Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Dark Duke ❯ Patience is a Virtue ( Chapter 37 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ, or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. But if I did own DBZ, I would be sitting on a beach somewhere writing this story in front of my private beach villa. One can dream, right?

Warnings: Cussing, some violence.

A/N: I want to keep this short and sweet--the three year anniversary of this story is in two days (HOLY CRAP), and I could not be more thankful and blessed from the reception I have always gotten from those of you who have read the story. I do not think I could thank you all enough. Seriously, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Lilpumpkingirl, this story is only possible because you get what I'm trying to say even when I don't say it in the most cohesive way. You are the best.

Finally, I want to give a last shout out to three very special friends of mine: desicup12, whisperingreengrass, and ra-ra-raditz (happy belated!). You three--thank you for always being there when I need to chat, your friendships mean the world to me. Your messages keep me going, and keep me writing, so thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Patience is a Virtue

Tap, tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap, Tap.

His associate's fingers hit the table, a steady succession of useless noise stretching on between the two as they sat in the shady corner at the inn common room.

Tap, tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap, Tap.

Vegeta reclined in his chair, facing the open dining area, observing, taking an interest in every little thing in the bar, his senses on high alert. There was a married coal worker sweet-taking the pretty barmaid at the bar proper. The bartender sneered and rolled his eyes at every cheesy line the coal worker tried. There was also a fidgety lawyer who clutched his satchel close to his chest, who intermittently patted his brow with a long soaked hanky, and muttered about missing numbers. Vegeta brought his mug of ale to his lips. Sipped. Then grimaced. He tasted nothing but cheap piss-water on his tongue. He longed for a good snifter of scotch, whiskey or even brandy--but no. They were in some working class pub, and all they got was warm ale.

Tap, tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap, Tap.

Rolling his neck and feeling a satisfying pop, Vegeta glanced at Nappa's beefy fingers. The larger man was careless in appearance, lounged with his trunk legs sprawled and head tilted back against the wall. Vegeta frowned. With a twitch in his jaw, he forced his gaze back on the coal worker and barmaid. He sipped from his mug, and forced himself to swallow, and not spit it back out.

Tap, tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap, Tap.

Easing his grip of the mug's handle, Vegeta set is on the table and crossed his arms. He dipped his head forward and closed his eyes.

Tap, tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap, Tap.

His jaw twitched. Slowly, his eyes opened revealing piercing, soulless black. Vegeta titled his head, training his gaze to the window and the world outside. London bustled on, people and carriages passing by in a blur. No care to his inner woes, or the fact that Vegeta was about to save the British Empire. Again. Where the fuck is that runner?

Tap, tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, Tap, tap-tap, Tap.

Vegeta bit back a groan. His head turned, eyes narrowing on Nappa's fingers. For what had to be the hundredth time he fought down the urge to yell at him to stop. Instead he reached for his mug. Horrible ale as it was, it was a needed distraction. In three gulps he finished it, keeping his face stoic as he set the mug back on the table, contemplating whether or not to buy another ale. He started to cross his arms, but then realized he looked anything but casual and rested them on the arms of his chair.

Damn it all! He was too wound up to be simply sitting here, sipping on warm ale like some lower class twit. Vegeta finally had a lead. Piccolo had to be Zhelonie! And once he found Zhelonie--he wound find out what the French man was doing for the Russian's. Was Frieza here already? If so, what was his end game? Once he had these answers, Vegeta would dispose of Zhelonie with his bare hands. Then. Then Vegeta would pay Frieza back for everything he had ever done to the Vegetasei family.

But he was forced to wait. Forced to sit here, at the shitty bar they had found that bow street runner at. The same bow street runner who had already betrayed his trust. All for information Vegeta wished he could glean on his own. But no, that would not do. Running around the streets of London looking for Piccolo himself was impossible for a lord of his status. And surely not the best way to surprise his enemy. In fact, if Zhelonie got wind of Vegeta knowing who he was before Vegeta was ready, there was a good chance the man would warn off Frieza, and both of them would disappear, slipping through his fingers one more time.

No. Vegeta could not have that. So instead, he sat. He waited. He let his tapping buffoon of a second tap away. Their eyes surreptitiously checking the door every time it opened--disappointed each and every time it was not Wicket. The only upside to the door opening was that it was the only time Nappa's hand would stop giving Vegeta a few moments of silence. Inevitably, and rather unfortunately for him, the tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap would start up again. And equally inevitable, as the time drew on, Vegeta grew more and more frustrated with the man who had raised him since childhood.

Vegeta forced himself to think of how he would approach Frieza. How he would finally get the revenge he had so long planned on. It helped to ease some of the tension. He could always go for the quick and clean kill, of course, but he did not think he wanted that. No, he wanted the man to suffer. He yearned for the Tsesarevich to beg for his life in his last few minutes. Vegeta had to have that man look at him and plead, grovel at his feet, before Vegeta finally ended his life by ripping his head from his body.

