Human Hospitality

by scoutergreen

Chapter 50

Backslide

Fourteen days into his hospital stay, Vegeta was officially healing at a rate nobody had ever seen before. His injured tendons and muscles were repairing "beautifully" (to quote an ultrasound technician) and the blisters giving way to fresh, sensitive skin and scar tissue. Bulma came to visit him the most often, partly out of concern for his well-being but especially to keep an eye on his behaviour. He never uttered any direct threats or even swore at the nurses out of malice (he swore when they changed his dressings but nobody could fault that), but Bulma swore she could feel the energy in the room change when the Saiyan was displeased with somebody. Other times, he was quite funny and strangely charming, and there was almost always a strange glimmer in his eyes... when his eyes didn't look blank and ice cold, that is. And when his eyes got blank and cold, everybody would approach him with caution. Although none of them discussed it openly, all the nurses picked up on these strange, subtle shifts in energy and would only approach in pairs or in threes whenever the bad energy was present.

For the most part, Vegeta didn't seem all that bothered by being in the hospital. He ate fairly well, the supervising physician ordering a 3000 calorie diet which was supplemented by Mrs. Briefs' meals and plenty of snacks. Mrs. Briefs had brought him several sets of pyjamas (all new, based on their smell when he received them) with front button closures and easy drawstrings, and although Vegeta wasn't exactly fond of them, he still wore them. He slept at least seven hours per night and napped during the day, but found his dreams were more vivid and gruesome than ever- and it wasn't a good thing. He got a daily shower and was very relived to be more independent with every passing day, and always insisted Bulma comb out his hair once it had dried. He still couldn't raise his hands over his head without it resulting in pain, but he did it anyway. He was getting up to use the toilet on his own, even though he was supposed to page for assistance.

One afternoon, the one called Krillin came to pay Vegeta a visit. He made certain to bring food after Bulma and Yamcha both recommended he do so for maximum chance of cooperation, opting to smuggle in a container of Pad Thai and another of grilled salmon with rice, ordered from two separate restaurants. When Vegeta saw this, he ordered Krillin to shut the door.

"Alright, baldie. You can stay. What exactly are you doing here?" Vegeta frowned at the sight of another plastic fork but soon forgot about his annoyance the minute he tried the fish.

Krillin scratched the back of his head and cleared his throat. "Word got 'round that you were in a horrible accident, and, well, I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright. Your recovery is really impressive..."

"Oh, do spare me..." the Saiyan had another greedy mouthful of salmon and hummed with pleasure at the taste, "and turn on the TV. There's a channel that broadcasts ridiculous films... some of them are alright, but most of them are shit."

Krillin wasted no time turning on the television, discovering it was set to a channel that broadcast action films. "You like this kind of stuff, Vegeta? Huh..."

A film about a seemingly indestructible killer robot from the future was playing. "Oh, this one is good," Vegeta managed to speak through a mouth full of rice, "I like this film. Here, take this and give me the next dish."

Movements still slow but graceful, Vegeta held out the empty container of salmon and rice and gave Krillin a pointed look.

"Oh," Krillin took the empty container and immediately gave the Saiyan the next container, "still hungry, huh?"

"Very," Vegeta managed to reply before practically inhaling his first bite of Pad Thai, "good thin' y'got 'shikken n' dofu n' eggs..." he kept talking with his mouth full. Oh, he loved that noodle dish.

"Yeah," Krillin's gaze drifted back towards the television, "thought you might... like... it..." his voice trailed off. Vegeta's eating habits were considerably more refined than Goku's, but watching him eat was just a bit unnerving.

The film cut to a commercial break. Vegeta finished the last of the second dish Krillin had brought him, and again he held out the empty container to beckon the man. Tongue sweeping across his teeth and eager for something to drink, he motioned to an empty cup on his beside. Get me water while you're at it, his eyes warned.

How does he manage to be so scary when he's stuck in a hospital bed, Krillin pondered as he stared into the bathroom mirror, waiting for the tap water to be cool enough to enjoy. Vegeta was a rather particular man, and Krillin wasn't willing to annoy him. He could still move and talk and therefore he was to be considered dangerous.

