Concerto Eighteen

Episode 46

oooOOOooo

Thick clouds the color of gray dueled in the sky, letting out their ferocious battle cries by way of thunder. Bulma shifted in her driver's seat at the loud explosion as she drove down the express way, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter as she tried to focus through the heavy droplets of rain that poured down angrily against her car. The abrupt change in the weather was fitting, she decided, a complete contrast to the friendly sun that shied itself away from its people only moments prior.

The start of her morning had gone exceptionally well. She and Vegeta lazed about in his apartment after spending the night packing the last of his items, tucking away memories that she hoped to explore in a completely new setting. She was grateful that he had decided to purchase the lot after all, considering that it would still be a part of her life as well. Suddenly, the paint smudges in the floor of the lot seemed less of a nuisance and more of a decoration to welcome him home. His home, and perhaps hers as well. The declaration had barely left his lips, "I wouldn't mind your company more often when I move in the lot, in case you get bored of your parents home," before she had pounced on him, showering him with her grateful affection. In that moment, she ironically thought that nothing could possibly rain on her parade.

Until, that is, her phone rang unceremoniously, calling her back to the reality that seemed to go against everything she had tried to rebuild.

'You have a collect call from the East City Metropolitan Jail. Do you wish to accept the charges?'

Her teeth grinded into each other as she replayed that moment in her head. The confusion that painted her face. The hesitant 'yes' she spoke into the receiver. The familiar voice that begged for her help, making her leave her euphoria and slam into a ghost that she was beginning to forget loomed over her like a shadow. She had grabbed her keys immediately, halfway explaining to Vegeta what was going on and how she needed to get there quickly. She watched his jaw tense with a rebuttal stained on his tongue, but he swallowed it and told her to be careful. He handled it better than she would have given him credit for, better than even she would have.

'Bulma? Please…I…know I should be the last person to call you, but I really messed up this time.'

The absolute nerve. She agreed whole heartedly that she should be the last person to be offering her assistance, and her initial reaction was to flat out decline any services. But she had definitely inherited her parents' softer spirits, the kind that made it impossible to turn away from a distress call. That didn't help the fact that the call left her mouth littered with cigarette ashes, however, nor did it satisfy the rumbling in the pit of her belly. All the care and concern she had did little to mask the anger that hit her body like the flashes of lightning that illuminated the sky before her.

'Please…Can you please come and get me? I'll make it up to you, somehow. I promise.'

The terror in the voice behind the words made her press a little harder on the accelerator, and she admitted that there was something refreshing about hearing him sound so human for once. It was the driving force behind why she had reluctantly agreed to make the hour long drive, even though she cursed him every second until his name was completely replaced with, 'fuck you.' Deep down, despite her rush to get down the jail, Bulma was pissed. And most of it was at herself. For her own sake, for her own pride, she should have said no. That way, she could've avoided seeing the way Vegeta's eyes flashed angrily for a second, and all of it was accusatory of her. She watched him struggle to get it together, and when he looked at her just before she left, his face told her that he understood. Bulma wasn't the type of person to let anyone wallow in pity, especially if she could help. And while she would have understood if Vegeta had demanded that she stay, a small sense of relief echoed through her limbs at the fact that he had let her go without a fuss.

She was beginning to wonder if he was more of a class act then she initially thought , and definitely more than he liked to let on.

She got off on the exit closest to the jail, the rain announcing her arrival as it beat against the roof of her car in a relentless rhythm. It was growing impossible to see as her windshield turned the color of an opaque white, but between the hurried movements of her wiper blades and good luck, she managed to make it to the station, sitting eerily off in the middle of nowhere, its goth black exterior showing just how old the building truly was.

The rain beat down on her angrily, soaking through the fabric of her turtle neck dress. She was grateful that she had at least thought to put on knee high boot stockings to save her legs from getting as soaked as her bare arms. By the time she entered in the cool aired jail, Bulma was freezing.

She ran her fingers through her short hair, trying her best to run excess water from the ends, but all it did was sit in a lazy puddle on the floor around her feet. A sense of dread washed over her as she took in the surroundings of the jail. The walls were an obscure kind of white with foreboding etched into the tile. The correctional officers were just as bad, with about ten of them huddled together near the front desk but not saying anything. It was deafening quiet, making her choke on the realization that of course he called her to get him. There was no way she could stand this herself, and she was merely 'visiting'.

The officers watched her as she approached and she realized that's all they seemed to be doing. Two watching her, one watching the door, the others watching surveillance of what she assumed to be the pods belonging to the inmates. Everyone watching, watching, watching. It made her nervous, and especially for him.

She cleared her throat as she settled up to talk with the man at the front desk. Her words became nestled in the spaces between her teeth as his intimidating stare bore into her, and she wasn't sure if he was just overly serious or incredibly dangerous. Perhaps he was just sick; his skin did seem rather green. Either way, she didn't want to stick too long to find out.

"Hello, Officer….Piccolo?" She heard him gruff as she read his badge, reminding her of how Vegeta would remark when he was irritated. She swallowed roughly, determined not to wilt like a dying flower petal. "I got a call from an inmate here, his name is-"

"You're Bulma Briefs," Officer Piccolo set back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head, getting a good look at her, "Thought I recognized you from the papers. Pretty fascinating stuff you guys have going down at Capsule Corps, if you ask me."

Bulma forced a smile to stretch across her face, her bangs lightly sweeping her forehead as she pretended to bounce in appreciation. "Wow, thanks I really appreciate it. But actually, I'm here because-"

"Hey, Nail! Can you believe this is Bulma Briefs?"

