Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Black and White ❯ 03 ( Chapter 3 )

"Vegeta."

 

Only one person addressed her that way—no title, and her real name. It had been years. Vejata froze, her breath hitching as she struggled not to turn around. She would never be ready to face this—had gotten by in life banking on that the idea of Hell was bullshit, that she was gone and would never be again.

 

The voice wasn't icy—was hot with anger that it burned after fermenting for two decades in Hell. "Turn your ass around and face me," there was a fierce growl, and as it ripped through the air it tore Vejata's voice from her throat. If she turned around and looked, she would surely go blind as well. "Well? If you've got the nerve to show up around here you can at least—"

 

She would have snapped back—to keep hold of her pride, or what of it remained. But she was not Prince Vegeta, was not stubborn for stubbornness' sake, and certainly, now, had nothing left to lose—not really. Words quivered at the edge of her tongue—some sharp, most not.

 

Behind her there was silence, and a brief flicker of ki that she was too slow to interpret, and too slow to react to—she was pinned against the ground, a bright orb of energy in the corner of her eye, fingers tangled through her hair that held her head up, but more immediately, her eyes were pinned to the face before her, nearly nose-to-nose with her. She wasn't blinded—but damn close. Everything was blurred—important things: sharp eyes and sharper teeth, wild tufts of hair, whipping tail.

 

"You think I'd forget about it, huh?" came the choking snarl from the figure straddled over her.

 

"No," Vejata whispered.

 

"Shit—I come here and that's the last thing I have to think about? Can't even enjoy those good things; you undid 'em all." A pause. "Maybe I'd be gone now, if I wasn't so pissed at you."

 

"I wasn't expecting to see you," the words rasped from Vejata's throat. "Ever again."

 

"Should've planned better, then, huh? What, and I guess you went on to a pretty great life after you did it, didn't you? Betcha never thought again about it, betcha—"

 

Vejata mouthed some words, swallowing a lump in her throat that must have been filled with needles, so painfully it scraped its way down, only to bob back up. "Shallot, I—" no reason to hold back now, nothing left anyway—this was Hell, and beneath this inferno, she was feeling it—"I'm sorry." Her lips pulled back to reveal her teeth in a grimace, a last-ditch attempt to hold onto wishes that she would never regret, never second-guess. But if one thing had stung her, it had been this, this woman—by all appearances twenty years younger than she, though they had been the same age then—and what Vejata had done to her. The returning burn of guilt, so unfamiliar in Vejata's throat, bid her to wonder if her gut was heaving itself into her mouth—but no, it was the forgotten images of the two of them, memories that had been dropped to the back of her mind for as long as Vejata could help it, now wielding their monstrous weight. They were images of training, sparring, new techniques, secrets shared behind castle walls: words and lips, tactics and battles, bruising blows and something softly blooming—a friend for the fragile moment she realized she had neither mother nor father; herself a soft wall when the King had done away with Shallot's father.

 

"Well you can't apologize yourself outta Hell." The woman leaned in close, and Vejata closed her eyes against the burning that arose within as Shallot's body—soft in few places: hair, chest, lips, but these sufficiently soft to make up for the hardness of her stomach, legs, eyes—pressed against hers. They were so close, and she could not look away.

 

"I know," Vejata muttered, still pinned.

 

"Vegeta," she drew closer, eyes still narrowed, deadly, "why'd you do it?" Shallot pressed closer still, nearly lying atop Vejata, ball of ki now held a hair's breadth away from Vejata's ear. "Why'd you kill me?"

"The King," Vejata breathed, "instructed me to. His reasoning was sound—"

 

"Reasoning!" she spat, the volume of her voice causing Vejata to flinch. "Bullshit. Saiyajin don't reason. You really did it for that old man?"

 

No—yes—no. "It—he—made—I don't know," her eyes finally locked with Shallot's. It had been bad enough then, facing the king's advice, that she do such a thing to the girl-turned-woman she couldn't remember ever not knowing. But afterward, as she discovered slowly that she would never have again what she had had one time—crushed beneath the infectious paranoia of the man who referred to himself as her father, the lessons he had taught her—she had forced it from her mind. Only Bulma, with her familiar fiery spirit, winsome vulgarity, her frightening strength of will, had jerked back to the surface nostalgia of what had been. When faced with the same dilemma—kill her; it makes sense—she could not do it, not this time around. "It was—I didn't...know." Shallot frowned, dissatisfied. The queen clenched her fists into the soil beneath as the other woman remained silent. "Well, what do you want me to tell you?" now the volume of Vejata's voice rose in anger, "Shallot, it was the biggest goddamn mistake of my life, all right?" She breathed heavily, and Shallot watched, waiting, still pinning her down. "Nothing much I regret about what I did while I was living—nothing much at all—but—"

 

Shallot leaned in closer, raising her eyebrows.

 

"Fuck, Shallot, does it make you feel better to hear it?" Vejata hissed, and the woman remained motionless, watching, rage flickering through her eyes, ready to set her ablaze if she did not like what followed. "Fine—I fucked up," she paused, "and I'm offended you ever thought for a second that I wouldn't regret it."

