A/N: OH snap. The inauguration happened. School happened again. I'm settled into classes. I've finally bought books. I've finally gotten into a routine. So- know what that means? MORE STORY! Sorry about the delay! Forgive me by reviewing the latest chapter!
DISCLAIMER: I don't really own the title, Chevelle does. But then again, if I have to put a disclaimer on the way a few words are put together in a sentence, then I guess I don't really own the story either. Ooh... was that the wind, cause I just blew my MIND.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The pieces of blue hair littered the porcelain sink.
Bulma held the tiny metal scissors above her, resting her elbows on her head.
"What did you do?"
His voice did not startle her as perhaps he had hoped. Bulma, who had not bothered to lock or close the bathroom door, had sensed Vegeta's presence long ago.
"What does it look like I've done, Vegeta?" she answered shortly, not in the mood for his ignorance of earth women, his ignorance of short hair, and certainly not his ignorance of her sudden, unprovoked temper.
His reflection in the mirror showed narrow brown eyes, a scowl.
"You've finally done something about the hideous hair of yours." The Saiyan curled his upper lip. "It's about time."
Bulma mirrored his scowl and gripped the scissors in her left hand so tight that her fingers turned white. She was unsure if he was complimenting or mocking her. Because it was typically the latter, the young woman decided not to answer.
Snip.
"What is this?"
Bulma turned from her reflection and into the face of the man whom she had not seen in weeks. Vegeta was holding a bright pink bottle upon which the words 'Herbal Essences' had been scrawled. She made a mental note to add 'shampoo' to her list of items Vegeta was unaware of.
"Don't you use shampoo?" she asked dully, cutting another strand of hair so that it was even with the others.
"Of course I use shampoo, woman!" Vegeta said loudly, sounding very insulted that she had asked. "But this isn't shampoo! It's pink… and…"
He stopped mid-sentence, his nose wrinkling. Bulma prepared herself for a rude remark, but was surprised when not only did Vegeta remain silent, but stepped directly behind her, grabbed a large handful of hair, and sniffed.
His nose touched her tender scalp and his warm breath tickled the back of her neck. Bulma stood completely still, permitting him to do whatever the hell he was doing since she had no idea just what that was.
"V-Vegeta?"
He backed away from her, his nose still wrinkled and his brow creased. "Blasted earthlings. You smell like food."
Bulma turned her head only slightly so that he could see a portion of her profile. "It's strawberry."
He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. He did not respond.
She waited a few moments before returning to her haircut.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
What if she shaved the sides of her head, wore a Mohawk?
"How long is this going to take?"
Bulma took a small comb and ran it through her hair. "I don't know, Vegeta."
"I'm hungry."
"Ask my mother to make you something."
"Woman…" he started, but Bulma interrupted.
"Man," she cut in forcefully, slamming the comb down on the sink. "You've been avoiding me for weeks and now you're asking me to do something for you?"
Silence. Typical.
"I have my own problems right now, and not all of them concern whether or not you've had something to eat in the last fifteen minutes!"
Bulma tried to steady herself. She wasn't really angry with Vegeta. She was angry with Yamcha. Angry with herself. It wasn't fair to take it out on the unsuspecting Saiyan behind her.
"Just forget it."
And she looked at him through the mirror, expecting his usual scowl. Instead, his face was deadpan, his eyes boring through hers as though he were telepathically sending her a message.
He stared at her for a few more seconds, turned and walked off.
Why had he gone to see her?
Vegeta closed the refrigerator door and stared at the bottled water he now held in his right hand. It was freezing cold.
In the living room he could hear the television and sounds of people cheering. The woman's mother was watching an obnoxious game show. He supposed then that asking her to fix him something wouldn't be unreasonable, not that he had ever cared if any of his requests were unreasonable.
Perhaps that was why he had stupidly asked the woman to fix him something edible. As though she could.
It had been twenty-seven days since he had spoken with her. Twenty-seven days of nerve-wracking peace. Twenty-seven days of training with no interruptions. Twenty-seven days without arguments and insolence! Six hundred and thirty five hours without the blue-haired wench breathing down his neck.
Thirty-eight thousand and seventy seconds of freedom.
