CHAPTER FIVE
In the weeks that followed, Yamcha began to settle into a more comfortable routine. He felt much more at ease than he had in recent months and a tension he hadn't realized he was carrying was lifted from his shoulders. He continued to train, of course, and his concern over the androids still remained, but he approached his practice with a less fevered drive than before. He quit training earlier in the evenings, respecting the rest his body needed and deserved, and spent time with Bulma, who was trying to create a droid that could channel ki.
She had thrown herself into the project with a bout of the old determination he remembered and loved about her: mindless of her surroundings, careless of the time, unstoppable in her resolve to see it through. The finished product would be for Vegeta to use in the gravity room, which had bothered him initially, but Yamcha had come to suspect that her fervid planning, testing, and reassessing had very little to do with the prince. No, Bulma was in it for the science and the pride of accomplishment. He grinned to himself, thinking of her pouring over equations and prototypes, her face grimy with sweat and grease, but her eyes ablaze with purpose and new ideas. He had never understood the way she attacked projects with such single-minded intensity, and it made him feel neglected and nervous in some ways, but her happiness made him happy.
Bulma's attitude towards Vegeta had cooled considerably since he had refused to let himself heal after his accident in the gravity room. After a few days of irritation, during which time she complained frequently to Yamcha about the way Vegeta had treated her, Bulma's anger had faded and been replaced with disinterest. She seemed completely indifferent towards him, and he towards her, although Yamcha conceded that Vegeta had never been anything but indifferent towards any of them.
Meanwhile, Vegeta continued to lock himself in the gravity room for hours on end, emerging only to eat, and even then Yamcha often saw him carrying armfuls of full Tupperware back to the ship. He wasn't sure if Vegeta even slept. Morning after morning, Yamcha passed by the plain guestroom Vegeta had adopted as his own, and through the door, carelessly left wide open, the bed appeared unslept-in. Yamcha suspected Vegeta spent most nights in the gravity room – but sleeping or training, he wasn't sure. Did Saiyans need sleep the way humans did? Goku undoubtedly enjoyed a good nap, but Yamcha didn't know if it was a necessity or not. But he shrugged off his musings and chose to focus on more important things: namely, his own training, and rekindling the fire between he and Bulma that had been left unattended as of late.
That afternoon, Yamcha ended his training earlier than usual. In the name of rekindling, he had convinced Bulma to take a night off from work and go on a date with him – a proper date, to a restaurant, not the type of dates they had been having lately, which seemed to consist mainly of ordering pizza and watching Netflix. As much as Yamcha liked that alone time with her, he also missed wining and dining, and with his spirits considerably improved, he wanted to impress and dote on her. He had made reservations at an upscale restaurant in the downtown core, using his former professional baseball player status to secure a table. His stomach had flip-flopped when Bulma had beamed at him from behind her safety goggles when he told her where he was taking her. All day he had been distracted by the thought of their upcoming evening together, and finally he decided to give up on his workout for the day and get ready.
"I guess this means you two have discussed things?" Puar asked as Yamcha toweled off after his shower.
"Hmm?" Yamcha asked absently.
"You and Bulma. Have you talked about everything?"
Yamcha turned to frown at him. "What are you talking about, Puar?"
Puar fixed Yamcha with a look of utter exasperation. "Weren't you frustrated because you wanted more from the relationship? Weren't you going to talk to her about it?"
Yamcha face relaxed. "Oh, Puar, that's in the past now. We're doing great. We didn't need to have a talk about it; it worked out on its own."
There were a few moments of silence as Puar hovered nearby before he said, "I see."
"You seem bothered by something, Puar," Yamcha said as he tugged on a button-up shirt.
Puar only sighed and shrugged, roaming over to rest on Yamcha's pillow. "Have fun tonight," he said.
When Bulma had agreed to dinner with Yamcha, she had been in a good mood. Now, she was in a bad mood. Her most recent prototype had blown up in her face from an electric surge, and her cheek stung where a piece of metal had caught her. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with a cup of tea and a trashy magazine and get lost in trivial matters of the fashion world. But she also suspected that a night out could improve her mood and she was worried about how Yamcha would feel if she changed her mind.
