Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Accidental Redemption ❯ BURNT BRIDGES ( Chapter 9 )

Thanks to everyone that were kind enough to post reviews, especially to readers like Pandora001, Spini and The Ouji's Mate for their ongoing support. It's the loyal fans that keep me battling through the writer's block at 3am, so even though I take eons to update, take heart in knowing your comments and reviews are great motivators and do help to get instalments done a tad bit faster ^_~ Also a round of applause goes to Meliza Mac, Shen Long and Kyra Fable for beta-ing.

Hope you guys like this one!

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ACCIDENTAL REDEMPTION

By Evil Saint

IX. BURNT BRIDGES

*Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

"… Hundred-and-nineteen; hundred-and-twenty; hundred-and-twenty-one…" Bulma shifted irritably in her seat in the conference room on the thirty-seventh floor, attempting to escape a boredom-induced death by counting the gleaming windows lining the neighbouring skyscrapers. She distractedly twirled a stray lock of hair around her fingers, vaguely aware of Mr. Izumi, Capsule Corp's very uncharismatic Head of Finance, rambling on about the estimated research and development costs of "Miss Briefs' controversial healing chambers."

She'd blamed her lacking presence at the previous shareholders' meeting on a combination of late night preparation and potent headache tablets ~ weak excuses, she knew, but not complete fabrications. She'd always been terrible at lying to her dad and, as luck would have it, she arrived at the office that day to find him waiting via satellite to hear her explanation for her less than exemplary behaviour. She had to use every "Daddy's Girl" trick she knew to get Dr. Briefs back on her side, but in the end she managed to keep her job with no worse than a stern reprimand from her father to show for it. She was convinced that the board's respect for the Briefs family name was the only factor that prevented her from being sacked, but that was as far as that ticket would take her. If she messed up again, even her father's considerable influence wouldn't be enough to save her ~ not that she'd expect him to try.

A shameful pang twisted in Bulma's stomach at the thought and she forced herself to pay attention to Izumi's monotonous rendition of the budget changes necessary to accommodate her new brainchild. Capsule Corp. wasn't known for manufacturing medical equipment and, despite her groundbreaking work as a researcher, the board was divided on whether or not regen-tanks should be introduced into the company's production line. The progressive thinkers were quick to see the product's potential and welcomed the fresh innovation, while a more rigid and unfortunately very influential element ~ coincidentally the same assholes that condemned her appointment as CEO in the first place ~ were dissatisfied with the proposed reallocation of funds from established projects. The issue was to be put to a vote following Mr. Izumi's presentation and Bulma had to be ready for any last minute questions once he finished.

It was times like these that she cursed being forewarned of the Iceling invasion and the burden of having to keep it secret, resigning the masses to their blissful ignorance for the sake of social stability. Potentially millions of lives depended on her ability to convince a dozen diehard capitalists that producing the regen-tanks would be in their best interest and since the pending apocalypse couldn't be used as inducement, her only foolproof method of persuasion was to appeal to their sense of greed. All she could do was pray that the invention's profit margin would be sufficiently impressive to make the directors realise its importance. If the idea was turned down she'd have to look to her private resources to build and distribute the tanks and that wouldn't be a quarter as effective as having them circulating the global market under the CC trademark.

Professional pressure wasn't the only thing worrying her though.

Over a week had passed since her squabble with Yamcha and she had yet to hear from him. Usually when they fought, he couldn't keep his distance for more than twenty-four hours before showing up on her doorstep with a dozen red roses and a set of big, brown puppy dog eyes, confessing his undying love and begging her forgiveness for whatever misdemeanour he'd committed. This time however, she hadn't even received so much as a phone call from him in all of eight days and she was starting to get impatient.

"If that son of a bitch thinks I'm going to come crawling to him, he's in for a very longwait!" Bulma though waspishly, suppressing an eye roll as Izumi repeated the same line of numbers for the third time on request of an aging executive whose hearing aid had apparently ceased function.

