Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Girl Next Door ❯ 05 Date ( Chapter 6 )

NB: Based on chapter 1, `Blood & Friendship' (and to a lesser extent, `tough guy' and `first fight') of the “Girl Next Door” (aka FriendsAU) comic by stupidoomdoodles. 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 - Date

Everything was fucked, as usual. Par for the fucking course.

Someone had mightily, MIGHTILY fucked up with the reconnaissance work, leaving Vegeta to, once a-fucking-gain, suffer the consequences.

And it had all started off so promisingly. A simple hit, that's all it was supposed to be, some small time crook thinking he could go behind Frieza's back and drum up business was about to learn the hard way that it was definitely not okay to do that, but it would only be a brief lesson learned because then he would be dead.

Vegeta liked dead. Dead was final, unwavering, indisputable, and perhaps even a little enviable. And boy was he good at dishing it out. Death was routine for him, and he needed a little normalcy in his life after what had been happening lately at his apartment building.

I was worthy of your good shirt, huh?

Fuck her and her know-it-all smile and come-hither eyes and… Damnit, get it together, Vegeta, mind on the fucking job. He grit his teeth and wrapped his hand tighter around the piece in his jacket, the hard steel comforting and anchoring him back to the present. Vegeta should have known then that the whole mission was doomed when he couldn't even keep his focus on work. He'd always been a single minded, unfaltering killing machine, nothing rattled him, few could best him when it came to completing a job, no bullshit attached, emotionless and resolute in his missions. Only tonight he was anything but those things, his mind awhirl with blue eyes and hair, and a memory of his fingers going to some pretty fantastic places…

Okay, this was fucking ridiculous. Focus, you dumb shit. Go in, shoot the fucker, get out, go home, whack off because that's clearly the only thing you can think about right no-

She wanted to buy you dinner. You should take her up on that. It'll probably lead somewhere more promising than a lonely jerk off in the shower.

Vegeta came to a stop in his march, turned to the nearest brick wall, and proceeded to hit his brow against it until the only thing he could think about was how much his head hurt and, “What the fuck are you lookin' at?” he snarked to someone eyeballing him warily.

The stranger scuttled off, and Vegeta huffed against the wall, shoulders hunched. This wasn't okay. Whatever this was, it was definitely not okay, he wasn't okay. Not that he really ever had been, but this was especially more not okay than usual.

Vegeta checked his watch. It was almost time, he had to fucking move. Luckily the place was nearby, which is why he'd chosen to walk there in the first place.

Once he got inside the building he switched to stealth mode, and his focus slipped back into place like a comfortable sweater. This was life or death now, no time for doubt or distractions, distractions could be deadly, almost as deadly as misinformation.

Occupancy: 1. 10pm. A photo and address had also been given.

Vegeta crept up to the door and crouched down, listening. There was the hum of voices, the TV, and nothing else. He didn't dare linger in the hallway longer than necessary lest someone come past, and he stood, standing as casually as he could while he slipped a pick into the lock and gently eased the tumblers.

A moment later it gave. Vegeta snuck the gun from his pocket, slipped the safety off, and after exhaling, swung the door open, weapon raised.

Right at 4 startled men sitting on a couch watching TV.

Vegeta froze. They froze. For half a second, no one moved.

Okay, fuck, tell them not to move and-

“ICE HIM!” One of the men screamed, and they all lunged from the sofa, reaching for various places and suddenly the apartment was filled with a lot of fucking guns.

“Fuck!” Vegeta swore. He aimed for the fuck-face who matched the photo he'd been sent and shot that asshole right through the heart. Mission fucking accomplished. Only now he was diving behind the nearest piece of furniture as one of the hit's dumb-pieces-of-shit friends started unloaded a clip right at him. When a second weapon started firing and a bullet whizzed through his cover, Vegeta knew he was in serious trouble.

I'll fucking kill whoever set this up, he thought to himself, pushing aside the fact that he'd actually have to, you know, get out of this mess before he could kill anyone else. Kill these assholes now, so you can kill other assholes later.

Vegeta held up his weapon, steeling himself for the right moment to return fire, ignoring his side which was burning in agony after having landed on it badly or something. It was then Vegeta realized he only had the one magazine clip. Against four-now-three heavily armed men.

That made him quite mad. And Vegeta wasn't someone you wanted to fuck with when he was quite mad.

