A/N: So, without any reference to the awful, horrid, terrible week that I suffered through, I would like to take a moment to respond to some of the reviews I received.
xxxxcrazychickxxxx: Your comment seriously made my day. And I had seven bad ones. Days, I mean.
madhatter45: I completely understand. Bulma's character is a bit childish at first though, so while I love the idea of writing her more "mature", I like the idea of her sort of expanding into this role. This may end up being a "coming" of age story for her.
Chronic Reviewers: I can't name everyone, but thanks for coming back time and time again to review. I hope I keep you guys entertained!
DISCLAIMER: There's no way to tell if I'm Akira. So... yes. I do in fact OWN Dragonball Z. I am its original creator.
Bulma was awakened by a loud thumping noise. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. There was no doubt in her mind that it had something to do with Vegeta. Most of her problems seemed to have something to do with him.
Not entirely in a good mood, Bulma yawned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The thumping noise continued.
She pulled a robe over her nightgown, cast her feet into slippers shaped like ducks, and swung her door open.
"Oh! Hi honey! Did I wake you?"
Bulma stared at her mother, her vision still blurry from sleep. "What are you doing with all those suitcases?"
Her mother was holding three suitcases in her arms. Two more were in front of her. She had plainly been kicking them across the floor..
"Your father just got invited to a special convention for scientists! He's getting an award and everything!"
"Wow. That's great! When does he leave?"
"This afternoon," answered Bunny as she struggled to maintain her grip on a heavy suitcase. "The convention lasts for a week!"
Bulma blinked. "A week?"
Her mother nodded. "That's right Bulma! And I'm going to go with him!"
Her first instinct was to shout 'No!' and throw a tantrum, as she had done as a child. Luckily, she had learned long ago not to trust her instincts. Instead Bulma swallowed, somehow managing to keep her mouth shut. A hard feat for her, no doubt.
"Let me help you with your luggage mom," she offered, shutting her bedroom door and grabbing two of the giant cases. "Where are we going with these?"
"Our room," her mother answered. "Your father and I have tons of stuff to pack!"
Not wanting to damper her mother's cheery mood, Bulma worded her next sentence very carefully.
"Mother," she began, "just who is going to be taking care of Vegeta while the two of you are at this convention?"
Bunny walked down the hall cheerfully, humming. "Oh, Bulma!" she exclaimed. "Don't be silly! You'll be here!"
She gripped the suitcase handles tighter in her hands, more determined than ever to keep her cool. She took in a great intake of air.
"I know that," said Bulma as she reached her parents room and pushed inside, "but who's going to take care of him? I can't cook for him! I can barely tolerate him!"
Her mother was thoughtful as she entered the large walk-in and began unhinging clothing from hangers. Bulma looked around at the room. It had been a long time since she had been here. It was large, but sparse, with just a king-sized bed and a few chairs.
Bulma sat down on one nearest the closet and watched her mother.
"I suppose the two of you will have to fend for yourselves," she answered in a chirpy voice, sounding positive about the upcoming week. "Oh! What a great way for the two of you to get to know each other!"
Her mother stepped out from the closet and held out two striped t-shirts, one red, and the other purple.
"Which one for your father?"
"Red," Bulma responded, sinking deeper into the chair cushion, sighing.
Bunny threw the shirt on the bed. "I think that you and Vegeta will have lots of fun next week! He's such a nice, polite young man!"
Bulma snorted.
"He keeps to himself," said her mother as she disappeared back into the closet, "but I just know that you'll be friends!"
Propping her head up on her fist, Bulma answered, "I don't think so mom. He nearly died when I mentioned it."
"Mentioned what?"
"Not being total strangers in the same house," answered the young woman. "He's the complete opposite of Goku."
"Give it time," her mother said, tossing out a few pairs of pants that landed on the floor. "After all, he hasn't been here for that long."
"Seventeen days and counting," Bulma called out.
He pressed 'stop' on the shiny, new control panel. As the red lights faded to normal fluorescent, the gravity began rapidly decreasing to '0'. A robotic female voice from overhead read him the time.
Vegeta grunted and stared out of one of the windows of the Gravity Room. He could not see very far past his own reflection but he could tell that it was late, and that he had missed dinner. This realization did not bother him. There would be plates of leftovers for him waiting in the refrigerator, as always.
Sliding open the doors, Vegeta walked out into the warm night air, his boots crunching the dry, sunburnt grass. As his stomach gave a rumbling growl, he could think only of hot dinner, the one thing that almost always seemed to be in surplus around here.
Upon walking into the kitchen, Vegeta noticed two things immediately.
One: The smell of his promised dinner was not there.
Two: The woman, as startlingly loud and annoying as she tended to be, was not awake.
