Chapter 1: Coffee, Strawberries and Cigarettes
There was a good reason she never let her mother see her room.
Binding folders of every colour sat stacked in lopsided towers. A wire wastebin overflowed with rubbish and paper alike, and a few dog eared books and magazines were offset by small piles of clothes here and there. The bedsheets lay tussled and askew under several more pillows than necessary, lined at each side by wooden end tables that bore neglected lamps, used mugs and one sticker covered alarm clock. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the mess was mostly shrouded in darkness.
The soft glow of her laptop was only enough to illuminate the desk it sat upon, making crisp silhouettes of the crumpled notes strewn about empty wrappers of various snackfoods—chips, the odd chocolate bar—and three empty punnets of strawberries to surround an idle left hand. The keyboard was sticky on one side with an old coffee stain, and everytime the computer was opened, the scent of it seemed renewed somehow, sweet and almost sickly. All was silent save the muffled shifting of her mouse and the click of it every few seconds, followed by the sharp few taps of number keys. Despite this quiet calm, the bedroom was in such a state of disarray that chaos seemed present anyway. It was far more the abode of a teenager than that of a woman nearing thirty, and in fact a few posters from college years still remained, tattered and scribbled on as they now were.
But nonetheless, its owner had little intent to rectify this any time soon, though the to-do list tacked to her door said otherwise.
Perched upon an old office chair, the blue haired heiress to the Capsule Corporation fortune sat slightly hunched with knees tucked close to her chest, letting a pensive gaze flit about the square of light before her. In the privacy of her darkened squalor, she wore little more than a pink nightgown, unflattering with long sleeves, that just covered her thighs. The up-do of curls she styled during the day fell languid now that the spell of the curling iron had grown weak, the afro-like perkiness resembling something more of short ringlets now night had fallen. Her make up had been removed since retiring to her room as well.
Bulma Briefs would not be caught dead outside of her bedroom like this, of course, and so it was clear that she intended on staying put... It was also clear she had not seen company in her room for a while, and that no gentleman caller would grace it tonight, either.
Almost unconsciously, her left hand shifted to brush the empty bottom of a punnet, and only when her fingers found no prize did her attention wander from the screen. Blue brows furrowed some as she dragged the container closer to her, peering expectantly in the dim glow. The luscious red of her strawberries was now only a disappointing few tufts of green leaves and discarded white tops.
"Great..." she pouted, shoving the plastic aside with a sigh. Well, I guess that's it for tonight... I'm not going all the way down to the kitchen like this... unless everybody is in bed by now.
Humming thoughtfully, her gorgeous features contorted into a look of sly curiosity, cerulean gaze snapping to check the time at the bottom corner of her screen. It was only then she realised how long she had spent working over yet another design schematic, drawn into her own little world of calculation, and now past five o'clock in the morning warned of a swiftly approaching dawn. Her jaw dropped a little as she stared offended by such a number. Lies, surely.
She turned quickly, elbow propped upon the back of her chair as her head whipped to catch sight of her alarm clock, and Bulma was almost certain of a conspiracy when the red numbers matched that of her laptop. Defeated, the heiress could only hang her head with a tired shake, bringing a thumbnail to her lip to chew.
Well, I guess that answers that question.
"Ugh... Bulma, you are going to work yourself to death, one of these days..." she muttered around her nail, and rolling her eyes at herself, lazily shifted to stand. "So much for sleep."
Oh, but sleep is for the weak, anyway, she thought with a stretch, that's what the ape would say.
Her amusement faded quickly at the thought, and her arms would flop to her sides as a distasteful grimace took her. Vegeta. Suffice to say, Bulma was more or less fed up with the surly saiyan darkening the halls of her home, but she supposed she had brought that upon herself.
That's what I get for being nice, she scoffed internally, snatching a half empty packet of cigarettes from the cluttered desk; It's not like I even got a 'thank you' from him, and he's already cost us a small fortune to put up, and an entire ship's worth of equipment. He's still rude, does nothing to help around the house or anything... Here I am, going over new pressure systems to offset the energy output of both him and the insane amounts of gravity he wants to train in, and what do I get for it?
