Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Girl Next Door ❯ 04 Handsy ( Chapter 5 )

NB: Based on chapter 1, `public indecency' of the “the Girl Next Door” (aka FriendsAU) comic by stupidoomdoodles, and her tweets. Check out her work on twitter or smackjeeves.

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle's idea. I'm just playing in their sandboxes.

Girl Next Door - Handsy

Vegeta was trying to remember why in seven hells he'd agreed to come to, of all places, a nice bar. He didn't do bars, not unless they were of the seedy underbelly kind, and even then it was only to hunt out whatever sad degenerate Frieza had marked to be pummeled for information or money. But here he was, wearing the nicest pull-over he had, sitting at a tall table in the cleanest, swankiest, schmooziest bar he'd ever been a customer of where there were actual waiters in uniforms and a fully stocked bar, chaperoning his pain-in-the-ass next door neighbor as she made herself familiar with every specialty cocktail on the menu. And the worst part was, he wasn't having an awful time.

Shit, how did that happen?

He suspected she had a lot to do with it. Okay, fuck it, she had everything to do with it, because he sure as shit wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for her, and she was also the only reason why he was sticking around. Bulma was wearing a pretty, sexy little slip of a dress that tastefully showed off her figure; her whole outfit screamed classy yet flirty. Very flirty. It had been a shock to see her in it at first, to see her thighs and cleavage and shoulder blades. He'd normally only run into her in the hallways or the laundry when she was wearing something far more casual. There had been that time recently at the coffee shop when she'd worn a dress, dragging him out `to be sociable', but it had been a `girl-next-door' kind of dress. This dress was a whole different ballgame. If Vegeta didn't know any better, he'd say she was dressing up for him.

But he did know better. Women didn't dress up for him. They avoided him; most people did. Only the Frieza gang groupies were brave enough to pay him any attention, and only after learning about who he was would their eyes light up with the hope that Vegeta would be their meal ticket out of mediocrity, a chance for them to sleep their way up the food chain. It was disgusting. And still, they never dressed up for him, never did anything just for him.

And yet here sat Bulma, looking good enough to be with some A-list celebrity on a red carpet, yet she was sitting here, looking beautiful and talking just with him. Vegeta was starting to wonder if she was interested in him in some social experiment kind of way, because what else could it be? He was tempted to ask her, and she'd probably answer with the way she was throwing back drinks, her face growing flushed and her laughter coming easier and louder, her hand on his arm, practically hanging off him when she laughed so hard she nearly fell off her stool.

And despite his better judgment, Vegeta couldn't help preening a little at her attention. Whatever her reasons were for inviting him out, at least for one night he could pretend like he wasn't some psychopathic murdering thug and just enjoy being with her. Inch by begrudge inch he relaxed over the course of the night, and he grew gradually more amused by Bulma's drunken antics, teasing her and enjoying the reactions that he got. She was far too easy, too vulnerable in her current state, and he was having a wicked time getting under her skin.

“What do you mean, you don't have a type,” Bulma said, leaning her cheek on her hand and staring at him with big eyes, focused solely on him and looking amazed by his response to her question.

Vegeta smiled, amused at her reaction. He shrugged. “I've not given it much thought. You?”

Bulma's lips curled into a wide, salacious smile. She leaned in as though to reveal a secret. “Bad boys,” she admitted with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, trong, dark hair, could fuck you up as easily as fuck you…”

Vegeta scoffed. “You?”

Bulma leaned back, miffed. “Yeah me. What, you don't think I can handle them?”

Vegeta sneered. “You can't even handle your drink.”

“I can too,” Bulma sulked.

Vegeta chuckled. Too easy. Before he could think better of it he reached out and swept back her bangs that were falling over her eyes. With those fixed, he touched her face, brushing his thumb over her flushed cheek to prove his point. “The evidence says otherwise, Blue. You're a mess.”

To his surprise, Bulma grew more red, and she stilled under his hand, her eyes going wide. He felt his own pulse quicken in response, beating a more rapid tattoo, making his blood rush in a way that reminded him of the hunt, of chasing down some asshole he was going turn into blood and meat and a quivering pile of regrets… only this time, the rush had nothing to do with violence, and everything to do with her.

And then she leaned into his touch, pushing her face against his palm, and Vegeta forgot how to breathe all together.

“How are we doing for drinks?” a waiter interrupted, and Bulma pulled away. Vegeta curled his fingers on empty air, his teeth clenching tightly. He mentally saved the man's face to his memory so that he might later find him and beat the crap out of him.

As Bulma ordered yet another cocktail, Vegeta folded his arms, his fingers tapping impatiently on his arm. Every minute she wasn't looking at him was a minute he was distracted, a minute he was left to his own thoughts and reminded of where they were, of how out of place he was, of what the fuck was he even doing here. He should leave, he should leave now, this wasn't who he was, where he belonged. He-

“Hey, are you having a good time?” she asked, cutting off his mental diatribe.

The waiter had gone, presumably to fetch her drink. Bulma leaned in and placed her hand on his arm. She looked at him with such hopeful, trusting eyes that Vegeta felt himself start to cave. He sighed and despite himself answered, “Yeah. You?”