Yamcha had been more positive lately, which she had used to her advantage to get him to help her with her ki-generating droid. So far, however, he had been of little use. He hadn't been able to clearly explain how he gathered energy, nor how she could potentially begin to design a machine that could do the same. "It's just… inside you…" Yamcha had said helplessly, and Bulma had pursed her lips and frowned at him.
"How do you get it out?" she'd asked, trying to be patient.
"You… push it." Yamcha had shrugged. "It's very hard to explain."
"Clearly."
Nevertheless, she appreciated his insight, which was more than she had, and hoped that together they could stumble across the magic method that would make everything click.
So despite her irritation and the headache blooming on her right temple, Bulma tossed her lab coat over the back of her chair and strode out of the lab to get ready for dinner, snagging a bottle of Advil from the corner of her desk as she went.
The warm shower and painkillers helped soothe her, and by the time she was dried off she was in better spirits. Perhaps it wouldn't be such an unpleasant evening after all. Besides, when was the last time she and Yamcha went on a quality date?
And it was quality: Yamcha was waiting downstairs for her in a proper suit, his tie neatly done up. He grinned as she practically galloped down the stairs. She could dress the part, perhaps, but Bulma Briefs had never been a lady. It was just one of the many things he adored about her.
"Shall we?" he asked, offering his arm, but she ignored it, choosing to grab his lapel instead and haul him out the door.
"No time for chivalry. I'm starving." And she was: she hadn't realized until she was getting dressed that she hadn't eaten anything since the two slices of toast she'd had for breakfast.
Yamcha laughed, following her out to where her aircar was parked and accepting that she would be the one to drive, as she usually was. And of course, with her reckless driving habits, they reached the restaurant in record time.
"Do you think this will be it?" Mrs. Briefs asked her husband curiously.
"Hmm?" the doctor mumbled, barely glancing up at her from his newspaper.
"Tonight," she pressed. "Do you think tonight will be the night?"
"Oh, um, yes. Tonight," Dr. Briefs answered distractedly. He noted that he had just read the same sentence for the fourth time.
They were sitting together in a sitting room just off their grand master bedroom. Dr. Briefs was lounging with his feet up in a leather La-Z-Boy, and Mrs. Briefs was sprawled across the couch, her feet planted underneath a couch cushion in a way that made Dr. Briefs cringe for the upkeep of his furniture. The blinds were open halfway and the orange sunset glow filled the room, turning Mrs. Briefs' face a rosy shade. She looked beautiful in this light, the faint redness in her hair highlighted. If Dr. Briefs had been less distracted, his breath would have been taken away.
Mrs. Briefs shifted to face him. "You're not listening, dear," she said patiently. After all their years together, she had come to understand that sometimes his thoughts were just elsewhere: on scientific projects, usually, but occasionally also on the more corporate side of the company. Recently his CEO had left to pursue a job opportunity in America, and Dr. Briefs had yet to find a replacement for him. The role of CEO then fell to him – a job he wasn't particularly good at, and also didn't enjoy. He was stressed.
With a sigh, Dr. Briefs lowered his newspaper. "What are you talking about?" he asked, focusing on his wife, squinting briefly and tilting his head against the sun as it caught him in the eyes.
"Bulma and Yamcha are going on a fancy date tonight. Do you think tonight will be the night?"
Dr. Briefs frowned in confusion. "The night for what?"
"The night he proposes!" she said, fairly squealing at him in her excitement. She pulled her feet out from the cushion to sit upright. "Oh my, how I've always dreamed of planning my baby girl a large wedding!" She clasped her hands together and tucked them under her chin, sighing as she imagined the day.
Dr. Briefs blinked at her. "I… don't know if Bulma wants to get married, dear," he said gently.
Mrs. Briefs lowered her hands and her head, and let out a sigh. "I know," she said after a few moments. "She's always marched to her own beat, hasn't she?"
Dr. Briefs nodded in agreement. "She and Tights both," he mused. "Have you heard from Tights recently?"
"But that doesn't mean I don't still want her to be happy!" Mrs. Briefs continued on, as though her husband hadn't spoken. "Do you think she'd be very happy with Yamcha?"
