. . .
DAY SIXTEEN
. . .
Bulma chews her pen at work. She surveys last night from the objectivity of the next day. When she should be working, she draws a flow chart on her fine blueprint paper. There are lots of divergent thought bubbles. There is a lot of scrutiny and analysis. Eventually there's a bar graph—"Number of Times I've Been Attracted to My Neighbor"—and the frequency is distressing.
Does he feel the same way? Consider the evidence, her analytical side proposes. There were two proximity snafus last night. Not just one. Two! Once, in his bathroom. Again, in her kitchen. And what about the sexual tension in his locker room? His hands on her blouse buttons? Was it all in her head? Had he been the architect of it all, or had chance? Had it been premeditated or improvised? Had she just annoyed him so much that this was now how he sought vengeance, in their little game to one up the other?
Why else would he have just left like that, in the heat of the moment, unless it was to punish her? Or had he had second thoughts? How could it be anything else? Vegeta is too perceptive not to notice that she was about to act on the mood, too deliberate not to have made a cool-headed decision to leave her there panting. Or is she just that undesirable? She balls up the paper and hurls it into the trash can.
She needs to get her head on straight. She has a plant to find in this city, and Vegeta is her reluctant tour guide. Who cares if her enemy makes her hot, when she should be all its antonyms? She has big plans, and she needs both of their brains on board to accomplish it.
But still. Should she act normal? How does she act like nothing has happened? How does she pretend that her feelings are strictly professional? Weren't they? Weren't they professional?
...
Bulma opens her front door and her brain shorts out.
Vegeta stands on her doorstep in a three piece suit. It's cool, dark brown, and its matching waistcoat sports bronze buttons below a bespoke bow tie. He even wears suspenders, and his shoes are shiny. The suit is perfectly tailored to his powerful physique, trim without straining across muscle. She can't reconcile her tee shirt-wearing neighbor with this. It's the most mouth-watering fusion of old era and new, and she just can't stand to think that Vegeta is smart enough to have put it together and smooth enough to have patronized some tailor somewhere. All he's missing is a bowler hat cocked off-center. The asshole would probably look great with one.
He glares at her sullenly as he adjusts his cuff links. He hates this.
"You clean up nice." She's still staring. Eating him up like she's starving.
He just frowns. "Of course I do. I'm me. Are you ready?"
"You're just..."
"What?"
"It's just, I'm—"
"Drooling?" He plucks at his lapel, smirking. "I have that affect on people."
A frown falls flat on her face. "You ruined it."
"Just get in the car."
"You're not going to comment on how I look?" She steps out, pulls the door shut behind her. "I know I set the bar high, but even I impress myself sometimes."
Bulma's dress rides the razor's edge of salacious and elegant. It's an off the shoulder number with a dripping neckline that she thought for sure would get him stuttering. Vegeta's eyes don't drift. His eyes never dip south. Barring last night's mishap, he seems to completely lack the ability to be attracted to human women. She wants to know where his circuit board is so that she can reprogram him.
Since she's not getting the reaction she wants, she tries to at least get pleasure out of making him angry. That's something she can take to the bank, at least. "I do believe," Bulma's saying sunnily as she drifts down her stairs—one, two, three—"that this is our first date." She knows the suggestion will drive him absolutely bonkers, and she's desperate to get a rise out of him. It's her secret shame.
"It is not," he balks.
There's a gasp from the sidewalk. Mrs. Sotamayer, the old retired school teacher. She stares, slack jawed, while her dog pees in Vegeta's yard. Given most of the neighborhood has heard Vegeta and Bulma feud at some point, Bulma's sure it's a real shock to see them together getting along. Bulma smiles. "See? She thinks it's our first date."
"She can't reconcile my lowering myself to your level. Just get in the car."
Vegeta is all business tonight, leading her to wonder if she'd imagined everything that had happened last night. Had the aging process suddenly advanced? Was she now unattractive and senile? Maybe there were adverse effects to the single life that she'd never considered before? She needed more data.
Vegeta's head is in an entirely different place. He's priming her for the night while she wonders what it would have been like last night if she'd kissed him. They are very different people. Bulma's mouth turns down on a sigh.
"We're headed for the Moonlight Sonata. It's a historic building downtown that's been converted into a dance hall. It's owned by the Grand Mistress."
