Weeks turned into months. Goku's humor surfaced when Vegito lingered around the kitchen, cracking jokes with Trunks, sneaking food off Bulma's plates just to watch her rant. Vegeta's fire surfaced when he trained with Trunks in the yard, merciless, pushing the boy to the brink—then softening, Goku-like, to pat his son's head after.
Bulma watched all of it. Watched him straddle the line between the man she had married and the boy she had once leaned on.
And damn it, she couldn't ignore how natural it felt.
One night, after Trunks went to bed, she found Vegito on the balcony, staring at the stars.
"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, arms folded.
He didn't turn, but his smirk curved. "You don't want in on these thoughts. They'd probably break your scouter."
"Cute. Real cute." She stepped beside him, leaning against the railing. "You know… I keep thinking. If Goku had never existed, if Vegeta never landed… who would I have ended up with?"
Vegito chuckled. "Yamcha, probably."
"Ugh. Don't remind me." She groaned, then fell silent. The air between them thickened, not uncomfortable—just… charged.
Finally, she said it. "You're dangerous, you know that?"
His brow arched. "Dangerous?"
"You've got Vegeta's smolder and Goku's stupid charm all mashed together. It's unfair."
Vegito laughed, not mocking, just amused. "So what you're saying is… you like me."
Bulma flushed. "Don't flatter yourself, Vegito. I already had my teenage crush years ago."
His gaze softened. "And yet here we are again."
For a moment, neither spoke. The city lights glittered below them, but Bulma swore the only thing she could see was him.
Morning broke with the sky split by energy waves. On the field outside Capsule Corp, Gohan, Trunks, and Goten faced Vegito.
"Alright, brats," Vegito said, cracking his neck. "Rule number one: don't hold back just because I'm your old man. Rule number two: don't cry when I break you."
Trunks grinned, hair glowing gold. "We'll see about that!"
Goten lit up beside him. "Yeah! You're going down, Dad!"
Gohan, older and calmer, just slid into stance. His aura sparked. "We're ready."
Vegito didn't move. He just raised a single hand and crooned: "Come at me."
They did.
Trunks shot first, fists blazing with ki. Vegito slipped every punch with infuriating ease, then tapped his son's forehead with two fingers, sending him spinning backward.
"is that all," Vegito teased.
Goten came next, charging from behind, but Vegito vanished. A flicker later, Goten's ankle was hooked mid-air, and Vegito tossed him into a tree—gentle enough not to break bones, rough enough to sting.
Then Gohan struck. His fist connected, shockwave tearing the ground apart. Vegito actually grunted, skidding a step back.
"Not bad," Vegito smirked. "At least you remember how to throw a punch."
Their battle lit up the yard, golden auras clashing, fists blurring into sonic cracks. Every time Gohan thought he landed a decisive blow, Vegito countered twice as fast, driving him into the dirt. Yet Vegito wasn't cruel. He pushed them, yes—but he laughed, encouraged, praised between strikes.
After an hour, all three boys collapsed in the grass, panting, battered, exhilarated.
Vegito stood over them, arms crossed. "Better. But you're nowhere near my level. Don't train to beat me—train to surpass me. That's the only way you'll matter in the fights to come."
Despite his words, pride burned in his chest. He could see it—Goku's potential, Vegeta's grit, distilled in his sons.
Later that night, Bulma stormed into the kitchen, hair frazzled.
"Do you have any idea how much property damage you caused?!"
Vegito, already elbow-deep in leftovers, grinned. "Relax. The boys had fun."
"Fun?!" She pointed out the window where Capsule Corp's lawn was scorched black. "That's millions of zeni in repairs!"
Vegito swallowed his mouthful. "Worth it."
She glared, fists trembling… then suddenly burst out laughing.
"What?" Vegito asked, blinking.
"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head. "Vegeta would've just scowled and called me an idiot. Goku would've just scratched his head and apologized. But you? You make a mess, and somehow… it feels worth it."
He stepped closer, grin fading into something more serious. "Bulma…"
Her breath hitched. His presence was overwhelming—Vegeta's intensity, Goku's warmth. She felt like a teenager again, falling too fast, too hard.
"You know this is insane, right?" she whispered. "You're my husband… and you're not."
"I'm me," Vegito said simply. "Not Goku. Not Vegeta. Just me. And maybe… that's enough."
