Chapter 11
Passion
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Firm, unyielding hands crush me fiercely against flesh-girded steel, as if escape were not the furthest thought from my mind. Indeed, there is no force in existence that could tear me away. Scorching heat trails down my neck, one kiss at a time, searing a path down to the valley between my breasts and leaving me gasping for breath, as an answering fire flares out from the pit of my stomach to the terminus of every nerve. My hands rove where they will, with a mind of their own, as though they are able to taste and savor every inch of the skin beneath them. Teasing mercilessly, brushing as faintly as butterfly wings over the most sensitive areas, and then abruptly raking fingernails down the broad expanse of tautly muscled back with a force just short of rending delicate flesh. His breath no longer even, his gaze jerks up to meet mine; the burning need, threatening to consume me completely, is mirrored within the onyx flames. I arch against him--
The insistent wail of an infant demanding sustenance cruelly banishes my dream, at just the wrong moment. I try to detain it, clinging mulishly to the wispy vestiges of slumber -- Please, can't I just... -- but, in the innocently egocentric way of babies, he has no mercy on me, and refuses to even consider letting me sleep while he is still hungry.
Sighing, I lever myself reluctantly out of bed and give him what he wants. It isn't his fault, after all, that the only regard I receive from his father is in unconscious fantasy. Such dreams rarely visited me in the months immediately following Trunks's birth, but upon the prince's return they have plagued me nearly every night, as if having two opposing forces in such close proximity must inevitably unleash a violent maelstrom of emotion that has to be expressed somewhere. Unable to do so during the day, at night I hold him and tell him all of the things I cannot say in person. I can't decide if the pleasure the dreams afford me is worth the anguish that nearly drowns me each morning upon awakening, choking my throat with sobs and flooding my eyes with tears before they even open.
Each time I see that proud, austere countenance, the words are so close, they burn on my tongue. But even on pain of death I am unable to utter the first syllable. In this tenacious state of optimistic ignorance, I am at least able to harbor a fragment of hope, that all is not lost between us. But I can't bear to open my mouth and have his scathing rejection steal even that small happiness from me.
So, instead, all interaction is carefully neutral between us. He no longer even tries to bait me, as if the effort were totally beneath his dignity. I maintain the pretense of not caring about his complete lack of concern for me. Pretending as if his abandoning his tiny son and myself to certain death matters not at all. I don't know that I manage to fool any of them, but they have the grace not to press the issue.
Except for Trunks. He can't leave well enough alone.
The one thing that still infuriates me at the drop of a hat is Vegeta's callous treatment of the young man who so obviously idolizes him. As hard as he tries to conceal it, he is my son as well, and is no better than I at keeping his feelings from writing themselves as plain as day across his guileless features. It must gall his father to no end.
We fight quite a bit over Trunks. Poor boy. I know he wants so much to see us get along, for his sake and the sake of the older me that raised him. He would like to believe she was happy. I wish I could give him that.
I remember the first fight we had in front of him, the day they returned from fighting Cell to tell everyone about the 'games'. I had run into the room, calling Trunks's name, unable to suppress the rising note of panic in my voice and deathly afraid that no answer would be forthcoming. But suddenly, there he was, mouth open as if caught in mid-sentence, staring wide-eyed at me, whole and seemingly unharmed. I couldn't contain the glad tears of relief any more than I could restrain myself from launching toward him at a dead run. Throwing my free arm around his neck, I buried my face in his shoulder, sobbing, all fears allayed. He froze completely, and then hesitantly raised a hand to pat my back. Composing myself, I began examining every inch of him, looking for any visible sign of injury.
A hint of roseate color bloomed across his pale cheeks; I must have embarassed him unforgiveably. And in front of Vegeta, as well. But I couldn't help it; unlike his own mother I hadn't gone through the toughening ordeal of childhood bumps, bruises, and scraped knees, accustoming me to seeing my child bounce back from injury. I was totally unprepared for the idea of any harm being done to my 'baby', even if he was almost a man. Piccolo scared me to death when he cautioned me that Trunks might have been hurt during his battle with Cell. I don't think I've ever flown so fast, and I'm fond of pushing the turbos to their limits.
