Bulma wakes to the sounds of fighting. Her brain wakes before her body does, and she struggles to pry her eyes open in the dark. Her arms are straight around her ears and tingling, gone numb. She's not a pretty sleeper. Her brows knit in concentration. It sounds like the tell-tale movie signs: the thudding of fists on flesh, grunting, furniture knocking and protesting on wood floors.
Bulma flings herself upright in bed.
Her feet pad lightly on the cool wood floors as she makes her way to her window, the scent of leaves stealing in on the breeze. She presses her ear to the screen. The sounds aren't a figment of her imagination. In fact, they sound closer from this vantage point at the window.
They're coming from her neighbor's house.
Her hand closes over her silk robe as she heads out the bedroom door. As she cracks her front door, two men in black race out her neighbor's front door and sprint down the street. Bulma's eyes fling wide. The night observes impassively, silent save for the rustle of dry leaves and a lone cricket.
Her slippers make soft sounds in the grass as they cross from her lawn into her neighbor's. His front door is ajar. Bulma's hand presses it open slowly. The house so far is dark, but as Bulma adjusts, her heart thundering in her chest, she notices the glow of an oven light in the kitchen. It pulls her deeper in.
The first thing she sees is an arm flung across the kitchen floor. Her heart stops, but she presses forward. As she rounds the doorway, she sees her neighbor lying on his back on the cold linoleum, chest heaving, legs tangled up in a kitchen chair.
She's on her knees beside him in an instant.
His eyes are closed, but his breath reassures her. It's dangerous to be knocked unconscious and stay under, so she shakes his shoulder. "Hey," she whispers. Her fingers pry open his eyelid.
His hand is so fast she doesn't see it move. Her hand is squeezed in his clumsy grip. His eyes open. One is already swollen and purpling. His irises are so dark his eyes look hard, pure black.
She frowns at his hand around her wrist. "You look like shit," she says.
His hand jerks away as if repulsed, thumping to the floor. Even beat up, he looks like he's calculating how to respond. But he's still catching his breath and wincing in pain, so it means he has to take her abuse.
"What the hell happened here?" His shirt is blooming blood at his side. She leans over him. "Do you want me to call the police?"
His hand is around her wrist again. "Don't," he says raggedly, dangerously, "call the cops."
She stares. And then sighs. "I knew you were up to no good."
He shoots her a look of pure malice—it's tinged with pain, so it comes off kind of pouty—and to her horror, tries to sit up. When she protests, he bats her hand away limply. "I'm fine," he snaps.
"You are not," she protests. She invades his space, fingers closing around his wrist to check his pulse. When he rebuffs, she just pokes him in the ribs. He inhales through his teeth and glares bloody murder at her.
"See?" She only says, point made. She doesn't wait for him to tell her what to do. She pads out the kitchen, blundering in the dark for the bathroom. Her fingers flick the light switch and she takes a moment to adjust to the white light. The room's sterile, clean and lacking any decor. It's disorienting. Who doesn't personalize their living space? Who doesn't at least have things which they use lying around that would indicate in some capacity what kind of human they were? What they enjoyed? His house is as bare as one that hasn't yet been rented, but he'd been living here when she moved in, and that was months ago. There's not even a shower curtain, only a thin white towel hanging lopsidedly from the wall and a gray toothbrush lying on its side on the sink.
Behind the mirror in the medicine cabinet, she finds a surplus of gauze and ointments and stuffs her arms full.
When she pads back into the kitchen, he's sitting upright, bare back against the stove. His shirt is clutched in one hand, and the other prods at his ribs, which ooze blood.
She squats down beside him. "Stop it, idiot," she says, swatting his hand away.
"I don't need help," he grits, his voice gone gravelly and tight.
She glares up at him from under her lashes and yanks a strip of gauze from its roll snappily to make a point.
Blotting blood from the skin of his side, she notices a mass of mottled bruises discoloring his skin. Old bruises, yellowed bruises. She frowns. "What the hell do you do for a living?" Their eyes meet. "Does your girlfriend beat you?"
"I'm a competitive athlete." Then he turns away with contempt. He doesn't bother giving power to the girlfriend question. He is as stubbornly withholding as a toddler, especially when things aren't going his way. She isn't even a far off landmark on the map of His Way.
"Oh," she says. "That explains it." She's pulling tape with her teeth. "I've been curious."
He side eyes her.
"You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?" At his glare, her voice gets smaller. "Won't this affect your job performance?"
"No," he grinds out.
A force of air expels out her nose and her scowl is back in place.