As annoyed as she was with Yamcha, Bulma was more concerned about the unresolved strain between her and Vegeta. Yamcha had acted like a complete dick and in all likelihood he was still too embarrassed to face the music; but it was up to her to make amends with the Saiyan. Honestly, she had no idea if he was still angry with her or not and she was driving herself crazy fretting over it. True, he had goaded her and she hadn't intended for her slight to insult him as deeply as it had, but she feared that their small sliver of conviviality had been dampened and that it might extinguish altogether if the air wasn't cleared soon. Kami help her, but they could've both been spared a lot of unpleasantness if only the damnable Saiyan would open up to her every once in a while!

Bulma had planned to atone for her careless remark that same evening, but when she returned home from work in the early hours of the morning Vegeta was nowhere to be found. She'd felt horribly guilty, thinking that his departure was a result of their altercation, but by the third day she began to question that theory. His eavesdropping must have provided him with barrels full of ammo to use against her and then she'd gone and presented him with a prime opportunity to level her with the fire and brimstone of his wrath. The prince was anything but the sulky type and he thrived on confrontation. It simply wasn't like him to pass up a fight, just to hide away somewhere, stewing in his own anger…

Another three nights went by before Vegeta finally returned to the Capsule Corp. dome, his presence made known mainly through the havoc he'd wreaked in the kitchen and the ruined workout gear he'd dumped in the laundry hamper. She really whished he'd be a bit more careful with his training suits. The lightweight, energy resistant stretch fabric was a copy of the bodysuit from his old alien armour and the garments were anything but cheap to manufacture, yet it almost seemed as if Vegeta was looking for ways to destroy them, having gone through four of the supposedly indestructible ensembles since he started training for Koola's attack. This time, the stains and tears littering the clothes made it fairly obvious that he'd been hunting which in turn suggested that he'd been rutting again and explained his Houdini act following their short shouting match.

Vegeta had banished himself to the GT-pod since his return, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but made it impossible to talk to him. She knew how much it ticked him off to have his workouts interrupted and she wasn't about to incur his ire by barging in on him. He was never in a good mood when he came home from a fever and she felt sorry for the poor beasts that crossed his path at the height of his hormonal influx. She wasn't without pity for the warrior himself, though.

It's a well known fact that sex and violence elicit similar responses in the human brain and if that was true for Saiyans as well, then Vegeta had to be battling some serious urges if the amount of blood on his clothes was anything to go on…

Bulma's mind automatically called forth the ferociously carnal dream she'd had about him ~ the one that got her into trouble for missing the shareholder's meeting ~ and her cheeks turned pink as liquid fire instantly pooled in her belly. Discreetly she rubbed her things together under the table, endeavouring to cool the heavy heat that had settled in her loins. Although she imagined it would be a lot scarier than arousing in real life, the fantasy of Vegeta hot and needy and wild with lust as he ploughed through the jungle in pursuit of prey never failed to turn her on.

She could scarcely recall the last time Yamcha had affected her in such a way and she cringed inwardly in self-recrimination. Vegeta stirred a passion in her with a simple look that Yamcha couldn't achieve with the most extravagant of gestures and it was terribly unfair. They hadn't slept together before his death and she knew he half expected her to before taking their relationship to the next level, but she simply couldn't bring herself to give in to him just yet. Yamcha loved her dearly, as she did him, but she felt so inadequate with all those bimbos constantly swarming around him. Why couldn't he just tell them to fuck off? That's what she would have done if the roles were reversed!

OK, so she'd refused to kick Vegeta out. So what? Vegeta wasn't perpetually feeling her biceps and asking her to sign his underwear!

