OMG I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. Here's 11 pages, try to forgive meeeeeee.

Vegeta woke with the ship.

Beginning deep in the belly of the vessel, hallway lights blinked on, computers whirred to life, and recycled air surged forward through the miles of ductwork lining hallways and galleys. To conserve fuel and energy, ship computers suspended these functions for seven of the twenty-four clocked hours, then turned them back on all at once.

He had spent his life on this ship and was attuned to her waking grumbles, sensing her generators turn over and start a brand new day. With a deep breath, Vegeta rolled to his side and stretched his legs out straight, reaching down through the balls of his feet and relishing the slight burn in his thighs and calves.

He could feel Bulma next to him, even with his eyes closed. She smelled like the cleansing products she kept in the shower, but not nearly as strong—thank the gods. The scent reminded him of…dessert. Like the crumbly topping of sweet bread, or the crackly, caramelized top layer of custard. It smelled good.

He opened his eyes, taking in the curve of her shoulder and the spill of her hair against the pillow. He hadn't closed the shade over the window before going to sleep, and the jets of photons outside the window scattered a multicolored light show across her skin and sheets. She was closer than he had realized; he could easily reach out, roll her underneath him, taste her skin instead of just smell it—

His eyes closed again and he turned onto his back with a shaky exhale.

Fuck.

On silent feet, he padded through the bathroom and into the closet, cracking his neck and back. He flipped the light onto its dimmest setting and sifted through his uniforms. Bulma's clothing now took up most of the space, and Vegeta found that he liked it that way. His wardrobe back on Planet Vegeta had always been stuffed full of textiles and armor, so his chronically-empty closet on Frieza's ship had unnerved him since he was a boy. Curious, he reached out and ran his fingers over the fabric of a dress, feeling the soft cloth catch on his callouses and fall away in smooth ripples. It felt like…

The features of his mother's face had long since faded into vague shapes and shadows, stonewashed by time, but he still remembered how his feet would jut out over her knees when he sat in her lap, the way her arms crossed over each other to keep him in place, and the slippery fabric of her cape in his fists.

He finished getting dressed in silence, and returned to the bedroom to sit down at the desk. The notes he had waved at Serori were still at the top of the pile, and he found a fresh sheet of paper on which to begin rewriting them in a more structured and cohesive way. The sound of his pen scratching against paper filled the room, and he paused for a moment, relishing the silence. Too soon, the ship's day would be running full throttle and there would be no rest for the weary.

The break in the sound must have disturbed Bulma's rest, because the sheets rustled as she turned to her back. She hummed and sighed and Vegeta knew that she would be awake soon. He returned to his notes, writing clearly for Nappa's sake.

"What time is it?" he heard Bulma ask a few minutes later. She patted the blankets down with a sluggish hand so she could look down the bed at him with groggy eyes.

"The clock is above the bed," he reminded her. "Look for yourself."

"I know," she replied, her eyes slipping closed for a second too long before she forced them back open. "I still don't know how to read it, though. I guess I should learn. That would probably be a smart idea."

He smirked to himself, biting back his response. She was clearly half-asleep and non-combative, and he wanted to preserve the quiet for as long as possible. "It's about 0530," he finally said.

"Are you always up this early?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you tired? I can barely keep my eyes open."

His pen stopped again. "I'm always tired," he said, dark humor edging into his voice.

She hummed in response, and Vegeta knew that she was drifting back into sleep. Soon after, he stood and stretched, rotating his wrist to shake away the dull ache that came from writing with such painstaking care. Nappa had better not complain about any of it or he was going to get a knee to the crotch—not like he was ever going to reproduce again, anyway.

He retrieved a pair of gloves and boots and slipped his armor on, regarding Bulma's slumbering form and debating whether to wake her as he adjusted the buckles at the sides. Ultimately, he decided to leave that job to Kakarott since he really didn't have much of a reason to disturb her this early in the morning.