"Well no shit," another guard rounded the desk, his eyes immediately locking with Bulma's. She wondered if the two were related, given by how much they looked alike, when she then realized that they all kind of favored each other in a sense. This one, Nail, pressed his palms to the counter and slightly leaned over it, looking her up and down, "And here I always thought that the blue hair was a fraud. But it turns out that's the real deal, isn't it? Piccolo here loves reading that science newletter that comes around every few months. And you and your dad are always in it. Is his hair authentically purple, too?"

Bulma took a deep breath and tried to compose her growing irritation. They were seriously bombarding her with questions about her celebrity than trying to deal with her more pressing matter. She wished for a moment that Vegeta would've come with her; there was no way this conversation would have continued past the cordial pleasantries if his brooding stare was present. "Look, I really appreciate your praise, but I'm a little frantic to—"

"What's someone like you doing over here?" Piccolo raised an eyebrow at her, confusion painting his face with the color of lime, "Nobody really comes here except in handcuffs. And I doubt you broke any laws."

"I'm trying to get to that."

"Is it some press thing? Does my hair look fine?" Nail ran his fingers over his bald scalp and laughed ridiculously, making Piccolo snort and Bulma seethe.

"If you would stop interrupting me, then maybe I can tell you why I'm here in the first place!" Her voice had taken flight, screeching in an otherwise silent void. The stares of the officers around came judgmentally down on her as irritation pooled over Piccolo and Nail's features.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your tone," Piccolo's voice had taken several octaves lower, his face contorting into a more serious expression that made Bulma's skin icy, "This is a police station, not a circus for your theatrics."

Bulma felt her tongue swell in the confines of her lips and she squeezed her eyes shut. Somewhere in the depths of her chest, she found the words that were wrapped tightly in censorship, and she forced them tightly through her lips like a dying wind. "I don't mean to yell, Officer Piccolo. I only want to bail out a friend and then I will leave your precious facility."

"Hmph, it's not that great," Nail mumbled to himself before scribbling back on a clipboard. "The walls are chipping and the plumbing is weird…"

Piccolo sat up a bit straighter and opened a program on the computer, taking his eyes off of Bulma and seeming to be bothered with her presence. "And what's your friend's name? Although judging from the crowd we usually get, I'm willing to bet which one it is."

"His name is Yamcha. Yamcha Wolfe."

"Of course it is," Piccolo pressed his lips together and Bulma assumed he was patting himself on the back for being right. She rolled her eyes and shifted her weight on one hip, staring at some poster on the wall while Piccolo did whatever he needed to do.

After some time he slid a paper over to her. Her eyes immediately darted to the price of his bail and her jaw sank to her feet. She searched the answers to Piccolo's face in shock.

"A $5,000 bail?! What the fuck did he do, steal a car?!"

"Ma'am, if I have to ask you to lower your tone one more time, poor little Yamcha will be doing laps for me for the next month until his court date. Now do you want to continue on?"

Bulma bit her teeth. This officer was really pulling the strings of her nerves. "Why," she began to spit out choppily, "Is his bail so much?"

"Well for starters ma'am, you're only required to pay 10% of his bail, so technically we only need $500 from you. And secondly, your friend here got pissy drunk and got into a pretty bad fight. And that was only after he was seen urinating on the side of a cop car," Piccolo clenched his jaw at the last part, making Bulma wonder if it was his car that had gotten soiled, "Add all those things up plus a complaint ticket from the bar he was in, and you've gotten yourself a $5,000 fine. Any other questions?"

Bulma couldn't believe the words that she was hearing. Yamcha? Mr. I-can't-eat-this-slice-of-pizza-because-fat-carbs-sugar Yamcha? If he hadn't called her in the first place, she would have never believed the words leaving Piccolo's mouth. The worst thing she thought the man was capable of was never returning a book from their college library, and even then she thought he may have felt bad about it. What in the hell could have transpired to make the otherwise good citizen stoop so low like that-

…Oh.

A pain staking weight sank in Bulma's stomach. She felt the waves of guilt wash over her body until it spilled from her flesh, and she was sure Piccolo could read it over her face at that moment. It was her, it was all her. While she hadn't forced Yamcha into his one night of crime, there was no denying to Bulma that she had tickled the scratch to his wounds. She took a deep breath and dug in her purse for her wallet. "You guys take credit, right?"

"Yes, but you'll have to round the back to see Dende to pay. He handles all of that stuff. Follow me."

Officer Piccolo led her down a hallway slathered in gray paint, making Bulma feel even worse. A part of her was incredibly angry with Yamcha for being such an irresponsible ass, and the other was completely saddened at the thought of seeing him fall so low. And she was most likely the catalyst. Lucky her.

She was dropped off in front of a small window in what seemed to be the back of the jail, and a short man (or at least what Bulma assumed to be an adult) smiled at her warmly. It was a complete contrast to the officers at the front of the station.

"How can I help you, miss?"

Bulma immediately slid her card and Yamcha's paperwork in the dip of the glass, just wanting to get the situation done and over with already. "I'm here to bail out this man."

Dende's face fell to a frown. "Actually, our debit reader is offline today. It's not due to be back up until tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Bulma was absolutely convinced that somewhere in the sky, the gods were laughing down at her torment. "I can't wait that long!"

"There's an ATM close by, in walking distance actually. But due to the rain, I'm not sure you'd want to. If you cross the street and head about three blocks down, past the old N'Ouija manor, there's a health store on the left. They have an ATM you can use."

