else to go, and she would lie in this bed she had made.
However annoying it was.
How the man had survived the explosion of that gravity machine was beyond her, and he'd been unconscious now for a good thirty-two hours, all of which Bulma had spent awake tending to him. She was about to pass out any minute now, she was so damn tired, but now that Vejita's vitals had stabilized and he wasn't in immediate danger of dying, she figured she could finally crash a little and take a break.
She stood up from the desk, and reached down to gather up Vejita's shredded clothes from the floor where she had tossed them when she had cut them off.
It wasn't odd to see Vejita without a shirt, no, she had seen that several times by now, had seen the base of his tail and the many scars. What was odd was seeing Vejita without those gloves. Surprised the man even had hands at all, really, for he never took those gloves off. Only once had Bulma seen Vejita without gloves, and even then he had put them in his back pocket and carried them protectively around.
Must have been a habit, she supposed, something familiar and routine that was hard to break.
When she picked the gloves off of the floor, she crinkled her brow and turned them this way and that. Hm—felt strange. Heavy. Stiff and uneven.
A seam had come loose on the edge of one of the gloves, and as Bulma inspected it, she could see something poking out. She glanced at Vejita, who would be unconscious no doubt for a good long while, and though she probably shouldn't have, she still gently pried the seam apart and stuck her fingers in.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
There was more than one, that was for certain, for she ran the glove through her hands and felt them tucked away all within the glove, in every part, even along the palms and fingers.
She pulled out paper after paper, and when she had finished with one glove she picked up the other and felt the same thing there. She picked apart a seam, and found as many folded papers in the left glove as she had in the right.
Bizarre.
When she had removed all of the hidden artifacts from both gloves, she cast Vejita one more glance and then picked up one of the papers. She could see writing through the other side, and realized steadily what they were :
Letters.
Handfuls of letters, folded up and compressed and tucked into the seams within Vejita's gloves. Dozens of them, neatly folded and made as small as possible so that they could easily be carried around. Vejita must have been keeping them safe there, for whatever purpose.
She unfolded one, out of curiosity, and saw small, neat writing, in even lines. She opened another; less neat writing, jagged and hectic. One more; sloppy writing, uneven, large, the writing of a very young child.
She glanced again over at Vejita, back at the letters, and wondered what she had unwittingly stumbled into.
Were the letters ones written to Vejita or ones that he himself had written? And, more importantly, if he had been the one writing them then why had he stashed them so secretly inside of his gloves? Why not send them to wherever they were meant to go? Odd, to carry them around like that.
It wasn't perhaps Bulma's proudest nor most noble moment, rifling through Vejita's personal belongings like that, but it wasn't as if she had gone in with the intention of being nosy. Not her fault Vejita had blown himself to hell and his glove had given him up.
She was only human.
The only problem was that she couldn't actually read them, for they were in a language she had never seen.
Damn.
A moment of pondering her own morality as she watched Vejita sleeping, but naturally Bulma's curiosity overrode everything else, as it always had and always would. She set the letters on the desk, darted quietly out of the room, and into her piles of junk out in the lab. She scoured drawer after drawer until she found what she sought; that old scouter she had repaired, the one they had yoinked from Raditz.
She checked it, and then returned. Another glance at still and quiet Vejita, and with a deep inhale of nervousness Bulma put the scouter on and pressed the power. Had many functions, this nifty little thing, and translating was one of them.
She picked up what she presumed to be the first letter, held it there, and surely enough within the glass the language changed into universal.
Whew. Another win for ingenuity.
She opened each letter, trying in some way to organize them, but there were no dates, and so she took the sloppiest, most childish writing, put them first, and put the neatest writing towards the back.
One deep breath for courage, one more glance at sleeping Vejita, and then she began to read the first sloppy letter, the one written by a child.
Father
You asked me to call you when I was settled on Lord Frieza's ship, but they won't let me call. Nappa told me to write you a letter instead, and he would try to get it to you. I don't like it here. It smells bad and no one bows to me. They won't let us speak our own language, so I'll write it instead. I miss you already. I'm sorry that mother is mad at you. I didn't mean to cause trouble. I'll work hard and try to make Lord Frieza happy so that he will let me see you both soon.
