Concerto Ten: Falling Down….

oooOooo

"And by the time I tried to stop him, it was too late and he drank an entire bottle of tabasco sauce!"

The dinner table erupted in a roar of laughter from almost all of the participants, as Mrs. Briefs smiled cheekily at her husband, twirling her spoon around in her saucy spaghetti. Bulma chuckled forcefully at the redundant story, practicing a porcelain smile to match her skin tone. Her eyes ran down to her plate, the green china smeared with globs of red sauce, and forced her mind to stay current on the conversation.

"I didn't know!" Dr. Briefs wiped his mustache with a napkin, his cheeks tainted red from laughter, "All she said was, honey the Bloody Mary's are on the counter, and I went for what I knew."

"Oh darling," Mrs. Briefs shook her head as she sipped her blood red wine, " for a brilliant man you sure have questionable moments."

Dr. Briefs reached across the table and grabbed his wife's hand, intertwining their fingers together. The act caused Bulma to look up from her spaghetti trance, paying close attention to the unspoken intimacy that resulted in their skin touching. She brought her attention to the smile that her parents shared, a hidden secret that only years of marriage could produce sleeping between them, and a knot in her stomach formed. She should be doing the same. She should be turned in her chair, her elbow resting on the back of Yamcha's chair, as she searched his eyes for the puns to their inside jokes and other factors of their delicate love. Instead he cackled next to her, his cheeks full of meat sauce and noodles, his focus diverted more to his gluttonous meal than to the fact that she wasn't even paying him attention.

Which was a good thing, she assumed. That way he didn't have to see the confusion that clouded her eyes, or the confession that burned her tongue like acid. He wouldn't have to ask why the color of her lips looked different, and why they appeared to be stained with the presence of another.

Vegeta.

Even thinking his name brought an anchor of guilt that hooked her ankles to the floor and left her useless. He had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, and she struggled to walk the line of the type of the remorse she should feel. On one hand, she had cheated. There was no beating around that bush of adultery, she had willingly given herself in some way to someone else that wasn't Yamcha. She couldn't even look at her shaggy haired boyfriend without being reminded of the warmth of Vegeta's lips. Which brought her to her second handed confession.

She had kissed him back, and she enjoyed it.

Her fork raked against her plate, producing a crisp metal grinding sound that caused the attention to be focused on her.

"Bulma, honey," her mother asked with slight alarm, "Is everything okay? Is the spaghetti bad?"

"No, mom!" Bulma smiled and forked a pile of her mother's cooking into her mouth, chewing happily, "It's really good. Probably your best batch to date."

"Oh?" Mrs. Brief's perked up, her glossy red lips stretched into the perfect circle, "You really think so?"

"I have to agree, Mrs. B," Yamcha swallowed his wine by the gulp-ful, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin that rested lazily in his lap, "I picked the best day to have a cheat meal with carbs. This is amazing."

Mrs. Briefs waved him off, closing her squinty eyes and chuckling. "Oh Yamcha, dear, you're such a sweetie! I swear if my Bulma wasn't so taken with you, Mama would keep you around all to herself! Do you want to know my secret? Marsala wine. I know it's out of the ordinary but…."

Bulma's mind went on the fritz again as her mother's intricately detailed recipe droned out her thoughts. She chewed over the last few remnants of her noodles carefully, before swallowing the bitter taste of truth on her tongue with the sweet wine. She tried to reason with herself, that she was only reacting how any sane person would if someone had just up and kissed them. Especially someone who was as talented as Vegeta. And as handsome.

No, she tormented herself further, she had handled the situation like a coward. She drank from his lips with a thirst that she didn't know needed to be quenched. Her fingers had smoothed over his warm neck as if she were searching for constellations beneath his skin. She should have pushed him away, but the second he had sunk his greedy lips into hers, her body demanded more. And that was what scared her the most. What would she have allowed to happen, if her father had not intruded?