Bulma's brain tossed out whatever she was originally thinking and absorbed the tidbit that Dende unknowingly gave. "N'Ouija manor?" She repeated the phrase slowly, letting it coat her tongue with marble. "As in, Vegeta N'Ouija, the musician?"

"The one and the same. It's sad, when you think about the history there," Dende frowned as if the tragedy affected him personally, "But it's great Vegeta's doing so well for himself. His mother would be proud, she was pretty active in the community and always talked about him."

"Yeah," Bulma nodded sullenly, although her mind was a thousand miles away, "It is pretty sad." A tightness formed in the back of her throat at the remembrance of what Vegeta had told her. Even though he was as transparent as he was going to be, Bulma knew that a part of him was withholding information for her own sake, and perhaps his own sanity as well. How ironic, that the woes of her ex-boyfriend would lead her directly to the dirtied history of her current boyfriend? Bulma nodded at Dende and gripped her purse tighter, knowing she would ignore his advice.

Not even a little rain would deter her gazing through the looking glass of the manor Vegeta used to call home.

oooOOOooo

The street that the N'Ouija manor occupied had a strange presence, almost like the sudden and still quiet before a round of thunder, and Bulma wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she drank it all in. It was a large estate cuddled under thick willow trees, the brown brick of the building sitting earthily against the forest green grass. The manor itself slept behind thick black iron that wrapped it away from any neighbors. The lawn seemed untouched as if time kept its dutiful fingers around the fountain and shrubbery so intricately scattered about. Bulma wondered if the personal touches were that of Mrs. N'Ouija, and if so, she felt for a moment as if she really knew her.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling for her to be in the midst of something so personal to Vegeta. She let her eyes wander over each and every inch of the estate, wondering where Vegeta might have played, or where he would sulk off to when his feelings were hurt. Even as an adult, Vegeta would pout and walk to another room if Bulma managed to wound him, and she would always find herself choking down a laugh as she went to make up with him. He'd give in and pretend as if the slight had never occurred, and Bulma would think of how big of a baby he could be in that regard. She couldn't help but wonder if Vegeta's mother found herself in those exact situations on this very site.

She leaned against the gate, the rain massaging her back lightly. It had let up since her walk, thankfully, but as she absorbed herself in to the quiet manor, she found she wouldn't have cared if the rain decided to come back at its full capacity.

"No the place isn't haunted, no Mrs. N'Ouija doesn't scream at the top of her lungs every full moon, and no you can't go inside to see if I'm right or not."

The feminine voice caught Bulma off guard, putting a scratch on the vinyl of her thoughts. She turned her head around to the house across the street, seeing a woman around her age staring at her from the porch. She had her hands cocked on her hips, watching Bulma with a combination of curiosity and irritation. Her short, midnight fire hair danced in the wind as it blew past, and Bulma noticed how beautiful she was to look at.

"That cover all of your questions?" She began to walk down the porch and head to the end of her driveway, not caring either about the rain. "You haven't been the first to be all curious about the infamous N'Ouijas and I know you won't be the last. But seriously, aren't you a little too old to be believing in cult stories?"

Bulma scrunched her eyebrows together and pursed her lips, mimicking the stance of the woman across the street. "Excuse me, but I believe we're probably around the same age. And who says I'm believing anything of the sort?"

"What I meant was we usually get teenagers coming around here. They're usually loud and full of gossip and I'm sick of it," she crossed the street now, holding a hand to block out the thick raindrops from her eyes, "So if you're not here for some wild urban legend, why are you staring like you're searching for an answer to whatever question is on your face right now?"

Bulma's face softened and she looked away, trying to scramble a believable answer. What had she come here for anyways? It wasn't as if anyone lived here, and no trace of Vegeta remained other than the name scratched into the front of the gate. "It's a beautiful home, I just wanted to look."

The woman snorted and Bulma could tell that she didn't believe her lie. But it was the only one she had at the moment, so she let the acidic words slither from her lips and fall to her feet. "Well, I don't really care what reason you have for being here, as long as you don't plan on heckling any of us about something your buddies told you on the internet." She shook her head and extended her arm, "The name's Fasha."

Bulma slid her slippery palm against Fasha's and shook it lightly. "Bulma."

"Well, that's a name you don't hear everyday, unless it's anyone who knows you that is." Bulma wanted to correct her in that regard, but kept her lips still instead. "I suppose you at least know what happened here right?"

Bulma shook her head, the corners of her mouth dropping with the weight of that truth. "Only that they died, but I don't know how."

"Oh boy," Fashsa went to the gate and leaned on it just as Bulma had, resting her chin on the back of her palms, her wet hair clinging to both sides of her face. "Well I've lived across the street for almost twenty-nine years now. I pretty much grew up with Vegeta and Tarble -those were the sons of the estate. They were a nice family, and all of them extremely talented. Especially that Vegeta, he definitely took after Yasai." A smile crept on Fasha's face as she turned to Bulma. "Now Yasai was a real class act. She was like a second mom to me when my own was too caught up on work to give a damn. She would even give me piano lessons while she would teach Vegeta, although he was far beyond my skills. In fact, we went to the same performing arts high school. We entered at the same time, but he graduated a year after we attended. A year!"

"Wow," Bulma said, her admiration for Vegeta growing in her chest, "That's pretty remarkable." Her Vegeta, ever the prodigy.

