Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Lab Monkey ❯ Dirge of Forgiveness ( Chapter 30 )

Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ.

 

I know it's woefully short, but no matter how much I stare at it, I don't think it's going to get any better. I've taken another full time job, and while I'm struggling to write the next chapter during my training class I can't promise that it will be any better than this one. All we can do is try to get to the end of this story together. *crosses fingers* Here's to hoping!

 

Chapter Thirty

Dirge of Forgiveness

 

 

Vegeta leaned against the rail on the observation deck, staring blindly out into space. He didn't look at the wide expanse of specially designed Plexiglas separating him and the crush of space as an engineering marvel as Bulma did nor did he notice that the thick plethora of plants on the deck below him had flourished from the seedlings they had been when he first stepped foot on board nearly a year ago.

 

Everything was growing, changing around him, inside him. A seamless flow of time and events coalescing into life experiences, while the skeleton of the past hid among the flesh of the present. Familiar yet different, unsettled and complex.

 

The room behind him, with its flowering bushes, and benches tucked away in secret places waiting for a crew it didn't have was no comfort to him. It offered him no sanctuary, and the beauty held no relief for the tortured ramblings of his mind.

 

He was a warrior, designed to catalog tactical advantages and enemy weaknesses. He was a prince, trained in the affairs of state and economy. He was a man driven by reason and prone to logic. So why was it that one small insignificant female turned his mind inside out and his world upside down?

 

He knew what he should do. He knew what his pride demanded and his reason concluded. His logical mind already had an answer to his dilemma, but it had no insight into the small, sharp stab of pain deep in his breast. A pain that never existed before Bulma. A pain that threaten to topple him to the ground with its intensity if he peered too closely.

 

For some reason he couldn't purge himself of it, and he was no longer certain that he wanted to. Although the ache disgusted him, it also did something wonderful. It proved to him that he was still alive. That somewhere passed the cold mask of his indifference there was still a piece of him left that hadn't been burned out by his hatred.

 

He also knew that deep behind the pain there was something even more beautiful and yet, absolutely terrifying. He dared not look beyond the ach of his heart for fear of what he might find, but he was even more afraid of squashing the pain and losing something indefinably more precious at the same time.

 

Bulma betrayed him. That was the source of his pain. Logic understood the reason she had done it. She had been afraid, uncertain of her future, with no reason to trust him. The possessive animal inside of him roared that she had every reason to place her faith with him. He had claimed her, made her his own. She should have believed that he would protect her.

 

Logic reasoned with the primal beast, reminding him that he had given no reason for her to believe that. Even though he had saved her numerous times in the past he had made it quite clear that he may decide to turn his back on her in the future.

 

It was at that crossroad that his logical self and his animal self warred. Bulma ran from him because he hadn't shown her with rite or deed that he would stand as her shield, to be her protector and mate. That lack made escape for him possible, leaving him free to leave her whenever he wished. He owed her nothing, promised her nothing, except for the certainty of her death at his hand. And even that was uncertain.

 

Even with so little she had managed to build so much. It was more than fear that drove her from his side and into the maniacal clutches of his enemy. It had been love, her love for him. He knew it was there. He could see it in her eyes every time he looked at her. She had betrayed him with Zarbon to save him. She had killed a man to protect him.

 

It made him sick. He should have been the one to protect her, to shield her. Not just from physical harm, but from the psychological whiplash of the horrors of the universe. Instead he had introduced her to the self-destructive path of murder. He had taken something perfect and pure and destroyed it, all in the name of vindictiveness.

 

He had wanted to punish her. To show her what true hardship was, and to have her cringe from it. It had been a ploy to drive her into his arms, but it had backfired, saddling him with larger problems than how to get an easy lay. Now he was responsible for a destruction of a soul. Even that knowledge did nothing to lessen his anger at her. After everything, he desired nothing more than to kill her where she slept, to free them both from the imprisonment of their silken bond.

 

Earlier he had stood over Bulma in the darkness, naked except for the blue ball of ki that danced in the palm of his hand. She slept deeply, perhaps the deepest since he held her last in his arms. Her death was at the edge of his fingertips, but she remained blissfully unaware. Her lashes barely fluttering as she muttered his name in her sleep.

 

He crushed the ball of light in his hand, desperately wishing he could crush the source of his anguish with the same ruthlessness. She was a bane upon his damaged soul. Calling up from within him a sense of compassion he had never felt before. Because of her he now heard the weeping of a child as he passed, and the memory of his bloodthirsty deeds burned the insides of his brains. With a disgusted shake of his head he turned away to dress, only to find his tattered uniform unusable. Quietly, he searched the room, locating her stash in the corner. She had piled together boxes and containers for their journey home, laying a handwritten letter on the top most box.

 

The flowing script in his native tongue instantly soothed him. Somehow she had managed to teach herself Saiyan-jinn, a long dead language that only he knew. And now apparently her as well. A secret, forbidden language between them.