After a minute simmering in tense silence, he surprises her. "What do you do for a living?" He asks, rolling his head back against the oven, eyes drifting over the wall across from them. He must be suffering a few blows to the head, because she doesn't think he'd ask her anything about herself under normal circumstances. He slumps a little with exhaustion. Bulma hypothesizes: he must have been blindsided by the break in, and he must have fought back hard.
"Well?" He snaps.
Oh, how she detests him. "I'm not a fucking nurse, if that's what you're asking."
He seems to relax when she's rude. "That's good, because your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired."
She shoots him a look that promises death. It seems to please him.
Standing, she rummages in his freezer for an ice pack. Easy to find, as there is not much but cold air blowing past her. His kitchen is empty enough that her steps echo. There's no dish washer, but no dish drainer. Not a single appliance on the counters. Not a coffee maker, which jars her. Only the undead and aliens don't need coffee. She is not surprised that he might be either.
Only the living room has been functionally furnished, and even in the dark it looks like goodwill threw up in there. She pulls open some kitchen drawers stubbornly, curiously. Silverware rattles inside. It's unorganized, a mess of cutlery, a few aged spatulas, and a rubber band or two.
When she's done snooping, she plops the ice pack unceremoniously on his head. As she settles on her knees, his gaze flicks over her, passing over the hem of her short, silky night gown, the lace dipping down her chest, and glancing abruptly away.
"Get yourself an eye full?" She asks dryly. "Who's objectifying who now?"
His face scrunches in righteous irritation. "Please," he snaps. "I've seen better."
"You have not!" She smashes the ice pack into his face.
"Real noble," he growls, "taking your frustrations out on an injured person."
"If you don't quit complaining, I'll leave you here to manage by yourself." She hands him a couple of pain reducers and a glass of water.
He swallows them peevishly. "I didn't ask you to come."
"Would you just shut up and let someone help you? I don't want my neighbor dying when I could have helped. Could you imagine the smell?"
"I don't need help. With anything." He tenses and then struggles to rock onto his feet and stand. She stands with him, mouth parted on a protest. He woozes on his feet.
"Hey, stupid, you're going to fall!" She wraps her arm around him to keep him upright. He's warm and hard and really heavy. He smells lightly of sweat, but it's unobtrusive, intimate.
His teeth grit on a groan and his knees soften. He catches his weight with his hand on the fridge.
"Seeing stars?" Her voice softens. She studies him. "Little birdies circling round your head?"
Her neighbor peers at her through one eye with a look of pure sick-of-your-bullshit. The other eye is already swollen shut.
She moves the ice pack to cover his face, effectively neutralizing his glare. Unwinding her arm from his side—if he eats shit because he's too stubborn to accept help or admit he needs it, then more power to him—she crosses them over her chest. She's putting all her force into her very own fighting stance. Monkey style, crane style, Bulma style. She's going to need a whole school of fighting in her tool belt to contend with him. "One could surmise," she drawls, "that if you don't want to go to the police, you're hiding something." She lifts an imperious finger. "One could also hypothesize that you know exactly who those men were and what they wanted. What happened? Why would those guys beat you up?"
He doesn't say anything, just turns away and studies his kitchen as if glaring at it will force the universe to answer just how he was put in this unfortunate situation with her.
She notices the glass on the floor. His little kitchen table has a split down the middle, like someone heavy has been tossed onto it. She goes for the broom poking out beside the fridge and begins sweeping. "Are you in trouble with some local hoodlums or something?" She persists.
"Do you ever quit prying?" He doesn't sound thankful for her at all.
She shoots him her own version of sick-of-your-bullshit. "When I'm woken up from my beauty sleep," she bites back, "I take it personally."
He lets out a huff and, listing, still manages to yank the broom from her grasp. Before she recognizes what's going on, he's pressing his hand at her lower back, aiming her for the front door. She locks her knees, but it barely slows him down.
Recognizing time running out, she begins throwing as many questions as she can at him. "Do you owe them money? Was it those two men I saw outside your house? Are you involved in the mob? Why is your house so bare? Hey!"
She is pushed unceremoniously out his front door. She whips around, but the door closes in her face first.
And then cracks.
One unblackened eye stares out at her. It's inky dark, ominous, but what shows of his face is exhausted. Yielding. "Thank you."
His reluctance is so palpable she could eat it. He waits for her to say something, uncertainly.
"At least get yourself a dish drainer or something," she finally says. "Don't tell me you're so uncultivated that you use paper plates. Or do you even need to eat? I knew it: you're a robot. Where do you hide your battery?"
His mouth flattens and the door slams shut.
"A rug would really tie the room together!" She tells the front door.
..