Thoroughly irate, Vegeta stomped into the kitchen for sustenance. He opened the large white refrigerator and stuck his head halfway inside of it, sniffing. He reached a gloved hand inside of the fridge and pulled out a tiny white box labeled "Noodles". He liked noodles.
"Bah!" he declared once he had tasted them. He tossed the box of cold noodles on the counter. He shot a pea-sized blast towards it, hoping that the heat from his energy would be enough to reheat the food.
The box was on fire for approximately ten seconds before Vegeta doused it with water from the kitchen sink.
Vegeta placed his hands on the counter around the charred mess, considering his actions. He understood that there was some machine around the kitchen that would reheat his food. What he did not yet understand was how to use it, or rather, why he should use it, where there were so many servants at his disposal.
"WOMAN!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring that it was four in the morning, and certainly not caring that she was sleeping.
There was no response and Vegeta clenched his fists together and shouted her "given" name again. When she still did not appear, Vegeta made up his mind that the only way that he was going to eat would be to wake up one of the people upstairs.
Vegeta arrived on the second floor, his impatience growing most assuredly. He decided it would be in his best interest to wake the older woman, who would do as he said most quickly.
He thought of knocking as he stood by their room, and then decided against it. He pushed the door open with his finger and stepped inside.
Dumbly, he stared at the bed and around the room. There was no one present. The bed was neatly made and Vegeta correctly deduced that neither the old man nor his wife had slept in it.
Which meant he would have to wake her up.
Gritting his teeth, Vegeta stalked to the place he visited only in his darkest nightmares. He opened her door though it had been locked, and stood in her doorway.
She was completely sprawled out on top of her bed, the sheets bunched up around her and hanging half on the floor. Vegeta quickly glanced around her room. There were shoes and clothes in disorderly piles on the floor and notebooks open on her desk, pages fluttering wildly as wind blew in from an open window. And this was the woman who had complained about his room.
"Get up!" Vegeta barked, folding his arms and standing in front of her bed.
Bulma rubbed her eyes slowly and blinked as she awoke. She let out a large yawn. When she saw the shadowy figure lurking over her bed, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.
"HELP!" she shouted. "SOMEONE HELP ME!"
Vegeta's hands went to his ears at once but it was to no avail. Bulma had a set of lungs like no other woman he had ever encountered.
And suddenly something was hitting him. Something hard. And wooden.
She was attacking him with a baseball bat.
"YOU THINK YOU CAN SNEAK UP ON ME LIKE THAT JUST BECAUSE I'M A WOMAN?" she was shouting, leaping across her bed at him.
Thwack! The bat connected with Vegeta's skull and broke in two.
Vegeta reached out and grabbed her free arm, hoping to quiet her incessant screaming.
"It's me you fool!" he shouted at her as she hollered and beat her free fist upon his chest.
Even in the dark the Saiyan prince could see the bright blue of her eyes. "Ve-Vegeta? Is that you?"
He released her quite roughly, not forgiving her for hitting him upside his head. "I'm hungry," he said, answering her indirectly.
For a moment there was silence. And then:
"YOU INCONSIDERATE, SELFISH JERK!" she yelled at him, flicking on the light switch in her room.
Adjusting his eyes, Vegeta focused in on the angry woman in front of him who was wearing a pair of men's shorts and a giant green t-shirt. Her hair stuck out in all directions and Vegeta, who had been wearing a sneer, actually snickered.
"SO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?" she asked loudly, her chest heaving up and down from heavy breathing. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE AN INTRUDER!"
"Believe me woman, no man in his right mind would intrude into this room."
Beep. Beep. Beep. BZZZZZ.
The microwave lit up and inside a crisped box of noodles began to reheat. Bulma turned towards Vegeta who had been watching her actions without comment.
"See, there's really nothing to it. The microwave is one of the easier things to operate around here. You shouldn't have any more problems with it. I could even show you the oven and the toaster-"
Vegeta stopped her. "How long will this take?"
Bulma looked over at the digital timer overhead the microwave. "One minute and thirty seconds."
"That's not what I meant," Vegeta said with a frown. "I was referring to your speech."
Taken aback, but not surprised by his rudeness, Bulma put her hands on her hips.
"You should really let me teach you." She glared. "Especially since I feel as though most of our arguments are going to stem from your lack of knowledge concerning kitchen appliances."
He curled his lip. "Or your big mouth."
"That too," she said in an even tone, not wanting Vegeta to feel as though he was making her angry. "Now do you want my help or not?"
"I don't need your help, woman."
Bulma threw up her hands in despair. "You wake me out of bed at four in the morning just so that I can turn on the microwave for you, and now you don't need my help!"
"Right," he said to her monotonously, staring into the microwave.
