A/N: Thanks to (you are VERY welcome!) for the review! Yes, this was a quick update, I actually wanted to get this out around Thanksgiving for the US, but alas... Thank you to ALL of my readers, and especially those who drop in and leave a comment. Hopefully, the email situation has been sorted out on this site. Well, enjoy!

Chapter 31:

"So," Bulma pursed her lips, displeased by some thought. "…what did your father say to you?"

Trunks huffed. "That's what you want to know?"

"You're upset about it. Of course I want to know that!"

"I'm upset about a lot of things," he grumbled back. His mother smiled again.

"You sure look different, but you're still my little boy," she teased.

"Mom, please." Trunks spoke into his knees, staring at the ground. "I know what you're trying to do …but things have changed too much, haven't they?" He hesitated before he spoke, but decided to start with it anyway, because it was probably the easiest thing to cover. "Why do you want to stay here? You …I know it's not because he made you Queen."

"I don't mind that, though. Not like you seem to."

"Really?" He stretched his legs, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. "I guess I hold a grudge better than you do. But those people never treated us like we were anything. And now I'm expected to believe that everything is going to be nice and neat and we'll just stay here by Vegeta's side while he rules the damn place? Right."

"Honestly, Trunks …'those people' as you call them, never did much to us." Bulma pointed out. Trunks shook his head, but stayed respectfully silent as she continued. "They didn't. They didn't kill me. Geta did."

Trunks' lip curled. "Don't …please don't discuss that with me. Don't talk about him like that."

"Like what?"

"Sympathetic," he supplied. "What happened to him anyway? He better not be here. If Dad was good for one thing, it's making people pay."

"And look, you sound just like him right now."

"I do not," he growled, furthering the impression. Bulma's lips twitched.

"Well, you wouldn't know, surly teenager, because you haven't been here." As if to ease the hard words, his mother leaned against his shoulder. "To answer your original question, Trunks …I'm staying …because I want to stay."

Trunks had already known that she would say something like that, but getting the confirmation from his mother's mouth just made everything worse. Especially since his father had thrown it in his face with so much smugness. "Just …why? Why would you—"

"I know that isn't what you want to hear at all, okay? I know." She fiddled with the fine cape that was bunched around her, against the ground. "And…" she stiffened, like she was bracing for something. "…I really owe you an apology, Trunks. I think that I have for a very long time."

He highly doubted that, but he decided to humor her. "What about?"

"About coming here to begin with," Bulma said, her eyes were wide and misty, staring up at the red sky. "All those years ago."

"You didn't—that wasn't—" Trunks stammered, too many objections to know where to begin and confused as to what he had missed. He really had always thought… His mother shook her head.

"It was, though. I mean, yeah, your father didn't exactly give me a choice in the matter, at the time. But there were many times that I could have left. I made plans." She laughed bitterly. "Hell, I nearly set them in motion too. And he knew, all along." She swallowed, and looked up again, but you could hardly see the stars anyway. There was a tear in the corner of her eye and Trunks wished it gone.

"We were …like …playing a game. And that adventure, what I couldn't get on Earth. I got it with your Dad. And so I never left." She turned away from the sky to meet his eyes squarely. "And the worst part about all of it was that I didn't get you out. I didn't consider you the way that I should have. And where did it get us?"

Trunks drew back from her to really look at his mother while she spoke. He saw the misery written all over her face. "Are you seriously blaming yourself, Mom? For dying?"

She shook her head. "You aren't listening to me. Look, I get that you are angry with your dad and I'm guessing that you don't want to be angry with me too …but aren't you? Even a little?"

"No!" Trunks was aghast. "How—how could you even think that? After everything that I—"

"Yes, exactly, Trunks. After everything that you did, that you had to do." His mother pressed her lips together. "I had chances to leave. But I had to see this through. I still do. And because of my priorities, I put you in a terrible position." Trunks was horrified as her eyes filled with tears. He had nearly never seen her cry, and he hated it. "That's why," she spoke like the words were wrenched out of her, "…if you want to leave, I will stand by you completely. If you don't want to be Prince, then I'll tell your father to go to hell and hug you goodbye. You don't need to be a part of my mess, okay? I should have seen that earlier, and I didn't, and I'm sorry."