She's been thinking about her neighbor all day. While her pencil marks an isosceles triangle. As she pours another cup of coffee. As she washes her hands in the secluded silence of the employee bathroom. Why would someone break into a person's home and assault them, and then that person refuse to inform the police, if not because of crime? Where did he go each day, and why was he always in such a bad mood? It's a mystery, and she's a newly certified Nancy Drew.
Only as the day winds down and she's heading home does she become preoccupied with immediate concerns. Like, what is she going to eat for dinner? She parks, but there's no neighbor stalking up the sidewalk as she does. His house is quiet, unperturbed. She closes her car door. Sighs. Nothing in her fridge sounds good. On a whim, she pivots, heading down the street to the grocers on the corner. She wonders how she's never been there before, despite it being so close. In fact, she's never walked down her street—what is it, six, seven houses down?—and explored the way her quiet neighborhood flows like a tributary into an industrious city bay. This is the same path that he walks each day. His eyes roam over each bush she passes. Where ever he goes each day, it's in this direction.
The store is cold, the air conditioner running loudly on high. The grocers is not much more than a convenience store, but she grabs some meat and a sack of potatoes and places them on the counter. The guy behind it is in a stained white tee, chest hair erupting from the neck, and he doesn't even look at her as he rings her up. The skin on her bare calves and arms pebbles, and she frowns as the guys gaze finally settles and it's on her chest.
The bell dings behind her, signaling another customer inside this freezer. She's counting her coins with two fingers when she feels the heat of someone behind her. An arm reaches around her side, a hand closing on her own, preventing her from sliding the man any money. Her head whips around to disapprove of the person over her shoulder. And inhales sharply.
Her neighbor's chest rests against her back for the briefest moment before he leans back into his own space, and gives the cashier one clear, decisive shake of his head.
Bulma is rattled. Her eyes bounce between the two men.
The cashier is now visibly sweating. "Beg your pardon, ma'am. That's eleven seventy five."
"But you just said—"
Her neighbor tosses a twenty on the counter and confuses her further as he grabs her bag of groceries and walks out.
She's still sputtering as the door closes behind them, bell dinging pleasantly.
He walks off as if he hadn't just saved her from price gouging in the most bizarre grocery store interaction she's ever been involved in. And now she owes him money. Shoved from baffled into angry because he's just walking away like nothing weird happened at all, Bulma's hands fist and she pumps her arms to hurry to his side.
"What was that about?" She demands.
His eyes tick to her. The skin around his eye is a dismal shade of royal purple, but the swelling is mostly gone. Not slouched over bleeding into his lap, he looks mostly normal. He's not bad looking. Her mouth pulls down.
"Stupid tax," he only says.
"What?" She pauses. "Like, you don't agree with the sales tax? Are we debating the usefulness and fairness of the tax system? Are you suggesting—"
"It's a price increase because he doesn't know you," her neighbor interrupts impatiently. "Things are very expensive there, unless he knows you, and then they're not."
Why couldn't he just speak English? He gives her a look like she's stupid, and it galls her.
He speaks slowly. "You were paying mark price. Now you're paying my price."
Bulma forgets how to close her mouth. "Why do you get the good deals?"
He unveils a razor sharp smirk that razes her from her toes to the crown of her head. Her body's reaction disturbs her. "Because I'm me."
She scoffs. She cannot stand him, not at all. "What's so special about you?"
"I know people."
She can't resist an opportunity to fish. "Like those two scary guys? Or the guys who beat you up?"
His good humor dissipates. He makes a "tch" sound of disbelief. Like he can't believe she's persisting, like she should have never seen them. "Don't worry about them."
She filches her sack of groceries from his hand. "Worry about them?" The sun lays gold bars over their path. Their steps measure them in rhythm. "I'm not in the habit of worrying myself over any man." It's still unseasonably warm, the breeze caressing. "Particularly one that has anything to do with you."
Her eyes flick over to survey him as he fights a smirk. He wins, and the smirk is smothered.
She studies him. "So what's your name?"
The question annoys him, because he refuses to answer.
She fights the urge to roll her eyes. "So?" She pressures. "Your name? You know mine."
His hands are in his pockets and he looks stubbornly away.
Her eyebrows slam down but she refuses to give in. "Look. I can't possibly call you 'my asshole neighbor' in my head a second more. It's a mouthful. And I feel like saving your life last night—"
"You didn't save my life—"
"—warrants at least a surname, if not a thank you."
He continues looking in the opposite direction with his teeth grit, and she exhales loudly. "Fine." She grabs his hand and stops, forcing him to halt in place and turn to her. She shakes his motionless hand. It's warm and heavy. "Hi, I'm Bulma Briefs. Your neighbor. And you are?"