 

The ki next to Vejata's head flickered away, but took its time in doing so. Shallot tilted her head away and lowered it until it was in line with Vejata's. "Y' hadn't ever killed anyone like that before me—had you, Vegeta?" she whispered into her ear.

 

Vejata shook her head, and her cheek nudged against Shallot's.

 

"I hope you got better," and the hot breathing into Vejata's ear sounded like derisive chuckling. She felt the sensation that her chest was too tight—ribcage shrunk and lungs couldn't hold enough. "Hurt like a bitch. Or," her voice darkened, "is that what you intended?"

 

Vejata shook her head again, this time leaving her cheek pressed to Shallot's. "We're both dead now," she muttered after what may have been minutes, and added, "neither of us under pleasant circumstances." A few more breaths rattled in and out of her too-tight lungs. "Now listen close, because I'm only asking once. We've got an awful long time down here and so you'd better answer what you mean for good."

 

"'An awful long time'—says you," Shallot spat. "All right, what?"

 

"Forgive me."

 

Shallot's brows knit, and she seemed, for the first time, to realize her closeness to Vejata. She drew herself back up into a seated position, still over Vejata, and crossed her arms, observing the woman beneath her critically. "Well, shit. And I can't decide later?"

 

"Now, or I never want to see your sorry ass again," Vejata pleaded, her voice soft.

 

"That's hardly fair," Shallot breathed, and she noticed the desperation as it crawled across the queen's face. At this her frown deepened, and Vejata caught herself and carefully returned her expression to neutrality. A spark of an idea seemed to hit her eye, and she smirked a bit.

 

As her teeth glimmered from beneath her lips, pulled back now into a feral grin, Vejata's eyes lightened to a chilling cyan. Her hair lifted and turning yellow as gold flames licked her body and brushed against Shallot's. The other woman's eyes widened, and every shred of sense in her that told her to leap aside was whipped away in the wind that whirled around them. Every muscle that squirmed inside her told Shallot to touch, and so—she placed one hand against either side of Vejata's face to feel its burning heat. "Well, now I don't even got a choice," her voice rippled from her throat, a velvety purr, "Vegeta, you underhanded bitch."

 

 

...

 

 

"You know what, Vegeta?" Goku wiped the sweat from his brow, and Vegeta did the same. Sparring in the gravity room was always a challenge—the careful balance between a ferocious fight and not destroying the machine or any adjacent pieces of the residence. Vegeta recalled fondly Bulma's rage when she had discovered, years back, an entire segment of her lab lacking several of its walls. She had since moved it to the basement—on the opposite side of the compound—and for this Vegeta was glad, because while he had certainly enjoyed the recklessness that came with her anger, he had not enjoyed the ensuing period in which she ignored him completely.

 

"No, I don't," Vegeta grunted, but he smirked a little as Goku laughed at his response.

 

"You know what I was gonna do on New Vegeta?"

 

Vegeta raised an eyebrow. He hadn't considered that the man might have had something in mind when he went there—hadn't thought much at all about New Vegeta besides bitter recollection of being stranded there, and thought of what had happened to Goku—seeing his body, frozen.

 

"I was thinking I could find some of the pretty strong Saiyajin, y'know, and train 'em. Maybe they can go Super Saiyajin, too!"

 

Vegeta opened his mouth to scoff at the idea, but one of his better memories made him pause, and he crossed his arms. "Are you trying to say that's what you want to go do now?" he guessed. "Kakarrot, can't you stay on the damn planet for at least a few years at a time?"

 

"Man, Vegeta," Goku chortled, "Never woulda thought I'd hear you say that!" He grinned, and slung an arm around Vegeta, who, worn from their match, halfheartedly removed it. "You can come along, 'course. I was hoping you would! Maybe you can, y'know, tell me more about the Saiyajin. An' help me train 'em, and all."

 

"I would say," Vegeta started, "that I couldn't care less about them right now. But," Goku's eyes lit up, "there is one interesting thing I found in my time there—while I was stranded." Vegeta shifted his weight uneasily, enthusiasm fading with each second his statement was left to cool down. He shouldn't have mentioned it—would now be obligated to go, too, to sate his curiosity, and Goku knew it. He grimaced; time alone with Goku was the last thing he needed. But their most recent sparring match had been refreshing—he was feeling better, now, and more in control. The incident with Trunks—the worry that his being tugged toward Goku was inevitable—were both things he could deal with, and conquer, he decided, as he mopped up a stream of blood that trickled down his arm.

 

"What'd you find?" Goku was nearly bouncing, despite that Vegeta was sure he had been worn to near-collapse minutes ago.

 

"Well," Vegeta's mouth twitched, "I'll tell you about it if you promise that the instant I want to leave New Vegeta, you'll bring me back."

 

"'Course," Goku grinned. "I can do that." He blinked and noticed Vegeta unlocking the door and exiting. "Hey! What're you doing?"

 

"Telling Bulma," he called from around the corner. "Just wait here."

 

Goku shrugged, laughing. "What an impulsive guy."