Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Girl Next Door ❯ 02 Prickly ( Chapter 3 )

NB: Based on chapter 1, `One Sided Friendship', `Small Talk' and `Gift' of the “Girl Next Door” (aka FriendsAU) comic by stupidoomdoodles.

Girl Next Door

02- Prickly

He stared at the plate.

The Grinch stared back at him.

Vegeta scowled, unknowingly reflecting the green monster's expression.

Wiping a hand over his face, he sighed and cursed himself for thinking so hard over something that he shouldn't have spent more than a second on. Agitated with himself, with the situation, and mostly with her, he snatched up the offending dish and exited his apartment. He bent down to leave it by her door step, and was setting a note on top when the door opened.

He looked up from his bent position, staring up into blue eyes.

“Vegeta?” She asked, as startled to see him as he was to see her.

Fuck. Whhhyyyyyyy? Why did she have to open her door now of all fucking times?

He stood up, clearing his throat. “Just returning this before you come bug me for it,” he explained, awkwardly handing her the plate, looking away, down the hall, wondering if he could just imagine himself back inside his apartment strongly enough that he might magically teleport there.

“Oh thanks. You know, you could have kept it,” she offered before she saw the aghast look on his face. “… Or not.”

Yeah, like he needed Nappa or Raditz to come over and see he had a plate with a grumpy green cartoon character on it and some quote that he had the uncomfortable feeling had been rather specifically chosen just for him. Raditz would have a field day with something like that.

And then Vegeta remembered the note at the same time she noticed it. Oh no…

She picked it up and he immediately snatched it from her hand.

“Hey!” she protested, raising a brow. “That's for me, isn't it? What, you're embarrassed now?” she teased with a smirk, and tried to reach for it.

He held it out of reach, above his head. “Don't fucking read it now!” he grouched. Had she no fucking manners? This is why he wanted to leave a goddamn message; dealing with her was a constant exercise in patience.

She snorted and stepped forward, resting one hand on his chest for leverage and pressed up on her tippy toes, trying to grasp for the note with her other hand. “So that's a yes then. Now I'm really curious what it says.”

“Stop acting like a child!” he snapped in alarm, barely able to keep the paper from her reaching fingers.

“No, you.”

“Fuck off, Blue, or so help me-”

“What? What are you going to do, tough guy?” she grinned, and suddenly she wasn't looking at the note at all but at him, staring right at him, and she was pressed right up on him and they were face to face, noses almost touching, her eyes glittering with amusement and something else, something far more wicked. Her words sparked something warm and unfamiliar in his gut, something stirring, awakening, unfurling at her purred `tough guy'…

And he panicked.

He put his hand over her face and shoved her back at arm's length, ignoring her sputtering from under his palm, giving himself a few inches to fucking breathe.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he snarled when they were separated, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to calm down.

She gave him an incredulous look, folding her arms, scowling at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” he snapped back fiercely. “You want to know what the goddamn note said? Fine, it said fuck off. I don't need your food, or your pity, or you. Got that? Great. Now leave me the fuck alone.” And with that, Vegeta turned and stormed back to his room, slamming the door shut with a satisfying bang.

A minute later he heard her door close quietly and her soft footfalls as she left, heading down the stairs, off to wherever she'd been going when she'd first opened the door on him.

Vegeta gritted his teeth, snarling silently into his empty apartment. He tore up his note into tiny pieces until the uncertain, humiliating thanks was no longer legible, and threw the remains into the trash.

It was the last time he'd deal with her, he vowed. He didn't need this shit.

XoxoX

When he entered the laundry room in the basement of their building, he froze, seeing her already there.

Of course. Of course.

He hesitated for only a moment because leaving would mean retreating, like a fucking coward, and that simply wasn't acceptable so that only meant going forward and dealing with it, with her. They lived in the same building after all, he was bound to have to deal with her eventually, so he should probably just get it over with. If he could show her how little of a damn he gave, perhaps she'd finally get the idea and just leave him be, let them melt back into the comfortable relationship of strangers and be done with the whole farce of whatever fascination it was that she had for him.