The silence lingered, heavy, electric. For the first time in decades, Bulma felt her heart racing not with frustration, but with excitement.
Weeks later, the training grew more serious. Vegito pushed Gohan to unleash the scholar's dormant power.
"Stop holding back, kid," Vegito barked, blasting him across the canyon. "You're fighting like you're afraid of hurting me. Newsflash—you can't."
Gohan roared, aura flaring into Ultimate form, his eyes blazing. For once, Vegito's grin faltered—not out of fear, but out of pride.
"That's it," he said softly. "That's what you were meant to be."
Meanwhile, Trunks and Goten perfected their teamwork, charging Vegito in tandem, their strikes sharper, more disciplined. They couldn't land a blow, but they pushed him harder than before.
By the end of training, the three lay sprawled across the ground again, but their grins were wide.
"Better," Vegito muttered, looking at them with something dangerously close to tenderness. "You're getting better."
That night, Bulma found him in the lab again, tinkering with spare parts.
"You know," she said quietly, "you're not half bad… for a walking disaster."
Vegito chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She lingered in the doorway, fingers fidgeting. Finally, she stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm.
"Don't make me regret this," she whispered.
Vegito met her gaze, no arrogance, no jokes. Just sincerity. "I won't."
And for the first time, Bulma leaned in. Their lips met, tentative, cautious—but real.
For Bulma, it was like falling in love with Vegeta all over again… and yet something new, something lighter, something freer. For Vegito, it was the acceptance he hadn't realized he'd been yearning for—not as Goku, not as Vegeta, but as himself.
But..what about Chi-chi?
At first, she couldn't stand him.
Every time Chi-Chi looked at Vegito, her stomach twisted. The broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, the messy hair that was Goku's but with Vegeta's widow's peak — it was like looking at her husband's corpse animated by another man. A mockery. A thief.
She refused to meet his eyes. When he walked into a room, she turned away. When he spoke, she crossed her arms and muttered under her breath. And when he smirked — Goku's smirk painted with Vegeta's arrogance — it made her blood boil.
The first week after Buu's defeat, she confronted him.
"You—what did you do?!" she shouted, fists trembling, eyes wet. "What have you done to my Goku? To Vegeta?! You— you stole them! You shouldn't exist!"
Vegito's smirk faltered for once. He looked at her, silent, unreadable, then simply walked past.
That hurt her even more.
At dinner, Chi-Chi would sit stiff, chopsticks clicking angrily as she ignored Vegito's every word.
When he praised Gohan's progress in training, she scoffed, "Of course my son is strong. He doesn't need you to tell him that."
When he ruffled Goten's hair, she snapped, "Don't touch him like that! You're not his father!"
And when Bulma dared to speak casually with him, laughing at his jokes, Chi-Chi slammed her hands on the table. "Don't act like this is normal! He's not Goku, Bulma! He's not Vegeta! He's nothing!"
She stormed out that night, crying until her throat burned.
But no matter how much she shouted, no matter how harsh her words, Vegito never snapped back. Sometimes he smirked, sometimes he sighed, but he never shouted. He let her anger wash over him like rain.
And that infuriated her even more.
The second month, something changed.
Chi-Chi watched from a distance as Vegito trained Goten and Trunks. At first, she thought it was cruel—him knocking them around like ragdolls. But then she noticed the small things: the way he pulled his punches, the way he encouraged them even as he scolded, the way Goten's laughter never fully stopped even when he hit the dirt.
She saw Gohan too—pushed harder than ever, fighting until he collapsed. Yet when Vegito carried him back to Capsule Corp, Chi-Chi saw pride in his face. Not Goku's gentle pride, not Vegeta's harsh approval—something new.
That night, as she tucked Goten into bed, the boy mumbled sleepily, "Dad's strong… but he's fun too."
Chi-Chi froze. Her heart ached. That's not your dad, she wanted to scream. But the words died in her throat.
Because she had seen it too.
It wasn't until the third month that she finally confronted him again. This time, not with rage—but something sharper, quieter.
She found him outside the house in the grass at night, staring at the stars again.
"You think you're him, don't you?" she asked bitterly.
Vegito didn't turn. "No. I don't."
She blinked. The answer disarmed her.
"I'm not Goku. I'm not Vegeta," he said flatly. "I'm just… me. Whatever that means."
Chi-Chi bit her lip. The anger surged, but behind it, a strange emptiness. "…Then what am I supposed to do? You stand there with his face, his voice, and tell me you're someone else? Do you know how cruel that is?"
