Adult-FanFiction.org : Gundam, Beyblade, DBZ, FMA

Speechless	By : nausicaasmith Category: Dragon Ball Z > Het - Male/Female > Vegeta/Bulma Views: 3160 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ, I just borrowed the characters.

Chapter List
- 1-Speechless
- 1
Speechless

Bulma Briefs never had been particularly religious, but
Christmas was something special.� Her
favorite holiday, and not just because of gifts.� It was� a festival of lights.��
A wondrous and beautiful time of year that she believed brought more
people together than any other event.�
Not that she entertained the notion that some carpenter had died for her
sins two thousand years ago or anything, but this winter festival brought
warmth to the people�s hearts in the darkest days of the year.� Besides, Son-kun had met some of the Gods
and told her personally that they didn�t really need any more worship; they
were big enough egotistical assholes without Earth�s help.� But still, for whatever reasons, Bulma loved
Christmas.� She loved the decorations,
the gatherings, the food and music and festivities.� The Nameks had told her that they had a similar festival during
their winters (which only occurred every thirty years because of the peculiar
situation with their sun and their planet�s orbit) and that it had nothing to
do with religion; it was simply to lift the people�s spirits.

Today was
the last day of November and she planned on having all the decorations up by
nightfall.� Outside, her father�s staff
was busily stringing lights and garland�all blue and white and silver�from
every balcony, every chimney top and window possible.� At Christmas, Capsule Corporation looked like it was trying to
home in the mother ship.� Probably it
could be seen as one bright pinprick from outer space.� Bulma�s mother was busy at work in the
kitchen whipping out pies, cookies, cakes, tarts, cobblers, and every other
dessert imaginable.� Most of these would
be frozen and shipped out to family and friends for the holidays with cards and
gifts.� A lot of them would be saved for
the party on Christmas Eve, which would be attended by all of her parents�
family, all their friends and everybody else they could drag inside the
compound.� Usually Daddy adopted all the
kids from a local orphanage for the night.�
Her mother loved to feed people, and Daddy indulged her every chance he
got.� It was really cute how they were
still in love.� Sometimes it really
depressed Bulma that she couldn�t find a love like that.� Stupid Yamcha.�

Bulma had dug through the attic and found
storybooks and CD�s of Christmas music and was busily decorating her own
apartment.� The tree was right by the
plate window on the outside of her room, reaching all the way to the
ceiling.� It was elegantly decorated in
red and silver, with a lovely twinkling star atop it.� On her couch were stuffed Christmas teddy bears from years before
and she had set up a little train set down one side of the hallway to the
bedroom.� In the bathroom she had
changed all the light bulbs from plain white to red and green, and there was a
wreath hanging on the door.� Once
through with her own apartment, she set out for her mother�s kitchen, where she
expected to be assaulted by every type of confection she�d ever eaten and then
some.

And she was correct.� The smell was incredible�pumpkin spice and
cinnamon and ginger and vanilla, an ambush on her senses and on her memory�and
there was her mother, fussing over some tiny cheesecake/pumpkin petit
fours.� �Dear, have you seen my short
broiler pan?� You know, with the handle
in the middle?�

�Sorry, Mama.� The short-pan thief strikes again.�� Bulma snuck a Santa-shaped sugar-cookie off a layered plate of
sweets.� �Have you got any candies made
yet?�

�Only the peppermint sticks.� They just came out of the oven.� Oh, and you wanted those poinsettia-shaped
chocolates, didn�t you?� I�ve got the
molds ready over on the counter�� Bulma drifted out the door on the opposite
side.� This building belonged to her
family only, and had been home for as long as she could remember.� There were five guest apartments, and five
more reserved for family only.� Each
apartment had a small living/dining area, a kitchenette, a bedroom with a
walk-in closet and a bathroom.� Yamcha
took up one this year, as usual.� They�d
broken up three months earlier and had decided to call it quits
permanently.� Their relationship had
always been rocky, at the best of times, despite Yamcha�s sweetness.� He had a tendency to wander and Bulma
suspected that she�d never be able to tie him down.� He was only here for the holidays, and then he was off on another
training trip the day after New Year�s.�
She thought she was coping rather well without him.� She�d gone on a week-long crying jag and
quit eating regularly.� The resultant
(if accidental) weight loss was pleasant, she supposed.� But Bulma hadn�t been able to bring herself
to start actively looking for another man.�
She just wasn�t ready yet.

