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Frozen Glimpse

By A. Marisol Martinez

Action / Romance

Chapter 1

His heart stops working.

From the moment the all-powerful god of destruction reaches up Vegeta stops functioning. Old fears smash into him (and later he’ll curse (he’ll blame and guilt) over and backwards the seven hells for his cowardice and feebleness, for being too slow (not fast enough) to grasp the moment) His muscles tense altogether, his lips part (and he feels like they’re swallowing him in) but no sound comes out, and he, for the lives of the gods, can’t utter a single damn word out. A thousand warnings hover through his mind, they’re too haste to process (and they’re utterly useless) so he can’t even blink when it occurs. But he knows it did because his blood freezes (raw emotions creeping obliviously) and his joints refuse to move. His feet are rooted to the ground below. And he curses every nerve in his body.

Beerus hits her. (A hundred-aged, immortal being) (Hits, slaps, kills) (Her).



She falls downs.

And she doesn’t rise up (no stirring or twitch)

(And later he would stay long tedious hours awake re-playing the scene on his mind and he would close his eyes, willing the image of too similar, too alike (to her, always to her) bodies killed that same way—the only differing aspect  subsisting on him being the cold-blooded, merciless monster striking onto the weak. Then, he would feel the speck of guilt.)

Panic grips his heart (the beaten, sorrow-filled thing threatening to fade to dusk) when he sees her unmoving. Why isn’t she moving? (Because she’s always moving—one of the first thing he’d come to learn of her on the beginning was that she was a creature of actions and constant motions (hands, brains, words, beauty), a trade that allure him and can’t help but vice his raging emotions loose when it suddenly stops) Her pale porcelain skin shines blazingly (mockingly), teal in comparison with dark purple-skinned monster floating inches above her.

From where he stands he sees the hit, a bruise in her cheek. (A proof of old sayings ′ah you’re the little prince.′ ‘Same as the father, pity’ would die a failure’)

His eyes (if it was possible) shot open even more and they turn from his fallen and motionless, beautiful (lifeless) wife to the monstrosity whom dared to strike her—and he gapes, open-mouthed, struggling to form a retort. Lord Beerus—the bastard—doesn’t even acknowledge her—not a single glance. And he was oh so suddenly reminded why he became a killer (let himself fare on the pleasuring tingle of madness of the rotten) on the first place.

To avenge.

His hands balled into tight, trembling fists. Their eyes link (or maybe not, but he fucking doesn’t care)—and his gaze blurs. He sees her and him…and he very well snaps and cries so loudly he’s sure the other Z Fighters are gaping in shock at him, and fuck them, all of them. Power flows freely through his veins, so powerful, so much strength and the only, single thought in his mind is the chance of loss of the only person worthy of everything he has to give.

“What did you do—” Beerus steps back, eyeing him apparently for the first time. Vegeta grits his teeth. “TO MY BULMA!”

Between the spaces of a heartbeat and another (one that might not be any longer) he hurls himself headfirst. The soothing, familiar beat of bloodlust rushing on his veins, singing the need of revenge and honor, and the lines of single-minded purpose hauled him by.

A shockwave of energy pounds epically from him (and he doesn’t hold his breath to the sheer abundancy of (untraceable) power), the prince flings straightforward to the god of destruction’s face (carelessly, with his heart hammering in tandem with his cry (and if the fools bothered to look closer they will see the blazing sorrowful impulse on it but they aren’t and he’s still hurting and the killer lives and he has to change that, if not for himself then for his son) and before he knows he’s performing every single fucking movement he had learned and mastered that causes simple and solid pain. He rams and hits harder, harder and fucking harder (just as he did before and he can’t quite suppress the gritting on his teeth or the sudden echoing emptiness on his chest). The image of his Bulma smiles at him after every contact, laughing and waving her hand. The Prince growls, baring his teeth and smashes, kicks, skids faster and remorseless, brutally.

And quite-so-suddenly, the world slows down, the edges around his vision bright up—and he feels all the blood rushing to his head (and heart) back.

He simply feels her Ki.

