Human Hospitality
by scoutergreen
Chapter 39
Fallout
The morning after a half-bottle of fifty year old whisky, Vegeta had just enough of a hangover to feel unsettled and dehydrated. He changed into clean clothing, washed his face, and went downstairs to face the humans.
The day before had been completely and utterly traumatic. If he had been able to have his way, Vegeta would have paced the entire house and screamed until his voice was raw after that evening. He would have broken things. Ripped doors off hinges and ram his fist through the wall as many times as his bare hands could take. Being confronted by the doting, ageing parents of the woman he was fucking on a regular basis did not sit well with him, even if they didn't seem angry or express any serious disapproval. The whole situation was just too awkward for him to want to deal with, but (as life seemed to require of him) he had no choice but to keep going and he had to maintain some degree of civility.
He went downstairs and immediately started looking in the refrigerator. He found a single-serving bottle of strawberry kefir and pocketed it, took an apple from the crisper and started eating while rummaging with a free hand, finally taking a three ounce package of smoked turkey breast (he put it in his other pocket) and deciding it would be enough.
"You want a cup of coffee to go with that express breakfast, Vegeta?" Mrs. Briefs was just behind him and slightly to the left, likely turned towards the counter. Vegeta could sense she didn't want to look at him right away.
"Um," Vegeta swallowed, "I guess."
She made a mug of coffee to his liking and gave him a small smile. Vegeta avoided eye contact, took the coffee with his free hand, and headed straight to the lab.
A series of very loud pops came from the lab, startling Vegeta (spilling just a bit of hot coffee on his hand and apple in the process) and making him freeze in place. He waited for a scream, a cry for help, flames, another series of pops.
Anything.
A full minute passed. His heart didn't slow down. Had it been a series of controlled explosions? Was it an experiment? Maybe it really was safe to continue approaching.
Finally, he crept toward the lab's door and found it shut and locked. "Somebody say something!" A security camera turned around on its mounting and focused on him, and Vegeta looked up into the lens and smirked.
The door buzzed open. Vegeta entered the lab to find the air tinged with the strangest smell; slightly sulphuric, smoky, something that indicated great heat and ballistic power had been produced at some point. He flashed back to one of his earliest attempts to harness his telekinetic and destructive psychic abilities into something deadly, perhaps all of four years old, and for a split second he could almost feel the joy he'd experienced when his father had praised his efforts three decades prior all over again.
Something almost caught in his throat.
"Hey, you gotta put some eye and ear protection on if you wanna be in here! You wanna watch some ballistics testing?" Bulma stood at her work bench located on the elevated portion of the lab and waved. She wore her hair back in a ponytail (or as close as she could get with the artificially curly mess she insisted on sporting) wore a baseball cap, brim pointing backwards.
"What is that smell?"
"Gunpowder. Why the hell are you carrying so much food? Is that a bottle of yogurt in your pocket? And I am so not coming on to you right now."
Vegeta scoffed and ascended the metal staircase to Bulma's huge work area. "It's my breakfast. I'm just trying to avoid as many potentially awkward situations as I can right now."
"Oh, I know. Me too. I've been down here since like six forty five, and I'm kinda hung over. Um, bottle of bourbon in my room, soooo not my proudest moment... my Mom had a little chat with me after Yamcha went through the roof and it was basically the most unpleasant and awkward thing I've had to do in a long time."
Vegeta tore open the package of turkey, took a handful, and passed the remainder over to Bulma. Sharing food was not something a Saiyan did lightly, and the engineer knew this. "Thank you," she took the plastic package and started eating, "I kinda skipped breakfast. Thankfully, there's a coffee maker in the lab..."
With earmuffs and a pair of clear-lens glasses for his eyes, Vegeta watched as Bulma loaded a full magazine into a long, heavy handgun. She kept the barrel pointed down at all times and pressed a switch that sent a suspended human-sized, fleshy mannequin wearing a suit of PTO-style armour down a track, finally stopping about five meters away.
"You ready for this?" Bulma yelled at Vegeta, who nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.
