Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Today we move in jade and cease with garnet
Amid the ticking jeweled clocks that mark
Our years. Death comes in a casual steel car, yet
We vaunt our days in neon and scorn the dark

But outside the diabolic steel of this
Most plastic-windowed city, I can hear
The lone wind raving in the gutter, his
Voice crying exclusion in my ear.

So cry for the pagan girl left picking olives
Beside a sunblue sea, and mourn the flagon
Raised to toast a thousand kings, for all gives
Sorrow; weep for the legendary dragon.

Time is a great machine of iron bars
That drains eternally the milk of stars.

- To Time, Sylvia Plath

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Prologue — but time makes you bolder

even children get older

November 1982, New York

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“Mom, can I please get the bike?” Vegeta attempted to ease the petulance in his voice, to sound as though he were proposing a business plan instead of whining about what he really wanted for his 9th birthday.

Eschalot turned down the dial of the radio, smothering the sound of Fleetwood Mac before she slyly watched him out of the corner of her smokey shadowed eye. “I don’t know, honey. We’ll just have to wait and see until your birthday party.”

Vegeta watched her carefully, assessing her expression and squinting at her to see if she was giving away any signs of caving in. She brushed a loose strand of jet-black hair, blown out and curled away at the edges from her face, as she focused back onto the road in front of her.

The glassy puddles on the onyx road reflected the streetlights lining and shined the headlights back into the front of the car. It was dark, and unreasonably cold for early November and Eschalot worried the streets might freeze over. She clutched the leather steering wheel of her station wagon, steadying the car on the road as it skidded through a deep puddle. She flicked the windshield wipers to their highest speed, but it seemed to do little to clear the view of the winding abyss ahead.

“But mom, please! Raditz has one and he will never stop annoying me about how cool his is,” Vegeta couldn’t control the whine in his voice and his mom smiled, despite her heart racing from the adrenaline of safely operating her new car in such a treacherous storm.

She finally pulled over to the side of the road, flicking on her hazards. She would rather wait it out than risk anything happening while driving with her son in the car.

“Honey, we are celebrating your birthday tomorrow you will have to wait until then and not a moment sooner. You’re not conning this one out of me!”

Vegeta knew the bike was expensive, but he also knew that his father had gotten a promotion recently, and Vegeta had been working really hard in school. Well, more like he had been on his best behavior… and not talking back to his teachers. He never had to work too hard as schoolwork came easily to him.

“Alright,” he grumbled before sitting back into the leather of the front seat. He went to unbuckle his seatbelt before he felt the pointed obsidian glare of his mother. He sighed, keeping the belt on before he crossed his skinny arms over his chest and stuck out his lower lip.

Eschalot let out a laugh at her young son. “God, you look just like your father making that face!”

Vegeta couldn’t help the twitch in his lip, curling into a smirk. “You think so?”

“Yes, you could be his twin!”

Vegeta’s heart soared; he loved any time his mom compared him to his dad. His dad was his hero and he felt himself sit up a little taller in his seat at such a comparison.

A warm silence filled the car and Eschalot unbuckled her seatbelt so that she could turn around and check the backseat to make sure that Vegeta’s birthday cake was still untouched in its box after driving through the wet, winding roads. She sighed in relief, seeing the cake in the exact same position that she had placed it, in haste rushing through the rain out of the bakery to pick Vegeta up from his karate class on time. The tangerine, blinking hazard lights reflected across the plastic window of the cake box, highlighting the raised royal blue icing lines spelling out ‘Happy 9th Birthday Vegeta!’ Two thick rectangles of light scurried through the rear window and towards the front of the car. High beams from an oncoming car lit up the inside of the station wagon, blinding Eschalot for a moment and painting the sharp edges of Vegeta’s black hair blonde.

Vegeta could hear it before he could feel it. The sound of a wave crashing into a jagged cliff of a shore, slamming against sharp rocks and jostling his body forward, propelling him to slam his head into the dashboard of the car. Everything didn’t go black like he would expect from being knocked unconscious. Instead, he saw every color imaginable. As though he were looking through a prism of hue and light but void of any sound or sensation, that was until he felt the suction of a vacuum pull against his abdomen and throw him to cold, wet ground.

Hard rain beat against his body, relentlessly, sharp stinging hit his bare arms and chest like lashes against flesh. He blinked the water away from his eyes as his vision came back into focus. He was staring at his mom’s car about 100 feet away from him, looking from the outside, instead of the front seat that he had just been sitting in. Disconcertion and nausea bubbled up his throat from so many physical and visual changes all happening at once. He felt like he was on a carousel that wouldn’t stop spinning. 

He haunched over, hurling up his PB&J that he had scarfed down after karate class. Before he knew it, he saw the rainbow prism again and there he stood in front of his karate class building, watching himself through the fogged condensation glass, punching at a wooden block. He was tossed around again, back in front of his mom’s car, this time at an even further distance.

He dry heaved, having nothing left of his sandwich to throw up, before he straightened his body out and squinted at the car. His mom was through the windshield, the top half of her body draped over the hood of the car, the rest of her trapped through the glass and crumpled against the steering wheel. Her body was limp and drenched from the pouring rain. Her fingers twitched and her red manicured nails scratched against the dark metal of the car.

“Mom!” His voice lurched forward, propelled out of his lungs as he tried to run forward, still dizzy and nauseous, he felt himself almost collapse.

“Vegeta!” A strong hand clasped his shoulder, tightly, rattling him back into his own body. Vegeta fought against it, yanked backward, thrashing his skinny arms in anger. He had to get back to the car and help his mom and this person was trying to stop him!

He turned around to see who was speaking to him, the rain was pounding down against his face so hard that he could barely see who it was. An umbrella opened up and he found instant reprieve from the rain stinging his eyes and body. Some sort of blanket or shirt was draped over his freezing flesh. Silence created a bubble around his head, making him feel as though he was in a fishbowl, distorting all sound. The man holding the umbrella crouched down to level his gaze with him. Vegeta’s eyes finally found clarity around the features of a man with black eyes that looked so familiar.

“F-father?” He stuttered in confusion.

“No, I’m not your father,” the man said with a sad, small smile. There were faint lines crinkled at the corners of his black eyes, near his mouth, and a smear of gray in the same black flickered hair that he shared with his dad.

“B-But you look just like father only older and… you shaved your beard.”

“Listen, Vegeta. This is going to be really confusing but I need you to try to understand what I’m about to tell you.”

“H-how do you know my name?”

The stranger looked at him, his expression was severe, and his brows met, creating even more lines that creased on his face. Vegeta turned back towards his mom’s station wagon, shattered into pieces, twisted metal meeting pavement that reflected the streets lights around them onto the puddles. Her large, opulent wedding ring clambered against the metal as she tried to move.

The man pulled Vegeta back, again, this time grabbing his other shoulder and holding him steady, shaking him, the handle of the umbrella digging into his shoulder.

“Vegeta, listen to me. Do not turn around, do not look back right now. I need you to focus on me and what I’m saying.”

Vegeta’s black eyes widened, sensing the urgency of this familiar stranger, heeding his warning and nodded.

“Everything is going to be okay. It might not feel like that right now, but you’re gonna be alright,” he paused. “Don’t turn around, focus on my words.”

Vegeta nodded, bobbing his head up and down feeling the tears that welled up, finally falling down his face. He immediately wiped his eyes with the back of his wet hand, feeling stupid and childish crying in front of this stranger. 

“Don’t feel stupid crying in front of me. I’m you… but from the future. You don’t realize this but the car accident you just got in, when you hit your head on the dashboard something shifted inside of you and changed you permanently.”

Vegeta gaped at the man, confused beyond belief. “What do you mean? What the hell?”

“It sounds crazy. Like something from Star Wars but I’m telling you the truth. That’s why when you felt like you were passing out from a concussion, you were actually traveling through space and time, outside of the car. That’s how you ended up here, and didn’t see yourself in the front seat.”

Vegeta’s lower lip trembled, so much was happening all at once. First the accident, now he was having the most ridiculous dream. But it felt so real. It felt like…

“It feels like when you’re falling in a dream. You fall so hard it jolts you awake to the point where it actually causes you to sit up in bed. Except instead of sitting in your bed, you’re in a completely different place and a different time. It’s… like you’re flying in the Millennium Falcon, traveling in hyperdrive, ” the man said, somehow taking the exact words out of his mind.

Vegeta’s mouth opened, in shock, confused how this guy was able to know his precise thoughts and feelings. And he knew about the Millennium Falcon! The man handed Vegeta the umbrella before he rolled up his sleeve, exposing a diamond shaped scar on his elbow, pale and faded by time. Like letters on a gravestone that had been swept away from too many days and nights and unforgiving winters.

“You got this same scar just a few months ago when you didn’t listen to father, and you tried climbing the fence to get the ball you kicked into Nappa’s yard on accident. You had to get a tetanus shot and everything, you didn’t cry once even though you were covered in blood, because you’re tough as hell,” the man smirked, puffing out his chest in pride.

Vegeta seemed to accept the information the man was telling him. Nobody could possibly know all of that about him!

“But… but what about mom,” was all he could manage to say.

The man’s eyes hardened. A mask, curated and well crafted over the years, coated his face; a defense. “I’m sorry.”

Vegeta’s lower lip stuck out feeling a sob clawing at his throat, trying to escape.

A screeching sound rattled Vegeta and before he could turn around to look at what had caused such a sound, the man, well the older version of him from the future apparently, grasped him by his shoulders and yanked him, hard, against his chest. The umbrella clattered to the pavement as the older Vegeta held the younger Vegeta firmly against him, not letting him go to turn around and see what was going on behind him.

The car with his mother was engulfed in flames, the sounds of her screams being muffled by the rain splattering everywhere. The gray-haired Vegeta looked at all of the different versions of himself, cast in different places at the scene. Like peering through a looking glass splintered into a hundred little pieces. One of the pivotal travel points for him. A place he was yanked back to so many times, haunting him for all of his days.

Time travel often felt very much like being a dog with a chain wrapped around its throat and tethered to a tree, no matter how hard he ran, he was always ripped back to the tree he didn’t want to be chained to. Watching in horror as he was unable to do anything to save his mother. The number of times he had to watch her die was inconceivable. Always arriving a moment too late or failing to do anything to make a difference. She always died, every time.

Something about stepping on a butterfly’s wing or whatever bullshit. He still didn’t understand it all, how many years later, how many lifetimes he had lived, it still didn’t make any fucking sense to him. Why did his mother have to be a senseless sacrifice for all of this? He’d never know. And he had nearly lost his mind trying to figure it out. 

He watched as a teenage version of himself attempted to run towards the car, only to be thrown backwards from a blast of flames. He clenched his jaw, feeling the ghost of an ache in his spine from being tossed so harshly, the burn scar on his left thumb tingled with familiarity. 

At least this time he knew, he could shield the eight-year-old version of himself just a little while longer from this mess. This time there was a purpose for being here instead of just witnessing his mother’s brutal and painful death.

“It’s gonna be alright, kid. You’re gonna be alright,” Vegeta lied. He didn’t like lying and he wasn’t very good at it, but he also wasn’t going to tell the eight-year-old version of himself all of the hell he was about to endure after just losing his mother. He would get through it, that much was true. He was living proof of that. 

The child version of himself had his little arms wrapped tightly around his waist as he cried. Vegeta let the rain beat down on both of them as he let out a sigh, his breath a white cloud of precipitation around them. He watched the twenty-three-year-old version of himself watching them from across the street, the gash on his forearm fresh, blood pooling out of it.

