Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Predatory ❯ Predatory ( One-Shot )

Title: Predatory

Genre: Drama

Rating: T

Warnings: Incestuous overtones, mild sexual themes. Some implied child abuse. For the Trunks-fans out there, beware - he is creepy in this fic. Very, very creepy.

Disclaimer: I doubt Akira Toriyama ever had this warped a mind…

Plot summary:

Trunks/Bulma/Vegeta: Oedipus complex. Innocence is but a façade worn by those supposedly too young to know better, to hide the true depravity of their thoughts. Behind mental walls, a father and son battle for supremacy - the prize: Mama. Five years post-Cell, somewhat AU. One-shot.

 

predatory - of, or related to, or noted for robbing or plundering

 

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Predatory

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For six-year-old Trunks Briefs, it was no anomaly that he loved his mother, and hated his father.

His reasoning was simple, really, as simple as the most animalistic and primeval of instincts: to indulge in pleasure and avoid pain. His mother, obviously, was the embodiment of the former, showering him with unconditional love from the first he took breath in this world. To him, she was Mama: the provider of all things good, the comforting pair of arms to run into whenever he was upset, the beautiful object of idolization whose features he could stare at all day long without ever tiring of them. She loved him, and he loved her - it was as simple as that.

His father, as it happened, was the complete opposite. He offered no cuddles, no kisses, not even the meanest gesture of affection. His battle-callused hand was instead raised in displeasure, landing often on Trunks' unprotected bottom - but however much he cried out in more than just physical pain, his father never relented, saying that weakness was only for soft-hearted fools. As soon as Trunks managed his first, toddling steps, his father snatched him into the grueling world of calisthenics and combat training, insisting that his spoiled son became a warrior, if nothing else.

But Trunks didn't want to become a warrior. Indeed, the urge to battle simmered in his blood, a remnant of his Saiyan heritage, but it was a miniscule ember compared to the raging fire of his father's own bloodlust. According to the Saiyan, it had been `polluted' by his human side, dampening what would have been an intense drive to kill his opponent into a playful test of who was stronger. It was an insult to the art of self-control, but an effective safeguard also - not that Trunks could forgo it, lousy half-breed brat that he was.

And therein lay the situation: if his father couldn't even deem him worthy of pride, why should Trunks expend his efforts on a love that would be unrequited, at the very best?

Of course, this type of logic was unfathomable to his six-year-old mind, even in all its preternatural intelligence. All he knew was that his father didn't love him, couldn't love him - and it was not only because of the horrible way he treated Trunks. For whenever the toddler looked into Vegeta's eyes, he saw only an empty, black abyss, capable of nothing but destruction. And that destruction, having no better outlet than a small, defenceless child, stoked the same innate destruction in Trunks' heart until hatred finally brewed.

Hence, for six-year-old Trunks Briefs, it was no anomaly that he loved his mother, and hated his father. Fate had dictated that it be that way, and no child, least of all the bastard offspring of a mismatched union, had the power to change Fate.

Even if he didn't like it.

 

Moonlight filtered through the partially-closed curtains of a certain half-Saiyan's bedroom, capturing the furniture and haphazardly-strewn toys in a monochromatic portrait of shadows and light. It would have made a rather enchanting sight, had it not alerted Trunks to the very annoying fact that his eyes were wide open, and by association, that his current state was one of being awake. Doubtlessly, bedtime was long past by now. But here he remained, stirring restlessly in the throes of insomnia.

Groaning in frustration, he rolled over in his cot and tried again. To sleep, that was.

Five minutes later found him no closer to slumber's oblivion, so he simply lay on his back and counted the numerous glow-in-the-dark stickers that were pasted onto the ceiling. He remembered the wide-eyed fascination he'd displayed upon his first viewing of the Milky Way (via telescope) at age four, and his demand to have it copied into his room. So he and Mama spent a whole day assembling the appropriate stickers, assigning co-ordinates for each one, then tacking them onto the ceiling with the aid of flying bots. Of course, they being who they were, the process involved much throwing of objects, tickling fights, merry argument(s), and hysterical laughter. She also stayed overnight, joining him in picking out the old constellations and inventing new ones - the most memorable being dubbed `Mama and little Trunksie'.

It was one of his most favourite memories of his Mama.

Unfortunately, the few hours of unintended wakefulness had taken their toll, and his throat was now thoroughly parched. Shaking his head, he cleared his mind of his latest reminiscing, and made to get up. Milk sounded like a marvelous idea at this very moment.

Without flicking on a single light switch, he tottered to the kitchen, letting his excellent night-vision guide the way.

The fridge unhesitatingly surrendered its three-litre milk carton, but finding a container to hold its contents proved more difficult. There were no stray mugs about, and he had no intention of emulating his father's bad habit of drinking straight out of the carton. (Which, as further detriment of incentive, earned a slap from Mama each time he got caught in the act. Not that Vegeta paid any heed, mind.)