The cheery conversation bounced off of her ear as she was brought back into the present reality, and as if on cue, she could feel Dr. Briefs burning a stare into her from across the table. Her eyes sheepishly rose and found her assumption to correct. He rose an eyebrow at her, and took a drink from his own glass, his eyes pinned to hers. She swallowed thickly and glanced away from him, feeling the weight of discomfort wash over her.

This time it was Yamcha who bore his dark brown eyes into hers, a genuine grin capturing his lips. "You okay babe?" he asked, and she found herself only being able to nod. What was she supposed to say in a situation like this, anyways? No, Yamcha. Everything isn't okay, and especially for you. I kissed someone, and oh! It just so happened to be Vegeta! I know you're probably really upset, but you still love me right? Right?

"Oh you two are so adorable!" Mrs. Briefs clenched her hands together into a tight fist as she squealed at them. "I really miss the days of young love," she sighed dreamily, "you only get that sort of passion once in a relationship, you know."

Bulma was now completely sure she wanted to evaporate. She begged whoever was listening that she could be carried away by the winds of the night, leaving not a trace of her remaining, not even her memory. "Mom—"

"Dear, could you pass the garlic bread?" Dr. Briefs intervened, flashing his daughter a knowing gaze, "and perhaps you could entertain us all with the recipe of this creation as well."

"Nonsense, my darling. Everyone has heard enough about my homemaker skills. What I'm interested in," she placed an elbow on the table, resting her chin on the back of her hand as she raised an eyebrow at the younger duo, "is when you two are going to be honest and give me some grandbabies. I'm not getting any younger, you know."

Yamcha choked on his wine and Bulma wished she could just choke. "Mom, please, not right now."

"What!? I'm only saying, sweetie, when I was your age I was pregnant with you! You would certainly have some beautiful children! What about your mother, Yamcha? Does she pester you with natural questions?"

Yamcha had recovered from his 'attack', and he grinned lopsidedly, gathering some more pasta from the crockpot. "All the time, Mrs. B. She adores Bulma and won't shut up about it. I guess I'll tell you the same thing I tell her," he reached and grabbed Bulma's hand, squeezing her fingers between his, "when the time is right, we'll both know. And you guys will be the first one we'll tell. But I do plan on marrying your daughter eventually. There isn't another woman for me, and I know there isn't another man for Bulma. Isn't that right, babe?"

Bulma let out a shaky breath as her eyes darted back and forth between her mother and Yamcha. Their intense stares and expectations of her threatened to engulf her in a selfish flame, and she was on the edge of letting herself get doused. Suddenly, the aroma of the food became too potent, the whispering jazz music too loud, the occupants of the table too inviting. With a slick grace, she removed her had from Yamcha's and stood up. "I'm pretty stuffy, I'm going to step outside on the balcony for some fresh air."

She didn't even turn around to see two quizzical faces burning a hole into her back.

oooOooo

The crisp night air ran its chilly fingers through her tresses, causing her to shiver briefly. It was almost spring, and she couldn't have been happier, but she welcomed the end of winter as the cold supplied her with clarity. Watching the lights that littered the houses and buildings below dance for her made her heat beat slowly to a regular rhythm. A train whisked by, the bells creating music that the stars above could waltz to. This was peaceful, she decided, and more welcoming than her elaborate thoughts and her mother's direct questions.

She had probably been standing out here for about a half hour, and she could smell the pie that her mother prepared creeping through the cracks of the balcony doors. And as much as she enjoyed the sweet berry goodness, her stomach refused to let her swallow anything else. She had consumed enough guilt to fill her belly for several weeks.

The sliding doors screeched opened, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her father step out, his hands buried deeply into his pockets. He didn't glance her way, and for that she was glad, but she could almost hear his words that radiated off of his body. He was disappointed in her, that she was sure of. Despite however he felt about Yamcha, Dr. Briefs did not raise an unkind woman.

"Perfect night for a smoke," his overworked voice croaked, a small yawn slithering past his lips. He grabbed his red and white cigarette carton, grabbing a stick out and resting it under his mustache. He leaned the box over to her, his eyes still pressed forward. "It seems like you could use one, honey."

