. . .
DAY TWELVE
. . .
"You're walking too fast, and you're not even paying attention to me! When you said we were going undercover, I thought you actually meant to do quality work!"
On their way down the hall to the greenhouse, Bulma has to remind him to act like he likes her. Now he's bristling at her side. Cowed, like a proper husband.
Bulma has never broken in anywhere, but she's having a great time. Slipping into the hallway goes without incident, and so does Vegeta's lock picking stunt, which she should not be surprised he's good at but is.
They crouch over another doorknob in the dark corridor. "Will you teach me how to do that?"
His eyebrow raises, but he doesn't say no, which is all the blessing she needs. The door swivels open. "I figured you'd hope to never be brought this low again." He smirks, and her heart misses a beat. "I'm a bad influence."
"No way." She shakes her head, swerving in front of him as they spill into the conservatory. "Take me to do this again," she pleads, clapping her hands together. A grin pulls at her cheeks. She is made for mischief. She reevaluates her career choice. Scientist? Or petty thief? One is looking a lot more prospective than the other right now.
"Your ex-husband never stood a chance," Vegeta gripes, unlatching the inside door as she hovers close behind him.
"Neither do you," she reminds him over his shoulder.
The door takes them into an anterior box, and then they're in.
Bulma had done her research, too. No way was she just going to be led around behind Vegeta on this wild goose chase, like a puppy dragged along on a leash. Intel was key. The Devil's Heaven wasn't just famous for its ocean-front casino and resort, but for its strictly planned imperial-era garden, its orchard and orangery, and it's seasonal biomes: winter narcissus and immortelle flower blooming in a snowy, man-made landscape on the north side, saguaro and the thrust of dried grasses clacking on the south. Bulma badly needs to visit this place with her mother. Well, when she gets fired, she thinks sullenly, she'd have plenty of time to waste.
This morning over breakfast, Vegeta had said that their foray into the gardens was still on, even if the object—this holy grail, this sword in the stone, which would grant life and infamy eternal—wasn't the same anymore. It didn't matter if the thieves had ripped the plant from the ball and tossed it in the gutter as soon as they'd sped from Bulma's house. She and Vegeta are committed to being thorough. They're desperate for any answers they can get, even if the answer is "it's not here." After the ball had just driven away last night, neither of them are willing to admit just how desperate they've become. Anxiety is their new gospel, driving them. Just keep pressing forward is their shared scripture. Bulma suspects they haven't given up hope because they're just too damned stubborn.
It's warmer in here than in the halls of the resort. She'd piled her hair into a bun on top her head, but still sweat beads at the nape of her neck, in the dip of her back. They amble through the trees, gazing up at the leaves. In front of them a trail winds through a hundred different species of plants, and beyond that, a pair of heavy brass and leaded glass doors open into a greenhouse with exotic plants as far as the eye can see.
The humidity pearls on Bulma's skin as she stares, mouth parted. She floats from one to the other, running her hands along leaves and bowing in front of flowers. Squatting and peering behind the big lenses of her glasses, she completes hasty sketches in her notebook when she thinks Vegeta's not looking which Vegeta pretends not to see. She is geeking out on him, the scientist part of her muscling to the front. Over her shoulder, she grins at Vegeta. It's contagious, and helplessly, Vegeta's mouth crooks upward.
"Don't forget we're on a schedule, Ms. Briefs," he reminds her, though his voice is relaxed.
She looks over her shoulder and smiles, and Vegeta feels his chest tighten. "It's Doctor," she reminds him prissily, though they both know she's not fooling anyone. She likes his nickname. "Or Bulma. I mean, really, you could at least drop the prefix. It's not like I afford you the same courtesy. Vegeta." And then she's drifting to the next doors.
Surveying the crush of verdant plants and miniature ecosystems, she looks a little overwhelmed—there are so many pockets to scour for clues—and her mouth settles into an uneasy slant as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
It's time to talk this out. "Someone had my project last night." She straightens. She gives him a stern look, suddenly all business. "So someone had it here last night, and they didn't stay. A hotel guest? A passing car?"