It was a moment Vegeta had fantasized about for days on end. His hatred of the Tsesarevich had been solidified long before Tarble had gotten involved. It had all started when the Russian prince had defeated Vegeta's armada during what was supposed to be a raid of a Russian armory. Standard--but they had not been expecting the Tsesarevich himself to be there, or the bloodbath that had followed. Vegeta had even bitten his tongue when the Tsesarevich had boarded his ship, and admitted defeat, humiliatingly surrendering for the sake of the men under him. They were under his care--if they died, it would be his fault. But the Tsesarevich had always been a bloodthirsty bastard, taking Vegeta hostage and forcing him to watch as each ship in his armada was sunk, the cries of his men echoing through the flames of the wreckage of his ships, the frigid waters finishing what the fire had not. None of his men had been allowed to survive. Those that had tried to swim for land had been shot, one at a time, Vegeta forced to watch as the men who trusted him to lead, were killed.

Good men had died that day. Men who...well, Vegeta did not have friends, but they had been his companions--some from the time he had first enrolled in the Navy. They were men who could make him smirk, who had given him advice in battle, men who had made him forget his venomous upbringing by the dowager. But they were dead. All of them. That had been the day, as he watched each and every last one of his men die, which Vegeta had started on this Kami-forsaken path. A path where he would cool the Russian prince--or die trying.

And then there was Tarble....

Vegeta felt a flicker of sadness as he thought about his younger brother. There was no denying his fault in Tarble's death. When Vegeta had returned home ransomed from the Russian prisons (that had been the Tsar's decision, though, not the Tsesarevich's), brought back to England by his father's sickness, he had been changed, all but shunning ht world. Lost in the gloom of his past, in his new life's mission. He built up walls that were unimaginably high and sneered at those who dared to get close. Once the dowager had been banished to Scotland, no one felt Vegeta's contempt as much as Tarble. Tarble who had only wanted the brother he had lost for years to come back. He wanted the ease and familiarity of childhood to return. But more than that, he wanted Vegeta's respect. More than anything he wanted to be closer to Vegeta.

So Tarble had joined the Navy.

The flicker of sadness twisted, grew and mutated in his thoughts, becoming a churning rage. I did to him what father had done to me. It was a bitter, and frankly hard to swallow, realization. While for different reasons, Vegeta had done what the dowager and his father had been guilty of doing to him. He had burned Tarble with the heavy weight of family expectations. Had told him to do things the Vegetasei way, and that he had to prove himself as a man to uphold the family honor. There was little choice but for Tarble to do as Vegeta had once done. Run away. Run to the Navy and prove himself. Exactly the way Vegeta had.

But his younger brother had never, could...would never be like him. Tarble, much like Kakkarot, had always been kind. Gentle. Caring. Always considerate of those around him and loyal to a fault. No matter how many times the dowager had tried to break his spirit, like she had broken Vegeta's, Tarble was always good and kind to all around him. He would have been a great man. Especially since he, while not strong physically like Vegeta--had been strong in another way. His spirit had never broken, had never turned black like Vegeta's had--Tarble had always remained true to what he believed in. And he would have made a brilliant scholar--if things were different.

Vegeta cursed under his breath, earning a sharp look from Nappa. He shook his head and his associate shrugged. With a sigh, he crossed his arms, no longer caring if he appeared casual or not. His head tipped forward, once again lost in thought. Tarble's death--Vegeta might as well have been the one that pulled the trigger to the gun that had killed him. Vegeta was not sure of all the details--but all he knew was that Tarble had been captured, and when he had returned to England.... Well, he had been dead, with the seal of the Tsesarevich burned into his chest. After that moment, after seeing that familiar sigil, the few other paths Vegeta once had besides vengeance, vanished. There was only Frieza. There was only death.

Or so he had once believed.

No, he still believed.

Only death awaited him.

His thoughts shifted, turning to his unexpected wife and their unborn child. The churning, blazing rage cooled to remorse. A child. Never had he thought he would sire one. He had always taken precautions to ensure he never even had the chance to impregnate a woman. But no one could predict a woman like Bulma. And now he would be leaving her and his unborn child. He was leaving a little boy or girl to grow up in this harsh world without a father to protect them. Something he swore he would never do. That was, unless, Bulma remarried of course. Vegeta could not help the dark smirk on his lips. Selfish as it was, he would come back and haunt her as a specter to ensure that would never happen. Even in death, she was his. The child was his. Only his.

Tapping his fingers against his bicep, Vegeta idly wondered how his child would turn out. His smirk into a faint, almost warm, smile as he imagined the brain any kid of Bulma would surely have (and that she would no doubt nurture beyond reason without his interference). He feared his unborn child would either be an eccentric genius, like Bulma, or a book worm, like Tarble had been, since Vegeta would not be there to round the edges of the child physically. There is Kakarrot... Perhaps he should have written something in that note to Kakarrot to let him know he was to train his child if it were a boy, and if it were a girl, well, to train her slightly less.

