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XI.
Infatuation
The morning rays of sun, which Bulma usually found to be quite pleasant, burned through the window and into the eyes of the barely-awake heiress with an unwanted, white hot intensity. She groaned, then pulled her plush comforter over her head, forming a fetal position within the blanket cocoon. As the scientist tallied the parts of her body which throbbed, churned, or felt otherwise off, pieces of the evening began to flood her memory. "Oh Kami, no…" She sat up, cheeks red and eyes threatening to water from sheer embarrassment. "No, no, no!"
"Oh good, you're awake!" Mrs. Brief bustled into the bedroom, brandishing a tray of breakfast, coffee, juice and aspirin. "How're you feeling?"
Massaging her eyes, the heiress shook her head. "Terrible. Worse than terrible," she paused, feebly looking up. "Wait, how did you know I'd have a hangover?"
"Hangover? Goodness, I don't know anything about that!" Mrs. Brief replied, setting the tray in her daughter's lap. "Vegeta asked me to watch Trunks and check on you! He said you were sick last night."
"He said what?" Bulma gratefully downed the aspirin with a mouthful of juice, then moved to her coffee cup.
"That you were sick!" the older woman repeated, perching on the end of the bed. "He found me in the kitchen, bright and early as usual—he's so dedicated!—and told me you were unfit to watch Trunks for the day. Such a good father!"
Rolling her eyes, the blue-haired scientist placed her mug back on the tray, then pushed the whole spread out of her lap. "I'm not even going merit that comment with a rebuttal," she muttered, sliding out from under her blankets. "I have to go talk to him. Last night was a mess. Is he in the gravity room? No, never mind, don't answer that. I don't know why I bother asking." As she ducked into her exceedingly large closet to peel off her clothes from the night before (replacing them with the comfiest sweater and legging combo she could produce,) Bulma mentally rehearsed what she would say to the Saiyan. What was there to say? She supposed she should apologize—but the idea of apologizing to him made her skin crawl. Although still undecided, the brushed her hair, took another swig of coffee, and marched to the gravity room.
The sun outside was infinitely more insufferable than it had been in her room. Bulma squinted, the solar brightness intensifying her pounding headache. Timidly, she knocked on the gravity room door and waited, beseeching her angry stomach not to flip and weak knees not to shake. After a moment, the door shot open, and Vegeta stood before her. "Hey," she said awkwardly, uncertain as to what tone she wanted to take with him; her go-to-, you've-really-done-it-now-you-jerk seemed inappropriate for the occasion.
The Saiyan raised an eyebrow, studying the pathetic appearance of the woman. "Have the effects of the alcohol expired?" he asked stiffly.
"Only the embarrassing ones," the scientist quipped, giving a nervous laugh. "Look, about last night," she began, but Vegeta cut her off.
"I would like nothing more than to never speak of those events again," he said, crossing his arms. "Now, if you are quite finished bothering me, I need to complete my training."
Bulma blinked. "Erm, yeah, sure," she answered, shifting and wrapping her arms around herself. However, as the Saiyan turned to seal the door, she cleared her throat. "Wait, I can't just not say anything about it. For once, I didn't come out here to give you a hard time. I came to apologize, ok? I wasn't expecting to see you last night, and I just got carried away with the wine and the…words." She paused, deciding to leave the description at that. "I'm really sorry. It won't happen again. So, let's just agree to your plan and never, ever mention it again, ever. Deal?"
The warrior narrowed his eyes, but nodded hesitantly, agreeing this was indeed the best course of action. Nevertheless, as he looked at her, he couldn't help but feel the tug of desire to revisit their compromising position of the previous night. Even swaddled in her oversized garment, she radiated undeniable allure.
Feeling his eyes upon her, Bulma let her arms fall to her sides, and she leaned against the door frame. "Before we activate our it-never-happened plan, can I ask you something?" she probed gently.
"If I say no, you are only going to pester me until you have retrieved your answer," Vegeta grumbled pointedly, jaw working.
"True," the heiress agreed with a grin. "So, might as well, right?" She gazed at the Saiyan, her face shifting to one of thoughtfulness. "Why didn't you just, you know, have your way with me last night? On Earth, it's frowned upon to take advantage of drunk women—but I won't kid myself into thinking you know or care about any of that. If I remember correctly, I was begging you to do it. We both know you still want this. So, why didn't you help yourself when given the opportunity?"
Face flushed, Vegeta growled. "You are the most vulgar creature I have ever encountered," he spat, temper flaring. However, he checked himself, posture and volume diffusing slightly. "One of the many reasons I find my infatuation with you so intolerably baffling," he added, shaking his head.
Surprised he would admit such a thing, Bulma made a conscious effort to look un-phased, utilizing her silence to invite the stoic Prince to expand upon his insight. Her tactic successful, Vegeta continued. "Conversely, the qualities you possess that I am most attracted to are your intellect and your pride. Last night, you had neither."
"Ouch," Bulma replied, hiding her satisfaction at the Saiyan's reveal. "I guess I can't argue there." Easing away from the metal doorframe, she gave a casual farewell wave. "Well, I'll let you get back to it, then. Commence never-speak-of-it-again mode! Oh, and try and make an appearance for dinner—Mom's cooking, and you know how much she likes it when you go all super-saiyan over her food."
Vegeta grumbled an inaudible, irritated complaint and closed the door. Filled with a sudden sense of triumph, Bulma glided back to the house.