CHAPTER 20

"Yes. Yeah. Purple. No, more like a lavender. Just past his ears. What? I guess…about 5'8"or so."

Ada's trembling hand made the phone shake against her ear. She turned and walked back across the kitchen, following the same path she had been pacing for the last twenty minutes. Chi Chi had been a bit out of sorts lately, so Ada had sent her off to the city for a visit with Bulma. Ada, meanwhile, was taking care of things around the house. If everything wasn't spic-n-span when Chi Chi returned, she would spend weeks lecturing her daughter about how she was never going to find a husband if she couldn't keep a home in order. The young woman had been folding a set of sheets when the radio had suddenly switched from its characteristic silence to a hurried emergency broadcast. Chereville, a tiny hamlet not half an hour south of her home, was under attack.

Ada had immediately run to the phone to call Bulma. By some stroke of luck, the phone lines were working. The conversation had gone something like, "Is he–" "He just left" "But–" "I couldn't stop him, Ada." Thus, for the last hour, Ada had been dialing every Chereville number she could find in the phonebook for the Eastern District. The emergency lines were down, of course, so she had begun calling random homes. She had gotten hold of a few people, mostly frightened citizens who had holed up in their houses. None of them had seen Trunks.

"I realize you don't have the manpower right now. Just…please, keep an eye out for–"

Ada turned toward the front door, wide-eyed with fear, as the knob began to turn. A moment later, a very bloodied Trunks was leaning against the doorframe, hardly able to support his own weight.

"Oh…oh my God…" She dropped the phone without even realizing she had done so and ran to the man standing before her. He collapsed into her arms just as she reached the threshold of the home. Ada caught him around the middle, holding him to her. His head lolled against her right shoulder. Oblivious to the "Hello? Miss?" coming from the telephone receiver on the floor, Ada walked Trunks over to the couch, where he sat with a thud, wincing.

"Hey," he managed, coughing.

"You…" Ada brushed his hair from his brow and began to do a wound count. "I can't believe you–"

"Can we talk about this later?" Trunks interrupted. He was beginning to fall sideways on the couch, slowly losing consciousness.

"Yes. When we do, I'm going to yell. Just fair warning," Ada replied, sitting down next to him. She pulled his head into her lap with shaking hands. "Lay down."

"I thought…that maybe you were gone for good this time," she said quietly, looking down at him and stroking his hair.

Trunks looked several inches in front of his face at Ada's knee. She had on her orange training pants.

"You were…" he coughed and inhaled deeply. "You were going to come?"

"Of course."

"I like the way you think," he tried to laugh, but it hurt his ribs terribly.

"I know."

"I mean–"

"I know what you mean," Ada said as she felt his breathing relax.

His eyes half closed, Trunks took her hand and squeezed it lightly. "I'm sorry."

Ada felt some of her anger subside. A tear rolled down her cheek. "I know."

xxx

When Vegeta awoke the next morning, he was surprised to find the adult version of his son apparently already washed, dressed, and fed, because the boy was nowhere in sight. He surveyed the living area quizzically before seeing a magnificent blast of energy some ways in the distance. The prince would never admit it, but he still had trouble tuning into the boy's ki signature. Perhaps, he mused, it was because he instinctively searched for his infant son's energy instead of that of the grown man from the future. It puzzled him how very different they were, same person or not.

Vegeta let out a small grunt of approval before stalking off to the bathroom to ready himself for the first full day of training in the chamber. Maybe the half-breed wouldn't be completely useless after all.

Trunks, meanwhile, sporting a pair of the maroon training gi laid out in the washroom for him and his father, had been at it for going on an hour. A rather sizeable pool of sweat had formed on the ground beneath him as he, hovering about four feet in the air, went through the grueling motions of pushing himself until his body felt like it would rip in two. Trunks continued his training for the next six hours, attempting to cut the time between his punches and kicks to mere nanoseconds, until the clock back at the living area gave several short chimes to announce midday.

The young man let himself drop to the ground on all fours, panting and using his forearm to wipe sweat from his face. Noon. Half of one day. Half of one of the next 363 days. Days that he would spend desperately trying to push himself to the next level. Trunks shivered, half from the thought of the ensuing year and half from the strikingly sudden drop in temperature. He stood and, wrapping his arms around himself for some warmth, began walking toward the noise of clock. By the time he had reached the pantry, a terrible gust had kicked up. The Room of Spirit and Time felt like it was perched on a mountaintop during a mid-winter storm. As Trunks ate his hastily-made sandwich, his body heat all but melted away. He shoved the rest of his lunch down and journeyed- still quite hungry- back out into the endless white abyss.

