Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ A Saiyan For All Seasons ❯ Where The Heart Is ( Chapter 19 )

Chapter Eighteen

 

Where The Heart Is.

 

Bulma awoke the next morning wondering if she had actually experienced a moment of rest the entire night. Her thoughts were too full of revelation and worry, and her temples ached in a way that encompassed her entire head. She lay under the covers, looking up at the ceiling, wondering what fresh trials this new day would bring. She wasn't as worried about her friend's health now as she was about his state of mind. Something monumental had pushed Yamcha into training in the desert, she was certain of that. It had to be something extreme to make him so completely uninterested in preserving his health. Bulma wasn't sorry that Goku would be the one to break the news to Kiko; somehow all this was happening because of Yamcha's relationship with her. Perhaps Bulma was only delaying the inevitable, but she wanted to wait and see if her suspicions were proved true before she drove headlong into confrontation. It all came back to one thing. No outcome would benefit Yamcha, and her heart ached for him. He deserved to be happy.

 

It was 8:59 AM. The alarm would sound any second. She groaned and switched it off. There was a wrenching sensation in her stomach, an unwillingness to face the world and be a part of it. Still, she was Bulma Briefs, and Bulma Briefs dealt with her problems head on. Trial, regret, and the sense of foreboding she felt in the pit of her stomach would be ignored. Her manner and manners would be unchanged, and she wrenched herself from the bed to apply the clothes and makeup that would cement her troubles away.

 

Puar was already awake and tucking into her breakfast when Bulma entered the kitchen twenty minutes later. “Oh Bulma! I'm so happy you're awake. Your father said I should wait for you, and although I want to be there with all my heart, I don't think I could bear to see him without you there with me. You must eat quickly so we can all go.”

 

“I'll be sure to eat so fast I get indigestion,” she assured her friend.

 

Mr. Briefs was at the kitchen table too, a round of toast in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was looking through some papers on the table. She smiled at him, and tried to appear happy, but all she could feel was the fatigue of a fitful night's sleep.

 

“Rough night?” he asked. Bulma shouldn't have felt surprised; her father had a knack for seeing straight through any front she put on.

 

“Something like that,” she agreed. “It's nothing that copious amounts of coffee won't fix. Do I need to sign those papers?”

 

“No. It's nothing to do with work. I'm taking a quick look through Yamcha's medical records before we head on over.” He waved the folder between his sticky marmalade fingers. “It certainly makes for good reading. Did you know that he once suffered a burst appendix in northern Sudan and was spiritually cleansed by a Shaman called Dioshonaiz? There was no peritonitis, and he made a full recovery without any conventional western medicine. And here… look… he had a bite taken out of him by a Dino during a camping trip to Goku's five years ago. The doctor treating him couldn't explain what happened. He left him alone for a mere five minutes, and skin, bone and tissue miraculously regenerated to leave no physical signs of the trauma sustained! I'm guessing a sensu bean was the culprit on that occasion, but I'd certainly like to quiz him about the first event. Fascinating, fascinating stuff! I wonder what Goku or Vegeta's medical records would look like if we had them all to hand?”

 

“They'd all have at least one DOA on them,” she replied dryly. “Dad, isn't it a little unethical to be bandying Yamcha's medical records around at the breakfast table?”

 

“Nonsense, nonsense, I'm sure he won't mind… besides I left out all the really good bits.”

 

“Good bits?” Bulma raised an eyebrow, “What good bits?”

 

“Now, now sweetie, who is the one being unethical now?”

 

“How you survived forty years of running Capsule Corporation without a major law suit is beyond me!”

 

“Us old timers have our ways and means.” He winked. “Oh, and while I remember, I just finished talking to Goku on the telephone. Kiko should be here in a couple of hours. He said she took the news well, and that she would be here as soon as she had finished a few errands in town. I must admit that I was a little shocked at first that she wasn't going to come straight here, but it is probably for the best. Yamcha won't be awake for another hour or so anyway; it would be pointless for her to come sooner.”