The furrow in his brow lessened as he wondered what their unborn child would look like. Poor Bulma, he mused with more than a little humor. His family's genes were strong. There was a good chance that their child would come out with the Saiyan coloring. Tan skin. Black hair and eyes. Still, Vegeta would not be disappointed if he found out some of Bulma made it into their child as well--the Saiyan hair and skin, but with her eyes? Those luminous blue eyes that could suck him in more than any part of her?

Though if it were a daughter, Vegeta secretly hoped that she did not get a trace of Bulma at all. He shuddered at the idea that his daughter with Bulma would no doubt be as irresistible to men as Bulma was. Vegeta could just see how much trouble a beautiful daughter would be--look at Bulma, with her own parents. And he was not fool enough to think he would be as laid back as the Briefs were with her--perhaps the note should have included instructions that if the unborn babe was indeed a beautiful daughter, to not train her and to instead hide her from the male gaze for...well, her whole life.

"What are you thinking about?"

Vegeta jolted in his chair. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he had not noticed that Nappa's hand had stopped tapping or that his second was staring at him with open curiosity. Never mind that Vegeta himself had a rather untimely smile on his face. Vegeta let the smile instantly drop, his arms crossing tightly around his body, tensing as he grumbled, "Ripping Frieza's head from his body."

Nappa raised an eyebrow, quirking his head, but for once he kept whatever comments he had to himself. His fingers began tapping again before Vegeta could blink. Vegeta glared at the irritating appendages. Then he inwardly sighed as he looked out the window.

He knew that it did not matter what color eyes his child with Bulma had, or whether or not his daughter would be beautiful. It did not change his path. Or the undeniable truth at the end of his path. He would never see this child, he would be dead, cold, decaying in the ground somewhere if he were lucky, or ripped to pieces and left to rot if he were not.

He had known that long before he had met Bulma. He had known it when he taken her in the gardens (and the opera, and the library...). He had certainly known when he had married her. And it was still true now. Nothing was going to change. He could never go back on that vow he had made long ago.

Though...

Bulma's word... spoken to him just last night. Those words, that even now had his heart constricting, broke through, her soft voice, her bedroom eyes and tousled hair affecting his self as deeply as it affected his body: "No matter what, you have at least one person out there in the world that loves you...soon to be two. And we both need you Vegeta, remember that."

Vegeta frowned, unconsciously rubbing the spot where his heart was, as those words sank through his defenses. When it came to Bulma, he might as well have none. She loved him? How could.... How could anyone love him? He was barely human--he knew he was little better than a wax figure of a human being when it came to feelings.

And yet...

Yet--Bulma, the complete opposite of him in so many ways had gotten to know him. She had seen more of him than any other human had. Part of him was waiting for her to flee from him, to run in the opposite direction the more she knew of him. But she had not. In fact, when he had tried running from the damned woman, she had followed him.

And...and confound it all--she loved him.

She had looked him straight in the eyes and told him that she loved him. Him. Not the man he projected, but the man he truly was. And what was more...she needed him.

Nobody had ever said they had needed Vegeta before. No one had ever truly needed him. Sure, they had needed the Duke and his influence, or the weight the Vegetasei name brought. But no one had ever looked at Vegeta, as a man, and said that they needed and loved him. Now he had a wife at home who already loved him.

To spend the first thirty-two years of his life without ever really having someone need him--and then, just six months before his life was to end, he meets the one person in the world who actually needed him.... How was that fucking fair?!

Nappa's hand stopped tapping Vegeta, however, was alert enough to notice it this time. He showed the thoughts about Bulma and her words (that distracting witch!) deep down, hopefully never to think about them again, and looked at his subordinate. Nappa was carefully examining Vegeta, and did not stop even as Vegeta stared him down.

Vegeta's lip curled, Nappa only cocked his head to the side, as a dog that was confused would. His irritation mounted, and unable to help himself, he snapped, "Do you have something to fucking say, Nappa, or do you simply think I'm pretty?"

Nappa pursed his lips for a moment, before giving a lazy smirk, "I told you Wicket was going to speak."

It was Vegeta's turn to purse his lips in disfavor as he thought back to that conversation that seemed years ago and not just months ago. "And I told you he would be useful."

Nappa grunted at that, taking a chug of his ale before he wiped the foam from his ridiculous mustache with the back of his sleeve. He snorted, "He has not returned yet. There is a very large chance you scared that pathetic fool so much he will never return."

Vegeta felt a quirk of annoyance rush through him, especially as he heard the truth in those words. He had taken a risk in threatening the man with his life and then letting him go to do his bidding. But Vegeta had to believe that he still had the ability to draw more respect than just fear out of a person, and that Wicket would not be stupid enough to cross the Duke of Vegetasei twice. No one disrespected him twice and lived to tell about it!

Vegeta looked at his associate with hard conviction, "If he does, I give you permission to hunt him and kill him, Nappa. And as painfully as possible, if it pleases you."

Nappa grinned at that, but then that too faded from his face as he growled, "I think we should kill him even if he returns with the information, make an example out of him."

