This author does not claim rights to all trademarked or property already under copywrite. It is implied that all content is property of its respective owners and I am borrowing their likenesses in a manner not intended to make profit, but to share with others. Please do not repost or copy this content without giving credit to the original author, DistantStorm.
Notes: I have not been bitten by a plot-bug like this in more than five years. The inspiration for this fic is brought to you by Theory Of A Deadman's cover of "Wicked Game" on their album "Wake Up Call." Please support them if you enjoy the song, they're an awesome band – I've met them and seen them live many times.
"The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you.
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do."
Bulma surveyed the damage. She'd come a long way in a short period of time on the repairs. Most of the remaining repairs now were computer based, and she could rebuild them in a day or two, max. But, he did have the backup, spaceship version of the Gravity Room to use in the meantime, which had even less strength than the one he blew up. It was probably for the best that he not have the souped up version if he was ever going to recover from the explosion that nearly tore him to pieces a few days ago. She wasn't rushing the completion of the larger one.
"You have a perfectly working Gravity Room to use. I'm sorry if it's not large enough to fit your ego. It'll be another week on this one, maybe two."
"Lies!"
"It's the truth."
"Woman! That vessel's gravity room is barely functional!" He banged his fist on the remnants of a control panel that sparked in protest. "Fix this one, now!" He spat as he spoke. She stepped back to avoid the Saiyan saliva hitting her lab coat, looking down at the specks on the floor and then back to the feral alien.
"I will. But it will take some time." She turned her back on the Saiyan Prince, to head back to her lab, where she was completing tests on a different project – and the real reason why his precious full-intensity training would be put off for another week or so.
"And where do you think you're going? I know all the components are here! Do you take me for a fool, stupid human?"
She sighed. "I have another project, Vegeta. And you're barely healed as it is. I don't even know how you're out of the med bay." She tilted her head to get a view of him from over her shoulder. He was still bandaged up across the forehead and chest, and his fists were an assortment of scabs that likely wouldn't ever heal since he seemed to need to punch something every two minutes. "Why don't you rest and let me do my work, so you can actually accomplish something when I fix your precious Gravity Room? There's a thought."
He scoffed. "Tch. And then when the Androids murder us all, you'll be screaming that I should've trained harder. Insolent bitch, I'm saving your planet. The least you could do is make yourself useful."
She whirled around, lab coat flaring around her, giving her that mad-scientist vibe they'd tried to capture on a magazine spread a few months ago. Her eyes blazed with a type of fire he so frequently evoked in her. He braced himself – internally of course – for her piercing yell.
It didn't come. Instead, she raised a fist, gripping it tightly. "Yes, of course. The Saiyans will save the world, because they've never failed or been killed before." She knew that barb stung, even if it didn't show on his face. "My time would certainly be best spent fixing your gravity room, and not developing a backup plan in case glowing gold and shit talking doesn't make the Androids drop dead."
"Hah. A back-up plan? What will you and your machines do but crumble at my feet?" He waved her off with a demeaning smile. "Go on. Waste my time tinkering with your toys. When the Androids come, you'll regret your poor decision while I decide whether you're worth saving."
She clenched her fists, finally raising her voice. "Fuck you! You're the one who needs me, buddy!"
His eyes narrowed. "I do not, nor will I ever need someone like you." His words dripped with contempt.
She shrugged. "Fine. Train on your own." She pulled out a device from her large coat's pocket, tapped it, and then smirked at him. "I've disabled the other GR since you don't need me and all. Train in the yard like the rest of them. I won't endorse you killing yourself."
"I don't like the way he treats you," Yamcha was saying to her. She hummed like someone who was only half listening to a telephone conversation would, though he didn't seem to notice her lack of attentiveness.
Realistically, she was trying to tune him out and get actual work done. She'd had a breakthrough on how to contain the sub-atomic nuclear particles and release them in a way that would create a beam while doing concussive damage. The penetrative damage was the easy part since nuclear particles were so happy to infiltrate anything and destroy. She really loved science. It'd been a while since she'd had such a cohesive idea and been able to build it in the complete likeness she'd imagined.
"Honestly, I don't think you should repair the Gravity Room. He can train on his own."