Bulma shook her head, unable to really look at her father. "No thanks, Dad. I've been trying to quit."

"Really?" This time he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, his face painted in surprise. "I never thought I'd see the day. Kudos for taking charge of your health, unlike your old man, I suppose."

She chuckled, although her soft tone became lost in the breeze that skated by, leaving them in an awkward silence. Bulma had her fair share of trouble as a child, with her curious mind getting the best of her, but she had always been able to be honest with her father about her discrepancies. This time was different; this situation was something that she wanted to tuck under her pillow like an adolescent's diary.

"Dad," she finally spoke, her voice small, "I know what you must think…"

"Do you?" He leaned an arm against the railing of the balcony. "I'd love to hear it."

"You must think I'm terrible, right?" She chewed her bottom fear in a case of nerves, shifting slightly to face him, "That I'm a poor excuse for a girlfriend. For a daughter."

"Is that what you think?" He laughed and blew out a ghost of smoke, the blue wisps scattering around them. "Then I'd have to say you're wrong."

She glanced at him surprisingly, her eyebrow cocked. "Seriously?"

He nodded, smiling slightly at her. "Don't get me wrong, Bulma. Cheating is never the answer, and I don't want you to think I condone it in the least bit. But just like you had a hypothesis about what goes on in this old brain of mine, I've made several observations of my own. And in the past few weeks since that situation, I've noticed your fingernails have been dirtied with paint."

Bulma glanced down at her nude nails, small specks of blues and pinks hidden in the cracks between bone and skin. She curled her fingers in the palm of her hand to hide them, as if she could take back what he had already noticed.

"You're painting again, aren't you?"

She didn't respond, nor did she need to. Dr. Briefs had his answer, and he studied her face as he took another long drag of his white cigarette. "I thought as much," he continued with a mouth full of smoke, "And when's the last time you've done that, huh? It's been years since I've even seen you glance at an oil set. And now I see that same hunger in your eyes again. I wonder what could have inspired that change." He looked at her knowingly, forcing her to keep his stare and not turn away.

"It isn't what you think, dad."

"Hmph. Well, what I think is that you're being stubborn old Bulma, who is afraid of gazing through the looking glass. And what is there to fear when you stare through it? Are you scared of your own reflection? Because I guarantee that's all that will be looking back at you."

Bulma crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't get it, Dad."

"Honey," he licked his cigarette over the balcony, watching as the embers of the flame scattered in the wind, "We all have a decision to make in our lives. And sometimes, those decisions will hurt others, even if that's not our intentions. But when we reflect back on these choices, and the weights they carry, all we find is ourselves staring back at us. So what I'm trying to say is, however you feel regarding your actions is what you'll have to live with at the end of the day." He pushed his hands back into his pocket and stared at her seriously. "Do you like him? Vegeta, I mean."

"No!" She said automatically, defensively, and the reply didn't coat her tongue with a sugared finality like she expected. "I mean, I don't think it's like that, Dad."

"The contrary, Bulma. I think it's as simple as that. So perhaps you should mull over those thoughts, hmm? Just whatever you do, be fair to Yamcha. You're going to hurt him, but do it with humility and grace like your mother and I taught you."

"Dad, I never said-"

"My buddy says a new art supply shop opened up on the north side. Supposed to have all sorts of imported paints and what have you's that you can't find just anywhere. Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow and check it out. I could loan you some money for supplies."

Bulma closed her eyes and smiled, shaking her head. At least there was one man in her chaotic life that could give her some grounds for stability. She opened her eyes again and studied the wrinkles that tattooed themselves under his eyes, and wondered how many times she was the cause of one. The graying hairs on his scalp, how many were the result of worrying over her? She would fix her own mess, if not for her sanity, than for his. He at least deserved to see her life sorted out, and she owed him enough to gift it. "Thanks, Dad. I think I'll do that."

"Wonderful! Make sure you paint something nice for your pop pop, okay?" She laughed heartedly, feeling her chest the lightest it had been in ages. What would she do without the old coot? She hoped to never find out.

