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"You of all people should know this about me, Frieza, but I don't share Kakarot's taste for forgiveness. I'm sending you back to hell."
"Hah, hah. Your threats are as empty as your title. All hail Vegeta, prince of no one."
Bulma's scuffed army boots burrowed into the dirt. Even after witnessing a series of life's "do-overs" with loved ones - thanks to the Dragon Balls and her inimitable invention to find them - she firmly believed that Frieza's hell chamber was shatterproof.
But, sadly, after close to twenty years, it wasn't.
She blinked black hot tears as love and worry focused on the mountain scree surrounding the ultimate prize-fighter's battlefield. She hated that loathsome reptilian monster to her core, but her straight-faced husband had center stage. Would Frieza always return during the most pivotal moments in their lives? Anger simmered, blunting her despair.
Driven by adrenaline and stubbornness, she faced Frieza down earlier, bravely requesting time before Earth sustained more damage from his airborne army. Goku and Vegeta would arrive soon from another dimension to fight, she said. Very soon. Narcissistic and overconfident, Frieza salivated at the prospect of settling the score. After learning about the Saiyan duo's absence, he planned to destroy the planet entirely. Why delay the inevitable? He neutralized the Dragon Team and shot Goku's son Gohan in the chest. Bulma was determined to manipulate his conceit for as long as possible. Smugly, Frieza found her self-assuredness to be amusing.
Vegeta loved his wife's moxie as much as he loved her, but Frieza had a bullseye shot of her chest for fuck's sake! Less than a second passed to figure out what happened. Bulma's hands-on-hips stance overflowed with defiance. Not one day passed without Vegeta worrying that his mate's corrosive mouth would get her killed - even by another human. How close was she to insulting Frieza anyway out of resentment? Frieza didn't know that the two were married either; if he did, Bulma could be a fantastic bargaining chip if she were kidnapped. Vegeta thanked the heavens that she didn't reveal that part.
Bulma also didn't share Goku's taste for forgiveness - at least not in this instance. She wanted Vegeta to rip Frieza's muscles to pieces, leaving bleached bone. It took years for her husband to make some peace with the horrors of his past life. After all, once Frieza had Vegeta pinned psychologically beneath his thumb. The prince did embrace some of his colonizer's traits, garnering Frieza's sick admiration and abusive contempt. Bulma understood why Vegeta only called Goku by his Saiyan name – defiantly and, at first, jealously. Goku rose to the challenge of defeating their nemesis, reborn as a Super Saiyan, while Vegeta lay dying from his own failed attempt. But the prince's reawakening also commenced that fateful day.
Bulma bitterly cursed to herself. How did that monster's shrunken troll of a commander, Sorbet, get his hands on every Dragon Ball to resurrect him? She had to address that problem later - if everyone lived. Now Frieza's egotistic "fatherly love" was on grand display: If he couldn't control Vegeta, then the "monkey" had to be destroyed. Frieza's smile, dripping with unbridled obsession, nauseated Bulma.
Lust permeated his black-blooded, nightmarish fixation with her husband. Lust. Her eyes shut. By the gods. Did something else happen to Vegeta? She shook her head. No. He would have told me by now.
Vegeta's split-second sight focused on his wife's grim expression. He didn't use telepathy often, but she needed him.
"I am fine. So are you. Focus on me, not him."
"I know this is your fight, Vegeta. I believe in you."
The prince's otherworldly calm shimmered in a blue aura -- an unmistakable warning shot. He was more than a Super Saiyan now, wielding the power of a demigod. His controlled, unremitting beat-down of Frieza awed everyone - all except for Goku, who knew the timing was just right.
Sounds like he isn't too annoyed. He's grunting.
Bulma's skilled readings of her husband's throaty outbreaths deserved awards.
"What?"
"Are you awake?"
Vegeta turned over, eyelids barely rising above the irises. "What does it sound like?"
"Well, Vegeta, I just didn't…"
"Stop." Hearing excuses pained him – like listening to nails on a chalkboard. Way too early for that. "Make this good."
"You don't have to be so crabby." Offended, Bulma punched her husband's dense shoulder. "Like you haven't had sleepless nights before."
Her hapless prince exhaled, preparing to inch up to her level. By this time Bulma's forearms were locked indignantly like fused chains. Her head rigidly looked away - eyes closed, lips pouted.
His princess.