Trunks was speechless. He had suspected some of this already, but it hadn't ever mattered, and he had never wanted his mom to feel this terrible about it. He knew that she would never accept a dismissal of her words, though, so he awkwardly looked away from her wet eyes and focused on the middle distance, like there was something interesting out there.

"You know that …I would never have cared about that. I don't blame you for any of it." He almost looked over, but found he couldn't bring himself to see the emotion on her face. "I just wanted you to be okay."

He felt her tear tracks against his face as his mother leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. He felt them warm in embarrassment too, but that was only because he could feel all the things she wanted to convey, and hoped that she wouldn't say them. No such luck.

"That's because you are the most wonderful son that a woman could ever ask for, Trunks Briefs."

VBVBVBVBVBVBVBVB

"The King is probably going to want to keep you close, to avoid your father's buffoonery causing a national crisis, so I'm going to show you where you'll likely be staying."

Nappa was weaving in and out of corridors, speaking with put-upon boredom as they walked. Gohan tried to look around as much as possible, now that Vegeta's family drama wasn't playing out right before his eyes. Gohan would have never voiced this opinion aloud, but it was kind of like witnessing a car accident. You didn't want to look, but…

His family just didn't deal with things in the same way. He didn't know whether it was better or worse, but he did know that both ways had their downsides. His mom really ruled the Son household with an iron fist. Dad, for whatever reason, would have rather cowered underneath it rather than scream right back at her.

Gohan had dim memories of Bulma and Vegeta yelling at each other when he was little, and they were all on Earth. And it kinda grossed him out that it was probably just a precursor to what was actually going on. Trunks wouldn't have existed, otherwise.

But Vegeta seemed really different now, despite what Trunks had warned him about. This version of Vegeta made people go quiet when he entered a room. You could tell he still had a big mean streak …but there was something more subtle about it.

Gohan guessed that the difference was probably that he was King. What King had to shout about his power? He just had it, and you could just look at him and know.

On Namek, Gohan had nearly been in awe of Trunks. His battle prowess at such a young age, his golden power-up, the way he did what needed to be done without overthinking it or getting upset… Gohan had felt ashamed that someone a few years younger than him had seemed to have it so much more together.

But when Trunks saw Vegeta, it was as if all of that unraveled…

Nappa pulled a creaking, heavy door to reveal a room that was easily twice the size of Gohan's entire house on Earth. "You'll stay here or somewhere similar, I'm sure."

"We don't need all of this!" Gohan burst out in a high-pitch, a little appalled by the idea that he would occupy such a space without being able to give anything back. "I mean, it's okay if I get a smaller room…"

Nappa looked back at Gohan as if he was particularly slow. "Who demands a smaller room in a palace?" the older Saiyan demanded. "Are you trying to be an inconvenience?!"

"No!" Gohan squeaked, not understanding how such a thing could be taken that way. "I just—"

"Just say 'thank you' to your liege and move on, boy!" Nappa growled. "We don't have time for your ostentatious requests!"

"O-okay…?" Saiyan guards were standing at doors and everyone was armored. Gohan tried not to gawk; he hadn't wanted his curiosity to get the best of him. But he had to admit, it was far different to know his father wasn't an Earthling, and to see this…

One half of his heritage was here, and he didn't know how long he was going to get to see it and take it all in.

"Nappa?"

The hulking Saiyan turned and eyed the Saiyan who had stopped in the wide hall. For the first time since he had arrived, someone had paid him notice and was considering him. Then again, he wasn't shocked by that, given that he had been standing next to the Saiyan Royal Family while they attempted to sort out their personal crisis (if it could be called an attempt to sort it out and not just a physical eruption of grievances…?).

