From: Nora Jemison Subject: [Fanfic][Lemon] Dragon Ball: May In September ::ahem:: THIS FIC CONTAINS MATERIAL OF AN EXPLICIT SEXUAL NATURE. THAT IS WHAT "LEMON" MEANS---THERE IS SEX IN THIS. I.E., COPULATION, FORNICATION, ETC. IF THIS MAKES YOU AT ALL UNCOMFORTABLE, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. ::ahem:: Now that that's been said . . . This story is also probably the most "controversial" one I've ever written. Why? Because it's set in the timeline of Future Trunks, and it's a very unusual what-if . . . I've always believed in depicting the characters in my stories, even my fanfiction, as realistically as possible; those of you who have read my other fanfics are probably aware of the mature and occasionally disturbing themes in them. This one is no exception. You see (for those of you who don't know), in Future Trunks' timeline, the last few remaining Dragonball characters have been living a nightmare for years: their world is all but destroyed and under siege, Humanity all but extinct, and their loved ones are all dead, beyond resurrection. As we see in the Trunks Special, some will live to see a better day, because in another few years young Trunks will destroy the Jinzouningen . . . but what does it do to a person, to live in a world like that? A world, for now, without hope . . . a very, very lonely world. In times of war or great crisis, the ordinary barriers that exist between people are worn down to nothing . . . and all that's left is what's really important. So . . . could it happen? *Did* it? Read, and think, and decide for yourself. Please let me know what you think of this, even if you just want to say it's crap---as always, I welcome criticism as long as you tell me *why* you think it's crap. But hopefully, you'll think otherwise. This story is one of my "Tales of the Future's Son," posted on my web page; for those of you who track it down there, you'll note that the "sex scenes" in May in September are in italics. Unfortunately, that doesn't translate in plain text; use your imagination. ^_^ Hope you like it. Nora Jemison http://www.wam.umd.edu/~njemison/ njemison@wam.umd.edu ________________________________ May in September Fingers in her hair, stroking; a brief pull as the band that held her long ponytail was pulled, releasing a wealth of beauty that she'd barely acknowledged for years. "You're so beautiful." "You're just hard up." A soft chuckle, and something rigid pressed against her buttocks, hot against her skin. "Yes, I am. And you aren't?" It had been a long time. Years. She fell silent rather than acknowledge his jibe. The hand moved to her waist, coaxing. She leaned back against the hard, powerful body and closed her eyes, trying to make herself not want what was happening, and failing. "We shouldn't be doing this---" "Shhh." A warm, low voice in her ear. "Don't think." The hand moved downward, and she shivered when fingers brushed over hair. "Don't be afraid." She was glad that she still had enough presence of mind to retain a glimmer of humor. "I'm the one that should be saying that to you." "Say whatever you want," the voice drawled. "But you aren't exactly seducing me. I know what I want. I've wanted this for years." The fingers were stroking between her thighs now, and she moaned softly as his middle finger probed inside of her, sampling her wetness. "Nnnhhh . . . you are *definitely* not a little boy any more . . . " "I haven't been for a long time. And you are definitely not an old woman." ***** She had never been so slow to pick up on things before, but that could be excused; while her life had never been exactly predictable, it had always had a kind of perverse, bizarre order to it. Even in the old days, before the world had dropped into the lowest pit of hell, few things had ever disrupted that order. Not risking her life to search for ancient legends, not seeing the world threatened again and again by a dozen different menaces, not the vagaries of her life and her friends. Vejiita's sudden transition from sometime adversary to sometime lover had been the first skip in the record of her life; Gokuu's death in bed rather than battle had been the next. It was almost as if those initial shocks had simply been early-warning signs of the later ones; the Jinzouningen's methodical destruction of the world was almost routine, now. She hadn't thought that anything else could surprise her, not at her age. She should have known better. There was nothing new, for example, in her nursing of injured warriors; ever since she'd met Son-kun, she'd become inured to the smells of sweat and blood. And the stubbornness of men who really ought to know better. It was when she found Son-kun's son out of bed only days after he'd come within an inch of death that she threw up her hands and relegated them all to the category of Utter Fools. "Please tell me that they make bed-straps of titanium, or some other substance that you can't break with a flick of your wrist. Because Kami help me if Trunks ever gets injured, and I have to try and keep him in bed; I'll never do it." Gohan jumped, almost losing his grip on the sheet that he held around his heavily bandaged torso; he turned in a limping circle and smiled at her guiltily. "Trunks is a good boy," he replied. "You won't have any trouble out of him." She sighed and took her hands off of her hips, crossing the room briskly and planting herself in front of him, angry. "I used to think *you* were a good boy, too. I also used to think that you were smarter than your father. And if you don't get back in that bed in the next thirty seconds, Gohan-kun, I'll show you exactly why he never crossed me, even after he became a Super Duper whatever." His one unbandaged eye widened in surprise, and a rueful smile crossed his lips. "Hai, hai, Bulma-sama." He tried to bend in a careful, sardonic bow, but the injudicious movement stressed his badly broken ribs; he gasped and paled sharply, and Bulma moved quickly to support him before he could fall, deftly maneuvering under his arm to help him back toward the bed. It was an effort to get him back into a prone position, especially given