Chapter Text
A thick layer of awkwardness has settled between them since then. Her mind feels fuzzy. Fuzzy with exhilaration. It was brief, a speck of gold that lasted a second, that stole the breath from her lungs and filled her body, whole, with pride. She has never experienced the feeling of being genuinely happy for someone else, even if it meant losing something for herself. The underground base was utterly wiped out by Vegeta's unbridled strength, and with that, the regen tank.
When she had finally managed to re-establish a connection with the holowatch, the blinding, raw emotion she saw made her eyes fill with tears before understanding what was actually happening. To this moment, she still can't explain how she knew. But she did. Her body, for some reason obscure to her, recognized the change immediately. It was like she was feeling that power surge within her, too. Strange, inexplicable, something she would have defined scientifically impossible if her life hadn't been involved with magic since her maiden days.
"Don't tell a soul," he said, with a voice that didn't belong to him. With trembling fingers and hot-white wires of energy still sparkling around his arms. He hadn't shown his face, keeping the wrist that hosted the holowatch tight-close to his hip.
And for a second, when that had transpired, she hadn't understood what he meant, not immediately. Only hours after that exchange, and reasoning upon his words, she concluded he meant don't tell anyone how this happened.
She understood that, somehow. That it must have been hard for him to admit he possesses a vulnerable side. Especially showing that in the face of your enemy . However, is she still one? An enemy? Would a creature like Vegeta tell her to keep it a secret, had circumstances been different? Had she been there, with him, flesh and bones? He would have killed her. She's sure of that. Vegeta isn't Son, and the desperation that she read in his eyes wasn't sadness nor longing. It was madness. It was a thirst for blood and revenge. It scared her. Reminded her that he is not human. That their way of thinking couldn't be farther apart.
But he still chose to ask her to keep it from others, instead of threatening her life. Oh, certainly he remembers it's useless. That she is capable of standing in front of him and dare him to raise a hand on her. End her life. Or… what?
She stares at the dark screen in front of her. This time, she was the one retreating, without him trying to get rid of the watch. He needs time to process things at his own pace. And she will give him that. She's confident that he won't try to destroy the planet again, not after realizing that its source for the power he's been chasing for so long.
Or… so she hopes. A finger taps on one of the keys of the board under her, uncaring. She can't erase the images in her mind, the sounds, his words, her words. And that ebb and flowing of sensations bring back her worst fear. Is the future proceeding as scripted? Is she going in the direction fate wanted? Is it truly just camaraderie what is blooming within her? Curiosity? Attraction?
"You… Do you have feelings for that Saiyan?"
Yamcha's question rushes back among a thousand others. Maybe . She would respond now. She's not denying it that the past weeks were… intense. And she doesn't want Vegeta to come back now, because she's frightened to confront herself, as it were, with the facts.
All of her suppositions are slowly inching close to reality. That future kid is still the proof that somehow, along the way, she stumbled. Or will stumble. Not him. Her. Because she's the one that would likely fly straight into that net. She's always had a twisted idea of romance. If ending up with Yamcha, of all of the people, indicates her frivolous inclinations. But Vegeta? Seriously?
She wondered, more than once how it could have happened. Fantasized, even. But the conclusion was always the same: unrealistic. The world could end, his mind is completely clobbered by this insatiable desire to surpass Son. Her mind, on the other hand, is clobbered by wanting to step out of her role as a sidekick. But it was enough to see a little crack on his mask to forget about the regen tank. Hell, to not give a shit anymore!
She should be angry. Angry at that Saiyan for going berserk and destroying all her efforts, their efforts. But no. She's not angry in the least. Not at him. Just at herself. For being so fickle and easily swayed.
There's no time for feelings or sex or love, or improbable hook ups with aliens. And what's even the point of having a child if he's destined to die?
She used to be more optimistic. To believe strongly in Son and her companions. But their decision to fight never sat right with her. This time… this time she's not sure they will win.
Her lips curl up into a nostalgic smile, "I'm still a scaredy-cat, in the end." And finally, standing up after interminable days, she leaves the lab and turns off the lights.
