Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.

A/N: Two updates in less than 24 hours! That has to be a record for me haha! Thank you to everyone leaving reviews; your comments keep me motivated to write more! Hope you enjoy.

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Vegeta

Year 754

Consciousness comes slowly, as it always does in the tank. For a long time he is only aware that he is somehow floating, and that there is a strange tingling in his arm. By the time he is ready to open his eyes, the sensation in his arm has disappeared, he can breathe easily again, and he remembers why he's in the tank in the first place.

Zarbon.

He hears the alarm of the regen tank ring, the sound muted by the liquid that fills his ears. Footsteps cross the room, and the drains below his feet open. As the fluid recedes, he opens his eyes, and is shocked to find it is her standing there watching him with wide blue eyes, rather than the old doctor he was expecting.

He shakes the mask off of his face, impatient to get out of the tank. The seal on the tank door gives way with a hiss as the last of the green solution drains away, and he steps out, the cold air a shock against his naked body.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks quietly. The door to the medical bay is closed, and they are alone. He can only assume that she has already checked that the room is secure.

"Fixing the tank," she replies, gesturing to the second tank in the room. "The room is safe. I nobly suggested to the doctors that I was capable of letting a soldier out after his cycle is complete, and they were happy to go get some rest."

"Hn."

The colour is high in her cheeks, and for an instant, her gaze darts below his waistline. When her eyes meet his again she blushes further, and he can't help but smirk at her reaction to his nudity.

"Can you hurry up and put some clothes on so we can talk? This is serious!" she hisses, cheeks growing ever redder.

He takes a step towards her, chuckling under his breath as she backs away. "The doctor usually has a drying cloth ready for me, idiot," he tells her, moving past her to take a cloth from the shelving that lines the walls. He keeps his back turned as he dries himself, though he can feel her eyes boring into the back of his skull.

He turns back to face her as he pulls his gloves back into place, only to find that she has busied herself once more with the broken machine. He watches her as she works, her blue hair falling loose about her face as she focuses on the technology before her, her teeth caught firmly in her lower lip. She is a thing of beauty, and for an instant he regrets getting dressed. They are alone, after all.

She catches him watching, and he tears his gaze away, feeling the blood run to his own face. This is problematic, this strange alliance they have developed. He would sooner cut off his own tail than rely on another individual, if he could help it. But Frieza's power is too great, and the allure of the training equipment she has promised is far too tempting to turn down.

"I can finish fixing the machine when you leave," she begins. "I'll make this quick; I've got the data chip for you, along with the equipment I promised. All the instructions are included – don't dispose of your old scouters – leave them in your room on the night – the tracking devices in them will throw anyone looking for you off."

He takes the small data chip, and the accompanying capsule, from her outstretched hand, depositing them both down the front of his armour.

"There's one other thing," she adds, and he tenses as she touches his arm. He is tempted to throw her off, but her pleading gaze is distracting.

"I have a tracking microchip in my right arm," she continues. "It has to be removed – but we can't do that until after I've deactivated the tracking mechanisms on the space pods – I'm right-handed, and I need full use of my arm. We're going to be tight for time, but I'll need to cut the tracker out before we leave, and stitch the wound. I know you've done small operations on yourself before."

He snarls, and she drops her hand. Small operations is a tidy way to describe his desperate hack-job on his right leg, when a poison barb embedded itself under his skin six years ago. "You think you know everything about me, wench?" he asks, closing the gap between them. They are the same height, but she is small and frail compared to him. "How presumptuous."

"You're welcome to look at my file," she replies, refusing to back down. This close, he can smell salt on her skin – she's been crying at some point in the past few hours – but she is all fire now. "I've included a copy in the info-chip, Prince Vegeta. I've always been a great believer in transparency."

"You are a fool."

"I'm not the idiot who got into a fight with Zarbon two days before we're due to go. What the hell did you do anyway?"

"That's none of your concern!" he spits. She has no right to meddle in his affairs with anyone, and he has no appreciation for her insolence. "Mind your own fucking business!"

"Your business is my business!" she hisses, eyes wide as she gestures frantically. "Until we get off of this fucking ship, everything you do affects me! So keep your mouth shut and don't provoke Zarbon!"

He provoked me! he thinks, though all he can manage is a warning snarl that rips through the air, their faces now mere inches from each other. They stare at each other in a tense impasse that seems to last an age, and he finds himself torn between fury and arousal. She is insane, and he fears that it is catching.

She is the one that steps away first, turning back to her broken regen tank. "I have to finish this job. I will see you in two days. Don't be late this time."

He snorts, staring at her form for a moment. Her body is hidden under the shapeless gown she wears, but he has felt the curves of her before, her small frame tucked in his arms as he has pulled her from Frieza's deadly presence.

He leaves her alone in the med bay. When it comes to their escape, he would be best to leave her behind – to have her remove the tracking devices on the pods, and then kill her.

He's already rejected that option.