Chapter Text
After Furiza’s death, what remained of the Majin switched allegiances and turned on the Korudo, something that Bejita would only learn about the next day—in the moment, all he could see was that suddenly the number of people running away from him was greater than the number of people running at him. Even then, he still didn’t quite realize he had survived the battle until his legs suddenly gave under his weight, his body having registered the lack of new opponents before he did.
He sat down heavily in the muddy grass, feeling the wet and the cold through his kimono, and the weak autumn sun on his back, and the blood crusting over his face and arms, and the sweat running down his chest. As the fight left him, the pain of a hundred cuts bloomed all over his body like unfurling poppies. He was out of breath, and he focused on that for long minutes, just breathing, hearing nothing but his own thumping heartbeat as it gradually slowed down.
Then a faint laugh drew his attention. Kakarotto—who looked terrible, his chest wound bleeding abundantly through his bandages, a dozen other cuts and bruises showing through the mud and sweat on his skin—had collapsed next to him, and couldn’t stop grinning.
“Oh, we did it,” he said, “a whole army. That was so fun.”
“Will you shut up,” Bejita rasped. “Will you stop being so unbearably pleased with yourself all the time.” But then he grinned, too, couldn’t help it.
When he pushed to his feet, with a groan—why couldn’t he just go to sleep right there in the blood and the mud—he realized he was still holding Kakarotto’s jō, having just leaned onto it to get up. For an awkward moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he glanced to the side and found Kakarotto, still smiling, offering him his katana.
They swapped back. Bejita took a moment to wipe his face, then found a bit of untrampled grass to clean his blade before sheathing it.
“He was really good,” Kakarotto said as they started the laborious walk back towards the coalition encampment. “I couldn’t have done it without a sword. So, you know. Thank you.”
Bejita said nothing. Surprisingly, Kakarotto seemed to realize he didn’t want to discuss it any further, and he kept silent as they left the muddy plain where field doctors and crows alike were already descending.
He only started speaking again as they were both getting bandaged, steaming near a fire. “Are you gonna go to Bulma now?”
“No.”
“Aw, what? Why not?”
Staring at the fire, Bejita flinched when the doctor’s heated needle stabbed into the wound in his shoulder. Between his teeth, he said, “She’s better off alone.”
“I don’t know about that.” Kakarotto paused for a curious moment, as if weighing something in his mind. Then he said: “Do you know what she wanted to wish for, all that time?”
Bejita looked up, frowning, distracted even from the pain. “What? Do you?”
“Yeah, she told me back in Amsterdam. She wanted someone to share her life with.”
“What? Fuck,” Bejita hissed when the thread started pulling through his flesh. “What does that mean?”
“Think about it. That’s something she can’t build or buy. She’s sort of strange by anyone’s standards, and me too, I think. So we’re alone most of the time. Me, I don’t mind, but apparently, she does.”
“That’s nonsense! In those conditions, why not share her life with you?”
“I mean, we sort of have for the past two years, but that doesn’t seem to be what she wants.” Kakarotto shrugged when Bejita opened his mouth again. “Look, I never know what she’s thinking. You should ask her. Isn’t that why you came down here for anyway?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Bejita gritted out, and pretended to be distracted by the pain for a while.
*
Master Shin had found her a place to stay half a mile from the battlefield, in a one-story house on the edge of a tiny village, close to the coalition encampment. Possibly Bulma was being rewarded for pretty much winning them the field, or possibly she was being kept away so she wouldn’t publicly shame Shin for his decision not to take the hill. Not that she would have had the energy. All she wanted was to bathe, to rest and to feed her son.
Chitose had given him back to her the second Bulma had gotten off the poor Kinto-Un, whose flanks were still heaving wildly, flecked with sweat. “Is he okay?” Bulma had exclaimed, hurrying to her. “What did you give him to eat?”