that despite his injuries there were still a few hundred kilos of very solid man beneath the bandages, but with a combination of painful effort on his part and a great deal of sweating and grunting on hers, she managed to get his legs up onto the bed and covered up. When she was finished, she sat on the edge of the bed herself and mopped her forehead, giving an exaggerated sigh. "I'd say 'I told you so,'" she gasped, "if I could just catch my breath. I'm getting too old to be wrestling you warrior-types into bed." Gohan chuckled, already tired after his brief exertion. "Heh. Sorry to be a burden. At least you got something out of it when you were wrestling Vejiita-san." It was so unexpectedly funny that she burst out laughing, and it was only after the fit of laughter had passed that she caught herself, trying to shape her face into a stern expression and failing, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch in spite of herself. "Gohan-kun. What would your mother say if she heard you talking like that?" He shrugged, wincing. "I suppose she'd be mortified. But she's not here, is she?" She stared at him, as he shifted uncomfortably, closed his eye, and turned his head away. "I can't decide if I'm hungry or sleepy," he murmured, his voice heavy with drowsiness. "But I guess I must be more sleepy than hungry, because if I were really hungry I wouldn't be able to sleep." "I'll let you rest," she said automatically, rising from the edge of the bed to let him turn over, barely noticing as he muttered an unintelligible thanks and drifted off. She stared down at him for a long time, then shook her head in grudging amusement. "Saa. At least you know how to tell a dirty joke. Son-kun never did figure that out." ***** Throbbing, pulsing pleasure throughout her body, centered between her thighs; she writhed until he finally lifted his head and sat up. "Where in the hell did you learn to do *that*?" she gasped, trembling. "Where do you think?" he asked, skillfully untying the sash of his pants by holding one end in his teeth, then quickly shucking himself out of them. His movements were quick and graceful. "I'm not a virgin." She felt herself blush like the girl she hadn't been for years, and looked away at the sight of his naked, scarred body. He was bigger than both Yamucha and Vejiita had been, his broad shoulders flexing as he moved. He had his father's body. But his father had never looked at her the way that he was now, and she had never allowed herself to look at his father for very long. How could she, now, look at him? She put her hands over her face, guilty. But in spite of her guilt, she did not move away---could not---when she felt that body slide into the bed next to hers. "You're cold," he exclaimed, pressing against her. "It happens when you get my age." A sigh. "Stop hiding behind your age," he snapped. "There's more fire in you than you want to believe. And I'm the one who's cold, inside." A hard arm going around her, pulling her close. "Come and warm me." ***** Trunks was upset. She could see it in the way her son fidgeted, as they watched Gohan taking his first steps free of the casts. The boy's pale-browed scowl was deeper than usual as he stood up and sat down, seemingly unable to keep still. Bulma tried not to watch him; he got more and more like Vejiita every day, and she'd learned lately not to point out the obvious to him. He would grow silent and taciturn for days, if she did. She could understand his pain, however, and her heart ached for both her son and the young man who'd been everything but a father to him, for the past few years. That young man turned, now, in front of the mirror, observing the pink-skinned stump that had once been his left arm. Gohan's eyes were unreadable as he gazed at himself; after a moment, he lifted his right arm, looked down at it, and made a fist, thoughtfully. The contrast between the whole limb and the damaged one was painfully clear. Trunks jumped off of the stool and ran out of the room. Bulma gasped, and started after him instinctively; but Gohan's voice stopped her. "Matte." Startled, she turned back; his expression was stern. "But---" "Let him go. He needs to be alone." She looked after her son, anxiously; he had always been a sensitive boy. "He blames himself for what happened to you." "I know." Gohan sighed, and went back over to the bed; one-handed, he began struggling into his shirt. "It's not his fault at all; it was mine for letting him come with me into a battle that he wasn't ready for yet. I almost cost us both our lives." Now she turned back, frowning. "If you won't let him accept the blame, Gohan-kun, you shouldn't either. You were both trying to save people---" He was having trouble with the shirt. She started forward to help him, and stopped, flinching, at the look he leveled at her. So she remained where she was as he got his arm into one of the sleeves, then shook it down over his head, straightening it at last. With practice, it would take no more time than usual, she decided. "It won't do anyone any good if both of us die. There's no one else who can fight them. Trunks has more potential than I could ever realize; he's our best hope. Our last hope. And I almost got him killed." She stared at him, realizing suddenly that something had changed, subtly, about him---what, however, she couldn't put her finger on. Then she focused on his words. "'Last hope?' You make it sound like he's on his own---like he doesn't have an ally." "He doesn't." Gohan sat down on the edge of the bed, heavily. With a jolt, she saw that his shoulders had slumped alarmingly; he looked like an old man. "Not one that he can rely on, anyhow." A flutter of something like fear moved in her belly, and she frowned. "What are you talking about? He's got you---" "He's got a teacher with one arm, who hasn't got a chance against those monsters in combat. Once he finds his power, I might as well be an anchor tied around his waist, for all the good I'm going to do him." His voice was soft and tired. He reached up, touching his left shoulder; his fingers splayed out as if seeking the arm that was not there. "They