She just keeps pumping his hand, leveling him with the most determined, bluest stare he's ever been the unfortunate recipient of.
Fighting it is a waste of his time at this point. Vegeta loves fighting, but winning demands a new strategy. He sighs, and takes back control of the handshake, slowing it. His hand is solid in hers. The knuckles are lightly swollen. "Vegeta."
"Hello, Vegeta," she purrs, growing a razor edged smile. "Why don't you ever cut your grass?"
He makes a sound in the back of his throat and stalks away.
It doesn't matter if he picks up the pace. She's still going where he's going, and this time, she wins.
She knows his name.
. . .
DAY 19
. . .
One piercing shriek drags its claws right down Vegeta's mental chalkboard, and he freezes from unfolding himself from his couch. It's his neighbor. From the middle of the living room, out a window with no blinds, he watches her stomp across his yard. She flings open his front door, looking less a damsel in distress and more a rampaging monster.
"My house has been broken into," tumbles from her mouth.
Vegeta, standing in just sweatpants and socks, blinks at her groggily. "And I should care, why?"
The sarcasm is lost on her. "They stole a crucial piece of my work!" She's marching around his living room now, throwing her hands in the air. "Do you think it has anything to do with those guys who beat you up? Who would do this? Why do you look like you were asleep? Didn't you just get home from work?" She checks her watch. "It's 5:35 on a Thursday. You should have just arrived home twenty minutes ago."
Vegeta rubs his forehead. "Slow down," he barks. "Your thoughts are a mile a minute."
"My brain processes on a higher level than yours! Get on my level!" She strides over. "Look, I just happen to be the keeper of a very important project, and some asshole has taken my work!"
Vegeta's eyes go wide as saucers.
"They were dressed all in black," she explains as he darts around trying to find a t-shirt. "I have surveillance footage. All black, just like those men who beat you up. Nothing else telling."
"They didn't beat me," he rushes to counter. "I laid into them worse. They couldn't even see where they were going when they ran out of here." If it sounds defensive, that's because it is.
"Quit talking and listen to me," she commands and paces. "Black pants, black shirt, black beanies. Black facepaint. All black. That should say something."
He pauses his search for his shirt. "What's wrong with black?"
"It's just not a very innocent color!" Her head shakes with disbelief at his ignorance. "All villains wear black."
He pulls a shirt over his head in one fell swoop. They stand there staring at one another.
His whole outfit is black.
He needs a second. Vegeta heads to the fridge, pulls out a glass milk bottle, and chugs. She's suddenly there at his side, boxing him in. "This is really important!" She says through her teeth, bouncing on her feet.
"Sounds like your problem, Ms. Briefs," he says blandly. He's just using this tone to get under her skin and she knows it.
"Doctor," she corrects in a huff.
"I don't do anything for anybody." The fridge door swings shut. "I don't care about anybody. Why would I help you?"
"Because the fate of the world depends on this!" He gives her a skeptical look, and she backtracks. "Okay, maybe not the fate of the world. But this is deeply significant to science as we know it!"
He leans against his fridge door after it falls shut, folding his arms over his chest, and stills. "If I help, what are you going to do for me?"
He doesn't smile. Just looks at her plainly. Dangerously. There's a small cut under his eye, atop his high, pronounced cheek. His upper lip is firm, the bottom lip fuller. They're masculine lips: not thin, but not pillowy. Her eyes roam his face; she can't help it.
Her voice is breathy with disbelief and maybe something else. "Are you extorting me right now?"
"No," he counters smoothly, "I'm not." He pulls on a black hoodie and slips his feet into sneakers. As he opens the front door, he turns to look over his shoulder, smiling darkly. "But I'd like to."
And then he's frowning at her. "Are you coming? I need to see what they took."
She lets her breath out her nose and stomps past, ducking under his arm as he holds open the front door. As far as Bulma's concerned, she's got no other choice.
…
He's just standing there gawking. He's in his annoying neighbor's house, in her lab. There's a flight of stairs behind an innocuous door in her kitchen that lead to the cellar, except the cellar has been completely finished and is now the lair of a mad scientist. There's a sanitary corner with beakers and and test tubes and crucibles. There's a long, wooden table on sawhorses with engine parts scattered upon it, a dry erase board scrawled with chemical compositions behind it. There are metal file cabinets spilling over with circuit boards and wires. There's also a welder and a welder's mask hanging from a propane tank next to the door. Books seem to be the glue holding everything together, shoved between everything like they are. A stack of scientific journals comprises the "end table" that her lamp sits on. It's such a shocking change, going from the living space of a normal person to the workspace of an insane person, that it takes him a moment to adjust.