---
She took a long bath. One with bubbles and salts, surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and peppermint. She doesn't even like their sweet smell. But they remind her of the past. Ironically, of the house she used to share sometimes with Son. Of the baths they took together when she believed he was a little kid. Washing his little, bony back, hearing him complain and then ask if her scented shampoo was edible.
Good memories. That she feels could almost belong to another life. Driving her cars and motorbikes on immense deserts, running for her life, and fighting the Red Ribbon. Falling for Yamcha. Watching all of his and Son's fights at the Tenkaichi Tournament. And then… meeting Piccolo. And understanding that Son Goku was much more than he let on. The arrival of the Saiyans, Namek…
And now.
Thinking back on it, her life has never been devoid of thrill . Like… seriously, ever. She didn't ask for this when she started the search for the Dragon Balls. Her idea of adventure, at that time, was laying on a white tongue of sand one day and maybe meet a cute boy on the road, share ideas and travel, travel endlessly until homesickness would hit. She never imagined that meeting Son would lead here.
As she wipes her unruly perm dry, she walks back to her room in her underwear, and a flimsy cut crop top, an unexpected, vivacious whirlwind of twitters coming from downstairs attracts her attention.
It comes from the inner garden, where her mother is animatedly chattering with someone else. She recognizes the other voice as soon as she sets foot on the grass.
"Tights!" What the hell is she doing here?
Her kin waves in her direction, and the enigmatic, sphinx-like expression she gives her is the inevitable forewarning that she wants something with her. "Oh, Bulma, finally! I've been waiting forever for you to come out from that stinky lab." They haven't seen each other in centuries, and suddenly she moves to the City just for a social call?
"The only thing that stinks is your presence in this house." She lets go of the towel to cross her arms under her breasts. Aquamarine brows knit on her forehead.
"Boo. Why do you always think I have ulterior motives? Anyway," she stands up, drawing closer, "I heard that you dumped your eternal boyfriend."
A sigh escapes Bulma's lips while she gives their mother the stink eye. The second blond snoop of the house barely glances in their direction, and, caught red-handed, goes back to busying herself with her pottery. "Sometimes, I wonder how it's even possible that news spreads faster across the ocean than across a building, in this place."
"If you're going to bad-mouth me, I take it as my cue to leave-"
Oh, fuck!
That embarrassed snort is something she didn't expect to hear so soon again. Her eyes jump straight to his direction. Yamcha is standing there, eyes downcast and hand rubbing nervously at his nape.
Why on Earth is he still at Capsule Corporation?!
And why with her sister and mother?
Ok, this is awkward on at least one thousand and thirty levels. But they're adults, aren't they? They can definitely deal with a breakup without falling into clichéd slings. "So, this is your training?" She quirks a brow, ignoring the hot wave of embarrassment spreading up from neck to cheeks. They're adults, indeed. But their separation was sudden and odd. And she didn't expect him to actually stay, for so long. "Tea breaks with my mom and sister?"
Yamcha's abashed grin turns upside down and his black eyes finally raise in her direction, evidently irked by her comment. "I was asked to help. What is it? Am I allowed to stay in your house, just not associate with your family?"
"Now, now," Tights steps in between and slings an arm around her neck, which she shakes off. "Let's not start useless quarrels. It's our fault. We kinda caught him training in the garden. We started to ask him uncomfortable questions, until he yielded and told us you guys split up. So mom went ahead and, you know that she lives in drama-"
"You're no different." She shakes her off, suddenly bristling, "well, it looks like I dropped a clanger here. But I'd like you guys to let this matter go. Yamcha knows that I let him stay for relevant reasons." Her gaze is on him again, severe, "Our relationship has nothing to do with it."
She could read it in his eyes, the exact moment in which her words stung the most. But he closes his eyes, letting out a surrendering exhale. "She's right. I shouldn't have time for this."
"Aw, dear. Don't say that!" Her mom puts a hand on his shoulder, "everyone deserves a break. And you can blame it on me," she giggles, raising a hand to her cheek, breezy as she's always been. "It made me so sad."