I want to come home.
Bulma stared at the letter for a long while after she finished reading it, feeling uneasy and melancholy, and she yet again glanced at Vejita. Stared away at him then, if only because she was trying to picture him as a child. Tried to envision him sitting somewhere on Frieza's ship, hunkered down and writing letters to his father while trying not to cry because he was homesick.
Made her feel sick.
She set the letter aside, and moved on to the next one, scattered with that same sloppy writing.
Father
I captured three planets this cycle. Just me and Nappa. I thought I did a good job and that they would let me call you. They still haven't. I hope you aren't mad at me that I haven't called. I'm trying my best. I miss you and mother. I hope you're not fighting anymore. When are you going to come get me? Nappa said he can't find a way to send my letters yet, but to keep writing, so I will. I promise when I get home that I won't upset anyone again. I didn't mean to get you in trouble with Lord Frieza. I still don't know what I did, but I'm sorry.
I'm trying hard to get stronger, so that I can become a Super Saiyan one day like you said I would be. I won't let you down. I'll make you and mother proud of me, I promise.
It's hard to sleep here. The bed hurts my back. Everything smells awful. It hurts my head. Nappa said to pretend that mother is here, but it's not the same.
Can you come get me yet? I've been working hard.
Bulma blinked quickly, and set the paper atop the last. Another letter. The writing on this one was sloppier yet somehow, frantic almost.
Father
Please come get me. Please, I don't want to be here anymore. I'm scared here. Something happened yesterday. There are warriors here stronger than me. I can't beat them. I got into a fight and I lost. I don't know what happened after, but I didn't like it. It hurt. Nappa is angry now, and won't stop screaming at Zarbon. I still don't know what's going on, but I think I did something wrong. Come get me.
I promise I won't make Lord Frieza angry again, if you come get me. I'll behave.
Sometimes, just sometimes, Bulma regretted being nosy.
This was suddenly one of those times, and she held that letter and stared at it for long after she had finished reading it, swallowing and feeling ill and imagination running far too wild. Didn't want to know, but somehow did, and hated that she understood through that childish writing what that 'something' was.
She should have just stopped there, put those letters back in the gloves, and carried on about her business.
But she didn't, because she just couldn't ever learn any lessons it seemed, and when she had gathered up her will once more she moved on to the next letter.
Father
I'm stronger than Nappa now. I'm still trying my best, but I'm getting tired. I wish mother was here. I'm having bad dreams. Why haven't you come to get me yet? You're not angry with me, are you?
Is it because I'm not a Super Saiyan yet? I'm trying.
The next letter was blotted, smudged, smeared, as if it had gotten wet at some point and the ink had run.
Father
It's not true. I know it's not. I don't care what anyone says. Nappa is wrong. It's not true. They're lying. We're the greatest warriors in the universe, you said so, so how could it be true? A meteor could never do that to us. It's a lie. I won't believe it. Raditz is stupid. He believes it, but I won't. I'll pretend in front of them, but I know the truth. You're out there. You escaped, all of you. You and mother are somewhere else, waiting for me. I know it, but I won't say it, because I don't want them to know. You'll be safer this way. I'll get stronger, and become a Super Saiyan, and I'll keep you safe when you come back. Don't worry. I'll do it. I swear it. I'll prove myself to you, and then I'll prove to everyone that I was right all along.
You're not gone. You can't be.
I know you're out there somewhere. I know it. I know you are. If I can kill Frieza, I know you'll come back.
You have to come back.
I'll find you. I promise.
A drop of water on the already smudged parchment.
Oh—
Bulma sat up quickly, looked about, and ripped the fabric headband out of her hair in a last ditch effort to soak up the liquid before it ruined anything else. She reached up as she blotted away, and ran her arm across her eyes, to keep the rest of her tears from screwing anything up further. Someone had already cried heavily onto this letter long ago, and she didn't want to add to it.
Dammit.
She was too tired for this, she really was, didn't have the heart for it right now.
A bleary glance up to still and unconscious Vejita, a moment of her face crumpling, and then she shook it off, swallowed, found her feet, and kept on reading, because she had come too far now, too far, and couldn't stop.
