Chapter Twenty-Six: Scream

The Prince of all Saiya-jins was grateful for the swell of ki that kept him, the baby, and the bag slung over his shoulders dry as he neared his fellow Saiya-jin's house. It was probably the only thing that was going right that day, despite the weird, almost butterfly-like fluttering in the pit of his belly. He didn't like it but wouldn't be able to shake the feeling until he had his feet on the ground and could pass Trunks off to Bulma.

His descent to the ground, however, slowed as he saw the still figure of his housemate staring blankly at the lake. Hugging herself tightly, her long blue hair clung to her in wavy clumps, making her look every bit as disheveled as her ki made her out to be. A dark eyebrow rose in response, feet lightly touching the earth as he kept his ki bubble expanded around him.

Bulma didn't bat one eyelid as he approached, her eyes continuing to stare blankly into the disturbed pool of water. His own dark eyes scanned the area, not feeling any danger but not feeling the peace that normally hovered over the crop of land Kakarot apparently owned.

He flinched slightly, realizing that the overwhelming ki of his rival was not bearing down on him mentally or physically as it normally did. Even taken with sickness, the third-class idiot's aura glowed bright in the back of his mind, much like that bat signal or a lighthouse. Vegeta reached out slightly, mentally, tugging at every thread of ki in the vicinity, only to find the Earth-raised Saiya-jin's to be conspicuously absent.

"What—?"

"He died," mumbled the woman in front of him, her gaze still pointed distinctly away from him. With the rain still pouring from the grey skies, he couldn't tell if she was crying or if the drops trailed her face in the stead of long-gone tears.

"I don't—"

"He's dead," she grumbled, cutting him off once more, finally daring to turn her eyes onto him. They looked haunted, distraught…absolutely remorseful. Vegeta felt the corners of his lips dip further south. He didn't like seeing her this way, but honestly had no idea how to make her not feel that way either.

The Prince chanced the opportunity to move aside the clumps of hair from Bulma's face with his free hand, tucking them behind her ears as he had seen her do so many times. At the touch of his ungloved hand, she visibly let out a ragged breath. Her eyes closed tightly as she completely faced him, her body leaning against him as if all strength had left her. He felt his cheeks heat but said nothing to rebuke her. Instead, he placed his palm flat on the back of her head, resting his chin gently on top. Internally he was trying desperately to not process Kakarot's death, focusing only on the blue-haired vixen slumped against him. He could deal with everything else later.

After a few, comfortable heartbeats, he raised his ki, drying the woman instantly to help cease her shivering. She sighed, wrapping her arms around his torso. Sadness radiated from her tiny frame, though she seemed to find comfort in his company. It warmed him slightly, knowing that the handful of creatures in the universe that trusted him were already comfortably located in his arms. They were batshit crazy, of course, but he wasn't necessarily opposed to it.

"Dragon balls," he stated softly, running his fingers through her feathery-soft hair.

"No," she murmured, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Natural causes," she reminded him at the quizzical look that met her own sad gaze.

Vegeta felt a wave of panic float quickly over him before he completely squashed the feeling altogether. In his years of being on the planet, the months of sharing his bed with the tiny, brilliant human, he had never once asked what the catch was with the dragon balls. It made sense, of course.

There was always a catch.

Inevitably they would all die and not even the mystical, powerful, wish-granting orbs would be able to save them from the clutches of death unless it was downright murder. He mentally shook his fist at Kami, daring the old Namek to strike him down on the very patch of grass he stood on. Nothing happened—despite his flagrant disrespect of the god-like guardian—but for a second he was sure he felt his skin tingle at the provocation.

"I miss him already," whispered the woman, breaking his internal bird-flipping. "He was my very best friend." Bulma nuzzled his chest, her fingers tracing her son's chubby cheeks as he stared back at her with big, blue eyes.

The man beneath her cheek scowled. He wasn't quite ready to face how he felt about the last member of his race dying, but he also didn't want the woman to prod him either. "It was his time," he mused, vaguely aware of the tears being shed by the small family within the domed home.

Bulma scowled in turn, glaring up at him from underneath her bangs. "That's cold, don't you think?"

Vegeta shrugged half-heartedly, now ready to be free of her darkened glare. "All of our numbers come up before the god of Death eventually, Bulma. Kakarot's. Mine. Your parents. Even you. It cannot be escaped."

The slightly younger woman took a step back, although her arms did not release his body. "I can't handle this. Not today."

"You can't handle reality? It's staring you in the face."

"STOP!" She released him from her grasp, hands clamping over her ears. "Stop, stop— STOP STOP STOP!" She inhaled and exhaled in gasping, ragged breaths, causing the alien Prince to quirk an eyebrow. He had only seen her come unwound once, and it reminded him again of that day that he had hurt her.

He had hurt her again.

