Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Reciprocity ❯ Hang Ups ( Chapter 4 )

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I've borrowed some of the original dialogue, as well.

_Hang Ups

Data from Vegeta's use of her suit streamed to her laptop, bogging it down with numbers that consumed her until nightfall. Bulma monitored him from her office, stopping by the GR at the end of the day to report his progress after finishing work of her own. She had immersed herself in ki research and development. No sooner did she draw up a blueprint for a ki gun than she unlocked a compound to ki boost. She was on fire, and Vegeta was her totally unconcerned muse.

Vegeta ended his training around 11 each night to make a Saiyan-sized snack, and it quickly became routine for Bulma to join him for dinner at the door of the GR. Or intrude on his dinner. Either way, Vegeta seemed content to let her walk him to the house and yammer away while he shoved a day's worth of food into his mouth, occasionally interjecting.

At first she stuck to business, but Bulma found it hard to keep herself from chattering-a habit that wasn't exclusive to Vegeta-and their conversations soon dissolved into casual conjecture. At first, it was a little one sided; she was the one doing all the talking. That's when her suspicions were confirmed, as she watched him devour everything in sight, dodging her chit chat dourly. She was concerned Vegeta wasn't getting enough to eat. His body required more fuel to deal with the more intense training he was putting himself through, despite the suit's ability to conserve energy. Like everything else, he pushed the suit to its limits. So she ordered a fridge and six weeks worth of groceries stocked in the lower chamber of the gravity simulator at all times, and although he never acknowledged it, he looked better for it.

When it became evident Bulma wasn't going to quit pestering him, Vegeta slowly opened up about various technology he'd used in the past and the science of ki as he knew it from Frieza's army. It was a scientist's wet dream. She was totally new to conversations in which she could talk shop without reservations and throw an equal amount of banter around to boot. It was fresh and novel, and it thrilled her. And, unlike the other Z fighters, he seemed to welcome the exchange. With Vegeta, she wasn't slotted as an overbearing loud mouth or reduced to a trope. With him, she was free to be Bulma.

He fascinated her. On a good day, he was confident, saucy, and quick witted, contentedly teasing her in his minimal spare time. On a bad day, he was cruel and surly, complicated and uncompromising. Like an animal caught in a trap, he snapped suspiciously at anyone who tried to help him. She could see why the other fighters were wary of him. But even when all she could coax out of him was a disgruntled criticism of her gravity room, she couldn't back off. She couldn't help but to warm up to him.

After awhile, she trusted him to be receptive about her and her friend's adventures together. She fondly explained to him how she had met Goku and how the hunt for the dragon balls defined their adolescence.

He found it especially funny that their first wish with the dragon balls was a request for the world's most comfortable pair of underwear.

"Trust you and your friends to have all the power in the universe in your hands and fuck it up. Your friends are comedy gold, at least."

When she let it slip that she had once been turned into a carrot, he grinned brutishly and asked low, "So which one does it for you? The carrot or the frog?" His humor was dark and biting, and it delighted her that she was the recipient of it. With her friends, he was either aggressive or reserved. But with her, he maybe, just maybe, let his guard down and relaxed. And, for the first time in her life, she could reciprocate.

------------------------------------------------------------- Bulma stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. She ran her hands down her silhouette and then over her eyes. She made a face at herself in the mirror and turned away.

She was miserable. She hadn't spoken to Vegeta in weeks. He had, so conveniently, moved into the ship. He didn't show up for expecting to be fed anymore, and he had abandoned their project. Bulma's heart sunk when she checked the suit data the day after their argument, and there was nothing to report. He was proving to her that his obstinacy would win a battle with her pride any day.

And he was right. Without his company or his help with their project, she was listless. She laid in bed all day. She didn't work. She hadn't been down to her office since she read the empty print out. If he had rejected power to make a point, she imagined he was well and truly done with her. Her usual past times or her personal time were empty. She was a mess. Without Vegeta, she felt like she had no purpose. She had relied on a man for satisfaction and wound up right back where she started.

In order to cheer herself up, she had taken herself shopping. She zipped up her new heeled boots, adjusted her boobs, and then staring into the mirror.

"You look foxy," she encouraged herself, raising her thumbs. She sighed. Alright, she'd admit it-she had moped about for weeks. Although she was hurt and furious with the things he'd said that night-oh, Kame, the things that had happened that night-she had hoped things would return to normal. She had expected him to be aloof or short with her the next day. Maybe they'd even have another, smaller argument that would tidy up the mess. Instead, he had disappeared. The GR still ran at the usual times, so she knew he hadn't taken off, but he didn't come in to eat and he hadn't returned to his room. He was hiding out in the GR.