She's at her computer, showing him the reel of footage. Three men in black bust the locks on her front door. They wander around her house, checking every room. They don't bother with any valuables. One opens the door in her kitchen curiously. Vegeta can see the moment they realize this is what they came for. They file down, and it doesn't take them long to find what they're looking for. They sweep it into their arms and dash back up the stairs. Bulma's cameras point down at the doorstep and the view excludes the sidewalk, so it's a crapshoot determining what kind of car they arrived in. Vegeta can't see what it is they grabbed, only that they scoop it and bolt.
Her eyes are bright, pleading. Those puppy dog eyes are really getting under his skin, because they're working. Vegeta's chewing on some thought. He scowls, then confides grudgingly, "I might know someone who knows something."
…
She's buckling the passenger seat belt before he's even turned the key. Immovable neighbor, meet unstoppable go-getter. The sun has set and it's gotten cool enough that she tugs the front of her coat tighter around her. Finally fall decides to show up late to the party, and it's with a subzero chill. The engine turns to life. Bulma can't contain herself. If there's anything she can do to help, she wants to do it. If there's anything he can do, she'll take it. If there's anything she doesn't know, she's gotta know it. Right now, there is so much she doesn't know.
"So where are we going?"
"To see an old friend."
She sputters dramatically. "You have friends?"
He doesn't even bite. "So let's start at the beginning. What exactly did they take from you, Ms. Briefs?"
A gust of air escapes her. "Doctor." She looks out the windshield. "It's complicated."
He gives her a look like, "Go on, stupid." She sighs. "It's a houseplant."
Vegeta's hand slips from the shifter and his foot hits the brakes.
He frowns deeply as he tries to understand. "A plant?!" He's glaring at her now as someone honks behind them.
She slaps her hand over his, urging the car back into first. "It's not just any houseplant. It's an invention, my magnum opus! It's the culmination of very important research," she insists, whining. "I'm supposed to exhibit it in nineteen days. If I don't reveal it then, I could lose my job!"
"You cannot make me believe," he says tightly, "that all of this is over a plant."
Her tone gets crisp. "Are you always so swarthy?"
He shoots her a look. But he's driving again. "'Swarthy?' Like a pirate?"
"But way less cool and dangerous," she mutters into the window.
"Only you would think I'm not dangerous."
"You don't scare me at all, Vegeta."
He just snorts, hand on the wheel. "I'm insulted."
He winds them towards the interstate. It ribbons towards the lake, where it will grow more industrialized as they approach the docks. But for now, it's desolate. Just outside the city, fields stretch to the horizon.
"So you're a...scientist?" He sounds like he's trying really hard to make conversation. She gets the feeling he doesn't know how to make small-talk and doesn't want to. Honestly she doesn't know why he's even trying. "And the plant is part of your research?"
Bulma figures the more he knows, the more informed he can be. "An engineer by trade. I've been partnered with some astrophysicists, at the moment, since that is my secondary background. I work downtown at the government building. Science Agency."
Instead of asking her what a astrophysicist is—the question she is used to—he surprises her. "Why do you live alone?"
Bulma watches him with growing consternation as he slows at a stop sign. Her mouth flattens. "Why?" Her tone is icy. "Think I wouldn't have been robbed if a man were there to protect me?"
"I didn't say that."
She scrutinizes him, then seems to melt into the seat. "My lab was even booby trapped," she groans, slouching. "There's surveillance and counter strike everywhere." She slides two sticks of gum out of her coat pocket and holds one out to him between two fingers. He blinks at it. Slowly, he slides it from her grasp, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. His jaw is strong and well-defined, and Bulma forces herself to look away. She has a weakness for strong jaws and strong men in general, but she knows better than to reveal that to the enemy.
"I asked you a question." He glances over, waiting for her to spill the beans about her living situation.
She stares back stubbornly. He hasn't answered any of her questions, either. But she's locked in this car with him and he's helping her, so she decides to share and play nice. She casts her gaze straight ahead and confesses. "I'm divorced."
It's almost imperceptible, but his eyes widen with surprise, his grip light on the leather wheel. Bulma goes to bite her nails but her gloves are still on, so she crosses her arms over her chest. "I was young and in love," she explains matter-of-factly, to get him to quit looking like that. "And then I grew up."
His expression is hard to read. Nothing changes, but his gaze turns inward, as if thinking.
