Last time:
That was the last time I saw Vegeta; our graduation day. And, as I think back on it, I'm still angry that my friends stopped me. I don't regret my actions in any way. Oh to have him pay for his indiscretions. If only there were some way, some foolproof thing I could do that would make him see his errors and beg for forgiveness, forgiveness that I will never grant.
I don't want to. I don't want to. I don't want to. No. No. NO!
And then I walk casually into the lab, my rubber-soled shoes making no noise on the shining black tile floor. He's there already, his work area littered with sketches and scribblings and wades of useless paper. For the looks of it, he's been here awhile. And just what does he think he's going to accomplish by putting in extra hours without me? Does he think he can get most of this project done and then our time will be cut—Oh brilliant! Tomorrow I'm coming in extra early to do the same.
"That won't work," I say over his shoulder. He jumps slightly, then turns and glares at me, daring me to acknowledge the fact that I startled him. I don't; there are more important things going on here.
"What won't?" He looks back down at his sketches, his little notes jotted here and there, and frowns. Immediately he sees his mistake, crumpling the paper into another compact ball to add to his collection. "Then what energy source do you suggest?" he asks smuggly, crossing his arms over his broad, perfectly chiseled chest. Yes, for the record, I do find Vegeta attractive. There's no question about it; any woman would say the same. But looks are nothing when you're Vegeta Ouji and have the personality of a grain of sand; a rock would be giving him too much credit.
"I haven't even started thinking energy sources yet, Vegeta." I hand him my sketches from the night before, just things I scribbled on napkins at dinner. Nothing special. "We need the basic of the basics. The energy source can be figured out tomorrow."
I go to take a seat when I realize there's only one chair, and he's in it. So I go to my workstation and retrieve mine. When I come back, he's staring at me again. Really, I'm going to poke his eyes out someday. Didn't his mother teach him it isn't polite to stare? Kami…
"What? Do I have something on my coat?" I look down; nope, clean and white, and new, no thanks to 17.
"What's with you, woman? You've been acting weird lately."
"Weird? How do you mean?"
"For one, you are being awfully human with me. You've even ignored some brilliant insults, and now you're not even considering working at your station, even though I know you would much rather be over there than over here…Did your dad put you on happy pills or something?"
"Why?" I laugh. "Do you need a pick-me-up?"
"No really, I'm interested. How can I break you if I don't know what built you up?"
"Ooo! That was good." The truth is, I'm just very tired. Tired from lack of sleep, tired of doing the same thing day after day, tired of Yamcha's snoring, tired of Yamcha's nail-biting, tired of Yamcha's inability to function without me holding his hand, and very, very tired of having half-brained arguments with Vegeta Ouji over the stupidest shit imaginable just to fuel his need for conflict because somewhere in his life he developed a rotten personality and no one that cares about him—whoever they are—has bothered to try and fix him. Well I won't make it my job; and I certainly won't let him have his fun at my expense. Not anymore. The games are over. I'll wear my fake smile, pretend to not hear him, and work and work and work, as usual.
I remember, so long ago, when I was still a teenager and every project I did was amazing. I could spend hours on end in my private lab and make anything my little heart desired. It was perfect and beautiful, a way for me to release any tension. Now my sanctuary has turned into my prison. I don't have my projects anymore. They are my father's projects, other engineers' projects, what the people want, what my father wants, what they want. I can't even remember the last time I made something for myself, the last time I wanted to go to my lab.
Where did that Bulma go? Who washed her out of the happy family portrait? And who is the girl they painted over her?
I'm not depressed, not really. Just tired. Sometimes I wonder if I have a disease, some fatal disease that has been eating away at me for so long that I could die at any moment. And when I think of that it makes me think, Well then I have to live every moment to its fullest potential. But the concept of that makes me even more tired. If I had, say it's cancer, then I think I might be relieved to finally have an answer. I know I don't though. Company policy is doctor check-ups several times a year. I have nothing; I'm perfectly healthy and I'm not dying. Not now. Not yet.
I think I am happy most of the time. But then there are those hollow moments. The times I'm lying awake in bed, listening to my amazing boyfriend serenade me with his raspy nose. The clock joins in and its—Tick-Huff-Tock-Snuff-Tick-Whistle-Tock-Huff, etc.
At least I try to be happy. My friends make me happy. My family makes me happy. Yamcha makes me happy when he's awake and not smothering me. My job makes me happy when I finish a project and it's a hit with the public. My job makes me happy when what I do makes my father happy, when what I do makes a difference.
My job does not make me happy when Vegeta is here. My job does not make me happy right now.
I might as well me lying in bed at home unable to sleep and counting how many gruff breaths and ticks there are. I might as well just accept my fate and continue on as is.
