. . .

DAY FIFTEEN

. . .

"There's a temple on the east side of town," Vegeta's saying as Bulma crunches cereal. "I think we should visit it today. I know a...person...who works there we could speak to. It would be an easy activity to keep us in pursuit of our goal, a reprieve after a few busy days."

Bulma's oversized pink glasses slide down her nose as she glares up at him, the spoonful of Frosty-O's halted on their way to her mouth. "Why the hell are you up so early, bothering me?"

Vegeta had come knocking at 7:30 on a Saturday morning. 7:30! On a Saturday! After the night they'd had! She was in her fuzzy slippers and her hair was a mess and she wasn't wearing any makeup.

She had squeaked and slammed the door on his face.

The knob had turned and he had let himself in, glancing at her dismissively before making a beeline for the kitchen. "You forget I already have low expectations of you in the first place."

Working with him was a spectrum of wanting to strangle him and wanting to watch him writhe and beg as she strangled him.

"He's a monk," Vegeta is saying now. "They do a lot of side business."

Bulma's eyebrow shoots to her forehead. "The monk runs a side hustle?"

Vegeta ignores her. "Keep up. If we tell him what we know, he may have heard something, or will be in a position to relay to us anything he finds out."

"I'm just having a hard time picturing you friends with a monk."

Vegeta rolls his eyes and the corner of his mouth pulls down, and it makes her smile. "We're not friends." He stands up, pushing in his chair. "I don't have friends, remember?" He reaches out and flicks her glasses off her ear so they fall sideways down her face on his way to refill his orange juice. She glares at him, correcting them.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a bully."

Vegeta's voice comes muffled from inside the refrigerator. "Want to say that to my face? I could leave you here."

She swivels her head over her shoulder, smiling wide. "I didn't say anything," she sings.

…

Ten minutes later and Bulma is still gawking.

When she'd heard the word temple, she'd imagined a Tibetan monastery on the edge of a cloud strewn cliff.

This was like someone had monetized everything vaguely spiritual and was making a killing off of it. Tan, blonde women do yoga next to serene Eastern landscapes. There's a smoothie bar boasting ingredients like buckwheat and maca. The temple also runs a distribution business, employing bike delivery boys all over the city, who port organic, whole food meals to anyone with enough money to brag online about receiving one. She can't decide if it's a shame that there's so much money to be found in the well-being industry or if it's just wickedly smart to milk it.

When she finally meets the owners, she understands.

"Hi, I'm Krillin." Krillin waves. He is both more authentic and more cool than she expected. The monk is short, with a shaved head and some kind of tribal circles tattooed on his head. He's well-muscled, but lean and sinewy like a martial artist. His baseball cap is on backwards and he looks straight out of a streetwear sartorial. His smile is contagious, and he seems genuine and cheerful. Bulma takes an instant liking to him.

The man next to him—with heavy jowls, a striped samurai's kimono, and thick black hair—is his cantankerous partner.

Krillin's voice is apologetic. "This is Yajirobe."

Yajirobe doesn't look spiritual or penitent in any way—he looks like he smells like burger grease, honestly—but she'd later learn he was a prominent martial arts swordsman. She suspected he probably wore a fedora off the clock and messaged women passive-aggressively on the internet, too.

Vegeta seems even more uptight than usual. He keeps shooting daggers at Yajirobe, and Yajirobe won't look at Vegeta. There is something between them, and Bulma can't wait to find out what.

Even Krillin, happy and easy-going, seems nervous around Vegeta, like Vegeta is a live wire that they have to placate to keep from electrocuting all of them. It is definitely just one of many mysteries about Vegeta that Bulma is committed to solving.

After the tour, Krillin leads them into a conference room. As soon as they're seated, the door clicks open, and another tall, skinny blonde appears. This one isn't dressed for yoga class, though. She sports a lilac pant suit and a pearl necklace, and her icy blue eyes settle on Vegeta and narrow.