Bulma sighed, distracted from the small welding task – she had to make sure the cooling system was perfectly attached and sealed or else the thing would explode. She looked over at Yamcha's scarred face, lifting the mask that covered hers. "We'll need all the help we can get, which is why you're supposed to be training hard too, remember?"
He shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah, I guess. I just think he should stop freeloading, treat you better, or at least actually do something useful around here."
"Pot calling the kettle there," She admonished, picking up the piece of weapon in front of her and evaluating it under the lighted magnifier on her desk. "You lived here for how long when we were together. At least he never spent time with other women while –"
"Oh, come on. That was different!" It really wasn't, though.
She ignored his comment. Forgive, but never forget.
"You've been texting the whole time you've been sitting here," Bulma said, not taking her eyes off her work. She used the smallest pair of tweezers he'd ever seen to remove a metal component that was even smaller. "I'm sure whomever it is would be happy to spend their evening with you, and certainly invite you back for a nightcap."
"You know I only have eyes for you."
"Not this, again." She looked over at him, eyes dark and focused, silencing any interruptions on his tongue. Her gaze dropped back to the weapon on her workstation. "The only thing I have eyes for is this baby." She lowered the welding mask, effectively ending their conversation with sparks. He returned to his texting, and Bulma felt strangely relieved he hadn't tried to push things any further.
Once, she would've wanted him to prostrate himself, pour out his guts in a saccharine confession of love and devotion. Now, she wants him to stop wasting her time. She's not sure when she stopped caring and let their relationship (more like lack thereof) fall into this state of purgatory. To be honest, she's pretty sure he's making up some strange relationship rules that suit his twisted idea of dating. Whatever it is, she's also damn sure it isn't the same thing that she's thinking. You're either in, or you're out. She's out, she's told him so, but he just doesn't seem to get the memo.
Which is sad, because he's not a horrible guy, he's just a horrible romantic... well, anything, really.
When Yamcha finally left, unable to peck her on the cheek like he usually tried thanks to the welding mask, Bulma let the mindless task of sawdering the last of the wiring take her back to her earlier discussion with the grumpy Saiyan. She felt rage at his belief she was incompetent, though she was pretty certain he wasn't used to being in the company of many people with brains for more than fighting. She was aware that he was rather intelligent – she'd heard her mother mention something about him reading some of the books in her father's study – none of which her friends could fathom even the covers of without blanching.
She wanted to understand him, and felt she was making some progress. It was just in fits and starts: one step forward, two steps back. She doubted it would ever be enough. Not that she wanted to be best buds, but she felt a strange desire to make him a friend – especially one who had literally a whole universe of knowledge and experiences she didn't.
She knew there was something between them, a smoldering kinship they acknowledged in duels of tongues. She was learning that this Saiyan – the first true Saiyan she'd met (Son-kun was practically a human in a Saiyan body as far as she was concerned) – bonded in war and hostilities, not in day-to-day frivolity. Their battles of wits were as close to mental warfare as he could get, even if some of it was petulant bickering at its finest. She enjoyed it, though.
That didn't mean about to place him in the prospective dating candidates pile, either. He wasn't, erm, dateable. She knew she was desirable by human standards, and probably better than half the humanoid alien races if the ones she'd seen thus far had been any indication, but she doubted that he would date outside of his race (assuming dating was something Saiyans even did, she had no point of reference here), his pride far to strong to allow any inferior being to even consider warming his bed.
It ended up taking even longer than she had expected to finish the unassuming project in front of her. She dared not look at the clock, lest the fatigue catch up with her, her brain rerouting all her thoughts to coffee rather than polishing the white metal casing while the orange and blue LED lights blinked to life like new stars. She heard the door slam to the antechamber leading into her underground lab. Finally giving up the ghost, she dropped the polishing rag and looked over at a bleary-eyed Yamcha who looked about to overflow with some menial conversation.
"Bulma! Hey babe! You'll never guess what happened!"
His cheeriness was offsetting. He hadn't been cheery around her in months, their strained relationship keeping him on eggshells. It didn't take a genius to figure this one out. She looked over at a monitor. It was just shy of 3am. She would have to wait a while to do some testing anyway, she supposed.