"You're telling me. He was so gifted that he was getting job offers left and right. Yasai was so proud of him. By the time we were sixteen, he could play every single instrument in the band and orchestra. I think that's the time he started writing his own stuff. When she realized that Vegeta had surpassed even her expertise, which was something to say because Yasai could play so beautifully, she invested in an antique shop with her sister. It was called Yasubi's Fine Goods, but now they've changed it to Nappa's Fine Goods. New ownership, I suppose."

Bulma's eyes widened at that information. So the shop that Vegeta had been visiting the day she followed him around, belonged to his mother? Suddenly, Bulma found herself anxious for Fashsa to disclose more information about Vegeta and his family. "What about the dad? Mr. N'Ouija? Was he talented too?"

Fasha's face fell and the light in her eyes blew out like a candle, a scowl forming on her lips. "Yeah," she replied bitterly, "He was talented alright. A talented asshole." Bulma watched as some old film played in Fasha's head, patiently waiting for her to continue. Finally she did, but not before taking a deep breath to calm her apparent nerves. "Mr. N'Ouija used to play a bit himself when I was younger, but then he stopped all together. Soon, it was mainly Mrs. N'Ouija, Vegeta and sometimes Tarble, if he felt up to it, that were the real musicians of the family. I suppose Mr. N'Ouija started investing in…other things.

"There were talks of him maybe having an affair, but most of us wrote that off as stupid because, man, Mrs. N'Ouija sure was gorgeous. I used to wish that I could look like her when I got older, sometimes she used to even tell me that I had achieved her in that regard," Fashsa chuckled, looking down to her feet and pretending to kick something. "I had even heard that he had a gambling problem; always spending money to make more, completely caught up on the get rich quick lifestyle. But either way, he really wasn't around for a while. And when he was, it was usually in some sort of screaming match with Vegeta. He just seemed so hard on the guy, like he wanted him to stop being a musician or something and work for him. But Vegeta wasn't backing down easily. He told me about a week or so before it happened that he had enough and was moving out and he was going to take Tarble with him. When I asked him about his mom, he looked at me icily and said she had made her weak choice, whatever that meant."

Bulma was instantly reminded of the argument in his office all those months ago, when he was screaming at her for not doing better. At the time, Bulma felt that Vegeta was speaking to a phantom behind her, screaming his irritation at it rather than her. Now, standing here and listening to the weight of Fasha's words, Bulma saw that her hunch just might be true.

"It was like a dark cloud just sprang out of nowhere over them all. One moment they were happy, or as happy as they could be, and the other, we're hearing rumors that Mr. N'Ouija got himself involved with something more dangerous than some affair. He began to act weird, and to be honest, I think they started selling a lot of their stuff. And I mean a lot. I became worried when I saw Vegeta one afternoon, though. He was screaming so loud I could hear him in my bathroom, telling his dad how he took the last good thing he had, but he'd never get his grandfather's lighter. Vegeta drove off furiously as his mother broke down in the lawn, begging for him to come back. It was the saddest thing; I remember going to bed just feeling so lousy for them." Fasha's expression saddened, her eyes appearing to blink back tears, even though they could have gotten lost in the rain. Her face left Bulma's, instead looking at the manor with renewed interest, like she was seeing something that Bulma could not.

"That's when it must have happened, when I was asleep. I remember waking up to sirens, and the police carrying out three stretchers, talking about how this is the most gruesome scene they had ever witnessed. I threw on some slippers and went down to see, but it was a madhouse. I guess some of the people that Mr. N'Ouija was involved with broke in and tortured them all, even sweet little Tarble." Her words began to crack, choking up in the back of her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth to cover it, trying to fight through her emotion. "I don't even want to say some of the ugly things I heard they did, especially to Mrs. N'Ouija, but none of them had an open casket at the funeral. Vegeta came back that night, and I could tell he was distraught about having left earlier, when it happened - - - and so angry at that. No one could hold him back, not even the police. His uncle Nappa had to come and get him," Fasha's voice trailed off, like she was revisiting a memory that was too bitter and not at all sweet. "I haven't seen him since, except for when he makes the papers."

Bulma felt her heart beat sadly against her chest, reminding her that she was a human with too many emotions that ran deep. Her bones ached as she played a reenactment of what must have happened that night on this lawn. Vegeta lived everyday with that pain? To know that the last memory of his family was one of anger and hurt? No wonder he could mimick the devil sometimes; Vegeta had lived through his own personal hell. She gasped as her eyes teared up, unable to stop looking at the haunting scene before her. The manor looked completely different to her then, as if its exterior had been doused in the cruel shade of red.

"Poor Vegeta," she whispered, earning an eyebrow from Fasha.

"You say that so personally," Fasha folded her arms, "Like you know the guy."

Bulma just turned and stared at her, knowing her face told the depths of how well she knew Vegeta. Fasha looked taken aback for a moment before gathering her composure. "Really," she sounded almost impressed, "The two of you?" Bulma nodded, unable to find the words that sat in her heavy throat. "Well, Vegeta has definitely always wanted the finer things in life," Fasha's voice dripped with sarcasm, making Bulma feel territorial. She was about to question her remark when Fasha laughed. "Relax, geeze your face is expressional. I had a thing for him for a while, but it was never returned. Who would've thought he'd have a thing for blue hair?"

Bulma chuckled, her scalp tingling with the ghosts of Vegeta's fingers. Sometimes, when they lay in the quiet blanket of night, Vegeta would affectionately tell her how much he enjoyed her hair and it's 'odd coloring.' He would spend a long stretch of time combing through it with his fingers, watching the wisps of hair fall delicately back to Bulma's scalp before he would wash, rinse and repeat the motion. Bulma would always fall asleep under his admirable touch. "Yeah," she said finally, "Who would've thought?"

