Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for the reviews, it's really appreciated. J

Vegeta's first fan (nice name g): The Alien didn't switch bodies like Ginyu, it just kinda morphed.

Chapter Seven – Wrong One

Bulma came home late. She had wanted to convince herself that she didn't care for that annoying Saiyan. If he wanted to leave, fine. If he wouldn't come back, fine as well. If she never saw him again… Oh, the hell with him! Why can't I just forget about it? It's not as if he was important to me! She opened the door, entered the house – and her heart betrayed her, for it missed a beat. With her keys still in her hand, she stared into the illuminated kitchen. Listened to the rummaging sound. And smiled.

"Don't tell me you've already eaten everything you took along."

Vegeta spun around, a frozen chicken leg in his hand. He snorted. "Hmph. That crap was only good for getting an appetite. Now, I'm hungry."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Let me prepare a meal for you, your Highness," Bulma said mockingly, yet in an obviously good mood. The Saiyan just grabbed himself a chair and remained silent, watching her as she started to cook. Soon, the strange tension in the air was getting on her nerves, and she tried to break it.

"So, how was training?" she asked, in what she hoped was an innocent voice.

He didn't answer, just staring at her with unreadable eyes. She began to feel uneasy. "Did I… say something wrong?"

The doorbell freed her.

"Oh, who could that be?" Bulma gave the prince a nervous smile and left the kitchen, heading for the door.

It was Yamcha. Barely visible behind the enormous bouquet he was holding. Only that it was her now clutching her hands around it, blinking in confusion as she looked from him to the flowers, and back into his smiling face.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Why… yes, surely…" she stuttered, stepping aside to let him in.

He headed straight for the living room, not bothering to look if she followed him. What she did, of course, still confused about his presence, and falling into the old ways only too easily. It had always been that way, right? Him stomping through life without looking left or right, assuming she'd just be there when he stopped to turn around if ever so briefly.

Bulma frowned for the first time when he flung himself into an armchair and watched her expectantly. But she sat down on the couch opposite to him, the flowers in her hands evaporating a cloud of sweet scent.

"Well, perhaps you've wondered why I'm here," Yamcha began, beaming at her. She said nothing, which somehow seemed to spoil his script a little. Yet there was no stopping him once he had started something. There had been times when she had thought of this as one of his good points. Things changed, though.

"Now, there'd be a dozen ways to put it, but basically, I've come to get you back." He leaned back, obviously satisfied with himself, while Bulma didn't know whether to yell or simply laugh at him. She decided to take another option.

"No."

By the look of Yamcha, this hadn't been in the script either. He stared at her unbelievingly, then forced the smile back on his face.

"But, you see, I miss you, and –"

"No."

"Bulma, don't be silly! We make such a perfect couple –"

"I don't love you, Yamcha."

The smile had died away completely as the fighter got up, pacing up and down the carpet on the living room floor. He was looking for words, she could tell it from the slight movement of his lips. Bulma almost felt sorry for him. You've never been good with words, have you, Yamcha?

"But… that's not the point, don't you see that?" he finally blurted out. "We were happy together! We knew each other! I don't care if you love me!"

Her slap across his face stopped him short. She was trembling with anger. "You don't care? You don't care about that?" she hissed. "What else is there to care about? It's the most important thing in a damn relationship, you idiot!" her voice was rising with the last words.

Yamcha shook his head, then looked at her impatiently.

"If you would, for once, stop your foolish romanticism and try some reason, you'd see I'm right!" he said harshly. "What use is love if you don't have the right one?"

"There is no right one!" Bulma shouted. "And even if there was, it would certainly not be you! Love requires affection, and understanding, and passion –"

"Oh, come on, Bulma, wake up! What do you think this is, fairytale country?"

She tossed the bouquet into his surprised face. "Out!" she yelled. "Get out! I'll never want to see you again!"

He grinned at her nastily. "Okay, I'm out. Nice dreams to you, my lady," he said mockingly.

"OUT!" she screamed, her voice breaking.

Yamcha bowed, then turned and left the room. As she heard the front door close, she sank to the living room floor, where the flowers lay spread wildly around, forming colourful patterns and still filling the air with their scent. Bulma picked up a few of them, trying to hold back the tears she felt rising, when she heard someone snicker. She looked up, surprised to find Vegeta stand in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Now that was a scene." An evil little smirk crossed his face as he bit off the now well-finished chicken leg he was holding. "And here we have 'Desperate Maiden Surrounded By Flowers', nice one. But of course you're no maiden, are you."

All she could do was just stare at him in infinite confusion.

"Wh… what?" she finally managed to whisper.

His smirk grew wider. There was a nasty glitter in his eyes. "You and your… little human. Rather amusing, I must say. Especially the part with the flowers. Very dramatic." He grinned.

"How… how dare you…?" Shock made her voice barely audible.

"Never mind," Vegeta said friendly, turning. "I'm going to train," he said over his shoulder. "You'll see to it that breakfast tomorrow will be prepared in time." And with that, he left her to cry alone in the empty house as the tears finally fell, her heartbreaking sobs reaching no ears but her own.

Bulma stood in the kitchen, doing the dishes. That day had been like many before, the Saiyan training in his gravity room, only coming inside for his meals. There had been no conversation whatsoever at breakfast, which she had held ready for him in time, no talking during lunch. She had had a hard time avoiding his eyes, trying to make herself seem busy while he was around. Even that quiet laughter of his when he left the dinner table half an hour ago she had managed to ignore. No talk. No arguments. She sighed, and reached for the next plate. There had been days like this one before, yes, and yet…

And yet something didn't feel right. The way he had made fun of her just the other day… she found it hard to believe that this should be the same person that had saved her, held her in his arms. Something had changed him… but what?

She put down the plate and stared out of the window, not looking at the few clouds that already had taken on a slightly reddish colour, but into some place far beyond. He came back too fast. Even for him, the food should have lasted at least three days. She reached a decision.

Something happened out there. And I'm going to find out what it was.