A/N - To avoid any confusion: The flashback sequence is set immediately after Bulma and Vegeta got it on in the Capsule home in Chp14, and a couple hours before she woke up and divulged the secret behind the anklets. Hope that makes sense.

Huge, huge, heeeee-uuugge thanks to Adli for working her magic on this chapter

Contending with Darkness

Chapter Twenty

"Are you insane? No-no, no. That's not—" She took a well-measured four steps backwards, before thinking to retreat, trying her best to show off her broken elbow, awkwardly pointing it at Goku. "Is this not enough to answer that dumb-fucking-question?"

It was so hot, that heat professed an unwelcomed appearance from the exposed skin on her forearms. She didn't know what kind of atmosphere the ship had drifted into, but the climate on board had shifted, transformed into something tropic, a temperature that none of the three passengers could tolerate. Bulma, particularly.

She had a right mind to leave the situation. Just walk away. Take a deep breath … and walk … away. But she stayed, glaring at her so-called friend, who had the idiocy to put both of their lives in jeopardy, turmoil, extreme danger. Then she thought about how their fragmented lives were panning out already, how nothing seemed to be linear anymore. Everything shook and wobbled, including the ship, which, now thinking about it, Bulma didn't even know how it was still flying at all. They were playing the waiting game. Whether the ship was going to malfunction and blow up, or Vegeta was somehow going to escape and slice her throat open with a blade of ki … somewhere along this oxidizing line, they were going to die.

"Why?" she said. "Why would you ask that, Goku? It's careless. Inconsiderate … and so stupid. He wants … to kill us both." She sighed and succumbed to the mounting pressure of fucked-up atmospheric juju, squatting and bridging her healthy arm across her knee caps.

"I think it'll help," Goku said in a voice that heralded very little sense of guilt for his previous question.

She didn't even look at him. "No. Nothing is going to help him." How many times did she have to chip the statement in to digestible portions for Goku to gnaw on? How many? Her fuse was burning close to the detonator. No longer would she be able to contain her sanity.

"Bulma—"

"Don't," she muttered, staring at a perfectly spherical green stain on the blue carpet. "I'm struggling enough as it is."

She stood up. Her knees cracked.

"What am I supposed to do, huh? Leave him to starve to death? You let him train, and the first thing he'll do is come kill me." She shook her head, smiling, unable to satisfy the scorching need to scream in Goku's face. Somehow, though, she kept the volume small, stable. "Now, I don't want to seem conceited, but all I hear him shouting over there is how much pleasure it would give him to tear my throat out."

Sense wormed its way in Goku's conscience, and he grimaced, looking off to the side.

"Don't ask me again," Bulma hissed, turned, and stalked off, her bottom lip trembling, skin prickling with moisture, head throbbing.

Why was it that her headaches always surfaced when she had time to think about them? While her mind was occupied with other things, like experiments and stuff, the pain would always dwell unnoticed. Now that she was bored to insane tears of self-pity they wanted to push her further. The slightly nauseating thud that lead her lovingly to her room, to help her peel the covers back and scuttle under until she forcefully found sleep, only to wake up God knew how many hours/minutes/seconds later for the same lame routine to take course.

How many weeks had it been? Three? No, six. No, eight … Seven?

On the venture back to her room, she always wound up outside Vegeta's little pen of misery. It wasn't even on the way. She would double the journey, ponder through the densely oxygenated corridors and curtly stop, before, hey presto, there was Vegeta's room. It had been a while since she'd edged her way between those doors to encounter him. The truth was, she was petrified to look at him again, see what kind of state he'd decayed into.

Her arm was feeling slightly better. She could move it again. Not much, but the healing process was making a haphazard attempt. It never felt weaker than when she stood outside his room, though. The joint recognised its subjugator, and performed a tinge of pain.

She breezed in anyway and took a seat on the rumpled futon next to his bed. The ripe stench of vinegar was sagging in the air, and she could barely take it, swallowing back a hardening lump in her throat.

She'd done this to him. She had. No one else.

She watched him sleeping, the methodical rise and fall of his protruding ribcage, her gaze working its way up to his sharp, defined cheek bones, and to the soft creases around his eyes, reflecting some form of aging. How old was he? She had never thought to ask. The question was never appropriate, anyway. Who would ask that in their situation? Actually, she didn't really care. Age seemed … irrelevant.