"Oooh, pain is nothing to me. Leave me alone, Woman. I don't need anybody's help, I can kill myself on my own..." came a terrible and sarcastic impression of her 'favourite' person, waving her hands about dramatically. Slow steps weaved her quickly around a pile of clothes and toward the sliding door of her balcony with a frown. "...Sure as hell could use the help of a good psychiatrist, for one!" she hissed as if he could hear her upon the cool breeze of night, glass shuddering to the force used as it rolled to one side.
Bare feet padded softly over stone tile to send a slight shiver through her, but that was why she favoured the pink nightgown—ugly though it may have been, it was thick and warm. Leaning against the balustrade to scan the stars above, Bulma wondered idly of her friends as the cigarette was lifted to her lip. There was absolutely no doubting Vegeta came from another planet entirely, that was for sure; his hair alone could attest to that, even before you found out he was a sociopathic, mass murdering, obsessive-compulsive, planet-jacking were-ape douche that could both fly and punch anything into orbit...
...and a Prince, she added mentally, letting a cynical grimace take her, can't forget that. He'd never forgive me, for all the effort he puts into reminding everybody.
But Goku had fallen from those stars above as well. More specifically, the very same set of stars that Vegeta hailed from and secretly she couldn't help but marvel at that. It was like comparing chalk and cheese. He had changed her life, among so many others, and with them the very destiny of Earth itself. Gohan, too—he was so different to his father, and yet, so very alike in habit and heart... Even Piccolo hailed from a distant star, the planet Namek, which she had sworn never to return to; new or not.
With a small flicker of flame, a few memories sparked with it as a light puff of smoke was lost to the night, and she smiled. It seemed like only a few years ago, she had found the tailed boy that started all of this.
A Sweet Sixteenth birthday over the summer was normal enough, and to protect the presents from his spoiled daughter, Doctor Briefs had stashed them away in a place he thought she would not look... But Bulma knew her father all too well, and it wasn't long before her secret searching came to an end within their basement. She never did peek at what he'd bought for her though, in fact, she'd received her presents with all the surprise intended upon her actual birthday. When the heiress had rifled through the boxes and old draws below, it was a dragonball she found instead and, taken with the peculiar find, set about researching.
A self satisfied smirk crossed her features as she traced the moonless skies. What was it, a mere two days of fiddling about with energy signature recognition before she managed to design a working prototype for the radar? Within a week over the summer vacation, she'd set out on a road trip and found another of the mystical baubels and was well on her way to the next...
...Until Goku wandered out with that massive fish and totalled my car, she giggled at the memory, tapping the cigarette over the balcony and watching the ashes drift down.
From there it seemed life had unfolded with so many twists and turns, a flurry of adventure and experience one simply could never have imagined or planned for passing in the blink of an eye. Her first love, all of her friends, the world tournements... and of course, King Piccolo. Goku had grown into a handsome man, with a worried wife in Chichi and a smart boy in Gohan. She and Yamcha... Well, they were off and on through the years, but Bulma knew she'd always care for him.
A light roll of her eyes came with a sigh—she had sworn she'd marry him, when she was younger and a little more idealistic... but as the years rolled by, the heiress wasn't sure she would ever be married. Truth be told, she no longer truly cared for the idea, though that didn't mean Bulma had no idea what to expect or hadn't already planned it all out.
She would wear white and powdery blues, and the cermony would be held in her mother's gardens by the fountain, an aisle lined by blue orchids set to frame her upon a white laced altar. Her father smiling proudly as his beautiful baby girl strolled gracefully down the carpet runner, her mother dabbing happy tears away and wearing pearls... That all sounded lovely enough, until she accounted for the rest.
She could already imagine it all ruined by gaudy orange outfits as far as the eye could see. One purple turtle shell in the front row strapped over a tropical print shirt, a triplet of eyes staring up from all the pairs and Krillin's bald head adding painful glare to every photo.