Even as mortified as he was, in his features I could read a hint of pleasure at the attention; he must have been missing his real mother. Indulgently he endured my fussing, knowing that I was much younger and more inexperienced than her, and couldn't really help it. His father had no such tolerance.
"Leave off your blasted coddling, woman! How the brat managed to grow into a decent fighter, with only your weakening influence, I'll never know!"
I flinched backward away from him, but before I could speak, Trunks's ki flared strongly enough that even I could feel it, and he retorted, "Shut up, old man! You don't know anything about her, or what she has gone through!"
"Is that so, boy?" Vegeta's voice, in contrast to Trunks's outraged shout, was cold and deadly.
Trunks coiled like a panther about to pounce, and I placed a restraining hand on his chest, looking him straight in the eye. "No."
I hurt more for him, seeing firsthand the way his father and I really were, than for myself. His mother must have told him some well-meaning lie about the past that allowed him to entertain some hope of affection between us. The truth of it was killing him.
Vegeta smiled cruelly, silently mocking my son for being so easily restrained by a mere woman, before turning to leave.
"Just a moment, you arrogant son of a bitch!" I was far from finished with him. "How could you let your infernal pride rule you so?" His back stiffened at the implication that anything could rule him. "It may very well cost all of us our lives!"
He didn't turn around; I couldn't see his face as he stated, "That hardly matters to me." A measured pause. "But you needn't worry, Cell will meet his end at my hand soon enough."
And that has pretty much set the pattern for every day since then. Pointedly ignoring each other, coolly distant except for the heated fights over our adult son. And each night, before slipping into another achingly sweet dream, I count the days remaining, lost in rue over how we squander what little time might be left to us.
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Unable to sleep, I lie on the roof and stare into the smattering of stars above, still, after all this time, trying to find the familiar constellations that only exist in memory.
Wondering how that harridian still holds the power to invoke my wrath like no other. On Vegetasei that ignorant woman would have been dealt a swift rebuke for humiliating him in that manner, fussing over an obviously hale fighter like a babe in arms. I was displaying admirable restraint by not cuffing her upside the head. It's hard to remember I am no longer among my own people...and never will be, again.
I don't know whether I am more disgusted with her, for displaying such obvious emotion, or myself, for wanting to be the object of her attention. Just for a second, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like, to have her so desperate to be assured of my health that she would dissolve into tears, locking her arms around my neck as if she were afraid to let go. Just for a second, I torture myself with the idea, and then force my mind to other matters.
I must make Cell pay for the humiliation he inflicted upon me. I should have finished him when I had him begging for his life. But it was not mercy that stayed my hand -- just pride. What kind of warrior would refuse such a direct challenge? How can a man hold himself in any regard, letting cowardice determine his actions? Pride may well be my downfall, as the woman predicts, but without it, what is left of me?
At some point, I must have returned to my bed, for soon I am deep in the throes of another harrowing dream, of both pain and pleasure. Crystal blue eyes pierce my very soul, lit from within by the blaze of passion. That wonderful hair cascades down over her ethereally pale shoulders, covering us both as she hovers over me, setting my skin on fire as her chest lightly grazes mine, separated only by the sheerest of barriers, a flimsy lace garment I could shred in a heartbeat. Kissing me full on the mouth, she pulls back and I see the glittering wetness of tears on her cheeks, making my heart turn over. Deep down, I can't stand causing her pain. And I refuse to, here. Reaching out, I rub them away with my thumb, as gently as I am able. She rewards me with a smile, that smile, lighting up her whole face. Dazzling my vision, she could have been an angel except for the slightly predatory gleam of lust that causes my breath to catch in my throat. Tantalizingly graceful, she removes the last of her clothing like a seasoned ecdysiast, each movement intended to inflame and arouse. She entwines her fingers in mine, pressing herself against me until every inch of us is in contact with the other. The unbelievably soft, silken touch of her overloads my senses, driving me wild...
Even knowing everything to be a dream, I still die a little each dawn as I wake to find my arms empty. A piece of my soul is torn away, and I fill the void with anger, the only resource left to me. Anger at that low class cretin, for always managing to stay one step ahead of me. Anger at the son, who mocks everything I held to be true by being at once a formidable warrior and a man capable of showing emotion. Anger at her, for loving that human enough to die for him and then linking my name with the one I learned to hate above all others. And, though I would never admit it to another living soul, anger at myself for the pride that allowed me to place her in such grave danger, and that prevents me even now from giving her any sort of apology for all I have done. I am almost sure that she would throw it back in my face, anyway.