Freezing, Vegeta examined his hulking companion warily. The older man's hand clenched and unclenched. His grin giddy, sinister even. And while Vegeta knew six months ago, or hell, even a month ago, he would have been agreeing with Nappa without a second's hesitation, Vegeta found himself somewhat troubled by Nappa's joy. He even swore he heard Bulma's displeased voice in his head, "think about his wife...and hi children."

"No."

Nappa's eyes widened, repeating, "No?" He snarled, "No?!"

Vegeta shrugged, dismissive as he watched the room, "No."

Feeling the older brutes glare, Vegeta rolled his eyes and sighed. Slowly as if he was speaking to a child, he said, "If he returns with the information, he lives. That was what I told him. You should know I always keep my word."

Nappa opened his mouth to speak. His face contorted. He closed his mouth. He opened it again. Then he cracked it shut. His disbelief tangible. If not for the situation Vegeta may have even laughed.

"Huh," he managed to huff out before he continued the hinging and unhinging of his jaw.

Brow twitching, the amuse fading swiftly, Vegeta snapped, "Stop that. You look like a fucking fish out of water."

Flinching, Nappa closed his mouth and turned, "Uh...right." He coughed into his hand, hiding his fluster.

Vegeta shook his head. That damn woman, she's changing me. More like had changed him, but he refused to let her creep back into he thoughts. He should be focusing at the task at hand.

Fortunately, the bell above the door dinged. Both of them (not very furtively this time) turned to look at the door. There--looking somehow red and out of breath, and yet white with fear at the same time--was Bob Wicket. He leaned over, hands on his knees panting hard, as his eyes skimmed over the tables and to the dark corner Vegeta and Nappa occupied. Wicket looked as if he had personally run all over London to get the information Vegeta wanted.

Vegeta smiled in satisfaction.

He still had it.

As Wicket approached, Vegeta made sure he was the picture of indifference and ease. He uncrossed his arms an drew his pocket watch from his vest pocket, checking it slowly as the other man finally stopped in front of him, huffing and puffing. Vegeta gave a nod at the watch. His black eyes glanced to the man's face, piercing. Rolling his eyes, he suppressed a snort as the man crossed himself.

Vegeta tucked his pocket watch back into his vest. "Only forty-five minutes. I am impressed."

He felt Nappa's disapproving stare on him, but Vegeta refused to meet his eyes, even as he saw--from the corner of his eye--Nappa's ham sized hands turn to fists. His attention was drawn back to Wicket though, as he finally caught his breath enough to huff out, "Your...your (huff), your Grace."

Vegeta took a long sip of his beer, forgetting until the mug was to his lips that it was empty. Still, he made a show of taking an imaginary sip and smacking his lips before coolly continuing, "Yes, Mr. Wicket? Did you find him? I did not think you fool enough to return without a solid lead for me."

Wicket nodded dumbly. Then his eyes widened, shaking his head. There was a glint in them, shining with a mixture of fear and triumph, "O-of course I found him! I always find..." the words died on the poor man's tongue as he saw the glare coming his way from the bald giant, cutting off whatever he was going to say. Wicket swallowed, and muttered, "Billy found him." He searched around him, almost frantic, before he stomped over to a dirty runt of a boy frozen a few tables away, grabbing his wrist and dragging him over to the table.

Vegeta fought the urge to frown. When, he wondered, had he gotten so unobservant that he had not even noticed there was someone following Wicket. Then again, to be fair, the boy was tiny and Wicket's bulk had completely covered him. Vegeta leaned on his right arm, resting his chin on his fist as he examined the boy. His brow creased, recognition there, but...Oh, the docks. That was where he recognized him from. He was one of the runts who ran the docks, looking for food or coin, that the seamen called a 'street urchin.'

Vegeta's piercing eyes softened.

The boy, Billy, was small, and thin. He was perhaps ten years old. And clearly he was not getting near enough to eat by the rags that hung from his skeletal frame. His eyes were large, shrunken into his emaciated face. He blinked, owl-eyed, staring in wonder at Vegeta, a duke. No. The Dark Duke.

Billy was nervously running his hands over his cap as he bowed, his cockney accent thick when he finally spoke, "Yo' Grace."

At one time, Vegeta might have wrinkled his nose in disgust at the dirty boy--so dirty in fact, one could not tell what his hair color was--but Vegeta kept his face passive. He knew better than most that the boy did not need or want pity. It did the boy little good in the cold of night as hunger gnawed at his stomach. Instead, Vegeta gave a slight bow of his head.

This caught the boy (as well as the other two men) by surprise. Vegeta could not help the smirk that graced his face as the boy bowed again in a quick start, forehead knocking on the edge of the table. He sprang up, a volley of curses that would make some of Vegeta's most hardened sailors (or Bulma) blush. The boy rubbed the spot as his eyes watered. Vegeta rolled his eyes inwardly, but waited until the boy was done cursing before softly questioning, "Do you know where Piccolo is?'