At first, she'd accepted the challenge. She would wait him out. He'd get over it. He liked her, didn't he? Waiting for him to get over it had made her defiant. If he wanted war, he'd have war! But now she was just miserable. She was losing the battle. The only thing she had gained that night was his shirt, thrown carelessly onto a file cabinet, that she now kept stuffed in her night stand.

"What is wrong with me?" She cried out to her reflection, pulling at her hair. She hadn't seen him in a month! Four weeks of tortuously long, boring days and unresolved frustrations. She couldn't believe his discipline. And he was either rubbing his hands together gleefully- probably still scowling-knowing his time tested pride would outlast her stubbornness...or she really had misjudged him. Maybe he didn't really have feelings for her. Maybe she should have been more tactful about what she said. Although he could dish it out, a man with enormous pride like that would find it hard to listen to some constructive criticism.

Whoever's fault it was, all this angst and grief on her end could only mean one thing...

"I like him!" Bulma stared at herself apprehensively, her hands flattened on her cheeks.

And it was with that realization that Yamcha knocked on her bedroom door.

"Oh, hi," Bulma croaked after opening the door.

"Hi," Yamcha smiled at her shyly. He had cut his hair and was wearing his gi, the orange complimenting his tanned skin. He was as handsome as ever. Bulma warmed up when he smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"I'm sorry to just drop in on you like this, but I wanted to come by and say goodbye before I left for training. Your mom let me in on her way to feed the pets."

"So that means you're done with the playoffs. How did you guys do?" She asked him, sincerely.

He straightened with pride. "We took second place."

"That's great! Congratulations!"

"Yeah," he said, smiling at the ground. He looked back up at her, suddenly serious. "Bulma, I just wanted to apologize. I didn't treat you right these last few months. You were right. I was running away from my feelings after I was revived. I thought I was running from the problem, but it turned out I was just as miserable living like that."

Bulma softened. "Yamcha, I'm just as to blame as you are. Don't hold it against yourself. People make mistakes."

Yamcha placed his big warm hand on her shoulder. The intimate gesture shocked her. She had a good idea of what he was about to say, and dread filled her. She wasn't sure if today of all days she would be strong enough to resist.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm going to the Wastes to train and I'd be happy if you went to dinner with me when I get back. It would mean a lot to me if I could make it up to you."

"Yamcha," she breathed, "I-"

They were hit with a wall of concussive air, and a boom ripped through the grounds. Her things were tossed and thrown around the room as Bulma and Yamcha held tightly onto the door frame, the explosion savaging their ears. Just as quickly, it became silent.

They stared at each other. "What was that?" Yamcha asked, eyes wide.

"I don't-" Reality ripped through her. "Vegeta," she gasped, tearing down the stairs and across the house.

"Vegeta!" She called as she tore across the lawn. She stumbled when she saw the rubble that was the GR. How could anyone survive this? She sunk to her knees.

"I knew this would happen! He's been trying to do the impossible!" Yamcha accused, eyes scanning the wreckage.

"Where is he? Vegeta?" She called tentatively, uncertain she'd get an answer back as she dumbly moved some rubble, crawling towards the center of the wreckage. She shrieked as a hand shot out in front of her and stumbled back into Yamcha. The hand clutched at the air, and then Vegeta pushed himself out of the rubble, groaning. They gaped.

"You...okay?" Bulma managed.

"Of course I am," Vegeta ground out, painfully getting to his feet.

Bulma let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. Suddenly, she was spitting mad.

"How dare you, you dweeb! You almost wrecked my house! What are you trying to prove?"

Vegeta stood, hinged at the waist, breathing heavily. He was covered in a motley of bruises and gashes, and it looked like his chest had taken most of the damage. He tried to stand and fell backwards, spraying rubble. A bolt bounced past her.

"What? Oh, no! You're hurt!" She ran to him, kneeling beside him. She helped him sit up, clutching his shoulder with a hand on his chest.

"Go. I don't need help," he grit out.

"You've got to stop training for awhile. I mean, look at you! You're a complete wreck!" She pled.

He looked up at her through swollen eyelids. "But I feel fine! I'm a Saiyan. I can take a little pain. It means nothing to me. And I have to get stronger than Kakarot!"