He roared, furious that this simple mission had degenerated so quickly, and he put everything he had as he slammed into the armchair he was sheltered behind, tossing it across the room at the men shooting him. It startled them, hitting one, while another dodged to the side. Vegeta shot that one and the man went down. Then Vegeta shot the other man trying to crawl out from under the armchair.

Okay, three down. Where was number four? Fuck, he'd lost sight of number fucking four.

Something moved and he turned to see number four run like a little fucking coward out the front door. Vegeta took two steps after him before his knees buckled and gave out. He collapsed to the floor with an alarmed grunt and brought a hand to his left side.

His hand came away wet. Vegeta looked at it in confusion, blinking a few times. He looked at his side and saw that it was soaked red, a suspicious bullet shaped hole in his hoodie.

“… Shit.”

Aware of it now, the pain from the gunshot wound became incredible, the shock wearing off and giving way to searing agony. Vegeta mustered up every bit of energy and shattered pride he had and STOOD THE FUCK UP.

The pain almost brought him back to his knees. He staggered and crashed into the wall by the front door, grateful for the support. There was a potted plant by the door that he kicked out into the hallway, but there were no shots fired in response. Figuring what the fuck, he peered around to door, but the fourth guy wasn't waiting in ambush, the hallway empty, any neighbors who'd heard the shoot out were smartly staying locked inside their rooms. The fourth man had probably fled the scene, something Vegeta needed to do before the police came, since someone in the building had probably called 911 by now. Hell, in this neighborhood, it was probably on everyone's speed dial.

Not wanting to risk a run in on the stairs, Vegeta stumbled towards the fire escape and somehow convinced his body to crawl out the window. He fumbled his way down the shaky escape until he reached the final landing. He raised his leg to kick the last ladder free but his foot slid off the wet metal and he lost his balance, falling.

He landed onto the pavement with a hard smack, the air knocked out of him, the pain crushing, like a tidal wave smacking full force into his body. His gunshot wound sliced hot daggers of pain through his nerves and for a moment he lost vision, and he thought he was going to black out.

But he wasn't that lucky. Vegeta lay in the alley and looked up at the sliver of night sky between apartment buildings and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Not just tonight, but his whole fucking life in general. He could feel his life literally slipping out of him, his blood shockingly warm against his cooling body where it pumped out of him, down his side and soaking his clothing. He couldn't believe this was how it was going to end, that he, Vegeta, was going to die in an alley like some dumb fucking rookie because someone didn't know the difference between one occupancy and fucking four, and that one of those punks had got in a lucky fucking shot.

It was kind of poetic, in a warped kind of way, and really, what other ways did he know? His whole life had been one big joke, so why not his death too? Had he really expected he'd die differently than any other goon? Had he really hoped for something more glorious or meaningful? No, not for him, never for him, because life was out to constantly fuck him over and strip away his pride at every chance it got. He'd be lucky if his death even made a passing comment in the local news, assuming one of Frieza's men didn't clean up the mess first, and then he really would just disappear from the world as if he'd never existed in it in the first place.

Had he? Existed? Had he really made any kind of impact on the world? He'd killed people, sure, a lot of people. But did that count? Did any of them even count, or were they all as useless and meaningless as himself, just a cycle of shit stains killing off shit stains in some never ending power struggle that only the people at the top ever benefitted from, while all the little peons below scurried around and died for them and no one fucking cared.

The sound of sirens in the distance crept into his awareness. Well, so much for a cover up; a passing comment in the news it was to be, then. Good. That would be mildly inconveniencing for Frieza. Ha ha ha, take that you lipstick wearing freak. I hope the news of my death gives you indigestion with your morning cup of fucking coffee. Vegeta laughed weakly while inwardly a part of him wept.

… Would she see it? She popped into his mind from out of fucking nowhere, but he was starting to get used to that. Did she even watch the news? Would she be surprised at his death? Would she cry? He kind of thought she would, she seemed the type. He supposed that might be kind of nice, that someone might actually cry over him if he left this shit stain of a life. That was more than what most people in his line of work got, more than what most of them could hope for. Huh, weird, he actually wanted her cry for him, as if that would somehow validate himself, to be missed by her. Well, turns out dying taught you a lot about yourself. Isn't that fucking magical? …Would she come to his funeral? Fuck, that would be bad, that would put her on some unfriendly radars, might raise some unpleasant questions he wouldn't be around to explain…

Fuck.