The writing on the next letter was neater, the letters smaller and more elegant, and the wording slightly more cohesive.
An older Vejita had written this one.
Father
It's been several years now that I haven't written to you. I ask your forgiveness for that. I don't know why I stopped. I may not know where you are, but I know that you're not lost, so ever should I have been corresponding. There's much to tell you when next we meet, so I'll carry on writing to you, for when I find you at last I can leave all of these letters at your door.
Much has passed these last five years. I've become twice as strong as Nappa now. I am almost as strong as you, and I'll continue to push myself. I've learned how to transform without losing control. I've even created my own techniques. I'll show them to you. I hope you find them to your liking.
How are you? How is mother? I expect by now that you two have mended things and are no longer fighting over my mistakes. I was thinking much about you the other day, out of nowhere. I even thought for just a moment that I could smell you nearby, but when I looked back there was no one there. I like to imagine that it was you attempting to communicate with me from afar. I haven't given up looking for you. Every day that passes is a day closer to me fulfilling my calling and ridding the universe of this tyrant.
How I long to see your face, and mother's too, when I can kneel before you both and happily give you the word that long you have yearned to hear :
That the tyrant has fallen.
Soon.
Another letter. The writing was becoming neater, as she watched Vejita growing up on paper right there before her.
Father
I was punished today for mouthing off to Zarbon. I don't regret it. I can't walk now, but it was well worth it to see the look upon his face when I insulted him. If only he knew the things I said up in my head. You would disapprove of such language. You and mother would hide your faces in shame if you heard the way I speak now. There are times when I make even Nappa blush. Everyone here must put on such a brash façade. I am no exception. The worst sort of language you can imagine, thrown out so casually in front of subordinates and superiors alike. Well! What could one expect? There is no king here to keep order or decorum. Just thugs and slaves under the thumb of a tyrant. Everyone tries to make themselves seem harder than they are.
I continue to grow stronger. I've gotten a bit taller now. Just a bit. I believe I may take after mother, for it doesn't seem as if I'll be as tall as you. Nappa tried to teach me to shave, and I hated that it wasn't you there beside of me. There are so many things I wish to ask you, so many things I wish you were here to teach me. As always, I must figure things out on my own for now.
Until you come back.
She set the letter aside, and it may have been ridiculous, but when Bulma looked over at Vejita again, she suddenly realized out of nowhere that Vejita was just a man.
It should have been obvious, perhaps, but at some level Vejita had been otherworldly to her. Something visible but not truly there. She had held him there in the rubble of the gravity machine, had felt how warm he was, had felt his heart beating, but even so he had been ever out of reach. Just some shadow that had fallen into her hands and that she would never truly be able to grasp.
But Vejita was just a man.
Not a human, not an Earthling, but a man all the same, and it was odd to her now that she had only just realized that. Vejita's cheeks were coated slightly with stubble as he lied there before her, because of course he hadn't shaved.
A man.
She flipped to the next paper. The writing was jagged. Sloppy. Scribbled as if in some great hurry or under great duress.
Father
I haven't slept in days. We've been on a hellish planet now for weeks, and I am pressed to my absolute limits. I came in very confident, but I begin to doubt myself now. I'm so tired. I wish you were here.
The following letter was even sloppier, and the edges of the paper were spattered with rust-colored blood stains.
Father
I begin to fear this may be my end. Nappa is gravely wounded, but we cannot retreat for the planet is not yet taken. I have left Raditz to care for Nappa in an effort to keep him alive long enough to return to base. I'm forced to carry on this mission alone.
I'm scared, though I know I can never admit such things aloud.
I have never said it before, and forgive me if I embarrass both you and myself, but I must write it here in the event that I never leave this planet :
Always, always, have I admired you. You have always been my hero, in whatever manner it was possible for you to be. I want to be like you, but I don't think I ever can be, for you're the most astounding man in the universe. No one could ever match you. I wanted to tell you this. That I've always missed you when you've been gone, that I've always looked for you behind every door I open, that I always hope to see you every time I walk off of a ship.
I love you, father, and I am sorry.
