Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Fixation ❯ Chapter Nine ( Chapter 9 )

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

 

Fixation

Chapter Nine

 

The wet, smooth clay was supple beneath his palms as it spun on the wheel, the fine, white earthenware slipping between his fingers and under his nails. With rhythmic consistency he pumped the petal, every fiber in his being focused on the curves and dips of the urn he was creating. He wetted the clay with water from the basin, splattering his bare chest and clean-shaven cheeks as he leaned closer.

It was dark in his workroom. The tall lamp behind him and the television in the corner were the only illuminations. In the next room his kiln clicked as it slowly heated. There wasn't enough ventilation in the basement, and the cement walls bleed with humidity as the temperature rose. Sweat dripped off his bare chest, mixing with his clay. He smiled with straight, even teeth, pleased to become part of his creation.

On the wall next to him photographs smiled. Strands of honey hair, eyes hidden beneath dark sunglasses. She was beautiful. A work of art.

The familiar strains of the lead-in music to E-Star filtered from the television, and with keen dexterity he snatched up a goop-smeared remote with one hand while keeping his creation centered, eager to see if his new best girl would be flashing him any clandestine smiles as she flirted with him through the paparazzi.

“I'm here to dish the dirt as rumors abound about the sudden appearance of Bulma Briefs in the media. Reported by her family to be on extend holiday, even as hearsay said she was the latest victim of the serial killer, Sincerely Yours, the scandal revolving around the high society debutant has been controversial to say the least. With us now is our onsite journalist Kristy Kasey with the startling revelation that Ms. Briefs may be alive and well, and living the high life in her posh compound at Capsule Corporation.”

“Thank you, Snookie. With me I have forensic specialist Dr. Kyle Lemmers, an expert with facial recognition software. As you know a photograph was released to the press showing a woman with black hair standing on the back lawn of the Capsule Corporation property. Speculation abounds as to whether the woman was Bulma Briefs in disguise. Dr. Lemmers will now show us why he believes that the mysterious woman is indeed Ms. Briefs.”

The soft, barely formed vase collapsed beneath his hands as he stood up to see the television clearly. Two photos flashed on the screen. One was of Bulma Briefs smiling brightly at the camera, her blue hair tousled around her face. He felt immediate arousal as he stared at the picture. The photograph captured the first moment they shared together. He knew the instant he laid eyes on it that she was smiling just for him. Her sparkling eyes sending him a plea to liberate her from her dull prison of monotony so they could be together forever. It had taken him months of careful watching to devise a plan to save her from the dragons that plagued her daily life. And eventually he had, and she had been so grateful. He stared into her eyes as she was strapped beneath him, and saw love and admiration deep in her soul. After he saved her, and loved her, they had parted ways. It had to be a mistake. His lover could not be alive. He would know if she was alive, he would feel it in his bones.

The second photo was of a woman at a distance. Her black hair was glossy in the bright sunshine, and her pale features were sharp with wear. Next to her stood Yamcha Bandit, the heiress' long time boyfriend and captor. The monster he had striven so hard to free her from. There was a second man who stood apart from them, bare-chested, he was staring into the camera, a scowl plastered on his handsome features. He had no idea who the man was, but he knew for certain the dark-haired woman could not possibly be his Bulma. His love would never desecrate her beautiful blue tresses in such a hideous fashion.

Lines and dots dissected the photos, and he tuned back in to hear the doctor speak.

“As you can see the brow ridge and nose bones are exactly the same, as well as the high cheek bones. There is a ninety-five percent match in facial structure. I have no doubt that the woman in the photo is Bulma Briefs.”

On screen a detective from West City Police apologized for the misunderstanding, and did confirm that Bulma Briefs was not the victim of a homicide.

In silent rage the man tore from his work room, stomping up the stairs and into his elegant loft. He disregarded his normal fastidiousness, usually disliking having to clean up drops of clay from his Asian bamboo floor. He crossed to the living room, skirting the expensive black, art deco couch to his most prized painting opposite the window overlooking an outstanding view of the bay.