Vegeta's mouth twitched. How many times had they done this? Actually, he stopped counting long ago. Bulma's petulance could be stoked further or extinguished with a single word - or the lack thereof. A smart man considered his options wisely. Long gone were the days of launching into seemingly unwinnable battles!
He snorted back the urge to laugh.
All bullshit.
He pulled Bulma under the covers with him, sleepily gazing into her eyes. "You have fifteen minutes, which is seven minutes longer than I received last week when you rubbed my feet."
"Not funny," Bulma replied, swatting at him. "Maybe I would massage them longer if those ragged talons you call toenails were manicured better."
"Oh, but it is funny," Vegeta replied confidently, kissing her to erase their mutual testiness. Bulma hugged him closer, which he liked, but something felt off. He frowned, realizing that this was more than nocturnal boredom. "What's wrong?"
Bulma played with his chin, smiling. "Doesn't matter, now that we're cuddling."
"I don't cuddle," Vegeta replied. "I'm helping your body temperature adjust suitably."
Bulma chided herself for allowing anxiety to overrun her self-restraint. The immediate threat was eliminated, and Vegeta had enough preoccupying concerns. Sharing her problem would just worsen those and perhaps even traumatize him, she believed. They were trying to have another baby, with no success. Vegeta's quiet, non-judgmental steadiness had been a comfort. For him, sawing off his leg with a rusty blade would be preferable to Bulma blaming herself. He couldn't allow that.
Beyond fighting, Vegeta shied from grand displays of excitement, yet he never scolded his son or wife for theirs. That's just who they were. No matter how he griped about their household and extended family's bottomless well of cheer, they never made him feel like the odd man out. He loved them. Best of all, they made him laugh in ways he never thought were possible.
Bulma's reply was equal parts authentic and fake, but she hoped Vegeta's sleep-dulled senses would ignore her equivocation. She wanted to make love. She needed to. Vegeta held her waist, closing his eyes as Bulma gently separated his legs.
For a moment - like so many times before - they could forget.
"Dad, is mom OK?"
Vegeta seized his son from what had been a promising backflip, jolting the boy's nerves. "What, exactly, do you mean?"
"Dislocating my shoulder won't get a quicker answer," Trunks said hesitantly. Apparently his father had concerns, but Vegeta didn't appear too worried. That was a good sign, the boy thought.
Vegeta cleared his throat before stepping back. "Yes, yes. You're right. I owe you one."
"Apology accepted," Trunks said with a relieved grin. "And you always make good on your promises."
"Out with it." Vegeta's arched eyebrow silently warned Trunks to stifle the cockiness.
After shutting off the training room's lights, Trunks waited for his father to exit first. "You haven't noticed how tired she is?"
"There are many reasons for that," Vegeta said evenly. "She's working a lot, and as you know, we're trying for another kid to purposely destroy your will to live. Your mother also doesn't consistently sleep like a rock - unlike you."
Trunks shrugged. "OK, then. I wasn't sure if you were aware. So you're saying she's just being a hormonal woman."
Vegeta winced, hoping that his son would never, ever repeat those words. He hadn't prepared the boy appropriately for Bulma's unbridled wrath about second-guessing the source of her moodiness. "No, I didn't say that. Neither should you, unless you want your lips dissolved. Recall that your mother asked that old battle-ax Baba to teach her some tricks recently."
"Uh, all right," Trunks said nervously. "You want to try making dinner from scratch tonight?"
From scratch? Vegeta stopped. This boy despises kitchen work. Trunks' feet shuffled. He knew his father wasn't trying to be intimidating - for now - but being eyeballed by Vegeta wasn't for the weak-spirited.
The boy had been Vegeta's finest spy about Bulma's well-being, especially after the prince returned from lengthier trips. Trunks sometimes withheld information too, intuitively understanding that certain topics weren't his to mention. Also, neither parent wanted him to feel responsible for managing the minutiae of their relationship.
Trunks hadn't mastered blank-faced nonchalance enough to fool his father. Others definitely, but never dad. This amused Vegeta more than the boy realized. If Vegeta lived to be a grandfather - an amusing idea each time the thought crossed his mind - he promised to himself to be as supportive as possible.
He placed an encouraging hand on the boy's head. "What else concerns you?"
"She's come home early for the past three weeks, dad."
"I know. She needs to work with fewer interruptions for a while."
"I already figured that she's been really tired," Trunks replied. "But this week she's sleeping a lot longer before you come home. Not like the midday naps or anything like you and I do outside sometimes after working out."
