A/N: Fair warning, O Reader, before you get invested in this fic--I've had the first two chapters written for over four years, and haven't written anything further. I've got a serious blockage here, and I don't know where this story may lead itself or if it even will. ;_; I'm going to try hard to just sit down and write it, but be aware that another update may be a while in coming. Sorry guys.
Hours before the Dragon Balls had wished him back into his miserable existence because of that stupid clown Kakarott and his stupid clown friends. Vegeta found himself transported to the very place he'd been defeated months before. The sky was bright and blue, the birds chirped. Green grass and white clouds, looking like some delicate painting against the horizon. He couldn't believe it—this planet would have fetched a high price had they succeeded in conquering it. Kakarott's friends planned to wish him back when the Dragon Balls became active again and in the meantime everyone—to his shock, himself included—was invited to stay at the vulgar blue-haired woman's home. In her working boots and leather vest she'd looked like some space pirate, dirty, uncomfortable, but determined to accomplish the task at hand. He'd seen her a couple of times on Namek. He'd scarcely believed that she could be someone important on the planet, or that she had the resources to house several dozen Nameks and himself for months on end.
A tall, bespectacled and somewhat older earthman had arrived in a huge helicopter to pick them up a few minutes later. He'd introduced himself to them as Dr. Briefs, head of Capsule Corporation. Whatever that was. His thoughts wandered, but in an effort to stave off the after-effects of the emotional turmoil of the past few weeks, Vegeta concentrated on his surroundings. He'd been expecting them to land at a small, sterile building somewhere with a few extra beds, but his eyes widened as they approached—West City, was it? And he'd nearly choked out loud when he'd stepped off the chopper and caught sight of what the blue-haired woman had called the "compound." Numerous dome-shaped buildings, hundreds of square feet and some dozens of stories high. A landing strip and helicopter pad, surrounded by forest and gardens. Vegeta really hadn't realized that Earth was this advanced. Sure, they had electricity and running water, but the smooth clean lines of the buildings, the white and stainless steel together suggested technology, power. Because as most civilizations came to realize, simpler was better. Simple design, clean, smooth, less complicated infrastructure worked better than more complicated but aesthetically pleasing shapes. The domes were a sign: rain and snow would not gather there, and they were energy efficient, easy to clean and repair. He hadn't seen these in the city they'd flown over, only here.
Before he really had a chance to collect himself they were all being guided into one of the domes to their far left. A large, circular lounge, with numerous staircases leading up in a circular fashion. Orange and white, again in the smooth, clean lines. The plate glass windows were unadorned and room was plain and sparsely decorated, but the colors gave off a weirdly comforting atmosphere. For whatever reason, Vegeta felt that what he needed most after this ordeal was comfort. Not a regeneration tank, not more training to relieve stress. He needed a hot shower and clean clothes and a long, hard sleep. Apparently that's what the Earthlings and the Nameks thought too. The blue-haired woman announced that it was only very early morning still, and that everyone should shower and dress and have a nap. She said that there were clean jumpsuits in every room and lunch would be delivered to their rooms if they wanted it. After giving each person a numbered key to their own private room upstairs and instructing them to press the call button by the door if they needed help with any of the building's features she stepped out the back door onto a patio, pulled out a cigarette and a phone and proceeded to call Kakarott's wife to come and get her offspring.
Vegeta loitered in the lounge until all the Nameks had gone. Really, the prince didn't trust his bearings just yet, so he sat in a corner in the floor next to a potted plant and wearily fingered the key he'd been given. Wondered why they were treating him—him—this way, like a guest. Like he'd never come here to destroy the planet. Like he'd never killed their friends and beaten the ever-living crap out of their finest warrior. In less than an hour the blue-haired woman had returned with Kakarott's whelp in tow. Both had washed and changed. The woman was wearing a colorful garb, more feminine than he'd expected. The boy, his hair scrubbed clean and still wet, hopped excitedly around the room in overalls and a striped shirt. His little sneakers squeaked on the hard orange floor and he hyperventilated as he jabbered on about Nameks and Dragon Balls and Daddy. Vegeta almost laughed bitterly; he'd forgotten that Kakarott's boy was just that—a little boy. Judging by the look on the woman's face she'd forgotten as well, and she suddenly asked him how old he was now. He responded between breaths, almost six, and continued in his tirade about Mr. Piccolo and Mr. Nail.
***
When Son Chichi arrived Gohan shut his mouth. Bulma had actually been watching him with amusement, thinking that he was so like his father. So excitable and passionate. And hyper. But when his mother walked into the room he rushed forward to hug her and then stood back quietly and waited for further instructions. Ironic, really. Little Gohan could halfway whip Vegeta's ass and yet he was terrified of the dark-haired, diminutive woman who'd borne him into this world. Chichi hugged and thanked Bulma tearfully, promised to bring Gohan back to visit within the week, and they were gone. Bulma really had lost sight of the fact that Gohan was just a baby. Really, really. This whole experience must have been very emotionally taxing for him and to have lost his father for the second time in as many years… but all that would be righted soon, with the Dragon Balls. Thank Kami for the Nameks and for Son's (rare) quick thinking.
