Playing To Win

by springandbysummerfall

It's no secret that Dr. Briefs loathes her neighbor. But after her highly classified research is stolen, the two become unlikely partners in an increasingly treacherous spiral to get it back. With every day forced to work together, the stakes—for the project, and for their feelings—get higher.

8. Chapter 8

. . .

DAY THIRTEEN

. . .

Vegeta is drawing a line.

A line between today and yesterday, when his mouth devoured hers and his hand strained at her hip, leaving her melting into the mattress. A line to divide this evening and their evening at the Moonlight, grabbing her out of another man's arms. A line to disjoint this minute and the one where he'd heaved her over his shoulder and dumped her on his couch, teasing her with a tiny white towel. A line to cleave in two the man he was back then, rolling a band-aid over her finger, and the man he is now, who doesn't feel a thing because he says so, who is only Her Neighbor and only has his mind on The Mission.

She's beginning to see a pattern.

Vegeta is trying to win a war he's fighting with himself. When he expresses feelings for her, he squashes them. And Vegeta loves to win. She has little doubt that, no matter how difficult the struggle, he won't fail at this.

With deep melancholy, she tells herself it might be time to resign herself to it. A part of Vegeta may want her, but another part does not. She doesn't know why; she's been left very little clues. She should just be a good friend and keep this professional, in order to help him do the same. But it's so much easier said then done. A part of her has already committed to pursuing him, simply because he's something she wants. It's terribly selfish.

Applause breaks out as she pulls away from the podium. Stepping down to let another take her place, she shakes hands with a few of her peers and makes her way down the stage stairs. Threading through the seats in the low lighting, she spots her neighbor leaning against the wall in the back, his tell-tale silhouette emerging from a deep pocket in the shadows. There's no way this is as titillating for him as watching him boxing half-naked was for her.

Bulma slams the door on that thought. She cannot think of him as the man whom she desperately wants to pin her to her bed. She cannot even think of him as Hated Neighbor. Right now, hate is as bad as desire, because it's all way too passionate. She needs to take a plunge into icy water. She wonders how cold the lake is off the docks of Tien Shinhan's place this early into winter.

To Bulma's surprise, the guy from the fifth floor shuffles over to congratulate her. He's nice, and he's clearly interested. She can almost see Yamcha out of the corner of her eye, giving her a thumbs up. Yamcha, who, like any good friend, just desperately wants her to meet a 'nice' guy. This guy has a pretty smile, straight and white, and his eyes twinkle, pale blue against his periwinkle shirt. Bulma tells him she will see him around and continues her way to Vegeta. A deep, ugly part of her checks him carefully to see any signs of jealousy. There are none. Vegeta looks as impartial, bored, and cool as ever. The cavewoman in her chuffs with displeasure.

Nevertheless, he carries her bag out to his car. His duffle, resting in the back of the seat, shifts as hers scoots across the leather, claiming the space. Vegeta is wearing black jeans and a black sweater that pours across muscle, and it throws her off because it's so unusual to see Vegeta in anything but athletic apparel. She's left wondering what the occasion is, and maligning it. How is she ever going to keep focused on the mission when he's right there in front of her, breathing?

The car is stuffy with silence as they pull away from the building. Vegeta doesn't seem in any hurry to talk about what happened yesterday, or even more curiously, to explain the who's, what's, and why's. They are about to spend two days and nights confined with the other. After last night left everything a mess between them, this should be kind of a big deal. Instead, he focuses out the windshield, his hand loose on the steering wheel, no doubt convinced that his Olympian self-control will get him through anymore problematic-Bulma situations.

She should be insulted. Insulted that he left her there without a word and is now giving her the cold shoulder. And she is, really. But, irascibly, she wants to understand why. The scientist in her needs to know. The detective in her must parse out the how of it. When he paused in her doorway, his goodbye was regretful. She knows that the man kissing her last night wanted her, and Vegeta's not playboy enough to leave her in a puddle on her bed with some charming parting words. So what's stopping him? What is so powerful that it could prevent Vegeta from doing what he wants?

Or who?

She wants to attack him with questions—she really, really does—but more than anything, she wants to remain friends. Friends give each other space, right? For now, he wins this one.

The silence thickens as they wind through the city, and she can't stand it. She chooses a safe question. "Already hit the gym?"

He nods once.

"You're so driven," she tells the window. She is committed to being as non-confrontational as he is being right now. It is terribly unlike them.

"So are you," he reminds her. It's an undisguised compliment. This is unprecedented.

"Yeah, well," she sighs, pretending her heart isn't thumping because he's talking to her. "I'm the 'fixer' at work. I'm the one everyone brings the problems to. I'm the one who is trusted with the impossible projects, which means my work load is insane, and they keep piling more on top of it. I'm a workaholic, but even I'm burning out. Drive isn't necessarily a desirable trait to have."