"Lord Cumber," Nappa announced, though there was some snide in his tone. "I see you managed to play nice with the King. I thought I'd find you routed when I returned."

This Lord Cumber gave a scathing breath. "Heh, not over any pettiness, am I going to draw my last breath. And you left suddenly," he pointed out with some satisfaction. "Didn't seem like you were particularly in favor either, if the rumors are true."

Nappa snorted, but didn't offer a reprisal. Gohan assumed that the events of Namek were fairly hush-hush. He didn't know what the Saiyans believed had happened, so it was better to stand there with his mouth shut. But of course, this Saiyan lord's eyes returned to Gohan.

"Who is this?" he asked bluntly.

Gohan had no intention of responding, and tried his best not to look too cowed and out-of-place. Nappa, however, seemed to have prepared for this.

"He's a friend of our Prince; his only Saiyan companion in childhood, because well—you know." Nappa spread a hand, as if half-heartedly presenting Gohan. "Grandson of Bardock."

"Who?" Cumber blinked.

"Third-class warrior, hasn't been stationed on Vegeta-sei for years."

"Third-class," Cumber mumbled, and then he eyed Gohan again. "I just saw the King's son. Prince of All Saiyans? He looked as if he had gone to war, but he left rather quickly."

"Yes, well ….the King wasoffering his son a princely welcome," Nappa said with a smirk. "It was a sight to behold."

Gohan noticed that this Saiyan lord seemed to be holding something back, and wondered how Trunks had acted when the lord had a run-in with him. Gohan hoped that Bulma had managed to find Trunks—he probably needed to speak with her more than anyone. Gohan doubted that he would be any good. This place had been hitting him like a ton of bricks, and he needed to be ready to do any damage-control when Goku inevitably arrived.

It was obvious almost immediately that Vegeta-sei had politics and a specific system in play, just like Earth. But unlike Earth, Gohan and Goku would be close to the throne, and therefore under watchful eyes…

If it was a lot to take in for him, he couldn't even imagine his father bulldozing his way into things. Let alone, Dende's physical appearance being so clearly different from anyone else's, and his clear fear of threatening beings.

I'm screwed, Gohan moaned in his own head. Completely screwed…

He couldn't expect Trunks to keep things straight, not when there was so much animosity between him and his father. He had only seen peeks of this behavior in Namek, but now it was obvious that the Saiyan culture was alive in Trunks.

Gohan couldn't, in his wildest dreams, imagine beating his father senseless the way that Trunks had gone after Vegeta. He couldn't imagine Goku doing it to him, and the both of them being satisfied by it. But there was a latent part of him that kinda understood it, at the same time.

He wondered …if he had been born on this planet, if he would be any different than what he was. Or if he had come here when he was as young as Trunks had been…

"I'm sure," Cumber said dryly. "And you've seen Cabba already?"

"No!" Came Nappa's snide reply. "What's there to see anyway? I have more important responsibilities to attend to."

"Like showing around a third-class?" Cumber raised an eyebrow again at Gohan. "What is your name, boy?"

Nappa didn't intervene, so Gohan answered the question, trying to hide his nervousness. Lord Cumber's face screwed up in confusion and probably, dislike.

"What kind of name is that?"

"It's the name of a companion of yourPrince, Cumber," Nappa folded his arms. "And he has clearance from the King himself, so you'd be better off keeping your implications to yourself."

Gohan wondered how a person could look both defiant and chastened at the same time. Crossing his arms in a Vegeta-like way, the lord backed off. "Whatever. I'm only interested in finding General Cauli, in any case. Do you know where he is?"

"Can't say that I do." Their usefulness spent, the lord turned on his heel and went his way. Nappa glowered at his back.

"That one never liked the King. I doubt he's a fan of the new regime at all."

"Hey," Gohan said. "…were you serious before?"

"What?" Nappa was drawn out of his own thought by the sound of genuine curiosity, where Gohan had usually been withdrawn and silent around him.

"The name 'Bardock'. Did you make it up?"

