Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Never A Bride ❯ Chapter 1

NEVER A BRIDE

(or A Lot of Rice)

Disclaimers: You know the drill---I don’t own DBZ; I’m not making any money off this story and so forth, on into infinity.

Author’s note: The subtitle for this fic comes from a line in a Frank Sinatra song, “Making Whoopee,” about getting married. The line “a lot of shoes, a lot of rice” pretty much sums up a man’s opinion of a wedding I think.

Many thanks and hugs to Ember for her fabulous beta skills.

********************************************************** *************************************

Bra hit the kitchen floor and practically slid halfway to the table. She threw her backpack into a corner and sat down with the rest of the family at dinner.

“You’re late,” her father said.

“I know. Sorry.” Bra took a quick gulp of milk and picked up one serving bowl after another, dumping food onto her plate. The last bowl she picked up was empty.

“Hey, the mashed potatoes are all gone!”

“Well, you’re late,” her mother said. “I’m not going to save you food when you’re late and don’t have the decency to call.”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to be late, but Hailey wanted to quick show me her dress for her parent’s party. It’s so pretty---it’s blue with all these little ruffles at the neck and hem. I had to try it on!”

“I’m sure you did,” Bulma said, “but was it worth your mashed potatoes?”

Bra pursed her lips as her two heritages collided–her human love of fashion and her Saiyan love of food. “Yeah, I guess so. It was a really pretty dress!” She bit into a roll. “Anyway, Hailey says I can come to her parent’s party. She gets to invite just one friend and she says it’s me. So I’m going to need a new dress. A really nice one too.”

“Bra, your closet is exploding with really nice dresses,” Vegeta said. “You can’t possibly need another one.”

“But Daddy! This party is going to be really nice–it’s her parent’s twenty-fifth anniversary and they’re throwing a really big party to celebrate. They’re having caterers and ice sculptures and champagne–“

“Bra, you go to parties like that all the time,” her mother said.

“Company parties! How boring is that? It’s different when it at somebody’s house! And I’m the only friend Hailey gets to invite so I have to look really special!”

“You mean you want a better dress than the one Hailey will be wearing,” Trunks said.

“So what if I do? This is probably my only chance to be at a real grown-up party like this. Mom and Dad never do anything.” She sulked a bit into her milk. “Hey, Mom! Why don’t you and Dad have a party for your next anniversary?” Trunks snorted. “I’m big enough to help you! I know just how it should go because Hailey told me everything---“

“I don’t think so, Bra,” Bulma said evasively. “I don’t think I’ll have time–“

Trunks was laughing now.

“I just said I’d help, Mom! Come on, it will be fun!”

Bulma glanced at Vegeta for help, but he never looked up from shoveling food into his mouth. She pressed her lips together and turned back to her daughter.

“It’s just not a good idea, Bra,” she said and went back to her own dinner, hoping she gave the appearance the subject was closed.

“But why not?” Bra whined.

“’Cause Mom and Dad don’t have an anniversary, stupid,” Trunk snickered.

“Trunks!” Bulma said.

“You’re the one who’s stupid, Trunks! All moms and dads have anniversaries.”

“Not if they’re not married!” At his sister’s shocked face he couldn’t resist adding, “Now who’s stupid?”

Bulma sighed and put her head in her hands.

“But Mom and Dad are married!” Bra cried.
”No, they’re not.”

Bra turned her eyes to her mother in question. “Mom?”

Trapped, Bulma raised her head to look at Bra and gave it a small shake of her head. “Well, it’s not official.” She shot a look at Trunks that promised retribution.

Bra blinked and she turned away from her mother to look at nothing in particular while she considered the ramifications of this announcement.

“But . . . if you aren’t married, then I’m a . . . bastard.”

Trunks laughed out loud at this, but he quieted immediately at Bulma’s “Can it, Trunks.” She noted with relief that Vegeta had started paying attention to the debaucle.

“Bra, you are not a bastard,” she said. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”

“Mom, I’m twelve years old. I know where babies come from. I know moms and dads are supposed to be married first and that babies that come when moms and dads aren’t married are called bastards. Under the laws of primogeniture, Trunks can’t even be a prince!” A horrid new thought struck her. “Which means I’m not a princess!”