"Drive is one of the most valuable traits a person can have," Vegeta parries. "You alone are breaking new ground. You alone are living, drawing new boundaries, while other people lead their small lives."

"Tell that to my ex-husband," Bulma remarks dryly. "Our marriage fell apart because of me. I'm too obsessive. You should know that by now." She hazards a glance at him. "My stolen research project is all I can think about. I couldn't give less of a damn about work, about life."

Vegeta's voice drips irritation. "About that guy in the sixth row in the blue shirt."

Bulma rolls her eyes. "Don't even get me started on dating. The disingenuous small talk, the circuitous first date. Another first date, another first date. Yamcha keeps harping on me to put myself out there, but I'm fine, you know?"

Bulma's eyes flare wide at the admission. She sends him a rough glance because the mild conversational terrain has suddenly transformed into rocky cliffs and sharp edges. There is Something between them that makes this topic particularly sharp edged, but not enough to warrant pointing out, because Vegeta is quick to gather it all up when it gets messy and project it back into the right direction. What's between them occupies a no man's land, resists definition and analysis, therefore it cannot demand loyalty. It seems like Vegeta is just ignoring it, anyway. He runs hot and cold, flips from tender to aloof. She's too smart to put her quarters in to play that game, she tells herself. But she's lying. She would put her quarters in right now if it made him kiss her again. She would be dragging her hands through her couch cushions for change.

But she scolds herself. She and Vegeta are united by only one thing now: hunting her project. Any neutral topic that friends or co-workers might share is all that's appropriate anymore. If Vegeta wants to put it behind them, then she does, too. Just like that. She's a new woman because she says so.

She clears her throat. She is now in character, playing her part for him. 'Disinterested Neighbor' enters the scene. "I've been on a few dates since the divorce," she says carefully. "None of them have led anywhere." She stares out the window. "Frankly, I'm just too busy."

She's full of shit. Too busy for dating, and yet she is with him every night.

He just maintains his gaze out the windshield. "Drive. Obsessive motivation. Single-minded purpose. They might be an obstacle for some people, but I couldn't be partners with someone who didn't have those qualities. It's what separates the weak from the strong. I'm only interested in those who are pushing themselves, attempting to see what more they can accomplish, testing themselves in new ways."

Stunned, Bulma tucks a lock of hair behind her ear to cover her surprise. He's just admitted that he respects her. He must be trying to make her feel better. She snuffs out a smile at his compliment. Everything feels sadder today. She tells herself it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the weather. These dratted gray skies. This infernal alignment of the stars and planets, with Mercury in retrograde and Venus in Scorpio.

"Even if it makes you feel lonely?" She asks after a pause. She thinks of Yamcha, how she'd unintentionally hurt him. "Your friends...your partner..." What had been Yamcha's words? "...They're choosing something over you."

"I only allow into my life those who give 110%. Living boldly requires no apologies." He looks at her for a long minute.

She is sure he's telling her she shouldn't regret their kiss last night. It's almost an apology. A recognition that he screwed up. But it feels like he's eulogizing them before they've even got off the ground, because it doesn't change that there's this blasted line in the sand. It's just so complicated and unfair.

Her brows pinch as she fights the wet heat in her eyes. Disinterested Neighbor continues the Very Casual conversation about relationships. "You say that," her voice dips, "but it was really hard on Yamcha. I was gone all the time. I chose my work over him countless times. He wanted a family. I wanted to build things. I made him miserable." She stares carefully out the window. If she doesn't, she'll burst. She'll ask him why he left, when he needs her to back off. When she just wants to climb into his lap. If she even so much as glances in his direction, she'll demand that they stop speaking in riddles, with round-about apologies and cryptic sports-analogies of their behavior. "I'm not a good friend right now, let alone a good girlfriend." She laughs, forced and fake. "What can I say. I'm too intense. I'd just steamroll anyone who tried to stick it out with me." Unless he were a mountain, like Vegeta.

Here, Vegeta, she may as well be saying. Here's my own apology for kissing you last night. This 'sorry' is a little worse for wear because I don't mean it.

Vegeta just says, "It's why I let so few people into my life."

But he let her in it. Another inconspicuous compliment. He must feel really bad about leaving her last night. That, or he's trying to ply her with apologies so that she doesn't bail on this mission. Why does he care? Why does he care about any of this? And if he does, why does he make the stupid choices that he makes?

Pretending she has no feelings is tiring her out. She doesn't like being Disinterested Neighbor. This isn't going to work."I guess I intruded on it, huh?" She thumbs the band-aid wrapped snugly around the tip of her finger. She grits her teeth on a feeling. "I'm sorry for involving you in this. I just didn't know anyone else I could trust to accomplish it."

