Vegeta met Bulma in the kitchen the next morning. When he had sensed her, he had considered skipping breakfast and heading straight for the capsule ship. He could either avoid the stress of the woman and train hungry, or he could risk her presence and obey his impulse to follow through on his mid-morning habits. Either option had its advantages and drawbacks. While he weighed them against each other, he watched the woman pour steaming black coffee into two large mugs. Vegeta did want a cup of coffee; he could smell it from where he was standing. Bulma, leaning against the counter, sipped the coffee she had poured for herself, and Vegeta imagined its taste in his own mouth, hot and savory.

Before he could realize what he had done, he had stridden into the kitchen and taken his seat at the table. Bulma smiled at him, the curve of her lip accentuated by her lipstick's deep red. She remained standing where she was, and they regarded each other quietly. Vegeta could not remember why he had not fetched the coffee doubtlessly intended for him, nor why he did not fetch it now.

"How are you this morning, Vegeta?" Bulma asked him as she set his mug down next to his hand.

He hid his face as best as he could behind his coffee. He tried not to look at her as she took a seat beside him, but he couldn't help himself. She was still smiling. The lower lids of her eyes curved upwards when she smiled, and her cheeks flushed subtly; the effect illuminated her whole face in some unquantifiable way. A searing flash of yearning caught Vegeta by surprise; he felt it in his chest, and his heart rate quickened in response. He should have trained hungry.

Bulma shrugged. She had given up on waiting for any response from Vegeta. "I guess you're still waking up. Oh well—that's what coffee's for. Anyway, it's good to see you. Why don't you eat something?"

Vegeta hadn't noticed until that moment, but a plentiful selection of assorted breakfast meats and baked goods lay spread out in front of him. Whatever appetite he had once had suddenly lacked, though. In spite of that, he piled his plate with rolls an sliced ham, hoping that occupying himself with his food would excuse his inattentiveness and silence. He knew he would regret having wandered into the kitchen at all if he chose not to eat; it would defeat the purpose of his being there. He downed each bite hastily without tasting it. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could leave.

"Did you sleep well?"

Reflexively, Vegeta glanced up from his plate to the woman's eyes. The smile in them had faded. She seemed concerned about something. Perhaps if Vegeta answered her she would stop looking at him like that. Even when he turned away from her, he could still feel her watching him, reading him. It made him painfully aware that another person was in the room, that his mind was not the only one that could scrutinize and manipulate the world around him—an unsettling thought. It unsettled him in the same way that the knowledge that Bulma could break into his room at will did. "I slept through the night," he answered her finally, speaking truthfully.

"That's good." She smiled again.

Vegeta wondered why she did not talk as much as she usually did. If anything, the woman was talkative and liked to hear the sound of her own voice. By now, she should have asked his opinion on some trivial topic or started explaining something or other unprompted. This morning, however, she did not press him for conversation. She suppressed her urge to talk deliberately, without a doubt. Vegeta knew she often premeditated her behavior toward him; he had learned that over the course of the months he had known and interacted with her. From the evidence of her expression, he guessed she was not angry, nor could he think of any reason why she would be angry at him. Last night, he had not hurt her; he had pleased her, in fact, and she had told him so.

Besides, what difference did it make to him what she felt or whether she spoke or not? He need not let others concern him. His mind projected enough trouble onto the universe for him to take time to acknowledge the projections of other minds. Surely, he would gain nothing but another burden to bear if he tried to stretch himself beyond his personal universe into those of others.

"Vegeta?"

The Saiyan blinked.

"You've just been sitting there staring off into space for the past five minutes."

"I prefer to eat in silence."

"You weren't eating, though. Just staring."

Vegeta scowled. "You have been staring at me ever since I entered this room. It is bothersome. And you are abnormally quiet."

"Bothersome, huh?" Bulma smirked from behind her mug. "I thought it would bother you more if I tried to start any sort of involved conversation with you. You always complain about my 'prying questions.' Looks like I can't not bother you. But I at least wanted to make sure you had a nice breakfast before you sneaked off to train."

"Why?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I had fun last night. I thought I'd say hello this morning."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed in skepticism. He could discern that she had further motives than simply greeting him. "That is not the whole truth."

Bulma sighed, resting one elbow on the table and putting a palm to her forehead. "I was worried about you, okay?"

"Why? My affairs are of no concern to you or anyone else."

"You just... seemed really anxious all of a sudden." Her tone fell short of its characteristic confidence, as if she feared broaching the subject at hand. "I didn't want you to... hurt yourself or anything."

Vegeta's brow arched threateningly.

"But I guess it was nothing. You showed up here at nine thirty like you usually do, even if you are acting a bit subdued. Maybe I was being a little bit... presumptuous."

At least she knew to correct herself, he thought. "We are in agreement on that," he declared condescendingly. "And do not say that merely to appease me. Believe it instead. I can tell when someone purposefully repeats my own thoughts back to me to stay in my favor."

Bulma's grip around her mug tightened defensively. For a second, Vegeta thought she might rebut his accusation with considerably less restraint than she had shown so far. But before she could give in to such a temptation, she exhaled slowly, sipped her coffee, and let her smile creep back into her eyes. "Okay, then. I'm glad everything's fine. But if you've got something on your mind, I won't mind talking it over."

Vegeta folded his arms over his chest. "There at last is the prompt for conversation and the attempt at prying. Don't fool yourself. There is nothing for us to speak of."