He took down the floral Monet, and set it aside. With his fingertips, he felt for the nearly imperceptible divots in the honey-blonde, wood paneling. Once settled, a fingerprint scanner verified his ID, and a secret door slid open. Inside was a small, well-lit room with floating shelving. On the shelves were urns of all different colors and sizes. Each one was special, made with a one-of-kind mixture of clay, bone and blood. In the center was his prize.

His newest piece, an azure urn with delicate rounded curves and a slender neck, was crumpled in on itself, as if something fundamentally important had been stripped from the composition. Thin lips pulled back from sharp, white teeth, as the man slammed his fist down on the shelf, sending the entire unit crashing to the floor.

Spinning on his heel, he rushed down to his workroom. Frothing, he scrapped the photos of his newest love from the wall, crushing them in his fists before dropping them to the floor. It was time for him to start over again. Time to reclaim what was his.

 

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Vegeta watched the shadows deepen on the ceiling. It seemed to him, that he spent an inordinate amount of his life flat on his back, usually bloody and beaten, while trying his damdest to ignore reality. Previously that reality had been servitude, something he denied every time he announced himself as Prince with a strident, unforgiving voice. Can't be a slave and a prince. Can't be alive and dead.

Presently, the reality he was trying to ignore was the flighty, insubstantial fluff of a girl in the next room who couldn't even stand up to her own shadow, yet had somehow managed to muscle herself into his life. The only explanation he could find for her intrusion was his own base weakness. The overwhelming pall of loneliness that had descended upon him since being resurrected was slowly eating him away into nothingness. Though he had complained of it bitterly in the past, thinking solitude could somehow repress the restlessness of his mind, he had in fact never been alone until now.

Radditz, loud, rude and chronically obnoxious had been his only boyhood companion. A few years his senior, the boy had passed on his knowledge to the young prince of drinking games, crass jokes and how to get a woman. In later years, the more precious knowledge of what to do with a woman once gained was imparted by the roguish man to the prince. Not that Vegeta had use of that knowledge often, but it was valuable to have.

Now Radditz was dead, and Vegeta would never growl at the man to shut up after one of his hideously distasteful jokes while inwardly smirking. At times, when it was the darkest, Vegeta wondered if the man had purposely been crass to keep his Prince from descending completely into the depths of unfeeling stoicism.

Then there was Nappa. Big, strong and not as dumb as he looked, he was the closest thing Vegeta had to a father. The man had raised him, protected him the best he could, and taught him life lessons. Lessons like, it was better to die proud than live weak, and that family was worth more than dying for, it was worth living in shame for.

Vegeta hadn't wanted to kill him, but he owed Nappa a debt that only he could pay. For Saiyans sins like murder, fornication and theft didn't exist. Those were secular vices, meant to be dealt within the secular world. For Saiyans there was only one sin--to die outside of battle. To do so meant you failed to provide protection, substance or honor to your family. As such, you were condemned to be without those things you failed to provide, left to battle for eternity on the desert plains of Ashcoth, constantly hungry and forever shamed, while those who died with honor feasted with friends and family in the Great Hall of the Moon God Nutri.

Nappa had been dying. An alien disease contracted from one of the multitudes they were forced into contact with daily. It wasn't until the battle with Kakarot that Vegeta realized how devolved Nappa had become. His boughts of rage and mistakes on the battlefield had been uncharacteristic. Vegeta knew the sickness had spread into his mentor's ki, and allowing him to live so irreparably crippled only served to diminish his honor, something that was unacceptable to them both.

At first the magnitude of being the last true Saiyan left hadn't resonated with Vegeta. He strove towards his goal of vengeance with single-mindedness. It wasn't until he was on Namek, relying on those who hated him to defeat Frieza did he realize how utterly alone he was. How useless his very existence was. The weight of a life without someone to call friend or ally crushed him, and in desperation he pursued Frieza with suicidal viciousness knowing the tyrant would eventually end him.