Another guest suite belonged now to
Vegeta.� Bulma had moved him into the
family�s villa not long after he�d arrived, afraid he�d clash with the Namek
warrior-priests a bit violently in the guest building.� Mostly he kept to himself, and as long as he
was kept supplied with plenty of food in his own kitchen he even cooked for
himself.� She was surprised by that at
first, but then remembered that he, unlike herself, had been a soldier.� Goku, Krillin, Yamcha, and even Tenshinhan
had some rudimentary cooking skills because when you�re alone in the
wilderness, you�ve got to fend for yourself.�
Goku, especially, had spent much of his wilderness training without any
capsules at all.� She figured Vegeta had
had the same experiences.� It was early
afternoon one day in the first week of December when the heiress hopped
light-heartedly down the steps and as she turned the corner into the great room
on the first floor she was greeted by the sight of a bare tree�a real fir
tree�and the wonderful aroma of the pine needles.� Vegeta was sitting silently in a corner with a book of Christmas
stories.� Her father was nowhere in
sight, but her eyes traveled over her space-faring guest before she entered the
room.

Vegeta in street clothes was almost
irresistible.� In spite of his cold and
condescending nature Bulma had to admit her attraction to him.� She�d never tell him, of course.� He looked so much softer in this setting,
with his neck and collarbone visible under a deep red top, his hands bare and
they flipped a page� and then his eyes met hers.� He�d caught her watching him.�
Dammit.� Bulma stepped off the
bottom step and onto the plush carpet with a cocky smile. ��Seen my Dad?� she asked, taking a seat on
the arm of a wingback chair by the entertainment center.� This room was all green and cream-colored.� Vegeta, when he wasn�t sulking in his own
apartment, was usually here or in the gravity room.� Maybe green is his favorite color.� Right.�
As if someone of Vegeta�s sort would entertain such petty preferences as
favorite colors.�

�Dr. Briefs has returned to the
attic.�� So formal.� Bulma was forever reminding herself that
despite his job title�Purger of Planets, Murderer of Millions�he had still been
raised, to an degree anyway, a Prince.�
Real live royalty.� He had
manners, grace, tact, charm, and an extensive education.� Whether he chose to employ them, of course,
was another matter entirely.� He tilted
his head back toward the book.� Bulma
stood and flipped through a stack of CDs before selecting one and snapping it
closed in the player.� �March of the Toy
Soldiers� began to play softly and Bulma pulled back the pale sage-colored
sheers to view the front lawn� It had snowed!�
It was barely December and it had snowed already!� Her spirits soaring, Bulma squealed and
hopped across the room to look out the other window.� A soft voice stopped her in her tracks: �Bulma?�

Shocked, Bulma turned halfway to look
at Vegeta.� Had he spoken without first
being spoken to?� Was he� coming out of
his shell? Speaking to her calmly and rationally?� What shocked her most was� did he really� know her name??� Impossible.

�May I ask
you something?�� He sounded
sincere.� Bulma felt the need to sit
down.� She plodded heavily back over to
his vicinity and took a seat on the edge of a low couch, wondering what could
possibly inspire him to address her so.

�Sure.� She said.�� Why not?�

�What is the purpose of this�
Christmas?� Is it a religious or
cultural event?�� He held up the
book.� Children�s Holiday
Favorites.� Probably the only thing he�d
been able to get his hands on, outside of her father�s library.� Suddenly Bulma felt much more sure of
herself�why the sudden insecurity, anyway?

