A THOUSAND SLEEPS

Part Three

692

"Shit." Silence, and then the crash of breaking glass. "Fucking Yamcha."

Her hissed curses are enough to garner his attention, and he leaves the kitchen and wanders down the hall, following the sound of her voice. He finds her in her bedroom, and stands in the doorway, observing.

Her pathetic senses once again fail to register that he is there. He watches with curiosity as she sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Her eyes are reddened, and he realises that she's been crying. This shocks him, though he doesn't quite know why.

Her floor is covered in cardboard boxes, each one half-filled with junk. She picks up another item from the pile of shit amassed on her bed – a ridiculous fluffy toy – sniffles and makes a pained face, and throws it hard into one of the boxes at her feet.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

He regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth. She jumps with a yelp and stares at him, wide-eyed for a moment. This startled expression quickly melts into a frown.

"What are you doing here, huh? Creeping up on people isn't polite, Vegeta." He doesn't miss the way she moves as she addresses him – planting her feet wide, standing tall, her hands held firmly against her hips. He's known the odd woman like her before, and it is a shame that a fighter's personality has been wasted on her weakling body.

"I only came here to tell you to be quiet. I can hear your snivelling cries from the kitchen. It's pathetic."

She turns her back to him with the roll of her eyes. "This is my house, buddy. I can do what I want. Why don't you just go back to your little gravity cave if it bothers you so much? That whole place is soundproofed." He snorts, and she continues, throwing another item in the box at her feet. "I'm packing up Yamcha's shit."

That surprises him. "Why?"

"Because he doesn't live here anymore." Her voice is flat as she says this, and he stares at her back, watching the tension run through her body. That is the problem with this woman – with all Earthlings. They're so fucking transparent. All the emotions around here drive him insane.

"You're not fucking him anymore." It's a statement, said slowly as he recalls the last month and realizes he hasn't seen the fool since before the ship last exploded.

The woman is silent for a moment. When she turns back to him there's an odd look in her eyes. "No, I'm not."

The silence in the room is thick, palpable, the look in her eye dangerous. He snorts and turns away from her and her discarded treasures.

670

She catches a taxi home, knowing that this light-headedness means she's over the legal limit. The driver isn't a talker, and she stares out the window in silence, watching the last shards of midsummer sunlight blink in and out between the shadows of skyscrapers, until the landscape around her is filled with industrial buildings, and the huge yellow dome of her home appears in the distance. Even in this twilight it seems to glow.

"It's too bright. The house is just too much of a beacon. I had to get away, I wanted to be normal, to live my own life." She shakes her head at the sudden memory of her sister and the excuses for Tights' hermit life, so far away from her family, or anyone else for that matter. She could at least visit once in a while, but she never does. Bulma sighs, pulling out a hundred for the driver, and tells him to pull up outside the gate.

The air outside is cool now, the heat of the day quickly disappearing, and her skin prickles into gooseflesh, her sleeveless cocktail dress ineffective against the chill of the oncoming night. Her heels click loudly against the concrete drive outside the compound, and she slips them off, carrying them in hand as she moves onto the lawn, circumnavigating the house as she aims for the spaceship in the yard. The grass is cool beneath her feet, moist from her mother's sprinkler system, and she feels as if she is floating across this sea of green, her eyes on the island ahead.

The ship is empty. It's not surprising – her mother will have dinner ready, and nothing comes between Vegeta and food. She steps back as the ship's door lifts open, the entry ramp opening out beside her feet. She glances around as she steps inside, and only breathes a sigh of relief once the door closes behind her.

This space smells of Vegeta. She doesn't switch on the light, and ignores the dirty stains on the floor, the blood and sweat and possible tears that intermingle on the tiles. Her eyes lift to the ceiling of this ship, only two months old, and in the dim light she sees not the tiles above her, but the imaginings of a new gravity chamber, large and vast and sturdy. Walls far stronger than these, extra warning programs, a faster gravity system with bio monitors, another failsafe against the dangers of a Saiyan with little regard for his own safety.

The attic of the main building, filled only with empty labs and spare bedrooms, would be perfect for this, and her fingers itch to begin the project, this challenge.

Why?

It concerns her, this train of thought, this idea that entered her mind this morning and failed to leave. To give Vegeta such a space within her own home... well, that would say something, wouldn't it?

There isn't any point building a permanent fixture for something, someone, who will leave.

And where will he go? Once the Android threat is dealt with, what will he do? She wonders, as she often does, whether fuelling his power is a good decision in the face of his declarations that he will kill Goku, that he will murder them all. Her gut feeling is that he wouldn't go through with it... well how reliable is that?

