Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Doubts ❯ Frustrations ( Chapter 1 )

Doubts

A deep scowl etched itself deeply into the seam of Bulma's mouth as she tinkered with a malfunctioning motorcycle. Her current position gave her a dark vantage point beneath the bulk of the large vehicle that had gone haywire while in use. It was now jacked up, with herself underneath. She pinpointed the problem to a few loose circuits that had seemingly become rearranged of their own accord. This was impossible, of course, so therefore she could only come to conclude that someone had been messing with it.

The blue-haired woman gave a last couple of good yanks with the heavy wrench in her hand, directing her frustration towards a rusty bolt that was in need of tightening. Once this occurred, she could at least call it a day. Things never seemed to go her way, however, and it wasn't long before the bolt snapped from the force the wrench applied to it. It fell the short distance between Bulma's face and the underside of the bike, landing squarely on the woman's forehead. Bulma gave an aggravated sound through clenched teeth before wriggling out from beneath her project. The bolt had made a nice, greasy imprint across the expanse of her temple, and it was with growing irritation that she used the back of her sleeve to wipe at the mark. This only caused it to smear; leaving behind a black streak that served as a roadmap to the path her sleeve had taken. Muttering obscenities beneath her breath, Bulma turned to regard the motorcycle steamily, hands firmly on her hips.

"MOMMY!"

Her hands went up into the air, her invisible frustrations sent skyward with them. What now? "What is it, Bra?!" She did little to disguise her ire.

A short figure popped their head around the doorway, peering inside through a tangle of blue tresses. "I got the comb stuck in my hair, and I can't get it out!" The six-year-old stuck an indicative finger just above the crown of her small head, pointing blatantly to a plastic comb that she had somehow nested into a tangle of hair. Her lower lip came out into a pout while her eyes narrowed, letting her mother know the true severity of the situation.

The response Bra got from her older double was nearly expected. Staring gloomily down at the grease coating her hands and arms, Bulma frowned. "Where's your father? Can't he help you?"

Bra shook her head quickly, letting Bulma know that option was out of the question, as always. "No, Daddy is training. He would be mad if I asked him now." The young girl was about to switch to her last resort, which involved a certain puppy-dog face. It was only then that she noticed the smear of grime slashed across her mother's forehead. A giggle escaped her lips, and she lost no time in inquiring, "You sure are dirty, Mommy. Worse than Trunks."

At the mention of her son's name, Bulma sighed and crossed her arms against her blue work overalls, grease be damned. "Where is your brother, anyways?"

In return, the reply that her young daughter offered could be expected, as well. It was an unspoken game of theirs, giving and receiving statements that each other knew the answer to already. "He's at Goten's. They are probably fighting again. He always comes home dirty after he does that." Bra grimaced, her small nose scrunching up at the thought of filth. It was an idea she quickly cast aside, however, as her childlike train of thought quickly reversed to her most pressing problem. "Can you puh-lease help me get this comb out, Mommy?" She began to tug at the offending piece of plastic, not enough to actually hurt her, but enough to make her simper in earnest.

With a sigh of resignation, Bulma headed over to her daughter. "Sure, sweetie. Just let Mommy clean up first." She arched one aqua eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she made an attempt at humor. "You wouldn't want me to take that comb out with these hands, now would you?" She held up her slippery black fingers for emphasis, curling and wiggling her digits over Bra's head.

"Ewww! Gross!" It was enough to get the point across. With a cherubic smile, Bra scampered out the door of the lab, getting as far from those filthy fingers as possible.

Bulma smiled, heading to sink located near the door that her daughter had just left through. Reaching for the pump that contained soap, she squirted a bit of it into her palms and then turned on the lukewarm water via the faucet. The soap cut through the grime as it was supposed to, while the water willed it away, down the basin and into the drain. Once her arms and hands were clean enough, she risked a look up into the mirror directly in front of her. A look of disgust passed across her features, and she lost no time in scrubbing at the marks and streaks that adorned her countenance. Once that task was completed, she threw a wry look over to the motorcycle before switching off the lights to her lab. It was late afternoon, and the lights within the house were uncharacteristically dark. She was now in the kitchen, fumbling for the closest light switch and trying to find any hint that Bra was still around. Her hand struck it's intended target at long last, and the lights came up. Her pupils dilated a bit, growing accustomed to the nearly blinding overhead lights. The sight that greeted her in the kitchen was not Bra, and she couldn't exactly say truthfully that she would not have traded for the girl's presence, had it been possible.

