Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball, but I sure wish I did.
Hi! I'd like to offer a big thank you to everyone who took the time to read, follow, favourite and comment on this story, it is much appreciated ^_^. Apologies in advance for this chapter since there is a lot of Yamacha, but he is a necessary evil that has to be expunged before we can move on to the good stuff ;).
Chapter 2 - Ennui
Bulma negatively inspected the line of closely spaced hedges that had somehow matured into an overgrown eyesore. Her mother and her army of bots were usually more diligent when it came to the general upkeep and maintenance of the grounds, so she wondered how they could have made such a glaring oversight when the rest of the gardens looked immaculate. The hedges had enlarged at the top, propagating disorderedly into a V shape that was the deciduous double of a man's torso, and that was also happening to shade its own lower branches. The shrubs had multiplied so densely that now even sunlight couldn't penetrate any of the interior growth, which had resulted in a massive buildup that was dead on the inside yet was still extending further outwards with each passing year.
The entire hedgerow was in desperate need of rejuvenation and with hand-held shears, Bulma was trying to return the populous plant to its former state of excellence. She clipped some branches at a 45-degree angle, thinning out spots of thick outer cover so that new bud production could be stimulated near the plant's edges. Next, she removed one third of the thickest stems from down the base of the shrub and excised the suckers, those small fine branches that distended from off of the trunk. The excess foliage fell away without a struggle as she trimmed across the top of the plant. The hedges were beginning to look neat and tidy again, with its inner limbs now exposed to the light and air it sorely needed to be able to thrive. As she continued moving down the hedges with conveyor belt efficiency, she trod on the growing mound of once glossy, dark green leaves and red berries whose bloom had turned brown, her feet crunching it all into mulch. Finally, the hedges were transformed, being simplified into a fresh base where new growth could originate.
Bulma put her shears down, pleased with her stubborn victory over nature, and glanced up, realizing that her gardening efforts had led her from one point of the backyard to another as she followed the straight line of the hedges. Right in front of her now was the back of Vegeta's head, as he sat at the long table that had been brought outside so her family, the Saiyan and her boyfriend could all dine al fresco. Her mother was as usual slaving away over the yakiniku grill so that her men wouldn't go hungry. Vegeta was digging into an overloaded plate of steaks that were still a little blue and had blood drizzling off them. He seemed completely oblivious to her presence behind him, and his unruly tangle of spikes called for her tender loving care in the same way the shrubs she had just painstakingly groomed had.
Bulma's fingers itched. She moved the handle of the shears so that the blades clicked sharply a few times. Why not give Vegeta a haircut? He had after all seen fit to play stylist with her hair. The mysterious man could use a new mystery makeover, she herself wouldn't even know how it would turn out. Bulma surreptitiously wielded the shears over Vegeta's head.
Vegeta could always sense an oncoming attack before the physical strike arrived. But for the second time with Bulma, he was unnerved by the fact that she had landed a strike on him without his radar detecting anything first. Why was that? Maybe her ki was just so laughably low that his internal alert system hadn't registered a threat. But as he was slowly coming to find out, that was a mistake. Bulma may not be able to physically harm him, but she could annoy him to the point of aneurysm, and that was definitely something he wanted to avoid. So when his hair had softly peppered across his face, he had thought that some loose strands were just being dislodged with the wind. But as an inordinate amount of hair collected in his lap, he finally perceived the rapid little deviations of the shears as Bulma seemed to be pruning his hair at random.
Vegeta sprung from his chair, and in one swift motion, he had swiped the shears from her hand. "What do you think you're doing?" he whispered, his voice seeping into her like a lethal dose of radiation.
Bulma was all doe-eyed and innocent, pretending not to grasp that she was frolicking in a danger zone. "I was just changing up your look. The interplanetary murderer and the primitive monkey look are so dépassé, Vegeta."
He felt his anger start to simmer in his chest, his look that could inspire fear throughout the universe would always be au courant and would never go out of style. Vegeta's hand felt around the back of his head, patting discontentedly at his shaven down spikes like a cranky rhinoceros poached of its horn. "Is that what you call butchering the back of my head? A new look? You know that attacking my hair won't kill me? My hair's already dead."
"This isn't about killing you, it's much graver than that. I just couldn't let you desecrate my hair and get away with it."
"What are you raving about?"
"When you threw me into the pool, my perm was ruined, it took 5 hours to fix."
"That's what spurs you to arms? Hair?"
"You got that right. Now don't fuss Vegeta or I'll end up giving you a terrible haircut like a mullet." Bulma reached for the shears, pulling on them with all her might but they didn't budge from Vegeta's hold.
He snarled at her in a vicious animal tenor that a human voice couldn't reproduce.
"Oh, so sassy," Bulma said unfazed, "I'm going to give you a pop idol hair cut, you'd look great with bangs."
Vegeta yanked roughly on the shears, taking them out of Bulma's reach. "How about I scalp you instead? No more long tresses. You'll be balder than that chibi friend of yours. Let's get started." He widened the shears, snapping them open and shut like an alligator's jaws. "Time for a new look," he mocked. "Now don't move, you wouldn't want it to turn out uneven, or for me to accidentally, or maybe purposely cut off your head instead."
"Get away from me, monkey," Bulma warned, a little worried. Vegeta wouldn't actually cut off all her hair, would he? It'd be so rude to do something like that to a woman, particularly her, who had to keep up with appearances.
As Bulma and Vegeta's argument threatened to boil over into a full-blown brawl, Yamacha had just been staring at them dumbfounded while he ate. It wasn't unusual to see Bulma upbraid anyone who had the misfortune to stoke her ire or who even just crossed paths with her on the wrong day. He had been on the receiving end of her firestorm more times than he could count, where she could reduce him into being just some abject weakling even though he was one of the strongest fighters on Earth. He just couldn't seem to muster up the required strength for a fight when it came to her. So the high-pitched screaming that was directed towards the no-good psychopath she had chosen to house, and the incessant complaints against him that piled up like hate mail, were just newfangled threads that fit seamlessly into the chaotic tapestry of life at Capsule Corp.
But something was different now in her interactions with the alien fiend, and it had nothing to do with Bulma but everything to do with Vegeta. Vegeta was a man of fists not words and Bulma's words had frequently written him into a chapter of untold rage that was displayed openly on his face for all to read. His responses to her had previously only been in caveman grunts that were spit out in lieu of words. Yamacha believed that it was only a matter of time before he responded with violence. All men had their breaking point and Bulma liked to antagonize things to that point, she just couldn't resist poking a sleeping beast in the eye. Why Vegeta hadn't reacted violently so far, Yamacha had a vague guess that it had something to do with the gravity ship and that he'd be willing to take some verbal abuse in exchange for the key to the Super Saiyan kingdom, that same hypergravity that Goku had used. But that had changed, sometime during his two years on Earth, his speech patterns had diversified and he had learned to keep his fists to himself…for the most part.
Yamacha had been absolutely astonished when he had discovered that Vegeta had become a much more active participant in Bulma's usually one-sided sniping. He hadn't been privy to the events that had begot this change, but it definitely had to have been something drastic. Vegeta must have reached a different sort of breaking point, perhaps Bulma's heckling had fried the neural networks in his brain. Whatever had happened though, he didn't like it. He wouldn't have appreciated anyone becoming better acquainted with his girlfriend, but it was especially upsetting when that person was his own killer. From his observations, Bulma had lowered her defenses against him and Vegeta had slightly done the same with her, while Yamacha was just raising his guard higher and higher against them.
He continued to watch their mêlée over the shears while he chewed the steak in his mouth to mush in the same way a cow chews at cud. He heard the insults fire between them that snapped, crackled and popped like little fireworks being set off that accompanied the sound of the meat bubbling on the yakiniku grill. Bulma bumped into the table, knocking over the dishes, as she prevented her cauliflowered head from being speared by the shears.
A little thought that was as maniacal as it was obvious struck him, it would be considered abusive and extreme by anyone else's standards, but were they flirting with each other? Bulma had always been flirtatious, but besides him, no one had ever reciprocated it before. Yamacha's mouth was full yet felt incredibly empty, all he could taste was the bitterness of these new ideas. He would put a stop to their unholy racket. And furthermore, he didn't want to risk Vegeta making his girlfriend's head as hairless as a baby bird's; no, he only liked the bald eagle look in one spot and it wasn't on her head. But before he could swallow and give them a mouthful, and to tell them to cut it out already, Bulma's mother interrupted.
"Bulma-chan, you shouldn't fight with your boyfriend in front of guests," Panchy scolded.
Bulma immediately let go of the shears with which she had been playing tug of war with Vegeta. She looked away from Vegeta and towards her mother, her eyes bugging in alarm as she let out an indignant snort. "Umm, Mama, Yamacha is my boyfriend," her hands flapping towards her boyfriend whose mouth was hanging open, with the chewed-up food visible for all to see. Bulma then pointed her finger vigorously, like a stab at the other man. "This is Vegeta, alien guy who is not my boyfriend, remember?"
Panchy's eyes opened a tad, as she squinted dumbly at the two very appalled men in front of her. "Oh yes, of course," she twittered, "but honey, it just gets so confusing when there are so many handsome men around the house. You can't blame me for thinking like I do when you and Vegeta are always at it like rabbits."
At that Freudian slip, Yamacha involuntarily swallowed, but the food went down the wrong tube, so he ended up choking on a piece of broccoli. He was choking not even on meat but a vegetable.
Panchy placed the barbecue tongs across her chest as she thought it over again. "Or does the expression go, at it like cats and dogs? I always get those two mixed up," she giggled. "Now you all enjoy your meal," she used the tongs to signal to the table, summoning them to come sit down and eat, "and you boys learn to get along, Bulma can only date one of you."