have four arms to my one. If it were just one of them, maybe, I could do it. But there's never just one of them. They never fight alone." She stared at him, not believing her ears. "I can still teach him," he said softly. "I'm still stronger than him, and I have a few techniques he hasn't picked up yet. I'm going to step up his training, so he can learn them as quickly as possible. I'm not completely useless yet." His voice was flat, utterly inflectionless. Cold. It struck her, to the core of her heart. She went over to him, on impulse; he did not look up at her approach. Unable to think of anything to say, she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, hesitating only a moment before touching the stump. He made no move to acknowledge her gesture for a long while. And then, slowly, he lifted his hand, without looking up. Covered hers with his own. "Gohan-k . . . " she began, then trailed off. No. Somehow the old nickname no longer fit. "Let him go," Gohan said, very softly, his voice almost a whisper. "Let him cry. Let him hate the Jinzouningen even more. This will make him stronger." And to that, she could say absolutely nothing. ***** He said nothing when she finally lifted a hand to touch him, but she saw him smile out of the corner of her eye as her fingers slid over his chest, the rounded pink stump, his abdomen, grazing over the scars, many of them deep, that crisscrossed his torso. He shouldn't have such scars. Even Vejiita had not had so many scars. But the body beneath the scars was lean and strong, and she felt an almost forgotten heat spread through her as she touched him. When he took her hand and guided it lower, down to the hot, swollen hardness that pressed against her thigh, her fingers trembled, and he felt it. "I can't believe this is happening . . ." she said for the fiftieth time. He sighed again. "You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. The only thing you should have trouble believing is that I didn't say anything to you about it sooner. I've wanted you for years." "You weren't even legal until a few years ago." "And you think that made a difference? You know how many adolescent fantasies I had about you?" He reached out, cupped her breast in his hand, and stroked it slowly, up and down. Her nipple grew instantly erect beneath his hand, and she swallowed against the ache it stirred within her. "You know how hard it is to hide your sheets until you can wash them, with a mother like mine?" She laughed at the notion, then fell silent as she thought about what his mother would say if she could see them now. He frowned at her. "My mother's been alone for too long, too," he said softly. And then he smiled roguishly. "But Trunks had better not get any ideas." She stared at him, horrified at the thought, and he laughed at her. "Trunks doesn't love my mother," he assured her. "He barely even knows her. Besides, shy or not, he's already got a good healthy interest in girls his own age. I'm a special case, trust me." She stiffened. "What do you mean, he's got an interest---" He silenced her with a kiss. "Leave your son's personal life alone," he chided, when they parted. "You've got more important things to worry about." He rolled on top of her, and she gasped as the hardness she had touched a moment before pressed against the softness between her thighs. "I want to make love to you. I've had enough of fantasizing." He fastened his mouth on hers, and she had only a moment to think about what he'd said. Trunks didn't love Chichi, he'd said. Which implied--- He slid inside her, and there were no more implications. ***** "HAAA!!" "Too slow, Trunks!" One of the nearby cars went tumbling, and Bulma sighed in irritation, wiping her sweaty brow with the back of one grease-stained hand, looking up from the generator she was repairing to focus on the sparring figures on the other side of street. It was just as well the city was already deserted and in ruins; the way those two went at it, it would be a wonder if there was anything left intact besides the Capsule Corporation, when they got done. She just wished that random mass destruction didn't have to be so *loud.* How was she supposed to concentrate? Her son skidded into sight, his small frame taut with anger, his face looking more like his father's than any son's had a right to look. She smiled; it was a good thing Vejiita wasn't alive after all. If he'd have been able to see how much his son took after him, he'd have been insufferable. Probably would have wanted another child, just to see if that one looked like him, too. She straightened for a while, stretching to ease her aching back, and sat on the generator for a while, clinically observing them. At thirteen, Trunks was doing very well, she decided smugly; she couldn't recall Son-kun being anywhere near as strong or quick a fighter when he'd first fought in the Tenkaichi Budokai, years and years ago, at about the same age. Of course, Gohan had shown the same early potential; perhaps there was something about the mixture of Human and Saiyajin blood that gave the two such strength. If that was the case, she mused, analyzing, it might be a good idea if both Trunks and Gohan did whatever they could to preserve that blood, especially given the perpetual threat of the Jinzouningen. If Humanity was to have any hope at all, it needed more fighters. So: was breeding more of those fighters the answer? It seemed a ludicrous notion; she chuckled to herself. But the idea kept turning over in her mind, and she sighed, giving in; there was nothing she could do once an idea had taken hold of her but let it run its course. There was no guarantee, of course, that the power would hold true into a second generation; the Saiyajin genetic traits seemed mostly dominant in a pure Human-Saiyajin pairing, but what would happen if the Saiyajin blood was halved again? They weren't completely dominant; Vejiita had complained so much about Trunks' hair and eyes when the boy had been born that she gathered Saiyajin rarely had such coloring, if ever. So diluting those traits further was a chancy prospect at best. Still, Saiyajin were a