Billy nodded emphatically, still rubbing the spot he had hit his forehead before he continued, "O' course I does, sirs. We works together at the docks, sees. In them south shippin' yards."

Vegeta rose to his feet, ready to see Piccolo for himself, to question him and his motives. Wicket stumbled back as Nappa stood with him, growling out, "Is he there now?"

The boy shook his head. His eyes grew wider as he followed Nappa's hulking form all the way up. When no further information was forthcoming, the boy in shock at the giant before him, Vegeta blew out a frustrated breath, "Then where?" Those owlish eyes blinked back at him, and Vegeta gritted out, "Where is he?"

Billy's voice was nervous, his whole countenance changing, " 'E 'as a place. Kips in a room in them blue buildin's on Canal, above the butcher's. Seen it, meself, I 'aved"

Vegeta felt triumph flash through him, and he smiled victoriously. And while he'd rather rush ahead, his Saiyan blood thirsting for battle, he forced himself to stay a few seconds longer taking out all of the notes from his pocket. He flashed them, making sure Wicket was watching as he passed them to Billy. He sharpened his glare back onto the hungry looking man eyeing the boy thumbing through the money.

"You make sure this boy finds a nice home, where he won't have to work ever again in his life. Or I will kill you myself."

Vegeta was surprised the man could still be threatened...and by such an uninspired threat, as well--but apparently it was inspired enough. Wicket dipped into a low bow, hastily muttering, "Right away, your grace." Then he rose, patting his sweating brow with his sleeve and ushered Billy away, firmly grasping his shoulder.

Vegeta took a second to stare into nothing, as he realized this was it. He had found Zhelonie. Zhelonie was the key to Frieza. The hast he had felt moments ago vanished suddenly. Bulma's face flashed in his mind. His mouth was dry. A chill shivered down his spine.

Nappa's voice broke through, a surprisingly warm tenor in his second's voice as he prompted, "Sir? Shall we head to Canal?"

Vegeta turned to look back at him, wondering how much Nappa had deduced, but then he nodded, and followed the mountainous man out of the inn. All the while cursing the timing of his short life.

~~&~~

William was a tired old man... a tired old man who had dreamed of his later years as being the time in his life when he could finally sit back and just relax. When he could put his days at sea behind him. When he could find contentment on land. He envisioned living with his mistress and their ever-growing brood of children, and just watch the years pass around him. He had been convinced that by this age, seventy-one, that he would be able to do what every man dreamed of: Spend everyday sitting at White's, sipping on overpriced brandy, puffing on a woody cigar, relaxing in a lounger he sat in so often his butt would forever be imprinted in it, and reminiscing about his idealized past. Hell, it was his retirement, and if that meant he would only remember the islands they had discovered with beautiful women, and not the ones with hungry natives, that was his choice.

But that had not been William's path.

Instead he had been cursed with the misfortune of being born to a King--and not just any King, but the King of England. William, though, had been convinced he had been safe from responsibility since he had been born a third son! But alas, he had not been so lucky. Georgie, the oldest, who had been King before him, had taken to a life of excess. William could not say that he had been that surprised when he had heard that his brother, who suffered from gout, dropsy, breathlessness, and a weight of 17 stone, 7 pounds--had passed. But it was not welcome news, especially as Freddy, brother number two, had died only three years earlier of a heart malady as he sat sipping whiskey at their friends the Duke of Rutland's house. Freddy had never had any children, and Georgie, like William, had only produced living children with his mistress, meaning none of his children were eligible to be heirs.

Which is how William now found himself sitting in a cabinet room full of advisors, bored to tears as their voices continued to drone on and on instead of enjoying a life of leisure that was his right as an old man. William often thought of Georgie as he worked through the tedium of being a King, wondering if his death had been one last giant 'fuck you' to William. He had always been jealous of William's time as a sailor/ Envious of the ease at which William could leave. Wherever he wanted. Whenever he wanted. Never shackled down by the burden of the crown. It was ironic really. What better way for dear brother Georgie to get back at him for all those years of flaunting his fun times abroad, than to force him to stay in one place and sit through such boring dreariness?

Still, William begrudgingly reminded himself, though he had been King for less than ten years, and he was tired of the political intrigue (hell, truth be told, he never really had understood it or acknowledged or participated in it)--he had felt he had done some good with his short tenure. It had not made him popular with the more stiff-lipped British upper class, especially when he had abolished slavery throughout the empire and made them pay those poor natives they were exploiting in British landholdings--but it gave William a tremendous sense of well being, this doing well for all of humankind. His advisors could warn him over and over that he was losing the respect of the Ton, but he knew he had the public on his side. What other kings could say that? Certainly not Georgie!

There was something to be said about being made king when one was not really expecting it, and at such an old age. There was a freedom afforded to William and the decisions he could make, since he would not have to worry about years and years of political fallout. No making sure to scratch certain people's backs so they would later scratch his. No kowtowing to his board, so he would gain their favor later on. No sucking up to the Ton in the hopes they would support him later on. Nope. None of that bullshit.

