When Vegeta had finished his gravity training for the evening, stepping out onto the lawn, he discovered something he had not yet seen on Earth. During the hours he had spent locked away inside the ship, enough snow had fallen to reach up to the ankles of his boots. Without thinking, he shuffled his feet in the ice, turning snow over his toes. Although the sun had already set, the white light reflecting off of the ground's frozen blanket brightened everything it touched. Although only lightly, snow still fell in feathery flakes; absentmindedly, the Saiyan watched it float to the earth.

The ship had sheltered the crisp grass beneath it from the wintry precipitation, and Vegeta took a seat there. He huddled his knees to his chest to shield himself from the cold. It did not take long for his body to cool off from his training, and the chill gradually crept into his sore, weary joints and flesh. The sensation suited him somehow; he felt it uncannily matched the aesthetic of his empty inner state. He enjoyed it abstractly in a way he did not fully understand. It did not matter; nothing seemed to. He just wanted to sit, meditate, and watch the snow.

Over the course of the hour, the storm had tapered off to intermittent flurries. He guessed that the bulk of the accumulation had occurred while he trained, for hardly an inch more had fallen since he had settled himself under the ship. If he judged correctly, it was approximately eight o'clock. He surveyed the premises for any sign that he had lost track of the time.

Across the lawn, he glimpsed Bulma heading from the direction of the garage. She had just returned home from her headquarters, apparently. Ever since his visit over a month ago, she had usually returned around or past midnight. Tonight, however, she had come home comparatively early. He regarded her with the same rapt attention he had given the snow.

Vegeta had not seen her for weeks. Since their late-night confrontation in the kitchen, they had spoken to each other only once, and that second encounter had been a week ago at least.

After the woman's outburst, Vegeta's first impulse had been to forget about her entirely. If she truly wanted no more to do with him, then he could finally train in peace, dedicating his full attention to more meaningful matters; no longer would he have to worry about her intrusions and distractions. As attractive as forgetting about her had seemed initially, though, Vegeta found himself unable and perhaps even unwilling. He had remembered what she had said, what she had implied. She had not founded her fascination with him on any utilitarian purpose, but rather on lust and curiosity. Vegeta knew well that neither lust nor curiosity were ever easily sated. If he wanted to pique either of the woman's, he had more than a nonexistent or ill-fated chance at doing so. His own lust and curiosity convinced him that he should at least make an attempt. When outside of the gravity chamber, he could hardly prevent every other thought from straying to her.

Only a few days had gone by before Vegeta had again installed himself in the parlor, sitting and waiting for the woman in the darkness. Within moments of coming home, she had headed for the kitchen and the liquor cabinet, and he had followed her there. She had seemed surprised to see him, but not frightened. No glassware had ended up shattered on the floor.

"You're awake," she said flatly as she poured milk over her iced drink.

He strode past the table and leaned against the counter beside her. Unwaveringly, he watched her sip from her glass.

"I'm still mad at you, you know." Her glass contained only ice now, and she set it down. "Go away. Unless you want to apologize."

"I may have misjudged," Vegeta began smoothly, turning to her and resting one hand on her waist, "but I know better now."

Bulma grabbed his wrist. "Get your hands off me. And that wasn't an apology."

Vegeta leaned in for a kiss, but the woman dodged. "This is your doing. I need not apologize."

"Hey! Stop it!" She spun out of his arms.

The Saiyan let her escape, supposing that granting her a semblance of power would ultimately work toward weakening her resolve to resist.

Moodily, she disappeared into the hallway. "What makes you think," she fumed over her shoulder, "that you can just start getting fresh with me after refusing to apologize and not talking to me in weeks? You haven't done a single thing to try and make things better. Selfish prick. I'm still dealing with your shit at work."

Vegeta caught her at the foot of the staircase, reaching from behind and grasping her just above her hips. He pulled her backwards against his chest and nestled his nose in her loosely curled hair. Inhaling her scent only reminded him how much he had craved her closeness. "I won't harm you," he purred into her ear. "I will give you what you want."

"I want you to let go!" She struggled, and Vegeta set her free.

He frowned at her.

"Just who do you think I am, Vegeta? You can't just come up and grab me. It's not sexy. It's awkward and creepy. And so is prowling around the house watching for me. You're not helping your case at all."

Defensively, he folded his arms over his chest. "What, then, would you have me do, woman?"

"Oh, I don't know," she answered sarcastically, throwing her hands up in the air. "Maybe say 'hello' instead of creeping up on me, ask me about my day, give me compliments, show interest in my projects, treat me like a lady. You know, stuff normal people do. You could start by apologizing, though!"

"Nonsense," Vegeta spat.

"And you could use my name instead of just calling me 'woman' all the time. It's not like you don't know my name. Everyone does. I'm Bulma Briefs, and I have two doctorates, not counting the honorary ones. I'm a genius, and I'm beautiful and successful. Truth be told, I'm too good for you. You think you can get with the one of the most desirable women on the planet acting the way you do? Yeah, right! I have my pride."

"Your previous actions have already invalidated your words. You came crawling to me before, did you not?" the Saiyan gibed. "You are quite fickle, woman."

"You're impossible," Bulma sighed with bitter resignation, turning and taking several steps up the stairs. "Goodnight, Vegeta. I need to sleep. And if I haven't said it clearly enough yet, I'll say it straight out: No." She had uttered that last syllable with a distinct iciness.

Vegeta feigned a laugh. "I will let you go. By denying me, you only deny yourself."

"Whatever," she retorted dismissively.

