Chapter 12 – Ground Control… Vegeta Responding?
Bzzz.
The alarm again. Another day where she had to manage her universe—same old, same old. Bulma squinted against the morning light filtering through the blinds, rubbing her eyes as though the very act might somehow delay the inevitable. Her gaze lingered on the ceiling for a moment longer than usual. Was she avoiding something? Perhaps. But that was nothing new.
After a few beats of quiet self-indulgence, she finally dragged herself out of bed. The air felt thick with the weight of a familiar absence, though she refused to acknowledge it aloud. Not today, not now. She gazed out the window. The same world, unchanged. The same life, looping in its habitual dance.
She shuffled over to the nightstand, fingers brushing over the familiar clutter, and then paused, her hand landing on her newest small voice recorder. She clicked it on with a mechanical precision that only a person accustomed to this routine could muster.
CLICK.
Still a little groggy, but she powered through it. "Recording #199, day 243 since last contact with lost Saiyan. Hypothesis 199: He's been abducted by a race of sentient space squirrels who mistook his gravity-defying hair for a particularly impressive nut. They're currently trying to crack him open with tiny, high-pitched drills."
The words left her mouth with practiced ease, despite the dry humor that barely reached her own ears. She dropped the recorder back into the drawer and then turned to face the bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back at her was unimpressed, as it always was.
You stupid, stupid Saiyan moron. See what you're missing?
The words were sharp but familiar, like a quip she didn't even need to think about anymore. They'd been hanging in the air for months, ever since he'd disappeared into the sky, leaving her with nothing but silence and uncertainty. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd heard his voice, seen his face, or—perhaps most cruelly—felt his presence in the air, that unnerving combination of warmth and raw power that made him undeniably him.
Eight months. Eight months, and no word. No reason. Just… nothing. But it wasn't like she had any right to complain. She was the one who had made him leave, after all. It had been her own foolproof strategy to say he would not stop him, that she understood the need he had for closure. And now? Well, this was what she got in return.
She finished brushing her teeth and, without a second thought, rinsed the brush and put it back in its holder. Moving automatically, like she had a thousand times before, she slipped into her clothes—comfortable, professional, ready for whatever the day might bring.
And as she glanced over at the door, the shift in her posture was subtle but real. You're not thinking about him today, she told herself firmly.
Stepping out of her room, she crossed the hallway into her private study. Time to get to work. Time to face reality. Thinking about Vegeta—her son's father—was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not now, not anymore. There was no space in her world for idle thoughts of lost Saiyans, especially when she had her hands full with more immediate, important things.
She tucked the recorder into her pocket, her fingers lingering over the little device for just a second too long. Her son, Trunks, had woken up earlier, and her mansion—well, it was no longer just her mansion. The place was chaos incarnate, a tiny walking disaster of sticky fingerprints, half-eaten cereal bowls, and the constant ruckus that accompanied a child with a scientist for a mother.
With a quick breath, she straightened her shoulders and turned her focus to the pile of reports, meeting schedules, and the ever-growing list of Capsule Corp. projects that needed her genius. There was also the small matter of the occasional world-ending crisis that seemed to pop up before breakfast, but it was all just part of the daily grind.
She threw herself into it, the frantic energy taking over her body as her mind swirled with equations and timelines. See? Nothing's wrong. Everything's just fine. She thought it so forcefully that even she started to believe it. Almost.
After all, who needed a brooding, emotionally constipated Saiyan in their life when there were spreadsheets, blueprints, and corporate meetings to dominate?
And yet, as the day went on, there were moments where her mind drifted, where her thoughts veered in the direction of the Gravity Chamber and that impossible, magnetic presence she could never quite banish from her thoughts. But she dismissed it, forcefully so, a mental reprimand before her thoughts could wander any further.
She could handle this. She would handle this. And maybe, just maybe, if she kept herself busy enough, the ache of his absence wouldn't cut so deeply.
After all, he had chosen to leave. She had no choice but to carry on.
Nightfall.
When Bulma returned to her bedroom that evening, the familiar hum of routine failed to fill the silence. This room, this bed, felt different now. Every night, she gave herself permission to drift into thoughts of him again. After all, she had no one else to be honest with, not even herself.
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and the memory hit her once more. The last moment. The last request she had made, her hand outstretched to him, expecting… something.
But he had turned away.
Cruel bastard. You couldn't even give me that.
Her chest tightened, the bitterness rising like a tidal wave. But then, like a reflex, her fingers reached for the recorder again. She clicked it on, the familiar sound a small comfort in the dissonance.