"What is it," she asked in a huff, flipping open a case and tucking her creation away lest Yamcha think it was a toy. It most certainly was not. Regardless of what certain aliens said, she did not make toys.
Yamcha bounced from toe to heel in rapid succession, the motions exaggerated by the wafting scent of beer that finally hit her nose. Of course, he'd gone out. She sized him up while he rocked back and forth like the cat about to get the cream. Obviously, he hadn't landed the invite back at the end of the night, she observed with a pinch of satisfaction.
"Vegeta is getting his ass kicked," the scar-faced warrior stated, like it was a gift. "Whoever it was told me to get lost, and just started wailing on him."
"Yamcha."
"It's the greatest thing I've seen- "
"Yam-"
"Like, Bulma, he's totally getting what's coming to-"
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
The man paused, raising both hands, hastily. "No, of course not." He almost appeared sober. "They didn't even tear up the lawn with their ship."
Bulma's brain practically spun like the centrifuge in the corner to her right. No possible scenario could be positive, in this situation. She'd computed several possibilities, and considering his injuries, and the fact that Yamcha said… She stepped up to Yamcha, leaning into his face, long lashes fluttering as she held his gaze. His pupils widened as she leaned so close to him he could've kissed her. "You mean to tell me that there are new aliens that we've never seen before – "She hooked two fingers on her left hand onto the collar of his button-up shirt while clutching the weapon in its case with her right, "directly above us?"
He looked down, getting an eyeful of cleavage before looking up at her eyes again, in a stupor. He hadn't been this close to her in months. "Yeah, but they told me he's the one they want. Seemed like pretty reasonable guys, actually."
"You're a fucking idiot." She balled the hand half tucked in his shirt collar and shoved, hard. Yamcha normally wouldn't have lost balance, but he was more than a few beers deep and Bulma had practical knowledge regarding leverage that he couldn't begin to fathom. He went down like a ton of bricks. Bulma would've checked to make sure he didn't bonk his head, but right now she had bigger fish to fry.
She slammed up the steps, the impact of her shoes on the concrete echoing through her. Ironically, she determined this was one of those times that having the ki of a housecat – as Vegeta so elegantly told her once – was helpful. She heard the slam of a body hitting the ground as she approached the door leading to the outside. She peered through the small window on the door and saw the situation. Directly out behind her house, was a small ship, and directly in front of it were two bulky animalesque humanoids. They looked almost like pigs with elephant tusks and trunks. They were apparently capable of summoning balls of energy as well, judging by the bubble-gum pink light that flashed like a firework in her backyard.
She had to wait for the dust to settle before she saw her houseguest. He had picked himself up to a kneeling situation. Three others stood before him, taking turns slugging him while he attempted to stay upright. She bit her lip and growled as she slowly edged the door open for a better look. She could hear them yelling standard baddie comments, cataloguing the invaders as creatures who made her skin crawl, though she felt like she'd heard about these beings somewhere before in her travels. Behind her, she could hear Yamcha loudly coming up the stairs. He had to have hit the wall at least twice. She wouldn't be surprised if his intoxication had caught up to him during his meeting with the ground a moment ago.
Vegeta looked rather reinjured. She was certain that the numbers were what was harming him, for individually these aliens were probably no large challenge to him. But he had been put into a bad situation. The one who stood directly in front of him sneered around his trunk as the other two – they looked slightly weaker, likely henchmen, she realized – hoisted him up under the armpits. His bandages were hanging off him, and he chose to look in the other direction rather than meet the main alien's gaze.
Vegeta looked small compared to the pot-bellied monster in front of him, especially when the two holding him hoisted him up while forcing his head to face the ground. Yamcha stumbled out behind her, reaching for her wrist just as she began to make the determination to move forward. "Whatever you're thinking, don't," her ex-boyfriend said quietly.
She looked over her shoulder, the words ashes in her mouth. "So we should let them very clearly execute him?"
Yamcha didn't say anything, but she caught the fractional shrug out of the corner of her eye. There was motion in front of them. The two beasts near the ship brought forth a sword of sorts. It looked ornate – obviously this was a fantastical revenge plot and apparently even Yamcha was somewhat behind it.
