Chapter Text
“Papa! Papa! You’re back!!!”
Bulma had given him her customary thumbs-up after he emerged from behind the large column at Dende’s battle-scarred Lookout, supernaturally shrouded among the clouds. He’d overcome demonic possession, death, relentless beatings and near erasure as a mortal, returning to her and their son solemn and pensive. But she also sensed tremendous relief in his eyes and relaxed shoulders, devoid of all pomposity but still strong. His erect, dignified shadow in the twilight made him even more striking.
Overjoyed, their son Trunks sprang around like a happy kitten, sweetly drawing his father’s fingers between his. Vegeta didn’t shy away from the handhold, closing his eyes as the boy shuffled closer, enfolding his arms around the prince’s leg. Trunks’s love for and fidelity to his father remained pure, and Bulma intended with all her strength to keep it that way, even as she questioned her feelings for Vegeta.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Bulma.”
How could one feel so much pride and disappointment at the same time? The paradox pained her. Vegeta made the ultimate sacrifice to restore any honor he could retain. Bulma felt his loss instantly, after he incinerated himself from inside out during a lone stand against Majin Buu. Though Goku had delivered the news, only Piccolo and Krillin had seen the conflagration. And it was Piccolo who reluctantly described the scene when Bulma demanded an unembellished recount of her partner’s dramatic suicide.
Who knew how long Vegeta’s soul would remain in that netherworld waystation, his body already justifiably taken from him? Bulma let that sink in, weighing the shock of the prince’s demise on their son. Trunks only recognized the best sides of his father: the hardworking trainer, intelligent person, and awkward caregiver who tried to accept what he did do well in that respect.
“Papa, I thought…thought at first.”
“It’s all over, son. The terror is over, for now.”
However, Vegeta hadn’t spoken once about being a prince to Trunks after the boy’s toddlerhood, mostly narrating and instilling a sense of pride in their Saiyan heritage and the strength derived from it. Bulma filled in the blanks for their son little by little, putting the man she loved in the best light. Now, given Vegeta’s actions, she despaired over whether her efforts had been in vain -- or even smart at all.
But then, because of his unequalled value as a complementary fighter to Goku, Vegeta astoundingly received yet another chance to redeem himself after being sent to hell for “cleansing.” Subsequently, he and Goku saved Earth and every other galaxy from Buu’s chaotic destruction by the skin of their teeth. Vegeta received his physical body again, compassionately granted more time with his family.
“Well, looks like we made out in one piece. At least my skirt hasn’t ripped completely.”
“Hn, I see that.”
“Yeah. That body suit I gave you held up well too.”
“I… had some help.”
Nonetheless, for the rest of his life and unlike Goku, Vegeta would live understanding that his mortal redemption likely wouldn’t shield him from the same after-death judgment. He had to value each day as if it were his last, casting aside future worries beyond keeping his family and adopted home safe – and the universe if the time came again, which he believed it would someday.
But now he faced the where-do-we-go-from-here phase. Would Bulma ever look at him the same way again? She carried herself with majesty, but he discerned her extreme emotional fatigue. Why wouldn’t she be exhausted after all they’d been through? Her weary gaze at him bordered on vacancy despite her unpretentious and ever-beautiful smile. And to think he almost lost her forever. Gods.
I left my young son with the responsibility of caring for his mother because of my actions. Everyone around us has spared him of knowing the kind of person that I was…
The kind of person that he was.
Already, Vegeta hoped to slough off past burdens like molted snakeskin, though not to deny his yearslong sidewinding through the dirt. But for the first time, he believed that he too could wholly contribute to virtuousness. His arrogance and pride wouldn’t shrivel. Oh no. They kept him motivated, but his connection to those qualities about him would be healthier.
Maybe.
For the time being, he endeavored to make something right. Anything. Whatever Bulma was willing to accept from him, large or small.
“Trunks, stay here.”
“Sure, mom. Are we going home after you and papa talk?”
“Yes, honey, and we’re taking the plane after everyone eats here.”
Not once had she advocated for them to marry. The thought had crossed her mind more, Vegeta knew, especially as Trunks came of age. Perhaps, deep down, she suspected all along that he would turn his back, and that the evil hadn’t gone away. But then again, she didn’t know the extent, not until Vegeta allowed the anger and hurt and, yes, evil to be drawn to the surface through Babadi’s possession -- the rotten, runny discharge from his wounds that became Majin Vegeta. Everything about him burst with wild-eyed menace, along with his freakish, unrighteous grin.
