I have had severe writer's block these past few months. My dad being hospitalized twice in the past 8 months on top of acquiring another business while working my 9-5 job as well as my photography business with the expectation of being a loving wife to my husband and a caring friend to those around me has wiped my creativity completely clean. I haven't given up on this story, or Driven by Need, but lately writing has been a severe struggle for me overall. I will continue chipping away at writing my stories as long as there is someone, somewhere, who still wants to read them. If you feel obliged to leave a review, that would truly help my psyche. I would be honored to be gifted some positive energy from those still taking the time out of their busy day to get lost in my writing.

Special thanks to Springandbysummerfall...again. Our chats over wine on the lake, your listening to me grump about my writing and allowing me to inject insight into yours has meant to world to me. If it wasn't for you caring about my stories as much as I do - and lately what feels like more then myself - I would've abandoned this writing thing long ago. Thank you for pushing me forward when I need it and dragging me along when I'm being thick-headed and stubborn. This chapter is for you!

Dragging tired legs through the threshold, Bulma dumped her jacket just inside the door. Barely having any motivation to take her boots off, she stepped on the heel of each as she halfheartedly yanked her feet out of them. It was another long, grueling week of work and chores. If she wasn't in the lab trying to finish the government project that was well past it's due date then she was at home either under the hood of her car fixing her alternator…then serpentine belt…then the entire HVAC assembly that felt jealous of all the engine's attention.

Rubbing blurry and unfocused eyes too exhausted from hours of staring at screens and modular units being meticulously soldered together, she padded to the fridge. Empty shelves stared dumbly back at the pale face squinting through the bright light. A heavy sigh was all she could muster in response to the lonely shelves. Resting her head against the open door, Bulma closed her eyes. Irritation at both her roommate and herself for not doing any grocery shopping this past week seethed in rhythm with the rest of the week's failures.

Snatching the creamer from the fridge, Bulma settled on coffee for her after-work snack. Well, caffeine was more what she was after. Coffee was the warm, steamy, comforting vehicle she would use to get the energy elixir she craved to prepare for the evening's festivities.

The Briefs family Christmas party would commence in just a few short hours. Always on the Friday before Christmas, her mother and father hosted a party at their home. Well, her mother would be the one to throw the party. Her father, not objecting to the merriment of the holiday, reveled in the comfort of close friends gathered together to celebrate another holiday come and gone. Food, drink and conversation were never in short supply. It was always a cozy gathering with nothing too elaborately planned, outside of Christmas decorations vying for every inch of shelf and window space available, for the evening. Presents were rarely brought to the party. It was the unwritten policy that being surrounded by close friends and family was the true spirit of the holiday and would remain unspoiled by materialistic gifts.

Within minutes, Bulma had the coffee maker hissing to life as she waited for it to brew a pot of miracle liquid energy. Leaning on the counter, fists pressed into her cheeks to keep her head from drooping onto the counter, she stared at the dark bubbling liquid starting to pour from the machine and pool at the bottom of the carafe in all its steamy glory.

She watched the brewing pot in anxious exhaustion as she mulled over her week.

Her research and development team was officially in hot water with the government contract that had become the current bane of her existence. They had missed their deadline to get the defense technology out of beta testing and ready for practical live application. Her team had just ended the week trying desperately to push the project through completion to be delivered to the buyer. Every day the project was pushed back was another day they operated over budget and risked hefty fees in penalties. They were on the brink of completion but had to apply for two funding extensions that had already expired. The lack of product had spurred the Board to request a meeting with the department head on Monday. Bulma, being the current head of the department, knew that such a request was not a good sign. Before leaving work, she had pondered if the Board of Directors had the spine to actually fire the boss' daughter.

Pair the career disaster teetering on the horizon with her trying desperately to fix her car so she could actually get to work without hitching a ride from public transportation and the result was her running on fumes. She'd come home to replace her alternator only to accidentally shred the serpentine belt. Her lack of sleep after a fifteen hour workday was catching up to her with stupid rookie mistakes. That tacked on another round chores the next day only to find out that the HVAC system in the car was completely shot after her drove to work as frozen as a popsicle, complete with chattering teeth that didn't quiet themselves until lunchtime.

"Why don't you just get rid of that hunk of junk?" ChiChi had asked mid-week after a round of cursing punctuated with tool-throwing drew her friend to the garage to see what the commotion was about. "You make more than enough to buy a new car."

Bulma knew she was right. There was something about the stupid car that she loved, even with all of it's infuriating quirks. Maybe in the spring she would buy another car and retire her first set of wheels to a tinkering hobby.