"Not just any car." Vegeta's tee shirt stretches over his chest, his broad, round shoulders straining the cuffs. She pretends not to notice. "A very expensive sports car."
"Maybe there's footage?"
"Likely. I'll see what I can do."
He still wouldn't reveal his methods. She had to bite her tongue. "Why would someone be traveling with it?" She ducks under the blooms of a hanging fuschia, which sheds a few stray petals in her hair.
"Showing it off. Selling it."
Bulma chews her lip. This is just an overwhelming, monumental task. If she is realistic about this, tomorrow wouldn't include chasing her project's shadow all over town. No way. Plan B seems most sensible. The forbidden. That-which-could-not-be-spoken: giving up. She would lose her position at work and be blacklisted from any future research position, but she'd survive. At the worst, she'd have to go back to living with her parents. Maybe get a job pushing paper. Doom and gloom darken her mood. She chews her nail. If Vegeta still thinks they had a chance, though, then she had to have faith. Just when let the quicksand get her, he'd be there, dragging her back up by her collar.
"I think we're asking the wrong question," he says as they close in on the next biome, shaded deep, wet green and guarded by an arbor draped with drooping vines. The perfume of tuberose, lichen, and water envelops them as they pass under. "How do you get it to work?"
She frowns. "I don't know," she admits, irritated. "I haven't figured it out yet."
"You mean you don't know everything?" The path pinches narrow, and he leads the way through the vines and out, where the sound of flowing water pounds a little louder.
She slants him a look. "All of this magic stuff was just dropped into my normal human lap," she defends. "I'm a scientist. Reason is my raison d'etre."
"Don't think of it as magic," he suggests. He is unusually relaxed, contemplative. If she were a gambling woman, she'd wager that he was starting to feel comfortable around her. Oh, if only Vegeta-From-A-Month-Ago could seem them now. He'd be foaming at the mouth."Think of it as energy."
She frowns deeper, drawing close. They needed to ask questions in the simplest of terms and build outward. If they were viewing the ball as imbued with magic and not energy, what was so enticing about it that would cause someone to covet it? "Energy is the product of a reaction. It would suggest something happened, and now the result can be harnessed in order to be put to work. Energy is provisional. But once it's gone, it's gone, unless we can reproduce what created it in the first place. It'd be like a genie: You'd only get three wishes, then poof: your luck ends."
"You're suggesting someone wants it because, once it's been used, it's useless."
"Just something to consider."
"There's a school of thought that believes that people have ki, or life energy. It's a latent force that an individual can draw out and manipulate, like a tool. The stronger you are, the more disciplined, then the more ki you can produce and control."
"Like martial arts," she pitches, catching on.
Patiently matching her pace, he nods.
"But why would a non-living object have ki energy?" She frowns.
"Maybe someone gave it some of their own."
Bulma turns to crack a joke about the high cost of loneliness, but Vegeta looks completely serious. Shaken, even. Vegeta stares out over the area in front of them, unseeing. The ground is flush with a carpet of hosta under the shaded umbrella of thick, waxy banana trees leaves. She keeps moving. In her opinion, where the energy comes from is the least of their concerns. Vegeta is fixating on one piece of a whole root system of deeply unsettling facts.
The waterfall comes out of nowhere. She jerks back before her foot plunges into rushing water, and watches it tumble off the squat limestone cliff and into a pond. Down at the bottom, she can see fat koi circling under a rounded bridge, where the water stills, their ruddy orange and white backs surfacing, waiting to be fed. The bridge leads to the greenhouse, where she can see orchids yearning under the warm touch of the sun. That's where her tropical plant would be hiding, if it were here. They both know it's not, but can't give up the charade. They're not ready to admit how little control they have.