"Oh!" Bulma recognizes the name. "She's our mark tonight?"
He slants his eyes at her use of 'mark,' but continues. "We're not knocking any heads together tonight. Nor," he raises his voice, "are we unbuttoning any blouse buttons."
"Good thing I'm not wearing a blouse," she purrs. "My back zipper should be much easier to undo."
He ignores her. "We seek an audience with the...Grand Mistress."
He's not even scowling at her like usual. And she's needy. Bad attention is good attention at least. "I've noticed a pattern." She watches him, waiting.
"What?" He won't look at her.
"You don't like to give women the respect owed them." Her hand flips palm side up. "Our titles, for example."
"That's not true." He growls in offense, his nose scrunching, and she finds it adorable. She slams her hand on the feeling like it's a bug. "It's simply because I know her real name. We go back. It's a silly title she made up so that she could appear powerful and omniscient to outsiders. You, on the other hand." He shoots her a look. "I just like to make mad, Ms. Briefs."
"When you say we go way back," Bulma plows forward, "what do you mean exactly by, 'we go way back?'" She fidgets as soon as she says it.
Vegeta's expression is indecipherable. She can't tell at all if he thinks she's silly or if he'll answer it seriously or if he sees behind the facade she's building, the one where she wears the mask of a woman who is not interested in a man but is tying herself in knots over him. Bulma only wants to know everything that could be useful to their mission, she tells herself. Like Vegeta's love life.
"Her husband fights," Vegeta finally answers. "Her husband and I were once opponents, when we were younger. Sworn enemies for a time." He pauses. "I grew up, too. Her husband and I now train together. His wife is not our enemy," he cautions, "but not our friend, either."
"Why might she know what's happened to some scientist's invention?"
"Whereas Tien Shinhan is an ex-fighter turned information peddler, her perspective is bigger. She wants money. She has her hands in all kinds of things over the city, including the fights. If there's anyone of notoriety in this city, it's a certainty that they owe her money. And when you owe her money," Vegeta finishes, staring out over the road, "she tends to know your business."
Bulma processes all of this. She fiddles with the ends of her black shawl and looks out the window at the city.
"We're going undercover," he reminds her. "This is reconnaissance. You and I are to act like we're two common people, there for fun—"
"This is going to be hard for you."
"—and then fish as much information as we can from the rumor mill. The Moonlight on a weekend night will be thick with people, many thieves and criminals. Someone there knows something." He watches her. "We observe. We act normal. That's it. Leave the detective work to me."
"I can't imagine you acting normal," Bulma says into the car window.
"I don't want to be normal," he answers gruffly. "Normal is comfortable. Comfort is atrophy. I don't want to atrophy. I want to live."
She observes him with a sad kind of seriousness. "I don't think I'd like you if you were normal, anyway." She turns back to the window. "Where'd the fun be in that?"
He smiles at her, a quick, mercurial thing, but she doesn't see. "We're here," he says, and then slows, drifting the car into a parking garage.
They file up the sidewalk to the doors. "Stick close. Socialize. Turn on the charm, if necessary."
She turns her head over her shoulder and beams at him. Her eyelashes flutter. She's all dimples.
He looks flustered. He stomps it out. He wins. "This isn't an opportunity for you to flirt!"
"Why not?" She grumbles. "It's not like you don't use your job to exploit those tragically misled women fawning outside your locker room. Although I'd hardly call that flirting."
"I never exploit women." He shoots her a disturbed look, like he knows this is verbal quicksand. "They just stand there. I don't encourage it. I only exploit opponents," he corrects her.
They're almost to the door, where the bouncers await.
They match each other's stride. "Don't pretend you don't want those bimbos legs wrapped around your head like a pretzel."
To her surprise, Vegeta's cheeks pinken a little, but his tone is acidic. "Jealous, Ms. Briefs?"
She doesn't want to talk about this. But it's like verbal diarrhea, she can't hold it in. "Aren't you interested at all?"
"No."
"What's that even mean?" She watches him. "All men desire women throwing themselves at them. It's a common male fantasy."
"I just want to do my job," he cuts coolly.
For her own sake, she changes the subject. "Well, I'm sure I can out socialize you." The bouncer is already directing them in, and Bulma goes to tease Vegeta with another flirty smile, but Vegeta is already turning away.
