Chapter Text
Vegeta finally felt a twinge inebriated; rare for the Prince of Saiyans. For starters, it took A LOT to even get him buzzed.
“Earthling alcohol is like water,” Vegeta once said at a Capsule Corps dinner party unveiling some invention or another. Earth’s atmosphere didn’t allow the appropriate plant species needed to make ~real~ alcohol, he insisted. Just another weakness of the pathetic planet!
Tonight, he was really drinking the watery excuse for alcohol, alright. Bulma’s birthday party moved indoors sometime before midnight; to a vast bar/entertainment area, just off the second living room, in the largest of the Briefs’ compound of dome houses. The lighting was dim, mostly reds and purple bulbs, illuminating a dark space with a massive round bar at one end; pool tables, air hockey, dart boards, at the other end; and lots of plush seating everywhere. The vibe was a basement night club in some major city.
No one blamed him for indulging. The kids were all long-since passed out (or up playing, no one really cared) in their rooms upstairs. Everyone who could get a little tipsy was certainly doing so tonight! They’d all very nearly been killed- for real this time- by a foe so deadly even Goku had no chance. A living God of Destruction. Goku became a God himself to fight Beers, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Beers spared them because the God seemed to appreciate Goku as an opponent. Goku didn’t share any of the details of his many conversations with Beers. Piccolo seemed to know what went down, but he wasn’t talking either.
Vegeta. Did. Not. Care.
He was going to be the God next time, Kakarrot said so, and that’s all he needed. There would be a next time. There was always a next time for the last remaining Saiyans in the universe.
So, as soon as Beers left, Vegeta made it his personal mission to get as shit-faced as possible in celebration of surviving the first foe none of them could contend with. He was celebrating more than survival, more than his wife’s birth. Vegeta’s power, for a brief time today, surpassed Kakarrot’s. Supremely passed Kakarrot’s, in fact. The Prince of Saiyans landed several blows on Beers in mere Super Saiyan form, whereas Kakarrot, as Super Saiyan 3, hadn’t landed a single punch. He laughed haughtily to himself and downed another bottle in one long gulp.
“Bring me more of that first one!” he barked at the overworked and sweaty bartender. That poor guy should’ve called it quits when the crowd rolled in from outside, all demanding drinks at once, but Bulma insisted she’d pay him double for three more hours of service. Now he was one man in a room of nearly twenty drunk super heroes and their extended families and friends. And he was running out of booze. The bartender swallowed hard and handed Vegeta the last bottle of the type the Saiyan liked. Vegeta sneered, snatched the decanter from the weakling’s grasp and turned it up, chugging.
Yes, this stuff was weak. But it was finally affecting him. That pleasant heady feeling of detachment, he hadn’t felt in many years, perhaps decades. His throat was stinging with what might be called a burn, because this crap was so impure. Earthlings didn’t know anything about the enjoyable smoothness of real booze. He tried to imagine the feel of wines and grogs he shared with Raditz and Napa through the years. He used the memories to overlap the harsh bite of this weak, watery drink. It worked relatively well. A Saiyan Prince can override his body with his mind. Just like pushing himself past his limit in training. He treated drinking this swill, to the point of inebriation, as a physical challenge.
After all, he deserved to celebrate! He, the Prince of all Saiyans, finally bested that 3rd rate Kakarrot’s pitiful bloodline! Sure, it’d taken nearly a decade longer than he would’ve wished, but he was better than Kakarrot, today, even for a moment.
Because of her. Because of that whip of short blue hair catching his attention across the room. And her shrill, ridiculous, glass-piercing drunk laugh.
Her. He was better than Kakarrot today because of his wife. “Mrs. Vegeta,” Beers called her. Ha. No one else would dare call her that! He smirked. He would. Oh yes. He’d keep that one tucked in his armor for some particularly choice occasion. Just imagine her fucking face scrunching up in insult! Next time she gave him some fool order, or wretched demand, in that damned barking tone of hers.
“Do it yourself, Mrs. Vegeta!” That’s how he’d say it. He expected her to slap him. Then he’d grab those miniscule, weak, little wrists. She’d learn to quit slapping him. He admitted she was better about it than she used to be, saving her patented Bulma slaps for much more deserving subjects, like Kakarrot. He laughed to himself, recalling the beating that weakling so deserved, at the hands of his mate, earlier. Then he returned to the image of grabbing her wrists if she slapped him again.
If?
Ridiculous! When she slapped him again, he’d squeeze her wrists just enough, just so she squeaked… or growled. He didn’t know which response he liked better, mock-fear or mock-anger. She was never afraid of him anymore, nor ever truly angry. Long since, Vegeta’s mate had settled into a respectful, ritualistic, brawling banter with him. He smiled at himself. All their real fight long behind them, these days it was just to remind each other who was the prouder, righter, better half in this relationship. The best part? Their sparing matches came out about 50-50. There was no greater pride than knowing you had an equal in your mate.
He’d been staring at her this whole time, he realized. Leaving his own mind for a moment, Vegeta listened in on Bulma’s idle banter with Dende and Piccolo about New Nameck; taking another swig, he eyed her body up and down.
Hmph. ‘There should be a New Vegeta,’ he huffed to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he was intoxicated. He’d passed any sort of angry-drunk stage long ago. When he was younger, he’d always antagonize Raditz and Napa when he was drunk. Or the three Saiyan warriors would go pick a fight with another of Freiza’s elite squads. Alcohol always meant brawling in Vegeta’s past. Now, his hackles weren’t even raised by all the New Nameck bullshit. Raised… that was a stupid word… his mind gurgled at him. Vegeta smirked, thinking of what was actually rising in his stomach… and groin.
He’d been focused on her so long, he could now smell her. The hairs at the very base of his neck stood alert to the scent of his woman. That familiar rush of conquest coursed in his veins. Even her cackling couldn’t cool him down. Today was her birthday, they’d all nearly lost their lives, and he’d become stronger than ever, strong enough to soak the punch of a God, because of her.
And she deserved to be thanked – properly- for it. He hadn’t gotten her a birthday present, after all. Vegeta smirked to himself at the thought. The Prince of Saiyans would satisfy his lust, and soon.