All rights belong to Akira Toriyama, Toyotarou and Toei Animation

This is based on the manga cannon, so there may be some discrepancies with the anime.

My other self still feels it.

Vegeta growled, leaping out of the way of another laser, watching it sizzle on the floor. There were so many things wrong with the whole situation, just the previous day. He could still recall it, every movement, every thought process, every sickening emotion. The feelings which welled up within him upon seeing his wife and child were nauseating. To think that such emotion could exist within him, the Prince of All Saiyans!

Revolting!

Leaping up, he rebounded off the side of the enclosure as another beam passed by him.

How dare he, for it had been him, admit the turmoil of the feelings within him to the woman who caused them? It was his secret battle, hidden away within his own heart, attempting to repress them. They had roared to life upon seeing her suffering, but he had managed to control the urge to comfort her.

He was sure nothing had even shown on his face as he regarded her agony.

Even remembering it now caused his heart strings to twist painfully. It was ridiculous. Surely, surely it was detrimental to feel such emotions, to give into them and let them reign. He was the Prince of All Saiyans, the exemplar of the saiyan culture. A fierce warrior destined to be the greatest, attached to no one.

And yet.

And yet, strength was the most important thing to a saiyan, even before cultural traditions.

And strength came with that emotion. He was most powerful in his super saiyan blue form, even though it caused him to fall back into his old self, experiencing emotions which should have only held him back.

And yet, despite them leading him to decide to sacrifice his strength, to embrace weakness as the ransom for his family's wellbeing. Despite all of that, these feelings made him stronger. Made him reach new heights.

Was he prepared to let them in, for the sake of his physical strength? Or was his mental prowess, his emotional steadfastness, more important?

He had intended to train the super saiyan blue form, to subsume it within his own psyche, but he had not been successful. His old self had taken over, and instead of training, had rushed to his wife's bedside.

Those emotions, they were incomprehensible. Where was the rage, the anger? What was this feeling called 'love'?

But it was similar to the one he experienced when seeing Bulma, if heavily diluted.

He felt it too, even though he shouldn't. Even though the Darkness should have eradicated all semblance of love within him.

It hadn't succeeded.

He shouldn't be feeling these things, shouldn't be succumbing, they made him weak.

But they also made him strong.

He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

But that tiny face was haunting him.

"Arh!" he cried out, falling onto the tiles as a beam burnt his shoulder. Stupid little twerp was distracting him, even when she wasn't even…

Oh, she was here at the compound. He had been so focused on resolutely not noticing their ki energies, that it hadn't registered with him that his wife and child had returned. He supposed that was a good thing. His child, the spare, was healthy, and his wife was well enough to care for her, since apparently human children needed rearing.

He was still rankled about that. He didn't want to put up with a mewling baby all over again, or the food throwing, the tantrums, or anything of that sort. No thank you, Vegeta was very done with that, couldn't believe his past self had put up with it.

Vegeta's train of thought skidded to his son…Hmm…Trunks. That was an interesting topic. He felt drawn to the boy, even as Trunks tried to push him away. Even as he fought with him, his own father, the epitome of disrespect, the anger Vegeta ought to feel just didn't come. Instead, he was merely…disappointed. Even saddened.

The boy should be training more, indeed, perhaps Vegeta should train him. He would have balked at the mere suggestion a few months ago, but now? Now, if he could weather the cyclone of his son's feelings, he might just start training him again. Like a human father would.

Not like a saiyan.

And certainly not like a prince.

But for some reason, that didn't bother Vegeta as much as it ought to have done, didn't make him feel ashamed. Was he changing?

And would that be such a bad thing if he were?

His old self seemed to think he would avoid such things like the plague.

He should, he really should.

But he also wanted to prove his old self wrong.

"Vegeta." A familiar voice called as he dodged another beam, spinning to face the communication screen.

Bulma, who he had witnessed in excruciating pain the night before last. Who he had seen sleeping, exhausted, by the side of their second child. Whose face moved Vegeta's heart in ways he didn't understand, ways he rejected, avoided.

He wasn't sure how he felt about her, anger and love fighting for dominance, his mind the battlefield between two beings, fused for all eternity. How should he approach her, how should he treat her, talk to her?

When he wasn't certain of anything himself.

"Woman," he acknowledged, ignoring the urge to use her name. He hated how he could never seem to settle on a way to be with her. Part of him wanted to support her, to cherish her, part of him wanted to separate from her forever.

But that part had been significantly weakened for quite some time. Didn't mean he was ready for the supporting and cherishing part, though.

He still fought against that impulse. It was unbecoming of the saiyan prince.

His mind was always running in circles. Caring, not caring. Over and over a constant war and he didn't know what to do, or how to feel.