“Nothing—I mean, he only woke up once, and he cried a little but then he fell asleep again,” Chitose had explained. Of course it hadn’t even been ten hours since Bulma had been separated from him, for all that it had felt like a lifetime. “I just did my best to keep him warm.”
“Bless you.” Without a care for the men milling around, Bulma had opened her kimono to nurse the baby who had woken up when he had changed hands, and was beginning to mewl pitifully. Goodness, he was so small. Had he been so small the day before? “Oh, I’m so glad he’s all right…”
After that Bulma had sat with her back against a tree just to shake for a few hours, and maybe even have a cathartic little cry. Then Chi-Chi had come back to tell her about the house. A bath, a change of clothes and a good night’s sleep had done them both wonders.
“Oh, thank you,” Bulma said when Chi-Chi joined her on the wraparound porch with tea on a platter.
They sat together for a while—Chitose made noises about finding her a wetnurse, or at least a few servants hired in the village to take care of their food and laundry. Bulma wasn’t really listening, answering her absentmindedly, sipping her tea while the baby nursed. The house was a little way away from the road, and the back porch opened on a sloped field, long grass waving all the way down to a burbling creek. Most trees were just beginning to fade into yellows and reds.
Eventually, Chitose stopped talking. When she started again, her voice had changed.
“What you did up there.” She took a deep breath. “That was… unkind.”
Even though a great many things had happened on Mount Tori, Bulma knew exactly what Chi-Chi was referring to. She adjusted Trunks against her breast, but he didn’t want to nurse anymore, so she began to pat him gently until he burped, wiggled, and settled against her, already falling asleep. She closed her kimono over him before answering.
“Goku likes you,” she said. “But he will never love you. And he will never understand that family should come first. It’s better for you to realize that now.”
“Don’t pretend you were doing me a favor.”
“No, I was thinking only of myself,” Bulma readily admitted. “And so was he.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Bulma was the one to break it. “So are you going to marry him?”
Chi-Chi, who’d been holding back tears, blinked up at her. “What? You just said…”
“He’s the hero of the battle of Sekigahara. They’re going to offer him land and money and who knows what else. And he’s going to lose interest in it and wander off eventually. If you can marry him before that and have a son, you’ll be settled for life.” She shrugged. “But you’ll also probably be alone a lot of the time. Maybe forever, if he forgets to come back one day.”
“I don’t know if I can…” Chi-Chi lowered her voice. “…give him any children at all. I mean—he’s not… He doesn’t act like most men that way.” She blushed.
“Tell him you’d like a favor and explain what it is, and maybe you can take him for a ride. Or fuck someone else, and pass off the kid as his. Your choice.” Bulma waited till the obligatory sputtering was done, then said, “Or just give up and go back to your father. You’ll have other prospects.”
“I don’t—” Chitose began, then shut up and went even redder. I don’t want other prospects. Bulma didn’t know if she was genuinely in love with Goku or if she was thinking about the tantalizing freedom Bulma had just sketched out for her: a mistress in her domain, without even a husband or a mother-in-law in the way, with the favor and the protection of the most powerful men in Japan. Whatever else happened, Chi-Chi would never again have a chance like this one.
“You’re so strange,” Chi-Chi said eventually, sounding more like a child than she usually did. “Both of you.”
“Yes, I think that’s why he stuck with me for so long. He really wanted to see Japan, and we don’t quite understand each other most of the time, but we make a good team.” Bulma sipped some tea. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the wake-up call up there…”
Chi-Chi grabbed her wrist, suddenly. She had gone pale.
“What?” Bulma said. Then, seeing her expression, “Ah.”
“Don’t turn around,” Chitose said under her breath. “He’s coming—no. He stopped.” She swallowed. “Do you want me to stay with you? I will. Or I can go and call someone.”
Bulma was unexpectedly moved. She was sorry to have been so strong-handed with Chitose, who’d been an invaluable help, who had shouted down the man she saw as a monster just to protect Bulma, who had stained her hands with her blood and cut the cord of her newborn son. Who wasn’t even pointing out the irony of Bulma telling her to open her eyes about Goku abandoning her for a fight.