"No…" Nappa said slowly. "It is your grandfather's name. Or was. Who knows what happened to him? He had full enlistment in Frieza's forces and hasn't been on-planet since his kids were sent off."

"Really?"

Nappa gave him a look. "Really? You think I would bother with such a tedious lie, brat? The King didn't neglect to know your father's history. Nor especially your blood—whether it could be attributed to your human half or your Saiyan."

That did get Gohan's attention. "What did he think back then?"

"He was thinking that he wanted to be more powerful, and wanted to exhaust every option. He suspected…"

"Suspected what?"

Nappa realized how closely Gohan was listening, and he squinted suspiciously. "You think I will tell you the mind of my King, brat? Let's go."

The conversation was over, but it left Gohan wondering whether Vegeta really thought humans were as weak as he had always stressed. And if that were true, then why were Bulma and Trunks even here in the first place? Gohan was a scholar …and he could admit that the math didn't add up.

VBVBVBVBVBVBVBVB

"Do you want to go back to Earth, Trunks?"

He knew that his mother would persist in that question until he gave her a proper answer. So he said the thing he kept returning to: "Not without you."

Bulma, to Trunks' great dismay, waved a hand at him. "Forget about me, okay? Your father will take care of me and you know, I have my own ways of protecting myself, okay? A situation like the one you just went through is not going to happen again. I want you to do want you want to do. I want you to be where you're happy."

"I won't be happy unless I know you're safe," Trunks insisted, feeling a headache coming on. He had travelled in space for a long time, been declared a prince, pummeled and been pummeled by his father. A long sleep was sounding pretty awesome at this point. "And since Frieza is still a problem, I don't see how leaving is going to put me at-ease."

His mother chewed her lip pensively, not putting up an argument. "Yeah, I think you're right about that. But listen …I want you—I want you to let your dad handle that."

"No way!" Trunks sneered, pushing off the trunk of the tree to look fully at her. "I'm not doing that."

"This isn't your fight, Trunks," Bulma said pleadingly. "I've been worried sick about you! This whole time, I didn't know when you were coming back or even if you were coming back! It's time for you to relax and to—to just not get into anymore danger for a little while."

Trunks shook his head the whole time, just waiting for her to take a breath. "No, it doesn't work like that, Mom."

"What do you mean? Why not?!" Her voice was rising in volume, and Trunks glanced quickly at the guard in the distance, but he hadn't moved, as if he was used to the new Queen emitting loud noises. "Trunks. Haven't you gone on enough adventure for one lifetime?"

"No. Have you?" he asked, and there was a slight snottiness to his tone that had Bulma sending him a look and he cleared his throat. "Sorry, Mom. But I'm not gonna leave this to my father."

"Trunks, honey," she said dryly. "I know that right now, you don't have much trust with 'your father', but—"

"It's not that," he cut in quickly. He didn't want to talk about Vegeta at the moment, and there was another thing that he should tell her, that was true. "It's …I don't think that I can."

"What are you talking about?"

He unsheathed the sword, to show it to her. It gleamed red in the light. "The Namekians, their leader called Guru, gifted this to me."

His mother stared at the sword for a moment, and then her mouth opened—probably to ask a hundred questions. He stopped her before she could.

"Some Frieza soldiers called the Ginyu Force had landed there right before we did," Trunks said. He stared intently at the blade, watching the distorted reflection as he spoke. "They were slaughtering the Namekians, all their villages, their people—everything was getting destroyed. …I said that I would take care of them if I could use the Dragonballs they had to save you."

He heard her tremulous intake of breath and kept talking quickly. "So I did it—Gohan and Goku and Krillin helped me. And Nappa, I guess… But they were afraid that people would keep coming to do the same—attacking them when they just wanted to live peacefully. So they went to a new planet, and before they left, they left me this sword."

"Trunks," Bulma murmured, partially awed by the tale. "That's amazing. And don't get me wrong, but …what does this have to do with staying here for Frieza?"