The sliding doors announced a presence, causing both of them to turn behind them. "I suppose I should go check on your mother," Dr. Briefs smoothed his shirt and smiled at Bulma, "And I hope you now that she didn't mean any harm."

"I know," Bulma nodded her head, smiling in return, "I'll be in to talk with her so she doesn't worry."

"That's my girl," Dr. Briefs placed a hand on her shoulders, wondering when the little girl with too many band aids had manifested into the woman before him. He turned to Yamcha, who was a hair of a distance away, and released her. "I'll see you both inside," he announced, before turning and disappearing behind the opaque glass.

Yamcha rose an eyebrow at Bulma as he approached, his teeth chattering as a chilly breeze ruffled his hair. "What's going on, Bulma?" He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at her, "Why did you have to come out here?"

Bulma stared off over the railing, her eyes landing on a thin piece of wire that moved chaotically in the wind. A metaphor, it seemed, for her wavering emotions. She didn't know how to tell Yamcha what happened, but she could at least try. She turned her attention back to him, letting her blue oceans settle in on his chocolate irises. He looked so concerned for her, and that made all what she had to tell him hurt a little bit more. "Yamcha, I-"

"It's the pasta, isn't it?"

She blinked at him slowly, attempting to register what he had just said. The breeze whipped her hair in front of her face, blocking her vision, and she let herself play peekaboo through the slivers of blue. The peace of the night settled again, and she moved the tendrils out of the way so that she could see him clearly. "What?"

"I knew it," he clicked his teeth and shook his head, "I should have made us some food to bring with us. Your mother would've understood, I'm sure of it. It's been so long since you've eaten fattening foods that the carbs and the sugar must be affecting your mood. That's my bad, Bulma."

She felt the muscles in her jaw go slack, and she couldn't tear her eyes away from him in that moment. She remembered instantly what her father said-if he loves you he should know something is bothering you without you having to say it—and felt disappointed. Here she was, relishing in her own guilt over hurting him, and he thought she was upset…about food?

"Tell you what," he continued, inching closer to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, "I'll make sure we go on a high protein diet for the rest of the month. We'll have juicing cleansers, and natural aloe smoothies, and once a week on Saturdays we'll have high intense cardio. It'll totally make up for tonight."

….There was no way that he was serious.

"Yamcha," Bulma said, her voice struggling to stay calm, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, babe. Anything for my favorite girl."

Bulma cringed a little. She didn't deserve to be called his favorite girl, and she wasn't sure he deserved to call her that. "What do you want out of life?"

He stared at her in confusion, his lips slightly parted. "Where did that come from?"

"I dunno," she shrugged her shoulders, "I'm just curious. Can you humor me?"

"O…kay…," he let go of their embrace and put his hand under his chin, gazing up into the ink stained sky. "Let's see, I want to be so ripped. Like incredibly ripped, and healthy so I can have a long life. You only get one body, you know? Career wise, I'm down to really take on the music scene. I found out recently that some big shots from Broadway are supposed to be coming to see us perform," he tilted his head down and smiled at her smugly, "And I want to blow their minds out of the water. A job like that on Broadway would be so epic."

Bulma smiled, but for far different reasons than Yamcha was. Her mind instantly ran to Vegeta, wandering how amazing it would be if someone with a high caliber could see what she saw. What she was sure that so many others could see. He would finally gravitate to heights that she knew he could ascend to.

"And best of all," he said, his voice dripping with a mild venom, "I could prove to that asshole Vegeta that he was wrong to make me second chair."

The smile vanished from her face like it was chalk and his words were the eraser. Something inside of her felt the need to defend Vegeta, but she knew that would give away her secret. And she didn't want to tell him like that.

"That's a great plan and all, Yamcha," she folded her arms under her breasts, "but I notice one teensy problem."

"What's that, babe?"

"Where do I fit in? I notice that you didn't mention me at all."