peculiar breed; there was nothing to be done but try it, and see. Trunks was too young, of course; his voice hadn't even cracked yet, and besides, all scientific detachment aside, she wasn't ready to be a grandmother any time soon. Gohan, however--- Gohan shot into view, shouting at the top of his lungs as he barelled into Trunks at top speed, and the pair engaged in a flurry of blows. She blinked in surprise; even with one arm, Gohan was easily meeting Trunks' attacks. He had his father's genius; only a few months after he'd lost the arm, and already he'd learned to compensate for it in combat. Indeed, she barely noticed the stump of the lost arm, now, as he lunged and struck at Trunks; his body was moving so quickly that it almost seemed that he had four whole limbs instead of three. And with just those three, he was giving Trunks more than enough trouble. Bulma sighed as Trunks leaped back, trying to get space to breathe in between Gohan's relentless attacks; it was always difficult for her to watch their matches, but she'd learned to harden herself. Gohan was doing exactly right; the Jinzouningen wouldn't give Trunks any quarter either, and if he was a good instructor, he'd remind Trunks of that fact. Gohan was an excellent instructor. Trunks uttered a startled cry, and went sprawling, smashing through another building, coming out the other side, and rolling to a halt a good four blocks away. Bulma sighed. Gohan shook his head and straightened from the blow he'd just delivered, putting his hand on his hip and waiting for Trunks to recover and come back. Looking at him, Bulma was reminded of her earlier ruminations. Yes, Gohan was well old enough to have children by now; in fact, he was a good four or five years older than his father had been, at Gohan's birth. And he'd inherited Gokuu's good looks and nature; it was a wonder some young girl hadn't snapped him up already. She looked up and down at his tall form, appraising him; yes, even with one arm he was well-formed enough to turn any woman's head, especially with the muscular frame he'd developed from years of fighting and training. Of course, he had more than a few scars, legacy of too many battles and too many losses . . . If only Son-kun had lived. But he hadn't. And however scarred his son might be, it was clear that Son Gohan was a credit to his sire. Abruptly Gohan's shoulders tensed slightly; he glanced over his shoulder, and Bulma started as she realized that he'd sensed her scrutiny. Then she chuckled; damn Saiyajin and their preternatural senses. But she started again as he turned, facing her. The street was quiet for the first time since they'd begun sparring, and when the wind blew, stirring the dust that was settling from their match, its quiet whisper sent a frisson of unease through her in the sudden silence. Gohan's eyes were on her, enigmatic; she remembered when she'd been able to read his expression with ease, back when he'd been a child. But that child had had two good arms and hadn't spent his life in endless, futile battles; too many things had weighed upon the once-light heart of that long-ago boy. So when he looked at her now, she could guess nothing of the thoughts moving behind his frank black eyes. An involuntary chill moved up her spine, although the wind was not cold. And then the jet-engine blast of Trunks' flight startled her further, as her son reappeared from where he'd lain. Stopping and crouching in front of Gohan, he raised his fists and set his jaw to continue. She blinked away from Gohan, shaking her head as she saw the trickle of blood at the corner of Trunks' mouth. Gohan turned as well, focusing on his young student. Even from here she heard his chuckle. "Let's go somewhere else," he said to Trunks. "Your mother's working, and we're disturbing her." Trunks threw a quick guilty look at her, and she smiled, appreciating their consideration. As one the pair turned, and without another backward glance, flew away. She watched them leave, and turned back to the generator. When the crack of their flight had diminished into the distance, silence fell again, only the wind soughing gently through the city streets---the wind and the sound of her tinkering. On impulse, she paused, listening to the wind. How long had it been, really, since the streets of her city had been filled with any other sound? The Jinzouningen had smashed most of the city beyond reclaim on the day they'd killed Vejiita. No one else lived here now, except for a few crazy squatters and she and Trunks. For a long moment, she regretted wishing for silence; she'd forgotten how lonely this place could be, without the sounds of other people around. None of that. She knew melancholy when she felt it coming. Deliberately, she picked up her screwdriver, and turned back to the generator. But unbidden, the memory of Gohan's eyes came into her mind, and stayed there for a long time. ***** The sounds of pleasure: a low male grunt, a feminine gasp, the rhythmic creaking of the old bed, soft wet sounds. The sounds of skin against skin, with sweat the lubrication in between. It had been too long for her since she'd felt like this. She clung to the powerful male body that covered hers---the *young* male body---and bit her lip, drawing blood. She had forgotten what it felt like, to be filled with a man's hunger, his hardness, his heat. She'd forgotten what it felt like to feel such passion. How long had it been? Not since Vejiita. Not since the body that now strained against hers was that of a child. He wasn't a child any longer. She closed her eyes, and shuddered beneath him, and tried, again, not to think. "Tell me what you want," he breathed in her ear, his voice low and urgent. "Tell me what you need." She opened her mouth, raw sweet hunger rushing up from within her and filling her with its own voice. "Harder," she moaned. "More." He obeyed. ***** She really should have built the damned scaffolding higher. As it was, she'd been jumping for five minutes and still could not reach the top of the time machine. "What is that?" She jumped, dropping her screwdriver, as a voice broke into her thoughts, echoing