Vegeta could feel the heat and vibration of every round she fired, emptying the magazine in under thirty seconds. The power of this weapon was mighty, so potentially devastating, that Vegeta knew right away that it was capable of killing many creatures, maybe even him if he wasn't prepared for it.
She brought the gun down slowly, each movement controlled, and ejected the magazine into a gloved hand. After placing the gun in a holster on her hip, she brought the mannequin back and unhooked it so she could start to inspect the damage to both mannequin and armour.
There were cracks and serious indentations that indicated the armour had taken some damage from the bullets. When Vegeta looked at where Bulma had aimed, he realized she had aimed for the heart, liver, both lungs, stomach, at towards lower intestines two times.
Her aim was extremely accurate, and Vegeta was both impressed by her marksmanship and somewhat frightened.
"You wanna try this sometime? I trust you not to do something dumb with a gun."
"Thanks, but I'm not interested. I don't need a gun in order to produce a blast that will go through that armour and kill a man."
When they pulled off the piece of armour, they discovered that while there was very little damage to the mannequin. "If this were a human being, they would have, at the worst, some deep bruising to the gunshot sites. This is incredible, Vegeta! Do you know what this means? We could create effective, lightweight bulletproof ves- hell, body suits! Sports equipment! If we create ultra-heavy blends or weights of this textile, oh, and maybe some lightweight versions... oh man, the things we could make! This could revolutionize protective gear and even medical equipment!"
"Hmm, we... ah, the PTO has different grades and weights of armour, too. I prefer medium-light weight; enough to provide shock absorption and protection, but it doesn't hinder my movements too much."
Bulma leaned back against her work-bench, arms folded across her chest, and she sighed loudly. "Ah, great. Why'd you have to go and encourage my idea like that? You up to getting your brain picked for an hour or two, since you confirmed my little idea about the armour-weight thing? I'll make more coffee."
Ten days later, Yamcha returned to the compound and moved his things into one of the smaller guest-houses, staying fairly far away from Bulma for several days and avoiding Vegeta altogether. From what Vegeta could tell, the human named Yamcha trained somewhere off the compound.
Not that he was getting any sort of impressive results, at any rate. Vegeta would watch him come and go, but made a point of avoiding him.
On the sixth night after Yamcha's return, he chose to speak with Bulma, and invited her to enjoy one of the increasingly-rare warm evenings out on the patio. Vegeta was locked away in his simulator, allowing them to speak freely.
"I knew how angry you were, and rightfully so, after I slipped up. But then you went behind my back... and with all the peop- men out there, it had to be Vegeta. Why? I can't wrap my head around why exactly you sleep with him and spend time with him. It's weird. He's weird. He's dangerous."
"I know, but-"
"No buts, Bulma. I honestly don't know what to say to you, other than that I hope he's worth it. I really hope you're happy with whatever arrangement you two have going, because I doubt it's ever gonna be the kind of thing where you're ever gonna be loved, let alone ever respected."
The engineer wiped away tears running down her cheeks. Yamcha didn't seem particularly moved by how upset she was. "Just... give the guy a chance. He's got nowhere else to go. He's... it's cliche, but he's had such a hard life already..."
"He is a mean, emotionally unstable, alien charity case," Yamcha hissed through his teeth, "you sure did upgrade, didn't you? I'm gonna leave before I say anything else that might be too honest for you to handle right now. Good night, Bulma."
A month had passed since Yamcha had returned to the compound, and after gradual exposure and uneasy words they were both forced to exchange on regular occasions, he and Vegeta were used to each other and sometimes had perfectly civil conversations. They both seemed to realize it was a good idea to just not talk about Bulma, for the sake of avoiding a one-sided fight. (Not to mention, Vegeta didn't want to upset the people building his simulators.) In one of his near-acts of kindness, the Saiyan taught the human a series of stretches to relieve next-day pain after a particularly gruelling training session. When Yamcha went to thank the Saiyan, he merely scoffed at the extended hand and said that it was out of pity and not any sort of friendship.