Bulma, stunned as she always was every time Bra displayed her considerable intellect (she might act like fashion-crazy pre-teen most of the time, but she did inherit her mother’s smarts) couldn’t answer. Finally Vegeta entered the fray.

“What utter nonsense! Bra, you are indeed a princess because I say it is so. The rest is irrelevant.”

“Just because you stomp around and say something loud doesn’t mean it’s true, Daddy. You pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist until some big monster shows up! How would you know? I’m a bastard,” she said matter of factly and took a sip of her milk. “Just wait until Hailey hears this!”

“Bra!” Bulma exclaimed, appalled. “You don’t need to go blabbing about this to Hailey or anyone else.”

“Why not? It’s no big deal, right? That’s what it sounds like to me,” she said.

“Because . . . “ Bulma faltered. She had not come to the dinner table prepared to deal with the complexities of her relationship with Vegeta, particularly with her young daughter. The truth was it wasn’t a big deal because she told herself it wasn’t a big deal. She had long ago accepted that her relationship with Vegeta was permanent because it seemed to be permanent. He stayed---the height of declaration for Vegeta. To expect anything as traditional (or public) as vows was pushing it. “Some things are just private, Bra,” she said.

“I can still call Trunks a bastard at home though, right? Since he is a bastard,” she said with the gleefulness that all children have when they say curse words in their correct context.

“Absolutely---“ Bulma began.”You’re a bastard too,” Trunks shot back.

“You’re a bigger bastard,” said Bra.

“You are,” said Trunks.

“No, you are---“

“Quiet!” Vegeta roared. “It is obvious neither of you possesses the maturity behave yourselves as you should,” he said. “Therefore I will make sure neither of you have future opportunities to embarrass yourselves.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” Bulma asked dryly. “Sew their mouths shut?”

“No,” Vegeta said, throwing his napkin down on his plate. “We will wed.” He got up to leave the table.

“W–what?” Bulma stammered.

Vegeta shrugged. “We will wed,” he repeated as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, then he left the kitchen. Bulma looked back at her children, first Trunks, then Bra. They appeared as stunned by the announcement as she was. The three of them sat there in frozen in silence until they heard the gravity room powering up. The sound seemed to end their trance and they went back to their plates, pensive and quiet.

*********************************************************** **************
“What the hell was that all about?” Bulma asked Vegeta when he finally entered their bedroom that night.

“What the hell was what all about?” he asked, heading into the bathroom.

“That “we will wed” crap. What the hell was that all about?” She got up to follow him into the bathroom.

“What crap? We will get married. I thought it was self explanatory.” He pulled off his shirt, revealing his well-defined torso. Bulma’s gaze lingered over his shoulders–the first part of his body that she had found so irresistible so long ago. Even after twenty-seven years the sight still moved her to lust. Of course, he hadn’t changed in twenty-seven years, whereas she . . .

She forced herself back to the matter at hand. “Why? Because Bra found out she’s a bastard? You know she’s not a bastard and neither is Trunks; a more out-dated pile of shit I’ve never heard.”

“Technically, you’re wrong,” he said, opening a cabinet and pulling out a white, fluffy towel. “And you know it.”

“Don’t you get technical with me! I’m a technical genius!” She refused to lose this argument. “You know what my point is! We’ve been together for twenty-seven years, give or take a few when you were . . .confused---“

“I was never confused!” he said, turning on the faucet for the shower. “I just didn’t know what I wanted.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “Whatever. The point is that we shouldn’t get married because Bra suddenly found out she’s a bastard. Which she’s not,” she added quickly.

“If I remember correctly, this issue was not whether Bra was a bastard. The issue was her blabbing that she was a bastard to her friends, who would blab it to their parents, who would blab it to---“

“All right, all right! I get the picture!” Bulma said, exasperated. Could she actually be losing this argument?

Vegeta tested the shower, stepped inside and shut the door. “I need a new bar of soap,” he called over the door.

“There’s plenty of soap in there,” Bulma said.

“No, there’s not. There’s just this tiny sliver.” His tanned hand held up the offending sliver above the door so she could see. Bulma could have showered for two weeks on what was left, but Vegeta couldn’t stand using much less than full-size bars. With a sigh, she went over to the cabinet and pulled out a new bar. She unwrapped it and dropped it over the door.