But, as bad as these dreams are, making me yearn for something I can never have, the agony made all the greater by the knowledge that I had it once, and threw it away....as heart-rending as they are, they are nothing compared to the other dreams. Thankfully, those have not troubled me since I returned to this wretched planet. But they were horrible enough that each time I awaken with the feel of her lingering on my fingertips, wishing I still retained the ability to weep and release the terrible pain of loss building up within me, I still have the wit to be grateful I did not dream of something worse.
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They are fighting over me, again. I sit, holding baby me -- I can't tell you how weird that is -- watching as she berates him at the top of her lungs for declaring that he will go alone into the time chamber, once Piccolo is finished. I would be admiring her dogged determination if the whole situation were not so depressing. I still find it hard to believe sometimes, that this vibrant, argumentative creature is the same woman I've known all my life. The burden of my father's death and raising me alone in the wake of the android holocaust must have taken a major toll on her. But she was so strong, stronger than all of them. She survived, and came up with a plan to save the world, after the warriors all fell.
But she majorly downplayed any feelings she had for my father, whenever she talked about him. She always made it sound like a brief, casual fling, but here it is so obvious that she is desperately in love with him. It shines out of her eyes like a beacon, evident in every line of her body even as she yells obscenities at him.
I love her so much. It kills me to watch him hurt her so. A lump forms in my throat, making me feel like a small child watching his parents fight -- Can't he see how wonderful she is?
"You arrogant jerk! The least you could do is train with the boy, since you seem disinclined to do anything else! Let him get to know his father, while he's here!"
"Bah! I'll never get anything done with him tagging along, getting in the way! Not that I would expect a mere woman to understand..."
Everyone else in the room has long since stopped paying attention, having seen this scene replayed before them many times already, with minor variations. The insults they come up with are rather creative at first, but always seem to degenerate to "baka woman" and "Sayajin ass".
"You Sayajin ass!"
"Baka human woman!"
Yet...the way their eyes flash at each other, and as close as they stand, almost touching...am I only imagining it? Or is there something else there, buried deep below the anger they let rage on the surface?
Yamucha must have seen it too, because suddenly he says, "Oh, for the love of -- will you two just hop into bed and get it over with??" His voice is thickly laced with sarcasm that doesn't quite conceal his jealousy, causing me to remember suddenly that he was my mother's former lover.
They both turn toward him, mouths open in outraged shock, startled into mute astonishment. For a second, anyway.
"Yamucha! What in the hell are you talking about?!"
"I've had enough of this! Foolish humans!" Plaster flies everywhere as he doesn't bother to use the door, choosing the more expedient method of blasting his way out, instead.
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In this surreal environment, the days blend seamlessly into each other in spite of the ever-changing atmosphere -- one day suffocatingly hot, the next blisteringly cold. Always with the suppressive gravity that constantly taxes me; there is never a moment's respite from the artificial heaviness. It takes its toll, despite my intimate familiarity with training in increased gravity. For then, I would step out of the chamber each night, giving my stressed bones and tissue time to repair during the hours I spent eating, sleeping, and waiting for her to decide to fix the blasted thing. Here there is no true rest.
In the moments of deepest exhaustion, of both body and soul, I almost think Kakarot was right, that this is a hell of a way to train. But no price is too high to pay for the power to defeat Cell. The consequences of failure are too dire.
The constant exhaustion has one unlooked-for benefit. Mercifully, I do not dream. I collapse every night into complete black oblivion, sometimes not even on the bed, with only occasional vague shadowy visions, that fade as soon as I awaken.
Only one night, toward the end of the year, am I troubled by the memory of her. Feeling strong, reveling in my considerable progress, I retire for the evening confident that I will find Cell a much less formidable opponent when I finally depart this cursed place.