"I don't hate you, Vegeta," I say out of nowhere. And in my head I formulate my next words to correspond with the first. Ah yes, and so forth.
He looks sideways at me, arching one black eyebrow. I wonder absently if he plucks; his eyebrows are so perfect. And then I think, I wonder if he could show me how he does it. And all of a sudden Vegeta is my beautician and the world has ended. No cancer, no deteriorating disease. Just poof! Like in the movies, and nothing is left.
I should probably see a shrink, but then talking about what makes me tired makes me even more tired.
"And I don't like you," I continue when he says nothing. "I'm calling a truce between us. Let's just agree that this little tiff has gone on long enough. We're twenty-six years old for Kami's sake. We should have grown out of these cat fights long ago."
18 would be so proud of me. Last night when I went home I kept thinking about what she and Chi-Chi, and probably everyone else, thought of me and my constant bickering with Vegeta. I realized they were right and I vowed that the next day I would take steps towards resolving our problems. Those problems being pure hatred for one another.
And, well, that other thing. But I don't think about that anymore. And I don't think he does either. At least I hope not. That's such ancient history that the stone tablets have eroded into nothing and there's no trace left. The way it should be.
"Really," he says, his eyes narrowing, "what drugs are you on?" He's not happy with my newfound conviction to peace. Chaos is his game, and he's very, very good at it.
"No drugs," I say, holding up my hands. "I promise. I don't even take aspirin, Vegeta. I'm not into the drugs-can-fix-every-little-problem thing."
"You'll crack," he says, then goes back to his little drawings. From here I can see that he's written a new idea for an energy source that will work. But I won't tell him that until tomorrow.
"I told you!" he laughed from behind the plexi-glass window between the lab and the storage room. If I went for the door to chase him, he'd run out the other door leading to the lab for engineering interns. And then I would lose him in the maze that is Capsule Corp.
How did I let him get to me? How did this all start? We had been working so nicely together for over three hours!
I have a flashback of second grade when he stole my doll, my only doll, the one my grandmother had given me in her will, the one from her childhood—he tore the head off and I will never forgive him for that.
"Little Miss Pious," he taunts, tapping the glass to be sure he has my full attention. Oh yes, he definitely does.
And then it hits me. His face drops when he realizes that I'm smiling, and he knows what I'm thinking. From out here in the lab I have total control over the inside of the storage room. With the push of a few buttons I can make him freeze or fry, or, best of all, suffocate.
"Do you really want to push my buttons?" I ask him, snickering a little. Silly me. And then it dawns on me. I'm being a cruel and hard-hearted as he always is. I don't even need to picture me in his shoes to feel completely disgusted with myself.
I reach over and press the button that opens the door, and that's all. And I'm back at his workstation before he can comprehend what's happened.
After a minute or so he's collected himself and is fuming mad beside me.
"What the hell woman!" he bellows in my ear. I flinch slightly from the sheer volume, but make no other acknowledgement of his presence. I'm back to my passivity. And it's not working as well as it wasn't before. I'm dreaming of wringing his neck like a towel.
When did my fantasies become so violent?
"That's it! You chase me for all of two seconds then sit back down? Where did you learn to fight?"
"I already told you," I say firmly. "No more fights. That was a little slip. It won't happen again." But I know it will, and it'll probably be in another five minutes. Or seconds. Depending how long it takes him to find and strike another nerve. "Now come on. It's already almost midnight. I want to get some sleep tonight."
"Lover boy out of town?"
I look up, catching his eyes and holding them for a long time before I look away. How does he know about my sleeping problems? And he must to bring up Yamcha.
"I know a lot more about you than you think I do."
"So you're a gossip." One little retort. That should hold me over for a while. "I wouldn't brag about that."
"I could say something right now and it would make you actually grab that pen off my desk and jab it into my neck."
He wouldn't dare! Not after all these years.
"What do you want, Vegeta?" I ask, caving completely. Oh I'll be kicking myself for this later, and probably sprang my ankle doing it.
"Give up this damn peace crusade. We both know you don't really want to. You need it as much as I do."
"And why do you need it?"
"If I didn't take my anger out on someone I'd probably kill every sniveling intern that runs through here. And so would you. Admit it."
Without even considering the repercussions—without any thought at all—I swing my arm back, and then my fist collides with his jaw. He takes a few steps back, holding his face, and muttering curses at me. Wow, he was right. That does help.
When he finally rights himself, I see blood drizzling out of the corner of his mouth. And he's oh so pissed. If it weren't for my dad—the fact that his job would be in jeopardy—he would have returned the courtesy. The fire in his eyes tells me that he's dying to. So I say, "Go ahead. Punch me. I won't tell anyone."