He hated the way she made him confused, when his life ought to be simple. Train, eat, fight. Also read, now, he supposed.

"Mum's dishing up dinner," the woman was saying, bringing him back to the outside world. Back to the large image of her, face dominating everything. Luring him in with those intoxicating eyes.

Not sexually speaking, saiyans weren't all that interested in such antics. Less attracted to physical attributes and more to a fighting nature. But her eyes were hypnotising nonetheless, because they did strange things to him, prompted unworthy thoughts. Sometimes, though, he thought it wouldn't be so bad to give in, to let the impulses take him. But another part of him was resolutely opposed.

He wished they would stop fighting.

"All right, woman," he replied, "I'll be in soon."

As much as she appeared to enjoy his training uniform, the woman was rather insistent on freshening up before dinner, or at least changing his clothes. He had found himself more willing to listen recently.

After throwing on some casual clothes Bulma had given him for his 'birthday' (a date she had chosen arbitrarily because he didn't know it), Vegeta made his way inside, scanning ahead of him for ki signatures. The whole family was waiting for him in the kitchen: Bulma, Trunks, Panchy, Dr Brief…and Bra.

He was almost certain that was her name, now, but he did wonder if Bulma had acceded to his suggestion of a middle name. (He still missed Parsnyppe, on occasion, even though he shouldn't).

Bra, who caused unwanted emotions to erupt within him, even when she wasn't there. And he was going to see her for only the second time, and the first time as his new and unimproved self.

The family, bar the sullen as usual Trunks and non-vocal Bra, greeted him as he entered, drawing deep breaths of Panchy's delicious cooking.

Taking his normal seat he caught sight of her, across the table. In her mother's arms, sleeping like…well, not like an angel, but like Beerus, unconcerned with the happenings of the world she had recently been introduced to.

Bra.

Little, tiny, trivial. And yet his eyes gravitated towards her as if on a leash.

"Hello, Vegeta," his wife's voice wavered, looking at him with some unfathomable emotion in those blue irises. So like the diminutive version in her arms.

"I know you've already met, but this is Bra. Bra Parsnyppe Briefs."

So she had agreed to his naming suggestion. He almost smiled, but that would ruin his reputation, so he merely grunted in acknowledgement. Bulma's face became downcast, relaying her feelings to her cutlery as she couldn't bear to look at him.

He didn't care.

"Aren't you going to say 'hello'?"

No, he was going to eat his dinner.

Before beginning her own meal, Bulma placed the baby in a … thing. He couldn't see much of it from his vantage point but it looked a little like a pram, with a frilly hood and soft, pink material, small shapes hanging from a showerhead look-alike above it.

Humans were strange creatures, and their young even more so.

He couldn't see Bra now, so his eyes were allowed to focus solely on his dinner. And what a delicious meal it was, but his senses kept reaching out to that new lifeform, to that delicate being in her…whatever it was.

"So…have you had a good day?" the woman was speaking to him. He wasn't sure why she kept trying, and wasn't sure why that buoyed him a little.

"It was fine." He hadn't achieved anything spectacular, but neither had he been significantly injured. Despite the thought-magnet which was his new daughter, he had managed to remain undistracted, for the most part, throughout his training. So it had been fine.

"That's good," Bulma replied, voice stilted. "Little Bra's been sleeping, mostly. She only wakes and cries for a feed."

So helpless, those human offspring, relying on their mothers for food. So terribly dependent, and vulnerable.

"Hmph."

Why did that thought trouble him so? What was it about her that awakened feelings within him that he had thought he had mastered? Even the woman and his other child were affecting him more, recently. It was unbecoming for a saiyan warrior of his position.

But it did make him stronger.

Yet, what use was strength if he was willing to sacrifice it for their sakes?

"Vegeta, are you okay? You seem a little distracted."

The tumult must have shown on his face, then. He needed to get a handle on it, a handle on these feelings, a handle on his own mind.

"What about you, boy?" he wasn't sure why he made the attempt at interaction, but he did, finishing off his fourth course.

Trunks sneered at him over a fort-full of spaghetti. Not menacing in the least – perhaps Vegeta should consider teaching him the art of intimidation as well.

"Have you been keeping up your training?"

He hadn't, Vegeta knew. He could tell the boy's strength had decreased over the previous months, much to his ire as a parent. How shameful for a saiyan youth! Even if he was only half-saiyan. He was going to deteriorate the same way as Gohan, Vegeta just knew it.

"Oh, so you're interested now are you?" Trunks hissed, titanium undercutting his voice, "Well, too late old man, I don't care any more."