She didn't say hi. Neither did he. She was wearing ratty clothes, screaming `laundry day' and looking tired and tense, a far cry from her usually put together, bubbly self. He ignored her to dump his dirty laundry on the counter and started shoving pieces of clothing into a washer.

The silence stretched between them. Vegeta was comfortable in silences. He relished them, grew up in them, he coveted and manipulated them, intimidating others with them, reveling in the sweet reprieve that came with them after the last gurgled sound escaped his victim's lips…

This silence, however, was abhorrent. Unnatural.

She was never this silent. It made his skin prickle uncomfortably. He glanced her way but she didn't even acknowledge he was there. It was kind of hard to give her the cold shoulder when she was doing the same. What was up with that? What did she have to be huffy about?

Her machine beeped and came to a standstill. She started pulling out her freshly washed laundry.

She swore, softly but vehemently, under her breath.

He glanced at her again from the corner of his eye. She was holding a couple pairs of panties, stained a rusty brown, and looked defeated. Miserable. Pitiable even.

It set his teeth on edge; her looking so broken aggravated him.

He sighed, looking back at his own laundry as he screwed open his `detergent'. “…Y'know, the secret to taking out blood stains is vinegar and Ammonia.”

“OH MY GOD VEGETA, STOP WITH THE CREEPY “BREAKING BAD” ADVICE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM,” she snarled, her anger startling him.

Slight overreaction much? What the fuck was her deal today? And what the fuck was breaking bad? “'M just saying, you must blow a fortune on underwear, man.” Good, play it cool, Vegeta. We don't care, we're just being neighborly.

“I'm not a man, and I didn't ask for your advice, and I can blow my money on whatever I damn well please!” she shouted back at him, turning to face him full on with her fury, pointing an accusing finger at his chest.

His eyebrows rose up, amazed at her ire. Baffled by it. What the hell was going on? “…Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

She huffed, glaring at him, not pleased by his sudden appeasement. She eyed him critically, searching for something, anything, before her eyes finally alighted on his industrial ammonia. She scrunched up her nose in disgust, snarling. “And that smells fucking awful,” she spat, her shoulders squaring in triumph.

He sneered at her, leaning in threateningly. He was done with her shit. “Deal with it.”

“You deal with it!” she shot back hotly.

Vegeta scoffed. “That doesn't even make any fucking sense. What the fuck is up your butt? Are you on the rag or are you always this cunty?”

She thinned her mouth, her hands fisting around her ruined underwear and then- her eyes started to water, and he was pretty sure her chin trembled.

Vegeta reeled back, his eyes widening in horror. Oh god, no, fuck, was she… was she about to cry?

She glared at him fiercely through shimmering eyes, but her voice was small and broken when she finally spoke. “… C-can I have some?” she asked, indicating his ammonia.

Desperate to have nothing to do with tears, Vegeta hastily shoved the bottle at her.

She lowered her eyes and took it, adding the liquid to her laundry.

He watched her with trepidation, sweating, his throat dry. What the hell, what the hell was going on? She didn't usually crumble like this under a few harsh words.

“Do you have any of that… other stuff?” she asked, her voice subdued.

“Vinegar?”

“Yeah.”

He handed it over and she added that to the machine, then set her laundry to run again. She gave him back his bottles with a mumbled thanks, and then retreated to plop down on the nearby bench, slouched, watching her clothes spin about all while looking tiny and miserable and forlorn.

It's none of your goddamn business, he told himself. Whatever her fucking deal is, it's none of your goddamn business and you have nothing to be sorry about. Of course not, because he never felt sorry about anything, not even for himself; bitter and angry, oh yes, he felt those in spades, but never sorry.

He did his best to ignore her as he finished preparing his own laundry. He started the load, but he couldn't help glancing at her yet again from over his shoulder.

He could leave. He could leave and come back in 45 minutes and she would be gone.

His feet betrayed him, walking over to the bench and he sat down nearby.

Only the sounds of the washing machines filled the room.

Plonk.

Tumble.

Whirl…

“D'you… wanna talk about it?” he asked, choking out the words through gritted teeth.

“No,” she said softly.

Ohthankgod.

Their clothing was tossed and tumbled, spun and swirled. A sidelong glance proved she wasn't crying. Thank fuck. But she looked miserable, defeated, and her melancholy grated on his nerves more than her usual chipperness did.

