Chapter Text
He had spent the last sixteen minutes trying to figure out what was wrong with his hands. He knew it was sixteen minutes because he’d watched the time pass on the alarm clock on the bedside table, not from the everpresent scouter he had grown so accustomed to. After sixteen minutes of contemplation, his hands still didn’t feel right. He supposed it had to do with being resurrected. Smirking, he remembered that he had killed Zarbon, Dodoria, the Ginyu force with these hands. But were they the same hands? It wasn’t a new body. He knew that much because he clawed himself out from a shallow grave, punched himself in the gut to check that it was all true.
Another four minutes had passed. Vegeta was sure he had never contemplated his hands for twenty minutes before and decided he was being sentimental and stupid. They fell to his side. There were much bigger things to consider, like how he had wound up sitting in a nicely decorated bedroom on Earth and just what he was going to do about that.
The blue-haired woman and her insane mother said this was his bedroom for as long as he needed. He’d never had a bedroom before, not really. Between missions, he was given temporary accommodations, but they were always cold and impersonal, not meant for more than a few nights. And more often than not, he shared with Nappa and Raditz. Earlier, he had taken his gloves off and put them in the table drawer underneath the alarm clock. He supposed he could just leave them there indefinitely- when he wasn’t wearing them, anyway. No one would touch them because the woman assured him he was entitled to privacy.
Another new concept. For thirty years, he had never known privacy. As a child, he was always with an attendant. Then he was a soldier. He showered near others, changed in crowded locker rooms, slept in barracks, and fought amongst troops. The only privacy came in his pod, the precious few minutes before or after stasis. That was the only time he was truly alone. He still couldn’t consider it private because the scouter was monitored.
The scouter was gone, and he sat alone on a plush bed. Somehow, his only thought was still that his hands felt different.
Frieza was gone. Not by his stupid, useless hands that betrayed his Saiyan birthright, but he was dead nonetheless. Frieza’s commands ruled him for his entire life. They told him where to go, who to kill, and hell, even what to eat. He realized that’s why his hands felt different; he was in control.
No orders were coming ever again. When he killed next, it would be his choice, for his own honor. He could destroy a planet if he chose to, but he didn’t have to. Destruction wouldn’t be in anyone’s name but his own. No one would shackle his hands if he decided what they should be used for. Fleetingly, he imagined what his hands could do to the blue-haired woman before he thought better of himself.
Standing up, he looked through the strange Earthling clothing he had been given. His armor was familiar, made him feel secure and ready for battle at any moment. But the armor wasn’t really his- a design that once belonged to the Saiyans, bastardized and stolen by Frieza. It was still his armor, though, and he wasn’t ready to give it up despite its state. He supposed he could change out of it to sleep and put it in a drawer where no one would touch it. He settled on thick, soft pants and a sleeveless top that looked comfortable for sleep.
After placing his armor in the dresser, he pulled down the covers on his bed and crawled in. Tiredness overtook him instantly. He didn’t think sleep would come quickly, but his eyes were heavy as he drew the warm blankets around himself. Falling asleep, he looked at his hands again. Tomorrow, he would decide how to use them.