#ratedt

It's only a bonus that it just so happens to be the home of Hatake Sakumo, who you have not been harboring a crush on for some months, thank you very much.

(Rin had given you a knowing look when it was agreed Kakashi would be hosting the "preparation party" as she liked to call it. You'd kicked her in the ankle beneath the table of the restaurant, shooting daggers as she blinked at you innocently.)

Obito rolls his eyes as he watches her, arms linking inside the wide sleeves of his red yukata. "Late for what? Festival always goes 'til like, dawn, and the sun only just started to set. It's impossible to be late."

"Yes! And you -" she pauses to point a finer at him, brow arched, "Told your cousins we'd meet them in front of the compound at dusk. It takes ten minutes to walk there from here, even if we left now we'll still be late, we might even miss them entirely and they could already be -"

Kakashi interrupts her. "Relax. They know Team Minato are never on time," a flat look leveled at Obito, who splutters, "and they wouldn't go on without us. Akari'll keep them ... entertained."

You snort a laugh as arguments immediately devolve, Rin not acting as her usual mediator as she begins pinning flowers into her hair. You still struggle to tie your obi, leaving the bathroom in a huff as you begin to pace up and down the hall. Arms twisted against your back, muttering beneath your breath - and then a broad palm comes down on your shoulder, making you startle.

"Let me," Sakumo says, and you turn your head to find him smiling, and oh, that just isn't fair. He looks completely at ease out of his jonin uniform, the light fabric of his nagagi complimenting the silver of his hair. The sleeves are loose and informal, the fabric crossing over his chest a bit lower than standard, exposing a few inches of his broad chest. His normally wild and unkempt hair falls loose around his face, his normal tail weaved into a braid down his back.

Your eyes trace the curve of his smile, the way his dark eyes linger on your own. Not fair.

When you'd first heard the rumors of him, you'd have expected nothing less than a big brute of a seasoned shinobi, with a harsh view of the world and incapable of being anything other than utterly serious with a stick up his ass, like most top-tier nin. Maybe he would even look down on you, as a civilian. Kakashi was a bit of a prick; he means well -mostly- but he had been fawned over his whole life as a genius and prodigy, especially as the son of the White Fang. You expected his father to be the exact same as Kakashi, except older.

But then Sakumo had turned out to be ruggedly handsome, and incredibly kind and good-natured and warm. Freely-given smiles, and a soft way of speaking that always bellied welcome. The perfect man. Who is also your friend's father. God is punishing you.

You shove away your thoughts as you nod at Sakumo's words, flush lighting your cheeks as you turn your back to him, holding out the dragging ends of your obi. Sakumo takes them from you, his hands grazing yours just for a moment; his touch sends a thrill up your spine. His hands are gentle and quick as he expertly folds and ties the wide fabric of your obi, and you wonder if he's done this before.

It's the sweetest sort of torture, having his hands on you without actually being on you, with his tall and broad frame warm against your back. If you close your eyes, you can almost see it; your expression schooled into a gentle smile as you hold yourself still, Sakumo close enough your hair brushes his nose as he leans down, hands at your waist. And then the obi drops, and he's parting the folds of your kimono over your chest, broad palm slipping beneath the sagging fabric to run his calloused hand over your breast -

His arm comes around you to press the front of the belt tight against your stomach, your eyes fluttering open as you bite down what you think might have been a soft moan. The rational part of your brain tells you he's simply ensuring everything sits flat and even; but the thrill that catches in your chest wonders if he simply wanted an excuse to touch you, just a bit more intimately. Your eyes glance down the hallway, but Rin had apparently finished with the mirror, and bickering voices can be heard from the front of the house. You're alone, but at any moment someone could turn down the hall -

You're not doing anything wrong. He's helping you tie your belt, Kakashi would have done the same. Well, you think with a frown, maybe not. He is a bit of a dick, after all.

Sakumo folds the excess fabric over the knot, securing it over the top of your obi. You turn your head and glance down your back, and from the bunching of fabric you're able to see he's done a simple taiko, mimicking the appearance of a box. You smile in gratitude, lifting your eyes to find Sakumo standing fan closer that you thought.

Your breath catches as you tilt up your chin, tip of your nose brushing against the line of his jaw. Sakumo's hands come up to your shoulders, keeping you in place; whether it's an encouragement of a warning, you don't know.

"How does it feel?" Sakumo asks, his voice low enough that it makes you bite your lip as you fight a shiver.

Like a current of awareness through your every nerve. Like the hint of something secret, forbidden. Like you're about to do something ridiculous, like kiss your friend's dad.

Your hands come up to the front of your obi, fingers tucking under the fabric and giving an experimental tug. The knot holds, the fabric not so much as dipping. You swallow thickly, and turn your body slowly. Facing Sakumo, you glance upwards and find him watching you, the smallest smile curving his mouth. His eyes are impossibly dark, though there is a warmth of affection clear in his eyes. Your lips part as you find yourself lost of words, instead bringing your arm up to place your palm over his hand, fingers tracing his scarred knuckles.

"It feels perfect. Thank you." Not nearly as perfect as it would feel if someone were to rip it off me entirely, however.

Sakumo smiles, nodding at your words. Neither of you move, even as you muster your courage, moving to twine your fingers through his. You gaze up at him from beneath your lashes, feeling something giddy behind the clench of your stomach. Sakumo had always treated you well, always had a smile to freely offer. He was just so easy to talk to, much more approachable than his son. It's no wonder you'd started to feel a familiar heat lick its way up your spine each time he so much as looked at you.

His hand moves, turning until his palm presses against yours. There is a flicker of doubt in his eyes, something very nearly uneasy, and you feel a surge of anxiety begin to pluck at your heart in response. You hadn't been seeing only what you wanted to see, all those times you thought he'd been looking at you far too close, for a moment too long. It makes you feel light as air, as butterflies beat against your stomach and chest. Sakumo opens his mouth, leaning down as though to murmur something soft for only you to hear. You tilt your head to meet him, his mouth brushing just over you cheek as he says your name, your eyes fluttering shut -

"Let's go!" Obito's voice rings out from down the hall, making you startle. And with that, the sudden spell is broken, as Sakumo stands to full height. He gives your hand a parting squeeze, his smile just the slightest bit strained, and then he's brushing past you.

You take a moment to compose yourself; fanning your face to help dispel your flush and fighting to even your breathing. But the smallest smirk curves your mouth as a feeling of conviction surges through your veins. You smooth a hand down your hair, straightening your obi as your smirk widens before you turn to walk to the front of the house. It's clear as glass, really, that he's just as affected by you as you are of him. The breathless laugh you swallow down tastes almost like victory, and you school your giddy smile as you turn the corner.

Rin holds tight to Obito's offered hand as she pulls on her sandals, small bag hanging from her wrist and tongue between her teeth as she fights not to stumble. Kakashi leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he watches his squad. His dark blue yukata is informal, the fabric loose enough over his chest that you can see the skintight black shirt he wears beneath, attached mask curved over the lower half of his face. He doesn't wear his hitae-ate, making his hair fall forward over his eyes.

He looks up as you approach, inclining his head in acknowledgment. You still feel the burn of Sakumo's hand on your skin, through the fabric of your kimono, and hope Kakashi isn't clever enough to determine the reason for your blush as he shoves off the wall and offers you his arm.

"Not forgetting anything?" Sakumo asks as he steps into his sandals, watching the way you move past him and go to Kakashi.

"It's not like that matters. We're all probably coming back here after the festival, oyaji," Kakashi points out, as you gently put your palm in the crook of his elbow. Obito and Rin are similarly linked, standing outside the door and bickering quietly, though the brunette is smiling warmly as Obito watches her with unrestrained warmth.

"Can't fault a man for wanting to keep things organized," Sakumo says to Kakashi with a roll of his eyes, ushering for the both of you to step through the open door.

"You're one to talk," Kakashi says with an arched brow, nodding at his father.

Sakumo looks confused, and when you peak past him you make a surprised noise in your throat. You decision is made before you even realize it, as you pull away from Kakashi to step back into the kitchen. Your hands reach for the haori that hangs on the back of a chair, and you shake out the fabric gently, smiling as you spot the lining inside decorated with flowers and hounds.

You bite your lip as you step up to Sakumo, holding up the fabric and jerking your chin for him to turn. Two pairs of black eyes watch you, before Sakumo smiles that same warm smile and holds out an arm. You help him into the haori, bottom lip caught between your teeth and palms smoothing over his shoulders and lingering, just a little. With a breath you insist to yourself isn't shaky, you step in front of him and reach for the pale cords of the haori. You can feel Sakumo silently watching as you tie a simple knot, holding the thin jacket together across his abdomen.

"There," you whisper, fingertips grazing up his chest in a moment of bravery. "Now we're even," you add with a smirk, glancing up to catch his eye.

There's something unreadable in his expression, in the way he watches you so openly. Sakumo moves to capture your fingers with his own, his touch calloused but tender.

"Thank you," he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear. You feel your face heat in response, only managing to nod. You glance over his shoulder to see Kakashi has left, though you feel no disappointment at the fact he hadnt waited for you. It's more like a sense of misplaced relief, perhaps.

Rin has one of Kakashi's hands in hers, Obito's in the other. They're still impatient to leave, halfway down to the road already. You find yourself smiling indulgently at the sight, and tilt your head up to catch Sakumo's eye.

"I've been ditched. Care to escort me to the festival?" You ask, no bitterness coloring your tone. Neither you nor Kakashi really wanted to be stuck with one another, even if it was only for the travel time and presumably, the first few minutes of all your gathered friends huddling in a circle and arguing about what to do first before inevitably dispersing into groups of twos and threes.

You're not really in the mood for a party, you think as your pulse heightens, Sakumo studying you in a stretching silence that brings embarrassment to your chest. You're more in the mood for a good conversation, and maybe for a tall and handsome man to proudly have you on his arm.

"It would be an honor," Sakumo finally responds, his hand still holding yours. Your smile is immediate and instinctive, stomach clenching nervously.

He moves your hand to the crook of his elbow, and as you step out of the house your friends only give you a cursory glance -you pointedly ignore the way Kakashi's brows furrow above his dark eyes- before you're all walking down the lane.

-----

( + extra author’s note)

He remembers what he said the first time. Of course he loved her! But he wasn’t good enough, she was too perfect. He hadn’t meant for those words to hurt her, they were supposed to spare her the pain that he saw foreshadowed in their future. But, as it turned out, their lives would be riddled with pain anyway. Despite his best efforts to protect her by pushing her away, things had still gone to shit. Perhaps that had been his gravest mistake; to deny his feelings for her. They had always been better together after all; stronger, smarter, more capable.

The pained look on her face drew him back to reality. He was taking too long to answer. But, he has to get it right this time. “Of course I love you,” he echoed his response to their original conversation. He moved closer to her though and willed himself to find the right words this time.

“Okay so then why don’t you...want me?” Her voice was thick and her eyes were rimmed red. He hates seeing her like this, especially when he knows he’s the cause of her sadness. Ultimately, wasn’t that what he was trying to avoid in the first place? Wasn’t that why he’d rejected her to begin with?

He takes her hand in spite of himself. “It’s not that simple-.” But, wasn’t it? His courage staggers for a moment and he forces himself to take a ragged breath. “I’m scared,” he confesses that as much to himself as to her. “If I hurt you, if I caused irreparable damage to our friendship I would never be able to forgive myself.” He’s surprised he’s actually said those words out loud but after the other scenarios he’s been through so far, he knows he should just be honest with himself. This will go a lot easier if he just learns whatever this vision is trying to teach him or make him see. “You’re the most important person to me in the entire universe, Bets.” His hand had moved, seemingly on its own accord, to cup her face and he couldn’t help but feel his heart clench at the way she relaxed so willingly into his touch, how her eyes fluttered closed. Her absolute trust in him wasn’t forced or feigned, it was built on their foundation of friendship, of the love she’d always harbord for him. That love, however, had long blossomed into something more for the both of them. Of course in this dream or alternate reality or whatever it was he had the advantage of knowing things she didn’t know. Things this still innocent version of herself could never imagine they’d go through. She was still capable of holding onto optimism because she didn’t know what would happen.

“It’s not going to ruin anything.” She spoke the words assuredly, like it was a promise she could keep for the both of them out of sheer will alone. “It’s going to make everything better; make us closer.” It was like she could feel his thoughts radiating off of him.

He wants to believe her and some parts of him do. Their fingers have become intertwined at his left side and his skin tingles where it touches hers. Their connection is magnanimous and undeniable, and suddenly anything he wants to say about her being in love with some version of him she’s conjured up in her head seems worthless and unwarranted. His natural inclination is to push her away, reiterate that he’ll never be good enough for her. But perhaps he’s been sent back to this moment because he isn’t supposed to use those excuses this time.

Yet, as he studies her perfect, full, bottom lip that is practically screaming out to be touched by him, he still feels the need to send her away. “It’s not that I don’t want you, Betty.” The confession slips out before he can stop it and now he can’t take it back. It hangs between them only briefly before it’s tarnished by his next statement. “But I don’t deserve you or the way you’re looking at me. I have this darkness inside of me and I can’t let it hurt you.” It’s a chore to force out the last part. Because it’s the truth. That’s what he’s always wanted to protect her from, the darkness that exists inside of him. The one that makes him thirsty for revenge at any cost. The one that sent him on the run in the first place. He can’t risk letting her get caught in whatever crosshairs he’ll undoubtedly find on him.

He expects to find sadness on her face but he finds wistfulness instead. In fact, if he’s not mistaken, she actually giggles and shakes her head at him. “Oh Arch, you don’t think I already know that?” It’s her turn to cup his face and he can’t help but have a similar response of relaxing with ease into her soft, sweet touch. “I have darkness in me too,” She whispers softly, her voice almost a breeze against his skin. “But, I’m not afraid of the dark, especially not when I’m with you. Besides, we can bring flashlights.” She flashes him a misplaced smile and he wants to grin with her, let her positivity be infectious, but he feels restrained still and like he needs to put up a fight, for both of their sakes.