So that's why she's still not sleeping well at night. Feeling like an idiot, Vegeta exhaled.
Before continuing, the boy searched his father's eyes and cheekbones for further signs of upset. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier. I guess should also say she cried one day when I found her asleep. I thought it was a nightmare, but I remembered what you said about waking people too quickly from those."
Anger was far from his mind, but Vegeta wished Trunks had spoken up earlier. But Vegeta also hadn't encouraged Bulma enough recently to express herself. He changed how he communicated with others as needed, but showing finesse in delicate emotional moments was a lifelong project. Thankfully, Bulma often matched his bluntness during normal conversations, helping him feel understood. But Vegeta had vowed to be a safe space - much like his wife had been when he was an absolute mental mess.
"Well that nightmare situation applies more to me," Vegeta told Trunks as they walked to their house, "though the rule is good to follow generally. Look, let me handle this. You did your duty. Go find Goten or some other useless kid to torment today."
"Thanks, dad. She'll be OK." Trunks smiled and ran inside to retrieve a checkers board.
Proud of his son, Vegeta nodded. "Get going, brat." He closed his eyes, attempting to locate Bulma's ki. She's not in the house. Maybe the lab. He tapped on his watch, triggering the intercom.
"Yes, sir," a mechanized voice said. "How may I assist you?"
"Where is Bulma?"
"The principal lab, sir. Staff members were instructed not to disturb Doctor Brief."
"And I'm her husband," Vegeta said crossly.
"Yes, sir," the robotic voice replied. "I do apologize for offending you. Her viewer screen is off."
Losing patience, Vegeta fingered his watch. "I'll be there soon."
Exhaustion felt like a cancer eating through Bulma's bones. Moving felt like self-inflicted brutality. She rubbed her eyes, attempting to fight her lethargy. How long could she endure this? Her condition seemed to be worsening. She had been through hell many times, working to keep the planet and those she loved safe - and breaking through so-called "scientific limits."
But now this.
Vegeta encouraged her to work from home more instead of shepherding endless employee interruptions at her Capsule Corporation office. Being the company's CEO involved meetings and cutting deals and mentoring – all of which she handled well. However, working in the engineering and production labs continued to be her first loves.
She finished design work in spurts, but after a few hours she'd usually retreat to the family room or bedroom. One day Trunks found her slumped on the sofa exceedingly groggy and agitated. Being an attentive mom, she attempted to calm her worried son, blaming her condition on overworking. She handled that successfully, but it left her anxious. Those feelings arose more at night. Fortunately, her previous "daytime nightmare" wasn't as vivid.
Unlike Vegeta, she never had violent recurring nightmares before - not like this - despite being exposed to real-life threats more often than others. Since childhood, her bad dreams focused on self-confidence: being unable to help; feeling abandoned; being humiliated by potential lovers; allowing her selfish side to dominate; being unable to use her mind to its fullest.
Until now, Bulma had swash-buckled through life - mistakes, flaws and all - joining Earth's finest warriors and solons whose greatness matched hers. She was damned proud of that, which made the incoherent terror and anxiety plaguing her all the more embarrassing.
The lights were dim in her spacious state-of-the-art lab when Vegeta arrived. Several tables displayed thriving experiments, but the room mostly appeared untouched. A clean lab coat hung on the wall next to a back door, leading to room where visitors or employees were brought to chat or relax. Bulma also slept there when she planned to work very late, usually coinciding with Vegeta's travels.
Vegeta peered over the handrail at the top of the staircase, spotting his wife in a fetal position on a sofa bed. Bulma's shoes were off, but not her lab coat. Vegeta expected her to awaken, given the stairs' noisiness. She didn't.
He moved closer.
Still no response.
He kneeled to observe. Bulma whined and mumbled, slurring words. Salty residue from tears and sweat covered her cheeks. Finally, Vegeta touched her. Being gentle wasn't foreign to him. Never had been.
Keeping his voice low, he carefully brushed her neck with his fingertips. "Bulma."
Bulma's horror-filled eyes burst open wildly, dashing around before looking up. Her hands clawed up Vegeta's tensed arms. Where was that distraught, battered heap of a man? He was speaking in a foreign tongue, fingers tearing into rain-soaked dirt. His eyes glowed crimson, but he was sobbing uncontrollably. Beside him lay her almost-dead body, every inch bloodied and brutally assaulted in ways no woman should ever endure. She tried to apologize, expressing love through agonizing breaths. Her husband screamed, sending cataclysmic shock waves, splintering all creation around them.