He didn't have a cell phone, couldn't afford being found with one if, well, if something like this exact situation happened. No ID, no phones, no names. Which meant he couldn't call for help, not that it would make a difference since his crew were busy with their own work tonight and would be equally unreachable, and he couldn't go to the hospital with a bullet wound and a recently fired gun in his pocket, not that any of that mattered because it was all beside the point, the point being he only wished for a phone now so that he might call her and tell her not to come to his funeral. Boy, wouldn't that be a fun conversation? He could almost see her face reacting to his words; she'd be confused, then upset, then angry, the emotions written clearly on her face because she wasn't very good at hiding them, and he'd laugh at her indignation and reach out for her cheek and…

Wow, this death thing was taking an awfully long time, wasn't it? Vegeta touched his side. Ouch. Okay, still very much alive, and in pain. He could still hear the sirens in the distance, but they were getting closer. Time was running out, and if he didn't die soon that meant he'd get picked up by the `good guys', and the ensuing fallout from that would make him wish he'd finished the job the shit stain who shot him couldn't do.

So what are you going to do, dumb ass?

With a heavy, pained sigh, Vegeta somehow found the strength to roll over and drag his sorry ass up onto his hands and knees, and then to his feet. That he could even get up and walk at all was kind of embarrassing actually, considering moments before he'd given up, figuring himself out for the count, but apparently he had some fight left him in yet. Best not mention this to anyone, he had a reputation to uphold. He started stumbling in a familiar direction. If he was going to die, it was going to be on his terms.

It wasn't a long walk back to the apartment, at least, not for a man who wasn't shot in the gut. For a man who was, it was brutal, especially when he had to use the back streets to keep from gaining any unwanted attention, stumbling over garbage bags and shying from human activity. Finally his feet dragged his miserable ass up the stairs of his apartment building, past his own doorway, over to hers.

He knocked on her door pitifully, wondering what he was going to say, but he was saved the trouble because she didn't answer.

Of course, she wasn't home. Why would she be? Why would life give him something now? It was going to be Life's final Fuck You. Thanks for trying. Better luck next time.

He slid down her door and sat on the floor, resting his head back and staring up at the ceiling, holding his side in a half hearted attempt to stop the bleeding even though he was pretty sure it was too late now to really matter because he was starting to feel more than a little lightheaded.

He felt his consciousness fade in and out, growing feverish from pain and blood loss. He didn't know how much time passed - minutes, hours? He thought he imagined it at first but after a few seconds realized he could actually hear her voice coming from the stairway.

Well, he might have to retract his previous statement about Life not giving him anything. But he didn't, because Vegeta was a sore loser. He saw her feet approach and come to a stop by his side.

“I take it your date didn't go over well, loverboy?” Bulma asked in a surprisingly calm voice, standing over him, her expression unusually serious as she took in his pathetic situation.

Well wasn't she fucking cute with her dark sense of humor?

“Did the hole in the stomach give it away?” he asked, struggling to look up at her, barely able to support the weight of his own head.

She sighed and squatted down by his side, doing something on her phone that was in her hand. “Can I know what happened, or is it, like, classified?”

Sure, why not, he was dying, what did he care if she knew? “Well, long story short, my `date' brought more guns than I was hoping for…” She wasn't even listening. She was… texting someone? What the fuck? “What… who are you texting?” he asked, meaning to sound irritated but it came out a little more needy than he felt comfortable with.

“A friend who works in surgery,” she replied, still looking at her phone. “I know you don't like hospitals and she can be here in less than an hour…” Bulma finished and put her phone away. She still didn't look at him, digging about in her purse. It was almost like she was avoiding him, but what did he know, he wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind to be guessing her actions right now. She pulled out a cloth and started folding it, her brow furrowing. “I don't understand though, your apartment is closer to the stairs. Why did you have to crawl all the way here and ruin my front door?”

That was a good fucking question. “I dunno…” he admitted before he could think better of it. She still wasn't looking at him, still folding the cloth. She looked angry, or he thought it was angry, whatever it was it wasn't a good expression, and he felt an unreasonable need to make her LOOK AT HIM ALREADY, so he said the first thing that came to his mind, his fingers curling about his wound. “I think… I kinda… wanted to see you… Before I kicked the bucket…” Please look at me…

Oh, you're fucking pathetic.