For the first time, Vegito's voice cracked. "Do you think I wanted this?!" He turned sharply, eyes blazing. "Do you think I asked to exist? I was supposed to end after Buu. That's all. Instead, I'm stuck here—stealing their lives. I hate it too."
Chi-Chi stumbled back, stunned. His aura flared, his fists trembling, but then he sagged, shoulders heavy.
"…I'm sorry," he muttered.
Her breath caught. She had expected arrogance. Mockery. But not… regret.
Something cracked inside her that night. Not forgiveness, not acceptance—but the first hint of doubt.
The weeks that followed were strange.
She still avoided his eyes, but sometimes she caught herself staring when he wasn't looking. When he trained shirtless in the yard, sweat gleaming on his muscles, she flushed furiously and turned away.
When he laughed—really laughed, not his cocky chuckle—her chest tightened. It sounded too much like Goku.
And when he showed patience with Goten, gently correcting his stance, her heart ached. Because that was what Goku would've done.
She hated herself for noticing.
It was Gohan who forced the issue.
One evening, after a brutal training session, Gohan sat beside her in the kitchen. His face was bruised, but his smile was bright.
"Mom," he said quietly, "I know you hate him. But… he's not a bad guy."
Chi-Chi stiffened. "Don't defend him. He—he's the reason your father's gone."
Gohan shook his head. "No. He's the reason we're all alive. Dad would've wanted it this way. And Vegeta too."
Her throat tightened. Tears pricked her eyes.
"Mom," Gohan said gently, "I don't think he's replacing Dad. I think… he's just trying to be himself. And maybe… maybe we should let him."
That night, Chi-Chi cried herself to sleep. Not because she forgave Vegito, but because she realized her son was right.
It happened one evening during training.
Vegito had been sparring with Gohan again, their blows shaking the mountains. Chi-Chi stood at the edge, arms crossed, trying not to care. But then she saw it—Gohan's fist connected, just barely, and Vegito laughed.
Not mockery. Not arrogance. Just genuine joy.
"Good one, kid!" he shouted. "You're finally getting it!"
And when Gohan collapsed in exhaustion, Vegito caught him, carrying him back like a father would.
Chi-Chi's breath caught. For a moment, just a moment, she didn't see a thief or a monster. She saw a protector. A man carrying the weight of two legacies, and somehow still finding room to smile.
That night, when he passed her in the hall, she didn't look away.
She muttered, barely audible, "…Thank you."
Vegito blinked. Then, for the first time, he smiled at her softly—not cocky, not sharp. Just soft.
"You're welcome."
Chi-Chi's heart betrayed her. It skipped. Just once. But enough.
The Earth had been at peace for half a year. No galactic tyrants, no demons, no gods demanding fights. For the first time in decades, humanity thrived. Cities rebuilt, families reunited, laughter filled the air.
And above it all, Vegito floated like a shadow.
He had trained with the boys relentlessly at first, pushing them harder than either Goku or Vegeta would have dared. And it showed.
Goten was no longer the carefree child who played tag in the fields. His aura now burned bright and sharp, Super Saiyan 2 lightning crackling around him with ease. His fists struck with a force that could shatter mountains.
Trunks kept pace, his pride as Vegeta's son refusing to let him fall behind. His Super Saiyan 2 was fierce, his stamina monstrous, his ki control bordering on artistry.
And Gohan — oh, Gohan. His mystic form had deepened. The calm, divine aura radiated brighter than ever, harmonizing with his soul. But what startled even Vegito was the boy's experimentation. Inspired by his father's stories, Gohan had begun to layer Kaioken atop his mystic state. The toll was immense, his body screaming each time, but the result… was terrifying.
"Kaio-ken… times three!" Gohan roared one evening, his aura detonating in crimson fire, his fists striking Vegito hard enough to make him blink.
It was the first time since his creation that Vegito felt even the faintest sting. And yet, he was still leagues beyond them.
It should have satisfied him. It didn't.
Because while the boys clawed upward through blood and sweat, Vegito's growth defied all logic. Even when he deliberately avoided training, even when he sparred less, his body still evolved.
He found himself waking stronger each morning. His senses sharper. His ki pool deeper. His reflexes faster. It was as if reality itself bent around him to ensure he was always ahead.
And it scared him.