Though dead in this conjured hellscape, Frieza had won all because Bulma tried to protect her mate. Whatever she did to destroy him worked, but at the cost of her survival. Vegeta, grieving, succumbed to the ultimate mental breakdown - Bulma's worst fear. But why was the looming phantom of a collapse - which her nightmares suggested - calling for her now? How could anyone question her mettle? How could she question it?
She even married and (somewhat) tamed the universe's crossest bachelor.
Vegeta had seen his wife scared shitless before - counting himself among those who had the dishonor of doing it. But Bulma was a gunner. Fear almost always subsided, giving way to her determination. No one could ask for a more dynamic mate.
He made no sudden moves, watching with the discipline of a physician until she totally recognized him. "I'm here."
Bulma lined up an unsteady smile. "I'm OK," she whimpered. Her hands were still shaking. "I'm OK."
Vegeta lifted her into his secure embrace. "You're a terrible liar too. I suppose that's good in this instance."
He never showed how horrible it made him feel, but seeing Bulma cry felt like an ax in his heart. Even when they were at loggerheads as young adults, he experienced it. By the time they met, Bulma didn't have a reputation for bursting into tears often - or rapidly - either. When she did, Vegeta had to reconcile his feelings about what he could give her emotionally. Shame and willful misunderstanding compounded his mistakes with her. Being the perpetual alien in alien lands defined his existence, or so he thought back then. Accepting love changed him. Showing it enriched his soul.
"I guess I'm more tired than I thought, you know?" Bulma said. "Maybe it's the stress of trying for a new baby too."
"Then… we can stop trying, Bulma."
"Oh no." Bulma's head lifted, attempting to decipher his thoughts. "I didn't mean I wanted us to stop trying, Vegeta. Having another child is so important to you - and to me."
"Not if it hurts you in any way," Vegeta replied, removing her lab coat and his shoes, "and don't ask if my feelings are hurt - or some drivel like that."
Bulma reclined in Vegeta's arms as his back rested on the sleeper bed's rear edge. After placing a cushion behind his back, he positioned a softer one in Bulma's arms, encouraging her to embrace it. Therapists called the practice "grounding." He didn't know the fancy name. Doing it just helped. He learned from Bulma, who adopted the routine to help them cope with the aftermath of his own nightmares. Those haunted him less now, fortunately. Bulma rarely had them, but Vegeta decided not to inquire again about what she saw.
Her reaction bespoke post-traumatic stress. Vegeta, despite responding correctly, didn't consider this.
Bulma exhaled as his nose nuzzled into her tangled, rose-scented hair. "I need to return to work later. I've barely gotten anything done like I planned."
"Not today."
"Vegeta -"
"Not today, Bulma." Vegeta decided that this couldn't be up for argument or even negotiation. Bulma usually knew when he meant business, and vice versa. "I'll stay here. Just accept that you've hit a wall. Stop bloodying yourself mentally about it."
"Since when did you become so philosophical? Exhaustion has never stopped me."
"Hasn't my life shown enough examples of what one shouldn't do, woman? Haven't you paid attention?"
Normally Bulma would have considered this ironic, but Vegeta wasn't being sarcastic. "What are you talking about? I'm not crumbling before your eyes, exactly." Her feeble attempt to demonstrate it didn't appear to be effective, but she had to try.
Unconvinced, Vegeta paused, reacting to her reply with a rising eyebrow. "You're just as passionate about your pursuits as I am about mine. We also use our natural talents to cope with distress. As you know, that can be healthy or go straight to hell real quick, depending on the circumstances."
Because she loved her husband to pieces, Bulma wanted to entertain more of his mini-sermon, but her bruised pride still had other plans. "Any other semi-phenomenological epiphanies you'd like to share? Please, do mansplain to the little woman."
"Don't mock me," Vegeta said, gently twisting her hair. Subtly repetitive movements usually relaxed her. "Unlike Kakarot, my attention span is long enough to find those find those pointless words in my pocket dictionary."
"You carry a dictionary?" Bulma laughed, staring upside down at Vegeta's face. His gaze remained inscrutable. "Look, I know you're holding back as much as you can so I won't feel pressured to discuss my dream. I love you so much for that. The lecture I could do without, maybe."