Yet she still wonders, if she gave him the option, the ability, the opportunity to stay and live on Earth in peace, would he take it?

And then she asks herself, Why do I want him to?

669

"Oh poor Vegeta was wearing even more bandages last night! That man works so hard!"

"More?" She looks up from the pancakes she's been picking at to stare at her mother across the table, her fork poised in the air. "What do you mean, 'more bandages'? He was already covered when I left the house yesterday."

Her mother ignores her, caught up as she is in her own musings. "That poor man! He never stops!" Bulma watches as she fluffs her blonde hair, "He's so handsome too. Such great husband material!"

Perhaps it's the late night she had, scribbling down blueprints for gravity chambers in a tipsy haze, or perhaps it's the way her stomach flips when the words 'Vegeta' and 'handsome' combine in her brain. For whatever reason, her mother's comments push her over the edge – there is only so much silliness she can take – and she stands up, slamming her palms against the table in front of her. "What are you talking about?! Vegeta is crazy! If he's not threatening to kill us all, he's locking himself away, working out until he nearly dies, repeatedly, and you think that's a good thing?!"

Her mother's wide smile disappears for a moment, and Bulma instantly feels guilty as she stares into the blue eyes that mirror her own. But then her Mom blinks, and the smile is back, although it's ever so slightly pulled at the edges.

"He's lonely. He's a poor man, dear, even if he is a prince."

The statement pierces her with a sharpness that catches her off guard, and she sinks back into her chair, staring at her unfinished pancakes. Lonely, she shakes her head, yet knows that it's true. She's seen just how desperately alone he is.

654

"It's not a huge problem, but it needs to be fixed now. Under the gravity, even a little crack like that could cause the whole side to rupture."

He doesn't bother to suppress the growl that bubbles up from the back of his throat. Bulma shoots him a sidelong look, a smile dancing faintly on her lips.

"What?" he snaps, irritated. Another breakage in the gravity room – this time a small crack running through the panelling on the inside wall – means another delay.

"You have got to be the most impatient person I've ever met," she replies, the smile still playing on her red-stained lips. He has the most insane urge to lean forward and bite her, right there. Instead he steps back, doubling the distance between them.

"I want this fucking thing fixed. Now," he says dangerously. She ignores his tone completely – fucking idiot – and leans closer, her lips stretching wide into a ridiculous grin.

"Well, I won't be able to fix it by myself, today," she tells him. "But if you were to help…"

He stares at her, clenching and unclenching his fits, so infuriated by the audacity of her request, by her very presence, that he doesn't dare to open his mouth.

"Well?" she asks, cocking her head to the side. "Are you going to help me, or what?"

He turns without a sound, and walks right out of the ship. The woman's voice echoes behind him, but he ignores her, taking to the skies. He'll train in the fucking desert if he has to.

There is no way he'll spend all afternoon shut in that room with her.

645

She can't ignore the chills that run over her skin as she flies over what used to be East City. Beneath her is nothing but a vast crater, a huge thing over fifty kilometers in diameter. In the middle of the perfect, alien circle stands a single structure, a temple-like memorial to the dead.

She remembers the day East City was flattened, and the hairs on her arms rise at the thought that it wasn't so long ago. The Saiyans had landed and razed East City to the ground within minutes of their arrival, and they'd all thought the aliens were monsters.

She flies low over the monument, watching it glitter in the sunlight. A million people dead in seconds.

A million gone, at the hands of Vegeta.

She feels sick as she pulls the plane up, ascending into the clouds, until the empty land is far behind her.

636

He is alone in the darkened living room when the woman stumbles past into the kitchen, hands dug deep into the pockets of her lab coat, and he is once again amazed by the utter lack of awareness humans have of their surroundings. He listens as the faint noises of the night – vehicles in the distance, insects chirping, all the incessant little things that drive him mad – are replaced by the groaning and grinding of the foul cappuccino maker that the humans are so reliant on.

She is as noisy as the machine in her preparations. A drawer crashes closed and a utensil clatters on the ground. He listens to her curse up a storm. The drawers open again, even noisier this time than the last. The machine stops. The foul smell of coffee fills the air. He hears the clatter of her spoon on the rim of the cup as she stirs extra sugar into the mix. Her process is always the same. She is as repetitive and boring as every other creature on this planet.

