A/N: This has been sitting in my folder for about three or four weeks, unchanged. I open, go to edit or add more, and...nothing. So, fuck it. There was supposed to be scene before the one in the library, but to Hell with it. Merry Christmas, everyone. I hope you enjoy.

I told you, one last sappy chapter. We're getting back into the thick of things.

…and the Hunted

thump. Twenty-six. thump. Twenty-seven. thump. Twenty-eight.

He was getting better, she had to admit. It had been three weeks since the operation and Vegeta was making wonderful progress. Every day, some lost aspect was regained, and though he didn't actively show it, he was becoming more complacent, less argumentative. Even when he was acting crotchety – he loathed that word, especially in relation to him – his moods could generally be redirected or distracted. His hand-eye coordination exercises were becoming too easy for him. Bulma was wracking her brain to think of harder ones that were still within his range of capability.

thump. Twenty-nine. thump. Thirty.

The most irritating exercise was catching that goddamn tennis ball. He had sufficed, at first, with just tossing it up and down in front of him, but now that was much too easy; Vegeta didn't even need to look to catch the damn thing now. So he'd started throwing it at a wall, at first just sitting on the ground and lazily tossing it, eventually working up to intentionally throwing it poorly or in a strange direction so it would bounce randomly and he had to work to catch it. Fifty a day, every day, each day becoming a job of 'how can we make this more difficult?'

thump. Thirty-one.

God, she was beginning to hate that sound. Bulma's father had been adamant that she stay with the warrior while he worked his vision back up to par. "We don't want a repeat of last time," he'd said scornfully, as if she had been at fault.

thump. Thirty-two. thump. Thirty-three.

It wasn't all bad, though. She got to take a break from the daily drudge of blueprints to, essentially, watch the very attractive man she was sleeping with run around, trying to improve his vision. Bulma wondered if she would finally get to see the warrior Tienshinhan had described to her over the phone.

"I've heard stories of this guy, he's a monster. Been in the scene for years, no one's really sure how long, but they say he's been undefeated for almost a decade. He's vicious."

"Vicious is a good word for it."

"I want you to be careful, Bulma. I don't want to scare you, but…. Rumor on the street is, Ouji's most known for this fight, years ago. A kid died. I doubt he'll hurt anyone at Capsule Corp, but still, it's best to be careful."

"Thanks, Tien. Good luck on your next fight."

The ball was soaring a little too far to Vegeta's right. Even from where she was sitting, Bulma could tell that he wasn't going to make it in time, it was going to slip past his fingers and, being the pedantic bastard he was, he'd start over. The air in her lungs poised to escape as a groan. His face hardened minutely into a scowl she recognized from his sparring sessions with Goku and his early days when trying to regain his strength. Briefly, his body coiled, shrinking in on itself, before he extended like a compressed spring, left toe barely grazing the floor as he stretched his hand as far as it would go. The tips of his fingers made contact; rather than catching the ball, he batted it back towards the wall. It bounced off the floor, thumped the wall, and soared back to him, where he caught it easily in his left hand.

Fifty.

She almost applauded. Instead, she settled with, "That was impressive. I didn't think you were going to catch that." He 'humphed' as Bulma got to her feet. Her stopwatch said 00:16:03:94. She held it out and Vegeta squinted at it. "New record."

"Nineteen minutes? Damn, that's-"

"Sixteen."

"What?"

"Sixteen minutes, four seconds."

"Oh."

When he turned away, Bulma made a quick note on her clipboard that he was still struggling to read correctly. It was better, though, as only one digit had been confused, rather than the entire string of numbers being a jumbled mess.

Reading was detail work that Vegeta had to take care of on his own. As she returned to her office on the fourth floor, Bulma remembered how violently he had reacted when she suggested he sit down and write out his alphabet. I'll handle it myself, he'd insisted, storming out of the examination room. While the progress with his physical coordination was astounding, his ability to read was slow-going; she was sure he was aware.

At her computer, Bulma began entering the new set of data received from today's work. The left eye had begun to solidify its tracking again; rather than wobbling, it was actually working to keep up and stay even with its counterpart. Sometimes, when he looked at something, the left eye was off-kilter, as if it wasn't sure about what it was trying to focus on, but that, too, was starting to dwindle in frequency. Sixteen minutes for a fifty-count exercise, that was…about three repetitions per minute. She didn't think that was very slow.

/ENTER/

The simulation popped up with its projected results again. Flashing at the bottom were the words, RESULT: SUCCESS. Bulma loved seeing those words. She sat back in her chair and smiled contentedly at her screen.

The dyslexia had eased, remarkably, and Vegeta was spending more time in the library than ever. He admitted that the words would still occasionally evade him and letters would sometimes morph, but if he focused enough, they would right themselves eventually.

His feet were propped up on the dark wood table, elbows on the arm of the matching cushioned chair, holding a book a little closer than was probably normal, but he wasn't scowling any harder than usual. He looked engrossed in what he was reading.