Bulma knows the presumption that she grew up is laughable. How many times have they slung playground insults at each other? It's their daily ritual. If she hasn't made fun of him or called him names before dinner, the day feels askew, it just doesn't feel quite right. There's nothing adult about that. Their whole relationship is predicated on roasting the other. Last week, she'd made a cutting remark about his widow's peak. The week before that, they'd escalated a feud before the Housing Association about where he placed his trash cans. He'd won, and he'd smirked, showing teeth—it wasn't quite a smile—all the way to the parking lot. With her neighbor, they fought for the crown of immaturity. Their motto: any cost is acceptable to win today's game.
Vegeta doesn't point it out. He should; the opening is right there. Instead, he lets her keep her dignity and the quiet to resume its dominance on the inside of his car.
It's not uncomfortable, being with this stranger in a car. Bulma frowns as she gazes out the window. The sun has set and everything is doused in a pool of liquid blue now, like they're underwater.
Her eyes skate over to his side of the car. "Don't get any ideas." She waits for him to get it. "I know I'm a beautiful, single woman, but you keep your paws off."
He makes a noise in his throat that sounds totally offended and disgusted. She smiles serenely, watching as he puffs up. She's back in her element, goading him.
"I would never," he promises darkly. Not because he's a gentleman, but because she's so beneath him.
She has him trapped in a car now. She admitted something personal, so now it's his turn. "So why were you being beaten up, anyway?" She leans in with her elbow on the center consul, staring. Ready to watch him squirm. They're stuck in this car together for the moment. He has nowhere to run.
She doesn't know how such a masculine, hard looking man can be outgunned by a small woman, but he just can't find solid ground around her. He might be able to deflect and attack where he has room to maneuver a retreat, but close proximity with no escape has him trapped. He grits his teeth. He doesn't want to talk about himself for some reason. Finally he lets out an angry huff that ends on a sigh. He knows defeat with her too much. "I owed someone something."
"Money?" She can't help her sudden jolt of curiosity.
"No, not money." His voice is sure and smooth, even when he's staggering. The man was probably cursing himself for agreeing to help her. She's really gotta back off so that she doesn't scare her only lifeline away. Bulma promises herself she'll try.
He doesn't say anything else. Sensing that's all she's going to get out of him, she tries a different angle. "Well, what do you do for a living? You're an athlete, right?" She leans even closer. Promise to herself already broken. Her voice lowers. "Because you're in a gang?"
He makes another disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. Had she already reduced him to no words? How disappointing.
"What can I say," he finally utters dryly. He shoots her a look like she's gotten too close, but not quite. "I was an impressionable kid."
"I was an impressionable kid and you didn't see me joining a gang."
His eyes narrow. "I can see why your husband divorced you."
Bulma retaliates in the only way she can. She pinches the space between his ribs between her thumb and forefinger. She's like a painter, adding deeper, moodier color to the yellow backdrop that blooms under his skin.
He gives her his meanest look.
She gives him the meanest look she can muster and hopes it's half as mean as his. She's been getting a lot of practice in with their after work scrimmages.
She thinks she sees a look pass over his face like he'd felt like smiling, but then his body had shut the whole thing down. "Look," he grits. He's changing the conversation. Sitting straighter, his face smooths with purpose. "We're visiting an old...friend." He may as well have dragged his feet over the word 'friend.' "He might know who's in the business of breaking into old divorced women's houses and stealing house plants." The look he gives her is deadpan and she glares. "He knows things," he continues. "His business is information." The car is rolling to a stop outside the docks. "These guys don't mess around," he says with utter seriousness. "Your job is to stay low. Don't talk, don't call attention to yourself. I'm in control at all times." He's enunciating carefully now, in case she's stupid. "I don't need a partner, I don't want a partner. You're only here to I.D. the plant. You just stand there."
"Yeah, yeah, sure," she says hurriedly as her hand closes on the door handle.
His eyes glitter with an idea. "I could leave you in the car."
"Well you can't because I'm coming," she says, throwing her door open. Then leans down to look at him inside from under the roof of the car. The curls at her neck fall forward. "If you did, I'd just follow you," she promises brightly.
"Why don't I have rope in the back," she thinks she hears as he walks around the car to her. "Rope and a gag." She doesn't care. They're about to find out what happened to her work. She hops a little on her feet.
He stops in front of her, staring at her pointedly. "I mean it." His hand closes over her forearm, careful but firm. "Leave this to me."
Her eyes widen as he touches her. He must really, really want her to shut up if he's dirtying himself touching her. "Yeah, yeah," she grumbles, shaking him off. "I get it. Jeez, I'm not an idiot."
"You have a prove it first." He turns away.
"I can see why you're single." If they're criticizing each other's love lives, then all's fair. He acts like he doesn't hear her.
