You have found your way to installment #3 of Frosty Eyes. Come in, sit down, and enjoy.
I am happy that you guys seem to enjoy this fic… I checked into my email, and I read the reviews… and then I ran to my computer to finish polishing this baby. Sorry about the late update— It was my birthday, and I was wiped out—but it's up now. Enjoy!
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Now, to the list of my reviewers…
Lhia, marcaiah1223, and the wonderful Lilac Owl!
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Disclaimer: No, I don't own DBZ, because if I did, Vegeta would be my husband, Bulma be damned.
~*~ Hattiakourri ~*~
Frosty Eyes
Chapter Three: Ruminations
"Hey, babe…" a suggestive voice slithered smoothly out of the phone. "How would you like to spend the evening together? I know that it's been awhile since we did, and I heard that that jackass over there has been making your life a living hell."
"Who spilled?"
"Oh… a little birdie told me…" Yamcha's voice trailed playfully.
"A bald, featherless bird with six dots on his forehead, no doubt," Bulma giggled, remembering Kuririn's last visit—Vegeta had hung around the entire time, always lurking in the room next door, practically hanging around their necks like an unrepentant vampire. No wonder he had come away with that kind of an opinion.
"Maybe," Yamcha continued jovially. "Anyway, would you like to go?"
"Oh, Yamcha, you know I'd love to, but—"
"Wait—before you say that, think about this. You. Need. A. Vacation. He sure calls himself a genius, so His Royal Sphincter should be able to put together a sandwich or die trying," he chuckled bitterly. "Emphasis on the dying part, of course. Please."
"Alright…"
"Great. See you at seven."
He had been sent here from the deepest pits of Hell to slowly annoy me to death, she thought darkly. And it's working.
And he had been, hadn't he? The instant he had barged into her room to demand an upgrade and found her dolling herself in front of her vanity, she knew that his witching hour had arrived, and that tonight, she was the prime target.
Bulma's features, bright and fresh without any hint of makeup, was flushed pink in indignant irritation. Her simple black halter cocktail dress clung to her shapely, lush figure like a glove, molding to her curves like a second skin. Her cerulean hair, shiny and soft, was mussed as she attempted to pull it up into a dignified bun. All of that, paired with the charming rosy tint high on her cheeks, made her absolutely irresistible to the gruff Saiyan, which he knowingly admitted to himself, despite her mulish tendencies.
"Do you mind?!" she snapped irritably, flashing her pearly white teeth, her azure eyes narrowed and sparkling with livid rage.
"Yes," he teased, snatching a billowy, soft kabuki brush out of Bulma's hands, patting the fluffy end of the brush. A cloud of silvery dust came out, eliciting a cough from the wicked little Saiyan Prince. "Damn, woman," he muttered, plastering an uncharacteristic grin on his face, wielding the brush like a magnifying glass. "You could be a detective with this thing…"
Was he trying to be… playful?
Whatever that was supposed to be, she wasn't biting. "Ha ha…funny. See me laughing?" she questioned, eyes ablaze, and voice completely devoid of humor. She stuck her hand out in a command. "Give it back."
"Why?" A look of laughter danced mirthfully in his eyes even while his mouth remained hard and emotionless, a look Bulma had not yet learned to decipher. To her, his eyes only seemed to display an unholy, wicked glee.
"Because, unlike you, I have a social life, and right now, I'm pressed for time…"
"Oh, no you're not. No one's made me dinner yet," he complained. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to starve me to death …" he trailed off, putting an odd look on his face that was quite comical, considering the source.
Bulma idly wondered if he was drunk.
"Don't get happy, I don't have that kind of luck," she muttered to herself. "Can't Mom do that for you? After all, she cooks better than I do…"
The look he shot her— one that obviously read "no, REALLY?"—pissed her off something fierce. "Perhaps, but that is hardly enough to make up for her inane babbling."
"Hey, be grateful, and don't knock it. For some reason, she actually likes you enough to do stuff for you."