“It’s not that simple Bets-”

“It can be though.” She dares back before he can finish that half-assed argument he’d barely even crafted.

“I’m not sure I can be the man you want or deserve, I just-”

She steps closer to him and the sudden proximity cuts him off before her words do. Her wistful tone has been replaced by a more challenging one. “Tell me you don’t have feelings for me. Tell me that right here, right now, standing this close to me that you feel nothing for me.” Her chest is pressed to his now and any semblance of space between them no longer exists. If he’d thought he was tingling when their skin made contact earlier, then he was practically vibrating now.

“Betty, I-”

“Tell me!” She challenged again, drawing her hand down to rest against his chest, her fingers tapping expectantly against the less than luxurious fabric of his suit jacket.

He wants to tell her all of those things. He wants to spare her the pain of loving him like he did in reality. But this is a dream. A hallucination at best, what’s the harm in just seeing what it would be like? Her eyes shine with expectancy and hope and he can’t bring himself to destroy it. Not here. Not this time. “I could tell you those things.” He sighs, looking down so that their eyes are locked on each others, “But, you’ve always been able to tell when I was lying so it wouldn’t do me any good anyway.”

She opens her mouth to respond but her lips parting this close to him seems to awaken some carnal and instinctive need within him because the next thing he knows he’s kissing her. It’s not timid or reserved like their real first kiss, the one they’d shared at the wrong place and time in front of Cheryl’s. No, this kiss is in a class of its own. His arm snakes around her waist, his hand settling at the small of her back, melding them together. This kiss says everything he’s never been able to articulate about how he feels about her and what she means to him. This kiss changes everything.

Suddenly, he’s overcome with overwhelming sadness because this isn’t really happening. This isn’t really Betty. She isn’t really his. This harsh dose of reality breaks their kiss. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until her thumbs are brushing away his tears. “What’s wrong?” She asks softly, drawing him against her without hesitation or reservation.

“It’s not real.” He whispers, but even so he lets himself kiss her again because even though it’s not real; it could’ve been. And this is how it would’ve felt. He’s suddenly angry for robbing them both of this experience. He knows he’ll never forget the feel of her lips or the taste of them, even when he wakes up. He knows he’ll never stop craving them. He also knows he’ll never have them, not anymore. She loves Jug. The window he’d single-handedly decided needed t be forcibly closed, locked, and sealed- would remain that way.

When the kiss breaks this time they’re no longer standing outside of her house. As he opens his eyes he notices they’re somehow in his room. He looks around, confused at first. The room is basked in a faint glow of moonlight and street lamps that permeate through his uncurtained window. It creates a halo around her already angelic blonde hair, “It can be real.” She affirms, pressing her lips to his again and moving them backward.

When he feels his knees hit the side of the bed, he sits, pulling her with him. “We can’t,” He sighs, “We shouldn’t-” But every excuse he tries to muster dies on his lips as they find hers again. “Fuck it-” He mutters to himself, giving in to his desires once and for all. If this isn’t real- there can’t be any consequences to giving in any way.

His deft fingers find the zipper of her dress and it gives them both chills when he tugs it down and the fabric falls from her shoulders. His breath catches as he looks at the matching lingerie set she wears that tells the story of how she’d hoped the night would end. He wonders if this is something his own mind has conjured up, but somehow, he knows it isn’t. He stops trying to rationalize any of this and finally lets go.

He makes love to her. It’s more than he could ever imagine. He feels everything he’s ever wanted to feel. The love that radiates off of her is overwhelming. They cuddle after, before going at it again. And then a third time. He knows he has to savor this while he can. He thinks maybe it’s selfish, but if this hallucination is the only he way he gets to be with her for the rest of his life, he’s going to make it count while he still can. He assumes that when he falls asleep he’ll either wake up to the next part of the game or maybe he’ll have succumbed to his injuries and whatever purgatory he’d been experiencing for the past however long would cease to exist.

He supposed there would be a kind of beauty in it all ending like this. In fact he almost wills himself to slip away and let this be his last memory, even if it isn’t real. He lets his eyes close briefly and sleep is ready to come for him, but her voice brings him back. “What are you thinking about?” She asks quietly.

His eyes snap open, willing him to stay here as long as he can. “How I wish this was real.” He admits earnestly, knowing she probably won’t understand. His voice is thick with sleep and his eyes become heavy again. He knows he can’t hold on much longer, but he isn’t exactly sure what it means. He isn’t as scared as he thought he would be, though.

Everything starts fading away into blackness and he feels the dream coming to an end. He feels tears spring in his eyes and he tightens his grip on her body, which is heaped sleepily against his, not ready to let go yet. Eventually, even the feeling of her begins to fade and just before the moment ends completely, he hears her voice in the faintest of whispers. “It is.”

Then, everything fades to black.

When he comes to, he knows something doesn’t seem quite right, but he can’t exactly place it. In fact, he finds himself in his bedroom and it feels like it’s been weeks since he’s actually been here. When the bed shifts and a warm body is pressed against his, lips bestow a lazy kiss to the place where his would-be injury should have covered. Afraid whatever moment this is might end if he opens his eyes, he keeps them closed, yet he tugs the form close against him. He needn’t see her to know it’s Betty. He can feel her, all around him. He still has the wherewithal to understand the importance of savoring this feeling.  “I had a strange dream..” He mumbles, trying to remember what it was.

He conjures up bits and pieces of memories that seem to be swirling around his mind. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. Something about a bear, Betty loving Jughead, being on the run from Hiram Lodge? But just as quickly as those notions appear in his mind’s eye, they flit away before he can fully understand. It doesn’t help that his companion is drawing distracting shapes against his warm, bare skin which only serves to make it harder to concentrate. Suddenly, he recalls details in more clarity. The feel of her fingernails dragging across his back and digging into his shoulder. The fireworks her lips left behind as they trailed over his skin. The soft rock of her hips that culminated in moans of ecstasy. “Betty…” Her name is barely a whisper as his nerves ignite with the memory of how making love to her felt in that dream.

He’s startled more fully awake when he hears a response of “Hmm?” And then the body that had been draped over him shifts again, causing him to open his eyes. He looks down and sees her expectant face and for a moment he’s unable to process that it’s actually her until she pushes a strand of blonde hair back out of her eyes. Her hair is piled in a messy bun atop her head and he can tell that the game or hallucination as brought him to a new scenario.

“You’re still here.” Then, more sadly he adds, “That means I’m still dreaming,” He smiles in spite of himself because even though this can’t be real, he’s content to spend a little more time living in this fantasy he’s created for them. Maybe he’s in a coma in a hospital in Canada and this is all being induced by a line of morphine being pumped into him steadily through an IV. Whatever it is, he’s happy to stay here with her as long as he can.

When her lips are against his an instant later, he can’t help but notice just how real this feels. Last night he was fully aware that everything he was feeling was the product of his imagination. But as he rakes his fingers over her bare chest, the goosebumps that form underneath seem to have appeared on their own accord. He studies her like a book, his eyes taking in every finite detail of the way she looks. He hates himself for rejecting her. Wishes that this was reality and the other stuff was the dream. Or nightmare, as it were. He knows he can’t stay here with her forever but he knows he isn’t ready for it to end either. “I’m so in love with you,” He mutters tearfully before capturing her lips again, pulling her against him.

Each iteration of this dreamworld serves to reaffirm that every single thing that has gone wrong in his life has stemmed from rejecting her. Every version of her is blissfully unaware of all he has cost them and he can’t bring himself to confess to her that he fucked it up. It takes six rounds of this same instant before he’s fully realizing what he’s meant to do. Why he’s here. Why she is.

He’s been going about it all wrong. When the hallucinations brought him back to their moment in front of her house, the night of the dance, he thought he was supposed to choose her. Follow what his heart had wanted and see where it took them. Doing that was nice, but in all actuality, it did little to bring him closure. He owed her so much more than that, he finally realized. It wasn’t a confession of love he was supposed to give her, it was something more raw than that. The edges of this vision start to blur and he feels himself being dragged away. He knows what he has to say next time he sees her. He hopes this world gives him the chance.

Blackness coats the moment again and then, there is nothingness.

The next time he opens his eyes, it doesn’t feel like he is dreaming. The awful pain he was expecting to find in his chest radiates through each of his shoulders and down past his torso. Heart monitors and machines beep around him and draw him further into reality. The pain of his injury is almost nothing compared to the hole he feels when he realizes that Betty is not really his. That none of what he’s imagined will ever be real.

He is starkly aware of the dryness of his throat and he pulls an IV clad hand up to his face, pulling the oxygen line from his nose and blinking his eyes a few times to adjust to being awake for the first time in he isn’t sure how long. The room is mostly dark except for the myriad of lights glowing from the plethora of machine’s surrounding his bed. He groans as even the slightest of movements send terrible, dull, aching pains that radiate all the way through him.

Before his eyes are fully adjusted, he hears someone else in the room. He’s barely able to make out their silhouette, but recognizes when the move closer. Suddenly, he feels a straw tap against his dry lips and he parts them, sucking gently until cool water splashes refreshingly over his tongue. He takes a long drink, letting the crisp revitalizing liquid coat his throat and mouth. When he’s had his fill, he turns his head and feels the straw and cup being moved away and hears it being set on the table. Opening his eyes, he’s expecting to find a nurse, but is startled to find Betty looking back him, concern wrought into her brow.

“Fuck- I’m dreaming again, aren’t I?” He growls, averting his eyes from her. He knows what he’s supposed to do but he thought they’d be outside of her house again. He wonders why his subconscious has put him here and given him all the physical pain of his injury this time. He has a feeling that it’s nothing compared to the insurmountable void he will feel when she inevitable rejects him.

“Shitty dream,” She motions around the hospital room, a smirk on her lips nevertheless. She takes a seat in the chair next to his bedside and draws his hand into hers. “I’m pretty sure you’re awake.” She notes, squeezing gently. “Or I’m dreaming too,” She adds surreptitiously.

“No.” He says firmly, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t be here if this were real life.” His voice sounds so sad and pathetic, but he knows it’s his own fault. After all, he was the one who drove her away. It’s almost more disappointing how they’d let their friendship fall to the wayside since getting into their respective relationships. Maybe it was because deep down, they knew they were never meant to be just friends?

She seems hurt when he says that and drops his hand briefly. It’s not the reaction he’s expecting. “I will always be here when you need me, Arch. No matter what.” Then, she’s taking his hand again and when she squeezes it reassuringly, he forces himself to look at her.

“You won’t, Betty. You can’t.” It’s his turn to retract from her. He knows he doesn’t deserve her comfort. He’s let himself indulge in her too much in the other versions of this head trip. He doesn’t get to, not this time.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” The earnestness in her voice is almost heart breaking.

“Not really, no…” He begins, frustrated with himself and the grogginess he feels. It makes it harder to articulate what he wants to tell her. And when you can’t coherently make your point, people tend to think you’re just rambling unimportant things.

“You aren’t making any sense, Arch.” She stands up and leans over him, brushing her thumb over his cheek. “You should rest some more, we can talk later.” She adds, leaning down to kiss his forehead and then her hand is reaching out for something on his left side and the pain is seemingly chased away by overwhelming warmth in the form of a morphine drip. He’s afraid if he doesn’t say it now he’ll miss his chance but before he can fight it, he’s giving into her suggestion with heavy eyelids.

When he awakes again, she’s still there next to him. Her eyes are closed but he can tell she isn’t sleeping. She doesn’t look relaxed enough. Still, he tries not to disturb her as he shifts in the bed to get more comfortable. “You’re awake,” She says, letting him know his efforts were unsuccessful. She stirs from the makeshift ball she’d folded herself into in that seemingly uncomfortable chair and stretches her arms above her head before rising and offering him the cup of water again.

He can’t help but laugh at the words she speaks because he knows he isn’t really awake. But he’s also glad for that, because if he were, he might lose his nerve. After taking another long drink of water, he forces the confession out before the moment can fade out again. “I’m so sorry, Betty.” He says rather suddenly. Tears sting the corners of his eyes and her face softens immediately. “I should’ve apologized to you so long ago,”

“Shh, Arch you don’t have to apologize for anything-” But he stops her before she can let him off the hook.

“I do though, I really do. I ruined everything that night.” The expression she wears implores him to explain more. She clearly has no idea what he’s referencing so he does his best to clarify. “I should’ve chosen you Betty.” He wishes he could be more articulate but whatever drugs are pumping through the IV to dull the pain are also mitigating his ability to form comprehensible thoughts or sentences. “I was scared of loving you and I pushed you away and it ruined everything.” He forces himself to look at her and he can see her eyes are red with tears. “I didn’t want to hurt you so I tried to let you go.” As he confesses these things, he recalls the dreams he had about her in quick flashes. The feel of her lips on his. The way their bodies moved together so perfectly in sync as they made ardent, passionate love. The details are so real he feels almost dirty thinking about them with her right there. “But I saw how it could have been for us. And I was wrong. I was so wrong. We would’ve been deliriously happy…” He doesn’t know when she sat down on the hospital bed with him, but she’s gathered him into her arms the best that the various cords, plugs, and machines will allow. “You’re not really here.” He reminds himself, as his tears soak the soft fabric of the sweater she wears. “None of this matters.” He tries to push her away again, to retract into his pain. He deserve all of it and more.