Radditz was waiting for Vegeta outside his door with his arms crossed across his chest. He snapped to attention when the door swished open, and Vegeta spared him a quick nod before walking on down the hallway. "Everyone else is in the mess, Prince Vegeta," Radditz told him. "Once you've eaten, we'll all be ready."

"You made sure to keep Kakarott away, right?"

"Yeah," Radditz replied. "He's an optimistic little shit."

"Are you sure Bardock didn't get him off a different woman?" Vegeta asked drily.

Radditz snorted. "Nah, I was there when my mother was the size of a space pod. But Pops was more self-righteous than you give him credit for." Neither man spoke, for a moment, letting Radditz's words hang heavy in the air between them.

"Well, then," Vegeta finally said, "thank the gods you take after your mother."

The mess hall was already packed, but Nappa had saved him a seat, as always. A Roqqani woman set a tray of food down in front of him, and Vegeta tore into the food piled high on it. Down the way, Daikon pushed his tray away and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove.

"Hey," Nappa shouted, jabbing a finger at the second-class soldier, "what the fuck do you think you're doing? We're going before Frieza and you're getting food all over your clothes like a goddamned inbred brat. Get back and change your gloves before I tear the rest of your hair from your head!"

Daikon rolled his eyes and jogged away from the table, stripping his gloves from his hands. Nappa continued to curse under his breath until Vegeta reached under his breastplate and handed over his notes.

"Quit wasting your breath. If he were perfect, you'd be serving him instead of me," Vegeta grunted, reaching for a jug of water. He brought it half way to his mouth, but considering his last words, he stopped halfway and used a glass instead.

Nappa pored over Vegeta's papers, taking in every word. "This ain't half-bad, my lord," he said as he finished. "Definitely risky but certainly different. We might get this one."

"Have you heard anything from the others?" Vegeta replied quietly, conscious of the others around them. Saiyan warriors took up the length of the table, loud and raucous as always, but there were certainly other races present in the mess hall that benefitted from good hearing.

Nappa shrugged and folded the papers, tucking them into his own armor. "Eh, hard to say. I've heard some rumors that the Tungas are thinking about using some sort of grid action but…it's hard to say. One thing's for sure: this one'll be fucked six ways from Sunday, no matter who gets the job."

Frieza's antechamber chilled Vegeta to the bone, as always. Vegeta had never been to Frieza's icy home planet and hoped it stayed that way. Still, Vegeta had to wonder if the room's temperature had as much to do with comfort as with creating the sort of "on the edge of your seat" anticipation in guests that Frieza so enjoyed exploiting.

Next to him, Serori shifted, crossing her legs and slipping her fingertips between her thighs. If they didn't have company sitting across the room, he would have elbowed her in the side and dressed her down for showing any sign of weakness that could be exploited. However, doing so in front of the Tungas would only create an opening for leverage in negotiations with Frieza, so Vegeta let it be.

The door to Frieza's inner chamber slid open, and the group of Uvarns walked out, trying to not look disappointed and failing. Tough shit, Vegeta thought, if you don't think outside the box, you're going to stay stuck right where you are.

"Prince Vegeta," Dodoria called out, "Frieza's ready for you and your monkey soldiers."

Frieza's reception room was not any warmer, not that Vegeta was surprised. Frieza strolled in front of a massive table overflowing with food, picking pieces of food up, turning them this way and that, and setting them back down. "It's amazing how much stronger the stench becomes when they're actually in the room," he mused to Zarbon.

"Indeed," Zarbon replied from his lounging spot on the dais. "Let's just hear their proposal and let them go. I don't want to run behind on anything today since we have dinner with the royal family tonight."

Nodding, Frieza turned away from the food and moved back to his throne. "Zarbon makes sense, as usual," he admitted. "So, my Prince, what do you have for me this time? Another monkey rampage under a fake moon?"

"Not quite," Vegeta replied, looking at the spire above Frieza's throne to keep from rolling his eyes. He really didn't want to end up on the receiving end of a beating in front of his subordinates. "We've come up with something different."

