Bulma had just come home. It was Tuesday. Vegeta had sensed her presence; he'd waited for her. He had even finished training earlier than usual—all only to see her as soon as possible. Hastily, he had eaten and showered to occupy himself productively while he waited for her. He was in the process of dressing himself when he finally sensed her on the Capsule Corp. campus. He found his cashmere sweater—he couldn't resist wearing it once his palm brushed it while searching his drawer for an appropriate shirt—and slipped it on. Already he knew of its softness, but it surprised him how quickly the material absorbed heat and how closely it kept heat clinging to him. The woman had implied such fabric fetched a high price; he understood why.

Vegeta paused in the hallway near the front door. Bulma would see him upon entering the mansion. His heart leaped in his chest when he heard her voice just beyond the door; he assumed she was speaking to someone on her cell phone. She stepped inside.

"Just got home. You have a good evening! It'll be good to see you on—." Upon spotting the Saiyan, words failed her. She could only stare silently, beaming bright-eyed and open-mouthed while she shut the door behind her. Visibly, she had to catch her breath before she spoke again. "Got to go. Bye!" she said with one exhalation. She dropped her phone into her coat pocket without once removing her gaze from Vegeta. "Well, hello!" she greeted as she flitted to his side, her pitch high with what sounded like delight. "What are you doing here?" A question, the same high pitch—it neither challenged nor demanded an answer.

Vegeta had no answer for her anyhow. He preferred not to think at the present moment. She'd wrapped her arms about his waist, her chill-reddened nose an inch or two from his. Her hands stroked his back. She'd done all of this in less than a few seconds, as if on impulse.

"Damn, that top is sexy on you." She kissed his cheek. "Do you even know how sexy you are?" When she saw that he had not recoiled in the slightest, she kissed his mouth. "What's going on?"

Another question—this one demanded an answer. Vegeta offered her a lingering kiss.

"I bet you're looking to reschedule. Is that it?"

"No." He kissed her again.

"Then what is it?" Her arms tightened around his waist.

"No schedule." His scowl soured. "Damn the schedule."

Bulma took a step back from him, her eyes wide with shock and befuddlement. "What's gotten into you?" Before she could take another step away, Vegeta pulled her back against him. "First you're off your training schedule to say hello to me," she continued, "and now you're saying 'damn the schedule.' What's going on—seriously?"

Bulma's coat concealed her curved contours from Vegeta's sight and touch; he wanted nothing more than to rip it away so he could feel her properly. From beneath that thigh-length coat, he had seen that woolen stockings plunged into high-heeled boots. She likely wore a skirt, and it was a shame that anything hid how it, undoubtedly, hugged her rounded hip. Pressing his cheek to hers, he nestled his face in her silky, sweet-scented hair. He'd waited too long for this—his whole life long, it seemed. He would deny himself no longer. Everything else be damned. Let everything fall into chaos, let living take over, let himself be damned. This moment was worth its shattering condemnation. This was the conclusion he had come to earlier that day; he had been fighting himself to come to it ever since he had last seen her.

The woman pulled back to look him in his eyes. "Help me out here, Vegeta. You've got that same frown on, and I'm having trouble reading you. What's going on? I'm not complaining, though—I'm happy to see you."

"Come upstairs with me." His tone wavered somewhere between an offer, a demand, and a plea.

Bulma grinned wryly. "Just feeling a bit too amorous for your own good, I take it?" If only she knew how truly she had spoken. She accepted a kiss before saying anything more. "Tell you what—I still need to have dinner if you want to join me. I certainly won't mind having some fun after that."

"I've already eaten." Her plush coat peeved him all the more now that he could not feel the subtle ways the flesh of her rear yielded to his grip. "Come upstairs with me," he repeated, this time more firmly.

Slowly, bemusedly, and still smirking, Bulma petted his cashmere-covered collar, then swept down his shoulder and paused at his hard bicep. "I'm thinking about it..." She stood completely silent, drawing out each passing second strategically. "It's a good thing you liked your present, because it's totally working in your favor right now, damn." Her hand wandered down his side and over his hip. "I should've gotten you some jeans or something to go with it, though. Those workout pants don't really match. Don't leave much to my imagination, either."

She was toying with him. While Vegeta realized this, he didn't care. Desire had laced itself into her scent, and if she tempted herself by playing her little game, then he could let her tease him. Hoping that he could entice her further, he caressed her throat with tongued kisses. He paused only at her affectionate sigh.