She refuses to let go. Her soothing voice is right next to his ear. “I am really here.” She whispers, “We are in a hospital. You were attacked by a bear.” As she says the words she seems to realize they will probably do very little to convince him that any of this is in fact real. “You gave my phone number to a nurse and they called me. I came up from Riverdale three days ago. You’ve been mostly out of it since I arrived, but the doctors assure me you’re getting better and that I can take you home soon.” Her tone shifts from a matter-of-fact delivery of truth to a more hopeful one at the last words she speaks. “How are you feeling?”

He smiles remorsefully. It seems plausible. But he knows it’s not real. Betty isn’t here. She can’t be. But yet, somehow she is. She’s so close he can smell the sweet, floral scent of her shampoo. “None of that matters…” Before he can stop himself, he kisses her. It makes his chest hurt in more than one way. The pain of the deep scratches in his chest is truly nothing compared to the agony that courses through him at the abrupt way she pulls away from him. It isn’t just that she breaks the kiss, she stands up and staggers back away from the bed completely breaking the contact between them.

“Archie!” Her fingers are on her lips and she wears a shocked, confused expression. “I’m with Jughead.”

“No.” He shakes his head with false confidence. “Not here you aren’t at least. This is some hallucination I’ve been having. I think maybe this is the final piece. Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.” He looks around the room, surprised that he doesn’t recognize anything about it. He’s spent enough time in Riverdale hospital rooms to know that he isn’t in one now. It’s certainly strange, that the hallucinations have brought him somewhere that doesn’t seem familiar, but he doesn’t think much of it.

“Arch you’re-”

“No, you don’t get it. Seriously, Betty! Nothing that happens here matters. It’s not real. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s why I can admit to you that I made a mistake. That I should’ve chosen you. That I think we’re soulmates. That I’ve been madly in love with you since the second grade. That I always fully intended on asking you to marry me when we’re eighteen. I can say all of that and I don’t have to be scared because I’ll close my eyes and when I open them again, I’ll be in some other form of this dream. There won’t be any consequences. No one gets hurt. I can kiss you, you can like it. We can be together. It’s okay if I don’t wake up because this is so much better than what it really is I….” He trails off as he studies the unreadable expression on her face.

She’s quiet for a long time and she isn’t looking at him. She’s staring intently at the floor and he thinks it’s an odd reaction. She should’ve kissed him by now. Thrown caution to the wind. She shouldn’t be sad or worried. She definitely shouldn’t be crying. They’re supposed to be happy here. That’s the whole reason he hasn’t tried to wake up.

“It’s not supposed to be like this.” He forces his eyes closed with the hopes that when he “wakes up” maybe they’ll be back in his room, wrapped up in his sheets like the last few times. Instead, he sees the same sad, worried look on her face and the same stark, cold hospital room. He closes his eyes again, maybe he just needs to keep them shut for longer, squeeze them tighter.

There’s another beat of silence as he struggles to restart this part of the ‘dream’ unsuccessfully. “Arch, it’s not a dream. Not this time.” She says, her voice laced with a mixture of sadness and regret. Nevertheless, she takes a step towards his bedside, and then another. “Please, open your eyes.” She whispers, brushing her thumb over one of his cheekbones gently.

There’s something final in her voice and all at once, he understands that she’s right. This time has felt different since he originally opened his eyes but a mixture of morphine and denial had allowed him to extend the fantasy his subconscious had created. “I don’t want to.” He confesses quietly, keeping them snuggly shut. He knows that as soon as he opens them, he has to face reality, the dream officially ends. All at once, the things he’d just said to her flash across his mind and he’s suddenly mortified and embarrassed; afraid of how he may have just ruined everything.

“Please,” Her voice is sanguine, cheering him on. “For me,” She adds, knowing full well those words will trap him into doing what she’s asked whether he wants to or not. He does open his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to look at her, and it breaks her heart a little. She doesn’t want him to feel like this. She isn’t exactly sure what it is she wants for either of them in this moment, but she yearns to make his pain go away. And her own, for that matter. Even if he’d made all those confessions under the false pretense of being in some suspended reality, she still felt the weight of them. More terrifying than that, she knew he meant every word. It was amazing how much conviction you could muster when you thought there were no consequences.

“You should-”

“Did you-”

They started and stopped at the same time, which caused him to finally cast his eyes up to hers. “You first, please.” His request was almost desperate, so she was compelled to oblige him.

“Did you mean all those things you said?” It was a very straightforward question, but a loaded one at that. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was hoping for his answer to be, but she felt like she already knew the truth.

For a beat, he just looked at her long and hard, as if deciding whether or not everything was presently too fragile to handle the truth. The prolonged silence, the way he stared so deeply into her soul, those alone were enough to answer her question. But he articulated a response anyway. “Yes, completely.”

She smiled first. A huge, genuine smile that she couldn’t stop from spreading even if she wanted to. But then, she nodded curtly, her eyes brimming with tears again. “Archie, I-” But she wasn’t sure where to begin. Suddenly, she was rising from the chair she’d occupied and in the next instant she was leaving the room. Then, as the door closed quietly behind her, he was alone.

He closed his eyes, and let the tears stream out. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Of course that would scare her away. It was too little, too late. Those were the words he was supposed to say all those months ago in front of her house, not now that she’d moved on and fallen in love with someone else. And not just someone else, with Jughead. His male best friend. Just like he had chosen Veronica over her. He’d made the choice to hurt her. He was supposed to live with the consequences. But now? Now he’d made another choice to hurt her again. But this time? This time he wasn’t sure their friendship could survive it.

Less than an hour had passed since she left when he heard the door handle turn and click open again. He’d been sat in quiet contemplation, wondering when she’d be back. She’d left her purse sitting on the floor so he knew she’d have to come back to get that at the very least. He considered, very briefly, pretending to be asleep so she could leave quietly and without any awkward goodbyes. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. No, it wasn’t just that he couldn’t bring himself to, it was that he knew she deserved so much better than that from him. If this was how everything ended between them, it would have to be done right.

“Bets,” He began, as she closed the door behind her, but she put up her hand to silence him before she lost whatever nerve she’d mustered up that had brought her back in here.

“It’s not fair, what you said to me.” She said, stopping so that she was standing next to his bed with her arms folded across his chest.

“Betty I’m-” She shook her head, indicating that she wasn’t done, that it was still her turn.

“It’s not fair because if I didn’t know, I could just have been fine with the way things were. I could’ve loved him, probably forever. And even if some part of me would always just know that it wasn’t supposed to be, I could’ve just squashed it down and told myself that it didn’t matter because you were never going to-” She was crying now and she took a ragged breath to collect herself. “But now I can’t unhear what you said to me. Or unfeel the way it made me feel.” She looks almost angry at him as she says that.

He wasn’t expecting any of that and in spite of himself, it makes him feel hopeful, happy even. He reaches for her and to his surprise, she takes his hand and stepped closer. He isn’t sure what to say at first, so he just brushes his thumb over the back of her knuckles gently a few times. “Well, maybe I don’t want you to unhear it or unfeel it.” He finally manages, drawing his eyes back to meet hers. They share a thoughtful look as she takes a ragged breath.

“I’m sorry I ran out on you.” He turns her hand over in his own, his thumb brushing against the underside of her wrist now instead. “I...did something.” She said plainly, her eyes falling to look at the hypnotic patterns he traced against her wrist. Before he could ask for more details, she was offering them. “I called Jughead and told him I needed some time and space,” She cast her eyes back to his and swallowed hard, allowing the weight of her words to hit them both with full effect.

Archie swallowed the lump that had formed his his throat as she’d started her sentence. His heart was beating in his ears, thumping hard and blocking out all of the other noise in the room. “You,” He studied her in disbelief. “You broke up with him?” He asked, his voice so quiet it was as though he were afraid speaking too loudly would make it suddenly not true.

She simply nodded, fear still etched into her face until the smile that broke out across his seemed contagious and her own grin played at her lips. “I broke up with him,” Saying the words out loud made her heart clench with guilt, but she knew it was the right thing. She would never feel the same way about Jug anymore, not knowing how Archie felt. Not knowing how she would always feel about him.

“I know that doesn’t mean we automatically-” But before he could finish, her lips were against his and he was discovering his new favorite way to be proven wrong. It was better than any of the kisses they’d shared in his dream-induced mirages. They stopped kissing only when his heart monitor started screaming out beeps indicating his suddenly elevated heart rate. Sharing a laugh, she pulled back slightly. “Why don’t I go talk to a nurse about getting you out of here, hmm?” She moved to stand back upright, but he tugged her back down, kissing her again.

“I’d like that,” He smiled, finally letting go of her and watching in quiet fascination as she left the room. He wasn’t convinced this still wasn’t a dream, but he was content to ride it out as long as he could. Pulling the blanket off his lap, he moved to swing his legs of the side of the bed and stand up. He got a slight head rush and it took a moment to get his bearings, but steadied himself against the IV tower, using it for support to walk to the bathroom.

He was studying the gauze wrapped around his shoulder when he heard her come back in the room. “Good news, they’re just going to come check, clean, and redress your wound one more time and then we need to stop by the pharmacy to get some antibiotics and pain meds and then,” She poked her head around the bathroom door, “We can head out. I can rent us a hotel for the night, unless you have a place? Then we can figure out what we’re going to do in the morning.”

He looked at her through the mirror and smiled gently again, turning around and beckoning her closer. “I have a cabin, it’s probably not too far from wherever we are.” He let his hand rest on her hip and he leaned down, kissing her softly again, almost in disbelief at his ability to do that. “It’s not much, but it’ll do for the night.”

She nodded, grinning in return. “A cabin?” She cocked an eyebrow, “Sounds rustic.” She added, turning when she heard the door to his room open. “That’s probably the nurse. While she fixes you up, I’m going to head down to the cafeteria and grab us some food before they close.” Her stomach growled, as if to punctuate the necessity of the later.

By the time she was returning with sandwiches and drinks, she found him standing in front of the nurse’s station with what appeared to be discharge papers and his jacket draped over his arm. Vegas, who’d been given refuge in one of the on call rooms, was also sat by his feet ready to go. “All set?” She asked, to which he nodded and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her back towards the elevator’s she’d just stepped out of.

The sun was already setting by the time they got into her car and he knew that he didn’t want to deal with trying to get out to the cabin in the dark with her in tow so he offered to drive since he knew the area better and could get them there a little faster. Despite having been almost mortally wounded by an actual bear, she’d agreed to the idea and so he’d settled behind the driver’s seat and they’d headed out to the woods. An uneasy feeling loomed over them as they drove into the setting sun, but leaving civilization behind them in the rearview mirror felt oddly symbolic.

It took less than twenty minutes to get to the clearing where he knew they could park her car and make a short hike to the cabin. There was still a considerable amount of light left, but he didn’t want to waste any time. She urged him to take it easy as he, again, had just survived a bear attack, but they made it to the cabin in good time regardless. “It’s quaint,” She observed non-judgmentally, staring around the small, humble space as he locked the door behind them. It was no Ritz Carlton, but it would do.

Clean sheets adorned the bed, someone must’ve come back and cleaned up after him when he’d gone to the hospital. He sat down on them, watching as Betty took out the food she’d gotten at the hospital. It wasn’t until she was handing him the sandwich and bag of chips that he realized how truly ravenous he was. Not long after, she sat down next to him and they both ate in relative silence. This still didn’t feel entirely real.

When she was full, she offered him the rest of her sandwich and he took it appreciatively, finishing it in one bite before moving to clean up after them. As he gets a fire going, he is caught off guard by the question she asks from across the room. “In your dreams, did we…” She raises her eyebrows with suggestive emphasis even though he isn’t looking at her.

Turning around and walking back towards her, he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. “Yes, that we did.” He also couldn’t stop the slight blush that had come to tint his cheeks with that admission.

“And?” She gave him an expectant look.

“And...it was amazing. Mind blowing.” He couldn’t hide the pure happiness that spread across his features as he recalled their most intimate of encounters, or rather, the ones he’s imagined. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he bites down on his bottom one, recalling exactly how it felt.

“Show me,” She isn’t sure if it’s a request or a challenge, but she reaches for his hand, inviting him closer, suddenly envious of this insider information he has.

“We don’t have to…” He says quietly, but he’s already pulling her towards him so she’s flush against his chest and upright.

“I want to,” She admits, almost abashedly. That’s all he needs to hear before he loses himself in her. His lips capture hers with a familiarity they shouldn’t have yet. Maybe those dreams were actually just practice for this.

The real thing is so much better than any dream or hallucination. As they shed every piece of clothing that separates them from one another, it’s done with painstaking love and care, as if neither of them are sure this will happen again so they’ll both bother taking their time to remember every detail as it happens. Her eyes glance over his bandaged shoulder with a moment of hesitation, “Maybe you should rest-” But his lips are crushing hers and along with that, any argument she may put up for him needing to save his energy.

“I could be dying and I’d have the strength for this,” He promises against her neck lasciviously. It’s with that breathy confession that she loses any willpower she has left. She’s lost to her desires, and to his.

She isn’t sure how much time has passed when she finds salacious release for the third time since they started their passionate foray, but she knows she’s absolutely spent and he must be too as she collapses against his chest shortly thereafter. A million thoughts are swirling through her mind now and she isn’t sure where to begin.

She starts first with, “I love you, Arch.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss between her breasts. “I love you, too.”

The fire crackles behind them and she snuggles herself closer against his side, pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder. “We could stay here,” She whispers the words into existence. “Me, you, Vegas…”

“Betty…” He doesn’t want to ruin this beautiful experience by telling her that it’s not realistic, instead he uses his arm to pull her closer. “We don’t have to decide anything tonight, let’s just enjoy-”

“I’m serious, Arch.” She props herself up on his chest and stares at him plainly, as if she’s already considered all the options and her mind’s been made up. “There’s nothing for me in Riverdale. My mom is…” She shrugs, not bothering to finish. “There just isn’t anything there for me, okay? You can do whatever you want, but I’m not going back.”