He looked up. The second cabinet from the top corner, he knew, housed the mugs and glasses. It was unreachable to him at his meager height, and he doubted that climbing up onto the bench was a good idea, as he may accidentally hit something (like the stove switch). Jumping was out of the option, either, for similar reasons.

Pursing his lips in a frown, Trunks pondered the best way to solve his present dilemma. Maybe he should just grab a bowl from the bottom drawer to use as a makeshift mug…

Wait, hadn't he learnt how to fly only three weeks ago? Well, duh - that's why he didn't think of it straightaway. Besides, this was a chance to get in some much-needed practice -

Concentrating, he levitated the required metre and a half to reach the cabinet, and pulled it open with a triumphant grin. In seconds, a glass was on the table, filled to the brim with the creamy liquid, and the carton had already been returned to its original place. He had just finished his first glassful, and was contemplating revisiting the fridge for the second -

“Uunnngghh!”

- when he heard the screaming.

It was heavily muffled - a fluttering on the very edges of his hearing, but he instantly recognized who it belonged to. And the short, single-word answer was enough to make his breathing accelerate and his heart beat painfully against his ribcage.

Mama.

What if she was hurt, or worse? The thought tore through his chest with all the violence of a fired bullet, and he staggered, clutching at the front of his pyjama shirt -

It came again. “Uunnngghh!”

He wasn't the least bit aware that his mind had turned into panicked mush, or that his body was acting of its own accord; all he knew was that he was racing full tilt towards the source of the screams. Seconds blurred into eternity as he ran, the air becoming thick and viscous, the familiar corridors distorting into shapeless, grey monsters that threatened to swallow him -

No! He had to reach her first -

The door to his parents' bedroom burst open with an almighty crash, sending a deluge of light into the corridor. In his panic, he had not thought to hold back his strength, and the results literally dangled in his face - hinges that were half-detached, and an irreversibly malformed lock. Not to mention a more-than-slight imprint of his shoulder in the wood as well. The impact of what he'd done finally jarred him into alertness, and he nervously searched out the room's occupants, fully expecting punishment -

What he saw made his eyes bulge out from their sockets instead.

His Mama was splayed underneath his father on the king-sized bed, their limbs entangled, their naked skins glistening with perspiration. Her silky, aquamarine tresses were spread like a halo around her head, complimenting the rosy tint that suffused her lovely face and neck. With eyes lidded at half-mast, and swollen lips slightly parted, she looked the very image of sinful debauchery.

Of course, Trunks, being as young as he was, didn't know that. In fact, in that very moment, he didn't seem to know anything at all. His eyes were too busy roving over the contours of her curvaceous figure, taking in every dip and crest, every inch of smooth, creamy flesh that was laid bare. Some distant part of his mind told him he shouldn't be staring so, not when his Mama was exposed like that, but he couldn't help himself. She was so beautiful.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, things only remained as they were for a split second.

Then Mama's gaze fell upon Trunks in the doorway. The ensuing shriek was one of ear-splitting proportions, causing both lover and unexpected trespasser to wince in pain, courtesy of their sensitive Saiyan ears.

“Quiet, woman!” Vegeta's low, gruff voice cut through the high-pitched haze. “Are you intending to wake the whole neighbourhood?”

To everyone's relief, the shriek instantly died in Mama's throat, leaving her gaping unprettily at the air. Trunks recognized his opportunity then, and opened his mouth to intervene.

“Mama?”

Instead of gaining her attention as he had hoped, he caught the unwanted one of his father's - a scowl directed over the shoulder.

“You, brat! Scram!” The last word was emphasized with a sharp jerk of his head towards the door. “Your mother and I are busy.”

Reason finally struck Trunks then - the reason for why he had rushed here at breakneck speed in the first place. Something, or someone, had been causing his Mama to scream in pain, and the evidence here could hardly be misconstrued - his father had her pinned beneath him, for Kami's sake.

Gathering his courage, Trunks planted his feet into the ground determinedly. He had sworn to himself that he would protect Mama.

Even if it was from his own father.

“Why are you holding her down?” he cried, glaring angrily at Vegeta. “Why are you hurting her?”

There was nothing for a moment. Then, with a wet squelch that Trunks' infantile mind could not comprehend, Vegeta removed himself from Mama and rolled off the bed, all in one fluid motion. His footsteps were eerily silent as he stalked towards Trunks, his nakedness all but forgotten in the light of his son's transgression. Thunderstorms brewed in his dark eyes, and his mouth was twisted in an expression of irritated impatience.

With or without the knowledge that he was one of the most powerful beings in the universe, a pissed-off Vegeta was truly a terrifying sight to behold. And he was thoroughly pissed-off right now. At his son, no less.

Trunks swallowed inaudibly.

“As I recall, I told you to scram,” the Saiyan growled menacingly, once he was close enough for his shadow to completely envelop his son's smaller form. All the hairs on the back of Trunks' neck immediately stood on end. “Or do you not understand simple orders?”