An entire buffet would be devoured and a wedding cake picked at before Goku sat uncomfortably in a hideous brown—or heavens forbid, purple—suit and bow tie, awkwardly tugging at the stiff material that no doubt hid his gi beneath. Chichi would have Gohan in much the same, straighting his clothes at every opportunity and chastising everyone in an attempt to control the affair. Maid of Honour; made of anger.
Oolong would nasally make snide remarks as he aided in devouring the food too soon and in general, make a pig of himself in more ways than one. Launch would arrive late, bring a duffel bag full of unexplained money as a gift, and sooner or later, be the cause of both Tien's early departure and the last of the punch—if not the start of the wine—to be consumed. Puar would likely be both the ringbearer and the cushion the ring sat upon, and all the while, Piccolo would sit aloof like a sore—green—thumb and ignore it all from his place under a tree.
Oh yeah, that sounded like the perfect day.
About the only thing that did seem desirable in her fantasy wedding was her dress, the cake—before anybody arrived, that is—and her future husband. He would be standing smartly beside her in a black suit, with a pristine white silk shirt beneath it and an icy blue tie. Hands held behind his back, he'd await her with that intimately fond shimmer in sharp eyes. Handsome, calm and collected, a blue rose suarvely tucked into his lapel. The husband she so often used to dream of was, of course...
...Faceless.
A stab of guilt hit her and a longer drag was taken than usual, the harshness of it scratching her throat. She'd gone a year free of the habit, but within the last few weeks, she'd picked it back up. Yamcha would've had a fit if he knew she was smoking again... she had promised him after all, and it almost felt like a small betrayal. Betrayal, yes, there was a strange undertow of that between them over the past few years. It wasn't that Yamcha was a bad guy, or even that he wasn't good enough for it, but if one thing hadn't changed since those old days it was the attention he received from other women.
The difference was, now that he had overcome his nerves, Yamcha was prone to returning those advances.
She had tried to fit him into the suit so many times, and paint his scarred visage—handsome and rugged—upon the unknown figure standing with her to be wed. Sometimes, she thought it may make things so much simpler if she could. Before the first time they had broken up, she saw his eyes in the dream of her wedding crisply, the lines of his face and every detail of the bandit's boyish good looks grinning back at her. But once the magic had dimmed some and their romance took its first dive, his features had grown indistinct. Only a vague smile that reminded her loosely of him and his scent around her, maybe his laugh distantly echoing. The second time they had gotten back together saw nothing but the black of his hair, and perhaps some blurred and distant remnant of what was once so clearly him.
But Bulma knew now that wasn't Yamcha's place, and likely never had been. Forcing him into it was something she never wanted for them, and though a great many things could be said for their past, the future loomed to say very little. Another memory had risen to steal the horizon, and just as fresh as the moment she had met Goku or Yamcha were the awful sounds of gunfire and her heart beating wild with fear and panic. Helicopters, biege uniforms, and the cold eyes of wanton killers; each adorned by the crimson hourglass turned on its side. Indeed, an hourglass was all she could see of the emblem, now...
The Red Ribbon Army stalked them still, and threatened only death where once there might have been her wedding. No, she had let such childish things go, piece by piece, and surrendered them to the shadows clouding her future. Bulma had come to terms with the reality of things, the humble cynicism of accepting that there was no wedding around her corner, that Yamcha and a few others and even herself might well be dead in three years, and that the Androids were presently all anyone had to look forward to.
Bleak, perhaps, but these things come in threes. Three Dragonballs to begin, three years counting down to a potential end, and three breakups to signal a definate end.
It was the very least Bulma could do for her old flame, not to let him waste any time being driven by expectations. There was no sense in letting him believe his future—if he had one—should be spent with her, just to suit old habits or be drawn out for the opinion of others. Between his baseball career and her work for the Corporation, it was no surprise she and Yamcha hadn't much time for each other like they used to, and more and more things just kept pulling them apart. All his spare time would be spent training now, and hers would go towards whatever equipment Yamcha or Vegeta needed to prepare. Nerves were frazzled, arguments were common, the clock was ticking, and old problems still darkened her dwindling love life.
