Notes: Written for the tumblr prompt: "B/V, post Buu. Vegeta is hospitalised."

He slides into consciousness on the whisper of a turning page, and when he opens his eyes he is immediately swallowed by darkness.

"Don't take off the bandages," Bulma hums, and another page turns. Thick, with a musty sort of smell. A book, then, which means she's been here longer than he'd like. In the days when he used to wreck the simulator on a nearly-constant basis, she had a little library of novels stacked at the bedside table, the demands of her company coming second to the quiet beeping of the machines he'd be hooked into, hours drifting by while she kept vigil. As the years passed and his training lessened slightly in intensity, the duration of his hospital stays became briefer and briefer, and her books were replaced by magazines.

With a grumble, he lowers his hands from where they want to claw the gauze and tape wrapped around his head. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Another page. "I'm not surprised. It was over in two hits: you got hit, you hit the ground."

"That bulbous fuck," he snarls. His fingers twitch in rebellion at their forced idleness. He needs to see. "What did he do?"

"It's more like what you did." It's said mildly, but he can hear the undercurrent of simmering rage beneath the words as if they'd been shouted. "I told you not to challenge him so soon, but no, of course not, what do I know? I'm just the only person in this group of morons with any self-preservation instincts to speak of."

He laughs and tastes the scent of her–vanilla and crude oil–on the back of his tongue. "For as long as I've known you, there has never been a single drop of flight in your fight-or-flight response."

She ignores him. "I don't care if Buu's on our side now; he's still as unstable as he was when he tried to destroy the planet. When you literally blew yourself up to stop him. Last week."

"I figured you'd be proud of me for that."

"I am," she snaps. "Doesn't mean I have to like it, you asshole."

The displacement of the air as she throws her magazine to the floor makes him shudder and her footfalls, even on the carpet, are like cannon fire. When the bed at his side dips beneath her, his heart jumps, and the weight of her head on his chest is the heaviest burden he's ever borne. Everything is so much more without his sight to balance them, but even still, he reaches up to thread his fingers through her hair. If he were a kinder man, he'd liken her hair to water or silk, but he gets caught in a few tangles and it feels stiff, like grass.

"When was the last time you showered?"

He hears fingers exhale as they flair wide before they come down lightly onto his cheek. The impact rocks through him like a ki blast. "I know it's going against your better nature, but please don't be a prick. Not right now. I was worried."

In reply, he brushes his thumb over the stretch of skin behind her ear and she shivers. The world trembles as she slides her legs into the bed and stretches alongside him.

"So, how long do I have to keep these stupid things on? They itch." He reaches up to scratch at the bandages, but her hand immediately flies up on a deafening gust to block him. She pulls his fingers to tangle with hers on his chest; the uneven puffs of her breath against his knuckles is an odd storm.

"Until Dende says you can take them off," she mumbles, shifting their joined hands to press her lips to his fingers.

"Bad enough that he had to come here? What the hell happened?"

"You called Buu a sentient zit with no dick. I don't think he really understood what you meant, but he shot out one of your eyes anyway. Dende's been growing it back for you."

Beneath the unbearable prison of the bandages, he blinks. "Well, shit."

"Yeah," she sighs. "That about sums it up."