Bulma peeked around the door frame. "Oh, there you are," she said, stepping into the room. Vegeta hummed without looking up. "Are you taking a day off?"

He frowned; apparently, she did not understand that he was trying to read and wanted to be left alone. The book was laid on his thighs. "Not really. I stopped early to come read."

"Why?"

His nostrils flared. "Because I am still having difficulty seeing; you and your father agreed that reading should help."

"Oh." She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward, looking at his lap. He tried not to look down her dark red, low cut shirt. "Whatcha reading?"

"You're asking an awful lot of questions," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What do you want?"

Bulma tried to look insulted but succeeded only in looking ridiculous. "What makes you think I want anything?" He didn't move, didn't change expressions, only stared at her. To avoid, his gaze, she returned her attention to the book on his legs. Without warning, she struck out and snatched it from him.

"Fahrenheit 451? I didn't take you to be a Bradbury fan," she said, flipping it open to the page he was on. "With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word `intellectual,' of course-"

"Became the swear word it deserved to be," he interjected, staring at his hands. "You always dread the unfamiliar."

Bulma stared at him, wide-eyed. "Did you memorize that?" He shrugged.

"I've read it a few times."

"The book?"

"That paragraph."

She didn't understand, and then noticed that this was the same book Vegeta had thrown the night he admitted to his dyslexia. Eyes down, Bulma silently handed the book back.

"So," he started, placing a bit of paper between the pages and standing. "Why did you come looking for me, Ms. Briefs?"

Bulma shrugged, leaning her weight on the edge of the table. "I got bored." He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you might be hungry." His arms crossed over his chest. Bulma groaned and let her head fall back. "Okay, fine. Dad's having a dinner party and I was wondering-"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask if I was willing to attend. The answer is no."

She pouted. "But, Vegeta-" He was shaking his head. "Oh, come on, all my boys are going."

"And I will not be part of your posse," he snarled. "I'm not something to be collected."

Her hip cocked to the side. "You know I don't mean it like that."

Vegeta advanced, glaring down at her and clenching his jaw so tight he could feel his teeth grinding against one another. "Then what exactly did you mean?" Bulma bit her lip.

"That I bet you look great in a suit." She looked up at him through her eyelashes, still chewing her plump lower lip, and he felt his resolve threaten to melt. He couldn't decide if he wanted to punch her in the mouth or coerce her to do something with those lips besides talking. "And I'll give you a preview of my dress if you promise not to damage it."

Scoffing, he stepped closer. "What do I care about a stupid dress? Why would that entice me to attend some inane party?"

"Well…it's a slinky dress. And it wouldn't really be the dress. More what's underneath." She winked. "Or what's not." He was shaking his head slowly.

"Again, I don't care about the dress. I don't need to be bribed to take your clothes off."

To prove his point, Vegeta grabbed her arm and pulled her close, intent on teaching her as much. Movement behind her caught his eyes, but when he looked, there was nothing. His eyes flicked back to her; the startled expression had faded into one of indignation, and he smirked down at her.

There, on the wall behind her. Browsing the books innocently was a little red dot, faint and evanescent in the daylight, so faded you wouldn't know it was there unless you knew what you were looking for. Amateur, his mind automated. You don't use laser-guided scopes because the target can see them.

The dot vanished.

Oh god the window we're in the window he can see us fuck oh fuck

Vegeta would have told Bulma to duck if he'd had the time. But he didn't. His arms wrapped like vice-grips around the woman and threw her to the ground; his body followed, landing on top of her in a heavy thud, knocking the air out of her, maybe even cracking a few ribs. She started screaming part way down, confused and startled, and the sound of glass shattering provided a dissonant harmony. The shards rained on his back and he hid Bulma's face behind one broad hand.

After a second without a follow up, Vegeta moved without hesitation, ignoring the weeping woman on the floor, begging him for answers he didn't have. Her eyes, the size of saucers, watched the warrior reach under the grand table in the middle of the room and tug sharply; there came a sound of something ripping. He produced a gun, long, black, and intimidating, a rifle with a scope and a large piece of duct tape fluttering on the barrel. Kneeling, looking only briefly into the lens, he breathed and fired out the broken window; the report had Bulma shielding her ears. He seemed unfazed as he strolled to her and fell to his knees.

"Woman."

Her face was in his shirt, and he was trying to pull it away so he could inspect her. "Oh, Vegeta," she wept. "What's-"

"Are you hurt?"

"-happening? I-"

"Were you hit?"

"-don't understand, what-"

"Woman, listen."

"-was that? Why did you throw-"

"Goddamnit, Bulma!" She stopped and looked up. He seemed a little angry, so she fell quiet, which he was grateful for. "Are you hurt?"

"I, I don't think so."

Footsteps pounded unevenly up the stairs and down the hall. Vegeta rolled his eyes but moved away. Unceremoniously, a page was ripped from a book and a pencil procured from the table. Gohan walked in as he was scribbling furiously; the boy looked around, first confused, then horrified. He was opening his mouth to speak when Vegeta was suddenly upon him, one hand fisting the front of his shirt. "Go to the woman's room. Pack an overnight bag. Clothes, toiletries. Nothing unnecessary, and no I.D. When you're done, go to the garage. The others should be waiting for you."