His eyes drifted away, not wanting to think of that particular memory before he saw a different person across the street, lurking near a streetlight. Not one of the many copies of himself standing there, paralyzed in horror.

This man had piercing, light-colored eyes that bore into him, reflecting the streetlights and the flames in front of him, hidden beneath the shroud of a black hoodie, before he turned on his heel and vanished into the rain.

Chapter Text

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the resolute urgency of now

May, 1996, New York

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Vegeta comes to, sitting up from the floor and his vision goes back into focus after being rattled through the cruel claws of time. It feels like being pulled through a kaleidoscope where sound and sensation ceases to exist. All he can comprehend is color and light until he is thrown, literally, into an unknown situation. He blinks into his surroundings. Thankfully he has trained his body to get over the nausea and dizziness quickly. Always having to assess his situation and come up with a plan in a split second. Building the plane while flying it and all. He was in the back room of Nappa’s cleaning out a few mugs when he felt the familiar tingle in his bones, the stinging in his skull. But as he looks around, he knows he’s not there anymore.

He realizes that he is in a library, it looks familiar, he’s definitely been here before. Sometimes that’s a bad thing, sometimes that’s a good thing. His brain confirms that he is in a fancy fucking Ivy League college library. There is a change of clothes shoved haphazardly onto a shelf, and he tosses on the shirt and jumps into the jeans, in haste. This must become a connection point somewhere in his timeline if whatever version of himself decided to leave clothes here. He walks through a few shelves of books lined with biochemistry books, he wonders why he was brought back to this specific area. It seems like he is pulled to consistent locations and places in time, though after nearly fifteen years of this, he still can’t manage to pinpoint why these places and times are significant. Other than watching his mom die. He swallows down any such thoughts, not wanting to fall back there right now. He was just there a few days ago, glaring at the old fucking annoying version of himself hugging the kid version of himself.

What a mind fuck.

He feels the tremor in his hand, and he wishes he had traveled to a bar instead of a university library. Maybe one of the college kids here has a flask somewhere that he can steal. He sees a few kids studying and walks past them, trying to remember where the exit is to this campus library. He continues making his way through a few more shelves and tables, the fluorescent lights above blinding his eyes that are still adjusting from traveling.

“Vegeta?” A voice he has never heard before calls his name. An unexplained chill crawls up and down his spine, a blunt ringing thunders into his ear drums at the sound of the voice. So familiar and so foreign all at once. Like hearing an acoustic cover of a beloved song by an unknown singer that sounds better than the original. He doesn’t know why, it almost feels like he’s about to fall through time, again, but he doesn’t.

He turns on his black boot to see a blue haired woman holding a stack of books, her jaw unhinged in shock. His limbs start to tingle, pins and needles coating his muscles and veins as she walks towards him. Upon further inspection of her shocked features, he realizes just how stunning she is. He blinks several times hoping he’ll travel, but of course the one time he wants to, his body is weighted to the earth. Tethered there like unmoving roots planted into cement.

“Oh my god, it is you,” she whispers before her pale, white hand touches his cheek. Her touch carries such tenderness and familiarity on her part that it knocks his breath out of his lungs. He flinches at her touch, backing away before his back knocks into a bookshelf and a few books clatter to the floor.

“What the fuck?” He spits out in confusion.

“Vegeta, it’s me!” She gestures her hands up, wildly, as though the answer to this confusing riddle has a very obvious answer that he can’t seem to comprehend. His eyes quickly dart across her, staring at her, absorbing her and trying to understand if he has seen her somewhere before. It wouldn’t be the first time he hardly remembered a scorned woman cursing him out after incidentally abandoning her in the dead of night. 

In a corner of his mind, he begrudgingly acknowledges that he would have remembered a woman so beautiful and with such striking blue hair and eyes. She’s dressed in high rise denim jeans with a chunky black belt cinched tightly around her small waist, a simple white t-shirt is tucked into the jeans and clings to her full chest and a pale plaid shirt is tied at her hips. Her blue hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, soft bangs bluntly touching her eyes that dazzle at him. She’s wearing one of those stretchy black, barbed wire chokers that he always thought were stupid. But right now, he doesn’t think they look so stupid anymore.

His throat feels dry. He prays to the void that surely exists, over the god that other people foolishly cling to, that he will travel far away from here and from her. The hammering of his heart in his chest nearly knocks the sense out of him.

“Who-who are you you?” He stammers, folding his arms in front of his chest, doing anything to put distance between them, to stop the hammering, a blush permanently scarring his jaw from her touch.

She looks at him, studying him as though he is an interesting diagram, labeled and splayed out in one of the books under her arm. Her eyes flash across his forearm, exposed under the rolled-up sleeves of his tight black Henley, her eyes pause at the deep gash that runs from his elbow to his wrist, he should have gotten stitches but it’s too late for that now. Pain trickles across her face, slowly, cruelly, before acknowledgment and understanding seems to follow quickly and replace her expression.

“Oh,” is all she manages to say, her plump red lips creating a circle around the sound. “You don’t know me, yet?”

“I’ve never seen you before. So, no, I don’t know you.”

She smiles, it’s small but devastating. “Ah, well you see… that’s the thing. I’ve sort of known you for my whole life.”

He stares at her, the riddle only becoming more challenging as every second passes between them like a current of distance and magnetism all at once. 

“I’m… shit, this is so weird. I’m Bulma Briefs, it’s nice… to meet you?” She sticks out her hand, sheepishly, her other arm still clinging to the stack of books half balanced on her denim clad hip. He stares at her hand as though she has flipped him off instead of offered him a formal introduction. She chuckles for a moment, until it turns into full blown gasping laughter.

Vegeta glares at her, not only embarrassed to be near such a loud and obnoxious person in a library, but also because he doesn’t find any of this funny. She finally puts the stack of books onto a nearby table, getting shushes from a nearby college student hunched over a textbook.

“Sorry,” she whispers loudly, wiping tears from her long lashes. “I know this probably all seems—” she interrupts herself to gauge his expression “—rather strange to you. It’s strange for me, too. I’ve never seen you this… young before.” She pauses and eyes his hair, the blackest midnight. He knows it’s a contrast to the older annoying version of himself with streaks and smears of grey. “And every time I’ve seen you, you’ve known who I was.”

Vegeta can taste the anger and confusion bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Feeling as though he is on the outside of a ridiculous inside joke that he never wanted to hear in the first place.

“And who the fuck are you to me? Why should I give a shit about who you are?”

She flinches as though he has struck her and immediately crosses her arms over her chest, her bright eyes sparking from amusement to anger quicker than a match striking into a flame.

“Excuse you,” she hisses before jabbing a purple chipped fingernail into his chest. His eyes widen beyond belief, feeling as though he may have gotten whiplash from trying to keep up with this woman.

“I’m pretty fucking important to you, actually. So, you better watch yourself, homeboy.”

With each word she jabs her finger into his chest like every individual letter being stamped into a typewriter.

He grabs her hand to stop her movements, and she gazes at his knuckle wrapped around her, tracing the scars lining it with her stare.

“If you’re so fucking important then how come I don’t know you,” he says before he straightens himself up from the bookcase that he had been practically cowering into at her finger jabs into his chest.

“Because, as I said before, you have not met me yet. You… well, older you. Told me that I needed to be patient with you. That you would probably be tense and pissed off the first time I met you,” Bulma sighs in annoyance, trying to will her temper back into its cell. “But damn, you’re such an asshole.”

“Can you keep your voice down?” Vegeta hisses, walking between a few tall, metal bookcases away from the college student who had shushed them before. Bulma mumbles something he can’t quite manage under her breath before following him. He spins around to look at her, only to be temporarily frozen by the fact that she is standing so close to him. He can smell her perfume and the strawberry lip balm she has painted onto her red lips.

“How do you know about, older me?”

“Vegeta, I know. I know about the accident; I know that you travel through time against your will. I know everything about you. You’re my—” she pauses, her eyes alight with something he can’t name before she swallows down the words instead of speaking them out into existence, “—I mean. Well, I didn’t know when you were first going to meet me. I would have worn a cuter outfit if I had known.”

He stares at her, finding it difficult to focus on anything other than her mouth before shaking his head of any such thoughts. She narrows her eyes at him, trying to figure him out.

“How old are you? Are you still working at Nappa’s?” She wonders and once again he feels himself getting annoyed that she knows so much about him and he knows so little about her.

“Why do you want to know?” He snaps.

“Because, you idiot, you’re supposed to ask if I want to go get a coffee with you instead of whisper yelling at me in the campus library, duh!”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Vegeta growls before he shoves past Bulma. Before he can storm out of the library, he feels the air leaving his lungs, his body falling backwards and propelling forwards all at once. The sea blue of Bulma’s eyes lining the kaleidoscope that he is tossed into.

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February, 1996, New York

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When he comes to, he’s in an alleyway of a familiar dive bar. It’s dark, thankfully, but also so cold that even his fingernails can feel the bite in the air. He grabs a nearby garbage can lid and shields himself with it before he kicks in the back door of the bar. He slides in through the halfway cracked doorway to an inventory room and breathes a sigh of relief when he spots a gym bag with a change of clothes and sneakers inside.

Once he’s no longer naked, Vegeta walks into the bar with dust lining its liquor shelves. His hand is trembling even worse than when he traveled to the library before, he needs a drink. And for once, his traveling has brought him somewhere helpful instead of inconvenient. As he makes his way through the bar, the thick, noxious smell of cigarettes and cigars fills gray clouds in the air. Men are bickering over a green pool table littered with cigarette burns. The only lights are from the flickering beer signs and a tv that is playing some sort of random sporting event in the corner. He plops down into a worn out, high-top seat and grunts at the severe looking old bartender for a bourbon. He feels for a wallet in the back pocket from the sweatpants he just stole, but no such luck. He’ll have to figure that out later.

“Hey, asshole,” a gray, speckled haired version of Vegeta says to his younger self, punching him in the shoulder as he sits next to him at the bar.

“Oh, not you. You old bastard,” Vegeta groans, his least favorite version of himself is the self-righteous older fucker who likes to chastise him for every single little thing. As though he is better because he is older and has experienced everything already.

“Shut up, I’m not even fifty yet. And what are you, twenty-one?”

They both look across the bar into the mirror lining the walls cluttered with half empty bottom shelf liquor. Both of their jaws are lined and highlighted in red, from the blinking Budweiser sign. It’s startling to see one another sitting next to each other. The elder version looks as though he could easily be his father, not the future version of himself to the unknowing eye.

“Nearly twenty-three. So, what do you want? Or can I just drink in peace. I’ve had a weird fucking day, and that’s saying something.”

The Vegeta with faint creases near his eyes stares at him, a knowing sparkle in his black eyes before he rubs the bridge of his nose, briefly, trying to rub away his expression.

“You’ve been traveling a lot,” he notes with trepidation, the way a parent attempts to console a hormonal, rage filled teenager.

“Yeah, thanks for noticing Captain Obvious. You would fucking know.”

The older version stares at him, amusement coating his features.

“Well, are you going to ask?”

The younger Vegeta glares at him before taking a hearty gulp of the cheap, diluted bourbon. “Who the fuck is she?”

An uncharacteristic smile curls across the older man’s lips, “Ah yes, that day. We get in a bit of trouble from that day. Every once in a while, it’s brought to my attention. More like, thrown in my fucking face. Thanks a lot for that.”

He frowns at his older self in the mirror. “Can’t you just fucking explain things without being such a cryptic know it all, for once?”

“Where would the fun in that be?”

Vegeta taps the bar for another two fingers of bourbon and empties it down his throat.