After they were gone, she turned and contemplated the fourth Saiyan she'd met in her lifetime. In order, Son Goku, Son Gohan, Raditz, and lastly the silent man sitting in the floor by the palmetto tree.
Vegeta.
She really didn't know what to do with him. Obviously Son had worked his magic on the older man, but to what extent? Son had turned Tenshinhan and Chaotzu into decent folk too, but really, how sociable were they even to this day? Vegeta was sitting there in the floor, looking rather dejected and alone. Bulma was uneasy about him, but still her heart went out to him. If he'd worked for that bastard Frieza for so long like Gohan had said then it was no wonder he was the way he was. She knew he'd observed her exchange with Chichi and Gohan with silent interest. Maybe he wanted to leave. Where would he go, she wondered. If he'd worked for Frieza he was probably wanted on half the planets in the galaxy. They all knew he'd been on Namek when it exploded; probably it was safer for him if the whole galaxy thought he was dead. She figured that's what was going on in his head. Oh well, time to interrupt his train of thought. He'd have to have a shower and some clean clothes, and probably some lunch pretty soon. Even if he left soon, she didn't want him to feel unwelcome.
Strange. This was a man who had killed her lover, her close friends and had destroyed several cities in the process. He'd killed a whole village full of Nameks without a second thought and he'd threatened her with death. He'd purged planets with his minions Raditz and Nappa. But she didn't resent him. He made her a little nervous, yes. She realized, though, that if the way Gohan told it was correct he'd done all of those terrifying things in an attempt to gain immortality not merely for the sake of living forever itself but in order to defeat Frieza. Whatever everyone else thought, that made it different. That changed things. Because for all of her blustery obnoxiousness, her egotistical façade and petty squabbling, Bulma Briefs really had a knack for seeing the good in people, no matter how little it was, no matter how deeply it was buried. She'd seen it in Son Goku immediately—the goodness in him had shown like a beacon in the night. His perfect, untarnished soul reflected itself clearly to her in his eyes, in his innocent, naïve grin and his curious little voice. She could picture him in her head, standing before her with his mussed hair and dirty training gear, holding up his grandfather's Dragon Ball and examining it as carefully as if for the first time. "Hey, Grandpa's ball has four stars in it!" he'd said. Half her size, his black eyes sparkled in the late spring sunshine and his voice shook with excitement: "Hi stars!" Bulma was sure he felt no greed or selfishness. He came with her on her journey with no thought of reward. No one else could ever be like him, not in a million lifetimes; he was the best man she had ever known.
And he's coming back. Bulma snapped back to reality abruptly. Vegeta, on the other hand she decided, was an evil ass bastard. But she could see clearly the motives beyond his actions, and in her book it was the motives that were important. Gathering up her courage, she approached him. He didn't look up. Was he shy or something?
"Hi." She began. God, it sounded dumb. He didn't move. "You know," she continued softly, "You could sit in a chair if you just don't want to go up to your room. I'm sure it would be more comfortable than the floor." Still no response. "If I understand Gohan correctly, you've only had a couple hours sleep over the last few weeks. You must be tired, so why don't you go on up and get some rest?"
"Why?" The first word he'd spoken to her. His voice was rough.
"What else are you going to do?" Bulma abandoned caution and plopped down on the floor, cross-legged in front of him. Her blue jeans, with her orange halter top and sandals were by no means the most diplomatic way she could have presented herself to her visitors from another world, but they had been the first things she'd come across. She'd showered in a rush—with a sly grin she remembered that she'd forgotten underwear. Oops.
Vegeta made an indistinct noise in his throat. Bulma was sure that he would stay until Goku was wished back. He had a score to settle, after all.
"How about if I help you find your room? I'm Bulma, by the way. Bulma Briefs. You're Vegeta. Right?"
Another indistinct noise.
"Let me see your key and I'll take you up to your room." She reached and pulled the key from his slackened grip. His white gloves were filthy, but for some reason she didn't dare suggest he take them off. Room 89. She was hesitant to actually touch him, so she settled for a "come on, let's go!" and a cheerful demeanor as she led the way up the spiral staircase left of the plate glass windows. She could hear his meek footsteps behind her all the way. When she turned to check on him, though, he was far behind her and staring down at the ground. She'd seen Son do that a couple times after tough battles and wondered how two people from such completely different cultures could come up with the same behavior. Come to think, Krillin had come out of the battle with Vegeta and Nappa staring at the ground as well. Had Gohan? No, he'd been unconscious. Chichi had carried him to the plane. She studied Vegeta carefully. His eyes focused on the stairs in front of him, head down, and a death grip on the railing. What the hell? But slowly the pieces clicked into place and Bulma almost gasped out loud with the realization: he thought he was going to fall! Honest to Kami, that had to be it. After days of battle, no food or sleep, he was probably exhausted and at least a little off-balance. So she stopped and waited for him, resisting the urge to reach out and offer support. If he did fall and she was holding onto him she'd be on the floor just as quickly. So she let him handle himself, carefully, up the stairs.