"Okay, now you have a good time, sweetie," Bulma told her son, her hand unwavering from the crown of his head. She glanced up to Gohan (when had this boy outgrown her?) and flashed a wide smile. "Tell Chi Chi I say 'hi.' We should really get together for dinner sometime soon—"

As Gohan was opening his mouth, Trunks interrupted with a grumble of discontent. "I don't wanna go over, now."

Both the woman and older boy seemed startled by this admission, exchanging uncertain blinks between one another. "Trunks-chan, what do you—"

"Not when dad's here," Trunks gestured toward the ceiling with his index finger. "If he's here, I don't wanna go to their house. I wanna see him."

While she had felt the tickling of his presence, Bulma had not considered that the Saiyan had really returned (so soon?) to home. However, her son's blatant disregard to company had her glowering and kneeling down to his height, both hands planted firmly across his shoulders. "You know, you're being very rude, Trunks-chan," she reprimanded the boy. Even as a pout overwhelmed his features, Bulma continued undeterred, "Gohan-chan came all this way, and Goten-chan is expecting you. You're going to be mean to them like that?"

"But dad—"

"Your dad will be here when you get back," Bulma reassured with the smallest twitch at her mouth. "Just go have fun with Gohan-tachi. You haven't seen them in forever, right?"

The lilac haired boy considered his mother's arguments and, with an overdramatic sigh, he appeared to agree. "Fiiiine," Trunks drawled, readjusting the strap of his overnight bag. "But you better make sure he's here tomorrow! Ja ne, mama!"

He was quick – but Bulma was quicker. Before he could spin away, she caught him around the arm and pulled him up close for a deliberate and lingering smooch to his cheek. Trunks flushed pink in embarrassment, a lackluster attempt to wriggle away made before he conceded to his mother's show of affection.

"Behave," Bulma warned him as he withdrew from her grasp, and she rose to full height again. She tipped her head to Gohan, that ghost of a smile widening just slightly. "Gohan-chan, teach my boy some manners, won't you?"

"Hai!" The eldest Son responded brightly, dropping his head for a hasty bow, before he lifted his hand to his forehead in a salute. "Ja, Bulma-san!" Gohan waved then in farewell to the woman, as he and Trunks exited the home.

For a while longer, Bulma continued watching them as they climbed atop Kinto'un and zoomed off into the distance. She did not pull herself from the window until the yellow cloud became nothing more than a glitter on the horizon, her smile gradually melting away as they grew harder and harder to discern from the golden swath that haloed the sunset. The woman heaved a sigh, the palm of her hand slowly lifting away from the window pane as she pushed back and hesitated. Concentrated.

Bulma focused her attention on the quiet humming from a few stories above her, and she considered her options.

From the topmost floor, Vegeta could feel her ascent. The commotion beneath him had ceased and, for a moment, he was curious as to whether or not she'd come find him. Yet the wonder lasted only seconds, for many floors below him, he sensed her hesitation slip away.

Vegeta felt conflicted. There was satisfaction that she was on her way to meet him and apprehension of what was to come. A tension was palpable throughout the compound; he could feel it even before he had settled. Confusing and irritating, it itched at his skin and at his brain, making him – to his frustration - anxious. It had always been a common occurrence, for him to venture away and then return, unannounced but welcomed nevertheless. But there was something off this time. It maddened him, to be unable to name it directly.

Something fluttered in his stomach, and he clenched his teeth against it.

Deciding suddenly, Vegeta moved his fingers swiftly, shutting down the gravity simulation.

The room seemed to die once the lights had dimmed and the whir of machinery quieted. Unsettled by the stillness, he turned and started for the doors. He'd see the woman halfway, if that.

The steel portal parted, opening up to him a vision of determination. Bulma stood there, her hands balled into nervous knots at her sides, her brow knit. She didn't appear riled or startled by his apparition; quite the contrary, the woman looked to have anticipated his arrival.

"Welcome back," she offered in greeting, and he responded with silence in kind. "Did you enjoy your alone time, Vegeta?" Bulma tried her best to sound clinical and detached, though she seemed unable to completely mask the true meaning under her words.

"I did," Vegeta assured her coolly, moving past her and through the hall. He heard her heels clicking behind him; she was following him. As conversationally as he could, he queried over his shoulder, "The boy left with Kakarotto's son?"

