Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.

Vegeta

Year 754

He lands on the outskirts of Culampu's capital city, setting Bulma down as he survey's their surroundings. He checks this against the map he has displayed on the watch device around his wrist, one of the first tools Bulma has created for him as part of their agreement. He grits his teeth, feeling naked without his scouter and body armour. That in turn makes his stomach coil in shame; he is free from Frieza's grasp, and yet he longs for the clothing that marked him as one of Frieza's dogs. The word institutionalised comes to mind and he spits at the ground, disgusted with himself.

"Gross," Bulma comments, screwing up her nose. "Shouldn't princes have better manners than that?"

"Shut up," he snaps, and cocks his head. "We need to get a move on – the market is another hour's walk from here."

"We can't get any closer?"

"Not without risking detection. Keep up," he orders in a tone that permits no further remarks.

For once, the woman follows his directions without complaint.

. . .

For the first half hour they wind through narrow streets and pass only the odd Culampian on their way home from the market, but as they grow closer to the city centre, they begin to see creatures from other races. Some he has come across before, others are entirely new species that he has never seen. It puts him on edge. He is blind without his scouter; unable to read their power levels, he is forced to rely on sight alone, looking for the tell-tale body language that would mark them as a warrior. Bulma walks silently beside him, glancing at her own watch, and every now and then craning her neck to examine the buildings around them with wide-eyed curiosity.

They continue for another ten minutes, the foot traffic around them growing busier, the small lanes opening up into roads that allow access for vehicles and carts. Bulma halts suddenly, and with a huff, tugs at his arm in an attempt to get him to stop. "What?" he snaps, his voice echoing a little too loudly, drawing odd looks from those passing by. She winces, and pushes against his shoulder. He allows her to guide them into a quiet alleyway.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she whispers, her gaze sharp. Her hands shift to her waist, a pose she adopts often in his presence. Unfortunately, he's in no mood for a battle of wits today.

"Nothing." He moves to shift past her, but a hand on his chest stays him.

"Nuh-uh. Something is bugging you, and that scares me. I need to know if we're in danger. You owe me that much, Vegeta."

"I owe you nothing. You would be dead without me. You're the one in debt."

Her mouth presses into a flat line. "No. You would still be stuck with Frieza if it weren't for me." She licks her lips, blue eyes – such a strange colour – rolling. "Look, that was a bad choice of words," she offers, the closest thing he'll ever get to an apology from this one. "But if there's an issue, I need to know because my life is just as much at stake here, and I value my life."

He grits his teeth, grimacing. "I usually wear a scouter." He hates admitting to any weakness.

She nods, grasping his meaning immediately, and he is thankful that for all her faults, she is as intelligent as she often claims to be.

"It must be disconcerting, not to have a clear read on… potential threats," she whispers, lowering her voice as she gestures back towards the busy street. "But no one has paid much attention to us – we're as strange as the other aliens that are here, just a regular couple out on a stroll to the markets," she adds with a wink that makes heat rise up his neck. "Except, you've had a look on your face for the last ten minutes that's made everyone we've approached cross the street to get away from us. You look like you're about to rip someone's head off. It's not that subtle," she finishes, her tone downright condescending.

"Bitch," he hisses, stepping forward to crowd her personal space. She isn't intimidated, and she doesn't step back. A grin breaks out on her face.

"I'm actually having fun here. This is my first time in a proper alien city, and I want to enjoy it. I just need you to dial down the murder-face. No one is going to attack us as long as you don't look like you want a fight."

He hates to admit it, but she's right. Fuck.

He glares at her smug face, snorting as she steps back and gestures towards the main street. "After you, Your Highness."

He's fucking pissed off, but he ignores her and works on maintaining a neutral expression for the rest of the walk into town.

. . .

The market reeks of unwashed bodies and dirty wares. The crush of people and their incessant chatter is enough to make him want to blast the entire planet into the next dimension, and the pain of waiting for Bulma to decide on what she wants to purchase makes it all the more difficult to bear.

"That's it."

"What?" She looks up momentarily, although he can tell her attention remains focused on the pile of junk she's sifting through.

"You've found the miniature axial compressor. You've found… these," he adds, lifting the bag of parts he holds in his hand. You have the parts you need."

"But – "

"Every moment we spend planet side puts us at risk. We're leaving now."

She sighs, but acquiesces with a roll of those blue eyes and a mutter of "Fine, little troll," under her breath, heaving the box she's been searching through under her arm. With her spare hand she shoves their remaining cash at the vendor. "I'll take the lot."

The vendor blinks at them both, its four eyes not quite in time with each other. "Okays," it says, accepting the cash with a nod. They turn away, Bulma always a step behind as they push through the crowd.

"Hurry up, Woman," he growls, turning to look back over his shoulder. His stomach clenches immediately, his eyes darting amongst the crowd, searching for the bright blue of her hair.

Bulma is nowhere in sight.