She feels him rather than sees him. He slides into the space beside her, quiet. They stand, looking out over the still, green space, air vibrating brassy gold with sunshine. The waterfall coats them in a sheen of moisture.
With a gusty sigh, Bulma drops to a crouch on the edge of the rock face, and then sits heavily, heave-ho, dangling her legs.
"What did you want to be when you grew up?" A sheen of mist from the waterfall coats the bare skin of her legs, makes the cotton of her clothes heavy. She doesn't wait for him to answer. "I always knew I'd have to take things apart and put them back together again for the rest of my life, until I understood how everything in the universe worked."
"What did I want to be? Like a fire fighter? A doctor?" Vegeta's voice drips impudence as he gracefully seats himself beside her. "None of it."
She frowns. "You're oversimplifying the concept." She looks out over the gardens. "I mean, we all have to ask ourselves at some point, what is it I want to be doing? What am I passionate about? What do I want to spend my finite time on?" She stares out over the sprawling gardens, contemplating. "I guess I've just been giving it a lot of thought lately." A crease cinches between her brows. "I thought I was right where I wanted to be. But now I'm here, and I'm questioning everything. This isn't where I imagined I'd wind up." They share a pause of ruminating silence, until she leans back on her hands and scoffs. "Can you believe that I was so proud when they offered me this project? I thought, 'They must really trust me with this.'"
Vegeta doesn't speak for awhile. "There wasn't a profession," he finally offers. He squints up at the domed glass ceiling. "There was no job I wanted to be working. That was too common. I wanted to be something special. I was attracted to symbols of strength. And I knew how I wanted to feel, and what I didn't want to be."
"What?"
"Powerless." He sits back on the palm of his hands, glowering at the scenery.
She can't imagine that he had a normal childhood. She can't even see him as a kid, with parents, and homework, and a bedtime.
"How about now?" She watches him, angling her head to look at him beside her. "Do you still want the same things?"
"Now?" He glances at her. "I'm different, but I'm the same."
"Why does it matter so much to you?"
"Have you ever had nothing at all?"
She can't help it. Her cheeks color. She had a good childhood. A smooth ascent into a good career. Bulma shakes her head.
His voice gets rough, but he's not looking at her. "Have you ever had it all, then lost it? Have you ever wanted something so bad, and watched someone else walk off with it?" His eyes rivet to hers. She knows Vegeta's intent isn't to be patronizing. In fact, he's looking at her so earnestly, gaze clearest it's ever been. He wants her to know about him. He's offering pieces of himself up for the taking.
He doesn't let her look away. "I think a man's greatest humiliation gives a greater insight into who he is than anything. It's not just about striving to be better than my lowest moment. It's not about measuring myself by those same standards I had when I failed, but about freeing myself from them. That's why I'm always challenging myself. I want to be smarter and stronger than the man that got knocked down. I want to be ready next time." He looks away, and Bulma feels like she can breathe again, freed from that captive gaze. "It's not about what I wanted to be when I grew up." His gaze sweeps over the gardens. "It's about how I rose from the ashes after that didn't pan out." He pushes himself off the cliff's edge and agilely climbs down the rock face of the waterfall.
Slowly, she moves to follow down the short, rocky face. As land nears, her foot prods and paddles air, testing to find ground. She looks over her shoulder to gauge whether the distance is short enough to jump. Instead, Vegeta's right there, holding out his hand. Blushing, she allows him to steady her before he lets go, already turning away toward the greenhouse.
It's basic courtesy, she argues with herself, but his touch jolts right through her, like she's a teenager again. She knows what to expect and what not to expect. He is not a man given to public displays of affection or declarations of love. Vegeta's a "My actions prove what I care for and it's probably not you" kind of buzzkill. And yet, spending time with him is clarifying. What's important is thrown into stark relief when they're together. Who she is is reduced down to her core essentials. His company demands two questions: What do you want? What are you willing to do to get it?