He folded his fingers together, looking down at his palms, trying to think of something to take her mind off whatever was troubling her, because it was driving him up the goddamn wall. What did those 2 idiots always talk about? Fuck, he never listened to them. Okay, so, what did he like talking about? What the hell kind of question was that, he didn't like talking. Goddamnit, this was hard.

Oh, I know. “… Wanna hear 30 ways you can kill someone with just a shoe lace?” he offered, turning to face her.

She gave him a very concerned look, her mouth parted in disgust. He frowned and looked away. Stuck up princess. It was a good list. Fuck her then. He wasn't supposed to care anyway. Annoyed, Vegeta slumped back, resting his head on the wall, turned away from her, and folded his hands over his middle as he pretended to nap.

“… Sorry,” she finally said, and the only indication he gave that he heard was a furrowing of his brow. “It's been a bad couple days. Didn't mean to take it out on you.”

He grunted. What did a bad couple of days entail for someone like her?

Do you actually want to know?

No.

No?

No!

Liar.

But it sounded like, whatever her issue was, it wasn't because of him, and for some unknown reason that made him feel a little bit better.

The silence after that was more tolerable.

When her washing machine beeped and she got up to check on her clothes, he peeled open his eyes to watch her. She pulled out her underwear and saw they were good as new. She smiled, the tension leaving her, her face softening in relief, leaving her looking relaxed and beautiful… His fingers tightened against his arms. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her.

“Told you so,” he said, unable to help himself or the smug satisfaction in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied, her tone lighter, sounding much more like herself.

When her clothes were done drying, he heard her walk out. “Thanks, Vegeta. I'll catch you later then,” she called amiably.

Wait, no. His eyes flashed open but she'd already left.

No. Noooo….. Later? Later? No, no later, he was supposed to have cut her off, ignored her, discouraged her, not repaired whatever it was they had going on, not given her hope, not, not….

FUCKING GOD FUCKING DAMNIT.

XoxoX

She was everywhere. He ran into her in the hallway, on the stairs, again in the laundry room, and then, the cherry on the fucking shit cake, at the goddamn tiny half-assed grocery store he liked for the very reason that he figured no self respecting person he would know would ever be seen there.

But there she was, bright as you please, and of course she saw him instantly and made a big deal about what a coincidence it was and hung onto his arm as he shopped, chatting up a storm not only to him but to the bewildered clerk and oh god I can never come back here again.

He didn't say a word to her. He'd learnt his lesson from the laundry room.

They walked back to the apartments, the groceries he carried much heavier than usual from all the shit she'd thrown into his basket, insisting he try this or that, and he hadn't had the energy to argue, not wanting to engage. She'd offered to help carry his things which he of course he'd refused because a) fuck her and b) he didn't work out for nothing and c) get the fucking hint already, woman. But despite his broody scowl and lack of communication (which he would have patted himself on the back for if, you know, it was actually working), she still doggedly walked with him, talking his ear off about who the fuck knew what because he'd stopped listening, not trusting himself to pay attention lest his mouth speak of its own volition, and then she'd only be encouraged and that was precisely NOT what he wanted her to be right now.

She didn't even get the hint when he tried to block her out as he unlocked his apartment. She just stood behind him, peeking over him, her hands on his shoulders, and he couldn't stop his eyes from rolling up in exasperation when she let out an excited squeal as his door swung open.

“Yay! Finally, I get to see your place!”

He was fuming. This was ridiculous. He'd seen people accept their death faster than this chick was catching on to the fact that she wasn't welcome.

He placed his bags down as she moved in behind him.

“…Oh,” she said, her voice softening, her enthusiasm waning. “…It's… tidy?” she offered, trying to find something positive to say about the barren emptiness of his place. “You… don't entertain much, do you?”

Vegeta felt his eye twitch and a vein in his temple throb and he had just about had enough of this. “Do I look like I do?” he asked scathingly, finally turning around and confronting her. She was eyeing his place over, looking worried about the state of it and how dare she. Who the fuck was she to judge him? Okay, no, he HAD had enough of this. He'd had MORE than enough of this. He was at his goddamn fucking limit of dealing with her nosey scrutiny and the confusing swirl of emotions she evoked in him and he just wanted some goddamn peace for like five fucking minutes and if she didn't leave RIGHT NOW he couldn't promise that he wouldn't do something he'd severely regret.