She speaks with such self-assurance that he can’t argue. These aren’t the words of some delusional teenage girl who wants to live in a fantasy world. They’re the ones of a person who has been looking for a way out for far too long and now that she’d seen one? She couldn’t go back even if she wanted to.

He studies her face, shadows casting against it as the firelight dances. “Okay,” He nods, tilting her chin up so his lips are hovering over hers. “We won’t go back.” His words are more like a pledge than anything else. Then, he voices one final promise, his eyes finding hers again, “I love you, more than anything. That will never change.”

From the slight crack in the cellar door Bulma and Tien saw 3 men forcefully enter the cottage. The two smaller men seemed to be carrying a much larger, nearly unconscious one. The concealed two instantly recognized Yamcha. And Bulma recognized the other to be the prince. Her mind was suddenly flying, trying to piece together the situation, and then…

“Who is trip trapping on my bridge, and trespassing in my home?!” yelled a familiar  prepubescent voice. The unsurprisingly agile young boy swung down from the rafters like an exotic eastern monkey. His feet landed in perfect sync as he immediately stabled himself. In his two hands he held a long staff, a memento from Bulma’s father. Though her father had only used it as a walking stick in his later years, Goku seemed to favor it a weapon.

Though she feared for the boy's safety she knew very well he could hold his own in one on one combat. And with the larger man seemingly incapacitated, Goku and Yamcha could defend themselves if need be. She frantically looked around for the other missing two, Oolong would be easy to spot, but Lazuli was a master at hide and seek. Neither were in plain sight, which comforted her to some extent.

“Well speak up mister!” the monkey boy bellowed, pointing the slender red rod towards the prince.

Vegeta scanned the boy, from messy black head to dirty bare toes. Something about him seemed familiar. The hair, his striking dark and determined eyes, even the way he held himself, ready to lunge. He was so familiar yet so foreign and strange. Even the way he spoke, authoritative and calculated. Yes, Vegeta had seen this boy somewhere before, though he couldn't tell where.

“Who are you boy? And do you know who you are talking to?!” he retorted, with a disgusted look on his face.

“I am Goku, and no I don't know who you are, I've never met you before.” the boy replied rather matter of factly.

Feeling the slight tension between Vegeta and Goku, Yamcha cut in to calm the situation.

“Goku, he’s fine, he won't hurt us… for now. We need Bulma though! Where is she?”

The ominous mention of “for now" horrified Bulma, but she trusted Yamcha and decided to reveal herself. She whispered lightly to Tien to keep the girls hidden while she figured the situation out.

Goku completely let down his guard at Yamcha’s reassurance. He grinned a playful and mischievous grin, announcing “Alright I'll go get her from her hiding spot!”

Oh come on! She silently uttered, raising her open palm to her clammy forehead. Disgruntled as she was, she climbed out of the cellar door as quiet as a mouse. Luckily the prince wasn't looking in her direction, rather he focused on Goku with a very odd concentration.

Bulma extended her legs, pushing herself to a mostly standing position. She brushed the dust and dirt from the cellar off of her flaxen colored shift and bloomers. Her hair was tied loosely behind her head, but a large portion of her bangs fell softly in front of her eyes. Some strands from that portion had begun to soak the sweat from her forehead, and stuck to her face.

She stepped from the hallway connecting the kitchen and entryway, fist to her brow in preparation to bow. But she immediately caught herself, a man bows, a woman minds her modesty with a curtsey. Her fingertips traced the lace bottom of her shift and her hands pulled in each direction spreading the cloth for a proper bend. She swept her right leg behind the left and slowly dipped into a low, respectful greeting.

“Your Highness,” she breathed.

Yamcha nearly cried out, your highness?! But was cut off by the prince.

“Disgraceful! Your immodesty is only forgivable because this is an unexpected… visit… but you should be ashamed to even present yourself to me in such a state. Begone! Cover your nakedness!” Vegeta spewed after taking in the shocking visual of her.

Her face spontaneously combusted into flames the second she realized what she was wearing. And the Prince called her out so… elegantly. He could not have worded his disgust in such a way to make her feel any worse. Damn that's embarrassing… She shrieked internally. Without hesitation she fled to her chambers for a heavier, more company appropriate smock.

Yamcha turned to Vegeta when Bulma was out of earshot.

“Listen, I don't know what kind of crime warrants a visit of the prince himself, but please know she's done nothing wrong. Let her pay by healing your friend, and let her go.” The scar faced bandit pled.

“Don’t speak so plainly to your Prince! And I'll see to it she is punished of her crime regardless of what happens to Nappa, mark my word.”

 …

 Soon, the physician's daughter had Nappa situated.

“I've given him quite a large dose of opium, taking his size into account. He will be comfortable for now, but I'll need to know what the ailment is to properly treat him.”

She stood with authority and intelligence in her posture. She sported a white smock, tied in the waist that fell loosely to her ankles. She had a cloth covering most of her face and gloves on in case Nappa vomited again. She'd given Goku instructions to gather the rest of the children and wait in the cellar until this was all over. I'll come get you as soon as they leave. She half heartedly promised. Honestly, she had no idea what would happen to her in the next few minutes or hours. But what did happen was very far from anyone's expectations.

“He said he'd been poisoned. However he's been sick for the last few days, maybe he is just delirious.” the prince explained.

“That would explain the vomiting and the pale complexion, but those would be symptomatic of most illnesses. I need more time to observe him... Your grace.”

Vegeta sneered at the girl. Tch. He wanted to say he didn't really care whether Nappa lived or died. But he needed backup, and if anyone would kill the Great General, it would be the most powerful man in the kingdom, the prince himself. There's no way the prince would let him be beaten by a coward who poisoned him.

“Do what you must.” he replied, grasping his long navy cloak. Before leaving the room he glared at Yamcha, the way an alpha wolf would intimidate another male during meal time.

“Let's let him rest, Yamcha. Thank you, for doing this and I am so sorry to have dragged you into my mess…” Bulma nearly choked out. She felt her eyes becoming hot and wet, feeling responsible for his predicament. Yamcha instinctively leaned in for an embrace or a kiss, but Bulma pulled back. Silently she swept past him to meet the prince in the kitchen. Yamcha stayed a while thinking about his decisions.

“I'll fix you some food, your highness. And you're welcome to stay as long as it takes for Nappa to heal.” she offered.

With a grunt he accepted the food, the sliced apple that was meant for Tien and Goku, along with cheeses, cured meat, and a glass of wine. She secretly hoped the wine would loosen him up because his sober state was nearly unbearable.

Bulma and Goku fixed a room for the prince, with the softest of the hospital's twenty mattresses and a pea blossom bouquet for fragrance. I don't even treat myself to such luxury. She lamented.

She decided to conceal the children longer, in case anything happened to her, they would be able to escape.

 …

 It was early the next morning when Nappa said his final words.

Goku had wandered into his hospital room early in the morning to observe the giant. Goku had never seen such a big man in all his life. It was both daunting and exciting. He wanted to challenge the man to a spar when he awoke, like he, Krillin and Tien did with the old martial arts master in town. Master Roshi had challenged Goku to find bigger and stronger opponents. Goku delighted in the idea of becoming stronger to protect his family… and for fun of course.

 ...

 Nappa dreamt of one thing for the entirety of his sleep. He replayed a peculiar conversation he had with the Regent a fortnight ago.

“Your grace,” Nappa greeted, head low and fist to brow.  He had been called into a meeting in the King’s counsel, though he had no idea what it was about. He was generally not invited to such discussions unless they involved war or battle, both of which had not occurred recently. To say the call for him was odd may have been an understatement.

“General Nappa. Please stand. Join us at the table, our guest.”

Nappa lifted himself from the wooden floor. At the table sat several confidantes, and an ambassador. There was the Regent himself at the head of the table. He was cloaked in black and crimson, which suited him well. There were small golden chains latched from his cloak to his lapels. His collar was a frilly black satin that crawled like a lizard up his thick neck. His skin was dark, and scarred. He too had seen battles, many of the same Nappa had, though they once fought on opposite sides. As handsome as the Regent was, Nappa wasn't jealous. He was thankful that his own face hadn't  been scarred in such a way, or else the castle maids wouldn't favor him!

To the left of the Regent was Piccolo, the highest ranking monk in the kingdom who attended the meetings as a spiritual guide. He was draped in loose white linens, no doubt an inexpensive thread. He was a very serious man and rarely spoke. He was very tall and muscular, but he wasn't intimidating. Nappa respected him.

To the right of the Regent was another confidante, Mistress Baba. She was the master of coin, a mousey broad with a large body and witch-like face. She was a voluntary spinster, though it's not certain she would have married if she wanted to. She was ugly, with an ugly personality to match, but no man could match her expertise in kingdom finance. She too, was clad in black nearly an identical outfit to the regent but in female form. Of all the people in the room, Nappa feared her the most.

Finally, next to the mistress was a man that Nappa recognized as a French ambassador, due to his French Crest proudly displayed on his right breast. His long grassy blonde hair was fastened in a tight braid, flowing gently down his chest and ending in his lap. His uniform was of high military rank, though Nappa could not identify what rank exactly. The deep navy, crimson and white threads in his uniform beautifully highlighted the cool undertones of his skin and bright green eyes.

Nappa took his seat next to Piccolo, so as to not to look highly underdressed next to the ambassador.

“This is Ambassador Zarbon, hand selected by the French Emperor to discuss a treaty with us today. I trust you know the rest of us here?” the Regent inquired.

“Of course,” Nappa replied, trying piece together why exactly the emperor would send an ambassador for treaty talks.

...

 Nappa was restless in his comatose state. His body fought violently to subdue the arsenic, but unfortunately it was too late for the general. He had soaked the hospital mattress with his perspiration. This was his greatest and final battle.

 …

 The meeting was more of a declaration than a discussion. There was to be an assimilation with France, a merging of the armies and joint power to the emperor and the regent, followed by the king when he came of age.

Though Nappa vehemently opposed the idea, there was no arguing as all four other people agreed to the treaty. Nappa could envision a future where the emperor would get his sticky lizard hands on the prince and control him to do anything he wanted. The empire of France would get so large it seemed world domination may even be possible. And that's if the emperor kept his treaty promise. There was nothing him stopping from gaining the kingdom’s army and viciously turning it against itself like he'd done with so many others.

Baba claimed war would be too expensive. This is the only way.

Piccolo claimed that the treaty would bring the least bloodshed. This is the only way.

The ambassador claimed anything less than assimilation would displease the emperor. This is the only way.

And the Regent claimed this was the way to protect the kingdom, themselves, and the prince.

“This is the only way, General. Please order your soldiers at every station to stand down as the French make their way in. They will not be harmed.”

Nappa could not bring himself to agree, his pride being trampled on as it was. Instead, he stormed out of the room, his thunderous footsteps were audible for some time even after his exit.

After the dream replayed, several sickening times, a new event unfolded itself in Nappa’s mind.

The Regent stood from his chair. With a growl he followed Nappa. The regent was smaller, quicker, and caught up to Nappa without even breaking a walk. Nappa felt his legs grow heavy, his lungs filled with heavy unbreathable oxygen. He opened his mouth to give the Regent a piece of his mind when suddenly…

The regent lifted his fist and clenched the space between he and Nappa tightly. His own blood made ribbons on his wrist from his fingernails. His face was suddenly demonic, twisting into an evil scowl. As he tightened his fist, Nappa felt his lungs grow tighter and heavier as well. He couldn't breathe, or speak.

“I will kill you!” the regent threatened, further tightening his grasp.

The general's vision blurred, his pulse weakening in dream state and out.

He opened his eyes for the last time, and beheld a child with wild black hair. The spitting image of the regent. Though he couldn't tell if he was dreaming anymore, his eyes widened.

“Hi! I'm Goku!” the boy said.

The prince stood on the opposite side of the room, leaned against the wall, silently watching his general. When Nappa saw the prince he was relieved to be in at least half friendly company. But as his last breath drew near, so did the prince. In Vegeta’s left hand was a dagger.

“B-bardock! He is going to…”

Vegeta took one look at Nappa and knew this was the end. His face was ashen, purple even, with lack of oxygen. His black eyes were glazed over, veiny and red. Blood vessels all over his face and neck had ruptured forming an almost web like blanket on his face. He looked just like his father had looked so many years ago…

“I won’t let you die weakly, Nappa.”

“Vegeta-" Nappa choked, acid snaking its way from his empty stomach to his esophagus.

“The regent,” he whispered as Vegeta slid the cold smooth dagger into the General's heart.

In that moment Nappa thought nothing and said nothing as his eyes inevitably faded into nothing.

“Hey!! Why'd you do that?! Bulma was trying to save him! I was going to ask him to fight me!! He was your friend!!” Goku valiantly pled.

The prince said one thing and one thing only, not even noticing the boy's tantrum.

“Bardock.”

 …

 Nappa wasn't the only one to be plagued by dark dreams that night. Bulma also had a restless and nightmarish sleep.

 She was walking barefoot on moist ground. The almost mud felt soft on her toes, not an unpleasant experience. It was dark where she was, but she felt like she knew the way. She pressed on, wondering what was next. She could not see much of her surroundings, just black ground and black rock walls. It was a cave of sorts. In the distance she heard a river, an indication of an end to the dark tunnel. She smiled in relief that the trek would soon be over. The smell of the cave began to shift from musty, saturated dirt to a more floral essence. She recognized the distinct scents of lavender and sweet pea blossom. It was an intoxicating mixture, and the promise of a fresh cool drink of water made her press on.

It seemed like ages that she was trapped in the cave, alone but not fearful.  Finally she could see the end. The misty rays of morning sunshine leaked into the entrance of the cave. Outside she could see long blades of green grass, dotted with bunches of pink and purple flowers. Tall pines, junipers and a few silver birch trees lined the entrance of the cave and the river.