He shoved the boy into Krillin, who had just come bounding into the room and was distracted by the crying heiress on the floor. Vegeta's eyes landed on him. "Baldy! Go to the Doctor and his wife; tell them to leave immediately for some remote place, not one of their vacation homes, and not to leave there until they hear word from one of us. When you're done, go to the garage. Quickly!" Stunned, the monk did as he was told. Goku was consoling Bulma, trying to get the story from her, but Vegeta put one heavy hand on the guard's shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

His dark eyes were very serious and gleaming with cunning. A piece of paper was shoved under Goku's nose. "Take the woman to this address. When you get there, lock the door; no lights, no electricity if you can manage it. Do not look like you are there. Hide the vehicle somewhere else, walk the rest of the way if you must. And for the love of God, do not get pulled over. The cops in this city are as crooked as they come. Do you understand?" Goku nodded, took the paper, and Vegeta was at the window, slinging the rifle over his shoulder by means of a strap and procuring a small handgun that had been concealed in a corner bookshelf.

"Vegeta?" asked a weak voice. He turned. Bulma was on her feet, tears still streaming down her face, and though his expression didn't change, he was there in a heartbeat.

"You need to leave. This is a very dangerous place for you." She sniffed, opened her mouth to ask something. "No. I will answer your questions later. Now get out." Reluctantly, she did. Goku turned to look at the man he liked to call his friend and wondered if he knew the whole story behind this fighter.

"What about you?"

Vegeta grinned then, that same mischievous look, but now with something darker, something far more sinister. The handgun was tucked into his waistband and the rifle cocked.

"I'm going hunting."

He dashed out, leaving Goku to marvel at this new turn of events.

As he raced across the street, heart hammering in his chest and hair tucked beneath a hat, Vegeta couldn't suppress his grin. He was back in the game and thirsty for blood. There was only one person he could think of off the top of his head that would be dumb enough to use a laser-guided scope and one person that would be arrogant enough to hire him. The shot to his leg probably stopped him on the roof; at least, Vegeta hoped so. He didn't know what he'd do if the bastard was gone. Hunt him down, probably.

The building was across the street from Capsule Corp, not the one he'd perched on – God, had it already been a year? – a year ago, but one that he'd considered and scoped out. The killer in him, comatose much longer than Vegeta himself had been, awoke and demanded he go to the back where a fire escape lay in waiting. The ladder was down but the pavement was clean, and the hunter pulled himself up and scaled the metal as quickly and quietly as he could.

He peeked over the stone railing of the nine story building and narrowed his eyes. That shock of purple hair was unmistakable. That rat bastard. One hand was placed flat against the hard surface and a good shove sent him over. Before the other man could react, Vegeta was aiming the handgun in his face. The would-be-assassin froze.

"Hello, Cui," Vegeta snarled. He swallowed.

"Vegeta," he replied, raising a bloody hand. Vegeta gleefully noticed a badly-bleeding wound on Cui's thigh.

"That looks painful," he remarked, pointing with his gun. "Did it embed in your femur? The bone might've cracked if it did. This is a pretty powerful gun." He glanced at the gun slung over his shoulder; Cui's eyes followed his gaze. Vegeta raised his pistol.

"How'd you find me?" he asked. Cui scoffed and rolled his eyes, so Vegeta shot his leg again. Cui howled through a clenched jaw. "I'm not fucking with you, Cui. Answer the question. How did you know where to find me?"

"Nappa told us."

"Bullshit. Tell me the truth or the next one's going where your legs meet."

"Nappa told us," he insisted.

"Don't lie to me, Cui."

"I swear to God!"

Vegeta fired, missing the inseam of Cui's pants by inches; it was hard to repress the glee he felt. Oh yeah, he was back. Cui screamed and flinched, then looked up at Vegeta with wide eyes. "I'm not lying, I swear."

"Prove it, you sniveling little weasel."

"I can't. Why don't you go ask him yourself?" Despite his pale face, the younger man grinned slightly. "If you can."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The grin spread. "I don't know what kind of shape Zarbon left him in."

Vegeta didn't move as his brain raced over the thought of Zarbon and probably Dodoria paying a visit to Nappa. His mentor had been right, it had been a mistake to go back, to fight. They had proof he was alive, they'd just needed to find him. Hell, they'd probably followed his stupid corpse right back to Nappa. If they had proof that Nappa had lied to them before…. Oh God, he couldn't imagine what they'd done. Well, he could. That was the problem. His mind and vision cleared, and he was staring down at Cui. He nodded once.

"Alright." He fired, putting a bullet right between the young man's eyes. The back of his head exploded in a spray of gore and gleaming pieces of white bone against the brick and concrete wall behind him.

"See you in Hell, Cui."

A/N: What? Did you think he could hide forever?

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