insert standard disclaimer here. I don't own Dragonball Z or any of the characters.

Chapter 12
Choices
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My, my skin can't take much more of this, she says...
...every time I wash it off, I find you underneath

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The Games did not go as planned.

All of us -- except for my father, of course -- assumed that once again Goku would step up to the plate, defeat Cell, and save the world. He had always been the Earth's hero. No one expected him to be beaten.

No one expected him to die.

He astonished us all by throwing in the towel, and electing to choose another warrior to battle in his place. Cell was not pleased, derisively insulting the collective lot of us, complaining that none of us would put up a decent fight. I think only Vegeta took offense. The rest of us knew we were greatly overmatched.

Although, as it turned out, one of us was vastly underestimating himself: Gohan.

Everyone nearly fell over from surprise when Goku, with remarkable aplomb, named his son as successor. My father was affronted, Piccolo was angry, and the rest of us were just in shock.

A barely discernable tremor betrayed Gohan's fear, but he didn't say "No."

His father believed in him, and that was enough.

What must it be like, I wondered, to know that your father has so much unwavering confidence in you? Such trust in your abilities, and so much pride in your accomplishments? For soon it became apparent that indeed the son had surpassed his father as a warrior, but in Goku's statement there was only quiet pride and a fierce joy in the glory of his progeny. No hint of resentment. Even in the midst of that penultimate struggle, which would determine the fate of everything, envy was eating me alive. For I knew that my sire would never have such faith in me, and if I were to one day surpass him I would only earn his biting enmity.

The match could have been ended in moments, once the young demi-Saiyajin reached the pinnacle of his power. But Gohan, after he fully unleashed the screaming, pent-up bloodlust within, could not control it. He toyed with his prey, desiring him to suffer as he had caused others to suffer, and by doing so, gave Cell enough time to doom all of Chikyuu.

But then Goku did what no one else could, and saved the world again -- at the cost of his own life. If I live to be a hundred, I will never meet another with more courage than he.

Now, we all stand here immobile, rooted to the ground in disbelief. I want to say something, to offer comfort to the now fatherless youth who stands stiffly, alone, his face bleak and brokenhearted, but words fail me. I can think of nothing my mouth might utter that could possibly lessen his anguish, in light of all that he has just lost. The wind picks up and blows dust and bitter ash into our faces. For once even Vegeta is at a loss. He looks almost upset, but whether it is over Goku's death or losing the chance to regain his honor in a rematch with Cell, I cannot fathom.

Then, something pricks my senses...a vague unease, an approaching malevolence, and

abruptly the ground tilts under me and I find myself tossed backwards, a burning pain in my chest sucking the breath instantly out of me while the strength flows out of my limbs like water poured from a glass. Their shocked faces line my swiftly fading vision, mouths open in identical, almost comical expressions of disbelieving horror, and as the last faint exhalation of breath leaves my lips, I reach out a hand to the one I hold most dear...

"Otousan--"

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Kakarot insulted me disgracefully, by summoning a mere child to fight in his stead, instead of his Prince. Bright, red-tinged fury consumed me, but incredulity tethered my tongue in place. He would send his own son against a foe that he himself could not best? Did he truly hate the boy? What had I missed?

And yet, soon after, a warrior stood before us whose power leapt up to levels I could hardly comprehend. A youth stronger than I, by several orders of magnitude. Bitter resentment and not a little shame filled me, for allowing a young boy to venture in where I should have trod.

But I did not interfere because I knew...I knew that he was our only chance. And it mattered to me, the fate of this planet. Or at the very least, the fate of one of its occupants. It mattered more than I cared to admit.

Unfortunately, insanely strong as he might be, he was still just a boy, and let the madness of battle carry him away. Unable to reign in his savage hunger, he made a critical mistake. It seemed that all was lost. Until Kakarot did the unthinkable -- and sacrificed himself to save the rest.

Sacrifice.