Within seconds I'm keeled over holding my gut.
Good punch, I think, but I won't tell him that.
"Feel better?" I ask as I right myself. I wonder if this means our anti-relationship has reached a new level. Verbal abuse is out. Physical abuse is in. And that makes me wonder what's next. And, damn it! My stomach kills! Bastard!
"You didn't think I'd do it," he said a smirk spreading across his features. He's satisfied with himself, but he's still holding his face. With any luck that'll bruise. Everyone will see the evidence of my victory. No one will see his, though that was the point of gut-punching me. No evidence equals keeping his job.
"No," I say, "I knew you would. You're not one of those ridiculous I-don't-hit-girls guys. They're pathetic." Yamcha is one of those guys and I hate it.
"So, if you hate guys like that and I'm not a guy like that then by default you like me. Subtle way of hitting on me woman."
"You want a bruise to match on the other side?"
"Why can't you just admit that you want me and get it over with?"
"I do want you." His smirk drops. "I want you to quit this game for the night so we can get some work done."
"Just one more question."
"What?" I hiss, rolling my eyes at him. It never ends…
"Did you tell anyone?"
It takes me a minute to realize what he's talking about, and my glare hardens further. How many years has it been without a single word or acknowledgement? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?
I'm not curious enough to ask.
"No," I say after a long moment. "There's nothing to tell."
And then finally we start to get some real work done.
"I can't believe you punched him," Goku balks, his eyes nearly bulging from his skull. I've loved Goku since before I could talk. He's my non-lover life partner. "Have you seen the bruise you gave him?"
"Not yet," I say, sipping at my morning coffee. Vegeta and 17 live in the same apartment building as Goku and Chi-Chi; they spend so much time together you'd think they had a thing on the side. They've been married for four years now and still they haven't even started looking at houses. I suppose it might have to do with Vegeta; Goku wouldn't know what to do with himself if he weren't around. At least they're finally starting a family though; Chi-Chi and Goku will be the proud parents of a baby boy in about three months. 18 and her fiancée Krillin live in my building, and I of course live with Yamcha. Our apartment buildings aren't very far from each other; sometimes I wonder if we're a little too codependent. "How big is it?" The bruise; back to reality Bulma.
"Most of his cheek." And then he cracks a smile. "Must have been a good punch." He knew as well as I do that Vegeta needed to be taken down a peg or two every now and then.
"It felt good. He just kept egging me on. He wanted to fight, so I gave him what he wanted."
"And then what?"
I bit my lip. He wasn't going to be pleased with this; and it was obvious that Vegeta would never tell anyone.
"I egged him on," I admit. I've never been able to keep things from Goku.
"Bulma!" He knew what that meant without being told. "Where did he hit you?" He was another one of those no-hitting-girls guys. But for some reason it didn't bother me so much with him.
"Gut-punch."
"Damn it! That guy—"
"Come on Goku. I don't care about stuff like that. Besides, I'm fine. See?" I lift my shirt just enough for him to see that there is no bruise. Haha! Bulma-1. Vegeta-zip!
The last thing I need is Goku blabbing his mouth and getting me in trouble.
"Please don't say anything. I have enough to deal with. I don't need my father on my back because I 'still haven't grown out of the tomboy stage'. Ok?"
He thinks for a moment, then nods. And that's as good as his word with us.
"So, let's talk baby."
His face lights up immediately. They're going to be such great parents.
My secret admission is that I want to have children more than anything. I know right, me? Children? Goku is the only one who understands that. Not even Chi-Chi and 18 know how badly I want kids. Every time I see a pregnant woman I want to cry. It's like a sickness; I shouldn't want children this badly.
And the worst part is that I don't want to have them with Yamcha. Not even Goku knows that.
"How is the room coming along? I haven't been out of my dungeon in awhile."
"Chi-Chi's been doing a lot with it. Blue everywhere," he laughs. "She's always wanted boys." I want a boy too. And a girl. I want a whole colony of children. Mine, mine, mine!
"I really need to get out more," I sigh. "I'll tell you what, I'm coming over for dinner this week, ok? I'm sure Chi is drowning in testosterone."
"Sounds like a plan, little lady." He glances at his watch then swears and collects his briefcase. "I'm going to be late." Before he leaves, in his massive hurry, he manages to give me a quick kiss on the forehead, then bolts out of the second floor café to his office on the fourth floor.
It's the start of another busy day, and already I'm beat.
And I've never wanted a baby more.
Chapter 3! Woohoo! I really liked that one. There's tension up the yahoo there!
REVIEWS will result in more chapters.
Next time: More angsty fun:)