He beelines for an alley. They snake through industrial alley after alley. It smells like lake. Bulma hopes her trust in her neighbor isn't misplaced and he's not leading her somewhere to kill her. Maybe all her hairline jokes have finally gotten to him.
She sees them a second before she almost collides into Vegeta's back. He's stopped in front of a metal door and the two men guarding it. They look straight out of a cartoon—beady eyes, massive shoulders, little heads. They are the picture of evil villain bodyguards.
"Vegeta." They eye her neighbor warily. "What brings you here today?"
"I've got business with Shinhan."
"No you don't. I would know."
"New business," Vegeta persists. "Something he wants to know about."
"He probably already knows."
"Not about this," Vegeta snaps.
He has no patience at all, she laments. She's already second-guessing her decision to bring him into this, and they haven't even gotten inside yet!
Finally, they notice her, poking her head out from Vegeta's back. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend," one of them comments.
Vegeta's voice is aggrieved. "She's not my girlfriend—"
Bulma abhors the fact that someone thinks she even likes this guy. "He's not even my type!" She rejects.
Vegeta whips around to confront her with distaste. "What do you mean, I'm not your type? I'm everyone's type." His tone was seriously pissy. "You're not my type."
"Not everyone's," she chirps.
"Says you."
"Says—"
"Do you want inside or not?" The guard interrupts.
Bulma and Vegeta shut up and nod. The guard holds the door open, shaking his head, like he's just seen two kids get in a fight over who can jump the highest.
She follows Vegeta in cautiously, peering around. It's just a hallway, spanning the length of several metal shipping containers fused together. They get to another door.
Vegeta turns to her, effectively preventing her from moving further in. His face looks all stiff, like he's restraining himself from shaking her. "Stay quiet," he demands, low. "Shut up. Be agreeable. You go running your big mouth, they're going to notice you. And you don't want that."
"You don't want that. Jealous?" She can't help it. She's cursed.
"I don't have to take you any further," he cautions her.
"You started it," she reminds him. "It's not my fault it's physically impossible for a woman to be attracted to you—"
He's close to boiling over in frustration."It's impossible to get you to see reason!" He whisper-yells. "There's no winning with you!"
"Ditto! Ready to surrender?"
His eyes narrow and, fingers clasping the doorway, he leans in. "Don't count on it."
The glare hostilely at each other for a long second before Vegeta puts his hand on the doorknob and turns it. They pour in.
"Vegeta, how good to see you," says a voice that doesn't sound happy to see him at all. "It's been awhile. Last time was that catastrophe at—oh, who's this?"
Bulma opens her mouth but Vegeta's sneaker lands hard on her toes. Her mouth clamps shut. She sends him a nasty look, but follows Vegeta's lead when he sits down. She sits in the chair beside him silently.
The man they sit across is tall, broad, and bald, in a green two piece suit with absolutely no shirt on underneath. He's got a third eye tattooed in the middle of his forehead that's disconcerting to look at. Or try not to look at. He's all pecs and gleaming baldness, and he doesn't look like he's ever empathized with a person in their life. He looks like he eats nails for breakfast. He's not someone Bulma sees herself sharing tea and gossip with in the future. Which is a shame. Bulma loves gossip.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Something has gone missing. We're wondering if you've heard anything about its movement."
"Well." The man puts a shoe on his desk, and then another. It's shiny black. Bulma stares at it. "An eye for an eye, and all that."
Vegeta goes rigid beside her, but Shinhan seems to expect that, and his tone smooths out. "Not that I expect anything from you, Vegeta. I'm simply laying out the terms of my service. You give me information, and I give you information."
"You haven't given us anything."
"One pays for a thing before they use it."
"Then what are you fishing for?"
Bulma's eyes dart to Vegeta at his tone. God, he was really bad at this! She didn't see how getting on the guy's bad side was an effective strategy at all!
"I'll decide that later. What are you looking for?"
"You'll decide payment now, or no deal."
"I'm going to need something before I commit to anything."
"Then no deal." Vegeta makes to stand, but Bulma, half-rising out of her chair, makes a protesting sound inadvertently in the back of her throat.
"Who is this, Vegeta?" Shinhan's eyes fall on her. Even the fake eye seems to be taking her measure. "You don't team up."
"She's no one."
"I beg to differ," Bulma mutters.
Shinhan's eyes get sharp. "Is she the reason you're here?"
"We're going." He's standing again and turning toward the door.
"We're looking for a plant," Bulma blurts out.
Vegeta glares at her with the kind of look that should cause her to explode. She ignores him.
Shinhan smiles. "You're going to have to give me more information than that."