And end him he did.

Sometimes Vegeta could still taste the mead on his tongue from the Great Feast. One moment he was there, laughing with Nappa and Radditz, then the next, he was awake here on this jumbled mess of humanity, staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He'd known the instant he looked into her bright blue eyes that he wasn't in the Hall anymore, because there was no way she could be Saiyan, his luck, karma, destiny, whatever you wanted to call it would never be that good. And because she wasn't Saiyan his already tarnished honor dimmed just a little bit more. His attraction to her made this life sentence of flesh and blood hurt all the more, until it felt like his own body was crushing him.

Since Frieza beat the life out of him, Vegeta felt nothing. The world was colorless and dull. He could barely rouse the energy he needed to train. He often found himself standing in the middle of the gravity room, lost in his own thoughts, wondering if he came back wrong. Broken. Shattered. Irreparable. Was it possible to be alive on the outside, and dead on the inside?

What he would give to take that last step into oblivion. There was only being in the universe who could give him an honorable death, but Kakarot's damnable human morality kept him from fulfilling his Saiyan duty. Vegeta knew Kakarot would only kill him if he became an unavoidable threat to his precious adopted world, and the only way to do that was to become stronger.

In that way the deadness inside aided him. It allowed him to push past the pain, to disregard the ache of solitude, but it didn't help him to ignore Bulma. In fact, the fission of excitement he felt in her presence only served to intensify his attraction to her. She made him feel alive, even though she was half-dead herself.

When he kissed her, it electrified something inside him, reanimating a vitality he had been missing for a long time. Perhaps even before Frieza had murdered him. It made him thirst for something more. To be better. To beat Kakarot. Not just become a threat to him, but to defeat him, and show her that he was the better man in a fight. To show himself that he wasn't broken.

Then he had to go and ruin it. He had practically thrown himself on her. A woman whom been terrorized, tortured and murdered by a man whose face she had to block out of her memory just to survive. He was surprised she hadn't fallen into a catatonic state beneath him. He knew he was a terrifying man, and no matter how many times she swore that she felt safe in his presence, he knew that she must fear him. He had no right to take something from another person to make himself feel more alive. He was a prince not a monster.

An explosion, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire rattled in the living room. Vegeta sighed and rubbed his palm over his face. He was sentenced to another sleepless night as a marathon of car bombs and shoot-outs ran on one of the all night movie channels. Though Bulma had started bathing on a regular basis and primping (something he definitely noticed) she still hadn't conquered her insomnia. Which mean he hadn't either.

Deciding that laying in bed was pointless, he swept the sheets aside. He shrugged on a dark blue button down shirt, and shook out his black shorts. He was feeling too sullen to button up his shirt before venturing out into the living room, figuring the woman would be too engrossed in her movies to care. The room was plunged in darkness, except for the ghostly glow of the television. He plodded across the room, and plopped down on the plush couch, his head cradled in one hand as he propped his elbow on the armrest, his other arm over the back. From the corner of his eye he watched the woman watch him. She was wearing a white spaghetti strap top that glowed in the dark and shorts. In her lap she had a large bowl of popcorn. Silently, she offered him the bowl, but he ignored it as a building collapsed on T.V.

They sat in silence, until the volume of their unspoken words were deafening. Not a word had been exchanged between them since the kiss, and Vegeta knew that not for the first time in his life he had made a mistake. He hadn't meant to advance on her. He hadn't even meant to get near her. To want her. To taste her. And he certainly never meant to scare her. There were many things in his life he had done that most would consider to be evil, but he had never regretted anything until now. He knew she was broken. She was practically incapable of existing on her own, much less make rational decisions. And according to human morality there was a very special hell for people who took advantage of those who were mentally handicapped.

