ONLY HUMAN

written by Anderea

She was human, willful and pigheaded, demanding he follow the ridiculous rules of her home at least a thousand times a day. She irritated him to no end with her orders, showing absolutely no respect for his bloodline, giving him none of the deference he by all means deserved. He usually ended up snarling some insult that would send her storming off in a childish huff, cheeks flaming and fists clenched.

She was human, loud and grating, screaming at him if he lost control of his power for an instant, lecturing him when he took a few things from the fridge. He used to get into shouting matches with her once a day, twice a day, three or four times a day, over trivial things—how he was going to pay for the rosebushes he "accidentally" decimated, how she was always wearing too much perfume, how he never said a word of thanks for all that the Briefs family was doing for him. As if he had to show gratitude to a family of humans. They should've been thankful that he didn't just power up and blow them all to hell.

She was human, ridiculous and unpredictable, doing the craziest things at the most idiotic times. Once, just once, she apologized to him after a argument. He stared at her until she demanded an answer, then made some rude remark about her race in general. She slapped him and stalked away with a very silly pout on her lips. His cheek stung for a hour afterwards.

She was human, moody and erratic, tending to him whenever he got hurt, no matter how much he'd offended her the previous day. Once, just once, he'd blown up the gravity machine during a particularly heated training session, breaking half the bones in his body, burning a quarter of his skin. For two days she dared not put him in the regen tanks, for fear that he'd shatter them with his spastic movements, his feverish power-ups. For two days she placed cool cloths on his head to ease the fevers, went to him whenever he muttered the names of people long-dead in his sleep. For two days he dreamt that she was beautiful.

She was human, alien and exotic, dressing in those maddeningly tight dresses that caressed every curve, accentuated every arch. She teased her hair out so that it framed her face, the sea green of her hair causing her eyes to shine all the brighter, sky blue in the sunlight, navy blue in the semi-darkness. There was something about her that caused passerby to do double-takes on the streets. He thought it was the eyes, the wide innocent eyes. Or the not-so-innocent smile. Or both. In any case, she caught and held attention, and she knew it. Gods, did she know it.

She was human, taken and unavailable, dating a man who she wasted her time on. He watched how she prepared for her meetings with Yamcha, showering with that stuff that made her hair smell like flowers, applying makeup in front of the bathroom mirror, rejecting outfit after outfit until she found one that was “perfect.” Perfect tended to mean that it showed a lot of skin. He never commented when she left the house practically in Yamcha's arms, when the two made out in the gardens, but he always inexplicably tensed when she came back well past midnight with her clothes mussed and lipstick smudged.

She was human, fragile and weak, weeping over a man who was unfaithful to her. He watched her from her window, watched the tears streak down her face, watched her sob into the phone, and wondered why she stayed with Yamcha if he made her so miserable. He said so as much over breakfast the next morning, and she slapped him again, this time for eavesdropping. He figured he'd never understand her.

She was human, proud and silent, keeping her face smooth and voice low when Yamcha dropped by a month later with a pretty girl in tow. Bulma's replacement looked so young that he wondered out loud whether she was underage and was amused to see red spread across the human man's cheekbones. He grinned for the rest of the visit, muttering comment after comment to Yamcha until he stood and left, making some pathetic excuse about how he had to make dinner for his poor, invalid mother. Bulma laughed—couldn't stop laughing—as soon as they were gone and burst out in sporadic giggles for the rest of the day.

She was human, cheerful and playful, dragging him with her everywhere. She took him to a movie, grinning when he couldn't figure out why the images weren't three-dimensional. She took him to the amusement park, hooting as he attempted to figure out cotton candy and ice cream. She took him to dinner and kissed him over dessert, the touch of her lips against his own setting off fireworks in his head. She tasted of chocolate and strawberries. He decided that Yamcha was a damn fool for giving her up.

She was human, fierce and stubborn, possessing a strength that he had just begun to see. She spoke her mind. She did what she wanted. Yamcha called two months later—he never did know exactly why. She said a few choice words to him, then slammed the phone down so hard that he winced. He spent the remainder of the day walking about with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

She was human, sweet and slender, slipping into his arms like sunshine slipped into water, like music into the air. She smiled at him often, a soft, wondering little curve of her lips that made him want to ask what was on her mind. It'd been a long time since he'd cared about what someone else was thinking, and he didn't know whether to be furious or pleased that she could do this to him, could make him want to reach out for her, could make him wish, and hope, and all those other things he'd put away.