“I’ll be fine, Chi-Chi. Just go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just go,” Bulma repeated calmly.
Chitose met her eyes for a second, hesitated, then nodded and got up.
“And you really should marry Goku,” Bulma added. “If you want.”
She hesitated. “Do you think so?”
“He might not leave.” Bulma smiled. “And regardless, you’re certainly the best thing that could ever happen to him.”
Chitose seemed just as surprised as Bulma had been a moment ago, but also quite pleased; she bowed, then left swiftly, with a last worried glance over her shoulder.
Bulma turned around on the porch, shifted Trunks in her kimono, and just waited. Bejita, who had been waiting on the edge of the field, started walking again towards her house.
He had tamed his hair back into a topknot and washed off the soot, the blood and the mud. She could see white bandages around one of his forearms, more packed over his chest and shoulder, peeking out from under his clothes; he was moving slow and stiff, too proud to limp, but careful not to reopen his wounds. Even though he was wearing his ordinary black yukata, something seemed different about him. After a moment, she realized he was not armed.
She had imagined that scene a lot. She had pictured herself screaming at him, or throwing herself in his arms, or anything in between. Mostly, she had wondered what he would say. What he could possibly say.
He said nothing at all. Having come up to her on the wraparound porch, he knelt down into a seiza—and then he kept going, both hands flat before him, pressing his forehead to the floorboards.
For once in her life, she was completely speechless.
Despite her prolonged silence, he didn’t move. For him to expose the back of his neck like this just felt so wrong—which was, of course, the point of dogeza in a warrior society. He seemed to feel it keenly as well, the muscles in his forearms corded with tension, but he was forcing himself to keep the position.
After a full minute, a loud cry tore through the silence, startling them both: Bulma had been squeezing Trunks too hard.
Pushing hurriedly to her feet, she walked into the house, bouncing him, shushing him, whispering apologies to him, rubbing his back. It took him a good fifteen minutes to calm down, and when he began to fall asleep again, Bulma bundled him in the futon. By the time she got back out on the porch, she still hadn’t figured out what to say. She was half-expecting Bejita to have vanished.
He was still there—not still prostrating himself, thank God, just waiting for her. He looked about as awkward as she felt.
“He’s fine now,” she said, sitting down next to him. “Sorry.”
“No apologies are required,” he said under his breath.
For a while they both just sat together, watching the heavy clouds rolling across the horizon.
“Are you badly hurt?” she asked.
“There is no need for concern either.” He may have broken dogeza, but he still spoke with extreme formality.
“Look at me.”
On his thighs, his hands clenched into fists. He kept staring into the middle distance.
Tears came suddenly to her eyes, and she shoved him hard in the shoulder, almost pushing him out of his seiza. “Will you look at me!”
He blinked at her with wide eyes. “I—I have upset you—”
“Stop! My God! Stop!” she cried, shoving him again. “Just talk to me like a normal fucking person!”
He spoke even more rigidly, half-raising his hand to fend her off. “I am unforgivable—”
“That’s not for you to decide!” She wanted to shove him more but just ended up bracing her hands against his chest, her fingers clenching into the fabric of his yukata. Her head fell forward, her eyes screwing shut. “I waited for months. Don’t you dare find a new reason to stay away.”
After a moment of silence, he wrapped his fingers around her wrists, as if to remove her hands, but didn’t go through with it.
“Why can’t you…” he rasped.
Then he sucked in a shaky breath, so uncharacteristic she couldn’t help blinking up at him. She was amazed to see that he was tearing up too.
Of course, he was trying his hardest to will it away, clenching his jaw, but it was no use. “Why won’t you fight me off.” His tears rolled down. “Why don’t you ever fight me off.”
She unclenched her hands slowly, laying them flat over his chest, holding his gaze.
“What’s there to fight off? You’ve never attacked me.”
