Chapter One – Birth
Part One:
“There’s one thing,” Vegeta began, addressing his father over theshogi board, “that I never understood.”
The king snorted. “Just one? I could list the things you don’t understand, given time and the appropriate length of writing paper.”
Tiles snapped against the board and Vegeta clicked his teeth, his trademark response when no biting remark came to mind. “Tch. About the fasting, I mean.”
“Well, my son, when a male and a female feel a deep bond –“
“Were you always this sarcastic?”
The king laughed. “What is this ‘one thing?”
“Before Bulma arrived, you were so insistant that I find a woman to fast. Insistent to the point of threatening me, to the point of desperation. That day,” Vegeta recalled, snapping another tile down, “you seemed almost afraid of some… consequence if I did not choose a partner immediately.”
“Mm. I was not afraid.”
“Your eyes were afraid.”
“Vegeta, I was not afraid. But. If I were afraid, what do you suspect the cause of that fear to have been? Have you ever known your King, your father, to fear anything?”
Vegeta played a tile more, and his father took his turn languidly. Had he ever known his father to show fear? What did a King with a Kingdom undisputed ever fear? Vegeta turned the thought over and over in his mind.
A tile snapped against the board.
“I will tell you, I fear one thing, son.”
Vegeta’s hand dropped.
“There is yet one foe in this world I fear. It is not disease or death, or any such abstract concept. I will embrace my death when it comes and I will fight any disease like I would any man – ruthlessly. It is a person. Can you fathom who it might be?”
Vegeta played his tile as his mother swept into the room. She was speaking to several attendants about her plans for the day and important meetings she must take, about Bulma’s doctor arriving soon and reminding her ladies-in-waiting that she must be informed the very second that doctor arrived. She broke off her stream of directions and demands to cross over to her husband and son.
She draped herself over the King’s broad left shoulder, lazily surveying the board. “You’re losing, my King.”
“I am aware, Pea,” he said mirthlessly, but kissing her hand before giving it a squeeze and letting it drop again.
Queen Pea reached over her husband and snapped a tile over her son’s king piece. “Match.”
Both the King and the Prince dropped their jaws – neither had seen the winning move staring them in the face. Prince Vegeta had thought he was toying with his father – victory assured – but had stepped into a trap the King hadn’t even intended to set.
The queen sashayed away, back to her attendants to continue an endless stream of duties, as the men continued to puzzle.
“And now you know,” the King began, “the identity of the one and only person in this universe who I fear.”
“Mother?”
“The queen had not been pleased with your long absence, nor with the death of your brother, for at least a full sun cycle before you came home. She was ready to go out into the stars to find and actually fight you – actually fight you, Vegeta – to force you to return. The fact is, she was insistent that you come home and fast to someone because she was lonely for her children.”
“I see.”
“And when she is insistent, it is of me. Constantly. Daily. Hourly. Minutely. There are a limited number of times I can stand to be berated by that woman, and I had reached my limit the day your boots hit Vegetasei.”
Vegeta laughed, a chuckle at first that built to a full laugh, head thrown back. What death? What frailty? What abdication? His father was tired of his mother’s endless bitching, and took it out on him.
The King joined his son’s laughter until both men were redoubled in belly shaking hilarity.
—
“Ohh, babies, come ouuuut,” Bulma moaned painfully, rubbing her swollen belly. “You have to be big enough now, don’t you? I’ll send your father in there!”
“Will you now?” Vegeta stood in the doorway of their study, Bulma sprawled out before him on the fourth couch they’d had this week. The first – too soft, the second – too firm, the third – no reason, it just made Bulma cry to look at it.
“Ve-ge-taaaaaaa, why won’t the babies come? It’s been one thousand years.”
“It has been 38-41 weeks, depending on when you became pregnant.”
“IT’S BEEN LONGER THAN THAT.”
Vegeta smirked and crossed the room to his beloved one – his beloved ones. He knelt down at the couch and put his head on Bulma’s thigh, mouth facing the dome of her womb and pressed a soft kiss to her flesh. “Little Saiyans, your mother wishes to meet you. Your grandmother wishes to meet you.”