She looks at the hand he just held, clenching it, before trailing after him. She stares at his strong back as he moves confidently through the brush. Vegeta knows who he is. He's a man that suffers no conflicts with himself, has no problem being himself. But he doesn't advertise who he is. He keeps everything about himself close. Intensely private. Deeply motivated.
She's got her own problems. All these years of her ambitions, of inventions, of frequent and predictable successes...and of pushing people away in pursuit of them. There's no reason what she has with Vegeta would be any different. If anything, last night just proves she can't be trusted to put someone above herself and her goals. She could have told him about the scouter, about the dragon ball. Instead, she'd been so convinced she could do this by herself. Stubborn, proud, she never lets anyone all the way in.
But Vegeta is her secret pleasure, where the rules that once shaped the world just no longer seem to quite fit. An enigma, a puzzle that if she just turns to regard from a different angle, she could solve. And yet doesn't want to. That would steal the pleasure from Vegeta simply being himself.
Is she where she wants to be? She side eyes her neighbor.
Is Vegeta?
"My mother had these." His low tone interrupts her train of thought. There are two big, lush, flowering bushes outside the doors of the greenhouse. She pulls up beside him, hands gripping her backpack straps.
"Hydrangea." She darts a smile. "Your mother has great taste." She lets a heavy stem rest in her head, it's pale blue, star-shaped flowers papery against her palm. "If you adjust the alkalinity of the soil, you can influence the color of the blossoms."
He stares at her in a way she can't decipher. In a fit of self-consciousness, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and moves away. "My mother likes to garden. I just dabble." Inside the oven-hot greenhouse, where hundreds of terracotta pots line the shelves, she smiles up at him suddenly.
"We should get you a plant for your home."
"Why?"
"Because your home looks like no one cares about it. It looks like you dragged all your furniture out of Mrs. Sotomeyer's trash."
"So?"
"And if you don't care about your home," she continues, "do you even care about yourself?"
"What kind of self-help books have you been reading lately?" He's disapproving. Vegeta doesn't need self-help books; he's already perfect. He's got his tight little moral imperatives which serve his desires, and they're the only weapon he requires for this world.
His eyes catch hers as she trails past. Her mouth purses in disagreement. "You say you only put effort into things that matter. Sometimes the little things are just as important as the big things."
"I'm perfectly great." His breath brushes her ear. He's right behind her, and she stiffens. "Have you met me?"
"Yes." She smiles at him over her shoulder, showing neat white teeth. Vegeta knows better than to discount this as a cutesy smile. It's a defiant challenge. "And that's why I think you deserve a plant. Sometimes the best way to take care of yourself is to care for something else." She points to a cactus. "Succulents and cacti actually thrive under neglect. Maybe we'll start small? You're going to need something that complements your abrasive personality."
She is the antithesis of that. When she smiles, her cheeks round just under her eyes and her eyes sparkle. There are two faint dimples on either side of her mouth. The hair at her temples has become damp with the humidity of the greenhouse, and curls.
He thinks that if there's anything worth taking care of, it's her.
Instead, he says, "Keep your eyes open."
…
The magic of the afternoon is severed completely when the elevator door sucks open, and two men step in.
Vegeta freezes beside her.
The men stop, staring in surprise. "Vegeta," one says with disbelief.
The shock rolls off of Vegeta as if he physically shakes it off. An air of arrogant disdain settles it in its place. The tension is thick enough to bite into. "Zarbon. Ginyu."
One of them reaches over to press a finger into the floor number without looking away from Vegeta.
Bulma is frozen beside him. Immediately she understands that Vegeta does not like or trust these guys. He has the same rigidity as in the ring, as if at any moment he'll spring into action. He has transformed beside her into an aggressive, defensive fighter, and it's all buzzing, barely contained under his skin.
But now he's relaxing, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. Aloof. Contained. Impenetrable.
"Look what the cat dragged in." His greeting oozes disrespect. Bulma's eyes widen behind her glasses. No matter all their bickering, Vegeta's never taken that tone with her. Compared to this, the insults he lobs at her are sugar sweet. She is suddenly reassessing all of the things he's said to her. Suddenly, they're all looking really flirtatious.