Vegeta dropped the shears to the ground, his hairdressing aspirations completely abandoned. He was still not well-versed in Earth colloquialisms, but even with his partial knowledge, he could understand that some sexual allusion had been made between him and the onna. How ridiculous and embarrassing it all was. Bulma's mother truly lived on the other side of the tracks parallel to sanity if she could offhandedly say something like that. At least Bulma looked as uncomfortable as he did at that declaration, as they both sat down at the table sheepishly.
"For Kami's sake, mother," Bulma said in an exasperated tone that her mother frequently forced her to dust off, "I'm only dating Yamacha, the same guy that I've been dating for the past 14 years."
"Well that's good to hear Bulma-chan, you know I taught you better than to date multiple suitors at once. I won't have any daughter of mine becoming some sort of polygamist. Imagine what the neighbours would say, not to mention the tabloids…"
Bulma groaned and covered her ears. Her mother was simply incorrigible.
As they all ate dinner in sulky silence, Yamacha looked from Bulma to Vegeta, who were avoiding each other's gaze even more so than was normal. Yamacha couldn't detect any hatred for the other in either of their eyes, what he saw instead was the same shared look that was more like a chaser to some drunken escapade. And in Yamacha's mind, now the seeds of doubt were planted.
...
Over the past few weeks, Yamacha had tried to limit the possible interactions between Bulma and Vegeta, by taking Bulma on dates far away from Capsule Corp. and by convincing her to sleep over at his apartment with increasing regularity. Although Vegeta was the invisible man for the most part, he unfailingly showed up for each and every meal. It wasn't like Yamacha could just ban Bulma from entering the kitchen whenever Vegeta was there. Kami help him, would she ever take that the wrong way, thinking that he was trying to imply she was fat. In fact, she had been rather sensitive about her weight lately, but that couldn't have had anything to do with him, he knew that topic was taboo. So dinner time was inevitably when the two would be brought together, and he used that time to watch them as closely as a mother hen watches over her eggs. And sometimes it was good to have the two guilty parties in the same vicinity to test whether any of his suspicions bore any fruit. That was the situation he presently found himself in, so he'd make the most of it performing surveillance.
Bulma was preparing karubi for their dinner on the patio outside while Yamacha and Vegeta waited on the lawn furniture surrounding her. Every now and again, Vegeta would pound his fist into the white plastic table as a wordless prompt to get Bulma to hurry up and feed him, while she swore at him under her breath. Everything so far had been fairly inoffensive between them, until something small but disturbing happened, that was only made all the more disturbing because Yamacha believed that he was the only one to have noticed it, and that it was unknown to the actual players involved.
It was a rather chilly evening for the normally warm West City, but despite the crispness of the air, Bulma's skin hadn't broken into gooseflesh. The goosebumps had only started to dot her skin when her fingers blink-and-you'll-miss-it quick, brushed against Vegeta's as she passed a whole platter of braised short ribs to him. Yamacha saw her rub her pimpled arms and finally saw her rub her hands over the heat of the grill, trying to warm them. Bulma's skin had been impervious to the cold weather, but just one miniscule touch from Vegeta had sent her running for warmer climes. The ice queen, the head bitch of science, could actually feel a frisson right under her skin, and it was Vegeta, not him, that was chilling her from hot to cold, like your warm breath rising in an icy mist under arctic temperatures. Bulma's mind may not have known it, but her body could tell no lies. She was affected by him.
"Bulma, I think we should go inside."
"Huh?" Bulma looked surprised, looking back at him from the grill. "I haven't made your portion yet. Don't you want any?"
"No, I'm not hungry." He waited for her to turn off the grill, before he led her away by her hand, and under his hand's insistence, her goosebumps gave way to flesh that was as slippery as fish gills, and that was becoming harder and harder to maintain a hold on.
Yamacha glanced at Vegeta, and was shocked to see that for once Vegeta was looking right back at him. Vegeta never directly looked at him, perhaps because Vegeta thought he was still nobility and that Yamacha was just some lowly peon that was beneath his notice. But over a mountain of meat, Vegeta's eyes met his, heavy with cruel understanding or his regular taunting, Yamacha couldn't tell which.
Vegeta growled and then bit off a large chunk of meat that left only the yellowed bone behind. His eyes traveled from Yamacha to Bulma's backside, her curves being illustrated by the tightness of her bandage dress.
Yamacha's hands shielded her from view and he butted her back inside the door, while Bulma yelled at him to treat a lady like her gently.
Vegeta only laughed.
Puar had watched this strange exchange where his master had refused them both dinner. He still wanted to eat, but while looking back and forth from Yamacha to Vegeta, he twirled in after Yamacha, being less hungry than he was scared of Vegeta and his sonorous laugh.
How had it happened? Bulma asked herself. What was the source of this growing malaise that tainted everything it touched? When had she come to loathe the one she loved and his lack of ambition, his abounding immaturity, his wandering eye, his brash, quick and uninspired lovemaking, his oversimplifications and inability to have a deep, meaningful and intelligent conversation?
She had noticed the beginnings of rot after Yamacha had come back from death completely unchanged, with no rouse to action, just with the same complacency as before, even though his next death was already preordained with the arrival of the androids. But the origins of her contempt must have started years earlier in gestures that she should have found endearing. A large part of it must have been in the way he clung to her, like a child to its mother, making her the only real jewel in the zirconia of his life and making the wooing of her his life's greatest achievement.
But more than that, she knew everything about him and could predict his every move with no mystery. As a scientist, she was drawn to the mysteries of nature that presented as a bottomless well. Whereas, with Yamacha, his nature was barren and had been deforested of all enigmas. His thoughts and ambitions were weak little saplings that she could rip out at will using just the wind power of her voice. From the hidden canopy of her innermost thoughts, she could only see his dead wood.
And fittingly then, like an addendum to her mental analysis, she felt him wilt inside her.
Yamacha pulled out, muttered some apology and an excuse as to why this kept happening so often. He then began stroking himself to try to relight the fire, while looking hopefully to Bulma, so that maybe she would take it upon herself to water him back up with her mouth.
But Bulma had nothing to water him with, the thirst, the moisture had all dried up. She couldn't even remember how long this unsatisfying sexual drought had lasted between them. All she knew was that the lust that had once been in constant bloom between her legs had dried into a desert.
But forget about her sex deprivation for a second, Yamacha couldn't even maintain an erection with her nowadays. In the past, that would have triggered a lot of anxiety for her but now she was just relieved, it meant that sex between them didn't last for very long. She should have been more concerned though, this was about her boyfriend's health, and maybe Yamacha had erectile dysfunction that was just going undiagnosed. Kami, maybe she needed to get him a senzu bean or some other stimulant it keep it up. But with Vegeta it wouldn't take some magic beans to get a beanstalk to grow...
Her body bucked up in surprise, in the same way it would have responded to a man's teasing hand. Now why had her mind wandered to Vegeta in the most intimate of moments? She assumed it was because she was bored in her relationship and that he was the only other man in her age bracket that was around to compare with Yamacha. It wasn't because she felt any attraction towards the little hobgoblin. No fucking way! The real reason though must have been because he was exciting. She knew next to nothing about him, but she was now trapped in his labyrinth, having previously entered it through their war games, not being able to exit until she explored every thorny crevice and every dead end that opened to new possibilities within him.
Vegeta was an unknown, an x-factor she had to solve for, while Yamacha was a given, a proof she had solved long ago. Vegeta drove her crazy, but it was exciting, it was passion, it was feeling, it was something, unlike this heat death of a relationship.
Yamacha reached for her body to try to make love to her again, and Bulma just wanted to shudder at his touch, that touch that was just a baby's blanket of comfort and familiarity. But what about with Vegeta? How would he touch her? He had already done it before with violence. She already knew that his touch was abrading lace and leather, the clip of a bullwhip…she stopped herself from going any further.
She felt something warm in the pit of her stomach that scratched at her insides as it made its way downwards. What was this feeling again? It wasn't altogether unpleasant, but it seemed deceitful, false and not something she wanted to share with Yamacha.
Bulma pulled away from Yamacha. His arms chopped away from hers as easily as twigs, his fingers like thick and stubby potato tubers unstuck from hers and his gangly legs like pistils and stamens were plucked away from hers. She shook every bit of him off her, and Yamacha's arousal similarly raked back into himself.
"You don't want to do it?" Yamacha asked sadly.
"I'm no longer in the mood," Bulma explained shortly, finally feeling that warm feeling melt away too. No, she certainly didn't want anymore of whatever he was trying to give her, but Yamacha still had his uses. This waste, this manure between them, was indubitably fertilizing something new between her and Vegeta - a voracious thrill.
It shouldn't have been like this; she wouldn't have found any of this to be nearly as exciting if Yamacha just wasn't so boring. Now how had she become so heartless? This was her boyfriend, her lover, her partner in crime, or had Vegeta replaced the last part?
She loved him. Oh love, it was such a fickle thing except when it wasn't, like in her case. Hers and Yamacha's love had stretched thin throughout the years. Their love was a soil once rich that was suffering from demineralization and a loss of nutrients. She loved him, but could she subsist on this tasteless gruel of love any longer? She loved him, but she loved excitement, she loved herself more. She loved him so what could she do? She loved him so she'd just have to hope for spring. Until then she had her ennui to keep her warm and unfeeling.
And just for a moment, instead of loving herself, she hated herself. This was emotional cheating, it was wrong, Yamacha didn't deserve this. But how could she stop the sprinkler of her thoughts that were hosing down Yamacha but were still gentle enough to let ideas of Vegeta grow?
Yamacha lay on Bulma's bed, worry and a devastating sense of loss had catapulted him into dizziness. His touch that was so full of love had only earned a feeble suppression of a yawn from her. He could tell that Bulma was just barely abiding his bumbling caresses, but even she had her limits. His pride had been decimated when he saw her reach for the lube, so that she could oil herself up into an artificial wetness that he himself could no longer provide. And when her eyes had closed to him, opening instead to her own private fantasy, Yamacha wondered if it had involved him.