Old? Who was he calling 'old'? Vegeta was incredibly young for a saiyan, hadn't even reached his mid-80s yet, when he would finally be acknowledged as a mature adult and be able to claim the title of king.

Not that the title was worth anything, anymore.

"That's no way to talk to your father, brat!" Vegeta snapped, incensed at the attitude. To his own father, no less! Vegeta would never have dared speak like that to King Vegeta, even if he had handed him over to a raging warlord at the tender age of five. He was still quite miffed at that episode, but to say such things was inexcusable.

"You're not my father!"

"Oh really? Because I distinctly remember siring you by accident, though I'm certainly regretting it now!"

"Vegeta!" Bulma gasped, but whatever she was going to say was interrupted by a mewling wail.

"Now look what you've done," Bulma groused, retrieving her fussing baby from its…vessel, "You've made her cry."

As the volume increased, Vegeta slapped his hands over his ears, glaring at the bundle of trouble capable of far more harm than he had first thought. Who knew she had such a pair of lungs on her? Had Trunks been like that too at that age?

"Sorry, Mum" Trunks mumbled, looking to Vegeta expectantly, but he was not about to apologise. He had spoken his mind, and did not regret a word he had spoken.

Not at all.

A high pitched wail dragged Bulma from the comforting embrace of sleep in the middle of the night. Groaning, eyelids heavy, she unfolded herself out of the bed, intent on getting this over with and returning to it as quickly as possible. How had she forgotten those early, sleepless nights, waking every few hours to feed an insatiable half-saiyan? Although, apparently the need to be fed every few hours was true of human babies also.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she muttered to herself as the volume rose even higher. Bra couldn't hear her, being in the nursery, a baby monitor alerting Bulma of her child's need for sustenance.

Maybe she ought to have let the child sleep in her room, Bulma thought as she slipped a robe over her thin nightie. But she had hoped that Vegeta might move back in. She still hoped, because hope springs eternal, even after the vitriol he had unleashed at Trunks.

That relationship would need a lot of repairing, and Bulma just didn't have the energy right now.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning widely, Bulma stepped out into the hall, shivering in the cold, night air. Her bare feet padded on the carpet as she approached the nursery, thoughts on the tiny ball of preciousness inside.

Bra made her feel whole, needed, welcome in a way she hadn't in a long time. With Trunks vacillating between shoving her away and being a responsible care-giver, it was obvious he was growing up, needing her less. It was nice to have someone dependent on her, someone she could help, someone calling out with problems she could solve, unlike the troubling situation with her husband.

Bra was a cool drop in a desert of disappointment for Bulma. She gave Bulma purpose, had reunited her with her son.

But she hadn't managed the herculean task of fixing Vegeta.

Pushing the door to the nursery open, wincing at the crying assaulting her ear-drums, Bulma flipped on the light-switch lazily. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, she headed towards the crib, where her baby was wailing pathetically, calling out to her mother in a way that made Bulma's chest ache.

"Hey, there, sugar," she whispered, voice light in that way one spoke to babies, "It's okay, now. Mummy's here."

Taking the mewling baby from her crib, Bulma dropped down onto her easy chair, letting her limbs relax into the cushioning material as her eyes closed. Unclipping her nightie's clasp, she brought little Bra's lips to her breast, smiling at the cute suckling sound produced. Letting all the tension out of her form, she lost herself in memory, reminiscing on the first time Vegeta had seen her do this with Trunks.

"That is disgusting."

His face wrinkled in horror as he regarded his…partner, young child suckling at her exposed breast. Bulma was disappointed, as usual, that this display of her womanly nature, impressive to most human men, did not faze him.

"He's drinking you!"

It was quite funny, though. Vegeta's look of abject revulsion at the natural acts of a baby.

"Didn't saiyans breast-feed?" She questioned.

"Breast-feed? Is that what you call it? No, saiyans did not try to consume their mothers. They ate meat from birth. Saiyans were sent off soon after being born to conquer worlds. They couldn't afford to rely on their mother's juices."

"Didn't your women have breasts, though?"

"They did. I never could work out why. But now I assume it was a trait lingering from a bygone era that we had not evolved out of."

"I still think it's repulsive."

Bulma nearly threw the baby as a thrill zapped through her, heart pounding. Little Bra kept suckling, unperturbed, as Bulma took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

"Vegeta."

He was standing in the corner, the crib between them as he regarded her with those unfathomable eyes. Eyes she used to love to drown in.

"What…what are you doing here?"

How long had he been there? She hadn't checked her surroundings, focused merely on feeding the baby and getting back to sleep as quickly as possible. Vegeta could blend into his environs quite skilfully, silent and unmoving as a piece of furniture. It was a trait he had used to great advantage to maintain discipline over his son.