Still, Yamcha was good and kind and safe and stable ~ everything Prince Charming was not. The worst her boyfriend had ever done was to commit petty larceny in his youth while the Saiyan was guilty of acts so atrocious that Earth's languages didn't have words to name them. Then again, Vegeta was also an alien prince that had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of an intergalactic Empire, while Yamcha was a baseball player who'd run away from an orphanage in West City. It was like comparing flambé to jell-o. The Saiyan was exotic, volatile and dangerous. If she was a moth then he was the flame, irresistibly bewitching in his allure, but ultimately fatal…

Not that it mattered, really. Her musings were moot anyway. Even if she were prepared to set herself up for a fall, it takes two to tango and it had taken her almost two years, after returning from Namek, to gain Vegeta's acceptance on a platonic level. She was certain that the idea of a deeper connection with "a lowly human female" would be nothing short of revolting to him. He may have held her in higher esteem than the rest of her race, but to him, mankind was a lower species on the food chain, and to be considered a notch above steak tartar still placed her a long way short of dating material.

The Saiyan's recent behaviour towards her had merely reaffirmed his underlying indifference to her presence in his life. Maybe it was because of his rut, but Vegeta didn't seem to miss their evening chitchat in the slightest, while Bulma was genuinely bereft.

It had been nine days, thirteen hours and… she checked her watch… forty-six minutes since their last conversation. It wasn't like the discussions were particularly deep or enriching, but there was a quiet ~ almost intimate ~ ease to being in Vegeta's company that was wonderfully relaxing and she'd come to depend on it as part of her daily routine. Truth be told, there were a couple of instances during the past week where she… sensed him. There was no other way to describe it. Whenever he entered a room the ambiance would change and she chalked it up to his astronomically large energy signature that was powerful enough for even a layman like her to discern. She'd come to recognise his life-force when it touched hers and that's how she knew whenever he was near, but what she'd experienced over the last couple of days was the weirdest of sensations. It was almost as though he was… inside of her, wandering around in the depths of her being where her soul dwelled and the eerie feeling caused cold coils to encircle her spine, yet at the same time it wasn't wholly unpleasant. The moments were fleeting and despite her growing concerns for her mental health, she welcomed any little bit of togetherness she could have with the Saiyan ~ even if it was only in her mind.

"I wonder if it's possible to become addicted to another person…" She pondered, staring through glassy eyes at the charts Izumi was projecting from his laptop.

For as long as Bulma could remember, she'd had to portray specific roles for everyone in her life. Her father and friends expected her to be clever and resourceful; her mother and boyfriend's compliments rarely fixated on anything other than her appearance, while the rest of the world seemed content to define her by her fortune. Vegeta was the first exception to the rule. The Saiyan didn't expect her to live up to the labels of a genius or an heiress or a babe, but didn't scorn her when she did. He wasn't intimidated by her intellect or envious of her wealth, nor did he feel the need to coddle her because she was pretty. To him she was just a woman and the former mercenary couldn't be bothered if she were wearing a four-year-old tracksuit in front of the TV, snickering stupidly at Roadrunner reruns, while at the same time babbling on about the intricacies of spaceship dynamics or genetic engineering. Nothing was at stake between them, simply because he didn't actually care for her, but when they were together she could make-believe… pretend that something was there that wasn't …

At least Yamcha's affection was real and he'd always been an eager competitor for her attention. She had to confess that the man wasn't totally off the mark when he'd accused her of neglecting him. She maintained that the viciousness he'd displayed during their argument was disproportionate to her crime and she still wanted an apology, but perhaps she'd heed the old proverb about Mohammed and the Mountain and stop by his apartment once she was done at the office. Bulma didn't believe that Yamcha was serious about leaving her, but it wasn't wise to tempt fate.

She'd treaded into the desolate abyss of singlehood shortly before the Saiyans' arrival and she found that to be even worse than the idea of braving Koola. Courage under fire had become her middle name of late, but in a world where change seemed to be the only constant, she needed to have faith in the "happily ever after" the fairytales of her childhood had promised.

The alternative was simply too horrible to consider.

Yamcha was the only man who had ever paid attention to her romantically and Bulma was secretly mortified that nobody would want to take the all-star's place if he couldn't stand her any longer. Their last words to each other before Nurami had eviscerated him were spoken in anger and he'd managed to find someone new in the interim without much effort while she ended up alone on the sidelines, staring longingly at young lovers on the street and in shopping malls, envious of the carefree joy that she might never experience.