“Look, woman,” he snarled, grabbing her by the arm and looming over her so that she'd understand the severity of what he was about to say. “I KNOW you never listen to me, but for the last time: I don't need friends, I don't WANT friends, and unless you want to get in a lot of trouble or worse, get yourself KILLED, STOP. TRYING. TO GET. INTO MY LIFE.”

She was giving him wide doe eyes, looking small and contrite in the face of his onslaught, and fuck her because it was making his stomach twist in a way it hadn't since that time he'd eaten bad Mexican food. He grabbed her tiny shoulders and shoved her forcefully out of his open door before she could mess him up any further.

“GOODBYE.”

He slammed the door shut with a mighty WHAM and then rested his brow against it, letting out an aggravated sigh and waited for the sounds of her footsteps to indicate that she'd left. That she was gone, gone for good.

A tell tale silence only met his ears. He gritted his teeth, resting his hands on the door, straining his ears. He nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke.

“A PLANT! THAT'S what's missing in there!” she announced decisively to the empty hall.

What. The Actual. Fuck.

“GODDAMNIT, BULMA, GO HOME!” he pleaded, his fingers curling against the door.

He heard her take a step and then pause. “… Wait, did you just say my name?” she asked.

Vegeta jumped back from the door and stared at it in abject horror.

He waited, heart thumping, sweating, as if afraid she could suddenly see him through the shut door.

Finally, finally, he heard her footfalls as she left. He still couldn't move, rooted to the spot.

It didn't mean anything.

It didn't mean anything.

She didn't mean anything. It was just a name, just her name… Just a name that he couldn't even bring himself to think let alone use and yet there he'd gone, using it around her as he'd begged her to leave…

Not told her. Begged her. He, Vegeta. Begged.

It didn't mean anything.

So why are you freaking the fuck out?

He scowled and grabbed his keys and left, leaving his groceries on the floor. He didn't know where he was going, but he had to get out, get as far away from her as he could.

Fuck her. Fuck this apartment.

Fuck the whole goddamn world.

XxoxX

He saw her the next day on the stairs, and his whole body went rigid in some sick pavlovian response, waiting for her attack. Great, she'd reduced him to a fucking psychology experiment. She smiled and waved and - and that was it. He scowled, watching warily as she kept going, not stopping to harass him as per usual. It was… surprisingly nice.

Suspiciously nice. That wasn't her usual MO.

He saw her a few days later at the dinky grocery store (he'd forgotten to look for a new one), but she only said hello and then continued with her shopping. When he looked up from the milk section to see if she was still there, she wasn't.

Huh.

He continued running into her, and though he braced himself each time, waiting for a verbal and physical onslaught, it didn't come. She'd say hi, maybe ask how it was going, perhaps wave, always smiling. It was more than just cordial, more than she'd give a stranger, but she kept it brief, never lingered, and little by little he found himself less likely to flinch at the sight of her and more likely to nod in begrudging greeting as they passed each other in the hall.

“Hey,” she said as they shared the laundry room together one evening. He was leaning against the wall, half dozing as he waited for his clothes to wash. He peeled open an eye and regarded her. She smiled sweetly at him. “Don't suppose you could keep an eye on my laundry for just a tiny moment? I've got food cooking upstairs.”

He sneered. “What am I, your fucking guard dog?”

She rolled her eyes. “It'll just be for a second. I mean, you're already here, right? Just look intimidating if anyone tries to steal my panties.”

He scowled at her.

She winked. “Yeah, just like that. You're a natural.”

She hurried off before he could protest further. He was tempted to end his washing early just so he could leave her laundry spitefully unattended, but he was comfortable, and doing so would only leave him with a basket full of wet clothes, and that would just be inconvenient for him, not her.

True to her word, she came back after a few minutes. She skipped over to his bench and sat down, handing him some tupperware.

He looked at it blandly, not making any motions to accept it.

