Persisting Strategy: a strategy that seeks to destroy the means by which the enemy sustains itself.

Okay here was the next problem: the fucking gravity chamber.

It's not that Bulma hated the gravity chamber inherently; on the contrary, it was a triumph of Briefs brilliance by both her father and herself, and she could never hate her brilliant, talented children.

It's just that Vegeta loved it even more than she did.

Failed attempts at shoelace seduction aside, the next major problem that Bulma was identifying in her campaign is that she just saw so little of Vegeta. The genius, modelesque president of Capsule Corporation was well-aware of the varied and extreme allurements she had to offer, but somehow these didn't stack up to a room that was able to adjust its level of gravity.

Fine. That was fine.

No, of course it wasn't fucking fine. But here was the good part: Bulma knew how to fix the gravity chamber, and had in fact been called on - loudly, interspersed with profanity - to do so several times. So logic dictated that she was the foremost expert - possibly just behind her father - in breaking it. In very, very specific ways. That only she could fix.

Game on.

All she had to do was sit back and wait. Well, actually she was sitting forward and doing productive things, because trying to seduce a Saiyan prince didn't mean that she didn't have a shitton of other work to get done, and she didn't have the time to laze around while waiting for her traps to spring. She had shit to do.

Ironically, she had actually gotten really engrossed in figuring out the quantum anti-particle polarity issue on her dad's new pet project, so the snap of her voice in response to Vegeta's interruption was probably harsher than warranted. Given that she, you know, actually planned out the interruption.

At first, he just stomped in and stood there glaring at her, like he shouldn't even have to say anything for her to lavish him with attention. She was only dimly aware of his presence. Eventually he was forced to bark out, "Woman!"

"What? I'm busy, Vegeta." Bulma frantically punched numbers through the computer before her current idea slipped away.

"I need you," Vegeta snapped back at her, and that got her attention. Her head whipped up from its focus on the computer screen. She felt all the blood in her body rush to her face and her you-know-fucking-where.

"Um," Bulma said. Vegeta strode up to the desk, slamming his hand on its surface and looming over her. She was suddenly incredibly aware of the heat of him. The small part of her brain still working was saying something about Saiyan metabolism and higher body temperatures until it was ruthlessly squashed by libido. WIth effort, she lifted her gaze from his chest, which was currently and deliciously eye level, to his face above her.

"The gravity chamber," he continued, his voice still short. "It requires repair."

"Yeah, so do I," Bulma said in a helpless sort of way before she could stop herself.

"What?"

"Nevermind. Gravity chamber. Right." Bulma stood, and Vegeta pulled back only enough to avoid getting smacked on the chin. It left them close to eye level, Bulma's gaze barely lowered to match his. Her gaze caught on his features, held as they were in such proximity, and she found herself tracing the line of his jaw with her eyes. By the time she made it back to his eyes, she was startled to catch him staring. Not glaring.

Of course, as soon as he caught her catching him, his expression darkened again, and he crossed his arms; he was still close enough that the gesture just brushed her. "I don't have all day, woman."

And just like that, she was snapped into focus. "Neither do I, Vegeta," Bulma said, hands setting on her hips. "I'll be by later when I have time. Find something else to entertain yourself with for an hour or two." She waited, ignoring the sound of her pulse in her ears.

"Feh." Vegeta finally stepped back and turned to stalk back out of the room. Bulma could only assume that meant something like, Yes ma'am, I'll wait on your leisure.

Bulma was not one to waste an opportunity, particularly one she had orchestrated with such - personal attention.

There was actually several minutes of outfit consideration where she was totally at a loss. What did Saiyans find attractive? Bulma had instincts that served her well - more than well - against human men, but would it translate? Did she need to find some sort of monkey suit to get his attention? She had a flash of stubborn resolve at the thought: If that's what it takes…

Might as well start with what she knew and go from there, though. So when Bulma finally waltzed - no, sauntered - down the hall towards the gravity chamber, she was decked out in the hottest mechanic getup she could put together. Jean cutoff shorts hugged her hips and left the lean length of her legs bare. A thin tank dipped low in the front and on the sides to reveal the clinging lace of her bra underneath. Her hair was mussed in a style that took an excessive amount of time to look careless, and her eyes were colored dark. It was almost impossible not to saunter when she felt this down-and-dirty delicious.

Kami, screw Vegeta. I'd fuck the hell out of me.