Dodoria snorted in the peanut gallery. "This should be good."

Nappa stepped forward and outlined the purging plan to Frieza: Serori and the other special operations soldiers would hide themselves in supply freighters going down to the planet and subtly destabilize the planet's defense mainframe. Then, they would split up into teams and assassinate select members of the planet's civilian government and military. The final thrust of the plan would be the arrival of the rest of the Saiyan soldiers, who would utilize a false moon to transform into their Oozaru state and purge the planet.

After his speech, Nappa bowed to Frieza and stepped back into line. Zarbon puffed and squinted at the ceiling. "So after all of that, you still turn into giant monkeys? All the cloak-and-dagger killings-off seem a bit superfluous."

"It'll minimize casualties and chaos," Vegeta rebutted, looking at Frieza instead of Zarbon. "If they have two brain cells to rub together, then they've been expecting a purge for a while now—in fact, they'll know it's overdue. It would be ridiculous for us to think that we can do a run-of-the-mill purge and not run up against an organized resistance. By destabilizing the defense mainframe, we can avoid atmosphere-entry combat and get our soldiers on the ground and moving. Knocking off those few targets ahead of schedule will delay the bureaucratic rallying of defensive maneuvers. Our job'll be half-finished by the time people realize anything is wrong, and you'll lose fewer soldiers as a result."

"Well, well," Frieza purred, "it looks like they can think." He leaned his chin into his hand and leveled his gaze at Vegeta. "How will you split your forces?"

Vegeta barely resisted the urge to smirk in triumph, gently biting the inside of his cheek instead. "Serori and the special forces going ahead of us will reduce our general numbers by about twenty. We will divide our remaining forces into thirds; one squadron for each continent."

"And who will stay and keep your new wife company while you're away making war?" Frieza asked in a silky voice. Zarbon hummed in agreement and turned his own reptilian gaze on the Prince.

Vegeta had many years in service to Frieza under his belt, though, and it took more than teasing to make him squirm. "Kakarott will," he replied easily. "He'll be useless to us on the planet, anyway."

"Don't be stupid; just throw him out there under the fake moon and he'll be plenty useful," Dodoria muttered.

Daikon, who had been silent and still through the entire meeting, barked out a laugh and rolled his eyes. "He doesn't have a tail, sir," he informed Dodoria drily, "and you kind of need one of those."

After smugly sending the Tungas on their way and letting Daikon go tend to the black eye Dodoria had given him, Vegeta and Nappa retreated to the training room. "Looks like that planning session worked out, Prince Vegeta," Nappa said, following Vegeta to the far window.

Vegeta grunted in agreement, reaching into a cabinet for a water bottle and draining its contents in three swallows. Pensively, he looked out the window at Planet Roqq below, idly following the paths of orbiting satellites.

"Something on your mind?" Nappa ventured.

"Of course not."

Nappa smirked at Vegeta's snappy response and turned to look down at the shorter Saiyan. "You're acting like a damn brat."

"I hope you have a fucking good excuse for talking to me in such a familiar manner," Vegeta snarled.

"Your father put me in charge of your wellbeing—that's my excuse," Nappa replied with uncharacteristic evenness. "I've been looking after you since before you could crawl. I know what you were like as a brat so I think I have the better knowledge between the two of us to tell you when you're acting like one. Now," he said, after Vegeta huffed and cracked his neck, "tell me."

Vegeta wrapped his fingers around each other, popping the joints one by one. "It's that damned woman," he muttered.

"Serori?" Nappa asked with a frown. "I thought she did well enough—"

"No, not Serori," Vegeta said, waving his hand in dismissal and turning to lean back against the window. "Bulma."

"Is she not…pleasing?" Nappa asked, choosing his words carefully.

"What?"