“Ow!”

“Oh! Did I hit you?” she asked innocently. She didn’t need to be able to see him to know his eyes were narrowed and his lips were pressed together in most delightful irritation. She let him shower in silence, watching the bathroom steam up around her and tried to think of a new way to talk Vegeta out of this madness. When the shower stopped, Vegeta stepped out in all his wet glory and reached for his towel. He started at the top, rubbing his hair back into its peak, then moved his way methodically downward. Bulma smiled. Such unconscious grace! She watched him toss the towel onto the floor, missing the hamper completely and pad out into their bedroom. She heard him open a drawer and slip into some loose pajama pants. He then reappeared in the bathroom door.

“Are you sleeping in the bathroom tonight?” he asked.

“No,” Bulma said and pushed off from the counter. She walked over, picked up the towel and dropped it into the hamper. How a man who can blast a fly off the top of a mountain a mile away can miss the hamper is beyond me, she thought for the gazillionth time since they’d become . . . together. She turned out the bathroom light and crawled into bed. “So do you agree with me? You’ll tell Bra tomorrow that she just needs to keep her mouth shut about our private life?”

“No, I do not. I meant what I said. She’s your daughter --- she’s not capable of keeping her mouth shut. The only way to shut her up is to give her nothing to talk about.” He rolled over and tried to settle in to sleep.

“Vegeta---“

“Look,” he said, shooting back up, “I don’t know what your problem with this is! You were about to pee down both legs to get married at one time!”

“Yeah and you refused to go through with it!” she shot back. Here, of course, was the real issue. The aborted wedding twenty years ago. Bulma had finally got up the nerve to ask Vegeta to marry her and surprisingly he had agreed, but the wedding never took place.

“That was because you didn’t want to get married; you wanted a new dress and a big party! There had to be flowers, invitations, a lot of shoes and rice and a cake a mile tall! I said I would marry you, not participate in a spectacle!”

“Vegeta, I tried to explain to you that some things are just traditional---“

“But not required!” he said. “I didn’t know as much about your planet then as I do now, and I know none of those things are required to get married. It’s all a charade perpetuated by the females of this planet.”

“Every girl wants---“

“You can’t always get what you want,” Vegeta said, cutting her off. “We don’t need any of that to get married. You know it and so do I. The entire purpose of this is to make sure my children are not distinguished somehow by their parent’s circumstances. We will wed,” he said in that same definite tone he had used at the dinner table, the tone that said the discussion was over. He didn’t use it often, but when he did there was no point in continuing to argue. “And in the most expedient fashion possible.”

Bulma leaned back against the headboard and sulked. “Fine,” she said, “but I’m totally booked with meetings this week and I’m not rearranging my schedule because you’ve got a burr up your butt. It’ll have to be next week.”

“Whatever,” he said. “Just make the call and tell me when it will take place.” He rolled back over to sleep, the subject closed.

Bulma resisted the urge to punch him. It wouldn’t solve anything and it would hardly make her feel any better. Any small satisfaction she might gain from the physical outburst would quell the moment her bruised hand started to ache. She sighed. He was right; they should get married. It had been almost thirty years after all. No one shacked up that long, especially after two children.

So why had she fought with him about it? Didn’t she want to be married?

The simple answer was yes, she did want to be married. This limbo state of commitment, even though she believed it was permanent limbo, wasn’t how she had envisioned her life when she was younger. She had been raised to expect that one day she would find the man of her dreams and get married in a perfect ceremony, wearing the most beautiful dress imaginable. The choir would sing, the organ would play and the whole church would glow with the candlelight of perfect love. Afterwards she and her husband would toast their future with champagne and stuff wedding cake in each other’s mouths, sharing their new joy with family and friends.

She turned her head to look at Vegeta. No, a perfect wedding was too much to expect with Vegeta. He had little patience for the trappings of human existence. She sighed, watching him sleep. She had given up so many dreams when she chose him, but had there ever been any choice? From the moment she noticed him for the first time–really noticed him, she had been helpless to resist the attraction she felt for this proud, enigmatic man.