"I'm going to go pay my respects to someone," he says, giving her his back, and her smile falls. He's weaving his way through the crowd, abandoning her to the unknowns and criminals of the Moonlight Sonata before he's even walked her in.
...
Right away, Bulma orders herself a drink. The evening has barely began and she already needs something stiff.
Who needs men? Bulma was reminded of why she was divorced. She knocks back a shot, the premo stuff, and follows it with a glass of vintage red, staring at the long, glittering dance hall on the other side of the bar. The interior of the old building is beautiful. Art deco motifs, dripping chandeliers, stained glass windows, elaborate wainscoting. There's a big band and a dj remixing over the brass and snappy jazz percussion, and there are all kinds of people mingling, talking, dancing, flirting. And here she was in exile, single and senile.
Drinking alone at the bar puts her thoughts into sharp relief. The excitement of the night dulls and clarifies and is now focused pessimism. The scales have fallen from her eyes. She knows now that Vegeta isn't interested in women at all. Not her, not those beautiful bimbos, not even men. He cares for nothing except his own damned purpose. Why did she even care? She'd thought there was heat between her and Vegeta, of all people? Please. She hates him. He is her arch enemy. She'd thought they'd shared something? Some kind of weird, angry attraction? He is still as much of a self-absorbed asshole as ever. And she hadn't divorced one to end up chasing another.
That was unfair to Yamcha. Yamcha had always bent over backwards for her. Vegeta won't bend at all. She makes a moue of distaste, disappointed in herself. Her neighbor is getting the best of her. And why? Why, when her objective here isn't to woo a man but to find her missing project?
A man slides into the seat beside her. "If there ever was a picture of a woman looking forlorn in the dictionary," the man says, leaning his elbow onto the bar, "why, it would be you."
Bulma levels a deeply cynical gaze on the man. Still, she's pouty. "My date left me at the door."
"That's a real shame. Care to dance?"
A smile spreads slowly on her face. "I would love to." She stands. "What do you do for a living?"
The man tries not to stare too long at the neckline of her dress. Good. She'd worn it for a glamorous night out, it deserved some male attention.
"Why, a little of this, a little of that." The man takes her hand, leading her out to the dance floor. "You?"
"I'm a botanist," Bulma admitted. "I study plants all day. Do you garden or own houseplants?"
"Can't say that I ever have," he said as they pressed through the crowd. "Not got much of a green thumb. More like a black thumb. I know a guy who's into gardening, though."
Bulma smiles.
…
She'd forgotten how much she liked to dance. Gosh, she likes to dance! It had just been work, work, work, for way too long. Bulma has lost sense of how long she'd been dancing, but it feels like she's danced for hours, alongside men and women who are all positively fired up and talkative, all of them willing to tell a beautiful woman who'd smiled at them their life stories.
And not a single one knew anything about her plant.
On the other hand, she can't remember anymore why she is mad at Vegeta. Who was Vegeta? Dimly she remembers him as the neighbor she detests. Oh, that Vegeta, she tells herself. What a fuddy-duddy, what a party pooper. She's wasting her precious energy even thinking about flirting with him, when there are so many handsome men in this dance hall who actually like her dress, and vocalize it, in more colorful language.
Now Bulma is determined she can do this by herself. She doesn't need his help. He had gotten her in with Tien Shinhan, and now she had a lead—two of them, actually, between this "Grand Mistress" and Mayor Pilaf—and she could do the rest of the work herself. It was her problem, after all, not his. She doesn't know why she's letting some grouch with a superiority complex whom she barely knows tell her what to do and how to do it. She'll be fine without him. She has luck and passion on her side!
So when her latest dance partner twirls her, for just a moment she faces the outside of the dance floor, and she comes face to face with aforementioned grouch, because that's just her luck. He has checked his coat jacket and stands glowering at her just a few steps away.
Unless he'd lost his jacket in the heat of a menage-a-trois?
Bulma's scowl darkens and she allows her dance partner to reel her back in. Spinning, she catches herself with a palm on his shoulder, the other clutched in his hand.
It takes no less than four seconds for her to be pried out from the stranger's hands and into Vegeta's. "My turn," Vegeta says, and spins her away.
They look like dancers, but they're doing everything but dancing. Hand in hand and stock still, they glare at each other.
"I am doing," she seethes, "exactly what you told me to do."