CLICK.
"Recording #200, still day 243 since last contact with neglecting father of my child. Hypothesis 200: He accidentally joined a traveling intergalactic mime troupe. His silent, brooding intensity was misinterpreted as avant-garde performance art, and he's contractually obligated to at least one more solar system tour. They probably don't allow comm devices for 'artistic integrity.'"
She giggled. It was a brief thing, barely there. But it was something. Something to hold on to.
And then, as the weight of the day settled into her bones, she let herself surrender to sleep. Most days, she managed.
Most days.
The following night, though, the rain came down like gunfire, battering the windows with brutal insistence. The lights sputtered and flickered, throwing jagged shadows across the lab. Bulma flinched, swore under her breath, elbow-deep in the last touches of the promised Saiyan armor.
Not because he was coming back. Don't be ridiculous. The very idea was as absurd as gravity deciding it had better things to do.
No, it was just unfinished work. Loose ends that itched at the edge of her mind — especially with the end of the world neatly penciled in for tomorrow. Priorities.
The last plate clicked into place, the small noise unnaturally loud against the sudden lull in the storm.
And then—
A shift.
The air itself thickened, heavy, electric, humming against her skin.
No knock. No warning.
Just a faint prickle of static at the nape of her neck.
She didn't turn. Not right away. Hope was a weed with roots too deep to kill, and she had spent long months salting that ground.
She wasn't that girl anymore—the one who startled at every passing engine, every distant roar.
But the door sighed open. Soft. Relentless.
She turned.
And there he was.
Soaked to the bone, boots caked with mud, leaving a filthy trail across her spotless floor. His hair was a shocking, defiant gold, plastered wetly to his forehead. His armor was a wreck—scraped, shredded, torn like he'd fought his way out of hell itself.
Of course. The human wrecking ball had come back, dragging the storm in with him.
But it wasn't the filth, the ruin, the sheer himness of it that stopped her heart cold.
It was his face.
Blank.
A terrifying emptiness where once there had burned fury and pride. As if someone had hollowed him out from the inside, stolen the fire and left behind a ruin.
He hadn't just powered up his muscles, oh no.
He'd taken every jagged shard of emotional wreckage he could find and built himself a fortress. Reinforced it with layers of Saiyan arrogance and a healthy dose of self-loathing. Dug a moat of pure indifference. Then, just for kicks, he'd strung up barbed wire and installed laser turrets of dismissive pronouncements — anything to keep out the few damn fools who might actually care.
For one vicious second, she considered pretending not to know him.
Vegeta? Who's that?
Maybe if she looked through him — cold and disinterested — he'd get the message. Maybe he'd disappear right back into whatever black hole he'd clawed his way out of.
Instead, a smile sliced across her face — brittle, razor-edged, all teeth and no welcome.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in. I was almost starting to enjoy the peace and quiet."
He didn't even blink. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere a thousand miles past her, locked onto some imaginary battlefield only he could see. Typical. That glacial indifference, coiling in her gut like a cold, twisting knife.
Their eyes met — flat planes of nothing, a hollow reflection, offering no landing place.
"I always knew you'd manage it," she said, voice too casual, too dry. The words scraped her throat on the way out, bitter as old smoke. Maybe — just maybe — a sliver of something uglier twisted behind her ribs. Jealousy. Rage. Seeing him chase something so hard, something that wasn't her, wasn't Trunks.
His answer? That damned smirk. Crooked. Insufferable. Like he'd just claimed another galaxy and expected her to be grateful. So proud of himself. So proud it made her want to break something.
Bulma swallowed around the ache rising thick in her chest. Snatched the armor off the bench, captured it in a capsule, and hurled it at him like it weighed nothing.
"Fresh gear," she snapped. "Try not to turn it into scrap metal five minutes in this time, will you?"
Vegeta caught the capsule without even looking at her. Not a grunt. Not a glance. Like she was just lab equipment — a background fixture. Disposable.
"You're welcome, by the way," she added, the saccharine lilt to her voice so sweet it could corrode iron. "Assuming you haven't forgotten the basic concept of gratitude during your little... vacation."
Still nothing. His hands, steady and precise, moved from strap to buckle without missing a beat.
The wrench clinked against her palm as she flipped it, punctuating the thickening air. Bulma used that minute to think, to evaluate the evidence in front of her. The conclusion was clear — the waiting wasn't over yet. He still had more business to tend to. Still had no time for "distractions."
Yes, hello, Name's Bulma Distractions.
