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Almost in spite of themselves, Bulma found that she and Vegeta were making progress in the negotiations.
Bulma did, at times, wonder that anything got done. Vegeta spent his mornings fighting with Goku, his afternoons exercising and shadow sparring in the courtyard next to the pond. And, sometimes, she would turn around and find him nearby, staring at her. She thought. It was hard to tell; he usually dropped his eyes right away, and for all she knew she just happened to catch him glancing at her. If so, he glanced at her a lot.
Most of their business conversations took place after dinner in her workroom, usually with Vegeta pacing around looking bored and poking at almost-finished inventions that would, occasionally, poke back. It was hard to pin him down on specifics. Practical things such as what building materials were available, what regulations had to be adhered to, what personnel requirements existed, meant nothing to the Prince. Bulma decided that either the Saiyan government ran itself, or that the Prince was more of a figurehead than he was willing to admit or even realized. Vegeta did, at least, know what he wanted encapsulated. Although there remained one major sticking point, for the most part Bulma did not object to the Saiyan demands.
Progress meant that there would be no reason for Vegeta to remain beyond the return of the Saiyan ship. Bulma blocked off her dismay at that thought, although she had never been especially good at self-deception. She was beginning to understand her strange behavior, everything from why she acted like an idiot around the Prince to why she sent Yamcha away. She threw herself into her work, trying hard not to think about anything at all. It did not help. As the Saiyan ship came closer and closer to Earth, Bulma found herself more and more depressed.
Shortly before the purging of Kansoun, about four weeks before the scheduled return of the Saiyan ship, the last undamaged battlesuit Vegeta possessed fell victim to one of his sparring matches.
Shrugging; his appearance was of no importance to him, a fact that seemed to irritate the King no end; the Prince ripped the arms off of a less-damaged suit. He wore it and similarly-modified ones for the next few days.
Torn knees and frayed necklines were, apparently, something the Earthlings also deemed inappropriate. Returning from a bout, Vegeta found his wardrobe augmented by the ever-vigilant Mrs. Briefs. Some of the loose-fitting Earther clothing lay neatly on his bed, while the top of the dresser sported close-fitting bike shorts and sleeveless tops. Annoyed, Vegeta started to sweep the lot out of his way when he recalled Bulma's paramour Yamcha at the party, surrounded by fawning females with Bulma hanging off his arm. Thoughtfully he held up a pair of trousers to survey. They were not unlike what the Earth warrior had worn that night. Setting the pants aside, Vegeta began to sort through a bewildering assortment of shirts.
He was far more nervous than he appeared when he strolled into the living room before the evening meal wearing his new outfit. He had the satisfaction of seeing Bulma's chin drop almost to her chest, the most reaction he had gotten out of her in a while. Vegeta smirked at her, and the color rose in her face. Ha! I can get a fight out of her tonight! But Mrs. Briefs latched onto his arm -- "Don't you look nice!" -- and Bulma muttered something about a project in the workroom and escaped before he even got the chance to goad her.
Dammit.
Bulma put her head down on her folded arms, squeezing her eyes shut.
Dammit! What's wrong with me?
It wasn't, after all, as if she didn't know every bulge on his body. Those stupid muscle-highlighting unitards he paraded around in left zippo to the imagination. Why did the sight of Vegeta in dress pants and a plain white workshirt make her go all -- gooey?
I am not attracted to that arrogant little runt! I am not!
Then she sighed. Who am I kidding? Grimacing; Vegeta would be here as soon as dinner was over; Bulma started puttering around her workroom, determined to at least look busy when the Prince came in.
"I have the most astonishing report from Nappa," his father informed him. "Evidently your pretty blue favorite is becoming insufferably arrogant, Vegeta.
Vegeta stared coldly at the screen. "Your point?"
Ignoring him, the King went on. "And I've been given a message from Zarbon that was originally directed at the Minister of Personnel. Wanting to know--" the King looked off to one side, his brows slightly lifting as he read from something Vegeta couldn't see "--what 'monkey-tailed mammalian moron with raw meat for brains' filed the scouting reports for that sector of space."