�Getting mixed signals, huh?�� Many children�s tales contradicted each other.� Many were also filled with candy canes,
dancing elves and talking snowmen.

She could understand his concern.

�It�s a bit of both.�
Christmas itself is the reinvention of an older pagan holiday that was
lost thousands of years ago.�� Bulma
pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one as she spoke.� �Back in those days, there was a festival of
lights right smack in the darkest part of the year.� The pagans celebrated life and sunshine in the gloomy days of the
winter, and thanked their gods for allowing them to survive.� When the Christians began to take over the
world�Christians are people who believe in one, all-powerful God who sent his
only son here to Earth to die for their sins��

�What?!� Vegeta looked confounded.

�Yeah, no kidding.�� Bulma took a drag off the cigarette,
agreeing with her alien guest wholeheartedly.�
�So, anyway, the Christians believe that this son of God, who was called
Christ, was killed, nailed to a crucifix, tortured and such, and was
resurrected a few days later.� Hence the
name, Christmas.� It is, according to
them, the day of his birth.� Two
thousand years ago.� Or whatever� so,
when they were taking over all the world�s major religions way back when, they
found that these pagans had a festival similar to the way they celebrated
Christmas, so they incorporated the pagan�s traditions into their own
celebrations.� As a way of making the
transition easier for them.�

�I see.� And do people still believe in this� son of god?�

�Some people.� We live in a more enlightened society these days, but there will
always be pockets of religious folk who believe one wild story or another.�

�Do you?�

�I��
Bulma didn�t profess to be any particular religion.� She just felt the way she felt and was the
way she was, and that was it.� �I don�t
particularly believe in anything.� I
don�t go to church or say my prayers or set aside one day a week to worship
some invisible man in the sky.� I know
of Kami, and I know he doesn�t welcome such praise.� Hah.� Anyway, that�s what
all this decoration is for.�

�Does Kakarott believe in all of this?�

�Son-kun is a Shintoist.� He believes in reincarnation�rebirth�and
karma�that you get what you deserve�and that all things are connected�the birds
and bees and trees and rocks and rivers.�
He believes that the lowliest little snail can hold the power of the
mightiest god.� And he�s seen the other
world, too, just like you.� He
celebrates Christmas with everyone else this time of year, but not because of
the Christians.� He�s the same about it
as I am�a festival of lights, to remind you of brighter days.�

�What about the other warriors?�

�Most of them consider the martial arts
to be their religion.� Krillin is the
only exception�he�s a Shaolin monk, a holy man.� You ask him about it sometime.�
I don�t completely understand his reasons; not well enough to explain it
to someone else, anyhow.� All I can
figure is that he was sent to the monastery when he was very small, and it�s
very hard to do away with things you�ve been raised to believe.�� She put her cigarette out as he nodded
thoughtfully� Understandingly?� No.� No.��
He still seemed to be forming a question, so she waited patiently for
him to speak.

�Why the flying reindeer?�

Bulma burst into a fit of giggles and
continued to snicker intermittently through the rest of the day.

Three days later Bulma had to explain
greeting cards to him.� Why, he asked,
waste the time and paper to write �Merry Christmas� when you could just call
someone?� Or, better yet, not even
acknowledge the stupid holiday?

�Well� it�s complicated.� I don�t suppose you can understand the
reasons behind tradition, can you?��
Bulma asked irritably while hanging up everyone�s cards on the mantle of
the sitting room.

�Of course I can!� It�s what most of my people�s culture was
founded on.�� He huffed, sidling out of
the way as she pinned up one from Aunt Margot in France.