But that night, in my sleep, she calls to me. Sitting in a field of grass the bright green of high summer, skirt fanned out around her, she clasps a brightly colored bud, half-unfurled, to her face, drinking in the scent. A picture out of the peaceful lazy days of a life I never knew, face lit with a smile that is only for me. Her hair shines like a coin in the sun, diaphanous strands stirred playfully by the capricious breeze. She is all that is good and peaceful and right.
Her voice echoes in my head, though the haunting sanguine lips never move.
Vegeta...I am your sun, sky, and moon. I am in your marrow, blood and bone. Whenever your heart sings in victory, laughs with joy, or breaks with sorrow, so mine does also. Wherever you go, I am there.
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I am back in the lab once more, for yet another sleepless night. But I am glad of it; the work gives my hands and my mind something to do. Otherwise I would slowly be going insane from the raging turmoil in my head. I have long since forgotten the need for such mundane things as food and sleep. And without sleep, there can be no more dreams, no more waking, feverish, with the unslakeable thirst for his hands on my body, for the taste of his lips.
The world condenses to countless lines of code on my monitor, my tools, and the broken machine on the worktable that only I can repair. Time is of the essence; we will need every fighter we can muster to defeat Cell, and no one else can do this task.
Detachedly, I marvel at the consummate skill of the late scientist. He was truly gifted, and I know no small sadness that such genius could not have been used for a higher purpose, instead of ruthless conquest and destruction. My father and I have no equal in the field of capsule technology, but the intricacies of this artificially intelligent being are far beyond us. It is all I can manage to study the existing framework and try to reproduce what has already been done.
Finally, well after daybreak, I stumble away from the lab, stiff and bleary-eyed. Stopping briefly to feed my son, I make my way to my room, collapsing bonelessly into bed, shoes and all. Asleep before my head even hits the pillow, I fall down into twisted, tortured dreams beyond my imagination, my utter exhaustion tethering me firmly in slumber like an anchor dragging me into the deep, away from the surface of consciousness, all struggle to wake in vain.
The dream itself in an incoherent collage of bleak images: The back of a tall, proud, distantly regal man draped in a rich, flowing cloak, with an upswept mane of ebony hair peaked in a hauntingly familiar silhouette. A vast ship, cold and sterile, filling my nostrils with the stale scent of blood and unwashed soldiers. A small, dark, lonely chamber, its spartan trappings rendering it more a cell than a room. Grim, hardened warriors, of various unfamiliar alien species, laughing viciously as they take turns cuffing me, each knocking me off-balance and right into the hands of the next. A wicked looking whip, studded with metal and glass, laying my flesh open nearly to the bone where it strikes. A savagely cruel, tailed monster with glittering razor-sharp talons, digging into my shoulders as he whispers bitter despair in my ear. This last one I know -- Frieza. All of the figures seem impossibly tall...and I get the puzzling feeling that the emotions coursing through me are not my own.
Then I get it.
I am dreaming of his childhood, walking through his memory, somehow. All of the pain, anger, frustration, loneliness and terror are his. Most of the events are hazy and unclear, but the sheer horror of the countless indignities, brutal thrashings, and verbal assaults he was forced to endure for years makes my soul weep. I can't bear watching that depraved monster slowly break his will, beating him senseless over and over, mercilessly reminding him of his father's abandonment, time and again. Taking away everything he remotely cared about until finally he learned it was just easier not to. Chipping away at this frightened child until there was nothing left but pride and the desire to be strong, because strength meant survival -- and one day, he would become strong enough to repay his tormentor in full. Burning out all memory of kindness and compassion, that revolting lizard warped an innocent boy into a young man who knew only how to destroy.
Tears are coursing down my face before I even wake, and I begin to sob in earnest as awareness returns, finally realizing what the full impact of my angry words that morning must have been on him. I knew that he hated Frieza, and that his childhood had not been pleasant...but the truth of it was beyond anything I could have imagined. Oh Vegeta, I didn't know...
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Time has slipped away. Tomorrow the fate of the world is decided.
I hate this helpless feeling, of knowing the end may be near, and not being able to do anything about it.
I hope, against my better judgement, that he will return tonight. I so desperately want to see him, one last time. And after my unexplainable foray into his nightmarish past, I am determined to render my apology, even if he doesn't want to hear it. I can't die with that on my conscience.