His earlier resolution suddenly dissolved, Trunks took an involuntary step back, and another, and another, until his foot collided with something hard - the entrance wall. Abruptly, he realized what he was doing and stopped his retreat, re-establishing his glare for good measure. He would not leave without his Mama!

At this show of defiance, a smirk formed on Vegeta's full, cruel lips.

“So, you're not completely spineless, after all,” he sneered. “Now get out, you stupid brat, or I'll make you rue the day you were born!”

Before Trunks could even plan his next course of action, Mama's voice sliced through the air, sharp with admonition.

“Vegeta!”

Her large blue eyes were narrowed at her husband, her lips tightly pursed in a frown. She had finally recovered from her shock, as the drape across her torso that protected her modesty indicated. “Say anything of that sort again to our son, and it'll be the couch for the next month!” she threatened hotly.

Trunks could only watch with weary apprehension as Vegeta turned on her, a malicious glint in his eyes. He knew what was going to happen, but was powerless to stop it.

“You're far too lenient with the brat, woman.” Vegeta's tone, in contrast to Mama's, was coolly calm. “No infant ought to be stepping beyond the boundaries of obedience, much less infringing on his superiors' privacy. But since you'd so conveniently neglected to teach the brat proper behaviour - ”

“Speak for yourself, Vegeta!” she countered furiously. “You strut around like you own the universe, expecting everyone to bow to your tiniest whim, yet you forgo the simple courtesy of treating us like more than dirt!”

Vegeta folded his arms across his bare chest, looking for all the world like he didn't care. “I'm the Prince of all Saiyans - I'm entitled to do whatever I wish. And you inferior Earthlings should be proud that I even notice you at all, vain, witless creatures that you are.”

“Vain, witless creatures?” she spluttered. “At least we're not inclined towards mindless violence, you uncouth, pig-headed barbarian!”

“Violence is the truest and most noble of survival tactics. Your kind simply lack the refinement of character to see it as such, preferring to wallow in your pleasure-seeking, soft-hearted complacency.”

A split second was all it took for her beautiful face to become contorted with rage. “You - you are an insufferable jerk, Vegeta!” she shrieked.

He smirked condescendingly at her. “Running out of insults already, are we, woman? Gracious person that I am, I'll even award you a point, for hitting a little closer to home this time.”

Mama exploded. “That's it, that's it! I've had enough! I'm taking our son back to his room, away from your horrible, uppity, Saiyan influence!”

There was a ruffling of bedcovers, and the smack of bare feet impacting the tiled floor. Since Vegeta had conveniently chosen to stand between Trunks and the rest of the room, he couldn't see what was happening.

Nevertheless, he knew that he had won. Mama was coming with him. He immediately concealed his smirk of victory behind a feigned yawn, however, lest his father noticed and shot him down (literally) for it.

“Trunks?” he heard his Mama's voice call out. Had he been anyone else, he would have been stunned by the rapidity in which her demeanour could change - from hissing, spitting fury, to unparalleled sweetness. “Can you wait outside for now? I'll be there in a minute.”

Obediently, he turned around to face the dark corridor, hearing the distinct click of the door being shut behind him, as well as the muffled clamour of raised voices inside. His parents' constant bickering was a point of normalcy in his life, but he suspected he had something to do with it this time. Something to do with him walking in unannounced on that horrible scene where his father was poised atop his Mama, crushing her fragile body underneath his.

But something was amiss, here. He remembered how she looked like, how her lips were slackened and her cheeks, glowing with an attractive blush. It didn't coincide with the image of what one looked like when in pain - that, he was thoroughly acquainted with - eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched. Why was she screaming, then?

His musings were interrupted by the door being reopened, flooding the corridor with light anew. There, Mama stood before him, clad in a blue nightrobe and matching slippers. The light's backwash caressed the outline of her slim form, giving her the appearance of an earthly angel silhouetted against heaven.

She was so beautiful.

Stretching an expectant hand towards her, he was immediately overcome by joy when she took it in her warm, larger one. Said joy was short-lived, however, rapidly degenerating into anxiety as they walked down the familiar route to his bedroom, their bared and slippered feet slapping loudly against the floor tiles.

“Mama?” he finally blurted out, unable to restrain himself any longer. “You're not upset at me, are you?”

She gently ushered him into his room, where he took his place upon the mattress of his cot. She sat down on the carpeted floor beside him, legs crossed atop one another. “Of course not, darling.” Her reply was mild, too mild.

Sensing that she was hiding something, he immediately chose this opportunity to launch into his series of excuses. “I was feeling thirsty, so I went to the kitchen to get some milk. Then I heard you screaming, and I thought - ”

“I know,” she interrupted gently. “You're weren't doing anything wrong. It's okay, Trunks.”

Knowing no better way to express his gratitude at her acceptance, he leapt off his cot and into her ready lap, winding his arms delicately around her slender waist. She embraced him in return, causing him to croon softly, and he happily sunk into the crevasses of her soft body, inhaling the floral bodywash and womanly musk that comprised her scent. Even the intruding odour of his father didn't bother him.