Vegeta suppressed a grin; clearly one of Zarbon's just-out-of-the-tank flashes of temper. "Who-ever it is, save him for me. I missed a very worthy opponent because of his ineptness. He seems to have trouble discerning ki. I'd like to demonstrate what 'ki' is so he will not make the mistake again."
"The scout was Miso's eldest," said the King, his voice sardonic, "He disappeared right after filing the report on Kansoun. So it would appear he paid the price for his lack of attention to detail."
"The son of the Chieftain of the southern tribes was doing scout duty?"
"It suited him to go off world," responded the King. "You can relate to that, surely."
Vegeta scowled.
"I also hear," the King continued, "that your original mission on Chikyuu was successful. From Bardock." It took a minute for Vegeta to tease out his meaning: Kakarott. "I do not," the elder Vegeta went on, eyeing his son narrowly, "appreciate learning of anything from Bardock. He enjoys it far too much."
"What do you care about the son of a third-class warrior?"
"Oh, Bardock's son does not interest me in the least," replied the King, a faint emphasis on the squad commander's name that Vegeta heard and ignored. "I merely wish to confirm that another of his misbegotten offspring survived to adulthood. I take it to be truth."
"It is. Kakarott considers himself to be Earthling, though, not Saiyan."
The King shrugged. "That happens. The Saiyan genes always win out in the end. You are not to harm him yet."
Vegeta blinked, then snorted. "Why the hell not? He's a traitor!"
"Because I say so, brat."
Vegeta frowned at the monitor. "You said you had no interest in him."
"You were not listening to precisely what I said, brat. I am not going to repeat myself. Tell me about the negotiations. You are getting what you want from the woman?"
There was something...sly in the question. "We've hit a snag over encapsulating the pods, but I'll bring her around."
"Do you want to consult with one of the negotiators?"
"No," snapped Vegeta.
"I have what you requested from the Minister of the Interior."
"There are environmental regulations?" Vegeta was unable to mask his surprise.
"Yes, Vegeta; quite a few. We are very hard on the planet every seventh year," the King reminded him, derisively. "We have to manage our resources very carefully in the intervening years or there would be no livable planet left. I've also attached a report from the Minister of Personnel detailing the immigration policies for free aliens..."
"We aren't about to get an influx of Earthlings," said Vegeta, abruptly even more irritated with the conversation. "Their gravity tolerances are pathetic."
After a minute, "You are a complete moron," the King stated. "Vegeta, the majority of the aliens that come to Vejiitasei can't handle the gravity; it's at the absolute edge of endurance for most species. Why in hell do you think the diplomatic wing of the palace has variable gravitational controls? Why do you think the throne room is kept at a fractional of the planet's normal gravity? I worried that Zarbon was making you think too much; it appears he isn't making you think enough. I've raised a fool," the elder Vegeta bitterly concluded.
The old man glaring down at him through watery blue eyes, absurd threats spilling from his lips; Bulma's mother with an arm around her daughter's shoulders, a look of wry tenderness on the older woman's face--
Vegeta almost snarled that his father hadn't raised him, that living with the humans gave him some concept of what a 'parent' was and the King did not fit the description. The Prince swallowed back the hot retort, wondering at himself, and said instead, "I am a warrior, not a diplomat. I never go into that section of the palace."
"By the time I was your age I had memorized all the various regulations regarding the Associate Worlds aliens. I knew more than just how to kill them; I knew what they required to stay alive on Vejiitasei," the King snapped. "You need to be a warrior to protect the planet; you need to be more than that, Vegeta, to rule the Empire."
"Are you so tired of being King?" Vegeta queried, sardonic. "I thought I had more time. But if you're in a rush to get to the afterlife, we can make a date now."
The elder Vegeta snorted. "I harbor no delusions, Vegeta. I know my eventual fate. It is the same as yours, baka. Your end may be a hundred years from now, but it will no different from that of every Ruler in the last millennium. Your duty is to die when the Heir is ready to rule. As is mine." One corner of his mouth turned up, although his eyes remained hard. "As unprepared as you are, however, I will probably collapse from old age first. What a disgraceful exit for a Saiyan."
"That you don't need to worry about," said Vegeta, harshly. "I look forward to doing my 'duty' where you're concerned. Daily."
The King's teeth flashed through his beard as he gave that dangerous, unamused Saiyan smirk. "Anything else you need, brat?"