"Of course she does," he snorted, bringing his hand to his chest, over his heart, proudly. "After all, who doesn't want to serve the Prince of All Saiyans?"
"Like that's the biggest favor in the world…" the feisty blue-haired beauty snorted as she held out her hand. "Now, can I have it back, 'O Gracious Majesty?' I have a date, and I'm going to be late. Trust me, I have better things to do than sit here with you…"
Vegeta simply stood there, brush in hand, his face having completely drained of mirth.
"Today, Vegeta."
His eyes narrowed in irritation, as he irritably chucked the brush at her mirror. "Do what you will." He clipped darkly, and stalked from the room as if fire were on his heels.
She watched slightly puzzled as he stalked from the room, his sudden anger palpable, tangible. Did she say something? What was wrong with him?
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The hour of seven came inexorably and slowly, forcing all living souls to wallow in its eternity before its arrival.
-For Bulma Briefs, however, it could not end fast enough.
Her long-awaited date with her old flame was nearly as exciting as one, sputtering, flickering, and threatening at any moment to go out.
The very sky seemed to weep when she reached the restaurant, breaking out into a grim deluge by the time she arrived. The restaurant, a classy five-star seafood specialty kitchen located high in the picturesque jade hills north of Metro West, was currently shrouded in mist—a sign she should have interpreted as an omen, but it didn't bother her. Not even the fact that she had been soaked to the bone when she walked through the door had really dampened her surprisingly high and eager spirits—
But all of that changed when her date showed up half an hour late, and even when he did show up, he appeared to have left his brain at home, for he was acting, in her opinion, decidedly stupid.
He had ordered a wildly expensive dish of salmon-roe sushi and sashimi before realizing that he didn't care much for sushi, and that he had only ordered it to look sophisticated. He picked at the pricey dish, obviously unhappy with the fare he had chosen. As if that hadn't been enough…
Then he had decided to speak. Of all times, he had to pick then to try to speak.
She had ordered a plate of coldwater Maine Lobster tails, and she was salivating, prepared to tear into the moist, tender flesh, when poor Yamcha attempted conversation again.
"Hey… did you know that lobsters are kinda the cockroaches of the sea…?"
Oh, thank you, Yamcha. A dazzling conversation.
"Thank you, Mr. Suave…" the blue-haired beauty growled under her breath, setting down her fork. "Yamcha, I can't do this anymore."
Her scar-faced date looked at her quizzically, the dramatic lightning outside flashing along his smooth scars. 'What do you mean? What are you talking about, Bulma?"
The heiress shot him a look that screamed of fatigue. She was tired--oh boy, was she—in both mind and body. She was tired of sleepless nights, but most of all, she was tired of this farce of a relationship.
"I'm sorry. Tonight…" she paused, making an effort to remain poised and calm, "Tonight hasn't really gone that well."
Understatement of the year.
"I'm sorry, hon…" he whined. "I'm sorry as sorry can be." He admitted in a sallow tone. "I had it all planned out perfectly, and then I just had to screw it up…!"
"No. It…it wasn't just you. I have the feeling that the both of us just weren't feeling up to this tonight, that's all."
"Oh," he sighed, wholly agreeing with her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" he stopped stammering when she raised her hand up.
"Don't do that. Stop apologizing, it's pathetic. It's okay, really." She looked at him then, drinking him in with her eyes, her deep, searching gaze coming up empty, at a loss. "We'll try again another day."
He beamed with genuine gratitude. "Thanks, babe. I owe you one. Really."
"It's okay. And don't call me 'babe.'"
She staggered through the door late at night, her hair mussed; her cheeks were flushed, and she was mentally prepared to enter a war zone. It was 11:50 at night, she was alone and miserable, and she was looking to take it out on the rest of the world—
--No. Not the whole world. There were billions of innocent people in the world who didn't deserve her ire. She could, however, take it out on the ONE alien prince that lived with HER and pissed her off beyond ALL REASON.