“Peasant,” an abrupt, deep voice called.

Curious in nature, Bulma twisted toward the voice, coming from behind her, inside the cave.

“You can never leave me.” the voice was rigid and almost predatory.  The voice began to take the form of a man. He was the same height as herself, and muscular though not overly so. His face was hidden in shadows. Bulma could only just see his chest was bare, but he had dark navy trousers on. She tried to speak but the words dissipated in her mouth before she could form them.

The figure grasped her wrist with his own coarse calloused hand. The hand of a swordsman. He reeked of lavender, a scent she now knew originated with him, and not the outside of the cave. She wanted to recoil at his touch but felt powerless in his grasp. His skin felt much colder than hers, almost stinging when he touched her. When she decided to stop resisting she was electrified. The forbidden feeling of letting go excited her. He pulled her in, wrapping his other arm around her waist and locking her there. Her chest was pressed to his, which she could now see was scarred with snow white lines. She now knew this was the prince, but he had captured her. It felt so wrong to betray her beliefs and ideals in favor of his tantalizing body, but she did so anyway.

“But I hate you,” she was finally able to say. His head moved ever closer to hers as if he hadn't even heard her. When he was so close she could feel his warm breath on her own face, she stopped breathing. Anticipating. Suffering. Craving.

And then she awoke.

 …

 Bulma wore the same medical smock from the day before as she prepared to check on her patient. Yamcha had spent the night with her, though not in her bed. He was still asleep in her large reading chair when she glanced his way. She felt a small pang of guilt for her heated fantasy about the prince, even though it was just a dream. His features were soft and boyish when he slept. She frowned though, when she remembered that he had left her. He had no intention of being with her and she had to accept that. And the feeling was surprisingly mutual.

Out of the blue she heard her small brother yelling incoherently. Goku! Her mind raced.

Without gloves, boots or mask she sprinted to where she heard the voice, the patient's room. When she reached the doorway she was stopped by the broad figure of the prince. Her heart fluttered with visions of her steamy dream. Involuntarily, her face began to redden at the thought of how close they were. “Eep!” she yelped, at the sudden shock.

Vegeta was in his own head trying to work things out when the doctor's daughter appeared. She seemed flustered, red and messy. She hadn't her shoes, gloves or mask, likely due to hearing the child and rushing here. Her skin was dewy and fresh, her hair tangled but soft looking. And her deep blue eyes were wide and easy to look at. She was slender with pale skin and shoulder length hair. If she weren't a criminal peasant, the prince may have even favored her. But those matters were far from his mind when she stopped him in that doorway.

“He is dead. We must discuss some matters urgently, over breakfast,” he ultimately decided to say.

Bulma had to replay what he said before realizing what he meant. She stepped to the side of the prince and forced her way in to see the patient.

“What?” She vocalized. Dead? He was stable last night! She questioned herself.  And then she saw the bloody mess of sheets draped over the patient's heart. And Goku, standing over and studying the corpse.

“What happened?!” Bulma yelled, exasperated. She was so infinitely confused, did Goku do this? The prince? Yamcha or an intruder? She pressed her bare fingers to Nappa’s throat for a pulse. Nothing. Her fingers made contact with some blood from his chest wound, making her regret not wearing her gloves.

“He killed him! I wanted to spar with him when he got better, but he killed his friend!” Goku answered back to her.

Bulma was shocked and even more confused than before. Was she housing a psychotic murderous prince? Was this all part of the nightmare?

 …

 Yamcha had risen just slightly after Bulma, though he was awake long before her. She was restless in her sleep, tossing, turning and moaning the entire night. All he wanted to do was get away but she kept reeling him back in. Her hooks were deep and jagged in his heart. He cared for her and her family so much, and even though he could have escaped in the night and let her make her own bed, he stayed. At some point he was curious about the other children. He assumed she had them tucked away in the cellar but he decided to test that hypothesis. When he found them down there, he brought them food. Six bowls of porridge of varying sizes and temperatures. They were grateful, having not eaten the entire day. Yamcha patted Tien on his fuzzy head. He said something along the lines of Keep everyone safe in case anything happens. And Tien accepted the command with a nod.

And now Yamcha was awake and he noticed the bed in shambles. He lifted the blanket and began to smooth out the sheets. He tucked the corners neatly and fluffed the pillows, when suddenly he heard a commotion. The scar faced boy immediately pursued the noise.

Leaving the room, Yamcha passed right by the kitchen where he only barely noticed the prince sitting at the dining table… In fact the prince was sitting in his own usual spot at the dining table which really seemed to burn Yamcha.

Yamcha didn't exactly grow up learning proper gentleman's etiquette. In fact he was an orphan from the time he was young and he had to beg and steal to survive. It wasn't until recently that Bulma had begun correcting his grammar and social appropriateness. He learned not to call every woman he met a broad because it was impolite. He'd never learned what polite was, but he figured it meant saying the right words at the right time. And it was not a simple feat.

“Hey, ya sod! Make yourself comfortable in my chair why don't ya?” he spat at the prince. Vegeta stared at the young bandit, who had just committed three crimes against the crown in one sentence.

Tch what am I even doing here? He questioned himself sincerely. He came to arrest the peasant woman and maybe publicly humiliate her, but he didn't expect Nappa to die and… I can't go back there… What if the murderer comes after me?

Vegeta now recognized the smaller black haired boy as very similar to the Regent, but he couldn't be sure if there was any relation. Maybe this plot went a lot deeper than he originally anticipated. Just then Bulma entered the kitchen with a scowl directed towards the scar faced delinquent.

“Watch your mouth, Yamcha!” You'll get us all killed! She thought.

“Would you kindly mind explaining exactly what happened in there?!” she screeched at the comfortable looking prince. He shifted silently contemplating whether to tell her or not.

“Your grace?” she added as an afterthought.

“I killed him because he wouldn't have wanted to die in disgrace covered in his own vomit and feces.” he said smoothly.

“He may not have died! He seemed to have a very developed constitution, and-"

“He was choking to death as I watched him! And you have no right to instigate me, the prince and most powerful man in this kingdom! I should be asking you if you accelerated his deterioration?!” Not only did he cut her off but he insulted her medical skill and intelligence and accused her of murder! Almost nothing could stop her from raising her furious fist to his face, almost.

Goku grabbed Bulma's outstretched fist.

“What's a Bardock, Bulma?” he asked innocently and sincerely.

All three adults were silent and waited for what would be said next.

Vegeta decided to break the silence first. “You've tread on very thin ice here, woman. As I see it you have very few options. First you answer every question I have for you honestly and without hesitation. Secondly, you help me clean up this mess and get to the bottom of the poisoning fiasco. Thirdly, you submit to your arrest and face trial and punishment when this is all over. Do this, and I may spare you and these two clowns’ worthless lives.”

With her hand in Goku’s she focused on what the prince said. He doesn't know about the other children yet. She sighed, relieved. But that doesn't mean he can't find out. And Bulma had sworn to protect them no matter what. So she grimaced and bowed low to the prince, who seemingly had her in a corner.

“You may be a vulgar woman, but it takes a lot of guts to raise your fist to a prince,” he said, almost grinning respect for her.

Though arguments were had, Bulma, Goku, Vegeta and Yamcha settled on a quick breakfast before the autopsy of Nappa.

 …

 “Someone's been eating my porridge,” Bulma rummaged frantically through her barren kitchen cabinets. Her voice was hushed, her hands searching. Her fingertips grazed the dust inside, and she frowned at the thought of her siblings going without. Giving up on the idea of porridge, she placed her hands on her hips and sighed. Faintly, the children in the cellar could be heard rustling.

Munching eagerly on a bright red apple, the prince hadn't heard the children at first. Bulma stamped her foot loudly on the solid wood floor, a warning to quiet down for the moment. Though he had been deep in thought, mostly pondering the significance of the boy Goku, the stomp shook the prince to attention. Dirt fell on the children like rain. Tiny Lazuli breathed in, filling her lungs with powdered air.

The moment was short but lasted a lifetime in Bulma’s mind. The little girl’s cough was heard by every ear in the kitchen.

The Prince's first reaction to the small cough was suspicion. Why would this woman be hiding a child? He stood from his chair, and traced the sound with his eyes.

“No,” Bulma breathed.

“What are you hiding from me, woman?”

Like a hunted doe she froze, she waited, she tried to figure out what to say but it was almost too overwhelming.

Tien decided he was done playing hiding seek now. He wasn’t afraid of this stranger. With Goku and Yamcha, they could take him down if need be. The boy grabbed his sisters by their hands and motioned for his two brothers to follow behind. The six short orphans crawled up from the cellar door near the back of the kitchen, Lazuli still hacking away at the dirt.

Revealed and vulnerable, Bulma had no choice but to resort to her feminine wiles in hopes the prince would agree to leave them alone.

“Um, oh, they're just sick children I'm caring for. They aren't related to me at all in fact, run along home little ones,” she gestured to the back door, and then turned to face the prince once again, “so that the adults can get down to business…” her voice and eyes dropped low and sultry, towards Vegeta.

Yamcha flushed as he realized what she was doing. In his limited wisdom he could not see this ending well so he broke his silence.

“Uh look, this has gone on long enough! We all know you're here to arrest Bulma. This is her family and without her they will die. In order to take care of them she had to make a living, and if it's a crime to love and care for your family then this kingdom is doomed.” Yamcha hadn't planned to insult the kingdom or its laws, it just came out that way. He always said what he felt.

“Look, I don't care what is going on here, because the kingdom is compromised. I need your help to figure out what exactly happened to Nappa. Then I can handle that situation and then arrest the woman!”

“Arrest me and let her go!” Yamcha yelled valiantly.

“No! Oh my God stop trying to save me!” Bulma yelled at the bandit.

Yamcha was visibly confused.

“I'll help you,” she stated, a promise. “But you have to promise no harm comes to my siblings… or Yamcha.”

“So far my only interest is punishing those who've committed crimes. The children have not, and you have my word no harm will come to them.” he promised back.

There was no promise to Yamcha, but Bulma had to agree to the terms to protect the children.

With knowing eyes she told Yamcha to take the children to pick apples, silently. And silently he agreed.

 …

 To hasten the process of congealing Nappa's blood, Bulma mixed a fine powder of yarrow and myrrh sap. The mixture was a sticky sweet smelling syrup that she applied to each incision.  The result was thick, molasses like blood that did not spill all over the floor. Nappa was far too large to let his blood in the tub, so this was a necessary process.

While the woman worked her magic on his general's corpse, Vegeta wandered close by in the connecting library. There had to have been a hundred books on medicine, poison, gynaecology, pediatrics and more. Most of the books looked well worn, likely years of reading and rereading. The prince slid his right hand fingers on an odd book, seemingly out of place with all the medical texts; Richard III by William Shakespeare.  A play… how oddly refined for a peasant woman…

His calloused fingers admired the worn leather of its binding. He shook the book open to a page and read an excerpt:

 “Foul devil, for God’s sake hence, and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O! gentlemen; see, see! dead Henry’s wounds Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh. Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells: Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God! which this blood mad’st, revenge his death; O earth! which this blood drink’st, revenge his death; Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, Or earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood, Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!”

 Vegeta mourned the act of killing his friend. As if precautionary, he checked to see if Nappa was bleeding again in his presence, even though he knew it a superstitious and outdated practice.

The physician's daughter cut away, a long Y shaped incision into the general's chest. She was unphased by the sight of blood, organs and the smell. The smell was most horrible, a fleshy and iron smell that turned sour the closer she got to his stomach. Even Vegeta, who had seen some battle in his young life, almost turned away in disgust. But not Bulma.

“Eureka!” the blue haired surgeon shrieked after some time spent digging in the general's stomach. Her blood-soaked and gloved hand pulled out a small amount of what looked like mud to the untrained eye.

“What is it?” he demanded as he got closer, eyes wide as if it could help him understand better.

“Food.” She proudly proclaimed, as if it truly answered his question. She knew it didn't but it was fun to dangle her superior intellect in front of him, teasingly. She turned away from the prince, and towards a table with many dishes and vials. And, next to them was a machine the prince hadn't seen before, even in the castle's infirmary and laboratory. It was a cylindrical device mounted on a small stand which held a glass plate. Curious and disgusted Vegeta watched her work. She placed the bloody mud she identified as food on the small glass plate. Then she ungloved her right hand and grasped the cylinder in it. She delicately placed her eye over the cylinder, where the prince now noticed there was a circular glass piece.

“A magnifier?” the prince guessed, moderately educated in his own right.

“Sort of,” the genius girl teased.

But quickly his mind wandered from what she was doing at the moment, to what she was doing with her life.

“Why do you harbor these orphans and that street rat?” He asked, bluntly.

For a moment Bulma was quiet. Through a quick look she determined the sample was of an apple. Though, the stomach and mouth of the corpse smelled distinctly of garlic. An odd combination that is rarely seen in traditional cooking.

Something inside her told her to answer him truthfully. So she did.

 ...

 “I see. My father also passed when I was young… He appointed the Regent, Bardock, to fulfill his duties until a time when I decided to take over. I promised my father I would follow in his footsteps and become the most powerful man in the kingdom. But here I am chasing a silly criminal getting my most valuable general killed.”

The prince had opened up to her, albeit not without calling her silly, but he had really left himself vulnerable to whatever she could say next. His insecurities and fears of not meeting expectations seemed to weigh heavy on his shoulders. Ignoring the “silly" comment, she opted for a sympathetic response.

“You are doing a fine job, Nappa's death was not your fault. But you can make it better. Avenge him, and prove to your father and the regent that your time to rule is now.” She raised her gloved hand in a fist of rebellion.

