#i need to get a vegbooru ship tag

[risingsouls]

Conversations: 1

[I finished that self-indulgent Vegbooru ship project(?) bit I started that probably is really only going to be interesting to me for ship reasons and also a space to flesh out their stories, how they parallel, how they differ, etc. SO forewarning, it’s not going to be a very interesting series of little things to most but I’m going to have fun doing it.

So here’s part one.]

The beatings had started to blur together. Nabooru lasted longer, packed a harder punch, landed more blows with each session. But Vegeta still outclassed her no matter the progress and, for the umpteenth time since he agreed to train with her, she questioned why he continued to do so. While sparring with a partner could produce better results, she doubted he got much out of this power wise. Entertainment, perhaps. Considering the ruthless show he put on at her tournament, she wouldn’t put it past him to get a thrill out of beating her senseless when the chance presented itself. She couldn’t rightly demonize him for that when she took pleasure in the moments in which she quite literally wiped the smirk off his face with a devastating hook or clever tactic that put him on the defensive. At the end of the day, she chalked it up to his boredom and his own pride in her progress under his training.

Her assumptions would have to do; she didn’t dare question why he bothered to take time out of his own training to spar with her. She enjoyed their invigorating sessions and, as expected, he was just the type of partner she needed to push her own limits. One who would criticize her instead of coddle, one she could go all out with and worry little about his ability to handle her.

Nabooru took a step back toward the half-smashed boulder behind her and attempted to make a convincing show of it not being the only thing keeping her on her feet at the moment. She wiped her bloody lip on her forearm. “Let’s keep going,” she called up to the Saiyan floating above her, face set in stubborn determination. “I’m not done.”

“Tch, yes you are.” Vegeta landed in front of her, boots tapping on the solid, rust-colored earth beneath them. He powered down, light hair and eyes resuming their typical onyx hues. Though he admired her aptitude for improvement, her sheer willpower in battle, she did him little good dead. A sentiment he shared with her regularly. She opened her mouth in protest, but he snapped before she could argue. “I don’t care if you’re still on your feet, either. I expect you back in fighting shape by tomorrow, and pushing you further tonight will only decrease those odds.”

The Gerudo peeled her back off the craggy surface, wobbling on shaky knees before regaining her fortitude. “But you being so kind as to carry me back to my house the other day was such a good trust exercise for us.” She tore off a flapping bit of fabric just barely clinging to the rest of the shredded tank top. “Wouldn’t it be fun to do that again?”

A snort, and he folded his arms over his chest, defiant. Growing tired of her incessant begging to continue their spar, Vegeta had given in that day. Nabooru lasted another solid five minutes before collapsing beneath her own weight, weakened by pain and sapped of energy. Fearing he had actually killed her, he leaned over her motionless body to check for a pulse. With her last bit of energy, her hand shot up and gripped his throat, a cheeky grin on her lips. She mumbled “got ya,” and her hand dropped back to her side. Had he been a finickier man, he might have killed her in his surprise. Blasted a hole straight through her. She didn’t remember the shock on his face, the chokehold, or how he picked her up and flew her back to her home, dropping her on the couch before leaving again as far as he could tell. He couldn’t, however, convince her that someone else had returned her to her surprisingly modest home. A fact she didn’t hesitate to tease him mercilessly for when she found the chance.

“Go get some rest,” he said at last, turning his back on her. “I won’t go easy on you tomorrow just because you’re sore.”

Blue-white energy surrounded him, and Nabooru’s heart stuttered in unexplained panic. “Wait!”

To her astonishment, the light around him faded, but she didn’t miss the perturbed growl that preceded the scowl shot back at her over his shoulder, sharp canines bared. “What? Don’t tell me you can’t make it back on your own.”

“Of course I can,” she spat back, casting him her own daggered glare. “I just…”

She huffed as she sought the right words, all the while considering whether asking him anything that had nothing to do with fighting or training would result in a proper answer at all. Perhaps it was all the wollops to the head that convinced her this very moment would suffice in quelling her curiosity about the prickly Saiyan prince’s past. Since her conversation with Cell before the Warrior Games began, she failed to convince herself that she didn’t care to learn more. To hear his story from his own lips, rather than the words of someone obviously keen on besmirching him at any possible chance. 

And, perhaps, because something about it all struck a chord with her own history. If she could get him to talk, she might not feel quite so alone. She quickly blamed those thoughts on the head injuries, too.

“I’ve been wondering about something...Cell mentioned it back at the tournament…”

Dark brows furrowed and he grit his teeth. Cell. Vegeta scoffed. “And just what did that bastard have to say about me that has you so curious? Go on, spit it out!”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes and bless him with a snippy retort. She tread on razor-thin ice in unknown territory; her attitude would not be as tolerated or appreciated. “He told me that you were a slave to that Frieza guy. He’s the one that destroyed your planet and people, right?” She rested her back against the stoneface again, though it offered less comfort than it had before. “Is that true? He was trying to use it to undercut you after your tiff with Honeydew, so I couldn’t really discern what he had exaggerated.”

