. . .

DAY ELEVEN

. . .

There's a knock on the door that causes Bulma to roll over, eyes squinting against bright sun. And suddenly it's morning.

She's tangled up in something that she can't roll out from under. Blearily, she realizes it's an ankle, pinning down her shin. Vegeta sleeps next to her, his back against the wall, arms folded loosely over his chest. His lips are parted and his face relaxed with sleep. When the second knock sounds, his eyebrows drag together and one eye squints open.

She steals a moment to drink in the sight of him before his eyes cut to the side and catch her in the act. She smashes her pillow into her face so he can't see the heat steal over her cheeks, but he just rips it off, lips edging up the face hovering above her. "Caught you."

Ignoring him—or pretending to, because she could never just ignore Vegeta, the man who is constantly at her the edge of her periphery even when they're not together—Bulma throws herself out of bed and lurches her way to open the door with half-open eyes. Vegeta steps in her path and reaches around her, cracking the door. Her forehead smacks his back as she draws up short.

"What," he snaps through the meager space between the door and door frame.

"Breakfast," a waiter chimes, and from around Vegeta's side, Bulma watches Vegeta's gaze sear the breakfast plates with suspicion.

"Oh." She stares down at the plates with hungry absorption, forcing Vegeta to move to the side. She hadn't had a proper dinner at all yesterday. As far as she's concerned, Vegeta owes her this breakfast. Even if the cart is strewn with silver, wedding-bell shaped confetti, and the shared plate of pancakes topped with a little groom and bride. Bulma doesn't care if they're Liar pancakes; she's practical enough to enjoy them.

"Is that it?" Vegeta grumps at the waiter, refusing to allow him inside.

"Vegeta, really," Bulma scolds him. "Thank you," she tells the server, smiling graciously to offset Vegeta's scary countenance. Wherever she goes, she is playing his PR manager.

"You're welcome!" The waiter bows nervously, before bustling down the hall. "And congratulations on your marriage!" He waves over his shoulder. "You make a beautiful couple!"

"Two days in and I'm already ready for a break from it," Bulma murmurs. She tugs the cart in the front door just as Vegeta picks up his duffle bag and slips his feet in his shoes.

She watches in shock as he strides toward the door. "You just woke up."

Just as her brows come crashing down and her upper lip lifts in a snarl, Vegeta's lips are on her own. She freezes, watching him watch her, half-lidded, as he draws back, eases in, and sucks her haughty upper lip lightly into his mouth.

"Stay out of trouble," he barks before the door shuts behind him.

She plays with the idea of throwing open the door and yelling down the hallway, but decides it's not worth her time. If he's leaving her to shake loose information and then not share, as usual, then he has to expect she's going to make moves, too. Everything they do is quid-pro-quo, an eye for an eye. A fair and balanced war.

Even after a night like last night?, a soft part of her asks.

She doesn't even know where to begin with last night—where to put it, what drawer in her mental filing cabinet to shove it into.

She has so many questions. Nothing seems different this morning, yet everything has changed.

She can still feel his hands gliding up her thighs, his mouth bearing down on hers. It scares her how much she needs that again. Nothing makes sense anymore. They used to play the game to win. Now she isn't sure.

The syrup oozes over the top of the pancakes as she works her fork into their soft center. The truth is, Bulma's thankful he left. It's not like they'd discussed what had happened last night. No, they'd grumpily trudged back to their room after the impromptu meeting with Piccolo, fought over who got to put the key in the door, and then quit talking to each other. They'd just...needed a minute. She was sure normal people would have talked over what had happened last night. But they're not normal. Her fingers play over the little bride and groom, their fat faces, smiles so big their eyes are just lines. No doubt Vegeta expected her to burst with questions the moment they'd shut the door behind them. She could see the tension in the line of his shoulders. Instead, they'd stared shell-shocked at the TV until she'd drawn the covers up over her head. It had been a trying couple of days.

Once they pop in to visit whoever this 'Hercule' character is, they'll finally be headed home. If Vegeta was going to walk out the door after last night without communicating what he was up to or even a 'Good morning,' she certainly isn't going to take the high road. Stubborn resolve fills her. She's going to let Vegeta carry all the weight of it this morning, if he's so damned intent on it. Meanwhile, she's going to eat all of his share of these pancakes. And then she's going to make a trip to that goddamned pool.