Summoned again by the chime of the clock, Trunks retreated to the living area at seven p.m., every muscle in his body throbbing, his clothing completely soaked through with a whole day's worth of sweat. He began to walk tiredly toward the bathroom when a calloused voice broke the almost-24-hour silence.

"First, we eat. You will wash later." Vegeta stood behind him at the pantry. Without looking back at him, Trunks clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to tell his father that he would do as he liked. Instead, he went to the pantry and began pulling out the necessary ingredients for a quick but large batch of noodles with vegetables. His father, Trunks noted curiously, had made his way back out into the open space. Perhaps the prince had decided to take his dinner later. The young man shrugged and put a pot on the stove to boil.

Thirty minutes and three vats of steaming food later, Trunks sat down at the dinner table and began voraciously consuming his feast. Bulma had always commented on how her son had his father's appetite. About that time, Vegeta, sniffing the air hungrily, returned to the kitchen. He stopped short and eyed his future son along with what he believed to be a rather miniscule amount of food.

"Boy!" he barked, making Trunks jump slightly. "Where is my dinner?"

Trunks hardened his eyes the slightest bit and fought away the smirk that was tugging at his lips. "You haven't made it yet," he replied coldly.

Vegeta scowled. "You were making it, brat!" he shot back.

"I don't know what would give you that idea. You told me to leave you alone. I am." Trunks turned away from his father and finished off his dinner. Vegeta, his mouth open in shock at the boy's insolence, didn't move for several moments. After the younger warrior put his dirty dishes in the sink and set off for the washroom, Vegeta let out a low growl. Where was the boy who was desperate to please his father? What happened to the obedient Trunks that had followed him across a wasteland and sat patiently behind him for three days as the prince stared off into the sky? What about the forlorn kid from the hellish future who ached for his father's affection?

Suddenly, it hit Vegeta. All of those parts of Trunks were still within him. He simply was not allowing them to show through. His loyalty to the Prince of Saiyans had gotten him nowhere, so he was hardening himself. He was out to beat Vegeta at his own game.

This realization brought a pleased smirk to Vegeta's lips, the kind seen only when there was a new enemy to be destroyed, a new challenge to be overcome.

Touché, boy. Touché.

xxx

One of Trunks' arms over her shoulder, Ada made her way to the bathroom. Though she could easily support his weight, the going was slow. Trunks had stumbled into her home two days prior, beaten to a bloody pulp. One of his legs had gotten broken in the fight, and his attempts to limp out of the rubble of the town caused the frail bones to shatter. In other words, he could hardly move. Walking was certainly out of the question, at least without Ada's help. Ada had inspected the wounded man, who was still half-covered in dirt that had adhered to his skin from his own sweat and blood, and decided that he was past due for a bath. She had filled the tub and was now leading Trunks to a seat on the lid of the toilet.

"So, you can rest your leg up here," she motioned to the edge of the tub, "to keep your cast dry. When you're done, just pull the drain plug. I'll leave a towel right here, so it's easy for you to reach. And then just yell when you're ready to get out."

Trunks nodded, a frown across his face. Ada pushed a lock of purple hair from his brow.

"Hey, now," she soothed. "You'll be fixed up before you know it, and we'll never have to speak of your needing help performing basic tasks again." She smiled, but Trunks shot her a rather nasty look in return. She was trying to lighten the mood, of course, but getting beaten by the androids yet again had sent Trunks into an angry, defeated state from which he had yet to escape. He had hardly spoken in the last two days. Every time he had had to ask for help doing something, his mood grew even dourer.

While Ada understood his frustration, she was growing very impatient with his pride. It was a part of Trunks that didn't often show, and she very much disliked it. Besides, he had brought the injury on himself. She had told him so many times…

"Alright, then. I'll leave you to it," Ada said, rather more shortly than she had meant to, and left.

Some thirty minutes later, Ada heard a loud CLUNK. Alarmed, she hopped off the couch and darted to the bathroom. She knocked anxiously on the door. What if he'd fallen and injured himself further?

"Trunks? What happened?"

She heard a sort of grunt.

"Trunks? Did you fall?"

"I'm…fine," came a strained voice from the other side of the door.

"It doesn't sound like it."

"Just…I said I'm fine!"

Time to lose the attitude, mister. "Yeah, of course. I'm coming in."

"No, d–"

Ada pushed open the door and then realized very quickly that she shouldn't have. Trunks was sprawled ungracefully across the tub, half-standing, half-bending over to reach the towel she had left on the floor. He could not do both and keep his balance, however, and came crashing down on the bathtub floor within seconds.

"Oh–" Ada started to step into the room before Trunks whipped his head around to face her, his expression a mix of fury and embarrassment.