And then one night, as Yamcha sat in the darkened living room and watched an action film about a duo trying to steal a rare diamond from an underground vault, Vegeta slipped into the room (his ability to move about silently was still terrifying to Yamcha) and took up a spot in one of the corner seats, curling his legs underneath him. He said nothing the entire time, only speaking up after Yamcha had switched off the television: "that was one of the better films I've seen. Good bye."
He has to be the weirdest guy I've ever met... what was that all about? Was that his way of indicating that he's going to tolerate my presence?
One afternoon while jogging around the grounds, dressed in running shorts and a tank top, Vegeta caught a serious chill in the air, and a sudden gust of wind raised goose-pimples on his bare arms. Disturbed by this, he went back inside, changed into a sweatshirt, and he went to the kitchen and found Yamcha sitting at the table, eating a late afternoon lunch
"Hey man, how's it going?"
"It's cold outside," Vegeta filled an electric kettle and switched it on, "and I am not particularly amused."
"Um, yeah? That's 'cause it's autumn, dude."
"Uh-huh. Autumn. Awhh-tuhm..." stomach growling, Vegeta rummaged through the cupboards until he spotted half a bag of his favoured tortilla chips and spicy salsa. He took a seat across from Yamcha's place, and the human warrior struggled to suppress a whimper. "That explains the changing leaves. It's quite pleasing to the eye, all those burning colours."
"That's kind of poetic, dude. Ever seen anything like this before?"
"Not really," Vegeta actually made eye contact with Yamcha and crunched on a mouthful of chips, "some places only have one season, maybe two. Some have periods of lush vegetation followed by fire. Others, extreme ice or extreme heat. Earth seems to vary a lot and it's quite temperate. But it's all very interesting to look at."
Another mouthful of chips. Vegeta looked at Yamcha's plate and tried to figure out what he was eating. "Explain your meal to me."
"Umm, it's a curry potato inside a roti and a side of grilled chicken with rice and peas...? Do you... know what those are?"
"Vaguely..." more chips before he continued, "I know what all the ingredients are but this is obviously another variation on them. You people have so many different varieties of cuisine that I can't keep track."
Yamcha laughed nervously and took a bite of his roti, looked at what Vegeta was eating, and figured they could find some common ground if the topic of conversation was restricted to food: "You like that salsa, huh?"
Through a mouthful of chips, Vegeta posed: "what clued you in?"
"Heh... um, do you like the food here on Earth? I mean, given that Saiyans need to eat a lot of food and all..."
"I do," Vegeta crumpled up the empty bag, tossed it into the air and mindlessly disintegrated it, "most of it is good, but a little confusing at the same time."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing seems standard," he noticed the kettle boiling and stood up to brew a mug of green tea, "it always varies, even the same so-called "recipes" may use different components according to the cook's preferences, and... or perhaps it is also due to the different cultures that exist on this planet? I don't know. During my first long-term stay here, I often ate a dish you call "Pad Thai" and have very much enjoyed it. Last week, the old man offered to order in the same dish for lunch and it looked and tasted different! Why the hell was it so different? I mean, sure, it was good, and I understood it was Pad Thai, but it was not the preparation I had become used to!"
"I think you may have answered your own question, Vegeta."
The Saiyan barked a laugh and smirked at Yamcha. "You're a bit more clever than I thought."
"I certainly can be," Yamcha smirked back and took another bite of his roti, "humans can be pretty complex, y'know."
"Whatever," turned to head upstairs, "you are to acquire more of these chips and salsa after your meal and you are the bring both to me in one hour."
Yamcha rolled his eyes and patted his jeans pocket, feeling enough heavy coins to pay for the Saiyan's salty snacks. "Weirdo..."
One morning in late November, Vegeta awoke to find the grounds of Capsule Corp covered in a layer of shimmery frost. Fascinated, he went outside (dressed in his light training clothes) and the sight of curling patterns of ice on car windshields captured his attention for several minutes. The sky was a cool, pale grey, streaked with bands of orange and pink. He stayed outside until he was shivering, and when he returned inside he did his best to ignore an odd tickle in his throat and sinuses.