Bulma knew she wasn't the easiest person to get along with. Her personality was classic type A: independent, domineering and bitchy ~ qualities not prized among the males of her culture ~ and deep down, in the very core of her, she believed that she should just be grateful for having someone to share her life with, even if she always seemed inclined to cry after spending time with him. Chemistry wasn't all it was cracked up to be and anything was better than nothing, after all.

Right?

A jagged sigh became lodged in her throat and Mr. Izumi's droning was temporarily forgotten as Bulma's deepest uncertainties ransacked her heart…

~*~*~*~

Halfway around the globe, far from the marble grey walls and recycled air of the Capsule Corp. boardroom, a lone figure sat cross-legged on a nameless mountain peak, a solitary speck of life in an endless snowy desert. A frozen wind howled in rage, raining sleet and hail down on the intruder who dared to enter her hallowed domain, but the man seemed unaffected, the luminescent blue aura around him keeping the blizzard at bay as his jet eyes stared unseeingly over the bleak white landscape.

Vegeta had discovered the remote apex many months before when he still thought Kakkarot to have perished on Namek and kept himself busy by exploring the Earth while vainly awaiting the imbecile's resurrection. Like so many natives, the fabled giant, Everest, was what had originally drawn him to the Himalayas, but upon arrival the Saiyan found the mountain disappointing in scale compared to what he'd seen on other planets and the flow of traffic to and from the summit was far too heavy for his liking. The territory reminded him of Dargad however, and in a testament to his psychosis he found the resemblance appeasing, leading him to return time and again to the region's more secluded outcroppings when he needed respite from the hubbub of civilisation.

He was supposed to be meditating, but the undertaking had proven futile as a certain aqua-haired engineer kept infesting his mind and pillaging his concentration.

Vegeta had been back at Capsule Corp. for fifty-one hours and had yet to come face to face with his hostess. He was conducting business as usual following his rut, holding up in the GT-pod to make up for lost training time, but he'd thought that she would've sought him out by now. After all, he had damn near injured the bitch in the midst of their last altercation and she wasn't likely to let that slide. Of course that could also be why she was reluctant to engage him…

He'd enjoyed their row, watching the woman sweat as she tried to unravel the meaning behind his ambiguous statements. Then she had to spoil his fun by voicing one of Frieza's favourite disparagements, stirring up memories of the slander dripping like acid from black reptilian lips, searing his soul as his homeworld was blasted apart before his eyes… as he was beaten down in front of an assembly of laughing officers… as he lay dying under the Namekian sun with a Veshari half-breed his only mourner, begging a third-class traitor to fulfil the destiny that should've been his…

Of course he'd been furious and rightly so. Even if the wench didn't know what she was saying, she deserved to have her skull caved in for such disrespect. He'd smelt the burst of terror in her scent as he lunged at her, swiftly reminding her of whom she was dealing with. Her fear was potent and heady, the kind he always strived to evoke in others and he should've wrought tremendous satisfaction from seeing her stripped of her cocky bravado, trembling before him in submission.

Yet satisfaction was not what he felt.

She'd provoked his rage through her own brazen stupidity and he had no reason to feel remorse for his outburst.

So why did he?

The woman had plagued him during every minute of his rut, overwhelming him like a disease, and there were moments in his fevered state when he swore she was calling to him. He'd felt rather than heard her temptress' cry, like her very energy was summoning him and in those instances he was nearly blinded by the demanding impulse to seek her out and fuck her until his maddening need abated. It took every grain of willpower he could muster to contain himself and he had a daunting suspicion that if he wasn't off the planet the next time the Moon Madness claimed him, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from raping her.

The thought of forcing her sickened him worse than ever, but the prospect of trading the Briefs estate for the brothels of space was suddenly a lot more insipid than it had been a month or two earlier and his apprehension baffled him. If he stayed, he'd forfeit the tiny scrap of honour he had left by violating his housemate and end up dead. If he left, he got to have sex with as many seasoned professionals as he could afford, returning when his lust was thoroughly slaked and resume his training without anyone being worse for wear. If no-brainers were looking for a poster child this scenario would be a shoo-in, but for some reason the image of bedding a whore made his stomach churn with disgust. It wasn't that he'd ever considered it particularly appealing to join bodies with a female who reeked of every patron that came before him, but it was nothing to get upset about. He should be thankful that he had a choice at all, but instead he kept mulling over what was not available to him.