Fasha scoffed and turned away, flashing Bulma what she assumed was a white flag of a smile. "Listen, I'm sure that Vegeta still hasn't really healed from this. And I don't very much blame him. He lost everything that was important to him in the blink of an eye, and if the rumors are true, then I don't imagine he'll have much luck looking for any sort of justice. The guys that Mr. N'Ouija got himself involved with are the worst kind of people. Hell, they had no problem murdering a teenager and a sweet woman, and doing god knows what to them until they took their last breaths! Not saying Mr. N'Ouija deserved that terrible crime, but he's the one who got himself involved with that mess," Fasha waved her own words off as if she'd said too much, although Bulma believed that the woman was an open book for her life and everyone's around her. "All I'm trying to say to you is, take care of Vegeta, will you? I don't have to talk to him to know how he's doing, I can hear it in the way he plays. It's almost like he's calling out to her by way of his orchestra."

"Of course I will," Bulma responded immediately, no time to let Fasha's words digest. The woman seemed satisfied with the answer, taking one long look at the house before back to Bulma, her dark eyes filled with a sadness that wasn't there when she first came across the street. She said her goodbyes and walked back to her own house, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her shorts and making no effort to turn around. Bulma wondered if she had come by just to tell her that, or if she had been holding inside of her chest for years, unable to deal with the threat to erupt any more. Either way, Bulma wasn't sure if she was happy to have some insight, guilty that it hadn't been Vegeta who'd told her, or saddened that such a thing had to happen to a man that she loved so much.

She turned around and gripped the top of the gate, letting her fingers play with the cool wetness of the iron. "I'm sorry, for you all," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the back of her hand. A cool wind that carried rain breezed past her, giving her the same warm comfort that she felt the day Vegeta had taken her to the cemetery. She propped her head up, expecting to see some beautiful woman smiling at her through the window, her face so familiar yet so foreign to Bulma. Instead she was met with silent glass that needed to be properly dusted, and a sudden pang in her belly that told her she needed to go to the ATM.

oooOOOooo

Watching Officer Dende take her money and sign off on Yamcha's release papers finally made the breath that had gotten lost in Bulma's chest come out. He turned out of his pod and led her to a waiting room where they would release Yamcha to. The ugly, yellow plastic chair that she had to sit in made her thighs itch with their discomfort, but nothing was more awkward than Yamcha when he finally stepped through the thick blue door.

She remained in her seat as she took in his disheveled appearance. He definitely looked like he had a rough night, if the dark bags under his eyes and unkempt hair had anything to say about it. His eyes were low and pink, full of words that she knew he wanted to say. That he had better say. But he couldn't even look at her. He avoided her stare like it was the void of space, choosing instead to sit across from her with his head down and his hands clasped.

"Hey, B," he croaked out, staring at the tiles of the floor.

"Yamcha," the attitude behind the clipped tone of his name slapped him across the face, and Bulma hoped that he understood just how angry she was.

He dwindled his thumbs around each other, drenched in silence, only the loud ticks of the clock on the wall keeping them company. Bulma could wait for his explanation, she told himself, and they weren't leaving until he'd offer her one.

After what seemed like a long pause, Yamcha took a deep breath, one that started off confidently before shaking at the end, his body vibrating as he tried to choke back a sob. Bulma's own breathing hitched, unprepared to see him break down like this.

"I messed up, B," he whispered, and she had to struggle to hear it, "I really fucked it all up this time."

"Yamcha," she replied, this time softer and kinder, "What happened? What did you do?"

He looked up at her then, the reflection in his eyes shadowed by shame and regret. Bulma took in a startled breath as she observed his face. Yamcha had always had a large scar on his cheek, a deep branded X that became synonymous with his aesthetic, but now she tried to swallow in a new scar, one that stretched from the top of his eye, slanting diagonally downwards until it touched his jaw. It was an angry sort of red that made her own skin burn with pity. "What happened to you!?"

"I happened to me," he choked out, wiping his eye with the back of his hand and grimacing. "I….I really did it this time. Three cheers for Yamcha, the king of fucking his life up more than anyone else."

"That's not true," she retorted, her own voice small. She wasn't sure why she should care as much as she did, but hearing Yamcha talk so badly about himself crushed her own spirit. Sure, they just didn't work as lovers, and during that time, Yamcha had forgotten how to be a friend to her. But they were friends at some point, and Bulma never rested easily with her friends tearing themselves to shreds like hungry wolves.

"Is it not?" His eyes met her this time, and rather than an accusation being tossed at her by them, she saw instead that something else lay beneath them.

Self reflection.

"Let's not kid here like I'm not the reason you're nestled up with Vegeta of all people. And it hurts, Bulma, it hurts a fucking lot." His eyes narrowed with a sort of sentiment that Bulma wished he would have displayed in their relationship, but nothing he could say would ever make her leave the haven that was Vegeta. "Every time I think about it, I get so angry. First it was at you, then at him, but now I find it's more at myself." He swallowed roughly, locking his eyes squarely into hers. "I wasn't very good to you, Bulma, and I see that now. You're perfect, absolutely perfect, and I was a fool to think I could change what didn't need changing."

Bulma swallowed his words down with a bit of shock and gratitude, unable to cope at the moment with what those words meant to her. In one sense, she had been waiting for him to say them to her, waiting for him to grow up and take accountability for the end of their relationship. Yamcha certainly wasn't alone in their wicked dance, but she was tired of him placing the boulder of guilt solely on her shoulders. "Is that why you've gotten arrested Yamcha? Because of our history?"