"Since he let you in on our current situation, it's like that. There's no need to pity us or console either Yamcha or me. We're grown ups." Probably she's so tensed up because she didn't sleep a wink because there's the whole Vegeta-turning-Super-Saiyan on her shoulders, and Yamcha in front of her, whose confidence has been thrown in jeopardy since his arrival. How would he react if he knew…?
"I'm sorry," she cards her fingers in her wet hair, "I'm just tired and…"
Tights' hand is on her forehead a moment later "and feverish. Bulma, you're burning up."
---
This situation is absurd. She ended up being escorted into her room by her ex-boyfriend and her sister, who shouldn't be here. And now they're both standing at the opposite sides of the chamber, Yamcha looking out of the window and Tights forcing her under the covers.
"I'm fine." It's the fourth time she says that already, pushing against her unbelievably strong sister. She had no idea she was so sturdy.
"I know," Tights assures, slapping a cold ice pad on her forehead. "But if you don't want your room to be filled with broths and random pies, just to let mom play the nurse, then bear with us for a while."
"Yamcha, you should-" Bulma starts, but Tights cuts over her.
"Wait. I made him come with us because I want to be filled in about the androids."
Bulma falls back on the mattress. She should have suspected that. No, she totally did. "Didn't Dad tell you everything already? Last time you called me you seemed well informed."
"Not so much." She folds her legs on top of another, "dad knows what he knows, but you guys-"
"You shouldn't get involved." Yamcha finally turns away from his impromptu sightseeing, "the fewer civilians know, the better will be."
Tights shrug his words off. "Don't go all political on me, boy. It's not something you can keep hidden anyway, in two… how long was it?"
"Three years." Yamcha intervenes, "and that's exactly why you should stay out of it. We're training to ensure that we can fight them off and protect the Earth when the time comes. Imagine what would happen if this became of public knowledge."
"What happened with the Saiyans, probably. Or Piccolo Daimao, or everything that came before that. Look, I understand what you are trying to say. However, I'm no outsider. Not anymore."
Now Bulma recognizes her more. She was surprised, last time they spoke over the phone, that Tights had become so coquettish and detached. As if she had wiped away her past.
She knows that her sister hasn't stayed along with old man Omori all those years just to write her novels. But because she is, at the very bottom, very much like her. Adventure is in her blood.
"I want to help. I could contact Jaco and…"
"No." Bulma lifts off the cold compress from her forehead, throwing it on the sheets. "I suggested a far more easy solution back when we got the news. But it got turned down." She rolls her eyes, "Son and his posse," she marks the last word when her gaze falls on Yamcha, "want to fight, and there's no saying in that."
"Who's Jaco?" Yamcha quirks a brow.
"A guy from the Galactic Patrol we met a long time ago. I wasn't even aware you guys kept in touch after all of these years?"
"Oh, well. Sometimes, I ask him to share some stunts about his work for my novels. But that tiny shit is a cheapskate-" Tights retrieved the cold compress, slapping it again on her damn forehead.
"Wait, wait! Galactic Patrol? What are you guys even talking about?"
"It's too long to explain, Yamcha. Let's just say they're cosmic cops." Bulma offers, frowning at her sister and tossing the pad across the room this time.
"I'm more confused than ever, but if such a thing exists, why didn't they catch Frieza when he-"
Bulma cuts in again, "No clue. But I highly doubt a bunch of tiny men with laser guns would have been able to stop what Saiyans couldn't."
At the mention of Goku's native race, Yamcha's shoulders tighten. "Right…" he moves his gaze away, "without Saiyans, the Earth would be doomed, wouldn't it?"
He’s at it again, but this time she won’t foster his recently developed low-esteem.
“But Frieza was an alien, aren’t we talking about human technology here?” her sister goes on, ignoring the tension that is evidently building again. And Bulma doesn’t know if to be grateful for the change of subject or slap her for giving more fodder to Yamcha.
In fact, that man is ready to open his mouth again, but this time she’s prepared to block whatever he was about to say from its onset. “Whether it is aliens or not, doesn’t change the fact that they’ll wreak havoc. We haven’t been given much detail, but one thing it’s clear, in the future where that boy comes from… they were strong enough to kill everyone.”