Vegeta forcibly expels air. "We're looking for a houseplant." He says it through his teeth.
"It's about yay big, with large marbled leaves and two magenta flowers in a star pattern," Bulma includes helpfully, fingers measuring air. "I have a sketch if that would assist you."
Vegeta looks like he wants to squash her.
Shinhan leans forward, considering. "And what's so special about this plant?"
Vegeta glares daggers at her, but she glances away, brows knitting in determination. "It's a crucial piece of my work—"
Vegeta bites down on his teeth.
"—and it was taken by three men, each wearing black, from my home. They didn't touch any valuables. They knew exactly what they were looking for."
"A plant, hm?" Shinhan leaned back, folding his arms over his wide chest. "Chiaotzu might know something."
Vegeta makes a disbelieving noise that Bulma feels is not at all polite to their host, and she sends him a look that tells him so. It's Vegeta's turn to ignore her. "Chiaotzu? Please. If that's all you got, I'm not buying."
The man in front of them grows intimidating. His face darkens. "Chiaotzu is very good at what he does."
"His last fight proves otherwise." A smirk claws up the corner of Vegeta's mouth.
The man looks like he is contemplating jumping over the table and strangling Vegeta. Bulma knows how he feels. Identifying and sympathizing with this man, she stands, holding out her hand. "We accept your terms. We'll be going now, so as not to put any further strain on your graciousness." She fires a look at Vegeta over her shoulder. "How will you relay us what you find?"
Shinhan stands, smoothing his green suit jacket, and shakes her hand. "I'll have an answer for you directly after Vegeta's next fight."
Vegeta just won't quit. "What's the price?"
Shinhan smiles. It's oily. He's all bulging muscles, and so tall it makes his pivoting office chair look absurd. Bulma sees the fighter in him clearly. The bargain is the fight for him now. "The information is the prize, Vegeta."
"I prefer a prize I can hold in my hands," Vegeta points out. "Like a houseplant, or a tournament trophy."
The two men stare at each other, their postures full of pretense but their eyes savage. They know exactly what kind of game the other is playing, and both intend on exploiting it.
"A favor in the future," Shinhan finally says.
"No favors," Vegeta growls. "I don't do favors."
Bulma watches the barely restrained aggression with insatiable curiosity and discomfort.
"I'll collect later," Shinhan eases in, like Vegeta never refused.
Vegeta just doesn't know when to quit. "You'll tell me the price now."
"I'll have my man collect it as he leaves."
"You aren't collecting anything. The deal's off." Vegeta's voice goes low and deadly.
Shinhan sees he's pushed Vegeta too hard and walks it back. He sighs, sitting again. "Fine. Consider this a freebie." He rests his cheek on his knuckles and looks at them with fatigue, as if the weight of the world's Vegetas rests on his shoulders. "Because the reason why a bunch of armed men broke into a pretty scientist's home and stole a houseplant, and then she managed to strong arm you into looking for it, warrants enough of a payment." He's glaring at them now. "Go."
…
Vegeta is in no mood to deal with Bulma. Like usual, she wants to discuss things at the pace light makes in space. She's dissecting their encounter with Shinhan like it's a double helix on a lab table, picking apart and analyzing each and every exhalation of breath and withholding of it as he stalks to the car. She's fearless, relentless, and absolutely hair-pullingly frustrating. These are traits he prizes in himself but loathes in her. She is grating on every nerve that likes being in control and being the best. Vegeta is still grimacing, picking at Shinhan's last barb like food in his teeth. The one thing she hasn't seemed to catch on to: the suggestion that Vegeta had lost a fight to this pain in the ass, and the insinuation that Shinhan will be plowing for information on that, too.
Bulma, meanwhile, wastes no time stomping to the car, chattering. She's standing at her car door now, staring at him like she's waiting for him to say something.
"What?" He barks, at his wit's end.
"I said," she says slowly like he's stupid, "when and where's the fight?"
He looks at her blankly, and then springs into angry motion. He rips open his door and slides in. He is just one more bad piece of news away from a full pout. "Doesn't matter," he rasps, turning on the car. "You're not going."
"The hell I'm not!" She closes the door with a bang and glares. "I'm going to that fight," she declares. "I want to know everything right away when you do."
"The hell," he growls, leaning in, "you are."
"Oh," she promises, voice low, "I am going." She's leaning into his face now. "I will be there, whether you've approved it or not."
The car is stuffy with nearly nuclear-fissioning silence.
There's no one around to hear when he breaks but her. He snatches a pen and napkin from his console and scribbles an address and time. He slaps it on the dashboard and shoves it her way.
Bulma takes it primly.