"So… that's what you came for, right?"
"Yes."
A monosyllable, ground out from somewhere deep, jagged and colorless.
Bulma laughed. A short, sharp bark of sound that felt like it cut her own throat on the way out.
Fine. Two could play the 'dead inside' game. She tossed the wrench back onto the table with a clatter and leaned in, casual as you please.
"I was thinking about heading out there myself," she said breezily. "The androids, I mean. Tech like that doesn't just fall from the sky every day. Might be worth salvaging something useful before they vaporize half the continent."
That got his attention. Finally.
He turned, just enough to skewer her with a look — flat, surgical.
"That's no place for weaklings," he said, voice clipped and final, like delivering a weather forecast.
Bulma's grin sharpened into something predatory.
"Aww," she cooed, tilting her head, sugary venom dripping from every syllable. "Is that concern I hear, Your Highness? My, my. I didn't know you cared."
He didn't answer. Just turned his back with a finality that felt like a door slamming in her face.
And then—
Gone.
Bulma stood there a moment, staring at the muddy footprints and the empty space where he'd been.
She leaned against the table, rubbing her temples.
"Super Saiyan," she muttered to herself. "Same idiot."
She grabbed the recorder off the table.
Clicked it on.
Breathed out, slow and shaky.
"Update on the grumpy Saiyan project. Status: returned, feral. Emotional advancement: pending another catastrophic event."
Bulma set the recorder down with a little more force than necessary and stared out into the night sky. Apparently, he'd taken the rain with him.
Figures.
Tomorrow, the androids would come.
Tomorrow, maybe he'd be ready.
Tonight...Tonight, at least, he was still breathing.
The way he had just left without a word or engaging with her, had left behind the same dull, familiar ache that had been throbbing ever since Vegeta vanished. Like a cosmic joke at her expense: Bulma Briefs, genius-level intellect, Ph.D. in terrible taste in men.
But the next morning, practical matters elbowed their way in—like, say, imminent extinction—and the old, reliable wall slammed back into place. She hadn't meant to get involved with him, she reminded herself. Again. For the thousandth time. A personal chant, filed somewhere between "Never Date Band Members" and "Don't Build Time Machines Without Adult Supervision."
Every time she thought she'd moved on, some memory sucker-punched her. Every time she got her hopes up, she wanted to punch herself harder.
The only reason she'd even flown out to the battlefield—baby in tow—was scientific curiosity. She wanted to see the androids firsthand. Research purposes only. Completely normal behavior for a woman who built spaceships before puberty and was now barreling toward her own apocalypse with a toddler and a white-knuckled death grip on the steering column.
Maybe, maybe, some tiny, stupid part of her thought if Vegeta saw the baby—their baby—something inside him would crack. That maybe he'd glimpse Trunks's wide, blinking blue eyes and realize there was something bigger than his own damn ego.
Spoiler: he didn't even blink.
The only one who noticed was a teenager slicing through the chaos like he had a death wish and a schedule to keep. Lavender hair, steel in his spine. Casual as anything, he plucked her and the baby out of ground zero and deposited them somewhere marginally less explodey.
Later, in the smoking crater of what used to be North City's scenic suburbs, he dropped the bombshell: he was her son. From the future. A future that had been bulldozed by androids. A future where Vegeta was already dead.
Because, of course. Of course Bulma Briefs wasn't just going to be the world's last hope—she was going to be the single mom of a time-traveling genetic superweapon. Really, it made perfect sense. That stunning boy, with his impeccable fashion sense and lethal look, could be nothing else.
And the androids? Not even hot, tragic villains like sci-fi movies promised. Just Dr. Gero in a rusty cosplay suit, dragging his petty vendettas across the landscape like a septic tank on legs.
While the fighters got their dramatic training arcs, Bulma got long nights in the lab, gulping stale coffee and stress-dreaming about everything that could go wrong. Static. Fire. Static. Screams. Repeat. All that while taking care of an infant.
Somewhere in the middle of her sleep-deprived breakdowns, she and adult Trunks had found an abandoned time machine being devoured by moss—because obviously there had to be two ticking time bombs in play. Cracked open like a bad egg, too. Something else had come through. Something they couldn't identify. Comforting!
Then she and Dr. Briefs, because they hadn't used up their annual quota of terrible ideas yet, reassembled Android 16 hoping he wouldn't turn evil again. Yanked the murder bomb out of his chest. Built a deactivation remote on pure caffeine and prayer. It fizzled like everything else.