“Alright well if you’re gonna just talk in riddles, I’m getting the fuck out of here. I don’t feel like getting arrested right now so, drinks are on you.”

Vegeta hops off of the bar stool and begins storming towards the exit, snagging a cigarette from an open cigarette box resting on the edge of a pool table.

“She likes mocha lattes. Triple shot, with extra whip. Don’t forget those little chocolate shavings on top or she gets huffy. Tell her you made it with skim milk but just use 2% milk. She fucking hates skim milk but drinks it because she claims she is ‘trying to be healthy,’” the older version of him calls out. “She thinks you’re just really good at making lattes, doesn’t realize it isn’t skim for years.”

Vegeta frowns and turns around to look at his older counterpart only to see that he is already gone.

Chapter Text

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scars are souvenirs you never lose,
the past is never far

August, 1996, Queens — New York

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Bulma wipes the sweat that sticks her bangs to her face with the back of her hand, huffing an exasperated breath as she walks out of the old subway car. There is no reprieve from the humid cloud of sweat inside of the subway car, and instead she is hit with a wall of heat that presses against her lungs.

“Shit,” she mutters as she realizes just how far she accidentally took the subway. She looks around, realizing that she doesn’t spot any of the towering metal buildings reflecting the burning sun anywhere. Instead, she sees brick buildings with cream-colored awnings, several bodegas and space on the sidewalks where there aren’t crowds of people everywhere. There are some trees and greenery and she can spot a park down the way. 

It was her own fault; she had been so absorbed in her book on the subway that she hadn’t even noticed the doors open at her usual stop. Then before she knew it, an express train had taken her away from Manhattan.

She shrugs and decides to try to find somewhere for a snack or at least a drink to quench the dry achy feeling in her throat she has from breathing in such unrelenting, sweltering heat. She walks down the cement stairs to the street level with her platform sandals slapping against each step.

She pauses in front of a pale brick building with a black and white striped awning above it. Vines are growing on the side of the building, not in an artful way, but in a way that says the building has been there for a long time and the owner doesn’t seem to care about the greenery. There is a large glass window with condensation accumulating on the inside from the air conditioning working itself to its limit. An aged black sign with white letters hangs above the blue painted glass door and reads ‘Saiyan’s.’

There is a chalkboard standing on its own in front of the entrance that reads in angry, scratchy, white letters ‘Soup of the day — Coffee’ below it, in tidier letters it reads ‘come in for our world-famous strawberry pastries!’ There’s a crude drawing of what she believes is supposed to be a strawberry and she snorts with laughter.

Bulma barely finishes reading the sign before she shoves the door open with a bright jingle from the bell above it. She is greeted with the cold, wet breeze of the air conditioning. She sighs in relief as she smooths out her dress and makes her way to the counter. The inside has the same matching pale brick on all of the walls; there are pewter mirrors and old records hanging everywhere in a decorative way that also says that they had not been touched in many years. There is dust collecting on the shelves where chachkies and trinkets line them. Low hanging lights with deep green lampshades are staggered throughout the space, softening to lights to a dim glow.

“Hi, do you have any of those strawberry pastries?” Bulma asks, her face practically pressed up against the glass of the display case, holding back the drool pooling in her mouth. She doesn’t see a single strawberry pastry and instead her eyes flitter across a few danishes, cinnamon buns, brownies, eclairs and bagels.

“I think we have some in the back,” a large, bald man says, his warm smile framed by a handlebar mustache. He clears his throat before calling over his shoulder, “Vegeta! Heat up one of the strawberry pastries, if we have any left!”

Bulma freezes upon hearing the name. She blinks a few times, looking around the space and trying to see if she can find any clues. He doesn’t have a name tag pinned to his apron but he is exactly the way Vegeta described him all those years ago. It is a coffee shop too, after all. But Vegeta had never told her any of the specifics, saying ‘destiny will find its stupid way,’ instead.

 “Are you… are you Nappa?” Bulma asks, her voice full of hope.

“Yes ma’am, the one and only,” Nappa says, lifting up his shoulders ever so slightly, somehow making himself even taller. “Heard of me, have you? I make the best coffee in any of the boroughs!”

Bulma grins at him. “Yes, I certainly have heard of you. And I can’t wait to try this world-famous brew of yours.”

“You’re in for a treat ma’m. I’ll make you our speciality!”

Vegeta walks out of the back room, with a pastry wrapped up in tan parchment paper before he nearly drops it upon seeing who is standing at the other side of the counter.

“It’s you,” he sputters, practically pointing a finger at her in accusation.

“I have a name, you know,” she snaps, after getting over her initial fondness of seeing Vegeta standing there. Instead, annoyance yanks ahold of her as she remembers it’s not the Vegeta she wants to see. It’s the Mr. Hyde version of her beloved Dr. Jekyll. “Bulma. B-U-L-M-A!”

He gazes at her, eyes fluttering across every part of her. He hasn’t seen her since the college library and he can’t decide if he’s thrilled that she’s there or if he wants to travel on the spot as far away from her as possible. Today, she is wearing one of those tight, skinny strapped mini dresses with a floral pattern all over it. She stands in tall, chunky black sandals that make her a few inches taller than he is. Her glare points down at him as he shoves the pastry at her, swallowing hard and trying his best not to look at the way her breasts are straining against her dress.

“Oh, you two know each other?” Nappa asks happily, clasping a bear paw onto Vegeta’s shoulder. “No wonder you were asking for one of the pastries. They’re Vegeta’s specialty! We usually sell out of them by noon.”

“She knows me, but I don’t know her,” Vegeta grunts in response.

Nappa ruffles one of his hands into Vegeta’s mess of hair. “Don’t be such an ass,” he chortles. “There’s a pretty lady standing in front of you. Go make her my speciality.”

Bulma’s smile widens even further. Nappa is just how she pictured him from Vegeta’s descriptions. Though even she couldn’t have been prepared for how large he was in person, especially in comparison to Vegeta. His hand has to be about 3 times the size of the different colored coffee mugs hanging on hooks above the espresso machines.

“I’m gonna make her something different,” Vegeta grumbles before he turns away, shrugging Nappa’s hand off of him as he grabs a to-go cup.

Bulma watches him in action. The way his bicep flexes below his indecently tight black t-shirt, the frown and focused precision of his black eyes as he warms up the milk and twists the cup into the frothing machine. Her mouth goes dry, remembering the way those strong hands felt twisted into her hair, fingers bruising against her hips as he held her in place and thrusted into her with wild abandon. His searing breath panting against her.

She shakes her head. That’s not him though. Well, it is, but it’s not. She rubs her temples giving herself a headache trying to keep up with all of this. Her eyes fall to his tight jeans, and she gulps down something resembling desire as she notes that he very much is Vegeta, the way he is wearing jeans as though he is doing them a favor for having the ass of a Greek god.

After a few moments of scurrying around the counters, he shoves the to-go cup across the counter to her with an indignant huff before grumbling something.

“What?” She asks for clarification. “I can’t understand you when you mumble like that.”

“Well, are we having this coffee together or what?” He snaps, his voice rising in embarrassment as his cheeks flush an unworldly shade of pink.

“Wow that almost sounded like a question. Try again.”

The glare he gives her fills her with a warmth that starts at the tip of her coral toenails to the top of her turquoise hair.

Nappa lets out a loud chuckle, warm and earthy and it makes her smile, too.

Vegeta yanks his apron off of his body, tossing it onto the back counter. He grabs one of the miscellaneous mugs off of the wall and fills it with coffee, she notes it’s a blue mug that says “I mustache you a question” with a little mustache on it. She suppresses a giggle before he throws open the wooden gate with an unceremonious creak. He storms over to an open booth with dark blue leather upholstery and plops himself into one of the seats, slamming his coffee mug down.

“I guess that’s his way of ‘trying again,’” Bulma says with a heavy roll of her eyes. “How much do I owe you?” She asks Nappa as she reaches into her black purse, hanging off of her shoulder.

“It’s on the house. Anyone who actually manages to know Vegeta and not punch him in the face deserves a free coffee and pastry.”

They both share a laugh as Vegeta calls from the back, “I can hear you, you know!”

“Well thank you, Nappa. It’s actually my birthday today so this is such a nice birthday gift.”

She walks to the booth and slides across the table, smoothing out her dress and placing her mug onto the table. She sees that Vegeta scratched into the paper coffee sleeve with sharpie “B-U-L-M-A”

She snorts with laughter before taking a big sip of it. The chocolate shavings melt onto her tongue, and the whipped cream sticks to her lip. Her eyes follow his that are downcast and pointed at a few scratches and bruises banged into the mahogany table between them.

“How did you know?” She wonders, as her precise mocha latte order slides down her throat.

“He told me.” His black eyes snap up to meet hers. “Didn’t tell me if you liked iced or not though so I just went on instinct that you would be weird enough to want a hot sugary latte with skim milk, of course, on the hottest day of the year.”

She licks her lips, taking care to wipe the whipped cream from her mouth in the process and he eyes her carefully, as though she is a bomb that could explode with a wrong sudden movement or the clip of the incorrect colored wire.

“Did he tell you everything else? Or was he cryptic like usual?”

“Of course not. He’s the most cryptic, insufferable fucking asshole.”

Bulma laughs, a bright chuckle that yanks at something deep inside of Vegeta’s rib cage.

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“How did I meet you, you know, when you met me for the first time?” Vegeta asks, after pulling the mustache mug away from his mouth.

“You showed up in the backyard of my parent’s house when I was just a kid. I threw a shoe at you, and you told me that you were a time traveler and you knew my name and a few things about me,” Bulma replies, the smile lighting up her features at the memory carved so deeply into her psyche that it feels like pulling out a photograph from a shoebox and pointing out all of the important details and colors. “I was insistent that you were an alien and you told me that aliens were green and I said that only an alien would say something like that.”

He measures her stare for a moment, lips parting as he processes all of this information.

“I tend to go to the same places for unexplained reasons. Or if it’s an important event.”

“I was an important event,” she beams, as she takes another sip of her latte, making a pleased sound before taking a bite of the pastry. “You travel back to my parents house many times over the years.”

He eyes her for a while, trying to not focus too much on the way her hair is pulled back and held up with those sparkly butterfly clips and all he can think of doing is in un-clipping them and tangling his hands in her hair and pulling her against him.

“God, I’ve missed your cooking so much,” she moans as the light and buttery crust melts on her tongue and the sharpness of the strawberry kicks her tastebuds. “I would kill for a cup of your homemade ramen.”

“I’ve made you ramen?” He asks in shock, having never cooked for anyone other than for the customers that came here. And even then, it was the standard stuff that Nappa wanted for the display cases.

“Yes, and I swear, it’s next level. My parents have had world renowned chefs, guest cook at their home and their ramen didn’t even come close to yours. There were a few times when you traveled that you didn’t leave right away. One time you even stayed a whole week before you traveled back.”

“I never stay anywhere that long when I travel,” his brows crease in confusion.

“Yet,” she adds.

“This is really fucking annoying,” Vegeta sighs as he rubs his temples before taking a long sip of his black coffee, giving himself a ridiculous looking mustache printed from the top of the mug.

His hand trembles violently as he holds the handle of the mug and Bulma can’t help but notice it, as well as the severe crinkle that creases into his forehead. He paws at his pants pocket for a moment before procuring a small, silver flask and pours a few dashes of it into his coffee.

“But drinking makes you travel,” she blurts out in dismay as he takes another long sip from the now spiked beverage.

“No, drinking helps to stop me from traveling,” he corrects her, his tone snippy and annoyed. “Why else would I fucking drink? I’m not some weak asshole.”