The sound of her shoes halted, and so, too, did the Saiyan.

"It's not fair." The wavering of her voice was more pronounced, and it took most of his resolve to refrain from turning toward her. "Do you know what that says when you do that? To me?" She paused, and Vegeta heard her throat catch. "To us?"

He moved sideways now, allowing her his quarter-profile. Her face was tight with effort to maintain hold of herself, but the cracks were there and widening. Big blue eyes were aglow with the fervor of her emotions, and the vibrations of her heart's furious beating were obvious from where he stood apart from her.

"Should it matter?" Vegeta sounded aloof.

Bulma shook with restraint, certain that bloody crescent marks would be left in her palms when this was done. She'd have to clean them when she'd go to her room and inevitably spend this evening and the next alone. By the time they'd be healed, he'd be back under her covers and warming her up. It infuriated her.

"To you, it should," she informed him sharply. "Why is it—" Her breath hitched, and she felt her heart hit the back of her mouth.

Unbidden, tears leapt and pooled into her eyes. Her teeth tore at the corner of her mouth as she glanced away from him, shamed he could see her crying. His detachment was galling and hurt her in a way she hadn't hurt in a long time.

Why him? Her mind racketed against her.

"Why is it so hard for you?" Bulma blurted out desperately toward the ceiling. "I don't get it," she half-laughed, settling her bleary gaze back over him. "We make it so easy for you, you know. And you just struggle against it." Bulma's hand motioned outward to him rather helplessly.

He imagined that she was reaching out to him in a way, and Vegeta thought about recoiling. "You have no idea, Bulma," he muttered, his voice sounding thick to his own ears. That obvious anguish he found in her now, so unlike the kind that accompanied brutality. What was spilling from her now was something rare and seemed almost obscene to him.

"Oh, no?" The woman sniffled derisively and tucked a cropped blue lock of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were pink under the brunt of her emotions. "I know it's easy," her finger prodded earnestly into her own chest. "Don't tell me it's not! I know it can be! But you won't let it!" Bulma turned her head from him to cover a sob, spitting out angrily, "Stubborn!"

Something in his chest propelled him forward several brisk steps, until he was at arm's length from her. When she didn't meet his gaze, or even react to his approach at all, Vegeta fumed. "Don't presume to know me," he growled, his hand lashing out to capture her forearm tightly. "Or anything that I'm about, do you understand me?" She still didn't look up, and so he shook her roughly, willing her eyes to find his. To acknowledge him. "Bulma!"

"What?!" She snapped her head up with a shout, her pretty face contorted with distress. "What do you want?!"

It wasn't just another shrill cry of agitation. There was something buried there, in between her pitch and in the choice of her words, visible only in her aching, watery stare.

"I start to think you're halfway there," Bulma's voice found his ears, and Vegeta turned his head slightly away from the sound. "And then you just step away from us." Silence passed between them, his hand becoming clammy over her skin, her heartbeat rioting under his fingertips. Finally, she wondered softly, "Where is it that you go, Vegeta?"

Vegeta released her arm abruptly, and he pivoted, as though to leave. He certainly wanted to; so much so that he could swear he felt the heavens parting above them to make room for his escape. But her trembling behind him and the residual weight of her arm still phantoming in his hand made him painfully aware that what he really desired was not elsewhere – on Earth, or in the galaxy beyond them.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't felt her nearing him, and he was caught off-guard by her hand suddenly at his bicep. She gripped his muscles there, urging him to turn back to her, and his feet shuffled until he faced her.

Before Vegeta had a moment to catch her gaze, Bulma had surged forward, her long arms looping about his neck as she invited herself into him. She pushed nearer, leveraging herself against him, as though to anchor them both down. Her breath hit the shell of his ear, "Just don't leave like that again, okay?" It was a quiet plea – one that was full of concern and urgency, one that sounded weary, yet still somehow hopeful.

Vegeta sighed heavily and lifted his hands, settling them at the small of her back, and he pressed her closer to him.

Author's Note: This chapter is actually kind of integral to my story, I think. Part of the whole reason I wanted to write this story is to figure out why Vegeta never really wants to accept or return affection to Bulma and Trunks.

End of that tiny arc! Next chapter, we'll be a little bit closer to the Great Saiyaman arc.