He could implement a change, and if they did not like it--hang them all! He was a King, and he was not a man to be trifled with. So (he was constantly remind himself) there were perks to being king. Though they felt few and far between when he was in hour six of a ten-hour meeting at the House of Lords. Why did every person in his cabinet have to speak for so long?

His cabinet...if he could abolish them all, he would. Even those he had appointed, though they were his friends. They would understand why he was disbanding the cabinet. Hell, they were the ones who heard him complain about it for so long that they would probably want it disbanded for the sole purpose of never having to hear him complain about it again. But he had already made too many changes. Too much social reform. And his most annoying of advisors liked to remind him that between the restricting of child labor (how had anyone opposed him on that?!) and the reform of poor laws (once again, how was helping poor people a bad thing?)--the abolishment of slavery in most of the colonies was going to be the final nail in his political coffin, and that he needed them to appease his supporting elite.

It might be the truth, but that did not mean he had to like them. In fact, as he had reminded the most boring and uptight of his advisors over and over again, they got one minute to capture his attention, and if they did not have it after that, he was not going to bother listening to their (always ridiculously) long rambles about policy and other minutiae. Hell, it would not be his fault if he ended up sleeping right through whatever they were saying. That was their fault. Not his.

Speaking of boring and uptight advisors... Reginald, a sniveling ass kisser of a man he had inherited from his brother's cabinet, stood up in the council room, where William was subjected to listening as he gave a report on...something. Something boring, that was for sure. If there were ever a man who could make the most interesting subjects boring, it was Reginald. William would sometimes wonder what this man was like with his wife behind closed doors? He could just imagine him being as polite and boring as possible, coming, then thanking her for her service to him and to England, before bowing and leaving. That thought had William smiling, shaking his head, and eyeing the man.

Reginald--well, he simply did not look well. His knuckles were holding the paper he was reading from so tightly they were white, and sweat beaded his forehead. William considered sickness, but the rest of the man was so white, that William surmised he was nervous. Nervous about...well, something. Well now William had to tune back in, to see just what Reginald was saying, to see what had the man acting so nervously. If nothing else, it would give him fuel to his later rants about the man.

"...The Russian empire..."

And William was done listening to Reginald. Why did it always come back to the Russian empire?! Blast it to seven hells, had they not fought them enough times as it was? How many more times did they have to fight them on the battlefield to prove the superiority of their army and navy? There might be more Russians, but they were all freezing and starving due to how the Tsar and his family treated them. Even William knew that a ship full of men well fed and satiated would always fight better than those starved and cold.

"In Russia, the Tsar..."

Russia!

What a thorn in his side they had been for the last seven years. Not so much the Tsar or the bigger, useless son--but that small one. He was a cunning one, William would give him that, but he was vicious and bloodthirsty. William felt like he had personally lost every time the Tsesarevich gained even a hint of a victory. When the Tsesarevich won, humanity lost. William had met plenty of men like him through his time as a Sailor. Cruel fighters who cared not who they killed, how many lives were lost to obtain whatever they were fighting for--and that was William's idea of someone who needed to be stopped. The Tsesarevich was the worst kind of bloodthirsty fighter--one born into power. One that would take every last citizen in their country, and toss their life aside to ensure the Tsesarevich had more and more power.

But William was getting older by the minute, and he was tired of thinking about Russia and the horrors there. William wanted this meeting to be done, and so he let his thoughts wander again as Reginald droned on and on. He was contemplating a nap, when tea was placed before him, shaking him from his reverie. William made sure he thanked the footman as he placed the warm brew down, always excited and ready to drink tea as any good Englishman should be. William was surprised the footman did not say anything, so William turned to look at him, the man nodding at him. William did not recognize the man as he moved away, though this was nothing new as William did not recognize those closest to him sometimes. A byproduct of his age, he had been told. Bah! It was frustrating to be reminded of the limitations of his age at times like this as he watched the man leave to go retrieve some more tea for the rest of the cabinet. He looked familiar...yet William could not place him. Odd.

William heaved a sigh, lifting up his tea, and caught the eye of Harry, one of the only advisors William trusted and liked. Harry winked back at William, rolling his eyes at Reginald as his voice shook as he spoke, droning on and on. Harry and William both smirked at this, before they raised their tea glasses in mock salute, and Harry took a large swallow of his tea, William taking only a tentative sip. Another byproduct of age--caution. William had learned from years of drinking tea that he did not want to burn his mouth on piping hot tea as it would mean hours of not being able to swallow anything later. Food was one of the only pleasures he was allowed, and dammit, he wanted to taste everything. So a tiny sip was all he would take, until the tea cooled. Still, the sip was warm as it traveled to his belly, giving William a tremendous sense of contentment. Ah tea! Was there anything better than that for an old man such as himself?

William's eyes drew across the crowded round table, looking specifically at the men he trusted the most, making sure they were as bored as he was, though he noticed something odd as he did so. Why did only some of his men have tea, and why were they so sporadically set across his cabinet? How were these footmen serving the men? Had it always been as odd as--

Wait.

