Chapter Text
And so it came to pass that a strapping eighteen-year-old prince misled his relations, notifying them of his preferred absence from their annual holiday festivities. His mother, the queen, lamented for a fortnight prior to her meticulously arranged revels, furthering her husband’s woe. The king's frustration was equally divided between his son’s seemingly irresponsible upset of the queen and his own disappointment. He, too, had eagerly awaited the coming arrival of his heir apparent, expecting spirited rounds of jousting that often ensued during these visits. The king, however, rarely engaged in acute displays of disillusionment over such matters. His son had decided to ski with comrades, with all the finality afforded to a lad of his age and social stature. Moreover, the royal couple still had their charming four-year-old princess -- a source of copious delight and bustle – to entertain them.
“Hi, Trunks!!!”
“Lady Bulla! Are you keeping well?”
“Why are you speaking like that, Trunks?”
“Didn’t we discuss playing ‘Monarchs of Earth’ after I get home?”
“Yes, but now I want to go ice skating, Trunks. Will you teach me?”
“I’d be happy to, cutie. You’ve done an excellent job with keeping my secret, along with gran and grandad. I’ll have a new pair of skates ready. What color do you want?”
“Yay! Silver?”
“Your wish is my command. Now, would you give gran the phone, please? We need to finish talking.”
“OK! I love you!”
“Likewise, sis.”
Panchy, the siblings’ grandmother, loved listening to their conversation. She gave Bulla a cookie, sweetly shooing the child away to find a bottomless well of hugs from her husband. Trunks attached his wireless headphone, entering the shared kitchen at his fraternity house. His college campus had a ghost-town quality as more students left to see relatives for the holidays or visit warmer locales for partying. Trunks stuck around to volunteer and deliver gifts to group homes for orphaned children and teenagers. Seeing his family would be great, but his mother’s upcoming celebration didn’t excite him anymore. Too many people. Sparring with his dad excited him more. His parents had a long-term agreement that Vegeta would stay until Bulma finished her speech to Capsule Corporation employees, socialites, friends and family, thanking them for their support. Then, Vegeta could occupy himself elsewhere.
“You think mom and dad are ready for their little cyclone to turn five?”
“I’m not sure, Trunksie. Your mother and aunt’s genius kept your grandad and me jumping like crickets when they turned five, and then came you with all that break-your-back stamina. Have mercy on my soul! Your mother just had to marry another child prodigy.”
“Yeah, gran, but keep in mind that Saiyans mature quicker as children anyway. That’s separate from dad being a freakishly impressive fighter at Bulla's age. Look at how Gohan matured physically and learned in school too.”
“But Gohan had less fun than you and Goten at an early age, honey -- and that observation is clear with your father. I didn’t need every detail when I met Vegeta – and still don’t – to figure that out.”
Silence filled the space where words should have followed, but not long. Trunks warmed a cup of tea with his hands, hoping the beverage would relieve his scratchy throat. The fraternity house needed a thorough cleaning. He had no plans to pay for the service that month. Others had to pick up the slack.
“You worry more about dad at this time of year than mom does, gran.”
“So do you, Trunksie. Bulma gives Vegeta space because, as a wife, it’s also what’s best for her happiness. That doesn’t mean their relationship is imbalanced, though. Being cheerful is who I am – even through the worst times – and I don’t expect everyone to be like me. But caring about the happiness of my grandchildren’s father isn’t a criminal act either.”
“No, it isn’t, but I think I understand dad’s melancholy more now. I have watched friends brood as he does during this time of year. They feel like outsiders as others celebrate. Sometimes they judge themselves quite harshly for not rising to the occasion – though I doubt dad does that as much. As you accurately noted, he didn’t grow up like either of us. Our family is a ballast for him, for which I am thankful.”
Panchy sniffled and then laughed. “You’re so insightful and eloquent! I just put blush powder on my cheeks, so stop making me blubber. Let’s move on. What’s wrong with that normally robust voice of yours?”
