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Industrial
Vegeta had never been easy to understand.
Bulma could say that patience of industrial intensity was required to even interact with him, and she had frankly never expected herself to ever willingly put herself through such heartache.
Yet, there she was, staring at his sweaty back, raising a hand to give him a tremulous thumbs-up and a cheeky wink, while their son giddily ran up to him; Trunks’ wide blue eyes sparkled as he grabbed his father’s gloved hand.
Vegeta had hurt her when he abandoned them; destroyed her heart when he had let himself die.
Now, for all appearances, they were completely unscathed.
Watching Vegeta shift his eyes away from her, Bulma knew that they truly were not.
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Brass
He was brass and arrogant, loud and ill-tempered, and Bulma felt warning bells go off in her head as she watched Vegeta undress quietly in a corner of their room. He was far too silent, and knowing him as well as she did, this meant that he was lost in his own head, perpetually anticipating the worst case scenario.
He stepped out of his clothing, unabashed in his nakedness, stiffly taking the towel she had laid out for him as he walked into their joint bathroom.
Bulma hesitated, glancing at the door that had closed behind him. She listened to the soft rustles of movement within the room, before, mind made up, she undressed and followed him in.
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Locomotive
He was determinedly facing away as she walked in, his ragged breaths like a wheezing locomotive while he used a washcloth to scrub furiously at his skin. His strangely bright eyes regarded her, his movements stuttering for a second before he resumed, his skin turning raw from his pointed attentions.
Bulma sucked in a sob, feeling his turmoil in his wordless penance, and she stepped up to grab the cloth from his hands so that she could gently run it up and down his back.
She watched his hands tighten into fists, and he braced himself against a wall, eyes tightly closed as he inhaled loudly through his nose.
As she moved to hold him, he finally spoke…
“Bulma…”
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Airship
She remembered how he had not even spoken to her while he flew them home, steadfastly refusing to let her ride her airship. His arms had been tight around her then, and yet, not as tight as they desperately held her beneath the warm spray pelting them from the shower.
He buried his face in her neck, gasping into her skin, and she would have sworn that she could feel tears mingling with the water flowing down his face.
“I would understand,” he began, his voice softer than she had ever heard it, a mournful whine flowing through his regal cadence, “if you would ask me to leave.”
She gasped, pulling away to look into his eyes.
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Goggles
“What?” she asked. “Vegeta-”
“I have always been inadequate to you, have I not?” he muttered, his dark eyes piercing her soul with his painful doubts. “I have known… I have always known, that I could never be who you need me to be. And I have always known that you know it, as well.”
“Vegeta,” she whispered. “You screwed up today. But we can fix this-”
“How could you hope to fix something that has always been fundamentally broken?”
“You’re not broken,” she argued. “And I understand…”
He barked out a harsh laugh. “You have always viewed me through rose-colored goggles.”
His misuse of the phrase made her giggle, reminding her that he was an alien, after all.
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Victorian
“Come on,” she cooed, once they were both clean. She took his large, calloused hand in her smooth, frail one, and led him out of the bathroom.
He was so despondent that he’d followed her actions mechanically, until both were dressed for bed. Taking advantage of his docile mood, Bulma pulled him towards their bed, fighting back her own fatigue to soothe Vegeta’s weariness.
She sat back, pulling him with her, but at this, he stopped.
“I should not,” he murmured, looking away as he stood rigidly before her. “I do not deserve to lay with you after I had let you down so thoroughly.”
She smirked. “And since when have you been such a Victorian moralist?”
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Gears
The gears turned wildly in her head as she tried to reconcile the morose man before her, wrapped up in a strange sense of grief and guilt, unable to look her in the eye even while he stood straight and proud before her. She reached up, holding his cheek in her warm palm, and her heart melted when she felt him turn his head into her touch, leaving a barely perceptible kiss on the center of her palm.
“Why,” he asked hoarsely, eyes closed, hand flying up to hold her hand to his cheek. “Why do you stay with me… Why do you not push me away after what I have done?”
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Anachronism
His voice was pained, looking ready to flee at a moment’s notice. It was so unlike the Vegeta that she had gotten used to, the haughty man who had made a place in her home and somehow burrowed his way into her heart.
It was as if he was lost in time, an anachronism in his own right, moving in between emotions that Bulma tried to catch and understand.
Yet, only one thing was made clear as she watched him, his anguish a dark cloud surrounding his powerful form.
He finally understood how he felt about her… about their family. And now, he was suffering over thoughts of what he had almost lost.
And at this, Bulma smiled.
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Wild, Wild West
“Hey,” she said. “I’m here, because I love you,” she whispered, standing so she could hold him, pressing her forehead to his. She closed her eyes as her own feelings threatened to overwhelm her, the fear and angst of the long day they had just endured creeping in to choke her.
She fought back, lassoing the terror like a cowboy in those old movies, flinging it away as she held on tighter to his now-trembling form.
She clutched him desperately, speaking urgently, needing to let him hear, make him understand that while his actions had been wrong, she understood…
“I want you to stay, Vegeta. And I want you to want to stay.”
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Revolver
He finally sobbed, his words as clipped as the rhythmic clacks of a firing revolver, his tone switching madly between his learned Earth language and the harsh notes of his native Saiyan tongue.
“I do not understand everything just yet Bulma,” he hissed, taking her face into his hands as he stared deeply into her eyes. “And I need you to keep guiding me.”
“I will,” she promised fervently, pressing a gentle kiss onto his wavering lips.
“I belong to you,” he swore, “I need you to belong to me.”
At this, Bulma laughed, pulling him with her as she fell carelessly onto their bed, secure in the feeling of his arms around her.
“I’ve always been yours,” she answered cheerfully, delving her hands into the thick strands of his hair as she pulled him closer. “You just took a while to catch on.”
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The End