For here, in his Mama's arms, he was content.

“Mama,” he spoke against her nightrobe-covered bosom after a moment, “Father - Father wasn't really hurting you, was he?”

He had intended to say the words slowly, precisely, forgoing the chance that she would misinterpret them. But they tumbled out in a rush instead, belying the worry that writhed like an angry serpent inside him.

In response, she tenderly tilted his head up to look into his eyes. The gesture made him tremble slightly - he knew, without the faintest trace of doubt, that she was sincere. “No, he wasn't, darling.”

“Then why were you screaming like that?” Tears welled up in his eyes at the remembered cries of agony, before he scrubbed them away angrily. “It sounded like you were in pain.”

“No, Trunks, I wasn't in pain,” she refuted gently. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

He blinked in dawning comprehension, the pieces settling into place with his earlier conclusions. He knew his Mama wouldn't lie to him, so that must mean -

“Opposite? You mean, it felt nice?” He paused, rifling through his limited six-year-old vocabulary for an expression that could best convey his meaning. “Like cuddling?”

She smiled at the swiftness of his understanding. “Yes, like cuddling,” she agreed. “What your father and I did was some grown-up kind of cuddling. He wasn't hurting me, believe me on this, Trunks.”

At the mention of his father, the spell she had woven over him shattered, and he wrenched his eyes away from hers. An ugly, prickly feeling rose up in his chest - the same feeling he experienced whenever he caught his Mama and his father together in a less-than-disagreeable manner. During those times, Mama wouldn't pay him the slightest attention; she was completely engrossed with the man, unresponsive to his tugging of her clothes, his persistent calling of her name. Being too proud to wail, Trunks could only watch as their backs retreated further and further away from him, despair mounting in his heart.

The feeling intensified when he realized now that his despised father had something to share with his Mama that he didn't. Especially since that something was one she enjoyed as much as cuddling, possibly more so.

It was jealousy.

No, no, he wouldn't allow it! He wouldn't, couldn't allow his father to one-up him! Mama belonged to him, and him alone. She was his.

And with that, he began to formulate his next request.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Trunksie darling?”

“When I grow up, can I cuddle with you?” he asked earnestly. “Not like this,” he gestured to their entwined bodies, “but in that grown-up way?”

Her eyes widened noticeably. “What - what did you say?”

He didn't understand why she was making him repeat himself. “I said, when I grow up, I want to cuddle with you - the way Father did.”

“Trunks -” she began, before cutting herself off immediately. Trunks waited with nervous anticipation - oh, how the butterflies were fluttering in his belly! - as she took a deep breath, apparently steadying herself. Was she overwhelmed by his request? Would she say yes?

Unfortunately for him, her tone was uneasy - hardly a sign of consent - when she spoke again. “Trunks, that sort of thing can only happen between a man and a woman who love each other in a special way.”

“But I love you, Mama!” he proclaimed fiercely.

She shook her head, running gentle fingers across his scalp in recompense. The gesture, usually capable of reducing him to a boneless heap of pleasure, only soothed him marginally.

“I love you too, Trunks,” she finally said, her voice oddly sad. “But it isn't the same for us.”

“Why isn't it?” he demanded, dangerously close to tears again.

“I'm afraid it's something you'll only understand when you're older.”

And things became rather dull after that. Lost in his own moroseness, Trunks barely noticed as his Mama tucked him into bed with a kiss goodnight, completing the nightly ritual with a lullaby sung in her familiarly off-pitched voice. Sleep, ironically, claimed him soon after.

When he dreamt, it was of swollen lips and shuttered eyes and an endless expanse of smooth, creamy skin.

 

“Mama won't play with me today.”

Trunks and his year younger playmate, Goten, were relaxing on a bench in the CC gardens after an afternoon's worth of roughhousing. As was typical for them, the adrenaline-filled session was followed by conversation - or as much conversation as could happen between two pre-schoolers, anyway. Today, it was Trunks' turn to rant about the various dissatisfactions of his short life.

“He's gone and wrecked the GR again, and he won't let Mama go until she fixes it. That'll take the whole day.”

Sitting up straighter, Trunks let his object of his ire carry on into his next tirade.

“It's always like this. Whenever Father,” he spat the word, “decides to leave his GR cubby-hole, she won't even look at me. I can be a good boy: do all my homework, eat my vegetables, tidy my room - things that'll normally make her happy. But as long as he's there - ” he cut himself off, frowning bitterly.

To his annoyance, Goten didn't seem to have paid him the tiniest iota of attention, absently swinging his short legs over the seat ledge. “I wish my mum would leave me alone, sometimes,” he muttered.

Trunks shot him an incredulous look. “Whatever for?”

Goten's spiky locks fluttered ever so slightly as he turned around to face his older companion. “I like Mum a lot,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly, “but she's always telling me what to do. She keeps saying how much I look like my dad, but she doesn't want me to turn out like him.” He sighed. “I wish I knew what my dad looked like. I wish he was around.”