Krillin stands, holding out his hand. "This is my wife. She works at the university, in the Department of Cybernetics." Krillin says it so casually and without any pretension at all that Bulma knows that he is head over heels for his wife. Her heart squeezes.

Then Bulma's brain stutters. "Excuse me, did you say the Department of Cybernetics? Dr. Juuhachigao?" Bulma stands, holding out her hand. "I'm Bulma Briefs. I work for the Defense Department." Bulma can barely contain her excitement, even though she's trying really hard to maintain a professional sobriety.

"Dr. Briefs," the woman says with surprise. "Call me Eighteen. I've heard so much about you."

Bulma grins. "I just read your paper 'Immersive Prosthetics' in the Journal of Futurology!"

"Can we get back to the topic on hand, Ms. Briefs," Vegeta complains behind her.

Over her shoulder, Bulma's look is shoot-to-kill. "I'll talk to whoever I want, when I want."

Krillin and Yajirobe stare open-mouthed at Bulma, eyes bouncing back and forth between them.

Vegeta doesn't erupt into hysterics. He just sighs and leans back in his chair.

Bulma turns the high beams back onto Eighteen. "I just can't believe how close we are to the seamless integration of bionics to an organic framework, and to the day where it might be preferable to have a cybernetic enhancement."

Eighteen's gaze settles on Vegeta. "You definitely understand androids if you're in a partnership with Vegeta."

Bulma laughs. "I was just thinking that he could use a reprogramming!"

Vegeta glances sharply at her, and then sighs again, resting his cheek on his knuckles as if nothing could be less interesting to him in the world.

Bulma's eyes flick over at him. "Unfortunately, we're not here to discuss codified sensory experience."

Vegeta can't believe that she actually sounds disappointed by this, but he appreciates her returning to the whole point of their visit.

Bulma holds out her hand, palm up. "We were just talking to your husband about a project of my own that has been appropriated by someone with ulterior motives. We'd appreciate any clues that may fall into your lap."

"We can keep our eyes and ears open," Krillin promises. "We'll have all our bicycle delivery boys stay vigilant as they make the rounds through the city. But there is one more person you could check in with..."

Vegeta's brows knit. "No."

Krillin laughs nervously. "I know it's not ideal, but—"

"But what?" Bulma looks between the two men.

Vegeta's stares with narrowed eyes at her, nostrils flaring, and then turns to Krillin. "She's not going."

"I'm not going where? Rather, where am I going that you don't want me to?"

"Well, I don't blame you for wanting to sideline Dr. Briefs," Krillin agrees, sending her an apologetic wince, "but it would be a loss if you didn't utilize him for what he is."

Krillin is just a really nice guy. It's plain to see why his wife dotes on him. That's why Bulma's lips turn down when Vegeta turns angrily in the poor monk's direction. Ice blue eyes glint glacially at Vegeta from across the table. Yajirobe slouches even more sulkily. It's clear now that Vegeta doesn't make or keep friends easily. He isn't at all worried about being liked, only about accomplishing his own objectives at everyone else's expense.

"I don't see how any of that man's patrons could know anything about this."

"Because they're gross," Krillin reminds him, "and you need as many eyes on the seedy underworld as you can get."

Vegeta runs his hand through his hair angrily—making the wayward black tufts stand even more on end—and then stands, pushing his chair in with a bit too much force. "Fine." Then he points to Bulma. His teeth are grit. "But you're not going!"

She opens her mouth to argue but he interrupts, walking toward her. "Nuh uh. No. Don't even argue with me about this. I said you're not going. You're sitting this one out."

Frowning, she stands and begins to counter when he slides his hand at the small of her back and claps a hand over her mouth. Slowly, he angles his chin down so that he is staring at her under angry slashes for eyebrows. "No," he enunciates clearly.

…

"Yes!" Bulma grins wildly. "Do you see this?" She presses the magazine into his face.

Vegeta bats it away. The pink hasn't left his cheeks since they'd pulled up to the place. "Focus, Bulma," he chastises, but his voice is tight with embarrassment.