This contagion of paranoia that nibbled on his trust and sanity more and more each day, might not just be a fictitious illness like Munchausen's, it might just be real, which would mean their relationship was beyond recovery. But he couldn't just let her ghost him like this without trying every alternative treatment, every quack cure to save what they had, could he? Yet he couldn't even think of one thing he should try. Bulma had always been the one to repair the holes in their relationship, or she'd at least had the good sense to tell him what to do to make it all better. Everything might be fine though; he might just be imagining it all…
"Why do you like him, Bulma?" he suddenly asked, trying to sound calm when so much relied on her answer.
"Like who?"
"Vegeta," he said reproachfully, as if it were the most reviled word in the universal tongue.
"I wouldn't say I like him. He's not a man that anyone could really like. But it's nice to know that he won't kill me, I don't think many people alive can lay claim to that. So that's one thing to like."
"How could you possibly know that?" Yamacha demanded skeptically, lifting his head from the bed to face her.
"Oh, I know he won't kill me, of that I am certain," Bulma said, raising her eyebrows knowingly like she was keeping classified information from him.
Her doubts might be non-existent but his doubts rose again like vomit funneling up his throat that he could only just contain. "I don't see how you could think that of him, no one here is off-limits to him," Yamacha said bitterly, referring not only to death but to conquest as well.
"Because I'm still here, aren't I? Despite everything I've done and will do to make his life a living hell. You've just got to let him think he's in charge when you're really the mastermind behind everything." Bulma was curled feline-like in an armchair and the wintry gloom of the room was lit only by her cigarette, as she pondered in smoke rings that greyed to dusk.
"You don't know him," Yamacha said with a harshness that could break childhood dreams.
"And neither do you. But maybe that's the problem, maybe if we did know him, he wouldn't be so bad." Bulma took another reflective drag of her cigarette. "He is rather dedicated though, I've got to admire that. Why don't you train like that?"
There she goes, Yamacha bemoaned, singeing me with a million little burns, as carelessly as she taps the ash from her cigarette. It's not the first time and it won't be the last, and she doesn't even realize she's doing it, making this tacit comparison between me and him. "I'm not psychotic, that's why."
"Sorry," Bulma said quickly, although a real apology was the furthest thing from her tone, instead it sounded closer to ridicule. "I know you're trying your best. But you guys were the ones who decided that you just had to fight the androids instead of taking my advice and nipping it in the bud. Just please don't go and die again. I would be so very hurt if that were to happen," yet Bulma couldn't have sounded more removed.
Yamacha's head hit the bedpost, which made a dull thud, as he tried to block all of his senses from every hateful word she uttered that she falsely tried to dress up with concern.
The embers of his pride had turned to dust, and Bulma would never know it, not when she was busy lighting up someone new. Yamacha's manhood was like putty in her hands. And even Vegeta had a piece of him, where every day he made him feel like less of a man; whereas, in his masculine superiority he could make Bulma feel as bashful and as flustered as a schoolgirl. Yamacha never had that effect on her, not ever in all the time they had been lovers.
But what did Vegeta have to gain from her? Yamacha surmised that Vegeta must covet what was his, only because it was his and he saw it as something that was simply his for the taking. He couldn't really be interested in Bulma, that had to be beyond his capabilities.
Bulma likened herself to a mastermind when it came to dealing with Vegeta, but it had always been the Saiyan prince who had occupied that position. It was said that he was a brilliant tactician. After all, how else could he have survived all those years in Freeza's employ? Bulma would be burned by him and Yamacha was already toast.
He knew all this, his mind was convinced that it was the truth and not a conspiracy theory, yet inertia still weighed him down and he was powerless to reverse it.
'No, I can't let it end like this!'
He jumped from the bed, as if struck by an electric shock, "I've gotta go," Yamacha said, pulling his arms through his shirt. "I'm going to go train in the desert tomorrow. You're right Bulma, I do need to step up my training."
Bulma let her cigarette smoulder in the ashtray, "Take care, Yamacha," she murmured, with her eyes never leaving her cloud of smoke.
When Yamacha left, Bulma remained seated in her plush armchair, picking at the chenille, while she contemplated her entire relationship with Yamacha from lighthearted teens to indifferent adults. The most enduring image she had of Yamacha, that was stamped permanently in her mind, was his lopsided grin that barely showed his teeth, exhibiting shyness rather than menace, and his eyes that hung slipshod on his face as two empty lockets that were the keeper of no secrets or enticements.
This is how it feels when the passion is dead, Bulma concluded like a death sentence. How could she enliven their passion, and more importantly, did she even want to?
Bulma touched the heart-shaped locket that was as irritating as a noose around her neck. Yamacha had given it to her years before for her birthday and she had worn it regularly ever since. But now Bulma wanted to replace it with something else, maybe with a necklace of black opals?
Bulma finally got up, stretching her limbs and her locket slid into her open palm. It had taken just a few absent tugs from her fingers to detach it. As Bulma inspected the broken clasp, she decided that it was about time the trinket broke. She could easily fix it but somehow she didn't have the will.
The locket had opened on its own, and the picture of her and Yamacha enclosed within, teenage and in love, had fluttered somewhere to the floor. Her furry rug had tall fibres, so she couldn't immediately locate the photo anywhere. She also wasn't willing to search for it on hand and knee. Just let it be, I'll find it eventually or the cleaning bots will, she thought lazily. But that gift was from Yamacha, it was a symbol of his undying love, she couldn't just let it get buried within her carpet and eventually trampled on by careless feet. She grumbled as she bent to her knees, and groped blindly at the ground. She needed to relearn how to miss him, how to be attracted to him, not only to love him, so maybe some time apart was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Bulma wearily straightened herself back up, having finally retrieved the necklace. She turned the locket over in her hands, clinically appraising its value. The gold was so thin and brittle in her hands. Did this ever used to sparkle? she asked herself. She couldn't recall, but maybe the gold had always just been rusty tin.
She walked over to her vanity and filed the locket far away in a jewellery box of rosewood. The wood itself was so worn and old, and the latch on the box could also no longer close. It was another relic of her adolescence that had been carried thoughtlessly into her adulthood, when it should have been discarded long ago. She swept her hand across her bare neck while looking at herself in the vanity mirror. Her neck seemed smaller and deformed with nothing there to decorate it.
Despite having stated his training intentions to Bulma, Yamacha hadn't withdrawn from Capsule Corp. property. He was still there hours later, skipping rocks across the pond in the garden.
After a long wait, when he knew that everyone was asleep, even Vegeta, he turned to his faithful companion. "Puar, it's time," he said.
"Are we going to the desert now, Yamacha-sama?" his loyal cat inquired, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace.
"Not yet, I'm just going to try this first," he said pointing towards the gravity chamber that loomed ominously ahead of them.
"Are you sure?" Puar squeaked.
"Yes. Anything Vegeta can do, I can do," he proclaimed, his body finally ready to take a stand and to fight for the woman he loved.
While Yamacha attempted to train like Vegeta, Bulma had a dream that was both like a nightmare and a prophecy combined into one. She was clutching Pandora's box beside a bottomless well. It was up to her to decide whether she would throw the box into its fathomless depths or open it and bring a pestilence onto the world. The logical response was to dispose of it so that it could never wreak havoc. But something made her hesitate.
The box had its own dark charm. It was carved of onyx, that was just too sleek and beautiful to destroy. And just because you are warned about something, that doesn't automatically make it dangerous. What's secret can only be speculated upon until it lets itself be known. What if Pandora's box held some secret joy? Wouldn't she then be committing a disservice to the world to not release it?
All of a sudden, the box almost plunged into the deep on its own, for it began to rattle and hum, demanding to be opened, while jerking up and down in her hands. Bulma reaffirmed her hold on the box, and fingered the lock that was hot to the touch. Remember, her own voice whispered through her head light and mysterious, you have your own veritable Pandora's box that's rattling for you to open it.
"Vegeta," Bulma gasped in realization, her hand rushing to her voice box, brushing against the locket around her neck. His name rang out so sweetly and so terribly in that dreamscape. And then she understood what the box contained.
A heart! A heart that's rattling to be freed. A heart that's shrunken and diseased and that would not heal unless she allowed it. All at once, she had decided. She was going to open the box, "And may Kami help me," she prayed.
The water in the bottomless well began to gurgle and churn and rise in jets to the surface. It wanted its payment and it wanted it now. And Bulma also realized that it was no ordinary well but a wishing well, and a wish would be hers if she gifted it a token. There was no question about it, she ripped the necklace from her neck and threw it as far down the well as she was able. The waters quietened, accepting her token, until all she could see was the same opaque blackness as before.
"I wish for Vegeta's salvation," she cried, "for all of our salvation!"
Bulma woke up, feeling like she was tumbling through the air without a parachute. "What a strange dream," she breathed. She looked to her left, insanely expecting to see Vegeta in bed beside her, but she was alone, not even Yamacha was there.
The following morning Bulma awoke to the always delightful sounds of His Royal Pain in the Ass shouting and threatening. Bulma was about to close her eyes and fall back into a deep sleep, which was always how the nouveau riche like her should respond to an entitled ancien régime prick like him, but then she realized that he was wasn't yelling at her but at Yamacha instead. But why? What did they have to fight about?
Once Yamacha had returned from the dead and Vegeta had returned from space, there had been some minor altercations between the two of them, that Bulma had to diplomatically squash. But it hadn't taken Yamacha long to learn that if he wanted to stay alive, it was best that he not engage with Vegeta in any way, similar to how he avoided her when she was in one of her bad moods. There had been an unstable truce at Capsule Corp, and she saw no reason why it had to be annulled now.
No longer asleep, but more curious and feeling the beginnings of anger start to heat at her chest instead, Bulma climbed out of bed and pulled on her leopard print robe. Bulma made it downstairs and through the large picture window that looked out onto the backyard, she saw Yamacha and Vegeta with their chests hitting off each other's, looking like some cocksure…well, cocks, trying to assert their male dominance.