“Even Son Goku?” Tights seems surprised by that revelation, which means dad hasn’t told her that much, after all. “It’s complicated. Son, as told, contracted some heart virus and hasn’t fought at all. For that reason, that mysterious kid traveled back in time to give him a cure.”
“Woah, that could make such a great premise.”
“For the doomsday.” She adds, ironically.
Yamcha has been eyeing her for a while from his corner in the room, she kept him in check in her peripheral vision to evade that he jumped the gun at her mention of the kid. But he didn’t. In the end they ended things perfectly knowing what was at stake. And she feels bad, for thinking he would end up throwing tantrums now, in front of her sister. He’s much more mature than he lets on, and that makes her angry. Why does he prefer to be seen or thought of as a fool?
Tights is strangely quiet now, and when Bulma finally tears her gaze away from her ex-boyfriend, she finds the blond kin fixated on her. Their eyes meet and she tilts her head slightly over Yamcha.
“I think I should go.”
His sudden rise of voice makes them both jump. He stalks toward the door, stopping in front of it for a few seconds, without turning. “Take care.” That’s all he says, before taking off. And Bulma knows that's not just referred to her current health state. He’s going to leave Capsule Corporation.
---
The room is silent. Tights hasn’t said a word yet, about what she evidently wants to ask. It was obvious that Yamcha left upon sensing that he was being the third wheel in that conversation, and that must have tampered with her will to ask.
Which also saved her from having to dodge the whole hypothetical side story with Vegeta and the future baby. Instead of satisfying her undying curiosity, she gets up from the bed and tucks her under the covers. “Isn’t a bit late to go all big sisterly on me?” Bulma laughs sarcastically, allowing the blonde to play family.
“I’m actually surprised you’re letting me do this. You were always too prideful to let others take care of you, even as a kid.”
Bulma’s eyes go wide for a second, in which she can’t muster a comeback. She shouldn’t be surprised to hear that, she knows. Actually, it’s not really about what Tights said… more about what flashed in her mind; again. It’s the third time in a few weeks that people tell her the same thing, and every time, she’s reminded that the only person she asked real help from... was Vegeta.
And she's starting to see why. To see familiar patterns in his behavior, in his way of dealing with things. His personality is a carbon copy of her own, and probably, what she's doing with him is just what she would have liked for her too in the past. Someone that would reach out to her, and open her eyes, and tell her that it's alright to let in a helping hand sometimes. Even if you think that there's nobody else that could do it better than you.
Is she… just projecting?
---
He got used to the sulphurous redolence of that planet, to the clusters of violaceous rock climbing up toward its pitch black, eternal night sky.
Every muscle in his body screams to remember that release, the painful instant that marked his ascension. Yet, it doesn't matter how much he tried to replicate that shameful desperation. It just doesn't come to him.
He's laying among rubbles, supine and breathless, arms thrown overheard and resting on sheets of metal, remains of his berserk strength. It's been days, maybe weeks, and frustration takes his breath away at every rugged swell of his chest. Broken ribs are healing. The faint light of the spaceship at his back is the only reminder of time. Time he doesn't possess. Time that's running short. His fingers curl inside of the palms, stretching gloves dirtied with his own blood. He cannot think about anything else. Those words are still engraved in his mind.
We failed.
The screech of teeth in his mouth is the only other sound that he hears, joint to that of gravel falling apart when he gets up. The mordant pain of split bones is easily overridden by wicked dismay. In the back of his mind, the image of Kakarot and that boy holding their transformation without breaking a sweat makes his eyes go wide with ire. Why is it that even though he reached his goal, he still cannot bend that power to his will?
Why is it so?
Why?
But then, like a wave of madness, the reminiscence of what it feels to have it run through his veins, the savage thrum of unadulterated power flexing his fingers and tendons, creeps back afresh among his thoughts. His mouth splits wickedly, insanely, and his chest rumbles with exhilaration. An exhilaration that breaks into an uncontrollable peal of vicious laughter. He has it. He has it. Somewhere yet to be awakened but he has it. And soon, soon enough the time will come when he'll stand with his foot sunk into Kakarot's empty cranium, and he will get revenge. Revenge for being pitied so by that piece of trash.