“No, it makes it worse. Like a lot worse. Dr. Whis says that you can’t drink alcohol at all or be around too many electronic devices because they can also set you off and make you travel. And—”

“—who the fuck is Dr. Whis?” Vegeta asks, anger tinting his words. He hates the feeling of not knowing what is going on.

“He’s the doctor that helps you when you get older. He helps you understand more about your condition, runs a bunch of tests on you? You mean, you haven’t heard of him yet?”

“Obviously not!”

“You know, you don’t have to take this fucking attitude with me, tough guy,” Bulma says, her tongue sharpened into a blade, preparing for battle.

He opens his mouth and shuts it. Bulma sighs before taking another sip of her latte and puts her pastry down for a moment. She tries to will away her annoyance and instead her eyes trace over his face, the rage overwhelming his black eyes. But as she searches deeper, she can see that the rage is just a facade to hide the deep pain etched inside, instead. She eyes some of the scars on his forearms, on his knuckles and takes a note of the sharp black of his hair, the lack of gray in it a reminder to her of all he has yet to see.

She reaches across the table in an action that she can’t decide if it’s a kindness or an act of violence, as her hand grasps his.

He stares at their hands, connected, the paleness of hers grabbing ahold of his tan, calloused knuckle.

“You look like you’ve been having a really hard time,” she says softly, her eyes examining him with such a tenderness that it takes him by surprise.

“I’m fine,” his voice crumples like a piece of paper, falling to the floor, tossed away and disregarded.

“You said to take it easy on you, and instead I’m just throwing everything at you all at once.”

He clears his throat, his lips parting as he tries to remember to breathe. Her hand releases his before it cups his cheek, cradling it with her hand warmed by her coffee cup.

“It’s just hard for me, I-I’ve known you for as long as I can remember and you just… you look at me like a stranger,” she whispers, and his eyes widen as her thumb grazes his sharp cheekbone, stroking it tenderly.

“Can we start again?”

Vegeta searches her large cerulean eyes, paralyzed by the sight of her, from the feeling of her hand touching his face. She bites her lip and he feels like he is falling away, that his body is being yanked downward but his soul is still floating above him.

“Fine,” he says.

“It’s my birthday, you know,” she says softly. “It’s no coincidence that I just happened to accidentally take a subway out here and walk into Nappa’s coffee shop, and on my birthday, no less. You never told me about this meeting, though. Just said that we would have coffee together at some point.”

“Happy birthday,” he grumbles.

Before he can say anything further he feels the tug again, and he is catapulted from his body and into the cruel kaleidoscope of time.

Bulma sits on the other side of the booth, watching him disintegrate and fade away, like a masterpiece drawn into the sand only for a wave to wash up on the shore and take it away from her.

She feels childish, petulant for getting excited to finally spend a birthday with him. She should be used to it by now, watching him leave. It’s the only constant that he has offered her. But it doesn’t hurt any less as she stares at the pile of clothes where Vegeta was once was sitting.

“Thanks,” she whispers, taking another bite of the strawberry pastry and swallowing down the stinging that threatens her blue eyes.

Chapter Text

_______________________________

in the shape of things to come,
too much poison come undone

August, 1996, Manhattan — New York

_______________________________

Vegeta comes to, getting up from the floor of an apartment he’s never seen before. He stands up immediately, trying to get his bearings. The shadow of Bulma’s glittering eyes still dragging across his body. The walls are brick, varying shades of maroon and terracotta, only to be covered up haphazardly by a few band posters being help up with scotch tape and a prayer. The bed is untidy, decorative pillows thrown everywhere, blankets and sheets twisted up as though they were purposely left a mess. There’s piles of clothes covering the floral rug and Christmas lights dangle from the ceiling over the bed. A butterfly chair with even more clothes and shoes piled on top of it is shoved in the corner of the room. He frowns, wondering where in the actual hell he is before he sees a few photos pinned up onto a cork board.

He sees the smear of turquoise, and his chest tightens, her full lips and her bright eyes in several pictures. It’s disconcerting for a moment, having just seen her a few seconds ago. Her blue eyes wide in disappointment as he faded through her fingertips at Nappa’s. But she’s there again, in photographs on the walls, in the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, her lipgloss on her desk with about a million other make-up products everywhere.

He hears a door shut and immediately rummages through the pile of clothes on the floor attempting to find something to cover himself up.

///

Bulma unchains the metal of her chain link lock on the apartment door. She shoves the door open with an unceremonious push of her shoulder, while she jingles the keys at just the right angle. She walks inside, stumbling ever so slightly before she kicks off her platform sandals in the middle of the hall and slams the door shut behind her.

Her apartment is in disarray from her hasty departure this morning, not that messiness is out of the ordinary for Bulma by any means, but Chi-Chi would normally have cleaned some of it up at some point, or complained to Bulma all about it, but she was staying at Goku’s place for a few days. Bulma rummages for a corkscrew in the junk drawer that was is full of miscellaneous items that it would get jammed and not open correctly. After sorting past a few packets of duck sauce, rubber bands, and an assortment of butterfly clips she yanks the corkscrew out and twists the cork out of the bottle of Chardonnay with a loud thunk.

She decides, it being her birthday and all and not because she would likely do this anyhow, that she is going to drink straight from the bottle instead of wasting any glasses that she would have to clean at some point. Chi-Chi would just end up rewashing it anyway, claiming that Bulma didn’t wash the dishes properly.

Her throat bobs as she takes a long, purposeful gulp from the bottle before wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The sigh she lets out is loud, attention seeking and she isn’t sure why, as no one is here to listen to it. It’s her own fault. She told Chi to go see Goku because they were going to have her birthday party this weekend. She’s an adult and doesn’t need people to be home with her on her birthday. She will drink wine out of the bottle, eat the take-out ramen that was in her fridge, ice cold, and read a trashy romance novel. She won’t wallow in self-pity that she is alone on her birthday. Or that she has no cake to blow a candle out of.

It’s fine. She’s fine.

She snorts out loud to herself, not even believing the own lie she is attempting to build.

Bulma sighs loudly, again, as she rummages through the lilac painted cabinets of the kitchen, for nothing in particular. Maybe a cure for the melancholy that has had her in its suffocating embrace since she watched Vegeta disappear this afternoon. She glares at the butcher block countertops as though it will help mend the aching inside of her somehow. It doesn’t but she’s certain that another swig of wine will help.

A clambering knock at the apartment door rattles her from her thoughts. And before she can think about it for too long, she flings the door open to see who could be bothering her at this time of night. She secretly wonders, hoping and dreading all at once, that Panchy decided to surprise her.

Instead, blue meets black and Bulma’s jaw unlocks itself as she sees him standing there.

He’s soaking wet, a heather-gray Henley clings to every muscle of his frame, his black pointed hair is pointing downward instead of up, and she sees a light smear of gray on the sides, the haunted charcoal of his eyes that she saw earlier today, softened, brightened instead. He’s holding a pink pastry box with a candy cane striped string holding it together and tied neatly at the top like a present.

“Vegeta,” she says as though it’s as easy as inhaling and exhaling.

“I believe it is your birthday,” he says, with that smirk that curls around her abdomen like a beckoning finger.

She grabs him by his wet collar and yanks him in for a kiss, devastating, crushing and so filled with hunger that they both fall into one another and against the door that shuts behind them.

His hands are warm and cold all at once, twisted into her hair, pulling it out of her elaborate styling and throwing a few clips down to the dented wood floors. She whimpers against him, arching her back like a cat and pressing her body into his.

He pulls away as quickly as they began, panting, chuckling quietly as though there is some joke that she is unaware of. He is still clutching the pastry box somehow managing to find a way to secure it while she jumped him.

“I know the date, but I don’t know the year. It was sort of a crapshoot coming to your old apartment because I didn’t even know if you still lived here.” he says, running a tan hand through his wet hair, squeezing some of the water out of it. “I ended up traveling and falling right into a fucking wishing well pond near Central Park. It’s been a few months since I’ve traveled. I almost forgot what it’s like.”

She watches him, the way his lips move and the way his hands gesture as he speaks. The intimacy of his voice, deep and scratching like fingers running against the bark of a familiar tree. Bulma can’t help but smile at him.

“Dr. Whis is really helping you, that’s great,” she sighs in relief, as they find themselves in the kitchen, opposing sides, backs leaned against the purple cabinets.

Vegeta shrugs in a noncommittal way. “Am I… here?” He asks, glancing around the apartment, eying the pile of books, coffee mugs and papers on the kitchen table.

Bulma swallows down the fluttering in her abdomen. “No. I saw you at Nappa’s today, though. I got to finally meet him.”

Vegeta nods in a knowing way that usually irritates her a bit, but all she can do is find it endearing as she watches every inch of him just existing in front of her. He places the pastry box onto the kitchen table his eyes linger with a certain annoyed fondness for the chaotic mess that she has left. He turns back to face her, and his eyes trace every line of her, memorizing her in great detail, like studying for a test that he desperately needs to pass.

She approaches him, hands smoothing out the front of his shirt, and she can feel the tremor run through him, beneath her at just her light touch.

“Bulma,” he says, as though he has any idea of where he intends for the conversation to go.

“Vegeta,” she responds, a purr as her hand curls at the nape of his neck and she presses her body against his.

“Do I ever get jealous of…” Bulma pauses, trying to phrase her sentence correctly only to smirk at the joke of it all, “…me?”

Vegeta sputters out a sound that resembles a whimper as her hand slides into his jeans and wraps around his cock.

“No, you fucking love it. Vulgar woman,” he rasps, as her grip tightens around him. “You love when I come home and smell of you. And the knowledge that every version of you is mine.”

She sighs and moans all at once as she drops to her knees licking a trail across her lips of wine as she unbuttons and yanks open his pants, freeing him.

“I bet when you go home after this, I’ll want to fuck you all over again. Hear about everything you did to me.”

His head tilts back, he takes a deep shuddering breath before running his hand over his face, trying to rub some sense into it.

“You haven’t touched me since the first time,” she says, matter-of-factly, a rush of heat clambers through her at just the thought of it. She looks up at him, half lidded as she brings her lips to the head of his cock.

His hand is at the back of her head staring down at her. “Am I still in trouble for that? I can’t believe you threw a book at me!”

Her mouth circles around him, her pillowy lips press against his cock as it slides all the way to the back of her throat. He chokes out nothing short of a hallelujah, her mouth and tongue vigorously sucking and humming. She nearly gags on his length, letting him thrust involuntarily into her mouth.

She stops just as soon as she started, her hand wiping at her mouth, her face already flushed and her strawberry lipgloss and saliva glistening on her lips and cheek.

Vegeta tries to grab her, but she swats him away.

“Do you ever get jealous of him?” She wonders.

“Yes,” he hisses as her tongue circles around him before taking a long suck at the tip, eying him the entire time.

“Enough of your games,” he growls before he yanks her up off of the kitchen floor and tosses her onto the counter, furious with desire.

He hikes her dress up, releasing the breath he was holding as he stares at her black thong, already wet. His fingers hook on the fabric as he slides it off of her smooth legs, slowly, taking care of dragging a finger against her entrance and then following the path of her thong. She whimpers, tilting her head back, exposing her heaving breasts, still straining against her floral dress.

His mouth descends on her, taking every measure to suck every inch of her, except where she specifically needs him to.

“I’ve thought about you inside of me every day since. Ached for you to just appear in my room and fuck me until I couldn’t move.”

Vegeta growls, fervently against her, the vibrations causing her to moan. He presses his tongue against the hood of her clit before licking it slowly, languidly.

