A/N: Here is a quick update! Hopefully long enough for you all. And I do hope you enjoy it. Thank you for the kind comments This is for you!

For GUEST (and everyone else) I have started writing this story once again. Over the last few weeks I add this chapter and the one before it. Will be continuing this. Am about a third the way through next chapter.

Also other GUEST My sincerest apologies! I was running on autopilot when I went through and write Gohan as everything. I have been away from DBZ for way too long. It should now be corrected. Thank you! :)

THE BACHELOR'S BABY

Chapter Eleven

Third Month Part 2

Trunks walked into the cobbled courtyard of the old inn in Emerson which housed a complex of shops and business accommodation for local craftsmen and tradespeople. Goten's own workshop, where he designed and made furniture, occupied one side of the yard.

Marron's shop was opposite. The narrow frontage, painted black, had the name 'Marron Chestnut' picked out in gold lettering. It was a small but exquisite emporium, filled with exotic aromatherapy oils, beautiful scented candles, and fine soaps. Small, but very busy.

He sat outside the corner coffee shop that, taking the advantage of the sun, had overflowed into the courtyard and he watched for a while, considering what it would take to persuade her to accept his help. With care, extra hands, financial support, whatever. What it would take to make her see that in refusing his help she was denying her baby all the special things his money could buy.

Maybe he wouldn't use that argument. Complaining that she was denying him a chance to assuage his feelings of guilt probably wouldn't impress her all that much.

And maybe she really didn't need his help. She had a charming home and what appeared to be a thriving business. No one, he noticed, left the shop without one of her distinctive black and gold carrier bags. It must be hard work, though. She'd be on her feet all day. Wouldn't she get swollen ankles? Shouldn't she be resting? Or was that dated nonsense? What he knew about pregnant women could be written on the back of a postage stamp.

Maybe it was time to stop trying to second guess her and simply ask her what she wanted. And hope it was something in his power to give.

He paid for his coffee, crossed the courtyard and pushed open the door. There was a delicate chime to announce him, crystals turned in the draught, catching the sunlight, and the air was full of the warm, heavy scent of roses. Then Marron appeared in the doorway from the rear.

Black and gold.

She was dressed in unrelieved black. Her hair pale gold. It was the same every time he saw her. The jolt. The longing for something that seemed unreachable, on the far side of an uncrossable void.

"Trunks." It was the same every time she said his name. Like a ride in a high-speed lift going to the stars.

"Marron." For a moment they just stood there, looking at one another.

"How… unexpected."

"I doubt that." She didn't deny it. "I had your letter," he said, when the silence became unbearable. "I was concerned to read that you were decorating." His voice was clipped ad abrupt. A long way from what he was feeling. "What are you doing?"

Her shrug was infinitesimal. "Having fun. I've finally settled on the exact shade for the nursery ceiling." Her smile was all behind her eyes. A secret smile. As if dwelling on anticipated joy. "That gorgeous translucent blue the sky turns just as the stars start to come out. All I need now is to find a match so that I can get it mixed." And then her smile became public, less intimate. "Look, do you mind if we talk and walk at the same time?" she asked. "I've got an appointment at the dentist."

"You've got a toothache?" He wanted to kiss it better. Her mouth, her eyes, every inch of her –

"No, it's just a check-up," she assured him, interrupting his mental tour of her body. "I'm three months pregnant."

"Three months?"

"Nearly."

"It doesn't seem that long."

And for a dangerous moment they were both reliving the moment.

"Pregnant women need to look after their teeth," Marron explained quickly, reaching for her bag.

"Oh." Make that a very small postage stamp. Then, because he'd never seen a car at the cottage. "Do you drive?" He held the door for her. "I'll drive you there if you like."

She shook her head. "No, thanks; I'd be early. Besides, walking is good for me. Nadine," she called back, "I'm off now. I'll be about an hour." Then, "It's this way. If you are coming." And then she set off in the direction of the town centre without waiting for his answer.

"How are you?" he asked, falling beside her. "Still being sick?"

"Oh, yes. Seven o'clock on the dot. You can set your clock by me, but the ginger ale is helping and now I know what to expect so it's not so bad."