 

“That's very true, but it's also possible that she is suffering from shock. Something like this can affect people in very different ways. For my part, it focused me. For Goku it made him lose his appetite, and for Puar the emotion was so extreme that it incapacitated her. Kiko probably just needs this time to get her thoughts together, so she can be calm when she sees him.” Bulma took her place at the breakfast table. “Have you heard anything from Mum?” she asked.

 

“Oh yes, she will be back later in the afternoon. She called before I spoke to Goku. Trunks didn't sleep very well last night. She only got him down a couple of hours ago.”

 

“Yeah, his sleep pattern is still all over the place! Do you remember all the great plans I made for him? About how I would juggle work and care for him at the office. Oh my! What a huge miscalculation that was!”

 

“We did try to warn you, Bulma.”

 

“Yes, yes… I know. Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” she took a bite out of the toast Puar handed her. “I better send a robot to make sure everything is ready for them when they get back. Did he take the formula okay?”

 

“Oh yes, no problem at all.”

 

“Who is Trunks?” asked Puar.

 

Bulma was not sorry for speaking openly. Telling Puar about Trunks had always been part of the plan, and she would have told her friend the previous night if she'd had the chance to do so. Puar deserved to know what was really going on.

 

“Come and sit beside me for a minute.” she coaxed. “I need to tell you something, something I should have told you a long time ago. Indeed I would love to tell everyone, but that isn't possible at the moment. Will you promise to keep a secret for me?”

 

Puar looked very worried. “Of course, Bulma, I promise not to tell anyone!”

 

“You needn't be alarmed. There is nothing bad to tell. Trunks,” Bulma took a deep breath. “Trunks is my son.”

 

Puar blinked in astonishment while she processed what she heard. For some reason Bulma had never doubted that Puar would respond favourably to the news, and so it proved. In a blur of blue fur she jumped into the air and did a little summersault of delight. “Your son? Oh my goodness, that is so amazing! Congratulations. I can't believe you're a mum. It's fantastic news, but Bulma, I didn't think you would ever have children.”

 

“Why would you think that?”

 

“I just remember, Yamcha… when you were with him. He once told me that you didn't want children. He was quite sad about it to tell you the truth, but that's all in the past, you and Yamcha haven't been dating for a very long time.” Puar looked Bulma straight in the eye, as though trying to gauge the situation. “Yamcha once told me,” she continued, “that you had met a man. He didn't go into particulars, and I didn't think it was right to ask, but…”

 

“It's fine Puar. I want you to know, even though it's not the easiest situation to be in. The man Yamcha talked to you about was Vegeta. Vegeta is Trunks's father.”

 

There was no answer. Bulma knew there wouldn't be. It was the kind of revelation that would naturally take time to understand, and she was ready to give her friend all the time she needed. Puar hardly knew Vegeta, not as Yamcha or her parents had come to know him. As far as Puar was concerned Vegeta was still the enemy - the man whose actions had once brought about Yamcha's death; it would be as unforeseen and shocking as if Bulma had just told Puar she'd fucked Freiza!

 

“I don't know what to say.”

 

“You don't have to say anything, Puar, not now.”

 

“But Bulma did he…? I couldn't bear to think that he might have, but I have to ask. Did he force you?”

 

It was a fair question; Bulma couldn't help acknowledging that, even though her cheeks burned with indignation. Vegeta was a murderer, and a man of a merciless and sadistic nature. However much Bulma tried to cover it up and pretend that side of him didn't exist, similar good grace would never extend to anyone who'd actually met him, least of all to those who had spent little to no time in his company while he was on planet. To Puar, he was nothing more than a homicidal maniac, who was being tolerated because his ego wanted the challenge of a fight. Even Bulma hadn't convinced herself into believing that Vegeta was training to save human lives. The very notion was ludicrous.

 

“He didn't force me. I was willing.”

 

“Then he tricked you!”