The repetitive bleep from the life support machine was somehow soothing, persuading her to sink deeper into the futon, extending her legs across the carpet … and closing her eyes. Purple blotches floated around the inside of her eyelids, and as she tried to focus on their slothful meandering, the force of the headache returned. Bump, bump, bump.

Vegeta groaned. She stiffened and lifted herself up, rubbing her eyes one at a time with her good arm. Something didn't feel right about being in here. She knew damn well what it was. Not like it wasn't obvious or anything. This room wasn't a zoo, where you could sit and watch a tortured animal for your own tasteless entertainment. But, then, why didn't it feel any different? Vegeta was a wounded animal. And despite her trying to help him, he didn't need it. Nor did he want it. What did she care anymore?

She made to leave, stopping as soon as she reached the middle of the room after hearing the bed springs ache. Don't speak, don't speak, don't speak. Don't say … anything.

"Nothing to say to me?" he said, melting the solid ground underneath her.

She shook her head. Words wouldn't surface. His voice was too frail, too shallow. It wasn't his anymore.

"Surely a genius such as yourself has something to enlighten me with? Still no cure?"

With her back to him, her head dipped, she whispered, "I can't cure you."

"Hff."

She twisted to face him, his large, watery eyes centring on her every unhinged movement. "Do it yourself," she sneered, finding her voice. What was it with Saiyans and emitting nonsense at such an inappropriate time? On one hand there was Goku garbling about letting Vegeta free from his confinement, and now Vegeta was expecting her to cure him? She wasn't some miracle maker. She never was. She was a scientist. A damn good one, too. Science still had its limits, Psychology being the biggest of them all. The brain was a wondrous thing, but also the most alluding. Never would she be able to grasp what was happening in Vegeta's head. Never.

"You know, Vegeta, I went through all kinds of hell with you, and I'm still alive …" What was she saying? What was the point? Why couldn't she stop? Was it because he was still watching her, his slipping frame bending in her direction to take account of every miserable word she uttered? "I'm going to thank you for that … so, thank you."

She held her hand up when he opened his mouth. "You could've killed me the second those anklets were removed. But you didn't. You didn't want to."

Where was this all coming from? She sat back down, ready to fall into a sombre cocoon. "I'm tired. I go to sleep for hours—wake up—and I'm still tired."

It was all boiling down to this statement. When she thought she'd given up on him, the guilt of almost letting him go would haul itself at her, and she caught it every time. "I'll never be tired enough to give up on you, though." She declared this with an air of satisfaction, like regaining an inch of humanity was an indescribable relief.

He huffed again, almost a low chuckle. "You should. You can't do anything."

She inclined her head in his direction. "That's a lie. You want Frieza out of your head?"

His eyes widened despondently. "How do you know he hasn't already left?"

For a moment she was trapped by his suffocating melancholy. Frozen in the pain and torrent of his misery. Weeping beneath the surface, she wanted to embrace him, throw herself into him and take it all away. But what if he was right? The chance was always there. Always had been. Maybe Vegeta was just … a killer.

She smiled, accumulating the facts. "I can hear you screaming from the other side of the ship. That would take some pretty good acting to fool me."

"Psh …" He searched her hunched body, eyes travelling from her legs and stopping at the crook of her broken elbow, devoid of any guilt or regret; only slight acknowledgement.

"I … have … to …" His eyes were still trained on her arm, but he snapped his mouth shut, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes closed, like the words were razor blades nudging in his oesophagus.

Bulma looked away, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable. That inflammationof guilt had shrunk, and now she wanted to talk. Whether he wanted to listen or not. Because conversation was teasing the honesty out of him. If she could just distract him from his own thoughts, from his own restraints.

"Back on Earth, I had everything. I mean everything. People loved me and my family—because we could make a difference. There was always someone around, wanting … um … and … taking." She sniffed. "I've never known any different. I don't miss that."

Vegeta was no longer looking, but she could tell he was listening. He had no choice. She was rambling now, but she didn't care.

"I used to go this … er … field on the outskirts of the city. Far enough from all the craziness. I'd stand underneath the blossom trees, just feeling individual petals tap my skin." She rubbed her arm slowly, the little goosebumps rising. "Then the wind would come and blow them all a way." She shrugged.

"I miss that," she said finally, letting the words loiter, the taste settling on her tongue, before feeling a domineering need to leave the room. She got up, lingering in the open arch of the door, her knuckles grazing the border.

"I have to train," Vegeta croaked, cutting through her again.