“Mm-hm!” she nodded enthusiastically, giving his arm a happy squeeze before letting it go. “This is so much fun!”

“As fun as a human piñata,” Vegeta agreed.

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

“Hmmm… I'm glad you came out with me,” she smiled, looking up at him from under long lashes.

“You didn't give me much of a choice,” he pointed out. “I thought you had other friends, you know, actual friends you could do this shit with?”

“But I wanted to do it with you,” she said, and tried to shove his arm for emphasis, but she missed wildly and nearly fell into his lap. Vegeta caught her - she was so tiny in his hands, weighing nothing, light as a dream dissipating with the first rays of dawn - and settled her back onto her stool. He was beginning to think tall tables and chairs at a bar were a really fucking bad idea.

Bulma laughed, embarrassed. “Whoa, I think I'm maybe drunk.”

“No shit.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while. Bulma smiled coquettishly at him, sinking her face into her palms, supporting her head on her elbows, staring at him wistfully. He gave her a sidelong look, wondering what was going on in that pretty, crafty head of hers, and why she was looking at him like that. It was making him feel all sorts of… feelings. Feelings he wasn't quite equipped to deal with, even if they were pleasant, but he was beginning to think being her social experiment might not be so terrible if it meant spending evenings with her like this, teasing, comfortable.

“Hey~,” she said, her voice soft and deeper than before, her half-lidded eyes sucking him in. “Wanna know exactly how I feel about you?”

Vegeta felt a devilish curiosity overcome him, and he leaned in, smirking, intrigued as to where this conversation was suddenly going. “Well, you're crazy drunk right now, so I am curious what insane shit you'll come up with.” He was ready to hear her spout some embarrassing flattery that he could later mercilessly torment her with.

Instead, Bulma reached out and boldly took his hand in both of hers, holding it up, her fingers wrapping around his palm. She gave it a little wriggle as if to say, `hey, look, we're holding hands'. “Uuuh…” he said, a little disappointed. “Ok, not what I expected? Are we in 4th grade?”

She gave him a sly look. Then with a wicked grin, she shoved his hand down, down down under the table, under the short hemline of her dress, and- oh dear god she's not wearing panties…!

“Holy shit…”

“S'that PG-18 enough for you?” she crooned even as his fingers touched something incredibly soft, warm, and wet.

“Holy shit!”

“You could be more eloquent when you meet a Pady's party box for the very first time,” she purred, teasing him.

She was teasing him? How the fuck did that happen? She moved his hand, and he felt his finger slip inside her. Vegeta's eyes widened further. “Holy shit!”

She snickered. “Here, try this: `Hey is it humid in here or are you just happy to see me?'”

“HOLY SHIT, BULMA!”

“Oh, it's not `Blue' now?” she asked wickedly. “I guess all it took was a little finger fiddadling to get to a first name basis, huh?”

“For the lady,” the waiter said, placing a cocktail down on the table between them. Vegeta yanked his hand back, his face bright red, his fingers slick, and he, speechless.

Bulma burst into laughter as the waiter left. Vegeta's mind was reeling, struggling to catch up to what had just happened, to make sense of it all. He glanced at her, at his hand, around them to see if anyone stared, then back at her again. She was staring at him, flushed and sultry and amused.

I just had my hand in her, he thought, his neural pathways slowly starting to fire up and make the connections. I just had my hand in her.

Holy shit… She actually likes me.

He had no control over the smile that started to split his face. Bulma smirked back at him. “Wanna leave this place?” she suggested.

“Fuck yes,” Vegeta said, jumping up. “I'll find the fucking waiter.” Bulma just smirked at him and sipped her drink. Vegeta hurried off to make someone give them a bill so they could pay an leave and - and what? Was he actually going to sleep with her?

Why the fuck wouldn't I?

She's drunk.

She stuck your fucking hand in her cooch.

She's out of your league.

She's been hot for you from the very beginning, you halfwit.

You could fuck up whatever you have going with her.

Dude, she's wet and ready for you, holy fuck, stop talking to yourself and go- “I NEED THE BILL!” he said desperately, grabbing the shirt of the first waiter that passed him.

He returned to their table a few minutes later, Bulma sitting there with a faint frown on her face, her 8th (according to the bill) cocktail half drunk next to her. “Got it,” he announced, holding up the check.

She didn't respond. Vegeta put the bill down and touched her shoulder, looking at her quizzically. “Bulma?”

Bulma looked at him. Her face drained of color, paling, and her eyes widened in horror.

She threw up, all over his top, and then slumped forward.

Vegeta just stood there, in the middle of the bar, with vomit down his front, a tab that he had to pay, and an unconscious drunk in his grip.

Good to see the universe had righted itself and started fucking him over once again.

He should leave. He should just fucking leave her. This is why he didn't go outside except to murder people. Goddamnit, why had he ever agreed to this, why did she have this power to make him do the exact opposite of what his gut told him to do?