"Oh, is that all Bulma?" He scoffed at her, waving her off completely, "I thought you were gonna say I wasn't talented or something. Of course you fit in to the major plan. Who else is going to be at my side? I can't think of anyone smarter, sexier," he placed his arms around her again, lowering his eyelids, "or more inspiring."

A chill raced through her at the last compliment, and she felt her cheeks turn pink. A grin stole her mouth, and she flashed him her dazzling pearly whites. "Inspiring? Wow, Yamcha, you think I'm inspiring?"

"'Course, babe! I mean, look at you! You've got the whole package! You talk a whole bunch of jargon that I just don't understand, and then to top it all off, these curves," he ran his hands over the delicate shape of her body, squeezing her hips, "are delicious. Like mouthwatering delicious. The other night when you were on top, I was looking at us through the mirror on the closet door and I thought to myself, 'Geeze we're a good looking couple.' So hell yeah you inspire me. You give me the motivation I need to keep us healthy, happy, and sexy."

Bulma felt her stomach drop at his words. That's how she inspired him? Vegeta had all but told him that she mind fucked him with her talent, but all Yamcha got out of the deal was that she looked good?

"Is that…" her voice came out low, insulted, "…is that how you see me, Yamcha?"

"What's wrong with that, Bulma? I'm literally bowing down to every inch of you!"

"Not every inch of me," she wiggled free of his hold and leaned against the railing, scorching her eyes into his, "You didn't even mention the most important part that makes me, well, me."

"And that is…?" Yamcha raised his hands in the air, genuinely curious, genuinely wondering what had turned her spike in mood. He chuckled nervously. "I feel like I covered all of the bases here."

Bulma ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to get a grip on her emotions. It was as if Yamcha had waited until this very night to show her that he was what her father had said he was. What Vegeta had said he was. He really didn't get her at all.

And maybe it had taken someone who did seem to get her to make her realize this.

"What about my paintings, Yamcha? You know how important those are to me."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed playfully, shaking his head. "Not this again, babe. Look, I'll explain it to you like this. You're good at those things, don't get me wrong. But there's good, and then there's great. Take for instance this guy that I was in orchestra with back in college. You remember Silver, right? Well anyways, he played cello, and he was good. But he was just good. And I used to tell him that he shouldn't put so much emphasis on the cello and find another craft because he just didn't have it. But he didn't listen to me, and you know where he is now? He owns a pretzel shop downtown. And guess what? The pretzels are good, but they're not great. All I'm trying to do is save you that embarrassment later on, Bulma. Your art is in the technology side with your dad."

Bulma would have rather Yamcha had slapped her across the cheek. He could have told her she was ugly, said that she needed to lose some weight, commented about her humungous shirt that she slept in, anything would be better than what he had just said to her. Hell, even Vegeta had a place of concern when he pushed her, but Yamcha was just being cruel.

Her eyes stung at the realization, and she cursed him in her head.

"Are you ready to get out of here, babe? It's pretty cold, and I can think of a great way to keep warm," he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively.

Bulma took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm in the company of her parent's home. "Actually," she forced out, looking at him squarely in the eyes, "I'm going to stay here tonight."

Yamcha's face fell as he looked at her unpleasantly. "Are you serious?"

"Very serious. My dad wants to take me shopping tomorrow so I'll just spend the night."

"Oh. Okay, well do you think they'll mind if I stay too?"

"No, that's not a good idea," her words became clipped, tight, "I think you should head on home, Yamcha."

A thick silence grew between them with the intent of a malevolent spirit, draining whatever positive energy that could have brewed there bone dry. A train whistle blew again. In the far distance a drunk man declared it to be party time. Bulma was sure she could use a drink right now, but all she could manage to do was stare at her partner in complete disbelief and hurt.

"Fine," Yamcha replied in an angry tone, "I'll go on home, alone."

"Have a goodnight, Yamcha."

He shook his head as he stretched his neck back, running his teeth over his tongue. He couldn't believe her right now. "It's the fucking pasta," he whispered, turning to leave her, "It's always the goddamned carbs."