He had a way of tearing her down every time she thought she had the upper hand. She looked over her shoulder, watching his wavering silhouette from her periphery. "Sorry. That isn't possible."

And she left it at that, not giving him a chance to retort.

Cynicism had managed, after weeks of hibernation, to claw its way into everything she saw. Corridors were now tunnels of darkness with no end, just ongoing pathways into the abyss. A bed was no longer a place of rest, but a domain of quiet, resolute and isolated self-loathing. And the sparse company she received from a friend was a hindrance, an obstacle in the way of her depressing reality.

Before going to bed, she sulked to the en suite and brought back a glass of water (probably stagnant, but who gave a shit, right?). Goku, uninvited, was lying, stretched out across her bed, his arms thrown above him, elbows pointing towards the far wall. She left the room for a minute and that happened? A passing idea tempted her. A spasm in her arm encouraged her to throw the glass of water at him. But she didn't. It might have been hilarious. Maybe not. The energy to act wasn't there anymore. Her fingers pressed into the warming glass, swilling the liquid around, and she lifted her shoulders as if to say, Yeah?

He smiled wanly, meshing his fingers and stretching his abdominals before sitting upright. "I thought it'd be cool if I stayed here for a bit."

Arguing was too costly against energy. It would win, and then Goku would win, and then she would lose, and then that would be it. So what was the point? Without further questions, she shuffled to the bed, levered herself with her legs and shimmied on her bum towards the top end, away from Goku.

Just before she sipped the tepid water, Goku muttered, "Like old times …" making her raise her eyebrows.

"No," she mumbled, bottom lip pasted to the rim of the glass. "I was sixteen, and you were a little, perverted kid, who couldn't get his head around the female anatomy."

Goku blushed and lay back again.

Sweat sequinned her skin, shining in the flittering starlight. Sheets were useless. She placed the glass on the floor and lay back, careful not to touch Goku's chest with her feet. It only took five blisteringly hot minutes for irritation to boot her up the backside. There was no need for Goku to be in here with her. Clearly, they'd run out of things to talk about. All there was to learn about Saiyans, she had learnt when she hacked up the enthusiasm to ask such questions. But even that seemed like a life time ago, and most of the information Goku generously handed her had been vacuumed into a black hole in the back of her mind.

The sheets were suctioned to the backs of her thighs and the base of her spine, itching and tingling, and –

"What—What exactly are you in here for, again?" she said, lifting herself onto her elbows, glowering at him, seeing a change in his demeanour. What was once a look of slender confidence had now disintegrated into the bashful composure of a small kid when they'd definitely done something bad.

Without making eye contact with her, he said, "I'm watching over you while Vegeta trains," making it sound like a reluctant question.

It turned out Bulma hadn't blinked for almost forty seconds, letting her eyes lose moisture and sting a bit so she knew she hadn't completely gone numb all over. It felt like the mattress had sunken beneath her, pulling her underneath so she was locked down forever, a stationary target.

"You're … watching me while Vegeta trains. Of course you are," she said, absentmindedly scraping her nails against her forearm. She leaned across the bed, grabbed the glass and took another sip of water, then another, smacking her lips before placing it back down … gently.

"It's OK, Bulma."

She grimaced, shook her head, and slipped onto her back, facing away from Goku. She didn't want to deal with it. Didn't know how to. Maybe she'd finally lost a loose screw, let it roll under the bed as soon as Goku diffused that blasé statement. Why were people against her? When she thought she was doing something right, someone was always there to throw sand in her eyes and laugh as she scrambled around in pain.

Useless.

It didn't feel hot anymore.

"The weaker he is," Goku started, barely a whisper, "the easier it is for Frieza to control him. He needs to become stronger in his mind and body."

She didn't realise she'd started sobbing until she spoke and she sounded a lot older than she actually was. "What if you're wrong?" she said, blindly searching for the sheets to drape over her. She was too exposed now.

"Then I'll stop him myself."

Kill him? Was that what Goku meant to say? It sounded like the most practical and worthwhile option. If Vegeta was loose, why couldn't she feel his life force? Why couldn't she sense his energy? It was as if he wasn't there at all.

Hot breath on the back of her neck woke her up. It was so real, damp across her hairline, tickling the wisps of baby hair in a way that made her whole animate with a galvanic charge, shoulder blades come together as the sense of danger drifted into her boggled, starry mind. She shot up, pulling a rigid muscle in the back of her neck, and felt around the clammy sheets, palms patting within the blackness of the room. She was alone. Except for the silhouette standing in the doorway, light bathing the outline of the statuesque figure, casting an ominous glow within the first few meters of the room, blockading her in. She rubbed her eyes until the figure became clearer, more existent than something her sleepy mind could stem from the pit of her subconscious. All the muscles in her abdomen clenched as her stomach flipped.

