Prompt: Nail. Word count set at: 400.

A/N: So, this is once again a sequel to an older chapter: A Child's Logic. If I end doing another part to this little "story" they will be moved into their own personal storyline, but we'll see XD

Disclaimer: I do NOT own DBZ or any of the characters. They belong to Akira Toriyama.

Bulma lounged back against the kitchen table's chair. One arm was outstretched as the other's elbow rested on the table's top. She blew gently across the freshly drying polish that now coated the nails on that hand. She stopped the action when she felt wetness hit her skin. "Watch where you're going with that brush!"

The man that sat across from her gave her a snort. "If you wanted the job done right, then why the hell did you con me into it?"

She huffed before turning her attention to him instead of the raised hand. "You're the one that called my work shoddy!" she defended herself. "As if that wasn't bad enough, I come to find out that you told Trunks I was lying!"

"Well, you did," he grumbled, his eyes staying focused on his task, "even though you sure as hell made it up for doubling my punishment the next few nights anyway."

She gave the man a small laugh, trying not to let her body shake. "Oh, you think those two days were hell? You just wait; this is only the beginning of what I've got in store for you."

His hand stopped moving as his eyes rolled up to meet hers. His mind reeled with what other sick ideas she was concocting. It would probably just be easier if he left Capsule for a week or two, but he knew he'd eventually have to come back and face her. Besides, he was pretty sure he'd faced worse while biding his time under Frieza. His eyes narrowed a little as he put the brush-lid back on the bottle of red nail polish.

Bulma lifted the newly painted nails and examined them. "I suppose you did a fine job, honey," she drawled the nickname out.

Trunks warily stepped into the kitchen, trying to make his footsteps as quiet as possible. He could instantly feel the wave of anger from his father, though.

"Although I still think you need lots of practice to be perfect," Bulma commented, not even giving her son the time of day.

"Trunks!"

The boy finally looked over at his father as he stopped his trek to the refrigerator. His eyes met those dark, cold eyes promising the terrors of unknown torture later.

"Vegeta!" Bulma reprimanded. "Leave Trunks alone, he didn't do anything wrong."

His glare focused on Bulma. "Maybe not to you," he quipped.