It was safe to say that Vegeta had always had a certain appreciation for warmth, where he could find it. The depths of space were devoid of anything that wasn't frigid and cruel; grueling hours training and sparring, months spent on alien planets culling and feasting, long nights filled with torturous punishment for insubordination and a wanton lack of respect for any and all members of Frieza's legions— including the lizard himself. If he pushed himself to reach, deep within his memories, there was deep, rich red dirt, scrubby bushes with colorful leaves and berries. A castle, the stones that held it high made of the same soil. Three suns, stretching across the sky like fearsome guardians that were doomed to fail, such as stars are destined to die.
Of course, Earth was different. Less harsh than the fleet owned by the Frost Empire, refreshing and heartening in its own right, for a man less shrewd than the Saiyan that was sprawled in the middle of a bedroom at Capsule Corp headquarters. An alarm clock with the grinning face of a cartoon mouse was glaring 12:34 in bold red font. The bed in which he laid was covered with soft sheets and pillows, starkly contrasting the extremely fucking itchy afghan strewn across his half-naked body. But, it was warm and oddly comforting, and he was conscious enough to appreciate it. Sleeping didn't come easy to him as of late, regardless of how viciously he trained or how many hours he spent tangled up with that damned woman.
Bulma. A witch's name, Vegeta was almost sure of it. There was no other way that she could have known of his weakness—not weakness, that implies that the Prince of all Saiyans could crumble; perhaps fondness was a better word— for a respite from bleak existence, his desire to escape the chill that permeated his bones thanks to a lifetime among the stars. He could feel her now like a phantom, soft skin pressing against his own, fingertips tracing his bicep with a feathery softness that taunted him in the dark. There was something odd about her ki too—a hazy blue to match her infuriating eyes, something that was supposed to be cold and calculating and of course they could be but…
They crinkled at the edges when she laughed. And when she laughed, smiled, fumed, shouted or snarked… Vegeta was warm. Inside his chest, in the pit of his stomach, a sickening feeling that made his fingers tingle to the point of longing to punch something. Violence had been the answer to everything that caused him confusion or even worse, fear, up to this point in his life, and being around someone as fragile as Bulma who elicited such bizarre and unwanted emotion was beyond frustrating.
Vegeta could feel her, just a few rooms down in this bizarre maze of a home, dallying around her bedroom during her nightly routine. A few weeks ago, after a particularly nasty spat, he couldn't bring himself anywhere near her for the physical comforts she offered him in the dead of night, and so he watched her from the dark edge of her balcony. There was a strange sense of domesticity in the act, even though by most standards it was borderline sinister. Bulma's abnormally long shower gave way to a meticulous moisturizing regimen, followed by fifteen minutes of hair brushing. Nary a blink separated Vegeta from this part of her night; his own fingers were twitching the whole time, imagining the softness of her aqua locks that he would often stroke as she was a (ridiculously) deep sleeper.
Vegeta's pride was enduring, and part of him was unsure if that would ever change… if Bulma could ever help him change. Regardless of how enraptured he was by her wit and her curves, it unnerved him by just how soft she had made him in the few months he was trapped here. The concern that would flash in her eyes as he stumbled in from a particularly draining day of battling bots was enough to both infuriate and placate him all at once. The Gravity Chamber was certainly an impressive invention, a magnificent dome that could easily kill a thousand men. But Vegeta was no normal man, and Bulma was not an average woman; it almost made sense for them to be drawn together, and yet, there was lingering doubts of what she had in store for him.
Three sharp raps on his bedroom door echoed in the empty room, scattering his anxious thoughts. Theyr was enough to have Vegeta off the bed and across the room in a split second, boxers and tank-top bunched from his uncomfortable attempts at sleeping. Wrenching the door open left him face-to-face with a grumpy-looking Bulma, something he nor anyone else ever looked forward to.
"Late night in the lab…" She hesitated, clearing her throat softly. "I couldn't sleep. What about you?" Petite, manicured fingers pushed through her hair, her eyes glancing everywhere but his face. Vegeta didn't appreciate that one bit.
"No." His tone was unforgiving, even to his own ears, and the way she flinched minutely pulled another response from his lips before he could think. "I was… thinking about you."
Blue met black in a stubborn battle for more information, an explanation of why the other was even there; blue won, of course, but they do every time, don't they?
"You… ugh." It was his turn to look distraught. "You confuse me, you piss me off, and you force me to feel things I didn't know I could- and I don't even know if I want to, so I'm ordering you to cease all of this nonsense at once." Sleepy chagrin replaces the usual gruff contempt that his voice normally holds, but it was enough for Bulma to crack a smile as she placed a soft hand on the crook of his neck.
"Vegeta… may I come in?" After a pregnant moment of contemplation, the Saiyan side-stepped and motioned for her to enter, immediately longing for her touch once more.
Bulma was the flame drawing him in, and if he was supposed to crash and burn, then he would damned if he didn't at least relish the warmth.