The men watch him carefully, although one of them—beefy and broad—smiles at him. He's dressed in all black tactical gear. Bulma can only hazard a guess why. "Been awhile," the swat team guy says. "What have you been up to?"
Despite the tension emanating from him alone, Vegeta's voice is arrogantly relaxed. "A little of this, a little of that."
They dart a glance at her. It's clear they want to ask more, but she's a deterrent. Is she with him?, they're thinking. They stay safe.
"What brings you to the Devil's Heaven? Business or pleasure?" There is suspicion and curiosity behind their hard gazes, but their voices are easy like Vegeta's. They are all three being very careful.
"Both," he answers smoothly, betraying nothing. "You?"
"A little of this, a little of that," the big guy grins. "Say, what are you doing tonight? Why don't we meet for a game of House? We'll have a drink and reminisce about old times. We'll catch up."
She knows in her bones Vegeta hates these guys. So when he says, "I'll be there," she's shocked mute. But his tone is viciously playful. "I never get tired of beating you."
Bulma doesn't like the way the big guy smiles. "We'll see," the big guy offers neutrally. The elevator eases to a careful stop at their floor. "Seven o'clock," he says.
"Can't wait."
The doors slide open for them, and they give Vegeta a long look over their shoulders as they step out.
As soon as the elevator door has shut, it's like someone flicks a switch. Vegeta erupts into action. "Fuck," he spits, startling her. He slaps his hand onto the "lobby" button, sending them back down. Bulma watches tensely. She's never been afraid of Vegeta, but the force of his anger is blunt and hot.
"Vegeta," she treads carefully. "Who was that?"
The elevator decides to breach the lobby just then, leaving him stalking out into the hall before she can blink.
She's taking long strides to keep up with him. "Vegeta?"
"Old work associates." His voice is tight. "What the fuck are they doing here?"
He's booking it down the hall and then pushing a door open to who knows where, the unknown swallowing him up. In a burst of anxiety, she hurries after him and explodes outside.
The door lets out back behind the hotel. The stars are close, a bowl above them, and just a few yards away, the surf tugs and surges against the earth in its eternal compromise with the moon. The sun has just sunk below the horizon and the sky is a mirror, inky blue above the sea and freckled with stars. They are far enough from the sandy beach that they remain overlooked, unseen by anyone loitering on the shore after dusk.
He makes his way slowly to the rocky outcrop and stares out over the ocean. The wind ruffles his hair. There's something really wrong with him. Her heart beats fast. "Talk to me."
"You have to understand." And then he turns, and her world narrows down to just this man, his eyebrows pinched with apprehension. He draws close and grasps her arms. Startling her, the look he gives her bleeds concern. "I have to go to this."
"Okay?" Her glasses are slipping down her nose, but she can't push them back up with his hands round her arms.
"These men knew me at my worst, which they would consider my best. I was cut throat back then." His gaze shies away. "I don't want them to know a single thing about me. But I have to meet them head on. I need to know why they're here."
"You're going to go talk," she says slowly, "to some guys you don't trust," she finishes, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.
He doesn't answer, but he does surprise her. "I could use your help," he tells her levelly. "But you're not going to like it." Hands wrapped around her arms, his eyes gleam in the twilight, begging her to...understand? He's more panicked than when she started unbuttoning her shirt in front of a bunch of strangers. He's more undone than when she trailed her finger over the merchandise at the Porno Palace. He's really freaking out.
"Vegeta, I'll do whatever it is you need me to do," she consoles.
He takes her at her word, and his gaze melts into steel. She is so used to her grumpy, teasing neighbor, that when he side-steps into this hard, stoic fighter, she slams face-first into what's at the core of him: the warrior in the ring with no equal.
"If you do this, you absolutely cannotshow emotion. You cannot speak to them. You must let me take the lead, no matter how bad it gets."