His almost childish plea weakened her temper. "Ok, look, we all know you're a tough guy, but you need to rest now." Yamcha stood up and stared at their exchange.

"I take orders from no one!" Vegeta ground out, shaking her off as he tried to stand. He fell back, losing consciousness. She leapt over to him and crouched beside him, adjusting him more comfortably with his head in her lap.

"Yamcha, go get help!"

Yamcha stood staring for another second and then walked stiffly towards the house.

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"Honey, how else would anyone have reacted?" Her mother rubbed her back and then directed her toward a kitchen chair, pouring her a cup of tea. "He yelled at you and left you to clean up the mess. But don't blame Yamcha, honey, he's adjusting to a life without you. One where the girl he's grown up loving doesn't need him."

"I should have defended myself, Mom." Bulma said rawly. He eyes were irritated and red but her breathing was calm. "I should have taken the bait and fought back. Why couldn't I?"

"Honey, no one expects you to apologize for Vegeta. At least I don't. That's not your responsibility. But acknowledging your feelings is."

Bulma peered over her cup at her. "I...I don't know what to do. Yamcha's right. I like someone who doesn't know how to be in a healthy relationship of any kind. If he's been in one at all. I've gotten myself in over my head. I can't change him." She plunked her cup in front of her. "But I can't change how I feel," she finished miserably.

Mrs. Briefs rubbed Bulma's hand. "It will work itself out in time. That's all you can do, dear, is wait for him to adjust to his feelings."

"Mom, you talk about him like he knows. He doesn't," Bulma whispered, pale. "He's not aware of any of this." She waved her hand wildly in the air.

"I can't imagine that you would feel something for someone who wasn't responding back to you."

Bulma paused, considering. "I thought he did...like me. I thought he did and banked on it, and I screwed up," she finished dolefully. "He didn't do what I thought he would. I should have expected him to be unpredictable, but I was too proud to consider his feelings. He locked himself in the GR with everything he needs to prove to me he doesn't need me. My help...my feelings."

"He shut himself away from your feelings or his?" His mother suggested, gently. "You may be right. There is a player in this game who hasn't been consulted yet. And it's only fair to you both if you make your intentions clear."

"Intentions?" She whispered to herself. "I mean, am I really gonna act on it?" She gazed into her tea with wonder.

"You already have," Bunny informed her. "You let him into your home and heart. It's plain to see, even to Yamcha. And I know you. You can't sit quietly. You always have to play the game out."

"Game," Bulma murmured. "A game of emotions...Games, strategy and battles are the only thing Vegeta understands. How do I win a battle against him?" Her head drooped into her hand and she stared out the big dining room windows. "I don't know if I can win this game."

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She hadn't slept well in days. She gave a defeated sigh, threw the covers off of herself and headed toward the shower. After she dressed, she crept down the hall into Vegeta's room. It was early in the morning, and she had to scoot close to get a good look at him in the pale gray light. He still lay rigidly on his bed, his breath even, his brows furrowed. *Even while asleep, he can't relax.* She crouched next to him, the oxygen hissing softly and the monitor interlocuting quietly. She reached slowly out to him, frowning in concern. When her skin met his, she flinched, but he didn't budge. She gathered her willpower and wrapped her hand around his, watching his chest rise and fall. She listened to him breathe until the dull light of early morning brightened and washed everything in the room white. She felt calmer and more relaxed while listening to the rhythm of his breathing. She ran the back of her fingers over his strong, angled cheek.

"Get better, Vegeta," she encouraged softly, placing her hand on his bandaged chest. "You're too much of a bastard to let this knock you down." She smiled. Standing up, she walked over to the window and cracked it. It was finally beginning to cool down, summer slowly winding to a close, and a velvety, cool breeze wafted in. Bulma walked over to the desk and sat down, laying her head on her arms and letting the din of her chaotic thoughts and the white noise of her worry wash over her until she fell asleep.

She woke up with drool wetting her sleeve. She wiped her mouth and glanced at the bed. He didn't seem to have moved. She tiptoed out.

Bulma ran into her father in the hallway.

"Bulma, dear," her father greeted her, characteristically puffing on a cigarette. "After they clean up that mess out back, do you think I aught to have the secondary ship placed on the lawn? That way we won't have to waste time replacing our first one when the boy's ready to get back to training."

She didn't know whether to frown or sigh hopefully. Vegeta would probably be insisting on getting right back to work as soon as he recovered. She wouldn't be surprised if they had to restrain him to keep him from his stupid, grueling obsession.