It's Vegeta's turn to hide a smile. It's rare praise, a gift from her to him. She doesn't even realize, just watches the terrain queue past the window.

She is unusually melancholy and bruised, and it's his fault. He doesn't deserve her, but he can't tell her that. He can't tell her anything. Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Vegeta stares resentfully at the horizon.

…

When they pull up to the hotel, a valet takes their car, a busboy whisks away their bags, and Bulma is left slack-jawed at the magic of it all. The hotel is a tall, crescent-shaped, pastel pink confection, with a palm tree border and a sprinkling of lawn chairs and cabanas right off the coast of the ocean. Vegeta strides in through the doors, suddenly all business. Bulma's barely picked her feet up off the floor, and space grows between them.

Water rockets up from stone in the front foyer in a synchronized dance, glancing off crystal chandeliers. Velvety, mint-green carpet extends past the fountains to the front desk, flanked by spiral staircases. As they approach the front desk, Bulma spies an enormous pool to the left that extends straight into the ocean. The casino floor is to the right. She can't take her eyes off that pool.

"No," comes the bossy command at her side.

"Surely we have some time to kill—"

"We're on a mission. Focus."

She frowns severely at his sharp tone. "I am focused. Do you honestly expect the only thought in my head for the next two days to be 'Where is my project?' on repeat?"

"Yes." His eyes slide in her direction and forward again, settling on more important things, like the air in front of him. "I'm disappointed you'd consider thinking of anything but recovering your project. Unsurprised, however."

"Oh, don't you wag your finger at me right now." Setting her jaw, her voice lowers to a steely whisper. "I haven't shamed you for last night, and I have every right to."

She can see the impact of her statement wash across his face. She's hit him where it hurts. So what does he do? He retaliates. "I wouldn't have had to set you back on the right path if you would have just stuck to the program."

The 'right' path? She hates what he's suggesting. "Your program sucks," she hisses.

He's right back to being an absolute jerk and she can't imagine what could possibly have put him in such a bad mood from between now and getting out of the car. She's tired of him bossing her around, telling her to live boldly one minute and then yanking her leash the next. She needs a paper bag to scream into. The brief cease-fire between them is now pocked with smoking bullet holes. Her eyes narrow. It's really not about that big, glimmering pool to their left, crystalline under the sun! It's the principle of the thing, which she plans on beating him over the head with. "When am I ever going to get another chance to come back here, Vegeta?"

"When you get that boyfriend you'll enjoy walking all over."

"I'd rather walk all over you," she seethes.

They don't have time to react to the implications of that comment because the woman at the front desk is already beaming at them.

"Hello and welcome. Do you have a reservation?"

Vegeta briskly slides her a sheet of paper.

The woman's eyes widen. "Oh, the newlywed suite. Recently married? Congratulations, you two."

Bulma has faster reflexes than Vegeta. A smile blooms on Bulma's face, and Vegeta stills with the awareness of danger. "Why," Bulma begins, "yes. We are newlyweds!"

The woman behind the counter returns the smile and addresses Bulma. "You look so happy, dear."

Bulma throws her arm around Vegeta's waist and pulls him close, resting a hand on his chest. "We really are! You should have seen the ceremony! The wedding was so beautiful," Bulma gushes. "We got married in a meadow overlooking the mountains on the ocean shore. The sun was setting, and he couldn't stop crying. And the proposal! Oh! He really put so much effort into it. He rode a white horse and the ring was atop a bouquet of roses while, nearby, a harpist played under a rainbow." Bulma puts a hand at her mouth to block Vegeta from hearing. "This guy would just not stop crying."

Beside her, Vegeta is frozen with mortification. With her arm around his waist, she can practically feel the fissures in his robot body before it explodes.

She has him. Her smile is deadly. "He doesn't like to talk about it because he's so humble. But he's been so excited about tonight, if you know what I mean. Can you believe he's been saving himself all these years?"

Vegeta claps a hand over her mouth, pinning the back of her head to his shoulder. "We'll take the keys now," he orders, blasting the receptionist with a glare.

…

Vegeta hasn't stopped glaring at her up all twenty floors in the elevator.

"Don't be mad because you've been fairly bested." Smug, she won't apologize. She tries not to look at him or his reflection in the mirrored elevator walls. "You don't think you can have fun and work at the same time? I just proved you wrong."

"Oh, you're gonna get it," he only promises.

"I wish," she counters under her breath.

There's a tension between them that neither of them are having any hope of diffusing. It's a bomb ticking between them that each are ignoring. He doesn't want her? Fine. They're just partners. Just friends. She'll still win, though.

...

As soon as their bags hit the floor of the suite, he's plotting. "There's a place to sneak into the gardens just after the entrance to the spa on the fifth floor. It won't be locked. It's a hallway for the cleaning crew. It's the third door on the left, which will require some lock picking, but the hallway doesn't get much traffic. From there we'll have the run of the expanse."

