Bulma swung open the door to the spaceship and sighed.

Empty, still. Not that that was a surprise. She expected it to be empty, it had been for several days now. Before Yamcha showed up at her door, she was focused and determined to finish the upgrades in the hope Vegeta might finally show his face, but the longer he was gone, the weaker her optimism became.

With this new software update, the gravity device in the spaceship could push well past 500Gs–a feat that, as far as Bulma knew, had never been done before–and every minute she toiled away at it she truly believed she was one minute closer to him. Would working on this spaceship really manifest him in some way? She was doubtful. But here she was, standing in the doorway, her eyes glued to the toolbox open at the ship's main panel.

She shuffled inside. To say Yamcha's visit had rattled her tonight was an understatement. Confessing her love for Vegeta to him made her burn with anger and regret. Why had Yamcha kissed her at the gala? Why had she left Vegeta alone? Would the world really have ended if she had told that woman to fuck right off and that she would give her speech when she was damn well ready? She was the company's Chief Scientist, after all.

A tangle of loose wires spilled out of the panel and she threw on some gloves. Taking a wirecutter, she carefully stripped one of them back. To ensure the spaceship would get enough power to run a higher gravity, the wires needed to be fortified and elongated. Stronger currents needed a bigger runway.

She sighed again and she exposed the spindles of wire from their tubing. Vegeta was a lot like these wires, she thought. A hard outer shell with a complex series of signals running through it, surging with power and yet so delicate that if one happened to bend or break, it sent the whole spaceship haywire. Everyone wrote him off as some sort of villain, but how would they react if forced to endure life at the hands of a megalomaniac dictator? Of course he was cautious, of course he was guarded.

But Bulma knew the truth. Just like this ship, inside of Vegeta was a man capable of so much more than what was expected. He just needed someone to help him rewire a bit, that was all.

She gently placed the wirecutter back in the toolbox and slumped her shoulders as her hands braced the panel. Letting out a deep sigh, she hung her head and closed her eyes. She wanted to cry–her eyes were heavy and her heart was twisting–but she had no more tears left.

Maybe it was always destined to be this way. It wasn't like Vegeta was going to stay, right? Once the androids were defeated, he was going back to space. He had only said it one million times. Believing that whatever was between them transcended his desire to leave was foolish, and despite the many, many times she told herself that, it never seemed to sink in.

She thought back to that first night together: The rawness of their sex, the burn of their attraction. And then she thought of how things changed. It went from two bodies exploring each other for the mutual satisfaction of pleasure to something else entirely. It was so much more than that now. When had she fallen in love with him? When did she realize that he was not just devastatingly sexy but also smart and, in his own way, kind? What was the switch that flipped from arch nemesis to lover to…

She couldn't finish her thought. It didn't matter, really. Their story, it seemed, ended at lovers.

"Man, I really fucked this up," she sighed.

"Yes, you really did."

She whipped her head around. Standing in the doorway was the one face she had prayed for so long to see.


Vegeta watched as Yamcha's car sped off down the street. He watched as the tail lights faded into the darkness, blending in with the sea of lights pouring off West City. During the entirety of Bulma and Yamcha's conversation, Vegeta loomed at the edge of the balcony, teeth clenched and fists balled. He tried to keep his cool, as he didn't want Yamcha to sense him there, but of course the poor excuse for a fighter didn't even detect Vegeta's rise in ki. He was pathetic.

But the more they spoke, the more Vegeta relaxed. Bulma was rejecting Yamcha. And not only that, she told him that she loved someone else. Had he heard correctly? What Bulma had said…was it true?

He was stunned. Rarely did he find himself without something to say. Much to his chagrin, he had known he loved Bulma for weeks now, despite his best efforts otherwise. After their first night together, he knew that whatever happened in life, she would have a hold on him that no one else in this entire universe had been able to do: Tame the Saiyan prince.

As soon as Yamcha left the driveway, Bulma let out a heavy sigh. He had never seen her look so defeated. Usually–even when she was positively screwed by an invention or had someone from corporate breathing down her neck–she never looked like she lost a fight. Tired, yes; hungry, absolutely; slightly depressed, to be expected. Tonight, though, she looked positively broken.

Had he done this to her? He swallowed hard. He figured his absence had gone unnoticed, what with Bulma and Yamcha shacking up together once more, but he had it all wrong. Bulma had rejected Yamcha, which meant this entire time she had been pining for him. Each day he hid out among the mountains or amid the icy seas of the north, she was here spiraling, waiting for him to come back. Vegeta's head spun.

Slowly, she made her way to the spaceship and flung open the door, the curve of her back looking like she carried the weight of the world. She only worked through the night when a project was too important to stop. Repairs on the shit had ceased long ago–before their arrangement had even began–so why was she toiling away?

As soon as the door closed behind her, he floated down to the lawn and started walking across. What was he going to say when he confronted her? Just a few moments ago, the only emotion he could conjure when picturing their next conversation was condemnation. Now, things were a bit more complicated. He was never good with emotions. It wasn't exactly the Saiyan way to be in touch with one's inner emotions, in fact, it had only been in the past few months where Vegeta even opened himself up to anything other than searing rage.