"Our history," he repeated, scoffing at the selected words, "Don't….don't do that, B. Don't discredit all of those years together like it was an after-thought."

"Then what would you have me call it, Yamcha?"

"Our relationship. We were in love at one point Bulma. Before I got too focused on what I wanted that relationship to be versus what it actually was. And then on top of losing the love of my fucking life, I lost the orchestra. The one thing I was good at, the one thing I could proudly excel at, and I let it go because of a tantrum, just like Tien said." He chuckled to himself and looked away, the amusement sweating from his face and a more stern look in its wake. "I was angry and hurt and lost. And I started drinking. At first it would be with Goku and Krillin after they would get out of rehearsal, a bar here, a restaurant there. But then they started telling me I was over doing it and they had to get home, after all, Goku's got a family and Krillin is dating 18 for real now. And Puar doesn't even drink at all, so I found myself drinking alone. And that wasn't fun, so I started drinking whenever, wherever, anything to make me forget about the shit show that I call my life now. But last night…someone offered me some pill at the bar I was at. Said it would make me stop pouting around over my umpteenth beer. It made me stop pouting alright, it made me angrier."

"Yamcha!" Bulma covered her mouth, her eyes searching his face wildly, "You took drugs? From a stranger?"

"I get it, Bulma. It was a stupid thing to do. After that I really don't remember much, except I got into a nasty fight and the asshole got me with a broken beer bottle. I was taking a pee when this officer cuffed me, yelling at me the whole time at how he'll never get the stench of scum from his car."

Bulma decided, even though she had a premature opinion, that this was absolutely Officer Piccolo.

"I just…I don't want this to be my life, Bulma!" He looked back to her, his eyes brimming with tears. "I don't want to be the guy who can't get over his girlfriend. I don't want to be the jackass who can't help but think if he should have proposed already to get her to stay!"

"Marriage wouldn't have solved anything, Yamcha," Bulma crossed her legs and looked at him the way a mother does a child, "If anything, it would have prolonged the inevitable."

"But…" Yamcha's voice choked and he diluted his words to a whisper, "But didn't you love me enough to say yes, Bulma?"

Bulma swallowed, unable to look away from him. She knew she had all but walked right into that question, even if her feet were pulling the emergency plug. She didn't know what to say to him, but his face begged her for some sort of resolution to his guilt. She didn't want to be that for him, not anymore. If he wanted to have this conversation with her, then they both deserved her utter and complete honesty.

"At some point, I loved you like the wind Yamcha. But that's the problem, you were always like the wind, just breezing through me until I was nothing more than scattered leaves. We weren't those people to each other outside of sex and friendship. You're kidding yourself if you think otherwise."

"That wasn't true for me, Bulma! I loved you, I still do!"

"But did I fulfill you? Did I wake your sleeping bones with my smile, or make your skin breathe in places you had long thought to be suffocated? Did you ever get full off of our conversation, were you rebirthed after we kissed? You loved me Yamcha, but were you in love with me?"

This question seemed to startle him, seating him heavily to the back of his chair with restraint. His eyes looked around her face, and he didn't need to say that she was right. The sadness of his pupils said more than enough.

"But…I love you, Bulma."

"Sometimes that's not enough, Yamcha."

A sudden fire erupted his eyes, even though he tried to blink it away. "Is it enough with Vegeta?"

Bulma was ready for this, mentally putting on her gloves for this toe to toe round with Yamcha. "What Vegeta and I have is different, Yamcha. A completely different level. I don't know if you feel comfortable hearing about that part of my life."

He slowly nodded after several tense seconds as if he understood. His face broke once more and he ran his hand through his hair, a question sitting on his tongue. "Are you….are you happy, B? Can you at least answer me that?"

Bulma took a deep breath, feeling her own tense muscles relaxing with the expansion of her chest. She looked into the eyes of the man that she had pretty much grown into adult hood with, whom she had spent her entire college career and most of her twenties with. She remembered the silly things they would say to each other, when they would press their thumbs together and promise to keep each other's secrets like they were children. When Yamcha would stare at her under the soft glow of the lamp in their bedroom and tell her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. When he would rub her back after a bad thunderstorm and sing her favorite songs off key to make her smile. She missed that, she undoubtedly missed the friendship that blossomed between them, it even made her stomach ache with the thought that those days were lost upon them. But nothing -nothing - they shared could amount to the raw love and emotion she felt with Vegeta. It was like comparing the warmth of a sun to a lightbulb, and she had accepted that both truths were okay. "Yes, Yamcha. I'm probably the happiest I've ever been."

That was a blow to him, she could tell, but it was the cold truth. And Yamcha didn't need to be coddled anymore, not if he was as fed up with himself as his words let on. He gathered his face and smiled feebly, although she could tell there was a lot more he wanted to say. Instead he remarked, "Good. At least in that aspect, I'm happy for you Bulma. Maybe we don't have to hate each other, do you think?"

"Hate is a strong word, Yamcha. It would do me no good to associate it with you."

This seemed to lift his spirits a bit and he stood up, stretching his tired muscles. "I've never said it to you, but I'm sorry Bulma. I'm sorry for everything I've done to you, and I'm sorry I wasn't a good friend and a lousy partner. I'm sorry I didn't support your dreams, or tell you I think you're a great artist, and how I was afraid of being second to you in that field," He walked over to her and extended his hand, begging for her to take it with expression on his face. "I want to be a better friend to you, it would destroy me if you were completely gone from my life. Will you give me the chance to do so?"