I dress, slowly, trying to still my mind. Thinking too much about what I plan to do will surely make me lose my resolve. I select a long, flowing skirt of gold and a lighter, almost-sheer blouse of the same hue. I know that the color contrasts nicely with my hair, turning my skin a pale cream. Droplets of amber grace my ears, a hint of red tints my lips, a dab of perfume at the pulse point on my throat faintly scents the air around me. I feel a bit silly, dressing up for no real reason, but the unconscious, practiced motions of dressing calm my nerves, and I want to use every possible weapon in my arsenal when I confront my target.
I wait, by turns pacing the halls and sitting in my room, staring idly at nothing. The hours slip past, and I begin to despair of seeing him at all.
As the sun makes what might well be its final descent into the western mountains, I slide down against the wall in the main hallway, peering intently into the sky, searching in vain for the tiny spark of light that would herald the approach of a flying warrior.
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The fading light of the sun makes her skin appear gilded, and so still does she sit, that not a fold stirs of the aurous material she wears. With her delicate features, the combined effect makes her seem a master sculpture, worked in gold.
Wearied to the point of total numb apathy, I just can't face her. I haven't the energy to fight with her, tonight. I only wanted to see her, to steal one last glimpse to carry with me into death, should we all fail.
Is she waiting for me?
Not until the moon has risen, and bathed her in its silver glow, does she finally give up and retire, allowing me to slip undetected into the house. I just need one night of normal, restful sleep.
But such rest is denied me.
I almost long for the old nightmares of torment at Frieza's hands, or the death of my planet. For at least then, I could wake and force myself to remember that such things are long in the past, and well behind me.
For these dreams there is no such escape. They linger on, long after sleep has gone.
These dreams are about countless planets whose names I never bothered to learn, filled with the agonized screams of beings whose fear I imbibed like the sweetest nectar. The villainous monster in these dreams wears my face, and the savage enjoyment in its statement causes the bile to rise in my throat.
How can anyone live with so much blood on their hands?
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Something wakes me out of a deep sleep -- He's back? He has taken a room on the opposite side of the house, as far away from me as he can get, but still I know he is in the grip of a terrible dream. I don't question it; I just go to him.
Creeping in, I gaze at him for a moment, nearer to him than I have been now for months. Slumber steals the fierceness from his statement, allowing fatigue to show through, and something akin to sorrow. My heart is in my throat. I forgave him long ago for that morning. I wonder if he will ever forgive me.
I shake his shoulder gently in an attempt to wake him. Even though I am expecting it, his reaction still takes me by surprise. Pinned under him, I am powerless to move, and can only stare into those night-dark eyes.
"Stupid woman! What the hell are you doing in here? Haven't you learned yet to stay away from me?!"
"You were dreaming again," I say, rather petulantly. "You woke me up."
He surprises me by not questioning the idea that he could have awakened me from across the building, but he doesn't look pleased at the thought. "Fine. Now get out."
I move to comply, but something stops me. Now is my chance.
"Vegeta." Tomorrow the games begin. I am no fool, I know how strong Cell is and that there is more than a decent chance that I may never see him again.
This might be my last opportunity to apologize, and I will not let it slip by.
He is still glowering me and doing everything short of pointing at the door to get me to leave. I ignore him and sit back on the bed.
Sighing, I take his hand. He tenses as if to snatch it away, but doesn't. "Vegeta. I want to say this now, before anything happens."
"What could you possibly have to say that would be of interest to me?"
"Just shut up, already!" I pause, to collect my thoughts. "I want to say that I am sorry for what I said, that morning." I look up. Whatever he expected me to say, it apparently wasn't that.
I continue, "It wasn't fair of me." His exterior cracks a bit, and I am tormented with guilt by the hurt I see within. Pain that I inflicted on him. More forcefully, I add, "And it isn't true."
He sneers, "And how would you know?" As if to remind me, he touches first the broken rib, then the collarbone, both long since mended. He traces a fading scar on my shoulder lightly.
I shut my eyes, cursing myself for a fool, and swallow a sob. How could I not have seen this? He thinks I blame him for hurting me. Oh, Vegeta...
I place my hand over his, and look directly into his eyes, wanting him to know I speak the truth. "I never blamed you for that. I know you stopped as much as you were able."