Air heaves his lungs again, Vegeta sucks in a breath—relief so full—and by doing so, he leaves a breach open; a weakness.

Vegeta hears the crack of bones long before the hit comes, the strategist anticipating, and the other that came and the other. Three smacks and he’s down. And isn’t that insufferably pathetic? He’d be scoffing angrily if he could. Vaguely, the saiyan-jin prince chastises himself amidst the roars of pain for the split second of distraction that left him vulnerable because he couldn’t help himself. But as soon as he face-crashes to the ground, tasting instantly the bitter taste of dirt, grass and what other blasted thing of this planet, he can’t help but exhaled and shudder, slamming his eyes shut for a different kind of pain.


And then everything paints black.

Vegeta blinks drowsily at her. A familiar grimace crossing his handsome features into an even soothing scowl. Oh thank Dende. The first thing Bulma classifies for later reprimand are how his movement are slower than usual, she instantly worriers, her mind whirling from head injury to a possible concussion to the worst possible scenarios and her stomachs sinks down heavily, bail rising on her constricted throat. Her heart is pounding so hard in her chest, that she swears she can feel the cracking and cry of her ribs.

“Vegeta! Vegeta, common! Sweetheart please.” She cradles his head in her lap, extremely mindful of it, something she knows the prideful prince of her husband would not appreciate at all if he was conscious.But he isn’t Bulma, and whose fault is that? Her mind whispers and the scientist has to shake her head and freaking focus on his face—scowling and with fluttering eyelashes. That makes her smile but as she looks down at his beaten body it immediately slips from her face, apprehension twisting her insides. Out of nowhere it seem as if the gods did heard her prayer because Vegeta starts coughing, his eyes tightly shut together as he groans of a pain she wishes to whisk away with a snap of her fingers. Alas, she lean into only moving some hairs out of his forehead.

“Bulma…” he mutters, so quiet, so unlike him because he’s hurt, and guilt stabs her core that she can’t bring herself to meet his flaming brown-liquid eyes. However, she sees his fingers twitching and for all her bravado she can’t help herself and reach out. She watches, transfixed, as his smoldering gaze lands on her, he blinks at her once, then almost comically they fly open wide as saucers and he bolts upright.

Bulma falls on her backside, beyond surprised and still a little anxious for his well-being. “Woah! Vegeta, wait! You can’t move, just don’t move okay? I still don’t know if you have something broken or not. Just let me….Ve – vegeta…?” she stammers, her voice failing her as she watches her husband cradle his side, automatically her hand stretches to touch him but, he ,instead of moving it away since they were on the broad daylight, surprises her by grasping it in his ever so gently. Her body responds instantly at his touch, grating him permission to do anything he so wants.

“Vegeta, honey.” Bulma calls softly, her cerulean eyes stared at him, wide and worried. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Vegeta leans forward, his lips curled downward, and she instantly knows he’s in pain. But he has her hand clutch in his left one, the right one holding his abdomen and even with her other free hand she can’t escape the intense stare—finally she sees it, recognizing it, his husband’s scrutinizing her, from the tip of her toes to the crown of her head. Instantly, she knows what it is for. Her heart flutters and whispers softly, “I’m fine, Vegeta. Don’t worry, I’m okay, I promise it.”

“Where did he hit you?” His eyes, though in pain, harden at the question. The muscles beneath his spandex tensed immensely. ”Where Bulma?”

Bulma is taken back by the forcefulness (brimming with seething purpose) in his gaze. One instant he’s staring at her and in the other he’s in front of her face, warm breath tingling her senses, and without any prelude he takes her face in his hands, cradling it as she did his head before but somehow more gently, and he begins to do the very, very, very last thing she expect him to (ever) do in public—he’s touching her cheek, touching her, (and even do they had being intimate hundreds of times this feels even more real, natural than any other touch or brush from before—they pale in comparison with the obvious, glimmering concern shinning in his bottomless eyes) and touching her is something he swore he would never do in any public place (where people could be aware that he—ruthless saiyan-jin all-mighty prince—had something remotely close to a heart and soul). But right now? Right on this instant he’s not even looking around (not caring and she could’ve weep for the single action), all he’s eyes can see right now is her, she sees it reflected in his scrutiny, the same she knows mirrors hers. And she can’t stand a second longer seeing the worry and guilt on his handsome face. Gods, does she loves him.

