A/N: This came to me literally two seconds ago, so, here it is. This one might be pretty short, but it'll have at least 5 chapters...I think. You guys know I suck at planning things. I'm more of a 'spur of the moment' kinda gal.

Summary: Set after the Cell Saga. Vegeta still isn't coming to terms with having a family, nor is his family coming to terms with having him, as much as they want to. But suddenly, Vegeta falls ill with a serious and dreadfully familiar disease, and Bulma no longer has the medicine to help him. As the Saiyan Prince slowly succumbs to a painful death at the hands of his own body, Bulma starts to rethink everything about him, and suddenly she remembers just why she fell in love with him, as well as how painful it would be to lose him.

Please enjoy my new story:


Comatose


Chapter 1: Inner Attacks

Vegeta sent a punch at an imaginary figure, his movements swift and graceful. He kicked at the air, recalling multiple moves from different Katas and piecing them all together into one.

He'd always been skilled at that.

He was currently training at 400's in his base form. He never went Super Saiyan until the very end of this training; that way, when his strength doubled in the transformation, his strength would increase twentyfold instead of ten.

Beads of sweat trailed his body. He blinked, tiny droplets flying off his lashes and rolling from his brow to the tip of his nose.

Kakarot was dead.

Dead.

He truly was the last Saiyan.

It didn't help that the damn third class's son was always around, taunting him.

How was it possible that a mere child had surpassed him so much? A child, not even a full blood, and his power was more than double the Saiyan Prince's!

A new bout of rage exploded in him suddenly, and he didn't bother holding back the transformation. With a loud battle cry, he let his energy erupt from him, his charcoal hair flashing to a bright blonde, his normally tan skin paling significantly in the light.

A damn half breed could not be stronger than him! He couldn't be! He was the Saiyan Prince!

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to feel pain. Any physical pain surely would be better than the mental pain, the emotional pain.

Kakarot was dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

He no longer had a purpose in life. Ever since he was sent off to live with Frieza, he'd wanted nothing more than to be stronger. Senseless emotions had not clouded his mind; the sole reason he kept fighting was to fulfill the emptiness inside him, the emptiness that he'd been so sure was a result of a lack of power. He was hard, cold and ruthless, with no passion for anything except to kill, to hate, and to fight.

He was supposed to be the strongest, not some third class, and no way in hell was some third class half breed! Hell, the brat should have made up his own fourth class, just for not being of complete Saiyan blood! It wasn't right!

Dead.

Never would he get the change to take back his birthright as the strongest in the universe, never would he have the pleasure of beating the tyrant who'd tortured him and killed his people.

Damn that birthright thief. Damn him.

He'd never get a chance to really fight him again. Was the universe really only willing to let him have one crack at the best? He hadn't even fought Kakarot hands on, really; forcing him to reside to the Ozaru form, taking on all three (and eventually four) of them. Didn't he deserve one good hands-on fight, with no distractions, with nothing to make him hold back?

After all he'd been through, didn't he deserve that? Didn't he?

He cranked up the gravity to 500Gs, no longer feeling the pressure of 400 after his upgrade.

Not enough, not enough.

He wanted to feel pain. Anything to let his anger loose. He wanted to explode.

This is why he never let any emotions affect him. Ever since he came to this blasted backwater planet, he'd grown soft. The woman had softened him, and so had his son, even though he would never admit it. They'd made him soft.

Anger. That's all he felt right now. Pure fury.

He wanted to die.

It felt almost like when he'd become Super Saiyan. He'd felt no value in his life. He had for once no longer cared that he couldn't surpass Kakarot, or that he'd never be the one to avenge his people, his father, or that there was no longer any reason to go on living.

He just hadn't cared. And it felt so awful that he just exploded, quite literally, and then he changed.

All his hate and anger had been released in one scream; he was suddenly free, giddy with happiness, proud of himself again.

But this time, there was no release. He'd gone past Super Saiyan, something that shouldn't have even been possible, and this time there would be no release. He had reached his peak. His stupid emotions would be pent up inside him forever, and there would be no sweet release.

Pain. The pain would make it go away.

600Gs.

He felt his bones bending under the intense weight, but he didn't cry out in pain. He refused to.

"Pathetic!" he screamed at himself. "I did one handed pushups, injured, and in my base form at 400Gs! And now I can't even go past 600 as Super? Pathetic!"

He sent a Ki blast at a bot, which promptly redirected it and tossed it back at him. He leapt into the air, dodging it. The attack went straight to another bot, and performing the same action as the first, directed it back at the prince.

Damn you, Kakarot. Damn you for doing this to me.

None of it mattered anymore. He was without a rival. He had no purpose. He was the last one. His race was dead.

He had the chance to be wished back! Why would he not choose life? Did he not care that his beautiful race would be one step closer to extinction when he was gone? Didn't he even care?

Vegeta felt his heart rate speeding up.

Fury. That was all he'd ever known. Fury and hate.