The term was almost unknown to Saiyajin. Barely comprehensible. We believed in strength, and survival, and power; those who weren't strong enough, died. Rarely did we put ourselves in danger for others. The only exceptions were the members of your squad. Strong ties often formed among battle-kin. I myself had never formed such ties, knowing them to be the weakness that they were. When Nappa outlived his usefulness, I killed him.

Staring into the space, I cannot banish from my mind the image of that last moment, when Kakarot smiled that inane grin at us, and disappeared. It feels strangely unreal, to think that I will never see that vapid, innocent statement again, and I experience an unexpected pang of something not unlike regret.

No one was supposed to kill you but me!

But suddenly the mantra that has sustained me for so long seems a blatant lie; even in my own head the words ring false.

I didn't want your death -- I wanted merely to best you. For you had become, against my will, something of value. I would never have wanted it, never have asked for it, and still I curse you for it and the weakness it represents within me. But you were my brother in combat. My only battle-kin. I sought your defeat, but not your demise.

Before my mind can even fully assimilate this unwelcome epiphany, an approaching power catches my attention--

Cell!

I try to cry out a warning, but there is no time--

A blindingly bright beam of power slices through the gloom, leaving a trail of scorching air in its wake. It narrowly misses myself, and the bald warrior, and I hold my breath, wondering what he could possibly have been aiming at--

And then there is no need to guess, as a charred, gaping hole appears in the center of my son's chest, the force of the blast knocking him off of his feet. The utter wrongness of seeing the ground through his body causes bile to rise in my throat. His face turns toward me, and his mouth moves, though no sound emerges. Speech is not possible when your lungs have been incinerated. Yet I have no trouble reading the pale lips.

Father.

Rage, fury, and raw, bleeding guilt overcome me, preempting all control, igniting every ounce of blood coursing through my veins and fanning my whole being into blistering flame. I scream, and keep on screaming, launching myself at the verdant monstrosity, robbed of all reason. Wave upon wave of raw power flares out from my fingertips. I have never been so powerful. I will very probably die, but nothing is more important at this moment than unleashing everything I have left in me upon this abomination. This unholy demon, who so callously snuffed out the life of a boy-turned-man too soon, by the staggering weight of his entire world resting on his shoulders...

My son. My perfect, flawed son. So utterly not Saiyajin, but so strong. And capable of more than I ever will be. Could I care enough about a ruined planet, to keep on fighting when all hope was gone? No...I have not the capacity. I only ever knew how to destroy.

He went through so much, survived so much, sacrificed so much...and all he wanted from me was my approval.

I never--I never told him--

He never knew--

Is this what it feels like, Kakarot, to fight for another?

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There is an exhilaration that defies definition: an inexplicable rush that floods your senses with the dawning realization that impending, cataclysmic doom has miraculously been averted. That certain death and destruction have somehow been thwarted. We all celebrated, jumping for the sheer joy of being able to, of still having legs and a body, laughing because we still had breath in our lungs and a voice. Even that arrogant jerk almost cracked a smile, an uncharacteristically thoughtful and somber statement replacing the derisive smirk. I am inclined to be charitable to him, for now. We had been throwing everything we had at Cell, but it wasn't quite enough. At that last moment, he had stepped in and tipped the scales in our favor.

Our jubilation quieted after a minute, sensitive to the fact that Goku and Trunks were still dead. But even that could not squelch our happiness, for the dragonballs would soon bring them back to us.

I started off, with the rest of them, toward the lookout, leaving the Prince behind to muse over whatever it was that furrowed his brow in contemplative thought. But halfway there, I stopped...something was off...I felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to find Bulma. The strong impression of sorrow and heartache and blue eyes full of standing tears tore at me. Her heartbroken need drew me to her as if it held the other end of an invisible string twined round my soul and was slowly gathering it in. Even knowing that Vegeta might already be heading there, I had to go. I was powerless to do anything else. I could never deny her anything.