“Fuck, Vegeta,” she whimpers, her voice whining with desperation. “I need you to fuck me, now,” she pleads with him, fingers twisting into his hair, trying to pull him off. Instead, he slides a thick finger into her, curling it in the precise way that causes her to cry out and grasp, and shove his head harder against her cunt.

Before she can even fully appreciate just how good he is at this, she is splintering apart, mewling and clawing at his hair, kicking her feet against the lilac cabinets and screaming out for him, a lilting falsetto of restraint being unbound. She holds him in place as she wades in the waves of her orgasm, breath hitching and panting as she rides against his face.

She rips him off of her, the sensation becoming too much, and he drags his tongue against her clit, pressing down for good measure until she is shaking violently, the overstimulation causing her to gasp.

“I thought about doing that at Nappa’s when you spelled your name for me. Shutting up that smart mouth of yours and giving you something to moan about,” he pants at her throat, lips slick with her wetness.

“I need your cock inside of me, now.” She pulls at his hips, yanking him forward.

He holds his length and thrusts into her roughly, slamming her backwards until her head hits the overhead lilac cabinets with a clattering thud. She attempts to grab onto the butcher block wood to ground herself, as he fucks her like a man possessed with want. His mouth is on hers, tasting her salty need, tongue battling the seams of her mouth to taste every part of her.

///

Vegeta hears a few voices and then some clambering and thuds. He grabs the first thing that is oversized enough to fit into and pulls on some green sweatpants and a pink button-down shirt before he opens the door with a soft creak, peering through the open crack of it to see where the voices are coming from.

Through the thin line of light from the doorway, he sees turquoise and black and his heart skips a few beats. Across the open living room with jewel toned velvet couches and mismatched wood furniture, he can see the kitchen.

But the thing that nearly causes him to fall down is the sight of Bulma on her knees before a version of him. His head tilted back and moaning, hands fisted into her hair as he fucks her mouth.

His cock grows hard before he has the opportunity to reason with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters his hand already drifting to the waistband of Bulma’s lime green sweatpants.

The sight of himself, moaning and writhing at her touch, the pinnacle of self-control and pride, nothing more than a whimpering and primal mess, is too much to bear. He grasps his hard length, his breath wavering as he twists around it in time with the movement of Bulma’s head.

She stops, and so does his clenched fist. “Do you ever get jealous of him?” And he freezes, wondering if he has been spotted. Embarrassment and lust flush his entire system. Here he is, jerking off while watching a future version of himself getting his cock sucked by the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. His head is dizzy trying to figure it all out, but it doesn’t stop himself from rutting against his still hand. His other hand braces himself against the brick wall, nails digging against it.

“Yes. Enough of your games.” He hears the older version of himself respond and he knows it’s true. Although his cock has never been harder, watching the spectacle in front of him, he can’t help but also feel a territorial sense of hatred towards his older counterpart. He should be the one kneeling in front of her, offering a humbling prayer at her sweet entrance.

“I’ve thought about you inside of me every day since. Ached for you to just appear in my room and fuck me until I couldn’t move.”

His hand moves furiously, clutching against himself as he watches her. Her hands tangled in his hair, pressing him against her cunt and moaning, begging for him to fuck her. The sounds she makes when she cums, he knows for certain, will haunt him forever. Rewiring his brain and understanding that he would level civilizations just to hear her cry his name in release.

“I thought about doing that at Nappa’s when you spelled your name for me. Shutting up that smart mouth of yours and giving you something to moan about.”

“I need your cock inside of me, now.”

His hips shudder against his hand and he squeezes his cock, hard, imagining what it feels like to be inside of her tight entrance, feeling her clenching around him, feet digging into his ass as he pounds into her.

Vegeta bites down hard on his lip, tasting blood, the metallic tingling as he spills himself into her sweatpants. Hot, thick cum pours down his pumping fist as he watches himself fuck her onto the kitchen counter. His other fist pounds against the brick wall to silence the loud moan that claws at his throat to escape.

///

“I want you to fill me, want to feel you inside of me even after you go. Feel your cum rolling down my leg,” she pants, her second release already imminent.

That seems to undo him, his hips move recklessly, wildly before he releases, hard, pounding his fist onto the butcher block counter, grasping her hip tightly.

“Bulma,” he groans, a wavering baritone. A thundering war drum, banging in surrender. She clenches around him, pulsating and pleading for relief from such a life-changing orgasm.

They stay like that, entangled, entwined and content. Stroking, nuzzling and sighing before they pull apart from one another and put themselves back together.

“I love you,” she whispers, kissing his jaw, his cheek, stroking him like he is her greatest treasure.

“‘I know,’” he smirks, and she swats him playfully.

His mouth is on hers, tender instead of devouring like it was moments before. He helps her down off of the counter, holding her hand with gentle familiarity. The feral, voracious man fucking her brains out minutes ago, now replaced with the strong, confident strength that feels like home. He walks her over to the kitchen table, moving a few piles of papers and coffee cups out of the way, and pushes the pastry box to the center of it. 

“Sit on the table,” he instructs her.

“Round two, already?” She waggles her eyebrows at him and he gives her a pointed stare, gesturing her to follow his lead. “Would you just follow directions for once in your life, woman,” he grunts in annoyance.

She sticks her tongue out at him before climbing on-top of the table, making sure to stick her ass out for good measure, giving Vegeta a staggering view. She can hear his breath hitch before she sits down on the table, crossing her legs underneath of herself with feigned innocence. 

“Okay now, why am I sitting on the table?” She wonders, hands falling up to her hair, running her fingers through it and pushing it away from her face. “I don’t think this table that Goku nearly broke carrying into the apartment last summer is going to hold us fucking on it.”

Vegeta walks back over to the kitchen counter, rummaging through a few cabinets and drawers until he appears to find what he was looking for. He approaches her, holding a tall candle in a glass candle stick, a tie dye lighter between his fingers before he places it on the table. He then climbs onto the table across from her, sitting down.

“What the hell is this about?” She asks, her words coated in amusement.

“Well, I can’t drive, so I couldn’t show up in a red Porsche and an ugly sweater vest to pick you up. I also couldn’t get a birthday cake at this hour so I settled for a cupcake,” he grunts as he opens up the pastry box, revealing a strawberry cupcake, a glossy sugarcoated strawberry on top of twisted white frosting.

“Oh my god,” Bulma gasps with realization, her hand covering her mouth. “Are we doing Sixteen Candles?”

“I know it’s your favorite movie,” he grumbles, as he lights the tall candle with the lighter and places it in front of her, beside the cupcake box. He sits back on his crossed legs as they face each other. The light from the candle paints her in an amber warmth, the edges of her turquoise hair becoming orange for a flicker of a moment. “You’ve made me watch it enough. I think you brainwashed me or maybe it has subliminal messages in it.”

She giggles with a child-like glee, kicking her feet below her. Vegeta glares at her. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Shut up and let me have my moment,” she teases before clearing her throat and smoothing out her dress over her crossed legs.

“Happy birthday, Bulma,” he says, his cheeks painted pink as he recalls exactly what Jake Ryan said in the movie. “Make a wish.”

The grin that runs across Bulma’s face fills Vegeta with warmth that will keep him steady for the rest of his years. To know he has put that level of happiness on her face when it feels like all he has done is brought her sorrow mends a hurt that he believed could never be fixed.

“I think it already came true,” Bulma says slyly, quoting Samantha, before they lean in, to kiss. 

There’s a loud clamber of sound before Bulma’s bedroom door flies open and a younger Vegeta, wearing her pink shirt, stammers in behind it, falling to the floor below them.

Chapter Text

_______________________________

time for you to go out
to the places you will be from

August, 1996, Manhattan, New York

_______________________________

“Vegeta,” Bulma says, unable to think of anything more intelligent than pointing out the obvious that the other version of him is here, also. Her eyes widen slightly, wondering just how long he has been here for.

“I-I just traveled here and heard voices talking so I walked out to see where I was,” he stammers before he stands up, smoothing out the pink shirt and sweatpants that he is pretending is not slick with his cum on the inseams. What had actually happened was that he was attempting to clean himself up and after he fixed himself back into the sweatpants, he was staring through the crack in the door to figure out what the hell they were doing on the table before he tripped and fell through it.

The older Vegeta stares at him, knowingly, always knowingly but especially in an embarrassing moment like this. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment and amusement all at once as he recalls this moment. Younger Vegeta gives him a withering glare that silently communicates: Go Fuck Yourself.

Older Vegeta’s knowing smirk broadens as he silently replies with: Well, you already have. Horny bastard.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen two of you in a room together,” Bulma marvels sitting up from the table and looking back and forth between the two, cutting the tense silence in half.

“I wish I could say the same,” Vegeta grumbles as he crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps straining against the pink sleeves.

“Nice shirt,” Bulma giggles as she stands up from the table, placing herself in between the pair of Vegetas before strolling over to the counter that still has the bottle of Chardonnay on it. She takes a long swig of it, eying each man carefully who in turn watch her every movement.

“You know, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this before,” her eyes go back and forth between both men who seem to blush at precisely the same time, a mirror’s edge and time separating them.

“Something tells me that you two have something to discuss so I’m gonna go,” the elder Vegeta says, clearing his throat and changing the subject at once. “Good night.”

The younger Vegeta glares at him and he chuckles, giving Bulma a long, all-consuming glance before he is shutting the apartment door behind him.

“My birthday party is on Saturday, I’d like it if you’d be there,” Bulma bursts the silence, inspecting Vegeta’s reaction as he appears to stare at his knuckles in protest. “We can try to start fresh… if you want.”

Vegeta’s gaze lifts and flickers all around her, the swollenness of her lips, the untidiness of her turquoise hair, how her bangs are sticking out in different directions from being fucked on the kitchen counter earlier. And how he wishes he were the one doing the fucking.

“Fine. Where is it?”

“Here, at my and Chi’s apartment. Probably on the rooftop if the weather cooperates.”

“I’ll be there,” he says, his voice clipped with an edge to it, worried that if he doesn’t try to mask the wavering nervousness inside of him, that he’ll slip away. The thought of a new beginning filling him with hope in a way that terror fills a child watching a scary movie. Hope had only ever given him grief. But it latches onto him, nonetheless. A poison, decaying inside of him.

He begins walking away from her and towards the apartment door that his older counterpart went through only a few moments ago.

”Good night,” he says before nearly kicking himself as he realizes that is exactly what he said before he left, too.

“Good night, Vegeta,” she replies, quietly.

He freezes with his hand on the knob of the door. “Happy birthday,” he mumbles as he turns his head, showing his strong, jagged profile to her.

Bulma smiles at him, and he turns away before opening the door and closing it behind him.

_______________________________

August, 1982, Westchester, NY

_______________________________

Bulma tiptoes out of the back door, before realizing that her parents wouldn’t really care that she is sneaking out of her house at 10. Her dad is likely still caught up in the lab and her mother is probably having her fourth cosmo and reading a trashy romance novel. It’s not like she’s doing anything bad; she is coming to look at the stars through her new telescope that she just got for her 7th birthday yesterday.

She slides the glass door behind her as she trudges across the oversized wooden deck, walking around the kidney shaped in-ground pool with pool floats still bobbing in it, highlighted by the stars above. She continues walking down the expansive property until she is a few acres away from her parents' mansion, now just a speck in the distance, and in the large clearing of grass on the top of a hill beside where the trees begin to stagger into woods.

She places the telescope down, setting it up onto its tripod carefully and securely before she pulls her backpack off of her back, taking out the plaid blanket and smoothing it out on top of the grass. Once the blanket is exactly how she wants it to be, Bulma plops onto it.

