Revelation to Vegeta
Disclaimer: Dragonball Z © Akira Toriyama
A/N: What would happen if Bulma, despite falling for the all-mighty Prince of Saiya-jins, made the choice that it was not right for her?
Bulma threw her hands against the oval shaped mirror. The same mirror which had previously hung over the mahogany table, outside the downstairs restroom, for a countless number of years. Due to her falling inertia, it unhinged itself from the old nail it had once proudly dangled from, and sprayed across the ground in a momentarily pretty storm of ice shards that reflected her pallor stare. Her lower lip quivering, she stumbled backwards and knocked into the bathroom door. The smooth golden knob pierced into her back and she emitted a loud curse.
Clumsily her hands groped at it with urgent fever and she had just managed to pry it open when the acidic burning crawled like gnarled fingers up her throat. She had barely hurled her body over the porcelain toilet seat when the purging began. Hot, unforgiving tears scalded her eyes. The body convulsing heaves choked her and the numb pungent pain of it all consumed her.
'Thank Kami I didn't have much to eat today.'
Her stomach proceeded to empty the rest of the toxic alcohol she had over-consumed mere hours ago. Those Ketel One dirty martini's did not taste as delicious as they had then, especially mixed with her stupid choice of Wild Turkey shots. With a final dry sputter, she harshly spit one more time into the toilet, praying it was over. Gracelessly she fumbled with the toilet paper and peeled off a large strand that she dabbed at her mouth with. She had just raised her glossy cerulean eyes when complete horror paralyzed her.
Vegeta stood motionless in the doorway with an unreadable expression, which if Bulma had to guess, was a healthy mixture between shock and disgust.
"You Earth women are revolting." He finally said after a numbing pause of silence.
Anger shot through her veins so piercingly as if someone had taken a match to gasoline.
"Get the hell out of here you egotistical, nosy prick! If you want to talk revolting, have you smelled yourself after you get done training? That's revolting," She sputtered placing extra emphasis on her words due to her inebriated state.
His dark eyes soaked her in and she found herself pondering exactly what he saw; what was he thinking. He was shirtless and in loose navy training pants. Glistening perspiration illuminated his chest and face indicating that he had, in fact, most likely just completed a training session. A crumpled dove white towel was clenched in his right hand. He made a show of peering down at himself and then at her and the animal had the audacity to allow a slow, sadistic grin spread across his face.
"Such as at the present moment?"
"Get OUT you Saiya-jin monkey!"
In the blink of an eye, he was right behind her, no doubt using his Saiya-jin speed. Wordlessly he held the towel out to her and for a stunning instance she believed he was going to help her clean up.
Then she realized.
He had already used the towel to mop up his sweat and it was drenched in his salty after sparring odor. That same towel in which he was shoving in her face. Earsplitting screams of absolute horror erupted from her mouth and she flailed like a desperate fish attempting to return to the salvation of water. Her hands clawed at his slick skin urgently, and after a few more seconds had passed in excruciating slow motion, he released his hold on her and sauntered out of the bathroom chuckling the whole way.
At that second she discovered with dread that her stomach was not finished cleaning itself out and she found herself leaning over the seat retching again.
'I cannot stand that distasteful man.'
Sunlight probed its bright fingers straight into her eyes and Bulma found herself squinting in agitation. It was the next morning after her little fiasco the previous night and she was sitting at the kitchen counter wishing for once it was a dreary day. All she wore was a satin hot pink robe from Victoria's Secret, and her hair was pulled back off her face with a headband. She stirred the thick celery stick in her drink and contemplated taking another round of Advil.
Deciding against it for the moment, she flicked her eyes over to her Blackberry and then mentally scolded herself. She had by instinct been checking to see if Yamcha had called or texted her. He had not, of course. Not that it was a valid excuse, but it was part of the reason she had gone crazy last night at the bar. For yet another countless time Yamcha was up to his womanizing ways, and whenever she thought he had changed, she was slapped across the face to only discover that he had not.
Yesterday evening, she had headed out to the pub for a quick bite to eat and to enjoy a martini after unwinding from a busy, yet productive day.
It had not turned out to be so pleasing or simple.