She could hear Vegeta, his voice was now low and controlled, which meant he had entered a higher level of rage and that Yamacha had better watch out, as he said, "Don't deny it, Earthling, I know you put your dirty hands on what's mine. I can sense, I can smell what you did."
And Yamacha, instead of walking away and being the bigger man, goaded Vegeta instead, "So what if I did? Nothing here belongs to you. You possess nothing and you are nothing."
Vegeta grabbed the front of Yamacha's dogi, and finally there was a smudge of fear in Yamacha's eyes at the dire predicament that he had gotten himself into.
"If I am nothing, then what does that make you? I must be something in a class above you if I can blast you into nothingness."
Kami give her strength. Bulma sighed, Yamacha was going to get himself killed. Bulma barrelled over to them, her anger now as hot as the Earth's core, as she put a steadying, reprimanding hand over Vegeta's, who was positioning a blue flame of ki over Yamacha's head.
"What the fuck are you two doing?" she shrieked. "If you two idiots want to beat each other up, then do it far away from my house. And Yamacha," Bulma scolded, "I thought you knew better than to try to provoke Vegeta. He doesn't have any decency unlike the rest of us."
The cobalt ki flowed back into Vegeta's body and he let Yamacha go like he was a sack of rotting garbage. "That is correct," Vegeta affirmed, turning himself towards Bulma, with his teeth glittering at her like very white and very sharp sabres. "I don't have a decent bone in my body."
Bulma crossed her arms and managed to look down on Vegeta, even though they were both equally tall. "And you Vegeta, don't you have anything better to do? You're like a broken record with your I must constantly train jabber, so why aren't you doing it?" Bulma saw that she was rattling the sabre-toothed Saiyan, which was exactly what she had to do to deflect attention away from her poor outmatched boyfriend.
Vegeta growled at her, "I was, until this weakling dared to pollute my gravity chamber with his pathetic attempts at training. He should know his limits, they have been met; whereas, I am only just beginning to test mine. I bet he didn't even last a minute in there."
Yamacha perked up again, ready to add in his denial, but Bulma was quicker. "Yamacha is this true?"
Yamacha nodded sullenly at her.
"Are you insane? You're human remember? Human anatomy can't endure ultra gravitation without severe side effects. You're lucky to be alive."
"Hahaha," Vegeta laughed with cruel amusement, "how does it feel to have your own woman agree with me and to have no faith in you?"
Bulma turned back towards him, ready to tear him apart as well. "Don't be so smug Vegeta. Frankly, I don't know why you haven't keeled over yet either. You're looking more battered with each passing day."
For a brief second, Vegeta looked over his body, momentarily questioning if what she said was true. Nope, she was completely wrong in her criticisms, as usual. "I'm a Saiyan, exercising my body to its maximum limit only makes me stronger. You're just a carping vermin woman. Now go away," he said stepping away from her and back towards Yamacha, "there's nothing Saiyans hate more than having a fight disrupted. I intend to give weakling here a beating."
Bulma had made a valiant attempt to distract Vegeta, but he had never lost sight of his victim. Vegeta punched Yamacha right in the face before either of them could register what was happening. Yamacha put a hand to his eye in shock, while Vegeta raised his fist for the next assault. But before he could continue, Bulma sandwiched herself in between the two men.
"Yamacha, are you ok?" she asked, peering over at her boyfriend. "Yikes, you're going to have one serious black eye."
"Let me fight him Bulma," Yamacha demanded, his voice shaking, as he prepared his wolf fang fist.
"Listen to your lover Bulma," Vegeta counseled from right behind her.
"No," Bulma refused, putting one arm on each of the fight mongering men, and pushing them apart. "You two are just barbarians and you, Vegeta," she said, giving him a hard shove, "are the most barbaric of all."
"You flatter me Bulma," Vegeta replied, coming closer once again.
"Sucker punching Yamacha, that's just weak," she gibed, as she pushed Vegeta away again.
"Weak?" Vegeta was on her in an instant and covered her mouth with his gloved hand. "Onna, you talk way too much. Maybe you should learn to think before you speak."
Yamacha audibly gasped. What was Bulma doing? How in the hell was he going to help her get out of this? "Let her go Vegeta", Yamacha said gallantly, "she's not a part of this."
"But she just had to interfere and make it her business. She can fight her way out of this...but she better hurry." Vegeta stretched his hand out, so that his glove now covered her nose and not only her mouth. "I didn't leave her with too much air."
Yamacha was at a loss. Despite being prepared a moment ago to attack Vegeta, his courage had disappeared, replaced once more with the indisputable knowledge that he wasn't strong enough to hurt Vegeta and if he tried, he risked injuring Bulma in the process. However, he had to try, but Bulma struck first.
Bulma's teeth were like gnashed pearls that were ferociously gnawing Vegeta's gloves until she had penetrated through the fabric and was biting down on his fingers.
Vegeta lowered his hand and removed his glove. He inspected his fingers and was mildly impressed when he saw the one drop of blood trickle down his middle finger. "Well, look at that. The bitch has some bite to her bark. She's got more courage than you weakling. How's it feel to be trumped by this superficial girl?"
"What'd you just call me?" Bulma spat while catching her breath.
Vegeta put his hand to her throat, wiping his blood across her bare neck. "I've called you many things, and none of them have been flattering."
"I'm not letting you treat me like that." Bulma readied her hand to slap him, but Vegeta gently slapped her hand away instead, and her hand lolled uselessly back to her side.
"Now you wouldn't want to damage those hands of yours. I need those hands to build me training equipment and you might want to use them to patch up your lover's wounds. It's going to take more than bandages to fix his pride though."
"You jerk, you think I'm going to build you anything after this?"
Vegeta aimed a small ball of ki at her toolshed and it immediately burst into flames. "You will because you know that your life depends on it." He smirked devilishly at her. "But more than that, you will because you want to."
He threw his gloves into her hands, and Bulma was surprised that she caught them instead of letting them fall to the ground.
"How about you start by making me more durable gloves? Some rabid animal chewed right through these."
"You'd better learn not to bite the hand that feeds you," Bulma cautioned.
Vegeta looked down at his outstretched hands. "Why should I when these are the hands that will rule the Earth and the universe?"
Bulma let out a growl that paired nicely with his. "Why don't you go to hell, Vegeta?"
"I'll see you there, Bulma."
At this point, Yamacha had truly been forgotten by both Bulma and Vegeta as they pursued their vicious banter. And as they continued, he accrued more evidence for his paranoia. Yamacha saw that they really resembled each other now in both manner and bearing. They were demons of yin and yang, where each vengeful gesture would drum and echo between them, such as a twitch in one of their veins that would mirror moments afterward in the rancorous curl of the other's lips. It was just a month ago when Yamacha had believed that they were like oil and water, being completely insoluble with each other, but upon further testing, maybe they were miscible in any quantity, like nitroglycerin and…Ok, Yamacha didn't know. He wasn't a scientist, but he recognized chemistry when he saw it, and theirs was explosive.
The door to the gravity chamber slammed shut with a loud bang, meaning that Vegeta had finally gone to train, his argument with Bulma being over for now. Yamacha went up to Bulma, putting his hand around her slender waist, but he instantly released his arm, since somehow her body offered him no comfort and felt just like a snake's. "I'm leaving now, for real this time."
"Right now?" Bulma questioned startled. "Are you sure you're ok? Don't you want to lie down for a bit first? How about I get you some ice for that eye?"
I don't need ice, Yamacha thought bitterly, you've made me cold enough as it is. He had wanted to be her knight in shining armour, but she had just gravitated to that dark knight in ragged armour instead. "No, I'll be fine, I just need to get away from here for awhile."
"Alright," Bulma said, still with some surprise, but Yamacha detected, with no sadness at his departure.
As he flew away from Capsule Corp., all he felt was crushing defeat that would bury him regardless of his efforts, because he was now brutally aware of his own limitations in strength and in romance.
...
A month had passed and Yamacha had returned from his sojourn in the desert. When he had called to inform her that he was back, Bulma had sounded near ecstatic over the phone, with a gushing enthusiasm that she hadn't showered on him in living memory. She had invited him over to her house straightaway for tea and dessert which was to be followed by dinner and drinks.
At her insistence on seeing him, he had felt vindicated. It must be true what they say, absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Although he had been tormented day in and day out by his overactive imagination fabricating possible scenarios of the advancements and peccadilloes that might have occurred between Bulma and Vegeta, his absence had served its purpose. Bulma missed him, she missed having a real man around who would treat her like the queen she was instead of some foul washerwoman. She had to remember what he was all about, and what made him so attractive. Having no breaks from the annoyances of the prince of all paupers must have torn away whatever iron curtain had been separating them. She had to desire him again and want him in every form, and he was going to work her body so magnificently that she would forget everything about that lousy Saiyan. So when Yamacha and Puar traveled to Capsule Corp, there was a sprightly jig in his step as he flew.
Bulma met him on the lawn, the quick embrace and the mumbled greeting was a lot more subdued than he would have expected based on their earlier conversation. But maybe she wasn't behaving differently, maybe it was him that was remembering things differently. Maybe Yamacha had been so deprived of female company and the soft lilt of Bulma's voice that he was according a bubbliness to her speech when it had actually been a lot more tepid.
Bulma looked at him side-eyed in confusion, "Yamacha, why were you flying like that? Do you have restless leg syndrome from all that time in the desert?"
They hadn't even been reunited for one minute and she was already making him feel like a total idiot. "I was just happy to see you, maybe I got a bit carried away in showing it."
"You always make me laugh Yamacha, I've missed that. I wouldn't say no to seeing more of your aerial can-can, just you need to practice some more first."