The Saiya-jin pulled her to him with his free arm again, chancing the moment to bury his nose in her hair. She didn't move her palms from her ears but he could feel her breaths normalizing as they stood there, his ki the only shelter from the still-pouring rain.

"I couldn't save him," she mumbled…or at least he thought he heard her mumble. Sometime between transmission and reception of her words on the wind, Bulma finally fell into a long, deep sleep.

One week. It was exactly one week since Goku died, and the blue-haired woman hadn't seen the father of her child. He had scooped her up from the lake in front of the Son's home, rambling in a mixture of standard and some other tongue (she assumed the dead language of his people), about women and idiots, launching off into the air in a huff. Minutes later, she felt herself being placed gently on her bed, forcing her to crack open an eye. Trunks was dozing peacefully next to her, but Vegeta had left in the same quick huff that he had flown them home in.

Hours later, she woke up again, acutely aware of the generator of GR humming in the yard. She deigned to leave him alone, assuming that he needed to burn off some steam.

The next day found his spot at breakfast empty.

Lunchtime, also empty.

Dinner, equally empty.

On and on it went until the morning of the funeral when the grieving woman could no longer stand the dark corner of loneliness she had been forced into.

Bulma rounded the corner into her office, heels clicking angrily against the tile floor as she approached the communications console that connect directly to the Gravity Room. Angry, hurt, but mostly lonely, the woman slammed her fist on the power button, projecting a wall-sized image of her face in the spaceship.

"Vegeta, you ass, where the fu—" Her rage died quickly in her throat at the sight before her. Despite the red lighting signifying that the room was, in fact, occupied and on, the flame-haired man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixated on the center controls that would normally turn the gravity up. The mother blinked a few times, unsure what she was looking at, but even more confused as to why the Prince hadn't done anything to train. "Vegeta?"

The ebony-eyed man's eyes shifted to her, but he made no other movement. His eyes, clearly bloodshot from lack of sleep, looked just as haunted as hers had over the past few days. She hated that look, that feeling he was emanating. It was the same suffocating feeling that he had brought with him when he had first moved in. A man haunted by a lack of drive, a lack of purpose.

Bulma sighed, pushing a wayward lock of bangs behind her ear. "I'm going to the funeral," she began, noticing him flinch slightly. "I was hoping you would go with me."

"No," his voice was hoarse, most likely from lack of use.

"Please?"

Vegeta's eyes flicked away momentarily before glancing back at her image on the wall. "Why?"

"I need you there," she began, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. "Let's face it, I'm a mess when you aren't around."

"No," came his curt refusal. He paused a moment, glaring hard at the center console. "Go away."

The bereaved man didn't have to look up to know that she was pissed. Her projection blinked away without another word, leaving a pronounced silence in the wake of her absence. He hadn't wanted to be as much of an ass as he had been, but the thought of watching the lowly humans dump Kakarot's body into a six-foot hole in the ground left him feeling a howling rage that he just couldn't voice.

Despite their differences, Vegeta knew that this wasn't the way it should've ended. Months from now, when he felt he was ready, he would've challenged the buffoon back at their first battleground, blood pumping through his veins, adrenaline rushing alongside it, only adding fuel to the primitive call of bloodlust. Their battle would've lasted hours, maybe even days, both of their bodies would've spent all their ki leaving their souls bruised, bloodied, broken. It would've shook the earth to its very core, making the earthlings wonder if the end had finally come.

Finally, one of them would slay the other, standing as tall as he could over the other, declaring victory loudly for all that could hear…

But no.

Kakarot was dead, killing the dream of a rematch and the progress that he had wrought over the past few years in an attempt to reclaim his rightful place as lord of the Saiya-jins. It had all been for naught. Upon the fool's death, he had taken the remaining shreds of Vegeta's pride as a warrior.

"I'm done," he mumbled at the console, chancing one last glance at the wall that had just held Bulma's image. "I'm done."

Bulma shifted uncomfortably under her umbrella. As if mourning the death of Earth's greatest hero, it hadn't stopped raining in the mountains since the morning that Goku had passed. Thankfully the heavy, pouring rain lessened to drizzles over the course of the week, but sometime between when bedtime and now, the skies began their wailing once again.

She continued to stand next to her air car, willing her legs to move and cursing her inability to force them to budge. The small shrine next to the capsule house seemingly loomed over the entire area, beckoning her while also repelling her. The gravesite, covered only by a pop-up tent, sat away from the house and shrine, making her skin tingle at the thought of having to watch her best and oldest friend get lowered into the ground and covered in cold, pebbled dirt.

"How long are you going to stand there looking like an idiot?"

The woman had to keep herself from whirling around to launch herself into the strong, warm arms of her housemate. He had come after all, despite being openly uncomfortable with the whole idea of attending his late rival's funeral. The air was surprisingly thick around them, causing her lungs to work overtime in an attempt to force air though them. She didn't totally feel like she was suffocating, but she wasn't nearly as at peace as she should've been.