He growls, the cords of his neck tightening. "You're having way too much fun. We have a greater purpose here, and you seem to have forgotten that!"
She clutches his hand hard enough to bruise, and her eyes spark. "You told me to socialize. You told me to fish. I've been doing that all night! Where have you been?"
"Working another angle!"
Bulma doesn't like the sound of that. Her lips flatten and she turns back to her last dance partner, who's hovering. "He never takes me out dancing, and now he wants to leave! Can you believe that?"
"Gorgeous, I would never treat you like that," the man is falling all over himself. "Whatever you want, you can have it."
"I never take you out dancing," Vegeta says between welded together teeth, "because you drive me crazy!"
"Jealous?" Bulma looks at him coolly under hooded eyes as she throws his words right back at him. "Because I've been in so many men's arms tonight?"
Vegeta looks nearly apoplectic.
Good.
The man is still hovering. "Baby, come home with me!"
"Fuck off," Vegeta growls, whirling her away.
She fists the back of his collar as they resettle from the spin, baring her teeth. "You just left me here in a den of thieves by myself all night," she hisses. "Don't you dare act like I did something wrong!"
Bulma is surprised when Vegeta stays quiet. And then rolls his eyes, and leads her into a dance.
Though his hand rests at her waist and her hand clutches his shoulder, it's strictly business. And while now they move together, they're still glaring at each other. She squeezes his hand hard, hopefully grinding his bones together. His own eyes narrow.
He's got excellent rhythm, unfortunately, and Bulma is both resentful and impressed. But why should she be surprised? An athlete, he is the epitome of power married to grace. Of course he's coordinated. Though, while he dances like he's done the dance a hundred times, it lacks any flair or heat. It's a performance designed to fool the dance hall into thinking they're normal. It's fake on every level and she hates it.
She's tired of his acting, and of his walls. She's still furious with him, and her pride demands penance. She needs sincerity. She needs humility. She needs suffering.
Bulma loops her arm around his neck and yanks him close. Breasts to chest, she looks up into his eyes.
His eyes widen. You'd have to be have a magnifying glass to notice, but by now Bulma is all things a scientist studying the behaviors of this Gordian knot of a man, and, oh, she notices.
"If you're going to dance with me," she says at his shoulder, her breath puffing against his ear, "then give it 100% and do it right," she snarls.
Uncertainty finally rocks Vegeta. His hold on her is a little looser, his rhythm a little irregular. She's deeply satisfied because she's getting to him. It's an addiction.
Her hand runs down his back just to spite him, slides down the plane between his shoulder blades and the crevasse of his thick back to rest where it meets the waistband of his trousers. Okay, so she's testing him a little.
He stiffens beneath her hands, and she swears, his heart rate picks up.
"What did you learn tonight?" It's a husky hum in his ear.
He struggles for dominance. "What did you learn?"
"Plenty of things," she sings, high-handed. "None of which I have to share with you. You go first."
"If we're going to get anything done," he says into her ear, "we're going to need to pool information. You go first."
"I don't have to tell you anything." Her voice rises. "Not when you don't tell me a single thing."
He matches it. "Why are you being so hardheaded?"
"Because I'm considering ditching my current partner in exchange for a solitary gig!"
He looks at her in alarm. "That would be stupid."
She forces them to a halt. "It's a far cry better than being deserted during a job we're supposed to be doing together!" She pulls away, leveling him with a look of pure grit. "This is my rescue mission. Quit dragging me along like a sorry kid and start treating me like an equal partner! I deserve respect just as much as you do! I know you've got "Doesn't play well with others" tattooed on your forehead, but be the better man and make room for me, as it's the wise thing to do!"
Vegeta doesn't get angry right back. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away, as embarrassed as he seems frustrated. "I'm not used to working with others," he explains roughly, without meeting her eyes. "I've been...keeping you at arm's length." His eyes bore into hers. "But the people we're dealing with are crooks and criminals. The less you know, the less dragged into it you will be."
"They pulled me in face first when they stole my work," she counters as people dance around them and glance their way anxiously. Vegeta and Bulma are planted stubbornly in the middle of the dance floor. If the music wasn't so loud, they'd be making a scene. "How am I to keep my head above water if you won't give me information, or your trust as a life raft to hold on to?" She shakes her open palms, imploring him. "Quit underestimating me and start using me like the asset I am." Her hands fist closed between them. "I may not know everything, but I have strengths, and you have weaknesses, whether you admit to them or not. Together we could surely make a formidable team." What did the guy with the forehead eyeball say? Vegeta didn't team up with anyone.