He put the sword back in the holster, straightening. "I realized that not everyone has people to defend them. And when you see that, firsthand…" He grimaced. "I can't just stand by. This sword is mine for a reason. I'm going to live up to it."

She was hugging him again, sounding teary as she spoke. "You have no idea how proud of you I am, kiddo."

He chuckled sardonically. "I'm not completely clueless."

She drew back and wiped her eyes a little, looking up at him with new brightness. "I think we've talked enough for one day, and I'm betting that you could use some sleep in a comfy bed. Let's go back, okay?"

Trunks hesitated, but she pulled his hand, towing him toward her guard. "I promise I'm not going to make you and your father work it out. You can do that between the two of you."

"Really?" Trunks was doubtful of that. His mother couldn't help herself when it came to interfering.

"Yeah, I've got enough on my plate already." She stopped and looked back at him. "And if I thought for one minute that you both couldn't figure things out, I would be singing a very different tune. You know that."

He smirked. "But you can't sing, Mom."

She whacked him painlessly. "Stop it! I sing fine!"

The guard had already approached, sensing that they were finished. "Your Majesty."

Bulma whipped around to look at him, smiling. "We're ready, Bok! By the way, Trunks—this is Bok, my favorite guard."

Trunks raised an eyebrow. His mother took delight in evading any followers that Vegeta had ever pressed on her—but usually it had been Nappa. He supposed that Vegeta hadn't allowed her to go without a guard since what Geta had done. That would be logical. He raised a hand. "Nice to meet you."

He struck his fist against his breastplate. "And you, my Prince."

Trunks had decided he wouldn't make a fuss. Let them address him however they wanted; what difference did it really make?

Bok was holding his arms out for his mother and Trunks frowned. "I've got her."

The guard hesitated. "The King—"

"Vegeta isn't going to get mad," Bulma interrupted. "I'll let my big, strong son get me outta here. You can follow us, Bok. He's not asking you to leave."

The guard relaxed when he was told he wasn't being sent away, but Trunks still had an unsettled feeling in his gut, again, at all of these changes. As they flew at a staid pace, his mother reached up and patted the stiffness in his jaw. "Relax, okay? We're going to figure everything out."

"It's just weird," Trunks confessed. "I mean …all he had to do was say it, and now they're all treating us like royalty?"

"Well that wasn't it," Bulma countered with some discomfort. "I mean, he killed his father and …some other things happened."

"Yeah, but now that he's King, it's like whatever he says goes …and whatever he wants, happens." Trunks clarified lamely. He didn't know what exactly he was trying to convey, but he hoped she got it.

His mother rubbed her arms a little and took it with a seriousness that assured him that she did. "About some things, yeah," she sighed. "…not about everything."

VBVBVBVBVBVBVBVB

Vegeta went dripping from the Regen Tank, straight back to the Gravity Chamber, only stopping to retrieve his suit. Trunks had returned very, very strong. It pleased Vegeta, and it made him anxious for a report of the goings-on of this planet where he had retrieved his mother's life. Now that the boy had returned, those things would come easily.

But there were still other concerns.

As Frieza's threat increased by the day, so too did the wheels of Vegeta's mind. Not only was he lacking in solutions, but also did he lack in any available quarters to reach one. Except for one thing that kept returning to his thoughts, again and again. The most impossible, ridiculous possibility.

Paragus and his stupid ideas about him …and the Woman.

At first, Vegeta told himself that Paragus didn't know about Trunks ascending, and so his hypothesis was faulty, at best. But then, Vegeta's own, dogged intellectual honesty got the better of him and he admitted to himself what had likely been at the center of Trunks' transformation: care for his mother.

Nothing else made sense. Vegeta had stressed and worn out every other possibility and nothing else explained it. The idea that Trunks would have done it for vengeance wasn't sensible once Bulma was removed from the equation. He was motivated by her, not by his own injury. Pride, anger, protectiveness: none of these things justified the transformation alone.