Yep. He deserved it, she thought wickedly, a feral grin forming on her face at the thought of an oncoming battle. She strode over the threshold of the doorway, imagining her gait as a lazy predator waltzing thought the house, looking for its next vulnerable victim. Pride oozed out of every thought in profuse amounts. Come downstairs. I know you're up. Come berate me. I'll show you who's boss…
She strode defiantly toward the stairs, to seek him out. She would take the offensive, she mused, gripping the balustrade with white-knuckled hands that shook and trembled with anticipation. She took the first step—
And promptly went flying backwards to land awkwardly on her ass, her limbs in a bizarre tangle, eyes wide as saucers, and completely stupefied. As if in a daze, she cut a glance at her murderously high black heels and realized that the heel had broke off, and glided over near the couch, leaving her, in essence, walking up the stairs on the tip-toes, slightly tipsy, and uncoordinated.
No wonder she fell.
Vegeta had been lying placidly in his room, mulling over his thoughts when her heard the door downstairs open and close, accompanied by strange muttering, which was clear indication that the woman had come and gone. At the noise, his thoughts had turned to her.
That hadn't been much of a change—they had pretty much revolved around her the entire night, and he realized (with clear disdain) that he had to find a way to get around these involuntary thoughts, and they were not conducive to his training at all. It wasn't her that necessarily bothered him, it was the fact that she was everywhere in his mind at all hours of the day.
The cat stared at His Majesty on the bed with his lovely eyes, glittering the color of white gold. His tail had curled slightly at the sound of the door, and he had promptly bounced off of the squeaky old bed and out of the chilly room to head to the kitchen. Vegeta followed in pursuit, obeying the commands of his perpetual hunger.
The cat purred contentedly as his sandpaper tongue licked at a bowl of heavy cream, spiced with cinnamon. He looked up as Vegeta had started rooting through the fridge, rummaging though the crisper and pulling out a succulent white peach with chilly flesh. As he closed the door, he bit into his prize with a predatory grin.
When the thump rang through the kitchen, the cat shot to attention, whipping around the corner, eyes wide, bright, and filled with alarm. Vegeta was soon to follow, certain that the hollow sound of flesh hitting the ground must have been the woman, and that she probably did herself harm.
When he cleared the corner, he just saw her sitting at the base of the stairs, sprawled as gracelessly as a bow-legged stork, sitting up with a ramrod straight back, eyes wide and muttering to herself.
She turned and looked at him.
He stared back at her.
Oh. She's just retarded, he thought absently.
The silence was deafening.
He took another bite of the succulent peach, revealing the dark pit and the swollen fire-red flesh in its core, turned around, and went into the kitchen again without a word.
"Hey!" she hissed at her irritating houseguest, now present, in hopes of getting him to help her up. After waiting a short while, and hearing no response, she kicked off her shoes and stood up on her soft bare feet, giving chase into the kitchen. She hadn't been hurt, and hadn't really needed the help, but it irked her that he didn't even offer it. She could have been injured for all he knew!
She found him sitting at the table in his bedraggled bedclothes, staring out the beveled glass window, out into the night, his teeth still sunken into the flesh. His eyes reflected the stars, their lustre brilliant. She became lost in that dark sea, imagining the great Dark Horse rearing up out of the celestial clouds, seeing the Pleiades shining bright in their deep cobalt brilliance, the fire and passion of the Cat's Eye, reflected in that solitary gaze. All those beautiful and wonderful things he must have seen out in space, and hadn't been able to share with anyone…
All of that beauty trapped inside the inky black abysses that served as his eyes.
"Hello…" Bulma trailed off, waving her hand in front of his face, not drawing any comfort, cold or otherwise, from his distant gaze. He was contemplative, ruminating. Perhaps, she mused, a little cheerless. "Are you there? You look like you've seen a ghost…"
He snapped out of his reverie when he heard her voice carry over the lush emerald hills and deep lilac sky of his Vegetasei, echoing like a destructive ripple that flushed away the memories that had gathered around him like timid butterflies. A soft breeze turned violent as it whipped against his face, carrying images of his beloved past-- a past that was very distant and fleeting—away from him. The world around him, darker now than it had ever seemed in his remembrance, melted away into a cold black sky sprinkled with silver stars, into a dark marble kitchen soaked in midnight shade, and into a blue-haired woman who sat beside him.