She tilts her jaw up. "Let's form a truce."
They stare at one another with all the stubbornness and pride of two fighters ready to throw fists. She shoves her outstretched hand into the space between them.
"Fine," he snaps, gripping her hand in a rigid shake.
"Fine," she blasts.
They stand there a second as the ink of the cease-fire dries, and then Vegeta slips his arm around her and dances her to the right. "This guy is really annoying me," he grouses, eyes flicking behind her.
Bulma looks over her shoulder and watches the stranger she'd been dancing with get smaller and sadder with distance.
"You always try to spoil my fun," she complains.
His black eyes glint. "I wouldn't have to if you'd ever just stick to the script."
"I wasn't going to go home with him anyway," she explains. "He just knew one of the top wholesale plant sellers in the area."
Vegeta's eyes widen. To his credit, his dancing doesn't falter.
"Don't worry. I'd squeezed him dry of information." She frowns. "It's so aggravating. We haven't turned up any new leads so far."
The band has shifted into something slow and moody. Unconsciously, they slow. Vegeta watches her. "You leave a trail of men's bodies behind you, don't you?"
"All but yours," she sighs. "And I can't seem to scare you away."
The corner of his mouth hooks up."It takes a lot more to scare me."
Eyes gleaming, her lips follow suit. "I can't seem to get you to tell me anything, either. I'm about ready to try more aggressive tactics. "
"It's going to take a lot more effort to win a brawl with me, Ms. Briefs." His eyes warm.
"I'd really like to have a go at you in the ring. Maybe you couch teach me how to fight like you?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "I've always wanted to hit you."
"I don't think you'd like that," he purrs, smirking. "My shirt would be off."
Bulma forgets how to dance. Her right foot does something that feels like it wraps around her left and for a moment Vegeta holds her weight.
"That's not fair," she recovers. "Not when mine has to be buttoned all the way up to my neck."
Their hips rock together indolently. Her fingers knot in his and she realizes what they're doing. Slow dancing. Holding hands. Heat steals into her cheeks.
Vegeta seems to realize it at the same time as she does. He watches her more intently. But he doesn't stop. And he doesn't look away.
Not until they are promptly interrupted by a hand on their shoulders.
"Grand Mistress will see ya," one of two jumbo sized brutes say. The hand squeezes, directing them to a stairwell.
They have no choice but to follow.
...
Once they've been deposited in front of a large, solitary chair positioned to look nothing less stately than a throne, Bulma disappoints her mother by staring.
The woman sitting in it is pure dominatrix.
Dipped in red and black leather with a riding crop in hand, an inky black fall of hair is pulled tightly back from her face. There are a dozen guards in this room, and at her side stands a tall, well-muscled man whose friendly smile is in complete opposition to the look she is going for.
Vegeta knows this woman, so Bulma cedes the strategy to him, allowing him to lead. She positions herself behind his shoulder, but close enough that her arm brushes his back. He seems most comfortable in this position. See? I trust you sometimes, she's telling him.
"Vegeta," the woman says, in the most no-nonsense tone Bulma has ever heard in her life.
"ChiChi," Vegeta greets. "Kakarot."
The man at her side gives a cheery little wave, and then leans his weight onto his forearm, resting it on the throne top. "Enjoying yourself?" The man sounds optimistic, like maybe his friend was finally getting out after a rough patch. Bulma suddenly must know more about this rough patch.
The Grand Mistress—ChiChi?—scoffs. "Sneaking around, hunting for something more like it. What are you doing here, Vegeta? You'd only come here on a Friday night with a purpose." She rakes her gaze over Bulma, who stands unflinching under the scrutiny. "And never with a pretty face."
Bulma snorts. "Don't hang out with many pretty women, Vegeta?" She says under her breath.
He shoots her a scowl.
But Bulma's eyes are rounding as a thought dawns.
ChiChi is acting like she hasn't yet greeted Vegeta.
If he wasn't paying his respects to her, then to whom?
"Can we sit down like old friends, or are we to stand here like prisoners?" Vegeta asks, gaze moving over the room.