Yamcha had been there with an attractive, thin brunette. If Bulma had to guess, who was years younger than she. She had found herself in an envious and wounded frenzy and scanned to pick out whatever flaws she could with this new skank. Then she had stopped herself; it was not this girl's fault. And she was above knocking someone else on those unwarranted grounds.
So to make a sloppy story short, it had been more than a martini.
The events of the evening blurred past her as pieces and pigments of dizzy color swam through her eyes.
"She's seriously only a friend, Bulma."
"Friends don't take the opposite gender 'friend' out to a bar alone, Yamcha."
"That's not true. We were just grabbing a drink to chat for a bit."
"Oh, so suddenly you're a social butterfly who merely just likes to talk in a bar, to a beautiful woman, and absolutely nothing else?"
"You're being a bit rudely absurd on this. You have to listen to me that it's meaningless."
"Right, because I'm out of line here. How old is she, anyway? Isn't she a little young for you?"
"What are you, jealous?"
Bulma laughed then, but it was dry and brittle; void of any warmth. "That was your final strike. Because clearly you know what you're doing gave me room to be jealous. So long, Yamcha."
Then following that heart-annihilating talk, were the temporarily soothing shots of whiskey. She recalled talking to strangers at the bar, dancing with these strangers, tipping exorbitantly high on her tab, the taxi ride home…Wait, there had been no taxi ride home. Then how had she…?
She quickly scrolled through her Blackberry's call history and her cheeks flamed at the memory.
Oh, Kami, have mercy. She could only imagine what Chi-Chi had thought!
Not wanting to dwell on that embarrassment, and knowing an apology was in order, her thoughts unwillingly floated back to the source of her hurt. Why had things gone so sour with Yamcha? He really was a good person. As was she, but they both had major flaws about them. Him, being a bit of a womanizer. Her, being hardheaded and carrying around the mentality that she was always right (which she was).
She desperately wanted things to work between them. It was on that thought when the branding tears stung her ocean eyes. However, she would not let them get past that point.
They had been through so much together.
A surge of spitefulness welled up inside of her and she found herself storming over to the small liquor cabinet. Through her fuzzy vision she yanked out the bottle of Grey Goose, and dumped a healthy amount into the previously nonalcoholic Bloody Mary she had been drinking. Due to the force of how abruptly she poured the spirits, some of the laced tomato juice splashed up onto the marble counter.
And that's when she saw him.
'Perfect timing, as usual.' She thought sarcastically and a bit defensive.
He looked at her; distant, unreachable, but there was something covered deep under the black blanket of his eyes.
Before she had time to contemplate it he was gone. Off to complete more training, without a doubt.
She didn't care.
He could mind his own damn Saiya-jin business.
"Bulma, you're not going to be happy about this."
It was later in the afternoon and she had been making feeble attempts at getting some work done. Bulma closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled deeply through her nose. Her head was pounding, her thoughts were muddled, and her vision was spotting.
"I can only imagine. What is it this time, Dad?"
Dr. Brief fumbled as if considering how to water down whatever he was about to tell her, but shrugged, deciding against it.
"Vegeta blew up the gravity room again."
Bulma could swear she was quite literally seeing red; that statement most certainly woke her up.
"What!" She shrieked, slamming down the blueprints for a new device she had been working on. "That untamed brute! I don't have time to fix or develop another one right now!"
"Bulma, sweetie —"
"How can you be so calm about this? Doesn't this strike you as just a big waste of time!"
"Yes, of course, but —"
"Ugh, forget about it right now. I need to be by myself."
Dr. Brief nodded in understanding and Bulma could feel his eyes on her back as she stormed from the room. She did not know where to begin. She was already behind in her assignments, and now she had to fix the gravity room on top of it. As much as she was loathe to admit it, and barely admit it to herself that she did, the whole falling out with Yamcha affected her more than it should. She had difficulty focusing and whenever she did, her thoughts were wandering. Not to mention, her quality of work had declined.
It was unacceptable.
Deciding her next strategy, she retrieved her initial blueprints for the Gravity Room and hesitated, not wanting to evaluate the damage quite yet.
Again, Yamcha's face floated through her mind and she scolded herself for being wretched; she had no time for this right now. She needed to distract herself, to numb her feelings, to get her work done. Tentatively setting the blueprints down, she faltered before she retrieved a glass from the cabinet. The bottle of vodka she had not put away from this morning remained sitting in the exact spot she left it. With an uncaring demeanor, she reached for it. That was when his voice stopped her.
