This chapter has been replaced with a revised version. If you have already read this chapter, you need not do so again. The revisions were small corrections in grammar, and the rewording of places I found awkward. I'm always looking to improve my writing. It is an ongoing process, and I'm sure there will be more revisions in the future. Until then, I hope you enjoy reading this either for the first time or as you read it again (in which case, I am flattered that you want to read this work of mine more than once).

I must thank VeryShortMidget for her wonderful Beta services and encouragement. Thanks for giving me your time and effort! : )

Also, I borrowed my chapter title from The Beatles. I decided I would name my chapters after a song I thought accurately captured the feeling or theme of the chapter. Cheesy? Yes. But also fun.

-ASA : )

"A Hard Day's Night"

"You don't know how it happened?! What the hell is that supposed to mean, Yamcha? Is it supposed to make me feel better knowing that you don't know how to keep your pants on whenever some bar-trash floosy bats an eye your way?" Bulma yelled furiously.

Yamcha, looking apprehensively at the irate woman, held up his hands in a supplicating manner. "Hey, babe...Bulma...it's not like that, I swear…." He didn't get to finish as Bulma growled in frustration.

"Oh yes it is, you pathetic shit," she said, voice dripping with disgust. "I should have known a sniveling worm like you would be a backstabbing ass as well!"

As angry as she was, though, she sadly didn't believe her own words. Bulma had never expected Yamcha to cheat on her. Quite the contrary—she thought they would settle down, get married, maybe even have a child or two one day in the future. But not anymore. No, the bastard had gone and shattered that dream. Bulma felt a fresh wave of ire as she replayed the last few instances before WWIII erupted between them.

They hadn't been on a date in almost three weeks. Sure, he'd swung by the compound a few times during the week, but Bulma had been extremely busy working with her father on a new, exciting space pod design. She would emerge from her lab reluctantly--eyes distant, hair disheveled, and bespeckled with grease. But whenever she saw Yamcha and his blindingly warm smile, Bulma would feel her stomach give a school girl-like lurch and jump into his arms for a warm embrace.

As their pod design quickly progressed into a more problematic stage, though, Bulma saw less and less of Yamcha. Nevermind the fact that the surly Sayian prince believed Bulma to be at his every whim, demanding she make upgrades to his precious gravity chamber, then promptly blowing the damn thing up when he trained too hard.

Finally, though, Bulma and her father got all the kinks worked out of their spacecraft. It was out of their hands now and into the marketing department. They would advertise and sell the piece of brilliance, giving Bulma a nice reprieve. Realizing how long it had been since she and Yamcha had had time alone together, Bulma called him last night to make arrangements.

It took him longer than usual to answer, and when he did, he sounded distracted and distant. Bulma ignored the uneasy feeling she received from this phone call, dismissing it as mere paranoia. They decided on dinner at their favourite restaurant at 8:00. Bulma took extra care as she readied herself for their date. She wanted Yamcha to know it was a special night for them both.

Dressed in her new Oscar de la Renta dark emerald green gown and sexy black stilettos, she waited for Yamcha to arrive…and she waited. Finally, almost 45 minutes later, Bulma opened the front door revealing a frumpled-looking Yamcha, who was lamely trying to tame his hair while also fumbling for an apology.

When they got to dinner, though, things were much better. They ate in comfortable conversation, danced a few songs, and had some champagne. Arriving back at Capsule Corp. almost around midnight, Yamcha parked his car, getting out to open Bulma's door. At that moment, Yamcha's cell decided to start ringing. Bulma reached down to grab the thing and answered.

"YAMCHA!" A sickly sweet, slightly intoxicated voice blared into Bulma's ear. "Hey, baby…I'm lonely! How about you come over to my place again?" the offending voice pouted. Bulma, eyes wide in shock, stared at the phone in disbelief. "Yamcha?" A pause, "Hee-eloo-o?" it cooed. "Aww, well…call me later, my Yami-poo! Same number as always!"

Bulma's door poised halfway open as Yamcha nervously eyed Bulma, who was still staring at the now silent phone in her hand. Not wanting to believe what she had just heard, Bulma's eyes narrowed to glittering blue slits. Slowly setting the phone back in its place and stepping out of the car, she turned to Yamcha.

