Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.
A/N: Warning – coarse language and mature content (of a sexual nature) ahead.
A THOUSAND SLEEPS
Part Two
814
She glares up at Vegeta from the seat at her desk, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She wishes that she'd stood up the moment he set foot in her lab – instead she's now on the back foot, peering up at him as he stands over her.
"Do it." His brows are turned down in that perpetual frown, and in the harsh light of the lab his face looks severe, all hard angles and barely-restrained fury.
"What makes you think I have all of this time on my hands, Vegeta? I've got a company to help run and prototypes to develop. I don't have time to fix bots that should never have been broken in the first place."
"If you made them adequately the first time they wouldn't have bro – "
"If you exercised more restraint," she cuts in before he can finish, "then they wouldn't be broken. They're metal. There not made to withstand blasts from crazy aliens like you. There aren't any materials on this planet that could! But hey, here's a bright idea, maybe if you stop blowing them up they will actually continue to work."
He glares down at her, his lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. He too has his arms crossed over that bare chest. She can't deny that he's a hunk, all rock hard abs and bulging muscle, sweat and plenty of testosterone. His proximity to her is more than a little unnerving.
"Fix them."
"Ugh! Fine," she hisses, just to get him out of her hair. He snorts and turns to leave, but something stops him.
He's staring down at the broken scouter that sits on her desk, the one she took from Raditz body. For the briefest moment he looks forlorn, lost, and her heart twists as she once again remembers that he is the last of his kind, and that for all of his monstrosities, he is the man who cried over the loss of his people, over the loss of himself. This Saiyan Prince is the same man who swept away his pride and begged Goku to avenge the death of his people.
"The glass shattered when you fought Goku," she explains. He jerks, jolted out of his reverie, and shoots her a dirty glare.
She watches his back as he storms out of her lab, and pities the Saiyan Prince.
777
The bed shifts underneath her – again – and, losing her patience, she rolls onto her side and props herself up on one elbow. "What is wrong with you?" she asks, squinting at the lumpy dark form that is Yamcha in the dark. "You're squirming around like crazy. I'm trying to sleep!"
"Sorry. I'll stop." He sounds dejected, forlorn, and she sighs, flopping back down on the bed.
"No, s'okay," she sighs, rolling towards him. With his back facing her, it's easy to curl around his larger frame, and she buries her nose in the old shirt he's wearing, breathing in the familiar scent. His hand reaches back to pat her thigh, and she kisses his back, her movements gentle.
"What's wrong?"
He's silent, and she can tell he's holding his breath. He lets it all out in one big sigh and shifts again, rolling towards her. Her head lifts automatically as his arm slips under her neck, until she's safely cocooned in his arms. "The Androids," he whispers. "It's just shit, knowing what's coming."
"It's better than not knowing."
"I don't know," he replies, and she can hear the uncertainty in his voice. "Goku... Goku and Vegeta have a chance, but me..."
"You'll be fine." She squeezes him, pressing herself hard against him, whispering against his neck. "You'll be fine. We'll be fine." She opens her mouth and finds that she's on the brink of telling him the truth, so sorely tempted to tell him about the two dragonballs hidden in her lab. But the moment passes, and Yamcha's hand is sliding under her nightgown, over the curve of her ass, calloused fingers brushing the small of her back.
His lips crush against hers, stifling moans, and they roll together, him on top of her. Pants slip down and panties are tugged off her hips, fingers and toes pushing and pulling at garments until he slides between her open legs with a hiss. She digs her nails into his backside, arching towards him, until he fills her completely. They move slowly in a familiar rhythm, his breath panting in her ear.
"I don't wanna lose you, B," he whispers against her neck. "I don't wanna –"
"You won't!" she whispers back, silencing him with her lips. He kisses back with a fierce passion, a desperate need. He's a desperate man, a man who's seen death before. Kami, they're all desperate.
745
She follows the fresh bloodstains on the floor. They lead to the infirmary, where she finds Vegeta wrapping his wound, a 3-inch gash on his bicep. "How the hell...?" she asks, wondering what on Earth he's been doing to cause such a wound.
He resolutely ignores her and continues to bandage himself, the perpetual frown still plastered on his face. Only when he's done does he look up, treating her to a wonderfully unpleasant sneer.