"I suppose," she began, rolling her tongue around her mouth to bat away the cotton mouth, "I'm going to look like an idiot for a while." The woman finally turned, her blue eyes locking him to the patch of grass he had dug his heels into.

Vegeta frowned, his features even tighter than they normally were. He had never liked seeing Bulma so out of her zone, obviously hurt and unable to fully stand so smugly as the triumphant better-than-you-at-everything woman she normally was. Despite being a group of warriors that had tangled with every would-be ruler of their tiny, pitiful planet in recent history, they were obviously unused to loss. They had relied on the dragon balls too heavily as a crutch and were now unable to revive the one member of their merry little gang that had been the very glue that held them together.

"Tch," he finally clicked, although whether at Bulma or himself, he wasn't sure. His eyes scanned the area around them, unsurprisingly taking in the black-garment-wearing group near the crest of the hill that the third-class oaf was to be buried in. The umbrellas they bore looked like sad, wilted flowers, just as dark and black as the clouds that hung over the area. It was spooky and depressing, and if he had to be utterly honest with himself, he wasn't a fan of the idea of joining the weeping mourners. Their sniffles had reached his ears long before he had deigned to land next to Bulma's car. He had been so consumed with his barrage of self-defeatism—should I go to the funeral? Why do I care? He was going to die by my hand anyway…but he's the last of us. Would I have won? These humans are making me stupid—that he hadn't realized he had landed next to her until the veil of agony from being so close to them had permeated his senses.

No. He was not a fan of funerals. But he had come any way. Despite his total aversion to the group after the last "get together", Vegeta felt the idea of being at home alone to be revolting. His week since Kakarot's death found him locked away in the GR, mourning the loss of his pride, his revenge…hell, his loss of the last person in the entire universe that understood what it was like to be him.

Well, to a degree.

They were not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. They were not comrades, for they had never fought alongside each other. They were once enemies, but to this day rivals. Still, the Prince felt a kinship with the brainless buffoon that he hadn't felt with anyone else in a long time. The way the man lit up with thought of a spar or battle outwardly reflected the primitive roar Vegeta felt resonate throughout his body. Without Freiza's slimy influence, Kakarot could retain the very essence of a Saiya-jin warrior—minus the senseless bloodshed and slight tendencies towards treachery. He was probably what Saiya-jins were like prior to the alliance with the Cold Empire. He was also the first in many generations to bring to life the Legendary Super Saiya-jin.

These musings were why the flame-haired alien had locked himself in the GR for a week…and why he had battled with himself the entire way to the funeral. He had felt a part of himself die that day and wasn't entirely sure how to deal with it. He would never have a chance to have a rematch with the one being that he had to declare a draw with. He would never be able to reclaim his revenge on Frieza, twice, for what the lizard beast had done to their people, their planet, his childhood. Finally, he would never be able to claim the Legendary as his own, to take back his rightful place as the number one Saiya-jin. He would forever be number two, forever a failure, forever an outclassed orphan.

So, it was then, moments after Bulma's image had blipped off the wall in his domed sanctuary, that he had decided that he had reached the end of the line. That wasn't to say he was going to harm himself or lash out and destroy the planet, but that he just couldn't fathom a reason to continue his insane training schedule. There was nothing to attain, sans the natural urge to burn off his excess energy. His once-inevitable battle with Kakarot had died when the younger man had exhaled his last breath.

It was pointless.

All of it was pointless.

Maybe that was part of the reason he had wound up in these mountains, with his mate, surrounded by all the weeping fools: he was burying the one goal that had kept him going long after Frieza's death. Deaths. He would watch it get lowered into the ground and buried, and he would lay it to rest then and there.

He would still train to a degree, as was his instinct to, but he would not fight. Not now, not ever. He was done.

"Well, now I feel like we both look stupid," muttered Bulma as her eyes locked on the crowd gathered on the hill.

Vegeta nearly jumped out of his skin, realizing how lost in thought he had truly been when the woman's voice broke through. "Wouldn't be the first time," he clipped back, placing his palm against the small of her back, offering her a gentle push as they both began the seemingly miles-long trek towards the band of warriors.

Sometime later, the couple found themselves seated quietly by the bay window, absently staring out at the passing cars on the main street parallel to the compound. Metro West was a stark contrast to the mountain hell they immediately left—a clear day, the sun setting, there was no gloomy-grey skies or fat droplets pelting down on the roof. Despite the hundreds of passing cars, there was hardly any noise to penetrate the quiet room. Neither adult dared to shatter the stillness in the room; Vegeta, unsurprisingly, said nothing else for the rest of their time on the mountain, and Bulma, unable to summon another tear to shed on behalf of her dearly departed best friend, found her voice stolen by her thoughts. It was peaceful. It was beautiful. It was exactly what she felt she needed after feeling like such a failure.