Vegeta glared as he entered the living room, his dirty boots scuffing the wood floor. The woman's mother was sitting on the couch, gleefully shouting letters at the television screen. She grinned when she saw him.
"Oh, Vegeta! You look so exhausted! Oh, dear! Would you like a massage?"
His left eye habitually twitched.
"Bring me something to eat," he ordered loftily, quite used to her obedience.
The blond stood up and her eyes squinted as she smiled. "Of course, honey pie! It'll be ready in a few moments! What would you like?"
Vegeta stared at her as if she were a mindless fool, unworthy of an answer. "FOOD," he emphasized firmly.
She pinched his arm affectionately as she walked past. "Of course! How silly of me to ask!"
Damn them! How much more of these humans could he take? Treating him nicely, without reserve. Vegeta needed to fight, to verbally abuse, to engage in a battle of fucking wits! He had not exercised his mind in twenty-seven days!
That was why he had gone to see her.
He opened the top of the water bottle and drank. The icy water froze his throat.
He had gone to see her because he wanted to provoke an argument. Not because he thought of her constantly. Not because he had almost forgotten how her voice sounded when it echoed through his head. Not because she was the only human he halfway tolerated. Not because he missed her presence, though he could feel her around him, even when she was not there.
Never.
It had been dark for hours. The stars were glazed over by thin gray clouds making their way across the night sky. There was hardly any wind, only the cold chill of the air around her as Bulma slowly, carefully made her way across the backyard.
Just a few more steps and I'm clear!
Bulma looked behind her at the Capsule Corp. mansion. Inside every light was off, which meant that everyone, even Vegeta, was asleep.
When she had made it clear across the yard, Bulma stopped near the large tree that Yamcha's head had irreparably dented. She pressed her back against it, lifted her knee to her chest and reached into her sneaker.
A slim white cigarette fell into her fingers.
She sighed happily.
Bulma pulled out a lighter from her coat pocket and placed the cigarette in her mouth. Cupping her hands around it, she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
The smoke instantly filled her throat and chest. Bulma, who had not enjoyed this pastime in awhile, was not used to it and began to cough. Tears gathered in her eyes and she beat her chest to stop the coughing. If her mother awoke and saw her smoking, she would never hear the end of it.
"Ah!" Bulma struggled to push air into her lungs and to expel the smoke of the cigarette. She coughed again.
She took another long puff. Practice made perfect, didn't it?
More uncontrollable fits of coughing.
"Come on… g-girl," she chided herself between coughs. "You can… you can do it!"
Leave it to her to challenge herself to smoke.
Using a shaky hand, Bulma placed the cigarette back into her mouth and drew in another breath. This time, the smoke went down easy, warming her mouth.
Oh Kami this was wonderful. All she had been asking for really. Just a nice cigarette and a place in which to enjoy it.
For the next eight minutes, Bulma smoked a cigarette. And then, once she had begun to settle the nerves caused by the stress of the past few weeks, she began to think.
When was she going to call Yamcha to apologize? Tomorrow would mark an entire week of his silent treatment.
When would she give Vegeta his training bot? He had come to her, hadn't he? Maybe he really hadn't been avoiding her.
Was this going to be her last cigarette?
Bulma answered that question first as she reached back into her sneaker and grabbed another one.
As she used her left hand to smoke, Bulma used her right one to ruffle her new hair.
It was so strange a feeling. To be able to run her fingers through her hair again. She had had that curly perm for so long she had almost forgotten her natural texture. Thin, straight, limp?
"Maybe I'll cut bangs across my forehead," she said to no one in particular. "Yeah, that'll be different."
Puff.
She smiled. Her stylist would flip when he saw what she had done. Bulma had never cut her own hair before. But she had needed something new. A new look to accompany her new approach to life, because dammit, after the events of the last week, she needed one.
Yamcha had been right. Bulma spent too much time worrying about Vegeta. Too much time worrying about Yamcha as well. She probably even spent more time than necessary worrying about the Androids, and the end of the world.
What was the point in worrying anymore?
As far as Bulma was concerned, there was nothing that mattered. Nothing.
There was nothing except the feel of the cigarette burning her lips, the smoke caressing the back of her tongue before it settled like warm air in her stomach, making her lightheaded with pleasure.
So badass.