Chapter 4 – Agreement

An amber glow gently brightens Bulma's silent room.  Long shadows from lace curtains pattern the wooden floors and oriental rugs.  Curled up in a giant white armchair, Bulma watches the sun weave its way through the skyscrapers from an open window.  She has had to tie back the curtains with hair ribbons, as the view from her windows is less than spectacular, and the curtains aren't meant to be drawn.  This morning, however, she ignores the haze and hurry of the city, instead focusing on the small amount of sky she can see.

She doesn't move a muscle when her maid enters with an armful of clean clothes.  ChiChi can't see Bulma, who is hidden behind the armchair.  She begins dusting the antique china, moving quietly, thinking that her employer is still asleep behind the curtains of the large bed.  Even as she begins cleaning the windows, she doesn't notice the woman sitting in the armchair.  Bulma's white nightgown blends with the upholstery, both now black and orange with shadow and sunlight.  Bulma ignores her maid, lost in thought.  She continues to hold perfectly still.  It is only when a trace of blue catches ChiChi's eye that the maid jumps.

"Miss Bulma!  I'm terribly sorry, miss, I had no idea that you were awake!"

Bulma doesn't acknowledge the dark-haired woman.  ChiChi fidgets.  "Would you like your breakfast now?"

"Yes, thank you."  ChiChi is somewhat confused by the heiress' absent expression, but she shrugs it off as she heads of for the kitchen.

When she returns several minutes later, she is surprised to see that Bulma still hasn't moved.  Her blue eyes focused on the sky, she doesn't seem to notice her maid's return.

ChiChi coughs lightly.

"I know you're there, ChiChi," she says, never moving her eyes.

"Sorry, miss."  ChiChi's ears turn a shade pinker.  Bulma smiles, still not turning, but able to imagine her maid's embarrassment.

After a moment's pause, Bulma gets up and moves to a small table, where ChiChi lays out a delicate breakfast.  Halfway through a grapefruit, Bulma looks at her maid questioningly.  "Well?  Is something bothering you, ChiChi?"

"Bothering…?  Oh, nothing, I suppose I'm still a little shaken by that fighter.  Do you have any idea how much he eats?  And how early?  At four o'clock this morning he woke our head chef and demanded enough breakfast to feed Caesar's legions!  Who does he think he is, the head of the household?"

Bulma sips her coffee, and then stares at the swirling foam.  "Where is Vegeta now?"

"Training in the weight room, I think.  I can't be sure.  Other servants have said he's something of a wanderer.  You never know where he'll turn up.  One of them ran into him in the library at one in the morning!  He must have taken a wrong turn or something, but when the valet offered to help him back to his room, Vegeta nearly ripped his head off!  Poor boy was absolutely terrified!  He's a horrible man."

"I suppose I have to agree with you there."

"You suppose?  My goodness, miss, he's the devil incarnate!  The anti-Christ himself!  A spawn of Satan sent here to destroy us all!"

Bulma says nothing, turning her attention to a small roll.  ChiChi sighs, and then attacks the already sparkling windows.

"There's something else, though, isn't there?  This isn't just about Vegeta's breakfast."

ChiChi stops mid-scrub.  She remains still for a moment, and then answers with a question.  "Why are you up so early?  You usually sleep for another two hours."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

"I was thinking."

"What about?  Please, God, don't let it be him."

"Who, 'him'?  Yamcha or Mr. 666?  Or perhaps Goku?"

At this, ChiChi's head snaps up, a panicked look across her face.  "What?"

Bulma smiles deviously.  "Or perhaps…all three?  Getting back at Yamcha is my new favorite pastime."

ChiChi's face turns a frightening shade of white as she whispers, "You aren't thinking of refusing Mr. Yamcha, are you?"

"Nonsense," Bulma replies, missing her maid's fear as she paws through a newspaper.  "We'll be married in August, just as planned.  I just want to prove to him that I will not be pushed aside."

ChiChi manages a small smile as she clears the breakfast.  Well, I suppose she'll be all right.

Bulma mentally apologizes to the retreating figure of her maid.  I'm sorry, ChiChi, but I know you wouldn't understand.  I'm really not attracted to him, just…intrigued.  I want to know who he is, what he is...I just can't make it out.  Just give me a little time.

*****

About three hours later, Bulma fiddles with the cover of her book.  "Suppose it's time for some new reading material," she mumbles to the empty room.  She sighs as she opens her door and strolls down the hallway.

She enters a room that makes even her enormous bedroom look small.  All four walls of the gigantic two-story library are covered with books, and well-filled shelves and bookcases litter the floor.  The second floor is really just a catwalk that gives access to the books on the highest shelves.  Bulma inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of leather, paper, and ink.  She leaves her book on a tray as she sets out to find something new.

She wanders through the stacks, picking up random books, flipping through them, putting them back, and starting over.  She tries to suppress a yawn as she reads the first few sentences of Beowulf, then looks up.  The book slips from her fingers.  She stops yawning, but her mouth refuses to close completely.

He's lounging in a chair perhaps ten feet from her, apparently lost in the book he holds in his left hand.  His starched white shirt and crisp black pants contrast with the wild, gravity-defining hair, but he somehow seems regal.  Everything about him is stately and strong, even that hair.  Just as Yamcha looked strangely at home in the crowded bar, Vegeta looks as if he belongs in this kind of splendor.  He turns to meet her gaze, and Bulma suddenly feels like a bird caught by the eyes of a snake.  She blinks, and the world comes back into focus.

"What on earth are you doing here?  I thought you were training!"

"Obviously, you were mistaken."

Silence.

She attempts to maintain a civil tone.  "You still haven't answered my question.  What are you doing here?"