Bulma laid her head back on a pillow and felt herself beginning to cry – again – for no reason other than the gentle timbre of her lover’s voice.
“Little warriors, come out and see your people.
Little royals, come out and see the land.
Little prince and little princess
Your Kingdom is at hand.”
The words were an old royal Saiyan nursery rhyme, and technically, it should have been “little prince OR little princess” but Vegeta had decided long ago that there was one of each in there. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Bulma hadn’t disputed it – in fact, she agreed with him. There were no ultrasounds, nothing like the prenatal care on Earth, but there were doctors and doulas who could read the ki signatures of the babies. Queen Pea sent for a specialist with knowledge of the Saiyan Gemini, but he was across the planet and refused to travel by pod. He should be in Asket soon, but until he arrived, Bulma was uncomfortable and weepy and from somewhere down in the pit of her stomach, she was worried about the babies, but didn’t know why.
Vegeta continued humming wordlessly, soothing the babies until their ki mellowed. As it did, some of the pain went out of Bulma’s face and she felt herself relax.
“They like you better than me already,” she pouted.
“Nonsense. Saiyans just don’t like being cooped up together for extended periods of time. They were probably fighting.”
“Vegeta, babies don’t fight.”
“Saiyan babies do.” He joked, tickling her thighs with ungloved fingers, raising gooseflesh all over her legs and arms.
“Of course they don’t!” she giggled.
“Of course they do. Saiyans are warlike beasts and you’ll be all alone amongst three of them. We’ll outnumber you.”
“Oh, but I’m sure,” she purred as he began kissing her belly, parting her legs and sweeping his hands over and over the inside of her thighs, “that my prince will defend me from such beasties.”
Vegeta chuckled, his chest rumbling as he hiked her dress a little further up her hips to expose her pert behind and tuft of unruly blue hair. Panties had gone by the wayside about 8 months into her pregnancy, and dresses were about the only thing she could wear. Her normally delicately manicured hair had grown wild, and natural, and for some reason, Vegeta preferred her that way. She was raw, and real, and she was all his.
He kissed lower on her bump, lower down to that tuft of blue, lower down still to kiss her lips and watch her squirm. “Ahn, Vegeta.” She cooed, already melting at his touch.
“Yes, Princess Bulma?”
“I love you.”
He dove into her then, parting her and lapping up her juicy sweetness as it flowed out around his gentle, skillful fingers as they curled into her and rubbed that spot she loved. With his free hand, he massaged and soothed her ever-aching back and she moaned in two kinds of pleasure underneath him. When she grasped his hair with her fingers and cried out, he increased the intensity and sent her toppling over the edge of her delight.
He looked up at her, wiping his mouth. “Come on. I ran you a bath.”
He picked her up with ease, like picking up an overstuffed pillow, and carried her to the bathing chamber. Beri had actually run the bath, sprinkling in oils and herbs to soothe Bulma’s discomfort and stress. The chamber smelled like roses and the steam was warm around her naked body. He knelt down on one knee, lowering her gently into the water. Her head lolled back and she breathed a sigh.
“Tell Beri I said thank you.”
“Tch.” So much for taking credit. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me when you’re ready to get out.”
“Mmhm.”
“Bulma.”
“Hmm?” she mumbled, eyes closed.
“Call me when you’re ready to get out. Do not attempt to get out on your own – again.”
“I won’t.”
“Bulma…” he growled a warning.
“Really! Falling once was enough.”
Satisfied, or as satisfied as he was going to be, he shut the door behind him.
—
“VEGETA!” Bulma screamed. Something was wrong, something was wrong with the babies. The water around her was red, billowing out from a deep crimson into a pink blush at the edges of the tub. “VEGETA!” Bulma was bawling, crying, screaming as Vegeta burst through the bathing chamber door.
“Woma –“ he cut himself off as he was stunned into silence. Blood in the water, terror on her tear streaked face. In half a second, he was at the tub. “I’ll go get Beri or one of the doulas from the castle or – “ He began to pull away from her.