“Go on,” she goaded. “It's payment, for watching my things while I made sure I didn't burn the building down.”

He mulled that over, considering. Tit for tat, huh? He understood that concept. It made sense. And she hadn't poisoned the last plate she'd given him. He supposed he could accept her food under those conditions.

Reluctantly he sat up and took the container. He pried open the lid, looking inside.

“It's soup, but with meat and potatoes, so, you know, it's actually filling,” she explained.

It looked good. It smelt better. He shut the lid before he could appear too interested and put the container to his side for later.

“… You can keep the tupperware too,” she added after a couple of minutes, the memory of what had happened the last time he'd tried to return her cookware still hanging between them.

“Was planning on it,” he agreed.

XoxoX

She was starting to become routine. Expected. Seeing her, acknowledging her with the tiniest of nods or grunts, exchanging a word here or there over the washing machine or discounted store muffins was becoming as natural to him as stake outs and 2 am pummelings.

“Can you believe they want $3 for a day old chocolate chip muffin?” she asked, appalled.

“Highway robbery,” he agreed.

“…”

“…”

“… There's only 1 left.”

“Hn.”

“Wanna split it?”

“Yep.”

He sometimes heard her moving about in her apartment, soft sounds barely audible through the walls, just enough to remind him of her presence, remind him that she was right there, within reach, so tantalizing close, all he'd have to do is reach out knock and he knew, he knew she'd invite him in and that was the goddamn problem.

Other times, her presence next door was like a goddamn bull in a china shop.

“Mother fucking piece of SHIT! Argh!”

And a few minutes later there'd be a knock on the door and he'd open it with an arched brow as she handed him a jar, blushing with humiliation. “I swear it's glued on.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled. He knew he should tell her to fuck off, to go find someone else to do her grunt work, but the look on her face as he took the jar and opened the lid with liquid ease, mocking her feebleness, made it oh so worth it.

“… I loosened it for you,” she grumbled.

“Sure you did.”

The next time she knocked on his door there was no jar, but she wore an embarrassed expression just the same.

“What?” he greeted.

“Yeah, um, hey,” she said, rubbing her arm nervously. “I'm really sorry to bother you, but I kind of have a big favor to ask.”

Oh, this should be good. He folded his arms and resisted the temptation to say no, curious to hear her out at least before crushing her hopes. He leaned against his door frame and waited.

When she saw he was listening, she nervously tucked her short hair behind her ear, looking down at their feet. “I have to go to East side tomorrow.”

“East side?” he repeated, amused. The hell kind of business could she possibly have over there?

She nodded. “Yeah, so, you see my predicament, right? I'd normally ask Goku or Kril-”

He waved away her explanation, not caring to hear about the useless friends who couldn't help her. “Your point?”

“Yes,” she said, letting out a shaky breath. She steeled herself, setting a determined expression on her face before looking him right in the eyes. Brave girl. “Do you think you could accompany me so I don't get mugged or murdered?”

He blinked. Then he smirked. And then, unable to help himself, he laughed.

Her brows shot up, stunned. “Wh-what's so funny?” she asked carefully, her eyes narrowing, unsure if she was being made fun of.

He grinned at her, a little nasty, his body relaxing into the doorframe. “You want me to take you to East side?”

“Y-yes?”

He cocked his head, shaking it in dumb amazement, still smirking. “Alright,” he agreed smoothly.

“Alright?” she repeated, not sure she'd heard him right.

“That's what I said, isn't it? What time?”

They made plans, Bulma looking almost uncertain of her decision, as she fucking well should have.

She'd just invited the most dangerous person in the whole damn block, if not the whole fucking city, to be her bodyguard. What a fucking joke! Although, upon reflection, perhaps it made a weird kind of sense because what would you have to be afraid of with the devil at your side? She was either really fucking stupid, or really fucking smart, and either way he found it quite hilarious. This was going to be oh so worth the inconvenience of putting up with her for an evening.

XxoxX

It was every bit as amusing as he'd hoped. He hadn't been this entertained since… well, he couldn't remember when, that's how long it had been. Maybe since that one guy who he'd discovered had 6 fingers and hadn't that been a treat, a whole two extra fingers he got to break?