For whatever reason, Vegeta said Krillin was welcome to stay and watch the film, so as long as he didn't engage in any kind of prying conversation. They engaged in bits of small talk. When Vegeta enquired about the man's training and how he was enjoying some "down time", it took Krillin a few seconds to realize the Saiyan was actually behaving in a manner most would consider polite, maybe even friendly. When a nurse came around to clean his healing surgical wounds, the shy monk was quite shocked to find Vegeta was cooperative and seemed to trust what the nurse was doing.

Krillin knew to expect surgical incisions and healing wounds, but he hadn't been expecting so many long incision scars that occasionally intersected with older scars with unknown origins. There were tiny red marks from where drainage tubes had been inserted into his abdomen and chest, fading bruises, and so many new surgical scars, plenty still stitched up, that Krillin lost the silent count he'd been holding in his head.

"How do you feel about rolling onto your side today?"

"That's fine," Vegeta lazily rolled onto his right side and didn't flinch as the still-healing wound on his hip was cleaned, "if I'm walking normally in three days, I can begin training soon enough."

"Oooh, I think you've got a bit to go before you're walking unassisted. What are you training for?"

"Excuse me?" Vegeta grimaced when the wound was thoroughly cleansed and rinsed with a saline solution. He hated how cold it always was.

"What kind of event are you training for? Were you planning to run a race before your accident?"

"Uhh..." Krillin thought he was going to be sick.

"Martial arts," muttered Vegeta, who remained perfectly still when the nurse applied gentle pressure to the tender area around the wound.

"Oh yeah? My sister just earned her black belt in Tae Kwon Do. What styles are you familiar with?"

"Mixed. My aim is to disable my enemy in the least amount of time needed while also going for the maximum amount of damage. Just let me watch and I pick up fast enough."

"Oh my, you must be very good. You sound like a tough guy to beat! Are you planning to compete in the World Martial Arts Tournament?"

"I am now," Vegeta shot back instantly, his interest piqued by this new piece of information. A worldwide fighting tournament? After he turned the robots into scrap metal, he was going to fight in whatever this tournament was all about. He would win, and it would be a glorious start to his reign; first on Earth, before he spread out to other planets and back into PTO territory. He really would rule the galaxy one day, starting with Earth.

The nurse laughed and finished dressing the healing wound. "It's at least two years from now. You'll have time to get through physiotherapy before easing yourself back into training. That's a great goal to set!"

The Saiyan responded only with a second long hum deep in his throat. When asked, he rolled onto his other side. He wasn't amused, but she was ignorant and wasn't to be taken seriously. When the nurse finished dressing the incisions on his hips, he slowly rolled back up to an seated upright position and did something nobody expected: he rolled his shoulders back and forth.

"Ready to work on your back and shoulders?"

"Yes," Vegeta unbuttoned his top and shimmied out of it, "I'm itching like hell."

The nurse started to remove the old dressings. "Well, let me just... see..." she went silent and traced over a bright red scar, shiny and smooth and fresh. There was no way he could be healing so quickly. Not after the intense surgery and brutal injuries he'd sustained just two weeks prior.

"Take the stitches out. They're irritating. I think I can start lifting my arms over my head soon."

"I'll be right back, Mr. Vegeta," the nurse turned away from his bedside and was calling for a doctor before she'd even left the room.

After eighteen days, Vegeta was officially discharged from the hospital. He was asked to visit the supervising surgeon every week for the following three months. To Bulma's surprise, Vegeta agreed to this condition.

To Vegeta's massive shock, several of the nurses offered very sincere-sounding good wishes and bid him goodbye. He was sent home with several pamphlets about his continued recovery and basic physical exercises he could ease himself into (the staff at the hospital clearly underestimated him), a collection of anti-biotic creams, filled prescriptions for painkillers and anti-inflammatories, and a huge paper bag of dressings and alcohol swabs.

While he left the building in a wheelchair, the moment he and Bulma had passed the threshold to the main doors, Vegeta shakily rose to his feet and walked all the way to the car.