It was better to start fresh, let go and get on with life—or what might well be left of it—than to let the both of them flounder about picking up the pieces, least of all now. If, when all was said and done, the dust settled they were still alive and well, perhaps then they could think about rebuilding a battered relationship that had long suffered from neglect.
Slender fingers swept her brow with a tired exhale, wisping smoke from her lip in a silent sigh. I guess I'll talk to him later... I'll call Kame house and see if him and Krillin are still sparring, she finally conceded within herself, letting the corner of her mouth tick with some reluctance. It's all for the best, and he knows just as well as I do we just don't have it like we did...
That awkward fluster that stole Yamcha's face when Goku mentioned a baby was enough to tell as it was. Yamcha was in no mind to be settling down and having a family, and though Bulma could only guess Goku meant well with a light hearted joke at the couple's expense, the timing made the both of them think. They hadn't even talked of it since, as if avoiding the subject altogether, but Bulma knew they both had been mulling it over... it hung over their heads like a cloud, marring the future.
What if they did both survive the Androids? ...Was that what they had to look forward to? Settling down into some boring humdrum of normalcy, until she took over for her father and he outgrew his prime to settle into a penpushing job within the Corporation? Her Yamcha? The free-spirited bandit, the shy goofy type turned sly winking playboy, with his cola advert and team sponserships as he grinned down from the side of buildings in his baseball uniform and gave a cocky 'Let the bubbles lift you higher!' to the world below?
No. Their romance worked on excitement, and she was old enough to understand that now. It was a thing of passion, a whirlwind of chaos and exuberence. They kept each other young, and the appeal of it lay in that fact—when they were together, they had an excuse to be teenagers, to be selfish and unabatedly carefree. They didn't have to face tomorrow, because they kept each other too busy within the moment.
There was no room for a child, or marriage, in such a dynamic.
Yamcha would make a fantastic father, when he was ready for it, and Bulma would defend that to the day she died; any child they had would be well loved and well adjusted. But the same simply couldn't be said for a marriage between them, and having a baby was no way to make it so.
I mean, where would the passion be then? We'd always be friends, sure... A final puff of silver smoke left her before Bulma ground out the butt and idly flicked it over the edge. But there's no magic in it anymore. We can't keep this up forever. I can't stand all the flirting and the girls, he can't stand my moods, we disagree on so many things; we'd just be going through the motions! I don't want to live like that, and neither does he.
Her eyes would close briefly, as if mournful, and knew it had to be so. It was great while it lasted, though...
Leaning back some, she rolled her shoulders in a shrug and let her gaze roam the lonely silhouette of the gravity capsule below. It seemed strange to look at it idle, without the haunting red glow through port windows and the electric hum of use buzzing through the air.
"...Healthy baby... Oh, Goku, I'm sorry. I wish it were that simple... I really do." long lashes blinked slow as she mused to herself, languid curls of blue feathering against the base of her neck. "Maybe Saiyans are just crazy and don't get how life works if it doesn't involve punching things. Yeah... that's got to be it."
A light hearted giggle escaped her for the joke, but it was hard to break her mind from its sombre course. There was no way in hell she was in any mood to continue working on the pressure system. In fact, if anything, it only put more strain on her need for strawberries. She struggled with herself, visibly swaying to and fro and cringing at the decision.
"Yes... no... yes, no... yes..." she muttered to herself, and with a deep inhale to steel her resolve, the quest to the kitchen was on.
"Oh, what the hell. It's my house, who cares...?" she told herself quickly, turning to carelessly toss her cigarettes on top of the outside table and hopping through the mess of her room with practiced ease. The turning tumbler of her door made her wince, somehow seeming louder than ever before, but as a mess of blue curls peeked out of her room, the hallway was dark and empty. Just to be sure, Bulma waited for a moment, listening for any footsteps or movement as her gaze scanned up and down the corridor, and when finally she was satisfied, she slipped out and closed the door slowly behind.