“Oh,” she echoed, her face softening and finally, finally, her gaze slid to his, and she was as beautiful as he remembered.

And fuck he couldn't meet her gaze now and screwed his eyes shut, letting his head fall back again. “…Aaaand I'm delirious from blood loss right now so just… don't listen to a word I say ok?” Please, fuck, can I hurry up and die now?

“You got it, tough guy,” she said softly, and the endearing pet-name made him hurt in ways he couldn't imagine, and that was saying something because he had a bullet in him right now contending for first place.

She moved his hand that was barely doing anything and placed the folded cloth over his wound, pressing against his side and hugging him as she tried to stem the bleeding. She felt so warm, fuck she was so warm and soft and smelt so nice and he instantly leaned against her and relaxed into her because there was nothing else he could do now. If he was going to die, this was… this was actually a really nice way to go. Well, as nice as he could have ever have hoped for.

Minutes ticked by and he didn't die, although he felt pretty fucking ghastly.

Suddenly she smooshed her cheek against his shoulder and hugged him tighter, and he thought he felt her tremble. Her hair was unbearably soft against his cheek, like feathers. He stole a glance at her, and something warm and insidious curled itself about his heart.

She turned her head to look up at him. “…Wanna get a pizza later in case you don't die?”

Pizza? Pizza? After the drinks he'd had to pay for and the shirt she'd ruined? “Make it 3 and I'm in.”

“Deal.”

She rubbed her cheek against him and he let his eyes fall closed and never in his life had he looked forward to pizza so badly.

He was barely conscious when her friend arrived, though Bulma did her best to keep him awake, asking him dumb questions that he was getting too weak to even bother answering, and it was only when she started crying and shaking him that he realized how badly frightened she was and that he really was an asshole. Her surgeon friend, Launch or Lunch or something equally stupid, helped Bulma carry him into his apartment and extract the bullet from his side. Even half out of it he still swore a lot.

“Ow, FUCKING CUNT!”

“Stop moving or you're going to die,” the vicious Launch woman told him impatiently.

“I'd do a lot better with some fucking anesthetic!”

“What am I, a walking hospital?” Launch groused back.

“Just, sh-shut up and… get it over with!” he snapped petulantly, feeling himself starting to pass out as she dug about in his insides with her fucking fingers. Gloved, but still, what was this, the middle ages?! He turned his head to distract himself, but that was a mistake because he could see Bulma sitting by his side, her hands over her face, her shoulders hitching as she cried. The sight was enough to stun him sober.

Oh yeah, she would definitely cry if he died, and suddenly the thought wasn't as appealing as it had been before. He thought he'd wanted her to cry, but now all he wanted her to do was stop.

“Hey,” he said, his tone remarkably soft despite the circumstances.

She looked up at him, and her broken, watery expression tore him up in ways he didn't even know were possible for someone who dished out atrocities on a daily basis. He didn't know how to comfort her, how did you stop someone from crying without killing them? So he resorted to distraction. “Blue, do me a solid?”

“Yes?” she asked, brushing away her tears to give him her attention.

“If I die,” don't come to my funeral. Don't cry for me. Forget me, like everyone else will… “Uh.. Water my plant?”

“Wh-what?”

“Got it!” Launch exclaimed, and the pain as she dug out the bullet was beyond anything he'd experienced in a long while. He must have passed out because the next thing he knew it was the following day and he woke up in bed, bandaged, with an empty bag of universal blood and an IV in his arm - from where the fuck he had no idea - and a list of instructions about his recovery that he instantly crumpled up and threw out. He dragged himself out of bed, already breaking one of the rules Launch had written for him, and called to report in before Nappa or worse, Frieza, came down on his ass for being MIA. Once that was over with, barely able to stand, Vegeta supported himself on the kitchen counter and watched as his percolator slowly dripped coffee into a mug, his mind going back to the previous night, slumped by her front door, her hand over his gut, her cheek on his shoulder, the tears she had shed, just for him…

Bulma didn't have to do any of that, but she had. She wasn't a dumb girl, she knew that whatever he was embroiled in was illegal, dangerous, and still she'd involved herself, for him. He was probably alive now because of her. He should have been annoyed at how she constantly embedded herself in his life, angry even, hell, he'd have even settled for mildly constipated. Instead, he felt the irrational need to somehow, in some way, return the goddamn favor.

Vegeta pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil, and started to draw.

~x~