...

Hours melt by in the sun, drifting on the water, the surf marking time with absolutely no regard for any of her insignificant human problems. She floats on liquid glass in this golden hour, finger trailing the water. A white bikini on a hot pink inflatable lounge, she attracts more than a few eyes. Like most beautiful women, she is both completely indifferent and yet seems to demand this homage.

Bulma has a lot to think about, and with Vegeta who-knows-where, she has the opportunity to process what has happened in the last 24 hours. But she doesn't even know where to start.

It wasn't her project she'd learned the most about, like she'd expected, but her neighbor.

Vegeta had once lived a terribly violent life. It was clear that whatever he'd done with his co-workers had been dark and illicit. She knew this kind of stuff happened, but normal people like her, who liked shopping, subscribing to cooking magazines, and going wine tasting, they didn't meet people like this, they didn't get involved with criminal elements. This kind of stuff only happened in movies. Except the villain had retired and moved in next door.

Is that why he had been so anxious last night on the beach? He knew just what she might find out about him? He knew just what it might cost, to have her there? So why ask it of her? He could have left her behind, although Bulma couldn't promise she would have stayed put. Was this an exercise in extending trust? How much could he trust his neighbor to keep secret? To enable? If so, what a risk he took. Now Vegeta might have lost more than he'd won by bringing her along. There's no way he isn't going to have to spill the beans to her now. It was just a matter of timing.

Unintended consequences aside, it was practical to request her help. Ginyu or Zarbon might have said something which he didn't understand the context behind. He needed the expert there at the scene to pick up clues. In the end, she had been given very little clues, but so many burning questions.

Last night's conversations had been...her breath leaves her in a rush. Overwhelming. The hair-wrenching tension at the casino and the cryptic conversation in Piccolo's glass-and-mirrors sanctum had raised more questions than answered. She couldn't even begin to decipher it all, let alone unpack how she was feeling about it. How she was feeling about him.

So, the scientist in her encourages, start with the basics. What does she know?

Vegeta was once part of a criminal structure in South City. He was out of the game, but maybe not quite. Whatever it is that Zarbon and Ginyu are doing, Vegeta might still be involved—and maybe that was why their acting had been so important last night. Vegeta had needed to convince them that he was impenetrable. Why?

They'd said Vegeta was definitely up to something at the Starboard docks. Vegeta had responded that he was just doing his part to keep money flowing. What was he up to? Was it where he went during the day? He was trying to appear harmless, he'd said, to take power. Who was he trying to fool? He wanted her city, he told them. Was there a grain of truth to that?

Just what kind of role had he played in South City? Working for 'him?'

It's enough to give her pause.

Did she want to be emotionally involved with a criminal?

And what was the deal with the fights? All three men had brought it up, to Vegeta's chagrin. She'd thought, when she was first getting to know her surly neighbor, that he was just a boxer, a small-time athlete with a matching bad attitude. Maybe he was involved in some petty crime, or had been previously, she'd figured. But, in his sweatpants and a plain white tee, with his trademark expression of doom and gloom and his decrepit house, she had invented a subconscious justification for it all: she'd figured it was an issue of money. It could still be about money, she reasoned, but a man like Vegeta didn't seem money motivated. Cash might be a side effect of a greater success that he wouldn't object to, but Vegeta wanted what was critical underneath it all: the upper hand. In the ring, in their arguments and on their missions, he battled for dominance. He was at his happiest when he was lording something over someone, at his worst when he was in a position to be potentially humiliated. Pride. He is the epitome of the concept, the Lord of that thorny, deadly sin.

So why would he willingly fight in a lesser league? And just how much more intense did it get? The fighting he was capable of, it was...amazing. It was passion and yet discipline, pure, focused willpower. He was truly himself when pitted against someone else, comfortable in his own skin in a way that made Bulma forget how to breathe. But both Zarbon and Piccolo had acted as if the fight she'd watched was child's play, that there was another level to these fights that Vegeta couldn't participate in. It's shocking to consider. Vegeta did what he wanted, and he took training to fight more seriously than anything else in the world. What on earth could prevent him from competing?

Her thoughts land on something unformed. A feeling that if, like an archaeologist, she could just uncover why he couldn't fight and why he'd left South City, the rest of the answers to her many questions would fill in and form a whole picture.