It was him.

She bolted out of bed, kicking over the glass of water and booting it into the wall, sending a quick snapping pain up her little toe. It rolled and bounced, before leisurely whirling back towards the bedposts. There was nowhere to run, nowhere. Not even a crawl space beneath the bed—how she got into this damn mess in the first place. But, why was she running? Wasn't this always her fate? He had promised her since the day they met that this was what he had planned to do, and she'd—almost willingly—accepted it. Trying to run was an embarrassment. The sweat was cooling on her back and chest, making her feel nauseous as she turned to face him; the features of his face forming as her eyes adjusted to the light. Seeing him standing was creating a different sense. Fear was washing away, replaced by something unsettling. She couldn't place it. All she did know was, for some reason, she wasn't dead yet.

She pressed her back against the wall. "Why haven't you killed me? Why haven't you tried to kill me yet?" Her voice crisped into the soggy air and faltered. She sounded miles away.

He said nothing. Just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, one leg bent in a casual 'nothing-out-of-the-ordinary' fashion.

"Say something," she shouted, gripping a section of her hair, pulling downwards. "I said say something, you asshole."

Her breathing came heavy, in quick heaves, and her knees threatened to give way, leaving her more vulnerable than ever. But she needed to stay tall, face him.

"Such a foul mouth," he said sarcastically, shaking his head, but giving her only the profile of his body.

It felt like she was a blue-bottle fly stuck in the sticky ooze of the spider's silken web, waiting for it to creep out of the darkness and devour her. It was driving her into a frenzy, unsure how to react. Struggle or relent?

Letting go of her hair, she asked, "Vegeta. What do you want? Where's Goku?"

He shook his head. "That idiot went wandering through the ship. As soon as he left, I came here," he said, tilting his head to shoot her a glance.

The strong, healthy definition of his jaw line had returned already, giving him the ounce of recognisability to ease her nerves, make her words more fluid as she spoke to him. A face that had once brought her comfort, even when faced with danger. It had been falsely imprinted in her brain since he saved her the first time, hence why, even with the threat of death on standby, she had trusted him with all her heart. Once. Before Frieza had totally warped his mind.

"I knew this would happen," she muttered, rubbing her palm against her drenched forehead, and shifting her broken elbow.

"Don't flatter yourself. Luckily for you, Frieza is at the forefront of my bloodlust."

"But—"

"Oh, don't worry, you come a close second. Just standing here is … testing."

She swallowed and looked at her bare feet, the baby toe which was throbbing coyly. "Then get away from me."

A sharp intake of air made her raise her eyes to him again, but she couldn't quite make out the expression on his face. The distance was too much and definitely not enough. In less than a second he could faze over and kill her. She wouldn't even know. Despite not being able to define his expressions clearly, the tone and slur in his voice spoke volumes.

"Hph … Is that what you really want?" He looked her way. "Your emotions seem to steer you into shit. They're so transparent it's laughable."

He uncrossed his arms, making her flinch, before he continued, "Something I've learnt from this little ordeal, while you had me chained to a fucking bed, is to shut them off. All of those emotions that'll get you killed. Shut. Them. Off."

"There's the difference between you and I. My emotions are what make me human," she said, the words practically bumbling out of her mouth as her throat tightened, and she stood there, broken elbow, throbbing head, depression hovering over her shoulders.

But she was right. Vegeta was not human.

He received her words with attentive ears. "And the rest falls into place," he muttered, eyes glazed.

The words weren't exactly crystal clear, but she got the bones of them, the harsh, brittle bones of their reality. "You're right," she said, and cried silently.

"I know." His eyes were fixed on a point of the room she couldn't see, but he looked slightly bewildered, and resembled a being who did harbour emotions, regardless of his sharp tongue and sour confession.

Inundated with confusion, she said the first and only thing which seemed somewhat logical and beneficial for both of them, while choking on a tirade of air-grappling sobs. "Please … stay away from me."

Of course, beneath the surface, that was far from what she wanted. She wanted for him to hold her like he had, albeit extremely briefly. For him to be around and grow stronger, but without the threat of his deeper need to kill leaking over the sides of his control. But that couldn't happen.