Ah, the good ol' days.

They took the subway together and by necessity she pressed up close to him in the crowded train, better him than some other dirty stranger rubbing against her, and he felt himself getting into the part of bodyguard a little too much, glaring more than was necessary at the other men when they looked at her. She was a beautiful woman, screaming upper-middle class and `easy target'.

He, on the other hand, screamed `I will break your fucking face just for looking at me funny' in blood red neon lights. One look from him and everyone suddenly became a whole lot less interested in what Bulma was about. And she, of course, was fucking clueless to it all.

He didn't ask what her errand in East side was and he didn't care. He followed along and did what he did best, looking unpleasant and keeping an eye out for trouble, not that he figured they'd run into any. He was very familiar with the `bad' side of town. Please. Like anything here was really that bad, not after what he'd grown up with.

“Um,” she said, tugging on his sleeve and insisting they cross the street when a small group of guys in hoodies come down the path. He snorted, rolling his eyes, but followed her good-naturedly. She kept her head down, letting her blue bangs hide her face, and she stayed pressed up against his side in a manner he might have found insufferable if he weren't so amused by her timidness. Back at the apartments she was a firecracker, full of energy and bossy self assurance; seeing her out of her element, leaning on him, needing him, was a whole new experience and he was lapping up every minute of it. He was going to enjoy throwing all this back in her face later at just the right opportunity.

The whole outing went smoothly and she did whatever the fuck it was she needed to do, but since they'd set out late, it was already pitch black by the time they headed home. They caught one of the last subways of the evening and their car was nearly empty save for a drunk sleeping in the far corner who got off several stops later.

They sat together, staring at the inside of the subway car and the underground lights that flashed by.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said, her voice soft despite being just the two of them.

“You owe me,” he replied, blunt as usual. He planned on cashing in this favor, and he wanted to make real fucking sure she didn't forget it.

She laughed. “Yeah, I do,” she agreed. “Got something in mind?” she asked with a mischievous curl of her mouth.

He grunted and looked away. “I'll let you know.”

He felt something nudge his middle. Looking down, he saw it was her elbow. “C'mon, admit it. I wasn't that bad to hang out with, was I?”

“Hn,” he replied noncommittally.

She pouted. “Spoil sport.”

He looked at her as she was about to say something when the power suddenly went out. The train careened to a stop and he braced himself either side of her to keep them from falling. She let out a cry of alarm and grabbed him as she was flung against his arm. In the sudden pitch black darkness, the only thing that was real was her panicked breathing in his ear, and her slender warmth against him.

“Vegeta?” she asked, her tone a couple octaves higher than usual.

“It's okay, just a power outage,” he said, glancing around, trying to see anything, trying to hear anything, wary of an attack… But there was nothing. “The back up power should kick in any-”

There was a faint hum and tiny red lights fluttered to life about them, casting the car in an eerie glow. Bulma clung to his shirt, huddled against him nervously. Her eyes locked on his, and all thoughts of self preservation fled his mind as he was filled with an irrational urge to make sure she was okay.

Physically.

He lightly touched her arm. “Are you alright?”

An overhead voice crackled on the speakers, the driver of the train announcing a power failure, telling everyone not to panic and to sit and wait.

Bulma sighed and to his bewilderment, her fingers unclenched from his shirt and she let him go, sitting back. “Oh thank god,” she said.

He frowned, feeling like something had just escaped through his fingers and he awkwardly retracted his hand, taking her cue and sitting back at her side, trying to puzzle out the strange feeling of… rejection?

Dumb. You're a dumb dumb, fuck, Vegeta…

He glared around the car, suddenly impatient, feeling claustrophobic and cagey. He shouldn't have ever agreed to this. He could be doing any one of a million other things better than this right now like…

Like…

Okay, so he was drawing a blank but that didn't mean there weren't better things he could be doing than babysitting Little Miss Girl Next Door, was there?

“Man, Chi Chi is going to be pissed,” Bulma sighed, checking the time.

“Who?” he asked, because why not? What else were they fucking going to do, and she was probably going to tell him all about it anyway, regardless of whether or not he asked.