"Sure," Bulma conceded.

She remained incredulous. The one syllable she had uttered had dripped with disbelief. Vegeta decided that it was not worth convincing her; she was headstrong, and she would believe what she will. Not only this, but the futile process of convincing her would involve nothing less than some insufferable, drawn out dialogue that would certainly descend into a gratuitously emotional mess. Vegeta could tolerate that by no means. As long as she left him alone, it did not matter what she thought. Still, it annoyed him to know that her perspective reflected something other than his own. It annoyed him more to acknowledge how much energy he had already wasted thinking about the whole ordeal.

"You spaced out again, Vegeta."

He grumbled indistinctly. "I have nothing to say to you. If you cannot abide my silence, then you may go."

"It's fine, actually. I like just being with you." The rosiness in her cheeks bloomed softly when she said that, bringing out the blue in her limpid eyes.

Vegeta could hardly bear to look at her. He could never deny her beauty, no matter how many absurd things she said. She possessed that sort of sickening beauty whose presence strangled and wracked the body with aching. Shortness of breath and the threat of nausea—it recalled the onset of Vegeta's strange out-of-body experiences a little too closely for his comfort. Even so, he could not call it wholly unpleasant.

Bulma reached out to grasp his hand. The instant she touched him, he realized he had been staring at her as shamelessly as she had him. But now that Vegeta had come back to himself, so did shame, and he cast his eyes to the floor as he drew his hand away.

"I'm happy you decided to have breakfast with me," Bulma said. "I was afraid that you wouldn't show up at all, but you did."

"I can stand the nonsense of some inane woman if it means eating at the time I've become accustomed to," the Saiyan spat with no small amount of cynicism.

"You can stand me. How romantic." She giggled at her own sarcasm.

Vegeta shot irony straight back at her. "I want no more to eat, however, so I can stand you no longer." He followed his statement with a derisive, crooked grin.

She laughed heartily.

"I meant what I said." He got up and made for the main hallway.

"Wait! Can I invite you to dinner again before you run off?" Bulma set her mug down on the table loudly, drawing attention to herself. "Same day, place, and time as yesterday. If you like that schedule, we can make it every week."

The Saiyan turned, blinked, then glared at her. "What?"

"Do you want to have dinner with me on Saturdays?" Her proposition, roughly translated to Vegeta's mind, meant that she wanted the two of them to have regular sexual encounters.

Vegeta's jaw slackened a little before he forced it shut again. The question had caught him off guard, and he had no idea how he should or wanted to respond. He paced back and forth before taking his seat once more.

Bulma watched him expectantly. She had inched her backside a bit closer to the edge of her chair. While Vegeta could never enter her mind or body to experience the world as she did, he had the distinct impression that she was presently feeling the same giddy anxiety that he had felt before. Imagining the sensation produced a mild version of it in his own body. Merely studying her blurred the barrier between their supposedly secret and inexorably separate conscious experience. It was a strange phenomenon, but one which Vegeta had met with before. He had experienced it just last night, in fact; her climax had compelled his own.

"I am ambivalent," Vegeta announced finally.

"You don't know?"

"How can you expect me to make an informed choice when you have not defined the terms of your proposition?"

Bulma raised one eyebrow. "I did, though. I thought it was pretty self-explanatory—Saturdays, same time. I figured you'd like that. If you're feeling fine, what's holding you back?"

He frowned. "From what I've observed among you Earthlings, such an agreement has implications beyond what you say. I will know your customs before I agree or disagree to them."

"Wow, you're taking this really seriously. So you want to know the boundaries of our relationship—is that it?" She seemed surprised.

"Define your terms, or I will reject them on principle."

"To be honest, Vegeta, I'm not really following any 'customs.' I'm just taking things one day at a time, especially since you're not used to any of this. I figured we could just do what works for us and adjust as needed." She gave him time to respond, but Vegeta's stoic stare demanded that she elaborate. "I thought yesterday went pretty okay, so I thought we could do the same thing again. I won't tell anybody about it unless you want people to know. It doesn't have to be anything official. I'm not expecting anything more than before—just some conversation and a bit of fun every now and again. So what do you say?"

Vegeta had no reason to doubt her sincerity. It seemed she offered herself freely on the condition that he endure the occasional dialogue and ensure the reciprocity of their pleasure. He had only to decide if it was worth the trouble. As for the dialogue, he considered it a means to an end, a necessary inconvenience that he could put up with so long as she did not press or pry too far. As for the sex, he desired it, but did not know if he could justify it to himself. With the conversation the woman demanded beforehand as well as her insistence on his pleasing her, he would have to sacrifice hours of valuable time. Ultimately, he did not need her for sexual gratification; he could satisfy himself alone in a matter of minutes whenever he wished.

"Can you still not decide?" Bulma asked, interrupting his deliberations. If she inched any further toward the edge of her seat, she would lose her balance. Her eyes, wide and fixed on his, begged him for an answer as if for mercy.

A stab of longing distracted Vegeta from his choice. That look of hers—it distressed him. She distressed him. She challenged his self-sufficiency, his overriding desire to remain unmoved and untouched. If touch meant ecstasy, if stepping outside himself meant contact with an other such as her, then perhaps he prized singleness of heart too highly. Vegeta did not often make choices of pleasure, but of necessity. Why deny himself? Why not have mercy?

"I accept your terms."

"Great! I thought you were going to have an existential crisis or something," she laughed.

He should have trained hungry.