She moves, blocking the doorway at the same time as he says "Get out of my way." She holds her head high against the full force of his glare, and prides herself on the fact that she doesn't even flinch when an angry growl rips out from between bared teeth.
"Move, Woman," he snarls.
"You should take a break," she protests, hands on hips. "You're going to kill yourself before the Androids even arrive. Just take a day off and let your body recuperate."
"Move."
"Take a day off." She doesn't know why she's so insistent. It's crazy, really, and the rational part of her brain reminds her that he's a homicidal maniac. The irrational side of her, however, notes the way the muscle in his jaw jumps in irritation, and the way his body – a perfect sculpture of bronze muscle, clad in a pair of spandex shorts and nothing else – tenses every time she opens her mouth. She pisses him off – she can see the burning anger in his eyes – and she gets a real kick out of it.
Breath hitches in her throat as she blinks and finds him standing mere inches from her. Damn his inhuman speed, it scares the shit out of her, and she watches as his nostrils flare minutely, almost as if he's smelling fear. He smirks, the corner of his mouth turning up in a devilish half-smile, and the only words that cross her mind are cocky bastard.
"Move, Woman." His voice is quiet now, but no less demanding. Her hands grip the doorframe on either side, and though she knows it's a losing battle, her pride won't let her surrender. She stares at him, taking in the solid wall of muscle, the dark eyes, and the flame of hair that gives the impression that he actually has a height advantage over her. This close, she can make out his dilated pupils against the backdrop of his black irises, and it reminds her all over again that him and Son-kun are the same, that they are aliens, that they are so different and yet so similar to each other, to her, to all humankind.
"Make me," she utters. Kami, it's like a scene out of one of the cheesy movies she loves to hate, but she stands tall, meeting his gaze, suddenly so oddly determined not to let him pass. He snorts, and for a moment she sees something dance in his midnight eyes.
His lips – did they always look that good? – part as he chuckles, a soft, rough sound that seems to wrap around her and squeeze, so that her breath comes fast and her pulse races. "Very well," he says, white teeth glinting as he flashes her another open-mouthed smirk.
"Wha – aaahh!" she screeches as she's tossed unceremoniously over his shoulder. "Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!" she cries as he carries her roughly down the hall, his fingers digging painfully into the back of her thigh. "You fucking bastard!" she hisses, the blood rushing to her head as she swings upside down, getting a much closer view of his ass than she'd ever imagined. The redness on her face only increases as she feels a rush of cold air against her backside and realises just how far her mini dress has ridden up. "Vegeta! Put me down NOW!" she bellows, her head pounding.
The air, the room, the world rushes around her, and she lands with a shriek into something soft. She blinks, her heart racing, and looks up from her place on the couch at Vegeta. He stares down at her, his expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed, and she blushes even more, tugging her skirt further down her thighs. "You... dick!"
He laughs outright at this, throwing his head back and practically barking. "I did warn you," he grins, sauntering away as if he owns the place. She glares after him, until he's disappeared around the corner. Only then does she relax back in the chair.
One hand placed firm over her pounding heart, she lays there, thinking thoughts about Vegeta and his blazing skin and rock hard abs that make her feel all the more guilty.
736
Yamcha's silent anger has her on edge, partly because she's never seen him this furious before. She watches him as he digs through the rubble of the second ship to have blown up on her lawn, noting his jerky movements and furious scowl. He catches her staring, and she turns away, busying herself with sorting out the pieces Yamcha's found. Anything salvageable is handed to the cleaning bots to be taken to her father's basement lab. Everything else will be going into a skip bin.
She takes a small part from Yamcha's hand, and offers him a placating smile. "Thanks for helping. It'd take a lot longer to sort through without a strong guy like you here."
"Are you going to build him another ship?" His stare is direct, mouth turned down in a disapproving frown.
"I'm not," she scoffs. "But Dad's already working on it as we speak."
"So you're just going to let him continue to blow your shit up." It's a statement, not a question, and Yamcha turns his back to her again, picking up another piece of twisted metal sheeting and throwing it to the side with too much force. The sound it makes as it lands on the ground is awful.
"Hey!" she yells. "Be careful! You almost hit mom's roses!"