"Hn."
Bulma wiggled his chin, aiming for a grateful kiss. Vegeta accepted.
"Hey, dad. So, um, are we ever going to discuss what happened?"
Vegeta put his fork down, chewing slowly. "I thought you were hungry."
"I am, but can't we talk while we're eating?"
"You asked that we avoid deep thoughts at family lunches on Saturdays, not me."
Trunks managed not to whine, knowing it wouldn't win any sympathy. "How did you know this would be deep thoughts?"
Vegeta abandoned his nearly empty plate on the dining-room table, reclining in his chair. "Because you're barely through your fourth rack of ribs. You have the floor. Then I want to see those tactical moves that three eyes - uh, I mean, Tienshinan - showed you."
"Dad, why hasn't anyone told Goten and me about those invaders all of you fought a few months ago? I mean, like no one talks about it - not even Goku, and he tattles about a lot of stuff. Both of you just threatened us to leave."
"And for once you two actually obeyed," Vegeta replied. "You know why we sent you away. What's the real question?"
"We obey far too much for my taste," Trunks countered. "We should be able to fight like anyone else, just like before with Majin Buu."
"And yet you were still killed," Vegeta said, crossing his arms. "There is some value to being the last line of defense, boy, and some of us have fewer mystical wish-based resurrections left to rely upon than others. The Namekians like you better too."
"But you weren't thinking about that," Trunks said impatiently. "It's not like Goten and I are going to stay kids forever. Look at what happened to Gohan!"
"Fine then!" Vegeta exclaimed. "You damned right we weren't thinking about that! What father wants to see his children die needlessly?! Needlessly! There is no way in hell that Kakarot and I ever want that to happen again. I fight to live - so that you can live - as much as I live to fight!"
Years had passed, but clearly the pain was still raw.
"I'm…I'm sorry, dad." Distressed by his father's eruption, Trunks' eyes sank. "I wasn't trying to upset you. I just remember how proud you said you were of me."
Vegeta sighed, gazing at the ceiling lights. "So you're doubting what I said now - because we want you to hold off? Trunks, son, you're smarter than this. I nearly came out of the womb fighting on my planet. You didn't on this one. Rigid decisions were made for me because of my lineage - and circumstances beyond my control. That's not the same for you, but no one questions your bravery, and I mean no one."
Feeling better, Trunks nodded. "Thanks, dad."
"I shouldn't have spoken sharply like that."
Trunks grinned, shoveling bread into his mouth. "Is that an apology?"
"No," Vegeta replied sternly. "It's an honorable acknowledgement of my misunderstanding."
Trunks laughed, impressed with his dad's talent as a comedic straight man. "Apology accepted - but really, are you OK?"
"You get one final question, and that ain't it." Vegeta's head angled to the side. "Try again."
Trunks had a legitimate reason for hesitating to ask another direct question, given his father's earlier response, so the prince had to make it up to him. A noisy crash abruptly ended their talk. Vegeta, who was closest to the door, rushed inside the kitchen. He and Trunks surrounded Bulma, whose arm was bleeding.
"Mom, what happened?!"
"I'm OK, guys," she said almost too blandly. "That, um, thing I was holding had a chip in it already, I think, and my hands were slippery. That's how it fell. Just be careful around the mess." A vegetable chopping board and an enormous saw-toothed knife lay askew on her left.
Trunks promptly grabbed a broom to clean up while Vegeta examined his wife's wound. "Thing? You mean grandma's ugly salad bowl? Good riddance." The ceramic container's broken pieces were now a hopeless puzzle.
Vegeta noticed glassiness in Bulma's eyes, but she hadn't been crying. "You were holding that knife and bowl at the same time?"
"I… I guess, Vegeta," she stammered softly, sounding confused. "I guess I was distracted. It was just a mistake. Even engineers like me mess up, you know?"
Vegeta expected her to argue more. He asked those questions in that manner to rouse her. Bulma as a youngster had a knack for tools before most children stopped using pacifiers. Cuts and bruises and maybe some broken bones were to be expected. On its face, anyone could have made this simple mistake. Vegeta awaited that response. Not receiving it from her troubled him.
"Doesn't appear that the cut will scar," he replied, wiping blood from the counter. "Keep the pressure on it. You know the rest. How long have you been in here anyway?"
Trunks walked in front, also taking a closer look. "Yeah, mom. You could have joined us earlier."
