Her bold curse of agony had his feet moving toward the labs before his mind had time to catch up. By the time he had the white passage opened, Vegeta was only just beginning to wonder of his haste. Yet he found her there, settled on the floor, her forearm clutched to her chest as she seethed in pain – and why he moved didn't matter so much as the red liquid dripping over her coat's crisp lapel.
"What the hell did you do to yourself now, onna?" He groused and approached, squatting by her side to reach out for her wounded arm. When Bulma sobbed and recoiled from his intrusion, Vegeta growled and rolled his eyes, making another grab for her. "You idiot, let me see it!"
"No! I just need—"
"Shut up," Vegeta spoke over her heavily, as both of his arms looped smoothly around her back and bent knees. She allowed him to lift her with little fuss, spare a sharp inhale as her arm was jostled amid the shifting, her head thrown back with the sharp pain shooting through her flesh.
"Kitchen, Vegeta," she commanded between her teeth, and he complied with her directions. Gently, he settled her atop the counter, and he bent his head to peer between her clutched arms. "Don't touch--!" She half-yelped as his fingers easily pried her left hand from her arm, separating the shield. Revealed to him was a mild gash across her forearm, about three inches in length. Tolerable to him, reaper of unbearable anguish for her.
"Where are the medical supplies?" He rumbled while squinting over the wound, wishing he could find a reasonable excuse for her apparent distress. Her scrunched expression had his patience wearing thin. These earthlings were such fragile creatures, weren't they? Flimsy and effortlessly breakable. He wanted terribly to feel more than just embarrassment for her, to feel disgust or perhaps even amusement at her plight – but neither stirred within him.
With a shaky finger, Bulma gestured toward the lower cabinets with her unscathed arm. "Second shelf! Get some band-aids and an alcohol swab!" He did not seem to move quickly enough to her liking, as behind him he heard her wail, "C'mooon! Hurry! I'm getting blood everywhere, Vegeta!"
He began to think fondly of such a notion, albeit the image did not prove so satisfying when his brain wrapped completely around it. Disappointed by the wash of concern that followed her whimper, he ripped the blue medical box from its hiding place between brightly colored cookie jars and he drew up to the counter beside her. The clear lid flipped over, opening to him an array of packages fairly foreign to him. Some he recognized: the bandages the woman would place over the brat's knees when he got scruffed up outside, thermometers for taking body temperature, gauze he found himself wrapped in often only scant years ago.
Eyes scanning the labels, he spotted quickly the 'alcohol swab', and he tore at the dashed seal to remove the damp cloth. Vegeta curled his nose up at the staunch medical scent, immediately finding distaste for the sheet. "The hell is this for?"
Bulma brandished her wound to him and glanced away, an inclination to her injury given. For whatever reason, Vegeta felt that it would not be the best idea to wipe the cloth over her wound. The stench alone had him tempted to throw it away, what could it do for her arm? However, to avoid much more of her verbal agonizing, he did as told and lowered the tiny white cloth over the pooling opening.
His assumption was justified. At once, Bulma cried out and yanked her arm from him, that plump lower lip caught jaggedly under her teeth.
"It was your idea, idiot!"
"I know, I know!" She whined, presenting the shaking limb out to him again. "But it hurts, oh god—"
"Then hold still—"
"Vegeta, no!" Bulma sobbed as he ran the cloth as slowly and properly as he could given her trembling. "You're done cleaning it, c'mon! Now you're just having fun! Stop, stop, please…" She writhed and wriggled on the counter, trying to pull her arm out from his grasp while her heels stabbed at the counter and at his knees, bringing him to grit his teeth and tug forcefully at her appendage.
"Bulma!" He reprimanded over her childish cries, and her protests came to an abrupt halt.
Aggravated to the core by her to-do, Vegeta worked quickly to rid her milky skin of the rest of that sticky crimson fluid, bringing the pink slice to open air. He was already ripping the white paper from the bandage before she even instructed him to do so. Carefully, his fingers spread the large flesh-colored adhesive over her grievance, securing the strip with an even press of his index digit.
The precision with which he applied a simple band-aid kept Bulma mute as she observed him, mesmerized by the restrained movements. It struck her suddenly that he was tending to her – not the other way around, as it had always been, for years and years and years. And the tensing of his brows, the sincerity that he employed in his care, the firm but subtle grip at her arm… What was this in him, now rearing its quiet and wondering head at her?
As if on cue, the Saiyan lifted his inky eyes to the probing, reflective ponds of her gaze. Suddenly unsettled, suddenly at unease. There; he saw it. Buried beneath layers of curiosity and marveling, he found yearning pulsating behind her pupils. His hand leapt from her and Vegeta rose to his full stance before her, rigidity saving him from the pressure of her stare.
Bulma realized a moment too late she had been caught. As he stood, she blinked away those tumbling, unwarranted needs - pushed them back down where they belonged. "It was the compression coil spring," she blurted out, lifting her gaze back up to him. "I didn't have it set right, and so--"
"—And so, once again, your carelessness astounds even me," Vegeta's eyes avoided her as he mocked her, his jet eyes sailing instead toward the ceiling. "Do not anticipate my assistance next time, Bulma," he warned with a casual arch of his eyebrow, a final quick once-over of the woman granted before he pivoted and marched straight-backed from the kitchen.
She slid unhurriedly from the counter as soon as his footfalls had faded, her jaw slackening in the place of where her typical fury might lay. A dull ache was beginning to wind up her arm now, yet Bulma found herself preoccupied by her own name ringing stridently between her ears.
Author's Note: Okay, not gonna lie. I'm totally in love with the idea of Vegeta finally using Bulma's proper name instead of always calling her "woman" or "idiot." In the show, up until the Great Saiyaman arc I'm pretty sure he only calls her "Bulma" when he's thinking of her, but never to her face or to the others. Maybe I'm wrong, though.
I think that by using her name, it really humanizes her to him - it means she matters. She's worth putting a name to. And by having him inadvertantly address her as such, by NOT consciously making the decision to call her by her name, I think it means something more: he already thinks of her in value and deserving of a name, and he has to make efforts every day to hide that and consistently address her as otherwise.
Why? Because Vegeta's weird and a jerk who has intimacy issues.
ANYWAY. Just a random scene that came to me the other day. Still around 3 years post-Cell.