Trunks looked away, giving a short, derisive sniff. “Doesn't matter whether my father is around or not. He's not there, either way.”

“What do you mean, not there?” There was confusion in Goten's tone.

Trunks paused for a moment, contemplating how much to reveal. “It's almost like he's part of the wall, or something,” he finally said, the words directed at the air since he was too - not ashamed, but rather, uneasy - to say them directly to Goten's face. “He's hardly around, spending the whole day in his precious gravity room, only coming out to eat or sleep. He hardly ever talks, too, but when he does, it's either to say something nasty, or to order someone around. Mama, usually.” He grimaced at the thought. “It's like he doesn't care about us! Like we're just convenient tools for him to use!”

Unaware that he had raised his voice towards the end, he was slightly baffled when Goten retaliated in similar fashion. “Mean or not,” the younger boy shouted back, “at least you still have a dad!”

He whirled around, his hands curled into fists. “You don't get it, do you, Goten?” he snapped. “I'd rather not have a dad, if it's him!”

A horrible, ragged noise filled the air, and he realized he was laughing. “What am I talking about? Of course you don't get it - you've only had your mum and Gohan, and they're both nice people. You have no idea what it's like to be with my father. No idea at all.”

All the unvoiced frustration, anger and hurt at his father's ill treatment swirled within Trunks, forming a black maelstrom that pulsated like a malignant growth around his heart. The dam had been shattered at last, and there was nothing to hold back the flow.

“How would you like it if your dad only touches you when he wants to hit you? That the only attention you get from him is when he asks you to scram, or to call you a `stupid brat', or to make you do all these horrible exercises until you're hurting so much you can't move? How would you like it, huh? Huh?”

“Stop it! Just stop it, please!”

Goten's terrified face suddenly loomed in front of his own, bare centimetres separating them. His lower lip was quivering, and tears sparkled in his overlarge eyes. In his fury, Trunks had seized the smaller boy's shoulders and proceeded to shake them, all the while spitting those terrible words into his face. He immediately let go.

Without preamble, Goten scrambled backwards to the opposite end of the seat, putting as much distance as deemed polite between him and Trunks. Trunks couldn't blame him. He had never been more disgusted with himself.

“Why are you being so mean?”

The question was posed in a tone so hurt, so bewildered, so utterly uncomprehending, that it sapped all the energy from Trunks' body, leaving him drained. In its place was a cold, constricting feeling, one that emerged every time he realized he'd done something fundamentally wrong.

Guilt.

“Goten,” he called out desperately, but the younger half-Saiyan did not respond, too engrossed in hiding the fact that he was crying. “Goten, look, I - I didn't mean to shout at you like that…”

Still no response. Sighing, Trunks leapt off the bench and walked towards Goten with slow, careful steps. He rearranged his features to look as contrite as possible, slumping his shoulders and exposing the insides of his wrists.

“Goten?”

A gentle tap on his friend's knee only resulted in the latter turning away. Trunks sighed again. If only his father could see him now, groveling to the third-class brat (or so Vegeta called Goten) -!

Shoving aside his pride, he offered the universal phrase of apology. “Goten, I'm sorry, okay?”

To his relief, Goten turned back, wiping at his reddened eyes with a pudgy hand. “Hn.”

Trunks took the grunt as assent, but the feeling of guilt still warred inside him uncomfortably. “Well,” he began, in an unsubtle and downright awkward attempt to switch topics, “there's this nice man, Yamcha. You've met him before, I think - he's one of Mama's old friends. He taught me how to fly. Wish he was my dad,” he added, mostly to himself.

Goten seemed to have only heard one word in his entire speech. “You can fly?” he asked eagerly, tears immediately forgotten. “Really?”

“Oh, it's easy,” Trunks replied carelessly, amazed at how easily his friend could be distracted. “Like this.”

Gathering his ki at the flat of his soles, he rose a few metres into the air, watching in bemusement as the other boy's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

“Wow! That's awesome!” Goten exclaimed, waving his hands excitedly. “You've got to show me how! Please! Please!”

Trunks landed on the tiled pavement, the aftereffect ruffling his lavender hair. “You mean, Gohan never did?” he asked, surprised.

Goten scratched the back of his head in what was known to be a most characteristic Son trait. “Ehh - no. He's at school for most of the day, and I always forget to ask when he gets back,” he answered, a sheepish grin on his face. “And Mum doesn't know how to fly, otherwise I'd ask her…”

He slid off the bench with unruly haste, joining his older playmate on the ground. “Trunks, you've got to show me!” he begged. “I'll do anything, just show me! Please? Pretty please?”

Trunks relented easily at the pleading look in his younger companion's eyes. “Alright, alright. Take it easy, Goten,” he said off-handedly, hiding the pleased quirk of his lips behind the act of patting Goten's shoulder. Striding a few metres away, he plopped onto the grass, motioning for Goten to sit beside him. He did.