Bulma frowned. "Isn't there security?"

"I took care of it."

"You took care of it? How?"

"Don't worry about it. Are you ready? I want to scope out the area tonight."

Vegeta is holding open the door for her.

She stands, bewildered, in the doorway. "What, I don't even get to change out of my work clothes? I haven't even got to admire this posh penthouse yet. I just got married, the least you could do is let me have a minute."

His voice is strained. "You look fine."

What a complement. The corner of her mouth pulls down. She can't let him know he gets to her. But can she get to him? That was always the challenge. And its succulent reward? Driving him crazy.

"Well, how am I going to attract men in my work clothes?" She moves to the bathroom to check herself in the mirror. "I've got a few dresses in this bag that I packed just for picking up men."

"You're not picking up any men," he growls from the bathroom doorway. "We're working."

"I might need the room tonight to myself, if you know what I mean," she jabs as she fixes her hair. "Does room service change the sheets each morning?" Her voice lowers, playing over its deepest, most sensual registers. "Because I am going to pluck the first man I see out of the crowd and make him work for it on that bed. After the week I've had, I deserve it."

Vegeta growls and storms out of the room.

"Bulma two, Vegeta zero," she calls before he slams the door behind him.

…

Vegeta isn't talking to her, but that's okay. She's enjoying this despite him. Work has been a slog, and all of her spare energy has been devoted to chasing her research project through a labyrinth that just leads her into black holes and paranormal vortexes and dead ends and neighbors who reject her. She desperately needs something to do that makes her feel competent and human again.

Dutifully, they make their way around the fifth floor, walking right past the closed brass doors of the garden. They stroll in shared silence, absorbing every detail. They are both thorough, analytical, but can't agree on what any of the (sparse) evidence they've uncovered suggests. Eventually, Vegeta gives up on having even a basic conversation with her, and she is content to ignore him.

Things wind down, and Vegeta breaks away to use the restroom. There is a door down the hall that seeps laughter and chimes with the clink of glasses. Bulma waits outside for about half a second before drawing near it. She peeks around the corner. A host at a lectern smiles at the crowd seated around the restaurant. "Trivia Night" is displayed on a large banner above the bar.

The host's voice cuts through the music."Schrodinger's cat is a thought experiment to illustrate what type of mechanics?"

"Oh!" Bulma calls out from the doorway. "Quantum mechanics!"

Everyone in their seats turns around to stare at the newcomer.

The host smiles. "Yes! And hello! You will need to sign yourself in, though, to play."

Bulma takes one step in when a hand grips her arm. "No," Vegeta grounds out.

"Ah! And she's got a partner! That's one point for...what's your team name, so I may write it down?"

Bulma turns her bared teeth smile on Vegeta and takes a step inside, pulling him deeper in. He digs in his heels and she yanks him harder, but he hates being embarrassed in public so he's forced to follow. She wins. She slides into the nearest seat. He looks as angry as ever, but it's okay, he deserves it.

"Your team name?" The host nudges.

"Oh." Bulma sits down. "Um..."

"They're newlyweds!" Pipes a familiar voice. Bulma and Vegeta both turn to see the front desk lady waving at them. "Hi! How's your honeymoon going?"

"So good!" Bulma waves cheesily back.

"The Honeymooners!" The host boomed. "One point to the Honeymooners."

Vegeta is glowering death and doom at Bulma, but she chooses to ignore him like usual. "Just roll with it," she whispers, testing their pen on a cocktail napkin.

"You're gonna get it," he promises her silkily.

Bulma writes their names on their score card. "You keep making promises you don't keep," she responds sweetly.

"The filament in an incandescent light bulb is made of what element?"

Bulma slaps her hand on the table before he can finish asking the question. "Tungsten!"

"Another point to the Honeymooners!"

Bulma smiles as she marks another tally on their score card.

"Let's move on to the literature category. Alright, folks. This famous poet insisted that we do not go gently—"

"—into that good night," Vegeta finishes, pouting, without addressing the host, or Bulma, or anyone but maybe just a higher power because he is so abjectly superior to them all. He rubs at the bridge of his nose like Bulma is giving him a headache. She hopes she is.

"Another point to the Honeymooners!"

Bulma grins and prods his foot under the table with the toe of her heel. "And here I thought you were all fists and no brains!"

He's practically looking at the ceiling to avoid looking at her. Arms folded over his chest, slouching in his chair, he says nothing.

"They're now neck and neck with the Double Deuces."

Bulma grabs the arm of the waiter moseying past. "Hi. Can I get a bottle of merlot? Only one glass is necessary, just for me, thank you."

"This is unfair. Who let the meathead and the egghead in?"