It's not fair—he's not focusing, either. "Don't be such a prude," she admonishes, tucking the porno mag back into its spot. "Live a little."

"How long will your life last once the government finds out their million dollar project has been stolen from your home because you didn't have proper security measures to guard it?" He turns his nose up as he surveys everything in the room but the contents. "Fifteen days and counting down."

"You're such a buzzkill," she mutters.

And he had been since she'd hopped into his car and buckled her seat belt, announcing she'd be going on any trip that had anything to do with the recovery of her invention. Because they were a team now, not a dictatorship. She operated a la carte blanche. She didn't care how dirty they had to get. She'd do whatever it takes.

He'd seethed and brooded all the way here. And when they'd pulled up to the old cinema that announced in red and gold cursive, "Porno Palace," he'd gotten even more bitchy.

Bulma peels away from him and ambles around, looking at the toy selection absentmindedly as she considers all the ways in which the players of the city were tied. The guy behind the counter has told them he'd be right back with the man they were looking for. Vegeta is so wound tight that he hasn't moved from his place at the counter, refusing to look at anything but an imaginary spot on the wall. She watches him from over the rack of latex bodysuits.

Evidently the man they are waiting for is the owner of this seedy establishment. From what she could register from the signs—because Vegeta isn't telling her anything—there's a "gentleman's club" behind the wall of the counter. There are also plenty of patrons flowing through the doors despite the early afternoon. As if just to spite Vegeta, it looks like this Master Roshi runs a pretty popular joint.

Bulma rifles through the racks when she hears her name. When she looks up, Vegeta is looking at her like he is coming apart at the seams. Like if she doesn't stop touching the merchandise, steam might escape from his ears and sprockets spring out of his chest. An old man in a Hawaiian shirt watches her from behind red rimmed sunglasses.

When she sidles up to them, Vegeta won't look at her.

"Well, hello. I'm Roshi," the old man warbles, holding out his hand. Bulma concludes as she watches his slimy grin stretch his bearded face that he is an absolute lecher.

Vegeta smacks her hand down when she goes to shake Roshi's, then moves in front of her. Bulma makes a face.

"Get to the point, old man!"

"There's no need to get possessive, boy," Roshi assures him, adjusting his sunglasses. "It's only a handshake. Let's go somewhere private, though, eh?"

Vegeta is talking through clenched teeth. "Absolutely not—"

"Lead the way," Bulma interrupts cheerfully, gesturing with her hand. With her other hand, Bulma pulls Vegeta along by his forearm.

They head through the velvet purple curtains into the belly of the Porno Palace.

The hallway stretches out ahead of them, rich red with gold trim. She lets go of Vegeta's arm. All the doorways are adorned in velvet curtains. They pass one with the curtains pulled back and Bulma peeks in. Several performers dance sinuously on the stage. Men lounge on couches, smoking cigars. One guy follows a woman around, waving cash. Bulma's nose wrinkles. They pass a few topless dancers, who are too busy gossiping to spare them a glance, as well as one man in nothing but a g-string and cowboy boots. Vegeta keeps his eyes on the end of the hallway looking like he'll brain the first person who looks at him. It's an existential crisis, probably. If someone sees him, than he can't deny that he's actually here.

Roshi stops at the end of the hall and gestures into a room, allowing them to go in first. Unaware, Bulma passes, and Roshi's eyes drift to her bottom. His view is eclipsed by Vegeta, who has moved into his line of sight and just stares, nostrils flaring. Roshi laughs nervously and waves him into the room.

A few spacious, velvet-cushioned booths line the sides of the room, velvet couches cocked to and fro between them. At one end is a stage, and at the other end, a bar. There's a single bartender, and no other occupants in the room, but the bartender doesn't crack a smile as they walk in. He nods his head to the booming music. He is shirtless.

Vegeta crowds her into the booth and sits way closer than she imagines he would if he wasn't so mistrustful of Roshi. Just as the bartender sits their beers on their table, the curtain peels back on a stage, and a long-legged woman in very little clothing begins seducing them to the rhythm of the music. It's loud and booming enough that it should prevent them from being overheard, and Bulma assumes that's exactly what Roshi had in mind.