"Thanks for reading my card. It means a lot. You're grateful. I can tell. You're welcome, by the way." Although she gave him a few silent seconds to deny her, he gave no response but a stare and a scowl. "Let's go," she relented. "Just let me hang up my coat."

Vegeta stood still as he, with smoldering intensity, watched Bulma emerge from her coat. She was indeed wearing a close-fitting skirt. He waited until she had reached the foot of the staircase to follow her, not knowing whether he did so to assure himself that she would keep her word or to grant himself a better view of her undulating stride, doubly pronounced by her boots and the stairs' incline. She knew she was beautiful.

She knew she was beautiful when, once they'd locked themselves away in the empty guestroom, she began unbuttoning her shimmering blouse. When he lay on top of her, she looked up at him between kisses with some devastating admixture of lust and laughter in her eyes. She beamed just as she had when she had opened the front door to find him waiting.

Vegeta realized that he couldn't bear it, couldn't bear facing her. She was distractingly real—so powerfully real that he remembered exactly why surrendering himself to her like this had shaken him with such anxiety from the very beginning. However much he had longed for this and for her, his pining imagination could never have prepared him for reality. So he had, in the end, resorted to turning her back to him as they took each other to ecstasy. He knew not whether he regretted or thanked himself for his choice when he opened his eyes to see her peering over her shoulder at him, catching her breath and cheeks aflame. Once he set her free from beneath him, he collapsed on the bed beside her, then shut his eyes again.

Bulma reached over to stroke his hair. "So what was that 'damn the schedule' thing about?" she purred contentedly.

Fatigue and restfulness delayed both Vegeta's thoughts and response. Bulma wrapped his arm around her waist while she awaited her answer. "The arrangement—it's too restrictive and and liable to conflict," he mumbled lazily.

"Ha—I agree completely!" She squeezed his hand. "What do you propose we do instead? Got something in mind?"

He realized he did not have anything in particular in mind; he had not had time to conjure up anything. The very moment he had decided to deviate from his routine and seek out the woman coincided with the moment he realized that he wanted to escape the schedule's restrictions. He had wanted her, and he did not want to have to wait. It was disturbingly clear and simple.

Bulma broke Vegeta's silence. "Do you want to meet up more than once a week? Or maybe we could just do what we did tonight—you know, just kind of let things happen. Be spontaneous sometimes. Plan for spontaneity. We can plan for every Saturday still, though."

How much time had Vegeta already sacrificed to dally with the woman? Now here she lay proposing that he sacrifice more time to her. Her fingers still tangled in his hair, she kissed him as if he did indeed believe that time worth sacrificing, as if he desired her that much. Her soft lip certainly made a compelling case; she distracted and chased away any thought to the contrary, and her taste reminded him of what he would sacrifice should he deny her.

"You know me—I'm either working in the lab or just relaxing most evenings. You can come and find me whenever when you're not training if you feel like it. Visiting me in the lab would be really nice, actually. You're really good to bounce ideas off of. You're familiar with a lot of my work, and you have a really different perspective on things."

She expected that he dedicate as much time to verbal discourse as he did to physical discourse, apparently. Vegeta had figured that; Bulma tended to insist on such things, and he considered conversation but a meager price to pay for open access to her bed.

"You wouldn't mind if I come find you from time to time, would you?" Bulma continued, punctuating every other phrase with a peck to his ear, cheek, or neck. "I promise I won't bother you while you're training. Maybe during dinner or later at night. I won't go in your room unless you ask me to. I'll just knock on the door, and you can say whether or not you want to be left alone. How does that sound? Clear enough? Any amendments to those terms?"

Weighing her words took more effort than the Saiyan bargained for. With his eyes shut and his hand rising and falling at her waist to the rhythm of her breath, he could barely keep himself conscious. He started at the sound of his name.

"Vegeta? Are you falling asleep?"

"Of course not," he snapped. When he glared at her, he noticed that she wore that disarming, amused smile, her face still flushed from their tussle.

"What do you think about the modified terms?"

"I can abide them," he answered automatically. Only after he had spoken did he realize that perhaps he should have attended to her renewed terms more carefully. But what did it matter anyhow? He'd thrown caution aside that evening, and chaos had rewarded him decadently.