"Well, she seems old enough but maybe Earthlings do things differently. I can always ask if one of the Qossac women could spend time with her and teach her—"

Vegeta audibly choked, cutting Nappa off. "Fuck," he bit out. "First, that is not the problem. Second, I don't need some damned washed-up sex slave to do my job for me."

Nappa grinned lewdly. "If she's fucking you so well I don't see what the problem could be, my Prince."

Rolling his eyes, Vegeta replied, "I'm not fucking her, and that's the problem." Beside him, Nappa blinked.

"Fucking hell, Vegeta. Didn't you just say that her skills weren't the problem?" he demanded, rubbing his head in frustration.

"It's Frieza," Serori interjected, slinking around the corner. She braced her forearm against the wall above her head and raised a brow at two men. "Isn't it?"

Nappa lunged at her, spitting fury about sneaking up on his lordship while in the middle of a personal conversation and how blood didn't make a difference in how he was going to tear her limb from limb. She easily sidestepped his bulky frame, appearing at Vegeta's side and perching on the ledge of the window. "You left the door open for all the world to hear," she told them, "and it only locks from the inside. I figured it'd be better for me to eavesdrop than half the ship."

Vegeta smirked toothily at Nappa, who was still red-faced and ranting under his breath. "First you lecture me about raising me from the crib, and next you're leaving doors open? Maybe you're getting too old for this job, Nappa."

Nappa immediately stopped his sputtering, a blush rising high on his cheekbones. Serori waggled her eyebrows at him and nudged Vegeta with her elbow. "I would keep him around if I were you. D'you want Daikon raising your brats?"

Vegeta closed his eyes and shook his head. "He'd lose them in the air vents the first day," he snickered, picturing the mohawked general chasing after toddlers.

"If you have brats, that is," Serori added, turning a piercing eye on Vegeta. The grin dropped from his face at that, and his scowl returned. "Prince Vegeta, you can't let Frieza win on this—"

"If Frieza had what he wanted," Vegeta cut her off, "I would have taken her to bed the first night she came on board." He took a breath, to speak again, but shook his head and clenched his jaw.

"So you haven't touched her," Serori concluded. She leaned her head back against the window and ran a hand through her hair. "How long do you think you can hold out?"

"Until Frieza tires of his game," Vegeta answered with a scoff.

Now, Nappa didn't deny that he was an old soldier, but he didn't miss the way the young Prince's fingers twitched against the windowsill. They had all seen Bulma; saying she was an attractive woman was an understatement of gross proportions. If Vegeta thought his desire could outlast Frieza's willpower, then Nappa would support him with every fiber of his being, but Nappa had years and women over his young prince and he knew wanting when he saw it.

"That woman," Vegeta muttered, and then laughed. "I'm more likely to wring her neck than take her to bed."

Nappa let out a booming laugh. "The two aren't that far apart, my Prince."

Bulma had her nose stuck so far down a microscope that she wouldn't have been able to tell what way was up, much less take note of her own surroundings. She had woken up alone, again, and if she hadn't noticed that the desk chair had been left pulled back, then she would have written off her quiet conversation with Vegeta this morning as some sort of lucid dream. Surprisingly, Goku had been the one to walk with her to the lab, and he had been bouncing off the walls for having been let out of his room. As they passed other Saiyans in the halls, Goku raised his hand in greeting; positive responses varied in frequency, however.

Right now, though, she was examining blood samples. That Goku wasn't human hadn't occurred to anyone at all before, and now she had access to a phenomenal array of machinery that would allow her to discover all of the minute differences between Saiyan and human biology.

The lab was silent but for the sounds of her own pen against paper and the mute clicking of the scope as she adjusted the scope. She was alone; even Orja had long since left. Goku had already come by to take her back to her room, but she had been in the middle of setting up a wet mount so she told him to come back for her after his evening spar with some of the other soldiers. It was just Bulma and science, now, and that's the way the she liked it.

So, of course, she was not expecting the hand that clasped her shoulder. She screamed and blindly swung her fist behind her, hitting an armored chest with a solid thud. Zarbon laughed at her, as she inhaled deep, shaky breaths and pressed a hand to her heart.