"What the hell was that? Explain. Now!"

Thus ensued their argument—Bulma beyond furious, interrogating Yamcha, who was desperately trying to get the situation under control—from which Bulma learned that Bimbo had a name (Chelsea), and that she was also the reason Yamcha was late (as was she the cause of last night's distraction). Yamcha swore it was a fling—a one time mistake. A fact made completely evident from their said two encounters.

Bulma took a deep breath, trying to gain some semblance of composure. She ran a shaky hand through her mussed hair—"Why, Yamcha?" she asked softly. "I don't understand why you would do this to me…to us." Her voice nearly broke with her last utterance, but she would be damned if she let him see her cry.

At Yamcha's continued silence, she grew impatient. "Well? Don't I deserve an answer, damn it?" she said more harshly. Yamcha refused to meet her fiery gaze, instead choosing this moment to intimately study the stitching of his dress shoes.

"I don't know, Bulma," he finally began. "I mean, I guess she was just there when you were not. You know, you're always working on a 'new, exciting project' and Chelsea seemed more than willing to make time for me," he finished lamely.

Bulma had to fight the supreme urge to rip this man's eyes out and feed them to him. "It's called a JOB, imbecile! But, I'm quite sure you know all about those," she said sarcastically. Clenching her fists tightly by her side, she grimaced. "Besides, that is no excuse. Damn it, Yamcha! We've been together forever it seems, and you don't have the decency to even talk to me about that?!"

Taking a step back towards the door, she gave a short sigh of exasperation. "You know what, Yamcha?" she said with a shake of her head, "this is over. We are over. I deserve better! I will not tolerate such treatment. You have your floosy. See how long she puts up with your shit. I quit myself of it." With that, she turned and determinedly began walking to the door.

Yamcha, realizing he was losing her, quickly spoke up. "Aw, babe, come on," he cried, reaching out to lay a hand on her retreating shoulder. "Bulma, we can work this out. I never meant for this to happen!" He hurriedly stepped in front of her, blocking her path, and placed both hands on her shoulders. Mustering up his most sorrowful, penitent face, he murmured. "I love you, Bulma."

Bulma, infuriated at his touch and even more so by his wretched simperings, said quietly, dangerously, "First, I am no longer your 'babe.' Second, I doubt you even can comprehend the meaning of love. Third: Get. Off. Me. Now." Eyes narrowing dangerously, she glared at his offending paws.

Yamcha, however, was not dissuaded so easily. "I'm sorry, Bulma! You have to believe me! I do love you!" he declared, still idiotically believing he could somehow "fix this."

She slapped his hands away. "I have to believe no such thing! Yamcha, you screwed up. That's final. Now, get out of my way," she said, trying to push past his figure.

Yamcha reached out for her hand. "Bulma, please…" he said.

"Just let me go, damn it!" she yelled, pulling her hand forcefully from his. "Just GO! And leave me the hell alone!" she said, the much denied tears now beginning to prick her eyes at this continued torture. With that, she turned and fled to the door, slamming it shut ferociously in the face of her former lover.

Once inside the unassuming confines of her own home, she leaned against the door for support, feeling she could not trust her legs to carry her anywhere at the moment. Letting her head fall back onto the hardness of the oak door, she allowed her tears of frustration, anger, and sadness to course their way down her flushed cheeks.

Meanwhile, pleasantly oblivious to the drama unfolding outside the entrance to the compound, an infuriated Vegeta stepped—or rather, stumbled (though he'd never own to it)—out of the gravity chamber. The damned thing had once again short-circuited. Nevermind, of course, that he had been training at well over 500x Earth's gravity. The prince, coated in a layer of sweat and blood, growled in frustration and gave the contraption a kick—which made the whole device violently slide 10 feet back.

"How the hell am I supposed to train properly when that damn machine breaks down every two days!" he sulked petulantly. "That woman had better fix it right this time! I grow weary of this lunacy."

