Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Daddy's Little Girl ❯ Daddy's Little Girl: Quality Time ( Chapter 1 )

With an ease that came both naturally and from much practice, Vegeta ignored the urgent buzzing of the Gravity Room's intercom. He was training, and when he was training his concentration was legendary. (Also, according to Bulma, infuriating.) His only concession to the interruption posed by the intercom was to make sure that a ki blast "accidentally" blew out the panel. A pleased smirk ghosted over his sharp features before they settled back into a fierce scowl.

*Damn that Kakarott,* Vegeta thought, narrowing his eyes angrily at the ki blast ricocheting its way back toward him. *How dare he, how CAN he still remain stronger than I?* The litany was so familiar that it had almost lost its original animosity. Only almost, however. Vegeta was justifiably infamous for holding grudges. *I AM the Prince of the Saiya-jins, I WILL defeat that third-class moron...* Even Saiya-jin princes find a certain amount of comfort in routine, and this was his.

"VEGETA!!" The vid-window popped to life, filled (as usual) by Bulma's highly irritated face.

"What do you WANT, Bulma?!" Vegeta roared back, not even blinking as he deflected ki blasts at the practice robots.

"A lot of things, including that you get your head out of the special little sand-hole that you call a gravity room long enough to remember that I'm leaving for the Guber Symposium today! I won't be back for a week!"

"Baka onna," Vegeta muttered as he continued his movements. "I know you're going. Just shut up about it and get back."

Bulma's irritation abated somewhat. "Well, you don't have to be so enthusiastic about seeing me off!" she snapped, but the edge in her voice had softened somewhat.

Vegeta did not deign to reply. By his standards, she hadn't said anything worth replying to.

"You know where to find the list," Bulma said. Vegeta grunted. "I think Bra is teething," she continued, "so she's very cranky... enjoy your week alone with her!" Cheerily blowing Vegeta a kiss, she disappeared.

"WHAT?!" Vegeta whirled to face the screen just in time to see it disappear. Grumbling and swearing to himself, he turned back to his training.

When Vegeta finally deigned to return to the house, it was past lunchtime. He made a bee-line (or, rather, a Vegeta-line, seeing as how he had a tendency to walk right through things like doors and chairs that a bee might have to detour around) for the kitchen. Once there, he raided the fridge and built himself a sandwich that redefined the word "gargantuan". Vegeta's sandwiches were more "Super-Hero" than simply "Hero" and he ate them with a speed to match.

Saiya-jin hunger satisfied, Vegeta stood, stretched, and wandered back to the refrigerator to read the list posted there. Over their years together, he and Bulma had reached a certain balance with each other, to such a point that Bulma could leave a list and Vegeta would see to the things on it. He'd do it in his time and in his way, which was almost never when or how she wanted it done, but at least it got done. There was nothing new this time, except for the note that teething toys were in the freezer.

Next to Bulma's note was a scribbled message from Trunks informing whichever parent found it first that he and Goten were going camping and planned to be back at the end of the week. Vegeta looked at it and shrugged. Hopefully the brats would take the opportunity to get in some good training-- it was hard when Chichi was around to have hysterics whenever she caught Goten in SSJ form. He had no worries for the boys' safety; given the lack of bloodthirsty megalomaniacs threatening the earth, there wasn't anything on earth that could hurt two Half-saiya-jins.

And frankly, Vegeta was just as happy only having one brat to take care of alone. Bra was less trouble for him. Being just six months old, she was content to sit in her playpen and giggle at her stuffed toys. (Ridiculous human things that they were.) Also, she didn't care how he ate. So what if he ate a lot? He was a Saiya-jin warrior, he couldn't keep up a decent power level if he ate the piddling little meals that humans ate. Next to Bra's infantile antics with her creamed vegetables, Vegeta looked like a model of etiquette, even as he vacuumed up enough food to feed a few starving nations.