"I came here to think."

"To think?"

He had come into their baby's nursery, in the middle of the night, to think?

"Did she wake you?"

"I was already here."

Bulma couldn't wrap her head around it. It was the early morning. Vegeta should have been in bed, resting after a long, hard day of training. Not loitering in the nursery like some kind of serial killer.

It was disconcerting, imagining him just standing there, watching their baby. He'd made it quite clear that

"I don't care," he said suddenly, watching the hungry baby still attached to her.

"Yes, I gathered that," Bulma sighed, trying to be patient.

"Or, at least, I shouldn't care."

That got her attention.

My other self still feels it.

"Vegeta," she whispered, feeling so out of her depth in the cool night air, feeding her baby while witnessing her husband's emotional battle. It was a re-hash of his feelings so many, many moons ago, when he had been struggling with his paternal impulses towards Trunks, his attachment to her. He hadn't let her into that fight, not really. Just forged ahead on his own, thoughts private and unsettling, she could tell. Eventually, though, he had emerged a better man, a better husband. He had proposed to her, suddenly, on a cold morning like this one, underneath a blanket of stars. Privately, intimately, while the rest of the household slept.

That had been a strange night, a blushing Vegeta kneeling before her, presenting her with a collection of vegetables encased in a large hoop made from real, solid diamond.

He had made the diamond himself, capable of producing such pressure to craft it.

And she had counted, realising that there were 24 carrots exactly, and burst out laughing.

He hadn't taken that reaction very well, had tried to leave in a huff but she had rushed forward to stop him, declaring that she would, of course she would. And that she appreciated the effort to apply her customs, only, the 24 carat diamond ring was a piece of gold jewellery worn on the finger, with a small stone to decorate it.

The enormous hoop was impressive, though, she had to grant him that.

"Vegeta, it's okay to care."

It was the same thing she had said to him years ago.

"No it isn't. My father…"

"Vegeta," she countered softly, "I'm sorry, honey, but your father is dead. He's not here. And his essence will be long gone by now, reincarnated. There are still saiyans in Universe 6, after all. Maybe he, whoever he is now, feels differently."

"But…my people…they would be ashamed."

"I don't think so, honey. I don't think they would be ashamed at all. Wasn't it you who said that power was the most important thing to a saiyan? We've spoken about the 's' cells. Caring only makes you stronger."

"It makes me weaker!" he protested, clenched fist raised in fury at the world, "I gave up my power for your sakes. That makes me weak!"

"No, that makes you strong. Stronger than you know. To be able to surrender that which means the most to you. To have that kind of courage. That makes you strong, Vegeta."

He sighed, looking away.

"I shouldn't even by here," he mumbled. "Why am I here?"

"In the nursery?"

"No, here, in your home, on this planet. Why, why am I still here?"

She was about to cut in that he needed her training equipment, and they had an agreement regarding that, when he continued, and she realised it had been a rhetorical question.

"Why do I care?"

Not knowing what to say to that which hadn't already been said, Bulma and Vegeta remained in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being crickets outside and the incessant suckling of their newest child.

She didn't know what to think, tucking her baby back into her crib. Their baby, she corrected, after checking to make sure there were no surprises in her nappy. Vegeta's words, her Vegeta's words, had dogged her throughout the past two days, unwilling to leave her alone. Hope had blossomed within her at the declaration that he still cared, at the realisation that he was still in that body somewhere, she just had to draw him out, possibly gaud him into transforming.

It had been to bittersweet, so painfully and heart-wrenchingly bittersweet, to hear his voice again, laced with melancholy and love, to hear what he had to say to them, what he feared would be his last real words to them. To the family he had given everything for.

She had been torn, upon being discharged, between rushing to see him and staying resolutely away, to not pollute the memory of his affection. It hurt her, cut her deeply, to see him again after that, unchanged, absent, harsh towards his once beloved son.

Or so she had thought.

"Vegeta..." she whispered softly, voice floating away into the ether as she regarded him. Folded arms, hunched shoulders, tense muscles. His body language screamed 'do not disturb' as he gazed, almost unblinkingly, at their sleeping daughter. After a long moment just watching her, he shook his head vigorously, arms moving to his sides as he announced,

"I shouldn't be here," and beat a hasty retreat.

Leaving Bulma alone with her thoughts and a slumbering baby, suddenly wide awake and unsure that she would be able to return to sleep.

Had she been dreaming, imagining things, or had Vegeta admitted that he still felt drawn towards them, still loved them? That he was lost, not knowing how to deal with his emotions in the same way he had been so many years ago.

The progress was so slow, so tragically slow, but she couldn't deny it was happening.

Her Vegeta was coming home.