"Great. I'm glad." Bulma's shoulders trembled with light laughter against his chest. "You're so mellow right now. I love it. I might even have a chance of getting you to at least make an appearance on Saturday, you know, for the food. So—will you?"

"No." Another automatic answer.

"I figured."

He sat up and reached for his clothes; he might have fallen asleep in the strange guestroom had he not roused himself. The thought of that appealed to him only slightly more than wasting his time and patience on the insipid Earthlings and their sentimental social gathering. Such things served no purpose. It offended Vegeta's sensibilities enough to draw his attention away from Bulma's warmth; he might have lain with her longer otherwise. It made no difference, however. He could be with her again soon.

When next he saw her, it was Saturday. Vegeta had honestly and by no means had any intention of joining the Earthlings, but he found himself among them nevertheless. Upon completing his training for the evening, he had, despite having trained later than usual specifically to avoid them, sensed Bulma, her parents, and her friends lingering in the dining room. Assuming they would have scattered by the time he took a shower, he stalked upstairs. To Vegeta's chagrin, however, they had not moved even after he'd washed and dressed. He didn't know which irritated him more—the prospect of joining them, or waiting idly for them to leave while his stomach gnawed at his sides.

If he joined them, he could sate his hunger closer to the hour he'd become accustomed to, and he could see the woman again. She had expressed a desire for his presence; should he make an appearance, she would likely compensate him for it later. Undoubtedly, she knew better than to deal with him unfairly after all the allowances he had made her. She had a logic to her, however disorderly and capricious. Vegeta would join her and the others, he decided; he could eat quickly, then leave, engaging in as little chitchat as possible.

Everyone fell silent and stared at him when he entered the dining room.

"Vegeta!" Bulma and her mother exclaimed simultaneously.

Yamcha watched the Saiyan warily as he took the empty place at the table beside him. Dr. Briefs had only glanced at him. With a shrug, he diverted his attention back to his half-eaten slice of chocolate cake.

Mrs. Briefs sprang to her feet with a happy clap of her hands. "This is so wonderful and unexpected! I'm so glad I hadn't finished putting everything away. I'll get you some of everything, Vegeta dear!" After disappearing into the kitchen, she called, "Goodness—I don't think I can carry it all. Would someone mind helping me? This is so wonderful!"

"Come on, Puar. Let's go," Yamcha said to the shapeshifter clinging to his shoulder, his cheerful tone clearly forced. Both promptly escaped into the kitchen.

Bulma sat across from Vegeta beside her father. Her crimson lip curved subtly upward, but her eyes, alight with thrilled surprise, betrayed her with far less subtlety. Vegeta blinked slowly, acknowledging her. He did not fail to notice how splendidly her simple black dress became her. He only realized how blatantly he'd let his gaze linger on her when Mrs. Briefs returned and set a large plate before him.

"My daughter looks gorgeous tonight, don't you think?"

Vegeta dropped his eyes to his food and scowled, giving Mrs. Briefs no reply. He would have to resist whatever impulse he had to look toward Bulma. The others, save perhaps Dr. Briefs, would surely notice, and Vegeta resolved to give nothing away to them. They had absolutely no right to any knowledge of his personal affairs.

Bulma's laughter rang from across the table. Vegeta stared stonily at the ample piece of cake Yamcha had just placed beside his plate. "Let him be, mom. He's only here for the food."

This was ridiculous. Here Vegeta was, worrying over the perceptions of a few insignificant Earthlings. He made quick work of his dinner, inwardly fuming at himself and at everything. He could have waited another hour or two to scavenge in solitude; he could have never involved himself with the woman. There she sat chatting merrily with her mother, giggling about some absurd shared memory; there she sat, a secret of his that he could neither hide away deep inside his mind nor restrict to his interior. She was outside of him; she was other, and she had her dependencies and attachments to the outside universe and its inhabitants. She tied him to them by extension, and Vegeta did not relish that in the slightest. First, he had wept over soft fabric, and now he troubled himself with the worthless Earthlings and their social gathering. What had happened? Perhaps he had made a mistake.

Yamcha already suspected him; he had from the beginning. Vegeta felt his eyes on him. He was certain of it. Vegeta shot him a sidelong glance, and their eyes met.

"I've heard you've been doing well," he remarked good-naturedly. "How's the training going?"