A spatter of grumbling breeds behind her. Bulma glances over her shoulder, assessing. Looking demurely from under her lashes, she turns back around. She has determined that there's no threat from the peanut gallery and moved on.

The waiter returns as the volume of complaints pick up.

"This isn't fair. They know all the answers."

"She's not even that pretty."

"I'll show you who's not that pretty," Bulma is muttering into her wine.

Vegeta finally looks in Bulma's direction, where, over her shoulder, a few couples glare at the back of Bulma's head. The host, clearing his throat, tries to redirect the energy with some jokes.

Eyebrow cocking, Vegeta's eyes finally settle on Bulma, who, cheeks flushed, is doing her best to ignore them all. She is putting on a good show, and she doesn't seem like the type to let this kind of stuff bother her on any other day. But he knows her well enough by now to see that she's crumbling under the weight of today's frustrated dejection. The bitching coming from behind her is just the cherry on top of a steaming pile of crap that she's been enduring like a good sport all day. That he's definitely had a part in making worse.

Vegeta's gaze turns back to the other players. He hates them immediately. He can't swallow that they're their competition. It's he and Bulma against everyone else, and Vegeta wants suddenly to beat them all right into the dirt.

Vegeta straightens, steeples his fingers, and then smiles at Bulma crookedly. It's the first time they've made eye contact all night.

She stills. It's not a nice smile.

"Let's win this round, shall we, Ms. Briefs?"

…

Only when they're swaggering out of Trivia Night, Bulma gripping their prizes like trophies—a bottle of expensive merlot and a steak dinner, while other couples shoot them dirty looks—does Bulma finally let out a defiant laugh at this whole week. Bulma's eyes meet Vegeta's and she grins as they high tail it out of there before the mob comes at them with torches and pitch forks. He makes a scoffing noise that's mostly laughter and follows close behind. They're high on winning, and stupid. They have forgotten everything about keeping their distance that they'd learned just last night.

They pass an alcove where a woman is handing out fliers for one free martial arts seminar with a Master Yajirobe. Bulma leans into the crowd and warns, "I wouldn't, if I were you. I took a class with Yajirobe and he would not stop passing gas. He has a condition, you see. The smell mixed with the odor of gym mats... I'll never forget it."

Bulma has probably had too much wine because she is stirring up trouble like a school girl. Like a proper bully, Vegeta lets her.

The rumor grows, the crowd disperses.

Vegeta and Bulma snicker all the way to the elevator.

His eyes follow her, his lips crooking at their corners. He can't stop. When she leans her head back against the glass wall of the elevator, her eyes dart to his, twinkling with mischief, like they share a secret. When the corner of his mouth twitches up, her smile stretches wider, cheeks flushing. A surge of possessiveness answers in him.

When they get back to the room, Bulma plops down at the table beside the bed and pops the cork on the bottle of wine. Vegeta watches her out of the corner of his eye as he checks their phone messages. She distributes their expensive steak dinner on either side of the takeout box, humming.

When he finally slides into the seat across from her, she tempts him with a bite of steak, speared on the end of her fork. Vegeta leans in to take it between his teeth, but Bulma snatches it away at the last minute and shoves it into her own mouth, laughing. She is practically glowing, and Vegeta's chest is tight with pride because it has something to do with him. Vegeta's own smirk hasn't left his face since they'd gained a ten point lead, and he'd just sat, arms folded, eyes boring into the other player's with a cruel smirk clawing at the corner of his mouth. "Jupiter," he'd answer a question, all the while eyes never leaving them until they started to fidget and sweat. Bulma had just smiled into her wine.

"Someone needs to knock you down a peg or two." He buries his fork in his own steak. "I'll happily oblige."

"Right back at ya," she says through a mouthful of fries.

He eats from his takeout box quickly, and then settles on the bed. It's not even a proper sprawl, Bulma laments. He lies there regally. His sweater is pulled up a little around his waist, showing a few inches of skin. His arms are behind his head, making his lats and biceps flex.

"Glass of wine?" Bulma's eyes roam him. "This is definitely a special occasion," she reminds him. If she were braver, she'd climb right up his torso, leading the way with her tongue. Just friends. Just partners. "We have won a great victory tonight."

They'd been a real team tonight. Watching him grow fiercely competitive had been thrilling. He'djumped in to help her answer every question before any other team could get a word in edgewise. Why couldn't they always be like this?

"I need to be alert tomorrow," he declines.

"Okay, so I'll just be the lush of this team." She takes a few gulps.

"You always have been." He gracefully hops out of bed. "I'll take the couch."

Bulma blinks, gone serious. "The bed is plenty big enough for both of us. Half a dozen sumo wrestlers could comfortably fit in this bed." She stares. "You won't even know I'm there."

"You can have the bed," he says firmly.