He climbed up the steps, gently opened the handle and looked inside. Hunched over the control panel was Bulma. He searched for the words to describe what he was feeling: Confusion, relief, anger, lust. He was so, so frustrated with her and yet he wanted to run to her, wrap his arms around her and hold her. And yes, he wanted to have sex with her, but he wanted to make love, to touch every patch of skin, to kiss the apples of her cheeks, stained with tears and red from rubbing.

Life on Earth was no longer temporary. It was permanent. He knew that now.

"Man, I really fucked this up," Bulma muttered to herself, her voice strained as it caught in her throat.

No, he had been the one to make things this difficult. He would explain that to her in due time.

"Yes, you really did." His voice was playful, just like the way they were. He wanted them the way they were.

She turned around and underneath the dark circles encasing her eyes, her blue eyes glimmered. She parted her lips and sucked in air, her hands sliding off the control panel as her knees wobbled, and she launched toward him. As they collided, her arms wrapped around him and her fingers dug into his back, desperate to touch him.

"Vegeta," she sobbed. He returned her embrace, letting his head rest of hers burrowing in the crook of his neck. "I thought you were never going to come back."

"And why would I do something so stupid, woman?" He whispered into his ear.

She gripped harder and sobbed. Her wet tears stained the front of his shirt and he nuzzled her close. As he did, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his core, trying to pull herself as close as she physically could. Vegeta loved it and couldn't help but smile.

"Please stop crying, Bulma," he said softly, bringing one of his hands up to stroke her hair. "I don't like it when you cry."

She peeled herself away and peered up, tears lining her eyes and making them glisten under the spaceship's fluorescent light. Even like this, she looked more beautiful than any woman he had ever laid his eyes on.

For her part, Bulma was over the moon. Part of her didn't believe this was real. Was he really standing here right now, holding her like this, whispering in her ear to comfort her as her shattered heart was piecing itself back together? Even in her wildest dreams did she not expect this. She released her legs from him and found her footing, her arms extending out to create some distance between them. When he reached his hand out to cup her face, she nearly melted.

"I thought you were never going to come back," she said softly.

"I thought that, too." He stroked her cheek with his thumb. She leaned into his touch.

"Then, why did you?"

"I was hungry." He smirked. She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.

"You were hungry?"

"Yes," he smiled. "Starving."

Bulma studied his face.

"Vegeta." She took a deep breath. "I just want to apologize for what you saw at the Gala."

"It's alright, woman," he said. "It doesn't need to be discussed."

"But it does." She gripped his hands in hers. "What you saw between Yamcha and I–that wasn't what it looked like, okay? I left you upstairs because I panicked and then Yamcha showed up and he just kissed me and I didn't know what to do, but I swear there is nothing going on between us, there hasn't been in a long, long time and that's because–"

She was rambling. She stopped and caught her breath. It was now or never. If she didn't tell him how she really felt, he might slip through her fingers again, he might leave for good and never truly understand how desperately she needed him to stay. The past few days had been torture and she wasn't going to allow it to happen again.

"Vegeta," she bit her lip. "Vegeta, I love you."

She took a sharp inhale, her shoulders rising and lifting her entire body, as if the burden of carrying it around–of forcing herself to not scream it aloud to whoever would listen–was finally gone. When she invited the Saiyan prince to stay so many months before, she thought it was merely an act of charity that would have no significant impact on her life whatsoever. Now, at the precipice of a new possibility, it seemed like something that was predestined by Kami himself.

He gripped her hands in his and struggled to find the right thing to say. A warrior is not taught how to love, a warrior is only taught how to hate. All this time he believed he was not capable of forming an emotional connection like this one and yet here he was, standing in the center of a spaceship that she had made for him, looking into her eyes and wanting her so completely, it nearly shattered him.

How many times had he faced a foe so horrific, so strong that he thought he might actually die? Well, this was more terrifying than all of that combined. This was exposing a different side of him, one that wanted peace, one that went against his bloodlust and rage. If only for a moment, he allowed himself to indulge.

"Bulma," he said, his voice low and deep. "I do not know if I know how to love."

She blinked. Was this…was this rejection?

"I cannot promise you I will be perfect," he continued. "As I am not sure how to act."

Relief washed over her. He was staying. He was staying. He was staying. "It's okay." She squeezed his palm. He wasn't wearing gloves, she noticed. His hands were so smooth. "No one is perfect."

"We will still disagree, I am sure, and still argue a bit." He stared into her eyes. "I don't doubt I will disappoint you again."

She smiled. "I like fighting with you."

He smiled back. "I like fighting with you, too."

"Then you don't have to be perfect. You just have to be you."

A feeling washed over Vegeta, one that he had never felt before. It started out a warm cord that fluttered across his skin and seeped into his stomach, and it moved along his neck and throat. His ears burned and he felt the distinct pull of wanting to cry, but not out of sadness, out of pure and unbridled joy. He pulled her in close and kissed her lips, soft and chaste, sweet and sensuous in its own way. She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him in closer, her tongue pressing into his mouth until it collided with his.

She pulled back and looked up at his face, unencumbered by his usual grimace. "So, what can I make you to eat?"

A devious smile crossed his face. "Well, for starters," he pulled up her arm and kissed her wrist, "I think I know what I might like for an appetizer."

He grabbed her waist and brought them together, his mouth devouring hers as fire bloomed across her skin.