When Vegeta was in the front passenger seat of Bulma's compact utility vehicle, he heaved a huge sigh and leaned into the cushioned seat back. She'd been required to carry all of the things in his hospital room back home (no surprise) and slid it underneath a back seat.

"I'm so fucking hungry. Food now."

"Okay, big guy. Where to?"

"A cheeseburger and those onion rings. Then falafel with lots of garlic and pickled vegetables and greens, with hummus and pita on the side. And pizza- a big one. And steak cooked extra rare. You might as well get chicken wings with hot sauce. Oh, and fruit. A lot of fresh fruit right away."

"Umm, yeah. I think that I'm gonna get you home and then I'll go get all that food..."

Vegeta slapped a hand on the dashboard and growled. "Right now, damn it!"

Rolling her eyes, Bulma pulled out of the hospital parking lot and drove directly to a fast food restaurant. Once Vegeta had a few bites of a double cheeseburger with onion rings and a soft drink, his mood levelled off and he agreed to going home.

"You'd best be fast about this food run, woman," Vegeta continued growling, his mouth full of fast food.

"Damn, who pissed in your corn flakes? I'll be as fast as I can! Like, have you even figured out where you're gonna lay down when you get home? Your hips obviously still hurt."

"Couch in the living room," Vegeta muttered before taking a huge sip of root beer, "at least for today. Fuck your stairs and fuck flying. I'm exhausted."

"You are so rude! Why are you taking this out on me, huh? And how can you be so tired, huh?"

"I am fucking hungry! Do you not get that?"

"Oh yeah, so scream at me about that! Why didn't you bitch out the nurses this much, huh?"

"I have a policy of not fucking with medical staff when dependent on their services. Common sense, really."

Bulma scoffed and pulled the car into the Capsule compound's huge car port. Anger rising, she practically snatched the overstuffed duffel bag from the back seat and dumped it on the couch in the living room.

"Go sit down and I'll go get your stupid food! You pig!"

It didn't take long for the arguments to begin. There was one every single day, sometimes twice or even three times a day. Bulma usually managed to out-scream Vegeta and could occasionally silence him for a good thirty seconds, but Vegeta dished out sharp barbs, unbelievable profanity, and every once in a while he would say something so chilling that it left anybody within earshot with goosebumps.

He never seriously threatened to kill Bulma, nor did he ever physically harm any occupants of the compound. While Vegeta refused to physically engage with Bulma, it did little to stop Bulma from trying to egg him on to the point of a physical altercation, but he never gave in.

Vegeta spent only one night sleeping on the living room couch, as he said he would, before forcing himself to walk up the stairs early in the morning, newly repaired muscle and healing tendon limiting his speed and flexibility. It really hurt to walk. Even his abdominal muscles hurt by the time he made it to his bedroom.

Over the course of ten days, Vegeta did nothing but stretch and condition his body, hissing through the pinging ache of his healing joints and the burning ache of his muscles being properly engaged for the first time in a long while. He would grab onto door frames and perform a series of pull-ups, or use the patio railing as a balance beam.

Bulma decided that Vegeta was completely crazy. He could never be wholly reasoned with nor would he follow directions as ordered. They had been arguing constantly about the gravity simulator and battle drones; Bulma usually agreed to try making another powerful simulator, but her refusal to build it immediately and Vegeta's impatience with the entire situation led to daily clashes.

On the morning of the eleventh day, Mrs. Briefs came downstairs to find Vegeta laying on a foam mat in the living room with his knees inching towards his chest and toes pointed, drenched in sweat and panting through grit teeth. When the Saiyan heard the click of the matriarch's low heels against the floor, he curled his body up and rolled up to his feet, stifling a pained groan in the process.

"Good morning, honey. I'm going to get started on breakfast. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm going into the simulator to train in peace and quiet. Have breakfast ready in an hour," Vegeta rolled his aching shoulders and walked past Mrs. Briefs, heading out the sliding glass door to the backyard and into the simulator. If he could get to ten times Earth's normal gravity, it would be a satisfactory accomplishment for the day.

Mrs. Briefs watched as he climbed the staircase in his bare feet and sighed with worry when the door slammed behind him and the airlock engaged.