"I said I was fine!" He shot at her, flushing red. Ada stopped, confused for a moment before the situation caught up with her. In her haste to save Trunks from crippling the other half of his body, she had not noticed that he was stark naked. She immediately averted her eyes, placing a hand between her face and the bathroom scene.

"Oh, dammit, I'm sorry–" Turning almost as red as Trunks, she fumbled for something to say.

"I didn't tell you to come in!" came the angry voice from the tub.

Somewhere between apologetic and annoyed, Ada began to leave the bathroom. Just as she was shutting the door behind her, Trunks spoke again.

"Hey…I…" The anger was gone. The shame wasn't. "Could you…I…can't reach the towel…" He finished lamely, stopping Ada.

Attempting to continue to look away, Ada backed up and grabbed the towel. She stretched her arm out toward the tub, and Trunks grabbed it.

"Thanks," he managed. Ada again made her exit and closed the door.

She returned five minutes later and knocked timidly. After that lovely treatment, she wanted to make him crawl back to the bedroom. His pride was already so injured, however, she feared that it might completely perish if he were made to do such a thing. "Are you decent?"

"Yes," he replied after a moment. She opened the door to find him sitting on the edge of the tub, his towel wrapped around his waist more tightly than a corset. He didn't meet her eyes. Ashamed of needing help, ashamed of falling down in the bathtub, ashamed of being seen naked…let's just add ashamed of treating me like shit to the list.

"Ready?" He nodded in reply. Ada helped him make the long trek down the hall and into her bedroom. She dropped him on the foot of the bed and found a pair of clean clothes, which she proceeded to toss at him. In no mood to talk to him, she then started back out the door.

"Ada…" he said timidly. She stopped and turned to face him.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice laced with frustration.

"I'm…sorry…for yelling at you. I didn't…I just…I wasn't expecting you to barge in, is all," Trunks said, looking down at his lap.

"I forgive you," Ada softened. "I just don't understand why it was such a big deal in the first place. How long have I known you? How long have we been dating?"

"Yeah, I know…I made something out of nothing," he conceded, stealing a glance at her before returning his eyes to his lap.

She frowned and cocked her head to one side. "But…it wasn't 'nothing' to you, was it?"

Trunks looked up at her but said nothing.

"You can't stand being vulnerable," Ada supplied. "Whether that means being temporarily disabled…or unexpectedly seen in all of your glory. Am I getting somewhere?" His eyes widened.

"Glory?" Trunks asked, a small smile creeping over his face. "Did you enjoy it that much?"

Ada flushed. "It's an expression!" she shot back before covering her eyes with her hand. Trunks burst into laughter for the first time in days.

"No more free shows," he added, reaching his hand out and grabbing her forearm. He pulled her to him and buried his face in her stomach. Ada pushed a hand through his damp hair and held his head against her. He pulled up her shirt the slightest bit and planted a kiss just above her navel.

"Get dressed. Mom will have dinner ready soon," she said softly, running her hand down the back of his neck before bending down to kiss him.

xxx

After a steamy (but, Vegeta noted, exceptionally quick) shower, Trunks emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and a towel around his waist. He put on his boxers and other set of clothes and put the towel and his training gi in the wash; his father, he noted with a grimace, seemed ignorant of the existence of a washing machine. Of course, it had been only 48 hours since they had entered the chamber. What judgments he made about Vegeta could be completely incorrect…but the purple-haired warrior doubted it. Brushing all thoughts from his mind, Trunks commenced his evening exercises. He stretched for half an hour, the pain from the day's workouts still piercing him to the core, and then found a quiet spot out in the open white space to sit. He assumed the lotus position and worked to clear his mind as best he could, concentrating on his ki and deepening his dependence on and control over it. This was something he had only taken up in the last year and only on Ada's advice. She made sure to meditate every evening and at least once during each of her training sessions. She had a natural gift for controlling her ki but, under her brother's tutelage, had worked for a very long time to build it. Trunks hoped to achieve something of what she had in that area.

He finished his meditation and returned to the living area, deciding to turn in early. It had, after all, been an exceptionally grueling first two days. Trunks stripped back down to his boxer shorts and readied himself for bed before hearing his father, probably shoveling down a bedtime 'snack', raiding the pantry. Thinking that perhaps this would be a good chance to gauge how Vegeta was responding to their earlier conversation, the young man decided to take a seat at the kitchen table and munch down an apple.

Vegeta, meanwhile, completely disregarded the presence of his son. Or, at least, Trunks assumed that's what he was doing. The older warrior had snatched a jar of what appeared to be peanut butter and was consuming it by the spoonful, his back leaned against the counter. Perhaps, Trunks ventured, his father had merely taken their "conversation" earlier to mean that Trunks hoped for silence between the two of them. It certainly seemed that way. He rose to toss the core of his apple into the trash.