"No." Dr. Briefs pulled his body back in surprise at his own bluntness, his paper crinkling. He didn't remember ever consciously having thought about his daughter's relationship with Yamcha, but when asked the question, he immediately and confidently had an answer. He couldn't see Bulma being happy with Yamcha forever. He wasn't even sure if she was happy with him now.
"They seem to have outgrown each other, haven't they?" Mrs. Briefs said quietly, her excitement diffusing.
There were times where his wife's observations and intuitiveness surprised Dr. Briefs. She was such an innocent, carefree person that her rare moments of wisdom and understanding caught him off-guard. But of course, he knew she wasn't the bumbling airhead others took her for. Like a fly on the wall, she saw and understood more than she often let on.
"I think perhaps they have," Dr. Briefs said. "It's too bad. I do like the boy."
The pair lulled into silence, mulling over their daughter's love life, as parents are wont to do without invitation. The orange light through the window dimmed as the sun dipped lower. The lights in the house brightened automatically to accommodate the darkening day.
"Well," said Dr. Briefs finally, "Bulma will figure out what she wants. And she'll be fine no matter what."
"Oh, yes, of course she will. I'm more concerned about Yamcha. Do you think he'll find someone else?" Mrs. Briefs picked a scone up off the plate of goodies she'd set on the table earlier and nibbled on it.
"I'm sure he will, dear."
A few more minutes passed and Dr. Briefs had returned to his newspaper when Mrs. Briefs asked, "What about Vegeta?"
"Hmm?"
"Vegeta," she said again, vaguely.
The newspaper lowered again, and Dr. Briefs peered at his wife in confusion. He was not following her train of thought. "I don't think Yamcha is interested in Vegeta."
She laughed at him, a chirping, genuine laugh. "No! Do you think Bulma would be happy with Vegeta?"
Dr. Briefs' mouth fell open. "Pardon?"
"I think they would make a good couple," Mrs. Briefs said.
"I think they hate each other."
Mrs. Briefs grinned at him. "There's a fine line between love and hate. Don't you remember when we first met?"
Yes, the doctor remembered. She had criticized one of his inventions and he had been outraged by her audacity. He had hated her for months after that and made no secret about it; offended, she had gathered up her debutante dignity and refused to attend any event that he was at, lest he try to belittle her publicly. But he had also thought her beautiful, and in the end she had been the only one who had been honest about his ridiculous self-spreading butter knife.
"I think… this is different," he said slowly.
"It's not different." She still had a girlish grin plastered to her face.
"Vegeta… isn't human," Dr. Briefs continued, trying to reason with his wife.
"Well, neither is Goku, apparently," she countered.
"That's different!"
"Why, because he was raised here?" Mrs. Briefs frowned at her husband. "I think that says more about Vegeta, don't you? He wasn't raised here, and wasn't raised with customs that are anything like ours, and still he's made the decision to stay here and help us. I think that says a lot about him!"
Dr. Briefs scowled at her. "How long have you been playing matchmaker?" he demanded.
Mrs. Briefs shrugged delicately, her skin turning pink as she turned her head away. "I'm not playing matchmaker."
"Well, you've obviously been thinking a lot about this!" When she only shrugged again, he pressed, "When did this first cross your mind?"
Knowing he wouldn't let the matter go, Mrs. Briefs turned to her husband. "Do you remember when all those lovely green men came to stay here?"
"The Nameks? Yes."
"Well, Vegeta came with them, do you remember? That's when he first came here."
"Yes, and? You've been thinking about it since then? He was even more closed-off then than he is now, if that's even possible. He wore the same broken, dirty outfit for nearly an entire year!"
She shook her head slightly. "Well, no, not exactly since then. I knew Bulma and Yamcha weren't together then, and all of a sudden there was Vegeta. I thought he was her new boyfriend. It was just a mistake, but they were both so offended. I think Vegeta in particular had no idea what to make of the situation. I felt bad, actually. But once I'd thought it, I had a hard time shaking the idea…" She shrugged again. "The more I watched them interact with each other, the more I thought that they would make a good couple."
Dr. Briefs was floored. How much time had his wife invested in this fantasy? "They hardly ever interact with each other," he pointed out.
"Well, that's part of it, isn't it? The absence of interaction is a form of interaction. Why do they avoid each other so much?"