“I’m fine, gran. I have an annoying throat tickle, but this mint tea I'm drinking seems to be helping. Kids who like to talk have been all over me this week. My frat house also needs an exhaustive cleaning. The guys left money but didn’t book the service, which they should have.”
Panchy’s nails nervously drummed on her dining-room table. “Have you had enough sleep?”
“Really, gran? I just finished two weeks of final exams and term papers. There is no sleep for students like me. I’m already in special training with the dean of my academic department. Then I’ve been busy with the other ---”
“Trunks, none of that sounds good.”
“None of what?”
“You’re coming down with a cold -- or something close to one.”
“You’re being paranoid. I’m an adult Saiyan male who can go without sleep for days, just like my father.”
“You are part Saiyan and nowhere near the level of your father with sleep-wake acuity.”
Panchy’s body blow to her grandson’s semi-idealistic view appalled him in the most hilarious of ways.
“Say what now?”
Panchy laughed as she nibbled on a sweet roll. “Oh, stop it, Trunksie! Vegeta said that himself, and I believe him. He would know better than anyone, next to Bulma. Hell, I’ve watched you snore like an elderly dog with tonsillitis too.”
Trunks’ shoulders slumped. “I can’t believe he betrayed me.”
“He did nothing of the sort!” Panchy said. “You haven’t given Vegeta a reason to tell you because you haven’t asked -- but back to my key concern. It takes longer for your illnesses to slap you head-on because of those darned Saiyan genes. That may be good for battle, but it’s a pain in the derriere when you have human responsibilities. You can do one of two things: come to our home and rest -- because there’s no stopping this train wreck now -- or stay on campus and wither underneath the mistletoe.”
“Gran, I’m starting my drive tomorrow to mom and dad’s house, and I don’t have a cold. I haven’t had one in years, in fact, because those darned Saiyan genetics now provide better immunity. I gotta buy Bulla’s gift too. You heard my promise.”
All Panchy heard was unscientific bullshit. Her husband and daughter – and especially Vegeta -- would have rejoiced in that knowledge long ago if it were true. “You aren’t going anywhere near your family before the holiday bash if you’re sick – especially not your sister or mother. Pops and I planned to give you the inaugural model of the Capsule Eagle, but that idea goes in the trash if you defy me.”
Trunks had few alternatives, vexing him. How could he pass up the company’s newest motorcycle? His grandparents drove a hard bargain.
“But what about you?”
“Trunks, I may be a dinosaur, but I’m still a top-notch nurse. Infection control is my specialty. Oh! I forgot to say I got a new prosthetic arm! Anyway, Pops and I will happily wear masks. We get booster shots every six months for cold viruses too, as you should. Your mom and aunt are boosted, but I will overrule any objections they could have to you staying here. They have enough to handle already.”
Trunks was keen to prove his grandmother wrong. “All right, fine. Though I disagree with you, I’m also too selfish to forfeit your gift. I’ll take a quick test to confirm whether I’m sick and text you in a half hour.”
“You also won’t be flying in those damp, cold clouds without proper clothing, young man. Leave that to the geese. I’ll send a car.”
“I wasn’t planning to fly, gran, and I can drive myself. Do not send a car. I’m trying to live simply, not like the heir to Earth's dual thrones of science and combat warfare. And then there’s you, the Briefs’ mafia queen. I love you.”
“Bye, sweetheart! You’ll be in better shape in no time! It’s still a wonderful surprise for your parents that you’ll be home for a month. They do miss you a lot.”
After finishing another cup of tea, Trunks inspected his nose-swab test. “Fuck! I can’t believe this! But I feel fine! This must be a false positive. She’s wrong!”
Trunks delayed his departure to supervise the frat house’s cleaning, inciting another feisty tongue-lashing from Panchy, but aside from sneezing intermittently through the morning, he indeed felt all right. About two hours into his drive, that changed. He ruled out store-bought cold medicine. All brands, whether daytime or nighttime mixtures, were too weak to treat his symptoms but could still make him sleepy. After arriving in West City, he stopped at the sporting-goods store owned by family-friend Yamcha.
“Hey, man. What are you doing back there?”