She unwraps her gigantic peanut butter, sliced strawberry and fluff sandwich out of the tinfoil packaging, sighing in contentment. She grasps the edges of it, taking a large bite and feeling the sugar tingling onto her tongue, the gooey texture stuck to the roof of her mouth. She closes her eyes, sighing happily. Her brand-new telescope, a hot summer night and the rush of sugar saturating her veins. A perfect night.

A rustle in the woods behind her startles her. She realizes, her eyes flickering to her half-opened purple JanSport, that she forgot the foghorn to scare off any bears and her pulse starts thundering inside of her.

Bulma shoots up from the ground, smoothing out her pink pajama nightgown. She clears her throat before turning around and facing the trees where she can see some movement and hears more thuds and the shaking of branches, heavy with the greenery. She immediately stands on one foot, lifting up the other, and wrangling her beaten up Keds off of her foot. She launches it where she hears the rustling and can see the bushes shaking.

She hears grunting and grumbling before there’s an unceremonious “ow, fuck!”

“Don’t come any closer! I-I have a gun. I’ll shoot it!” Bulma shouts, her words coming out stronger than she could possibly feel. It’s a blatant lie, of course. But now she wishes that she had at least brought out a toy bubble gun to have something to back up her claim.

“I don’t doubt that you would,” the gravely voice responds in amusement. “I come in peace. Now, give me your blanket!”

“Excuse you! Where are your manners!” Bulma pauses, mid fear, clasping her hands onto her hips and glaring at the offensive bush that is still moving. “You don’t have to be so rude!”

She hears a chuckle before the voice clears its throat. “I should know better than anybody by now. Sorry—Bulma,” he says exaggerating the a in her name. “May I please borrow your blanket?”

“Wait. How do you know my name?” Bulma’s eyes widen to the size of the moon hanging above them. “Are-are you an alien?”

The voice tumbles into laughter, warm and scratchy like the branches that are trembling around it. “I am a time traveler, and I know you from the future. When I travel, my clothes do not come with me because they are not a part of my body. So please, if you wouldn’t mind. Can I borrow your blanket so that I can walk out from here to talk to you?”

Bulma sighs. “Fine. If you know me from the future, then…”

“You just got your telescope for your birthday yesterday. You snuck past Panchy, who was probably three cosmos deep, ogling a romance novel with Fabio on it, and you are eating a peanut butter, strawberry and fluff sandwich,” the voice answers her question that she didn’t get to ask and Bulma’s mouth shuts so quickly she nearly gives herself whiplash.

“Are you sure you’re not an alien?”

“I’m not an alien. Aliens are… green, and you will be able to see that I’m not green if you let me borrow your blanket and come out from the bushes.”

“Only an alien would say something ridiculous like that.”

The voice sighs, loudly, in fatigue and humor all at once.

“Please, Bulma.”

Her eyes narrow at the bush before she puts her sandwich and tinfoil into her backpack and lifts the plaid blanket off of the ground, taking care to brush the grass and leaves clinging to the bottom of it. She walks over to the tree line, trudging through the tall grass and wildflowers on one bare foot.

She tosses the blanket down and turns around, crossing her arms over her chest. After a few moments, she hears the rustling of fabric before a throat clears itself and says, “alright, I’m ready.”

She turns around, quickly, and sees a man wrapped in her plaid blanket, clutching the ends in a knot at his side. He has tall, black hair, twisted up and windswept with some gray in the edges. His eyes are darker than the night sky, and his skin is not green, but tan and highlighted by sharp contours of moonlight. His shoulders are tight, yet muscular, like taught leather on a comfortable chair. He’s shorter than she expected him to be, well especially since she originally thought he was a bear or an alien, but there is something about his presence that makes him appear larger than life. Something inside of her lurches forward. A magnet waved across metal, being yanked by an invisible connection. She swallows down the feeling, and the other feeling that feels a whole lot like when she makes her dolls kiss one another.

“Alright, buddy. I want to hear more about how you know so much about me,” Bulma says, in her best business-like tone, tightening her arms around her waist and glaring at him, accusatory.

He smirks, chuckling again as though he is in on some joke and shifts where he’s standing. “I should know you would not make this easy on me. Well, I was in an accident when I was a little bit older than you are now, it left me with the ability to travel in time against my will. I come from the future, about thirty years from now and I…know you then.”

Bulma blinks at him, there’s something about the tone in his voice that she finds comfort in. He speaks to her as though she is another person instead of pitching his tone higher and talking to her like someone would talk to a baby. The way all of her parents’ friends speak to her, and her teachers. It’s a weird feeling to feel so understood by someone she doesn’t know at all.

“Am I still pretty, in the future?” Bulma blurts out before she can come up with a more mature and dignified question. “Even though I’m like, really old?”

“I’m going to make sure that I remind… you, that you think thirty-eight is really old,” he says, humor coating every word. “And yes, you’re still pretty.”

 Bulma sighs in relief she didn’t realize she needed. “Okay, but why am I friends with you?”

“Who said anything about us being friends? I said that I know you in the future.”

Bulma feels a strange sadness overwhelm her. She can’t seem to understand why she feels disappointed to hear that she’s not friends with this not-alien, time traveling grown-up that she has known for about 3 minutes in total. But she can’t shake it off.

“Oh,” she replies, finally, the syllable echoing into the night. She shifts her weight in the tall grass, watching a few lightning bugs flickering behind him. She leans down to scratch her ankle that is being tickled by white yarrow and reeds.

“Well, what’s your name? That way when I meet you when I’m an old lady I’ll remember you.”

“It’s Vegeta. But I’ll see you again in a few weeks. And many, many times after that.”

“But I thought you said we weren’t friends!”

“I was teasing you. And I never said we weren‘t friends, either.”

“You’re kind of annoying. And you don’t really act like a grown up,” Bulma snaps, and the man, Vegeta, laughs. A hearty chuckle warm and earthy like the soil beneath their feet.

“You’re not the first person who has told me that,” he replies.

She nibbles on the inside of her cheek and stares at him before he shifts where he is standing.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“I guess,” she replies, scratching the back of her neck as she contemplates if maybe she fell asleep, and this is all actually a dream.

“Can you leave one of your father’s old pants and shirts with some shoes out here? That way when I travel back here, again, I can just pick up the clothes and not have to worry about borrowing your blankets or having the police chase me.”

“How do I know you’re going to come back?”

Vegeta looks at her, thoughtfully. As though she has said something that has a far deeper meaning to him than it does for her.

“I guess you’ll just have to trust my word.”

Bulma nods at him. “Do you want to see my telescope?”

“Maybe another time, I’m about to leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m about to travel back to my timeline, hopefully.”

“Oh.”

Vegeta reaches out his hand, still grasping the blanket around him with this other hand.

“It was nice to meet you, Bulma.”

She eyes his hand unsure of what to do, before her eyes flicker up to his face. The gentleness in his eyes feeling like embracing her favorite stuffed animal monkey. Her small hand finally grabs his and as she touches his rough, calloused fingers, she feels pins and needs vibrating in her fingertips.

She looks down at his hand to see it fading away, pixels vanishing like PAC-man eating the white dots and fretting away from the ghosts. Her eyes flicker back up to his face, already faded away before the plaid blanket collapses in a heap onto the overgrown grass, along with her jaw that hangs open in shock.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she whispers, out loud, to no one before being stunned into silence.

Chapter Text

_______________________________

fade into you

August, 1996, Queens — New York

_______________________________

Vegeta eyes the clock on the faded, brick wall, hanging above him as he wipes down the counters. Bulma didn’t give him a specific time to show up for her birthday party, but he assumed it would be alright to go there once his shift ended instead of asking Nappa for the day off.

Nappa was especially patient and understanding with Vegeta leaving against his will and showing up naked at all different times with various versions of himself. He didn’t even blink or look fazed anymore. Just a nod and a simple, ‘hey, I put your apron on the hook for ya.’ It wasn’t always traveling every day, nonstop. Or at least it hadn’t been like that forever. It was the last couple of months that it seemed like he was traveling every couple of days. The longest he had ever gone without traveling had been a week. But something seemed to be catapulting him further, quickly, away from the current timeline and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He sees blue, reflected from an old painting that is hanging on the wall, its crystal-clear reflection staring back on the shiny polished white countertops. Nappa has a few prints of paintings hanging up amongst the album covers and knick-knacks that are a colossal pain in the ass to clean. There are a couple of JMW Turner prints hanging up and one in particular is staring back at him. The tumultuous ocean crashing into the white crests of the countertop.

Vegeta shakes his head and tosses the rag into the sink before he begins taking off his navy blue apron.

“I’m heading out,” Vegeta calls towards the semi-closed door to the kitchen.

“Got a hot date, huh?” Nappa calls back before strolling through the rotating door with a conspiratorial grin on his face.

“No.”

“Well then why did you actually dress nice and check your hair about five times in the reflection of the espresso machine?”

Vegeta opens his mouth and immediately shuts it, snapping his jaw into its tense resting position. “Fuck off, man.”

Nappa chuckles, his booming rattle. “Well, have fun kid. Let me know if you need a ride or anything later.”

“Nah, I’m just taking the subway to the… city— oh no,” Vegeta pauses, trying to imagine a lead filled anchor weighing him down. He swallows several times, out of habit as though it will make a difference.

Not now.

He can’t travel right now. He slams his eyes shut, trying all of his tricks to not travel, though they never seem to work and he feels dumb any time he tries them. Like an athlete purposely wearing a certain colored sock as if it actually brings them luck when playing. His own weird superstition to ward off traveling. But instead, he’s striking out in the bottom of the ninth, regardless of his sock color.

“Fuck!” Vegeta shouts, before his insides are yanked outside by gravity and he tumbles into the kaleidoscope abyss.

_______________________________

February, 1984, Queens, New York

_______________________________

Vegeta feels the pull of oxygen shaken out of him, like coins being rattled out of an old piggy bank until he is crumpled onto a cold, carpeted floor. He blinks himself back up before grabbing a blanket he sees on top of a bed. He covers himself with it, forming a giant knot at his waist and holding it in place.

It’s dark, with only the moonlight pooling into the room and highlighting edges and corners. But he knows where he is almost instantly. His younger self sits up in bed, holding up his fists ready for a fight. Vegeta can’t help but smirk.

“Oh, it’s just you,” he sighs but it’s not quite in relief. More acceptance and reluctance all at once.

“Hey, kid,” Vegeta says, his voice still gruff.

“I’m 11,” his younger self announces, purposely deepening his voice, as though being twelve somehow doesn’t count as him being a kid.

Vegeta nods before he goes over to a tall dresser with baseball cards on top of it and a beaten-up glove. He clicks on the lamp before he rummages in the dresser until he finds an old pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that belong to his dad. He clears his throat as he dresses, trying not to let his mind tumble too far.

“Where’s dad?” He asks, carefully, not recalling precisely when the drinking got so out of control that he started to disappear for a few days at a time.

“Don’t know. I figured out dinner for Tarble and got him in bed. Made sure he did his homework but dad never came home.”

Vegeta swallows thickly, his throat so dry that he can’t manage to get around the feeling and his heart starts to thud wildly inside of his chest. He remembers those nights so clearly. His own stomach grumbling in agony as he scraped peanut butter jars clean, using stale bread and eating the cut off crusts as his own dinner so that his little brother would get some sort of nutrition. The feeling of selling his bike, the last gift his mother gave him, though she didn’t get to give it to him personally. Just so that he could buy groceries for a few weeks.

The familiar anger bubbles inside of him and he immediately shoves the lid on top of the boiling pot. This is not the time.