“My friend, Chi Chi, you'd like her,” she said, and he snorted doubtfully. “She runs this amazing Chinese restaurant. I was supposed to meet her after closing.”

And that's how it happened, that she started telling him about her laundry list of rather insane friends, most of whom he didn't really bother to remember. He sat and stared up at the subway car's ceiling and listened to her talk, not to her words exactly but to her, to the sound of her voice and her exuberance. She actually had this lovely, enthusiastic way of speaking that had aggravated him at first but now seemed such an integral part of her personality that he couldn't help finding it just a little bit endearing.

She said something about France and he grunted. “Been there,” he admitted, remembering an assignment a few years back. Then he realized she'd stopped talking.

He tilted his head to the side to eye her.

She was looking at him expectantly. “Really? And?”

He frowned and looked away, slumping further in his seat, trying to remember, remember the parts that she'd probably want to hear and not the parts about the sewers and the corruption and the black market shenanigans he'd been wrapped up in. It made his story uncomfortably brief, but she seemed rapt by the glimpse into his past and it felt oddly… liberating, letting the darkness shroud him as he told her about it, as if discussing baguettes and cobblestoned alleyways absolved him of some of the atrocities he'd commited there. As if telling her all this made the bad parts fade and the few good parts shine and it was really fucking novel having a captive audience for once, one that wasn't captivated by how and when he was going to kill them, but because she actually gave a damn.

Huh.

“Were you alone?” she pressed when he came to a halt.

“What?”

“Did you travel there with friends or family?” she asked.

“No.” He hadn't been working alone, not the whole time, but the people he'd associated with fit neither of those categories.

She hummed, intrigued. “And what about now?”

“What about now?”

“Are you here alone, in the city? What about your friends?”

He gave her an incredulous look. Him. Friends? Had she even been paying attention to him all these weeks? He having friends, what an absurd notion, like anyone gave a fuck about him. Like he gave a fuck about others. Who could be bothered with friends? And who would be dumb enough to want to be friends with him anyhow? Who would put up with his violent bouts and raging tirades and insufferable ego? Who would actually say hi to him with a genuine fucking smile, or spend time with him willingly, or talk to him of their own volition, or give him gifts or ask him favors or… oh right. “Just your dumb ass,” he said, meaning for it to be an insult until he saw the way her eyes widened and her mouth split into an elated smile and he realized what he'd just admitted to.

Oh no…

Oh fuck no…

“Fuck, that's not what I mean-”

“Yes it was!” she squealed and his eyes bugged out of his head as she opened her arms and came at him and he held out a hand to stop her.

“The hell are you doing?!” he demanded, panicking.

“I'm going to hug you.”

“No. No you're not.”

“Yes, I am, Vegeta. We can argue about this until you get blue in the face and then I'm still going to hug you, or you could just let it happen and get it over with. Friend.”

He grit his teeth, giving her an incredulous glare but he saw that she was determined and the last thing he wanted was to have her stalking him, trying to secretly hug him when he least suspected it, because then he was more than likely going to shoot her thinking she was a rival gang member coming to get the drop on him, and it would really suck to shoot the only friend he had.

Yes. Friend. Ew, fuck.

You're such a pussy.

He sighed and dropped his arm and she hugged him, wrapping her arms around him.

Ba-bom.

His arms stuck out awkwardly either side and he sat rigid in her embrace, not having the slightest clue what to do, his face scrunched in unease.

It was, after all, his first hug.

Ba-bom.

“If our roles were reversed I'm pretty sure you'd be shouting rape right now,” he grouched uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at her.

“If our roles were reversed, I'd be returning the hug by now, dumbass.”

“Oh.”

Ba-bom.

He lifted his arms, his hands hovering uncertainly at her back. He swallowed, feeling perspiration prickle at his skin, and he hoped the air was still working because he didn't fancy suffocating to death in a hot subway car. He placed his hands uncertainly on her back, covering most of her frame with his large, splayed hands. God she was small.

She let out a content sigh, her breath puffing against his nape.

Ba-bom!