"You look well." Blooming, Wasn't that what they said about pregnant women? It was true.

She gave him a sideways glance. "That's just a polite way of saying I'm putting on weight," she said, then laughed. "Don't look so tragic. I'm having a baby. I'm supposed to be putting on weight."

"You don't mind?"

"I'm happy to be pregnant. I can put up with a little inconvenience to my waistline."

"Are you? Really happy?" He stopped, frowned. She looked at it, but he didn't understand. She was on her own so why would she want this? "It's not just the weight. It's the sickness, the teeth. Everything. I'd do all that for you if I could."

"I believe you. You'd do anything but be a father."

"I'm so sorry, Marron. Really sorry."

She reached out, took his hand. "Hey, I was there, too. I'm happy, honestly. I'm ready for this. A baby, motherhood. It's the right time for me."

"Is it? I suppose women are different."

"Not that different." Then, not giving him time to respond, she moved on, his hand still in hers, "I suppose you've come to tell me off about Mrs Burns?"

"Amanda – my assistant – thought you were just trying to wind me up. Were you?"

"Winding you up?"

"She assumed that you were making up all that stuff about the village."

"Why would I want to do that?"

The space between her eyes creased slightly in a frown that he suspected was not quite as innocent as it looked. She knew what she was doing. Not that it mattered. She could wind him up simply by breathing – a fact he thought safer to keep to himself.

"Why indeed?" he replied evenly, playing along. He hadn't doubted a word of it, not for a moment. It sounded all too plausible. He was sure that if she put her mind to it she'd have Roselyn Burns jumping through hoops at the village circus. "Of course, she doesn't know you – " He'd been going to say, as well as I do, but it occurred to him that while her body was imprinted indelibly upon his mind, he knew very little else about this woman who was apparently delighted to be bearing his child. "I hoped you'd be taking things easy. Is decorating wise?"

"I'm not doing much. Just painting the nursery. Maybe a little stencilling. Stars, do you think?"

"On the ceiling?" She'd said she was going to be painting the ceiling. "I've painted ceilings. If you think it isn't hard work, you're in for a nasty shock." He could picture the scene all too easily. And the picture gave him the shivers. "Should you be stretching, bending, and climbing ladders?" She didn't answer. "Will you let me send someone to help with that at least?"

"Would you?" For just a moment he thought that he was getting somewhere. Then she said, "I promised Goten I'd help paint the village hall this summer, and an extra pair of hands would be – "

"Forget it."

Then he glanced at her and realised she was grinning. Definitely winding him up this time. "No decorator?" She asked.

"Not one you can twist around your little finger the way you have Mrs Burns."

"Spoilsport."

"Just a fast learner."

"I was afraid you might be." She stopped at an antiques shop as something caught her attention. "Will you look at that?"

He looked. The centrepiece of the window display was an age-darkened wooden cradle, one of the rockers worn where countless women had rested a foot to gentle a restless baby to sleep.

It would look absolutely right in Marron's cottage, and for a moment he hovered on the brink of offering to buy it for her. Something warned him not to. "It looks really old," he said. "Elizabethan? Stuart?"

Her hand rested lightly against the glass, as if she was communing with all the babies that had lain within the safety of the crib, with all the mothers who had rocked it. "That's real history." Her voice was cobweb-soft. "Can you imagine, Trunks? Some woman centuries ago telling her husband that she was having his child. And her husband searching out just the right tree, cutting it, shaping it…" She didn't look at him. Didn't expect an answer. And after a moment she moved on.

He glanced at her, half expecting her eyes to be filled with tears. His own throat ached unfamiliarly. He swallowed. "You didn't answer my question back there," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "Do you drive? I haven't seen a car at the cottage."

She looked up at him. "That's because I haven't got one."

"Oh, no, that's right. Goten did say you use a broomstick."

Maybe Goten was right. He had this odd feeling that he'd been bewitched. Today he was supposed to be meeting with a business contact for lunch. Reviewing progress on a new contract. He'd never intended to be here, walking Marron to the dentist, her fingers laced through his. He knew she'd be better off without him. But how to convince her? "Tricky with a pram, though. How do you do business?"

"On the phone, the internet, by mail order."

