Author's Note: Greetings fandom! I've missed writing for Dragonball Z. I haven't seriously for years now, but I'm planning something big, so this is me getting back into the swing of writing for Trunks and Vegeta. I grabbed the plot bunny that popped into my head and ran with it.
My babies. I adore Trunks and Vegeta even after all this time.
Vegeta was mildly annoyed when his fourteen-year-old son stormed into the kitchen after school, throwing his backpack so hard against the wall, it crashed through the plaster. Not even bothering to acknowledging Vegeta's presence, he yanked the refrigerator door open, muttering curses to himself.
"That is coming out of your allowance, boy. And you're fixing it."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever."
The Saiyan Prince snorted. Luckily for his son, Bulma was on vacation with her parents and Bra, so he'd been put in a good mood by the peace and quiet. On a normal day, Trunks would probably be spitting out teeth for his attitude.
"What's wrong, did somebody steal your pencil? Knock it off. There are worse things than the human educational system. "
Usually this was the point where Trunks would either fire off a sarcastic retort or mutter under his breath. This time however, he turned on his father, teeth clenched. There was something feral in his gaze - an animalistic rage the Prince of Saiyans knew all too well. His cheeks were flushed red, and he could see bunched muscles tense underneath his tank top.
Vegeta raised an eyebrow. That was certainly out of character. Trunks was an asshole, but he didn't typically anger so easily. He had half a mind to rethink his earlier decision about the boy's teeth, but let his intrigue win out for the moment.
The boy still said nothing, continuing to gaze at Vegeta with intensity that quite frankly, impressed him. Honestly, Trunks was practically growling. Odd.
Finally, after a solid minute of staring his father down, he reached back into the fridge and came out with a turkey leg in each hand, tearing into them so ravenously they were gone in seconds and he was onto his next victim.
Vegeta watched with borderline amusement as Trunks quite literally devoured half of their food supply. He saw him down four jars of pickles, go through three tubs of ice cream, and otherwise completely deplete their stock in a way that was unusual even for a Saiyan. He had the fridge practically emptied in a matter of minutes, and considering it was stocked for two Saiyan appetites, that was saying something.
"Kami, I'm so fucking hungry. Why don't we have any food?" Trunks mumbled, mouth full of his latest four course meal.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe you'd care to think back on the past five minutes. You just ate all of it, you little jackass."
His son threw another bone into the trash can, releasing a groan that again sounded more like a growl. "I don't care. I want more."
"I'd ask if you were pregnant, but that seems at least mildly unlikely," he replied, in the most dead-pan tone he could muster.
Trunks froze in the middle of chomping down a drumstick, slack-jawed. "Did you just crack a joke?"
"Perhaps. And you thought I was always serious."
"Ugh!" He threw his hands up and dug his fingers into his hair, pacing the floor. "Damn it, it's so hot in here and I'm so hungry and what the hell is that awful sound?"
Vegeta had long since learned to tune out noises he didn't want to hear, but he allowed himself to pay attention now. Someone was mowing their lawn. Five miles away.
Trunks had always been able to hear things normal human children would not, but his senses had never been this acute before. To Vegeta's knowledge, at least.
That was when the metaphorical light bulb popped on in his head. He scowled and cursed with the realization.
Heightened senses. Ravenous hunger. Loss of control. Irritability. Vegeta knew exactly what was going on.
This was why he'd never wanted offspring.
Fucking teenagers. He didn't want to deal with this, but he had no choice. He had sired the boy. It was his responsibility. Not to mention, Trunks might level the city if he didn't, and he did not want to hear the lectures he'd get over that one.
Without preamble, he grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him down the hallway, Trunks screeching protests. When they got to the gravity chamber, Vegeta keyed in his code and threw him inside. The door slid shut behind them.
"What are you doing?" Trunks screamed, eyes wild, fists clenched and trembling. The rage was worse now, and it was crashing over him in waves. Vegeta would have to be blind not to see it. Beneath the anger, however, was unmistakable confusion. His son likely had no idea what was happening to him.
No. He definitely had no idea. Clearly this was a conversation Vegeta had put off for far too long.
First, however, they were going to have to do something about the murderous rage holding his son hostage. Vegeta knew better than anyone that words had absolutely no impact on a Saiyan consumed by blood lust.
"I know this is what you want. Come at me." He beckoned with one finger, lips twisted in a sneer. "Unless you don't think you can take it."
Not waiting for a response, Vegeta phased in and unceremoniously punched him in the face.
Trunks snarled, bared his teeth and lunged.
Six hours and several broken bones later, Vegeta sighed and leaned against the wall, gritting his teeth as the smell of bile and half-digested food assaulted his nostrils.
Trunks, bruised, bloody and drenched with sweat, sat hunched miserably on the floor with his head hanging over the toilet. After damn near killing each other in the gravity chamber, his son had decided his blood lust was sated and promptly threw up all over the floor.
Along with the front of Vegeta's training clothes.
The Prince had since changed into a clean shirt and pair of pants. Disgusted as he'd been when it happened, he couldn't bring himself to stay angry. He winced as Trunks dry heaved, breath coming in gasps, arms wrapped around his middle. He remembered this part. It was not pleasant.
The two or three cracked ribs probably weren't helping either.
Wordlessly, Vegeta snatched a towel off the rack and handed it to Trunks. His son took it, wiping his mouth in disgust. His naturally tanned Saiyan complexion was a pallid gray, and his hands shook just slightly where he dropped them limply into his lap.