"So what brings you here? Can't say I've ever had the pleasure of serving you." Roshi is trying for professional, but "pleasure" is stretching it, even to Bulma's ears. Yet another antagonistic relationship between Vegeta and someone. The guy really needs a PR rep.

Vegeta puts his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers together. He doesn't give Roshi the weight of his gaze; instead, it lingers on the booth behind the old man. "We're missing a houseplant. We want you to listen in on your clientele's conversations and report back to us if you hear anything."

Bulma tries not to wince. If that was Vegeta's idea of brokering a deal, he needed a lot more practice.

Roshi blinks behind his sunglasses. "Missing a houseplant? It must be pretty important then, if you're searching for it." It's an open-ended question. Waiting for Vegeta to fill in the blanks. Suggesting, maybe, that Vegeta doesn't do anything for anyone unless for a very interesting reason. Suggesting that anyone putting themselves on the line for it might want a justification for why.

The air tenses. "Yes."

It's both an answer and not one. Bulma's mouth pulls down with anxiety. He's not going to get Roshi to help if he keeps this up.

Roshi's lips thin.

Bulma smiles wide at Roshi, turning the ol' Bulma Briefs charm on. "How long have you ran the 'Porno Palace?" She struggles to keep from stumbling over the name and takes a draw of her beer.

"Oh, a few years now. I decided I didn't much like living so far from the real world and so I moved to the city. Used to live on an island. Once my boys left, it got lonely."

"Ah." Bulma's face lights up with interest. "Do you do a lot of business?"

"You'd be surprised by how many people in the city want a place like this to relax," he answers proudly. "Meet people. Hang out."

"With all of this traffic, it shouldn't be too hard to keep your ears open." She smiles, a comrade. "It actually requires very little effort on your part."

Vegeta's arms are crossed and he's looking across the room sullenly. Bulma gets it. He hates that he can't just find the damn plant by himself. He hates that these are his allies.

A group of strippers on their way out the door slow, eyes landing on Vegeta. They smile, ask him how he's doing. He doesn't even look at them. He is as cold and impenetrable as a glacier.

Bulma watches him carefully as they walk away.

"Maybe you two could go undercover here?" Roshi suggests as Bulma takes a swig. "She'd make a great performer," he points at Vegeta, "and you could disc jockey!"

Bulma nearly spits out her beer.

"No," Vegeta shoots down.

Bulma considers.

"No!" Vegeta snaps at her.

"How likely is it that someone who visits the Palace would know anything? Would we have a better chance if I were here?" Bulma ponders.

"Don't even entertain the notion. It's completely unnecessary, and he's just conning you," Vegeta fires off, baring his teeth at Roshi.

For the life of Bulma, she can't figure out just why Vegeta feels so threatened by the old guy. Obviously she's not interested in him sexually. Obviously a man as sensual as Vegeta couldn't be a prudish, sinless virgin, blushing at the sight of s-e-x. So why is he so wound tight? He sits straight-backed in the booth, seething menace.

"How good are you at dancing?" Roshi is asking her.

Bulma smirks and glances at Vegeta, refusing to leave the opportunity to get under his skin. "I'm even better at dancing when I'm taking off my clothes piece by piece."

Vegeta's hand grips her knee under the table, hard.

They glare at each other.

A group of strippers distracts Roshi, who turns to say hello and crack a joke. Topless, with big feathers adorning their headbands, they all laugh at Roshi's bad joke, and Vegeta uses the opportunity. His head whips to hers and he presses his mouth against her ear. "Stay on task!"

As his PR rep, she is deeply insulted. "I'm trying to close the sale, and you keep scaring him away!" Bulma's head tilts to the side to glare up at him. They're so close they're nose to nose.

They realize it at the same time. Time seems to slow; the world narrows. It's just her and him, close enough that if they tilt their heads just slightly, their lips would touch.