from the cracked walls of her makeshift lab. She tried to catch the screwdriver, but it clattered through the floorboards of the scaffolding and to the floor of the workroom, a good ten feet below. Exasperated, she pushed her heavy hair aside and glared at Gohan, who colored as he realized his mistake. "Sumimasen," he said, holding up his hand as if to stave off her anger, and grinned. She felt her irritation fading immediately and sighed, acknowledging the power of that strange, guileless Son family charm. "What are you doing here?" she asked, watching as he went to fetch the screwdriver. "It's the crack of dawn. I thought I was the only person who got up this early willingly." "Trunks and I were supposed to practice going Super Saiyajin again today," he replied, crouching and hunting for the screwdriver amid the other components and materials scattered on the floor. He seemed confused; she had her own system of organization. "But he's asleep." And she knew how her son slept. It used to frighten her, when he was young, how Trunks could snore soundly through the loudest ruckus; now she simply shrugged. "Well, he won't be waking up for another hour or so. You might as well head into the kitchen and make yourself some breakfast." "Unh." He pushed his hand through a pile of wires, frowning when he didn't feel the screwdriver amid them. "He's doing well, you know. He's learned everything I had to teach him. If he can just pass this last threshold . . ." She nodded, frowning, and sat down on the board, crossing her legs and taking out a cigarette. "You and he have been working on this for a while." Gohan made a pleased sound as he finally located the screwdriver, and then flew up to where she sat, turning to sit beside her. She nodded absently to him, searching through her pockets for her lighter and not feeling it anywhere. "Aa. There's a . . . gentleness in him. It fights him, when he reaches for the anger he needs. It's been a problem." "Hmmph. I suppose I should be glad for some things. If he had his father's ways, he'd have been *born* a Super Saiyajin. It was hard enough giving birth to him as it was." She started as he lifted a finger and pointed, a thin beam of energy lancing out to ignite the end of her cigarette. She gave him a look; he smiled innocently. "Baka. At least you're not as bad as Trunks. He's trying to get me to quit." "He's a good kid. You should." "Not you, too." He shrugged. "You're an adult, you make your own choices. Anyway, I don't preach; I am neither good nor a kid, and I don't have the right." "At last; the voice of wisdom." "I've learned a few things in my years." She glanced at him. "You speak like an old man." He looked up, his eyes focusing on the far wall of the chamber. "They say you become old on the day you suddenly discover your own mortality." Startled by his sudden shift of mood, she stared at him. "And you have?" A very slow nod, his eyes shadowed. She frowned at him, not comprehending. And after a moment, he shrugged, turning to smile at her. "But as they say, 'that which does not kill me makes me stronger.' Now, what's this big thing you're working on?" She blinked, recognizing his attempt to change the subject . . . but it worked, because there was nothing she liked to talk about more than her inventions. She stood up, putting her hands on her hips. "It's the most important thing I've ever built," she said, gazing up at it. "But if I can get it right, if it works . . . it's hope. For all of us." "Eh?" He frowned at the big machine in confusion. So she explained it all to him, her plans---to take the time machine back to the past, and save the future retroactively. By the time she'd finished with her explaination, he was staring at the machine, and her, in wonder. "I see," he said at last. "*Real* hope." He fell silent for a long time, as she went on to describe the features of her time machine in intricate detail, forgetting that she was talking to a layperson. It finally kicked in to her after he'd been silent for about twenty minutes. "Of course, there's no guarantee that anything we do in the past will have even the slightest effect on this present; I haven't been able to calculate the effect of one causality on the infinite permutations . . . " She trailed off, seeing that his eyes were distant, wandering elsewhere, and realized that she'd talked his ear off. She flushed in embarassment. "Gomen nasai, Gohan." He blinked up at her, and smiled, banishing the look that had been in his eyes. "I'm used to you, remember? But isn't this scaffolding too low? How do you get up there?" He pointed toward the top of the machine. She sighed. "I don't. I'm going to have to add another level to this damn thing. Which will put a cramp in whatever work I was going to do today." He stood up. "Oh, that's no problem. Here." And before she could protest, he wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted himself into the air, carrying her up to hover near the cockpit. She squirmed out of reflex, suddenly uncomfortable. "Gohan, you really don't---" "It's nothing." His grip was firm around her waist, and although he'd had to pull her pretty tightly against himself in order to hold her with one arm, it was clear that he was having no difficulty. Of course, he was a man who could lift a car as an afterthought . . . "Well, you can't very well hold me up here all day---" she said acerbically, turning to scowl at him over her shoulder. He shrugged, and suddenly met her eyes with his own. "I can do whatever you want me to do," he said softly. "Whatever you need, Bulma." She stared at him. And felt a sudden, totally unexpected warmth spread through her as his comments sank in. She tore her eyes away from his and turned her face away, so that he wouldn't see the blush that was almost certainly spreading across her face. She had to be mistaken. She was hearing him wrong, and jumping to conclusions. Hesitantly, she glanced at him again, over her shoulder. He was watching her, his gaze by no means the respectful one of a youth looking at an older woman. Abruptly she became aware of the heat of his body pressing along the length of hers, the solidity of him---it hit her in a sudden epiphany that it was a man's body that she was held against. A man's hard arm wrapped around her middle. It occurred to her, with a start, that she could remember when he'd only come up to her knee. When had he grown up so? She stared back at him, her mind too numbed with shock to fully assimilate what his gaze implied. *But he's young enough to be my _son_ . . .