He marched toward the back door, intent upon giving said woman an earful whether she was awake or not (and rather hoping she would be asleep, for he'd love the reaction he would evoke for waking her at this time of night). Snapping him out of his reverie was the violent slamming of the front door and the muttered cursing of that insipid weakling, Yamcha.

He snorted in condescension, "What is that loser doing here?" he said to himself. Throwing open the door, he strode inside to find the woman, stopping in the kitchen first, however, to get a snack and water.

Hearing the back door open and rustling about in the kitchen, Bulma hastily wiped her face of its tears and attempted to appear presentable. She would never allow that insufferable Vegeta to see her this way. Reaching down to unfasten her stilettos, she tried to quietly manoeuvre through the living room to the stairs that would lead her to the safety of her own quarters.

Fate, it seemed, was not through with her yet this night, for Vegeta appeared in the doorway just as she was making her way though the living room.

"Good God, woman. You look absolutely wretched," he rasped, leaning against the doorjamb, that smirk playing upon his features. However, to his own dismay, he did not believe his words. She was positively stunning in her form fitting gown with her vivid blue hair tumbling down her back in soft curls, her face flushed from what even he could tell were fresh tears. He forced aside these rather traitorous thoughts, reminding himself she was just the same loud-mouthed woman as always.

"Rough night, eh?" He continued when all his last comment evoked was a well-practised death glare.

Bulma, not sure she could make it through an argument with Vegeta and wanting nothing more than to fall into her comfy bed, fixed Vegeta with a baleful gaze. "Not tonight, Vegeta. I'm in no mood to deal with yet another pathetic male's shit!" she said bitterly.

Vegeta recalled the slammed door and Yamcha's mutterings. So that's what this was about. "You would do well, woman," he sneered, his face darkening into a fearsome scowl as he began to walk across the living room towards Bulma, "to remember that you are speaking to the Prince of all Sayians! I am neither 'pathetic' nor do I deal in shit!"

Refusing to be intimidated, though she knew he could easily snap her in two, Bulma bit back. "Well, good for you, Mr. Sayian Prince. I'm so glad you got that off your chest!" she said sarcastically. Bulma continued, delighted to actually hear him snort in indignation. "Oh, and you might want to take a look at yourself in a mirror before you decide to call me wretched!" Bulma eyed Vegeta with upraised eyebrows as he spluttered and probably debated over whether he should "blast her into the next dimension" or not, something he naturally diverted to when an argument was not going in his favour.

As tired and emotionally drained as she was, it felt good to take out her frustrations in one of their many battles. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Like the gravity chamber?" she said, looking up at Vegeta, who was still seething. At the guttural noise that emitted from the enraged Sayian, Bulma narrowed her eyes in understanding. "Oh. So you've broken it again, have you? Of course I suppose you'll want me to fix it, right?"

Vegeta could tolerate her insolence no longer—his pride would not allow it. He took a step closer to Bulma, face set in his most terrifying scowl. "I did not break the fucking machine, woman! If you had fixed it correctly the last time, I would be training right now!" he said, voice rising with every word.

He looked down at the woman, who seemed for the first time during their encounter to be slightly afraid. "No wonder that pathetic weakling left. You are the most worthless human being on this planet of worthless human beings. It has to be the smartest move he's ever made," he mocked. Vegeta, of course, had no idea what effect this statement would have. He only knew that Yamcha left angry and nothing of his infidelity or that their relationship was finished.

Bulma felt as if Vegeta might as well have punched her. How did he even know she and Yamcha were not together anymore? To have the subject thrown so cruelly back in her face this soon, was too much. She felt the tears well in her eyes before she could do anything to hinder their progress. Dying inside of mortification, Bulma tried to tap into her anger for a biting retort and failed. All she could find was sorrow. To her slight satisfaction, however, she could see through her watery eyes that Vegeta himself did not expect this sort of reaction from her and looked more than mildly uncomfortable. Bulma closed her eyes and felt the delinquent tears slide down her cheeks. She furiously swiped at them with the back of her hand.