 

“There was no trick, Puar. I knew exactly what I was doing. And if you had spent the last three years in the same house with him you would understand that it wasn't as insane as it sounds. He is a free man now, free of his past and the mistakes he once made. He has the chance of a future at peace with himself and with others. A chance that I think he should have the right to be given, even if he may not choose to take it.”

 

“I have to say,” her father cut in. “That there is definitely some merit to the young man in question. How far that worth may extend is debateable, but I would have to agree with Bulma, we have the opportunity to do a little good by him. He's had hardly any opportunity to experience a positive influence in his life. I think he deserves the chance to screw that up before we right him off completely.”

 

“Please forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude about someone you like Bulma, but this is such unexpected news. It will take a little time for me to get used to it. I just have to know one thing, but please, do not think me impertinent for asking. This thing with Vegeta, was it just a bit of fun or are you in love with him?”

 

Heat rushed to Bulma's cheeks. The admission, however engraved it was in her heart, had never been outwardly confessed. What made it worse was that her father seemed to be waiting for an answer with just as much anticipation as Puar.

 

“It didn't start out seriously,” she confessed, “but time and circumstances have changed things. I have very powerful feelings towards him, there is no denying that, but how does one ever know the difference between love and friendship? Look at Yamcha and me. It only took me ten years to figure it out.”

 

“And Vegeta?” Puar continued, unwilling to let the interrogation slip. “What does he feel?”

 

Bulma laughed. “Vegeta is an enigma to everyone, including me. I can only guess. I don't think he knows what it is to care for anyone, not properly anyway.”

 

“How sad for you Bulma. I think it would break my heart to be in such a horrible situation.”

 

“Now there I have to disagree with you,” interrupted Mr. Briefs. “Surely there isn't anything more glorious than opening a heart shut away from the world for so long. To awaken a man that has been a slave to others all his life, and show him what it truly means to live and to love!”

 

Bulma smiled at her father, silently thanking him for adding to her argument. She couldn't have found better words to describe the situation herself, and she was especially thankful to him because Puar's continued interest in the subject made her feel a little uneasy.

 

“I hadn't thought of it like that,” Puar answered, “and I can certainly see charm in the situation, but what if, Bulma… What if he does nothing more than trample all over your heart? The repercussions of such an occurrence, are you prepared for that?”

 

“I can't say for sure,” she admitted. “All experiments have their risks, but there is one thing I can say for certain. I will continue to try my hardest to save him, to care for him, and be there for him. I will give him the opportunity of redemption, and I will willingly, no gladly, suffer anything that chance may cost me.”

 

There was a pause as the implications of Bulma's words settled around the room. She knew what she was getting herself into, had always known. Vegeta had never attempted to hide his past from her, and the feeling behind that knowledge sounded through her words and instilled both Puar and her father with the fullest belief of her honesty.

 

“Yamcha already knows this, doesn't he?”

 

Bulma didn't miss the sadness in Puar's voice. “Yes, he does. Yamcha was there for me every step of the way, caring for me, letting me talk to him about it when I had no one else to turn to. I couldn't have hoped for a better or a kinder friend. He's been wonderful.” She hoped that such warm words of commendation would ease Puar's agitation on the subject, but on the contrary, she suddenly looked very concerned, anxious, and unlike her usual happy self. “Are you alright?” Bulma asked, unable to keep her worry hidden. “Would you like a glass of water? You don't look very well.”

 

“No,” Puar protested. “I am well, very well, only… Oh Bulma! Are you sure you were right to let Yamcha be the one to help you through this? Wasn't there someone else you could have talked to about it, someone who was less involved, who loved…?”