“Are you delusional?” At least he was starting to sound a bit more like his normal self.
“You’ve never attacked me,” she repeated. “I’ve never had to wonder how to keep you away.” She could feel his heartbeat under her palms, through the fabric. “The problem’s when you leave.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then he averted his eyes, letting go of her, and they both took a moment to wipe their faces.
When he spoke again, quietly, he surprised her even more. “Kakarotto told me about your wish.”
“What?” She blinked. “But how could he possibly know?”
Bejita frowned. “He said you told him.”
“Oh.” What an idiot she was—of course he meant the wish she had made back in Amsterdam.
“You made another one,” he realized.
Bulma felt herself blush, which never happened to her. She hated the thought of Bejita knowing about that first wish, childish and sappy—the fairytale dream of a spoiled girl trying to magically solve her one dissatisfaction in life, something she had formulated over three years ago now—but the second wish, her actual wish, was arguably worse. When the moment had come to pray, when she had found herself shivering and desperate on a mountain ablaze, she had been painfully aware that no hypotheticals could ever measure up even to a very flawed reality.
“Why are we talking about this?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes again. “I’ve changed my mind, go back to apologizing.”
“I saw the dragon. I think.” After a silence, he added: “Perhaps I was delirious.”
They watched the clouds as they slowly changed shape in the sky.
“Did your wish come true?” he asked. “The one you actually made.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But… maybe it’s just coincidence.”
“How could it not be clear whether it’s coincidence or—”
She exhaled. “I wished you would survive.”
He stared at her.
“And I’m glad you did.” She wiped her eyes again. That was what really mattered, in the end. She didn’t want him to die. Even at her lowest point, when she couldn’t know he would return to her when it mattered the most, she hadn’t wanted him dead.
She didn’t care anymore about the dragon; she didn’t even need to know whether it was real. They were alive. Everything else, she could build herself.
“Do you want to see your son?”
He was still frozen.
“His name is Trunks,” she added deliberately.
That did it—he blinked, then scowled. “That’s awful.”
“Shame you weren’t there to argue.” She got to her feet and went inside, carefully picking up the swaddled baby. When she brought him out, Bejita looked at him with guarded apprehension.
“You can hold him. Come here.”
He remained where he was for a moment, then shifted closer, reaching out so she could pass him the child.
In his arms, Trunks looked even smaller. Despite how obviously wary he was, Bejita cradled him without the awkwardness Bulma had often seen in men holding a baby for the first time—he had just seen her do it, and of course that was enough for him to do it properly, too.
“He doesn’t weigh much.” He frowned. “Will he live?”
“Of course he will. He’s your son.”
“And yours,” he said.
A moment passed, Trunks sleeping peacefully against his father’s bandaged chest. Bejita was studying him with his brow furrowed, as if trying to figure out how to feel.
“Goku’s talked to me, too, you know, about what happened—” and she thought she saw a flash of alarm on Bejita’s face before she added, “on the battlefield.” Was she imagining it? Had he done something else, maybe up on the mountain, something Goku had kept to himself?
Before she could figure out how to ask, he said, with more weariness than anger, “There’s really no need to discuss that.”
A complicated feeling squeezed her heart. Bejita’s final decision was a lot braver than anything else he might have done—and some part of him must know that, or he wouldn’t have done it at all. Yet another part of him was clearly still ashamed, and presumably always would be. Any fate other than death left you free to wonder whether you’d made the right choice.
She wanted to find a way to express how proud she was of him, to let him breathe easier. But she couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound too glib, too trite, too condescending. There was no accessing the true depth of that feeling. In the end, he was right: this just wasn’t the sort of thing you talked about.
“Then let’s not talk about it,” she said softly. “I guess I’m just wondering what you’re planning on doing now.”
Quietly, he said, “I don’t know.”