There were no flowers on Valentine’s Day and no cards on her birthday. No little gifts “just because.” Early on she let her feelings get hurt by his careless disregard for such things, but she came to realize she was looking for his appreciation in the wrong things. Purchased trifles were meaningless in his eyes, cheap substitutes for action and Vegeta, above all else, was a man of action. She had learned to look for his regard in other ways–the heat in his eyes that told her he wanted her now, the wondering caress that told her he never tired of discovering her body, the fights that he’d pick when he wanted her attention, the moist-eyed “thank you” he had uttered as he held Bra for the first time.

But none of these were new revelations for Bulma. She had learned her lesson long ago about what she had won when Vegeta stayed. She knew there were things she lived without that would appall other wives, but she had gained so much more. A partner to raise her children, a lover to keep her satisfied, a foil for her anger, her vanity and any other qualities that needed to be kept in check. She had everything that she could ever want.

So why was she putting up this fuss about getting married now? She wanted to get married and she wanted to marry Vegeta, had always wanted to marry Vegeta. What more could she want?

The niggling question wouldn’t leave her alone until she had her answer–she wanted to be asked.

Maybe she could do without the dress and the cake and the rice, but she did want to be asked. A ceremonial courtesy, perhaps, considering the outcome would never be in doubt, but . . .

She punched her pillow in frustration, turned off her bedside lamp and settled down, determined to sleep.

*****************************************************
< br> “You’re wearing that?” Vegeta asked.

Bulma looked down at her clothes. She was wearing simple black pants and a blue V-necked sweater--- casual and comfortable. Not what she’d normally have chosen to get married in, but she had honestly forgotten what day it was when she got dressed this morning.

“What’s wrong with this?” she asked and then she noticed that Vegeta had actually dressed for the occasion; well, as dressed as Vegeta was likely to get. He had on a dress shirt and pants that belonged to a worn-only-once suit. The tie and jacket were not in evidence, but that he had even changed out of his normal attire spoke volumes. He was at least taking it somewhat seriously.

“I thought you’d at least wear a dress,” he said. “What about that cream suit?”

Bulma’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to wear the cream suit?”

“I want you to look better than you do right now so I don’t change my mind about chaining myself to such an ugly human,” he said.

“I look fine just as I am!” she said.

Vegeta shrugged. “If you say so,” he said. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Yeah, right!” Bulma scoffed, but already she was crossing the room to look at herself in the mirror. A few seconds later she disappeared into their bedroom and reemerged wearing the cream suit and heels.

“Better?” she asked tartly.

“Hmmph! About time! You took so long to get ready we’re probably going to be late!” He headed out the door to the driveway and the car.

“I took so---! I was ready!” Bulma shouted, following him. “It was your idea that I change!”

“Whatever,” Vegeta said. “Shut up and get in.”

Bulma did as she was ordered, but Vegeta noticed an extra forceful slamming of the car door as she did so. With a twist of his lips he started the car and headed toward the courthouse.

They parked two blocks away. During the short walk Bulma tried let go of her frustration and convince herself that it was her wedding day, that she was finally a bride, but inside she knew that while she might be getting married, she wasn’t a bride–not really, not like she had always dreamed. Waiting in some judge’s reception area was hardly walking down the aisle on the arm of her father; law clerks were hardly her family or friends of a lifetime. She supposed they might get lunch someplace downtown after they were finished at the courthouse; she could order a nice dessert to take the place of wedding cake. . . .

At the courthouse steps, Vegeta stopped and appeared to be concentrating on something.

“What?” Bulma asked.

“I can’t do this,” he said.

“What?” Bulma asked again. Surely he didn’t just say what she thought she heard.

“I can’t do this.”

“What do you mean?” she said, panicking. “You said we had to do this! The judge is waiting!”

Vegeta shook his head ‘no’ and started to walk further up the street. Bulma hurried to catch up.

“Vegeta! What’s going on?” This couldn’t be happening–not again! How could he, no why would he do this to her? “Why can’t you do this?”

She trailed after him, entreating him to please tell her what this was all about until finally Vegeta stopped and looked at her. He took her hands into his and looked into her eyes. “Bulma, I can’t do it because you don’t want to do it. You were right. We shouldn’t get married because Bra can’t keep her mouth shut.”