“Vegeta?”

“Hn?”

Vegeta glanced at her sideways from beneath the veil of his lashes, surprised that she could even find the voice to speak. He assumed after the way he attacked her, the only way she would find the courage to speak to him again was to throw him out. She had set aside her bowl of popcorn and was toying with the hem of her tank top. The silence descended between them and Vegeta waited for the recriminations his hackles rising.

She moved faster than he would have given her credit for. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his thighs. His hands shot out to grip her hips, but she stopped him with light fingers on his wrists. He allowed her to pin his hands to the couch her insignificant weight settled delicately on his lap.

Too startled and far too uncomfortable to look her in the eye, he watched as she caressed her way down his forearm, before sliding her fingers between his. Her fingers were long and white, supremely delicate compared to his dark, blunted ones. Their hands didn't look like they should fit together, but they did, and that made something light and feathery shimmer in his chest.

“I really enjoyed our kiss, and I was hoping we might do it again.”

Her words had his undivided attention. He tilted his strong jaw so he could look her in the eye. He pinned her with penetrating scrutiny, turning the tables, until she was the one to look away.

“No hands?”

The corners of her mouth flipped up into a pained smile, as she watched her fingers slide up and down his forearms. He couldn't stop his muscles from tensing and relaxing beneath her touch. It was as though his body had its own mind when it came to her touch. He wanted to bask in it.

“Hands make me nervous.”

He wondered at what game she was playing at. She had been so incredibly timid up until this point. Granted in the last few weeks she had come out of her shell, going from practically being a deaf mute, to a motor-mouth who wouldn't shut up. Only with him. She only spoke with him. The look on her face when her boyfriend approached her had been one of abject terror. Was this just therapy for her?

“Where I'm from the male takes the lead.”

“A real man has the discipline to let a woman be in control.”

His heart sank a little, and he wondered why he cared.

“Control?” he asked neutrally.

“Just a little.”

“It's not me whom you want control from.”

She shrank back at the harsh snap in his words, and he instantly felt contrite. Her hand left his forearm, and his muscles twitched in agony. She ran her fingers through her short hair, playing with the curls before settling on the back of her neck. She still wasn't looking at him, and he missed the impact of her blue eyes on him.

“It's a start.”

“I'm not one of your experiments.” He could feel the anger building like a pressure bomb inside his chest. His flesh squeezed him, and he had to to inhale deeply to equalize himself.

Her shoulders stiff, she folded her hands in the vee of her legs, almost completely withdrawn from him. Her full lower lip tugged down into a pout that made him hungry.

“I used to be confident. A woman who knew her place in the world, and was happy in her skin. Men were drawn like moths to me, and I gleefully swatted them away or drew them closer without a hint of fear. Now….now the thought of someone touching me. Someone holding me down. I-can't—it makes it hard to breathe.”

He couldn't look at her--couldn't see the crumpled expression on her face. He watched his fingers flex into the soft cushion of the couch.

“Contrary to belief, I am someone, not a boogeyman. And you're touching me.” He made it sound like doing so was to commit sin. He scowled, forcing his lips together so not to let any more stupid words fall out.

“I know you are person with feelings—“

“I didn't—“ he growled.

She stopped his denial with a hand on his chest. The coolness of her touch seeped through him.

“I didn't mean to imply you shouldn't feel, nor did I mean to use you. It's just with you, I don't feel the mind-choking terror I usually do.”

“You did earlier.”

“I did. But that wasn't about you.”

“It never is.” His words were bitter. He was bitter. She removed her hand, and the silence between them returned with a deafening roar. A silence that even the clatter of the television couldn't drown out.

“So you don't want to kiss me?” Her sad words were almost too soft to be heard over the explosions. Another building collapsed behind her, and he felt all his anger fall with it into his stomach and dissipate like insubstantial mist. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to her. His eyes were hooded, and he knew that he looked bored. He was anything but. There was an animal prowling just beneath his skin, and it wanted to taste Bulma again.

