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X.

Mean

Bulma smiled at the half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, then shifted her gaze to her entirely empty wine glass. "Well that's no good," she said to herself mischievously, setting her glass on the table and filling it once more. It had been quite some time since the scientist treated herself to a night of delicious, inhibition lowering indulgence, and she intended to make the most of it. Her mother had Trunks, her father was asleep, and Vegeta was training; tonight was Bulma night. She followed a sip of the dry, red wine with a contrastingly sweet and juicy strawberry. Kami, it didn't get better than—

"What on Earth are you doing?" interrupting the heiress's contented relaxing was the terse voice of the one being in the whole universe she currently wanted to deal with the least.

"I'm having fun. Leave me alone before you ruin it," she shot, concentration fixed on keeping her words from slurring.

"Where is my son?" the Saiyan continued, eyes narrowing.

Swallowing a second strawberry, Bulma returned his glare. "Our son is with my mother. What is this, twenty questions? GO. A. WAY."

Vegeta, who perhaps would have preferred they avoid each other for the evening, felt compelled to assert his position as one who would not be taking orders from anyone, especially her. He approached her and crossed his arms, eyeing the now almost empty wine bottle. "This is the beverage which Earthlings use to lower their intellect for entertainment?" he asked. The concept had always been quite absurd to him.

"A variety of it, yes," Bulma answered, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to make it sound so stupid. I bet you'd like it if you tried it," she grumbled, scooting over to free up a couch cushion. "Come on, don't just stand there all you like. If you're not gonna leave me alone, at least sit down. You're making me uncomfortable." She patted the seat next to her.

Hesitantly, the Saiyan sat, noting the clumsiness of the woman's motions as she reached for the bottle and handed it to him. He sniffed it, then took a swig, which he immediately regretted. "This is foul," he replied, forcefully handing the bottle back to her.

The scientist shrugged. "It's an acquired taste. Guess that means I'll have to drink it all by myself," she said cheekily, this time unable to hide the subtle slur of her speech.

"That's what you said about coffee," he reminded her, which, despite her insistence that he would someday grow to love and proceed to drink copious and expensive amounts of, he still hated.

Her glass now empty again, Bulma proceeded to polish off the wine from the bottle. "Surprise, surprise, another thing I got wrong about you," she retorted, waving the index finger of her free hand like an imaginary noise maker.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Vegeta snapped, crossing his arms.

Leaning closer to the warrior, Bulma fumbled the finished bottle onto the coffee table. "I thought you actually liked me," she accused, poking his muscular shoulder. "But I think I was wrong. I think you just like my breasts and my gravity room."

Nearly choking, Vegeta's face flushed and he swatted her hand away. "I have no idea what you are going on about, vulgar woman!" he insisted, surprised that even she would say something so brazen. He glanced at the wine bottle, distantly wondering if there was a limit as to how much of the beverage a human could safely consume.

"Yes you do!" the heiress insisted, the volume of her voice suddenly raised. Before the Saiyan could protest, Bulma climbed into his lap, arms slung around his neck. She leaned in and kissed him passionately, then proceeded to suck on his ear, which she happened to know he was a sucker for. "You want me, but you don't like me," she whispered, her hand traveling across his chest, then slowly dipping lower.

Stunned, Vegeta caught her meandering hand and held it firmly by the wrist. "You've had too much to drink. You are behaving foolishly," he insisted, willing his least easily controlled muscle to keep from betraying him.

"So you don't want me?" Bulma slurred, pulling back to look him in the eyes, but unable to focus on one set of the multiple pairs swirling before her. Abruptly, she regretted drinking the whole bottle, as she realized its effects were now beyond her power of control.

"Certainly not like this," the Saiyan answered, releasing her hand.

Hurt, the scientist wheeled away from him, clambering out of his lap and to her feet. "Fine, then!" she growled. As she turned to leave, however, she tripped on the coffee table and tumbled forward. Effortlessly, Vegeta caught her before she could make contact with its corner, holding her resolutely until she could find her balance. Unable to steady herself, Bulma initially clutched the arm which supported her, then quickly resorted to pounding on it with balled fists. "Let me go, you don't care if I fall! All you care about is stupid androids and stupid Super Saiyans and stupid Goku and being a stupid jerk! I was wrong again—you don't even care about my breasts! Take them off the list!"

As the Saiyan held tight and allowed the drunken woman to continue beating him, he suddenly felt the drip of warm liquid against his skin; he realized, to his horror, that she was now crying. He gritted his teeth and wished he could go back in time, a la Trunks, and have left the woman alone like she asked. No point he had been trying to prove was worth this insufferable interaction. "What are you doing now?" he demanded, certain he would regret the inquisition. Human women were so bizarre—especially this one.

"I'm just mad," she sniffed. "It's all Frieza's fault, isn't it? I hate him. He made you so mean. Nothing I do changes it." Her words drifted off, and her body relaxed against the Saiyan as she quietly wept, energy spent.

Surprised by the comment, Vegeta said nothing, but allowed her to rest in his arms. He had never shared any details with her about his time under Frieza's control—it must have been Kakarot's son, as she had been acting stranger than usual since his visit. He had only relayed the truth of his past to Kakarot when he believed himself to be dying; others knowing was not something he had anticipated living with. The idea of her taking pity on him filled him with shame and annoyance, yet also triggered the sting of some other feeling, one that was harder to identify.

"Go away. I wanna go to bed. Go away so I can go to bed. Right now," Bulma mumbled, body practically limp.

"And how are you going to manage that?" the warrior stated quizzically, feeling the increased weight with which she leaned on him. Accepting her unintelligible groan as an admittance of defeat, Vegeta hoisted her into his arms and carried her to her room.