There are so many things she wants to know. They've stacked so fast, towering precariously. The days of Vegeta hiding things from her feel like its about at its end.

...

She heads to the open bar, because Vegeta is still nowhere to be found, and the afternoon sun is already sweeping towards its place of rest at the horizon. She chooses a corner booth and cracks the newest journal of Physicists Monthly. Last month she had had a guest spot, an editorial piece. This month she was too busy running around with a criminal.

She orders lunch and a bottle of wine, and eats alone, except for two men, one only minutes after the other, who sidle up to her flirtatiously. She shuts them down quickly and pours another glass, flipping pages of an article titled 'Upsilon Quarks and Strange Matter' with painted fingernails. After the third glass has been sucked dry, Bulma feels better about the state of her empire. While it may be in tatters and on fire, she is now refreshed. She can re-strategize and reposition. The sun had gifted her with some good vibes and she's feeling pampered, and that kind of outlook can change everything for a woman.

Another man slides into the booth with her, this time shamelessly slipping in on her side. Her head snaps up to scare him off with a glare and it's Vegeta, staring back at her.

His arm is pressed against hers he's so close. "I thought I told you to stay put this morning," he says. His eyes are cool, darkest, deepest brown. You can barely tell where his pupils begin and his irises end. He sounds neither mad nor surprised.

"Did you really think I was going to mind you," she only says, the rim of her glass shadowing her face as she takes another sip.

"Your third and it's not even supper time?" He tsks.

"The drinks or the men?"

He skirts her an eyeroll. "The drinks, Ms. Briefs. And those men aren't even in the same league as me."

"Hmph. I'm a big girl. I can have three drinks. Or men," she lingers, "if I want to."

"Ambitious."

She wonders how many she needs until she lets go and kisses him again. Would he protest if she leapt on him here in the booth and finished what they started last night? She is really a mess. Incomplete, like a cake that's been left unfinished. She's a woman who's always gotten what she wants. Now she can't have her project, and now there's desperation every time this man is near or far.

In this tumultuous new world, she can at least count on one thing. She looks up at him from under blue brows and baits him. "You're a man that is currently at the top of my shit list."

"At the top?" Vegeta pops the cherry from her bowl of fruit into his mouth and chews. He's in fine form. "I'm honored."

She wants to be the cherry in his mouth.

"You're looking at me funny, Ms. Briefs," Vegeta says, the corner of his lips crawling up as he pops another piece of fruit in his mouth.

"Wondering if I should keep drinking to deal with you," she smooths the rim of her glass with her finger and looks up at him under her lashes, "or stop now before I've lost any dignity."

He snorts. "What dignity? Not wearing that swim suit."

Her eyes grow wide as saucers, and then squish narrow. "You think my swim suit is too revealing?"

"Irrelevant."

"Contextual. Were you spying on me?" A surge of mischief seizes her. "Or, better yet," she says, leaning in until her lips are pressed against the curl of his ear, "while you watched, were you imagining what it might be like to run your hand over my wet skin?" She smiles when the line of his shoulders bunches. Her lips brush his ear. "Maybe loop your finger in the strings of my bikini until it comes undone? What would it feel like for us to be skin to skin? Did you wonder...how wet I might be?"

Vegeta stares in front of him. She's never spoken to him this way before. Never played so dirty. He listens silently with a clenched jaw and she knows she got him. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. "What you've neglected about this scenario is that you didn't know I was watching. Not very observant, are you?"

"If I were a spy, I'd be as good as it gets," she counters. They're still sitting close enough they press against the other. It feels so right. "And if you were a spy," her voice lowers, breath fanning out against his neck, "you'd wish to see me get out of that pool over and over and over."

He turns his head so their lips are nearly touching. He doesn't speak, which means she's not wrong.

She traces her lips against his. "I want to finish what we started."

"We have somewhere we need to be in fifteen minutes," he asserts. He has excellent self control and she hates it.

"I'll definitely need more than fifteen minutes with you," she admits.

"Work comes first." He reminds her, but she thinks he's mostly reminding himself. He's bargaining with himself, which means she has a chance to sway him.

"Vegeta," she says, and her voice has gone way huskier than she intended. Her hand slides over his thigh. She's always wanted to touch his thighs, and now she gets to. This is a new, dangerous past time. "Truth or dare."