So the queen only missed the antics of her court jester, not the man behind the jokes? Yamacha was reminded of those sad paintings of crying clowns. He shouldn't have dared hope for anything more from her, hope was making him its little bitch. Yamacha looked his girlfriend over. Nothing had changed with her, from her storm cloud hair to her tight flashy dresses, except for one small yet significant thing. "Where's your necklace?" he asked.
Bulma's hands flew guiltily to her neck. Usually when something has been worn for a long time there are indents left from its weight that takes a while to heal. Not this time. Her neck was free and unmarked like nothing had ever adorned it. "It broke," she said with a slight panic. Not wanting to dwell on this subject, Bulma linked arms with Yamacha and led him to the house. "Come on, let's get you some food. I bet you've only been eating cacti and coyote for the past month."
Bulma and Yamacha were in the living room enjoying some baked goods that Panchy had bought from her daily trip to the pâtisserie, and slowly but surely, the awkwardness between them was ironing out into the relaxed understanding that should be present among long-time lovers.
However, neither of them knew that their relationship was about to enter a nuclear winter, when the uninterrupted blue of the sky started billowing with black acrid smoke. This was followed soon after by an explosion that rocked the house with the force of an earthquake. It would take some sort of natural or manmade disaster to infringe on his cozy rendezvous with Bulma, and Yamacha knew exactly who had such a flair for the dramatic despite vowing that he was a solitary warrior. Yamacha looked to his girlfriend, but her chair was empty, having made all the connections long before the wheels of discord had begun spinning in his head.
Upon seeing the black smoke curl up towards heaven, Bulma had immediately looked out into the backyard towards capsule 3, but she hadn't recognized what she saw. The spindly support legs of the ship had snapped in half and its spherical body had collapsed to the ground with hairline fractures all down the sides like a cracked egg. There was a crater in the middle of the lawn that was surrounded by torched grass and small flames were whipping across the green until dying on the asphalt walkway. "Oh my god, Vegeta," Bulma cried. Without taking a moment to assess the situation and to consider that she was going to enter a hazardous area, Bulma had leapt up from her chair, raced down the stairs and skittered across the lawn, jumping over the charred remains of the chamber so that she could make it to Vegeta.
After recovering from the initial curveball that Bulma had zipped away from him without him realizing it, Yamacha yelled down to her, "Bulma, don't go down there, it's dangerous." She was being so lax about her own safety…when she usually was so gung-ho about it when it came to accidents like these. "Why don't you wait for the cleanup crew and an emergency squad to rescue him?" When Bulma didn't acknowledge him, or perhaps she hadn't even heard him, Yamacha sighed profoundly and wiped the custard cream away that he had landed face first into during the rumblings of the explosion and hurtled after her.
"Oh no, no, no, where is he?" Bulma wailed.
Bulma flung rocks and plaster over her shoulder, Yamacha was floored since some of the pieces were heavier than anything she should have normally been able to lift. But while watching some nature documentaries, he had learned that creatures that were usually weak and frail could acquire unprecedented levels of strength when the life of someone they loved was in peril…
"Vegeta," Bulma kept calling out, while she continued burrowing through the debris for him. If Vegeta was stuck down there long enough, surrounded by this stratified pressure and heat, his body would eventually turn to coal that would match the cold lump of coal in her heart.
After some frantic minutes, a bloody and sliced hand shot through the rubble. Bulma screamed bloody murder that fell into a whimper as Vegeta pulled himself out from under the rocks. Bulma dashed to his side, supporting him by his head and shoulders as gently as she would an innocent baby.
Vegeta's eyes opened in slivers of black glass, and he saw Bulma's distressed face above him, with the outline of the sun ringing like a halo around her fluffy mane. Was this the angel of mercy or the angel of death? Vegeta wondered puzzled, but he was ready to face either personage nonetheless.
"Vegeta, are you alright?"
"Of course, I am," he teetered upright, miraculously maintaining his balance and fussily brushing away the angel's hand from off his shoulder.
"Why you, you idiot," Bulma berated him, "you could have destroyed my entire house."
Vegeta looked at her dazed, before toppling over once again. This was no angel but that she-devil Bulma.
Bulma caught him in her arms, and Vegeta didn't even try to stand on his own two feet again. For some reason in his injured state, he trusted her to catch him if he fell. Bulma repositioned them both until she was sitting on the ground with Vegeta's head in her lap.
"I'm fine." Vegeta struggled, bucking like a wild colt to get Bulma to unleash him, but his gruff protestations were muzzled by Bulma's soft caresses across his face. "I have to get stronger than Kakarot, so mind your own business," he choked.
"Vegeta," Bulma soothed in a nurturing voice that Yamacha had never heard before, "it's ok, that doesn't matter right now, you can worry about that later." Vegeta made some disapproving grunts, but Bulma just stroked his back.
And subsequently, Yamacha witnessed Vegeta falling captive to Bulma's mystical alchemy, where his hard iron yielded under her touch to molten gold. Vegeta drooped acceptingly, allowing Bulma to soothe him, no longer chomping at the bit and closing his eyes in peace.
The hard lump of coal in Bulma's chest lit up to warm them both and soon after, Vegeta was out cold. "Vegeta, Vegeta," Bulma yelled again, "wake up, you can't fall asleep now. The big lug just lost consciousness, he could have a head injury, he should stay awake," she muttered to herself.
Then Bulma saw the tips of Yamacha's shoes as he approached her while she cradled Vegeta. "Why are you just standing there?" she chided. "Go get help."
"Uh, ok." Yamacha circled back to the house, shouting for Bulma's parents and a medical team. When he returned, Vegeta was still in Bulma's protective hold. She hadn't realized that Yamacha was back, and she had a motherly expression on her face. Yamacha had this crazy feeling that he was intruding on a private moment, like catching a friend dressed only in their underwear, and he felt so gauche and considered just leaving.
Just then Panchy came up to the scene, and she was already bawling with a handkerchief in hand as Dr. Brief tried to console her. They were all flocking to Vegeta. The medics hauled Vegeta onto a stretcher, and they pushed Yamacha absentmindedly to the side to clear a path to bring Vegeta to the Capsule Corp. medical wing. The family all trailed after the medics, but it cut Yamacha to see Bulma alongside Vegeta, holding onto his bloody fingers. There was that feeling again of being surplus to requirements, of being the odd man out in his own relationship.
Yamacha sat down amidst the rocks all alone, feeling as if he had been the one flattened under the force of 300 times Earth's normal gravity. His thinned and outstretched body would be stepped on, and no one would perceive that it was him, and no one would care to save him, least of all Bulma who only looked at him now with her dead eyes. And not even all the king's horses and all the king's men would be able to put Yamacha back together again since it had been a prince and a princess who had pulverized him into pieces in the first place.
The crisis to save Vegeta's life had been mitigated, as his condition had stabilized once he had been placed under a medically induced coma, and all the medical personnel and even Bulma's blubbering mother had long since departed his room, yet Bulma still remained. She leaned against the doorframe, looking from Vegeta's mummified bandaged look to the tacky chintzy curtains that had become discoloured from too much sun exposure, to the peeling wallpaper and back again. She didn't know why she lingered there, nothing in the room had changed for the past hour, and all she had done was count the passage of time using the intermittent beeps from the heart-monitoring device. But there was this unshakeable feeling that she was waiting for something, waiting for something from an unknown source that nevertheless would have the power to propel some sort of change.
Her neck started to fall to her chest, as she began to doze, when she heard something. It was a gurgle that just barely managed to escape the closed tunnel of Vegeta's throat, that sounded like the death rattle that is the final proclamation from those whose lungs are filled with fluid. Bulma woke right up when she realized that Vegeta was waking up, the doctors had administered enough anaesthetic to take out an elephant, but that must have not been enough for a Saiyan prince. She approached his bed and jumped as if defibrillated.
"Kakarot," his voice came out jaggedly.
Bulma looked down at his distorted features that held no trace of his usual swagger and braggadocio, but were full of sorrow instead. She had fallen for his self-aggrandization derived from his pride, so she had never viewed him as someone real, only as a caricature. However, now she could appreciate that he was very handsome, just like a fairy tale prince, only grouchier and more troubled. He hadn't let her see him openly like this before. He had always concealed from her his charms that lay in his suffering and determination.
Vegeta spoke once more and after only emitted indecipherable groans, "I will surpass you. You can count on it."
Was this what she had been waiting for? Were these the words meant only for her ears despite having no commonality with her? They must have been, for what else could have made her feel like a leaf caught in an updraft that was swirling further and further away from solid ground? His few words had injected her with some glow-in-the-dark isotope that spread throughout her body, letting her see the tenable brilliance of him. Vegeta had died once, and today he had almost died again, yet on his second deathbed, he was still trying to fight. She was incredibly impressed by his inner light that would never go out.
A rift had developed in her opinion of Vegeta. She had only known his shallows, but now she could look down into his depths and what she saw there was deeper than anything she could have ever imagined. In that moment, where he was injured, where he could show vulnerability from deep within his subconscious, she saw him for the first time as a man, a man who had foibles and insecurities like all the rest, a man who could have dreams and even nightmares. A man with a heart.
Really? she asked herself astounded. This was Vegeta? Could his hard shell really be the harbour for a heart? Bulma cautiously put her hand to his heart. At first, she felt nothing but then with a radiating tingle like the beginnings of cardiac arrest, she felt it. "It's there," she marveled, "his heart. It's just fossilized." His heart beat strongly, just like hers.
And then she remembered Son-kun whispering to Kuririn that Vegeta had cried when he knew it was all over and that all he had to show for himself was irrevocable failure. And she felt that same infarction, that same deep-seated pain, that same emptiness of her heart turning to coal, that she had felt just earlier today when she had thought that he might have died in the gravity chamber.
Vegeta's heart was telling her hand one laboured beat at a time, the tale of a long-lost civilization and of long-lost emotions. It was her duty to excavate it, to dig up all those ruins, and to restore them until they shone gold. Was this what her dream meant? Was it telling her to become his friend?