"Such a drama queen," ChiChi complains, nodding to a guard. Two chairs are brought before them from the walls.
As soon as he's sitting, elbows propped on his thighs, Vegeta starts talking. "Dr. Brief's government project was recently stolen. We have cause to believe that someone running a crime ring in this city is responsible. We're wading through rumors now."
The woman's eyes land on Bulma. This woman is so badass. Bulma recognizes a part of herself in her. Was it too soon to ask if they could be friends? Bulma wants to know where she can get a latex suit like that.
"What was the nature of the project?" She addresses Bulma directly. Bulma appreciates it, woman to woman. Bulma's eyes flick to Vegeta, though, just to make sure. He nods subtly. She doesn't know what's different about this crime boss than the others, but Vegeta must trust her.
Bulma gives her its description without giving too much away—the nerd in her wants to talk for hours about it, but the contract stamped classified does not—and then frowns. "That someone knew of it is alarming enough. There must be a leak somewhere. But that someone wants it? To what end? It has to be recovered, and it has to be recovered without alerting the Defense Department." Bulma clears her throat and colors peevishly. "My job depends on it."
ChiChi stares at Bulma, then hard at Vegeta. She looks up at Goku, who smiles down at her.
"Next time you're in here, introduce yourselves, or I'll throw you out on your asses," ChiChi only says, standing and striding away.
The guards were already crowding them out the door before Bulma could watch her disappear in that latex suit.
…
"It's too cold for that dress," Vegeta's complaining.
Unfortunately, ChiChi had thrown them out without first letting them collect her shawl and Vegeta's suit jacket, so the two of them stride briskly down the street to his car.
"Well, it looks great, doesn't it?" Bulma tries to keep her teeth from chattering. "That's all that matters." Bulma is being facetious, but still. It would have been nice to receive even a single complement from him tonight, or ever.
Vegeta doesn't entertain her. He takes long strides, staring moodily at the pavement.
"Now, if I had something as cool as ChiChi's outfit," Bulma mused, "I'd probably be a lot warmer."
Vegeta sends her a sharp look.
"What?" Bulma hugs herself against the cold. Her feet are killing her. She prides herself on her collection of heels, but dancing in them is a nightmare. "I want one. It's probably easy for her to slip into it, though, because she's so slender and fine boned. I'm a bit...hmm." Her hand gestures from her chest to her hips.
She thinks she hears Vegeta grumble.
They both hurl themselves into the car, teeth clacking together. "Well, now what?"
He's turned on the car and the heat is blasting. She cups her hands and breathes into them.
"I talked to as many people as possible and I didn't learn a thing. Except that crime is sadly more prevalent than you'd think. What are you doing?" Her voice rises as she watches Vegeta unbutton his waistcoat, and then his white shirt. He does it economically, swiftly. He shrugs off his suspenders and tugs his shirt out of the waist of his pants, and then slips out of it and tosses it to her, leaving him in only his undershirt.
"Put it on," he says gruffly.
She eases herself into it. It's warm with his body heat and smells like him. She toes her heels off and tucks her feet under her hip.
He pulls his suspenders up over his plain tee shirt and begins driving. "We did learn something."
"What?" She eyeballs him. "Not to go to the Moonlight unless we come bearing furs and myrrh?"
"No," he rebukes, though with a small smirk. He pulls something from his pocket and flips it at her. She jerks, grabbing it before it falls into her lap.
"A coin?"
"Kakarot slipped it to me when he escorted us out. It's a pass into the Fighter's Guild, but it's not about the Fighter's Guild. This is a pin in our map." He looks at her from the corners of his eyes. "And we planted the bug in ChiChi's ear. If she hears anything, she'll let us know."
"You must really trust her to work in your interest. She seems completely self-interested." Blue eyes locked on to his. "You two have that in common."
Vegeta smiles at her now, like something's funny and it has to do with her. She feels like she's been hit with a ton of bricks with that smile. How could something so menacing be so devastatingly handsome? If she has to plug her fingers in the corners of his mouth and twist upward just to see him smile again, oh, she will. "She owes me one. I was hired to kill Kakarot once, but I let him live."
Bulma's face goes slack.
Finally, she sighs and looks back out the window. "You lead such a colorful life."
"It's late," he says, almost apologetically, "but it's prime time to stop by the Fighter's Guild real quick and see where it takes us."