The notion that he could only have the tantalising Earthling by force was far more jarring than he deemed appropriate and he berated himself for his foolishness. He placated his pride with the reassurance that it was merely the lingering effects of his Unrak Nagul that were clouding his judgment and that he'd be back to his detached self soon enough. The peculiar dreams and hallucinations he'd suffered were nothing more substantial than the twisted whims of his delirium, having no bearing on reality whatsoever. For one thing, the rueful yearning he'd sensed when the woman supposedly called to him was too intense to be anything but imaginary. If she craved congregation that deeply she'd get it from her pathetic mate long before she reached such a level of desperation. The prince had heard enough of the humans' little spat to know that Bulma kept him around because she valued him as an ally, not because she longed for him. And even if she did, humans in general weren't fond of violence and his brutal reaction to her expletive would've surely quelled any affection she might have had for him.

His chest clenched inexplicably at the thought and to his chagrin he found himself overtaken by the consuming need to abolish any possible distrust he'd instilled in her; to set things right between them. The feeling was unwanted and yet he couldn't snuff it as he'd always done with useless sentiments. He'd never worried how his actions influenced others, so why oh why did he suddenly care how this woman was affected?

"Perhaps because of the affect she has on you…" whispered an obnoxious little voice inside his head. Vegeta stiffened and his energy flared around him in aggravation at the obtrusive thought, yet he couldn't ignore the ring of truth that echoed with it.

They were so similar in many aspects, yet so different as well. Her body was fragile and delicate, but she had a fighter's spirit and she could be as ruthless as she was cunning in pursuit of her aspirations, just like him. Unlike him, however, her heart wasn't chiselled from frozen steel. For as far back as the prince could remember, his life was filled with ugly, course and ultimately painful experiences. But then Bulma Briefs came along with her sinuous figure, silky hair and tanzanite blue eyes, and did the unthinkable: she forgave him for his past and brought him to a place filled with warmth and softness and soothing sensations ~ things he never dared to want ~ and right then he despised her for the frailty she'd instilled in him.

He'd discovered that the woman had the uncanny ability to bind his devils with a glance, a laugh, a touch, and in an instant his most fervent aspirations would melt into the background, becoming distant and obscure. In those moments the spikes of his hatred would dull, easing the throb of his inner anguish and allow him a glimpse of what lay beyond the dank, dark cell that was his life, making it so much harder to bear when he had to return. A man didn't miss what he'd never known, but to have a taste of release from his turmoil only to be tossed back on the rack every time the woman rushed off to that infernal baseball player of hers was the worst cruelty he'd ever endured.

"If only she would…"

"… What? Come to you instead? Dream on Monkey!"

Vegeta's tail bristled around his waist and his eyes turned to rubies with the stirring of the Oozaru, reflexively readying to fend off the wraith whose shrill mockery even the grave wouldn't silence.

The ghost was right though. However unworthy the scarred human was, it wasn't as if he himself could offer the woman any better ~ hypothetically speaking of course. Bulma was too smart to sabotage her niche with Yamcha for a tryst with a lost cause like him and the knowledge brought the Saiyan an aberrant brand of stinging relief. He knew intuitively that being one with her would take him to a place of tranquillity he didn't want to visit. He'd endured so much suffering and through the years he'd grown dependent on it. Hatred was the furnace from where he drew his power while pain fuelled the flames and he needed both to remain strong. He knew no other way. Fortunately he had nothing to fear, because the one creature that could pacify him would never seek him out and thus he'd never have to fight the temptation of welcoming her. Bulma's desire for him was merely a pipedream he dabbled in during wistful moments and thankfully the instances were short-lived.