That's not true and you know it, a small part of him whispered. You know love. You loved that woman, that much you showed her in bed.

No, that was just lust…

Don't kid yourself. What are you, some man-whore like Frieza's men? You lost..no, you gave your virginity to that woman and you know it.

"Shut up!" he snapped, dodging another blast. It came back at him almost immediately, too fast to dodge. He crossed his arms in front of his face, wincing as he felt his flesh become raw as the energy hit him full force.

With the bots no longer attacking him, the GR became strangely quiet. Vegeta blinked, then he grinned.

It was not a healthy grin.

It was a psychotic grin. A mad grin, with no sense of sanity present in his teal eyes.

He laughed.

Quietly at first, but then it grew louder until he was cackling madly, his deep rugged voice barking echoes against the metal walls.

Ha! Hahaha! He was talking to himself! He had voices in his head! Ha! He'd finally lost it! He'd finally cracked! Hahaha!

Voices in his head, voices in his head. They'd always been there, whispering things to him. Some of them were nice things. But most of them were bad things, telling him to rip out a throat, to shoot someone in the head, to break their spines.

Kill this, kill that.

He laughed harder, tears springing to his eyes as the insane amusement left his voice as was replaced by bitterness.

Kill, kill, kill. Do this, do that. Always orders. Do that, do this.

Leave me alone.

Slaughter. Take his life. Do it. Oh look, there's blood on your gloves. Look at that stain. It'll never come out. I know, let's kill more! Then they'll be fully red! Not a spot of white on them! Haha!

Leave me alone.

Ah, those voices. How he hated them. And yet, he was just now coming to grips with the fact that they'd always been there. He'd always dismissed it as the normal mental debating that every being experiences every so often. He never figured he might need help.

He laughed again, the amusement returning. Help? Ha! Who needs it? He was the great Saiyan Prince Vegeta! He needed no one!

No one, no one, no one.

He chuckled before bursting into sick laughter again.

Oh, the irony of it all.

He barely ever laughed as a child. There had never been a reason too.

He liked to think that everyone deserved at least one childish tantrum after they'd reached maturity. Well, this was his.

Your son.

What?

Your son, says the voice. You loved him too. Remember when he tried to save you in the Room of Spirit and Time? He thought you were on fire, probably because you were screaming bloody murder. But you batted him away like a common fly.

"So what?" he said aloud. He was deluding himself, and he knew it. But he wanted to hear the voice's take on things.

Ha. He really had lost his mind.

Remember when he died? When Cell killed him like it was nothing? You remembered that time. That was the first thing that came to you. And right after that, you remembered your son's blood curling scream when Android 18 shattered your arm. He rushed in to save you, didn't for one damn second think about Saiyan pride, just that he might've lost his father…again.

And Cell killed him like it was nothing. That pissed you off, didn't it? You knew you'd screwed up. And it freaking pissed you off to no end. You didn't even think about reviving him with the Dragon Balls; the kid was barely dead for five minutes. All you knew was that someone had taken him from you, and suddenly you didn't want to lose him. But by then it was too late. Too late, because the blood was already spurting from his lips, because his abdomen was already nothing more than charred edges.

So you attacked.

"Get out of my head."

You attacked with every ounce of force in you. In a way, you even delivered the final blow. You think Gohan would have beat him if you hadn't shot him from the side? It had been your last bit of energy.

"Get. Out."

The voice started a rhythm-less chant. It was mocking him, telling him things he already knew but had tried so hard to deny and suppress.

You loved him you loved him you loved him he was your son and you loved him you loved him and he slipped through your fingers like sand your first son your child the offspring of the Saiyan Prince you loved him you loved him and he died and now he's gone but he's a baby now and you still don't hold him you just sit here wallowing in the fact that Kakarot's dead like the weakling you are and you just suffer all by yourself because you loved them and you're deluding yourself you loved him you loved him and you love the woman and you love your son and he's gone you'll never see him again because this Trunks will be different Mirai Trunks is gone gone gone he doesn't have a daddy does that make you feel happy? Gone gone gone gone gone just like your father gone gone gone gone gone he's gone and you can't fix it and you can't say you're sorry you love him you love him and he's gone –

"SHUT UP!" He screamed. He flew at the walls, ramming his head against the metal, trying to get the voice out of his head. Dents appeared in the GR, the metal sharpened with each blow, cutting into his flesh.

Pain.

Yes, pain always made him forget.

Pain pain pain it hurts pain pain pain pain.

Sweet pain.

Blood.

He stopped suddenly, looking at the drops of red on the broken metal.

Where did that come from?

He felt his forehead, running his gloved hand through his hair. He pulled it away and looked at the soft white fabric.

Red.

Oh. It was his.

Well…he'd wanted to bleed, hadn't he? Didn't he want to wash away his torment with blood?

Didn't he?

He backed away from the wall, sinking to his knees in the middle of the room.