“Vegeta don’t leave me! What’s happening, what’s happening, what’s wrong with my babies?”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t answer her. He needed to go find someone who could help, but she was digging her desperate fingers into his arm and weeping, weeping in abject and perfect terror. Blood welled up from the pricks in his arm, and welled out of her into the water.
“Little warriors, come out and see your people,” he began to sing, in his low, gravelly baritone – an accidental vibrato now, as fear stole in to his voice and it shook and broke. He could feel himself about to cry… something he had not done since he was a baby himself.
“V-vegeta,” Bulma sobbed, “that’s not going to work this time.”
He swallowed. Was he about to meet his children, or watch his wife die? “Little royals, come out and see the land.” He choked, plunging one arm into the water between her legs, as the air around them took on the softest lilac glow.
Bulma was straining against him, against the tub, pushing because instinct told her to. He could feel a little head in his hand, and he jumped into the tub fully clothed, never letting his hand stray from that soft, wet mop of hair.
“Little prince and little princess,” he sang, because he could not scream in his terror, covered now in the bloody water with his wife astride him as he faced her, hands ready to catch their little child. Their little living child, he willed, he insisted.
One last mighty push, and the babe was free in his hands and coming up through the water and breaching the water now, and squalling and crying now – alive, alive, alive his heart sang.
“Your Kingdom is at hand.”
Bulma’s head fell back, cracking against the edge of the tub. “Bulma. Bulma!” He shook her thigh, but she didn’t respond. Tucking the babe - prince or princess unknown, but live and crying with a fury – into the skin tight chest of the suit he still wore, he leaned forward and with measured strength, slapped her face. “BULMA!”
She came to, blinking, bewildered, dazed. “Is he?” and the baby answered her question with renewed volume.
“Alive. Stay awake Bulma, stay awake now.” She groaned and tensed every muscle, crying again.
“Vegeta, it hurts!”
“I know, I know, I’m here.”
“The other baby’s coming,” she gritted through bared teeth. The lavender glow of the room deepened to a deep, plummy aubergine light and Bulma pushed again with all her strength. One baby still tucked up into his chest and held in place with his left arm, he had only one hand to catch the baby coming now. Bulma screamed and wept, wept and screamed.
Blood billowed out into the water, and Vegeta felt the baby’s head. “She’s here, she’s here. One more, Bulma, just one more.”
A final, almighty and exhausting effort – Bulma pulled herself up, hands digging into the backs of her knees and feet braced against the solidity of Vegeta’s abdominal muscles – a final push and the baby was born.
Bulma watched through a dreamlike haze as Vegeta’s hand pulled the baby up through the water, up through the air, in silence. She didn’t cry. Was she alive? Was she alive? “Vegeta – is she?” Bulma choked on the question, on her tears.
With a careful hand, Vegeta turned the baby to face her mother – her bright black eyes open, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling in rapid but steady breaths. He placed the little princess on Bulma’s bare chest. Alive.
Beri burst through the door then, at last, “Prince Vegeta, the estate is glowing purple!” Her eyes widened in horror and fear as she saw the babies, saw the blood, saw the fully clothed prince awash in the tub and an exhausted Bulma weeping in pain and in joy. “I’ll get the doctors! I’ll get your mother!” She flew from the room as fast as she could.
Bulma was still bleeding into the water, and Vegeta could feel her ki fading. “Bulma.”
“Vegeta, look.” She whispered to him, “She’s perfect. She’s perfect. You were right, one girl. Is the other a boy?”
“Yes.” His voice was the raspiest husk as he reached forward to take the little princess from his wife as her hands slipped down into the water. “Yes. He’s strong.”
“He’s not crying anymore.” Her voice was fading, the thinnest rumor of a whisper now.
Vegeta tucked the little princess into his shirt, next to her brother. “Bulma, you need to stay awake. Bulma!”
“Little warriors, come out and see your people,” she whispered, arms dangling limply in the water, eyes fluttering closed. “Little royals, come out and see the land.”
Vegeta lay there in her blood, trapped by his fear and uncertainty, his children pressed against his heart. He finished the rhyme, tears running down his face. “Little prince and little princess, your Kingdom is at hand.”