"Quit being the perfect gentleman," she says, finishing her glass and frowning at the last dregs. She refills it. "It doesn't suit you."

He turns from tossing a pillow onto the couch. He is both offended to be compared to a gentleman and told that he's not one. He doesn't know what he wants. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means be logical. This bed is plenty big enough to share without being forced to spoon." Her cheeks pinken a little. "You need to rest, too, and you're not going to feel rested sleeping on the couch. Quit being emotional, and be practical." She slices steak. She is poking the bear. But she loves to poke the bear.

"I am not emotional," he warns.

She just rolls her eyes in disbelief.

That seems to piss him off more. "I'm perfect," he warns silkily.

"Be imperfect for once in your life," she dares. She gives him a look under her lashes. "Be bad."

"That's the problem." He looms over her. "I am bad, but I'm trying to follow the rules," he growls, like it's not working and it's all her fault.

"I haven't seen you be bad once," she mutters into her wine.

"I can be very bad." As if to punish her, he grabs the hem of his shirt with a hand and draws it over his head, baring every smooth ridge and muscle of his stupidly hunky upper body within touching distance of Bulma.

The glass of wine stutters to her mouth and she stares.

"I'm not putting a shirt back on, Ms. Briefs," he promises stubbornly. When her face starts to flush and her eyes dart away, his smirk inches up his face. "It's nothing you haven't seen before." He's reminding her of his shower, and she chokes. He's fighting dirty.

It doesn't matter if she's seen it before, she hates to have to tell him. It's something she could watch over and over again with only exponentially growing anticipation and lust. She bows her head and splays her hand over her face so he doesn't see it on her face—but she's a few glasses of wine deep, so it's likely already made an appearance. He's grinning at her now and she hates him for it.

And then he lies back onto the bed and throws his arm over his face, as if nothing had ever happened. As if he could just strong arm the mood into changing. As if Bulma could just recover and bounce back from something like that, like it was so insignificant.

She's tired of this game. Every time she starts to win, he changes the rules. He gets to have all the fun and power. She wants to be the boss this time. She wants to make the rules. She wants to make him pay.

And she knows just how to do it.

She's going to challenge the game design.

"Shall we play a new game?" She poses the question as she gulps back her glass. "For every article of clothing you take off, I will mirror you. You took off your shirt, so..." Her fingers hover over the top button of her blouse, and she watches him.

She doesn't know exactly what kind of reaction she wants. Defeat? Encouragement? She just wants to watch him squirm like it's her life's work. Blame it on the wine, maybe. Or blame it on his hot and cold behavior, on the reaction of her body to it, ping-ponging between revenge and desire. Squirm like bait on a hook. Be affected by me.

She pushes the top button through its hole.

"Are you this flirty with all your neighbors that help you look for secret government research projects?" He looks at her with one eye, his forearm over the other.

Her smile melts across her face. "Only angry, private ones with hero complexes." She unbuttons another button.

"You sure this isn't the wine talking?" He looks so effortlessly cool and aloof, lying on the bed with an arm thrown back like an underwear model. He doesn't look affected at all, and it's driving her crazy.

"Another button," she warns him. Her blouse is just starting to reveal cleavage. She stands, her hands on her placket, and, slowly, struts over to the bed. "An eye for an eye. If you want to lounge around topless, it's only fair that you feel the pain, too." Another button pops, at the center of her bust.

"The pain, Ms. Briefs?" His eyes flicker to her chest and back again.

Her fingers stutter as she realizes what she's admitted. That was a bad call on her part. The wine is making her thrill seeking and careless, but she's gotta do better if she wants to win this one. She undoes another button. The lacy top of her bra is showing now.

"Are you going to unbutton every button until I put my shirt back on?"

"I'd prefer that you don't," she chokes with laughter at the edge of the bed.

Vegeta, tense, sits up, resting his feet on the floor. "That's not fair." It sounds composed and dry, but she can see by the line of his shoulders that he's edgy. He's trying to be careful. To be disciplined.

Fuck his discipline. "Who told you life was fair?" She reminds him, before propping her knee right between his thighs.

That gets to him. His eyes, fixed on her knee, go wide.

Smiling confidently, her lids lower.

And then he looks up and pins her with heated eyes.

Her fingertips push the last button through its hole. Her blouse gapes open, and, without taking her eyes off of his, she slides out of her shirt and, pinched between her fingertips, lets it with a rasp to the floor.

"Well, Ms. Briefs," Vegeta finally says, and it's deep and throaty. "You are ruthless. But if I don't remove anymore clothing, I'm not in any more danger."

"Rookie mistake," she murmurs. "I'm still wearing this bra. And you certainly aren't wearing one." He is doing a great job, despite the cleavage just inches from his face, of not looking below her neckline. She has to applaud his control. But it has to go. Now. "For every answer you do not give me," she proposes, "I will unhook one clasp of my bra. I warn you: there aren't many."