"That might be a bigger problem than you think," he said, lingering, before kicking himself away from the doorframe, and sauntering away.

An unusual sound came from her throat, and her knees buckled, finally allowing her to crash to the floor in a pile of limp limbs. The words swam around her mind, but she couldn't pick out their true meaning. And she didn't want to. She wanted to block it all out, clear it out, repress it, for fuck's sake. Whatever just happened, didn't happen. It couldn't have. How could someone who was so bent on killing another restrain himself after one training session? Or, had it been one training session? She punched the floor, two knuckles cracking. Within minutes, she started to question her own sanity again, because she remembered something so vividly that all her hope couldn't possibly dissipate into a cloud of dust, no matter how hard she tried to quash it.

It had only been fifteen minutes post their illicit activities that Vegeta disturbed the rare peace, pulling himself away from her and wandering to the fogging windowpane, where the candles aligning the ledge had long lost their flames. She peered out of one eye, fighting a losing battle with sleep, trying to witness his peculiar behaviour, as he placed a palm on the drooping wax of the candle, diffusing a nimble beam of blue light, bringing the dismal thing back to some form of life. And then he stood there, stark naked, arms braced upon the rotting window ledge, fingers digging into the wood, his face stern, but his eyes listless as he gazed out the glass at, what? Nothing was out there except the mouldy insides of the cave.

It was fascinating, seeing him act in a way she had never before. After the very few days spent in such close proximity to one another, she thought she had gathered enough of his personality to know the basis of his character. That judgement wasn't even close, because every second he surprised her. Her heart swelled, but the feeling was soon curbed as the cold began to eat into her bare skin. Not long ago she was slicked with sweat, as his warm hands roved every inch of her skin.

The Orling was still no where to be seen. Dead to the world after he abruptly vanished during her little meltdown. The fresh wound of Chichi's death was still pulsing in agony, begging to be acknowledged. It was only hours ago, but she couldn't look back. She couldn't. Didn't want to.

She shuddered. Vegeta turned to her, a wary intensity shining in his eyes. He didn't talk, tell her to turn away or go back to sleep, he just remained still, pensive as he really looked at her. It was a look so solid that her mouth became parched, her tongue feeling like a ball of cotton, clogging her throat. It made her feel too small, exposed under floodlights, so she was forced to look away, focus on something else, like the opposite corner of the mattress, which was so disturbingly coated with grot it made her draw her knees up to her chest. Like every time, though, she gave in and turned to him again, disheartened that his attention was no longer focused on her, but on the gloomy outdoors again. It gave her the opportunity to scrutinise his profile, the strong definition in his jaw, the hard muscles in his triceps and forearms, the tools that had kept her alive so far. Everything about this man soothed her soul, calmed her down, made her think about the possibilities of making it out alive. She had never been so fond of someone in such a short amount of time. The feeling was frightening. In fact, the feeling was so frightening and forceful that it made her want to jump off the bed and throw her arms around him right now, try and ease whatever thoughts were burdening him. But those kind of actions would never be embraced by a man like Vegeta. He wouldn't accept them.

Bulma vigorously rubbed up and down her arms, keeping the blood flowing and the morsel of heat contained, her eyes drifting to a random patch of the mattress.

"Frieza will not harm you," he said, so quietly she had to replay the words and work them out by herself.

What was she supposed to say to that? That feeling … it blossomed, delicately but tantalising, reaching out of her chest. Did Vegeta share the same sliver of optimism she had? Even despite the anklets, they were more in sync than she had thought. Shrouding the blush on her face, she lay back down on the bed, curling into ball, battling the festering cold air, and closed her eyes. No way was she going to sleep now. Not when a man delivers such a cryptic statement as that. Sure, it could have meant what it said in black and white, but that wasn't how he functioned.

Tormenting minutes passed by before he sank onto the bed again, making a point not to touch her. She knew why. He wasn't supposed to have blabbed about anything. Those words were not meant for her ears. Maybe, just maybe the feeling was too possessive that he had to say them. Maybe it was reciprocated. That, he too, cared about her in the alarming way she cared about him. Bulma didn't just care about him, though. That was obvious now. These emotions were running amuck around her head, scrambling logistics and dominating everything. Like rationality.