Should I die here, I beg your forgiveness for being unable to keep up with what was expected of me. You always said that it was my destiny to become that legendary Super Saiyan, but right now I don't feel that way. I think it was you all along, maybe, that was destined for it.
I can't
The letter abruptly cut off, soaked with blood, and Bulma cleared her throat, blinked her eyes clear, and carried on, glancing up frequently to make sure that Vejita wasn't going to wake up at the worst possible time.
Sleeping away.
Probably the first time since before he could remember that this man had slept somewhere entirely safe.
Father
I cut my bangs off today. I think I wanted to look more like you. It gives me courage. You are invincible, and I hope that by looking more like you I will be able to call myself the same. Please don't let mother be angry with me. It was not meant to be a slight, nor to imply you are superior. It was an impulse I acted upon. I meant nothing by it.
I know that I can do it, I know I can, so I cannot understand why I'm always so frightened.
I would give anything in the universe entire if I could wake up one morning with you there holding my hand as you did long ago.
Frightened.
Bulma lifted her head and stared at this man lying before her, and in some way it felt to her that she was meeting him all over again. Or, rather, meeting him for the first time, for never had she actually met the real Vejita previously. She had met a frightened, manic, desperate man, clinging to the need to annihilate the tyrant that had wiped out his race, and then she had met the tough, aloof, arrogant, abrasive shell left behind when that right had been taken from him. Both of those Vejitas were so different than the man who had written these letters.
As Vejita himself had said, it was all just a façade. One great, lifelong lie.
A man, alright, and a damaged one. One who was broken and destroyed, one who had lost his way, had gotten mixed up in the mist.
One who lived in the past.
She couldn't stand Vejita writing to his father like this, all these years, as if he were really still alive somehow. A death that Vejita hadn't been able to cope with, and so he had decided to pretend instead.
It took a long while before she was able to move on to the next letter.
Father
Raditz is dead. He went to collect his brother, Kakarotto. If everything were true, then that would mean there are now only three Saiyans left, but of course I know better. How many others escaped with you? There must be thousands of us, there must be. Of course when Nappa drearily counts us on one hand, I just nod along and pretend.
What does he know?
No matter. Regarding Raditz; I am angry, yes, but I am also overjoyed, for Raditz' idiocy has suddenly proven invaluable. Through his death, it has come to my attention that there exists such a thing called 'Dragonballs'. It is said that they grant any wish to the one who collects them. I have done extensive research, and am confident that this is true. I am on my way as I write this to a planet called 'Earth'.
Oh! How happy I am, father!
I have not yet become a Super Saiyan, nor have I become strong enough to defeat Frieza outright, but soon enough that will not matter. I will wish for immortality for Nappa and myself, and through sheer force of will and without the fear of death we will overcome Frieza all the same.
It may not be in the manner I have long desired, but I will accomplish this goal all the same. I stand now upon the brink of at last fulfilling my destiny. Of fulfilling my calling. Of rising to my birthright. Long have I doubted myself, but I can now so clearly see the path before me and how I will traverse it.
I beg your forgiveness for not immediately using this wish to restore our people and our planet. It seems prudent to destroy Frieza first, for if I wished for anything else while he were still living he would merely destroy it again.
Soon, so soon, our paths will at long last intersect, and I'll see you again.
How I look forward to that. I have dreamt every night of seeing your face.
Bulma reached up, absently, and rubbed the back of her neck.
Couldn't stop swallowing.
The next letter was another scrawled, bloody one, and the shortest of the lot.
Father
Nappa is dead now too. I lost. I'm sorry.
And then, at last, Bulma came to more recent letters, and somehow she dreaded reading them. Knowing that Vejita had failed to fulfill what he considered his calling—
Father
You were wrong. It wasn't me. You believed too much in me, had too much faith in me. Forgive me. I failed. Another has become the Super Saiyan of legend. He's stronger than I am—what good am I? I've been deposed. If he's stronger than me, then I've lost my right to be royalty. That would make him prince in my stead, would it not? If the old laws applied, then no longer have I any claim to the throne.