They pull away at the same time.

"Stay focused," he demands stiffly as Roshi guffaws at something the stripper says.

"I have been this whole time," she argues. Heat's coloring her cheeks and she stares straight ahead. "You're the one failing to."

Vegeta hasn't touched his beer. His jaw locks.

Here at the Porno Palace, she's starting to understand how Vegeta ticks. He is a man that prizes his dignity and pride over everything else. Every discomfort, every inconvenience galls him, because he wants to be treated with the utmost respect. They might both be opportunistic, but she was more adjustable. Everywhere they have to go on this quest for her plant, they're humbled. Every lead they have tests him. She fights the urge to put her hand on his shoulder in support.

She looks at him sympathetically. "Uncomfortable?"

"I've wasted way too much time in places like this," he complains. "I'd hoped I was done with them."

She stills. "You used to visit these kinds of establishments often?"

He shoots her a sour look. "Not for pleasure," he says with sharp distaste. "On business." He keeps his eyes on the booth behind Roshi. "You meet a lot of...people...here."

What does he mean? He's giving out information about himself; she has to keep him talking. "Other gang members?" A smile flashes briefly on her face. "Business clients?"

Vegeta's eyes go dark. "Or targets."

"Like I was saying, son," Roshi says, turning back to them and adjusting his sunglasses, "I can't be asking my customers about their personal lives. Respecting their privacy is implied."

Vegeta makes a disgusted sound. "Spineless."

"Vegeta!" She admonishes. "That's no way to talk to someone who you're asking a favor of!" She turns to Roshi, her tone conciliatory. "You don't have to ask anyone directly. Just keep your ears and eyes open. Talk to your employees about listening for key words, like 'plant' or 'scientist.' Those should be pretty atypical and easy to pick up," she encourages. "You've got a large staff, bartenders, cashiers, dancers. You're friends with a lot of the ladies here!" She wiggles her eyebrows. "If you hear something, just send word to Krillin. There's no risk involved in it for you.""

Roshi strokes his beard, pondering. "I guess I can do that, honey."

Bulma doesn't have time to feel accomplished, because there's a new performer on the stage. Bulma's mouth parts and she stares. "Oh, my."

A guy with more muscles than she can count has replaced the woman dancer and is now grinding his underwear off.

"Oh." Roshi glances behind him. "We have male performances, too! You should visit sometime!"

Vegeta pulls her out of the booth before the man's underwear can hit the floor.

As she and Vegeta make their way to the front door, Roshi calls out. "If you ever get tired of being a scientist, you've got a position available here, sweetheart! And if you ever get tired of Vegeta—"

Bulma turns to look back at him as Vegeta yanks her out the door.

He stops her outside the front door and closes the space between them, staring down with grim determination. "No," he says firmly.

"Okaaaay," she sighs.

...

Their forays to the Temple and the Palace have cost them much of their day. By the time they get back home, Bulma's stomach is grumbling and the world is darkening, a storm brewing to the south. It isn't cold enough to snow, but it's threatening a downpour that will strip the trees of the last of their leaves. The scent of rain on concrete infuses the wind.

She turns to Vegeta to tell him she's hungry, but he's already grabbing his duffle bag from the back seat. "I'm going to go to the gym," he says crisply.

"Okay?" She stammers.

Her feelings are hurt. It's stupid. She squashes them down inefficiently.

Vegeta had been pounding the pavement, already at the end of his neighbor's property line as she closes the car door, but he pivots and jogs up to her. In one quick movement, he pulls his keys out of his pocket, grabs her hand, and slaps them into her cupped palm. Then he pulls a twenty from his billfold and slaps it on top of the pile of keys in her palm. "Go grab a pizza from down the corner. Tell them I sent you. I have a tv. Watch it. I'll be back in an hour."

Bulma watches him wide-eyed as he jogs down the street.

"Okay?" She has been so shocked and exhausted by recent events she can probably only utter one word ever again.