Bulma sighs, her thumb brushing his cheek. “Oh Vegeta. I’m fine, don’t you worry.” she murmurs.

She hugs him, her arms circling around him and she hides her face in the crook of his neck, resting her head in his shoulder she breathes him in. Her lips twitched happily when a beat later she feels the strong yet gentle arms walling around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

“Stupid woman,” He nuzzles her neck, his tone gruff but his words were as soft. “Insufferable wench, didn’t you see the strength – he’s a god, Bulma! The god of destruction, for the gods’ sake. Weren’t you thinking at all? Of course you weren’t!” he snaps far from his usual tone, the words fall more into desperation and pain. But pulls her closer, this time inhaling her deeply and shuddering.

She’s at loss. Her first instinct is to retaliate, but she knows it’s a lost cause. After all she has learned one or two things with Vegeta in the last fifteen years she had known him—and the last three years of marriage are of nothing either. Anger, apprehension, arrogance, even happiness and sadness she had dealt with but for the life of her and her son she can even pinpoint the emotion in here. Guilt seeps on her stomach, knotting her insides. Dende, how stupid and insensible could she be! She has two beautiful boys to take care of. She can’t have maniacs kill her! It is her fault, she knows, she was incompetent to fulfil her role, she is so uncaring, selfish—!

The arms around her tightened in warning. “You are not that.” Her husband states. “Stop that babble.”

The blue-haired woman leans back, eyeing her husband, brushing his cheek in the same way he did with hers earlier. A grin crept on her face when she sees the red blossoming on his cheeks at her touch. His eyes squint, darting around for prying eyes. She giggles.

“The coast is clear, my prince.” Bulma exits their embrace and stands up, blinking a few times only to cast away the dizziness. Her head does feel a little heavy and dizzy by some extent. And her chances at covering it cease when Vegeta stands up in wobbly legs and squints at her with his (only) open eye, and just as he’s opening his mouth Bulma instantly lifts her hand, palm up in warning.

“It feels like a mild headache.” Bulma confesses slowly. Then, she straightens her back and walks to him, claiming his arms and placing it over her shoulders despite his feeble protests. She grins down at him (two inches or not, they do count). “Nothing I can’t handle, buddy…I swear it, common!” Her brows creased in frustration when she sees him, staring at her, lips quirked to the side.

He winces at her high-pitched voice next to his ear. “Hn.” He manages to say. Mildly trusting her words, if it was her health in hands she always had dismissed it like nothing. Something that still boils him. For now, tough, he may give her a free pass—for today only. His throat feels dry and he’s clinging to the land of the conscious only by the sound of his beautiful mate and wife—believing it or not.

The moment of chit-chat ends as soon as the pair near Bulma’s party again. Long before they arrived they hear the cracks of energy, the sound of fists, but what surprise them more is the sudden taint in the skies above. Bulma hastens her pace, and she catches his gaze from the corner of her clear gaze. Seriousness of the situations falls on their shoulders once again.

“Mama? Oh Dende! Where were you guys?!” Trunks comes to help his father’s other side, helping her mother walk down the steps without falling.

“Where are the others?” Bulma quickly asks. Going toe to toe with her only son.

They stepped over the stairs and round the place, coming face to face with the summoning of the eternal dragon. “Oh.” Bulma breathes, and by her side she hears Vegeta grunting in either pain or agreement. “This looks bad.”

“No shit.” Vegeta mutters, grunting again.

Bulma purses her lips, casting a worried glance toward her semi-conscious husband, to her equally distressed son and finally falling into the skies above. Biting her lip hard, she can’t help but think what a way to celebrate one’s birthday. Granted, she had wanted it to big and fancy.

She cringes at the universe wicked sense of humor. Finally, her head snaps when she hears the booming voice of the dragon along with the voice of her childhood best friend. Why, can’t she beat her fingers in trepidation at what’s coming along? The start of a new era…

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