His moans had quietened while her hand rested over his heart. He lived and he felt. He was a Saiyan, but he looked so wounded, so forlorn, so human that she could not leave him. Bulma had made up her mind. "I'll be right back, Vegeta." She quickly went to get some paperwork and then propped up a chair beside him.
"Bulma, you're still in here?" Yamacha's head peeked in through the open doorway of the infirmary. His girlfriend was sitting by another man's side and from the empty drink canisters and the messy sheets of paper scattered across the adjacent desk, it appeared as if she had been there for the entire afternoon.
Bulma started at his question, apparently, she had been lost in her thoughts. She rubbed tiredly at her eyes and Yamacha remarked that she looked completely unpresentable, as she was still dressed in the same dust and blood covered dress as before and that her hair was a frizzy abomination. Yamacha bit down on his lip in irritated disappointment. "You aren't even close to being ready to go and cocktail hour begins in 30 minutes."
"I'm not going," Bulma said in a flat disinterested tone. She finally glanced up at him and small applications of anger rouged her cheeks like the makeup she should have been wearing. "Why do you think it would be appropriate to party after everything that's happened today?"
Yamacha was completely unprepared for that response. "Nothing that pivotal happened. Vegeta self-detonated, like we all knew he would eventually do, your house is still intact and there were no casualties," Yamacha detailed, summarizing the episode on his fingers. "It's just another day and another explosion at Capsule Corp., those occur often enough. So what's the big deal? Nothing like that has ever stopped you from partying in the past. If you want, we can pretend we're attending an end of the world party, in honour of today's events."
"I'm not going," Bulma repeated. She turned away from Yamacha, and folded the damp washcloth, that she had been angrily wringing in her hands while he had been speaking in half, and applied it to Vegeta's forehead.
"Haha, Bulma, you joker, the last thing Vegeta needs is a babysitter. There's tons of staff here to monitor him. You can't even argue with him right now." He pulled on the sleeve of her dress so that she would have to face him. "So let's go. I don't mind if we're a little late. Besides, it was your idea anyways to have a night on the town to reward me for training so hard in the desert. That's why you invited me over." Yamacha turned her around entirely and tried to steal a warm embrace, that hopefully would make her come to her senses. But he could feel the heat leaving her body at his embrace, like hot coals that have suddenly cooled. He slowly uncoupled his arms from her as she had left him shivering.
"No," Bulma stated more firmly.
"I didn't realize you cared about him that much," the disgust was clear in his voice.
She tossed the washcloth into the basin on the desk with a defiant plop. "I'm all he has, I can't just leave him here to suffer or Kami forbid, die all alone."
"He won't die," Yamacha said, unable to believe how much Bulma was overreacting. "But if he did, would anyone even call it a loss instead of a gain?"
She shook her head at him with even more pronounced disgust. "You're so hateful. I don't believe Vegeta is inherently evil. He's had a hard life, he doesn't know any other way."
"What's wrong with hating the one who killed you?" Yamacha was now beginning to yell.
"But he didn't kill you," Bulma corrected, with the heat he had tried to steal back in her eyes.
"It was under his instructions that I died. He's every bit as culpable as that Saibaman."
"You know there are shades of grey there. It wasn't as simple as he willed it, so you died. And Son-kun can forgive him, so why can't you? We all would have died on Namek if he hadn't assisted us. I've told you this, Gohan and Kuririn and Son-kun have all told you this too. Hell, I bet even Piccolo would be loathe to agree. I'm in his debt. If I can make sure that he doesn't die today, then I'm just repaying the favour." Bulma didn't realize that her personal account of Namek had changed and was now an adaptation that she never would have admitted to just a few short months ago.
Yamacha frowned as he considered what she had said. "After this, you don't owe him anything, not that I think you even owe him anything now, but this is the end of it."
"Yamacha, it's more than that, I feel guilty too. One of my creations almost killed a man...how could I have lived with myself if that had happened?"
Yamacha's tone was pure hatred that until now he had only heard come forth from Vegeta's mouth. "You wouldn't have lost any sleep since you would have rid the universe of a tyrant. Sometimes I think you care more about him than me. If it were me lying injured there, would you be even half as bothered?"
Bulma came right up to him and Yamacha felt like he was being burned. How had he ever thought that her body was growing cold?
"Don't you remember what I did for you? What I sacrificed for you? I went all the way to Namek - to the other side of the galaxy for you. I would have laid down my life for yours. And in return, you barrage me with accusations?"
Yamacha put his hands up, accepting fault. Was his hatred making him forget the important facts? "I remember," he stammered, "I'm sorry."
"Don't forget it." Bulma picked up the washcloth from the basin and continued wiping the sweat from Vegeta's brow.
"He's not going to be grateful, having you here to nurse him. It'll hurt his pride." At that thought, Yamacha felt some vindictive pleasure. "Be prepared to have all your help thrown back into your face."
"That's ok, let him be angry, let him argue with me, as long as he lives to fight another day."
That testament sent his paranoia and resentment into overdrive. "Tell me again, why did you invite him to stay here? You said it was because you felt sorry for him, but was it actually because you were attracted to him? Was it a star-crossed love at first sight? You want to win him over like those sad lonely women that write love letters to convicts, don't you? But why don't you stick to something that won't kill us all? Why don't you stick to inanimate objects instead of trying to light a powder keg? Vegeta really isn't that complicated and shouldn't be that interesting to you. If you're bored, here's an idea, why don't you investigate time travel or how to deactivate some killer androids? That should keep you busy for the next two and a half years. I'm still going to the party, whether you like it or not, Vegeta isn't going to impede on my fun."
He had wanted to compose himself after saying that last sentence but insanity hitched a ride with him again. "But why, why are you letting Vegeta infiltrate our relationship so much?"
Throughout his entire spiel, Bulma had crossed her arms and looked at Yamacha with narrowed eyes. Although it would have totally been within her rights to scream and cuss Yamacha into oblivion, she decided that cold disdain would be more unsettling to him. "I'm not letting Vegeta do anything, I actually prevent him from doing a lot of things he'd like, especially to you. You're the one who's allowed Vegeta to infiltrate your mind. I know how you look at me and him when we're in the same room together and how you try to keep us apart. But all these suspicions and your obsession with me and him and what we are and aren't doing, it's because you're insecure and don't trust me. If you don't trust me then what do you have to offer me, Yamacha? Isn't trust the foundation of a relationship? Let me ease your fears though. Everything you suspect is unfounded and you've been stressed out for no reason. There have been problems in our relationship long before Vegeta arrived. Whatever sort of dalliance you think me and Vegeta are engaging in, it's all in your head. Don't listen to the voices in your head."
In the past, this might have been enough to assuage Yamacha's fears, but he didn't fully believe her. He guessed that she was right and that he no longer trusted her. "Those voices are ringing loud and clear," he muttered at her.
"Have a great time at the party," Bulma said acidly.
"And you have a great time too in the company of a monster." Yamacha looked at Bulma one last time and spied all he had lost and all Vegeta had undeservedly gained, and then he left and shut the door.
Yamacha was currently seated at the bar in one of the hippest, swankiest supper clubs in West City. He should have been joined there by Bulma and at this moment, they should have been feeding each other oysters, chocolates, fondue and other such arousing gastronomical delights that would have been the prelude to a night of passion. But he was a dateless wonder and was just sifting through the complimentary bowl of gourmet nut mix while drinking the cheapest beer on tap. Bulma had bragged to him that this locale was such a great hole in the wall and was so exclusive that it had no official address and all potential patrons had to be thoroughly screened before being granted admission. She had told him that she had only just qualified from the careful vetting process, and that such a determined fighter, who would willingly separate from his amazing girlfriend in order to train, deserved a taste of the finer things in life.
Despite Bulma ditching him for Vegeta, he still went to the same place that she had been planning to take him to, mostly out of spite and a bit out of agreeing that he did deserve a special treat. Training for a month under the hot desert sun was not possible for most fighters…although he had taken many breaks to enjoy the air-conditioned comfort of his capsule house that came with all the frills. But his training and accommodations weren't cushy, not at all. What he hadn't foreseen though was the interrogation of his credentials by the bouncers at the door, nor the further emasculation of only being given entry by invoking Bulma's name. The staff had waved him inside once they realized that Mr. Bulma already had pre-approved clearance. Yamacha sulked while replaying the embarrassing situation in his head.
To his right, a peppy voice chirped, "Why so blue? A hunk like you shouldn't ever get the blues."
Blue. Yamacha was instantly reminded of Bulma's blue hair and eyes, it was not the best way to start a conversation.
He turned towards the person in irritation, ready to shut them down along with their tired pick-up line, but then his jaw dropped, and he knew that if he said anything that he'd just begin babbling like a teen with a crush. The woman beside him was unbelievably good looking with a heart-shaped face framed by golden curls and delicate elfin features that were the polar opposite to Bulma's in-your-face voluptuousness. And her most winning feature was her megawatt smile, that he knew she was smiling just for him.
"Why don't I get you a drink?" she offered. "Just a little something to chase the blues away?" She signalled to the bartender, who quickly returned with a glass filled with an orange fluid that looked like out of control flames.
At the thought of flames, he thought of Vegeta's hair, and with ire, he picked up the glass and gulped it down.
"Slow down," the girl laughed, "that wasn't supposed to be a shot. You don't want to go straight from depression to puking."
The lovely woman probed his face with her eyes, and Yamacha felt renewed self-consciousness as she focused on his scars. He expected her to make some half-assed excuse and then to hastily retreat once she realized that his looks weren't as perfect as the candlelit milieu had led her to believe. But instead, her smile extended as far across her face as it would stretch, so much that Yamacha thought it had to be a mask, as she said, "You wouldn't happen to be Yamacha, as in the star baseball player Yamacha?"
Yamacha swallowed thickly, unsure how to answer, but feeling some nascent pride envelop him like ki during a power-up. He had forgotten that he was a celebrity, well a minor celebrity, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, I suppose that's me," he chuckled.