"Mail order?"

"It's a big part of the business. I have a lady who comes in two mornings a week just to deal with that. She used to do it at the cottage, but I need the room now so I've rented extra space here which means we can expand."

He was impressed, but still concerned about transport. "Shopping?" he pressed. "How do you manage that?"

"Just for one. Not a problem. But I'm thinking of getting it delivered. Did you know you can shop online through the supermarket?"

"I had heard," he said wryly.

"Of course. You're in that business yourself." He nodded once. "As for myself, I am perfectly happy to use the bus service."

"Still tricky with a pram," he pointed out, trying not to think about her struggling on and off buses as the months passed and she got bigger, as it took more effort. At the end of a long day on her feet. She needed a car –

"I shan't be investing in one of those large, coach-built monstrosities that require a uniformed nanny at the helm – and," she said, before he could interrupt, "I'm warning you now, before you do something really stupid like having a Volvo estate delivered to my door with a pink bow – "

She could read his mind apparently. Well, nearly. He hadn't thought about what model estate he'd buy her. As for the colour of the ribbon, he was almost certain that it was too soon to determine the sex of her baby,

"Not pink." She wasn't the only one capable of doing a little winding up. "It'll be a blue bow."

"Blue, pink – believe me, it would be a complete waste of time. I've never learned how to drive." As he bit back, with difficulty, a suggestion that now would be a good time, she stopped. "I go in here."

"Here?"

"This is the dental surgery." She retrieved her hand, touched his cheek briefly. "Do stop worrying about me, Trunks. I'll be fine."

And before he realised what was happening he was standing alone on the pavement, with the door shut in his face. Again.

Well, not this time. He pushed the door open and was confronted by a receptionist with a smile that was a dazzling advertisement for her employer.

"Can I help you?"

He doubted it. He was beginning to believe he was beyond help. "No," he said. "I'm in the wrong place."

"If you're nervous, sir, we can offer…" He didn't wait to hear what she could offer for his nerves. He was beginning to think it would take more than a tranquilliser to get him through this.

Marron, in the waiting room, heard Trunks follow her into the surgery. Then retreat in some confusion. The easier she made it for him to leave, the less inclined he seemed to be to do, she thought.

"Miss Chestnut." She wanted so much to go after him. Ask him why he kept coming back. "Miss Chestnut, we're ready for you now."

"What? Oh right." She got up and followed the receptionist through to the surgery. It didn't matter why he kept coming back, so long as he did it because he cared. The last thing she wanted in her baby's life was a daddy who was just going through the motions.

And what was all that macho stuff about a blue bow? He wanted a son? Why would a man who'd made it very clear he didn't want a baby under any circumstances care one way or the other about the sex of the baby?

Trunks walked away from the dental surgery, but he'd stopped trying to fool himself that this was over. Marron might keep telling him to go, but he had responsibilities whether he wanted them or not, the kind he couldn't walk away from.

He knew all about responsibilities. Every day he held the lives of the men and women who worked for him in the palm of his hand. They relied on him, his vision, his energy, and his drive, to ensure that they could pay the mortgage, put food on the table and take their families on holiday.

Maybe that was the answer. If he could deal with this situation dispassionately, treat it as just another project needing his close attention, he wouldn't get bogged down in emotion.

What he needed was information. He was floundering in a woman's world that he knew nothing about and was tired of feeling at a disadvantage. Passing a bookshop, he stopped and turned in. It was time to buy himself a little equality.

The assistant was eager to help. "You're going to be a father?" she asked, when he enquired about books on pregnancy. She didn't wait for an answer, but went on, "Is it your first?"

"Er, yes."

"How lovely," she said, picking out titles that she thought he might find useful. "When is it due?"

He realised then that he hadn't asked Marron when she was expecting their baby. That was appalling. It was the very least he could have, should have done. Realising the woman was waiting for an answer, he did a little mental arithmetic. "December," he replied.

December. And he thought about heating. He'd seen a stack of logs at the cottage. She couldn't cope with log fires; she'd need central heating, a drier for the baby's clothes…

"You modern men are so involved, so different from when I had my children." She smiled. "You're going to be at the birth, I suppose?"