Vegeta looked at her, slumped in his hands, pathetic and small and vulnerable. She'd be eaten up in a heartbeat the moment he left her, drunk and passed out in a room full of well-dressed sharks. Vegeta felt a ripple of agitation run through him, and with a silent snarl he set her gently against the table. He pulled out his wallet and dumped whatever he had on the table, hoping the tip would be enough to cover the mess, as he didn't need anyone chasing him down for a cleaning bill. He then hefted Bulma over his shoulder and carried her out, ignoring the stares and whispers of the other patrons. He had to do a lot of fast talking to convince a cab driver to let them in since no one wanted to clean up after a drunk, but he finally did and thank fuck she didn't throw up again on the way home. He carried her sorry ass up to her apartment, dug her key out from her purse, and let them into her place. He dropped her carelessly onto her bed and then helped himself to her bathroom to clean up the worst of the mess on his top.

He looked at himself in the mirror, surrounded by beauty products on the bathroom sink, using a pink fuzzy towel to wipe down his front, and wondered what he'd done wrong in his life to have every good moment ruined. Perhaps it was all the people he'd brutally killed..?

He dumped the soiled towel in her sink and walked out. Bulma was still passed out on her bed. She was breathing, that was a good sign, but it occurred to him she hadn't woken since being sick at the bar. Fuck, that wasn't good… he should probably make sure she wasn't going to die during the night.

He sat on the edge of the bed and shook her arm. “Hey, Blue.”

She didn't respond.

Vegeta frowned and shook her again, more firmly. When that didn't work he lightly tapped her cheek a few times. “Bulma. Hey, dumbass, wake up.” Bulma groaned. Good sign. “Are you okay?”

She groaned again. “Krillin?”

Vegeta scowled, something ugly twisting in his gut. What, or who the fuck was Krillin?

Thinning his lips, Vegeta stood up and left the apartment. He locked her door behind him and went back to his own place to take a shower and try to scour away the memory of the whole frustrating night.

The following morning there was a light rapping on his door. He opened it, resting one arm on the door jam as he glared down at the pathetic creature that graced his doorway. Bulma looked incredibly hung-over and shamefaced. She glanced at him with remorseful eyes. “Hey~.”

“Hey.”

She rubbed her arm nervously. “I uh… I don't remember much about last night. Um… I assume I have you to thank for getting me home?”

Vegeta just stared at her, giving her nothing, keeping his face neutral. “…You're gonna have a cab fare on your card,” he informed her impassively.

Bulma nodded. “Of course, thanks for letting me know. I probably owe you for drinks, too?”

“Yep,” Vegeta said, and started to close the door.

Bulma reached out, putting a hand on the door to stop it. “Vegeta, hey, I'm really sorry I made you take care of my sorry ass last night, and whatever I did, I can make up for it. How about I start by buying you dinner tonight?”

Vegeta looked to the counter where his phone rested, a message from Raditz about tonight's hit still on display. Nonchalantly he replied, “Can't. Got a date.”

Bulma blinked at him, not reacting. “…. You have a date,” she repeated, her voice flat.

Vegeta frowned, feeling uncomfortable under her frank look. “Uh… yes?”

Bulma still didn't react. “Oookay, yeah, totally. Well, good luck, buddy. Um, maybe another time then?”

Fuck this smug bitch. Okay, just shut the door, say something noncommittal and shut the door and don't make eye contact, don't look at- Vegeta looked at her, meeting her blue, blue eyes that stood out like gems against her pallid, tired face. She was staring at him so frankly, seeing right through him and he sweated more than when Frieza grilled him over a botched operation. “…Yeah, sure,” he finally agreed, looking away from her to break her spell.

God fucking damn her.

Bulma smirked and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Okay, cool. Great! I can't wait to hear about your date. I'm gonna go home now and maybe throw up.”

“Again?” he asked.

Bulma stopped dead, looking appalled. “Oh no… I didn't.”

“You did,” he informed her bluntly, smirking when he saw he'd regained the upper-hand in their verbal tug-of-war. “All down my only nice shirt in fact.”

Bulma winced. “Oh my god, I'll… I'll buy you a new shirt.” She put a hand over her face, cringing. “Fuck, I'm the worst drunk ever.”

She looked so pathetic, Vegeta couldn't help but smile wider. “Pretty much.”

Bulma pulled her hand away and gave him a rueful look. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, and nudged him with her elbow. “But hey, I was worthy of your good shirt, huh?”

“So I thought, but you proved me wrong,” he drawled, and he stepped back and slammed the door on her. He waited until he heard her huff and stomp off before laughing. Teasing her was far too entertaining. He headed to the bathroom but stopped short when he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was smiling and looking… happy.

It was unnatural, and terrifying.

Vegeta took a furious shower, scrubbing away an unclean feeling that soap just wouldn't abate. He was looking forward to tonight, he'd need a good slaughter to put himself right, and put her out of his head.

~~ox0xo~~

AN: So I couldn't resist writing more, especially after Dooms so kindly answered some questions about this scene for me, lol. There's something about a more `realistic' Vegeta and Bulma relationship that I just adore. I also like to imagine that Vegeta is just a little neurotic. Or a lot, maybe.

And yeah, I'll probably end up writing other snippets here or there.

Thanks for reading! ^_^ ~LadyVegeets