As if his thoughts about her were enough to disturb her, baby Bra woke up and started wailing. Vegeta could hear her clearly, even from the kitchen. Her lung capacity was the one thing he rather wished she hadn't inherited-- from him OR her mother. Unfortunately, that trait bred true no matter which parent it came from. He allowed himself a small twitch of horror, remembering Trunks' teething period. And his "loving wife" had left him to deal with Bra alone. Scowling and trudging up the stairs, Vegeta made a mental note to think of a way to appropriately thank Bulma.

Like pouring a bucket of ice water on her head every morning for a month.

"She'll never know I used it," Vegeta muttered to himself as he set the fussing Bra into her playpen. Bulma, being Bulma, took the phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" and put her own spin on it. "Motherhood is an opportunity for invention" had been Bulma's motto since Trunks' infancy. Thus, the playpen that the little Saiya-jin princess now fretted in was in no way a standard playpen. For one thing, it was built of several different metals with tongue twisting names, in the hope of surviving Saiya-jin temper tantrums. (Whether said tantrums were expected from Bra or her father, though, was a subject that Bulma kept a smug silence on.) For another thing, this particular version (there being several playpens around the house and in Bulma's lab) had been designed with a special antigravity generator, created so the pen could withstand the pressures in Vegeta's precious gravity chamber.

Vegeta hated it, of course. It was an intrusion into his psychological space, and it jarred with every warrior's sense he had. It just flat out looked ridiculous. His gravity chamber was for training! It was a place where strength ruled, where the body and the mind were balanced and honed until the combined unit was all the weapon a warrior would ever need. It was not-- repeat N-O-T with all capital letters and several underlines-- a place for babies and stuffed bunnies.

Vegeta glared at the offensive bunny, now sitting peacefully in the pen with his daughter's hand wrapped firmly around one long, floppy ear. He was tempted to make it "disappear", as he had with Trunks' toys that he had hated. Especially that giant purple dinosaur-thing. Personally, Vegeta counted that thing as one more reason the galaxy would have thanked him for destroying the Earth. But "disappearing" the bunny would only get him the same lecture he got for disappearing the purple dinosaur-thing, about the child's psychological development and creating feelings of abandonment and other nonsense which he didn't have time for. So, Bra got to keep her bunny. Which was too bad, since it would have been fun to blast the fuzzy monstrosity to pieces.

Turning with a snort, Vegeta punched in the code for his favorite training sequence, and tried to pretend that the playpen wasn't there. He'd put up with it for now, as long as Bulma never found out. If she thought he didn't use it, maybe she'd take it out. He could hope. In the meantime, it kept the munchkin where he could keep tabs on her. Even Vegeta knew better than to leave a baby unsupervised.

For the next few days, Bra was as perfectly content as a teething baby could be. She enjoyed watching her father practice, and often cooed with delight when he performed a particularly spectacular trick. She also loved the funny faces he made whenever he had to do something like change her diaper. The peculiar blend of disgust, anger, reluctance and resignation on his face made her laugh. That he then glared smoldering death at her was just part of the fun.

For Vegeta's part, he found Bra's presence a little less annoying than he had thought he would. Like a good Saiya-jin child, she understood intimidation and knew when to shut up, which was more than he could say for Trunks. Trunks had inherited as much of his mother's personality as her coloring; Bra physically resembled Bulma just as much, but seemed to be inheriting more of Vegeta's personality, which pleased him. That she actually seemed to enjoy watching him also pleased him. Trunks had been a good student, and he was proud of the fighter the boy had become, but Trunks's heart had never been in it, not the way Vegeta's was. Maybe it was Bra who would be his true heir.

On the fourth day, however, nothing could make Bra happy. She fussed and cried until Vegeta couldn't ignore her any longer. With a snarl he punched the button to pause the practice bots and stomped over to the playpen. He glared down at the fussing infant who, instead of meekly subsiding as she should, looked up at him and started wailing louder. He frowned and narrowed his eyes at her, but it had no effect. He growled and Bra hiccuped, looked up at him, sniffled, and started wailing again. Her wailing continued as he stood there, getting higher and louder until a sudden prickle raced up his spine. Vegeta squared his shoulders and looked down at her again. He had caused enough pain and fear in his life to know when a cry was real or just the sniveling of some weak moron who the galaxy would be better off without.