About to reply in the negative, Vegeta paused and grimaced. "Yes," he said, the reluctance to ask his father for anything making his voice harsh. "There is one other thing. Now that I think about it."
Dr. Briefs adjusted his glasses and regarded the diagrams young Vegeta slapped down in front of him. After a couple of months he was familiar with many of the symbols that the Saiyans used -- Bulma's young friend with the hair had written quite a few of them down, with Mrs. Briefs providing the Earth equivalent -- but these were clearly not contract related. They looked technical. He glanced over his lenses at Vegeta, who was standing on the other side of the desk, fingertips rapping against his upper arm and scowling. "Some homework you need help with, young fellow?"
"Don't be absurd," Vegeta snapped. "These are some of the plans for the gravity adjustment machinery used in the diplomatic quarters on Vejiitasei."
Dr. Briefs' bushy brows went up at that. He studied the plans with more interest. "Goodness. Isn't that clever? I never would have thought of that. This will make what I'm working on go much faster. You should have come forward with this sooner, young man. Very clunky machinery you're using, though--we could probably streamline so it didn't take up half the building..."
"I can get you other diagrams," Vegeta informed him, "but in exchange, I require assistance with your offspring."
Whoa. Dr. Briefs blinked, trying to remember if any of Bulma's other young men had ever come to him for advice. He didn't think so. They were far more likely to go talk to his wife, who was less prone to wandering off in the middle of a sentence. "Well, about all I can tell you, really, is that she's a sweet girl under that prickly exterior. Half the time when she's hollering she doesn't really mean what she says." Vegeta was giving him a very blank look. "Umm...why don't you tell me what the problem is?"
"We have reached some agreement on what is to be encapsulated, but she is refusing to release the technology for miniaturizing the pods."
"Like the one Radditz came in? There's no problem with that. It's well within our capabilities. Wait." Dr. Briefs gave him one of those surprisingly-shrewd stares. "You're involved with the military on your planet, right?"
Vegeta, for a moment, seemed to be struggling for an answer. "You could say that," he finally replied.
"We don't encapsulate weapons. We have a very firm policy on that. There was all kinds of trouble when the Red Ribbon Army started encapsulating tanks and warplanes and things."
Vegeta looked down, a slight curve to his mouth. "The pods are unarmed. They are merely for rapid transportation. You've taken Radditz's pod apart and examined it closely. There were no weapon systems, were there?"
"Very true," noted Dr. Briefs, impressed with the young man's logic. He leaned forward, losing himself in the diagrams as he started to tease out the meanings of the alien symbols.
"The pods?" Vegeta reminded him.
"Hmmm? Oh, not a problem. Long as they're unarmed, like I said. I'll tell Bulma."
"Oh, no," said the Prince. "Allow me to do that."
The smarmy bastard.
Bulma stared at his smug smile. Which he had worn all the way through dinner. Which should have tipped her off, dammit. The pods had been the last sticking point when it came to the technology exchange. The bloody things were used for purging planets, for Kami's sake, and Bulma had been adamant about not having them miniaturized to make planet purging even easier for the Saiyans. It was bad enough her father made the wretched things more efficient at getting to the planets in the first place.
And Vegeta had done an end run around her by going to the one person in the company that outranked her. Who thought any Saiyan clever enough to do that?
And he was staring at her, smugly, waiting for her to blow her top. Hands in his pants pockets. Pale turtleneck setting off his skin, complimenting the sharp angles of his face. Tail doing that flicking thing it seemed to do when he was around her. Dammit.
I am so tired of fighting this, Bulma thought, and she knew she meant more than her one-person attempt to ensure the Saiyans recieved no military advantage out of their dealings with the Capsule Corporation. She tried not to think of the lives that would be lost because the war of words fatigued her. And, in truth, they would be lost anyway. Encapsulating the pods was a convenience, not an advantage in battle. She was deluding herself in thinking otherwise.
There was one more thing that needed to be clarified, however. "Let's talk about Goku for a second."
Vegeta looked bored. "What the hell for? It's tedious enough trying to talk to him."
"Radditz has called him a traitor a few times."
"He is," pointed out Vegeta.