“And fulfill your promise to be the most powerful by eliminating the French threat and protecting your kingdom!”

Oops. She had gone off on a tangent and revealed her true political ideals.

“I… what do you know about France?!” Vegeta demanded, cross browed and inquisitive.

“I um, sorry, I just have strong opinions and I let myself get carried away… your grace.” She stated, much quieter than before.

He just stared at her and let the sight of her fill him. That passion…

“Well since you will rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable life, you should know we are in the middle of a treaty with the emperor of France. We will assimilate and become one.”

Bulma was most shocked about the declaration of a treaty with France. It was almost as if she hadn't heard the rotting in a cell part. Almost.

“You fool,” she breathed, involuntarily. “he’ll kill us all before he even thinks of peace with this kingdom. What your father did was unforgivable and Emperor Frieza will make our kingdom pay… this ‘treaty’ is only a ploy and I can't believe you don't see it…”

It hadn't occurred to him that it was a trick, but she had made a fascinating point. If Frieza still harbored any ill will, he could flawlessly execute a coup d'état with the appearance of peace. It left the prince speechless, this woman’s intelligence.

“In fact, the plot may have already begun with the poisoning of your general. Arsenic.” and with that she removed her remaining bloody glove and began to cover the body with sheets.

 …

 They had made a makeshift wooden cart to carry Nappa behind their horses. His body was beginning to stiffen, but Vegeta and Yamcha were able to place him without too much effort.

Bulma mounted the fallen general's stallion with grace. Yamcha grabbed its reins to lead, but she insisted he join her on the horse. When he did Vegeta felt a small jealousy ignite in his chest. Alone on his own dark horse, Vegeta thought about one thing; the unexpected infatuation he'd developed with this vulgar cross-dressing harlot over the last three days.

God, how she glows. She is like a sinful fire and my body is freezing and my mind naive. She is not only beautiful, with porcelain skin, rivers of blue hair and deep twilight eyes, but she is intelligent and strong willed. She's got guts. The mousey maids in the castle are nothing like her. The dutchess suitors I'm accustomed to are so timid and withdrawn. None would even think to accomplish the feats this woman has in her eighteen years of life. I can never have her, and that makes me want her so much more.

Her beauty is nothing if not underrated by those around her. How she even managed to dress as a man for so long looking like that is beyond me. Her facial structure is angular and soft all at the same time. Her skin dewy and perfectly delicious. I don't know if I want to kiss her or eat her. I definitely want to touch every part of her, hair and skin, lips and neck even… Yes, she is certainly the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen.

Her intelligence is by far her most hidden trait. She has knowledge that could rival even the most skilled castle physicians. The graceful way she cut into Nappa, spilling the least blood and quickly identifying the poison. The exact food the poison was in even! She was taught well by her father. And to her credit he probably didn't teach her everything. Not a single book in her library was dusty nor pristine. All were well used, and well absorbed. Even the entertaining reads of plays and poetry showed her deep and critical knowledge. And she squandered her intellect, by working as a stable hand in my stables.

Her will power rivals even that of my own. In my life I have been dedicated to nothing but becoming a powerful warrior and king, to fulfill my father's wish. I can relate to her trials, she too promised her father, and kept it all these years. Here I am hiding away from the man who wishes to usurp me, or worse. And she is burying the friend of her enemy to ensure safety for her family. She has done all I have asked, albeit not without argument, for the prosperity of her family. She is passionate not only about them but the entire kingdom as well. It reminds me… well it reminds me of my mother. She was so strong even at her weakest. And Bulma is no different.

In fact, I respect her for all of this. How different and similar we are isn't so odd. In another world I'd scoop her up and steal her away, and she'd be my princess or I would be her peasant husband. Unfortunately...

Vegeta day dreamed silently as the trio rode further into the forest.

He made a decision then, and although he didn't know it yet, it would ultimately be the death of Bulma.

 …

 The group arrived at a clearing near a river shortly before sunset. Yamcha still wasn't sure why he needed to come, besides being secondary muscle to transport the hulking abomination.  

“Here will do.” The prince called out, halting his horse and dismounting. Bulma and Yamcha also dismounted and looked around. It was a far stretching meadow, mostly grassy with some large patches of sand and rock appearing closer to the river. Surrounding the clearing was a plethora of aspen trees and a few juniper and birch. In the distance the Jura mountain range could be seen, the citrus and peony sunset settled quietly behind it. No one said a word.

Once Nappa was buried, and as if on queue, hundreds of fireflies made their appearance in the dim and fleeting light of day. The floating flames danced around the trio, a spiritual sight to behold. Bulma smiled and reached out to touch one, her other arm rested safely on Yamcha’s shoulder. The prince took notice of the bugs, but to him they were far from wonderful. They stung him like bees, reminding him that his friend and mentor would never see the light of day again. Nor his father. Nor his mother. Nor his infant brother. His entire family, everyone who had ever meant anything to him was completely, utterly gone.

Darkly, the prince demanded “Get out of here.”

Taken aback by the demand, and not quite knowing the exact meaning, Bulma responded, “W-why, are you sending us home? Will you arrest me?”

“I will be back for you tonight. Make the final preparations for your family and leave them in his care,” he gestured to Yamcha. “You will be tried, and if found guilty you will be subject to punishment. There is a chance you may never return, so please make preparations for such a case. NOW GO!!” He roared, a lion towering above two mice. He grasped his cloak and turned to face the fresh grave, his back to the boy and girl.

“But you!” Bulma fought back tears. How could he? I've done so much! This isn't fair!

Yamcha threw his arm around Bulma, who was now a slobbering, whimpering mess, whose words felt like a different language altogether.  He took the reins, poorly leading the horse back home. Bulma sobbed and held her one time beau tightly as they headed back, slowly.

The prince stood in the clearing for what seemed an eternity. His chin was high, but eyes low examining the final resting place of the great general. The fireflies did not tire, even as the sun finally disappeared, they danced on. Slowly, a salty stream manifested in the prince’s eyes. Though he fought it, his thoughts had finally overwhelmed him. The annoying flying flames had finally bursted his last nerve. Withdrawing his sabre with finesse, he swung hard at the air, at the bugs. Frustrated from missing them, he turned his anger to the trees. He hacked and sliced for a while, until sweat had drenched his shirt and cloak. He discarded them without thought and returned to sparring the tree. He hadn't noticed but he was shouting with each swing. Only once he was hoarse and parched did he realize what strain he had put on his vocals.

He collapsed on the grassy, sandy earth in a huff. It was time.

 …

 Though Yamcha had plead for her to take her chance at escape, she declined. He had devised a quick and fairly executable plan to pack the children and run as far from the kingdom as possible. But Bulma was nothing if not brave and honorable. “This is my fault. I need to pay for my actions,” she told him.

They agreed not to tell the children, most of whom were sleeping. The rambunctious Goku was still awake and raiding what little stores of fresh food they still had.

Bulma and Yamcha spent most of the time they had left in silence, scrubbing the death soaked room that once housed Nappa. There was no arguing with Bulma, and there was certainly no arguing with the prince.

“Bulma,” Goku had made his way into the room where they were, seemingly without a sound.

Bulma's face was colored deep red from hours of sobbing, her eyes swollen. She looked up from her position on the floor, to see him standing in the doorway.

Without words, the three of them just embraced. Each one felt it deep in their hearts, it would be the last time. But it wasn't in Goku's nature to give up like that.

“I will become strong! I will rescue you!” his eyes began to glaze and fill with tears.

“Shh, no, please don't. That would only get you killed and put our siblings in danger. Promise me you will take care of them, Goku,” she pled, a lump in her throat.

He just grasped her tighter, his arms around her neck, fingers digging into her skin. He never wanted to let her go, his sister, his rock, he loved her. She squeezed him back with all she had, her hand on the back of his wild head, fingers braided between his hair.

They couldn't let go. That is until they heard him coming.

Bulma grabbed a small bag packed with essentials. But the prince motioned for her to leave it. “You won't need a change of clothes when all you'll be wearing is a prison shift. Leave the unnecessary things and let's go. I tire of waiting.”

 …

 She was voluntarily silent for the entire ride to the castle. She was understandably furious with Vegeta, though he never lied to her. He always knew she would be punished, and he never said otherwise. But his reason for bringing her was not punishment, yet, it was for her help in determining the assassin. Once she helped him to clear out the bad apple or apples, he would release her. Though he hoped she would stay with him, he would never ask it of her. And he knew she would never want to anyway.

Vegeta tugged the reins and dug his heel into the side of the stallion, forcing it to gallop at almost full speed. Having nearly fallen from the abrupt change in acceleration, Bulma threw her arms around the prince’s waist to anchor herself. She grasped tightly, trying hard not to admire the feel of his firm abs against her arms. As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, he leaned forward and tightened his muscles. She'd teased him earlier with her superior mind, now it was his turn to tease her with his superior body.

She both despised and delighted the entire ride.

 …

 In the twilight Bulma could barely see the outline of the stables. Vegeta had slowed the horse drastically, and motioned for her to be silent. She wasn't entirely sure why he required her to be quiet, but she complied all the same.

When they were in walking distance the prince dismounted, and placed a hand on her thigh as a command to stay. She slid forward in the saddle and grasped  the horn. Vegeta soothingly patted the horse, an effort to keep it silent as well. The smell of hay and manure filled the air, a familiar scent to the whole company. Vegeta led the horse into its stall and moved to its side to help the girl down. Not wanting his help, Bulma kicked his hand away and growled like a feral cat. Then she dismounted most ungracefully, her shift sliding well above her thigh revealing her short bloomers. The prince tried to pretend not to see, but his face flushed at the audacity of this wild girl.

“Why are we sneaking?” Bulma asked.

The prince looked around the barn, that had been closed up for hours.  With no one in sight he moved toward the tack closet. “I can't explain you away in your current state of undress,” he explained, which made sense to him but not to Bulma.

“Just take me to my holding cell so that I don't have to be in your royal presence anymore.” she attacked.

“That's not why you are here,” he said, ignoring the insult, and pulling what looked like folded linens out of the tack closet. Becoming frustrated by his lack of explanation for anything, Bulma raised her voice.

“Oh? Then just why am I here, your majesty?!”

Horrified by her rash action the prince used his free hand to cup the woman’s mouth while simultaneously forcing her back to the stable wall.

He placed his head nearly parallel with hers, his lips less than inches from her ear. Her heart began to pound, in fear and in lust. His hand smelt of lavender, his breath like sweet honey.  

“I said you will assist me in my investigation. Until then you will present yourself as my apprentice, hand chosen by the late general. Do I make myself clear, Bull?” he whispered threateningly while shoving the stack of male clothing at her stomach.

She nodded her head and grabbed the clothing from him. He released his grasp on her face and turned the other way, allowing her a small privacy to change.

After removing her shift and boots, she pulled the off white trousers over each leg. She tightened the strings of the waist, this pair was just slightly large on her slender frame. She buttoned up the white dress shirt, more frilly than she was accustomed to, and tucked it neatly in the trousers. The overcoat was navy and gold, but not fancy enough to indicate royalty or similar. She looked the part of a wealthy young man, and not a bit overdressed. Her worn leather boots helped to tone down the prestige in her outfit as well. No one would have reason to question their story as long as she went unrecognized.

Bulma fastened the navy ribbon at the base of her head. That being the final touch on her costume, she turned to the prince and nodded a signal of her readiness.

It fascinated to prince just how beautiful she could be even in such form fitting clothing. It felt awkward admiring her masculine form, but his mind couldn't differentiate between this uniform and her tattered shift dress. All he saw was her beauty, inside and out. He wanted to touch her, so with authority in his movement, he grabbed her wrist. She followed without complaint.

Without a word he pulled her towards two large doors that she assumed connected to the castle. To her slight surprise the room behind the doors was filled with more hay, and what looked like training dummies. On the right wall, many different swords of different shapes and sizes were hung. The prince grabbed a smaller looking saber from the wall, and lifted it above Bulma's head and onto her shoulders. The sword was protected by a worn leather sheath and held to her chest by a belt of the same color. It was ordinary, just like her disguise. She was completely ordinary.

From the training room they made their way into the palace kitchens, no doubt a place the prince rarely entered. The kitchens were vast and empty of life. The walls were bare red brick and the floors hardwood. Several ovens lined the walls, butcher’s block on all the countertops, and dozens of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. There were more knives than swords in the other room, a fact which excited the aspiring chef in Bulma. To the north of the large open room were several narrow wooden doors. “Servant quarters,” he whispered when he saw her notice the doors.

Discreetly, he grabbed her hand in his and tugged her along. He seemed to know the exact route to avoid people, though most were asleep at this hour anyway.

Finally they arrived at a long hallway lined with several doors on both sides. There was a red carpet with an intricate design down the middle, but it was well worn and faded where it had the most traffic. The hall itself smelled dusty and old, and several spiders had woven their webs in the corners. It gave Bulma a small sense of sadness and emptiness to be present in this hallway, as though only ghosts were permitted here.

“This is my chambers,” the prince stated, pointing to the door closest to them. “You will not enter under any circumstance, you are forbidden.”  Bulma nodded in acknowledgment and watched the prince as he walked further into the hall. The very next door, roughly fifteen feet from the first, was another chamber. The prince grabbed the knob and twisted as he pushed the door open.

“This will be yours for the time being…” he lingered on what to say afterward, contemplating whether to be rude or hospitable. “You may knock on my chamber if you need anything. Do not break disguise, I will fetch you in the morning.” he whispered the last part before returning to a normal tone, “understand Ser Bull?”