Vegeta is excellent at games. He knows right now dare carries more risk. "Truth."

"Do you want to come back to the room with me?"

There's a ripe pause—and then he's tackling this with the same devil-may-care candor as he does everything else. "Yes."

Bulma's stomach drops, flops, and careens off a cliff, but Vegeta doesn't falter. "Truth or dare."

Bulma is more reckless. "Dare."

"I dare you to get up and walk with me to scope out another lead."

Everything comes right back to a halt. Vegeta is the ultimate obstructionist. She downs her glass and glares. Vegeta smirks and slides smoothly out of the booth. Bulma can't stand it. She can't stand his commanding grace and perfect posture and the way he always has control of the situation. She can't take any more of this push pull, this catch and release. She's about ready to shred her clothes into tatters.

She follows him, brain buzzing with all the ways she can take back control. She's thinking that things are dire enough that she's just going to start stripping when they get back to the room. What could he do? If he wanted to stop her, he'd have to get close enough to. She'd get to watch him squirm, and the thought makes her giddy.

Vegeta's voice is casual as they stroll down the wide hall. "Will you ever heed my advice? Will there ever be a day I tell you to stay put and you follow through?"

"I did excellent last night," she growls.

"You did," he agrees, watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

Bulma sighs. Vegeta has admitted she was right twice in less than ten minutes, but she's still not satisfied. She wants total domination.

"Look. I'm a woman who can't abide rules," she attempts to explain. Then huffs. "The more rules there are, the more you can bet that I won't follow a single one of them on principle. Even small ones," she warns him, walking close enough together that their arms brush, "make me act out. I'll self-sabotage a good thing if I feel like I'm being told what to do. Though it's probably why I make a good researcher. When faced with a supposition, my instinct is to immediately challenge that." She holds her hands out in front of her, as if to say, what more could you ask for? "When one of my colleagues presents their work, it's his peer's job to find holes in his method. That's how good research generates solid answers. So, I can't just sit there and wait for you to get things done by yourself. I'm not a woman whose just going to let you take care of everything. You shouldn't expect me to, and you shouldn't settle for any less."

He gives her a look of surprise. She can tell he's contemplating her words, staring ahead. "When I was younger, I was..." Vegeta 's voice lowers. "...Scrappy. I wanted to prove myself. Every little slight to my pride was an offense of the deepest nature." He turns his head to regard her. "It took some falling down over and over to learn some self-control. To figure out what's worth devoting my energy to and what's not. And I'm only stronger for it."

"Are you telling me to get some self-control?" The crowd gets thicker as they pass the convention hall, and to avoid the people walking fiing in around them, Bulma clasps her hand around Vegeta's arm and presses herself against him to keep from being jostled.

"You wouldn't be Bulma with self-control," he says dryly, looking down at her plastered to his side.

"Well, believe me, I have self-control. There are lots of things I want to do but don't."

His knowing stare slides over her, plucking from her thoughts exactly what she wants to do and hoarding it for ransom later. A smoky arabesque of heat curls up from her center, but they just continue on down the hall like they're perfectly normal people who aren't trapped in a hell of sexual tension. It's probably the biggest lie they've entertained yet. The crowd thickens, more bodies pressing in on them from all sides. She's reminded of the exquisite weight of a man on top of her. The man at her side who she wishes would trap her beneath him, the gravely serious set of his jaw and the sharply perceptive gaze above her as he drags that serrated edge of her desire out and makes her beg him for more.

She takes deep breaths and counts to ten.

"How do you know Hercule?" Her cheek glues to his shoulder.

"Hercule is a performer and entrepreneur, although that's a nicer way to put it than he deserves. He capitalized on a wrestling and strongman televised federation. It's as glittery as it gets. He once tried to recruit me."

Bulma's eyes widen. Wrestling, in all of its fake, dramatic glory. "I can't imagine it."

"Oh, I considered it. Fame, combat, a crowd chanting my name." He smiles at the memory. "I might have done it, promptly before I blew the whole building sky high on a lark." He darts a glance back at her, and then at her hanging from his arm. She hasn't let go of his arm. "Negative attention is still attention. Are you sure a bottle of wine wasn't too much?"