"I want it made absolutely clear that Goku is a citizen of Earth now, and that you can't move against a citizen of Earth without violating any agreement we draw up."
"What does the fate of a low-caste warrior matter?" he wondered.
"It matters to me," Bulma snapped. "Yamcha and I practically raised Goku; I'm not letting you take him back to Vejiitasei for trial or the games or what-ever it is you do there to punish people you don't like."
Vegeta's head went to one side. He began to smile slightly, his eyes shadowing. "You have...parental obligations toward Kakarott? I suppose he does need extra care."
"I like Goku," she said in irritation. "Which is beyond you, I guess."
He shrugged. "Kakarott is of no interest to me, woman. In fact, he barely holds my attention as a sparring partner anymore."
"You're willing to put that in writing?"
He snorted.
Bulma decided to take his indifference as agreement. "Fine," she said, wearily. "Fine." She held out her hand. "We have a deal, Vegeta."
The smug look fled, replaced by the more-usual brows-drawn-down scowl. After a pause, the Prince pulled a hand out of a pocket and lightly stroked his fingers against her palm, making her flinch. I need to start bowing around this guy; he always does weird things to my hands. Ha! As if I'd lower my head to Vegeta; the half-centimeter-or-so height advantage is the only advantage I've got on him. Besides, he'd probably decapitate me. "I'll see that the paperwork is drawn up," was what she said.
Realizing he had just done diplomacy -- and without Zarbon standing at his shoulder whispering in his ear, yet -- gave Vegeta an unexpected sense of accomplishment. It also removed the last major barrier between what he wanted and what Bulma was willing to provide. Best of all (he thought, smirking), he had outflanked her. The only down side was that she remained passive, when he thought for sure this would finally provoke her into an outburst. But it was (he told himself) a minor disappointment that he shouldn't dwell on.
Scant days before the return of the Saiyan battle ship, Vegeta walked into the boardroom of the Capsule Corporation and signed his name to a piece of paper, both in the stark, bold strokes of Vejiitasei's written language and, more carefully, in the delicate script of the humans. The Saiyans had access to the technology they wanted; Bulma's system remained free, if surrounded by Saiyan space. Of course, that will all change, thought Vegeta, smiling coldly at Bulma's beaming executives, once we get the factories on line. A few years to set everything up, a few more to make sure everything is running properly and, in a decade at most, I can return and finish what I started here. Bulma's little planet will be very, very sorry then it did not become an Associate World...
Everything would soon be normal again, Bulma reminded herself as she curled up on the far side of the conversation-pit sofa, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Radditz. Which, given the amount of room the Saiyan took up when he was in 'sprawl' mode, wasn't as much as she would like. Vegeta told her after the signing that the Saiyan ship would return for him and his guard in less than a week; that had been four days ago. Four days of biting her lip and reminding herself that she had almost single-handedly preserved the planet, that the technology they had already received from the Saiyans would save Capsule Corporation years of development costs, that soon the universe itself would be open to Earth, that she had absolutely nothing to be depressed about...
And she sighed again, for perhaps the third time in as many minutes. Radditz glanced at her sideways, unfolded from the sofa, and padded off toward the kitchen where Mrs. Briefs (with, finally, two domestic robots) was holding court. Apart from a slight sense of relief--Radditz frightened her; something about him seemed wilder than the other Saiyans, and they were scary enough--Bulma paid no attention to his departure, morosely considering her Vegeta-less future. She had gotten over Yamcha, she reminded herself, and she loved Yamcha. She would get over this strange attraction. Eventually.
And, once more, she sighed.
Then she almost jumped out of her skin as a hand closed over her shoulder. Pulling back, Mrs. Briefs regarded her with a rare look of near-worry. "Is there a problem, dear? Radditz thinks you're unhappy about something."
Radditz thinks...?! Turning, Bulma saw the Saiyan leaning against the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room, arms folded, looking back at her steadily with no particular expression (except for that usual half-smirk, which she had long since decided was meaningless) on his dark face. "It's nothing, Mom."
Mrs. Briefs apparently thought that it was something, indeed. 'Tsking' slightly, Bulma's mother went to the bar and came back with the cellular phone. "Look, I know there might be one or two things in the world you don't want to discuss with me--"
"Oh, Mom. I'm not hiding anything, really."
