Chapter 2

Vegeta was annoyed. The woman hadn't fixed his machine yet, so he had reverted to his second most popular method of spending time: eating. Unfortunately for him, Bunny, as she insisted he call her, was in the kitchen, and her steady flow of inane chatter was grating on his nerves. After a few minutes, he was forced into ignoble retreat, his chair squealing angrily as he shoved himself away from the table, now laden with a dozen empty plates. He acknowledged her cheerful wave of farewell with a regal nod; at least one woman on this ridiculous, miserable pit of a planet treated him with the respect he deserved, and she was a fine cook.

Heading outside, he stalked silently towards the squat shape of his GR. After secluding herself in her room the previous evening, the blue-haired woman had finally emerged from her pathetic isolation, toolbox in hand, and she was currently engrossed in the totally alien world of electronics. Approaching on soundless feet, he stared over her shoulder for a moment into the innards of the device before smirking at her bowed head, the telltale clink of metal on metal from the direction in which her hands were buried telling him that she was setting to rights whatever had gone wrong.

Bulma was frowning, her body tense and almost shaking with concentration. Inside the GR she was working with live electricity, and although the wires were grouped up and secured in orderly sections, it was still difficult to see what she was doing in the gloom. She worked, as was her custom, without gloves, though she used special rubber tools as a precaution. She held her breath as she gripped the damaged wire in the synthetic, orange tweezers, her every muscle going taut. This was the dangerous part. Leaning forward to see better, she went to lift the wire and reconnect it when the sudden, harsh bark of Vegeta's voice behind her made her jump violently. There was a moment of hot, searing pain behind her eyelids and an acrid, ozone scent before everything went dark.

"Woman!" Vegeta snapped, preparing to demand to know how long the repairs would take. The scientist jumped, as he had predicted she would, but then her whole body stiffened, the muscles locking as a tremendous seizure wracked her petite frame. Her lack of response made him scowl.

"Woman!" He tried again. Another spasm rippled through her body, the bitter stench of burning filling his nostrils. Infuriated by her seemingly deliberate disregard, he lifted one booted foot and, with the hard sole of the shoe, shoved her violently away from the machine where she had been cowering.

Her body rolled almost fifteen feet, even though it had been as gentle a push as he would ever give. He had the brief thought that she shouldn't have gone half the distance if she was trying to stop herself from moving, and it made his customary scowl deepen. Stomping after her, he surveyed her still form, the muscles which had released their tension twitching occasionally. It finally registered that her breathing was erratic and that her heartbeat was jumping wildly, and he silently absorbed the frozen expression of pain and surprise twisting her delicate features.

"Bulma!" The cry came from Dr. Briefs, who had been crossing the lawn in search of his errant cat. Looking idly for his daughter to check her progress, he had been at first surprised, then horrified, to see her unmoving at the feet of their angry-looking houseguest. Rushing over, he eyed the vicious burns on her fingertips and the rubber tools scattered over the distance back to the GR before cursing. The Saiyan watched dispassionately as the man fumbled to put on a pair of gloves in some absurd colour before bending and, with strength that was admirable in such a pathetic specimen of the equally pathetic human race, hefted his immobile child into his arms before carrying her into the house.

Vegeta stood on the grass for a long moment, not a little confused and highly irritated at the continuing lifelessness of the machine behind him, before shrugging and taking to the air in search of Kakkarot; if he couldn't use the GR, he would have to make do with the goofy, third-class excuse for a warrior as a sparring partner instead.

When he returned, it was dark. He landed on the balcony outside his allotted apartment, wincing as a broken rib grated against its other half; Kakkarot was getting faster with every day that passed, curse him. Sliding the door open, he stepped into the dark room, his powerful eyes piercing the gloom with ease as he lingered by the exit, scanning his surroundings for anything out of place. Satisfied that the rooms were safe, he quietly shut the door and padded across to the bathroom. Turning on the light, he twisted the dial on the shower to start the water flowing before inspecting his appearance in the shimmering glass of the mirror. Despite his bruised face and a shallow cut along his high cheekbone, he smirked proudly at his reflection, which returned the favour. While it was ordinarily of little concern to him as a warrior, he found his outward appearance pleasing to the eye, and he preened a little before stepping into the shower.

The feel of the hot water massaging his muscles made him suppress a groan of delight as he stretched his neck to one side, letting the warmth soothe away the ache of a strained joint. His eyes closed in pleasure, and slowly be became aware of another kind of tension forming a hard knot in his belly. His lips curled into a silent snarl as one large, calloused hand slid down his body to deal with the situation. On Frieza's ship there had been a vast selection of concubines at his disposal, all skilled in the physical arts, but he had rarely availed himself of them, preferring to concentrate on his training.

