Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Decoding the Saiyan ❯ Kiss ( Chapter 16 )

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.

A/N: The prompt for this was `kiss' from the Intimacy Challenge.

Kiss

Bulma eyed the packet of chocolate biscuits that sat on the coffee table, weighing up whether the pleasure of eating them was worth the hassle of getting up off the couch to fetch the treats. Sighing, she decided that it wasn't, and relaxed further back into the chair she lay across.

“How is your back today, dear?” her mother asked, tottering into the room on high heels. Bulma glared at her mother's shoes; it had been months since she had been able to squeeze her feet into anything similar.

“Crap,” she pouted. “I can't get comfy. Can you do me a favour, and pass me those biscuits?” she asked, pointing at the coffee table.

“Of course, sweetie!” her mother smiled, rushing over to her. “Would you like me to fix you a better lunch? Or how about some tea? Or orange juice? Or -”

“Juice would be fine, Mom,” Bulma cut in, saving her mother from reciting the entire kitchen's inventory. She took a bite out of one of the biscuits, the packet now clutched possessively in her hand, and savoured the taste of chocolate as she listened to her mother chatter away.

“… and I was telling Stacy that I am so excited to meet my grandson! Only two more weeks to go! `Oh, but it could be any day now,' I said, `because Bulma's gotten so big!' And then she said…”

Bulma pouted, staring down at her belly. She felt like an ungraceful whale. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back, imagining what it would be like to be skinny again. And to be able to breathe properly. And to have feet that didn't hurt and actually fit into her old shoes.

She felt like a ticking time bomb, despite the fact that her doctor had told her it looked unlikely that the baby would be born this week. Her sheer size alone would have stopped her from going out, but the added factor of all the paparazzi that now swarmed outside her family's compound, hoping to get a shot of her eight and a half month belly, meant that she hadn't left the grounds in over two weeks.

“The hoverjet is fuelled and packed, right?” she asked, lifting her head to look at her mother. The older woman turned to look at her, blinking.

“What was that, dear?”

“The hoverjet. It's packed and fuelled, right?”

“Of course dear!” her mother replied. “Your father did that right before he left on that business trip- He'll be back tomorrow night, by the way. Everything is ready for your trip to the hospital, so don't you worry yourself at all! You just focus on relaxing and saving your energy for the big day!”

Bulma snorted. “Yeah.”

.

Bulma looked at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes- it read eleven twenty three- and dialled her mother's phone number again. The phone cut straight to the voicemail, and she hung up, irritated, and just a little bit worried.

She reached for the remote and switched on the TV, flicking through the channels for something to distract her. Her mother had only gone to the mall to pick up a few extra baby supplies, and she told herself that it wouldn't be long before the woman returned. Still flicking, she went past the news channel, then backtracked as her mind registered the importance of the news item.

“… thirteen car pile-up on the North-western Motorway means traffic will be at a standstill for at least another four hours, authorities say, as they work to clear the debris off the road. The fires have now all been extinguished, and reports indicate that although some have been seriously injured, miraculously there have been no casualties as a result of this accident. We now cross live to Janice, who is standing just outside the north western's main tunnel.”

The image changed from the crash scene itself- Bulma was relieved that she did not recognise any of the cars involved- to an attractive female reporter, surrounded by two lanes of traffic at a standstill.

“Yes, as you can see, I'm standing about a mile before the actual crash, and traffic is backed up for miles behind me. What is making the wait even harder for many drivers is the fact that those stuck waiting within the tunnel have no phone reception, and are unable to contact their friends and family to explain what is going on.”

The image flashed back to the news reader in the news room. “Can you tell me Janice, has anyone left their vehicle and chosen to walk out of the tunnel?”

“Well,” Janice began, “ that was the case at first, but as you can see, Police are present behind me, and they have ordered everyone to remain within their vehicles in order to maintain public safety. It is an unfortunate situation, but as reported earlier, authorities are working as hard as they can to clear the road as soon as possible.”

Bulma switched of the television, and stood up slowly. She tried calling her mother one last time, but it was no use. She shook her head, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Of all the days this could happen, she thought. Her mother was most likely stuck in the North-western's tunnel, which stretched for a mile back through West City. Her father was probably somewhere in the air over the Southern Ocean right now, and wouldn't be back until after eleven tonight.

Another pain began to build, more intense this time.

She was in labour.

.

They had never planned to drive to the hospital, due to all the paparazzi that would no doubt get in their way at every traffic light. Instead, they had packed her bags into a small hover jet, having already arranged with the hospital to land safely on the roof, away from the spying eyes of rogue photographers.

The hoverjet's capsule in hand, she made her way downstairs and outside, wrapping her cardigan further around her. Popping the capsule open, she waited for the smoke to clear, before pulling the pilot's door open and peering inside.

“Kami damnit,” she hissed under her breath, looking at the pilot's chair. She had kept her fingers crossed, but it hadn't helped. There was no denying the fact that, at the size she was, she would never fit safely behind the controls. Another contraction began, and she leaned against the vehicle, moaning in pain.

When the contraction subsided, she reached for her phone, scrolling through her contacts for the man she had always relied on in the past. She bit her lip as she brought the phone to her ear and listened to it ring, wondering how awkward the conversation would be, and hoping like hell that he would help her now.

“Hello,” he answered, his voice as smooth as she remembered it to be.

“Yamcha,” she began, “I need your help.”

.