Vegeta had craved power – to be seen, to be redoubtable – but compromised his own principles. Had he forgotten those tough proverbs spoken to Trunks – current and future – about relying on one’s own strength? Did he have to fire that annihilative shot into the stands at the World Martial Arts Tournament while Bulma watched in horror, just to goad Goku into taking his demands seriously? How much of that act represented the true Vegeta – the man Bulma loved -- versus the extremes of his possession? Did he even know himself after purging his body of the evil he allowed in? How much control did he truly have?
So many “what ifs” pummeled Bulma’s mind. Among their friends, Master Roshi recognized Vegeta’s possession at the tournament before anyone else. He didn’t describe it as such, however. After they rushed from the arena, he told a panic-stricken Bulma that a dormant “sickness” had arisen in Vegeta.
“His ki is infected,” the martial-arts master said. “I see it as such, though those around us might not. You love him. Please try to see it that way.”
On the one hand, Roshi was right. On the other, what Goku said about his no-holds-barred fight with Vegeta in the drylands rocked Bulma's soul. Goku took her aside so no one else could hear, quietly agreeing with his old sensei, but after Bulma asked how Babidi gained control, he hesitated.
“Tell me, Goku,” she pleaded. “Why are you holding back? Please.”
“I’m sorry, Bulma. After you all ran from the area, while we were fighting, Vegeta said he allowed it to happen, to boost his strength. I don’t believe he realized just how far that power would sway his actions. He broke free – though not all the way at first – because he was so focused on me, and because his pride couldn’t tolerate Babadi’s commands anymore. His fury toward Majin Buu as well as his love for you and Trunks shook him out it.”
Goku drew the line there. Telling Bulma the rest – Vegeta’s admission that he “sold his soul” and “didn’t care” what happened to anyone – would have inflicted pointless damage. Goku wouldn’t do that to his crying friend. In the end, his Saiyan brother-in-arms did right by everyone, which counted most to Goku.
They entered one of the Lookout’s inner chambers, courtesy of Dende. A picture-perfect waterfall flowed beside them into a reflecting pool speckled with pink lotus flowers. Bulma needed a safe space to console herself, which her thoughts generated in that room.
Vegeta inhaled the floral aroma. “Does this setting help you?”
“Help me feel better, Vegeta?” Her soft voice didn’t cover the sharpness of her words. “Heh. That’s one hell of a question to burden me with now, and don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I can’t take that.”
“All right.”
“There’s so much I thought we understood about each other. We had a deal to put Trunks’s needs above our own desires. I let you be, Vegeta. I let you be! You’ve lived in my house, slept in my bed, argued with me, laughed with me! You were…are… my friend. Seven years since our son was born, and what did Trunks and I almost get? Near destruction. I am grateful that… that your heroism brought all of us back, but my heart is broken.”
Vegeta flinched as Bulma’s furious glare struck him like a face slap. Now he was on the other side of the looking glass. He loved her, truly loved her, but there was little say. “I will leave.”
Bulma’s blood-red, stiffened fists swung at his chest. “Fuck you if you’re thinking of getting off that easy! Are you really going to abandon our son?!”
Vegeta took hold of Bulma’s arms until her trembling ceased. “No, Bulma, I’m not abandoning Trunks, but it is… evident that you and I don’t have a future together.”
“I guess we don’t.” Bulma heatedly staggered in reverse as he let her go. “Take two months to prepare before moving out. We must figure out how to tell Trunks. If you can swallow your pride, I’m sure someone we know can offer shelter. Capsule Corporation resources will still be at your disposal, too.”
“Meaning your help will be at my disposal, and I can find somewhere to live.”
“I may be hurt, Vegeta, but I’m not a shortsighted fool. You just helped save the world, selflessly, and even with all this difficulty between us, I am proud that you did the right thing on your own volition. The least I can do is to continue supporting your rehabilitation.”
Vegeta reflected on Bulma’s sterile response. Rehabilitation: a word used to describe how one’s abilities are restored to basic functioning after an injury. The treatment doesn’t promise a cure, depending on the extent of the damage, but it can provide greater independence for the wounded. Rehabilitation has a second definition, supported by optimists who believe in helping inmates turn their lives around, even with no chance that any would be released from prison.
Vegeta didn’t sense any self-righteousness from Bulma, and yet seeing himself as the walking wounded chafed. He’d only struggled to maintain his identity as the last among his kind. But that was no excuse. Not by a long shot. Others didn’t run about leaving so much grand-scale destruction in their wake.