"Why do you drink so much? Why put that in your body, woman?"
She ignored his first question with resentment rocketing through her. "What are you, stalking me? And my name is BULMA, so until you can get off your high-assed horse to address me as such, get out of my face."
"As you wish," he chuckled.
If Bulma didn't know any better, she would have to say he was enjoying this. That's when her wrath returned and she thrust an accusing finger at him. He picked the wrong moment to be getting in her business.
"And oh, would you look at who it is. The man who can't control himself to the point he destroys property."
Vegeta shrugged rather indifferently. "It concerns me little that your equipment is not up to par."
Bulma swallowed back the barbed words on her tongue. She titled her head haughtily. "Hardly the case, Peasant Vegeta. When push comes to shove, it comes down to one thing; you can't control yourself. If this were, hm…let's say, Goku, for fun of course, he'd have enough power and control to keep himself from blowing the capsule up."
Bulma could hardly contain her triumphant gloat when she deliciously absorbed in the expression of pure shock and indignation shadow Vegeta's face. Much to his credit, he lifted his chin up to match her arrogant sentiments and clenched his fists to his sides.
"Bulma. What have I told you about mentioning that third-class's name in a superior way – about insinuating he has more skill than me, nonetheless – and not addressing me formally?" He asked, trying to sound as superior as possible.
Bulma paused to consider that for a moment, "Hm…I think you told me not to do it." She sent him a winning smile, dismissing his complaints momentarily. "Now, are you going to tell me just what you plan on doing about blowing the training capsule up this time? In three years before the androids arrive, this could be a lot of money wasted on your lack of control."
"If you want to talk about lack of control," Vegeta nodded his head towards the bottle that was still within her fingertip reach, "That's a good place to start. There is nothing admirable about putting that poison into your body and then dealing with the after-effects. Look at yourself. Even now I can tell you are experiencing it."
Somehow receiving this commentary from Vegeta, a proud man who barely acknowledged her except for being a pompous ass, unsettled her. Its seed buried itself deep within her core.
"What the hell does it matter to you?" Amazing even herself, she did not blow up on him. Instead, she spoke in a deadly quiet tone.
Vegeta appeared to be mildly nonplussed at her question, or maybe her even asking it, but smoothly regained his composure.
"Because you won't be much help to me passed out and unable to fix the gravity machine, now would you?"
Defiantly, Bulma took a large swig from the bottle as if to show his words did not matter to her. To prove to him that she could care less. She would do as she pleased. However, there was a ghost in his expression; something indecipherable. She did not know the Saiya-jin man well enough to know what it was.
But for some reason she suddenly felt ashamed of her behavior.
Gingerly, she set the clear bottle of Goose down and she found the errant words spilling from her lips before she could stop them.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this. Me and Yamcha, that is. Things were finally supposed to work out. Now everything is wrong and I don't see how I can fix it." As soon as she had spoken, she regretted it.
Why would Vegeta care or even tolerate listening? Bulma herself loathed weakness and she sure as hell knew that Vegeta did as well. The man didn't even have any feelings besides feeling superior and the need to fight.
'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'
Vegeta remained there, unmoving and dark, with his feet firmly rooted to the ground. His muscular, tanned arms were still crossed over his swollen chest. But he did cock his head slightly to the side, as if to get a better look at her.
"Yamcha. That weak human man, the pathetic excuse for a warrior? Don't allow such a fool to get you to this state. You only allow people to affect you if you let them." Now the Saiya-jin prince did move to make his exit.
He moved with unbelievably quiet grace, and said one more thing on the way out of the kitchen. He tilted the side of his face to the right to carry his proud words to her ears.
"And you are better than that."
A/N: Hello there my victims! This is the much revised version of "Revelation to Vegeta" that was posted under my original account approximately 8 or more years ago. This does have a bit slow beginning, but I felt it was imperative to creative a sort of momentum before things spiral out of control. Also I am not trying to make Bulma a raging alcoholic, and please note that I am not here to bash Yamcha either, thanks. Comments, questions, reviews and much appreciated. Sincerely yours —