Bulma watched as he slid through the doors, counting down the seconds until he drove off. She leaned over the railing, cupping her hands together as she heard the startup of his engine, followed by an aggressive acceleration. She sighed as she saw his brake lights bend a corner and disappear behind a row of homes.

A veil lifted from her eyes as she mulled over their spat. And while it did not absolve her of any guilt, it certainly made her question exactly where they stood, and what was even worth it anymore.

It also made her wonder what exactly kiss had meant, outside of an attraction.

Bulma needed to marinate on a lot of things, but first she required a good night sleep and bottle of her mother's best wine.

oooOooo

The address listed on the white paper matched a quaint building in the artsy neighborhood where she had previously 'stalked' Vegeta. It was on a different street than she had ventured down, and it stood out like a ruby among diamonds. To her father's urging, she had taken a cab there, said that it would do her mind some good to go on a day adventure. And as her feet pressed against the cobble pavement, she realized just how right he was.

She stared into the window of the shop, taking in a mental stock of their inventory. Already she could see oil paints that had to have been imported from France, various canvas papers lining the walls in artistic glory. Bulma smiled, feeling like a child in front of a toy store, and just absorbed it all in. She felt giddy, and mentally thanked her father for suggesting the place to her. She would be in here for hours, she knew, and the only thing that would make the trip better would be a warm mocha latte.

Her nose followed the scent of chocolate and coffee, making her turn around to look across the street. A cute little coffee house beckoned her, enticing her taste buds with its warm yellow exterior and dancing java beans on the awning. She braced herself to cross, reaching in her pocket for her wallet.

And when she looked back up again she saw him, heading towards a nearby music store.

Bulma's heart hitched in her chest. Of course she hadn't seen him since the incident, but she certainly hadn't expected to run into him here, of all places. He hadn't noticed her yet, thank all of the gods, and Bulma tried to reason with her feet to move before he did. With all of the confusion that slept in her belly, she didn't need the added dilemma.

But then again…

She shouldn't have to avoid him, right? After all, she tasted the liquor on his breath when his tongue asked for permission to invade her mouth, so it was possible that he didn't even mean it. She didn't know if that made it better or worse, but it wasn't something she felt like mulling over at the moment. To hell with the latte, she decided, if she had to stew over this for too long, then what was the point?

Just as her feet were about to gain back their momentum, he happened to glance across the street, immediately locking eyes with hers. Everything else blurred out, like negatives on a photo strip, only Vegeta looking at Bulma, and her breath getting caught in the ladder of her throat.

His face was expressionless, but she was sure that the calm demeanor did not possess her as well, and she wondered when he would eventually turn away. Instead, to her surprise, he crossed the street.

She mumbled for him to stop, wondering what it was he thought he was doing, and felt her heart fluctuate with every step of his Oxfords against the cobblestone. By the time he reached her, Bulma was an anxious mess, threatening to spill in front of the art shop so they could use her as paint.

His hands shoved in his pockets, and his thick eyebrows remained stoic, he stepped a few stones in front of her and merely said, "Bulma."

His deep voice made a chill scratch her spine with its long fingers, and she couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her lips. "Vegeta," she all but whispered in reply.

They stared at each other for a while, the others around them still moving about like hazy objects with no destination, as if some grand deity was watching them through a magnifying scope. Bulma wanted to find an excuse to leave, but the longer she looked into his eyes that resembled midnight, the harder it was for her to find a reason to go.

Vegeta's eyes tore away from hers, giving her a solid breath back, and he looked behind her at the art supply store. A knowing grin lifted the corner of his mouth and he looked back to her. "Stocking up?"

She nodded, although the gesture was more meant as an excuse to find her small voice. "My dad told me about this place. It looks like it will be amazing."

"You mean you haven't gone in yet?"

She shook her head, slightly disappointed with the small talk. Here stood two people that had given each other the sharpest of tongues, and after one kiss, could barely function a real conversation. She watched Vegeta's grin dim, and something inside of her dimmed, too.

"What are you going to paint?"