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Tired and dusty, standing wearily there in scorched and battered armor, dried rivulets of blood from a dozen cuts forming a lattice of dark red on the skin exposed by the shredded training suit, he is by far the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Hesitating for a slight second, I attempt to check the impulse to throw myself at him, knowing he will not be pleased...but I have just lost both my childhood friend and my son, and I need him. I saw their deaths in my mind as if I were actually there, Vegeta's horror echoing my own. Even the knowledge of the restorative powers of the dragonballs can't lessen the initial pain of loss, or erase the image of my sweet, sweet son, laid out on the cold earth with a charred hole blasted clean through his breastplate. Running as fleetly as my limbs will carry me, I fling myself off of the last step, launching into the air toward the figure made blurry by the tears already streaming down my face.

Eyes wide, he catches me in his arms purely on reactive instinct, but for an instant I thought that he would sidestep my desperate leap and leave me to stumble to the ground. For the space of a few heartbeats, he lets me hold him, and then firmly, but not completely ungently, he disentangles himself and growls, "Compose yourself, woman, and leave off this disgraceful sniveling!"

It's no use. The sleep deprivation, sheer fatigue, stress and grief of the past few weeks have completely unhinged me. I search futilely for control and come up wanting. He crosses his arms and glares at me as if to conceal the fact that he has no idea what to do with my inconsolable bawling.

Yamucha has touched down behind him, sorrow in his eyes. Vegeta turns away, angry at me for a reason I can't comprehend, growling, "Get a grip on yourself! They died bravely in battle, and such displays of grief are unseemly!"

My exhausted grief rolls over to raging fury all too easily. "You heartless bastard! He was my son!--" I lunge for his throat, but a hand of gentle steel catches my shoulder, and Yamucha pulls me into his arms. I fold into his comforting warmth and cry. In my pain I seek only to find another human soul with which to share my grief, who knows that there is no shame in tears, and no point in suppressing sorrow with denial.

The disheveled prince keeps walking toward the house, and Yamucha lends comfort though his embrace and the whispered mention of the dragonballs. Yes. I latch on to the thought, using it as a lifeline to pull myself out of the abyss of despair that I was slowly sinking into. We will wish him back. We'll wish them both back.

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My anger was directed not at her, but myself. Her tears tore at my heart, leaving it raw and oozing unbearable, acid-tinged guilt. I should have saved him, somehow, for her. To spare her. I hadn't known, until it was too late, that it had progressed far enough to allow her to see through my eyes, when emotions ran high.

I dealt poorly with her grief, although in all fairness it was a situation totally foreign to me. Saiyajin are a stoic lot, and there is no greater honor than to die in battle. No Saiyajin wants to meet his end old and incapacitated, in bed. Outward signs of grief shame the dead...at least on Vegetasei. Obviously such is not the way of Chikyuujin, and my reaction only served to push her into the arms of that scarred and scrawny weakling.

Stripping out of the ruined armor, I fling myself down on the bed, mindless of the dirt and blood still upon me. Even the scolding I am likely to receive for the blatant infraction does not cheer me.

Can't you see, woman, that I am as upset as you? Even if I cannot show it?

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Strange, to be back from the dead. I at first had vague impressions of the time spent in that other place, but they faded like a dream upon awakening, burnt away by the bright sun and the clear blue sky above. It seemed so unreal, that only a day ago we were fighting for the sake of the universe. That sounds so overblown, but we really were. Cell would have destroyed the earth and then kept on going, until there was nothing left to obliterate.

But today, as I returned home, birds sang and trees danced, and for once I allowed myself to relax, drinking in the sight of a world not ravaged by monsters. In my whole life I had never seen so much green, or flown around without searching the horizon for the telltale trail of smoke swirling up from the charred remains of another ruined city.

My mother was overjoyed to see me, the tracks of tears still visible on her radiant face, even though the others had promised that she would not have been told of my death until after the dragonballs had restored me. Had my father told her, just to be cruel? There was no sign of him.

She wanted to cut my hair, again. I let her...I like it longer, long enough to pull back and fasten it out of my way, but I have long since resigned myself to the shorter style. Like this younger version, my own mother prefers it cut this way, and I would do anything, for either of them. After eating with her and Yamucha, I pleaded exhaustion and retired to my room.