"Okay," Bulma only says. "But you owe me a redo on this first date."
Vegeta scowls.
…
As soon as they get to the Fighter's Guild, they open fire.
Vegeta yanks her to him so fast her teeth clack together, shoving her into the cradle of his body as they seek shelter behind a big steel drum. It's too dark to really see, but the bullets are as real as they come. Bulma's palms glue to her ears. Vegeta kneels, lunging forward slightly and cocking a pistol that Bulma is sure he pulled out of thin air.
"Why the hell are they shooting at us?!" She presses her forehead into his hard abdomen. Mouth flattening into a line, Vegeta peels away from her, lunges forward around the corner of the drum, and starts popping shots off.
The other side goes quiet.
He leans back, looking at her. "Look," he says, dripping sarcasm. "They're not shooting at us anymore."
"I don't even want to know where you learned to do that," she grumbles.
His grin is feral. "Primary school, Ms. Briefs."
When no other noises come from the other side of the steel barrels, Vegeta goes to clear the area. After a long minute, he's back. He helps her stand and nods his head in the direction of a box truck.
The men who'd been shooting at them all sprawl on the ground of the Fighter's Guild parking lot. "They're equipped with anti-ballistic armor," Vegeta explains, kicking one's chest. It thumps in response, but the guy doesn't protest. "Saves your life, but the shock can cause you to lose consciousness."
"Of course. Kevlar only spreads the force of the bullet around as it prevents penetration. It's actually quite a painful experience." She winces at the look he's giving her. "We use it a lot in aerospace engineering for its tensile strength, is all."
"Know-it-all," he complains. He frowns down at the bodies. "They're wearing protective armor. They were expecting to be shot at. These aren't ChiChi's men. They must have been someone else's men that she hired to evade questions, or, mostly likely, men that she's spying on."
They stare at the rolling closed door of the truck.
"Whatever they have in there must be worth taking by force." Bulma blinks at the truck door.
Vegeta shoves it up.
Bright light bathes their face, and they blink at the glare.
Hundreds of plants stare back at them.
Bulma gapes. She's pulling herself into the truck abruptly, and Vegeta moves to help her.
Sweat beads at her temples from the heat of the high-powered lighting. She scrutinizes every plant. When she turns back to Vegeta, she shakes her head, eyes wet. "Narcotics," she whispers.
Once back in the car, they're silent.
When Bulma finally speaks, it's forlorn. "Anyone could be after my invention. Tien to extort or buy information. Pilaf for political leverage. ChiChi for its cash value, selling it to the highest bidding regime." She looks at him helplessly. "This is dire. If it's used for personal gain, they put our national security at risk. This was only supposed to help scientists and broaden the limits of space exploration."
She looks sad. He doesn't know what to say to make it better, but he wants to. It's a discomforting feeling.
His voice rolls in the quiet. "All this gunfire is making me hungry. You wanna go get a bite to eat before I take you home?"
She smiles past the sadness at his unexpectedly considerate offer, and nods.
…
It's late enough that a lot of partiers, looking worse for wear, crowd the diner bar.
She and Vegeta don't look much better. She sits in a party dress and a rumpled men's dress shirt, scouring the menu. The sweat from dancing has dried tight on her skin and she smells ripe. She'd be surprised if her eye makeup hadn't bled down her cheeks.
Vegeta smells like gun powder. He doesn't seem to be affected by the cold and he always looks good. It drives her crazy. But he looks troubled. She's not used to seeing him troubled. It makes her uneasy.
He orders a dozen different kinds of protein, and she spends too much time debating crepes or eggs benedict, just to order waffles. She slouches in the booth a little.
Then bolts upright. "If you weren't paying your respects to ChiChi, then who was it?" Her urgency pins Vegeta to his seat.
His dark eyes regard her with surprise, and then bleed over with caution and quick-thinking.
She kicks his shin under the table. "Quit thinking about what lie you're going to tell me and tell me the truth!"
"To another crime boss!" He whisper-yells. "Does that make you feel better?"
"Another one?"
She's so puzzled it's cute. Vegeta sighs through his nose and drops his head into his hand, raking it through his hair.
"Who? And in ChiChi's territory?"
"We have a complicated relationship with this one," Vegeta confides reluctantly.
Bulma looks at him, then looks at him harder. He sighs. They had formed a truce, after all.