And now that he had seen this very obvious fact, he could not unsee it.

And so the next thing Vegeta had to battle was Paragus and his little theory: that his feeling for Bulma bore some resemblance to something the Legendary Warrior had felt for some fabled woman. But that, to him, was what strained credulity.

Did he have an attachment to her? Yes. He would be a fool not to admit it. Bulma had borne his only son. She had been his exclusive interest for years when it came to women, Saiyan and alien alike. She was lovely, amusing, headstrong, impossible, intelligent …all that he would ever seek. And that's what he had always amounted it to: why go elsewhere, when everything he wanted was before him, in her? What would be the point?

But then, after accepting the logic of his desire, why examine the thing any further than that? He wanted her; he had her. He was willing to wait for her and her tempestuousness, because any other quarter was lacking.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't loving, or sweet, or any of those words she so enjoyed teasing him with…

But then, when she died …when she died, she had been gone.

And he hadn't really believed that she would come back—or at least, it would have been nonsensical to believe that the dead could rise back to life.

So …why had he kept her? Why had the idea of moving on when he could no longer have everything he wanted, never even enter his mind? Why had he watched her corpse in repose, night after night? What had been the point of that?

He knew the things he felt, loath as he was to admit it, and would never admit to her. He found his existence in the universe without her, without the possibility of her at all …to be unendurable. It made him want to destroy the whole world once it sank in.

And why?

If his life was all about him and the continuation of Vegeta-sei and the destruction of Frieza …why wouldn't his life feel like it mattered?

He had never wanted to think about any of these things. And he would well-curse Paragus for it until the end of his days.

But he also, perhaps, knew what it was to burn for someone, like that infernal song...

And he could no longer ignore that. He trained to exhaustion, but he was consumed by his thoughts the whole time. And if he felt this way—if—then why had nothing happened?

Why hadn't he managed what Trunks had?

Perhaps he didn't …care for her …the way that accessed the Legendary Form.

So then, if all of this nonsense was true …then was he incapable of doing it at all?

As time went by, these were the wretched thoughts that were creeping in! He hated it. He hated himself for even entertaining this at all and for failing. He didn't know what to do with any of it, and he didn't know if he could blame Bulma anymore…

That's exactly what he had been doing. The night of her first death—before she had been ripped away and they had exchanged words in that blistering, black sand. He had blamed her for his own failings.

How could he protect her from any more death if he couldn't even do what his half-blood son could? Frieza loomed. He may have no chance at defeating him. If it came down to it, could even their combined efforts fail? And how much of that time had been wasted? Bulma's infuriating tears. Trunks' distrustful snarl. Geta's peaceful face wavering in the tank, before he was sold. His father's smile as he died.

Vegeta felt a sudden pain shoot up his arm, and he opened his eyes to see his hand rip through 45% of the Gravity Chamber wall, blood running over to his elbow and dripping to the floor like a current.

"Curse this," he growled, removing it with a painful pull. "This whole fucking life…"

Trunks was home. He had wanted that—he had wanted so many things, that had fallen into place these last few months. And he was at the precipice of losing them all. The idea that he could instead gain the last was both remote and unimaginable. Something always had to be offered up, and he had nothing he was willing to give. Not anymore.

VBVBVBVBVBVBVBVB

Bulma and Trunks had come across Gohan and Nappa as they returned to the palace, and both of them had read Gohan's perturbed expression at spending what must have been hours with Vegeta's second. Trunks was sympathetic, and Bulma waved them off to get some actual rest.

"Oh please. I'll be fine with Bok. You two can take a load off until Goku gets here." The groan in her voice was obvious. "He's going to take all the energy in the air when he arrives, guarantee it." She would have offered to take Gohan to the lab, but the kid looked dead on his feet. It would wait.

"Alright," Trunks said, with the stalwart, solemn way he had developed while he was gone. She could see his still-present reluctance as he leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. "I'll be nearby."