*
She asked him if he was hungry, which he was. Then if he was tired, which he was, too. When she opened her bed to him, he did not refuse as he should have. It should have bothered him more—he had betrayed her so badly he should have never met her eyes again, and there he was daring to accept her invitation, as if all was forgiven. But there wasn’t another futon in the little house. And she was inviting him. And maybe he was too exhausted to even berate himself, or maybe he didn’t quite trust himself anymore when it came to differentiating true honor and mere custom. Certainly he hadn’t always found the former by following the latter.
Regardless, they went to sleep with the child tucked between them, which felt reassuringly chaste.
But in the morning, he arose to find her already out of the futon, filling the teapot. Obviously their son had woken her during the night—and Bejita had slept through it. Now the child was fed and swaddled anew, back in the warm hollow left by his mother’s body in the mattress.
She saw that Bejita was awake and hung the teapot over the firepit. The house was dark, the shoji half open to reveal a rectangle of cloudy green landscape, glowing like a backlit painting. The steam rising from the water caught that faint light in wisps of silver.
He left the bed and came to sit behind her, watching her move. When she put the teapot down, he leaned forward and wrapped his arm around her middle, pulling her close to rest his chin on her shoulder, eyes closed, breathing her in.
She froze for just a moment; then she leaned back against him. For a while there were no noises but the faint crackle of the coals, the distant notes of birds outside.
“I’m still furious at you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said against her skin.
He thought of the mountain, his bare stomach, the point of the wakizashi against his skin. She would have been within her rights to demand such a proof of remorse, and had she asked for it, he would have complied. But he knew it was the last thing she wanted.
And he knew she wouldn’t ask for more. As she had told Kakarotto: she didn’t expect anything from him. He realized now—as he held her close, as she let herself be held while the tea steeped—that he wished this would change.
But what could he offer her? If she wanted him close for some absurd reason, he could stay by her side, at least for now. Because of his injuries, he couldn’t train, and he had nothing to train for anyway. Such a strange, unsettling thought. In all his fantasies, even the vainest ones, he had never quite imagined he would outlive Furiza, not for long in any case.
“It’ll get cold,” she murmured, finally moving away from him.
But she didn’t go far, brushing against him when she filled their cups, pressing their shoulders together with familiar ease as she drank. He had forgotten how easily she touched him, how she thought nothing of sitting close together. She still didn't care about propriety. She still wasn’t afraid of him.
He thought of the Way. His vague idea of vowing never to fight again would never hold, he knew it—he was a knight. He would pick up a sword again as soon as his body was able. Even now, after conceding defeat both to his enemy and to his rival, he couldn’t think of living otherwise. But he also knew now that instead of slicing a narrow sliver out of his existence to use as the correct path, he could treat all of it as one, if he only allowed it.
Damn Kakarotto. And damn him, for even thinking of following his example. But if Bejita had nearly killed himself training so relentlessly over the summer, it was because of fear, he saw that now. He was afraid of not being good enough, afraid of muddling his focus by giving in to sentiment. Afraid of losing. Now that he had lost—and survived—he saw clearly that fear could not be allowed to govern his existence anymore.
*
I shouldn’t be surprised, Bulma thought to herself after two weeks.
Bejita’s pride had suffered more than his battered body: he had dealt it an almost fatal blow by failing Bulma, and as a result, he had now clearly staked his honor on never failing her again, which was about right in terms of the level of subtlety and nuance to which he’d accustomed her. She had waited so long for him to find a way to break out of what he had been taught; of course he had finally achieved it by changing the goal, but never the methods.
For now, a very clear way to help her was to help with Trunks, and Bejita was a quick learner, progressing in leaps and bounds on this strange new path he’d assigned himself. After the first few days, he knew enough to take care of the child on his own, which he did with his usual single-minded diligence, frowning in focus even as he washed him or changed his diapers. Such things should have been entrusted to a servant in a normal household for someone of his rank, to say nothing of having them be performed by a man. But he never suggested it—they didn’t even have servants in here anyway, just two women who did their laundry and brought them food, never coming into the main room, which Bejita and Trunks never left.