Bulma sighed, standing up in front of him. She threw herself into a hug with him, startling his stiff stature. After a moment, he returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her back. He sniffled in her ear and Bulma laughed in response. "Thanks, B. Seriously, thank you for coming to get me and giving me another shot at our friendship. You're the best and Vegeta doesn't deserve you."

"Well for starters, you can know that talking badly about my boyfriend is strictly off limits. He absolutely deserves me."

"Ouch, boyfriend, that's going to take some getting used to."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

He pulled away from the hug, running his fingers down her head. "I won't blow it this time, B. If I do, you can ask your dad to turn me into a cyborg or something. Make me your own personal slave."

She threw her head back and laughed, relishing in the relief of not having to carry around this guilt any more. "You'd better not blow it, because I rather like that idea."

oooOOOooo

At night, the city moved differently. It was as if it was caught in a haze of after image photos, with everyone moving towards different intentions than when the sun was blessing them. The older Bulma had gotten, the more she appreciated it, the silence of the night that only the moon could birth, the feeling that anything was possible. It had grown to be her favorite time of the day.

And on a day like today, where it seemed like her emotions took off in a series of tornadoes, she allowed herself to bathe in the milky peace the midnight sky brought. After dropping Yamcha off at his apartment, the sun had completely gone down, making Bulma finally felt like she could shed her skin of the torment of the lit hours.

Her mother had called her during the drive, requesting that Bulma bring "that handsome boyfriend yours" to dinner. It made Bulma giggle that her mother had met Vegeta only once and instantly became smitten, fawning over him like a hormonal teenager, and making her stop asking about Yamcha. It took a small bit of effort on her part to entice Vegeta into going, especially after she discovered that he was nervous, claiming to have never met anyone's parents for a reason before. Bulma called it cute and Vegeta scowled and that was that. He even managed to find a casual but flattering outfit to impress her parents in (although he would never admit to it), and Bulma had to pretend it was no big deal when he made a detour to the store on the way to grab a desert. Yes, the nighttime seemed to turn things around for Bulma, indeed.

"Oh, my, look how handsome you are, Vegeta!" Her mother cupped her hands under her chin as she opened the door and let them in, her makeup as delicate and sunny as her mood, "This shirt fits you so nicely! I never realized that you work out! My, my Bulma, you've certainly hit the jackpot here!"

Bulma laughed nervously, feeling more embarrassed for Vegeta than herself. She knew that her mother doused herself in sugary flirtation, but not everyone was accustomed to her abrasive compliments. Even Yamcha had referenced the movie The Graduate after their initial meeting.

Vegeta straightened at her side, extending the cake towards her with a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. Bulma wondered if he was would be as flabbergasted as he was the first time, and she waited for the moment to tug on Vegeta's sleeve as an excuse to leave the room.

It never came.

"I brought this for you," he said directly, setting it in her hands, "I noticed that your dress had strawberries on it when we met, so I figured you must like them."

Mrs. Briefs opened her small slits for eyes the widest Bulma had ever seen them, her fire red lips parting in an appreciative smile. "Oh my, Vegeta! What a thoughtful thing for you to do! I love strawberry shortcake, it will go so perfectly with the duck I've made! What a handsome, thoughtful young man you are! If I were younger I would just eat you up."

Bulma watched as Vegeta's cheeks turned into tomatoes and she had to swallow down her laughter. Clearly, he was a victim to her theatrics too. He cleared his throat and merely said, "Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Briefs."

"Oh, please honey, call me Mom!" She turned toward the kitchen, beaming proudly at the cake in her hands. "Yes, I would like it very much if you called me Mom!"

Vegeta waited for her to disappear under the curve of the entry way before turning to Bulma, his face painted in confusion. "I don't think I'll be calling your mother 'Mom' anytime soon."

Bulma chuckled, wrapping her arm under his and resting her cheek against it. "I never thought you would, Vegeta."

Her home had always been a warm euphoria of safety for Bulma, but having Vegeta with her gave it an entirely new sense of appeal. She tried not to sink into absolute bliss as she watched he and Dr. Briefs go into an in depth conversation of the sciences. Vegeta was leaning in closely to him, his eyebrows interested in whatever her father was engaging in. Soon, she heard the conversation switch to music, and she could have cried as she listened to the light that accompanied Vegeta's words about his craft.

It almost, if just for a second, made her forget about the visit to the manor earlier.

The sudden thought crashed down on her body, stealing the smile from her face. Her eyes struck on Vegeta, the conversation he was in drowning out in the flurry of her own thoughts. The time around her felt as if slowed down until she was merely a spectator of her own life, watching the man in front of her walk so freely about his days even though the anchor of truth weighed down his ankles.

And how? She couldn't help but continuously ask herself this question, even over the laughter of her father at something crass Vegeta said. How does he do it? How did he find time to conduct music, to write the most beautiful pieces she had ever listened to? How did he juggle the stresses of dealing with Frieza, the pain of the last time he saw his family, and still finding the time to love her? How could he even stomach it? Bulma waddled in the water of pity while dipping her toe in the lake of admiration. Vegeta had such strength that she had never thought one could possess, to move forward, to keep going, to rebuild when it would have been understandable to destroy. It left her in awe, but it left her aching. Aching because she wanted to soothe the burn of his past. Aching because no matter how much she tried, she could never right those wrongs for him. And aching because even though she would understand, he never let his own pain get in the way of his growth with her.

And she had to question for a moment if she could ever be so fearless, so resilient.