"What?" No! Of course he wouldn't be at the birth. That was unthinkable. But if not him, then who? Who'd hold Marron's hand while she went through the long hours of labour?

Hold her hand and what else? There must be more to it than that. He had some vague idea that Goten had gone to antenatal classes with Bra, learned about the whole process, about breathing through the pain…

"Oh, dear. You look quite pale just thinking about it. Just be grateful you're a man, simply an onlooker." Then she patted his arm sympathetically. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

Fine. He escaped with the books. Sure, he'd be fine, but what about Marron? Would she be fine? There wasn't enough money in the world to pay for someone else to be with her, in his place, while his son was born.

He returned to the courtyard café to wait for Marron to return. He ordered a mineral water, then opened one of the books. A month-by-month description of the development of the baby. A month-by-month description of what the mother might expect as her body adapted to the needs of her growing infant.

He stared at the photograph of a developing foetus for a moment, only two inches long and already wriggling his toes. He snapped the book shut. He was getting far too involved, getting much too close. He stood up, put his hand in his pocket for change and his fingers closed over the bootees.

Nadine looked up as Marron walked through the shop. Followed her into the office. "How was it?"

Marron dropped her bag on her desk. "Fine. All that working out with the toothbrush paid off," she said, putting the conversation firmly in the teeth corner, although they both knew that Nadine had not been talking about her visit with the dentist. "Everything is perfect."

Everything was perfect. Running like clockwork. Exactly right. She was having a bay and absolutely delighted.

So why had her heart taken a little dip when she'd come out of the surgery and Trunks had not been pacing the footpath, waiting for her? Hadn't been sitting in the coffee shop when she got back? She'd seen him there earlier, watching the comings and goings, no doubt assessing her turnover, checking out her ability to support his child.

He wanted to talk, he had said. About transport? And business? That was all? There was a reprise of the heart-sink as she realised his mind was still firmly fixed on finance.

"He came back," Nadine piped, as if reading her mind. "He'd been to the bookshop on the corner and he sat over there with a pile of books about pregnancy."

Marron found a smile from somewhere. 'You're making that up."

"No." Amanda grinned. "My aunt works at the bookshop so I phoned and asked her what he'd bought…"

Books on pregnancy? The smile because less forced. "You asked your aunt to betray a professional confidence? That's appalling…"

"You don't want to know?" Nadine shrugged, turned away to tidy a shelf. "Growing a Baby," she murmured half under her breath as she began to replenish the stock. "The First Nine Months…"

Back at his desk, Trunks opened his notepad and began to work up a strategy for dealing, at a safe distance, with Marron's pregnancy. The trick would be to do as much as he could for her without getting personally involved.

No more touching.

He could still feel her fingers, cool against his palm, as she'd taken his hand, held it while they had walked to the dentist. A faint citrus scent still clung to his fingers. Not orange. Something sweeter, lighter, that made him feel better just to breathe it in. Or maybe it was simply the scent of her skin.

He realised he was holding his hands up to his face and swiftly snatched them away.

Definitely no more hand-holding.

What he needed was a plan. Normally he'd call a team meeting, ask for ideas, assign tasks, monitor results and make big decisions.

His team so far consisted of Roselyn Burns, and Marron had swiftly neutralised her. Well, maybe. He'd talk to Roselyn, make sure she kept a close, if discreet, eye on her charge and reported back to him on a regular basis. Dr Sally Maitland might yet prove to be an ally. He'd go and see her, talk with her. And Bra had been through all of this so recently that she could keep him up to speed with what Marron would need in the way of support.

And then there was the decorating. He wouldn't be sending a man in an overall with stepladders and instructions to do whatever the lady wanted. If he did that he'd find himself paying to have half the housing stock of the village redecorated. There had to be another way.

In the meantime, he'd offer her something she couldn't get anywhere else. A skill not so readily available. That 'All I need now is to find a match so that I can get it mixed' was a start. Seeing the perfect colour in the sky was a long way from getting it in a paint tin. It was time for the decorator he'd employed on the penthouse to prove she could do more than be creative with taupe.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that. Comment away! Reviews do engage me in more writing. And this quick update it to those who did, you know who you are ;)

Thank you!