He closes his eyes. He doesn't speak, so I go on. "Yamucha told me the things he said to you. I know you didn't intend to kill him, at first."
Yamucha's name finally provokes a response. "You and that weakling human are welcome to each other! Now leave me--"
I shut him up by shifting my weight suddenly and rolling on top of him, a hand clasped over his mouth. Sitting on his stomach, I lean over him, looking into eyes that seem to devour the light.
"Vegeta. Don't insult my intelligence or yours by insinuating that I could ever go back to Yamucha. We both know where my heart lies." A spark in the black depths betrays his emotions. Didn't he know?
I trail my free hand absently from where it rests on his shoulder, across his collarbone, to the hollow of his throat. He shivers. "I wanted to ask your forgiveness. I know better than to expect an apology from you." I bend down and kiss his forehead lightly, surprised that he hasn't thrown me off by now. I remove my hand from his mouth, trembling so hard that there is no way he can't feel it. Please, don't send me away...
My voice is surprisingly steady. "This may be the last night we ever have. I don't want to waste it fighting..."
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I couldn't believe she was able to sense my nightmare from all the way across the house, but I didn't doubt her. Infuriating, arrogant, loud, and stubborn she may be, but I have never known her for a liar. It didn't matter anyway. I just wanted her to leave. I am always weakest in that moment between waking and sleeping; the severity of my dreams usually leaves me vulnerable and unable to contain my emotions upon awakening. I hate that she has been witness to that weakness, so many times.
But then her words completely took me by surprise. I really thought she hated me. How can she not, after what I did to her?
But she doesn't, and the thought floods me with warmth. She is so beautiful, I can't help but react to her close proximity and the light touch of her hand, her lips. Neither can I prevent the slight feeling of self-deprecating disgust, at the fact that one of the mightiest fighters in the universe can be reduced to a helpless, quivering mass before this slight, weak human by her mere touch. The thought that Kakarot likewise has one who holds him so in thrall does nothing to abate the feeling.
So, she doesn't want to waste the night fighting?
I allow myself a small smile into the dark as I seize her and draw her down to me. "Then come here, woman, and shut up."
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The distant silver orb in the sky above bathes the darkened room in its pale, quiet light, making our unclothed skin gleam faintly blue and luminous. He smiles at me in the shadows, just the smallest upturning of lips, but it is there. I run my hand over the smooth skin of his stomach, tracing the rippled muscles in small circles with my finger. The low growl of desire I receive in return quickens my breath and causes me to revel in this power, a power than can cause such a powerful warrior to tremble at my touch and silently beg me with his eyes in need.
He takes hold of my hand, stroking the inside gently with his thumb before raising it to his mouth and brushing his lips against it. This gentle kiss, feather-light against my palm, contains more intimacy than any other act of love I have ever known. Eyes dark as a starless night bore into my soul, exposing everything, leaving me naked and vulnerable before him. But I have nothing to hide, and I try to pour out all my love for him, wanting him to see the full extent of my emotion, wanting him to understand. Wanting him to return it...I know that he must, somewhere.
Just before sleep claims me, I whisper the words. I couldn't have held them back if I'd tried.
"I love you."
He starts, looking uncertain and uncomfortable. I almost pity him.
"Woman--" I stop the growling reply with a finger, before he can mask his emotion with anger and ruin the moment. I know he isn't ready to speak the words, and may not be for a long time, if ever. Considering the life he has known, it's a miracle he's made it this far. I force myself to be content with the emotion I felt from him just moments ago, almost painful in its intensity, reminding myself that that was what mattered, not the words themselves.
"Hush. You don't have to say anything." He grunts, but then his arms tighten around me as if to say what his lips cannot. I drift off, more at peace than I have been for countless months, hoping that this night will not be our last.
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In the morning, she is gone, but whether it was to make it easier on me or herself I do not know.
I don't see her again until we are just about to leave. She runs out of the house, and throws her arms around the boy. He is embarrassed by the display, but doesn't really mind.
She approaches me, and simply says, "Don't die." For an instant I am wildly jealous of the boy, for being the recipient of her fierce embrace, but I admit that I would never have allowed her to do that to me. Besides, those two words were imbued with more emotion than any embrace could contain.
I smirk. "I have no intention of it."
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End Chapter 11