"Well, here you are again. Can't stop training even if it kills you."

"Bulma," he called out.

"You know, you're completely clueless."

"I spoke out of turn."

That gave her pause for a moment. "All I know is you came into my office one day wanting my help and then you pushed me away. You were cruel and dismissive, acting as if you almost blowing up was no big deal." Her voice rose with indignation. "But you're right, I've been kidding myself thinking we could get along. You prefer being alone. I hope you got what you wanted from me."

He rose up to sit on the bed, wincing as he did so. She was immediately at his bedside, scowling disapprovingly.

"Hey, take it easy! You're still really beat up!"

"Stay," he insisted, straining with the effort of holding himself up. "I...would rather you stay."

"Why?"

He said nothing, apparently confused by his own request. Why did he want her there?

"Because I'm a fool."

Because he can't stand his own thoughts. Can't bear his self-imposed isolation any longer.

"What?" She balked, looking at him as if he'd suffered brain damage.

He was unsure of where his thoughts led him. He only knew an inescapable darkness lurked, shrouding his mind and his spirit the moment he turned her away—a heavy weight on his conscience weighing him down with remorse that could only be alleviated under the sanctuary of her blue gaze.

Her face had haunted him all the way up until he got injured again. He never wished to relive that look of disappointment.

"Vegeta?" She looked concerned.

"Stay," he muttered, sinking back down into the bed, his brow breaking out into a sweat. There was that feeling again, like icy tentacles dragging him down - awfully similar to when he was being pulled to hell. A phantom call, a reminder that not even stubborn grit would prevent his return. He shivered, clutching his sheets.

Her rage seemed to deflate all at once, her bewilderment softening her. "I'll...get some calculations I need to work on. Be right back. Don't be an idiot while I'm gone."

He breathed out a sigh of relief, her assurance enough to lull him into a slumber.

The sound of a pencil scribbling on paper stirred him from his sleep. He found her sitting in the same desk where she had slept after the explosion. He observed her quietly, paying close attention to how she absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair while she was focused on finding a solution. How she tapped the pencil on the page when she was contemplating something.

"Hey you. Thought you were asleep." She scrutinized him disapprovingly.

His eyes snapped away, embarrassed to be caught staring. "Your human drugs are weak," he quipped defensively. "I've spent a good portion of my life being fed a cocktail to induce artificial stasis."

"Guess I have to tell the doctors to take it up a notch then."

"Hn."

"How're you holding up?" she asked, setting the notebook aside.

"I've had much worse than this."

"You've said that before. I can't imagine what that could have been."

She was right about that. His jaw tightened.

She could never envision the visceral sensation of beatings that left him gasping, begging for the cold release of death. The ringing in his aching, pounding head as he tried to make sense of where his body began and ended. Of the powerlessness to prevent the crushing of his bones, of near death-inducing asphyxiation. The only respite from his agony being the loss of consciousness or the sensation of departing from his body altogether, until he was merely a spectator to the events unfolding on his worldly vessel.

'I-I won't d-do it ag-ain.'

'You disappoint me!'

"Sorry," Bulma says suddenly, bringing him out of his stupor. "I didn't mean to remind you of something painful."

"I can handle pain. It's merely a sensation. It means nothing."

"I know, tough guy." She doesn't press further, understanding that they have very different ways of looking at things. "How about we talk about something else?"

He didn't wish to elaborate on his experiences, so he was grateful for her suggestion. It was already pathetic enough that he had asked her to stay. He cringed inwardly at himself.

As if sensing his discomfort, she offered, "Who am I kidding? You're not the chatty type. Maybe I can put on a movie since neither of us is doing what we're supposed to."

He didn't object to her suggestion. Although he wasn't particularly fond of earth media, it was better than having her ask him all sorts of questions.

"Right. I'll go get something from our collection." She rose from her seat and made for the door. "I'll be right back."

After he heard the click of the door, he eyed the notebook laying on the edge of the table contemplatively. With a grunt, he sat up and grabbed it.

He flipped it open. His fingers traced the fresh ink of her calculations. He stopped when he noticed an illustration in the corner of his armor. No, not his armor, but an upgraded look. On the next page she'd drawn him wearing it. The drawing was detailed, going so far as to include his facial features. He looked powerful, regal even. The stance was proud and unapologetic. Was this how she viewed him?

This was a long way from the man he thought he was before coming to Earth. That man died on namekian soil. He was alone and worthless now. Outclassed by an earthling. A complete failure to his father.

He flipped back a few pages and found more illustrations of himself on the corner of a page. Him, leaning against a tree, frowning. Him staring up at the sky with a question mark next to him. Another of him staring forward with a smirk. Out of all the drawings it was the most generous. He was in earthling garbs, yet he looked the most confident. His eyes seemed to be the focus of the piece. Particular attention was put into outlining his cheekbones, his jawline, and the shape of his mouth.

It was an attractive depiction of him. He looked content and sure of himself. Like he could walk beyond the pages and say or do something bold.

"No, mom. I'm probably not coming up until later." He heard the woman's steps approaching the door. "Yeah I'd appreciate that. Thanks."

Not wanting to be caught looking at what he now sensed was private, he put the book back where it was and laid down once more. He felt his face heat in chagrin.

Bulma strode into the room just as he settled down.

"Hey, I'm back. My mom sent us some food since it's dinner time. Bet you're starving."