"Wow," the girl enthused, putting a fluttering hand to her chest, "this is going to sound so lame, but when I was younger, I was the president of your fan club. I can't believe that I'm finally meeting you, pardon me if I start making weird squealing noises, I'm just so starstruck."
"Well, you never know what's going to happen and who you're going to meet,"…and who's going to usurp your life and steal your girlfriend, Yamacha added in darkly.
"You're telling me. Feel free to decline if I'm being too presumptuous, but would you mind coming to my booth and meeting my girlfriends? We are all hardcore fans of yours and would just die if you signed some autographs and took some photos with us."
Yamacha felt like the king of the world, in that topsy-turvy bubble of Capsule Corp. he was nobody, but in the real world, he was a somebody, a real winner. Yes, he was important, someone desirable and a champion stud, so why had he allowed Bulma to slash his confidence?
The girl had her hand out to him, as a proposition that was teeming with unspoken sexual favours, and Yamacha took it without question. "I do love to please my fans," he replied with some flirtation, as the girl escorted him past the point of no return.
...
Vegeta was in the back-up gravity ship performing one fingered push-ups. He was trying to use the repetitive motions to regulate his mind and body into that sense of stark invincibility that was expected from the perfect warrior, but he was failing miserably yet again. His mind was consumed with the aftereffects of his latest humiliation and the conclusions that could be drawn therein. The accident with the ship exploding was unforgivably sloppy and had the fingerprints of a novice warrior instead of a seasoned one. He imagined the boorish laughter of Nappa and Raditz, the Bordeaux-stained upturn of Freeza's lips and the unintended condescension of Kakarot patting him on the back, letting him know that these things happen, if they all knew that he had fallen into his own trap, from his amplified ki that had rebounded off the bots and back onto himself before splitting through the walls of the ship. He had such a poor grasp of his meagre strength that he couldn't even prevent himself from self-immolating. His own ki that channeled through him hot and electric, was no longer like a magic spell flowing out from his fingers that could either enchant or horrify, but was now more like some viscous sludge that he could no longer conduct. He levitated into the air, doing a support-free plank as the gravitons in a dense mass tried pulling him down lower than he already was.
He could remember where his mind had journeyed while he had been unconscious. He had found himself on a never-ending road of darkness that only had one direction – forwards. But despite this lack of spatial dimensions, he had felt like he had entered a maze in which he was hopelessly lost. Every time he had tried to move forwards, he had felt the road grow in front of him as if some cruel god were tarring and smoothing out new road just to spite him. He could walk, he could run, he could cry, he could shout, but he was stranded in the same position despite his exertions just like a rat in a cage. Sometimes there would be a golden brume in the darkness and it would come from visions of Kakarot and that boy from the future, who were somehow leaping ahead along with the arrow of time while he stagnated. He couldn't catch them no matter how fast he ran.
And sometimes in that maze, he had heard noises, sadistic taurine noises, the snort of warm breath and the clopping of satanic hooves, that were coming ever closer. And just when he thought he could see the monster's red eyes, that were strangely lifeless like an android's, he had suddenly awakened.
And right beside his bed was that vulgar woman. But what had she been doing there? He had looked over at her while she was fast asleep, with her brows knitted softly together and with a stitch of worry across her pale bone white face. She appeared more docile than he remembered. The rule of law in all her commands had been moderated, yet this sight of vulnerability from her seemed much more obnoxious than any of her previous behaviour towards him.
He had removed himself slowly from the bed and had walked behind her. He had seen her dress, the same one as before, now polka dotted red from his dried blood, and had realized that she must have been there for quite some time. What was this? He was the prince of all Saiyans. he did not require supervision. He had wanted to whack her on the back of her head for daring to watch him. Did she obtain some gratification from his suffering? Did she like that he was losing to Kakarot in the same way that her lover lost to anyone who wasn't also human?
He was about to strike her and to warn her to stay away from him and to never dare tell anyone about what she had seen happen to him, when the sun's rays had suddenly beamed on her body, the light making her hair sparkle like sapphires, the light reflected only on her while the rest of the room remained in shadow. His semi-conscious illusion of her above him with a halo around her head had returned to his memory.
She wasn't there to ridicule him.
He had growled once, not wanting to punish her anymore but wanting to get as far away from her as he could.
As he floated upside down, with his blood pooling in his head, the screen in the ship flared to life and Bulma was glowering at him, her brows were no longer knitted but were the needles themselves, while her lips were sewn into a thin thread.
Bulma had awoken in the medical wing from the sunlight warming her back and creeping under her eyelids. It hadn't even taken her a second to realize that Vegeta was gone, and she had a pretty good theory about where he had hobbled off to. She had hurried to her lab and wasn't surprised to see everything in shambles, with the drawers all open and with papers and books strewn haplessly around. She had searched through one specific drawer, and just as she had suspected, the duplicate capsule 3, that Vegeta had forced her to complete in the event that her work was imperfect and would fail, not because he would destroy the other model, was gone.
She had gone to her computer and had opened the video chat connection to the gravity ship. She could now see right into the ship, and she first saw Vegeta hanging upside down like a vampire bat in front of her, but her eyes drifted to the gravity reading, which was at 400 gs, 100 gs more than the level that had caused the explosion. That idiot, he really does want to kill himself.
"Vegeta," she screeched, "you are in no condition to be training, do you want to have another accident?"
Bulma's voice wafted down to him like a steam of excrement, carrying along the stink of concern and condemnation. As her voice ringed in his ears, he became distracted, and the ball of pride he had been pushing up a hill of obstacles, rolled back onto himself, with the force of gravity helping it along, until he collapsed onto his lowest point of zero displacement. That bothersome human slave, he grimaced to himself, while trying to pick himself back up. Was she trying to play another one of her games with him now when he had serious matters to attend to?
"Oh, so I'm right," she gloated, "you can't handle more training right now."
God, why couldn't she just let him be a beast and roam free? She had never tried to convince him to not train before. "You miserable onna, would you like to live after these three years?"
Bulma blinked at him. "Of course, I would prefer to live. I'm a young beautiful woman with my entire life ahead of me."
"Then shut up!" he vociferated.
Bulma felt a momentary shock, and was about to disable the gravity from her computer, but then she saw Vegeta's eyes boring into hers as he finally managed to lift himself back up. She saw that in the maze of his eyes, a minotaur lurked, whose horns would eventually impale her unless she could somehow manage to grab the raging bull by its horns and make it go her way.
She didn't want to make his life any more difficult than it already was, she wanted to understand and sympathize with him instead. It was crazy - most people wanted to escape mazes but she wanted a way into his when she was already safely free on the outside. And once in, she knew that there would be no exits, no way out. She didn't say anything, but watched the tension ripple in knots across his back, as he began to train again. And she no longer had the will to tell him to be more self-preserving and to not try to deliver himself from his wretched lot. Although his body looked as though he had been crucified, and that it was calling for death to take him, she knew that he wouldn't die, at least not for today, and that instead he would overcome his handicaps by the force of sheer momentum.
Vegeta's stare was able to cut Bulma down to her base roots, and he knew then that although she had tried to deny it, she really was good at heart. And even though he hated that she was disrupting his workout, there was some strange need that lasted just for a nanosecond, and that even he was not consciously aware of, that on some level, he liked that she had interrupted him and wanted it to happen again, just to prove that someone out there knew he existed and was affected by him and all that he was trying to accomplish. For that almost undetectable fraction of a fraction of a second, it didn't wound his pride by rather bolstered it, that someone could behold a warrior such as him, that had been sent out to pasture after the ship's detonation, going straight back into the thick of the killing fields. But that sudden feeling was walled in on all sides by another mass of hedges in the maze of his soul, and maybe it would never be revealed again. As all that happened down in his depths, Vegeta had only just been sneering at Bulma until she had disconnected the video link.
...
Bulma still had the receiver of the phone pressed to her ear, as she listened to the dial tone, stunned. Yamacha had just hung up on her. For the first time ever, he had hung up on her. So he had finally grown a pair, it had just taken 14 years, and Bulma was very displeased at his timing. She just might have to go over to his apartment and castrate him.
For the past few weeks, Yamacha had been treating her to radio silence and Bulma had been expecting some silent treatment from him. But in the past, he had never held a grudge for very long and his anger was more of the childish variety that could be placated with a pat on the head, some complimentary words and sometimes even with some sweets and the promise of a special surprise. But now his anger was a little more adult and passive aggressive.
Bulma had been reflecting over all the growth and adventures that her and Yamacha had experienced from their first hunts for the dragon balls to the many Tenkaichi Budokais. And she couldn't stop the nostalgia from filling her with warmth and gooey tenderness, until she had felt like a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. Over the course of the past few days, she had decided that she would make one last ditch effort to save their relationship.
That was why had called him, to arrange a date, and in the process, she could insert some well-placed words about how much she missed him and how things weren't the same without him. But Yamacha had seemed completely uninterested in everything she had to say, and there was some buildup of frosty flakiness in his voice, like the kind that collects on a wedding cake that's been shoved into the back of the freezer and that's only eaten once a year. And instead of freshness, Bulma had felt that same stale overdone feeling race right back.
"No, it's alright, Bulma," Yamacha had politely declined, "I'm pretty busy nowadays and anyways, I can't stand anymore of your constant bickering with Vegeta." And after telling her that half-baked excuse, he had hung up on her.
Busy doing what? Bulma thought suspiciously, as she finally slammed the phone receiver back into its cradle. Yamacha was an unemployed, two-bit washed up baseball player, who definitely wasn't wasting his days away on training. So what could he possibly be doing?
And she didn't miss his underlying jab, that the entire fiasco between them was all because of Vegeta. There it was again, Vegeta, Vegeta, Vegeta. Yamacha was as obsessed with Vegeta as Vegeta was obsessed with Son-kun. Was there some homoerotic memo that had been lost in transit that would explain to her why all these males were more interested in competing with each other instead of lavishing attention on her? As far as she would tell, she was hotter and definitely less sweaty than any of them.