Dr. Briefs threw his hands up in frustration. "Stop trying to psychoanalyze everyone! You should have finished your degree." When Mrs. Briefs just smiled at him, he continued, "I think they are both too stubborn and proud to get along."
"They challenge each other. Everyone needs a challenge."
"It's a power struggle."
"Only because they don't know what they want. That can change."
Dr. Briefs frowned deeply, his eyebrows furrowing around his glasses. "Sweetheart," he finally said, "I think Bulma can do better than Vegeta."
Mrs. Briefs looked at him with some surprise. "Vegeta is a prince," she declared.
"Yes… but look at how difficult he is!"
"Wouldn't you be difficult?" Mrs. Briefs chided. "Far away from home, no friends or family here, living with and dependent on others… That must be quite the blow to his ego. Plus the strain of training to destroy the robots… I don't know if I can blame the boy."
Dr. Briefs sank back into his chair, sensing that his defeat on this matter was near. "I guess I just wish he was more… personable."
"There are some who would say the same about you," Mrs. Briefs pointed out. When Dr. Briefs said nothing, she continued with finality, "They would make a great couple."
"Maybe, dear," Dr. Briefs said, "but Bulma is out on a date with Yamcha right now."
"Oh right!" Mrs. Briefs exclaimed, dropping her half-eaten scone back on the plate. "Do you think he'll propose?"
Yamcha hadn't proposed.
The meal had been fantastic, and he had loved spending the evening with the beautiful woman now walking beside him. He felt a deep contentment through to his very core. How impossible was it that he, a desert bandit, should end up with such a fantastically gorgeous, intelligent woman as Bulma Briefs?
And she seemed to be having a good evening as well. Following dinner, she suggested they take a walk through the park across the street, one of West City's largest and most famous parks, because she wasn't ready to end the night and head home just yet. Yamcha agreed, of course. Anything for this girl. And so they walked together, her leaning against his torso, his arm wrapped lightly around her shoulders, his fingers playing with a stray strand of her hair.
She was perfect. This was perfect. He wanted to take this moment and place it in a box and keep it with him always.
"Bulma," he said suddenly, stopping short, "listen… I know this isn't exactly… the way you'd want this, but…" His eyes dropped to the ground and he inhaled deeply. "I… just… it's that… you…"
Bulma raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you having a stroke?" she asked.
He looked back up at her. "No," he said, indignant.
One side of Bulma's mouth lifted in a half-smile. "Well you're stammering and sweating, so I was concerned."
Yamcha's breath whooshed from his lips. "I just know this isn't how you'd always imagined this."
Her lips dropped into a confused frown. "Imagined what?" she asked, but the question was barely out of her mouth before her eyes widened and she felt her lips part in an O of surprise.
Yamcha had dropped to one knee in front of her, his jacket that he'd been carrying over one shoulder lay discarded beside him, and his hands reached for hers.
"Bulma… I love you. I've always loved you. And I know things have been a little rocky for us lately but they're getting better. And I want to keep working on that with you, and keep loving you, for the rest of my life. And I know I don't have a ring yet, but I'm asking… Bulma, will you marry me?"
Bulma's chest seized and she felt her stomach drop out from inside her. Despite the summer heat, she felt suddenly cold, her blood turning to ice in her veins. She stood stock still, utterly shocked, for an uncomfortably long period of time. Yamcha's face turned from earnest to confused to terrified to pained, and as the seconds ticked on, Bulma watched these emotions come and go as if in slow motion.
Finally, in a hoarse voice, she whispered, "Please stand up."
Yamcha's expression settled on determination. "Not until you give me your answer."
"Please, just stand up." Her voice took on a whiny quality as she tugged on his hands.
"Bulma!"
"Yamcha, just get up!"
He paused, and his gaze drifted away from her face as he processed. His hands slid from hers. "Are you… Are you saying no?" he asked, his eyes blankly staring across the park behind her.
"Can you just stand up so we can talk about this? For god's sake, we're in the middle of a public place." And as Bulma glanced around, she noticed for the first time the awkwardly sympathetic glances they were receiving from passersby.
"What is there to talk about?" Yamcha asked, his eyes snapping back to hers. "You either want to or you don't!"