His younger self eyes him for a long while, as though he can read exactly what he is thinking about. And Vegeta feels the familiar pang in his gut. That hunger and grief all at once. His younger self looks especially gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his eyes in a torrent.

“Do you know how to pick locks yet?”

Younger Vegeta frowns at his older self. “No.”

“Alright, well let me show you. Go get a paper clip.”

They spend some time trying the different doorknobs in the house; Vegeta showing his younger self how to twist and click things in the right place. How to listen against the door for the correct noises and the precise moments.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” His gruff voice cuts through the silence.

Vegeta doesn’t answer him and instead clears his throat, trying to remedy the inability to breathe or say anything at all.

“I mean, like one day he just doesn’t come home, right? I keep waiting for it to happen, but he always stumbles in at some point. Acts like he was never gone.”

Vegeta wants to tell him, no. That he wishes he had never come home. It would have actually made things better, because then at least he and Tarble might have been able to go somewhere else, sooner. But he doesn’t start staying at Nappa’s for another couple of years not until he’s about seventeen. And by then, he was nearly an adult anyway. At least Tarble got a scholarship for that prestigious high school for the gifted and was able to get away from it all. No thanks to his father.

“It all works out,” Vegeta answers automatically, half hating himself for saying the same shit the older, annoying part of him would say, and half understanding why he had to say it all in the first place, all at once. Acceptance and realization fall hard onto him.

Younger Vegeta flares his breath through his nostrils in annoyance. “Whatever the fuck that even means,” he grumbles.

Vegeta smirks at his younger self. “Hey, lets go break into the deli down the block and get something real to eat. Put your new lock picking skills to good use.”

The annoyance is replaced with excitement almost immediately, as younger Vegeta runs up the stairs to change out of his pajamas.

_______________________________

August, 1996, Manhattan, New York

_______________________________

Bulma peers over the lip of her red solo cup, closing one eye and watching the way the bistro lights strung up across the rooftop resemble stars smearing together behind her blurry vision. She blinks and closes the other, marveling at how the lights and stars shift position just from the way her eyes blink.

The music thuds against her ear drums, and she watches a few people dancing and mingling across the cemented rooftop and Persian rugs for the make-shift dance floor. They had managed to bring up a few old, beaten-up couches from the thrift store. Several kegs full of beer and coolers held bottles of wine and wine coolers. Folding tables stacked high with now nearly empty pizza boxes and a few bags of empty chip bags. There was a buzz in the air around them, voices warm and rambunctious. Music loud but faded into the background.

Chi-Chi, as always, had done a great job planning and setting everything up. Goku, did all of the heavy lifting and Raditz was available to make snide remarks and flirt with anything that could walk while making a show of his flexing quads while helping Goku. And also to eat an entire bag of cool ranch Doritos all by himself. All had fallen into place perfectly, even the hot summer air had shifted to manageable and without a trace of humidity once the sun had set. Bulma was grateful as she had spent a long time fixing her hair and didn’t want to deal with her bangs sticking to her forehead all night.

Everything was as it should be. Except for one thing that was missing. The most important thing too, of course.

Vegeta.

She sighs deeply, taking a long and purposeful sip from her cup before she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“B, I think we should sing happy birthday before everybody ends up too drunk and falling asleep,” Chi-Chi says, loudly, trying to overcompensate for the volume of the music. Her voice sounds strange and Bulma can’t quite place why.

“Alright,” Bulma nods in agreement, swallowing down the pity party she feels conjuring itself up in her mind’s eye. She tries to remember him sitting across from her on her kitchen table, recreating Sixteen Candles the way he growled against her throat as he fucked her in the kitchen, to soften this disappointment churning inside of her.

“I don’t know where this mystery guy is, but I’m gonna kick his ass for standing you up on your birthday party,” Chi-Chi adds, placing her hands on her hips and Bulma feels a warmth of fondness flow through her at her best friend being so fiercely protective.

Goku stumbles next to Chi-Chi, a sloppy hand resting on her shoulder and ruffling up her hair. Chi-Chi, would have normally bitch slapped Goku into the Hudson River, instead giggles and swats at him, turning around and putting her hands at his waist. Bulma can’t help but smile, realizing how drunk Chi-Chi must be, as well to be all cutesy with Goku. Her usual militant and tough exterior faded away, her black hair loosening around her face. She never gets this drunk and Bulma considers running to get her disposable camera to document this for future blackmail.

Bulma feels a pang in her chest, deep and unsettling. It’s not quite jealousy, but something more painful. She is happy for her friend, to see her so calm and actually having fun for once. It is a sight to behold, so it’s not that. It’s the fact that she aches for the same and knows it just won’t happen. She feels the same thundering that she felt many times. The question scratching its nails at the door she doesn’t want to open.

Why can’t she just have a normal relationship? Why does she have to be tethered to a man who disappears, when all she wants is for someone to just finally show up for her?

She empties her drink and turns away from the group, refilling her cup. She hadn’t planned on getting sloppy drunk tonight, but she shrugs as she chugs down the cheap wine.

They sang happy birthday and ate cake that had far too much sugar in the grainy buttercream. The evening merged into a darker night, a softer blue cast into a deep violet above their heads. As the night moved on, so did the guests. Stumbling to the stairwell, lips locked. Raditz danced away, waving and shouting far too loudly as he chased after someone. Even Chi-Chi had opted to just clean up the mess tomorrow and ran downstairs with Goku swiftly on her feet. Bulma knew that meant she did not want to be in the same zip code as them, let alone in the same apartment, shuddering at the thought.

She strolls over to the CD player and turns on one of her favorites by Mazzy Star. She plops onto an old brown couch stretching her limbs across it, tucking her hands under her head and properly looking up at the sky. She wonders what sky Vegeta is looking at, and when. Her teeth find her lip and she gnaws at it, feeling the couch moving as though she were sitting on a float, bobbing up and down in her parents’ pool. She sighs, feeling her eyes getting heavy. She knows if she remains like this, with the crisp summer breeze tickling at her bare feet and legs, the lights above twinkling that she will surely fall asleep. But she doesn’t seem to care. The haunting chords lull her away, her lashes fluttering and accepting their fate.

“Fucking fucker! Fuck it all.”

Bulma shoots up from the couch, sitting up and snapping her head in the direction of the voice. He stands there, dark jeans, a black t-shirt and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Looking beyond furious and frustrated all at once, taking his anger out on an empty pizza box and slamming it down with his fist. The cardboard crumbles under his fury.

“Vegeta?”

He pauses his movement and turns to see her sitting up from the couch and gazing at him, her hair half mussed up, her strapless pink dress wrinkled at her waist.

“I missed it, didn’t I? I was ready to leave Nappa’s to come but then I traveled. And I traveled back to Nappa’s after but I saw what time it was. I didn’t know if…”

Bulma stands up, pulling her dress down modestly and smoothing it out over her thighs as she strolls barefoot over to him. He watches her every movement with curiosity and trepidation all at once. His eyes softening and straining as she comes to a stop right in front of him.

“You made it,” she says, nodding and smiling softly at him. She grabs his hand and tugs him towards the brown couch she had just been sitting on. They both fall into it and she can feel the tension from his body beside hers. They both lean their heads back and look up at the sky.

“That one is extra bright tonight,” he murmurs, and Bulma turns to watch him as he watches the stars. Memories pull at her heart, touching it and molding it in their familiar hands as she remembers all of the times they looked through her telescope in the field and all of the things he taught her about the stories of the constellations. She wonders how much of it she is supposed to teach him. And how much of it he already knew. A smile tugs on her lip.

“Polaris,” she replies. “The North Star. Right at the edge of Ursa Minor.”

He nods. “Yes, I use that one to find my way sometimes when I travel and I’m stuck and can’t find my way around.”

Her smile grows and he turns to look at her finally. His frown softens only to crinkle into deep, thick, lines above his black eyes.

“Can we pretend that you don’t know me so well, just for a few minutes?”

“Okay,” she replies before clearing her voice, smoothing it out, all business-like. “Hi, I’m Bulma,” she pulls out her hand, clad with several silver bracelets that jingle when she moves.

“Hi, I’m Vegeta,” he replies, doing his best not to roll his eyes at how ridiculous this all is. He shakes her hand, marveling at how lithe her fingers are against his.

“I am twenty-one. I’m studying biochemistry and engineering, and I still can’t make up my mind what I want to do with it. My father is a world-famous scientist and inventor, and I am trying to follow in his footsteps without too much of the nepotistm which is why I wanted to get away for college and moved to the city. I love strawberries, sleeping in late and romantic comedies. I’m messy but weirdly organized all at once. I hate being underestimated and I can’t cook anything to save my life,” she rushes the words out. As though if she doesn’t say precisely everything that is on her mind that she will forget it, or that he will fade away.

He watches her as she speaks, how animated she is. The way her eyes light up, the adorable little crinkle in her forehead as she talks about herself and what she is all about. He nods as he takes it all in, and she stares at him behind her wide, blue eyes.

“I’m Vegeta. I cook and work at Nappa’s coffee shop. I like a good bacon egg and cheese, and I fucking hate worms.”

“You didn’t say what kind of movies you like or what hobbies that you have,” Bulma points out after letting the silence sink in for a few moments.

Vegeta sighs, feeling like he’s stuck in some sort of speed-dating purgatory.

“Hey don’t get huffy with me, buddy. You’re the one who said you wanted to pretend like I don’t know you.” Bulma’s chipped, Barbie pink nail points into his chest.

“I like Star Wars and reading. I do weightlifting and running for a hobby, I guess.”

“Good to know,” Bulma replies, nodding her head and pretending as though she doesn’t know most of this already.

The silence creeps back in, like waves on a shore. Inevitable but destructive, nonetheless.

“Do you wish I was him?” He asks, quietly. Not sure if he really wants to know the answer.

Bulma grabs his hand, and their fingers automatically entwine as though it is as easy as inhaling and exhaling. As if they have done this many times before, though Vegeta realizes, they have not.

She gazes at him, thoughtfully. “But you are him,” she replies, her voice low and exacting.

Before he has the opportunity to second guess himself, Vegeta lifts up his empty hand and cups it against her cheek. His lips crush against hers and he drinks away the whimper that leaves her lips. He tastes the wine on her tongue, mingling with the divine sweetness that is distinctively Bulma, the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her tongue sliding against his. She climbs on top of his lap and tangles her hands into his wild black hair gasping into the night as the lights flicker above them.

Chapter Text

_______________________________

don’t let the days go by, could’ve been easier on you

August, 1996, Manhattan — New York

_______________________________

It’s the sun that makes sleeping difficult. And then the realization that there’s someone else sleeping nearby. Vegeta wakes with a start, feeling the weight, a heavy rope fastened to his side, twisted around him like ivy on a broken wall. He blinks his eyes into recognition and is staring at a fuchsia sky. He turns to look down, and he sees a mop of teal hair splayed all over the place, white fingers laced into his, pink chipped nail polish looking muted in the grayness of early morning. The bistro lights strung up above them, once looking like distant dying stars are now blurred into the strands of sunlight crawling from the horizon.

Bulma snores lightly and the sound it makes shoots a fondness straight into his chest that he has never known. Like being homesick and finally walking through the threshold of your childhood home only to find it is better than you remembered it to be. He feels what is likely drool or dribble on his shirt, pressed into him from her mouth and can’t stop his smile from growing at an alarming rate.

She stirs a bit, and he immediately hides his smile, a guilty thief holding a stolen relic behind their back. She twists around half groaning and arching her back like a cat in a deep stretch. She turns her body to look up at him. Shock, awe, and complete and utter joy filter across her face in rapid succession.