"It's about time," Vegeta was saying as he slid his gaze over. "I've been waiting-"

Bulma could feel the moment his gaze hit her. It wasn't just that he stopped talking, but the way his eyes fixed on her with the sudden intensity of a predator identifying prey. Oh, if only you knew, she cackled. She swore she could see his nostrils flare.

"Forever, I know," Bulma replied to him in his silence, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair a bit for maximum effect. "How awful to have to wait a couple hours for once in your life. Don't worry, Bulma's here to magic your cares away with science." She swanned right past him, lifting a hand - was she going to do it, of course she was going to do it - to lightly boop his nose on her way past. She could feel his eyes burning into her back and wanted to stretch to luxuriate in the feeling, but she settled for one final coy glance over shoulder before stepping into the gravity chamber.

Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

An hour later and Bulma was running out of steam. No, not strictly accurate: her steam was being redirected to frustration as Vegeta continually refused to throw her against a wall and ravish her.

Five minutes into her "repair" session she took advantage of an awesome angle to slowly lean over an opened control panel. Ten minutes later she was able to crack open one of the side panels and slide inside on her back so that her long, bare legs stretched out in enticingly full view. She even pulled out the most cliche bend-all-the-way-over-to-pick-up-that-wrench she could manage about forty-five minutes in. Yet, somehow, he was totally unaffected.

No, not totally unaffected; she could give herself that much credit. She wasn't imagining the way his gaze lingered on her at points throughout the hour - in between bouts of complaints at how much time the whole thing was taking. But really, after that much time of contorting herself into revealing poses, she knew that a more direct approach was called for. She also knew that it was called for tomorrow or the next day, because now she really was sweaty and gross and kind of irritated at the whole thing.

"Okay, fine, it's fixed," Bulma said, trying to push back loose wisps of hair from her face. Vegeta watched her, lip curling.

"Tch. You're filthy," he said, as if he had no familiarity with working one's self into a sweat, come on.

Bulma rolled her eyes, officially out of fucks for the day. "Yeah, Vegeta, science is actually work, thanks." She turned away from him, leaning over with significantly less artifice to toss her gloves in her bag and haul the whole thing up onto her shoulder.

She could actually feel him behind her - something about the heat of his body - moments before she felt his touch on the back of her neck. It was brief, the swipe of a thumb, but she could feel the warmth of his skin on hers through the glove he wore. Her neck felt cooler in the instant his touch left. Then everything seemed to tingle when his fingers settled, feather-light, on her neck. Bulma couldn't breathe. Part of her felt that if she moved an inch, he'd be gone.

"Grease," he said, the word a disdainful explanation that said nothing about the lingering touch of his fingers now. He was so close behind her that she could just almost feel the breath of the word on her skin. He leaned closer. "I told you," he growled, breath on her ear holy shit. "Filthy."

Kami. Shit fuck. Options were racing through Bulma's head, but the loudest thoughts were more along the lines of shit shit shit he's right behind me why is he this hot why is he breathing on my skin why isn't he KISSING ME why isn't he kissing me RIGHT NOW. Amazingly - ah-maz-ing-ly - she managed enough self-control to turn her head slowly back just enough to catch him from the corner of her eye. She smirked just the tiniest bit and felt like a fucking rock star of restraint.

"I'm not scared of getting my hands dirty, Vegeta," Bulma said, her voice pitched low and quiet and almost a goddamned purr. Her gaze flitted over his features: the way his expression seemed to shutter and evade when she looked at him, the line of his mouth, the darkness of his eyes. "Are you?"

Vegeta's gaze snapped with sudden force to her eyes. His hand jerked away and he stepped back, that closed expression being replaced by a more typical sneer. "If you don't want to be squashed meat on the floor in a minute, I suggest you leave."

Bulma just smiled wider. "Sure, Vegeta," she said, her voice light and casual in the face of his gruesome warning. She took a few steps to the door before flirting one last glance at him over her shoulder; she was rewarded with a nice, lingering look of his back at the control panel before she finished her saunter to the exit.

The door closed behind her, and she could hear the hum of the chamber begin to come to life again. Bulma had to fling a hand in front of her mouth to cover the sudden bubble of a cackle that escaped her. It didn't matter how mean he wanted to play or how distant he wanted to act. All she was feeling was his hand on her neck and his breath on her skin.

She had him.