His stare is scorching her from head to toe. She is painfully aware of his strong thighs on either side of her knee. He is so much stronger than her. He could scoop her up and pin her to the bed if he wanted to.

"You're betting on my desire to keep your bra on." He looks up at her from under his lashes. "What if that isn't my priority?"

"Whatever choice you make," she points out, "I win."

"Then let's up the stakes," he tells her, and his hand clasps her ankle as he leans in. His bare chest is so close to her lace-covered breasts that her nipples harden. "For every question I do answer, I get to take a liberty of my own." His hand drags up her bare calf to the sensitive skin behind her knee, and lingers under the hem of her skirt.

Bulma takes a deep breath and regrets it, because her chest just expands in front of his face. His control slips: he glances down. The realization that his mouth is just inches from her breasts undoes her, and she feels an answering pulse between her legs. She has to keep it together. He hasn't even done anything yet!

All of the sudden, she doesn't know how she wants this game to go. She gets answers, or she gets undressed. What's the better option? Bulma has to be honest with herself: is she playing for her best interests, or is she just playing to beat him? The game she's started has new and unexpected consequences. She just wanted to see how far she can push him, but he's pushing back.

"Ladies first," he rumbles, meeting her eyes again.

He is sinfully overconfident. He's close enough for her to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze like she's always wanted to.

He must see the excitement on her face. His eyes go dark.

"I'm going to win," she hits.

"I've got no interest in being second best at anything," he blocks.

She can't keep her voice from going husky as she starts the interrogation. "Where do you go during the day?"

His mouth pulls up. He's not even surprised she asked. She sucks in air when his other hand curls around the back of her knee, under her skirt, requiring him to lean in a little closer. It would be so easy to arch her back and feel his lips brush against the lace over her nipple. A heaviness builds between her legs, unsettled.

He smiles up at her. It's another not-so-nice smile, reserved just for her. That's when Bulma realizes that she loves competing with him. She is his antagonist, cackling dramatically as she foils his plans time and time again. If they could just play these childish games all day every day for the rest of her life, she'd be the happiest woman in the world.

His hands move from behind her knees, sliding around to the front of her thighs, pushing up her skirt. His thumbs rub back and forth against the inside of her thigh. Her breath comes a little faster, but her jaw tightens and she holds position.

He thinks he can unravel her. But this is the most important battle in the war.

"I work for myself," he answers lazily. "Doing exactly what I want to do."

Her lids lower. "That's not a full answer and you know it." She moves her hair over one shoulder, preparing to reach behind her. "What does a man with the criminal world at his fingertips do all day long to earn a living, hm? I'd wager it's something interesting."

He gives a little ground, but only a little. "After a long time under someone's thumb," he yields, "I make my own rules now. I won't be controlled ever again."

"So you're self-employed? An entrepreneur?"

He shrugs, elegant and easy. "Something like that."

She hates him. "I'll need a real location, unless you want me to undo a clasp."

"I work on the east side," he answers smoothly, his breath feathering against her chest as he leans in a little closer. "At a gym."

"Trainer?"

His lips skim her collar bone. "Is that your second question?"

She scowls, mouth setting mulishly. "No."

She can't let him get to her, but already, he's under her skin. An insane part of her wants him to answer every question just to see where his counter-game might take them. She forces herself to remember that she deserves more. "Those are shit answers, Vegeta. Why do you hide everything from me?"

"Because I can't be honest with you," he answers immediately, running his hands up her thighs over her skirt. After all, he answers, so he gets to take a liberty. His hands settle on her hips. "And if I can't be honest with you, I won't say anything at all."

The way he says 'can't' is firm, like it's incontestable. Whatever it is he's hiding, he doesn't enjoy withholding it. Her gaze is drawn inward, thinking. "You don't want to disappoint or take advantage of me."

"Is that your next question?"

"That was a statement," she argues. "And you can't tell me, not because you don't want to tell me, but because there is someone or something above you that has told you not to. But why would you submit to that, when, in your own words, you're tired of being under someone's thumb?"

His hands smooth around her hips until they're curving over her behind.

She inhales sharply. "How forward. I must be on to something."

"I'm fighting the best here. I have to give my best. Have you ever wanted to do something, Ms. Briefs, that you're not supposed to do?"

Her heart stumbles. With her knee between his legs and his hands on her, they are dangerously close. Their faces are inches from the other's. Her gaze runs down his jaw line, the curved corner of his lips that, impossibly, she wants to kiss. Impossible, because none of this should be happening. Someone has thrown the universe into a tailspin.

"There are things you can't know about me," he clarifies, "and things I don't want you to know about me."

"Like what you do for a living. Like where you go. Like who you're working for. Like why you're helping me find my project."