"Stop that," muttered her housemate, his eyes flicking to her a moment before staring back at the busy street.

A blue eyebrow shot up in response, her head cocked slightly as she stared back at him. "Stop what?"

"That," he waved towards her, "wallowing."

"I'm not wallowing!" She was, but dammit she was doing it silently!

Vegeta finally turned a bit to face her, his deadpan look nearly setting her off. "You are. I can feel it…shit, I can practically hear it."

Oh right. Damned somewhat telepathic alien.

The man sighed softly before glaring at her. "You know, it's not somewhat. Saiya-jins are, unfortunately, very in-tune with those we interact with frequently."

"Well, stop listening in if it bothers you," Bulma sniffed, turning up the volume a hair on the baby monitor.

"I can't," he growled.

"Why the fuck not?"

The Prince took a calming breath, reminding himself that she was just a human. An ignorant, ki-less human. His human, though. "I will always be hyper-aware of you. And Trunks."

Bulma cocked her head to the other side, anger dissolving as her curiosity piqued. "But…why?"

He opened his mouth…and left it open for quite a few breaths before snapping it shut with an audible click. There was no easy way to explain it. He wasn't exactly in the mood for a cultural lesson either. Where the hell was Nappa when you needed him…?

Oh. Right.

"Oh!" Bulma exclaimed, once again shaking him out of his thoughts. "Is it because we're you're family or we're just super close?" She gasped, her hand resting on her cheek, bright blue eyes wide. "Oh my Kami. Is it because we've bonked a bunch of times?"

Bonked?!

"Just how old are you? Bonked. You can say 'fuck' as a swear but can't use it as a verb?" The Prince felt his cheeks betray him anyway at the thought of sex with the woman and the fact that she called in bonking. His embarrassment was short-lived, however, as her own cheeks turned a furious shade of purple.

"I would never call it…by that verb! And don't change the subject!"

"Fine, yes. Saiya-jins form these sorts of relationships with blood relatives and those they've been intimate with." He pursed his lips for a moment. "Well, maybe not just intimate. Sex plays a part but it's not the only criterion."

"Oh?" She scooted closer, happy when he didn't put the distance back in between them.

Vegeta frowned a bit, his cheeks once against reddening. "I've decided that you're enough of a handful for the rest of our natural days." His eyes left her, choosing instead to burn a hole through a spot on the rug one meter up and three meters to the right. The heat in his face increased, however, when he felt Bulma leap up from her spot on the couch and fling herself at him. Stunned, his arms wrapped around her to keep her from toppling over on to the floor or out the window through the glass.

"Vegeta," she sighed, her lips barely brushing against his ear, "you're enough for me too." Her arms tightened around his neck, pathetically so, he mused. "You know," she pulled back slightly to stare into his endless ebony eyes, "the day Trunks was born, I promised you I'd never leave. I know this is selfish of me, given everything that's happened these past few days, but I want you to promise me the same thing."

"What?"

"You heard me. Goku's death made me realize that we're not invincible. Not him, not me, 'not even you'. Death is inevitable, but I need you to promise me you're never going to leave."

Vegeta was speechless—one of the few times he could actually remember being so. He had made Bulma promise him all those months ago, because he couldn't fathom being alone in the universe. Even with their son and her parents, without her he felt like only half of a functioning person. She was eternally his weakness, but she was his stability, his anchor in a storm. And now, he realized as he gazed back into her eyes, she was telling him that he was her anchor.

The Saiya-jin wasn't sure when they had leaned in to each other or who had initiated the kiss. All he knew was that she was there and that little bolts of electricity were somehow flowing through his body. Alright, so that wasn't necessarily the case either, but she was clinging to him and he to her. He had never felt like this with anyone else before and yet still always felt these tiny little tingles whenever they were having a moment. Despite the heavy loss they were feeling—and as weak as it sounded—they had each other.

The blue-haired wonder finally pulled away, a small smile playing at her lips as she sat up tall, managing to tower over him just a hair. "You really have a bad habit of sidetracking me."

His only answer was a smirk.

"Promise me."

He blinked a few times before nodding. There was no point in being a turd about anything this serious with the woman. What manner of man would he be to demand such a thing of his mate without returning the gesture?

"I promise."

Whewwww…difficult to write about Vegeta's feelings when it comes to Goku! This has pretty much taken me the last month to write, mostly to keep me from being gushy but also because I had to watch some chunks of the Cell Saga again to see remind myself of any inner-monologues Vegeta may have had after Goku and Trunks died.

I hope this wasn't a complete disappointment! We're almost at the end…

Many hugs and thanks to those of you who have stuck with me, and for those who have been passing the time between updates to read my other works! You've kept me going!

Ja,

Pearl3