He was no one’s prisoner either, including to his own mind. Nevermore. You will be the best, or you’ll be nothing. You will be the best, or you’ll be nothing. If I cannot be the best for her, then…
Bulma’s increasingly dry throat and mouth forced her to stop speaking. She coughed, stumbling further away. As her hacking escalated, Vegeta realized that she was dehydrated. How many times had he told her to drink more water and electrolytes? She should have done that first. Asking Bulma to take the easiest steps to look after herself sometimes felt like pulling wisdom teeth.
Unsurprisingly, Vegeta’s colorfully unartful requests didn’t always go down well with Bulma, considering his own pigheadedness. As the years passed, however, he learned to coat more pungent requests with a dash of charm and witty sarcasm that could leave Bulma – and him – laughing until her stomach cramped. That intimacy kept them attracted to each other just as much as the sex. But any fun they had could be followed by heavy, uncommunicative brooding on Vegeta’s part. Bulma never tiptoed around Vegeta’s moods. Her pride was just as important, she told him plainly. If he couldn’t accept that, he could see his way out of what had become their home. Now that very scenario had come to fruition.
Pressure from the coughing brought tears to Bulma’s eyes. “I’m OK. Don’t come over here.”
Paying no heed to her objection, Vegeta made his way over. Bulma’s dry skin and rapid breathing doubled his concern. “You’re not OK.”
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, trying to shove him aside. “There’s nothing wrong!”
“You’ll faint unless we get fluids into you now, so stop fighting me, damn it!” Vegeta said, angrily grabbing her. “All your life you’ve had a condition that requires full hydration. Where are your backup pills? You could have a seizure!”
Bulma’s mounting lightheadedness kicked open a mouth packed with sassiness. “Says the man who can barely munch on a senzu bean without gagging like an infant. Oh, and sorry that I forgot about hydrating while that pink blob that Hercule is cooing over now endangered the planet. Fucker looks like someone shat it out of their ass!”
“Noted.” Vegeta inhaled to suppress a chuckle. His brow and eyes eventually settled into mild sternness to keep himself and Bulma focused. “You can quiet down. Just do as I say and sit here.”
Still coughing, Bulma slouched back on the pillar where Vegeta placed her. “How about ending that command with please?”
“Please -- for the love of god -- stop speaking. Is that polite enough for you, woman?”
“Your bedside manner could still…still use some improvement,” Bulma harrumphed.
Like the Lookout’s Room of Space and Time, this chamber also had provisions. Vegeta noticed a beige curtain, guessing that he could discover a solution there. He found a plain ceramic jar full of syrupy liquid, something like aloe vera juice. He poured it into a stone cup, diluting it with water. He recalled drinking at the Lookout when he and others were preparing to fight Cell. That seemed like an eternity ago.
He crouched in front of Bulma, lifting the cup to her parched lips. His other hand soothingly supported her head. Bulma’s fingers folded around the mug as her stability returned.
“Thank… thank you.” Her lips puckered like a fish. The drink tasted awful.
The crook of Vegeta’s mouth rose, halfway smiling. “You can thank me by conserving your energy. I know you have been strong for our son and the others, but now it’s time to take it easy – maybe for several days. You shouldn’t fly in this condition either.”
Bulma nodded. “OK.” She appreciated Vegeta’s responsiveness but didn’t want him to overcompensate just because the reality of losing her had sunk in. Manipulating him wasn’t her goal. “That’s all right. Yamcha can do that. It’s not the first time, and he’s been a great help. It’s probably better if we take more than one trip to get everyone out of here.”
Hearing Bulma already mention Yamcha fanned Vegeta’s smoldering insecurity. Yet he swallowed the discomfort as best as he could, having fittingly earned that ego puncture. “Fine, fine. Whatever you believe Yamcha should do. He… should take you and Trunks first, though.”
Their foreheads touched as Bulma's hand progressed to the back of Vegeta’s neck. With sadness in their eyes, they stayed in that position until the emotion became too much. Vegeta tried not to be hopeful. Despite the unvoiced proof of their love, he refused to pressure Bulma. Besides, he volunteered to leave their home permanently before she could demand it.
"How are you now?"
Bulma licked her fingertips, brushing down her jumbled hair bangs. "I can walk on my own. We should return to Trunks before he gets worried."
"I suspect that our son is pleased we are here alone,” Vegeta replied, taking a final look at the waterfall.