"If the bottle of wine was winning, I'd be undressing you right now," Bulma points out.

Vegeta looks at her too long and she realizes what she's admitted. As her cheeks color, he smiles. "See?" He leans in close and she can't remember her own name. "You really do have self-control. I dispatched the guards just before I found you. Let's take a peek, shall we?"

And suddenly she realizes she's standing outside a rock band style bus, with Hercules face all over it. "Ugh," she says, sourly, and Vegeta agrees.

Vegeta opens the door and goes in first, then gestures when it's all clear. When she peeks inside, her eyes get big. Everything is done in classic architecture: columns, cornices. There are even statues. Cherubs and virgins.

"He's got taste, I'll give him that," she admits.

Vegeta scoffs in disagreement. "Buying class isn't the same thing as having it." Vegeta sweeps the trailer swiftly.

Bulma looks at him curiously, turning a snowglobe in her hand. "Well, I wouldn't have expected you to be uppidy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You just don't look like an elitist snob is all," she says, eyes roaming over the trailer. There are no houseplants, but she yanks the blinds up and looks under pillows just in case.

"What do I look like?" Vegeta is looking in drawers. "And put some effort into this, would you?"

"Like you spend all day in a gym, and all night, too."

"I do," he reminds her. "It's called training for my job."

"I didn't say you looked bad, Vegeta," she argues. "Quite the opposite," she grouses, "because you look really..." She chokes when she realizes what she's saying out loud.

His eyes glue her where she stands.

"I look really what?"

Ice cracks beneath her, threatening her solid ground. There's no way she's getting out of this one intact, and she knows it.

He gleams with naughtiness. There's no other word for that look he's giving her, like he's about to misbehave and the punishment will be so worth it. "You like the way I look," he accuses, heading for her. His eyes darken sinfully. "You like it every time I'm shirtless." His voice rocks deep, dangerous. She is frozen with the merciless truth of it. "You liked watching me shower that night."

She isn't used to sexual overtures from him. It isn't fair when Vegeta weaponizes them! "I never said that!" She backs up. It's not easy because she wore heels and a tight, stretchy little number that seemed, at the time, like a great way to drive Vegeta crazy. "Focus! We're running out of time!"

The front door creaks open, light spilling in.

Bulma and Vegeta tense and stare at the doorway.

Two men walk up the stairs of the bus and look up straight into Bulma and Vegeta's surprised faces. It's apparent they shouldn't be there. The hostility from the men is immediate.

Bulma does what she does best.

She improvises.

"Hi," she chirps, and holds out her hand, marching forward. She gets straight to it. "We're with the Coreman Group. We were sent to evaluate the fresh air on the bus."

The silence is thick as she shakes their hands. Over her shoulder, she gives Vegeta a conspiratorial waggle of her eyebrows, a "Help me, would you?"

"I don't see any houseplants on Mr. Hercule's bus," she continues. "Does he not have a single plant to help improve air quality?" Bulma's voice rises as anxiety winds around her and squeezes. She tries her best to tamp it down and hopes she simply sounds concerned for Hercule's well-being.

When the men say nothing, she bends at the waist, pretending to search the shelves, leaving a lot of dangling flesh exposed above the neckline of her dress. Vegeta's eyes go big behind her as her dress hikes up her thighs. "I don't see a single one! Am I missing something, or is Hercule in danger of suffocating without the all-natural, organic air of a premium houseplant?"

Finally, one of the men breaks. "We take all of Hercule's needs very seriously." His tone is placating and dimples show in his cheeks as he smiles down at her cleavage.

Bulma smiles back.

...

Vegeta hasn't slowed down since they got off the bus.

"Vegeta, for goodness sake, my legs are shorter than yours." Bulma hurries to keep his pace. When he doesn't answer, she takes long, quick strides to level the scowl she's fixed so far on his back right into his annoying face. "Will you just yell at me already instead of stomping around all over the place?"

Vegeta finally jerks his head around. "You're always a hand span away from getting us both killed!"

"Killed?! I saved our hides! And don't be melodramatic. Those men were just suits and ties. They would have asked us to leave, max."

"You accuse me of not working with you, but you go and do something like that without my input. Why do you have to devolve to flirting with everybody!"

"Without your—Vegeta, we had no time to have a huddle about what to do!"