 

There she stopped, but it was too late. Bulma understood Puar immediately. Yamcha had confided in their mutual friend. There was no other explanation for Puar's current behaviour. A rush of guilt burnt her cheeks with both anger and shame as suddenly everything made sense - Yamcha training in the desert, Kiko not wanting to contact Bulma, or even let her know where Yamcha was. It was all too plain to see. Kiko knew how Yamcha felt, and from Bulma's recollections, had probably known for a long time. Then there was that infamous kiss outside the nightclub, when Yamcha was so undecided about his feelings. He knew the kiss wasn't right, this bit she was convinced was true, but he had never explained why. Now she knew. In that one last moment of intimacy between them Yamcha had read Bulma's heart and known it wasn't his. In that split second he had made up his mind to hide himself from her. Perhaps it was to spare Bulma from the complications of knowing his true feelings, or simply because he knew there was nothing he could do to make her love him the same way, but what a silly, silly thing to have done! Not just to her, but to poor Kiko as well.

 

“I thought he was the right person at the time,” admitted Bulma, knowing that Puar deserved an explanation. “Vainly, stupidly, I thought he was. I needed someone, and I was selfish; so blinded by my own need for comfort that I didn't think about how it would affect him. I am only seeing that now. I promise you with all my heart that I never meant to hurt him. I have though, haven't I? You are close to him. If there weren't something he could tell me then surely he would tell you. Oh Puar! Did he tell you? After all this time, after all we've been through, even when he knows for absolute certain that I don't… won't ever feel the same way; is it possible that Yamcha is still in love with me?”

 

“He made me promise never to tell you, Bulma. Please don't hate him for it. He only wants you to be happy!”

 

“But what about him? Where will his happiness come from?”

 

Puar hung her head low. “I don't know. I thought Kiko, given time, might be the answer. Recently though I began to lose confidence in that plan. My first wish was that you would take him back and love him, as he deserves to be loved, but now I know it won't happen that way. I'm sorry, Bulma, I really am! It was wrong of me to hope as I did. None of this is your fault.”

 

“I am to blame, Puar. Don't try and make me feel better because it just won't wash! If I had only done or said something different then it might have made everything so much easier on him, but I didn't and I have to live with that. I never stopped and thought about what I was doing, confiding in him that way! It was so stupid of me! Yamcha is suffering and it's all my fault!”

 

The emotion was too thick. Bulma couldn't think through it. She could see the disappointment on Puar's face, and read the silence on her father's, but she couldn't react to either. Like a coward she ran from the kitchen, and she didn't stop until she had reached the confines of her own bedroom. Once there, and with tears already falling over her cheeks, she went to the window and threw open the bedroom curtains. Her eyes were greeted with a familiar blanket of grey sky. The rain was falling in long wide sheets and looked likely to persist throughout the day. The abandoned grounds were muddy and gloomy in the downpour. Through a gap in the old factories, and to the rear of her mother's orchard, she could see the medical wing. The soft yellow walls glowed through the drizzle, the only warmth to the imposing and angular cityscape beyond. Her hands tightened around one of the curtains, and she pulled it close into her chest, gathering it like a security blanket as she leant against the window frame. It didn't matter what would happen in the next few days, weeks, or even months ahead. Yamcha would need a huge amount of emotional support and even though every fibre of her body ached to ease his suffering, she knew without a shadow of a doubt, that now all her presence would do was make his suffering worse.

 

There was a faint knock at the door, and it opened a crack. “Are you okay, Bulma?”

 

“I need to be on my own right now, Dad. Apologise to Puar for me and take her to see Yamcha. I can't face it right now.”

 

“I understand,” he replied, and there was a click as he closed the door behind him.

 

As soon as she heard her father walk away, all the strength in her legs seemed to evaporate, and she slid down the wall and to the floor. For only the second time in her life she didn't want to be strong anymore. She wanted someone else to be in control, wanted someone there to tell her without feeling, without prejudice, exactly what she had to do. She wanted Vegeta, so badly, so completely. She craved for the cold hard slap of his voice telling her that she was being an idiot; longed for those arrogant, exacting lips to tell her that she had fucked up - that she was to blame. She wanted him there, in front of her so she could rip at him with all the sheer white-hot anger she was feeling, knowing he would take it gladly and throw it back twice as hard. She wanted to lose herself in the heady world of callous, self-gratifying bliss, to be thrown from the bonds of convention and into his arms, an interloper into the maelstrom and depravity of his world. Why had Fate done this? Why had it made her need for him so intense? Would Yamcha be in pain now if she had never met Vegeta? Probably not. The allure of being loved would have been too much in his favour for their relationship to be lost forever, even if they had spent time apart. No, if it weren't for Vegeta then she would be with him now, offering all the love, comfort and support she could, because she would have never known what it meant to truly need, to truly love someone.