Like a ferret, she took to standing on her toes, peering over at the stairs before a few light bounds carried her swiftly toward them, and she fancied herself catlike as arms were held out in balance. She knew it would look ridiculous if she were seen, but some small part of her was convinced that these actions would aid her stealth. Gentle fingertips caressed the walls of the stairway as she darted down. Around the corner, half way now, she peered again and found it clear, hopping lightly until bare feet found the plush cream carpet of the loungeroom.
A light breath of relief and satisfaction left her then as her arms fell to her sides, job done. Over her shoulder, she shot a victorious smirk to the stairs, having conquered them, and took towards the large archway of the kitchen, pleased with herself. No lights on, either. Good. Even so, she paused before flipping the switch, and convinced of being alone, the click illuminated her prize with a few blinks before the light was steady.
The fridge—that beautiful monster of chromed steel and doubled glass, fully stocked for all to see and pilfer. She could already see the delicious red of plump strawberries, nestled in sweetly beside the lettuce, waiting for her to liberate them. Distance closed within seconds, Bulma barely registered the cold floor under her feet or the frigid gust as the fridge door swung wide. Only the giddy feel of the plastic punnet as she snatched it quickly, filling a free hand with an indulgently spotted container of cream and turning away to close the door with a negligent push of her hip.
Spoils, she thought greedily, wearing a naughty smile as she put her prizes down on the counter, flipping the kettle on for good measure—she needed her coffee, if she was to get through the day without sleep. As the tell tale whistle began to bubble low, she would lean against the countertop and walk two fingers toward the fruit, skillfully opening the top of their container with little more than a flick and plucking up a strawberry without mercy.
But just as the sweet scent of it hit her nose, hovering mere inches from her lips, from the corner of her eye a shadow moved beyond the archway. She froze, her head whipping to cast frantic eyes into the darkness of the loungeroom, tracing each silhouette with sharp suspicion. She strained to hear, but with the kettle warming beside her, found no purchase. Slowly, Bulma leaned forward to look, as if whatever was hiding there might be just behind the wall, and hesitant, made a move to investigate.
She stood awkwardly on the threshold of the room, glancing about with paranoid curiosity, somehow terrified to make that last step onto soft carpet. Something landed upon the leather of the couch, and she gasped, flinching back as her heart skipped a beat. Immediately, her attention fixed to the origin, she found a set of eyes staring back at her and as she studied them in the dark, her hand lifted to rest over her chest in relief. Her father's cat, of course, and upon sighting her it let forth a purr from the shadows, blending into them seamlessly save only for the shimmer of light on his fur from the kitchen. His tail twitched and he wondered of the possibilty that she may feed him.
The heiress eyed him intently, feeling silly for it all, and gave a grimace. Paranoia gone, she approached the back of the couch with a forgiving smile, and giggled some to the welcoming meow as her fingers brushed over his head.
"I bet you think you're funny, huh? Well, too bad, buster. I'm not giving you anything after that, you can forget it." poking her tongue out, she was quick to leave him, wandering back to the kitchen as the cat watched, forlorn.
Shaking her head with a wisp of curls, Bulma finally popped the strawberry in her mouth, completely ignoring the cold floor as she swept back toward the whining kettle. She had no regrets in that moment, letting the juices swirl about her tongue with flavour, and felt the overwhelming urge to have another one immediately—this time with cream. She wasn't at all surprised when she heard the light padding of something approaching from behind, and smirking to herself, she considered taking back what she'd said and pouring some off for the cat.
"Oh, alright. You can have some cream, but that's it! You can butter me up all you like, but no more until breakfast, you got that?" she teased over her shoulder, focussed on ripping the seal away.
Her blood turned to ice, however, when the 'cat' responded in a dark and gravelled tone.
"I'll eat whatever I damn well feel like, Woman."
...Oh, you've gotta be shitting me... Her face contorted quickly into one of embarrassed despair, and praying to any force that would hear her, Bulma bit her lip to prevent any cursing. Refusing to turn around, she pretended instead to busy herself with coffee making, reaching upward to grab a cup from the cupboard quickly.
"...Good morning to you too, Vegeta." she mused sarcastically, feeling awkward and subdued. "And just so you know, I was talking to the cat, thank you very much. So... What has you up so early...?" she could only hope the nervous waver to it didn't draw any attention.