Yamcha pauses mid swing, another hunk of metal in his arms. He drops this unceremoniously at his feet, shooting her a dirty glare. "You know what? You should be careful."
"What?!"
"I've seen the way you look at Vegeta."
The statement is enough to both chill her bones and rile her up, and the little knot that's been sitting in her stomach all day suddenly feels huge. "What?!" she repeats, letting the parts in her hands fall to the ground.
"Seriously Bulma, he's a homicidal maniac, and you just invite him here to stay? And then you pander to his every need? How many millions do these ships cost, anyway? You could feed all the fucking homeless in the world with all the money you're pouring into him!"
"He's a Saiyan!" she screams back, feeling defensive because he's hit a nerve. "He's the best chance we have of surviving the Androids, you idiot! Goku's meant to die in another year or two, and we don't know if that heart medicine will work! Vegeta might be our only hope at saving the world! There'll be no fucking homeless to feed if the Androids kill everyone off!"
She pauses, her chest heaving, her throat feeling hoarse. She doesn't mention that she has another plan to avoid worldwide destruction at the hands of the Androids – that would mean that she doesn't have an excuse for providing Vegeta with everything. Instead she chooses to fight on, because she can't stand to lose an argument.
"Don't get all pissy with me, Yamcha. Even if I was looking at Vegeta, you have no right to say anything about it! I see the way you look at other women!"
"Oh come on B –"
"No, don't 'Oh, come on' me! You're just all for the double standards, huh? You can look at a pair of tits here and there, but I take one look at a shirtless guy and suddenly you're all suspicious? Grow some fucking balls!"
"Hey!"
"Besides, we need Vegeta! He and Goku are the only ones who have any chance in this fight anyway! I don't even know why you bother training!"
She knows instantly that she's gone too far. Not only has she stabbed him with her words, she's twisted the fucking knife, playing on his insecurities, and she feels terrible for it. "Yamcha," she says, her tone suddenly soft and apologetic, but it's too late. He stares at her with such a pained look on his face that she knows she's really burned him this time.
"You're such a bitch, Bulma."
The words sting, but this time she swallows her tongue. Yamcha turns away from her and grabs his jacket, left discarded over by the outdoor furniture. She watches him without another word, all the while wondering whether to apologise. In the end, her pride wins out. He called her a bitch, and she won't say sorry after that.
He doesn't look back as he flies off. She doesn't call out to him, doesn't tell him that she loves him. She's already decided that she'll wait for him to call, as she usually does after these spats.
Perhaps she is a bitch.
She stares at the rubble around her, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, and sighs, shaking her head.
She doesn't know how long it will take to make sense of all of this.
729
She steps into the small infirmary and closes the door softly behind her. Vegeta's asleep again, pumped full of drugs to keep him resting until the worst of his injuries are healed. The breathing mask that was so vital yesterday has now been removed, the only sign that he's made some improvements.
She stares at him from across the room, and considers how wrong it is to be here, watching him while he's so vulnerable. He certainly wouldn't appreciate her presence.
But she worries about him. And she knows that she's one of the only people in the universe that is actually concerned about his crazy ass.
She wonders what will happen after the Androids, if he survives. It's just another worry that ticks away in her mind. Will he try and fight Goku? Will he follow through on all of his threats? Sometimes – most times – she has to remind herself of what he's done, and who he is. He's isn't just a man without a home or a real purpose. He's a cold blooded killing machine, and it hasn't been that long since his last offence.
He groans in his sleep, and she at his side in an instant, smoothing a hand over his bandaged forehead. His brows furrow as his eyes crack open to look up at her in a cloudy stare. "It's okay," she tells him quietly, her hand brushing through his thick hair. "Shh, it's okay. Go back to sleep."
She knows he isn't really awake, and yet he seems to take comfort in her words. His eyes drift close, dark lashes settling against his cheeks, and his head rolls to the side until his nose brushes her wrist and his breath feathers over her arm.
She pulls her hand away and stares at him. She knows it to be true, and yet she cannot comprehend the fact that he was born on another planet, that he is an alien. He looks different, yes, but it's an exotic look, a handsome look. In this moment he's just a man with a tragic past.