"Do not speak to me, Earth man," the Saiyan growled.

Yamcha frowned, but softened his expression as best he could the next instant. "Hey, man, I don't mean to get under your skin. Today's a day for building bridges, not burning them."

If Vegeta ignored him, maybe Yamcha would stop attempting conversation. With obvious annoyance, he carved a bite from his chocolate cake.

"Bunny makes the best chocolate cake." Apparently, Yamcha either did not get the message or he chose to overlook it. "Earth isn't so bad, is it?"

Vegeta threatened the other man with a glare. If Yamcha continued to provoke him, he would have no scruples about retaliating with taunts and, if needed, violence. It wouldn't take much effort.

"All right—I'll leave you alone," Yamcha acceded. "Bulma got you to come to a Christmas party. If that doesn't mean you're doing better, I don't know what does. I'm glad things are looking up, and I hope it only gets better from here on—"

"Silence!" Vegeta spat. "What use have I for your pleasantries? I have no patience for you. You are more pathetic than that silly, simpering woman."

"Come on," Yamcha sighed, exasperated. He tried to relieve some of the tension with a nervous laugh. "Call me pathetic all you want, but you know Bulma isn't." Self-deprecation—another sorry attempt to ease the Saiyan's resentment.

Vegeta saw right through it. If Yamcha wanted conversation, then he would have it. "How you ever tolerated that obscene woman is beyond me," he said acridly, "as insufferably loud and foul-mouthed as she is writhing beneath a man."

Slack-jawed, Yamcha blushed fiercely. He began to sputter as his rage gathered. It drew everyone's attention. Only then did Vegeta's wicked cackle die in his throat. Unwittingly, he had revealed too much. Irritation had made him negligent. He swallowed a curse.

"I—I knew it! Fuck you! You're a sick bastard, you know that?" Yamcha had stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in the process.

Vegeta rose to meet him.

"Hold up—what's going on?" Bulma interjected.

"What did you do to her? If you hurt her... I swear to God..."

Vegeta snorted disdainfully. "What could you possibly do, weakling Earth man? You dare threaten me? You are a fool."

Bulma rushed to separate the two men, but not before Vegeta struck Yamcha across the face with the back of his hand, staggering him.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Briefs gasped.

"Hey! Stop it—both of you!" Bulma rested a calming hand on Vegeta's collar. "Don't mind him, Vegeta. He's just being an idiot."

With no small amount of amazement, Yamcha watched as Vegeta lowered his arm. "Ha—his blood is not worth dirtying my hands," the Saiyan hissed.

"You're defending him, Bulma? Really?" Yamcha accused, rubbing his cheek. Puar clung tightly to his shoulder. "So that's how it is, huh? What a world I live in. You're making a mistake, Bulma."

"Let it go, Yamcha. Please," Bulma sighed. "This isn't the time or the place or the day for it."

"He's going to hurt you. He probably already has."

Mrs. Briefs squealed. Vegeta winced at the shrillness. "You and Vegeta finally got together, sweetie? I was wondering why you had those extra sheets in your laundry." She muffled another squeal with her palm. "I'm so excited! My grandbabies will be so beautiful!"

"Mom!"

Vegeta stood paralyzed. Suddenly, everyone knew too much; he had betrayed himself, and his guilty pleasure now lay out in the open. But what should he care? He could do as he wished; the Earthlings would not stop him, and they would not go talking if they valued their well-being. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered; he could give away nothing more.

"Mom, seriously," Bulma went on frantically. "It's not like that—no grandchildren. And don't go spreading rumors. I really don't need any more press." At least the woman's thoughts seemed to follow Vegeta's.

"I should get going," Yamcha announced, making way for the coat closet. "Happy holidays, Bunny, Dr. Briefs. You know how to reach me if you need me, Bulma."

"I'm sorry. You don't have to go, Yamcha."

"Yes, I do." He vanished into the hallway and out the door.

Vegeta glanced toward a clock mounted on the wall. Ten thirty—he had eaten, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep and forget the night's ordeal. He should have waited till everyone had scattered. Without a word, he exited the dining room.

"Well, this goes down in the history of epic holiday horror stories if any story does," Vegeta heard Bulma groan from the bottom of the staircase.

"Just another day, dear," Dr. Briefs commented. "Magic, demons, aliens, intergalactic warlords, resurrections from the dead—just another day."