Then Cell showed up. Ate the androids. Posed in front of them like a bad perfume ad, all shiny and "perfect." And when Vegeta and Trunks threw themselves at him with everything they had, she stood there, frozen, watching history collapse in on itself. She'd already made the connection with the boy, of course—he was her son. She could feel it, even though she'd just met him. So, she cared for him as much as she cared for the baby and the idiot of a father they both had.
Meanwhile, Goku and Gohan were locked in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, racing against a ticking clock. And Cell, being the smug bastard he was, announced his little tournament: ten days to train. Ten days to panic. Ten days to pray your goodbyes were in order.
Bulma, naturally, hated waiting. Always had. Always would. She had done it for months already. But she wasn't alone anymore. Everyone trained like their lives depended on it—because they did. Even adult Trunks, who moved through it all with a kind of silent, exhausted grace.
His face was a softer, sadder echo of Vegeta's, with a sadness etched into him so deep it seemed older than he was. The way he rubbed his neck when he was thinking, a nervous habit that snagged something raw and maternal inside her. He was an impossible equation:
(What Life Gave) minus (What Life Took) equals (That Look His Father Wore).
And Vegeta—Vegeta haunted the compound like a stormcloud that never broke. Word was, he'd lost to the androids. Got humiliated. Badly. Bad enough that the only thing keeping him upright now was pure, undiluted rage.
He hadn't even looked at Trunks, not once, when the kid tried to spar him. Just glared at the sky like he was trying to set it on fire. Then, with nothing but a grunt, they locked themselves inside the Time Chamber. One Earth day, one year inside. From the whispers, it sounded like they spent most of it screaming at each other between brawls.
Honestly, it didn't surprise her. Somewhere along the way, whatever fragile wiring Vegeta had for connection had been ripped out by the roots. Pain, pride, trauma—whatever it was—it had burned everything good right out of him.
That flicker of warmth she'd glimpsed once? Snuffed out. Swallowed whole by the black hole where his heart should be.
Now? Now he was nothing but gravity and wreckage, collapsing inward. Consuming everything.
And poor Trunks—beautiful, stubborn, heartbreaking Trunks—kept chasing him into the void. Throwing every punch he had, begging for something. Anything.
She pieced the rest together in the back of her mind: in that nightmare future, Vegeta had died before Trunks was old enough to even remember him.
Maybe—just maybe—that had been a mercy.
Maybe it hurt less to lose a ghost than to love a man who couldn't even say your name like he meant it.
When they finally stumbled out of that damn Hyperbolic Time Chamber — Trunks half-dragging an unconscious Vegeta across the Capsule Corp grounds, muttering under his breath about barely escaping because his father wouldn't quit — Bulma knew.
She didn't need the whole story. She could see it for herself. Vegeta had pushed himself beyond his limits, despite the danger to their son.
Vegeta was drifting, untethered, like someone lost in the vast emptiness of space, his connection to anything familiar growing fainter with each passing moment. Bulma knew she had to try, to send a signal through the silence, something that could reach him, wherever his logic self had wandered.
"Bring him to my room," she said, as if she hadn't just given up on the idea of an actual plan. She didn't even need to check the map—her room was further, but it was her room, and that was all that mattered.
Trunks didn't break stride. With a practiced motion, he maneuvered Vegeta through the halls, not even breaking a sweat. Bulma could have helped, but she didn't. She just watched him with a mix of amusement and exhaustion as father and son made their way down the hallway.
"Go rest, sweetie," she said, trying to soften her voice. The words were meant for Trunks, but they held an edge of something else. "You need it, too."
Once Trunks shuffled off to his own self-imposed nap, the room felt quieter than it should've. The familiar hum of Capsule Corp. seemed far away now, muffled by the weight of the moment. Bulma glanced down at Vegeta—still there, breathing, but unconscious. The familiar ache in her chest flickered again, unwelcome but persistent.
Her gaze lingered on him, studying the heavy rise and fall of his chest, his muscles tense even in sleep. The familiar ache bloomed once more, the one that never seemed to die no matter how many times she thought she'd buried it. Seeing him like this — past the point of stubbornness, past the point of pride — still hit her harder than she wanted to admit.
A faint, tired smile touched her lips.
"So. Back to square one," she murmured, mostly to herself, as she reached for the med kit.
His breathing was steady. Even.
That alone was something.
Small mercies.
As she cleaned the scrapes and bruises, she realized they weren't as bad as they'd first appeared. Superficial. The real damage was deeper, something that went all the way to the bone — exhaustion that soaked into his body like a second skin.
