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Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ or these character, who are about to engage in shenanigans.

XVII.

Desire

Tip-toeing from the nursery, where a finally sleeping Bra laid in her crib, Bulma crept into her bedroom and slid open her nightstand drawer. There, like a beautiful beacon of shining, immeasurable ecstasy, rested a brand-new pack of cigarettes. The sight was almost more than she could stand; she let slip a gasp of joy as she grabbed the laminated box and began to unwrap it with shaking fingers. As she pulled one of the slender, white sticks free, she could feel her heart begin to race. She carefully tucked the single cigarette into her breast pocket, grabbed her lighter, and closed the newly opened pack back in the drawer. "Hello, old friend," she whispered as she walked on to the balcony, taking she cigarette from her pocket and placing it between her lips. She flicked on her lighter, shielding the flame from the gentle breeze, and inhaled deeply.

"What are you doing?" The gruff voice caught the scientist by surprise and she choked on the smoke.

"Erm—nothing! What are you doing? Where did you come from?" Bulma demanded, tossing her cigarette over the balcony railing as she wheezed and tried to catch her breath.

"I was training when I smelled the foul odor of those horrible Earth things," the Saiyan informed his mate, crossing his arms.

Bulma rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged her shoulders, giving her best performance of innocence. "Horrible-earth-things could literally mean anything to you, Vegeta. Just today that's what you called the coffee pot, my magazines and throw pillows!" she countered.

"You know what I mean!" Vegeta growled, eye twitching. "I told you I did not want you to use those things anymore. They are bad for you, and they smell disgusting."

At this, the blue haired vixen narrowed her eyes. "Listen here, pal, you can't tell me what to do. I stayed good and clean every second I carried your daughter, but the cat is out of this bag, and I deserve a cigarette. In fact, I deserve several!" She put her hands on her hips and leaned her face close to his—a familiar offensive position. She had forgotten how good his stupid, Saiyan sense of smell was.

"That is not the point. You will cause yourself harm and it is unacceptable." Vegeta countered her stance, leaning even closer towards her. This was one of her usual tactics; the closer they came to one another physically, the more likely it was that the argument would be dropped and they would become heatedly intimate. She was counting on this, he knew, but he was not going to let her get off that easy (in either sense of the word).

"Good point, honey! I'll tell you what! I'll quit smoking as soon as you stop breaking bones, dislocating joints and rendering yourself unconscious. Fair?" She pressed her forehead against his, gaze intense, words punctuated by the force with which she pushed them through her gritted teeth.

The Saiayn backed away from her and made a fist. "That is hardly the same!"

"You're right! What you do to yourself every other day is way worse than a lousy cigarette every now and then!" Bulma insisted, tossing her hair. "Now, unless you intend to stop beating yourself up in the gravity room on the regular, hustle on back to it so I can light up in peace."

"I train so that I can remain strong enough to protect you, our children, and this miserable planet. For what greater good are you filling your lungs with tar?" Vegeta spat, glaring at his insufferable mate.

Bulma blinked. "Did you research this?" she asked, finding his use of the word "tar" oddly specific.

His ears tinting red, the Saiyan turned away. "Fine, you want to make yourself ill, be my guest. It's none of my concern," he growled.

Despite herself, the scientist smiled, and she wrapped her arms around her husband's torso, leaning her head against his strong back. "I'll cut back, alright? Promise!" she said, nuzzling him slightly.

The crimson of his ears darkening, Vegeta gave a "hn," and shrugged himself out from under his wife's embrace. "Shouldn't you be checking on the infant?" he stated, changing the subject in his typical, non-casual and completely obvious way.

"She's asleep," Bulma informed him, re-initiating her embrace, this time from the front. "Do they really make me smell that disgusting?" she drawled, voice like honey, lips brushing his ear.

"Yes," Vegeta assured her, the scent from even one puff unmistakable to him. Yet, beneath the stench of the cigarette was the sweet aroma of his mate, and he allowed himself to give into it, his nose traveling her neck and finding haven in her hair.

"Wow, big tough guy with a super powered smeller," the scientist teased, her voice oozing with so much seduction that her husband could not even hear the sarcastic note. He kissed her passionately, groping hands tearing her shirt (literally) away.

"You are an insufferable distraction," he informed her, tone oddly serious for the intensity and intimacy with which he touched her.

"And you are an insufferable outfit murderer. I liked that shirt," she said, although her words were barely audible through the frequency with which her lips were pressed against him. As they found their way to the bed, and she pulled him on top of her, she imagined how good a cigarette was going to be after this.