She nods, wide eyed.
"They're going to test me. They want to see what I've been up to the last few years. They'll probe me for weakness, probe you, too. It's imperative they don't discover anything I don't want them to know, but also that I show no fear. Do you understand? I'm going to have to become a different person. The person I used to be when they knew me."
Her voice is soft. "What kind of person did you used to be?"
He looks away again, his profile all haughty angles against the sea. His grip is still firm on her arms, anchoring them in a storm of emotion.
"I need to know so I know what to expect," she presses.
She's asking him to give her his dossier. He can barely share what he ate for breakfast. It's an impossible request.
"Bullet point it," she encourages.
Then he looks at her. Black eyes bore into hers and spin the world into a narrow tunnel. "Made more money in a week than you do in a year. Cars worth more than your house, worth more than a life. I lived to put everyone in the worst mood. Hundred on the dash through a city with my name all over it. I came alive in the night time. I had no competition. Didn't listen to anyone. Always ready for war."
She's barely breathing.
"And then I went for their boss." The tension in his voice saws through her. "They haven't seen me since. All they know is...I'm still alive, and they don't know why he'd let me live." He looks at her harder than ever, his thumbs on the insides of her elbows, gripping her like if he lets go he'll sink and never surface again. "They're gonna try to find out."
He would never have admitted this unless things were dire.
He trusts her.
She holds his secrets close to her heart. She nods so he knows she follows, so he knows she'll never tell.
With her acceptance, he seems to calm, refocus. "Displays of power are the only language that they understand. I'm going to have to fall back into the man I used to be in order to lure them to talk. Just to survive the damned night with the information I want intact." His eyes glitter in the low light. "I need you in your best dress."
He's objective. He's arming her with knowledge, iterating it like a grocery list. Milk, bread, rice, best dress, dagger in the tops of her thigh-hi's... She allows her scientific, objective self to step up. She can do this. She can remove herself from emotion and comfort for one night. This is just a science experiment.
"They can't know anything about you. You are superficial, so you provide only superficial answers. We've only known each other for a few days. You know nothing about me except that I'm loaded. All you care about is money, power, and sex. All you know about me is that all I care about is money, power, and sex."
"Is that how it used to be for you?" It's half a whisper.
He's staring hard. "No," he finally says. "I didn't give a shit about chasing women. I was too single-minded." He colors with embarrassment, surprising her. "They won't believe it. Keep your glasses on. I'll explain you as my personal assistant."
"Yes, sir." Her voice is wobbly. "Now do you take your coffee black or with cream? Mr. Donnegan's on the phone. Your meeting is in fifteen minutes."
He fixes her a disapproving look. "There will be no banter between us. You can not question them, no matter what they admit, no matter what they know about your project." His chest rises then falls with a big breath. "We're going to act like we're losing, and then we're going to take it all from them and let them know we had them all along. We'll always have them." He raises his voice, surprising her. "We are Strength tonight."
"Strength," she chants.
Black eyes swim in her vision, hands on her arms keeping her here on this spinning earth. The sea breaks noisily beside them.
"It will be about an hour of game play, but every second counts. I need you in character. Silent. Compliant. I need you to trust me." He squeezes her arms gently to get her attention. "And just as importantly, I need you to not take to heart anything I say in that hour." What he wants to say next seems to get caught in his throat. "This is the biggest lie, the biggest game we'll play yet. Do this and I'll buy you whatever you want, take you wherever you want to go."
"I'm not that shallow, Vegeta," she snaps. "It's enough for me to know I'm helping you with something important to you."
His determined scowl brokers no disloyalty. "You're not going to like who I have to become." But a twinge of worry flashes over him. Like he doesn't think they'll ever recover from this.
She grabs his hand, raises up their fists between them, and squeezes. The surf crashes beside them. "Don't worry, it's impossible for me to like you any less."
Despite the mood, they smile at each other.