Bulma suppressed an eyeroll. He'd be nearby and sensing for her constantly, in all likelihood. Between Trunks and his father and his father's guards, Bulma couldn't even wipe her nose without someone offering her a tissue. She wiggled her fingers, hoping to put him at ease. "Don't worry about me, okay? Get out of here."

While the boys made their own way down the corridor, Nappa turned to her, clearing his throat. "Have you seen the King?"

"Obviously not. And I don't know where he is, but there are probably only two or three places he could be, so good luck!" Bulma said, already walking off. Nappa probably wanted to de-brief Vegeta on their exploits, but she was too emotionally exhausted to even contemplate that.

Nappa was, in some ways, right about Trunks. He wasn't completely right, but…

The things that had happened to her boy while she was gone had changed him irrevocably. She was proud of him. She was sad for him. She was sad for herself, having missed it too. She didn't know what to do for him, if she needed to do anything at all. The thought drove her to distraction—she had been so focused on creating weapons, on working with the Generals to get ready to fight Frieza. She hoped that Trunks could keep carrying on; that there was nothing that she was missing here. Besides his obvious problems with Vegeta.

As if summoned by her words, he entered the room with no more than a creak. The lack of sound had her looking up suspiciously. "Vegeta?" She got one look at his face and the blood drained from hers. "What's wrong? Is Frieza—!"

"No!" he barked sharply, looking right at her. "Of course not."

"Then what are you…" her eyes widened when she saw the arm he was clasping to his side, his shoulders tense and ragged. "You're hurt again?!"

"You're going to be more upset when you see my foe," he answered wryly.

"You and Trunks—"

"Wrong again. You're on a streak tonight, Woman."

"And you're off," Bulma said, crossing her arms akin to him. "What happened to you after you said that you were going to the Regen Tank? …are you upset about Trunks?"

He scoffed, and there didn't appear to be any lie in it. "No."

Maybe he should have been …but for some reason, Bulma knew to resist pointing it out. If he was stressed, he was making an effort to hide it. She peered more closely at him, but the room was a little too dark to notice enough. He was still near the door. "What's with the hand?"

Once she referred to it, he looked down. He didn't appear pained; he didn't appear to acknowledge that the arm was his. "Tch."

Bulma heaved a sigh. For all of their flirtation, they had been together for too many years for Bulma to find the mystery exhilarating all the time. "Well, if you're not going to tell me, I'm not going to wrestle it out of you, Vegeta. That's fine."

"I was …lost in thought," he finally offered her begrudgingly. That was unlike him, but she supposed that he had many reasons to let his mind run away. She tilted her head, both pleased and a little startled that he had given any explanation at all.

"A dangerous prospect, clearly."

He didn't say anything. He just let his arm continue dripping in the same spot where he stood. It made her impatient, for some reason. Before she even realized what she was doing, she had gone to him, and reached for the injured arm. Reflexes always exceptional, he caught her as she did and their arms ended up twined at the wrist, his forearm lifted towards her so he could see the trails of red, even in the dark.

Vegeta pulled away a little, but she held fast and there was none of his actual strength behind it. She pulled back and he moved obligingly. She saw the merest bit of light in his eyes as they stood bound by their arms and the space between them shifted to nothing.

"You'll get blood on your hands," he murmured.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "It's too late."

The heat that bloomed in the air at her words had to be coming from him. In a spell, she had brushed her face up against his and nothing happened, but the world continued to melt around them. The way he was looking at her …it suddenly felt like the end of everything. Wanting and fear.

That's what she saw. Fear.

"I am happy that Trunks is back," she told him, eyes shining. "Do you even know how much?"

She really wasn't sure what she was doing. She felt like she had fallen into a scene with him. She didn't have the script, but he did. He was looking at her as if he knew, standing over the edge of her and near to jumping, holding back. Still, wasn't it obvious what he wanted? Whether he admitted it or not?

So she lifted their tangled arms like she was performing some ritual, and shifted her hold, pressing his bloodied palm to her cheek and utterly indifferent to how it would stain. They stared at each other for just two beats of her heart, his eyes hooded and wary, yet helpless. That was enough.