And as for Vegeta, Bulma sighed, what she had told Yamacha, that there was nothing between her and Vegeta and that it was all in his head, she had thought it was true, but the moment it had left her lips, it had sounded like lies. However, she understood now why she had been thinking about him so much lately. It was because he was just a cheap surrogate for the man she really wanted, and the expectations and fantasy she had affiliated with him would never reasonably be fulfilled. He was an empty vessel that she had overfilled with her own unsated longing. The thoughts had continued for so long since Vegeta would never be a romantic prospect, so there wouldn't be any horrible dates or bad sex to rupture the illusion.
She still wanted to get to know him better, and not only be his hostess. There was still something intriguing about him that called to all her scientific instincts to study, but there was nothing romantic about it. And she hadn't even been presented with the chance to do any further field work on him, since after the explosion, instead of being deterred, Vegeta was cloistered in the gravity ship more than ever. He was too preoccupied to even spare some words of contempt for her even though she had been practically begging for his insults like a beggar reaching for some coins.
Bulma picked up the keys to her convertible from the table. She was going to pay Yamacha a little surprise visit, if she decided that she wanted to try and work things out then that was what they were going to do.
Bulma had taken the liberty of allowing herself into Yamacha's apartment using her copy of his house key. But once inside, the atmosphere had somehow felt different, she knew nothing about ki, but she could sense something thick and noxious in the air. It was the same uncomfortable environmental awareness that she experienced when she worked with heavy metals and that would always give her a headache afterwards. "Hey Yamacha," she called out, but there was no answer, not even a peep from Puar, which was suspicious in itself since the little guy was always hovering around.
She killed some time by watching TV while she waited for Yamacha to return home. But soon, she heard the faint creaking of springs coming from the direction of the bedroom. Bulma muted the TV program, and listened closely…there was more and more creaking, just like the ones that would happen when her and Yamacha had sex on his rickety bed. Bulma jumped to her feet from the sofa. Oh no, that motherfucker better not be cheating on me again.
Bulma opened the door to Yamacha's bedroom, and saw his beige bed sheets rolled up into an odd lumpy shape that was definitely hiding something unseemly, reminding her of the shrouds used to cover dead bodies. From beneath the sheets, she heard a sexy baby voice gush, "Oh Yamacha-sama, you're too big for me." Bulma had to stop herself from gagging. Yamacha-sama? Too big? Pass her the sick bag please.
Bulma ripped the sheets away, and saw two bodies mid-coitus that were wrapped around each other so tightly that they resembled conjoined twins, but she could distinctly make out Yamacha's less than toned behind. "Now what's going on here?" Bulma breathed with deadly severity. "Too busy getting busy, Yamacha-sama?" she mocked.
Yamacha instantly whirled around and looked at her as if she were an oni from the afterlife that was going to drag him back down to hell. He was back in his boxers quicker than she could see, while the girl he was with stared at Bulma with dull eyes that were the colour of dishwater.
"You vowed to never cheat on me again, Yamacha, so who's this groupie then?"
"I'm not a groupie," the girl protested in a high rising intonation.
"Shut up, slut, I'm the one talking."
The girl's mouth went into a perfect O of surprise before she closed it, and wrapped the bedsheets petulantly around her body.
"Where'd you find this one, outside the local high school?" Bulma asked derisively.
"Bulma…," Yamacha stuttered, "this isn't what you think…"
"So it's worse than what I think? Because I don't see anything good going on here." Bulma's initial idea from when Yamacha had disconnected their call, to castrate him, came rushing back to her. Yes, genital mutilation would be a brilliant response to this situation. She stealthily removed a souped-up Derringer gun from out of her purse, that she always carried in the event that an attacker would make the big mistake of targeting her, and started firing it at Yamacha's nether regions.
Yamacha's feet swayed wildly like a puppet on a string, to dodge her bullets, while his sidepiece shrieked and dove under the covers. He placed his hands protectively around his junk and said, "Whoa, Bulma, calm down, let's talk about this like adults."
"This is no parlay, I'm aiming to kill," she responded with nonchalance, like she was just gunning down tin cans, and to prove her point, she shot at a picture of Yamacha that hanged on the wall. The entire portrait fell to the floor, and there was a smoking hole in the photo where Yamacha's crotch once was.
"Kami, Bulma stop!"
Bulma raised her gun to his head this time, but when she pulled the trigger, there was only a click indicating an empty chamber. "Well, fuck," Bulma said disappointedly, throwing the gun to Yamacha's feet. "I ran out of bullets. I guess you get to live, but we are finished. You've thrown away the best thing to have ever happened to you. Congratulations." Bulma strode from the room and out of his apartment with the toughness of a wild west gunslinger.
"Bulma, wait," Yamacha's voice trailed after her, but she didn't turn back and wasn't even tempted to do so, for she was truly done with him.
"What a bitch," his mistress exclaimed, as she poked her head out from under the blankets. "Who was that anyways? She looked a lot like the heiress of Capsule Corp., but I read in a magazine that you two had broken up."
Yamacha had completely forgotten about the girl who had just a few minutes ago, been cooing his name. He gazed blankly at her and remarked that she wasn't as attractive as he had first thought. Her golden hair was just straw that swished around her head like the bristles on a witch's broom. And her trowelled on makeup had oozed onto his pillow during the course of their activities.
The consequences of his actions hit him then. He wanted Bulma and loved only her. Why had he acted so retaliatively rather than having a serious conversation about his insecurities with her? He had lost her, he had lost his true love to his philandering. He looked at the girl he had so foolishly replaced Bulma with and felt like he had an upset stomach. Why had he settled for a shoestring when he had been playing in the big leagues? The girl was still asking him angry questions in valleyspeak about the showdown that had just happened, but he ignored her and pulled on his clothes, and went to chase after Bulma.
Bulma ran through all the red lights as she drove back home and her rage multiplied to nuclear levels. She was so enraged that if her anger could have been transmitted into ki, she was sure she'd be as powerful as a Super Saiyan. As she popped through the bottleneck of rush hour traffic, she glimpsed Yamacha in her rear-view mirror, flying at a stalking distance behind her. "That fucker," Bulma cursed, "I wish I had another bullet to shoot straight up his urethra and back into his balls."
Yamacha had never been the most faithful boyfriend. As a teenager, he had been so painfully shy that his testicles had practically curled back up into his thighs at the sight of a woman. It was only thanks to Bulma's influence that he had vanquished his fear of women and had transformed from a timid church mouse into some wannabe Casanova. With that change in character, he had had a few missteps with allowing opportunistic females into his inner circle…and bed…but Bulma had always stupidly forgiven him. After each and every slip-up, Yamacha would solemnly swear to never do it again as Bulma was the only one he loved and those other women were just mistakes. Yamacha had told her that his word was his bond, since that was all he had to give, being the former desert bandit that he was. But in actuality, Bulma mused, he never even really had that to give, he had never provided her with an iron-clad bond but rather with some flimsy little daisy chain instead. Now that she contemplated it, she had been Yamacha's long-suffering girlfriend for even longer than Chi Chi had been Son-kun's long-suffering wife, but for different reasons naturally.
Bulma finally made it back home, with her car making a big doughnut in the lawn. She was walking to the back entrance of her house, when she saw Vegeta approaching the sliding doors from the opposite direction. Once they finally met at the doors, she heard a voice behind them that made her cringe.
"Aha, I knew you would immediately go back to him," Yamacha said accusingly, as if the simple act of her and Vegeta heading back into the house at the same time was a large enough indiscretion to invalidate all of his wrongdoing.
The only fight Vegeta wasn't interested in was a lovers's quarrel, so he was about to open the doors to go inside when Bulma spoke and thoroughly confused him.
"Yamacha, you just don't get it. I don't love Vegeta and now I don't love you either." Kami, she felt like she was getting a second chance to relive her teenage years by admitting that.
There was a small pause where Yamacha had to arbitrate with his doubts. Were his delusions really that hyperbolic and had Bulma been innocent all along? "Bulma please," Yamacha pleaded, but Bulma put up a manicured hand to silence any further apologies from him.
It was too late for that. There was only so much shit that Yamacha could dump onto her before she could no longer just flush it away and forget about it. "It's over, Yamacha. Now stop following me and go away, or I'll let Vegeta kill you."
Vegeta smirked and cracked his knuckles menacingly. "It's about time."
"Bulma, we can work this out," he started and stopped, as he saw her looking at Vegeta, almost as if she were gauging his reaction and maybe approval concerning this real-life soap opera. And the last thread of Yamacha's dignity snapped. "You don't have to worry about me getting in your way anymore, Bulma. You two deserve each other. I hope he's everything you've dreamed of …or had nightmares about," he ended ominously.
Bulma and Vegeta exchanged a look and then they both erupted into snide laughter.
Those two howling hyenas who Yamacha had been observing, they were actually the spectators, whereas he was the sad zoo animal, as he had devalued himself in front of them with his desperation. From their laughter that merged into the same wavelength, his doubts finally gave up the ghost along with his relationship, because he knew it then as an unequivocal truth, that they were one in the same.
Once Yamacha had left Capsule Corp. property, Vegeta finally gibed her for the first time in weeks. "What a disgrace, even for an Earthling, you have no self-respect to put up with that."
"Actually, I do," Bulma smirked back at him. "Yamacha and I are history. Good riddance to bad trash. I have seen the light up in here," she said tapping at her head.
"Really, onna? It still looks pretty dim up there to me."
Bulma's smirk reversed into a pout, and as she brought her hand down from her head, she noticed that she had removed a leaf from her hair. At a closer glance though, it wasn't just any leaf, but a four-leaf clover, and Bulma looked up and down from the lucky charm to Vegeta.