She buried her face in her hands and turned away from him, taking a few steps to put greater distance between them. "We never even discussed this! You said yourself it's been rough recently… Don't you think that should warrant a discussion before a proposal?"
"I tried…" he began.
Bulma cut him off. "But you didn't!" She ignored the knowledge that she had been the one avoiding the conversation, that she had constantly been distracting him from it, that it was her fault they hadn't resolved their issues.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
Bulma was silent and Yamcha had his answer. Her hush crashed over him like a wave, suffocating him, sending him spinning head over heels, disoriented, drowning, wildly reaching for a lifeline that didn't exist.
"So. That's it then," he muttered. "The past ten years have meant nothing."
"They haven't meant nothing," Bulma cried, spinning on her heel. He was still on the ground, but on both knees now, looking utterly defeated. "Yamcha, these years have meant so much. But we were kids then. We've both grown and changed. I… I do love you, but…" She looked away, suddenly nervous.
"But what?"
"Is it enough?"
The silence stretched. What did she mean, is it enough? Of course it was enough. Love was the reason he did anything in the world. Love was the reason he woke up in the morning and trained incessantly for the battle with the androids. Love was the reason he went to sleep beside her and let her steal the covers in the middle of the night. Love was the reason he gave up his old life, reformed, and became a proper member of society. Love was the reason he was alive again. Love was the reason she had gone to Namek for the Dragon Balls… wasn't it?
"Why did you string me along?" he demanded, suddenly angry. "If you knew you didn't see a future, why did you keep me around?"
Bulma paused. Had she done that? Had she strung him along? It hadn't felt that way; she had still cared about him of course, and wanted to enjoy their time together. But hadn't she also known that his feelings for her were deeper than hers for him? Hadn't she known this train was coming off the tracks? Why hadn't she ended it? She only shrugged. She didn't know.
Finally, Yamcha stood, his gaze fixated on a memorial statue several feet away. Silence hung tangibly between them. It was some time before Yamcha turned to face her.
"Bulma. If you walk away from me now, that's it. There won't be any more of this on-again, off-again shit. I can't take it."
"Are you giving me an ultimatum?"
Yamcha frowned. "No. What is there to give an ultimatum on? You rejected me. I'm telling you that I can't take it."
Bulma's arms wrapped around herself. She was still freezing. But her question sparked hope in Yamcha that perhaps she saw an alternative to their breakup.
"Are you really willing to give us up for good?" he pressed.
It was a loaded question, and Bulma took it seriously. She contemplated the life she would have with Yamcha. She contemplated the life she would have without him; but all she saw in either case were androids.
But what if… what if they defeated the androids? What could life be like afterwards? She imagined it continuing on similarly to now: the sun rising and setting, burning the morning dew off the grass, the clouds coming and going, occasionally pausing to shower away the dirt and grime and breathe life into the trees; Bulma working on a new invention, assisting her father with his own harebrained ideas while her mother laughed and served desserts and lemonade, Bulma running across the globe to collect the Dragon Balls to fix this or that mishap; Goku, Chichi and Gohan visiting from time to time, eating her out of house and home, laughing together around her kitchen table; Krillin lightening dark days with his sense of humour, laughing at himself most of all; Vegeta training, sullen and removed in the gravity room; Roshi being a dirty old man and grabbing her butt when he thought nobody was looking, as if Bulma wouldn't feel it and crack him across the head; and Yamcha…
Yamcha was there, but in the periphery only, hovering on the edges of her android-free life. A presence in her life, but not a significant one. Not a romantic one.
"It's time," she said simply. "It's got to be time."
Yamcha's screwed his face into what he hoped was an expression of resolve. "Alright then. I'm going to Kame House. I'll be by at some point to pick up my things."
"Don't be like that. You can stay until you've found somewhere else."
But Yamcha only gave her a sour look and shot into the sky before Bulma could say another word.
And she was left alone in the park, freezing in the humidity, her best friend a speck in the sky.
She made it home several hours later and sat on the couch in her expensive dress, her designer heels kicked carelessly off by the door, caked in mud from the grass in the park, and stared blankly at the black TV screen, thinking vaguely that if she was going to sit there she should turn it on. But she didn't. She just sat and stared, her eyes dry.
The next morning, she packed a suitcase and headed for the coast. She craved the sun and salt water.