"Thank you, Prince Vegeta," she managed to say in a voice that surprised herself with its steadiness, "for illustrating so eloquently how inexcusably ill-informed you are. Though, I hardly expect more from a brute who sides with perhaps the most spineless, contemptible, most unfaithful bastard in the history of such men!"

So incensed was she that she took her own step closer to the Sayian, setting them nose to nose, glaring at him—daring him to say something more. She felt a small victory when Vegeta did no more than draw his brows tightly over his dark eyes and cross his arms over his chest. Bulma turned stiffly and continued on her way up the stairs, quickening her pace until she reached her room and slammed the door shut.

Standing under the scalding spray of the shower, the woman's face kept appearing before Vegeta's eyes—her shocked tear-filled gaze, mouth set in a saddened "o," the woman's ethereal hair framing her face like a goddess of Vegeta. Then, like lightning, she pulled her composure about her, insulting and getting in his face without even a glimmer of apprehension. That the woman possessed such control, especially when she frequently exercised none, impressed Vegeta, though he would be loath to admit such a thing.

"So that loser cheated on the woman," Vegeta said with a snort. "He's even more daft than I credited him." Stepping out of the shower, he quickly dried himself with a flare of his ki, sending small tendrils of steam dissipating into the air. He eyed the cold bed as he tread noiselessly into his bedchamber. Deciding against the thing, he turned in favor of the French doors that led to his balcony.

Vegeta always managed to find at least a modicum of solace from the endless night sky. Perched rather comfortably upon the balcony rail, he fancied he could see the brilliant red gleam of a star that should have its rightful place in this majestical roof and, yet, did not. Yes, tonight would be yet another in a string of sleepless nights spent on the balcony by the handsome Sayian, prince of a destroyed planet and a decimated race.

With his head resting lightly against the wall, Vegeta was just dozing off when his acute hearing carried to him the careful closing of the front door and soft footfalls on the pavement below. Obsidian eyes flashed down to the ground below him and saw the figure of the woman walking slowly down the sidewalk and away from the compound.

"What the blazes could the woman be doing?" Vegeta mumbled grumpily to himself. Interested, however, he decided to sate his curiosity and follow her. Besides, if something ill befell the "crazy wench"—as all manner of ill things do tend to befall unprotected women at night—then who the hell would fix his gravity chamber? Taking flight soundlessly, Vegeta, high above in the chilly night air, began to follow the woman.

As soon as Bulma slammed the door shut to her room, she began ripping off her dress, finding it was absolutely suffocating her in her present state. Moments later, the gown lie in an undignified heap on the floor whilst Bulma stood clad in nothing save her undergarments, breathing heavily, but determined nonetheless not to cry once more. Throwing down her copious amounts of unneeded pillows and sliding underneath her satin-lined comforter, Bulma waited for sleep to overtake her and rid her of this most horrid day.

Alas, though she wait patiently, all Bulma accomplished was a good deal of tossing and turning. Though her body was dreadfully, painfully tired, her brain refused her a respite. The wicked thing was intent upon playing the last scenes of the evening repeatedly on the screen of her inner mind.

Finally throwing off her covers in disgust, Bulma, not caring over the severely late hour, resolved that a walk would do to clear her mind. Pulling on jeans, an old college sweatshirt, and her favourite flip-flops, she made her way quietly through the darkened home and into the softly moonlit night.

Bulma walked aimlessly through the city: down one street, turn right, amble through a park, turn left, etc. Her steady footfalls put her into an almost trance-like state. It is no surprise, then, that she barely noticed the tears that clouded her vision from time to time, nor that she was completely ignorant of walking into a fairly rough neighborhood. Perhaps her most dangerous oversight was failing to hear that she was no longer alone.

Two rather coarse fellows dressed in baggy, dark clothing and armed with sinister looks and intentions drew out of a shadowed alleyway. Pulled like magnets toward the lone figure of the beautiful, oblivious, blue-haired woman, they began to slink down the sidewalk behind her.

Unexplainably, Bulma felt the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck come to attention. Focussing her eyes for the first time in at least half an hour on where exactly she was, she felt her stomach sink as she took in her surroundings. Inwardly cursing herself for her absurd lack of attention, Bulma felt thankful that she was not lost. At least, she didn't think she was lost.