Laid out like this, heavy and vulnerable, stubbornly unconscious, he was an echo of another Vegeta she remembered. The one she'd patched up in darkened rooms, the one she—
She forced the thought away before it could finish.
He probably couldn't hear her anyway. The idiot.
Bulma slid onto the far edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance she didn't really want to maintain. The mattress dipped under her weight, a tiny shift, and still, she froze, like the smallest movement might wake him.
Still hopeless, Briefs. Still fluttering like some ridiculous schoolgirl just because he's here. In the same bed you lay in, missing him in the silence, waiting for him to return.
"I know there's something left inside you," she whispered, the words almost too soft to be heard. "Somewhere in all that Saiyan steel, there's still a spark."
Maybe his pride had built walls so high even he couldn't see it anymore. But she had once seen it and hoped it could be brought back.
She let herself look at him fully now — the sharp, unforgiving angles of his face, the faint furrow between his brows even in sleep, the quiet rise and fall of his chest. The heat of his body radiated into the air, seeping into her skin, almost too hot to bear, but she didn't move away.
"You know," she said softly, "that young man... He's your son, Trunks."
The words hung in the air, daring him to hear them.
"You need to look at him. Really look at him. Whatever you think makes him weak, whatever you hate seeing in him... it's just the shadow you left behind when you weren't there to show him anything else."
She was thinking of her own baby as she spoke, the thought threading through her words. Baby Trunks could have those same sad eyes, eventually. She wished for him to listen, really listen.
Her hand drifted toward his, almost without thinking. Close enough to touch. Close enough to make the same mistake twice.
She hesitated.
The memory of the last time — the way he'd pulled back like she'd burned him — still stung more than she wanted to admit.
Bulma held herself still.
Not again.
Not if he didn't want her there.
"You speak too much, woman."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She jerked her gaze to his face. Still closed eyes. Still heavy, exhausted breathing.
But awake.
His voice was rough — rougher than she remembered — scraped raw by too many years and too many battles he never talked about.
He shifted, slow and deliberate, until he was facing her. The sounds of his movement were labored, like the weight of his body had become too much to bear. His hands trembled slightly, barely noticeable, but still enough to let her know how exhausted he truly was.
Bulma froze, too aware of the space between them — and the space inside her he filled just by being here.
"How long have you been awake?" she breathed.
"Since the bandages," he muttered, the words thick with sleep.
A faint breath escaped him — something that might've been a smirk, if he were capable of something that soft anymore. But it was fleeting, drowned in the exhaustion that seemed to pull him down with every passing second.
"I'm too tired," he added, like it was an excuse to stay there. Maybe it was.
She started to shift away, to give him the space she thought he wanted, but his hand shot out and caught hers.
Firm. Final.
"Stay."
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't pleading.
It was a command, rough and instinctive — the only way he knew how to ask for anything.
But under it, if you listened carefully, there was something else. Something she wasn't sure he even knew was there.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she stared at him. His hand trembled against hers, the fatigue too much to conceal, but still he held on.
"But you said—" The words caught in her throat.
"Two years," he rasped, his voice weak, but urgent in a way she couldn't ignore.
He was not just looking at her, he was searching her eyes, like desperately looking for something. Something buried deep inside her eyes.
"A fucking long time." His eyes started closing as he spoke.
Two years? Of course, he'd used the Hyperbolic Chamber twice, that's two years he'd spent training. For him, it had been a long time since their last conversation, maybe enough.
Bulma's breath hitched. A fragile hope fluttered in her chest. How long had he been listening, then?
"So... you heard me then?" she asked softly, her gaze searching his eyes too.
He didn't open them, though. Too tired. Or maybe he didn't want her to dig deeper into him.
Instead, his thumb twitched almost imperceptibly against her hand. "About the brat?" he muttered, the word surprisingly devoid of its usual dismissiveness. "Perhaps."
Slowly, carefully, she curled her fingers around his. This time, he didn't pull away.
Writer's Rant #2:
Let's be real, wrestling with Dragon Ball canon is a special kind of torture (involving copious episode rewatches and frantic scribbling – so yeah, timeline hiccups? Blame the Saiyans ). And then the joy of trying to keep Bulma recognizably Bulma when the universe is throwing her serious curveballs. That second act? Pretty sure I aged ten years writing it. The first act? Went back to the drawing board... repeatedly . The third act? My light at the end of the tunnel. If any of this madness resonated with you, a review would be amazing! And if you're still here, you're a legend, thank you!