"That's probably a good idea, Dad," she remarked.

"Alright, dear. But there's something else I wanted to speak to you about. Just what do you think caused Number Four to explode?"

Bulma frowned and laughed sarcastically. "Vegeta's damned mulishness? Knowing him, he probably got pissed and shot right through the walls, despite knowing it would damage the ship."

"I think there's something strange about that explosion. There's no blast hole. The ship blew apart like an egg in a microwave. It's as if the whole damn thing couldn't contain the pressure."

She blanched. "Dad, you don't think this is our fault, do you?"

He dragged on his cigarette, contemplating. "I don't think an energy blast is what caused the damage. Basic physics, you know. Pressure had to have built up quick from inside and violently sought relief. Just an idea, dear."

She watched her father shuffle away, his hands behind his back. Vegeta couldn't have turned the gravity up too high and blown the place to bits. The engine would have simply gave up if that were the case. There were no explosive materials on that ship; the fuel had been siphoned off early on. A ki blast might have penetrated the walls of the ship and ripped a hole in the walls, but it wouldn't have caused fragmentation like that. Energy had to rapidly increase and expand outward to generate an explosion on that level...kind of like a quick and forceful power up...

"He's been using the suit," she breathed, realization dawning on her. "He deactivated the diodes!"

She ran downstairs, down into the lower level hallway and swept into her lab. She forced the laptop open and mashed the power button, impatiently drumming her fingers. As soon as it had finished starting up, she clicked the button for the suit frenetically, until the result files filled the screen.

Weeks worth of unregulated, unobserved data filled the screen.

"He disconnected the fucking connection," she growled. "He disabled the fucking diodes so that I couldn't observe him, but it didn't stop the diodes from recording him."

She was livid and getting more so by the second. She mashed the print button and ripped the paper from the printer, marching upstairs. Her teeth gnashed together. She was so mad she couldn't speak, but she had the feeling that if she started yelling, she wouldn't be able to stop.

She swung Vegeta's door open, fist clenching the paper.

The bed was empty, the oxygen mask and IV discarded.

Something caught her eye, and she glanced toward the window, where the curtain rippled with the breeze. She marched over and jerked the curtain up.

The window was opened wide.

"Vegeta!" She screamed, already headed downstairs. She strode across the lawn, toward the fresh replacement ship that already clanged and glowed.

How could he? How could he just so easily disregard the help they were trying to give him after a serious injury? He took and he took and he took and he never gave back!

Bulma yanked the wires out of the exterior power box. The whirr of the engine immediately lost power. It only took her a few steps to reach the door and yank it open. Sure enough, she found him, quivering in a push up position, bandages hanging off him.

"You've been using the suit behind my back!" She accused, throwing the crumpled paper at him as she stood in the doorway. "That's why the ship exploded! Because you were too much of a world class ass to let me help you!"

He continued doing jerky push ups as though he hadn't heard her, grunting painfully through each one.

"You are in NO condition to be doing this right now!" She yelled, marching towards him. "I know you don't want to believe it, but you are made of flesh and blood!"

He growled, flipping clumsily up into a standing one armed push up before he collapsed onto the floor.

Her arms crossed. "Nothing to say? Because you know I'm right. Go back to bed and get some rest," she ordered through clenched teeth.

"I do have something to say," he informed her wearily, struggling to look at her.

Her arms fell to her sides as she considered him with concern. He was shaking and bleeding again. She knelt beside him.

"What is it? Is something wrong?" Her eyebrow went up, and she smirked wildly. "Or maybe you'd like to apologize to me? If so, let's hear it."

He met her gaze, and his face was a mask of cold fury. "Get out!" He barked into her face. She lost her balance and fell onto her rear end as he struggled to stand and confront her.

"I don't want your help, your concern, or your interest in me! I just want you to leave me alone!" He seethed, and his ki exploded around him, framing him in icy blue flames. "Leave me alone!"

She crab crawled backwards until she hit the wall, climbing to her feet with her back against the doorframe as the wind of ki buffeted at her. She stood her ground, squinting, until a wall of concussive air threw her out of the door and skidding down the ramp, slamming the door after her.

She sat sprawled out in the grass, gawking like an idiot. Bulma picked herself up and walked sorely across the lawn. Without seeing what was in front of her, she eventually found her father in his office, puffing on his cigarette as he stared down at a mess of paperwork.

She stared at him grimly.

"Dad, I have an offer for you."