The blade made a sick warping sound as it was pulled from its sheath, the sharper than usual blade glowing pink with raw power.
Bulma swore she could hear Vegeta's heart beating from her place hidden behind the corner of her lab building, sixty feet away. Maybe it was her own heartbeat she had heard in hindsight, but she could certainly see the heaving of his chest in the light from the gleaming blade. Yamcha's hand wrapped around her right wrist felt like a noose. They were going to kill him. Even if he had – no matter what he had done in the past, she wouldn't let him die. He'd already paid for his sins with his life. No matter what he was, she found in that moment believed in him.
In what he was now.
In what he could be.
The sword was in front of him now. Vegeta looked up at his executioner. "Get on with it," he gritted out in a proud grunt that gave away no fear.
The heiress flicked her wrist forcefully, whipping Yamcha's hand from its purchase on her wrist. He said something in protest she was sure of it, but she ignored him. The same motion snapped open the case in her hand, and she grabbed her prototype with her left hand, dropping the case from her as she rushed forward, flicking the toggle on the back. It was a good thing her inventions always worked. Most of the time.
She stood perpendicular to the execution in front of her. As she suspected, they found her to be no threat and paid her no mind. Not to mention that she doubted the salivating murderers-to-be were looking for anyone to help him. He wasn't exactly a man of many compatriots these days.
"Vegeta, Crown Prince of Saiyans, last of his name. Of the destroyed planet Vegeta-sei," The peach-skinned alien spoke in the dark. "You have been found guilty of murder and purging of the planet Akarirake-sei. The punishment is death."
The blade was raised. She raised her own weapon, no prayers on her lips. She was armed with science, not mystical powers. Dende wouldn't help her now.
She pulled the trigger.
His gaze was down, but his eyes were open. 'Face your death like a warrior,' he'd been told eternities ago. He heard the blade plow upward like the make-shift guillotine it was. He called the last dregs of his ki around him unconsciously, trying for a last second escape.
Wahhrppow!
A blood curdling scream all but blew out his eardrums and his arms were released as a yellow-white light flashed in front of him. The surprise caused his slackened body to land on his knees. He felt the warmth of blood splatter on his face and could smell ozone in the air. The hilt of the blade that was to be his death sentence was half melted on the ground beside a pair of boots in front of him. There were feet in the boots, he could see where the rest of the body above had been sheered away. Vegeta looked around immediately for the next threat – how many people were vying to murder the Prince of all Saiyans this night?
Her hands were wrapped tight around the trigger, the whoosh of hydraulics releasing pressure within the cannon. She advanced, gun still drawn. The two on either side of him made to lunge at her, shrieking their intent to kill.
She fired again, in rapid succession. Blood splattered from rounds that were more penetrative than the forcefulness of the first blast (the closeness of which had literally detached and vaporized the leader's body at the ankles, for fuck's sake Bulma, ease up on the nuclear particles next time, jeez, she thought). She had flipped the toggle to a different damage type – causing a nearly artistic streaking of her kill's almost purple blood across her face and chest.
His blood sang, and it was like life gained color for the first time. Certainly, he'd never seen this side of the woman before. Her bloodlust sang to him as he watched her slaughter the two men who had held him seconds before, her face contorted in a beautiful rage that he found more glorious than any sight he'd ever seen in the galaxy. Her breast heaved with the exertion and her eyes were dark, ethereal orbs of lapis lazuli, wisps of aquamarine hair dancing around her face in the recoil.
The two who bore the weapon turned to run back to their ship. She had flicked the switch again, and this time he felt the ground shake when she pulled the trigger. It was like the first sound, but so much more. The ground shook and crumbled, the ship literally vaporizing before the pigheaded beings' eyes. They turned back to fight off the newfound threat, but Vegeta was there, recovered enough to savor rip out the throat of one while she ended the other with a shot that made him reconsider everything he ever thought about humans having slow reflexes.
The weapon hissed in her hands as she clicked the safety. He snapped his hands back and forth once, clearing the excess of blood from them. She tucked the weapon through a loop in her jumpsuit, surveying the damage to their yard.