Yet I am unable to sleep. This world might be at peace, but the ultimate goal of my sojourn through time still lies before me. Tomorrow I will return home to confront the androids. Will I be strong enough? I have learned so much, come so far...will it be enough?

Distressed, I open the window and levitate to the roof, seeking solace in the stars. They, at least, are familiar and unaffected by my petty human musings. Shining brightly in the cold silent vacuum of space, they wink calming assurance at me.

But apparently I am not the only one seeking refuge on the rooftop tonight.

"You, boy, are in my spot."

No movement reveals my startlement, and without glancing back I snarl softly at him, "Did you tell her, just to cause pain? Do her tears please you?"

The only reply is an angry hiss. Then, "You speak of what you can't understand, boy. I take no joy in her distress. She already knew."

I can't see how, but I don't think he is lying. Whatever. "This is my spot. I've always come here."

"I started coming here first." The almost petulant reply forces a smile out of me. I suppose, chronologically speaking, that he is right. In spite of my anger, it pleases me that we are similar enough to seek out the same patch of roof as a place for reflection, each without any influence from the other.

"Well, are you going to move over, or what?"

I grunt and move about an inch. He rolls his eyes and sits down.

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It wasn't hard to guess the subject of the thoughts that drove the boy to seek tranquility in the vast quietude of the clear night sky, and the calm, cool light of a half-moon and a smattering of stars. Only a few clouds drift high above, pushed along by the rolling wind. I don't know when I first began to visit this spot when I needed to think...although I suspect it was around the time that the blue haired woman sleeping below began to be more than merely annoying. Even now I can sense her beneath us, lying in quiet, peaceful repose, her chest rising and falling gently in time with her soft, slow breathing. I ache for want of her nearness, her soft warmth, and a muscle twitches in my leg from forced restraint. I'm not all that sure that she would welcome my presence in her chamber tonight.

And I wanted...to talk to the boy. Seeing his smoking corpse on the ground had raised all kind of disturbing issues in my mind. I'd never thought the death of someone else could affect me so -- except for perhaps hers.

He sits, lost in thought, a familiar frown on his too-human features: the mirror image of his mother's when concentrating on her latest project. So like her...and, I finally admit, so like myself. I really should think of him as a man, for he has surely proven himself as a warrior many times over.

"Are you afraid, boy?"

He doesn't miss a beat. We both know what I'm talking about. "No."

"Good." He must know that by now that those androids are no match for him.

But the frown deepens. "I guess I should clarify. I'm not afraid of dying. But I am afraid of failing." His gaze levels with mine, daring me to mock him. "Because that would mean her death, and the eventual death of everyone else on my world."

An immediate response fails me. I've never cared enough about anyone else to ponder events beyond my own death. The only planet I ever cared about exploded when I was five, and since then I've dedicated my life to destroying them, not their salvation.

I want to speak, to say these things while I have the chance -- the things I realized, when he was dead. I was proud of him, and I wanted him to know it. I wanted him to know that it mattered to me, his fate and his mother's. But I just can't say it. Not so plainly.

"Only a fool would take such circumstances lightly." I hope, in my guarded statement, that he can read the full meaning of my words, and hear what I am not voicing aloud. "But I am sure that the fate of your world could not possibly rest in more capable hands."

His eyebrows lift marginally, in slight surprise. But a small, pleased smile appears on his lips. "Undoubtedly it is due to the training I have received during the time spent here."

Then he laughs, a soft chuckle, and reclines on the sloping roof, supine, with his arms crossed behind his head. The hard lines of worry smooth out of his face, and the perpetually haunted look fades from his cerulean eyes. They are so like hers that it disturbs me to see them full of a lifetime of such pain and sorrow.

What would he have been like, growing up in a peaceful world, allowed to have a normal childhood? What might I have been like? But in a moment of realization, much like having a bucket of cold water upended over my head, I see that while the latter will always be a mystery, the former is within my grasp.