She was human, fiery and beautiful, making him do things he never thought he would do, feel things he had once sworn he would never allow himself to feel. He liked touching her, liked letting his fingers wander down the smooth line of her face, liked exploring the soft skin of her neck with his lips, liked hearing her hiss his name into his ear, her nails digging into the skin of his back. It was possible to get drunk on a voice; he was intoxicated on hers every night.

She was human, curious and contemplative, asking the most ludicrous questions on a daily basis. She asked him how he felt about her. He told her he didn't know. She asked him why he bothered with her if she was beneath him. He told her he didn't know. She asked him whether he loved her. He looked at her for a long time and said that he didn't know. She asked him what he'd name a child if he had one. After multiple assurances that she was not pregnant, he found the answer to that question.

She was human, intense and troublesome, meeting his eyes with a force that made him wince and grin at the same time. He was a little afraid of her, of how she made him worry constantly, of the emotions she made him feel. And he hated being afraid. Hated wanting her, yearning her, craving her, needing her. He couldn't understand why he felt, and because he couldn't understand, he kept on running. Kept on hiding. Kept on trying to keep his independence from being swallowed completely by that damn smile.

She was human, impure and unfit, holding a bloodline that he could not—would not—associate with. He pushed her away, turned away from her, told her that they had differences. She protested and objected, argued and quarreled, and finally, begged. He closed her eyes against her words, closed his ears against enormous blue eyes and turned away from her. Only after she left did he notice that her cheeks had been wet and there was salt moisture running down his jaw in lines. He hissed in disgust and went outside to train.

She was human, pathetic and weak, going to him, bickering with him, wearing down his defenses until he swore that he was going crazy. He told her he was leaving. She looked at him for a long time, blue eyes impenetrable, turned away and murmured something about how she should have expected this from the prince of all goddamn Saiyans. Those words burned themselves into his ears, a scorching brand on his mind and heart and soul that he would not acknowledge, would not admit existed, would not admit hurt.

She was human, wordless and powerless, building a space capsule for him because she knew he would not change his mind, leaving it for him because it was the only way she could help him without having him hurt her more. He wondered whether she'd find another man when he left. She was still young, after all, still very beautiful. There would be no shortage of suitors for her, suitors who would offer her a lot more than he'd given. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and charting a course for a planet on the opposite fringes of the galaxy. He hoped a million light years of distance would make him forget. He knew it wouldn't.

She was human, haunting and persistent, lingering in his life even when she wasn't there. He was plagued—or blessed, depending on how he looked at it—with the same dreams night after night, of her laughing with him, of her kissing him, of her making love to him, of her begging him to stay with her. He wondered whether she was doing this deliberately, casting a spell from Earth to drive him insane. Witch. Be just the kind of stubborn, pointless thing she'd do—dabble in black arts just to get revenge.

She was human, unforgettable and eternal, sleeping in his memories like a dormant faerie, backing every treasured memory, finding her way into the events of his life. He imagined that her voice rose in fear when he was wounded, that her face fell in dejection when he failed, that she smiled when he won the little battles he created for himself. He forced himself to greater and greater lengths, using her face to drive him on, and when he finally succeeded, finally reached the power that was given to the strongest of his kind, he thought that she'd rejoiced as well in his dreams. He set a course for Earth the following morning. He hoped a million light years of distance had not made her forget. He knew it hadn't with him.

She was human, loyal and faithful, staying with him even though he'd tried to drive her away. He hoped it was out of love. If it wasn't, then it was probably the baby. The baby with white-blond hair and blue eyes that she always carried around with her. The baby that was his chance back into her life. He smiled a little, when he looked at the small form in her arms. The child's name was Trunks. The smile grew wider. She'd remembered.

She was human, gentle and kind, learning to become a mother even when the father had left her to raise the child by herself. He watched how she tended Trunks from a distance, watched how she giggled with him, speaking the frivolous baby talk that humans liked so much. He remembered how Goku's eyes always lit up in pride when he saw his son. Remembered how Bulma's child—their child—gurgled cheerfully, smiling as his mother ruffled wisps of white-blond hair between her fingers. How the baby's eyes looked so much like hers, sky blue in the sunlight and navy blue in the semi-dark. And then he sighed, pulling his mind back to his surroundings. It was time to return. To the place he might as well call home. To Trunks, who he probably would like. To the old, bittersweet emotions he was ready to deal with. To her.

She was human, and he was beginning to realize that she was his everything.