Brew finally done, Bulma poured herself a cup with one hand as the other supported her lulling head. Mixing in the milk and some sugar, she stirred absentmindedly barely noticing the creamy milk swirl and dance with the dark coffee. The thought of last weekend with Vegeta tugged annoyingly at her. Successfully locking it away the entire week with the assistance of stress and lack of sleep, it finally found a way to claw itself out of the pit she had banished it to with quite the vengeance.

She was so incredibly confused by him. He was an infuriating puzzle that she despised. She hated trying to make sense out of him but his interactions with her nagged at her. It was like a scab that she knew would start bleeding incessantly the moment she picked at it but it was there and it was irritating and she just couldn't leave the damned thing alone.

How does a person go from heartlessly humiliating someone to transform into a concerned Samaritan that saves the reluctant damsel. Then – THEN – makes a complete turn around and rejects them with a lame excuse that they have to work in the morning. On a Saturday. After one of the worst snowstorms in recent memory. Who does that?!

She didn't even understand why she felt compelled to want to do anything with him. He was just some power hungry rich asshole who wanted nothing more than to make sure she was safe. And warm. And taken care of.

No, Bulma thought as she shook her head to rid herself of the last thoughts scrolling through her mind. Not him with his stupid tall hair. Those soul-sucking eyes on his stupid face. His stupid…square-jawed…masculine face atop those Adonis muscles that I need to feel under my…

"What the hell." Bulma grumbled to herself as she picked up her coffee, sipping it cautiously, disgusted at herself.

What was wrong with her? Did she have some form of Stockholm syndrome? He did pluck her from the road against her will…even if she probably would have frozen to death if he didn't accidentally find her when he did. But that shouldn't matter because she didn't want to get in the car with him and she didn't want to go to his house. ChiChi could have risked her life to brave the storm to pick her up at a gas station and taken her to safety…right?

Even Bulma rolled her eyes at that.

Tipping her head back towards the ceiling, Bulma closed her eyes to try to get the image of Vegeta in his kitchen and lost in troubled thought out of her head. For the first time conversation flowed easily between them. The calculating comments melted into playful banter. They relaxed as each lowered their guard over a treaty offering of decadent chocolate mousse.

Then he had to ruin their silent parlay by bringing up her job.

Then she had to destroy it with fast anger dripping with insecurity. He expertly saw through her veil of defensive indignation.

And then…

Her stomach flipped when she thought about the way he looked at her – like everything that she scrutinized as a flaw in herself was barely a speck of inconsequential dirt that could be easily brushed away. Her kissing him…his lazy response with returning it as if he had nothing better to do then take his time against her lips…

Bulma's eyes shot open with a start. "Nope," she said firmly. Taking another sip of coffee, her imagination whispered the ways he could quell the ache he had stirred in her. "Nope, nope, nope," she repeated and put her cup down. She wasn't going to be a party to that fantasy, as enticing as it was.

Resolving to distract herself from her work-car-Vegeta woes, Bulma headed upstairs to get ready for the party.

She could relive her evening with Vegeta later.

Or tomorrow.

Or never.

The Briefs home was abuzz with holiday cheer. People laughed as they enjoyed appetizers scattered about the living room on festive charger plates. Every seat cushion was occupied with warm conversation and happy smiles. Most hugged and reminisced over the past year as they caught up with each other's happenings. Friends who became close enough to be considered family shared inappropriate jokes that flew like rapid-fire drawing boisterous laughter from some and looks of offended distaste from others.

An elegant Douglas fir dripping with ornaments of crimson and white was the centerpiece of the living room. White lights intertwined through its branches glowed warmly for the crowd. A neat band of silver garland tucked among the soft blue green needles spiraled upwards around the tree to end at a nickel-brushed star shining above. The fireplace glowing behind it adding to the comfortable heat of the room. Evergreen swag adorned the mantle as an extravagant collection of holiday themed nutcrackers crowded haphazardly atop it.

It was a cozy gathering packed into a usually roomy space.

Bulma stirred the untouched eggnog with a disgusted face before slipping into the kitchen. Reaching for the whisky and bitters, she expertly mixed an Old Fashioned for herself – her father's favorite holiday drink that she had grown to love herself – from her father's private liquor cabinet. She took her cocktail and entered the living room unnoticed to join ChiChi and Goku on the couch.

"Hey stranger." ChiChi was all smiles and cheer as she stood to hug Bulma. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!"