“First,” he began, faithfully reciting the lesson Yamcha had taught him, “you need to relax till you're breathing real nice and slow, then… ”

 

Dinnertime was a decidedly entertaining part of the day, even if it proved to be more of a nuisance than not.

They - Vegeta, Bulma, the brat, the elderly Briefs - were grouped around the circular dining table, blissfully clearing their plates of the last remaining morsels of the main course. Well, that was in humans' cases, anyway - Vegeta and his equally gluttonous spawn were still steadily depleting the contents of a separate food trolley designed for specifically them. Conversation and eating noises filled the air, a typical occurrence at this point of the meal.

Without looking up from his beef casserole(s), Vegeta already knew the going-ons around the table.

Bulma, his mate, was busily chatting with her father about some new project, the details of which Vegeta had carefully elected to filter out. Her work-roughened mechanic's hands gesticulated wildly as she spoke - one of her few physical imperfections that Vegeta, paradoxically, liked. The older man, Vegeta noted, spoke infrequently, mostly nodding at his daughter's words. There was an approving gleam in his bespectacled eyes.

Bulma's air-headed mother - she did not deserve the dignity of being acknowledged by name - was fussing over Vegeta, as usual. And Vegeta was ignoring her (via the rather convenient pretext of eating), as usual. When will the woman grasp the infuriatingly simple concept that he did not desire her company? If he could blast her into oblivion out of sheer irritation, he certainly would. Too bad Bulma wouldn't appreciate that.

The brat - now, this was interesting.

The brat was devouring his food at an astronomical rate, as was typical for Saiyans, although he did so with profoundly more grace than his sire. He still completed the entire motion of picking up a noodle with his chopsticks, balling it up onto his porcelain spoon, then finally transferring the latter to his mouth. And, to finish it off, he visibly took care to chew his mouthful and swallow it. All that, before reaching for the next noodle.

It was ridiculous.

To hell with dining etiquette - that, in his opinion, was an utterly pointless piece of trash only humans would have the idiocy to create. Food was food. And its rightful place was his stomach, nevermind the uncivilized - as Bulma so eloquently put it - process in which it got there.

Nonetheless, the brat - fool child who he was - had decided to adopt that moronic human peculiarity. Vegeta was no fool, however. The Saiyan appetite was a voracious creature in and of itself, its demands far exceeding any urge conceived by biology. The brat only kept up the act because it pleased Bulma. Or perhaps because it completely contradicted his father's eating mannerisms.

That was not what interested him, however. What did interest him were those numerous glances the brat shot at his mother when he thought no one to be looking. Said glances - to Vegeta's intense amusement - were brimming with concentrated want, yearning, and horrible, horrible frustration.

Should a less partial eye comment about that particular observation, they would say that the brat wanted his mother for his mate. It was laughable, really.

Vegeta supposed this all stemmed from the occasion the brat had accidentally walked in on Bulma and himself. It just so happened that they were refurbishing the room at the time, and had taken down some of the soundproofing. He snorted internally. Trust it to a Saiyan's ears to pick up the difference in noise. And trust it to the brat to believe that his mother could even be in danger from Vegeta. He would rather lose his tail all over again (yes, that included the almost unbearable indignity of having it severed while in Oozaru form) than harm her - not that he'd ever admit that.

“Dessert, Vegeta?” Bulma's high, pleasant voice interrupted his musings.

He grunted an affirmative, still distracted by thoughts of the brat.

And speaking of the brat, the six-year-old had finally caught on that his father was watching him. He didn't miss a beat - carefully setting down his cutlery, before proceeding to stack his numerous bowls in four neat piles of equal height. Only a slight twitch of the jaw betrayed his underlying tension.

So, the brat had finally learnt some control. About time.

“Mama, I'm done.”

Bulma looked wonderingly from her son to the incoming dessert trolley. “Sure you don't wanna stay for dessert, Trunksie darling?” she cajoled.

“It's alright, Mama.” The brat's tone was polite, if somewhat curt. “I've had enough.”

Following his announcement, the six-year-old effortlessly gathered up his heap of dishes, carrying them over to the return trolley where he deposited the lot with a loud clunk. He then gave his mother a final look, before heading in the direction of the room's exit.

As he did so, he turned his gaze onto Vegeta.

It was extremely brief - what with the brat virtually stalking away in the next instant - but Vegeta managed to detect a whole multitude of emotions in that gaze. There was, first and foremost, resentment, followed closely in intensity by jealousy, and more than just a touch of fear.

Not that he gave a damn, anyway. The brat could resent him all he liked. (He was rather used to being resented by now - his previous life practically overflowed with it.) Patricide wasn't an uncommon thing in Saiyan society, either - as if the brat could successfully manage that, anyway. Let him go ahead and try.

On the other hand, the utter lack of respect presented a serious problem. Oh, the fear was healthy enough - few could step into Vegeta's presence without feeling the least bit intimidated - but this was sheer insolence. Back when he was still an intergalactic mercenary, that same lack of respect meant a survival probability of zero for the imbecile involved.