"C'mere, kid," he muttered, and bent to pick her up. Her skin felt warm, but he couldn't tell if that was a problem or not. Saiya-jins have slightly higher body temperatures than humans, and he'd learned that human babies often ran a slight temperature when they were teething. Holding her at arm's length, he inspected her from head to toe. She continued crying, but he couldn't find a thing wrong with her. He shrugged and put her back down. "Your human blood is showing," he growled, returning to his training program.

In the end, it was the despair that got to him. Any other crying he could easily ignore, but after awhile Bra's wails lost the robust anger and annoyance proper to a Saiya-jin child, and the resultant high, hopeless cries sent shivers up his spine. Vegeta didn't stop to wonder where the parental instincts suddenly came from, he just acted on them. Applying the bits of field medicine that he had learned as a mercenary seemed to help, but not enough. Lukewarm baths brought her temperature down, but it always came back up again. (Not to mention how drenched he and the bathroom got from her thrashing.) The feelings of helplessness ate at his nerves no matter how much he tried to ignore them. They made it hard for him to train properly, which did little to help his temper.

By the next day, he was almost ready to crack. He couldn't stand the idea of admiting that one sick baby was too much for him, but he couldn't stand another day of it either. He'd tried everything he could think of, starting with the baths and moving on to teething rings. He even tried walking her up and down the house until he was exhausted and dizzy, but all he got out of that was severly damaged eardrums. Vegeta had always known his limits, and he knew he was reaching the edge of this one. One more day of this and he might accidentally kill the brat. Resolving to call Bulma in the morning, Big, Important and Stupid Symposium or not, he steeled himself for another day.

For once in his life, whatever beings controlled the universe (if there were any, which he was willing to argue) smiled on him. Bra was still fussing as he walked her the next day. However, her temperature was lower and she was willing to chew on the frozen teething rings that she'd done nothing but scream at before. Vegeta was unprepared for the dizzying swell of relief when he realized that Bra would be alright. Having that deep nagging worry that he hadn't conciously aware of just vanish caught him off guard. It caught him so off guard that he accidentally bumped against the corner of the table. That sent the table crashing into the couch and made him stagger a few steps. He limped a bit from the numbness in his shin and made furious faces as he swore at his stupidity. Bra, seeing this, perked up and clapped her hands. Vegeta could almost hear her thinking "Again, Daddy, do it again!" He glared down at the giggling bundle in his arms, and she beamed back at him. "I'm glad you're feeling so much better," he snapped. Then he stomped to the gravity chamber, plunked her back down in the playpen, and returned to his regimen.

That night, when he was putting her to bed, he found himself reluctant to let go of her. She was fussing in her usual "I'm tired!" manner, but he just didn't want to put her in the crib yet. He was too tired to give her another walk around the house, though. The days of caring for her, the stress of the worry, and the energy he'd expended taking it all out on the bots in the gravity room, had drained him. Figuring that Bulma wouldn't be back until morning, he thumped himself into the recliner that she'd set up in the baby's room.

That was how Bulma found them when she got home a few hours later. Vegeta was stretched out in the fully reclined recliner, and the fuzzy sleeper-clad Bra was stretched out on his chest. In the soft gleam of the night-light, Bulma could see the little puddle of drool that Bra had dribbled on her father.

It was such a sweet, tender moment-- and so utterly unlike Vegeta that Bulma wondered if she was hallucinating. She stood in the doorway for a few moments, smiling softly at the tableau. Then, never one to miss an opportunity, she snuck off and came back with her father's night photography camera. (After all, she didn't want the flash to wake Vegeta up and ruin the whole thing.) She snapped off a few shots then tiptoed to their bedroom and went to bed. It was far, far better to let Vegeta wake up in the morning and think that no one had seen that little scene.

But boy, did she have some great blackmail pictures!