She must be getting real close, because he pins her with a look, scorching and immovable, and puts his open mouth on her ribs, right under her breast. His mouth is hot, and gently, he drags his teeth over her.

"I've answered several of your questions," he tells her from under his lashes, lips brushing her belly.

"Hardly," she breezes. Or tries to. He is being careful in stringing her along. He is getting the best of her. How can she turn the tables? "Half-answers and misdirection," she accuses. "I may as well just undress entirely." Her voice lowers. "Slowly. While you watch."

Lust seems to hit them both at the same time, because his eyes are boring into her with a look like all of these invisible boundaries are suddenly completely arbitrary, and he's about to yank them all down and rush her.

They are behaving badly. She'd just been mashing buttons, and now things have gotten completely out of hand.

"I have a question for you this time." He uncurls his hands from her thighs, drawing away, taking his warmth with him. But he needs to make sure he doesn't impact her answer. "Could you forgive a man for withholding the truth?"

For the first time during this little game, she's startled. She really looks at him, through the haze of desire.

After a second of her silence, he sits back, leaning back on his elbows, and watches her evenly.

Bulma's mind stutters to a halt. He is all abs and chest and shoulders and biceps and traps— And the way his jeans ride low on his hips and— His abs are taut, she could walk her fingers down each one and—There's a gleam in his eyes that eases between her legs—

He must see it wash over her face, because his eyes go molten. His smile is devastating, a curl of smoky heat. "The truth remains: you can't have me without accepting that there are some things you can't know," he says, silk dragging over skin. "And, Ms. Briefs, you are the last person in the world to give up on knowing something."

He's not wrong. She is torn in so many directions. If she continues with this game, she gives up gaining any knowledge on him and her control. She has to fully trust him in order to work blindly with him, and she doesn't know that she fully trusts him. How can she?

If she pulls away, she has to finally resign herself to not having any kind of physical or emotional relationship with him. And she can't possibly be a Disinterested Neighbor. There's no way. A working relationship is too much to ask for; they would have to split up. They could never argue over the invisible wall again, because she'd be banging at his door in a heartbeat, demanding to be ravished and arguing with him the whole time he rolled her around his bed.

And what about her project? Dimly she remembers it's what they're all about. Life has become so much more than just collecting her project before its due date. A whole new world has dropped into her lap, and she has to explore it to get any clues at all. He is her reluctant tour guide, but he's also an invaluable asset. She will find her project with him, she knows it. Without him? The odds are much more uncertain.

But where is her heart leading her? Because being with him is being lost and found all at once. This is the most important play in the game yet. Does she sacrifice her control to continue it? Or does she keep control, leave her guide, and stumble blindly through the dark? What is she playing this game for exactly? Because playing for herself and playing to beat him yield two different results.

He watches her indecision wrack her, folding his arms behind his head on the pillows. "Bulma," he says, voice gentle. He must see his feelings on the matter reflected on her face, because he says, "Not satisfied?"

Unable to speak yet, she shakes her head.

His voice lowers. "Neither am I."

But Bulma's mind is rapidly being made up. It's settling on a huge gamble. She is light-headed just considering it. Bulma is getting ready to risk it all, with no conclusive evidence that it will pay off.

Bulma falls onto her hands and knees and crawls over his body, until she is eye to eye with him. "I'll accept your terms."

His eyes skip over her lips and the view between them before landing on her own.

"What are your conditions?" Suspicion wars with concern. He suspects there's a catch. And he's not wrong.

"I want you," she demands.

And she is betting that he wants her back.

What she's asking for is wild. It's impossible. It shouldn't happen. It would be the demonic baby of two beings from very different realms. Supernatural hunters would rise up to kill it.

He is the face of surprise. "You want me?"

It's the final admission, that the game that they've been playing is to win, not the war, but each other.

"If I let you have your secret, then I want you to be the man I walk all over."

Lips crooking at the corner, he says, "You can try."

They play the staring game.

"Can I?" She finally asks.

"Don't ask for it unless you want it," he growls. "Give me 110%, or nothing at all."

"I couldn't give you any less if I tried. You're going to get way more than you bargained for."

"That's why I like you." The smirk inches up his face. It promises mayhem. She can't wait for the explosions, the carnage. Then he looks at her with seriousness. "I don't think you'll be satisfied, though, not knowing everything."

"You're a hard worker, Vegeta," she says from under heavy lids, smiling. "You keep me guessing. That's why I like you."

"Are those your terms, then?"

"Just don't disappoint me," she warns, thumb brushing his cheek.

His lips brush hers, and then open.

"Vegeta," she groans into his mouth, and it's an aching confession.

"Deal," he says, before hauling her closer by the back of the neck and closing the deal with a lush kiss, turning her inside out with desire.

It's a slow, savoring victory.