Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Seven Years ❯ Thrown ( Chapter 3 )

There was no telling what had gotten into him, and there was no asking, either, for fear he find out she'd caught on. Or did he expect it? Certainly he was aware of how much power the apparatus used, and that she'd notice it on the monthly breakdown of expenses—well, she or someone else she hired to take care of that sort of thing.

 

If that wasn't enough, there was the boy. He'd gone missing from his crib at night once or twice before. But several months ago, not more than a few days after she and Vegeta had visited the Son household to meet Goten, Bulma had awoken from her sleep and gotten up for a drink of water, absently meandering to Trunks' crib, only to find it empty. She shrugged it off with mild interest—noting to herself to check for the boy around the house in the morning, smiling a little at knowing it must have been Vegeta who had taken him—and gone back to sleep. When the sun woke her up, Trunks was in his crib again, and Vegeta was in the kitchen comparing the diagram on a box of frozen food to the toaster that sat on the counter. "Burn them when I use my ki," he murmured with a scowl as she opened the refrigerator, and he yanked the toaster out of its socket to inspect it more closely. "Primitive Earth technology."

 

She'd thought nothing of it, then—well, not much, at least; it was a rare occurrence, but she was not surprised. Bulma was surprised, however, when it happened the next day—and the next. After the third time, her curiosity got the better of her. Armed with a bowl of oatmeal that she toted along with her after a four-in-the-morning stop to the kitchen—she hadn't woken up to get it, but that would be her story, and she grazed on it contentedly enough—Bulma crept down the hallway, wishing she knew how to do that energy-suppressing trick her fighter friends could do. She settled for hoping that she was insignificant compared to whatever was going on inside the room—the gravity room.

 

As she peered into the window, staring raptly and spooning oatmeal into her mouth inattentively, she was surprised with what she saw.

 

True, none of those days had Trunks ever reappeared with bruises or broken bones, but she'd supposed that Vegeta had been training him as he'd mentioned doing before. And he was, here, certainly—but right now, the gravity display read a simple "1G." Vegeta's back was to her, blocking her view of both his face and of her little boy. Vegeta crouched close to the ground, and whatever he was doing with his arms was slow and deliberate. He took a few small steps back and to the side, and as he did so, Bulma was able to see Trunks—hobbling with skill and swinging punches at Vegeta, who gently blocked them, smirking. He lit a ball of ki on his finger and Trunks stumbled, wide-eyed, and fell backwards. The boy pulled himself up to stare deeply into the orb, and as Vegeta let it flicker back out of existence, Trunks pouted. Shaking his head, Vegeta picked the child up and stood, grasping him carefully. Bulma gasped as the man threw him across the room, and nearly fainted when she saw him just barely catch Trunks on the other side. The little boy burst out laughing, and Vegeta set him down, sighing and leaning against the wall of the room, kneading his temples with his fingers. Bulma couldn't hear him through the glass, but supposed that he was swearing at himself as he pounded one fist against the wall, surprising the boy. Vegeta glared down at him, and Bulma had just enough time to run back to her room and feign sleep before Vegeta plopped Trunks in his crib, turned on his heel, and briskly left.

 

Her eyes welled up just thinking about it—the first time she saw them, months ago—and here she was again, watching. Vegeta seemed angry at the boy, but still trained him every day, for a little while. Since the time she'd seen them, there had been little giggling from the child; Vegeta never held him and rarely did anything to make him smile as he had that first time, or at least not that she'd seen. He would bring Trunks back to his crib and return to training himself, in much higher gravity. Bulma had peered in on him as he trained by himself once or twice, too—but it was the same as it had been long ago, and she could hardly stand to watch him while he tortured himself as he did.

 

Bulma had no doubt that Vegeta somehow enjoyed having this son to care for—if nothing else, because he must have known that the boy would one day become a Super Saiyajin. And if Trunks was the reason that Vegeta had finally resumed his regular workouts, well, Bulma could not complain, even though the boy was stirred from his sleep a little early for his training sessions. Trunks seemed happy enough during the day, gurgling and mustering words, and slept soundly at night.