* As if summoned, they both tensed as they heard a sound from the entrance of the workroom, and turned to see Trunks standing in the doorway, still wearing his pajamas and rubbing one eye sleepily. Gohan's body stiffened perceptibly. So did hers. "Okaasan," he murmured, his voice barely intelligible. "Gohan-san. Ohayo." They stared at him. "Ohayo, Trunks," they both spoke at the same time. Trunks nodded sleepily, waved absently, and walked away, still rubbing his eye. Gohan immediately dropped back down to the top level of the scaffold, putting her down and letting her go. She stepped back from him, staring after Trunks and feeling inexplicably relieved. That was nothing, however, compared to the sudden discomfort that had sprung up between Gohan and herself. He fell silent beside her, thrusting his hand into his pocket and gazing at the floor below; she took a deep drag of the cigarette and took it away from her mouth, trying not to let her hand shake. He chuckled, and she was mildly relieved to hear nervousness in his voice, too. "He looked like he was still asleep, the lazy kid." She nodded. "He probably was. It . . ." She took a deep breath, to steady her voice. ". . . It usually takes him at least half an hour to wake up completely. Before that, he might as well be sleepwalking. Still, he's up a full hour earlier than usual; he must be eager to go, somewhere in there." And then she added, for whose benefit she could not say, "I doubt if he even remembers anything he sees or does when he's like that." "Aa." There was an immeasurable, subtle note of relief in his tone. "Well, I should go and get something to eat. If he's awake now, we'll be able to get started soon." "Good idea." And she watched him, in silence, as he jumped down from the scaffolding and left the workroom, not looking back. It was a very long time before she could get back to work. ***** She muffled her cries in his shoulder when the fierce, hot release finally came, and he did the same by burying his face in the pillow as his body strained against hers, every muscle taut against the onslaught of the pleasure that shook him. It was by unspoken agreement that they did so; Trunks' bedroom was in a whole other part of the Capsule Corporation and the boy could sleep through a freight-train's passing besides, but there was no sense in tempting fate. Her lover---so strange, to think of him that way---kept moving within her for a long time afterward, his youth giving him a stamina that shocked her, although his movements were slow and relaxed, for the moment merely casual. "That beats the hell out of a wet dream," he breathed. "You all right?" "Fine." She was privately amazed; she'd expected to be sore after such vigorous activity, given the length of time that she'd been inactive. But maybe his flattery was true: maybe she really wasn't as old as she thought she was. She drew in a sharp breath as he withdrew from her suddenly, bending to devour one of her still-firm, round breasts, stroking the other and pulling its nipple lightly with his fingers. "Good," he replied when he pulled his mouth away from her, as soon as she clenched her teeth and shuddered; almost immediately he moved back up her body and slid into her again, thrusting slowly and thoughtfully. She gasped. "Because I don't think I can get enough of you. We're dealing with years of unrequited teenage lust here." He grinned, and she blushed, focusing on the hole in the roof in order to keep her mind off of what he was doing. "Didn't you ever fantasize about girls your own age?" she demanded, and he nodded. "All the time. But you're the only one of them who understands me." She closed her eyes, remembering Yamucha, Vejiita. "I seem to have a knack for understanding warriors," she mused quietly. "You *are* a warrior," he replied, and kissed her when she looked up at him, startled at his vehemence. When they parted, she would have spoken, asked him what he meant, but then he pulled her closer to him and began thrusting harder, and all questions disappeared from her mind. ***** By the time the two warriors had returned from their training for the day, she had managed to forget what had happened earlier that day. As usual, it was her work that saved her sanity; she threw herself into it with such vehemence that not only did she complete the scaffolding level that she needed, she was halfway done wiring the timing system when she heard footsteps coming rapidly through the corridor toward the workroom. Heavy footsteps; her son did not yet have such bulk. So she tensed, in spite of her determination to behave as if nothing had happened, and only glanced at the doorway of the chamber after she'd had a chance to take a deep breath and compose herself. And then she frowned, startled, as Gohan appeared in the doorway, with Trunks slung over one shoulder. Trunks' form was limp, unconscious for all she could tell; Gohan looked at her briefly, and then passed the workroom without a word, carrying his charge toward the infirmary. All thoughts of other trivialities vanishing, she threw down her tools and scrambled down from the scaffolding to follow. When she reached the infirmary, Gohan was just straightening from laying Trunks down. "What happened?" she asked, bending over him anxiously, examining him; he didn't seem to be injured . . . Gohan sighed. "My fault again. He'd been trying to reach Super Saiyajin all day; he was on his last legs. It's hard, pushing that close to your limit, over and over again . . . physically and emotionally. Any fool could see that he was about to drop. But he begged me to let him try once more; he was so sure he could do it this time . . . I should have said no." She straightened; it was clear, now, that