He felt the heat inside him building as he cupped himself in an experienced hand; more often than not, he had perfunctorily dealt with his body's needs himself rather than summon one of the many females to him, and he knew what relieved him the fastest. Wrapping a fist around his hard length, he began the long, firm movements that would achieve release as behind his closed eyes the gentle, pale hands of a faceless woman caressed his body. Shuddering, he increased the pace of his strokes as his phantom parted her legs for him and he drove into her heat, a harsh growl tearing from his throat as he heard the silent whimpers of pleasure he was forcing from her throat, the admissions of his dominance. After only a few moments more his muscles locked and white heat seared his body, radiating out from the base of his spine as he threw his head back and gasped for breath.

It wasn't until he had washed the evidence of his release away and, dry, had settled into the large bed, feeling the silk sheets sliding sensuously against his naked skin, that it occurred to him that he hadn't heard the scientist woman screeching. Although her parents had usually vanished into their own quarters by this time of night, he could still hear the blue-haired female moving about the rooms of her home or, faintly, the sounds of her working in the laboratory, often late into the night. He resolutely closed his eyes, attempting to ignore her absence, but he realised with disgust that he had become accustomed to the slight sounds of human life, and the silence was making him uneasy.

Growling, feeling resentment beginning to fester inside him like a blister in need of lancing, he rose from the bed. Pulling on a ridiculous, loose garment the woman had called 'sweatpants', he headed out into the darkened hallway. He prowled through the noiseless, still house on silent feet. Inhaling, he tracked the now-familiar smell of the harpy to what must be her own set of rooms; he'd never taken any interest in where she lived before. Smirking, he pushed the door open, sure that not knocking would be a sure-fire way to ignite her volatile temper. Relishing the coming argument, he stepped into the room.

Silence greeted him. His scowl darkened. Why did she deny him one of their spats? It was as close as he could come to sparring with her, after all, and there was a certain malicious pleasure in watching his barbs infuriate her, inspiring her to fierce retaliation. He looked around the room, absorbing the scent that hung in the air; she always smelled like vanilla faintly spiced with cinnamon, purity that just hinted at the sensuality lurking beneath the surface. It irked him for some reason he could not discover, like an itch that he couldn't quite reach to scratch. His eyes fell on the bed, and he blinked, puzzled. The woman was there, so why hadn't she responded to his presence? He tensed warily, ready for a trap of some sort as he approached with silent, feline grace.

By the time he was standing at her bedside and nothing had happened to cause any alarm, he was beginning to relax just slightly. He gazed down at her still body, his sensitive ears registering the heavy thudding of her heart, its slow rhythm somehow soothing as her deep, even breathing stirred the air around him. She lay under only a thin sheet, for summer was just starting on Earth, and the moonlight illuminated the outline of her body softly. Her pale skin glowed in the silvery radiance it emitted, the long strands of her hair, recently straightened out of the horrendous cloud it had been before, brushing the rising swell of her breasts, which rose and fell. His gaze drifted lower unashamedly, hungrily taking in the alluring curves of her hips, only half revealed by the teasing moonlight and the midnight-blue satin of her nightgown.

The slightest hitch in her breathing alerted him to her change of state, and he was gone from the room before she woke fully. She blinked sleepily at the door, which was open half an inch, foggily trying to remember if her dad had closed it behind him when leaving her room earlier. After a moment the persistent tug of the sleeping pills prescribed by the hospital dragged her down into oblivion again, before she could become aware of the sharp ache in her traumatised muscles. As she drifted back into her dreams of a blurred figure atop a magnificent white horse, holding one steady hand out to her in invitation, she dimly registered the sound of the door closing with a soft click.

Outside the room, Vegeta closed his eyes as he recalled the shape of her body beneath the sheet, feeling the phantom touch of velvet-soft skin against his own as he imagined her twining that magnificent body around him, her long, elegant limbs drawing him into her until he was drowning in her heat and softness. Very little about his life had been soft, but in the deepest reaches of his heart, encased for so long in thick, impenetrable ice, he coveted softness, longed for it, needed it with a hunger that terrified and infuriated him. The Prince of Saiyans should need nothing, but as he returned to the welcoming luxury of the suite that had been provided for his use, the memory of her remained at the back of his mind, overlaid by the beginnings of a simmering lust.