"I suppose you think that we ought to get to know each other, boy."

Trunks stopped suddenly and blinked at his father.

"What?" he managed, the apple core still dangling from his hand. He wondered if he had ever been more shocked in his life.

"Do you make use of your ears or are they purely decorative?" spat the Saiyan prince.

"I…they…" Trunks stammered, gulping. His father was speaking to him…his father…was speaking to him.

"You're quite the conversationalist." Vegeta sneered, shoving another glob of peanut butter into his mouth.

Trunks regained his composure, narrowing his eyes somewhat. There had to be some other motive here. He hadn't known his father for very long, but unless the man was feeling particularly feverish, there was no reason for him to have initiated a conversation. Well, he could be a wise ass, too, as it so happened.

"I usually am. You'll appreciate how difficult it is to hold a conversation with someone who has no personality, though."

"Ha. Not bad, kid," Vegeta laughed. "So I suppose that you're not willing to have a heart-to-heart?"

"Well, old man, if you need to get some things off your chest, I would be happy to let you cry on my shoulder," Trunks shot back, forcing a grin. No matter what sort of front he was putting up, he felt exceedingly uncomfortable. This was going nowhere good.

"No, no – I just wanted to…learn more about you, that's all. Considering you're my son, you know."

"I'm sure your curiosity is killing you."

"It is. You're surprisingly witty for a pre-pubescent half-breed."

"I'm twenty-one," Trunks returned, rather more sharply than he intended.

"You can't fault me for having trouble discerning things about you. That ridiculous hair makes you look like a child."

Trunks balled one hand into a fist. Easy, easy. He's just trying to get a rise out of you.

"You didn't seem to mind the colorful hair on your wife."

"That harpy is not my wife!" Trunks knew that, of course. He also knew that it would get Vegeta's blood boiling a little, and he was right.

"Sorry. I forgot. In my timeline, she was still with you when the androids killed you. I don't suppose you'll keep using her after we've finished off Cell, will you?" Trunks spat at his father. Vegeta responded with a low growl.

"Don't speak about what you don't understand. At your age, you've probably never been with a woman for more than a night," Vegeta replied nonchalantly, finishing off the peanut butter.

Trunks, taken aback, turned his gaze from his father. Vegeta looked back at his son, a smile creeping over his lips.

"What's that? Nothing to say?"

Trunks opened his mouth to reply but found that he couldn't. Oh, Kame – think of something. Anything.

"Wait," Vegeta said, somewhat more loudly. His smile widened. "Don't tell me – no – you've never been with a woman, have you, boy?"

Trunks turned toward his father again, struggling for a comeback. "I…if…it depends on what you mean by 'been with'…" What? Why did you say that?

"HA!" Vegeta threw his head back, roaring in laughter. "You're a CHERRY, aren't you, boy?" He threw his hands onto his stomach as if he simply couldn't contain his glee.

Trunks' face turned the brightest shade of red imaginable, a mixture of anger and…well…shame tearing at his stomach. His mouth hung slightly open. He had never been more embarrassed – or speechless – in his life.

Vegeta roared with laughter. "I should have thought as much! I mean, let's have a look at you: a tiny kid with a mop of hair that looks like a flower bed. It's no wonder. Ha!"

Trunks balled up his sweaty hands and searched his mind for anything to say…anything at all.

"Of course, you were raised by a woman–"

"At least I'm no murderer," Trunks managed, and with a great deal more conviction than he felt.

The older man's eyes suddenly blazed. The audacity…

Vegeta frowned, and looked, Trunks thought, absolutely terrifying. It took the young man's best effort to maintain eye contact. They stood there in silence for some time, each refusing to back down.

"You can call me 'father' all you want, boy," Vegeta finally said in low, menacing tone, "but true Saiyans know that bastards have no place in the lives of their sires. You are wasting my time and your own by being here. You are a distraction at best, and a needy pest at worst. My power infinitely overshadows yours. And I have no time for this idle chit-chat." Vegeta tossed the empty peanut butter jar into the trash, knocking the can several feet away with the force of the throw. He promptly left the kitchen – and his son – and went to bed.

xxx

Author's Note: My dear readers, thank you so much for your support. Your reviews absolutely keep me going. I must admit to thieving part of a scene from this story from Uncharted 3; I took another idea from "On the Mend" by Woman of Rohan. If you're a fan of Uncharted, check it out. Also, Draquia is working on Lovefools, a Krillin/18 fic, again! It's coming along wonderfully, so be sure to give it a read. Thank you again, and please do continue to send in those reviews.