I won't give up. Don't think I've given up, for I swear to you I haven't. I'll carry on, and persevere. I'll rise above and reclaim my place. I may not have killed Frieza, but I won't stop. I can't; if I stop, then there is nothing to look forward to but night.
I won't die again. Not like that. I can't. You're waiting. As I died there on Namek, I was so certain that I felt you holding my hand. Don't give up on me. I won't quit until I'm the strongest.
One day, somehow, someway, I'll make you proud of me.
Bulma swallowed, and she pinched the bridge of her nose for a while as she took a very quick breather, before she turned to the next letter.
Her stomach hurt.
Father
I feel trapped. Stuck on this planet for now, waiting. My entire life, it seems, all I do is lurk in shadows and wait. Waiting for the Dragonballs to be used again. Waiting for Kakarotto to return. Why, I don't know. What will I do when he comes back? Interrogate him? Ask him how he had the audacity to steal my birthright? Ask him how he did it? Ask him what he possesses that I lack? I don't even know if I'll have the resolve to look him in the eyes when he returns.
He is everything I was supposed to be, and I do not know how to process it. Would you and mother disown me in favor of him, if I were unable to catch up?
You both said that you loved me; I'd make any wish to keep it that way.
Vejita abruptly inhaled, unevenly, sharply, and Bulma gasped a bit as she sat up straight. Staring at Vejita in terror and holding her breath, praying he didn't wake up.
He didn't.
A deep moan, a turn of Vejita's head, and then merciful stillness.
Nothing happened, and Bulma exhaled a jittery breath and carried on, because she was almost done and wouldn't have been able to stop then, for not reading the last few would have killed her. Would have nagged her endlessly, so she plunged on.
Father
The wishes were made today. And I, the strongest man in the universe while Kakarotto was dead, stood there and just watched. I let these Earthlings collect them, I stood there off to the side and let them make their wishes, and lifted no hand. I stood there and did nothing, and I don't know why. I have so many wishes. So many things in my head. I want everything, and yet I stood there in silence, and made no motion, because I think I wanted Kakarotto to come back so badly that I didn't dare risk ruining something.
Why?
I don't understand my desire to see him. I need to prove that I can be stronger than him while he is alive, perhaps, and so I was quiet. It is so incomprehensible to me that he is stronger. I am so deeply offended, but also so frightened. My entire life I believed that I was the one. To know that I am not and never was has entirely destroyed my perception of myself.
Who am I?
I once knew. Not anymore.
Kakarotto is alive. He has been, this entire while. Lost somewhere out in space, just like you, and so I am in a ship now, looking for him. I can't explain it, nor can I explain my desperation. I feel like some helpless asteroid caught up in the orbit of some great star. Chasing Kakarotto across the universe.
I hope to find him, for if I find a 'dead' Kakarotto alive and well in space, then I'll be right, and I'll have been right all along.
You really could be—you really are—out there.
Almost there. She was nearly finished, and not a damn moment too soon.
Her head was pounding, and so was her heart.
Father
I think I've hit some sort of wall. I feel lost; wherever I go, there's no one there. Kakarotto eludes me. I've annihilated the remainder of Frieza's force. It's little recompense to you, this I know, when I was unable to complete the task at hand. I don't know what else to do. I've looked everywhere I can think, I feel I've done everything within my power. I can't find Kakarotto, and I cannot surpass him. What is there possibly left for me? Wherever you are, forgive me for being unable to track anyone down. I feel as if the universe itself is closing in on me. Where do I go? I can only think of one place, and I'm loathe to return there without Kakarotto. But I fear I must; he'll return there, eventually, for he has a family. Raditz and Nappa are gone. Never have I traveled alone before this moment. I hate admitting that it's wearing me down. I can't stand being alone. I can't find you still, so I'll return to that planet called Earth, and wait for Kakarotto there. I think I won't be unwelcome. There's an Earthling there who had extended me an invitation.
She set the paper aside, and then, at last, came to the final letter.