Vegeta hadn’t expected such an inquiry, and he suspected it showed on his face and his failure to respond immediately. Cell was not shy to mock him, and this revelation certainly fell under that vein, Frieza’s cells likely offering an inkling of insight on the matter. He had expected some scathing remark about his defeat at Cell’s hands for which he had a prepared answer. But he hadn’t expected to discuss the galaxy’s tyrant with her. Or anyone. He avoided the topic of Frieza with practiced and deliberate dodging, mostly through his own sour demeanor keeping too-curious fools at arm's length. Most didn’t breach that or many other topics with him. He vaguely wondered if they remembered Frieza at all, or his involvement with the tyrant. With how quick these heroes and self-touted “good guys” were to forgive him and forget his past atrocities, it was the only explanation that made any sense.

The silence between them in the dying light of the day had swelled to an awkward bubble. He heard her shuffle her sneakered feet on the ground, a breath sucked in as if she wanted to speak again. He cut her off. “What does it matter? Why do you care, anyway?”

Defensive and avoidant. The response she expected but not what she hoped for. She swept her fingers through her crimson locks, grunting softly as they caught in a tangle near the end. “Curiosity, like I said.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Would it really surprise you so much that I might want to get to know you a little as a person? You’re obviously far more than a bad attitude and strength I can only assume could make a god blush.”

Vegeta narrowed his eyes. He learned young that everyone had an angle. He had no doubt Nabooru had one of her own, but he struggled to decide if it was malicious or sincere. Compared to most he endured on this planet, he found her company tolerable, their typical conversation centered on topics that interested him: combat, strategy in a battle, whether one on one or against an army, ki manipulation. It came as a bonus that she could match him in knowledge in most of those areas, and was willing to listen and learn when she didn't. Her teasing aside, she knew when to take him and the task at hand seriously. Obvious flattery aside, was he surprised that she may just want to get to know him? Bulma and a select few others had made sorry attempts, lost their temper, and given up on the endeavor entirely due to his spurnings. Nothing that felt like true interest in him, but more to hear themselves talk or an obnoxious need to fill the silence with something no matter how vapid or shallow. None dared bring up a topic like this one. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to give her credit for it or clip the conversation’s wings before it could take flight. 

“Is this how you get to know everyone, or am I just special?”

“Would you prefer I ask you your favorite color or your least favorite kind of weather? You didn’t strike me as the type to enjoy small talk.”

A growl rumbled in his chest, the urge to leave out of spite mounting. However, he made no move to take off into the twilight. “Fine. It’s not like it matters anymore, anyway,” he acquiesced at last, crushing a rock into gravel beneath his heel with a crunch. “In every capacity except that we got paid, yes, we might as well have been slaves. To defy Freiza was a death wish. Not that loyalty or doing your job well meant anything. The Saiyans served him and his family for years, but he killed them anyway.”

Though she attempted to fight it, a frown tugged the corners of her lips downward regardless of her efforts. She did not care for people’s sympathy in regards to hers or her people’s plight and she guessed Vegeta felt similarly; she did not want her expression to be misconstrued as such. The heavy weight in her belly and the twisting of her heart struck closer to anger, for the injustice done to his people, those done to hers. How often had they tried to play the placated and happy allies with Hyrule as their treaty asked, only to be met with solid walls of ridicule and denial of meager requests to aid in their survival and the ever growing cloud of contempt for them in the end?

She blew a strand of hair out of her face and smoothed it back into place on her crown. "That's how it goes, isn't it?" Bitterness seeped into her words in lieu of the conversational tone she wanted to maintain. She didn't know if she wanted to sock Hyrule's King in the face or that Frieza character. Or more. "You can play their game by the book all you want, but at the end of the day, it's their game to end how they choose."

Vegeta eyed her, the changed demeanor, the edge to her words. A discontent and terse delivery that alluded to experience. Piecing the scraps of information he had gleaned from the tournament, he understood the Gerudo were refugees from another planet of some capacity. They must have suffered similarly under a tyrant which led them to leave their home in search of a new one. The details hardly mattered. Frieza was dead and the Gerudo resided on Earth; neither had to deal with whatever problems they had faced in the past anymore.

He communicated such thoughts with a noncommittal huff. "At any rate, I take pride in the fact that it was fear of the Saiyans that led to their demise. He feared our potential, what we could become. It was only fitting that a Saiyan ended his miserable existence."

Hatred fueled by fear. Violence spurred by unfounded paranoia. The Gerudo recognized the phenomenon from her dealings with the Hylians and their allies. She opened her mouth to relay such, but the prince turned his back to her. As obvious a sign as any that the conversation was over.

"Go rest. I'll find you tomorrow when I'm ready to spar." 

He allowed Nabooru no time to reply, argue, or say her farewells before taking off. With the last dregs of her own energy, she floated upward and flew off in the opposite direction, a muscle-relaxing bath calling her name.