 

The words she wrote made his heart constrict with pain, an invisible fist that tightened mercilessly inside his chest. She never intended to leave Cold's ship alive. She never imagined a universe where he would allow her to exist after her transgressions, even with her heartfelt confession of love. Instead she fully expected him to strangle her with his bare hands, consoling herself that she would at least feel the warmth of his arms around her one last time, before he left her for dead on the laboratory floor. Even still she had freed him, loosed the beast on her self in return for one promise from him.

 

She begged him to protect her world from her enemies, putting her trust in the man who was to murder her, then gave him the tools he needed.

 

Vegeta's eyes drifted over to the hand gun stacked on a crate. It lay helplessly, small and inconspicuous in a leather holster. But according to her one blast from the weapon would catapult him into Ascended form, essentially gifting him with his deepest desire. He could barely comprehend the enormity of it. The magnitude of her boast. His fingers curled with the urge to sweep up the gun and try it on himself, but a very small, very, newly born voice cautioned him.

 

All he ever wanted was to obtain the Legendary and avenge his people, to become his destiny. His opportunity was right in front of him, but it seemed tainted some how. The Legendary wasn't something that could be given or stolen, it had to be earned, and it had to be respected. He wouldn't cheat his pride, his people or himself by taking the easy way. It had never been his destiny to have anything handed to him, not even victory.

 

In her letter she went on to tell him how much she regretted the loss of his tail and how she was sure that her father could figure out how to reattach it.

 

He tossed down the letter in disgust, glaring at it like it was a venomous snake before picking it up and placing it as he found it. There was no reason to alert Bulma that he knew the purpose of her weapon until he knew what he wanted to do with the knowledge.

 

Turning his back on the whole situation, he snatched up a pair of pants from a pile of clothing she left him, automatically heating the tip of his finger with his ki. He stared at the seat of the pants, belatedly realizing that there was no reason to cut a hole for his tail like he had in the past.

 

Pain combined with loss ripped through is chest, nearly buckling his knees. His anger rose up inside him again, threatening to choke him with its intensity. He glanced at Bulma sleeping peacefully in his bed, his fists clenching with menace. With thinned lips he yanked on the pants, stalking out of the room without a backwards glance.

 

 

 

Bulma watched Vegeta's sculptured back muscles ripple with tension when she entered the observatory. He leaned on the balustrade overlooking the atrium, his forearms braced on the rail, his spine curved. He wore only the leather pants that she had brought for him, slung low on his hips so not to chaff his still healing wound.

 

She felt regret sharp and painful in her chest followed by the slow, choking squeeze of sorrow. How she wished she had it to do over again. What would she have changed? What would she have done differently? How would she have saved his tail?

 

She knew that he was ignoring her. Silently compelling her to walk away and leave him, but she couldn't. She couldn't abandon him again. She pulled the gold sheet tighter, uncaring that she was naked beneath the sateen wrap. When she had awoken to find Vegeta gone, she had been in a panic, suddenly afraid that he had left her behind and escaped their invisible bond that held them together.

 

She scrambled out of bed, ignoring the pain of sore muscles and bite wounds on her skin. Vegeta had punished her harshly, sucking every ounce of pleasure from her body, touching her in places no one ever had before, fucking her in ways she hadn't thought possible.

 

She pulled the sheet with her, the tail trailing sadly behind while she dashed down the halls in search of him. Some indefinable force had led her directly to him, a mysterious tug in the pit of her belly that knew exactly where to look. The panic that held her hostage wouldn't release its grip until she saw him, verifying in her mind what her gut already knew. But now with the absence of panic, her sadness was able to creep inside to take its place in her heart, devastating her ability to breathe.

 

In a whisper of satin, she glided up behind him, almost relieved when he didn't turn around. She trailed her slender fingers down his back, gently tracing the curve of his spine, and hollows of his rigid muscles, marveling at how different they were from each other.

 

She was softness while he was hard. He was strength and she was wit. Even their flesh was a contrast. Her skin was so pale that it glowed under the moonlight, while his was dark with shadows. So different yet eternally drawn together.

 

Her eyes scaled down the slabbed muscles of his back, her fingertips tingling at the scorching heat of his skin. Her gaze finally landed on the one thing that drew her like a magnet. Her own personal vortex of guilt, sorrow and regret that sucked her in no matter how much she fought.

 

The wound where Vegeta's tail used to be was angry and red; the flesh puckered with swollen scar tissue, and barely scabbed. It looked so horrible, so painful, that she couldn't resist the urge to reach out and soothe his pain away.

 

As her fingers brushed the wound, Vegeta whirled around, his fist manacling her wrist. He glared down at her, his eyes hard and cold. The cruel look on his face stole the last of her breath, leaving her nearly paralyzed.

 

“Forgive me,” Bulma gasped out, suddenly very frightened.

 

Vegeta's fingers tightened on her wrist, mercilessly for a moment, nearly buckling her knees with the pain of it. His lips curled back from his fangs in a snarl, his face darkening furiously.

 

“Never,” he spat, throwing her wrist back at her, before brushing past to stalk from the room.

 

Bulma cradled her bruised wrist to her chest, tears rimming her thick lashes as the weight of her despair crashed down on her.