 

“I want to be there for you, Yamcha,” she vowed, “but I can't help you this time. Please forgive me.”

 

She sat up and propped herself against the window. The thick dark rain clouds parted, and a patch of clear sky allowed a few rays of sunshine to break through. Bulma concentrated on this spot, wishing she could summon Vegeta's spherical spacecraft from the heavens. Nothing happened, and the patch of clear sky was engulfed by cloud once again.

 

“When are you coming back, Vegeta!” she sighed. “Can't you see I need you, you fucking arsehole?”

 

Two hours later the headlamps of an arriving car roused her. She couldn't remember feeling tired, but there was a dull ache in her jaw where it had been pressed flat against the glass, which probably meant she'd fallen asleep there. Sleep didn't seem the right word for the event though. An emotional collapse probably described the situation better. She strained to see the car through the condensation her breath had formed on the window. Wiping a portion clear proved that the car was actually a taxi. It rolled up the drive and to a standstill on the gravel sweep at the front of the building. The back door opened, and Kiko stepped out. At the same time Bulma's father walked out of the main house. He greeted her affably and shook her hand. He then proceeded to open an umbrella before quickly escorting her across the lawn and to the medical wing where Yamcha was probably awake now and waiting for them.

 

There would have to be a confrontation. There was no escaping it. Bulma would have to meet Kiko, and she was eager for everything to be put to rights between them. Too much time had been lost to a lie that had hurt them both. Right now, however, the strength for such an encounter eluded her. But not all hope was lost. Bulma's overstrained thoughts had received some respite from her collapse, and now she had a plan. There was an edge of selfishness to this plan, a little hiccup of optimism that belied the seriousness of the occasion. Willingly ignorant in the face of self-interest, she rushed to the bathroom for the second time that day to reapply her makeup and straighten her hair.

 

The path down to the laboratories was in fact quite short, but as Bulma walked alongside a wall lined with climbing plants, now brown and lifeless without the summer sunshine to stir them, it seemed to go on forever. Only the stiletto heels she wore calmed the impulse to run like a lunatic to her father's laboratory. Her fingers gripped the edge of a pink palmtop, protected from the weather under the lapel of her coat as she held it close to her chest. It was an odd gesture towards a piece of hardware that she hadn't used before. The technology it harboured was very complex, and to be fair, Bulma was still a little sketchy on the details. This wondrous machine had been presented to Bulma five days after Trunks was born, gift-wrapped with silver paper and a matching bow. Her father had been the provider, but the thought had proceeded from quite an unexpected source.

 

“A present of sorts,” her father had said with a wry smile. “Vegeta asked me to make it for you, in case you want to contact him while he is training. He refuses to wear an earpiece and so I told him I would rig up a system to work with my subspace relay. Think of it as intergalactic caller ID.” Her father had chuckled at his own joke. “I think it's fair to say that Vegeta wants you to use it sparingly.”

 

Bulma, heeding the Saiyans words, had never felt the inclination to use it at all. Things were too unsettled between them to risk relationship suicide by calling him without a valid reason. Instead she was more than happy to keep it as a reminder of him in those final moments before his launch, as he was undoubtedly thinking of her. Now, however, things were different. Sleep had not alleviated her desire to see him, not in the least. She had no idea what she was going to do when, or if he answered, but she owed it to her current peace of mind to try something.