She moved over to him, his body radiating that desirable warmth, and she gingerly rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing the dips in his muscles before skirting the other side of his chest to find his hand. He didn't object, but he didn't relent, his body tense underneath her. The soft pumping of his heart quickened as she held his hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing each knuckle. He snarled, a warning, and yanked his hand free from her hold, before pushing her off of him. She blinked, as a waft of icy air devoured her skin, moments later being enveloped by scorching heat, his face inches from hers. She swallowed her cotton ball tongue, popping her mouth open, while pinioned beneath him, his lips brushing against her earlobe, her body forgetting about the cold, only the feel of his skin burning against hers; his hips holding her down, forearms against hers, his chest pressing against her breasts.

"Frieza will not lay a single finger on you," he whispered, ran the tip of his tongue against her earlobe, and sent a trail of harsh kisses down her neck, continuing as his saliva immediately cooled on her ear.

Leaving a bittersweet feeling behind, as well as the enigmatic words droning in her head, she buried her hands into his hair when the pad of his tongue pressed into her, sinking inside, releasing her from this world, inviting her into another.

Bulma smeared the itchy drying tears from her face, knowing that there was going to be huge red stains on her cheeks. For some reason, she seemed to care about that again. Granted, her appearance may have become a distant concern. That didn't mean she didn't care. Alarm bells sounded in her mind as she could, all of a sudden, sense Vegeta's energy travelling through the floor below, the sluggish movements perplexing her. So, what now? Honestly, she had half hoped that she had dreamt that encounter, pinching her arm to make sure she was awake. Nope, everything was real. The rich smell of sweat in the air, the humidity enclosing everything, the starlight whizzing past the window. Hope had yet to be depleted, remaining dormant as always. She didn't dismiss the fact that the person who had kindly promised her death was now mobile and wandering freely around the ship.

Goku's life force smacked the inside of her skull, and she looked over towards the doorway, which had been filled with yet another bulky body. He paced over to her, stopping as she reared herself from the floor.

"Bulma. Why are you … ?"

She shook her head, tentatively sitting back on the bed, its soft mattress welcoming the sudden rush of lassitude she was experiencing. Five minutes with Vegeta was all it took to send her weary beyond return. The bed fidgeted as Goku sat down beside her.

A flicker of agitation sparked.

"You don't need to be here," she said, groaning as she lay down, her neck muscles aching.

"I want to be here," he said, arching an eyebrow, the hero within him desperately wanting to help.

She couldn't look at him. He'd left her, despite saying he would protect her, see her through whatever this was, he left her alone for Vegeta to intercept. And that was enough for the anger to spill. She sat up again, ignoring the protests of her strained neck.

"Vegeta was in here. Just now. He was standing right over there. Not too far from where I was cowering in the corner," she said, eyes blazing into his.

" …I know."

He knew?

Like any sensible human being, Bulma dived across the bed and whacked Goku across the face, not with a palm, but with a scrunched up fist, the pain in her knuckles instant and eye watering. Not enough to stop her from doing it again on the other side of his face, until the coordinated actions became sloppy and her arm lost the ability to throw a solid punch without wilting every time it connected with Goku's skin. He grabbed her wrist, his eye like huge black discs in his head.

"You … fucking knew, did you?" She wrenched to hit him again, but he kept her restrained, tightening his grip. "He could've killed me." Spittle sprayed out of her mouth, making Goku flinch.

"I had to see if he would try," Goku said in a steady, controlled voice, regardless of her offense.

The rage burning in her chest was painful, and though she tried to free her arm, Goku's grip was too strong, obstinate, and she was forced to drop back, swallow the physical anger. "Oh. OK. So I was a guinea pig in your poorly exacted experiment, was I?"

He looked hurt, the onslaught of words hitting a penetrable barrier. He let go of her arm. "Bulma. I would never put you in danger."

She laughed. This guy was unbelievable. She knew that, though. The amount of times he'd almost gotten her killed … "Well, you did. Whether you think it or not. Right then, I felt like I was in some pretty thick danger."

Goku frowned, leaned back a bit. "He didn't even try to kill you."

He definitely knew something she didn't. And it was killing her. Why was she constantly left to whimper alone in the dark? She scoffed. "He wanted to. I was waiting for it, you know. Waiting to die."

"No one is going to die. I promise," Goku said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

She couldn't be bothered shaking it off. "Yeah? You shouldn't keep so many promises, Goku."

Unbelievably, to her amazed wide eyes, Goku laughed, a musical and foreign sound for such a doomed situation.

"You don't get it, do you?" he said, gently squeezing her shoulder.

"Get what, Goku?" It was hard to pin the pissi-ness down in her tone.

He sighed. "The way Saiyans work."