I hadn't thought much beyond the end of the Games. There wasn't much point, after all, if we were all going to die. And it was only on that last night that Bulma came to me and rekindled my hope in...us. She said that the human did not hold her heart, and I knew it for truth. What I felt from her was no lie.

But now...with no enemy to fight, and Kakarot gone...my life was suddenly...simple. I had nowhere to go, and nothing to do. My only option seemed to be staying here with her and the brat...but the idea appealed to me. I wanted to be here, with her. And I wanted to see that mewling, irritatingly helpless infant grow into the man I saw before me.

And so, I want to give him this one last thing, to carry with him into the future. "You can come back, you know, after you defeat them. The woman will want to know." An awkward pause. "Perhaps we can train some more." I'll still be here. I'm not going to leave her, or her...our son. I will be there for them -- and your father would have stayed for you, had he lived. Tell your mother that.

It seems, from his serious statement, that he grasps all that I am saying, aloud and otherwise. In a low voice, he says, "You will make sure that he never has to...know the kind of life we had to lead?" Swallowing, he looks away. "He will grow up...happy?"

"I swear it."

He nods. "Mom will like to hear that."

And after that we spent our last hours together in companiable silence. Nothing else needed to be said.

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Too soon, I found myself forced to say goodbye to Trunks. I loved this quiet, thoughtful young man with my entire heart and knew that his departure would leave an aching void that nothing else could ever quite fill. But it was a sweet ache, for I understood that he was going where he was needed, and that his entire world would be a better place, just because of him. I did not cry as I kissed him goodbye, because I was sending him back to his own mother, who must surely have missed him and loved him as dearly as I.

Walking to the time machine, he looked content and at peace for the first time since our first meeting, when I hadn't even known who he was. Up until today, there had always been a slightly haunted, desolate cast to the clear blue eyes, just hinting at the horror that he must have lived with daily in the apocalyptic disaster of his own time. He was always careful to shield me from the worst of it, but he couldn't hide it all. As I waved at him, I nursed the hope that it would never return to darken their azure depths. I prayed that his life would finally be happy.

His father stood apart from us, reclining elegantly against a tree, just barely close enough in proximity to be considered part of the event. His aloof reticence earned a disapproving frown from more than one direction, but I knew that his very presence indicated more than a casual interest in the leave-taking of his son. As he raised his hand in a two-fingered wave, it seemed to me that he squeezed more into that small gesture than any verbal farewell could contain.

When I dropped my hand from my eyes, from where it had been shielding them from the sun as they watched the fading yellow dot disappear into the sky, he was nowhere to be found. I wanted him with me so badly that I was shaking. I feared to contemplate the future and the consuming, empty loneliness of both of their absences drove me to the only place I could find respite, in the thought-repressing arms of slumber.

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The silhouette of a dark Prince in my window greets me as I awaken, sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Startled, I jump and emit an unlovely shriek, thankfully not loud enough to awaken the household or the baby in the next room. Lit from behind by the setting moon, he is at once both regal and frightening, his face in hidden in velvet shadow.

"Vegeta! What the hell are you doing?"

"Watching you sleep." And indeed he has been. From his relaxed position he appears to have been sitting, unmoving, staring at me for hours.

Petulantly, I snap, "Well, don't. It's creepy." I am not the most patient person, when tired.

He stirs as if to leave, brushing aside the curtain.

"Wait--"

His face turns toward me, although its statement is lost in the dark and the rest of his body remains poised to exit. "Yes?"

"Don't go." I need--

Beside me in an instant, he whispers soft growling words in my ear. "Is that an invitation?"

"No. Yes." My breathing is ragged and uneven. I am still upset with him over this afternoon, and yesterday, but my body wants him, longing for the embrace I'd almost lost forever. Wanting that complete, wonderful union with him, both mental and physical, overriding all other thought and emotion, burning out the bleak memory of the past days' sorrow. Just his proximity and his soft breath on my cheek have already ignited the insatiable flame of desire, kindling a slow burn deep in the very core of me.