He stood within the archway, bulky arms folded over his chest, and settled a dark gaze upon his host with blatant scrutiny. Though she wouldn't see it, the sneering reply was enough to infer his scowl was slightly fiercer than usual, and the surly Prince seemed all to content to let it burn a hole in the back of her head for such an idiotic question.
"You know better than anyone my training always begins at six. I'm in no mood for your stupidity, so if it's all the same, keep your coy small talk to a minimum." he growled from behind her, narrowing his eyes with impatience. Almost as an aside, he added low, "...If you can."
A moment of silence—golden silence, in Vegeta's opinion—fell about the kitchen then, something tense appearing to thicken the air before the clatter of a spoon rang out, negligently cast aside. Bulma fought the urge to turn and face him, forcefully having to stop herself, though her head did cock to one side. Glaring at him tiredly from the very corner of her eye, she drew a long and patient breath, biting her cheek as her tone became strained.
"Vegeta, what day is it?" she asked suddenly, expectant though she knew the answer already.
The Saiyan audibly scoffed behnd her as he began toward the fridge, almost in a point of brushing her off. "Don't be ridiculous. It's Friday." the door opened with a shunt, and the cold draft that filled the air only highlighted the bitterness to it.
"Yep, it is. You and I had a deal, Vegeta. Friday is your weekly day off, or I stop all upgrades until you take one. So, I'll ask again..." it was somewhere between motherly and nagging, as Bulma turned her head back to her task, but to finish it switched to something condescendingly innocent. "Why are you up so early?"
From behind the glass pane in the fridge door, Vegeta's head set into a slow incline toward her once again, and an inately evil expression was thankfully missed by her—it was a miracle the glass didn't shatter for bearing the brunt of it. Bare fingers tightened their grip upon the chrome frame enough that indentation would be clear when they left it, and hatefully, the Saiyan seethed a deadly calm hiss through sharp teeth.
"I told you, Woman. I train at six."
Bulma was quick to match him, equally as forceful as she went about pouring the water.
"Not on Fridays. If you even think about going out there, I'll deactivate the capsule entirely and you can train out on the damn lawn for a week." despite their back and forth, she had fetched another mug and poured it full, and before the Prince could get another word in, Bulma's tone cheered. "Milk, please."
Gritting his teeth, he would blatantly ignore her request, angered by the fact she would even make it in the current context of discussion. There should not have been a discussion. How dare she interfere into his affairs so far as to deny him an entire day, every week, in which to make progress? Had she even done the math behind that as to how much time wasted that amounted to annually, over three years? And still, she asserted that she was a genius. It was as infuriating as it was infantile, and just the notion that had she worked that all out and seen no problem with it was enough to make him paranoid of how shoddy her technical work actually was.
No doubt the mechanisms he trained with operated on zipties and paperclips to hold them together... but then, that was what had started this ridiculous farce of concern.
His left eye ticked, and slamming the fridge door shut with remarkable restraint, set about her with a snarl. "Woman, I will make this as monosyllabic as possible, for the final time. I don't care what you want me to do. I care about what I need to do." he paced steadily to her side, laying a palm flat against the countertop and growling as he faced her profile, whether she looked to him or not. A thumb was jutted to his chest and stubbornly, he bore his teeth. "I need to surpass Kakarot. I need to become a Super Saiyan, and now, I need to do this on schedule. The fact that you've developped a guilt complex for your half-arsed piece of garbage blowing up with me inside of it, is none of my concern. So, unless you have a deathwish three years from now, or right here in this kitchen, I'll be training at six."
Bulma's self conscious avoidance was shattered almost as quickly as her ability to hold her tongue at this time of the morning. Abandoning the half made coffees, her own hand slammed down upon the counter like a dueling gauntlet, she turned to him with a look of indignity. It took her a moment to run the fact he'd actually gone there through her mind, but as soon as she had hold of his audacity, her gaping mouth spat acid and her features twisted into an affronted frown.