"He's only just turned eight years old, Vegeta. I don't think he has a romantic bone in him."
Vegeta helped her up, reluctantly letting go of her hips. "You say the same about me."
"You're not eight."
"According to my last calendar check, no, I’m not."
And by the time Vegeta was Trunks's age, people had been using him like a pawn for years, Bulma thought. His deep desire for independence arose from deprivation, begetting bitterness and the grueling labor of proving himself to himself – and others. The solutions of strength and diligence churned together but hadn’t formed the precipitate he wanted, because of his perceived weaknesses.
Becoming a Super Saiyan hadn’t filled Vegeta’s hollowness in the way he had anticipated – and in the manner Bulma had hoped. She never expected dramatic shifts in his core character, only a breakthrough that he could achieve so much more without inflicting emotional self-harm – and harm in general.
The first three weeks at home Trunks was none the wiser that his parents planned to separate. Still slightly traumatized, he clung closer to Vegeta, who responded patiently to the boy’s more frequent asks to spend time together. Trunks even convinced Vegeta to go deep-water fishing. Bulma encouraged their outings but also understood that Vegeta, too, needed time for himself. Dr. Brief and Panchy, Bulma’s parents, deduced that the couple was struggling, but, wisely, they didn’t interfere.
Being wonderful grandparents, they pleasantly pried Trunks away from Vegeta’s bootheels whenever they could. Neither knew about the terrible events that had transpired, as their memories were wiped clean of Majin Buu’s rampage, along with other earthlings, after Goku used the Dragon Balls. Such wishes weren’t usually allowable, Dende said at the Lookout, but the circumstances so were unique that the request was deemed worthy enough to be granted.
Bulma hadn’t consumed hard liquor since before her pregnancy with Trunks. All that changed within a week after the family returned home from their ordeal. Because she and Vegeta were sleeping in different parts of the house, she indulged, drinking a glass of vodka before going to bed. The alcohol was undetectable after being consumed, even for Saiyan noses, so Bulma could venture out to grab snacks when dinner was unsatisfying. Usually before drinking, though, she tried to guess when Trunks wanted to hang around in her room. If he did, she either wouldn’t at all or have one later.
Trunks knew his parents weren’t sleeping in the same room, though everything else appeared normal. Vegeta and Bulma could do that for weeks at a time, so that didn’t disturb him. But the boy wanted them to be more “lovey dovey” together – not an uncommon desire in children for stability. As the time neared for Bulma and Vegeta to talk with their son about separating, the more Bulma drank at night. It either killed her nightmares about everything that happened or increased their vividness.
Associating the alcohol’s swift grip with post-traumatic stress didn’t register with Bulma. Why would it? She’d proven her strength and resourcefulness many times over since her teens during tough times. As long as she functioned “normally” each day, then life could be managed just fine. Choosing not to work during the first month allowed her to slide through sleeping intervals in the morning. She could rise early enough to breakfast with Trunks and Vegeta but then slip in a longer nap before enduring the rest of the day. She didn’t lounge at home either. Finding somewhere else wasn’t hard. When she and Vegeta had to talk, they did, and then went separate ways. Discussions weren’t hostile, just practical.
When he wasn’t with Trunks, Vegeta trained harder. When he wasn’t training, he thought. By far, Bulma was the smartest person he’d ever known, but he could afford to stretch his brain cells too. So he did more of that. He needed something to occupy his mind as they grew more distant. Dealing with Trunks would be an ordeal, and he had to be prepared. Toughness and lectures meant nothing if the boy ended up hating everyone. Still, Vegeta could accept his son detesting him but didn’t want that for Bulma.
Vegeta wasn’t a routine late-night eater – only when he missed having a big lunch or dinner. He always informed Bulma when he would be attending an evening meal. So, after Trunks was fed or sent to his grandparents’ house, Bulma often had a quiet kitchen during the first stage of her vodka buzz. The day before they were to announce their separation, Vegeta told her he wasn’t coming home, so Bulma carried on with her nocturnal routine. But this time, with Trunks spending the night with his best friend Goten, she could freely carry a well-filled glass of vodka throughout the house. Alarms had been for set for five a.m. so she wouldn’t oversleep wherever she laid her head. Oh yeah, she was ready for it.
Notes: The run-up to Majin Vegeta, his fight with Goku, and the sacrifice never get old (to me). Bulma appeared to hang back after she and Vegeta reunited at the Lookout, which left me wondering -- and led to this. Let me know your thoughts. Theories are invited!