Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Syndrome ❯ Ice capades ( Chapter 2 )

Akira Toriyama is still my dad. The mofo won't buy me a new car. Even though mine stalled today. On a hill. Full of cars. Ouch. There I was, rolling down Hamilton Street, in the rain, backwards, with locked brakes, and a new car parked twenty feet down from me. Dammit, dad! Stupid 1987 Plymouth Caravelle…

Syndrome: 2

"You have four new messages. Message one."

"Hey Bulma, it's Yamcha. Just calling to see how you've been doing since--BEEP!"

"Message deleted. Message two."

"Hello, this is Dr. Richard Taber's office calling in regards to Vegeta's appointment tomorrow. We're sorry but because of personal problems the doctor is unavailable at that time. We can reschedule for nine thirty AM next Tuesday if that's acceptable, please call to confirm. Thank you."

"Message three."

"Hey, it's me again. You wouldn't happen to have my blue sweater lying around over there someplace, would you? I can't seem to find it and, well, I kinda sorta want to wear it tonight, 'cause you always said it made me look ta--BEEP!"

"Message deleted. Message four."

"Hello, this is the Anti- "Virgin Anti Lemon League" League. We're looking for donations to be put towards the promotion of poorly-written sex scenes easily accessed by innocent prepubescent childre--BEEP!"

"Message deleted. End of messages."

Finally home, Bulma left the groceries on the table for her mother to sort through, then went up to Vegeta's room to inform him that he had another five days to chill before facing the dreaded anthroscopy. She found him meditating on his bed, sitting Indian-style, a half-melted bag of ice resting on his left knee.

Opening one eye as his host entered, Vegeta quickly shoved the ice onto the mattress next to him, out of view, and waited for her to state her business.

"I know your knee is killing you, so there's no need to hide the evidence. Speaking of which, your surgery's been moved to Tuesday." Biting her lip, she worried at the chance of an outburst of the world's injustice from him. It'd taken her weeks of passively observing him sneaking ice packs and tabs before she realized something about him was physically amiss. Days to convince him to let a medical professional investigate the problem, and hours of detailed argument and discussion of the medical reports to make him realize that this surgery was necessary if he wanted to be able to use that knee without being hounded by almost arthritic aches and pains.

She wondered why she did so much to improve his comfort.

While any other man would've paled at the news, this one just furrowed his eyebrows before tersely stating, "What?"

"Sorry, it got changed. The world is an imperfect place. A few more days to wait won't kill you, nor will the suspense, so just cool it."

"I am cool--"

"Sure you are, hot stuff," she interrupted, inwardly laughing at her own humor, though her companion did not fully comprehend the deeper cultural reference of the joke. "I know that in the time it's taking for this surgery to take place I could've built you a regeneration tank, but you--"

"Those tanks heal flesh wounds, they do not realign ligaments and bones."

"Thank you for that informational update. Like I was saying, you should be grateful that there is a doctor around here willing to do the operation."

He scowled, disturbed that he was being forced to acknowledge, "Since when did I state I wasn't?"

Considering that for a moment, "Point. What are we up to?"

"Me: 27. You: 23."

"This is the last time I allow myself to be dragged into a month-long battle of the wits with you, Vegeta. It deflates my ego and only serves to bolster yours." When he did not answer, she sighed, turning to exit the room. She could only take being in his vicinity for so long, until his uniquely absent personality really started to get to her. "I'll let you get back to… whatever the hell is was you were doing. Remember, Tuesday morning, bright and early."