For a moment Bulma was stunned speechless. Of all the times for Vegeta to decide she was right about something! She knew she’d been less than thrilled with Vegeta’s shotgun wedding approach, but she did want to get married! Even if it was in some stuffy old judge’s chambers surrounded by books instead of flowers and with only the noise of the traffic outside as accompaniment, she wanted it. She didn’t want to live in limbo anymore–she wanted promises. She wanted to be Mrs. Vegeta . . . whatever.

“Vegeta, it’s OK. I don’t mind; we can do this,” she said earnestly. She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

“No,” he said softly, taking his hands from hers. “I can’t let you do it. It’s wrong.” He walked away from her toward the building they had stopped in front of. He opened the door of the building wide. “Not when I know you’d rather do this.”

Bulma peered through the doorway into the darkness, confused. She saw candles at the end of the aisle---aisle! She glanced up at the building’s exterior. She hadn’t even realized they stopped in front of a church. She took a step closer to the doorway. Sunlight from the outside hit the pews nearest the door, revealing pew bows with white and pink roses. She raised her eyes to Vegeta in stunned silence, her heart frozen in awe at what he’d done for her.

“Vegeta . . .” she breathed, searching his eyes. Words couldn’t express the swelling she felt in her heart.

Vegeta left the door and came to her.

“So how about it, Bulma? Will you marry me and make an honest man of me?”

Bulma felt tears slide down her cheeks, their touch prompting her to action. She threw both arms around Vegeta and clung for all it was worth.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” he laughed and he heard her laugh too against his neck.

“Yes, that’s a ‘yes’, asshole!” She drew back and held his face in her hands. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” She threw her arms back around him.

There was a cheer from inside the church at her declaration–was it Goku?--- reminding them that the purpose for which they had come had yet to be accomplished.
”Come on then,” Vegeta said, pulling her arms off. He walked back to the church and reached inside to retrieve his suit coat that had been draped across the last pew. He shrugged into it and came back to her.

“You’d better fix your makeup,” he said. “I don’t want to hear you bitching about how you look in the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Don’t get too excited. The photographer has been given permission to take exactly two pictures with me in them. He loses a limb for every picture over two.”

Bulma laughed, pulled out her compact to do some repair work on her make-up. “OK?” she asked when she was finished.

“As good as it’s going to get probably,” he answered.

Bulma rolled her eyes. “We’re not married yet. Don’t push it!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said and offered her his arm. She took it. He felt so strong and confident, even through the suit coat.

“No tie?” she asked.

“Now you’re pushing it,” he said and led her into the church.

As they entered a guitar began to play. Bulma recognized the composer as Vivaldi, but couldn’t have named the piece if her life depended on it. The music was light and peaceful, setting an unhurried pace for the pair as they walked up aisle toward front of the church where Bra and Trunks waited as attendants.

“So that’s why they didn’t want to come,” she whispered.

The front of the church was filled with pink roses and candlelight. Even though the majority of the pews were empty, each had a pew bow with roses on it.

“How did you do all of this?” she whispered.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Your daughter is quite the little wedding planner. I just gave her a credit card and carte blanche.”

“Bra! That explains the pink---wait a minute, you gave a credit card to Bra? Are you insane?”

“Smile or people will think you’re unhappy,” he cautioned.

Bulma forced her face forward and tried to look peaceful, all the while dreading next month’s bill. Bra took shopping seriously.

As she neared the occupied pews, she began to pick out faces among the guests. She recognized Goku’s distinctive hair immediately and saw Chi Chi’s smaller form at his side. Goten and Uub. Gohan and Videl with Pan in a dress! (That was worth the price of admission alone!) Yamcha with his wife, Coral, and their two kids. Krillen and Juhachigou and Marron. Aunt Knickie and her brood. A couple of people she recognized from work–Trunks must have invited them. The only faces missing were those of her parents and she knew they were watching from heaven.

At the altar, Bra reached up and handed her mother a bouquet of roses. “Do you like everything, Mama?” she whispered.

“Oh yes, baby,” Bulma said, kissing her cheek. “It’s beautiful.”

The vows were simple, the service short. When the minister gave Vegeta permission to kiss his bride, he did so without hesitation, a brief press of his lips to hers. That signaled the official end to the ceremony and then guitar struck up again, this time joyful and exuberant. Trunks led the newly wedded couple through a side door, then went back and announce that a reception would be held in the church’s parlor.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur as her friends surrounded her with congratulations and good wishes. Champagne flowed and Bulma fed Vegeta wedding cake, getting her fingers nipped in the process. The guitarist had moved into the parlor as well, complementing the chatter and children’s play with his music. Trunks and Goten vanished briefly and Bulma wondered if it was merely to escape from the puppy dog eyes of Marron.