“Yes, your majesty,” she responded meekly but masculine. She stepped inside the chambers and absorbed her surroundings. It was dark, save for the sliver of moonlight that peeked in the drapeless window. In the center of the room was a large bed, dressed with red and indigo sheets and quilts. The bed had a canopy frame, though the canopy was seemingly missing. At the foot of the bed there was a large chest, which she assumed held clothing. On either side of the bed were hand carved oak nightstands, on top of each a single unlit candle. Adjacent from the bed was an older looking desk and chair, somewhat out of style for the year, yet not quite antique. On the desk was a quill and an inkwell, though the ink had long since dried. She determined from the dusty state of the room that it hadn't been used in quite some time. But it was more comfortable than the stone cold floor of a jail cell, so she rejoiced.

She kicked her boots off near the door and decided to sleep in her costume, in case any soul dare visit her during her sleep, she would be fully concealed. The mattress was like heaven to her aching bones, and she drifted off in a matter of minutes.

The prince, did not have such luck.

 …

 He dreamt of a deep azure lake with placid waves. He was sailing on the lake, at twilight. Though it was dark the full moon and blanket of stars lit up his surroundings. It was peaceful, for a time. His mother was aboard the tiny schooner, clad in her yellow Sunday gown. Underneath the gown her white lace petticoat peeked through. Her outfit was embroidered at the edges with lavender blossoms, her favorite flower. Her hair was long, nearly reaching the seat she rested on. It was lighter than his own, he inherited his raven hair from his father, hers was a hazelnut colored waterfall of curls. She smiled tenderly at him, as he rowed, steady.  

From the middle of the lake he heard a cry for help. Shooting a glance toward the noise, the prince began to row faster.

As they neared the source of the cry, Vegeta was able to make out the figure of a girl with blue hair. She struggled to stay afloat, gasping as her head bobbed above and below the water. In an instant the weather turned violent. Dark clouds shrouded the once bright stars and moon, as heavy rain began to fall. The small boat began to rock as the waves gained speed and height. The prince bent his torso over the edge of the boat, stretching his right arm toward the maiden.

She flailed about, trying in vain to grasp his hand. As the environment became more intense, his mother stood from her seat. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and lowered her face to his ear. He struggled to reach the drowning girl, each second ticking by she got further away.

“You’ve doomed her,” his mother whispered lightly. The girl’s head sank below the surface as her arm seemed to go limp.

Suddenly, a deafening roar of thunder and lightning crashed in the sky.

And the prince awoke with a jolt, sitting upright in his bed.

 …

 Bardock sat alone at a small tea table in his personal chambers. It was early, still dark outside. Several candles lit the room dimly, just so he could see at about arm’s length. He pulled a small dusting cloth from a drawer in the table and began to wipe his porcelain set of tea cups. They were a gift from a long lost friend, she had purchased them from a ceramic artist in the orient. Of his numerous regrets in life, the one that pained him the most was not marrying her. The mistake had cost him too many years of unrelenting loneliness.

Her image had all but faded from his mind. The last time he saw her was over ten years ago, before the king had died. Each day, as he took his tea, he tried to recount her features. She had blunt black hair, and big brown doe eyes. She was thin, a product of malnourishment due to her chosen profession.  When he first met her she was covered in bruises, her eyes and cheeks sunken in her face. He’d wandered into the amoral establishment by accident when he was looking for the tavern his fellow soldiers where at. She was used, like a scribbled piece of paper,  wasting away in a dirty bin. But she had so many invisible words printed on her skinny face, he could never read them all, not if he had known her his entire lifetime.

She offered him services, to which he blushingly declined, at first. She gave him directions to the tavern he was looking for, but asked him to return to her if he thought of her. He promised he would. And he never stopped thinking about her. So when he did return he stole her away, taking her to his quarters at the castle. There were no women allowed in the soldiers barracks but he defied the rule for her. They laid together every night for four weeks until she was found out. After which, she was permanently exiled from the kingdom, and he was given a stiff slap on the wrist. And he never saw her after that. Their affair was the first and last time he had loved anyone. But he should have known better than to fall in love with a whore.

Slowly, he poured the tea that had brewed into the delicate looking cup. He knew not what became of her, but he assumed she had died at some point. The lifestyle she chose was not sustainable, especially outside of the safety of the kingdom. So to honor her, in his own private way, he drank tea dedicated to her. Gine.

After drinking his tea he made his way to the mirror. He removed the red drape from it, and began the ominous chant. “Mirror, mirror,” he uttered coldly. Inside the figure of a face took form. It was nearly impossible to tell whether the form was male or female, its skin pale blue and long white hair.

“Milord,” it answered predictably.

“I wish to know what has become of Nappa, and where is the Prince?” Bardock inquired.

“The general breathes no longer,” the mirror reported. “The Prince is returned home last night, from a quiet journey where he laid the great general to rest.”  

“And what of the blue haired girl?”

“She is very intelligent. She will help him discover that you were the source of the general’s demise. Should she be allowed to live, she will lead the kingdom in rebellion against the french, as his queen.”

Content with the answers Bardock dismissed the mirror, concealing it once again with the long red drapes.

 …

 It was before sunrise, and his chambers were still dark. The prince rose to light a candle, his body fully awake from the terrifying dream he’d just had. His hands still shook with adrenaline, his breath still hard and cold. He was dressed only in trousers, the rest of him bare. For a split second he worried about Bulma, and decided to check on her.

Quietly he pushed the heavy wooden door open. The hinges made a slight squeak, though no one was around to hear. Barefoot, he crept silently toward her chambers. Her door made a much louder squeak, due to many years of unuse, but she did not stir. He made his way to her bedside and concluded that she was in fact safe and sound. He decided to check her breathing, in case anything had happened in her sleep. As he got closer to her face he heard her gentle breaths. Relieved, he rested his bottom on the wooden floor. He admired her soft features for a long time, entirely too long in fact, as she began to wake up while he was still there.

He rose to his feet immediately, as she began to stretch her arms out. She hadn't opened her eyes or noticed him yet. His heart leapt from his chest as he scurried to get to the door. Safely on the other side, he let a large breath out of his lungs with an audible sigh.  

As Bulma stretched out her well rested muscles she turned to see a lit candle on her nightstand. Alarmed, she looked around the room for an intruder. Seeing nothing she slowly got up and walked to the door where she heard heavy breathing. Expecting to find a creep on the other side she grabbed the sword she had lent against the wall the previous night. Slowly, she unsheathed it and readied herself for war.

She gradually opened the door, where to her surprise the prince was waiting on the other side.

“Oh jeez, it's just you,” she sighed, relieved. And then she remembered the candle. “Oh my God, were you watching me sleep?!” she ordered the prince to answer, her face close to his, an intimidation tactic she'd been using most of her life.

“I! No! I was just!” the prince struggled to defend himself, his face reddening. Narrowing her eyes, she felt a slight smile begin to form on her lips.

“Oh, I see,” she purred, finally aware of his crush. She lifted her extended index finger to his bare chest. “You fancy me,” she accused as she turned her body around, the tip of her finger grazing his nose. She folded her arms with her back to him.

“What?! Of course not!” he growled, his face twisting to a scowl, his fist raising as a threat.

While the prince stumbled over what words to use to articulate his feelings, Bulma tied her hair in a navy ribbon. When she finished the bouncy bow, she turned back around to face the prince. He was frozen as she gracefully moved toward him, stopping inches from his face. Without saying a word she quickly pressed her lips to his, an action which seemed to stop his heart beating. It was just a peck, over in an instant. The feeling of his blood boiling over led him to believe he would surely die. And as if nothing even happened she strolled past him, through the open door and into the hallway.

“Well make yourself useful and show me to breakfast,” she demanded, disguising her voice to sound more masculine.

He found it physically impossible to say anything at all, his jaw clenched so tightly it would take more than will power to pry open.

 …

 In the kitchens several maids scurried about, preparing breakfast for the court.

Near the kitchen entrance the prince sat in his usual chair at the head of the table. It was his usual chair, that is when he didn't take meals in his chambers, which was a rare sight. Bulma sat in the chair to his right, and when she did so she received several wide eyed glances from the servants. No one else in the court had arrived for breakfast so every other seat was empty. It must have been an important seat, but the prince did not protest so she stayed put.

He did everything he could to avoid looking at her. His elbow was propped on the table, his head in it's hand, and pointed away from her. He was red as an apple, and the servants took notice. The most odd thing they noticed though, was that the two, the prince and his new friend, said nothing at all to each other.

“Who-" Fasha began to say to her servant counterpart, Maron, who interrupted her.

“No idea, but he's bloody cute I tell ya what.”

“I've never seen him around before, but he looks awful familiar,” Fasha replied, searching her brain for some indication of the blue haired boy’s identity. The two servant girls whispered away in the kitchens, as Fasha stirred the wild boar stew she was making for that night's dinner banquet. Maron had several baskets of rolls to deliver to the tables, but was neglecting that duty for an opportunity to gossip with her friend.

“Yes but… something is off about him. And the way the prince is blushing… Do you reckon…?” Maron suggested, heavily implying that Bulma may be a homosexual man.

“Gee I hope not,” Fasha aspired, wanting to make the new boy her own.

Just then another maid entered, in a rush to have the rolls served.

“The lords and ladies are arriving, please get these out!” She demanded, pointing to Maron and the baskets.

“On it, Miss Mai,” Maron apologized as she hopped to work.

Mai was taller and older than both Fasha and Marron but had yet to marry. Though it wasn't for lack of beauty. She had long black locks that she kept braided at all times, and lips like ripe plums. Recently she had become a sort of forewoman of the kitchen, since the head chef had disappeared. It wasn't unlike Hit to disappear every once in a while, so she was appointed to a supervisory position in his absence.

“Miss Mai,” Fasha started, still stirring away. “Did you notice the new boy who is sat directly next to the prince? How bold.”

“How bold indeed,” Mai said with suspicion in her voice and narrowed eyes.

Unknown to Fasha and the rest of the castle, Mai had witnessed a very immoral act that morning, of which she was very conflicted. She saw the new boy kiss the prince as she walked past his chambers. She struggled to define her role in the act, and wondered if it was her duty inform anyone. Afterall, sodomy was a sin, punishable by death. But would she risk an accusation on the prince, of all people?

 …

 Several of the high class knights and a few of their ladies joined the breakfast table. These were all high born men and women, who achieved their rank through birthright. Many of them were scarred from enduring many battles with the French. Bulma felt nearly sick wondering how they must feel about the treaty. She wondered if any had protested, or if they feared to do so. Most of the ladies wore a somber look on their faces and in their dresses. Maybe they had heard of the death of the general, though the only people who knew were herself and the prince. Finally, filling the very last chair at the opposite end of the table was a tall and handsome man, with a ruggedly scarred face and black hair. He looked familiar, but Bulma couldn't quite put her finger on who he was. His position seemed to indicate royalty or very close to it. He must be the appointed regent. She decided silently.

Bulma and the prince had nearly had their fill of bread and pastries, and she was beginning to feel apprehensive about being in the presence of so many people. She tapped Vegeta’s leg with her riding boot, and motioned her head toward the exit when he looked at her. He gave a light nod and looked away from her quickly. Just looking at her made his heart race, and he didn't want to risk anyone noticing. He grabbed his fourth Danish, and shoved it in his mouth.

“Prince Vegeta, so nice of you to join everyone,” the regent announced from the other end of the table.

“Not because I want to,” the prince began. “I have news. General Nappa has been slain.” There were some hushed gasps and whispers among the guests, but not a single reaction from the regent. He didn't even blink at the news, it was as if he already knew.

Bulma had a terrible feeling about this man, though it was hard for her to understand why. She swallowed hard on the dry muffin she was eating.

“Unfortunate news. How did this come to pass?” the regent inquired.

“We were dueling, and I mortally wounded him. We didn't believe it to be life threatening. I bandaged him and we rested for the night. In the morning he had passed.” Bulma studied every second of the regent's reaction, scanning him for abnormalities. He twitched slightly at the explanation, almost as if he knew it to be a lie.

“I see. And what of this... “ he motioned a hand to Bulma as if indicating whatever he believed her to be was a dirty word.

“My squire. Appointed by the general himself three days ago. I will train him under my wing until a time when he can join the militia. My apologies if he does not know proper court etiquette, he is of very low birth.” he made it sound like she was a child or at least not even fifteen yet, the age when it is mandatory for men to join the militia.  She pondered for a moment just how old she looked to everyone else in her male regalia. Her sort of short stature, slender figure, and smooth face probably made her look much younger as a boy. She decided she wouldn't be insulted at the implication afterall.

“Excellent…” the regent replied, losing interest in the topic as he turned to one of the other guests to ignite a new discussion.

Out of the limelight, Vegeta threw his hand on Bulma's and pulled her to her feet with him. Realizing that he had actually touched her, he dropped her just as quickly. Bulma felt a grin in her heart, though it didn't make its appearance on her face. I'm disgusting. She lamented, partially enjoying her newfound infatuation, partially hating herself for it.

 …

 Later in the evening, Bulma found herself in a slight dilemma. She'd been assigned a chambermaid, who wished to draw her a bath. In these instances, a normal person would undress and allow the servant to bathe them. This was not in Bulma’s best interest for she was concealing her gender.

“Ser… Bull was it?” the red haired maiden called.

Bulma panicked as she turned to face the servant. “I won’t won’t be needing a bath today, dear.” She claimed in her most baritone voice.

“As you wish,” the maiden said, rolling her eyes and turning up her nose. The gesture reminded Bulma that the last time she had bathed was three days ago, and her body odor did her no favors.

“Can help you dress down for bed, sir?” The maiden offered, with a slightly disgusted tone of voice.

“N-no,” Bulma answered, flustered by the prospect. Persistent broad. She sighed silently. Finally, the redhead left, taking her harsh judgments with her.