To her dismay, though, she grew aware of a terrible feeling gripping her, as if a steel vice had been clamped around her poor stomach. Something was not as it should be. Stopping, Bulma forced herself to remain calm. The 'feeling,' she rationalized, was more than likely brought about by lack of sleep and that she was out alone at night. Panic would accomplish nothing for her.

"Fantastic," she muttered for the sake of hearing something in the eerily quiet night. She turned around to begin making her way back home, but abruptly came to a halt. The two ruffians were right in front of Bulma, leering salaciously at her.

"Oh!" Bulma started, now realizing what her terrible feeling had been prognosticating. Half believing the situation was too fantastical, too cliché to occur, Bulma took an involuntary step backwards with a shake of her head.

"Where d'you think you're going, Missy?" the taller of the two said with a deranged grin. The other man chuckled lowly behind him.

Knowing this was going downhill faster than a fat kid can eat cake, Bulma instinctively turned to run. A grimy, powerful hand on her shoulder stopped her progress, however. The shorter fellow spun her around so that her back was pressed against his front. Struggling with the too strong arms, Bulma felt a wave of sheer horror encompass her being. She could not have screamed if her life depended on it, which, now, might very well be the case.

The taller man approached the terrified beauty, "Now, Missy. You've gone and hurt our feelings," he said in mock sorrow. "Why'd you have to go and run away from us?" He leaned in closer to Bulma's face. He was so close, she could see the flecks of yellow that dotted the whites of his eyes and smell his rancid breath. Grinning, he revealed a row of perfectly blackened teeth. "We only want a bittuv fun!" he laughed. Bulma felt the man behind her chuckle his hot breath into her ear as he sniffed her hair.

Bulma twisted her head away in disgust. Angered, the man held her more tightly, smiling evilly when he heard her give a short whimper. She managed to find her voice. "I-I don't have any money, I swear! Just let me go, please!"

Sliding his grubby hands up her sweatshirt and pressing himself against her, the taller man whispered. "It ain't your money we want, Missy…."

That was it. She would not play the poor, defenseless woman any longer. She would not let these men do this to her. Squirming beneath his touch, she yelled. "NO! GET OFF OF M—" the man holding her crushed his palm across Bulma's mouth, preventing her from making any more noise. It did not, however, prevent her from kicking the man in the groin as he continued to grope at her form.

Vegeta was floating on his back, watching the stars, using the time for meditation, which is why he did not register the raise in the woman's ki. He did hear, though, her high-pitched, franticly protesting voice. Instantly alert, he flipped over just in time to witness Bulma kick a man who was assaulting her in the groin.

"Fuck!" He cursed when he saw the second man grappling violently with the struggling woman. Taking a nosedive, Vegeta sped to Bulma's aide. "How did I know this would happen? Foolish woman!" he growled in anger, though there was more concern in his voice than he would care to admit.

Alighting behind the man who held Bulma captive, he forcefully swung the brute around, and before he could make any comment, punched him square in the gut. He promptly fell backwards onto Bulma.

The taller man was trying to get up, still clutching his aching person, sputtering angrily. "Stupid bitch! I'll make you pay for that, you blasted whore!" When he finally glanced up, though, he was met with Vegeta's livid face instead of Bulma's.

"Pathetic weakling," he sneered, reaching down and snapping the bastard's neck. Throwing the man's body effortlessly into the alleyway from whence he came, Vegeta turned his attention to the woman.

Bulma felt the man's grip on her cease to exist, but before she could comprehend what was happening or make her escape, his full weight fell upon her back, pinning her to the ground. While she struggled with the lug's unresponsive body, she heard the other man's angry grumblings and began to panic. What was going on? What would happen to her? She did not pursue that avenue of thought, though it was quite clear what the men's intentions were.

Suddenly, the great weight of the man's body lifted off her. Fearing it was the taller man coming for her, Bulma struck out blindly in fear. When two powerful hands encompassed her own, rendering them immobile, she panicked even more. "NO! Damn it, let me go! Let me go!" she sobbed hysterically.