"--but," continued Mrs. Briefs, "there must be one of your young friends you can chat with, no? Chi-chi? Krillin? Yamcha?"
Abruptly, Bulma flared into the temper-tantrum Vegeta spent nearly two months trying to provoke out of her. "I don't need to talk to that skirt-chasing, two-timing--! Ha! Two-timing?! He can't count high enough to keep track of his girlfriends without taking off his shoes--!"
She stopped, abashed. Clearly she was not quite over Yamcha. Mrs. Briefs held out the phone. "I think you need to talk to him," her mother said. "Then maybe you can deal with what-ever else is bothering you."
"When did you get so smart?" Bulma wondered as she took the phone.
"Now, dear. Who do you think handled the books and the hiring and the employees and the insurance plans and just about everything else when the company was getting started? You didn't think it was your father, did you?"
There was, Puaru was forced to admit, only so long one could expect Yamcha to mope around the apartment waiting for Bulma to break down and call. A couple of weeks earlier, Yamcha stopped spending his evenings staring at the phone and started, although at first with reduced enthusiasm, to accept invitations. After resuming his social life Yamcha was almost back to normal, but Puaru knew him too well to be fooled. The gaiety was forced. Yamcha still leaped for every ringing phone, his face falling in the first seconds after saying hello. Which was why Puaru didn't immediately leap for the phone himself when it started ringing.
"Get that, will you?" yelled Yamcha from inside his bedroom.
Glancing at the clock--this was an early call for Yamcha's crowd--Puaru carefully balanced the receiver between his paws and propped the phone against most of his body. "Hello?"
There was a long silence, and Puaru had to repeat himself. Then a familiar, although not recently heard voice, asked, "Is Yamcha there?"
Gah! Puaru floated indecisively, looking in distress toward Yamcha's closed door. He had no idea if Bulma's ex-boyfriend was alone, and he was not about to blunder in to find out. "Bulma! Long time no hear from," he said, stalling as his mind raced.
"I know. I, um..." Long pause. "Look, I don't want to bother Yamcha, okay? Just...I think we need to talk. Ask him if he wants to come to lunch. Or dinner. Or something."
"I'll tell him. It's good to hear your voice, Bulma."
"Backacha, Puaru. You should come, too."
"I'll check my schedule," Puaru lied, having no intention of getting between the two of them if this degenerated into a who-did-what shouting match. He had done his duty mediating those in the past.
He hung up just as Yamcha flung himself through the door, toweling his hair dry. "Who was that?"
Empty room, noted Puaru as he looked past Yamcha, kicking himself. "Bulma. She says you two need to talk, and that you can come over for--"
Yelping, Yamcha sprinted back into the bedroom, flung open the closet, and disappeared in a flurry of quickly-rejected pants and shirts. Sighing, Puaru went to put on some coffee. Even if Bulma happened to be in a forgiving mood, Yamcha was going to need his wits about him.
"I don't understand this," complained Radditz, scowling at the television screen. He took a sip from the mug held carefully between his big hands, then continued, "He assaulted her, and she married him? What the hell was she thinking?"
Mrs. Briefs said, "It was a different time then, Radditz."
Radditz snorted, and took another sip. "A Saiyan woman would have fried him."
Mrs. Briefs told him, "And if Laura had ki, I'm sure she would have fried Luke, too."
I knew it, thought Yamcha, grinning as he leaned in the doorway. Give her enough time, and Mrs. Briefs has the Saiyans drinking tea and watching soaps. The planet is saved. He rapped a knuckle against the doorframe, and felt unexpected color rising in his face when Bulma's mother turned her head to smile at him. "Hi, Mrs. Briefs. Um...is Bulma around?" he asked, feeling absurdly juvenile.
"She's out back by the pond."
This was no fun.
He blocked Kakarott nearly as an afterthought, already knowing from past contests where the blow would fall, the proper counter. The traitor's fist slid harmlessly past his jaw. In truth, the Prince would have hardly felt the blow had it landed. He was charged up to a point where it would take someone with a 30,000 energy level to touch him, and that was far beyond his most optimistic estimate of the Earth Saiyan's abilities.