"Are you okay?" She asked to his back, breathing heavy from exertion.
He doesn't acknowledge her for a moment, looking at the destroyed area where the spaceship had been not a minute before. She probably figured him to be angry, he reasoned. He should be. He should rage at her for meddling in affairs she has no business in.
But he can't bring himself to be.
He turns, meeting her eyes with his own. His are the depths of the darkest galaxies. He's seen this woman cower before enemies. He's watched her scurry away to save her skin. But – but she drew blood for him. She killed for him.
He doesn't realize he's crossed the distance between them until he's crushed his mouth to hers, hands on her cheeks to slant her mouth to his. They stay that way for a few moments. Then, his arms circle her just under the waist before hoisting her up by the ass cheeks to bring her even closer, their torsos lined up perfectly. He drinks her up like a man dying of thirst, not stopping to consider the implications. His brain does not stutter over Kakarot or impending Androids for the first time in over a year. His heart thunders in his chest, seemingly beating for the first time. He doesn't think on it now. There are more important things.
He had no way of knowing this was the viper coiled under the unassuming earthling woman's skin, waiting to strike. She matches his bruising kisses with eagerness, pulling him close, her mind not on his obvious injuries. They would come later.
This moment was the birth of a star – a moment in the cosmos, a brilliance neither of them could ever comprehend, perfection incarnate – atoms of light pressured into fusion.
Neither noticed the slack-jawed look that crossed Yamcha's face as the alien came onto the heiress seemingly out of nowhere, or his slump to the ground when she countered his actions with equal fervor. Metaphorically sobered, Yamcha realized he had been defeated in his quest to retain Bulma's heart. Hell, seeing this – this murderous behavior changed everything he ever thought of her. They looked pretty fucking cozy right from where Yamcha was – or at least as cozy as two people covered in the blood of their enemies could look. He blanched as he realized that was probably a huge turn on for the Saiyan.
Bulma doesn't expect him to say anything, nor does she comment as she hears Yamcha take off behind her. She'd honestly forgotten he was there, but her eyes flash in rage behind her eyelids when she thinks of him willing to leave Vegeta for dead. The heady scent of ozone and blood scorches her nostrils as she and Vegeta pause for breath, grimy foreheads pushed together. His breath is hot on her face, and his hands are still on her ass.
His eyes are dark with something other than murderous intent, and Bulma feels the force of his power thrumming around them as he lifts her into the air. She leans in again, kissing him with slightly less force. He soars high above the yard, turning them slightly.
She looks up at him, but his gaze is on the havoc wrought upon the back of the Briefs' compound. When she follows his gaze down, she chuckles. The yard is in disarray between actual damage and the remaining bodies, and she can only imagine the headlines about rumored explosions on the news an hour or two from now. "This thing is powerful," she says, lips pulling into a small smile while reaching down to pat the weapon at her hip.
He looks at her, and she's startled by how bright eyes so dark can be. She feels like she's on fire, but she can't look away. "You made that weapon." It isn't a question. She nods once, not sure how he just knows. "You drew blood and remained unscathed." She doesn't acknowledge that part. She only killed out of necessity to save his life, and now isn't the time to point out that bit.
"You are powerful. The weapon reflects its creator's will."
They drift gently downward to her balcony. He is a master at controlling his ki, and it's amazing how smoothly they traverse the air. He releases her as they land, taking a step back, looking her from head to toe.
"Vegeta."
He blinks, eyes linking with hers.
Bulma reaches out a hand to him. She's not sure if it was just a moment of passion on his part, but she can't unfeel the way she felt against him, or his mouth on hers. Her blood is calling for him, like a force that can't be tamed. She's never felt this way about anyone. The feeling is minutes old, but she'll never forget it as long as she lives.
He eyes the blood across her face. It's been smeared through their earlier kissing. She's radiant, not an ounce of regret for her actions. He's never met someone like her, realizes how much more he wants to know about her. The tug of her lips in a wry smile gives her away. She's willing to take the plunge.
It doesn't bother him like he knows it should.
He takes a step forward.
There is no turning back.