Vegeta cursed. He should have known she would be hysterical. Although, he did not expect her to be so forceful in her protestations. Bringing Bulma's flailing, he said sharply, "Woman! Stop this at once. You are safe. They are gone now."

Vegeta's harsh voice penetrated Bulma's frenzy. Realizing she knew who held her, and that she was indeed safe, Bulma ceased her struggles. Looking up through tear-filled eyes, she saw Vegeta's scowling visage, and thought it had never looked so good as it did this moment.

Vegeta let her go when he knew she would not resist him. Taking in her mussed hair, tear-streaked face, and growing look of shock, Vegeta felt a surge of new anger at the imbeciles for their unforgivable actions. He wished he could give them a proper beating. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

Stunned at seeing Vegeta, of all people, here with her, Bulma dazedly shook her head. "No…I-I'm fine…I think," she stuttered out.

"Foolish woman! What were you thinking?" Vegeta remonstrated, meeting her numb gaze and feeling his own countenance soften the tiniest bit.

"I know it was stupid. It was stupid of me to go out, but I c-couldn't sleep and…. I-I just want to go home," Bulma finished in a small voice. "Please, take me home, V-Vegeta..."

Vegeta knew the woman was not 'fine,' as she claimed to be. She was shivering violently and going into shock. He grunted in acquiescence and stepped forward to scoop her up. With the woman securely in his arms, he lifted into the air and slowly set off for Capsule Corp.

Bulma realized she was shivering when she felt the warmth of Vegeta's body slowly seeping into her own. She finally felt safe wrapped in his powerful arms as they made their way through the night sky. Bulma's mind, now that it had the chance, cruelly reminded her of the complete lucklessness of her predicament. It bore down upon her until she could no longer ignore all she had just been through. The poor woman could not stop the barrage of tears for all the world. She tucked her head more securely into Vegeta's warm, solid chest and waited for the sobs to subside.

Feeling the woman convulse, he looked down to see her silent tears. Not knowing what to do with a crying woman, Vegeta just let her cry, her warm tears trickling down his chest. Unconsciously, he tightened his hold on the woman.

He wondered how he would explain how he knew she was in danger. Admit to following her? Certainly not. But what did he care? He was the Prince of all Sayians! He could do whatever he damn well pleased without having to offer an explanation to anyone!

By the time the pair reached Bulma's window, she was asleep. Vegeta quietly opened the window and floated into her chamber. Softly padding over to her bed, he leaned down and began gently disentangling her soft arms from around his neck. Pulling the comforter over her, he prepared to leave. At the window, he heard her quiet whisper.

"Vegeta, wait…"

He turned and saw the glowing cobalt of the woman's eyes staring at him from where she propped herself up in her bed. She nervously dropped her gaze and began picking at a thread on her comforter. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I meant none of it, really. I was just…angry already."

Vegeta grunted, which Bulma deciphered as an acceptance of her apology. She looked up at him again. "And I wanted to thank you for…saving me," she whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"The action needs no thanks," Vegeta said quietly. "It was a matter of honour." Vegeta gathered his brows in consternation. It was disgraceful how the woman's tears affected him so. "You should sleep," he said gruffly.

He opened the window, yet was again stopped by the woman's almost lyrical voice. "Wait," she said timidly. "Will you stay, please? I…I don't want to be alone." Bulma said the last so softly that if Vegeta were not Vegeta, he would not have heard.

To his surprise, Vegeta found himself closing the window and walking over to an armchair in the corner next to the woman's bed. "This damn planet is making me soft," he complained lowly.

Bulma must have heard, for she said with the barest hint of a smile, "Thank you." Snuggling deeper under her covers, Bulma closed her eyes and finally was able to sleep.

Vegeta sat in the shadows of the armchair watching the slow rise and fall of the woman's breathing for a long while. Resting his head wearily against the back of the chair, Vegeta sought sleep himself. No easy feat when all around him was the intoxicating scent of that woman. He himself reeked of her.

If you read and enjoyed...or did not enjoy, though I hope that is not the case, then please review. Thanks a bunch!

-ASA : )