Zarbon was dangerous at any ki level, Vegeta reflected, absently blocking more blows. As he recently demonstrated, the Prince thought in brief annoyance, again cross that he missed a high-ki battle. The alien's interest in multiple techniques meant he could always surprise, sometimes even overwhelm. Kakarott was good, but -- one-dimensional. Vegeta had considered, briefly at the very beginning, taking Kakarott as a trainer and thus freeing up Zarbon for other tasks. But after two months Kakarott was totally predictable; after fifteen years, and despite a ki that was being increasingly outdistanced by his former pupil, Zarbon could still hold his own against the Prince.
There's nothing left for me here. Catching Kakarott's striking fists in his hands, Vegeta looked at him coldly. "Is that the best you can do? I haven't even broken a sweat, Kakarott."
"Sorry," said the other man after a pause. "I'm really not in your league, Vegeta."
The Prince snorted, and released him. "No, you are not. So why am I wasting my time here? The ship returns tomorrow, and then I will have a real opponent." The cruel Saiyan smirk pressed the corner of his mouth up. "How fortunate, Kakarott, that you are specifically covered by the treaty. I have no further use for you, traitor."
"My lucky day," agreed Goku, without heat.
After regarding him for a moment, Vegeta shook his head in disgust. "It's hard to believe you are Saiyan." He flared into full battle aura, knocking Kakarott back with the sheer force of his ki, making sure the traitor had a good look at him in all of his perfection, that the other understood just how fortunate he was that the Prince choose to hold back. Then, with a last scornful glance, the Prince headed toward the Capsule Corporation and the only true challenge that remained on this planet.
There he goes.
Goku watched the ki trail fade into the distance, fists clenched at his sides.
There goes the only person on the planet I could fight, full out. The only person I could use any of my new techniques on. He's good, that one; he's better than he knows. He would rise to any challenge I set him. Or destroy the planet trying...
He sighed. That was the problem, of course; Vegeta could destroy the planet for no reason other than sheer pique. And if the Prince even suspected there was someone stronger than himself on it, someone who had been holding back, he would.
Raising his eyes Heaven-ward, Goku began to slowly spiral up. He need to unwind. He needed reassurance. He needed to be held back himself, to be reminded that challenging Vegeta would be counter-productive. And there was only one place he could get all that.
Bulma, staring at the still water trying not to be nervous, heard the approaching footsteps and steeled herself. There was a pause as he stopped by the stone bench; then Yamcha sat down on the far edge of it, nowhere near her. She hazarded a glimpse to the side. His hair was cut very short, the unruly locks trimmed back so there was no hint of a wave, the bangs straight across his forehead. He looked good with his hair long or short, damn him. And doesn't he know it! Bulma tried to count up the number of times she had seen him with that uncertain cast to his face, that apologetic twist to his mouth. Innumerable times. Yet they still played this game with each other, the same one they played when they were eighteen and living and fighting together in her quarters at the Capsule Corporation. It was time, Bulma thought, for both of them to grow up.
Sighing, she patted the bench next to her. Yamcha scooted over, eyeing her warily (as he might well, since she'd slapped him last time). After a minute he put his arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder. They both watched the ripples on the pond, the gentle late-morning light filtering through the sheltering trees.
"So," Yamcha said, finally, "is this the part where you tell me we should always be friends, or what?"
Bulma smiled faintly at that, moving one hand up to cover his where it rested against her shoulder. "Well, we should. I've missed you so much, Yamcha. I've been wanting to call you every night, just to talk."
"Ouch."
She tapped the back of his hand and dropped her own. "I think we need to make a clean ending. I was never good at this back-and-forth stuff, and now...well, I'm not a kid anymore. I have responsibilities to the corporation, to the stockholders. Hell, to the entire planet; I've become the liaison between the Saiyans and Earth. I don't need uncertainty in my personal life, Yamcha."
"Then I hope to hell you know what you're doing with Vegeta," Yamcha said, frankly.
Scowling, Bulma lifted her head to glare at him. If it wasn't just like him to make it sound like she was the one with fidelity problems...! But the flash of anger flattened out. Yamcha was right. She had been willing to drift in and out of her relationship with Yamcha despite his roving eye until Vegeta showed up. Her convoluted feelings toward the Saiyan Prince were why she felt the need to make everything right with Yamcha before moving on. Only, on to what? The ship arrives tomorrow, and he's gone with it. Just like me to leave everything to the last minute. "I don't have a clue about Vegeta," Bulma said with equal frankness. "He's cold and he's always staring at me and he wants to argue all the time. And he's leaving soon, so I suppose I'll never have a chance to figure out why he just wants to fight with me."