"Say that you want me." The unfathomable look in the obsidian eyes causes me to wonder whether that was supplication or demand. It doesn't matter, I am happy to comply.

"I want you," I breathe. His lips touch my neck, burning, passionate, and my hands twine themselves in his hair. His teeth nip gently. "Oh, I want you." Only you. Always.

The curtains over the window had fallen back into place upon his entrance, pouring darkness over the room, leaving it nearly pitch-black. But we don't need eyes for this, our lips finding each other without their aid. With no light to intervene, I forget where I end and he begins. In the aftermath of so much death and horror and loss, we cling to each other with a heightened desperation, our feverish passion more fervent than ever before. His grip bruises my flesh and is surely just short of snapping bone, but I have been inside his head and I welcome the pain, knowing what he has seen, and relishing his need for me. A crushing, overwhelming need mirrored by my own. For long moments, after the wave of desire has crashed upon the shore and left us sprawled helplessly in its wake, we can only hold each other, gasping for breath, lost in the sound of each other's heart beating...and then finally, finally, he lets me cry.

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From the soft quiet blackness of contented slumber, I reach out for the solid comforting warmth of iron muscle cloaked in silken skin, lying just a breath away, but my sleepy fingers find only the icy void of long vacant sheets in their quest.

Brought to full awareness by the chill, I open my eyes to find him, bathed and fully clothed, except for the last boot which he is in the process of putting on. With the warm, satiated languor still flowing through my limbs from our activity only a few hours before, I sit up just as he walks toward the door, presumably to train. Taking his hand as he passes, I hold it to my lips and then try to tug him nearer, caressing the palm suggestively with my thumb. "Vegeta, stay a minute..." I say disarmingly, fully utilizing the tousled, just awakened, sleepy-but-more-than-ready look that had always worked on Yamucha.

Almost as if against his will, he takes a step closer to me, but then the obsidian gaze narrows and he shakes my hands off, roughly. "Leave off, woman! I have drills to do! Don't interfere with my training." This last is almost an angry growl, and he turns again to leave without a glance to spare for the hurt tears that spring, unbidden, to my eyes. Over his rapidly departing shoulder, he calls, "If you want to do something for me, why don't you try to cook something that I can actually eat?"

My anger waits until he is well away before finally deciding to return in full force. That bastard! What does he think this is, a bed and breakfast?! But as quickly as it comes, it dissolves again into anguished tears, rolling silently down my cheeks as I fight back the sobs threatening to tear themselves out of my throat.

Such beautiful lies he adroitly weaves, with the touch of lips and caress of hand, lulling me into mute obsequience. These adeptly fashioned falsehoods, bright insubstantial tapestries of dream and thought, are not meant to last beyond the night, and are carelessly unraveled by a single thread when the dawn arises. He promises the world without saying a word, hinting at forever but voicing nothing aloud. And imagined pledges are never binding.

In the heat of passion, his soul bares itself to me, offering everything, all that I could ever want from him. But only in that one unguarded moment. The rest of the time he is coolly reserved...he takes all that I give him and leaves me little in return. Obviously he assumes that we will resume this dance that we started lifetimes ago...he will train until he breaks the machine, and I will fix it. I will cook his meals and then we will argue over the palatability of them. He will ignore his son and I will scream at him for it.

I want so much more than that. I want to know that he loves me, that he won't leave...

What do I really have? He has promised nothing, said nothing aloud, given me nothing solid to hang on to. Even assuming that he does stay, I can't bear being just his housekeeper and cook and occasional roll in the hay any longer. I have seen how his callous treatment of me tore at the heart of my adult son...how can I let my baby grow up seeing his mother treated so? How can I expect him to learn how to respect women, when I have none for myself?

As much as I feared never seeing him again...my bruised heart weeps at this realization. I can't -- I just can't continue on like this. It hurts, more than I ever imagined anything could hurt...but this has to end. Now.