 

She found the keypad and entered her pin. It might be her father's laboratory but she was never denied access to it. The light flicked to green and she stumbled through the doors, glad to leave the driving rain behind her. She hung her coat on a hook by the door, rested her umbrella against the wall, and tentatively walked across the office. It was a mess. Mr Briefs had never learnt how to work in a way that would comply with current health and safety regulations. The smell of smoke and grease permeated the air. It reminded her of her youth and the hours she spent watching him work. It brought her comfort and strengthened her resolve. She brushed clear the seat of an office chair, before sitting down and switching on the relay. Her own palmtop was placed in front of the keyboard, and she eagerly skimmed through the start up screen. It worked on a WI-FI connection to her father's PC, and there was a dial button ready and waiting for her to use almost instantly. Bulma's hands felt sweaty as she hovered the cursor over Vegeta's name. She closed her eyes and stalled. There was a chance this could go very badly wrong. What if by making this one call she ruined what little hold she still had over Vegeta? She shook her head. There was no question of backing out now. She may well regret it afterwards, but now… well, now she was selfish. In one strike she pushed down with the stylus, and the call was made.

 

Her stomach did painful little butterfly flips as she waited. This wasn't like before. This time she couldn't take him unawares. He would know exactly who was calling, and he would have the power to refuse to answer if he so wished it. It felt like the right thing to do, and her women's intuition had never let her down before. Of course there was a variable in every situation, and this one happened to be mean, pointy-haired, and 5ft 6” tall. The line continued to ring for what seemed like an eternity and Bulma was starting to lose her initial confidence. He could have answered it three times over by now. The electronic sound resonated along the relay like a cruel slap across her face. He wasn't going to answer. “Fucking arsehole!” she swore at the computer screen. Bulma, however, could not bring herself to press the disconnect icon. It was as though the last of her strength had been used to make the call and now all she could do was watch her failure play out, beyond her control and beyond her endurance.

 

The screen went blank. Bulma rubbed her temples and fixed her eyes on the glowing green letters at the bottom of the screen. Her feelings changed from absolute dejection to sheer elation in a heartbeat. The letters were requesting a holographic connection. The call had been answered--Vegeta had answered! Never before had Bulma been rewarded for giving up. She sucked in a large breath, and before she could finalize the connection, she heard his voice. The weight of sadness was instantly lifted from her shoulders. Her name on his lips! Surely there was nothing else in the universe that sounded so good! She smiled through the bittersweet agony, almost choking in the effort to hold back her tears. Finally, and when her courage was high, she pushed the button that would start the holographic projection for them both.

 

The capsule spacecraft was deserted. The main lights were off and the only illumination came from the glow of the central computer monitors. There was no sign of Vegeta. “Where are you?” she asked.

 

“Second level. Change the camera.”

 

His instructions were followed instantly. Now she knew why the lights were off. Vegeta hadn't been training. He had been sleeping. No wonder that it had taken him so long to answer. There he was on the bed, both hands behind his head and stretching the sleep from his body. The covers moved as he stretched and although there was enough of the material left over him to keep his modesty, Bulma could see enough to prove that he was sleeping commando.

 

“I'm sorry, this isn't a good time,” she mumbled, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.

 

“No, it isn't,” he agreed. “But I am awake now. Say your piece and have done with it.”

 

He stared at her, clearly expecting an answer, and she felt a little stupid when her brain failed to come up with one. She hadn't planned this bit. Everything up to this point had been driven by an insatiable need, a guttural longing to see him. She hadn't given a second thought about what she would actually say when they were face to face, and her mind seemed especially blank now he was laying half naked in front of her.

 

“Apparently you have nothing to say.” He didn't speak harshly; his voice held that light, almost playful lilt that Bulma loved so much. His whole body language exuded contentment, and she was happy to hear the same breathy, sexy baritone to his voice that he only used at night, and for her. “But you don't need to say anything. I'll take a guess that your need is similar to my own.” The sleeping quarters, though still dark, had enough light shining from the central column to illuminate his features quite plainly. She could see those eyes fixed on her, and she could read them. He was allowing her to read them. Desire, lust, and just as much passion as she presumed hers held for him.