"You're pretty when you're mad. Your eyes get all sparkly."
Bulma snorted, and pulled away. "And I'm such a hag the rest of the time. Thanks."
Yamcha grinned at her. "Oh, you're pretty anyway. I used to tease you just to get your eyes to flash. Vegeta doesn't need to do that," he said, ruefully. "I saw it the night of the party; he hugged you and you went all...liquid. I just didn't want to deal with it."
"You could have told me," she said, crossly.
"Oh, sure. It was, what, two days later you smacked me and told me to get out?"
Bulma flushed. "Sorry. I didn't mean it. Well, I did at the time. Ah, dammit." She stood up, turning to look down into his face. "I do want us to be friends, Yamcha. But that's all it can be from now on. I don't want any more uncertainty or misunderstandings between us."
He grinned up at her, that devastating rakish smile. "You'll always be my number one girl, Bulma."
"And you'll always need a number two girl, and a number three girl-- Someplace along the line you became insatiable, Yamcha."
"I was trained by the best," he retorted.
She grinned at that. "Ditto." She reached down, cupping her hands on either side of his face, then slung her legs over his, one after another, straddling him.
One of his broad hands rested on the small of her back for support. "I could hardly misconstrue this," he noted, wryly.
"Shut up," said Bulma. She kissed him with her mouth open, as if they were still lovers. His other hand came up to touch her soft hair, but while he held her firmly he made no move to deepen the kiss. She giggled, mostly in relief, and leaned back against his arm. "Okay. That was your last chance, Yamcha. No more physical stuff."
He got to his feet and set her down. "Sometimes you're still as big a tease as you were when you were sixteen," he said, sternly. He pressed his lips against her temple and stepped away. "Call me tonight," he said. "I've missed that, too. Puaru's threatened to disconnect the phone if I don't stop running over him to get it. You can tell me all about your new boyfriend."
Bulma grinned up at him. "Oh, get out of here." There was a rush of wind, and she was blinking her hair out of her eyes. "You are so literal!" she shouted to the empty air.
Feeling as if she closed one book and opened a new one with fresh, unmarked pages, Bulma headed back to her workroom.
She did not see the figure hovering over the great dome of the Capsule Corporation's main building, dark glittering eyes fixed still on the bench by the pond, an unusually-pasty pallor across the sharp-planed visage.
Yamcha did not head immediately back to his apartment. Puaru would be there, wanting an update, and Yamcha was not sure what to say. Landing near the down-town district, he began to pace the streets, losing himself in the bustle of people going about their every-day business, considering how the conversation might go. I just broke up with Bulma. Well, I broke up with Bulma months ago, but this time I really broke up with Bulma so she could be with her alien boyfriend, only he's leaving soon, so maybe we aren't really breaking up. To which Puaru might well reply (Yamcha reflected, sardonically), Didn't we have this conversation the last time you thought Vegeta was leaving?
It was hard to let go of Bulma. Some part of him, Yamcha decided, would never let her go. Geez. Why am I such an idiot?
He heard the nearby cries of alarmed spectators just as a shadow fell across him. Startled, Yamcha looked up to see Vegeta floating a dozen feet overhead.
Something in the Prince's face froze him in his steps.
"I don't know how you Earthlings do it," the Saiyan said, "but you conceal ki, don't you? I can never zero in on your fighting levels. But you're the one that took down Zarbon, right? He's not in my class, but he can still put up a very credible fight. I've defeated the Namekian, I've exhausted the possibilities of that fool Kakarott, and the tricyclops would have to kill himself to be a challenge to me. What fun is that? So I guess--" the Prince smiled, his eyes glinting unpleasantly--"that leaves you, doesn't it?"
Help, thought Yamcha, the plea sounding squeaky and faint even to him.
Read The Chikyuu Contaminant: Chapter Twenty-Six
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The King has been annoyed with Vegeta times since 4/27/99!