"Then you should have deferred to me, since I'm the one with the most experience."

"Deferred to you?" She grabs his wrist and yanks him to a stop, jabbing her finger in his direction. "You're just mad because I used my feminine wiles and it worked," she grinds out. Was he jealous that she flirted with other men, or jealous that her plan worked? She could never tell with him. "If you used your feminine wiles more often, maybe you'd get more done!"

"My feminine wiles?!" Vegeta looks like he's going to have an aneurysm. "I'm afraid to inform you, Ms. Briefs—"

"—Doctor—"

"—but I don't have feminine wiles. I am all male." He takes a step forward. "Brute strength." Another step. "Killing fury." Another. "Lethal grace."

Bulma snorts loudly.

"I'm a man who works out all day, all night. Isn't that what you said?" His voice gets deadly soft and he draws even closer. Bulma blinks and swallows. He sees it and smirks, his voice lowering until it's a croon. "You've seen what I can do. In the ring, I'm holding back everything I'm capable of. Should I take another shower, so you can be reminded of all the things I could do to a man...or woman?"

Her brain flops around like a fish out of water. It is not a good sign Vegeta knows what her weakness is: him. She can't breathe. What are words? "Knocking heads together is the only strategy you've got." She scrabbles for purchase. The conversation had gone steeply downhill, and Vegeta's reveling in it, because it throws her off her game every time. She scoffs while trying not to be intensely aware of the particular parts of her alert and showing interest. Every time he uses her attraction to him against her, she loses, damnet!

They decide to get back to what they were doing to at the same time, eyes pulling away,

ineffectually defusing the mood. A group of women smile at Vegeta with interest in their eyes as they walk past. Like with the women outside his locker room door, Vegeta remains completely disinterested. No one, man or woman, is worth his regard, his time, his energy. "Wish you were that pretty, Ms. Briefs?" He opens a door, letting himself in.

"Are you suggesting I'm not pretty?!"

Bulma collides into his back as he comes to an abrupt halt in front of her. She pushes herself away and moves to his side.

The result of their labors lays on the floor.

"Well, what do you know." Vegeta surveys it dispassionately. "That line those goons fed us wasn't bull after all."

"That's because I'm the pretty one of this duo," she reminds him. "Die mad about it."

On the ground lays a rotund, pink, shirtless man.

…

Vegeta seems physically repulsed to be hanging out with Hercule and his partner, Buu, and Bulma is just so fascinated she can't stop watching their back and forth with a foolish smile.

Buu, Hercule's business partner or life partner, she's not quite sure—has been sunning himself on the floor all day, cucumbers on his eyes. They are the height of a disconnected, weird Hollywood couple. Hercule is sitting on an actual throne. There are portraits of himself everywhere. He sits with his legs crossed at the knee, his plum smoking jacket gaping open, chest hair erupting from the front. He doesn't even ask her who she is. He's just so excited Vegeta is here, in his permanent suite at the Devil's Heaven.

Vegeta is not appreciative of the fan service. It's clear that he views this as a necessary evil of their search and rescue operation. It's growing apparent to her, too, that Vegeta at some time completed some task so heroic that Hercule has never come down from the high of watching it happen before his very eyes.

Hercule talks too much. Every few minutes, he stands up and poses, punctuating some point in his story with a double biceps or a leaning into a flex that causes each chest muscle to bounce up and down. Bulma is eating it up. She's never been around such a character, and she's finding it increasingly harder not to laugh at Vegeta's annoyed discomfort. Karma is real.

Hercule has finally stopped regaling them with stories to pour himself a flute of champagne and offers Vegeta one, which Vegeta sits with a thunk onto a marble end table beside his gilded bergere chair. Bulma sprawls on the velvet chaise beside him, twirling a tassle on the tufted armrest around her fingers and listening raptly.

There's a knock on the door, and someone hurries in, sets a box on a granite-topped table, and shuffles back out the door with his head down. "Vegeta! Can you believe it! I won this at the auction last night!" Hercule strides over, takes the top of the box off with his thumbs and forefingers, and lifts a gold inlaid crystal chalice from the pillow inside. It is horribly tacky, like a movie prop, but Bulma can't bear to tell him, he is just so excited.