Father
Kakarotto has returned at last. And naturally stronger than before. And it is my unhappy duty to inform you that I have somehow failed even more spectacularly than I had ever fathomed. Kakarotto didn't destroy Frieza, and he and his father came to Earth. I wish that I could tell you I was grateful for a second chance, that I rose to the challenge, that I became everything you believed I would be. I didn't. I was scared. When I realized Kakarotto had failed and that Frieza was coming, I was terrified. I felt like I was five years old again. Kakarotto is stronger than me, and if he had failed then what could I possibly do? I disgraced you already, and I'm sorry for that, more than you can ever know. There's another Super Saiyan. It's impossible, this I know, but I saw it with my own eyes. I deny it to myself aloud, but in my heart I know it's true. I'm now not only second-best, but third-best. What if there are others? I feel as if my entire life up until this moment has been utterly pointless. Everything I have ever known and believed is shattered. My destiny was given to another, usurped, and I'm sitting here now on this strange planet, alone. It's been made aware to me, however, that some cataclysmic event is shortly about to occur. I give you my word, father, this time, I'll rise to the occasion. I will. I swear it. I'll became a Super Saiyan, I'll become stronger than this stranger, I'll become stronger than Kakarotto, I'll reclaim my title of prince, and I'll make everything right.
I'll be the one to save this planet this time, and perhaps then you'll have cause at long last to be proud of me. Perhaps, even, it may yet be possible for our paths to cross. When all threats are eliminated, the king can once more rise. To this I always hold. For now, I shall remain here, and fulfill this calling. For now, I reluctantly call this planet 'home'. Until I find you, I will settle here. There are strong warriors here, so I feel less out of place. And not so unwelcome; that Earthling I mentioned before has proven very useful. With her inventions, it will be much easier to surpass Kakarotto I believe. She and her parents have taken me in, like the stray I've become without Frieza's collar. I'll guard this planet, just for now, not only because you would expect it of me but also because I am obligated to assist her as she has assisted me. The others fear me as anticipated, but she doesn't. I detest admitting that I'm actually glad. She has no trouble arguing with me, and she doesn't back down. You would like her, I think, for she is very much like a Saiyan. She reminds me a bit of mother, actually. It's uncanny.
As of now, she's the only one who seems to want me here, and so I'll stay, until I can get Kakarotto to acknowledge me as his superior.
I hate it here, but there's nowhere else to go, and no one to go to. Kakarotto is always gone, and I never come across him, as if he thinks so lowly of me that he can't be bothered to even come and make himself known. The others here avoid me. I felt less lonely in the void of space than I do on this planet, for all the beings here. Two Saiyans, against all odds, so close to each other, and neither of them come face to face. I have no comrades, no companions. Everyone I have ever known is dead, and you're still missing.
Only she speaks to me. She's the only person since last I saw you that's been kind to me without wanting anything in return.
She's pretty.
And that was all.
Dazed and dumbfounded, knocked somehow senseless, Bulma looked blearily around, gathered her bearings, and stood up with a wobble. She put the scouter away, found needle and thread, plopped wearily back down, and began the arduous process of perfectly folding Vejita's letters back up and ever so carefully stuffing them back inside those gloves. Tried to keep everything exactly as it had been, but it was hard when she was so exhausted that she couldn't even see straight, and the unshed tears in her eyes weren't helping matters much either. The way her temples were pounding.
The way her stomach squirmed and her chest felt heavy.
Against all odds, she managed to return every single letter back inside those gloves, took up the needle, and sewed the seam back together, as Vejita had done countless times after writing a new letter.
The strangest and somehow saddest day of her life.
When the gloves were neatly put back together as if nothing had happened, Bulma turned her chair to face Vejita, and she studied him. Really studied him. When Vejita was unconscious, there was no longer tension in his face, all lines vanished, his brow lifted and his lips relaxed. Nothing hard there at all when he was sleeping, and even though the circles were dark under his eyes and he was pale and bruised and singed and put through the wringer, somehow Bulma just looked at him then and saw that scared little kid, writing letters.
She wasn't sure if she would ever be able to see Vejita in any other manner again, come to think, for as much as Vejita's perception of himself had changed, so had her perception of him.
Scared and lost and lonely, with nowhere to go, and no one waiting.
Though Vejita wrote those letters, of course in his heart he knew that his father and mother were dead, that everyone was gone, and that there was no possible way for anything to ever go back to the way it had been.