“Just kissing?”

His voice was bedroom sexy and he was reward with a flicker of blue eyes. She fidgeted in his lap, and he was thankful she was settle more by his knees than up by his crotch.

“Just a little.” She flashed him a look of flirtatious defiance that nearly stunned him. For a moment he knew, deep in his bones he was seeing a hint of the woman she had been before. “Why, haven't you the discipline?”

His eyes narrowed, and the animal howled at her challenge.

“I have the discipline, little female, just haven't the honor to spare.”

Her hands that had been so primly folded in her lap began to toy with the labels of his shirt. She was bunching up the material in her hands, pulling it tight across his shoulders, and widening the gap across his abdomen. He paused to watch her for a moment, before gifting her with a wicked smirk.

“What does that mean?”

“You aren't Saiyan.”

She scooted a little closer.

“So?”

She abandoned his shirt and instead poured her restless energy into tracing the lines and divots of his muscles across his stomach and chest. His head was still tilted back, and he could feel his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Her palms were refreshingly cool next to his hot skin.

“So, I shouldn't do this with you.”

Her hands paused and he clenched his teeth to stop the curse word that twitched on the tip of his tongue.

“Have you never?”

His head snapped forward as he looked her in the eyes, affronted.

“Of course I have!”

“But there haven't been female Saiyans in a while.”

He said nothing as she tilted her head inquisitively.

“So what you're saying is that you shouldn't do this with me.”

Her hands withdrew, and he felt the familiar anger build up in his chest again. He should feel relief that he felt something, anything, but all he felt was pissed that she wasn't touching him.

“Yes,” he spat.

“Aren't I pretty enough.” Her lower lip was pouting again, and he really wanted to get his teeth on it.

“Don't fish, you know what the problem is.”

She looked at him and he nearly drowned in her liquid blue eyes.

“What?”

He looked away, focusing on an unseen spot in the dark.

“You're broken.”

She shifted, and she became precariously close to finding out that it neither mattered that she wasn't Saiyan or undamaged.

“I'm getting better. Help me to get better, Vegeta.”

He shot her a look so fast, he nearly made himself dizzy. He knew he must be staring at her with open-mouth astonishment, but he couldn't help himself. No one had ever asked him for help before. Not real, fundamental help. Not only that, but her plea normally would have disgusted him, instead what he felt was a gut-wrenching need to do anything to take away the self-hate in her voice. As he drowned in the sadness in her eyes, he knew it wasn't just some fluke response to her tone, but it was her. It was everything about her. His throat was dry, and he could barely swallow.

“It's wrong.” Vegeta was absolutely sure those were the hardest words he ever had to say.

She crinkled her nose.

“I never thought to hear those words from your mouth.”

He winged a brow.

“Why? Because I'm a killer?”

She shifted uncomfortably on his lap.

“Well, yes.”

“I do have standards. Wasn't that what you were trying to point out earlier today?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

She was toying with the ends of his shirt again, and her mouth was twitching like she wanted to say something else, but didn't dare.

“But?” he prompted.

“But, I want very much to kiss you.”

“What about all that nonsense about me being a good man?” He wanted to smack himself across the face, but he couldn't stop. He had to make absolutely certain she knew what she was getting into.

She cuddled a little closer, sensing victory. Her fingers were dancing across his abdomen and he wanted to arch himself just a little closer.

“You are good, but you are a whole lot bad too. I swear, Vegeta, you aren't taking advantage of me. It's just a little kissing.”

He stared at her hard. She dipped her hands beneath his shirt to caress his chest and shoulders, her fingernails scraping over the puckered wound that only he could see. She was so soft, so gentle, and he thrived beneath her touch. She leaned closer, her lips hovering over his. She looked into his eyes without fear. He clamped his hands over the back of the couch, and brushed his lips over hers.

“Just a little kissing,” he swore.