Bulma sat at her desk and pondered the events of the day. An awkward breakfast followed by hours upon hours of being alone in her chambers. The prince had several duties to attend to since he had been absent the past few days. He didn't trust her wandering about on her own so he ordered her to stay put. So she did, and the only human interaction save for breakfast; was the annoying chambermaid she had finally gotten rid of.

She pulled a piece of parchment from a leather bound notebook she had found within the desk. In these uncertain times she felt like penning a letter, an activity that usually brought her peace. As she pulled the quill and inkwell from the desk, her chamber door wailed open.

Vegeta had quite the day. He had run from one end of the castle to the other appointing high ranking officers to new positions within the army. Like a cascading waterfall, when he replaced Nappa with Toma the tall, he needed someone to replace him, and so on and so on. Bardock appointed him these responsibilities to prepare him for when he would become king. The day was so soon in fact, he would be turning eighteen in just one month. He always knew it was coming but deep inside his unconscious mind he felt apprehensive about the title. He had always been the prince. And now he had very big shoes to fill.

His heart told him to seek out Bulma in his uncertain mood, though it did not tell him why or what to say. So he stood in her doorway, staring at her intensely, saying nothing.

“Can I help you, your highness?” she asked as she twisted in her seat.

“Rise,” he said, ignoring that she may not know the context of his command. “Er, rise when your prince enters your presence. That is proper court etiquette,” he explained.

Wow, she thought, he isn't demanding me and demeaning me as he does so. She was nearly floored at his unusually kind demeanor. So she rose and bowed formally to him.

“Again, how can I help you?”

He stood for a moment gathering the vocabulary to express what he wanted. He needed her to investigate the safety breach that had occurred, resulting in the poisoning of his general.

“I was wondering if you had any leads,” he whispered, slowly closing the rusty hinged door behind him.

“Ah,” she spoke, bringing her hand to her chin and looking down at her boots. She did have suspicions, but no concrete evidence, of anything. And what's more, she had been ordered to stay in her chambers all day, how was she supposed to have learned anything?

“The typical smell of arsenic is very close to garlic. Although, it has been at least several days since the poisoning, and so anyone who may have had it on their hands would have definitely been washed by now.”

The prince shifted his stance to one side, pulling his hand to his opposite hip. The shift made a floorboard creak slightly, bringing her attention to him. Just the simple act of looking up at him made his heart skip, her eyelashes perfectly framing her large doe eyes.

His face flushed, an action he could no longer control. His treacherous body’s ridiculous crush was absolutely maddening to the prince. His mind involuntary shoved the picture of her soft lips against his to his eyes. His heart betrayed him again as it leapt. Just being in her presence is driving me… He lamented silently.

Bulma took notice of the odd behavior the prince was exhibiting but she chose to ignore it. Instead she focused her brain on the mystery at hand.

“We should investigate the kitchens and the servants who work there.” she suggested.

“Yes,” he agreed, still fighting a great battle with his hormones. “But should we wait until after dinner?”

Bulma nodded, agreeing that he had a good idea.

Again she noted his odd behavior, flushed skin and awkward, stiff stance. The evil prince had fallen so hard for her; she was resisting the urge to gloat. Maybe the key to her freedom was making the prince fall in love with her. He wasn't terrible looking, in fact his body was godly, but she wasn't keen on his personality or political policies.  And God forbid, what if he wanted to keep her because he had fallen in love? What if he never let her go and she was stuck here the rest of her life to be his mistress or else rot in a cell? Bulma mourned not having the answer, like she might have if he were a horse or a sick patient. Still…

She moved on him, fast and hungry like a predator. Without thought, she grabbed his face, and pushed her lips to his, again. Her hand ran through his shock of wild black hair, holding him in place. Her other hand cupped his cheek and square jaw.

He was stunned, his heart had stopped. He did nothing, she had complete and utter control of him.

Her lust enveloped her, controlled her every move. She could not think, she only felt and acted, a slave to her emotions.

Losing all sense of morality and pride he lifted her from the ground and pressed deeper into her kiss. In response she wrapped her legs around him, a surprisingly easy task when equipped with male trousers. She pulled back from his kiss and looked into his eyes, sending a message that she wasn't completely sure of. She wasn't exactly a maiden anymore, the sentiments of which she didn't find too important to her lifestyle. She still valued most virtues, and as a girl she wanted to save herself for marriage. But her carnal desires had soiled that dream not too long ago. Her eyes dared him to take her, she didn't care to debate the morality of the act any longer.

For the prince it was so very much the opposite. He had never laid with anyone, and his hesitation to accept her dare very dangerously showed it. She had been his first kiss even, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to take her bounty just yet. His grip on the underside of her thighs loosened slightly, his courage faltering. He pressed some of her weight against the wall, anchoring himself to a more sturdy position.

As her body was lowered slightly, she felt the eager tightening of his pants, pressing into her. It was exhilarating, a dangerous situation on the horizon.

“Bulma,” he breathed, creasing his brow and questioning himself.

He was brave. He'd been in several battles. He had seen men die, some on his own blade. Some close friends to the enemy's blade. But for this, as with most firsts, he was nervous. And he also believed he would take her womanhood, an act he fervently believed should be saved for marriage. He waited for her verbal reply.

She did not give it. Instead she leaned her head to his and tugged his hair, lifting his face to hers. She again pressed her lips to his, but this time she took his lip in her mouth, and bit down lightly. His pained moans excited her, she felt powerful despite being pinned by him.

He couldn't take it any longer, he tightened his grip once again, lifting her off the wall. He swiveled around to face the bed and began to walk toward it. Not wanting to hurt her, he set her down on the bed gently, lips still tightly locked. When he pulled away from her she rose her hands to the base of her head. She untied the ribbon that held her hair, letting it fall heavy onto her shoulders. Her hands then reached for her shirt, and she began to unbutton it.

And then there was a knock at the door. Both of their hearts stopped, and resumed with an impossible speed. All Vegeta could hear was his heart pounding in his head.

Bulma had no clue what to do, she would be found out. Their sin would have them both killed, or at the very least just her. She looked to the prince for answers. His eyes wide and brow scrunched, he said nothing. She mouthed the words: What do I do? He shrugged in the same moment as he had an idea. Answer it, he replied while lowering himself to the ground, preparing to conceal himself beneath the bed.

She nodded, a determined look on her soft face. She cleared her throat, which she thought would conceal the noise of him sliding along the floor. It was successful. She made her way to the door and opened it, but only slightly.

It was a servant from the kitchen, Bulma did not know her name, but recognized her from breakfast. Her hair was long and dark as a moonless night. She had naturally dark lips that glistened likely due to regular treatment with animal fat. Bulma had heard of the fad of women using animal fat on their lips, but she refrained to maintain a manly appearance on her lips. The servant looked down on her, as she was much taller.

“Dinner, will begin shortly. Have you seen the prince? He did not answer my call at his door…” she remarked, a dark suspicion in her voice that Bulma immediately picked up on.

“No mam, thank you mam.” Bulma replied, wanting to close the door as soon as possible, and never open it again until she died of starvation.

“Please mind your seating at the table, boy.” the servant woman hissed, as she turned to walk away. Bulma noted the harsh remark, and said nothing, only closed the door. She pressed her back to the door, and her knees gave out underneath her. She slid down to the floor, landing quite hard. Ow. She groaned silently.

“She's gone,” Bulma beckoned the prince from his hiding spot. He crawled out, placing himself in front of her, also sitting on the floor.

“Close one,” he said with a mischievous grin.

Bulma however, had an entirely different attitude.

“What is this?” she demanded of the prince, not finding this kind of confrontation very funny in the least.

His grin vanished as he received the demand; though he had no idea how to respond. “I don't know,” he admitted truthfully.

Every ounce that was once lust and energy had completely changed to fear and depression in Bulma. Her eyes became dark and she stared at the ground. “I want to go home,” she said as her eyes shifted up at him. They began to fill with heavy, hot tears. She felt powerless now, playing with fire in a grease filled room. It was only a matter of time until someone realized she was a woman, even if she didn't pursue this perilous affair. Even if she would turn the prince to her side, he was unpredictable and until he was king he had no real power to pardon her.

He just stared at her. She couldn't leave him, he needed her. He wasn't safe until he knew his life was not in danger of the same assassin who poisoned Nappa. And he could only trust her. And now he wanted her, her body and her hand. He wanted to marry her, though the rational part of his brain told him that was just the lust talking. So he grabbed the ribbon on the floor and pressed it to her cheek, where her whale sized tears had fallen. She grabbed it from him and thanked him with her eyes.

He couldn't look at her when she was like this. He blushed and turned his head away with a scowl. The sickness that came with unsatisfied sexual desire began to hit him, along with the pains of hunger. He stood to his feet, smoothing his dishevelled hair to its original shape. Then he dusted off the floor dirt from his shirt and trousers. How unbecoming of him to literally stoop so low.

He reached out his hand, beckoning her to her feet.

She declined, symbolically using her hands to push herself to her feet. As she did so she averted her gaze from him, to the floor. She was embarrassed of her promiscuous behavior, and ashamed of her willingness to fall instantly in love with her enemy. She was utterly disgusted with herself, and she swore to never let it happen again. Then she opened the door and began to make her way to the dining hall.

Her rejection of his help to bring her to her feet felt harsh. Not two minutes ago he had her in his arms, inches from committing carnal sin. And suddenly, with the prospect of being found out on the horizon she froze to him. Her face had looked so hopelessly repulsed by himself, before she turned her back to him and ran off. What a pain it was to lose something he never even had. One thing was sure to him; he would never let that happen again.

 …

 Bulma had done well to place herself at a table very, very far from the prince. He should have told her the first time that she was disgracing herself by sitting in the late general's own chair. But no, he enjoyed seeing her embarrassed by the regent himself. Now she sat with low ranking, bachelor soldiers of no more than fifteen years.  They stunk, like overly ripe gourds and unwashed toilets. It sickened her so badly, on top of the night’s heart pounding events; she found herself unable to eat. So she pushed her stew around in her bowl and listened halfheartedly to the conversation the soldier boys were having. It mostly consisted of nailing the farmer’s daughters, and how many men each had killed already. The number of maidenhoods and French lives the lot of boys had claimed was numerous, and the most flamboyant fish tale Bulma had ever heard. She struggled not to roll her eyes at their exuberant lies.

Finally, after what had seemed hours, someone began tapping their silverware to their glass. A toast was in order, and Bulma was glad to hear anything other than fornication and murder. Her eyes followed the noise and determined it to be coming from the regent. She found herself suddenly very interested in him, a strange acting fellow indeed, whom she was certain played a role in the general's downfall.

Bardock stood, confidence in his posture and a laid back smile on his face. He was dressed very nicely for the occasion, he even had a long red cape attached to his lapels with golden chains. He certainly looked the part of royalty. After gaining most everyone's attention, he began to speak.

“I have an announcement to make to the court,” he began in a low and rich voice. “Very soon our kingdom will have cause for a wonderful celebration. In a few short days we will know peace with France for the first time since the late King Vegeta ruled!”

His voice rang through the halls, and pierced Bulma in the heart. No. She felt part of herself suddenly sadden, the prospect of a treaty with France could very possibly mean death for many people. She had no doubt this treaty was Emperor Frieza’s trojan horse. She scanned the table where Bardock was for the prince, but she did not see him. In fact she did not see him anywhere in the great hall. Whatever. She scolded herself for even caring. At this point she'd rather be locked away because she knew after helping him he'd never let her go anyway. Then the regent continued to talk.

“In one month our kingdom’s young prince will be a prince no longer. He will come of age, and it is time to honor him with a most wonderful coronation! It will be the biggest celebration in the history of our kingdom, we will have ambassadors from all over the continent attend as he is sworn in as the rightful King Vegeta!” this triggered a roar from every single guest in the dining hall; save for one. In the loud commotion Bulma could very nearly not hear herself think. But she wondered; if Bardock would willingly hand over control to the prince, and name him king, what motive did he have to assassinate Nappa? It just didn't fit. Either this was a farce, and Bardock planned to hurt Vegeta in some way, or he had absolutely nothing to do with Nappa at all. Bulma just wished she had no part in any of this. She missed the stables and the manure. Mostly she missed her siblings. But he snuck back into her mind too, as she pictured things that she loved.

Just then Prince Vegeta entered the room from the northern doors. He was dressed from head to toe in a most fabulous uniform. His doublet and trousers were a black velvet, with stripes of yellow, white and blue. He, too, had a long red cloak that attached to his lapels with golden hooks; though his cloak had what seemed to be a fluffy lynx fur around his shoulders. On his head was a small crown, what Bulma assumed was not the king's crown but a lesser version of it. Still it sparkled gold with specks of ruby and sapphire gems encrusted all over. He had on white gloves and white riding boots. He was the stunning image of a most regal prince. And Bulma hated him for his indulgences.  She decided to forego the meal all together, and return to her chambers for the rest of the night.

 …

 It had been two weeks since the announcement of the Prince’s coronation.  The annoying blue haired soldier had been hanging around the kitchen, fraternizing with the younger girls there. Mai had no doubt the deviant was planning to deflower them. She waited for more proof of his sodomy, but he had shifted his interest to her girls. He no longer visited the prince, nor did the prince visit him. Mai had garnered a sort of hatred for the boy, who favored any sex. He would probably fornicate with animals too, the poor sick bastard. She feared for the kitchen maids, this irregular sinner may have diseases of the flesh, and she could not bare him transferring it to them. Something had to be done.

She decided to come clean to the regent about the event she had witnessed two weeks ago.

Very soon Bulma would know the cold hard feel of the stone floor of a cell. She would know the piss and rat dropping smell that infiltrated every bit of oxygen in the castle's prison. She would know the feel of lice in her hair and cockroaches in her cot. She would know the hunger of slowly starving to death. She would wish for that death as mercy. And she would receive it.

To be continued…