The photographer took his allotted two pictures with Vegeta in them and then moved on to shoot candids for the rest of the group. Twice the younger kids tried to steal champagne, and they would have succeeded if not for the watchful eye of Chi Chi. Bulma tossed her bouquet and Marron caught it, which wasn’t surprising. She was the oldest and tallest of the unmarried girls present. Pan pleaded unfairness and tried to ask for a do-over, but Bulma said that a bride could only toss the bouquet once otherwise the magic didn’t work. She gave Pan a piece of wedding cake to put under her pillow instead, which seemed to placate her.

One by one, the guests took their final farewell and Trunks told his parents to go as well. He and Bra would finish up at the church and he would bring Bra home when they were done.

Bulma walked back to the car, her mood a complete turnaround from what it was on the walk from the car. She was finally a bride–with music and flowers and champagne and cake! Maybe it wasn’t exactly as she’d pictured it at sixteen, but she hadn’t pictured Vegeta when she was sixteen either, and there was no doubt that he, above everything else, was the most important part of the whole thing.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“How did I know what?”

“That this was what I wanted,” she said.

Vegeta laughed. “Bulma, as much as I try to ignore everything you say, some things do filter through. It wasn’t hard figuring out why you were so pouty.”

“But you didn’t have to do it. We could’ve just gone up to the judge’s chambers and we would have been just as married.”

“Would you have been as happy?”

“No,” she said.

“Well then,” he shrugged, as if that explained everything. Bulma smiled, casting him a sidelong glance. That was as close as she was going to get to an admission that he did it to please her. She eased her hand over to take his, a touch he had started to allow in public in the last few years. She didn’t get to enjoy the moment long.

“Shit!” he exclaimed.

“What?” Bulma asked and followed his gaze.

The car. It was covered in shaving cream. Tin cans were tied to the bumper and balloons to the antenna. “Just married” was written in white shoe polish on the windshield. On the rear window was written, “If this car’s rockin’, don’t come knockin’!”

“So that’s where they went,” Bulma said.

“Is it too much to expect my grown son to act like a grown son? And he’s ten times worse when he gets around Kakarrot’s brat!” He stomped around the car, accidentally getting shaving cream on his pants leg. “Godammit!” he yelled, wiping his leg. “And look at this! The interior of the car is filled with rice!”

Bulma started laughing. “Calm down, Vegeta! It’s tradition to decorate the bride and groom’s car.”

“I’m NOT driving this car!” he said.

“Oh fine, I’ll drive,” she said and walked over and pulled open the driver’s side door. Rice spilled out and covered her shoes. She giggled more.

“Let me clarify---I am not getting into that vehicle!”

“Well, what do you propose to do? I don’t have any capsules because somebody rushed me out of the house without letting me switch all my stuff to this bag! And I’m not taking another step in these heels!”

He looked at her, then looked away as he considered possible responses to this dilemma. After a few seconds of thought, he stomped over and scooped her up into his arms. A second later they were flying through the air.

The wind whipped her hair and she held on tight. “Where are we going?”

“Where do you want to go?” Vegeta asked.

Bulma considered his question. Where do you want to go? Twenty years, even ten years ago she might have named some exotic location or an exclusive resort. Now there was only one place she wanted to be.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

“Home?”

She smiled. “Take the scenic route.”

Vegeta smiled back and soared up through the clouds with his bride.

***End***

This story was written as an entry in the DBZ Fanfic Salon’s first ever fanfic contest. I’m proud to say it took first place. Please stop by the Salon for some good old-fashioned fandom fun–fanfics, fanart and friendship! The address is http://s8.invisionfree.com/DBZ_Fanfic_Salon/index.php

You can read the rest of the entries in the contest at http://www.geocities.com/dbzfanficsalon/index.html. I hope you enjoy all of these wonderful fics. The theme for the contest was a Bulma/Vegeta Wedding.

The processional music is Concerto in D, RV 93: Largo by Vivaldi.