�Well, thousands of years ago, there
was no such thing as a telephone.� So,
people who wanted to communicate with far-away relatives sent letters and
things by post.�� Bulma opened up a card
from Roshi, Krillin, Launch and Turtle, showing him the glittery interior and
the signatures.� �These days there are
better ways of communication, but Christmas greetings are a tradition all
around the world.� It�s just a nice way
of letting your loved ones know that you�re thinking about them during the
winter festivals, and it�s a nice thing to have to remind you of Christmases
past.�

�� Why the Hell would you want
to remember other winters?�

�Don�t you like winter, Vegeta?�� Bulma raised a perfect eyebrow and smiled at
him mischievously.�� He eyed her
suspiciously for a moment and then replied:

�I dislike snow.�

And that was it.� It was much, much later that night when she
started thinking about this small exchange again.� Later still when she began to realize that his trips out to the
GR were less and less frequent since the onset of the cold weather.� Automatically, whenever a problem arose in
Bulma Briefs� life, she began subconsciously to think of a way to solve
it.� No use fretting; she was a woman of
action.� Vegeta was always wearing two
sweaters�usually a turtleneck covered by something knit.� If he went outside, he stood stiffly and was
careful of the icicles.� Hmmm� a strip
of heating elements, perhaps?�� To melt
the snow between the dome and the Gravity Chamber?� I dislike snow.� It
was the only time she could remember him expressing any kind of personal
preference�in this case, an aversion to a particular weather condition�whatsoever.� He didn�t talk about himself.� He had no anecdotes to tell, no funny
stories or memories of his childhood to relate.� Maybe his planet didn�t have a winter season?� But no, she would make no assumptions.� Nothing.�
The only thing Bulma Briefs really knew about Vegeta, Prince of Saiyans,
was that he did not like snow.�

Another week gone by and he asked her
what was in eggnog.�� She�d been making
some tuna salad for lunch when he asked her.�
She jumped; he snuck up on people like that. �He�d calmed down lately, not picking fights or mocking her or
anyone else.� She knew she got on his
nerves, but she�d actually made an attempt to be civil with everyone (including
Roshi) at least until New Year�s was over.�
When she turned to him, he was standing with the refrigerator open,
holding up a pitcher of her mother�s special homemade and quite potent
holiday spiced eggnog.� He looked
genuinely curious, not derisive, so she obliged him by calling downstairs to
her mother:

�Mom, what�s in eggnog?�

�Oh, not much, dear!� Eggs, cream, cinnamon, ginger��

�It�s dairy, she says,� Bulma turned to
the black-clad man on the other end of the kitchen.� �Eggs and cream and spices.�
And probably a good dose of rum.�

�Hm.��
He put the pitcher back and pulled out a can of grape soda.� Without any further prompting, he
offered:� �Milk makes me sick.�� He was gone.

And with that, Bulma spilled a whole
can of tuna on herself.� The stream of
curses issuing from the kitchen soon brought her parents, Yamcha, Puar, and Vegeta
to the doorways.� Once her rant was
finished, she declared herself okay and decided to skip lunch.� On the way back to her room she tripped and
nearly killed one of her mother�s oriental vases.� Dammit.� Since when did
just talking to Vegeta�or ANYONE�throw her off like this?� It made her lose her senses, her bearings
shattered.� She stripped the ruined
jumpsuit off and jumped into the shower.�
She was going to be late getting back to the office.� Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch whore�.

Of course the only explanation for her
weird nerves around him was that she was getting a crush on him.� She�d never denied that she was attracted to
him physically, but something about his cold, indifferent personality struck
her.� She thought it had something to do
with that old saying: opposites attract.�
Bulma was always as warm and friendly as she could be to everyone.� Sure, she could be a bitch sometimes, and
she knew it.� Thrived on it.� But really, she meant well.� She was the first one to offer help when someone
was in need, the first one to organize the rescue mission, the first one to
stand up for the downtrodden and the oppressed.� Vegeta was completely opposite; frankly, my dear, he didn�t give
a damn.� Let the orphans starve, he�d
say.� Serves them right for being
orphans.