She walks up his porch steps. It's surreal. This is what it feels like when he walks up the steps each evening, she thinks. She looks over at her house as she nears the door, imagining what he sees. He didn't tell her which key, so she slides each key into the lock and turns until she finds the right one. Her fingers run over each metal piece, imagining his fingers doing the same. When the lock clicks and the door opens, Bulma feels like an invader, breaking in.

His house is quiet and bare as ever. The living room has one thrifted couch, a well-worn coffee table, and a tv on a tv stand that looks like it might have been picked up from a curb. Her shoes echo on the wood floor.

Bulma makes her way back out the front door, careful to lock up. She walks down his walkway, under the leaning, rotting arbor with the overgrown vines, and makes her way down the street.

When Bulma arrives at the pizza place, the bell chimes behind her. She doesn't know what kind of pizza he likes. She orders the one with all the meats, feeling satisfied, but almost forgets. "And, uh, Vegeta sent me."

The woman behind the counter stops everything she's doing and blinks rapidly. "Vegeta sent you?" She repeats. Her voice is rough from years of chain smoking, and she stares at Bulma through lidded eyes. Her eyeshadow is pastel blue, and one eyelid hangs lower than the other, giving her a perpetual squint.

Bulma wonders if she needs proof or something when the woman goes back to ringing her up, sniffing. "Didn't know Vegeta had a girlfriend."

Bulma laughs nervously. "Oh, we're not dating." She waves her hand back and forth dismissively. "We're just neighbors." Her tone is perky. "We actually hate each other."

The woman stops what she's doing again and stares. "Yep," she says, handing Bulma her change. "That sounds about right to me."

The woman leaves her at the counter and Bulma notices the discount added on the receipt. Her eyes narrow. "Mysterious bastard."

By the time he shows back up, Bulma's kicked her heels off and watches an evening talk show. She's locked the door behind her—just to be safe—and so she peels herself off the couch and unbolts the door.

Then she cracks it open, smiling. "Whoooo is it?"

Vegeta stares back at her, unamused. "Open the door."

"I don't think I know you," Bulma muses. The wind snaps through the gap, smelling of rain and ozone.

"If you don't open this door right now—"

"What are you going to do?" Bulma goads him.

His hand snakes through the crack and she dodges, shrieking. It's just the opportunity to slip in, and then he's throwing her over his shoulder. She yells in surprise but he's already dumping her on the couch, the front door slammed shut behind them. By the time she untangles herself from the couch the bathroom door is already closing.

She can't believe he did that. Her heart races, and a stupid grin won't leave her stupid face. She stomps to the bathroom door and pounds her palm on it, making sure he can hear her over the shower. "I'm going to eat all this pizza if you don't hurry up."

The door is flung open and Vegeta stands there, smirking, because her eyes are fastened to the too-tiny white towel tied at his naked hips.

She can't seem to meet his eyes anymore. But she's trying, really hard.

"Eat all the pizza and die," he says.

"I'm willing to take that chance," she says with her hands now clapped over her eyes.

"That doesn't surprise me a bit," he says, peeling her hand from her face. When she squints at him through one eye, he places his towel in her hand. Which means... She drops it spastically and he laughs, shutting the door on her.

She can't wait for him to be done. When he finally comes out, he sits next to her on the couch, smelling like soap, and they both grab a slice from the box on the coffee table.

"What are you watching?" He eyes the tv.

"Talk show. Why does the pizza shop give you a discount?"

"I told you. I'm special."

They're close enough that her folded legs brush his thigh. "Everyone knows that's a lie. How do you know Roshi and Krillin?"

"Krillin used to be part of the fighting circuit as well. Roshi had a hand in training Krillin and Kakarot when they were kids."

Bulma's face scrunches up."I don't know that I'd want any children near Roshi." A peal of thunder shakes through the house.

"Krillin and Kakarot were both orphans." Vegeta explains clinically. "If I recall correctly, and I really don't care, Krillin plied Roshi with a suitcase full of vintage...magazines...to get him to train him. Highly resellable, but he kept them for his own collection." Vegeta says it with such disdain that she wonders whether he disagrees with the content or Roshi's business decisions. Everything is so beneath him. "Krillin used to be a lot more conniving. Now he's nice." He says the word like it's a disappointment.