His evolution to Super-Saiyan and defeating his adversaries were obtainable goals at least. Those were the only pursuits of importance to him, but the plateau he'd reached in his training ~ the intended focus of his meditation ~ was driving him berserk. All he really wanted, all he'd ever wanted, was to fulfil the prophecy and claim the title of most powerful warrior in the Universe.

Was that really so much to ask?!

Vegeta blamed his procrastination on his less than consistent workout schedule of the last few weeks, but he would not tolerate it a minute longer. He had more discipline than that. He was the Prince of Saiyans and it was time he started acting like it again; the Earth, the woman and his hormones all be damned! The second Bulma got home from work he would demand that she finish his new drones within the week and upgrade the gravity simulator with another 50 Gs, just to make things interesting. Perhaps then, if he'd strained his body and mind beyond all conceivable limits ~ even those his very sanity imposed ~ he would finally be able to force himself across the elusive threshold. He could feel the mythical power swimming through the currents of his blood, twisting like a serpent in his veins, yet refusing to submit to his control. Sometimes the golden drake would indulge him after he'd pushed himself beyond every barrier of endurance, infusing with his life energy and allowing him to ride its golden coils for the briefest of instances, only to flee from him again as it had all those years ago in Frieza's audience hall. It was as though the Legend itself was ridiculing him. It was right there in front of him, but still out of reach; so close yet so far… just like the woman.

Vegeta cursed at his perpetuated lack of focus and dropped his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his thick ebony mane. The warrior couldn't believe that he'd just compared that pestilence of a female to the Golden Fleece of his ancestors! It was sacrilege for Kami's sake!

"It's the fucking rut; it has to be." The prince chastised himself for what could've well been the hundredth time, but even in his mind the rebuke was losing conviction…

~*~*~*~

"What are you doing here, Bulma?" The woman asked herself for the fifteenth time in as many minutes while exiting the elevator on the eleventh floor of her boyfriend's posh apartment building, rising from the heart of uptown West City. Through the grace of Kami, Izumi's presentation had ended without any inquiries. The vote was close, but favourable and she now had a truckload of paperwork to sort through in order to set things in motion for the first prototype regen-tanks to be produced. She didn't have time for pussyfooting with Yamcha, for fuck's sake! Yet she was unable to turn back and found herself demurely following her feet down the empty hallway, hating the way her heels clicked loudly on the tiles, making her feel oddly vulnerable as if she were going to awaken some slumbering carnivore with the confounded noise.

When she'd reached her destination after what seemed like a very long, yet too short a walk, the woman stared at the closed door for a few seconds, chewing on her bottom lip as she gathered her wits and took a deep breath before knocking forcefully to make her presence known.

"Hello Yamcha." Bulma said politely as her long-term boyfriend appeared in the doorway, but instead of being greeted by the habitual "Hey Babe!" accompanied with a good-natured grin, she was met with a terse "Hi," a set jaw and a scowl. Bulma was slightly taken aback by his hostility, but it was his attire that unsettled her most of all. It was only 6:22 pm, yet he was dressed in an unfastened bathrobe, sporting nothing underneath except a pair of black silk boxers with a little red cartoon character and the words "horny devil" imprinted on them. Bulma frowned apprehensively as she took in the sight of him.

Was it her imagination or did he reek of cheap woman's perfume?

"Can I come in?" She asked testily when he extended no invitation and motioned to enter the apartment without waiting for an answer.

"I've got company. What do you want?" Yamcha said bluntly, blocking her entry with an extended arm.

"Company? Wearing that?" Bulma questioned, a tide of cold trepidation rising inside her. Yamcha was about to respond when a high-pitched voice sounded from the depths of the apartment, sending pins and needles down Bulma's spine and making her hackles stand on end.

"Yamchikins! I'm getting lonely in here!" A female called out in a suggestive, singsong tone that could only belong to Krillin's sluttish, once again ex-girlfriend, Marron.

"Just a minute Babe!" Yamcha shouted over his shoulder into the flat, a tawdry grin fluttering across his face before his frown slipped back in place, his attention returning to the woman in front of him.