 

“I feel a little vulnerable right now.” She smiled. “I dunno. I thought maybe if I saw you then I could steal a little bit of your strength.”

 

“Ridiculous, nonsensical woman!”

 

“Yes,” she agreed. “I am. Why else would I be calling you when I already feel like shit!”

 

“Masochistic tendencies, eh?” He laughed out loud. It was a delightfully rich sound, and it echoed around the circular room. “That's something worth exploring, or should I say, exploiting?”

 

“You're not going to ask me why I feel like shit then?”

 

“No.”

 

“It has to do with Yamcha,” she coaxed, looking up at him with a smirk.

 

“Then I really don't want to hear it.”

 

“Of course, you wouldn't,” she teased. “After all, he is still violently in love with me, but you wouldn't care about that now, would you?”

 

“No, I wouldn't,” he agreed. “It's old news, Bulma.”

 

“You knew?” she replied, absolutely aghast.

 

“But of course I did.”

 

“And you didn't think about saying anything to me?”

 

“For a supposed genius, Bulma, sometimes you can be exceedingly stupid. Do you think I made a point of letting him know about us for kicks, or that I did it because I wanted some third-rate warrior talking trash behind my back? No! I wanted him to know exactly where he stood. I'm a selfish creature after all, and not accustomed to sharing. Surely you understood that!”

 

“No,” she admitted. “I didn't.”

 

“Well, now you do, so change the fucking subject before I forget why I decided to accept this call in the first place!”

 

Bulma thought about challenging him, about demanding he tell her more, but there would be no point. Vegeta would hang up and not only would she still need him desperately, she'd also be angry, and deeply, deeply unhappy.

 

“I give in. Why did you answer?”

 

“I'm in the middle of space and rudely awakened by a call that I know is from you,” he explained. “So what do I do? Do I ignore the call and try to go back to sleep or do I get some relief for my erection now I have the image of you in my head? It's a no-brainer, Bulma. You owe me!”

 

Bulma laughed. “Oh my Vegeta, you say the most romantic things! It's a good job that I'm not a lady and require sonnets written in my honour or flowers delivered to my door.”

 

“Talking isn't part of the deal. Shut up and stand so I can see you properly.”

 

Bulma opened her mouth to protest. He barked out the order as though he expected her to obey it, and she wasn't about to take the humiliation quietly. His eyes, however, could not lie to her, and it didn't matter what insults came spewing from his mouth. He was as much driven by need as she was, and her promise to herself not to cross that physical line until there had been some serious, deliberate thought on the matter, was dissolving very quickly.

 

Perhaps he knew that his surliness hadn't deceived her. “For once in your god damned life, Bulma, indulge in a little blind faith. Stand up and trust in me to make it worth your while.”

 

There was the challenge. She wouldn't allow herself to back down from it. Wordlessly, compliantly, Bulma did as he asked. She felt elated at the thought of those piercing black eyes watching her every movement. This was what she needed, the reckless abandonment of her senses, the wickedness of feeling joy in the face of misery, and the selfishness of gaining strength through lust reciprocated.

 

“Is this blind faith?” she asked, slowly unbuttoning her top and allowing the fitted cotton shirt to flutter to the floor.

 

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Turn around.”

 

Bulma obeyed. She closed her eyes and breathed through the emotion, feeling so beautifully aroused at the thought of those hungry eyes pouring over her body. She stopped with her back to the camera, found the zip at the side of her skirt and bent down to tease the garment away from her waist, and into a puddle of fabric at her feet. She looked over her shoulder and gloried in his undivided attention. Even through the millions of miles of space that separated them, their connection, their drawing together had not died, had not lessened, but remained as strong and unwavering as she had ever felt it would.

 

She saw his hand under the sheet moving slickly up and down. “Fuck!” he swore in so strangled a manner that it almost sounded preternatural. “When will you be sorry for doing this to me!”

 

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Thank you Lisa B for beta-ing.