Bulma
mulled the past week over in her mind as she scrubbed.� No point rushing now, anyway.� Life around the house was definitely
different with Vegeta lurking around.�
He did things that pissed her off, and she was sure that he did them on
purpose.� For example, he always left
the TV remote sitting right on the shelf in front of the TV.� Now, what is the point of having the remote
if you have to get up and walk across the freaking great-room and right up to
the God-be-damned TV to get it?� Why
couldn�t he just leave it lying on the table?�
Or on the couch?� That made so
much more sense.� She was sure he just
did it to irk her.� If she hadn�t said
anything about it, he probably would never have done it again.� But strangely she had to admit that she
enjoyed her arguments with him.� She had
been a champion on every debate team she�d ever joined, and she definitely
found a good verbal spar very gratifying.�
The only person around who could really compete on her level had been
her Dad for the longest time, and she didn�t want to argue with him.� Vegeta presented an interesting challenge
not only because of his superior technical knowledge�she�d been pleasantly
surprised to find that not only could he fly his alien spacecrafts, he knew
many of the secrets that made them work�but because he was from so different a
culture than her own.� Bulma took every
opportunity to engage him in conversations about ethics, society, and customs
and such.� Not that such opportunities
arose often, but on occasion�� Like the
snow thing.� Was that a cultural
thing?� A personal thing?� And it struck her as she was toweling her
hair dry�

Now she knew two facts about
Vegeta.� Number one: he didn�t like
snow.� Number two: he was lactose
intolerant.� Mighty useful information,
that.

Useful information, indeed, because two
nights later Bulma�s mother made potato soup for dinner.� It was one of her favorites; a comfort
food.� Bulma could eat potato soup every
day and never tire of it, with some extra cheese and maybe some goldfish
crackers�wait�cheese.� Where was
Vegeta?� If the Briefs heiress recalled
correctly from her few cooking experiences, her mother�s recipe for potato soup
called for an awful lot of cheese, and heavy cream too.

�Mama, has Vegeta been down yet?�

�He ate earlier, dear.� Her mother
poured some more tea out of a Santa covered teapot on the warmer.� �I think he�s trying to avoid the
festivities as much as possible, because when I told him that darling Goku and his
family would be arriving Christmas Eve��

�Did he eat any of this soup?�� Bulma stood up uneasily.

�Yes dear, in fact after he went
upstairs I had to make a whole new pot��

�I�ll be back.�� Bulma headed out.� �Sorry Mama.�

She looked out the window and down; the
GR wasn�t lit up, so he must be in his rooms.�
Outside the yellow kitchen Bulma fell into a dead run, streaking down
the wide corridor and made a right turn� and then another� and two doors down
she stopped.� Knocked politely, without
urgency, despite the pounding of her heart.�
How sensitive was he to milk?�
Would he maybe have a stomachache or would it be something worse?� Could he go into anaphylactic shock? Surely
not�

�Hey, B.�� Yamcha�s stupid nickname for her (B, or sometimes BB) pissed her
off to no end, but right now she didn�t have time for his crap.� She turned and saw him, dressed for dinner
and headed that way.� He waved at
her.� �What�s goin� on?�

�Nothing.�

�What do you want with Vegeta?��

�None of your business, Yamcha.�� Bulma knocked again, louder.� �Vegeta!�
I know you�re in there!�� She
turned quickly to her ex.� �He is in
there, isn�t he?�

�That�s his ki all right.�� Yamcha was beside her now.� In the old days he might�ve put an arm
around her, but now that they were no longer in a sexual relationship he laid
one hand chastely at the small of her back with a note of concern in his
voice.� �Something wrong?� What did he do?�

�I think he might be sick.�� She said simply, �And I�d hate to have to
explain his body to the coroners, considering his lack of social security ID
and, you know, human DNA.�� Yamcha
laughed a little and replied:

�Come to think about it, his ki is a
little weak.� I just thought he�d been
training too hard again.� You know, one
of these days he�s going to hurt himself pretty bad�� Yamcha stopped abruptly when Bulma pulled out her keys.� She, her mother and her father each had a
skeleton key that would unlock any and every door on the complex, as well as
those on other compounds that were owned by the C.C.� Because, Dad said, you never know what might happen.� Bulma picked the correct one off the ring
and it clicked loudly as the deadbolt threw itself back, to Yamcha�s utter
fascination.� �Can you do that to my
room?� he asked suspiciously.