On impulse she leans down until her face hovers just over his. His eyes remain closed as she closes the gap, gently pressing her lips to his closed mouth. Everything is more than she expected – he smells better, his lips are softer. Injured as he is, he hasn't been able to shave for over a week, and his stubble scratches her lips as she pulls away.
She moves away quickly, careful to close the door silently behind her. She leans against the wall, fingers brushing over her mouth as she considers the many lines she just crossed.
.
He wakes in the night, and for a moment he cannot place himself. He hears the faint noise of traffic in the distance; sounds he recognizes even though the names for these elude him. His eyes search the room and his sense of danger dissipates. Suddenly he knows where he is. He is on Earth. He is safe.
He ponders this thought for a moment. It is disturbing, and only partially true. Kakarot is the only being strong enough to defeat him on this planet, and he is too much of a soft weakling to ever pose any real threat. But there is always danger; the upcoming battle with the Androids is proof of this.
Yes, the idea that the world around him is safe is disturbing, a dangerous lie. He won't ever be fooled into complacency.
He sits up and looks at the room around him. He's in the infirmary, and as he pulls the various tubes from his veins he contemplates how he got here. He has only faint memories of training, of intense heat engulfing him, and of the woman calling his name.
The woman. Her scent is strong, fresh in this room. He brings a hand to his face and growls, angered to find a week's worth of stubble there. The lines between his brows deepen as he rubs his calloused fingers across his lips, recalling what must have been a fever-dream. The woman's lips had been soft and supple, her breath warm as it feathered over his face. She'd kissed him as he lay sleeping.
He sneers as his body betrays him, stirring to life over the remnants of this ridiculous dream. As if he ever would…
He snorts and pushes himself off the bed, the taste of a ghost woman on his tongue.
719
She hasn't heard from Yamcha since the day he flew off. It's a relief, in a way, though every time her cell rings her heart skips a beat. She's not afraid of speaking to him – it's what she'll say when she does see him that scares her.
Vegeta, on the other hand, seems to be a constant presence, despite his propensity to hole himself up in the new ship. The empty refrigerator in the morning is a daily reminder that he wakes early to train. The blood stains on the carpet are testament to his hard work. He is a machine, and like her mother, she finds herself appreciating this.
These thoughts are dangerous, and she knows it. It's why she's escaping for a few days, for once happy to attend a business meeting scheduled in the distant South City.
She catches a glimpse of Vegeta crossing the lawn as she heads out the door. She turns away from him and throws her capsule out ahead of her, her sleek new plane appearing in its place. She climbs in, avoiding the urge to turn around and check if he's watching her or not.
701
Yamcha sits across from her, staring at his feet. He hasn't brought flowers today, an ominous sign of what's to come. They sit in silence, until she can't stand it any longer, until she has to say it, has to get it over and done.
"You haven't contacted me in a month. A month, Yamcha." She's a horrible person. Even now, when she's the one doing this, she tries to shift the blame.
"Yeah, well neither have you."
"Exactly." She looks away, staring out the window, seeing nothing. "This always happens. We're good for a while, but it's never stable. It's never right. We piss each other off too much." It's the truth. She repeats this to herself. It's the truth.
The silence is deafening. "Say something," she urges.
He shrugs, his mouth twisted into a bitter line. "What is there to say? You wanna end it? Fine. It's done. That's what, thirteen, fourteen years down the drain?" He gets up and pulls his jacket on.
"Don't be like that. We're still friends. You're welcome here –"
"Don't. Fuck, Bulma. Don't. I'm not welcome while that asshole's here. You better be careful –"
"Of what?!" she shrieks defensively. "Don't tell me what to do!"
"I'm not!" he yells, throwing his arms wide. "I'm leaving!"
"FINE!"
"FINE!"
She stares at his back as he storms down the hall. The room is silent. She sits, frozen.
Eventually she swallows back the lump in her throat, and wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. Smudges of black mascara stain her fingers.
"Fuck," she swears. There's guilt, and there's sadness, and there's shame. She still loves him – she'll always love him – but it's not enough. It never was – which was half of their problem to begin with – and it never will be.
Thirteen, fourteen years. She curls up in her chair, forehead pressed to her knees, and sobs. It fucking breaks her heart.
A/N: *Bites nails nervously* Yes, I may just be a Yamcha sympathizer, as well as a B/V lover. I'm trying to do them all justice here.