Vejita could wander a lifetime, and never would he come across that face he so desperately sought.
Never would that hand be around his own again.
Not that hand, no, but...
Bulma scooted her chair closer, closer, until suddenly it was right beside the bed, and her heart was thudding. So inexplicably nervous then, for no good reason. Not even for herself exactly. Hard to explain, but for some reason then she felt nervous for Vejita. Anxious on his behalf.
She took a great deep breath, reached out, and grabbed Vejita's hand. She hoped, if nothing else, that he could feel someone there in his sleep, someone real, someone nearby, and pretend that it was someone dearly missed. Hoped she could offer that slight bit of comfort, just a little reprieve, even if it had to be limited to the realm of dreams.
Suddenly and all at once, Vejita didn't seem like more trouble than he was worth.
At the touch, at the sensation, there was another stir, another deep moan, another squirm. By all rights Vejita should have been unconscious for another week, but of course this stubborn piece of work needed to come around then just to be a show off. As usual.
Bulma clenched his hand tightly, to silently spur him on.
Vejita's hands weren't rough like Yamcha's. They were very smooth, but that was not so unexpected, for Vejita would go through hell and back before he willingly took off those damn gloves. Supposed she knew why.
Those gloves protected more than Vejita's palms.
At last, Vejita's black eyes cracked opened, very slowly and with great effort.
That long silence, the regaining of consciousness, that vulnerable and uncertain moment when one shifted between dreams and reality. Bulma was still clenching Vejita's hand, and Vejita's face hardened and sharpened when he was alert enough to pull off an appropriate masking. Bulma didn't fall for it that time, if she ever truly had, and just clung to Vejita's hand, and then suddenly Vejita had realized that she was touching him.
A widening of his eyes, a crack in the mask, as Vejita momentarily looked startled and frightened.
Didn't pull back, though, even when he grumpily rasped, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Made no effort to disengage his hand from within hers, and exhausted Bulma griped right back, "Keeping you alive."
A potent glare that had absolutely no effect.
Bulma had glimpsed the scared child behind the wall, and saw nothing left in Vejita to actually fear.
Vejita looked around, saw his state, glanced down, and then he inhaled in a fright and bolted upright at the waist. In doing so, he immediately passed out, hit the bed again, and Bulma fussed and tutted as once again Vejita had to regain consciousness. She put her other hand on his chest, hovered over him, and prevented him this time from sitting up. When Vejita was again alert, his eyes darted frantically around, and he only seemed to settle when he saw his clothing there on the desk. Or, more importantly, his gloves. A slow blink of relief, a relaxing of his tense muscles, and then Vejita turned his eyes up to the ceiling.
Still, Vejita had yet to attempt to disengage his hand from Bulma's.
Bulma tried her best to make eye contact, but Vejita wouldn't look at her, keeping his eyes well averted. She was hardly deterred, and in that moment Vejita became her 'work in progress'. She liked creating things, liked fixing things, liked inventing, and Vejita was a bit like that broken scouter.
Damaged and electric, foreign and complex, but salvageable all the same.
In time, she could put this man back together as well, she was so sure of it.
Goku and Gohan and Krillin had seen something there in Vejita, and she could so clearly see it now, too, and wouldn't give up.
So she sat there, quietly, until Vejita lost his brief battle with consciousness and once more fell back into the realm of sleep. She was exhausted too, mentally and physically, and so she carefully crawled into the bed, and squirmed in next to Vejita. She lifted his hand until it sat upon his own breast, and then she clenched it, tucking his head beneath her chin.
For just one night, Vejita wouldn't be alone.
She held his hand through the night, and hoped that maybe with enough time Vejita could let go and move on and be happy with acknowledging that it was Bulma's hand around his own and not someone else's. Eventually, that wall could be breached, for no defense was infallible, however guarded and shielded and fortified Vejita tried to be. Tried to be, while at the same time exposing himself in such a manner.
'I can't stand being alone', Vejita had written.
Bulma made sure that he wasn't.
Funny; for all of his defenses, Vejita had quite literally held his heart in his hands throughout his entire life.