Trunks wasn't unconscious but asleep, even more deeply than usual. She sighed and pulled the covers up to his chin, tucking him in. "He's just exhausted," she assured him, pushing aside a long strand that had escaped from her ponytail. "No harm done." Gohan's shoulders relaxed imperceptibly, and he let out a soft sigh. "I thought so, but I wasn't sure." He looked down, and Bulma observed with some surprise the sudden look of tenderness that crossed the young man's face. Reaching out with his hand, he smoothed the pale hair away from Trunks' forehead. "I wish I didn't have to push him so hard," he said softly. "It doesn't help that I'm not the one doing most of the pushing; he's just like Vejiita, pushing himself until he drops. He knows that the longer he takes to get stronger, the more people those bastards will kill. That's a terrible thing for a boy his age to live under." She frowned at him, looking up. "You've lived under it." He nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from the boy's sleeping form. "That's why I've tried to help him as much as I could. I know how much he wants---needs---power, and so I've been giving it to him . . . but I also know how easy it is to lose yourself in something like that." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes, when I'm practicing, I forget to sleep. I forget to eat. I forget everything but those two bastards' faces in my mind, and the faces of everyone they've killed, all of our friends. Sometimes I look around, and it's two, three days later, and I've been practicing the whole while. Trying to get stronger." He shook his head, slowly. "I don't want him to ever become like me." She stared at him, then down at Trunks. And realized that Gohan was right; it was there, in the perpetually angry set of her son's face, in his fists, clenched even in sleep. There was too much of Vejiita in her boy, too much of the Saiyajin; it would be so easy for his goal of destroying the Jinzouningen to become an obsession. He was only fourteen . . . but Gohan was only nine years older. And she had seen, sometimes, a cold, distant look in the older warrior's eyes. Goal had become obsession for him, for far too long. She looked up at him now. He'd always been introspective, moreso ever since his father had died years ago . . . but she had to admit that in recent years, he'd become stranger and stranger, as his battles with the Jinzouningen had begun to take their toll on him. Since he'd recovered from the loss of his arm a year before, he had become a closed book to her. It disturbed her, that the shy, bookish boy he'd been a lifetime ago was gone, beyond reclaim. Would that she could go back somehow and erase all of the things that had occurred to torture that boy into the brooding, haunted man that he'd become. Perhaps she could. Real hope, he'd said. His eyes flicked up, suddenly, meeting hers, and she flinched involuntarily. The expression on his face was cool, enigmatic; abruptly she tensed, as he reached across Trunks and took her hand. The contact was as keen as an electric shock. She couldn't think; wordlessly she followed him as he stepped around the infirmary bed and drew her along behind him, leading her through the darkened corridors of the underground levels that made up her home. Her heart began to pound as she realized that he was drawing her up to the topmost level of the Capsule Corporation facility, which she usually avoided; the structure had been badly damaged in the destruction of the city, and the upper levels were prone to falling concrete and building materials. But he stopped when he reached the highest level, where the worst of the damage lay; she sighed as she looked around at the place that had once been her room. The chamber was strewn with rubble from the vast hole in the domed roof, the furniture long since damaged by the elements and the windows all broken out. He stopped here, under the hole, turning to face her under the faint illumination from the starlight above. She stared at him. A hundred of the arguments she'd rehearsed rose to mind, came to her lips . . . but all of them died as he stepped forward, cupping her head with his hand. She tried to protest as his mouth found hers, tried to pull away, certain that she would be hit at any moment with a sense of *wrongness,* of the guilt of committing something like incest . . . but it never came. Even if it had, she was certain that it would have been drowned out by the surge of emotion that welled up in her at his kiss, a sharp ache that she was totally unprepared for. An ache that mingled terror, guilt, pain, longing, and worst of all, a terrible, inarticulate loneliness, to crash and battle within her. She had never before acknowledged the loneliness, preferring to drown it with her work or smother it with the attention that she showered on Trunks. But now, here, standing amid the ruins of her old life, with a man that under ordinary circumstances she wouldn't have even considered . . . now the loneliness hit harder than ever before. And it hurt. So against every fiber of morality and propriety in her body, she closed her eyes and leaned into him. His lips were warm, gentle; when he finally let her go, dropping his hand and lowering his eyes, she lifted a hand to her lips; they tingled faintly. Because she'd just kissed Gohan. Gohan! Even his father had been younger than herself. And while she might have ever-so-briefly considered a liasion with Son-kun, this was different. Totally different. He said nothing, standing before her . . . standing above her. He'd outgrown her a good seven or eight years before. Even before that, the angles of his eyebrows had become locked in the perpetual frown that seemed characteristic of Saiyajin. The eyes beneath them seemed tired, the frown-lines between his eyebrows etched into his skin permanently, even though he was not frowning now. There was a hardness in such lines, the kind of hardness that contradicted youth; it was echoed in the shadows that never seemed to leave his dark eyes, or at least not for long. He looked older than his father had been when he died. When had that happened? she wondered, dazed. When had he stopped being little Gohan and become . . . this? Still, her sense of propriety would not allow her to bow to this without protest. