Hypothetical

Bulma stood up from the kitchen table, staring at her husband. She looked down at the pen and scraps of paper on the table, wondering if she had in fact gone too far this time. Both her words and her sketches had gotten more than a little graphic, and after sputtering and yelling for a few minutes, Vegeta had finally snapped.

The woman hummed to herself. Even if her actions were a tad uncalled-for, Vegeta's response seemed rather overblown. She had mostly been joking, after all. Wasn't he overreacting just a bit?

"Uh, mom?" A young-sounding voice broke into Bulma's musings. The blue-haired woman turned to the entryway to see her son striding in. The nine-year-old stepped inside the large kitchen, his quest for food apparently forgotten. He gingerly stepped over toward his father, a look of half-amused confusion coming across his tiny face.

Vegeta was lying, spasming and unresponsive, on the white tile of their kitchen floor. His fingers were convulsing, grasping at nothing as he lay curled on his side. His expression was blank, save for the near-maniacal look of horror, shock and barely-contained nausea in his twitching eyes.

Trunks stepped over to the tortured Saiyan, prodding him gently with the tip of his sneaker. Vegeta did not respond. Trunks repeated the action, this time more forcefully; still, there was no response. Finally, Trunks turned to his mother, bearing a look of deep concern.

"Geez, mom, what did you do to him?"

"Nothing!" Bulma insisted. The look on her son's face told her he wasn't buying it. Bulma folded her arms and pouted. "What makes you think I'm responsible for this?"

"Mom," Trunks said, his face falling into a deadpan expression.

"Alright," she admitted, gingerly stepping over her husband on the way to the long marble counter. "I may or may not have said that he and Son-kun act more like an old married couple than we do."

Trunks' eyes widened in startled disgust. "Mom..."

"And," she said, casually pouring herself a cup of coffee, "I may or may not have intimated that he was secretly having an affair with Goku."

The child shuddered, his complexion turning the slightest bit green as he swallowed the bile that had suddenly come up in his throat. "Mom!"

"And," Bulma continued as she stirred in a teaspoon of sugar and a bit of non-dairy creamer, "I may or may not have offered to make him diagrams if he was having trouble visualizing it. And then sketched some on a napkin. And showed them to him."

Trunks raised his hands to his face, digging his palms into his closed eyes. That was a mental image he was never going to get rid of.

"Why would you do something like that?" the boy asked, his face still buried in his small hands.

Bulma took a sip of her drink. "Well, that's what he gets for refusing to go shopping with me because he wants to go sparring." She grinned smugly, her pearly white canines making her smile appear downright vicious. "If fighting with Goku is a bigger priority than spending time with me, then I'm at least going to get some entertainment out of it." With that, she left the kitchen, a distinct bounce in her step.

Trunks watched the retreating figure of his mother before turning to his father's still-catatonic frame. As he glanced from one parent to the other, the young demi-Saiyan wondered to himself, for what had to be the hundredth time, whether he had any chance of turning out normal.