Why was it that those with tea were Harry, his favorite, as well as Martin, Lewis, Theodore and--

William felt something cold slither down his spine as he realized that the only people with tea were those that William liked and respected--his closest men, those that William would trust with life. William looked down into his own tea, and felt a growing sense of unease as something hit him. William turned to frown at the room, wondering if it was just his imagination or had that tea gone down fierier than it should have. He looked back for the footman who had served him desperate to see his face one last time, but he was gone. If only he could recognize him, William was sure this would all make sense!

Harry noticed the panic that must have been written on William's face as, his eyebrow lifting in question--before Harry started to cough. Just an impolite little hack to start, but one that Harry could not control. William's eyes grew wide as the cough grew more voracious, more hearty, sounding more wet as Harry's hand came up to cover his mouth, his handkerchief staining quickly with the bile he was coughing up. Harry tried to apologize through the coughing as he stood, turning to leave, but he only made it far enough to collapse. He landed flat and prostrate, with a large thump on the table before him as his body shook with the racking cough he had, the bile turning red as blood gushed from his mouth, staining the table, the floor, everything around him as William's eyes grew large with fear. That fear turned into a fist in his stomach, as Harry's coughs finally stopped, his bodying stilling completely. There was a moment of absolute stillness and silence as everyone looked at Harry, before the whole room was thrown into an absolute panic that had everyone either scurrying to help Harry or rushing away from him.

William relied upon his old sailor's training and stood, trying to shout out a warning, "The tea! Don't drink the tea!"

But it was too late.

Harry was first to start coughing, but soon everyone who had imbibed the tea fell victim to it, polite coughs that soon had them seizing and convulsing in their chairs, on the ground, on the table in front of them, before they too stilled, blood pooled around them. William watched with horror as those he trusted the most fell, and felt a growing sense of dread as he felt his throat tickle, his own cough starting and he turned to look at those who had not moved from their seats, who only coolly watched as those around him fell victim to whatever had been in the tea, his voice croaked and ragged as he only asked, "What... (cough, cough) why?"

Reginald, the sniveling rat of a man who William should have stamped out when he had had the chance to, only turned to the door behind him, opening it. William watched as he lost control of his ability to breathe, gasping for air even as he could not stop coughing, feeling anger war with his impending sense of doom as through the door strode the small figure of a man William recognized instantaneously. The small, smiling lizard like man smiled as he entered the room, followed by about twenty or so men, including the man who had served the tea, all of them looking ready for a fight as the Tsesarevich stepped into the center of the room.

William used his last breath to gasp out, "Frieza! You'll (cough gasp)...never (cough cough)...get (gasp gasp)...away with--."

William was not able to get the last word out as Frieza strode over to him, and grabbed his head in both hands, bringing their faces close together, whispering with that chilling high pitched voice of his, "But I already have."

There was a twist, a snap, a pop, and William was gone.

As William's neck was snapped, the lifeless body of the king dropping to the ground, some of the advisors who had been on the fence with this coup flew into a panic, not totally unexpected, but predictable and boring to Frieza as he heard them screaming, scrambling to get out of the room. Frieza only motioned with his hand, and his men were behind them, their indecision their death sentence. Frieza turned away from the carnage, feeling his blood boiling in his veins as it pumped through him, releasing more endorphins and adrenaline as he simply stood there. He was here. He was finally here, in the cabinet room of the king, knowing that while the fight was not over yet, he had done it.

He had assassinated the king.

Today...today was finally the day they had been planning for months--Zarbon had not led him astray by making him wait. There were so many cogs that had to fall into place, and today they did. He had never expected this to be as easy as it was to stroll into the House of Lords or to have access to the king to carry out their plan. Frieza had made it unconditionally known that the King's death was to be at Frieza's hand, and no one else's--even that had not been taken from him. Frieza flexed his hands, looking at them, smiling at no one but himself as he relieved the moment he had felt the former King's life slip from his body. Frieza closed his eyes as a shiver worked his way through his body, whispering, "Delicious, utterly delicious."

Frieza then turned back to the room, knowing a demented smile would be painted on his face. It did not matter--in fact it was what he was going for. He wanted these men to know he was every bit as horrible as the rumors about him said he was. He took a second and allowed himself a moment to bask in the glory of a plan well accomplished-- before he heaved a sigh, knowing that the fight was just starting, as the Royal Guard and Secret Service had yet to show their faces. But Frieza had not come unprepared. If the guard was foolish enough to think these were all the men he had had with him...well they had another thing coming. An advantage of waiting for so long was just how easy it was to sneak in Russian soldiers and spies over the last few months.

A slight frown did cross Frieza's face for a second when he realized that Zarbon, who had been so instrumental to this plan was not there to see it come to fruition. The man had his own side mission to take care of, and while he had not been Frieza's first choice to do this side mission, Zarbon had practically begged for it. How could Frieza say no to the man who had made today possible?