Hmph, a few years residence on this mudball had made him soft, indeed.

He smirked, the expression lost behind a mouthful of vanilla ice-cream. Maybe it was time to take the training up a notch. The fool child could certainly use a lesson or two about proper conduct towards one's superiors.

 

3:43.

Bulma blinked at the LCD screen of her desk clock, her exhaustion-induced haze rendering the numerals indecipherable for a moment. Absently twirling the pen between her fingers, she yawned down at the page before her, trying and failing for the umpteenth time to absorb the words upon it. If there was anything that could reliably send her off to dreamland, it was boredom. Her day had consisted of paperwork, board meetings, an unappetizing lunch (mostly due to the fact that she'd made it herself), and more paperwork. Bah.

So much for the heiress of the most expansive franchise on the planet.

The only spotlight in her day involved an hour or so's worth of work on her latest `baby' (a.k.a. invention): a simple light diode with one major difference - it relied on ambient radiation, not electricity, as its energy source. With a combination of various temperature-sensitive compounds and a circuitry so complex that it would boggle the minds of the greatest electricians, it could harness the hitherto untapped energy circulating the very air she breathed. True, it wasn't a very original idea, but it was one that could potentially revolutionize the world.

First, she had to get it to work.

3:43. 3:44.

Not that she was very far from that goal, mind. In fact, she believed she was on the verge of it now - the latest readings had at last gained consistency; the output was simply too low. A few adjustments here and there ought to fix that: the insertion of another capacitor between numbers twenty-two and twenty-five, the reconnection of the circuit at point Q-17c…

3:45.

If only there wasn't all that blasted paperwork! The towering stack sat unassumingly at the upper left corner of her desk, taunting her with ever more hours of eye-straining boredom. She really, really ought to dump it all into her secretary's inbox. Damn that woman for deciding to take off work today!

3:46.

That's it, she'd reached the upper limit of her tolerance for this inanity! Throwing down her pen, she rose from her seat and headed towards the office exit, heels clicking furiously behind her. In the flurry of movement, a sheet had fluttered off the top of the stack, disappearing into the nearby vicinity. She didn't care where.

The walk to the entrance hall was automatic, as were her greetings to passerby colleagues, since she lacked the energy and place of mind to invest further wit in her speech. She paid no attention to the fact that their replies were more cautious than usual - the exponential increase of her irritability during a boredom spell was company knowledge, after all - simply choosing a vacant stretch of wall and leaning against it. Kami, she must be really tired, to be imitating Vegeta so.

Vegeta, needless to say, was training in the GR, useless bum of a husband who he was. Well, not completely useless; he performed well enough on the part of `marital duties' - she snickered at that - and rather less well when it came to saving the world. Extenuating circumstances included.

Nevertheless, he didn't concern her at the moment. She was only focussed on one thing.

Trunks would be back home any moment now.

It was his first day of school at the prestigious Akademia, the same school she'd attended as a child. He was so independent already, insisting that he returned home alone, the few times they'd visited the school being apparently sufficient to ingrain the route into his memory. (And Bulma, being the doting mother who she was, granted him that little indulgence.) With his Saiyan strength and ample intelligence, few things could truly pose a threat to him; still, she couldn't help but worry. It was maternal protectiveness, she supposed.

As if on cue, the automatic doors of the CC entrance hall slid open, revealing the lavender-haired boy in all his toddling glory. His uniform had acquired a good number of creases, and his hair was noticeably rumpled, otherwise he looked rather better for wear.

She somehow found the energy to bend down to his level, smiling at the same time. “Hey, Trunks.”

“Mama!” The boy eagerly threw himself into her open arms. “Mama, I missed you.”

She enfolded him to her breast, patting his knapsack. “Why?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Didn't you like it there?”

His response was to shrug when she set him back on his feet. “Oh, it was okay, I suppose,” he said neutrally. “I - ”

He paused abruptly, and Bulma straightened up, looking around to find the source of the interruption. Sure enough, Vegeta sidled into the left doorway with the silent grace of a predator, arms securely crossed over his chest. All eyes immediately turned to him, lingering on his lithe form for only a second before turning away - the sole exception being Bulma, of course. Despite his relaxed exterior, his aura, as it had always been, was one of not-quite tempered malevolence - a trait guaranteed to cow any weak-hearted fool into subservience. (Not her, evidently.)

Like the rest of their audience, Trunks had adopted deference upon his father's arrival, although he did cast a sideways glance or two in his latter's direction. Had Bulma been able to look into his eyes then, she would have been shocked by the sheer resentment they radiated.

He took her hand into his smaller one, and the motion was as such that she could feel how he was suppressing his incredible strength within those tiny fingers. It never ceased to amaze her, this restraint - one that was exhibited purely for the sake of her weaker body.

“Let's go into the gardens, Mama,” he said. “It's nicer there.”