"Excuse me?! I had nothing to do with it! That ship was a breakthrough in technology engineered by my father—a master, and pioneer in his field—to suit your crazy demands! It was an improvement on the design Goku used! He told you not to take it over two-fifty with the droids, you're the one who breached the structual integrity by ignoring him! State of the art gravitational generator and four military class shield droids up in smoke, along with an entire ship fitted for travel and almost my housewith them, you jerk!"
Slender brows knitted together in fierce mimicry of his expression, and waving a hand to emphasise it all, Bulma suddenly found her finger poking his scarred chest in sharp jabs. "Do you have any idea what that cost us? You're lucky you drained the fuel cells, or this whole compound could've—Ow!"
She hadn't even seen his hand move, but still her fragile wrist was caught within a vice-like grip, precision rippling within cordlike muscle in his forearm, threatening to tighten further. Within an instant he had calculated the pressure needed to cause sharp pain, without doing any real damage, and as it shot up her arm like searing fire in her veins, it gave her frantic pause. An effortless tug drew her forward, jerked toward him so that his dark features clouded all of her gaze, and blue eyes widened with some shock—she'd never been handled by him like this, and unexpected as it was, she found a chilling line drawn in the sand. A rush swept her spine, sending her whole body on defense, tense as it seized like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car.
The Saiyan's sharp eyes cornered her easily, predatory orbs like dunnest smoke amidst a white sea, and only inches from her face, the dark circles about his eyes were obvious. Bulma was not the only one to have pulled an all nighter, it seemed, and Vegeta's visage this close boasted a few of them... it easily explained why he was more surly than usual, though suddenly his aggression was nowhere to be found. A calm had taken his features, and with it, the harsh lines his face drew morbid serenity as he stared her down. Inclining his chin, she saw his eyes twitch to narrow, brief and concise as his tongue clicked.
"I could've sworn by the look on your face, when last I told you to leave me be, that you had realised your being a hinderence... But allow me to clarify further." his voice was quiet, somehow smoother, and unnerving in how emotionally barren it came. "A Saiyan's power increases dramatically each time we recover from a near death experience. Thanks to your shabby workmanship, I had one. I recovered enough to stand, and therefore, train. Training during that recovery can potentially boost my increase in strength, by prolonging the healing process. It was this technique of drawing out injuries that allowed my Father to topple the Tuffle army with so few numbers, after weakening them with a moonlight assault previously."
Cerulean eyes wavered over his with some confusion, though what he said made enough sense—it was given so bluntly, so cold and factual... and yet, it was the first time he had ever mentioned his father. It hit her mind like a wave crashing upon the shore, and Bulma was no longer unnerved, but intrigued. The tiniest tidbit of his history, and an entire curtain was pulled aside to reveal reason behind his madness. How much more of him could be unlocked by the past's key? It almost saddened her, in some small way, that he mentioned it so distantly, so factually, without even a hint of the pride he took in his heritage.
One of his brows twitched upward in question, and his gaze sharpened over a warning. "...Or perhaps you fancy yourself more familiar with Saiyan biology than my father, the King? Maybe he should've taken every Friday off, as well, and let the Tuffles rebuild their forces."
Her gorgeous features twisted into bemusement, and squinting with something akin to disbelief, the discomfort of her wrist seemed suddenly lessened. "...Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me that my arranging medical attention for you that day..." she paused, words dancing on the tip of her tongue as her head shook ever so slightly, trying to make sense of it. "...stifled you?"
The corner of his mouth ticked upward, and the ghost of his smirk—that awful, smackworthy smirk—appeared. "So there is a brain in there. Little miracles." As if it were the prize for a correct answer, his brows rose a fraction and the steely grip released, his arms returning to their default position over his chest. "I told you I didn't need—or want—your help, Woman, because what helps a human only holds a Saiyan back. Now, I am going to train... and should anything go awry, I don't want to wake up with you at my bedside again. I want to wake up in the rubble, in a pool of my own blood, ready to receive the benefits it brings me. Understand?"