Ghosts indeed.
He felt empty.
"Vegeta? You okay?" She inquired. Her eyes seemed softer now, perhaps from strain, or tiredness. They caught the starlight in their glassy rims, like a pond glistening under a milky full moon.
They were pretty. Though he'd never said so, he'd never denied it. It was her, through and through, the one feature of her that prevailed in his memory, no matter where he went—he saw the lakes in the fresh green forests of Earth, and he thought of her. As he flew over the vast oceans, and witnessed the rippling, billowing currents below, he thought of her. Actually, now that he thought of it, she was in his head a lot.
It should have troubled him, but honestly, he couldn't care less. All he could think about was that she was here, and she was talking to him.
She wasn't talking at him anymore. She wanted to hear what he had to say. And he appreciated that. He would tell her something at least, even if it wasn't the way he really felt.
He was freer now than he had ever been before, but he didn't think he'd ever open up that much. That would leave his heart vulnerable—and that was something he'd never do. Ever.
He's off in space somewhere, she thought absently. That's why he's not responding to a word I'm saying.
He glanced at her after a moment. His eyes were soft, dark charcoal irises rimmed with soft grey rings, and they glittered at her in the midnight hour with a hidden emotion she couldn't identify. His face was ivory white with the buttery moonglow, and the lines on his face had disappeared.
All and all, it was quite lovely to her.
Secretly, deep down beneath his icy sea of consciousness, he belatedly reciprocated that opinion.
"Vegeta, are you okay? I mean, you look like you're out to sea--"
He seemed to recover his wits as he shot her a glaring look. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm just fine."
"Okay, I'll take your word for it, Captain Ahab," she drawled out in a sullen growl. He wasn't listening to a damn word she was saying. "I'll think I'll just be going up to bed, then, since My Lord and Master doesn't seem to want me around…" She stood up woodenly and stomped up the stairs, her thoughts steeped in a dark, roiling brew. Did you think something would happen? I thought you knew him better than that. Even if he did feel the same way about you that you *periodically* do for him, he wouldn't tell a soul, not even you. He's a three-lock box, and he will take his secrets with him to the grave.
His soul was detached from his body tonight, he mused as he sat at the table, clutching his empty glass in hand. His eyes were drawn outside to see the cat sitting on the fencepost, its coppery fur glinting in the buttercream moonlight as it tried to snatch Luna moths dancing in the air. The feline's twinkling gold eyes locked with his suddenly, and spilled over with a luscious emerald green, speckled with white-hot embers. Vegeta's head lowered to the table, slowly drifting away to the drowsy vale of slumber.
All was silent.
For the longest time, all he saw was simply darkness. He would envision the fiercest war imaginable—great iron fires flourishing in twisting spires, boiling and eating at skyscrapers. Charred flesh churning in the air with boiling black smoke, clogging his throat and nose with their thick charnel smell. Ash and ember raining from the sky, mingling with the filthy rain. The sound of his ground troops in full armor, stomping over the remains of building and living being alike. Feeling the planet, withering and dying, shuddering and crying under his feet.Mother dearest. Where are you? Over there, sleeping with the dead…
He snapped out of his wicked reverie, his breath a hair quicker, feeling like his heart was in his throat and his ears were stuffed with cotton. Those memories swept in like shadowy rats, stealing into his conscious and snatching away his sanity one kernel at a time, leaving him lightheaded and unhinged. He was different now, he knew, but he couldn't surmise whether or not that was a good thing. Even worse, he wasn't sure that he liked what he now was.
He deserved no redemption. His soul had died on innumerable battlefields, lost in mere husks, peeling off like the skins of shells, one piece at a time along the way. What was left was merely a hole.
…
She might be able to fill that space, but so would blood, so would muscle. So would formaldehyde. Bulma was nothing particularly special, in that regard.