Frieza then forced himself to focus on the men before him, who stared at him, waiting to know what would happen next. Idiots. Frieza knew what was going to happen next--as soon as he sent his servant to give word that Frieza was in the castle, the Royal guard and secret service would show up, ready to start a war. And Frieza would be ready for them--with the help of the boat of primed Russian soldiers waiting for his signal at the Thames. The second his first plan did not work, and he was forced into open warfare, he would be ready. Oh yes. He would be ready.

Frieza waited until there was a general quiet in the room, before he turned back to the room, glad to see a large group of the advisors still alive and kicking. They were now his pawns, and he needed to show them what would happen if they ever decided to disobey him. Frieza slowly walked up to Reginald, a small smile on his face. He heard Dodoria snort as he passed him, recognizing that smile, yet Frieza did not stop to acknowledge him as he said, "Good show, Reginald."

Reginald, ever the sycophant, fell into a deep bow instantaneously, "Of course my liege."

Frieza walked past him, his hands behind his back as he strolled the room, knowing every eye was on him, forcing himself to keep his face as impassive as possible. "You have been a tremendous help in gaining me the support I needed from those in this room. Thank you."

Reginald's voice sounded pleased with himself, bringing another chilling smile to Frieza's face as he only said, "Of course, your highness."

Frieza felt that same adrenaline from earlier kick back up, the blood lust that was always in his soul crowing to be released as he heard how self-satisfied Reginald sounded. Frieza forced himself to wipe the smile from this face before he finally turned back to look at Reginald, frowning, "Yes, you were rather eager to betray your king and turn to my side, were you not?"

Frieza could see the moment that Reginald realized he was not on sturdy ground. His face froze, before falling, Reginald's head bowing in a show of respect as he started to creep backwards, towards the door behind him. Still, he did not run, only defending himself to Frieza. The fool. He should have run.

"He was a boar of a man, who thought that those lower than us deserved the same rights as us."

Frieza let out a small chilling chuckle, as he strode back to Reginald, "Of course. The last thing we want is those that don't deserve it, to have power...."

Frieza let his words trail off, and Reginald gulped, his voice a whisper as he said, "Of course."

Frieza turned his back to Reginald, practically feeling the man heave a sigh of relief as he repeated, "Of course."

But Frieza did not go far, knowing every eye in the room was trained on him, as he continued, "Still...you did turn to my side alarmingly quick. Were you not following the gossip of your wife to betray your king? No real proof, just some gossip that you were about to lose power? How am I to know you won't do the same to me? That you won't believe any idle gossip that comes your way, and that you won't try and turn against me?"

Frieza did not need to turn to know that Reginald froze, his voice panicked as he stuttered out, "Of--of course not! I would never b-b-betray you!"

Frieza turned quickly, facing him as he grabbed Reginald's throat, the custom made metal nails he had filed to razor-sharp points drawing rosy blood against Reginald's white throat as soon as they touched his flesh. Frieza's smirk was in place as he slowly said, "No. You won't," before he clenched the metal nails into the soft flesh further, a gurgle the only sound Reginald made before Frieza proceeded to rip the man's throat from his body. Frieza watched, almost impassively as Reginald's body slumped before him, the thrill of having ended another life running its way through his already extremely worked up body. It did not matter if it was his first kill, or his five hundredth--nothing got his blood pumping as much as knowing he had ended another man's life.

There were less gasps this time from the peanut gallery (it seemed no one had liked poor Reginald), but Frieza made sure to turn and display the ripped out throat to the other's before tossing it to the side as if it were nothing more than paper, wiping the metal nails on a handkerchief one of his minions had waiting for him. His voice was slow, thoughtful and full of conviction as he warned the men before him, "Reginald got off easy. If I ever really did think any of you would betray me, I would make your death much slower and much more painful than what Reginald had to endure. Do not even think of crossing me, or you will envy how Reginald got off. You all have a role to play in the upcoming few hours, and I need to know that you will do exactly as I say, without a moment's hesitation. When all is said and done, and I am the new rightful King of the United Kingdom, you will all be rewarded." He paused, taking a deep breath before he continued, "Do I make myself clear?"

There was terror written on each and every face of the surviving cabinet, but Frieza felt triumph as he saw them slowly but surely start to nod their assent. Frieza knew that while the fight was far from over, a large victory had just been won. It was not quite time for open warfare, and a political chess match was about to start. A political chess match that he needed pawns for--and now he had them.

Frieza felt a delicious smile pull at his face, as he nodded, before clapping his hands getting back to business, "Good! Now enough of that boring stuff, we have better things to discuss. If someone would be so good as to go and alert the guard outside this room that I am holding the King hostage, that would be superb...."

~~&~~

A/N: Vegeta no! Where are you going?! Frieza is right there! RIGHT THERE!

Also, the return of Frieza. I have to admit I was sorely tempted to make him an even bigger part of the story simply because he is so deliciously fun to write for. Who else can you just write with evil abandon?

Thanks again for reading you guys--stay tuned for next time!