The spoon rattles as it's dropped into the sink. He hears her sigh, and though he cannot see her, he knows she's relaxing against the countertop, sipping away at the liquid that will get her through another long night. A dog barks in the distance, and in the relative silence he wonders what project she's working on now.

He frowns as another noise from the kitchen cuts through the air. He smells lemon and ginger, listens to another drawer opening, another spoon clattering against the rim of a mug.

When she appears in the doorway he turns towards the window, but his back it isn't enough to deter her. Her footsteps move closer, until he can sense her hovering just behind him.

"I made you some tea. Mom says lemon and ginger is your favourite."

It seems he cannot find a moment's peace away from these foolish creatures. Turning, he grudgingly accepts the drink she's offered, only because the scent of it has made him thirsty. He waits for some irritating remark to come from her mouth, but instead she only stares at him with slightly furrowed brows. He glares back.

"I worry about you sometimes," she says quietly. Her mouth curves upwards, and a dark laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head from side to side, her ridiculous curls moving about her face. "I don't know why; you're a homicidal maniac who murdered my ex."

He wonders, briefly, why he tolerates her presence in such situations. When was it that he began allowing her to speak to him in such a way?

"You're an idiot," he tells her, and takes a gulp of his drink. It burns his tongue, but he ignores this as the liquid sears down his throat.

She frowns and sighs in that overdramatic way of hers. He turns back towards the window, away from her, though he can feel her gaze lingering on his face as silence envelopes them.

Minutes drag on, and he finds that her presence no longer irritates him as it used to, even as her eyes, a blue he's never seen before, remain focused on him.

There is a shift in the air, a pull between them, and he is suddenly aware of how dangerous the situation is. He smells her arousal and his body betrays him, his cock twitching to life in response. He fixes his eyes on the lights of the city below, refusing to look at her.

"Vegeta."

He glances at her from the corner of his eye. She steps closer, but he is saved as an object falls from her coat pocket onto the ground with a crash that echoes through the room.

"Shit," she hisses, and he takes the opportunity to step back, distancing himself from her as she bends to retrieve the fallen item.

"I've never met a clumsier creature," he tells her, and is rewarded by a glare.

"Has anyone ever told you you're an ass? 'Cause you are," she bites back, polishing the object against the side of her coat. He recognizes it as the dragonball radar that the brat used on Namek, and snatches it from her grasp.

"Hey! Give that back! I'm doing maintenance on it, okay? If one of you lunkheads die fighting those Androids I'm going to need it to wish you back!"

He turns away from her, dropping the device on one of the couches as he moves towards the door. "You couldn't handle a dragonball hunt. Look what happened last time," he sneers over his shoulder.

He ignores her sarcastic "Oh yeah, 'cause you did so well on your hunt for the dragonballs," and heads to his room. It is only at his door that he realizes he's still holding a mug full of lukewarm lemon tea.

.

The lights in her lab blink on automatically as she steps back through the door. Her slippers sound too loud as she steps across the tiles, the dragonball radar in her hand. "Idiot," she says as she catches her distorted reflection in the rounded body of a bot she's been working on for Vegeta.

Vegeta, Vegeta, Vegeta. She's exhausted. Her brain is addled due to a serious lack of sleep. That's why she almost hit on the alien responsible for mass murder who happens to be living in her house. She needs to get to bed.

Or into his bed.

"Ugh!"

Her cry echoes in the empty lab. It's two in the morning, and she's aware that the mad scientist is coming out in her. Talking to herself is one of those bad habits of hers. Fantasizing about hot alien sex with Vegeta is another one.

She slumps down into her desk chair, craning her neck back until she's staring at the ceiling, eyes running over the familiar cracks in the tiles.

She knows how silly, how stupid, how wrong it would be to get with Vegeta, but that doesn't stop her from wanting all the same.

"You have more important things to worry about," she tells herself.

It's true. She shifts forward, digging her hand into her coat pocket and pulling out the dragon radar. Her fingers glide over the keypad embedded in her desk, and her locked drawer clicks open in response.

She places the dragonball radar inside the drawer. She stares at it, sitting beside the three dragonballs she's already collected, and decides that it's time she planned another fake business trip and hunted for the fourth. It'll do her good to get away from the lab, the house, and Vegeta.


A/N: If you're wondering who Tights is, google Jaco The Galactic Patrolman. Akira Toriyama has suddenly given Bulma an older sister, which is exciting, but also confusing in terms of working out where she fits in the DB timeline! I had a scene written out where I actually introduced her into the story, but it didn't fit right, so I'll have to write her into another fanfiction.