His stomach rumbled as soon as he registered a savory aroma.

She laughed and handed him a bowl. "Bon apetit."

He looked miffed by the fact it was only one serving. Surely the humans understood this was barely even an appetizer for a saiyan.

"Don't worry. There's more where that came from." Just in time, two bots entered the room with trays of food.

Thirty minutes into the movie, Vegeta scoffed, "This man has the most absurd disguise. Glasses do not make one inconspicuous."

She giggled and rested her feet on a coffee table, chin in hand. "Yeah, superman's pretty goofy."

"And all the other humans fall for this charade? Unbelievable. The people of this world are truly disturbed."

"Eh, I can forgive it since this movie's supposed to be campy."

He made a show of setting down his tenth empty bowl on the tray next to his bed, drawing a relieved smile from Bulma. Although he had asked for her to stay, her concern for him still made him deeply uncomfortable. A significant part of him still feels deeply baffled by his own decision to prolong their interaction more than was necessary. That was the crux of the issue that brought about their disagreement in the first place. He had believed their growing closeness to be a dangerous impediment to his training and he decided to put a stop to it at any cost. He figured that having her hate him sooner was better than entertaining something that could never be. Yet now with her here like this, he doesn't know why he should deprive himself of this simple pleasantry. Was it so...unsaiyan to enjoy another's presence? One who seemed to enjoy his own in a strange turn of events?

"What is 'campy?'" He asked, clearing his throat. "Another of your vulgar earthling colloquialisms?"

"It means that something's silly and over the top. It's supposed to be lighthearted. Don't people in space do silly things sometimes?"

"Hn. I don't know what part of what you saw on Namek gave you that impression. The Frieza Force is bleak for one as sentimental as yourself."

"C'mon. Is everything death and destruction up there?"

"I suppose if you look beyond the fact that they were all smug pieces of shit, the Ginyu Force could be described as such. The morons always performed a dance prior to their missions and held rehearsals every lunar cycle. Sometimes they performed it in the presence of Frieza himself. Tch. Such crass sycophants."

Bulma laughed. "So people in space do dance?"

"Some are more flamboyant than others." He yawned. "I simply never cared for such things, nor had time to. Prior to the destruction of my homeworld, there were occasionally royal ceremonies that included dancing, though I don't recall those things vividly."

"Well, now I have to see you dance."

"You'll sooner see me in that atrocious pink shirt again." He smirked.

"Aww, come on. You're still not over that? You rocked that look. No one can pull it off like you."

"I prefer when my garments don't remind me of Dodoria."

"Don't know who or what Dodoria is, but fair enough."

There was a scratch at the door and then a tell-tale meow. Suddenly, a furry paw pushed the door open.

Bulma smiled. "Seems you have a visitor."

Scratch poked his head in, his green eyes wide as he stalked towards them.

"Come over here, kitty," Bulma cooed, reaching out with a hand.

But Scratch's gaze was set on Vegeta. Without warning, he jumped up on the bed.

Vegeta rose with a startle. "Oh no, little feline. I am not one to coddle."

Bulma laughed. "He likes you."

Scratch yawned, stretching and curling up by his side.

"Hn. Sly little bastard," he groused, though he didn't mind the cat too much. When Scratch didn't stir, Vegeta resigned himself to its wishes and laid down once more.

Bulma tried to contain herself, not wanting to spoil the moment. This was too much. None of her friends would believe her.

Vegeta for his part found the creature to be warm and pleasant against his side. His body felt heavy again and his head was swimming.

They resumed the quiet from earlier, both content with their meals.

Onscreen, the hero of the story stroked Lois' cheek tenderly and pressed his lips against hers passionately. Again, that human gesture which he's caught Bulma swooning over before. Though he imagined she would only crave such attentions from someone far more gallant or chivalrous than him.

His heavy-lidded gaze slid over to her again.

Bulma wasn't watching the movie anymore. She sat wordlessly, once again writing in her little book. She tapped the pencil against her lips, deeply focused in her thoughts.

He felt an irrational urge to know what secrets he could draw from those pink lips. What other ways did she think of him, he wondered? Did she think of him outside of their interactions, at night when the day's labors weren't a distraction? Did she look at the drawings and trace the jawline of that Vegeta wondering if he would do something bold? The thought made his heart race.

Perhaps his condition was making him have idle thoughts.

He could feel his body drifting off. Maybe those earthling drugs were starting to kick in after all? He was so exhausted now that he thought about it. His lids fluttered. So tired. He fought it, needing to pry an answer from her.

"Why?"

She looked up from her book.

"Why do you care?" He muttered, struggling against the intense need for sleep. "I-I don't deserve your kindness."

"What kind of question is that?"

"You always help. Why?"

"Because I want to, you silly, stubborn man."

He laughed weakly, a kind of euphoric giddiness overcoming him. "Right. Never met anyone like you. So caring, smart a-an...beautiful."

She seemed flustered by his comment. "You're really high right now, aren't you?"

In his daze, he reached up unsteadily and cupped her cheek. He turned to look directly at her.

"Thank you," he managed to say.

How lovely she looked flushed. He was at a loss as to how his touch could accentuate such beauty.

She squeezed his hand and smiled warmly in response, voice quivering with emotion when she replied, "You're welcome."

As he nodded off, she lowered his hand onto the bed gently. Scratch curled up even closer against his leg, purring contently. Vegeta fell into a peaceful sleep.