A Moment in Time

by CoffeeAndConjunctions

Memory is just a series of moments weaved together to form a lifetime, some are like bright flames that stand out and draw attention. Other's are like the cool summer breeze, you never really stop to think about it but are glad it's there. V/B one shots and drabbles.

1. Maybe

A Moments In Time

CoffeeAndConjunctions

"I don't wanna be the first to let it go
But I know, I know, I know
If you have the last hands that I want to hold
Then I know I've got to let them go"

-Maybe, Ingrid Michaelson

Maybe-

His sheets were a plain white, un-dyed cotton that was comfortable if not luxurious. Yamcha had always had a hard time falling asleep on Bulma's beige silk sheets—the material was too sleek for his taste, it always slipped his grip as he slept. Despite the thoroughly tiring night they had shared in her bed those damned sheets had sobered his after glow while she sprawled among them. A few fitful hours passed and he finally slept.

He woke alone.

The Bulma Briefs he knew, had known for years, was not a morning person—during her travels with Goku in their youth she had threatened more then once to shot both boys if they woke her up before the sun—yet when rose from bed a bit before dawn he was surprised to see she was not in bed. Tugging on his shirt and pants—still bleary eyed from the lack of sleep—he heads down stairs, more then likely she'd gone to her lab, inspiration was the only thing he'd ever seen that was capable of waking her this early.

Figuring if she was in the lab she would appreciate coffee he stops by the kitchen, the cheery yellow room as an improvement from the rose colored walls of Mrs. Briefs had in the main house. Bulma had begun construction to her own wing of the vast compound some years back and a year after she'd arrived back form Namek the project had been complete. Taking a mug from the cupboard he stops suddenly when he catches sight of the blue haired woman sitting on the steps of the porch. Her hair was mussed and her cut off sweatshirt had slipped down one shoulder, her legs covered by a fleece blanket, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug. A few steps down a dark haired man sat beside her—the flame shaped hair style left little doubt of who was with her.

They weren't talking, they were simply sitting in silence watching the horizon, the sun had begun to crest over the elegant lines of the compounds roof. Not knowing why Yamcha recalled the feel of Bulma's sheets, the tingling sensation it left behind as it slipped from his fingers.