After a full morning of vigorous, intense training, Vegeta skipped lunch (he wasn't hungry, which was strange) and went straight to bed for an unusually long nap. When he awoke at three twenty in the afternoon, his throat was sore, and he felt a little warm.
He went downstairs, made a cup of tea (he was sure it was called chamomile) and went to the living room. By then he felt very odd, like his head was being stuffed full of gauze, and his thoughts grew sluggish. After a third of his mug of herbal tea he set it on the table and lay on his side, feeling dizzy. He took a slow breath and shut his eyes.
...Vegeta?
...Vegeta?
"Vegeta!"
"Mmuh?" His eyes opened and he forced himself awake, strangely aware that something was about to hit him and hit him very hard. Forcing himself upright, the feeling of a chest and sinuses full of mucus, fever, and full body pain overtook his senses. He coughed, rattling his chest painfully and doubling over.
"Dude, you don't look so good," Yamcha passed over a wad of tissues, "you are like drenched with sweat."
"I'm cold..." Vegeta's voice was thin, his vocal cords too swollen to work.
"Ooh, man. You don't sound good either. Um, do your muscles ache?"
The Saiyan shivered and wrapped a shawl around his shoulders.
"Heh. Well, I'm gonna get some help. Just stay put, alright?"
"Mmmh..." Vegeta shut his eyes and was asleep seconds later.
His eyes fluttered back open three hours later and two smells hit him at once; the first being the unpleasant, borderline-sickening quality his sweat had developed, and the second being the inviting, mouth-watering scent of roast chicken.
"Welcome back to the realm of the living," Bulma was beside him, eyes focused on a book, "you've been asleep for a while."
"What's wrong with me?" Vegeta slowly sat up, the room on the verge of spinning, and once he was upright he had to lean back into the back of the couch, energy spent in a few simple movements.
"Too early to tell, sad to say. I've been monitoring you and right now you're running what I suspect is a low-grade fever. By Saiyan standards, that is. One hundred and five point five degrees, to be exact. Yamcha said you reported muscle pains. Are they present now?"
Vegeta nodded, and then let out a rattling cough.
"Ah-huh, and you have a cough, too. The best course of action is to see you through tonight, and to call a doctor tomorrow if we need to. But you've probably picked up a bit of a cold."
"A what?"
"A "cold" is an infectious virus that basically everybody encounters at least a few times over the course of their lifespan. Personally, I get it like every year. There's no cure, but your immune system will do a fine job of dealing with it, and we have an unbelievable range of conventional medicines and traditional remedies to help manage the effects. Not to mention, we have some of the synthesized versions of the medicines you gave me! I think we have analogues of the painkillers you're used to using, along with very good disinfectants."
He looked up at her, gave a small nod, and leaned sideways into a cushion. "I don't feel so good."
"Just a sec," Bulma went into the kitchen, poured a can of ginger ale into a glass filled with crushed ice, and pulled a sleeve of saltine crackers from the pantry, "eat these really slowly. And tiny sips."
Incredibly, Vegeta took Bulma's advice the first time and nibbled on the corner of a saltine. After several minutes and a third of a saltine later, Vegeta thought about the good smell coming from the kitchen once more. "What smells so good?"
"Chicken soup. One of our more traditional remedies for illness, heartbreak, and general malaise."
"Mmm," Vegeta fished a sliver of ice out of his glass and sucked on it, "sounds good."
"I can get you a cup of soup, if you'd like. Are you in a lot of pain right now?"
"Not a lot. But it's present."
Bulma went to the kitchen and returned with a mug of chicken soup and one of the synthesized painkillers Vegeta was used to taking. Over the course of twenty minutes, as the two watched an episode of a soap opera Bulma favoured, Vegeta picked at his soup, finishing only half his serving. He barely noticed the television program, most unusual given his tendency to pepper programs with salty, cutting (and often hilarious) remarks about the characters or the story-lines. Shakily rising from the couch with the shawl wrapped around his shoulders, Vegeta made his way upstairs, shivering and feeling stranger by the minute.
To Be Continued