"Did you hear about the auction?" Hercule's booming voice dips, and he glances at Vegeta before sitting the chalice delicately on the table. "Frieza showed up. In person. Couldn't believe it." He brushes his nose with the flat of his hand and steps back to survey his prize. "He purchased an ancient sword, rumored to be cursed...and a houseplant. How eclectic! Should I get a houseplant? Are houseplants trending?"

Vegeta's eyes fly open.

…

"If this Frieza bought it at the auction, that means he wasn't the one to send the goons to break in and take it in the first place. It wouldn't make sense, if he'd stolen it." Bulma taps her chin with her finger, following behind Vegeta, who heads from the elevator in silence. "So who sent the goons?"

Vegeta hasn't spoken to her since they left Hercule's suite. He hasn't spoken at all. He had stared in a daze while Hercule droned on and Bulma, side eyeing her next-door neighbor, grew increasingly alarmed. And then Buu woke up and started bickering with Hercule, so Bulma decided to pull them out, thanking Hercule for his generosity and pushing Vegeta out the door.

She'd thought maybe Vegeta was just drained by Hercule's antics, but he hadn't perked up since they'd left. His jaw is tight and eyebrows pinched. She thinks he's acting scared, and nothing scares Vegeta.

The sun is setting outside the wall of windows in their honeymoon suite, and Vegeta doesn't even fight her about putting the key in the door. He walks to the windows and looks down at the shore.

She sidles up behind him and places her hand on his back in support. "Vegeta," she says softly. "What's wrong?"

He glances back at her, and then double takes, like he just realized who was talking to him and what they were doing here. "Nothing," he says unconvincingly.

"Vegeta..." His name is a sigh. Her hands flare up his back to reach around his chest. And she squeezes, pressing her cheek hard into his back. He's warm and solid beneath her. "What's your plan?"

She has a second to comfort him, to enjoy him. Everything is finally behind them, and they're moving forward without his constant gas and stall. The Something between them is finally acknowledged, and carefully, they were feeding it. She was here for him. He could lean on her now.

And then everything changes. Vegeta turns out of her hold and heads for their bag, ripping her from the moment. "The plan is to go back home. This mission is over."

Bulma's eyebrows dip in confusion. "What? Why?"

"We can't get your project back." He shoves her bag into her chest and her arms wrap around it. His tone is ruthless and commanding. "Report it to your boss. To the authorities. This mission is over."

Slack jawed, she just stands there, watching as he packs his bag. "But Vegeta, we're so close." She can't keep the dumb surprise from her voice.

"This is over."

She grits her teeth at his tone, and then explodes into motion. "Why? Talk to me!" She inserts herself in his way as he moves to walk across the room.

"There's nothing to talk about."

Like a kettle boiling over, she makes a little whining noise that grows in pitch. "You make me crazy!" She yells.

"You make me crazy!" He yells back. "Do what I say. Pack up your bag. There's nothing else we can do!"

"You don't want to find it." Bulma's eyes go wide.

Vegeta doesn't say anything. A pinch of guilt, quickly overwhelmed by a scowl, but he keeps moving, rounding up their stuff.

"Why wouldn't you want to find it?"

A dangerous thought sweeps her. The thought is poison, paralyzing her. In its horror, it unfolds with perfect sensibility. It explains everything.

The possibility crashes over her like a wave. Her eyes round. "Unless you're working for him."

Vegeta doesn't say anything. He just grabs his own bag and heads for the door.

Vegeta doesn't deny it.

He doesn't deny it.

"We're leaving." He opens the door, duffle bag hanging from his grip, and jerks his head. Move, he's telling her.

She stands still. Refuses to budge. Her face tightens. "Tell me why you're looking for my dragon ball."

Vegeta gets tired of holding the door open for her. He walks away, out of sight, without a backwards glance.

She is deeply, dreadfully hurt. As the sunset washes the road in purple and the silence in the car becomes thick enough to choke, the hurt ferments into sizzling anger. He doesn't spare her a glance or offer a word on their way home.

She doesn't even wait for him to kill the car once they pull in. Once they've stopped she's marching toward her house, clutching her bag. He's calling out to her, but she barrels for her front door. She doesn't care what he has to say anymore. She's over his high-handed "help" and his see-saw feelings. She's not chasing after him another second. If he's not going to help her, she has no one to rely on but herself.

She's gotta get this done on her own.