No. He didn't. The woman had changed him of that. She always bandaged his wounds, whether she was pissed at him or not, she never let him bleed. She never liked seeing him hurt, even though he deserved it. And for that reason and that reason alone, he'd stopped welcoming the pain.

He looked at his gloves and scowled.

Let's turn them completely red! More blood, more blood! They won't look stained then! Red red red red. Yes, let's paint them red.

"Shut up," he said again, almost pleasantly.

He laughed.

Quietly, then increasing, his voice growing louder with every chuckle, every snicker. And with each increase in volume, his heart rate went up.

Louder louder faster louder faster faster louder.

He laughed until he was screaming. He didn't yell about anything in particular, just tilted his head back and screamed.

He could hear his heart thudding in his ears. It had never beat that quickly before, he was sure of that.

But it wasn't as if he could stop it. No, he was too busy screaming and laughing that sick laugh of his.

His screams fell to soft chuckles again.

I'm dying, he thought, somewhat happily. I'm dying, dying dying. Yep, I'm going to die. Finally.

No daddy for this Trunks either, eh Vegeta?

His eyes flew open, though he didn't remember closing them. Damn that voice. Too late he realized that it wasn't one of the many demons that came to haunt him and claim his sanity. It was his own voice, his conscious. It was the little itsy bitsy bit of goodness in him, shaking his head at his broken state.

No daddy for Trunks? That didn't sound nice. Actually, it sounded downright miserable.

"Everyone died except Gohan," Mirai Trunks said softly. "My father, he died when I was just a baby."

Just a baby, just a baby. Present Trunks was a baby now, wasn't he? One year old.

No…he'd be two in a few weeks.

Just a baby no daddy just a baby.

No daddy.

"Be strong, my son," King Vegeta said. His normally blazing dark eyes were full of sorrow and regret. "I promise, I'll get you back. I promise."

Nope! No no nope no. Lies, all a lie, just a lie! Just a silly little lie! His father was dead, dead dead dead. Frieza killed him, dead dead dead.

So much death.

He felt like someone had a hand around his heart, squeezing it mercilessly.

He couldn't die, or Trunks wouldn't have a father. That wasn't entirely fair, now was it? Who would train the kid? Gohan had in the Mirai timeline, but that hardly counted. Besides, Mirai Trunks had been far too polite for Vegeta's taste. Who would teach the kid about his Saiyan spunk, his heritage?

Well, he'd have to do it. No one else could.

He forced himself to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gulps as he staggered out of the GR.


Bulma sipped her coffee, flipping through blueprints at the kitchen table. Her lab was just too secluded right now, and besides, Trunks was awake.

She suddenly became aware that the GR had become unnaturally loud. It was then that she realized her husband was laughing.

That was strange.

She stood up to go check on him, but stopped as the noise suddenly ceased. Now it was unnaturally quite.

That was even stranger.

"Oh, Trunks!" she cried suddenly, pulling the child away from the stove. "Don't mess with that! How did you get out of your playpen anyway?" She glanced at the now mangled child safety precaution she'd set up after Trunks had learned to walk…and run. "Never mind," she sighed.

She sat the little boy on the couch, only for him to climb down and start running around the big living room in circles. Bulma sighed, glancing at him over the bar table that separated the kitchen from the family room, and seeing as he wasn't in any danger, she went back to her blueprints.

Five minutes later, she felt tugging on her leg. Trunks' sharp blue eyes looked at her intelligently.

Bulma smiled at how much he resembled his father. Sure, his coloring was like hers, but other than that, he was his father's spitting image, with his cute little nose and firm chin, despite the baby fat.

His eyes were so much like Vegeta's…

The boy tugged on her pants leg again, demanding her attention.

"What's up, little man?" she asked.

The toddler glanced behind him and back at her, his blue eyes betraying no hint of boredom, but instead, an informative look.

"Daddy!" he cried.

Bulma blinked. Trunks had long ago said his first word, which was 'da da', to Vegeta's feigned annoyance, so it wasn't surprising that he'd mentioned his father.

"What about Daddy, squirt?" she asked.

"Daddy!" he cried again, this time more urgently. He yanked repeatedly on her pants leg, his still chubby legs bouncing with anxiety.

Still confused, Bulma bent down to pick him up when a deep voice made her stop short.

"Woman…"

She looked up and saw Vegeta leaning against the door frame. Blood poured freely from a nasty gash above his hairline, dripping down into his eyes and down his nose to his cheeks. His skin looked flushed, his big muscles trembling noticeably.

"Oh, god," Bulma whispered.

"I – " he started. His voice was raspy, like he was struggling to breathe. "I…I can't…help me…"

Bulma's brain hardly registered the fact that Vegeta never under any circumstances, asked for help. She quickly sat Trunks down and darted forward, barely making it in time to catch her mate's falling body as they both crashed to the kitchen floor.


A/N: Ten hypothetical dollars to whoever can guess what sickness has overcome our one and only favorite Saiyan Prince.

~KimiruMai