Thereafter, the both of them had retreated to their rooms. Vegeta had not considered their exchange a total failure; in fact, he had noticed with particular interest that the woman's anger had simmered down since they had spoken last. If anything had indicated this fact, the comparative absence of tears and profanities had. Eventually, he thought, she would seek him out as she had done so many times before. If she did not, he could fall back on his initial plan to forget her and her distractions. Either outcome would prove advantageous, and Vegeta let his solitary routines consume the passing days.

Now, perhaps weeks later, Vegeta sat beneath the capsule ship, devoting his quiet attention to the snowfall and the distant figure of the woman who had just materialized in it. He could see her warm breath rise in a pale mist that contrasted with the darkness of the evening sky. As she continued along the path to the front door, she would pass within a few yards of the ship. When she paused and glanced in his direction, Vegeta wondered if she could feel his eyes upon her. He might never know. Their gazes connected.

Ever so slightly, Bulma's lip curled upward. "What are you doing under there, Vegeta?" she asked, her fur-trimmed boots skimming away the snow in front of her.

Vegeta gave no answer.

"Aren't you cold? You have a jacket, you know. How long have you been out here?" She had bent over, resting her gloved hands on her knees, in order to address him levelly.

"My suit keeps heat close to my body," he stated coolly.

Bulma sighed and shook her head. "I'll tell you what—I'll get you some hot chocolate. How about it?"

For a moment, Vegeta stared at his boots, deliberating.

"You can stay out here or come inside. I'll bring it out to you if you want to stay. It's your choice. So—do you want the hot chocolate or not?"

He nodded.

"Going to stay there?"

He nodded again.

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes." She stood up straight, then sighed once more.

When she was out of sight, Vegeta rested his forehead against his knees and closed his eyes as he waited. The numbness that had settled over him had not left. Although his heart rate had quickened just enough for him to notice, he felt strangely detached from the physical sensation.

Not ten minutes later, Bulma had returned. Treading as carefully as possible, she stooped down, slipped under the ship, then sat beside Vegeta. She extended a large mug to him, which he took, then unfolded his jacket, which she had slung over her arm. "Here. Why don't you put this on?" she said.

He set his beverage carefully on the grass beside him, then shuffled into his jacket. It had retained some of its warmth from the heated indoors, he noticed.

"This might be a silly question, but you never know. I don't know what all the other planets are like," Bulma began, breaking the silence. "You've seen snow before, right?"

"Yes," Vegeta answered after tasting his hot chocolate. "It snowed often on Frieza's home planet."

"Is that what you were thinking about?"

"No," was the response he gave, although he could not remember what he had thought and not thought of over the past hour.

"What were you thinking about, then? You've always got something on your mind. You know how I feel about stuff like that: better out than in."

Vegeta dodged her question by asking one of his own. "You arrived home earlier than usual. Have you finally silenced your press and competitors?"

Bulma's eyes widened as if surprised that he had posed such an inquiry. "Yeah, actually. It's been letting up these past few days. They've been more interested in Capsule Corp.'s work on the gravity simulator for the International Space Station. We just did a press release for it at the end of last week." She smiled brightly, then laughed. "At least now they're more interested in my technology than they are in the spandex-wearing Saiyan I made out with in my office."

"Spandex?"

"It's a stretchy fabric. It looks a bit like the stuff your suit is made out of."

"What has that got to do with anything?" the Saiyan mumbled over his steaming mug.

She laughed again. "It's half the reason people stared at you, that's what. Let's just say that most people here aren't used to seeing that much muscle definition in tight pants."

"Ridiculous," Vegeta grumbled. "Earthlings are vulgar and trivial."

"You have no idea." She rested one hand on his shoulder. "How's the training going? My dad hasn't heard from you, so I'm guessing there's no trouble with the machine."

"I can train easily at the level I was at before my"—he hesitated—"injuries."

"That's good!"

"It is shameful. Do not fawn over me, woman."

"Oh, come on, Vegeta. It's just small talk."

"Precisely. It is meaningless." He finished off his hot chocolate, then stared into the empty mug.

Bulma took the mug from his hand and set it on the ground beside her. Then, she took his hand in hers, pressing it lightly. "Do you want to talk about what's on your mind instead? Something is up. You've been sitting out in the snow doing nothing, and you're acting all subdued."

Vegeta scowled. "You presume too much."

"Then how about you go inside and take a warm shower instead of sulk out here?"

"I meditate. I do not sulk," he muttered rigidly.

"Is 'brood' a better word, then?" Bulma asked playfully. "It's somewhere between 'meditate' and 'sulk.'"

Vegeta rolled his eyes. "You are insufferable."

"You don't really think that." She scooted closer to him.

Except for the occasional snowflake or two, the sky had cleared altogether. Vegeta was content to sit quietly and stare into space for a few moments, thoughtlessly savoring Bulma's touch. If he had felt "subdued," as she had put it, then her presence served to ameliorate that feeling. Clearly, her frustration with him had largely subsided, as he had predicted. He could only guess what might have gone on in her head to restore her favor.

"I've got an idea," she announced suddenly. "Let's go inside. You can take a shower and go to bed. Tomorrow is the weekend, and I don't have to go anywhere for once. You can do your training, and then you can have dinner with me in the evening—if you're okay with tweaking your schedule a bit, that is. Just me and you. You can show up in the kitchen around five. You'll get something fresh instead of leftovers. What do you think?"

Skeptically, he considered the idea. It did not seem so terrible; it came with the promise of food and a yielding woman in a controlled, foreordained setting. He nodded, indicating his assent.

Bulma smiled. "Okay! Let's get out from under here before we freeze our asses off."