He landed on the lawn in front of her, and she watched as his eyes scanned over her form. He looked good; he'd cut his hair short, and it suited him, making him look older, more mature. His jeans and black leather jacket, worn over a plain grey shirt, looked good too.

Their eyes met, and she could see he was hurt from the way he clenched his jaw. “Bulma,” he began, running a hand back through his cropped hair. “How the hell did you let him do this to you?”

She snorted. “You make me sound like I'm some kind of victim,” she said, frowning up at Yamcha. “I'm not. Vegeta and I chose to sleep together, and for some reason or another, the pill didn't work.” She shrugged. “I just need you to fly this jet to the hospital for me, okay? I can't fit behind the wheel.”

“So you said,” Yamcha replied, stepping forward. The hardness in his dark brown eyes faded as he took a closer look at her face, and she wondered what she looked like to him, now. Afraid? Terrified? He reached out, placing a hand gently on her arm. “Let me help you in the passenger side, B,” he told her, his voice soft and placating.

She opened her mouth to reply- with what, she didn't quite know- but all that came out was a moan as another contraction began. She heard Yamcha cry her name as she leaned forward, bracing her forearms against his chest, and hissed through her clenched teeth.

“It's okay,” she hissed, adding, “Fuckthishurtslikeabitch.”

“I don't know anything about labour!” Yamcha cried, and she recognised the first signs of panic rising in his voice.

“Just… ssshhut up,” she grunted, head down as she breathed out through her nose. Deep breaths, she told herself, wishing she'd actually gone to some Lamaze classes. The pain began to subside, and she groaned, wondering whether it was in Shenron's powers to just let her fast-forward to the part where they place the baby in your arms. She felt Yamcha's hands settle on her back, and she shivered.

“Just get me to the hospital,” she moaned.

.

She sat in silence in the aircraft's passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Keeping her eyes trained on the horizon was no use; she was still unable to ignore the quick, furtive glances that Yamcha shot her way every now and then.

“What?” she snapped, catching him mid-glance. He flushed and made a small, choked sound, his head snapping back to stare out the windscreen. The private hospital was on the other side of West City, and Bulma's eyes darted down at the skyscrapers passing by below. Another ten minutes and they'd be there…

“I just…” Yamcha began, trailing off with an audible gulp. Bulma's irritated frown softened as she watched him slump in his seat with a sigh, looking defeated.

“You just…?” she prompted gently. He didn't reply, didn't look at her at all, but merely shook his head slowly, as if dismayed. She shifted in her seat, hoping another contraction wouldn't begin before they landed, and wondered briefly if she should have booked herself in for a caesarean, where she could have avoided this mad rush and awkward reliance on Yamcha. Of all the times for Mama to get stuck in traffic… She shook her head, placing a hand on her belly. She hadn't wanted a scar from a c-section.

The thought of scars made her think of Vegeta's bronze, marred skin, and she gnawed her lip. Damn Saiyan.

“I keep wondering why we never worked out,” Yamcha said suddenly, jerking her out of her reverie. “I think about it all the time.”

“Maybe we would have, if you hadn't taken so many other women on dates,” she replied tersely.

Yamcha huffed in irritation. “They weren't dates, Bulma,” he said defensively. “They were simple catch-ups with friends. You take everything way too seriously som -”

“They were dates, Yamcha!” she yelled, losing her temper. “I'm in labour, you jerk! Can't you be a little more sympathetic and at least tell me the truth?”

“I am, damnit!” he yelled back, slamming a fist down on the steering wheel, hard enough that she felt the vibration through her seat. He looked at her, caught sight of the expression on her face, and made a pained look.

“Damn it, Bulma,” he groaned, looking back out the windscreen. “I would have taken care of you. I would have married you, you know.” She watched his face, heard the crack in his voice as it twisted in pain. “I loved you, B, and I would've given you babies, and marriage, and…” He shook his head, hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Damn those Androids! Damn those fucking Androids! If it weren't for them, and all this training, I swear I would have been there for you, and Vegeta wouldn't have!”

She blinked, gasping as she realised she was crying, tears running freely down her cheeks. “Damn hormones,” she muttered as Yamcha turned to her once more, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of her.

“Fuck, B,” he said, looking sorry. “Shit. I didn't… I didn't mean to make you cry! What kind of man makes a woman in labour cry?” he asked, voice rising in horror.

His panic- so classically Yamcha- made her laugh, and she brushed the tears away with the back of her hand.

“There's no use for what-ifs, Yamcha,” she said softly. “What's done is done. But I could do with a friend right now,” she added, looking at him in the eye, challenging him to put the past behind them.

“I'm a friend,” he replied softly. She watched as he nodded once, gulping. “I'm a friend,” he repeated, stronger this time. His face settled into something akin to the battle-ready expression she had seen on his features a hundred times before. “I've got your back, B,” he told her, and she knew he told the truth.

.

Yamcha was surprisingly good at handling the situation. From the hospital's helipad he carried her down to the maternity wing reception, helped fill out paperwork while she was set up in a spacious room of her own, answered “No, I'm not the father, just a good friend,” countless times, and then spent the next four hours at her bedside, holding her hand and coaching her through contractions until her mother arrived.

She told him to leave then, but he stayed, hovering in the hallway, bringing her ice, and calling her father with an update every hour.

When her mother grabbed coffee break, he took up the seat by her bedside again, surrendering his hand to her death grip as another contraction struck. It was some time past midnight, and as the pain subsided once more, she met his eyes in the dim light.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely.

Yamcha kissed her hand. “I told you, I've got your back,” he replied. “That's what friends are for.”