 

Still, the man always seemed angry with Trunks. She vividly remembered that first time—their mutual joy and then Vegeta's immediate frustration—and was almost sure that Vegeta's attitude toward Trunks was borne from bitterness, somehow; that for whatever reason, he was reluctant to love his son. Perhaps he didn't want to settle down—that seemed a part of it. Or perhaps his son reminded him of fighting, and stirred up memories he had been sleeping off before. Perhaps it was the birth of Goku's son that had spurred this training of Trunks, and maybe that bothered Vegeta—she wouldn't ask, yet, for at best she'd get a snarl from him. Maybe later, when he was sure to be in a good mood—but it had been a while since they'd had sex. Bulma supposed it was all the training that wore him out, and often teased him about it, with minimal results. Recently he started collapsing to sleep on her own bed just to sleep, and she was getting used to it—his warmth, and the way he squirmed when she pressed her cold toes against his seemingly endlessly warm calves in the middle of the night.

 

Perhaps as a tradeoff for the increased physical closeness, they talked even less. She wasn't sure which she preferred more, but without him goading her on as he often did when they argued, her productivity in all areas of her life had fallen. She supposed she'd get over it, or Vegeta would get over himself, one or the other.

 

Her eyes continued to stare through the window, at where Vegeta had thrown Trunks, at where he'd caught him, at where he was now throwing punches through the air at such a rate that her eyes could not perceive them, only the stone-stillness of his feet as he lunged forward time and time again into his blows. Her forehead pressed against the window a little as she leaned against it thoughtfully. Was the rest of her life going to be one with Vegeta? It certainly seemed like it. She smiled a little, but kept her head down as simultaneously she was struck with the sensation of guilt for being, maybe, part of what kept him here. But he'd said it himself—did he have anywhere else to go? She couldn't begin to fathom his situation.

 

For a split-second she felt an increased pressure against her forehead as the window pressed harder against it, and then stumbled backwards as Vegeta finished swinging the door open. He snarled when he saw her, and considered kicking her from her position on the ground. Instead, he simply stood over her. "What are you doing here?" he muttered.

 

"Just...looking in as I passed," she pulled herself up. It was technically the truth. As she regained her footing, she felt bolder. "What, you thought I didn't know that you were training?"

 

He seemed to consider this for a moment before crossing his arms. "Of course you did," he finally muttered, and narrowed his eyes at her. "How many other times have you 'looked in as you passed'?" Vegeta stepped closer, uncrossing his arms in a way that made Bulma wonder if he was about to grab her and throw her down the hall, and not catch her on the other side.

 

"Quite a few," she answered quietly, stepping away from him, and as he remained silent, she added with a shaky voice that tried to sound sharp, "You seem angrier than usual lately."

 

Vegeta shifted his weight. Sometimes the shake in her voice meant that she was scared—other times, that she was about to burst into screaming at him. Something in him hoped for the latter. "I'm not soft," he blurted.

 

"What?" Bulma blinked.

 

"Nice try, though," he continued, voice softer and more dangerous.

 

"Try?"

 

"At domesticating me. I am a Saiyajin. I do not—live somewhere—or—care—" He balled his fists and glanced up toward the ceiling, through it. "I don't give a damn about you or the boy! I'd just as soon leave—"

 

"Well then, why don'tcha?" she planted her hands on her hips. "Anyway, I know you care about Trunks. You train with him every morning!" she gasped almost immediately after saying it, and Vegeta's eyes narrowed.

 

"He needs to learn how to fight," he answered tersely. "It would be a disgrace to what remains of...the Saiyajin..." and he was reminded again—it was only him left, now; truly he was the last one. The other had left—unlike him, apparently had somewhere else to be, someone else to fight. The flimsy excuse for a Saiyajin, stupid and kind as he was, living more of a Saiyajin life than himself, here, living in the same house day in and day out, sleeping in the same bed, for some reason constantly fixed on his offspring and this woman and their mysteriously powerful ways. "That I've gotten so comfortable here is disgusting," he spoke, and the transition seemed odd to Bulma.

 

"Would you rather be uncomfortable?" she challenged, before speaking more soberly, "Is that really why you're so mad—you think you're stuck here, living like this?" He remained silent, and Bulma grew more irritated as time passed, crossing her arms as he seemed to think. And she'd thought he'd cared about them, maybe a little—that he was just that tiny bit better than Son, and if he was, well, then she shouldn't regret what she had missed with the other man anyway. "Well, fine," she started again, hair bristling, and she raised her voice. "Nothing's keeping you here."

 

So he snarled, and took off through the ceiling.