…
But soon after that thought had made itself known, he envisioned her with her big blue eyes, the shimmering crystal seas drowning the flames, washing away the smear of smoke, flooding the scars of war, washing the bodies and the blood away from his hell. It was locked inside a prison of freezing water. He was drowning in there.
Oh, the confusion! What the hell did this all mean?
He saw the cat again, floating on the debris, above the surface of the water. That cat simply looked down at him. The look was indecipherable. Mystery prevailed as the visions drained from his mind like a sluice.
Why worry? You need your sleep.
Vegeta sank like a stone in the numbingly cold water, underneath his mind's astral starlight, watching placidly as the inky depths claimed him, and the feline remained safely floating on the surface, looking perfectly peaceful and serene in the night air. Drowsiness pulled him into a dreamless sleep.
He snapped sharply awake the next morning with the sun, and with the sensation of a gentle caress tingling in his pores. Someone had been there, he knew, watching over him as he slept. They had just left the room, and a trail of their scent behind them. He tested that essence, one that was undoubtedly the woman's, and almost let it lull him back to sleep, when the woman in question entered the room again with a pitcher of cold water, steeped with crisp lemon slices. He could feel the metallic coolness of the water, he could taste the tartness of the fresh lemon, he could feel the flush of cold water hit the back of his parched throat, even from across the room. His surreal senses sent shivers down his spine.
"You're up? You're alive?" she queried with genuine surprise. She had thought that, for awhile there, he was dead. She could admit now that she had feared the worst.
He had some explaining to do.
"Yes, you silly bitch. You can see that. Why am I here? Shouldn't I be in the kitchen with my face planted in the table? I remember falling asleep there…"
"Shut up. Just when were you planning on telling me that you were an epileptic? That's important information…" she trailed off absently, thoughts whirling at a thousand miles per hour. "Especially when you couple that with your insomnia-"
His eyes shot open, and she knew he was cornered.
He erupted into a furious snarl, whirling on her with a poisonous glare. "That is none of your business! You have no right to pity me—not you, with your life of cotton candy and fantasies! Mind your own self-righteous business…"
My 'life of cotton candy and fantasies?' What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"I would, but I guess I think about you too much. Way more than is healthy, obviously. I won't make that mistake again, I assure you." She pivoted sharply on her heel and proceeded to leave the room, but halted before she disappeared from the doorway. "This is the last time I'm going to help you. You can stay here, but from now on, I don't want any reminder that you're alive. You're dead to me now."
She left the room, leaving nothing but disaster in her wake.
For some reason, in his dark dreams, all he could think of was a brambly rosebush, its proud green stalk bent and gouged, the brown thorns ripped and twisted, and it's dark red petals smashed, bruised and cut till the tops were bald and the floor at it's feet were covered with the remains of it's former glory. He shut the door on that sight, on the heart that had just begun to grow, vowing that he had been right all along; Love is pain in disguise. He would die before he would permit it to grow again.
Any tears she might have shed had been bottled up, but they had still left their scars. She had survived three months in this fashion. She took one path to work, he took another to his GR. She had the house, he remained—unsurprisingly-- in his GR, caged like a wild animal. Only when the nights were unbearable did he enter his room in the house, stealing in through the window to get away from the spirits that haunted him outside…
Her life was not blissful by any means, but she could say that she had experienced some manner of peace. Despite the circumstances, she had elected not to resume her relationship with Yamcha, deciding that it was really better overall if she found herself a nice, normal, young man to spend the rest of her days with. Not nearly as exciting, but she'd be a lot more content.
As content as a woman like her would be, at least.
She began to notice, however, that the GR was falling under disrepair as the days went by, and that even the door to Vegeta's room looked unused in forever.
…
Maybe it was time to be civil again?
… ooh… someone's PMSing, aren't they?
Who wants to pet the kitty?
Review, and you get your name tacked onto the next chapter! Plus, it might inspire me to write faster… *wink wink, nudge nudge*
~*~ Hattiakourri ~*~
