Author's note: I always thought Vegeta had the best character arc in DBZ. His relationship with Bulma was so unexpected and yet so utterly meant-to-be. The pieces of poems that are used here, (noted in italics), are Jorie Graham's "Lull," Jean Valentine's "My Mother's Body, My Professor, My Bower," and Anne Carson's "Hokusai," respectively. Go check those ladies out, they rock.

Color Change

"Fox

says your greed is not

precise enough."

— Jorie Graham, "Lull"

When he was a boy, everything he loved was red.

His home: a sky full of heat. A deep orange sun to measure a day by.

The ground was brick red rock, terra cotta dust beneath his training boots. It got everywhere, sticking to the sweat on his skin when he was thrown to the ground by his father during sparring sessions.

Red, the blood he spat from his mouth as he pulled himself up to go again.

The same blood he watched in delight trickle from a cut on his father's brow, the first punch he had ever landed. The king ruefully wiped it away and rubbed his fingers together before coming over and pressing a stained thumbprint into his son's breastplate.

Evidence of burgeoning power. A marker of congratulations from a king.

Red was the pulse of life, something to fight for.

But then one day—before he could even scream—everything went black. Everything he had became everything he lacked.

Space: the color of emptiness. Of failure and of tragedy.

There is a rage born of despair. There is an anger unlocked by bereavement for the irreplaceable. Knowing nothing you ever do will remake what you need.

There is nothing to get.

Dear throat,

dear longing,

dear ecstatic lungs' breath.

There is nothing to get.

This knowledge can kill you. Or you can use it. Vegeta knew this. And so did his enemies, when he broke them.

When you cannot go back, you go on. But every step is a step away from what you want. It gets harder, not easier. But nothing was easy in this life, except death.

But now there was blue. Sky, water. The grass tinged with it. The ground moist with it.

And her hair.

He first came to her because he needed her skill. Her mind worked well, even if her mouth went off on its own accord. He could ignore that. He could ignore anyone. Live in silence for a long time and you start to crave it.

But she kept interrupting him. Kept talking. Kept asking him questions. He answered in kind until they were both hoarse. But she knew when to shut up. Wide blue eyes stretched in fear at his bared teeth, his hand at her neck. She was so close. So close to him. He saw fear. He knew fear. But he didn't know desire. When she leaned in, she was softer than he expected. Gentle. Calm. Kept her eyes on him, her tongue wet against his.

So he started coming to her for her body.

When they fucked, it was good. In the beginning, he took her from behind. Anywhere he saw fit: the lab, the training room, the backyard. It was quick, and when it was over he only just glanced at her face to see if she was satisfied. She was. Of course she was: he was thorough, and she as a scientist valued that above all else.

But then she started dressing up for him. Less overalls and bandanas, more lace. He didn't realize he liked it until the day she called him to her bed, and he came.

She made herself his gift, wore negligees he tore through. He liked to hear her yelp. There was one he didn't destroy, though. She seemed to favor it, and never let him help her out of it.

It was a pale pink. The top cupped her breasts with cream eyelets, a satin ribbon tied closed at her sternum. She would lie down on the length of the bed, stretched like a cat on the duvet cover, as he approached from the doorway, dropping clothes as he went.

He would stand naked at the foot of the bed and watch as she pulled that bow apart with delicate fingers. Watch as her pert tits bounced and settled and she would smile, nipples tight.

He liked that smile. It made him hard—that she would undo herself for him.

It became a habit: to climb up her body and press her into the mattress, beckoned by her soft hands. She watched his face as he fucked her. He let her. Took her legs to his shoulders and drove into her until she screamed his name. His name, the name of his home.

One day, when he had finished, before he could roll off of her, she gripped his biceps. He looked into her face, but her eyes were closed, her body still contracting, her breath strained.

She didn't speak, just concentrated on breathing. He assessed her physical status: nothing was crushed. He always held his full weight off of her, put the force on his forearms and caged her body. But she was steeling herself, for what he didn't know.

He moved his hands through the sweaty strands of her hair until they held her head between them, his thumbs on her jaw as she stretched her mouth into a smile.

He kissed her, and she exhaled into him, opened her eyes.

He stared. His world was blue.

Pressing a hand to the small of his back, she asked him to stay.

He allowed himself to be pulled closer to her, until there was no space between their bodies. Bulma. The woman asked him to stay, so he did.

"Anger is a bitter lock,
But you can turn it."

— Anne Carson, "Hokusai"

— finis —