�In a heartbeat.�� She replied curtly as the door slid up.� She didn�t mean to be so cold to him�they
had always been friends before lovers, but right now she was on a mission.

Yamcha followed timidly behind Bulma as
she barged in to Vegeta�s little living room�no sign of him.� In fact, there was no sign that anyone even
lived here!� Everything was in place,
clean, immaculate, and perfect.� No
dirty training gear or unwashed dishes, no crumbs on the carpet, and not even a
speck of dust. Okay, either this is the wrong suite or we�ve got a serious
OCD case on our hands� ��But
no.� This was the right room; the TV
remote was sitting right there on the TV stand.� Son of a bitch.� To the
couple�s further amazement, the bedroom was well-kept and smelled like clean
laundry and Polo Sport�weird! �and there was nary a speck of dust or
dirt here either.� It was like the
Twilight Zone or something.

But the bathroom light was on, and the
door was wide open.� The dark form on
the floor didn�t stir as they approached.�
With a sickening sense of dread Bulma stepped right up to him�if he
awoke and found them in here would he kill them?�he was pale and his face was
covered in a light sheen of sweat.�
There was a heavy scent of vomit in the air, but other sign of his
having been ill.�� With his features
slackened so he looked much younger and vulnerable even, but his breathing was
shallow and quick, his coloring distressed.�
Yamcha�s voice came out of nowhere, asking something about a doctor�

�Oh, what�s a doctor going to do?� We know more about Saiyan physiology than
they do because of Son-kun.�� Bulma bent
and pressed two fingers to the pulse point at Vegeta�s jawline.� It was quick but not erratic.� That, plus the even (if shallow) breath was
a good sign; he was stable for the time being, but his temperature was higher
than she thought it should be even compared to Goku�s unnatural average of a
hundred and one.� She shook his shoulder
lightly, called to him.

No response.

�What should we do?�

�I don�t know.�

�What made you think he was sick?�

�Just a hunch, I guess�� Bulma couldn�t bring herself to tell Yamcha
or the others about the milk thing.�
Chances were, if anyone knew, Vegeta might �accidentally� be running
across milk products more and more often.�
He was pretty high up on most of the Z-senshi�s shit list.

�So�� Yamcha had died at the hands of
Vegeta�s minions.� His friends had been
killed as well, and they�d spent a long time in the after life as a direct
result of actions taken by the unconscious man on the floor before them.� Still, Yamcha had always had a kind and
forgiving heart.� He wasn�t one to
abandon anyone to their fate, and he sure wasn�t inclined to kick a man when he
was down, no matter what a bastard the guy was.�� Bulma shouldn�t have been surprised when a moment later he said,
�Maybe we should put him to bed.�� He crouched
down by Vegeta and tugged the Saiyan�s arm till he was lying flat on his
back.� Yamcha laughed a little: �He kind
of looks pathetic, huh?�

Christmas Eve.� Bulma had watched the old black-and-white Miracle
on 34^th Street seventeen times in the past week.� She and Goku were wearing matching Ho³
shirts.� (Get it? Ho cubed?� Ho Ho Ho?�
Ahh-ha-ha-ha.� Ha.)�� Vegeta, fully recovered, was lurking in the
shadows somewhere.� She thought Gohan
was trying to befriend him.� Well, good
luck kid.� After he�d awoken from his
lactose-induced coma he�d been indifferent; surprised to find that someone had
cared enough to come check on him but insistent that he hadn�t needed it all
the same.� Well, that�s what she got for
trying to help someone.� She was
sitting, chain smoking, by the hearth in the great room.� Everyone else was finishing dinner, but
Vegeta hadn�t been in attendance.� The
party would start soon.� Guests were
already arriving.� Goku entered the room
alone (probably attempting to escape her mother) and came to sit on a low couch
facing her.� She�d been enjoying her own
company, but she didn�t mind Goku.� He
was her best friend, after all.�
Followed closely by Krilliin, Yamcha, Oolong and Puar, of course.� His goofy smile and perpetually cheerful
demeanor, even in the worst of times, could bring anybody out of a
depression.�

�How�s it goin�, Sis?� he asked.� He always called her that when he wanted
something, or when he was trying to hide something.� She wondered briefly which it was, but was in no mood for it.

�Okay.� She said noncommittally.�

�Anything new?�

�Not really.� No news is good news, I guess.�

He didn�t appear convinced.� He could read her.� Everyone thought he was so dense and Bulma had to admit, he could
be pretty spacey at times.� But really
he was more perceptive than the others, in his own way.� He could go months without seeming to think
at all, then one day he might say something so deeply insightful she�d be stuck
on it for days.� But it came to him so
naturally that the one time she�d asked him about this behavior, he hadn�t had
a clue what she was talking about.� It
was some weird form of autism, she thought.�
He was lacking in many, many areas�math, language skills, social
skills�but excelled in a few.� She and
Krillin (his next closest friend) had discussed this at length once and decided
that he�d sustained some minor brain damage in addition to the amnesia from his
fall down that ravine as a child.� He
did have the scar there.� He would make
for a great case study, if only she could talk him into taking an MRI or
something�

�Found a replacement for Yamcha yet?�

�� not really.�

�Was�sat mean?�

He wanted information; he could be so
shrewd at times.� He knew something was
wrong.� Well, she did need somebody to
talk to.� She�d been pining over Vegeta
a bit.� Not that she, you know, really liked
him liked him.� Or anything.� She was sure it was just the time of year,
the sparkly decorations and the nice, romantic fire crackling happily behind
her that were making her feel this way.

Dammit.� Who was she kidding?� She
sighed.� Lit another cigarette

�Oh, Son-kun.�� Goku waited patiently.� �Why do I always fall for such
assholes?��

�Assholes like who?�

Bastard.

�Oh, just assholes in general.�� Give nothing away.� �I know Yamcha never meant to be mean; he was just ignorant.� But��

�You don�t fall for assholes,
Bulma.�� He had that grin on his
face.� He knew something, the little
bastard.� �You just got this weird way
of knowing they ain�t all bad.� You
liked Yamcha when we first met him didn�t ya?�
Even though he was trying to kill us.�

�Fair enough, but he was easy to see
through.�

�Well then, take Vegeta.�� How in Hell��He ain�t such a bad guy, and
you know that because you gave him a place to stay.� Even though he tried to kill us all, you can tell.� But he�s very defensive, and if you were to
somehow see through him and surprise him with one of those nice little things
you do for people�you know, �cause you can�t just say how much you really care
�cause you�re too embarrassed�he might just be touched.� And then, he�d get all pissed off �cause of
it and say something mean to hurt your feelings.� But he wouldn�t really mean it, it�s just a habit since he�s had
so much pain in his life already that he�s afraid of being hurt some more.� That
smug smirk again.� Bastard.� That�s all she could think.� How the Hell did the little bastard
know?� She just wanted to slug him.� �But I guess that wouldn�t make it hurt �cha
feelin�s any less, huh?�

You astound me, Son Goku.

�I guess you�re right.�

�So� is he still an asshole?�

��yes.�

�Oh, well.�

�Goku?�

�How in Hell did you know it was Vegeta?� Of all people?�

�A little birdie told me, Sis.�

Little did she know that this little birdie was a hot Super Saiyan
with lavender hair, blue eyes and a time machine stamped with the CC logo.

