debbiechan fanfiction

Always A First Time

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: I can make no claim to owning DBZ, yet I have a masochistic compulsion to tell this damn story, another canon B/V get-together.

Warnings: Sex! You didn’t expect a chaste B/V 3 years fic, did you? Also, some dark, violent content from Vegeta’s past.

The quotes before each chapter come from subtitles of the Japanese version of the anime. While I’ve tried to keep this story faithful to that version of Dragonball Z, I’m sure my characterizations have been influenced by the original manga, various dubbed versions of the anime, and the wealth of fanfiction written about Bulma and Vegeta over the years. I figured the worst I could do was offer my humble take to diehard B/V shippers.

Thanks to Evil Saint for pestering me to write this. And Eternal Dragon gratitude to LisaB, faithful beta and muse.


Prologue: Stranger Than Hell

“He can’t be a bad person.”--Bulma, episode 118

Fiery balls hurled through black eternal space, and terrified populations swarmed in all directions…. One planet shrunk to a tiny sphere that glowed white-hot, collapsed on itself like a rotten egg and released sickening vapors…. A straw was sticking out of the vein over Vegeta’s middle finger, and warmth was pouring through.

“I think you gave him too much, Papa.” Was that the blue-haired daughter’s voice? It sounded oddly strained--maybe anxious?

The old man was wiggling the tube over Vegeta’s middle finger. “Oh he’s fine, fine.”

“He looks cross-eyed, Papa. Are you sure you didn’t give him too much?”

“Don’t need him punching a med tech, do we? Or trying to fly injured out the window? I did hesitate to administer narcotics because of the collapsed lung…. Drugs can interfere with the breathing efforts, you see….” The old man’s voice was a cheery, meandering mumble. “But there’s really no other way to keep the boy down.”

A metallic device was skimming over Vegeta’s abdomen, and Vegeta despised anything cold touching his bare flesh. “Such amazing physiognomy… these Saiyans heal remarkably fast…. Why, the first lung puffed up like popcorn! Just waiting on the second one here--ah look, he’s still awake!”

But Vegeta didn’t feel awake. Even when he managed to open his eyes (with what seemed like unnatural effort), dreams clouded his perceptions. He could see three figures--the old man, the yellow-haired woman, and the blue-haired daughter--but surveillance footage from long-ago purging missions seemed to be running behind them. Sulfurous smells and the fine powder of exploded civilizations wafted through the bedroom.

The incoherence of the situation reminded Vegeta of being dead.

“There, there, Vegeta-chan,” cooed the yellow-haired woman. She pulled that ridiculous thing known as a blanket to his shoulders and patted it. Vegeta, who could raise his body temperature at will, did not understand creatures who needed such coverings. “Get some rest now, Vegeta-chan.”

Vegeta tried to raise his hand to blast the stupid woman, but a warm lazy sensation travelling the length of his arm stopped him. In Hell he couldn’t kill people either.

He was becoming increasingly confident, however, that he wasn’t dead again.

It was comfortable here, for one thing. The warm stuff pouring through the tube in his hand felt vaguely like the inebriating painkillers in regen tanks, so Vegeta was only mildly irritated by the fact that weaklings were making some sort of a fuss over him. Apparently the humans were invested in his strength and needed him to defeat the androids. The humans were dolts who did not understand the fantastic resilience of his Saiyan body, but they did not want him to die….

Hold on--were these incompetent weaklings poisoning him with their primitive medicines?

Vegeta gritted his teeth and willed his body away from Death with every molecule of his power. He did not want to go to Hell again. At least not before becoming Super Saiyan and defeating Kakkarot. Being in Hell had been--

Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut.

“He looks like he’s hurting, Papa.”

“Broken ribs hurt a good bit, ” the old man said.

“Maybe there’s a hairline spinal fracture the scan missed?” The blue-haired woman sounded unusually frantic. “I know I shouldn’t have moved him after the explosion. Yamcha said--”

“Yamcha said that you tried to carry him yourself, Bulma dear!” The yellow-haired woman had the most twittery and disturbing voice. Such freaks these humans were--they looked like Saiyans but were impotent as infants, and some of them even chirped like birds?

“I just wasn’t thinking, Mama. I could’ve dislodged one of his organs or--Yamcha told me to wait for a stretcher, but I insisted he carry Vegeta up here.”

Vegeta was now trying to will himself into unconsciousness. He had never liked it when either of his loutish guardsmen, Nappa or Raditz, had carried him into med bay on Frieza’s ship, but the idea of being backpacked by one of these feeble Earthlings was too much.

Or why couldn’t he just stand up? Apparently, this backward planet had nothing resembling regeneration tank technology where, despite being at the mercy of machinery, you at least got to float upright while healing.

Vegeta hated being on his back. He associated the position with being knocked down in battle. Sickness and stolen naps and sexual activity all lay a man down, debilitated him, exposed his vulnerabilities. A bed was a place for nightmares and maddening powerlessness. Mess and sweat and clawing at the bunk mattress….

“Oh look,” came Bulma’s voice over the rolling fog of sleep overtaking Vegeta. “What long eyelashes he has! Aren’t they lovely, Mama?”

The oddness of the remark--that anyone would say such a thing about the eyelashes of a murdering Saiyan warrior!--was the second-to-last thought in Vegeta’s mind before he fell asleep. The last was: Earth is stranger than Hell.