“You’re still here,” her voice sounds raspy, and out of place. Chain smoking all night and chasing the smoke with cheap wine and pizza will do that to a person. Her mind feels so out of sorts that she wonders if she might still be asleep.

Vegeta grunts in response, not sure how to actually respond to her and whether or not she is happy about his presence. A flash of the way her tongue slid against his, the tiny whimpers she made deep into his throat, fingers fisted into his shirt, hips grinding against his jeans. He tries to hide the trill down his spine but she seems to notice and gives him a coy smirk.

She tightens her fingers that are still loosely looped with his and he swallows down the protest he wants to utter but can’t seem to bring himself to. His body starts going into a fight or flight state and his mind tries to will him to fight, for once.

“Do you want to have some breakfast?” Bulma wonders, her face pressed against his t-shirt, having resigned herself to just tightening her grasp on him instead of getting up.

“Yeah,” he finds a word, finally, though it doesn’t seem to be enough.

She sits up and he mourns the warmth and the curve of her body against his. He realizes that she is wearing his flannel shirt on top of her bright pink spaghetti strap dress that has all but ridden up to her waist. Her hair is half stuck in the air and half plastered to her cheek and she wipes at it with the back of her hand. He watches her, dumbstruck beyond belief as he tries to compose himself.

She stands up, sways a bit on her unsteady bare feet before she rummages around the rooftop floor until she finds some clear, sparkly, strappy looking sandals. She reaches out a hand to him. He gazes at her hand and then at her before sighing in resignation and grabbing her hand. She leads him to the exit and down the stairs until they are at her apartment door. She realizes, in a quiet panic, that she does not have the keys and is hoping that Chi-Chi, in her possibly first ever drunken state, forgot to look the door.

When she turns the knob and feels it give immediately, she sighs in relief. Vegeta closes the door behind him, and they make their way into the kitchen only to freeze immediately at the sight of Chi-Chi standing in front of the stovetop frying bacon, still wearing her pajamas and giant fuzzy slippers.

Chi-Chi’s eyes meet theirs and she quirks an eyebrow before clearing her throat. “So, I guess you finally decided to show up. Though I gotta say, standing up a girl at her own birthday party is a pretty bold choice,” she says, hooking a hand on her bunny clad pajama pants. Somehow, she is still a menacing sight even tapping her oversized purple fuzzy slippers.

Bulma nibbles on her lip and Vegeta feels the burn on his cheeks.

“He had a good reason,” Bulma defends, and squeezes his hand that she is still holding.

Chi-Chi surveys him and Vegeta wonders briefly if she is going to take out a clipboard and take notes like he is some sort of specimen on display.

“Mmhmm,” Chi-Chi hums, sarcastically. “Well, I guess you’re here now.”

She turns and continues to work the bacon and cracks a few eggs onto the skillet in front of her. Bulma and Vegeta slide onto the wooden chairs at the kitchen table feeling guilty, somehow. She squeezes his hand again and he looks down, marveling at the fact that they are still holding hands, and he didn’t even notice. As though his hand was supposed to be there in the first place. His cheeks darken and Bulma seems to take pity on him and let go. He can’t decide whether he is relieved or devastated.

“So, do you have a name? Or are you selectively mute?”

“Vegeta.”

“Are you going to ask who I am?”

Bulma interrupts the inquisition and says, “Vegeta, this is my roommate and second mother, Chi-Chi. Chi-Chi, this is Vegeta.”

Chi-Chi squints at him as though she can figure out everything she needs to know about him simply from this small interaction. She says something under her breath before turning around and tending to the breakfast feast she is stirring up.

“So, how was the rest of your night,” Bulma says, expertly changing the subject and standing up to find some coffee.

Chi-Chi’s back stiffens visibly and Bulma smirks. “It was fine.”

“Uh huh, you’re up at the ass crack of dawn making enough breakfast for an army. Something tells me you had a very invigorating night. Also, you are the only person who could possibly get drunk and then be a highly-functioning human being the next day.”

“I was hungry,” she grumbles before scratching the bridge of her nose.

“Sure, Chi,” Bulma says in a sing-songy way and Vegeta can only watch the two of them from the table. His eyes draw up the length of Bulma’s creamy exposed legs, his flannel shirt is somehow longer than her pink dress and all he can think of is how he wishes his fingers could replace the fabric dangling at her thigh.

They kissed under the stars, but nothing more than pawing at each other, hips grinding into one another. And the apparent ache twinged within him at just the sight of her. Reminding him how he longed to know what it felt like to be inside of her.

“Is he alright?” Chi-Chi mutters under her breath nodding at Vegeta. “He doesn’t say much.”

Vegeta shakes his head, focusing back on the conversation happening right in front of him, “I’m right here, you know.”

Bulma strolls back to the table and sets down a coffee mug in front of him. He gazes inside of the mug, a rich deep black with steam twisting upwards. “I know you prefer your coffee black, even if it’s cheap coffee.”

His eyes shoot back up to find hers, and that familiar fondness trickles into his chest again. He can’t remember the last time someone did something like that for him, just a simple act of bringing him a drink. “I’m trying not to be weird, but I can’t help that I know certain things.”

“What are you going on about?” Chi-Chi pipes in from behind them as she walks over to the table with a platter of bacon and eggs.

“Nothing,” Bulma says, quickly, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth.

“Oh hell yeah, Cheech, you are an angel,” the group hears the upbeat sound of Goku’s voice booming as he walks into the kitchen.

He practically shoves Bulma out of the way and stuffs about five pieces of bacon into his mouth. His hair is even more disheveled than usual, and his hoodie is barely on his body correctly as he is still tugging it down over his torso.

“You are a Neanderthal,” Chi-Chi groans as she tries to swat him away. “We have a guest!”

Goku turns, having not even noticed Vegeta sitting at the table gaping at him.

“Oh, sorry, man. Hey, wait…” Goku pauses, mid incoherent chewing sounds, and stares at Vegeta with his brow crinkled.

“Holy shit, Vegeta? Is that you?”

Vegeta’s jaw shifts in discomfort before he folds his arms over his chest in dismay. With 100% certainty, he realizes that he is looking into the bright eyes of Raditz’s little brother.

“Wait, you know each other?” Bulma asks, sitting up on the wooden kitchen chair, and Chi-Chi tucks her black hair behind her ears, both readying themselves to get to the bottom of this.

“Yeah! We lived on the same block a long time ago when we were kids,” Goku says. “He was friends with Raditz.”

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Chi-Chi says in a knowing way, as to understanding why Vegeta is so weird in the first place.

“Wow man, it’s been a long time! I didn’t even realize when you and Tarble finally moved out or when your dad— ow, Bulma! Why did you kick me?”

Bulma slams her heel so hard into Goku’s shin that she is certain even her gigantic muscular friend will know pain. As much as she wants to hear the details of Vegeta’s childhood through the eyes of someone that did not experience it firsthand, she can see the absolute rage and anger burning into his face and knows, she has to stop this before it turns ugly. Something had clearly happened between the two for Vegeta to be so angry.

Vegeta feels his hands turning into fists at his sides, sweat slicking at his brow. He closes his eyes, willing the anger practically emanating out of his body back inside where it should be staying.

“Kakarot you…” Vegeta doesn’t get the opportunity to finish his thought because right before their very eyes, he vanishes.

His clothes fall into a slumped pile at the table to reveal an absolutely mystified Goku and Chi-Chi behind it, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Bulma gapes in shock, not knowing how to logically explain how he was able to literally disappear into thin air to someone who has never seen this happen before.

_______________________________

September, 1973, Manhattan — New York

_______________________________

Vegeta tightens a stolen leather jacket around his body, shoving his fists into the pocket of the sweatpants he dug out of a bin at a goodwill thrift shop, as he attempts to find a wallet or cash of some kind. He finds a fistful of coins and runs towards the below ground entrance of the subway. Sometimes the inertia of the subway moving would trigger him to travel and he figured it was worth a try.

He slams coins into the coin dispenser before shoving his way through the metal bars and towards an idling subway car. He steps in, and sees the obnoxious orange and yellow seats, the wood paneling fill the space. But instead of the wood paneling looking as though someone had puked on it or clawed at it over the last 15 years, it looks freshly stained. It must be the 70’s or even the 80’s, he realizes as the doors close behind him. The lights overhead flicker before the subway propels forward. He eyes the subway car until he sees an open seat available. He plops down, silently pleading the inertia to catapult him back into the present, but nothing happens. The lights flicker as the car hurtles through the tunnels until it comes to a screeching halt at some random stop in Manhattan that the speaker is too muffled to make out.

When the doors open, he sees her at once and the same exact sucker punch of grief and despair weighs hims down like all the times he had to see her again. It’s his mom, but she looks younger than he had ever seen her before. She places a hand on top of her abdomen and he realizes, that her hand is cradling her very apparent pregnant stomach.

Vegeta stands up at once, offering his seat to her, and she does a double take when she sees him, blinking rapidly before smiling at him and giving him a soft ‘thank you.’ None of the other people sitting nearby had looked up from their newspapers and books to even see her there, let alone, give up their seat for her.

“Excuse me, but do I know you? You look so familiar,” Eschalot asks, her brow crinkling in a way that very much reminds Vegeta of himself.

His heart clenches, and he realizes that he has been staring at her for a while, not saying a single thing. Her black hair is swept up in an up-do and her eyes are heavily drawn with black eyeliner. She looks beautiful and he feels like a little boy again with a scraped knee, sniffling back tears when all he desperately wants his mom to pull him into a hug and heal anything that ails him.

He coughs, clearing his throat and shaking his head, trying to pretend to be normal. “N-no, sorry I don’t think so. But you look familiar, are you Eschalot Prince, the opera singer?” He asks.

“Oh wow, I’ve never been recognized on the subway before by someone, this is doing wonders for my ego which has suffering tremendously since getting pregnant,” she grinned from ear to ear.

“I’ve seen your performances before, and I can’t imagine that to be true.”

“My husband is never gonna believe me. It’s so weird you sort of look like a young version of him.”

Vegeta’s heart sinks deep into his chest. He thinks for a moment about his father, the man he used to be. Bright eyed, madly in love with his wife and a doting father throwing baseballs in the backyard for his kids. He swallows, hard not allowing himself to think of the man he ended up becoming.

She stares at him, watching the onslaught of emotions overwhelming him.

“Pardon me for saying this, but are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something,” she says quietly, putting a hand on his clenched fist.

“I-I met a girl,” he mumbles before he can stop himself. “And I don’t want to fuck it up. But I don’t know how not to. I mess everything up.”

She stares at him for a while, black eyes twinkling before she smiles. “I have a good feeling for you, you’re not going to mess this up. Just be yourself.”

Vegeta nods, not trusting himself to speak without crumpling to the ground at her feet like a blubbering little kid all over again.

“Maybe tell her how you feel about her, too? Girls actually like to hear things like that,” she says with a small wink before the subway doors open. “I’m sure she will appreciate knowing how much she means to you.”

“This is my stop, but it was really nice to meet you,” Eschalot says as he reaches out a hand to help her out of her seat. She walks away, stepping out of the subway car carefully onto the platform. She turns to face him again, as he is still standing near the open metal doors. Her hand finds her stomach as she feels the baby kick. 

“Your son loves you very much” he says, finally, pointing at her pregnant stomach. The doors start to shut between them. Her eyes are wide in surprise as the subway starts hurtling forward.

Vegeta closes his eyes, feeling the strain there, the burning from the tears he won’t allow to accumulate. His body begins tingling and he can feel himself being tossed forward, back into the present.