He held her, filled with doubts and enveloped in her warmth. Was he doing it right? He'd never held someone before, couldn't even remember if he'd ever touched someone kindly before. But she seemed happy, tightening her hold on him just a little, squeezing him generously and pressing her lithe, feminine weight into his chest, and fraction by fraction, he relaxed against her.

Ba-bom…

And allowed himself to admit that it was actually, really, fucking goddamn nice.

Like her.

She was really, fucking nice.

And he didn't deserve it.

Ba-bom.

And he knew it wouldn't last. Suddenly covetous, he changed his grip, wrapping the full length of his arms around her body and he crushed her closer against him, pressing his face into her shoulder. Soon the lights would come on and the subway would start up and whatever this moment was would end, the car taking them back to reality and fuck it, he wasn't ready for that yet.

“Vegeta?”

“Mm?” he mumbled against her.

“This is a really nice hug.”

Ba-bom!

“… If you say so.”

“How long until the power comes back on?”

“No fucking idea.”

“… I really have to pee.”

“Oh for fuck's sake…”

XoxoX

The rocking of the car as the subway started moving jerked him awake. He blinked open his eyes, looking around to see them break out from the underground, moving along the tracks by the cityscape, the night lights twinkling prettily behind the dirty, graffitied subway windows.

She was sleeping on his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his cheek, and he resisted rubbing against it. The speakers crackled and the driver announced, superfluously, that they were moving again and apologized for the extensive delay. He felt her stir, the announcement disturbing her rest.

“'We there yet?” she murmured sleepily.

“Nope. Just started up again,” he sighed, letting his eyes drift closed and he leant his head comfortably against hers.

He was already falling back asleep when he felt something in his hand that rested on his knee. He cracked open his eyes and saw she'd taken his fingers in her own, holding his hand. He should shove her away, shove her off, they had the whole fucking car to themselves after all to stretch out and sleep the rest of the way back so she didn't need to be curled right up on him… but he was too tired, and they were all alone, unseen, and he just… didn't even care at this point so long as she didn't move and let him sleep.

Or maybe you care too much.

Shut up, me.

He closed his eyes, and the rocking of the car soon lulled him back asleep.

XoxoX

He recognized the note paper immediately.

Vegeta, I'm glad you're not as cuddly as a cactus. Thanks for helping me out the other day. How does coffee sound?

He looked at the spiky green plant with the pert little flower on top and didn't know what to think. There was a label stuck in the soil with the plants name and care information, and on it she'd crossed out rose quartz and written Mr. Grinch.

Real fucking cute.

He cast her door a glance and took the plant inside.

XoxoX

“So, this's the crib that Frieza put you up in? Seems pretty well hidden,” Raditz said with an air of feigned interest as he barely glanced about.

“Yup, good spot to hide from the pigs when I'm done with a mission,” Vegeta replied as they settled into his place. “Okay, so who are we killing this time, Raditz?”

Raditz didn't answer right away. Vegeta saw what had caught his attention.

“…What. Is that?” Raditz asked flatly, pointing a distrustful finger at the cactus.

“Oh, that?” Vegeta asked, puffing up with the chance to finally be able to talk about it. “That's a Chamaelobivia Rose Quartz.”

Raditz stared at him, not reacting.

“It's a GIFT. From a FRIEND. That I made without having to threaten ANYONE.”

Boom. Bomb shell dropped, motherfucker.

“…You sound like a 5-year-old starting kindergarten.”

Vegeta felt the air fizzle out of him. That had not been the reaction he'd been looking for.

“Is she hot?” Raditz asked.

Vegeta felt himself go very cold and still, his eyes narrowing.

Raditz visibly paled and he hurriedly pulled out his cell phone. “S-so, tonight,” he stammered and started going over the details. Vegeta barely listened, tapping his arm in impatience the entire time, suddenly a lot less enthusiastic about this hit than he should have been.

~~ox0xo~~

AN: This was LONG. And took FOREVER.

Some clever people might have noticed a numbering system. Hopefully that'll help with where all these chapters fit in together since I've been writing them out of sequence (& may need to be updated as I go), but the best source will always be with stupidoomdoodle's comic Girl Next Door over on smackjeeves.

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodles' idea. Find both her and I on twitter, tumblr, and batreon, only replace that `b' with a `p' and you're golden.