"Names Piccolo. He comes and goes as he pleases. Friends, if you'd call it that, with Kakarot, so he's welcome at the Moonlight."
"I have so many questions. Why do you know all these crime bosses? Is Kakarot a bad guy? What's Piccolo's MO?"
"I told you, I didn't used to be such a nice guy." Vegeta takes a draw from his water, rolls the straw paper between his fingers. "Kakarot's as good as they come." Vegeta sounds like he can't stand him. "Sweet enough to make your teeth rot."
"Sounds like my ex-husband," Bulma sighs.
"Piccolo just wants to keep an eye on the city and to be left alone. He inherited his father's business empire. Managing it enables him to do both."
"Why does he care about the well-being of the city?"
Vegeta shrugs.
Bulma taps her lips with her pointer finger, thinking. "There are just so many hands in the pot," she whines.
They sit in tired silence for awhile, until Vegeta straightens from his slouch, folds his arms over his chest, and darts a look at her. "You look good together."
"Beg your pardon?" The cup of coffee stutters on its way to her lips.
"You and your ex." Vegeta twists in his seat, resting his arm on the top of the booth and looking out the window. "You look good together."
Bulma snorts. "That does not a satisfying relationship make, I'm afraid. Besides." Her smoked out eye makeup has grown its territory, and she gleams with sweat. Her curls still hold around her face, but one falls into her eye as she smirks at him. "I look good regardless if he's around or not."
Vegeta snorts back. "As always," he says, resigned, "you're right."
Bulma doesn't have time to freak at his statement because their plates are being placed in front of them. Vegeta dives in. But her brain isn't working. Surely it misheard. She cuts her waffle neatly as if on the dotted lines, and then fills each little indentation with syrup, trying to act normal and not like she is slipping into shock. Like Vegeta, she's not very good at normal. She needs a defibrillator; her neighbor has said something nice about her. Vegeta slides his card to the waitress before Bulma has the soundness of mind to interject.
When he pulls into the driveway, she gets out, her heels hanging from her crooked fingers. Vegeta watches her look up apprehensively at her dark house.
He's taken aback. He imagines it must be pretty unsettling to have your home broken into. A safe bubble that's been popped. Why hadn't he ever considered she might feel unsafe in her own home now? How long had this gone on? He feels... His brows knot with concern. He feels guilt.
His voice is hesitant. "Want me to do a sweep first?"
Bulma nods.
Vegeta clears each room, turning on every light and checking each nook and cranny, until he finally reaches her bedroom. Bulma throws herself back on her bed, a deep sigh escaping from her. She doesn't look like she'll ever get up.
He looms over her. "You'll feel better if you shower before you sleep."
"I know," she says, sideways. She blinks blearily. "It just feels so good to lay here. And not think about all my problems. All my millions and billions of problems." She spreads her arms out wide. His dress shirt slides off her shoulders a little.
Vegeta sits warily on the edge of her bed, grabs her foot, and looks it over. They're dirty, and the skin on the back of her heels is red.
"Why do women do this to themselves?" His voice is a hum, conversational. She wants to bottle this new voice up and put it in her collection. "These shoes demand a lot of unnecessary pain."
"Hm?" She crunches up, looks at her feet. "Oh. Unnecessary pain for extraordinary gains. Why do you fight?" With her exhale, her shoulders sink into the mattress. "Seems like a lot of unnecessary pain."
He grunts in acknowledgment, because they both know if you want something enough to bear the pain, it's necessary.
He surprises her again. With consummate precision, he kneads out each and every sore spot in her feet. She throws her arms above her head, trying not to groan into her pillow.
It should be weird that they've reached a point where they're comfortable enough to do this—really weird—but it's not. They've fallen into some kind of alternate universe, one where they've reached an understanding.
He lays her foot down and stands. "Get in the shower," he orders. He takes a step towards her bedroom door. "And lock your door." He turns and makes his way out of her house.
His hand is closing on the front door when her small hand closes around his, stopping him. He turns to her in surprise and is shocked when her lips press against his.
It's a quick, chaste kiss, but it's delicious, the press of those plush lips there and then already leaving him, and he stands there staring at her for probably way too long after she's pulled away.
She holds the door open for him.
"I'm holding you to that date redo," she says.
She watches him stride with hands in his pockets through the long grass. And smiles.