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Too much is never enough. Like a wildly addictive narcotic, I have craved more and more of her ever since that first forbidden taste. It took everything that I had to resist her this morning, upholding my commitment to train. And still I see her, silky blue tangles her only garment, faint lines from the sheet imprinted on her cheek, eyes sparkling naughtily with the promise of a pleasure unknown to me before I met her. She was more than enough to tempt me then, and continues to distract me from making any real progress all throughout the day.

Well, I am almost done now. I might as well quit a little early, and go give her what she wants, the very thought evoking wicked amusement. Wiping down with a towel as I exit the heated chamber and meet the shock of cool night air, I quicken my pace, tingling with anticipation. I have more than enough energy left over for this.

In my haste, and with the evening mist rolling in, I don't see her until I am nearly on top of her. Why is she outside, alone, at this hour?

Waiting for me? Why?

Instantly I sense that we are two opponents meeting on a field of battle. Something is vastly different. She stands like a lone night sentry, a silent unyielding sentinel carved from stone. No -- granite has more warmth. She is all cool steel and blue ice, her eyes freezing me in place, still a good two feet away.

Perhaps she is still angry about my disparaging remarks toward her culinary skills. But that was by far not the worst thing I've ever said to her, not by a long shot. I remember fondly each argument we've had, and every heated retort she gave in response to my intentionally inflammatory barbs. She managed to top me nearly every time. Not many have done that.

No, this is much more serious, and a knot of real fear tightens my stomach. We stand, staring at each other, and I try to figure out what the hell this is all about.

"It's over, Vegeta. I can't do this anymore. It's time for you to leave."

What in all nine hells is she talking about?! I can't imagine going anywhere else. She had better think again...

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"I'm not going anywhere, woman," he growls, in a voice that makes me shiver. He pulls me to him with force, crushing me against him and bringing his lips fiercely down on mine. I respond in spite of myself for a second, and then jerk away. But he is not letting me go, and I find myself still just inches from those glittering black eyes.

"Let me go!" Anger doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling at this moment. "How dare you presume that I will settle for this! I will not live like this anymore! I refuse to be just your cook and mechanic, and bed-mate when you tire of training!" I am shaking in my hurt rage. Tears of fury burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them spill. I wrench a hand free and slap him with an open palm across the cheek. The blow would have had more effect on a brick wall, but I am strangely satisfied. It seems to pain him, regardless, and he releases the other arm.

"You can come by to see Trunks, but you can't stay here!" I turn on my heel to seek a quiet corner somewhere indoors to cry.

He lunges and grabs my wrist, spinning me around. My other hand comes around to smack him again, but he catches it easily, smirking condescendingly at the attempt. Then his statement turns serious. I struggle furiously but ineffectually in his grasp, and he shakes me slightly.

"Woman! That is not what you are to me!"

Is there the tiniest catch in his voice? Is the mighty Saiyajin no Ouji actually close to tears? I shake myself mentally. In my rage I am almost beyond caring.

"What the hell am I to you, then?!"

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Her eyes cut me to the core. Love, hate, shame, anger, and pride all swim in pools tinted a myriad shades of blue by the liquid brimming them but not yet split. I know no small amount of remorse, that it is all of my doing.

"Tell me what I am to you!" she demands uncertainly. Her chest heaves, ragged breath caught in a near-sob. I step closer, to cover the distance between us.

There is no way she could have known. None of the earthlings would have been able to guess, and Kakarot would have been too young to remember, aside from being an idiot. I am the only one who could have told her, but I wasn't even admitting it to myself.

I reach out, and she stiffens, as if bracing for a blow, and after a moment of righteous indignation -- I would never harm her! -- I realize that she is merely steeling herself against my touch, as if it has the power to compel her against her will. Lightly skimming her shoulder, I slowly draw my fingers up over her collarbone, to the hollow of her throat, eliciting a shiver. There I trace lightly over a pale crescent of flesh, a scar that time will never fade.

I swallow, and finally say the words that I have been denying for so long. "My mate."

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End Chapter 12

Ja ne!
--Sango (sango_chan@hotmail.com)