Yamcha, who was puttering in an equipment storeroom, heard Trunks before seeing him. “Hey, buddy! So awesome to see you. Bulma told me -- quite unhappily –- that you were going skiing. This must be a surprise. She’ll love it! Uh, what’s up with the mask? Are you OK?”
Trunks shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “I’m all right. Caught a little cold. Don’t want to pass it around.”
Yamcha’s eyebrows furrowed. He considered himself as an honorary uncle, having been there throughout Trunks' developmental years. “Hmm. I can hear it in your voice. There’s no such thing as ‘a little’ for any sick Saiyan with some human in them. Once you guys are down for the count, you can’t do anything. I remember, and you’re an adult now. Shouldn’t you be past all this stuff with your immunity?”
“Oh, come on, Yamcha! My grandmother is harassing me about this, which will triple when my parents and aunt find out. I can assure you that I’m not at death’s gates. Can you just help me find an attractive pair of ice skates for Bulla, please?”
“Of course!” Yamcha tugged on his long ponytail on as they left the storeroom, eyeing a sprawling shoe rack. “Anything for the blue-haired princess. I reckon she wants some shine on those tiny feet?”
“Silver, to be precise.”
Yamcha held up the skates in both hands, admiring his choice. “She’ll probably grow out of these in about two years. I recall your feet taking that long to extend.”
“Excuse me for a minute.” Trunks stepped back, burying his face into his forearm to sneeze. “How much?”
“Don't worry about it. These are on the house. I have multicolored shoestrings she’ll like too. Happy holidays.”
“Just let me pay for them, man.”
Yamcha positioned the skates in a crimson gift box covered with golden glitter. “Pay me by getting home as soon as possible. Doesn’t sound like you’re attending Bulma’s jamboree.”
“I hadn’t planned to go anyway. Dad could use more one-on-one company, I think. I mean, he’s always there for us this time of year and does whatever mom asks, but I can’t shake this feeling.”
As he checked the cash register, Yamcha replied, “If I had a son, you would top my list.” No one could doubt the man's sincerity. He would have adopted Trunks in a heartbeat if he and Bulma had married. “Trust your instincts, but you can’t be fully available to your dad if you’re wasting away in bed. Leave.”
“I have to get a few more gifts for the family. Then I’ll fully follow your and gran’s commands.”
Snow began to fall as they neared the store’s display window. The relaxed pace cheered them both. Children skipped around, clapping at the nascent wintertime portrait while others caught crystals on the tips of their tongues. Trunks and Yamcha bumped elbows, saying goodbye. Yamcha debated whether to tell Bulma about her son’s obstinance – especially after sensing a weak spot in Trunks’ ki -- but he couldn’t bring himself to spoil the young man’s thoughtfulness.
After sniffling and sneezing through another two hours of shopping, Trunks removed his mask in the car, feeling a whopping headache coming on. That "train wreck" Panchy spoke of would leave skid marks if he didn’t arrive at her house soon. The dashboard phone jingled shortly after he turned on the ignition.
“What the hell? Of all the people. He never calls when I’m about to travel!”
Trunks had forgotten that he always called first before traveling. Vegeta’s hands-off approach carried over into trusting his son’s follow-through. As a father, he also wanted to head off any more of his wife's maternal fretting.
“So you’re driving to the mountains –- alone -- in the beetle?”
Trunks laid his head on the steering wheel. He’s listening for other signs of life in my car. Kami, give me the strength to endure this. I just need to get to grandma’s house. “Hey, dad.”
“That’s not an answer, Trunks.”
Trunks’ nose wiggled left, right, up and down. His father had no idea how angry he was about being sick. None of his frat brothers knew the extent of his physical strength, but now he felt like a tot in need of a baby aspirin.
“I’m running errands. I planned to…to…” Reflexes pushed Trunks' hands toward the tissue box instead of muting the speakers so Vegeta couldn’t hear his sneezing. His body had ruthlessly tattled on him.