One night, he sat on the edge of a plateau, watching the boys spar below. Trunks screamed as he clashed with Goten, their Super Saiyan 2 auras colliding like storms. Gohan stood back, coaching, his mystic fire glowing proudly.
Vegito smiled faintly. They're growing. They'll surpass Vegeta. Maybe even Goku.
Then his smile faded. But not me. They'll never catch me. No one will.
His hands clenched. That old itch burned in his veins — Goku's hunger for battle. But there were no battles left to fight. Buu was gone. Frieza was dust. Even gods, he suspected, would fall before him.
"Damn it," he muttered into the wind. "What's the point of strength if there's no one to test it?"
It was Bulma who lit the spark.
One afternoon, she leaned casually against the kitchen counter while Vegito brooded over tea.
"You're moping again," she teased.
He glared. "I'm not moping."
"You are. You float around like a thundercloud, scaring half the city. Trunks says you've been ignoring training. Even Chi-Chi noticed."
Vegito's eye twitched. "I… don't need training."
"That's the problem," Bulma said simply. Then, with a smirk: "So go find something fun to do. I dunno. Like… enter the World Martial Arts Tournament."
Vegito blinked. "The what?"
"The Tenkaichi Budōkai," Bulma explained. "You know — where you and Goku used to fight? Where you nearly blew up the stage showing off as a Super Saiyan for the first time?"
A flicker of Goku's memory stirred inside him. Cheering crowds. Adrenaline. That old, reckless joy of fighting for sport, not survival.
"…Hmph." He tried to hide the grin tugging at his lips. "Maybe."
Two months later, the Tenkaichi Budōkai arena buzzed with life. Families packed the stands, cameras flashed, food vendors shouted over the crowd.
Vegito stood at the edge of the stage, arms crossed, cape fluttering. His presence alone silenced thousands. To most, he was a stranger — but whispers spread quickly.
"Isn't that… Goku?""No, it looks more like Vegeta!""Who is that guy?!"
He ignored them all. His eyes scanned the line of competitors. Ordinary humans, a few martial artists with modest ki. Nothing worth his time.
Until—
A boy stepped onto the stage. Dark skin, ragged clothes, bare feet. He couldn't have been older than ten. His eyes were wide, nervous, but beneath the fear burned something… fierce.
Vegito's brow furrowed. His instincts screamed.
Him.
By sheer chance — or fate — the boy clawed his way through the bracket. He stumbled, he panicked, but each time some hidden well of power burst forth, flattening his opponents.
And so, the final match: Vegito vs the boy.
The crowd roared as the announcer lifted the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, our finalists are—"
But Vegito wasn't listening. His eyes locked onto the boy's trembling fists. He knew.
Majin Buu's energy. Reincarnated.
The boy swallowed hard. "M-my name's Uub…"
Vegito smirked, but not cruelly. For the first time in months, his blood stirred with excitement.
Vegito vs Uub
The bell rang.
Uub charged clumsily, fists swinging wild. Vegito sidestepped, yawning. "Pathetic. Is this all?"
But then Uub's eyes blazed. His aura exploded, raw and unrefined, hurling Vegito back a step.
Vegito's grin widened. "There it is."
He let Uub swing, block, stumble, rise again. Each blow was desperate, sloppy — but packed with terrifying potential. Vegito could feel it. A well deeper than oceans, locked in a boy's body.
"Come on!" Vegito shouted, flaring his own aura just enough to shake the arena. "Dig deeper! Show me what you've got!"
Uub screamed, hurling himself forward. His punch connected — and Vegito actually slid an inch across the tiles. The crowd gasped.
Vegito's laughter thundered across the arena. "YES! That's it! That's the fire I've been waiting for!"
Of course, the fight was never fair. After a few more exchanges, Uub collapsed, panting, his body unable to contain the power within.
Vegito caught him before he hit the ground.
The boy looked up, confused, terrified. "D…did I lose?"
Vegito's smirk softened. "No, kid. You just began."
He stood tall, lifting Uub into his arms, turning to the stunned crowd. "This one's mine. I'll train him."
Gasps erupted. Whispers rippled. But Vegito didn't care. For the first time since his creation, he had purpose.
He looked down at the boy — at Buu's reincarnation, trembling but full of fire.
"You're the one, Uub," Vegito murmured. "The one who'll give me the fight I've been starving for. Someday."
And deep inside, for the first time in months, the hunger felt bearable.