Vegeta had been standing there, arms crossed against his hard chest. He was leaning up against the refrigerator, in a casual stance that let the observer know he could care less about whether he was being watched or not. His uncanny ability to pick up sounds at long distances had let him know time in advance just who was entering the kitchen, so even now he watched Bulma through a shuttered gaze.

Bulma swallowed once, before regaining her composure just as quickly as she had momentarily discarded it. All these years together, and still he could bring her on edge. There was something decidedly wrong in that. "Vegeta... is something wrong? Why were you sitting here in the dark?" She cast him a puzzled look before glancing around the vicinity, "Did you see Bra go by?"

Vegeta shifted from his 'devil may care' position, pushing away from the white refrigerator to stand on his own. His arms uncrossed, one coming to rest on a denim-clad hip, the other lying at his side. "The brat? Yeah, she came by." He scowled lightly, shaking his head back and forth. "Couldn't you of helped her with that comb? It's bad enough that you say you are going to do it, and then she happens to find me and makes me finish the job."

The teal-haired scientist stifled a smile at the sudden picture that Vegeta had conjured in her mind. She could just see a wincing, whining Bra instructing her scowling father on how to release the comb's death hold on her hair in the gentlest manner possible. Even the thought of Vegeta messing with Bra's hair was enough to send a full smile to her lips, minus the giggles that threatened to spring forth. "How considerate of you."

The Saiyan's black eyes flashed darkly. "Don't expect it to happen often, woman. I would have sent her back to you if she didn't have that bawling voice of yours." He skipped a beat, and then added, "Is my dinner ready yet? I just finished with my training, and I'm starved."

"Ugh!!! Vegeta, I'm a mess. Look at me! You would at least give me the decency to clean up first!"

The short man gave her a sweep of his gaze, appearing nonplussed at what her image did to him. "You are always a mess, and I am looking at you. What's the big deal?"

A menacingly dirty look was all he got, and he silently berated himself for it. Tread carefully, or he may not get dinner at all tonight. "Shut up. I need to go take a shower."

He seemed amused by that. "I take care of your crying brat and this is what I get for gratitude? Why, I am the Prince of all.."

"..Jerks," she finished for him. "Besides, she is your daughter too. The least you could do is help out with her at least once in awhile."

"I train the boy already," he interjected calmly, "What else do you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know... for you to act like a father?" Their usual verbal spar was going downhill fast, and she knew it. She had to get out of there and up the stairs to the bathroom as soon as possible, before she said something she might regret. All things considered, it was possible she had already crossed that line.

Vegeta glowered at her, leaving his position on the tile to close the short gap between them. She saw the smoldering anger in his dark eyes, the way his brow had furrowed into a steep incline. Nearly nose to nose, she took the time to notice for the millionth time that he was about her own height, save for the steep flame of black hair that crested high above them both. "You don't know what you are saying, woman. I don't need you to tell me what I am and what I'm not. Remember that." It was a threat, even though she couldn't quite see what he would threaten her with. A blur of motion, and he was gone.

Shaking her head to rid herself of his scathing words, Bulma left the kitchen and climbed the staircase that led upstairs. He hadn't been that short with her sense the beginning of their relationship all of those years ago. Under more normal circumstances, he could sustain a lot more verbal abuse from her. This was definitely odd, but then again she should have known better than to attack his status as a father. Why did he care, anyways? He always went out of his way to make it appear like his children were nothing to him, but deep down Bulma knew he cared for them. Hopefully, the hot spray of the shower would ease her mind... she must be overanalyzing things again.

-AN: Well, that's it for now. Chapter 2 coming soon.