“Wait,” Goku asked one day. “What do you mean, you don’t allow the servants in? Is he still keeping your whole thing a secret? You just told me he’s changed.”
They were walking to the coalition camp together—Bulma had left Bejita with the baby, enjoying a few moments away from the house. Goku was helpful that way: Chi-Chi routinely sent him over for news, and Bejita obstinately refused to see him, so Bulma could use his company as free time, and pillage some rations from the camp while she was at it.
“He did change, but his country didn’t.” Bulma shrugged. “I’m telling you, I don’t mind.”
“All right. Well, that’s good if you’re getting along, because I was thinking I might leave again in a little while. Maybe go back to China?” He crossed his hands behind his neck. “Although I really do like it here…”
“Goku, you haven’t even been here a year. You should stay until spring, at least—it’s idiotic to travel in winter if you can avoid it. Plus you haven’t even been to see the ruins of the Son house. Didn’t you originally come to ask about your grandfather?” Bulma was intent on leaving Chitose enough time to make her move. “There’s no need to rush, especially if you might regret it later.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just that I’m starting to get bored.”
“It’s only been two weeks since the battle. You’re not even fully healed!”
“You’re right,” he repeated, laughing. “Okay. And Bejita, is he doing better?”
“Still convalescing.” She sighed. “I think that’s why he doesn’t want to see you: he couldn’t challenge you, the state he’s in. He’s waiting to be recovered first.”
“Nah, you have it backwards. He won last time, I told him—”
She stared. “You did? When?”
“—so I’m the one who should challenge him back. You’re probably right about that being the reason for him avoiding me, though. He doesn’t want to put me in an awkward position, it’s nice of him.”
“Don’t you challenge him, Goku, do you hear me? We’ve had enough trouble. Just don’t do it!”
“But I will,” he laughed again. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt each other. We’re friends.”
“I’m not sure he’s changed that much!”
“He has, though.”
Bulma had to give up, for now. When she walked back to the house after two hours, expecting to find a crying baby and an annoyed Bejita, she found a silent room instead, Trunks all swaddled up and deeply asleep. She stepped out when she heard movement on the porch and found Bejita sitting there bare-chested, cautiously unwrapping his bandages.
“What are you doing?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Changing them for fresh ones.” He unrolled the wraps around his left forearm and peered at the red line of a closed wound.
The weather had been steadily cooling since the battle, and in the bright sunlight, she could see the thin grain of goosebumps along his back. Now that she witnessed the full extent of his wounds, she couldn’t help feeling a little faint. He was going to acquire at least a dozen new scars if he was lucky, and that was discounting the massive bruising that still hadn’t entirely faded since the battle. A few deeper injuries hadn’t closed all the way yet: she now understood why he was so restrained in his movements when she saw the stitches in his shoulder.
“Keep an eye on the child,” he said, shedding the last of his bandages and gathering up a fresh roll. “I’ll go wash in the creek first.”
“I’m coming with you. We’ll hear him if he starts crying.”
He didn’t argue. They went down the grassy slope together, and he undressed the rest of the way on the bank, a bit stiff once again. She couldn’t tell if it was because of the pain or because he hadn’t been naked in front of her in some time.
She remembered the first time she had stayed stuck staring at him. Avert your fucking eyes, woman! This time she was looking quite deliberately, and despite his hyperawareness of her, he wasn’t telling her to look away.
He immersed himself in the clear water, wading in to the waist, barely wincing even though it had to be ice cold—she understood the need to wash his entire body, but a bucket would have been more practical. Just as she thought so, he almost lost his balance when a river stone rolled under his feet, reaching out suddenly for the rocks.
“Bejita!”
He threw her an exasperated look, steadying himself. “I am clearly fine.”
“You’ve just popped a stitch!” It was true—blood was welling up on his shoulder. “Let me help you.”
He snorted. “How? I’d like to see you go into the water.”