Dazed, she let her son guide her across the hall to his proposed destination. Halfway along, Vegeta's obsidian eyes met hers - was that consternation in his gaze? It was gone in the next instant, however, reverting into its typical impassivity. It struck her then that Trunks had meant what he said as a command, not a request, in spite of the pleasant tone and phrasing.

She didn't have any time to contemplate that before she found herself in the fragrant green atmosphere of the CC gardens, following the concrete pavement to one of the many benches. Once settled there, she watched as Trunks unslung his knapsack and dumped it unceremoniously onto the ground, before clambering up onto the bench beside her. She gave a small `tsk' of disapproval for treating his things so, and he grinned unrepentantly in return. Ah, the exuberance of youth.

Gently cupping his chin with one hand - it came with extreme gratification when he immediately leaned into her touch - she smoothed away his fringe with the other. And, like many occasions previous, she took this time to familiarize herself with his beloved face once more.

His irises were blue, a mirror of her own, yet the long, slanted edge of his eyelashes was inherited from his father. His complexion was also dark like his father's, a perfect shade of bronze achieved only by many painstaking hours of sunbathing at the beach. The pale, lavender hair belonged to her father, but the rest of his features appeared to be a mixture of her's and Vegeta's, from the straight, elegant nose (hers was the latter but slightly upturned), to the bowed, full lips (this time, the former was hers).

Already at such a young age, he was devastatingly handsome. He would be quite the heartbreaker come his high school years.

“Did you make any new friends?” she asked, gently releasing him.

He smirked, the look eerily reminiscent of her husband. Not that she'd tell him that, considering the present tension between the two. She could only hope that it would fade away with time.

“Most of the kids weren't even smart enough to tie their own shoelaces. But there was this girl,” he conceded, tapping a finger against his chin, “Colleen or Corene or something like that, who actually knew her times-tables. She looks kinda like you, pretty and all,” here, Bulma smiled at the compliment - Vegeta never called her anything but `satisfactory' - causing Trunks to continue on more enthusiastically, “'cept her hair's brown, and her eyes're a bit darker. I didn't notice her at first, until the first bell rang and - ”

With motherly patience, she listened as her beloved son recounted the events of his day. He was quite a humorous storyteller, causing her to laugh frequently, the sound drawing a radiant, missing-toothed smile from his lips without fail. He was even considerate enough to ask her about her day, and she happily disclosed the latest gadget she'd designed, conveniently omitting the less interesting affairs. It was plainly evident he'd inherited her aptitude for technical work, judging by the furrowing of brows that told her he understood a good deal.

All the while, his eyes never left hers.

Unlike her aloof husband, who shielded his emotions more often than not, her son never looked at her with anything less than adoration. But that possessive glint was always there, prowling around the outer edge of his pupils - a dark fire that scorched away the last vestiges of childish innocence and replaced it with hard sincerity. More frightening still, were those occasions where it had flared with storm-like intensity -

Like the time he had inadvertently propositioned her.

She shuddered. Whether it was from her thoughts or the newfound chill that had settled upon her sleeveless arms, she didn't know.

Unfalteringly, Trunks continued to watch her.

“Are you cold, Mama?”

-

Fin.

-

 

(Long) A/N: Yup, little Trunksie has some major issues to sort out with his parents. Not that Bulma would ever believe that her precious, over-intelligent son is in need for admission into the psychiatric ward.

There are altogether too many Trunks/Vegeta father-son bonding fics out there, so I thought I'd try something different. I'm inclined to believe that those two shared a rather abusive relationship (on the part of Vegeta, anyway) in their earlier years, and it seems far too masochistic for a child to want to continuously subject himself to the same ill-treatment, even on the hope that said ill-treatment might change. Hence, it is only plausible that Trunks associates Vegeta with negative feelings, resentment being the primary one.

Yes, I've also deviated on the part of the mother-son relationship. That Trunks should nurse a childhood infatuation for his mother is not a very distant possibility, taking into account the dichotomy between both parents. From canon, it is evident that Bulma loves her son dearly, and demonstrates this love without ambiguity. Vegeta, on the other hand, doesn't. It is only natural that young Trunks would fixate on the positive, and for his feelings for his mother to take on a sexual nature - that's a Freudian concept, not mine. I'm simply borrowing it.

Besides, I've yet to see a story embodying all the elements of the Oedipus complex, haven't you?

As an additional note, I was originally going to use Gohan or Goten for this, what with the resentment generated at Goku's intention to stay dead, but decided that it didn't fit. Firstly, Gohan is far too old, and Goten would have had his kind, un-abusive brother as his father figure. Secondly, the Sons are fundamentally pure (a genetic tendency, I'd say); this sort of perversion is simply unimaginable amongst them.

On the other hand, the name `Briefs' practically screams corruption to me. Super wealth, super intelligence, super powers - what better a recipe for disaster?

Any comments? Is this scenario too unrealistic, perhaps? Hope I haven't mangled anyone's characterization too much on this tangent. (I realize that Trunks' personality takes after his future self's somewhat, which, together with the differing relationships with his parents, earned the slight AU status.)