"How feisty," he teased, fingering one of his earrings and slowly looking her up and down.

"That was terrifying," Bulma hissed, still feeling shivers run up and down her spine. "What—why are you dressed like that?"

Zarbon laughed and looked down at his formal armor and cape, fussing with the folds of the fabric. "The Roqqani royal family is hosting a dinner for Lord Frieza and his entourage. I could have gone with my semi-formal attire, but, if I'm being honest with myself, it's been so long since I was able to really dress up. I bet you'll look ravishing tonight, too." He reached out and brushed her hair behind her shoulders. "Your neckline is absolutely exquisite, Bulma."

She blushed fiercely and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Thank you," she said, "That means a lot, coming from you. You always look well put together."

Zarbon laughed again and waved his hand at her. "A lifetime of practice, that's all that it is," he said, brushing off her praise. "I can't believe you're here, though! I thought that you would be ready by now." At Bulma's blank look, Zarbon heaved a dramatic sigh and guided her off of her stool. "I just cannot believe that Vegeta did not tell you about the dinner tonight, Bulma. We'll just have to hurry, then."

Bulma looked at the clock—which Orja had finally taught Bulma how to read this morning—and resisted against Zarbon's grip. "It'll be so late by the time we get there, won't it? It's probably best that I stay here; it'll be rude to interrupt—"

"The Roqq family requested your presence, and it will reflect very badly on Lord Frieza if you do not attend," Zarbon informed her. His voice dropped slightly and he crouched down to look straight into her eyes, holding onto her shoulders to keep her in place. "As a guest here on Lord Frieza's ship, your continued happiness and freedom completely depends on his lordship's favorable opinion of you. Do you understand me, Bulma?" Bulma nodded wordlessly, very aware of how solid Zarbon's hands were on her shoulders. "Of course you do. You're a smart girl."

Normally, praising her intellectual prowess would puff Bulma up with pride, but Zarbon's tone was condescending, patronizing, and it left her feeling trapped. He led her out of the room, jabbering about how he had only briefly seen Earthling fashion but he was so looking forward to seeing what was in her closet. By the time they got back to her room, though, she had composed herself and found herself able to return his light banter.

"I always forget how tight these quarters are," Zarbon remarked, stopping in the middle of the room and looking from side to side, clearly measuring out the square footage in his mind. Bulma laughed, her vocal cords a bit tight, and moved around the bed, jerking the sheets into place. She waited for him to go over to Vegeta's desk and look through his papers, but, without further ado, Zarbon walked through the bathroom and into the closet.

He flipped through the dresses on the hangers, pausing every now and then. "Some of these colors are…stunning," he murmured in awe. He stopped on a buttery yellow, lifting the fabric to the dim light.

"Really? I would think you'd've seen it all," Bulma replied. She leaned against the doorjamb and watched him plunder the dresses her mother had packed.

"Oh, I have, but that doesn't make it any less true. Still, real beauty is few and far between. I mean, look at the ragged masses on this ship, and look at me," he quipped, gesturing to his face. "You don't find this on every planet." He pulled a dress off the rack and handed it to her. "I'll be out here when you're ready."

He left her in the closet, and she closed the door after him. She was surprised by his choice; if he had been so blown away by the colors, why did he choose a black one? The dress itself was not one of her easier ones to shimmy into, either, and she normally had someone helping her pull and tug and zip these dresses onto her. Still, she was able to get it over her hips and she awkwardly held the deep sweetheart neckline against her bare chest with one hand while zipping up the low back with the other.

After she finished cursing old Kami up one side and down the other, Bulma looked down at herself, adjusting the stays in the bodice and the seams along her hips. Finally, she opened the door and slowly moved out, careful to not catch the layers of tulle on anything.

"Well," Zarbon drawled as he rose up off the edge of the bathtub, "if this is your first entrance into proper society, you might as well make an impression."