He raises his eyebrows, and then holds up his book.  He's reading Homer's Odyssey?  She tries to hide her surprise.  "But…shouldn't you be training?  To defeat Goku?  Contest, yes, you remember this?"  She looks at him somewhat askance.

"Of course I remember, idiot.  Unlike you, I'm not mentally challenged.  And I would be training at this very minute if your facilities were what I have demanded."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Has that pathetic excuse for a servant not told you?  Your little 'gym' is hopelessly outdated.  It will require full remodeling.  The weight machines are ancient and only go up to 200 pounds of resistance.  The…"

She quickly interrupts.  "You'll just have to get used to it.  I'm not going to turn my house inside out for you!"

"You will have the modifications done, and they will be completed within a fortnight."

The nerve of him!  Just who does he think he is?  She finally releases her pent-up anger.  "That does it!  How dare you speak to me this way, ordering me around as if I were your slave!  I absolutely refuse to let myself be bullied by a…a…"  She pauses, face flushed.  She breathes heavily, searching for a word to adequately describe the man in front of her.

Vegeta watches the furious woman as she struggles.  For a moment, he thought he knew what she was going to say: common street cur!  Yet she didn't say it.  There are a million demeaning names she could call him, but she doesn't insult his position.  She won't.  Not that this really helps him.  She's still angry, and acting like she honestly won't follow his orders.  Very well, then.  I will teach her to obey me.

He suddenly grabs her wrists, twisting them just enough for her to be uncomfortable, if not truly in pain.  She jerks out of her tirade, her shock painted in white across her face.  No man has ever handled her roughly in her life, and she doesn't have the first idea what to say or do.

Strangely enough, Vegeta finds himself in equal discomfort.  Holding her has brought her body close to him, and the heat of her anger has released more of that floral scent.  He can feel her pulse pounding through her wrists.  He feels his muscles beginning to tense, ready to pull her even closer, and he instantly relaxes them to the point where he's barely touching her.  He refocuses on Bulma's eyes, hoping that she hasn't seen anything odd in his behavior.  Well…anything besides the obvious.

She finally finds her tongue.  "What the…"

"I realize that you aren't used to following orders.  That's too damn bad."  His voice is deceptively calm and quiet.  She has to strain to hear the words.  "From this moment on, you will do what I say, when I say, no questions asked.  Do you understand, or does your weak mind require further explanation?"

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, shuts her eyes for a moment, then looks up at him.  "I understand," she whispers.

"Good."  He releases her hands, only to have one fly into his face.  This time, she strikes hard, the edge of her hand clipping him across the cheekbone.  His eyes widen.  That actually hurt!

"I understand, Vegeta.  I understand perfectly."  Her voice threatens to eat through his eardrums.  "ChiChi was right, you are a demon.  You can't be human.  You're a guest in my house, I ask nothing of you except that you achieve what was already your goal, and what do you do?  You insult my intelligence and treat me like a lesser life form!  You have not humility, nor shame, nor compassion, nor honor!"

"And why should I?  What does humility get you?  Shame?  Compassion?  Honor?  These things mean nothing in this fucked up world!  All you can do is fight!  All I can do is fight.  I will win.  I must win."  His voice lowers, and he turns away.

I wonder when he'll stop surprising me.  Bulma tries to reclaim her anger, but it has escaped her.  Instead, her curiosity takes over.  Just who the heck is this guy?

He stands, his back to the heiress, staring at nothing.  Her words throb in his brain.  "You have not humility, nor shame, nor compassion, nor honor!"  But what do I care?  It means nothing to me!  He tries to ignore her presence.  He knows now that she will never give in to his demands, even if she doesn't see him as street trash.  Her will is too strong for her to cower before idle threats and psychological warfare.  Breaking her would require extensive force, and that, for once, does not appeal to him.  Besides, he reasons, that would attract too much attention.  Her voice interrupts his reverie.

"Very well, Vegeta.  I will have the weight room redone to your specifications."

He turns to her in shock.  Is she giving in?

Obviously not.

"I will do this on the condition that you start training the minute the renovations are complete.  Do we have an agreement?"  She offers one slim white hand.  He stares down at it.  "What do you want, woman?" he says gruffly.  "I thought you said I have no honor?"

She doesn't answer.  Instead, she grasps his right hand, observing for a moment his short, clean nails and sculpted fingers.  Maybe if I start by just drawing his hands…Stop, Bulma!  Focus!  She gives his hand a brief squeeze which, amazingly enough, he returns.  Before she has a chance to internalize what he has done, she's alone.  She blinks once or twice, then looks around the room.  He's gone.  She didn't even hear the door shut behind him.  She sighs, then resumes her task of looking for a book.

Wait a minute…he was reading Homer?

She doesn't have a chance to think further on this subject, as a knock on the door interrupts her thoughts.  "Yes?"

ChiChi enters.  "Miss Bulma, Master Yamcha is here to see you."

"That's odd.  He doesn't usually drop by unannounced."  She giggles.  "Maybe he's still annoyed about the whole fight thing."

"Please, miss, don't say anything to aggravate him."

"Come on, ChiChi, Yamcha adores me.  Well, I'd better not keep him waiting!"  She hurries out the door.

Downstairs, Yamcha waits for his fiancée, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  He's wearing his best suit, but he has loosened his tie in anxiety.  He hears footsteps, and quickly fixes his tie.  "Bulma?"

He stares in shock when a familiar silhouette fills the doorway: small in stature, but extremely well-built, with hair that stands nearly on end.  Either he is seeing a ghost, or someone has failed him.  He grits his teeth.  Someone's going to pay for this.