Vegeta felt a pang of guilt for grinning like a rascal, but his son’s deception just got blown to hell and back. Trunks had to be on his way home, perhaps in a couple days. Whatever sickness he caught -- after so many years of not catching one -- didn’t sound that terrible to dear old dad yet. Arriving there covered in blood, with a dislocated shoulder and missing an eyeball, would have been a different animal altogether.
“Sounds like you should clean that car before frolicking through the mountains. Must be kicking up a lot of dust in there, with all that sneezing I’m hearing.”
Trunks touched his swollen lymph nodes, trying not to sigh. “I might take your advice and vacuum.”
“All right, son. I have business to handle. I’ll trust that I won’t have to call you again.”
“Yeah, dad.”
“Good.”
Panchy had some involvement, Vegeta presumed. Perhaps she intended to lock Trunks in an underground bedroom like a diseased troll while he recovered. He decided to sit on this knowledge. Why not have his in-laws take a beating from Bulma and Tights instead of him?
Panchy’s robot arsenal acted as soon as Trunks’ car entered the garage, removing all gifts for disinfection and handing him the essentials to get into bed and stay there. By the next day, Trunks was a coughing, sniffling, miserable disaster. Panchy decorated beforehand with holiday colors and lit cinnamon essential oil later to boost her grandson’s worsening mood, but those efforts seemed to fall flat.
Trunks slept through a majority of day three, assisted by a stronger medicine his grandmother compounded for him. He woke up to her sitting beside him, masked and knitting a scarf. Despite being retired, Panchy kept starched sky-blue nursing uniforms and glove shoes ready at home and at Capsule Corporation.
“It’s time to tell your parents that you’re here,” she said softly. “There’s no mistaking that you have a punishing strain of the crud, my boy. At least it’s not the flu. I’d be out of my mind with worry. Before science finally developed the chicken pox vaccine, docs often fretted more about the adults who caught it. They fared worse. Pops and I are watching to ensure that a similar situation doesn't happen to you. You can’t be around Goten, Gohan or Pan.”
“Or my sister,” Trunks replied, accepting a glass of water. His throat felt like a desert. “I really wanted –-”
“Bulla is resilient, dear heart. I’ll ask Goten to take her and Pan skating.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be here with me either, gran. Have the bots take over.”
“You’re not ditching me that easily, young man. You need a person to check regularly. Pops has the final word. If he felt uncomfortable, I wouldn’t be here tending to you. We’re unable to contract what you’ve caught anyway. Bulma and Tights could, based a little testing we did with their frozen blood samples, though it wouldn’t be nearly as hard on them.”
“Where is grandad anyhow?”
Panchy’s feline eyelids lowered as she mused about her husband’s whereabouts. “He’s retrieving a few things. Now that you’re awake, I’ll check on the food you're having in a few hours. It’s three p.m., so try to watch television or listen to a podcast. Your symptoms will flare up, but that’s OK. We need to observe how well the medicine is working to lessen their severity. I’ll reduce the dosage through the week, but the sleep induced by the amount you’re receiving now is best for you.”
Trunks tried to smile for her. “What would our family do without you?”
“You… would carry on,” she said with gentleness. “You would carry on, my love.”
Panchy’s engaging smile broadened as she slipped out of the room. Trunks didn’t expect the holiday blues to pin him down. Maybe they were lurking all along, waiting for a weakness such as becoming ill. He was on track to graduate early from college, but what would come afterward eluded him. Peers admired him, and he enjoyed fraternity life, but he could be in a room full of people and still feel alone. Somehow the young man’s empathy for his family, especially Vegeta, stopped including another important person: him. Talking about his confusion and sadness with his best friend Goten also seemed wrong. What did he really have to complain about?
Later, Panchy joined her husband farther from the bedroom. Dr. Brief stepped aside, inviting Vegeta into their semicircle. Their son-in-law, as expected, didn’t appear to be troubled. When the time came to be highly concerned, then he would put everything aside to find solutions.
“Trunks hasn’t sensed me,” Vegeta said. “My power levels have moved around all day to monitor his ki. What are you giving him, Panchy?”
“The same medicine I would give you, Vegeta, if you returned home as sick as Trunks. You’d probably receive three times the dosage to keep you compliant.”