The shuttle ride down to the planet was shorter than Bulma had expected, but Zarbon kept her relatively entertained. She engaged with him, but her mind was elsewhere and she suspected that his was, too. Besides, she had spent enough time around business executives to recognize shallow conversation. Zarbon told humorous stories about other people with rare mention of himself or his own personal feelings or thoughts. Her father's investors did that all the time—enough to keep her interest and stay on her good side, but also enough distance so as to not accidentally offend her or implicate themselves. She always found it a bit annoying, to be honest, like she was talking to a bowl of oatmeal. Zarbon's take on the play was more refined, though, she had to admit, especially since it had taken her this long to figure him out.

"Surely they haven't been waiting this whole time to eat?" Bulma asked during a lull in the conversation, eyeing the clock over the door of the cabin. By her count, it was well past dinnertime. "I know Vegeta has probably destroyed something by now."

Zarbon chuckled. "Roqqani dinners are notoriously long. They start with small meals—snacks, really—in the afternoon and the larger courses have long breaks in between for walks and dancing. We'll be arriving just before the last main course."

The shuttle touched down near a large home with an extensive garden expanding out beyond the view granted by the small window Bulma peered through. "This is their summer home," Zarbon explained, reaching out a hand to steady her. "Prepare yourself; the shuttle's gravity will equalize with the planet's before the doors open."

A clickwoosh was her only warning before she suddenly felt twenty pounds lighter. Her feet stayed on the floor, but she was still grateful for Zarbon's hand on her shoulder. The doors opened and they walked down the ramp. Balmy air flowed over her bare skin and she breathed deeply, relishing the clean air and floral scents. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was on an island vacation.

The walk up to the house was long, but easier than Bulma expected. The tulle of her dress floated justbarely above the ground, so she eventually stopped worrying about stepping on any delicate edges or having to drag the mass of it around. And the lighter gravity also made the walk a significantly less exhausting trip than she had originally thought.

Zarbon barely nodded to the guards at the entrance, who bowed and held the drapes aside to let them enter. Bulma looked all around as they walked, taking in the glass-less windows and stretches of open archways where doors or walls would be. The garden came in from "outside" in the form of potted plants and ferns. Eventually, the sounds of conversation and the delicate clinking of glass and china reached her ears, and that was when the butterflies started in her stomach.

Zarbon noticed the slowing in her step and turned to face her. "Come," he said in a firm voice. "There's no turning back now."

"No," she replied distantly, taking his outstretched hand. "I guess I'm out of the pan and into the fire."

Zarbon raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding the idiom, but she shook her head and moved forward with him in silence. They met another pair of guards, and Zarbon stopped to brush floating tendrils of her hair behind her shoulders as he had done in the lab only a few hours earlier. Then he murmured to one of the guards while another pulled the drapes aside. Through the gap, she saw armor and capes and heard Frieza's lazy, high-pitched voice.

"General Zarbon," the guard called out, his deep vibrato bouncing off the walls and floors. The conversation in the room instantly died down and everyone turned in their seats. "And Bulma Briefs of Earth, Princess of Saiyans."

A quick thanks to Sameshima, who pointed out that our world and the DBZ world are not the same (s/he was talking about Bulma's explanation to Goku as to why she agreed to marry Vegeta). I know that they aren't the same, but I also know that the idea of "real" cities being leveled has a more visceral effect on readers than fictional ones, and that's the effect that I was going for. So, in my head canon for this story, West City and Mount Paozu exist, as do NYC and London, etc. Either way, it's not a major plot point, as 95% of this story takes place in space.

By the way, Bulma's dress is essentially the black mermaid dress from Zac Posen's Spring 2012 collection (the one modeled on the runway with a graphic mesh overlay on the bodice and the dramatic tulle flaring out from the knees...I can send a link through DM if you want-god, I love Posen sfm) and her hair in my head is very Angelina Jolie at the 2009 Oscars, but less poufy on top.