He rested his head against the lid, eyes squeezed shut.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?"
"Nothing is wrong with you, boy. You're just hormonal."
Trunks looked up from the toilet bowl and stared, wide-eyed. "I…what?"
"We Saiyans are a warrior race. You know this. When we become adults, our bodies capitalize on that. In order to survive, we must become stronger, faster. Superior to anyone we might face in battle. Your body is trying to adjust to the new imbalance. "
The boy paled a few shades further, if possible. "Did you know this would happen to me? I'm half human. Doesn't that matter at all?"
"I was not certain. Evidently results vary. Kakarott's oldest brat never had to go through this, likely because he wasn't in close proximity with his Saiyan brethren for much of his life. As such, his human side ended up influencing him. You however, have not been far from me since you were an infant. You also have royal blood coursing through your veins."
Trunks retched again, drenched with sweat and gasping for breath. "Yeah, thanks a fucking lot."
He ignored the boy's foul language, instead surprising Trunks by filling the glass by the sink and handing it to him. He took it, sipping it gingerly.
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Suck it up and ride it out. This will ease up in a few days. For the most part. Don't be surprised if anyone who wrongs you gives you the overwhelming urge to blow a few heads off. Your senses will be heightened as well. I'll teach you to tune out most noises."
Trunks groaned, resting his head against the porcelain again. "Great. Being a super-powered alien prince wasn't enough. Now I'm a super-powered, homicidal alien prince with a food fetish."
Vegeta fought back a smile. "It is my understanding that most adolescents are homicidal, Saiyan or not."
"Yeah I guess, but I can say I'm going to murder them and actually mean it. I have to try hard on a regular basis not to accidentally crush anyone. Now I want to. All the time. What the fuck am I gonna do?"
Vegeta didn't even bother to fight the smile this time. "Don't worry. At worst I could always take you into space and let you loose on a planet or two."
"Not helping, dad. Not helping."
"Oh Kami. I think I'm dying."
Vegeta rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."
"I'm serious. I'm going to puke up my large intestine if this keeps up. It's so hot and I'm so nauseous, and I'm so angry! Dad I need to rip holes in things. Oh Kami, never mind. I'm gonna puke again. I'm sick of puking. I'm dying. Has anyone ever died from this before?"
"Only the weak. You're my son."
Trunks moaned in misery. "I hate you. This is all your fault. Why do you have to be so…I don't know. Saiyan?"
Vegeta smirked. "Funny, I'm told that's what your mother said about me when she was giving birth to you."
Trunks just glared at him, then turned to puke again.
Trunks curled into a fetal position beneath the sheets, trembling so violently, his teeth were chattering. At first he tried clenching them together, but quickly thought better of it. Mostly that just hurt his jaw more. He almost wished his body would just break down and get it over with. Vegeta had assured him that it wouldn't, but with the way he was feeling? He had his doubts.
His father had tended the wounds that needed it and wrapped his ribs tightly so they could begin to heal, but they still hurt. He'd lost track of how many times he'd puked in the past two hours. Dozens at least. The migraine pounding between his eardrums was the worst he'd ever felt, and he had to keep his eyes shut or his vision would blur and he'd start seeing double. That of course, led to dizziness, which led to nausea and vomiting, and he didn't think he could do much more of that without tearing his insides apart.
Before, he'd literally been seeing red, controlled by a rage he neither knew, nor understood. Now he just felt sick. Sick, scared and out of his mind with panic. Vegeta explained what was happening to him, but that didn't mean Trunks wasn't terrified. This…thing had taken hold of him body, mind and soul and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Through the haze, he felt something drop onto his forehead. A hand it seemed, replaced by a cold cloth.
He didn't think he could speak out loud, but Vegeta heard him all the same. The hand was back again, brushing messy tangles of hair away from his face.
I'm here, son.
He knew it was stupid, but suddenly, he was stricken with the overwhelming urge to bury himself in a hole and stay there. This wasn't just scary. It was embarrassing. Vegeta couldn't possibly want to spend his days playing nursemaid, and yet now he was obligated to.
I'm sorry I broke the wall. Trunks was mortified to feel a few tears roll down his cheeks. A hiccuping sob escaped his lips, followed by another and another until he was crying in earnest, Vegeta's hand still resting on top of his head like a lifeline.
The mattress sunk a bit as his father sat on the edge. Walls can be replaced. You cannot.
Are you sure I'm not dying?
A snort. No. You're not dying.
Then why are you being so nice to me?
Silence stretched on, for so long Trunks thought he might not answer.
Because I did this alone.
The young prince hazarded a glance, opening his eyes to slits. The room remained engulfed in shadows, and he could make out little more than Vegeta's silhouette beside him. That admission must have been tough. He wasn't exactly an open book.
It meant everything to him.
A grunt. What, Trunks?
I love you.
Vegeta did not respond, but his hand drifted down to his face, cupping his cheek.
Go to sleep.
Trunks suppressed a whimper. He wasn't sure he could.
Though he couldn't see his father, he could almost sense the way he softened. He brushed his consciousness with Trunks' own. The young man couldn't even begin to explain why, but he could feel the tension bleed out of him in response. He and his father had always been connected telepathically, but this was new.
Go to sleep.
Not that he was complaining. He was more than happy to oblige.