"I'm not sure yet," she blushed, "but the inspiration is definitely there."

"I see."

There it was again, that weird silence that she was growing to hate. She wished she could morph it into a balloon so that she could pop it, and all the things that they needed to say could trickle out with the release of helium.

"Vegeta, I-"

"-I apologize to you, Bulma."

Bulma shook her head in disbelief, wondering if she heard him correctly. Of all the things she thought she wanted him to say, she couldn't be sure that an apology was one of them.

"You are dating someone," he continued, "And despite what I think, I shouldn't have put you in such a compromising position. I simply had too much to drink."

She felt like he was pulling air from under her feet that she didn't realize she was floating on. Even though she had assumed that much to be true, hearing it spill from his lips brought a discomfort over her that was unsatisfactory.

"Is that all that was?" She asked, disappointment lacing through her words without her consent, "Just your drinking?"

Something flashed over his eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone, and he nodded stiffly. "I apologize for letting myself become clouded. I shouldn't have kissed you at all."

That was the pinch that tugged her heart, and Bulma could barely stand it.

"Don't say that," she whispered before she could stop herself, "Don't act like you didn't want to. Don't apologize for it like you were alone in the situation." She stepped closer to him, although every part of her brain screamed at her to stop, and she really felt like time slowed then. Even the smell of chocolate coffee couldn't overpower the woodsy cologne that attached to him like a second skin.

She stared up at him with eyes so large and curious, tempted to run her fingers over his cheek and see what happened when fire collided with ice. "Because you weren't," she said after a moment.

She watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and he licked his bottom lip as wind tickled the spikes of his hair. "What are you saying, Bulma?"

You know what I'm saying. "That…you weren't alone, Vegeta. That…I kissed you back. That…I wanted to kiss you back."

Vegeta's eyes opened wide as he looked at her, and she felt nervous as if she was fifteen again and talking to someone completely out of her league. He slowly reached out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing over her cheek. Bulma shivered at the warmth, feeling it tingle all throughout her body. Her lips parted, and she felt herself slowly getting closer to him, wondering what they looked like right now. Did the woman at the coffee shop think they looked cute? Did the people in the art supply stop wait with bated breath for them to seal the deal again? Were they as anxious as she?

Was he?

Her lids closed as she braced to feel his warmth again, but suddenly his hand was removed from her face and a coldness replaced his body. She opened her eyes to find him backing away from her, a snarl on his lips.

"Damnit, Bulma," he pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, "We can't keep doing this."

"Wait, Vegeta—"

"Stop! Just…" he sighed, looking at her again, "…just stop. Look, you can't keep doing this. I don't need to taint you with my own sins. You're too…good for that. So go in your art store, get your supplies, and go home to your boyfriend, okay? And…"

She tasted the words before he could say them, and she felt her eyes sting already.

"…And just stay away from me, Bulma."

He turned from her then, but not before letting his eyes linger on her for a slight moment longer, not before she noticed him cursing under his breath. And then his back was to her, his long trench coat swaying in the wind, taunting her with every step.

And she stood on the cobblestones like a fool as the world resumed it pace around her, except this time the colors were a little greyer, and she couldn't paint it even if she tried.

oooOOOooo

A/N:

Okay guys, can I say I LOVED the enthusiasm on the last chapter?! Especially my friends on AO3, I could pretty much hear the squeals through the screen. I seriously love all of you guys, and thank you for always managing to make my day a little brighter.

Sorry if this chapter was a little boring, tbh I struggled with a good transition before we get to the good stuff, *wink wink* but I hope you enjoyed it none theless. I figured Bulma needed a chapter to dwell on everything.

Yamcha is a douche.

Thank you guys a million for all the likes, faves, follows, comments, kudos and all that jazz. You all have helped me in such a rough time in my life, and words could never begin to repay you all for your kindness. If I could, I would sent you all a Vegeta themed present to make you as happy as you made me (please excuse the sap, I'm a sap atm)

Please R&R if you enjoyed!

Until next time, my friends!