Midnight was a long time past.� Gohan was sound asleep in Goku�s arms and
Chichi was dragging them out the door.�
With a wave and the promise to visit at New Year�s her �little brother�
was gone again.� Probably she wouldn�t
see him until then.� The party had gone
off smooth; Vegeta had made no appearance at the actual event, but was lurking
in the shadows, dressed to match them.�
She figured he was interested; she�d seen him watching her dance with
Goku to The Night Santa Went Crazy.�
Yeah, Weird Al would be Vegeta�s kind of music.� Everyone had filed out eventually.� Krillin and Roshi had gone back to the
Turtle House, Oolong had gone back to wherever he went; Yamcha was already in
bed, and so were her parents.� She and Vegeta
were the only ones still awake.� Bulma
was too wired to sleep.� Well, she
figured as long as she was still up and he was too, she might as well give him
his Christmas present.� So she found
herself seeking him out, and dragging him to the sliding glass door at the back
of the big room, which was something of a mess now.

�I made you something for Christmas.�
She told him, sliding the door open and dragging him outside.� Funnily enough, she failed to wonder why
he was allowing her to drag him anywhere.�
His far superior strength�and superiority complex�should have been more
than a match for her tiny 95-pound frame.�
Suddenly she was regretting the missing pounds; in the cold her
Christmas dress seemed insubstantial but the moonlight shining on the smooth
blanket of snow covering the grounds made her want to stay outside anyhow.� It was so peaceful.� The very picture of what Christmas was
supposed to be about, right?

�I don�t like Christmas.� He responded,
not missing a beat.� Of course he
didn�t.

�I know.� But I made it anyway, so get over it.�� She gestured to the yard.�
The stars were so pretty, sparkling everywhere.� It was a perfectly clear night, and the
snowfall that afternoon hadn�t been marred by any of the staff, which was off
all this week.� She and Goku and the
gang had all had a snowball war earlier that morning but there was no trace of
it left now.� �See all this snow?� You said you didn�t like snow.�

�I don�t like snow.� He agreed
flatly.� He stood off beside her
disinterestedly, and she was avoiding looking at him.� Wanted to get it over with.

�Well, I�ve got a way of taking care of
it for you.� Sort of.� See how far it is from here to the GR?� she
pointed across the silvered lawn.� �We
planted some heating elements a couple feet under the ground and connected it
to a switch on the inside of the door here so you can just melt all the snow
before you go out there.� So you won�t
have to walk through it.� It still leaves
a lot of water on the ground, but I�m working on that.�

He hadn�t said anything.� She really hadn�t expected him to.� Actually, she was waiting for the taunting,
hurtful words that he was sure to say once he decided it was stupid.� What Goku had said earlier that night had
really put Vegeta�s behavior in perspective, and she knew in her head that
whatever hurtful things he had to say wouldn�t really mean anything.� Just reflex, that�s all.� But really, she just wanted to show him that
not everybody was mean.� Not everyone
was hurtful.� Not everyone wanted to
make him suffer.� She was compelled to
do nice things for him because she wanted to demonstrate to him that everyone
in the whole universe wasn�t like Freiza.�
And because she liked him.� Only
God knew why, but she liked the sick bastard.�
She just couldn�t help herself.

Not that she�d ever tell him that.

�Look, the switch is in here.�� She pulled him back inside and pointed�it
was the bottom switch on the plate of light switches.� She flipped it, and turned back to the glass doors.� For a moment it appeared as though nothing
was happening, but suddenly the whole strip of snow between the back door and
the GR entrance just caved in and within seconds was nothing but a wet puddle
of dead turf.� �Like I said, we�re
working on the water thing.� But this is
an improvement, I guess.� It�s still
going to be a long winter.� Merry
Christmas, Vegeta.�� She finally dared
to look over at him�

And Gods� He was smiling at her.� Really smiling.

�Thank you.� He said softly.

And for probably the first time in her
whole life, Bulma Briefs was left perfectly speechless.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Speechless