Stepping back to put some distance between them, Bulma couldn't help but stare, studying him like a grotesque new development in a petry dish and wondering what had happened. She blinked a few times, and though her mind simply screamed at her to nod and get the milk and just leave well enough alone, the rest of her rational mind couldn't quite let it all go so easily. Her mouth opened and closed, and then a quick breath was taken to speak, though nothing came. She turned back to the mugs, glanced back at him, and then sent a vacant stare toward the kettle as her lips remained parted and lost for words.
And then they came bursting forth anyway, a thousand thoughts coming to a swift halt in her head to converge on a single point—this man was actually insane.
"...What world do you live in?! I held you back? What does that even mean? You idiot, you would have died if not for me that day!" her hands flew up before she could restrain them, caught utterly disbelief as she was, and blue curls whipped about as her gaze snapped to him again, wide eyed. "The only reason it was near death at all was because Yamcha and I hauled your ass inside and into the employee injury ward! You should be thanking me for having a 'power boost' at all," her fingers curled twice to that, "Because if I'd have left you out there, it would've been a grave! I thought we were past this whole arrogant tough guy act, Vegeta, what is it gonna take to prove to you that you're flesh and blood?!"
Vegeta's face darkened with impatience as, once again, it seemed to go right over her head, and pushing off of the counter with a snarl he growled back at her. "Never mind! Just stay out of my way!"
Whatever semblance of breakfast he had come to find was swiftly forgotten, it seemed, in lieu of the heiress' apparent stupidity. Bulma gawked after him, still blindsided by how impossible the man could be, and in a fit of pique turned to pick up a mug of half prepared coffee. She spun on her heel, yelling after him even as the sour Prince retreated through the archway and back into the shadows beyond the lounge, and gestured the mug roughly to spill some of it as she went.
"And to think I almost made you a coffee, you ungrateful son of a bitch! You never even passed me the milk! Rude!"
And with that, the blackened water of Vegeta's beverage would be unceremoniously tossed, with a hint of malice, to be splashed into the sink. Bulma stared at it as it ran mercilessly down the drain, circling in a slow death and never to touch the Saiyan's lips. Something vicious flashed in her eye and her hand shot for the tap, an abusive smack to the lever letting icy water burst forth to wash it all away.
If only it were so simple to be rid of the Saiyan himself, or at the very least, his near suicidal tendancies.
Setting the now empty mug aside with an agitated sigh, Bulma pressed hands to the edge of the sink in silent pathos for it all. Blue brows were furrowed as the chaos of yet another argument flew around in her head like an angry hive of bees. Vegeta... never had she encountered someone so difficult to even know, let alone share living space with. Not that they engaged in the usual routines acclimitised by housemates. She'd run him through most relationships she knew of, trying to find a category for him—siblings didn't quite fit, ex-lovers was closer to it though bereft of any intimate knowledge of one another. He was far too unruly to be a pet of any description, though at times she was reminded of her mother's managerie of stray animals that had been loved into submission.
If she thought of him like an injured stray she was trying to care for, that seemed fairly close to the mark, but there was no slow building of trust or companionship occuring; that much was clear.
With a final shake of her head, she let it go, turning back to her beloved strawberries to find salvation in the comfort of them. This day was going to be a long one, and no matter what happened concerning bandits and Saiyans, her gut was telling her that she was going to be seeing a lot more of her room—and far less of anybody else—for quite some time.
I am going to need more Strawberries.
A/N:
After a spate of personal drama, I gotta say, it fills me with spastic joy to sit down a write something again. I mean, I know Zelda is my usual FicFlavour, but I grew up with Vegeta/Bulma in my head. They are easily my favourite official coupling from anything, ever. I can't believe I've never sat down to do a three yers fic before-I mean, for any DBZ fangirl, it's essentially a rite of passage. Plenty of drawings and whatnot over the years, but this'll be my first foray into that wonderful tradition of filling in the blank Toriyama left. He said he was no good at romance... But I think he made a smart move, leaving it up to the fans' imagination.
So, everything is dying down around me lately, more time to write is opening up again and to start it off, and hopefully greet some new readers, here's chapter one of my first bonafide V/B fiction. Yay! At least I'll be able to catch up on my other stories now, as well.
Onwards to Glory!