He moves within the spaceship, the tailgate clangs under the weight of his feet. His body, all of it, is tensed up with elation and shame.
Shame, he must expel.
The flickering lights of the rugged station cut on the angle of his chest, arms, legs, as he descends the stairway to the gravity chamber, where obscurity engulfs him again. An open palm slams against one of the aluminum walls; the other hand dives down, reaching for the folds of his battlesuit and yanking the rubber band down. His cock slips out, and he takes his glove in his teeth, ripping it away from his hand. It goes down, gripping at the hard length of his cock, seizing and strangling it tight. Pulling at the flesh with fast, careless strokes.
Under the skin, his power throbs, mixed with mounting pleasure and cracking pain. His mouth parts, letting out a deep, throaty gurgle. And the more he pumps, the more the fingers against the wall curl inward, twisting the alloy until it bends under the pressure of his strength. The squelching tugs of wet skin fill his ears, and he bares his teeth. Blood pumps fast, at the rhythm of his hand. Desperation. Frustration. Desire to let it out, soon.
Then, her voice breaches into the twisted blindness of his dissatisfaction, and it's shrill and imperative.
He doubles, bending over. Not surprised in the least that she would be there, in that perverse mesh of corrupt desire. And thinking of her makes him go faster, harder. The torn wall under his fingers splinters further spitting wires in the jagged trails he leaves behind.
What was her name again?
Bulma.
He says it. Once. Twice. And his head sinks further between his shoulders. The muscles in his abdomen jump and clench, magnifying the swarm of agony coming from his broken bones and warning that he's close to that goddamn release.
His hand tugs at his cock, until he comes, hard, spilling the remnants of shame in his palm.
---
She expected Tights to leave Capsule Corporation after a couple of days, but, uncustomarily, she stayed over a whole week. And her presence on one side has allowed her to heal up pretty fast and farther as possible from her mother’s nurse game, but on the other hand, it has totally drained her out.
She spent too much time away from her lab, dodging every possible question regarding the red pill and stuck to having frivolous conversations on sci-fi literature and her sister squeezing out of her, every information about Frieza, the Saiyans, the time machine and whatnot. More than once looking up at the sky, wondering about what else she can come up with, now that her project to recreate the regeneration tank has turned to dust, together with the original prototype. She could try to guess, using the spare data the capsule has managed to send to the computer before the explosion. But it’s not enough.
“Bulma look,” Tights’ controlled, ever suave voice rips through her calculations, and she frowns at her for that. “What?” They’re currently sitting in the kitchenette of the house and are both consuming a hypercaloric bucket of slimy jello, sharing a spoon. Tights’ eyes are enraptured on the bouncy substance that is… bouncing against the gravity of its metallic dwelling.
No. It’s not that.
“Can you hear it?” The blond says, swinging her index in the air and throwing a glance outside. “It’s like…”
“Reactors.”
She is off her stool in a nanosecond, ignoring Tights’ questions, and suddenly running out in the clearing behind Capsule Corporation. It’s just a tiny dot in the sky yet, but she could recognize the round shape of that spaceship everywhere.
Her body freezes there, in the middle of the expanse of grass. It can’t be, can it? In no way would he be back already, not after tasting the experience of becoming a Super Saiyan… right?
She cannot help but stare wide-eyed at the clear vault on top of her, mouth hanging open and heart derailing from its spot to crash against her chest in loud thumps.
“Oh boy,” Tights has reached her in the courtyard, “do I finally get to see the famous red pill?” Her snickering sarcasm doesn’t affect Bulma one bit, on the contrary, it just contributes to flare her raising anxiety.
But that’s it. The spaceship Vegeta borrowed is right in front of her and settles on the ground and the propulsors slowly turn off, bending the grass and whipping blades of wind at her hair. When the porthole hatches open, his silhouette emerges from the shadows.
And the effect seeing him in flesh and bones has on her calls for trouble. All the hairs on her neck goose up, and it’s not fear.
He’s still covered in dust from head to toe, exactly as she remembers seeing him before shutting down the connection, not more than ten days ago.
His black, penetrant gaze moves downward, locking with hers.
Yes. Definitely trouble.