Vegeta’s mouth pressed into a narrow frown. “Hn.”
Dr. Brief followed with good-natured laughter. “Let’s not get our cat whiskers up, you two. The boy is home safe and sound. Nothing else matters.”
“Pops, he’s not a boy anymore,” Panchy said, kissing her husband. “You should see him now, Vegeta. Wear this mask and show a smidgeon of cheer. Look at it from Trunks' perspective. His big surprise for his mom and dad derailed, he's sick, and it appears that he becoming more depressed. He hasn't even been here long.”
Vegeta saw no reason for Trunks to feel down. Shit happened. Having his son back at home -- sick or not -- was enough. “I don’t need the mask. A mutant cold is doing a number on him. That's it. I’m in no danger. The hand scrub and sanitizer are enough if we need to touch.”
Panchy’s lips pursed. “In my home, you will respectfully wear a mask until I politely tell you to stop. You got that? That’s the least you can do since Bulma will give me absolute hell when I call her.”
“Ah, yes.” Vegeta flashed a boyish grin. “She certainly will. I apologize for my… ungratefulness.”
“You’re welcome!" Panchy slapped her son-in-law’s alpine forearm. Vegeta’s amusement over these futile blows – including his wife’s – showed. "Consider that a love strike. Oh, and Trunks may show more symptoms until I give him another dose of medicine after dinner.”
Dr. Brief led her away. “Time to go, dear. Vegeta can handle it from here, I think.”
Vegeta hated wearing masks, but not out of pride. They reminded him of the so-called healing tanks Frieza’s soldiers used after others beat the crap of them. Capsule Corporation researchers spent years trying to replicate the technology, using a half-burned design book Vegeta found, but hadn’t perfected their machines to treat a broader range of injuries.
Trunks, whose eyes were closed, had dimmed the lights to concentrate on his chosen podcast. Philosophy about the meaning of life probably wouldn’t have been Panchy’s or Vegeta’s pick for him then, but no one had to know. His father had a bundle of tissues ready, sensing an imminent coughing fit even before Trunks realized one was coming. His son’s exceedingly dull reaction time finally tripped Vegeta’s concern wire. This “cold” presentation differed considerably from the two Vegeta recalled from Trunks’ childhood.
“Dad?”
“You’re not hallucinating.”
Trunks was losing the viral war waged on his body but hoped his father wasn’t too worried. “Thanks for the tissues, and I know what you’re thinking.”
“Yeah, I want your grandmother to lay off anesthetizing you, but she rules this roost, and your mother and aunt will likely defer to her wishes. You do sound much worse than the last time we spoke.”
Trunks’ eyes creased at the corners. “You knew I was coming home then, didn’t you?”
“Fathers don’t reach this stage in life without being perceptive or having selective hearing. Kakarot is excluded from parts of that statement.”
Trunks yawned. “I’ll be OK, dad. Didn’t realize… how tired I’ve been throughout the semester.”
“Throughout?”
“I meant across.”
“Stop with the wordplay, Trunks. What is the source of this exhaustion? I don’t understand it. The kind of energy depletion I’m detecting is from your core. That shouldn’t be the case. It's abnormal.”
“Please don’t tell mom. She needs…needs to concentrate on the celebration.”
“I don’t give a damn about any of that and Bulma won’t either,” Vegeta said sharply, feeling his son's forehead. It was cool to the touch. "This is about your health. What are you listening to?”
“Dad -- ”
“Answer me, son.”
“It’s just some philosophy.”
“About what?”
Trunks clutched his stomach. "Please, dad, I’m feeling really sick. I need…need that bin.”
Vegeta’s fingers rounded, drawing the container into his hands. He stood, firmly holding Trunks’ shoulders until the young man’s vomiting ended.
Trunks laid back to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry.”
“The apology is mine. I upset you. Let’s get you cleaned up before your mother arrives.”
Bulma’s brittle reply crackled from Vegeta’s watch. “You know I’m already here,” she said, slamming her car's door. “I’ll be up shortly.”