"… Well?" He demanded, arching a brow inquisitively as if what had just transpired was the most mundane thing in the world.

Bulma backed away from him as though he'd pointed a loaded gun at her, an expression of utter abhorrence scrawled across her features as the colour leeched from her cheeks. She felt her throat constrict and her eyes stung with impending moisture, the horrible reality of the scene hitting home with all the brutal intensity of an energy beam through the heart. Along with her pain however, uncensored anger unfurled within her, darkening her irises to a deep shade of indigo as her rage overruled her heartache.

"You son of a bitch…!" Bulma screamed lividly, oblivious to the bite of her perfectly manicured nails digging crescent shaped wounds in the palms of her fisted hands.

"… You have two seconds to come up with a show stopping explanation for what's going on here, because Yamcha, I swear to Kami…"

"Don't you fucking dare!" He interjected before she could finish the threat.

"… I warned you, Bulma! I told you if you didn't get rid of that alien trash we were through and you made your choice! If you wanna be mad at someone, maybe you should take a long, hard look in a mirror, `cause you have nobody to blame for this but yourself!" By this point several of Yamcha's neighbours had cracked their doors and some even poked their heads out into the hallway to investigate the racket they were causing. Yamcha noticed this and grated his teeth irately, straining for the control to lower his voice.

"… You might be in the running for frigid bitch of the century, but ~ believe it or not ~ there are plenty of chicks who don't consider it a chore to spend time with me and one of them is in there waiting as we speak…" He gestured into his apartment by shoving a thumb over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off his ashen-faced girlfriend "… so if you're not here to tell me that Vegeta has found alternative housing, then we have nothing more to say to each other!" He ground out, breathing audibly through his nostrils as he finished.

His eyes lingered upon hers for a moment and Bulma thought she saw a flicker of emotion ~ something like regret ~ pass across his countenance, but it vanished too quickly for her to be sure. She stared aghast at the man she had loved since childhood; unable to reconcile the scene before her with everything she thought she knew about him. Yamcha was many things, but she never thought such cold-blooded cruelty would be counted among his attributes. Her gaze hardened, chilling the man to the bone as she glowered at him through pools of azure ice, an impassive façade held firmly in place despite the flurry of wry sorrow and seething rancour that was festering inside her. She pursed her lips in a thin line, fighting back the mist clouding her vision and took a long stride towards Yamcha, placing her within arm's length of him. She pulled back her right hand and landed a forceful slap on his cheek, the blood her nails had drawn from her palm leaving a faint smear of rouge in its wake.

She knew that he could have easily blocked the blow if he'd wanted to, yet he didn't. Perhaps he was being gracious in allowing her an outlet for her anguish, but the likelier explanation ~ in Bulma's mind at least ~ was that he simply wanted to cause her more pain; the injury she'd done to herself clearly outweighing any damage inflicted on him. The sound of her hand connecting with his face hung in the air like a death knell, a harrowing moment frozen in time as the last ember of their love faded and died, leaving behind nothing but cold, grey ash to be scattered in the wind.

He leered at her callously for a second before retreating back into his apartment. He moved with such speed that Bulma could barely discern a blur of movement followed by the door slamming shut in her face, a deafening ring of finality chiming in the harsh echo.

The woman wrapped her battered pride around her like an armoured cloak; painfully aware of the onlookers' eyes boring into her back as she made her lone retreat down the hall toward the elevators. She hardly noticed the droplets that were streaming down her face in seemingly endless succession and found herself welcoming the sting in her hands as it drew attention away from the dull throbbing in the rest of her body. She pounded the lifts' "down" button with a numb forefinger, desperate to escape as quickly as possible.

The gossipmongers were sure to have a field day once news of this juicy little scandal spread, but Bulma couldn't care less as she boarded the elevator after what felt like an infinitely long wait.

_______________________________________________________________ _______

`Hallelujah' by Rufus Wainwright

Next Chapter: Dealing with the break-up blues…

Sorry to those of you that were hoping for some B/V interacting in this one >_< The next chapter will make up for it though, I promise ^_~

Oh and don't forget to review!