Bulma left to take a seat at the kitchen table. Vegeta and Trunks were unwittingly punching holes in her understanding. "I don't know, guys. Stop asking questions, OK? I told you I was distracted. It's not like you were searching for me either."
Neither could argue with her on that point, but they usually left the decision up to Bulma about Saturday lunch. Some weekends she used to pamper herself - get a haircut, buy clothes and shoes, or go to the spa. Her mother Panchy often found an excuse to tag along. Bulma forgot about their plan to meet at their favorite boutique downtown until her mobile rang.
Trunks retrieved the smartphone from a nearby desk. "It's grandma."
Bulma looked up at Vegeta wearily. "Can you answer instead?"
"How much will you pay me?" he asked her with a playful sneer, taking the phone. "We're all alive, Panchy. You were meeting her at Deben and Hams today?" He glanced at Bulma. "No more details. She got sidetracked. Don't take it personally. She forgets about me all the time, usually on purpose. She'll call you. Bye. Bye. Bye. Gotta go! Bye!"
Vegeta handed the phone back to Trunks, whose spurting chuckles earned him a whack on the head. The red-faced teenager tried to adjust himself, only to break into more laughter.
"Dad is quick on his feet today, don't you think, mom? Just four goodbyes to grandma this time. That's a record!"
"We'll see if your dad can get down to one someday," Bulma said, touching her bandaged arm strangely. "Then...um... we'll go out for ice cream. I do plan to call her back, but would you do me a favor?"
Trunks tugged on his ear, anticipating the worst. "Uh…"
"Your turn, brat," Vegeta snorted. "Go entertain your grandmother by video while Bulma and I talk. Let her chatter about whatever concerns her - bees, crows, shampoo scents. I promise to rescue you in about thirty minutes."
"Only for you, mom," Trunks replied with a polite smile. "Not him."
"Oh?" Vegeta's arms folded behind his back. "All right. Make that an hour. Keep this up and you're taking Panchy shopping."
"Oh god no," Trunks said, hurrying from the kitchen. "I'm out. See you in an hour. Don't get hurt again, mom."
Bulma spoke as she thought. "As if anyone is equipped to advise me on that issue." She didn't mean for someone to hear. Trunks, of course, didn't pay attention during his hasty exit. Vegeta, however, took notice of her abrupt whispering but stayed where he was. Bulma's speech forked like ice cracks on a semi-frozen pond. She had entered a black hole between sleep and wakefulness, her fractured awareness leaving the man she loved by himself. She didn't mean for that to happen. The quickening invasion of voices and images crowded her consciousness.
"Bulma."
She'd forgotten why she came to the kitchen. It's not like she was that hungry. Less than an hour of listening to her husband and son was all it took. Who left the speakers between both rooms on? Why didn't she turn them off? Snooping wasn't her aim. What she heard was by happenstance, but then Vegeta raised his voice, heavy with contemplation about what had yet to be revealed to their son. With each passing day, with every trigger and barely suppressed nightmare, time became less linear.
"Bulma, who are you talking to?"
It all happened so fast - but not really.
Vegeta recognized this portrait of his wife on the broken and abused, prowling behind the eyes of mortals who lost their livelihoods and those most precious to their hearts. Bulma's bearing was that of someone hunted and haunted, resembling their son from the future who fought arrogant, uncompromising villains who believed in the primacy of their supremacy.
Even when he surrendered his life to stop Majin Buu's attack, Vegeta never expected his wife to buckle under the weight of his passing - or even shoulder embarrassment over his role in bringing about those events. Cry, lash out and openly grieve? Definitely. But break? Not ever. Bulma courageously witnessed both sides of life and death early and often: violent demises, last-minute rescues and grateful resurrections. Her entire family personified possibility.
Vegeta had seen far more death at its ugliest. Hope didn't protect the innocent or virtuous from being murdered by the callous. He nonetheless respected Bulma's inveterate devotion to hope, because that faith was an extension of her will to live, fueling his own motivation. After everything they'd been through, being her life partner was so, so worth it.
He was the "damaged goods" in their relationship, not her. As long as Bulma dwelled among the living, her mind and spirit would be robust and resilient. Unintentionally, he'd put her on a pedestal. He was well-versed in her flaws, but compared with his own…
I am fine. So are you. Focus on me, not him.
I am fine. So are you. Focus on me, not him.
I am fine. So are you. Focus on me, not him.