“See if I won’t!” She threw open her kimono and began to unlace her underclothing.
“You’ll never—” he began, but then swiftly turned around as her clothes fell to her feet. Standing there naked, she remembered him in the palanquin, looking away from her bare collarbones. Shy!
She grinned. “Now who’s—oh fuck,” she panted when she stepped into the water. It was so cold it felt like it was squeezing her ankles. “Ohh fuck.”
“Hurry now,” he said flatly. “I’m bleeding out.”
“Shut up—” She forced herself to go in to mid-thigh, then said, “Okay, I’ve changed my mind.”
He looked over his shoulder, not quite glancing at her. “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”
“It’s entirely like you to make me do all the work.”
At that he turned, and his eyes on her were a bigger thrill than the cold. He flushed faintly, which he had to hate, but didn’t look away.
“You’re right,” he said.
And he suddenly grabbed her wrist.
“No—you fucking bastard!” she squeaked when he inexorably tugged her in, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her flush against his body. “Agh! You’re cold all over! Get your hands off me—”
He kissed her, so deeply she didn’t even notice when he took another step backwards into the creek with her, the water rising to their waist. His mouth was burning hot—his body too, under the superficial coolness of his wind-kissed skin, and he was holding her so tightly she felt entirely, consumingly warm after all.
“And,” she breathed when they parted after a long while. “And—you think that makes it better?”
He raised an eyebrow, like the asshole he was.
“I’m getting out,” she said dramatically, turning around.
He drew her back in, slowly, until her back was against his chest. His hands came to rest on her stomach, then began sliding over her body, one going up, the other down. She closed her eyes. His breath was hot on her neck, as hot as the water was cold. “Fine, your majesty,” he said.
Throwing back that nickname at her should have just made him a sarcastic jerk, except he was, of course, speaking Japanese—and so he had just said: Bulma-hime. She turned her head to look at him. Did he even realize he had never called her by her name before?
Then the hand that had gone down began to work, and she forgot to ask. He still knew her so well. For a few minutes there, they just didn’t speak at all.
After she slumped back against him, breathing hard, she shifted pointedly to show him she could feel him against her thigh and said, “Impressive, in cold water.”
He grunted against her neck. “Vulgar as ever.”
“Don’t let me go or I’ll catch my death,” she warned him, turning to face him and reaching down.
He complied, holding onto her the whole time, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in focus, until all of him released and relaxed in one breath. When he looked up, his dark eyes were full of that intensity she had seen in him on their first time. It felt like he had something to say but hadn’t quite yet decided to speak the words.
Then he released her, swearing under his breath, distracted by the trickle of blood down his shoulder. He rinsed his stitches while she got out of the water to put her clothes back on, wrapping herself gratefully in her kimono before the chill could get to her.
After that, he sat naked on the bank, indifferent to the cold, and she helped him bandage himself again, following his quiet instructions. The popped stitch had stopped bleeding and, according to him, wasn’t actually worth redoing—it was on the edge of the wound and would have needed removing very soon anyway. He stayed still while she carefully tugged out the pieces.
She had to leave him there when Trunks started crying half-way through, but most of the work was done, and Bejita could finish it himself. He joined her in the house fifteen minutes later, fully clothed again, the bandages clean and white under his black garments.
Later that night, as they finished their dinner, he asked: “Why me?”
She just looked at him.
“I am trying,” he elaborated. “But everything I’m struggling to achieve—he’s always done it effortlessly.” He raised his hand when she opened her mouth. “You tell me you’ve never wanted him, and I believe you.” He let it fall back and pushed it into his sleeve, his arms tightening around himself, adding quietly: “I just wonder why.”
He wasn’t fishing for forgiveness or praise. He was looking at the floor, waiting for her answer. It was a real question, and a good question besides, something she hadn’t asked herself until then.
But now that it was being put to her, she realized she knew the answer. “Well.” She smiled. “Maybe I prefer a man who tries.”