Bulma's slice of pizza stops on her way to her mouth, corner of her lip curling up. "Don't tell me you were an orphan, too. How'd you convince your master to train you? With a suitcase full of ammo?"

Bulma's teasing, but at the way Vegeta goes smooth as stone, she knows.

"I'm sorry," she says raggedly. Her stomach hardens. "That was an asshole thing to make a joke of."

"Wouldn't expect any less from you," he says quietly, grabbing another slice of pizza.

The curtain pulls back on the rain and it slams into the house in a sheet, pounding the windows. She lays her hand awkwardly on his forearm, watching him, waiting for some sign that he hates her or forgives her. She feels terrible. Bulma recognizes her own privilege—her parents are alive, happy, engaged and supportive—and feels sick with it for the first time.

"You didn't train with Roshi, though?" She asks quietly.

"No." His answer is complete, hard. "I didn't get that lucky."

Bulma puts her pizza down on the pizza box lid, wipes her hands off with thin napkins. She's torn. She feels so bad to bring it up, but he's doling out answers, and Bulma needs to know. Her parents must have busted through the doorway of an ancient pharaoh, because she is c-u-r-s-e-d."Who had the privilege of training you?"

He turns to her slowly. His eyes bore her. They demand truth. But his face is impassive, stony. It hides truth. "Why were you wearing glasses this morning?"

Her hand is threading through his hand without thinking about it. "I was going to work down in my lab. I'm a little far-sighted is all. Vegeta, I'm sorry I asked." Her voice drops to a hush.

"Ms. Briefs, are you apologizing to me right now?"

"Yes," she whispers.

He squeezes her hand and then lets it go. "Don't. What happened, happened. It made me who I am today. And I'm not ashamed of myself." He looks at her carefully. "I'm proud." Don't take that away from me, he's saying.

I would never, she's thinking. "You should be." She stands, and he's watching her carefully. Will she run? Did it get too personal? "Where are your spare blankets?" She's moving to his hallway, opening up a narrow closet door.

Moths may have well flown out. There's nothing but a bottle of cough syrup and a thin white towel. "Good gracious, Vegeta." She frowns. "Do I need to set you up a gift registry?"

He's been whipping out a relentless pace. Almost a week of following leads, dead ends, and spreading spies around, all atop her work schedule. Bulma is tired. Really, really tired. She scoops up one of the blankets and pillows from his bed and shuffles back to the living room. Vegeta watches her as she plops back down on the couch. She tucks the pillow against the couch arm and lays down, tossing the blanket over her legs and Vegeta's lap.

"Presumptuous much, Ms. Briefs?"

"Doctor." Bulma eeks out a yawn. "You're a slave driver. I'm wrecked."

"I'm the slave driver? I can't learn enough, fast enough for you."

She stretches her legs out over his lap. "What do you have against Yajirobe?"

She feels the tension without taking her eyes from the tv. "Besides that he's a lazy waste of space with a bad attitude?"

"You have a bad attitude," she points out.

Vegeta's voice drips disgust. "There's a difference between being a hard working realist and being a couch potato who expects everything handed to him."

"I thought he was a master swordsman, though."

Vegeta stiffens even further.

She cranes her neck to look at him. "Am I hitting on every nerve tonight, Vegeta?"

"You're too goddamned curious." It's a sharp complaint, but it's got the hint of a long suffering affection.

"You're one giant raw nerve. But I'll try to shut up," she teases. "I can't promise you anything."

"I wouldn't put money on it if you had to do it to save my life."

She mushes his face with one of her bare feet. He snatches it and drops it, but rests his hand on her ankle.

"Take my bed, I'll sleep on the couch," he's saying, but she doesn't answer, because they know if she does they'll separate for the night, and they're not ready to yet.

They watch tv until she falls asleep on his couch.