I am fine. So are you. Focus on me, not him.
Watching Bulma's emotional-defense girders fall apart like cheap plywood reduced Vegeta's steadfast belief to fiction.
I… struggle with being imperfect more now than I ever thought I would.
Weeks of reflection have forced that admission since my crisis. I don't remember a lot about that particular Saturday. Apparently, my husband caught the worst of my sudden decline into near-psychosis. Now Vegeta and I are on equal footing with that experience, unfortunately, I guess. I am thankful that - once again - Trunks was spared from seeing a parent break down up close. Strands of my conscious mind held together long enough to protect him. I'm choosing to believe this. It makes me feel better.
Nine weeks, five and half days. Noon. Saturday.
Family and some close friends are in my backyard today for lunch and swimming: my two handsome princes, mom and dad, Goku and Chi Chi, Krillin and his daughter Marron, Gohan, Goten and Videl, Yamcha and Puar and even Roshi. It's the first time we've all been together in a while, absent of a shitty universe-threatening emergency requiring my tech skills, along with my father's, and everyone else's willingness to fight by any means necessary.
Not everyone knows about my crisis nine weeks ago. I'm comfortable with that for now - maybe forever - and haven't worked at the labs since then. It's tough enough to feel like I let my princes down, though neither think that way. Taking mild tranquilizers has been somewhat disorienting, even while helping with other problems, but I'm being weaned from them. I was concerned about my husband rejecting anyone giving me medication, but Vegeta hasn't shown any outward disapproval. In fact, he's largely allowed my parents to advise him about my treatment until I could speak better for myself.
Vegeta has been quieter around me lately, but he's always willing to talk or just listen for as long as I want when I feel up to it. He maintains an even stricter schedule now - for both of our sakes - to support Trunks as well. They don't want me to worry about them. A part of me getting well is the understanding that I can't be everything to everyone anymore. I have to cope differently now to reconcile my past and the present. That doesn't make me any less brave. I believe I am the last among my peers - the people gathered around me now, whom I care for dearly - to realize and accept this reality.
No one seems to mind that I'm much less social today, yet I'm sure a few are curious about why. I have largely shied from anyone touching me a lot. Even my sweet mother, the huggiest person I know, has tried to respect my space. Videl - bless that young woman - is helping her with countless hostess duties, unasked. I'm seated in a secluded spot under a palm tree, wearing rhinestone-rimmed butterfly sunglasses and a white and ocean-blue strapless sundress. My shirtless husband - entirely the guard dog - is lying on the grass beside my chair, also donning dark shades. His left hand rests on the edge of my right hip - an open invitation to hold his fingers so that I won't sink into mental swampland. He's quite the expert at faking sleep and almost looks as suave as me. Even Goku seems to be fooled, or maybe they just agreed to a plan for Saiyan recess later.
Vegeta rubs the skin between my index finger and thumb, reminding me to eat. When we're together for longer periods, he wears my wrist timer so can I stay on track with meals, especially since I've lost some weight. Besides taking the pressure off in some ways, it also makes me smile. We don't have to discuss anything. It's merely a necessary routine. I lower my sunglasses to make eye contact with my dad, who quickly stubs his mini-cigar to prepare food for me. He doesn't crowd the plate: chicken-and-pasta salad, some grapes, roasted carrots, and a buttered roll.
A frosted-glass pitcher filled with lavender lemonade sits on the table to my left. Alcohol won't be on my personal menu for a while, but I don't think I'll miss it much. Vegeta and I… eventually had a heart-to-heart about the drinking. Let's be honest: I was basically a walking wine goblet at my last huge birthday party, when I smacked that overbearing, hairless, ill-humored mutant ocelot - who then smacked me harder, causing my husband to detonate, start a fight and almost get himself slaughtered. Defending my honor (and life) aside, Vegeta and I never really argued about it. He was being a jerk before the party, so he let my behavior slide that time.
Yeah, yeah. I know.
I love him very much.
Admitting to my husband that my faith in myself has been unsettled for years now, for a number of reasons, was extremely difficult. I cried and cried, but he didn't turn away from the discomfort, shouldering my pain and shame as I have with his. While holding me in bed that night, he said we'll be OK. Vegeta's tone wasn't the same, though. Through those words, I heard the purest and sincerest expression of hope from him, ever. I then replied that I wanted to believe that.
Vegeta said we'd start anew -- with him walking not only with me, but beside me.