Fasha's words made her realize what kind of relationship Vegeta had with his mother. Even through his own lips he admitted that she was the music behind his lyrics. And Vegeta had told her on numerous occasions that she reminded him of his mother. Did she deserve the title, Bulma wondered? Fasha had talked of Yasai as if she was the birther of all nations, the goddess of life and love. She had been pretty special to Vegeta, and Bulma felt incredibly saddened that she would never meet her. Or Tarble. Vegeta spoke of him rarely, but Bulma knew that being an older brother was a job that Vegeta took seriously and enjoyed. And it sounded like Tarble made both of those easy.

"Bulma, honey, are you all right?" Bulma was shaken out of her inner monologues and focused on her father. He was watching her acutely, Vegeta's expression similar to his.

"I'm fine, Dad," she cleared her throat, avoiding the burning curiosity of Vegeta's eyes, "Why do you ask?"

"You've just been staring this way, honey. And you've been ignoring your mother's calls for you."

Bulma suddenly felt embarrassed, feeling her body heat up at her mistake. She turned around to find her mother cradling a phone in her hand, a worried look on her face.

"I'm so sorry, Mom," Bulma stood up and smoothed out her dress, walking towards her mother, "I just zoned out for a second there."

"Oh, I can understand that darling, you had your mother thinking you were going to pass out or something! I was only telling you that you have a phone call. Some nice sounding lady from a gallery."

Bulma's eyes lit up and she threw a smile towards Vegeta, taking the phone immediately. She walked over to the window, feeling three sets of eyes burning into her back. "Hello, this is Bulma Briefs!"

"Hello my dear, this is Mrs. Baba from Galleria 53," the old woman's voice croaked in the phone, "I believe you remember our meeting, yes?"

"Of course I do! I could never forget something so amazing!"

"Wonderful, dear! I'm glad I don't have to reintroduce myself, you'd be surprised at how often I have to do that. Listen, I'm sorry about calling you so late in the day, but I was sitting here looking over the copies of your art you left me with, and I have to admit I am even more blown away than I was when you first showed them to me!"

"Oh wow, thank you so much!" Mrs. Baba had shown Bulma some of her own artwork, and Bulma was mesmerized. Hearing such a compliment from a talented artist as Mrs. Baba made her stomach soar in butterflies.

"It's the absolute truth! I just can't believe that you're self-taught to boot! I've been in this business a long time, Miss Briefs, and I must say to you that it's a rarity I come across a talent as natural as yours! It's brilliant! But I'm not phoning you to simply praise you for your work. I actually called to ask if you would take over for the gallery opening and host it. I would like to make you our honorary guest, if you don't mind."

Bulma almost dropped the phone from her hand and she found herself leaning against the wall for support. She made a gasping breath that startled Vegeta, and he was at her side almost immediately, trying to make sure she was alright. She looked up at him and tried to reflect her joy, but came up short.

"Would I mind? Of course not, I'd love that! This has been a dream of mine since as far back as I can remember!"

"Perfect, dear!" Mrs. Baba laughed into the receiver, "I'm glad to hear it! I'll be in touch with you sometime this week to discuss all of the details. You'll do so well, Miss Briefs, I'm sure of it. Just like I'm sure that you'll make quite the profit and reputation from your paintings."

"Really? You think so?"

"I've already had admirers come and ask to buy them off the spot! Your piece involving the lady and the mirror is one of your more popular ones; people seem to really love that. I've been using the walk ins for your work as advertisement for the gallery night - your gallery night. I hope that's all right."

"Of course it is!" Bulma couldn't help her voice from rising to the highest octaves of her range, making Vegeta touch her elbow and look at quizzically. "Thank you so much for this, Mrs. Baba. It's such an honor."

"Thank your talent, dearie, they're the real powers at play here. You have a bright future as an artist Miss Briefs. Enjoy your evening and I will talk with you soon."

"You as well!" Bulma ended the call and found herself staring at the phone in her hand. She shook her head in disbelief; truly this wasn't happening to her was it?

"Bulma," Vegeta's concerned and gruff voice broke through her thoughts, his onyx eyes studying her face, "What is it?"

Bulma remembered all of the times she doubted herself as an artist, feeling like she failed to fly before she even extended her wings. The times that she'd thrown a tantrum and discarded her paintings, only to regret it merely minutes later. The nights she'd sat up in her loft, wondering if it was worth it, if Yamcha was right, if she was kidding herself.

And then she remembered when Vegeta wouldn't let her give that part of her up, how he breathed fire back into her sleeping bones, into her wilted fingers. How he encouraged her, motivated her, made her feel like she was the star of her show instead of the audience. She looked across his face, the skin that had been littered with scars of tragedy, of love for her, of love for his family. The same lips that praised her and condemned Frieza. The same eyes that cried for one loss and loved with another. She wouldn't be here if it weren't for him, she wouldn't have gotten this phone call if it weren't for him.

So with the truth stained on her tongue, she said:

"It's you. Once again, it's you."

oooOOOooo

A/N:

The title of this chapter refers to Episode 46 of Dragon Ball, entitled Bulma's Bad Day

This chapter is a little overdue, I hope the length makes up for it!

Thank you everyone for being patient with me! I usually like to be a frequent updater, but with some life getting in the way with my depression/anxiety (those of you who are on Tumblr with me know about this) it made it hard to write anything. Good news is it's lifting a bit, which makes me have more clarity than anything.

I hope this chapter was good for you guys, I felt a little rusty since it's been a month since I've written this.

Please RR! I get a little worried if I'm still doing a good job from time to time, so the reviewers really help me out with your kindness.

Till next update, guys!