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that this was unacceptable . . . and nothing came out. She tried again, and failed again. He turned away abruptly, his empty left sleeve swinging with his movements. "I thought about explaining everything to you," he said softly, his voice echoing in the domed chamber. "But I decided against it. I don't know how to explain it, anyway." He looked down, his shoulders hunching a bit. "I certainly can't explain it to myself." She crossed her arms over her chest, cold. "This . . . this isn't . . ." "It isn't proper, it isn't right, I know." He shoved his hand into his pocket. "Believe me, I've thought about all of the arguments. And they make sense. I'm half your age. My mother would kill me if she knew. You never even looked at me before, except as a friend. The son of a friend. Et cetera. Lots of et cetera." He turned and looked up at her; she started at the look that had suddenly come into his eyes. They weren't enigmatic any longer, not at all . . . for the first time in a very long time, she caught a glimpse of the very uncertain, very vulnerable man within the avenger shell, looking out at her through those eyes. And they watched her with an expression that left very little doubt as to the intensity of his feelings. This was no crush. She looked away, her mind a-whirl. This was all too much for her. "I can't believe this is happening . . ." "It's been happening for longer than you know," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I've . . . wanted you . . . for a long time." The full import of his words struck her at once, and she snapped. "Don't say that!" she shouted. "You don't want me! Do you know what you're saying?" "I know exactly what I'm saying," he said, his voice never rising above the soft murmur he'd first used. "A long time. Ever since I was old enough to know how things were between men and women. I thought it was just . . . I thought it would go away. It hasn't. I'm sick of trying to hide it from you." She stared at him, and suddenly a hundred small observations clicked together in her mind at once. The way he stayed away, when he wasn't training Trunks; he'd politely turned her down when she'd invited him to come and live with them, although Trunks had begged him to stay. A dozen half-caught gazes, and another dozen odd feelings, a prickling on the back of her neck that made her feel as if she was under observation . . . although on those occasions, she hadn't caught him looking at her. When he was younger, a teen, he had blushed every time she touched him, even by accident. He had openly flinched, once, when she'd hugged him. Other incidents, equally odd, but not odd enough to notice. Not until now. He was right. It had been there for years, and she hadn't noticed at all. He sighed. "So now you know. I . . . I'll talk to you again later. You should have time to think about this." And he rose into the air, slowly drifting toward the hole in the roof. She gasped, and started forward. "No---wait---" He hesitated, and finally halted, glancing down at her. She shook her head, still unable to fully assimilate what he had told her, but stammered anyhow: "What . . . do you want from me? I . . . I mean, what is it that you . . ." He looked up, out at the stars; his voice was introspective. "I wish I could tell you. I wish I knew, Bulma." And then he flew away, and she stood alone. ***** The warm bliss of completion; she lay, spent, looking up at the stars. He got up, reaching for his clothes, and began the complicated ritual of putting them on with one hand. She turned her head and looked over at him. He paused after tying his pants-sash, and gazed back. She said nothing about his leaving; that too was understood between them. Trunks was still a boy; he wasn't ready yet for his idols to step down off of their pedestals and become ordinary flesh and blood. They would not take unneccessary risks. But when he got his shirt on, he came and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "You have to finish the machine," he said. She blinked. The time machine. She hadn't realized he'd paid any attention to her explanation of the problems she was encountering with its development. "I told you, there's no guarantee---" "You have to finish it," he repeated. "It's hope. Finish it for Piccolo-san and Vejiita-san and all of the others who have died. Finish it for me." "For you?" She pushed herself up on one elbow. "You're not . . ." She trailed off as he turned back to look at her, reaching out. His fingers touched her face, moving lightly over her lips. There was something deep and terribly sad in his eyes that silenced her, more than his gesture. "For all of us," he replied. She stared at him. He got up and put on his boots, then moved to stand under the skylight. He glanced back at her. "Take care of yourself," he said. And then he was gone. ***** She woke up abruptly, conscious of a developing cramp in her neck, and blinked in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the workroom. The remnants of the dream slipped away, driven off by the light; she sat up and looked down at her son, who slept beside her on the futon she kept in the workroom. Asleep at last; the tear-streaks had dried on his face, although his eyelids were still clenched tightly, as if his pain had followed him into his dreams. Perhaps it had. She looked down at the thing he clutched in his hands, tightly, a ward against the pain. Chichi had been kind, to let Trunks have one of Gohan's old shirts. He was taking it very hard. But she knew he would get through his grieving; he was strong. This would make him stronger. This would make him a man. She reached down, and fingered the character that Chichi had so lovingly stitched onto the back of her son's dogi. Gohan. *It would have been nice,* she thought, to him. Then she got up, pulled the futon-cover up around Trunks' neck, picked up her screwdriver, and got back to work. **end