She dragged her lips against his, slowly. It wasn't a teasing touch, or a quick touch with no promise. There was intent that he could read, as his mouth opened underneath it and swallowed her whole. The stimulation was too much after so little, she opened herself up to him in a way she could hardly remember, grasping the thick and hard bristles of his hair to press herself against every part of him. And he had never not responded to her, not in all the time that she had known him.

"Bulma," he growled, his hands bruising at her hips. He pushed her away and then pulled her even nearer, swaying and impatient. "If you—"

"Shhhh," she shook her forehead against his, her hands framing his jaw. "I won't. I want this."

She was without clothes before she could finish her sentence, a slightly cooler air overtaken by the fact that his hands were everywhere. He groaned like a man starved. And then his mouth was everywhere too. Burning, she was unable to keep up, stumbling back toward the bed and trusting in his direction.

"Sl-slower!" she stuttered out the breath as she found herself on her back. "Hey!" He was divesting himself of his own clothes more slowly, because his gaze was roving every inch of her so hungrily that she felt her face grow warm. She barely had time to look at the chiseled planes of his chest before his hand came to the nape of her neck and pulled her up onto him until they were nose to nose.

"You were fooling yourself if you thought I'd have you slowly after all these fucking months…" he swore, hooking her leg around him and attacking her neck without any grace. "Next time," he promised, which was a rare occurrence. "And the time after that."

She didn't have time to even consider that—his desperation was shared with her in a wave, something she hadn't allowed herself to do until just this moment.

She had told Trunks that she had wanted to play this game, to stay here on Vegeta-sei. But what she truly wanted was to love Vegeta, to be loved by him. Even if he wouldn't. Even if he never understood it. Leaving him was impossible now.

Even if he couldn't allow himself to love her, not a soul in existence shared her place in his, or had the freedom to touch him the way that she did, and she was sure that wouldn't change. And now he had sat her on the throne and defied his people. Was that enough?

She held on, panting against his collarbone. He didn't let her go after his release or hers. He cradled her, not looking at her at all until he was ready again, and kissed her breasts like some amorous supplicant …he, a King! That heady thought nearly put her over again, but he was gentler and more deliberate this time, as he had said.

But it was more than that even, and something that she dared not even think…

But how could she not think it, when she could so easily memorize the differences? She had always been wanted, but never precious. He leaned back on his heels and scrutinized her face with that ever-present heat. He reached out with his clean hand and traced her face.

"My Queen in my blood," he murmured. "How fitting."

She still hadn't quite caught her breath, though she accepted his ministrations quietly. The softness of his touch was nearly unbearable to her, for how easily it could be deceptive.

"Why did you do that?" she wondered.

He leaned back down and nipped behind her ear before kissing it. "Do what?"

"Make me Queen."

It was only for a second. Less. But he utterly stopped. And then the foreplay was over and he pushed inside her again. She gasped, looking up at him while he looked back at her.

"There was only one way I could be your King."

"Ugh, that makes no sense," she griped, reaching up for him.

"That's the only truth I have," he grunted, continuing a rhythm that was insanely gentle by his standards, taking her hands by the wrist and pressing them to the mattress on either side as he moved. "You always want too much."

"Projection," she said, at all loss for breath now, and bolder for it. Her hands down, he wanted physical control—but that had never been their game. "Truth is, you give me more than I ever ask for..."

He made bursts of light erupt beneath her eyelids and he watched her face the whole time, at every moment they were joined, until she stopped finding it disconcerting at all. If he answered her accusation or was bothered by it, she had fallen into an exhausted sleep before she could hear it. His stamina would always be greater than hers.

For his part, the words—the answer—thrust themselves against his skull as if they wanted to break out and tell her. Even while she slept, his lips remained shut and his eyes stared above them at nothing. Because she asked for so little and because that truth still frightened him, revealed as it was to her…

I do.