She shook her head. "This is your last chance, Vegeta. We're going to be surviving here alone for the next couple of days."
Though he masterfully kept his disgust hidden, Bulma could see traces of it as the corners of his mouth turned down. "Don't tell me that no one bothered to tell you."
He frowned. "As usual, I was not consulted."
Bulma decided to break the news easily to him, especially since the Saiyan had made it painfully obvious he desired nothing less than routine with the humans he had to come into contact with. He did not enjoy surprises.
"My dad is receiving some kind of award at a weeklong convention. My mother's gone with him. Which means," Bulma added when Vegeta nonchalantly turned his gaze back to the microwave "that the two of us are going to be here by ourselves."
She sighed.
"Together."
Bulma did not receive the scowl or customary tongue lashing that she expected. Instead, Vegeta turned around, a cocky smirk on his face.
"So, you'll be here, eh?"
She gave him a stony look. "Yes."
His smirk broadened as he stood straight. "Good. Perhaps now there'll be time to properly break you in."
Bulma once more felt herself struggling to contain herself. It was too early in the morning for a fight. Just plain too early!
Too late.
"Excuse me?" she said, her voice rising several octaves. "Break me in?"
He turned back to the microwave, which had less than ten seconds left. "Do you need a definition?"
Bulma was nearly speechless. Nearly. "You come in here and nearly burn down this house and I'm the one who needs breaking in? Well you're wrong mister! And if you think that this week is going to include me running along after you like some scared little servant girl then YOU ARE WRONG!"
The microwave beeped, interrupting her tirade for a moment. But Vegeta did not reach in to take out his food. Instead he was staring at her, as though waiting for her to explode further.
"In fact," she continued, giving him what he asked for, "I bet you can't even last a week without needing my help with something! And you know what, Vegeta? No matter how much of an asshole you are to me, I am going to help! BECAUSE DAMN IT… WE ARE GOING TO BE FRIENDS!"
"I don't-," he began but Bulma interrupted.
"I don't care what you do or don't want to be around here," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. "You've got my mother running around thinking you're some saint, which I'm sure, regarding your history, is as far from the truth as you can get."
He glared.
"So, here's how this is going to work." Bulma exhaled. "We are going to co-exist at a somewhat peaceful rate. If you have a problem, let me know. I may even be nice to you. And furthermore," she added when Vegeta opened the microwave door and took out his dinner, "since I guess you training is for my own good, I'll make sure you have something to eat every night."
"When I'm hungry," he corrected her.
Bulma's right eye twitched. "When you're hungry," she restated.
"You take four ounces of butter and very carefully mix them with the rest of your ingredients…"
Bulma placed a stick of margarine into the mixing bowl. She stirred furiously.
"Remember dears!" the lady on the kitchen television said gently, "Margarine is not the same as butter!"
"FUCK!" shouted Bulma, throwing down her spoon. "FUCK! FUCK!"
"Aren't we having such a nice time together this afternoon?"
Bulma almost tossed the TV out the window. "FUCK!"
"Bulma! What's the matter?"
Yamcha had come running from the living room where he had been watching TV and stood in the kitchen, panting. His clothes were rumpled and his hair was disheveled.
"I-I-I can't cook!" she moaned, falling against the counter dramatically.
"Aw Bulma," said Yamcha, patting her back affectionately. "We know that already."
"I know!" Bulma exclaimed tragically, pouting. "Everyone knows how horrible a cook I am."
"There's more to life than good food," her boyfriend said expertly. He ran a hand through his hair and patted her back once more. "You're the smartest woman I know... and the hottest. That's way more important than being able to… what exactly?"
Bulma gave a shaky sigh and pointed to the bowl on the counter. "I was trying to make scrambled eggs."
"And there you have it, folks! Beautifully made pancakes!"
Bulma covered her face. "I'm hopeless."
"It does appear that way," Yamcha said thoughtfully. When the man saw the look on her face he stepped backwards. "I only meant that in the kitchen you're performance is, well…it's questionable. But it is admirable."
He puffed out his chest and said, "It takes great courage to continue on, even when the odds are stacked against you."
"Thanks, Yamcha," Bulma said gratefully.
"And I really mean all the odds," he added.
"Thanks, Yamcha."
"Every last one of them. Count 'em. Every single last solitary odd is stacked tall and wide against-"
"I get it Yamcha," Bulma said loudly, cutting him off. "I have just under one week to learn to cook before someone in this house dies of food poisoning."
"To get our mind off of this, let's go visit Goku," her boyfriend suggested, his stubble tickling her cheek when he kissed her. "Can't hurt to see what he's been up to, right?"
Bulma sighed again. "Right. Let me just put this in the fridge."
"Or the garbage disposal," said Yamcha holding his nose.