Bulma returned her hug. "I know," she pulled away to bend down and give Goku a quick hug before sitting down. "Work has been absolutely insane these past few days."

"I was wondering what happened to you lately." ChiChi nudged Goku playfully in the ribs with a wink. "If it wasn't for her tantrum in the garage, I don't think I would've seen her all week."

"You're still driving that old rust bucket?" Goku laughed. "I thought you would have gotten rid of it after it left you stranded on the side of the road."

Bulma playfully stuck her tongue out at him. "How can I just abandon my first car? It's been so good to me for too long. Just because she's well past her prime doesn't mean she should be thrown away."

"You women are so overly attached to things." Goku shook his head in wonder. "It's a car. I'm sure it'll get over it."

"Speaking of being stranded in the snow…" ChiChi turned to her and leaned over. "Whatever happened with Vegeta?" She asked with hushed excitement.

Despite her stomach jumping nervously at the sound of his name, Bulma waved her hand dismissively. "Nothing happened. We had dinner, we talked for a bit then we went to bed. Well, he went to bed. I slept on the couch." Taking a sip from her glass, Bulma tried to suppress the awkward grin spreading across her face.

Wide-eyed, ChiChi leaned in closer. "Liar!" She hissed with playful annoyance while jabbing Bulma pointedly in the thigh. "You are a rotten liar, Ms. Bulma Briefs, and you should know that I can always tell when you're lying."

Bulma's cheeks started to heat and she quickly looked away from her friend to study the room full of people that suddenly became more enthralling then her current conversation. "Nothing happened, per se…" Her voice trailed off as she stole a glance at ChiChi hanging onto her every word with anticipation. "We just…kissed…that's all. Nothing to get overly excited about."

With a gasp followed by a squeal of excitement, ChiChi put her drink down and grabbed Bulma by the shoulders. "How was it? Was he a good kisser? Do you have a thing for him? Does he have a thing for you? Are you going to see him again? Have you seen him again already? Tell me everything!"

"Jeeze, take a breath." Bulma tried to unsuccessfully pull herself out of ChiChi's grip and looked helplessly at Goku. He obviously just started paying attention to their conversation by his confused look.

"Who did you kiss?" He asked innocently.

"Seriously?" Bulma shook her head at Goku. "You're not allowed to take her to see romantic comedies anymore." She groused as she finally peeled ChiChi off her.

"Sorry, I have a lot on my mind." Flashing his big, warm smile, Goku scratched the back of his head nervously. "Well…um…I think I'm going to talk with Dr. B and see how he's doing."

Once Goku excused himself, ChiChi scooted almost on top of Bulma. A worried look crossed her face as she watched him shake hands with Bulma's father.

"I'm worried about him." ChiChi whispered. "He's been acting odd all week."

"Why?" Bulma asked, relieved for the change in topic. "What's been going on?"

"Well, we've been moving all of my stuff back into his place and…I don't know…he doesn't seem too thrilled about it. He keeps acting so particular about where he wants me to put my things and what drawers I'm not allowed to touch. He seems so agitated whenever I question him about it and we've had a few fights. It's not like we weren't living together before I moved in with you. I'm not even sure this is a good idea." Tears started to brim her eyes as the words stuck in her throat. "Do you think he might be second guessing my moving back in? Do you think he wants to break up with me? "

"Wait." Bulma held up her hand in paused confusion, barely focusing on anything past ChiChi's first sentence. "What do you mean moving your stuff out?"

"Didn't you get the note I left you in your pile of mail?" ChiChi asked.

Bulma shook her head no. She barely had time to shower. Mail was on the lowest rung of her priority list.

"Why do you think you haven't seen me at the house all week? I know you've been busy but gosh…I thought you'd at least notice that my stuff is gone."

Bulma sat back trying to digest this new information. "You wrote it in a note?" Bulma didn't try to hide her disbelief. "You couldn't have found any time to tell me to my face?"

"You were so busy and you were barely home!" ChiChi protested. "What was I supposed to do? Wait outside your bedroom like an abandoned puppy until you finally decided to come back to get some sleep?"

Bulma knew she was right. The past week's failures seemed to become even heavier on her already weighted shoulders. Bulma had stretched herself too thin at work and after coming home she hid in the garage. Trying to bury herself in her work had usually been cathartic but not when it was the source of her stress. It seemed everyone's lives were moving forward unhinged as she remained in utter solidarity.

Her job was at risk of being pulled out from under her. Her old faithful car that she adored from the moment she bought it with her own earnings was on its last frustrating leg. To add insult to injury, her best friend – her rock in the cataclysm that was Yamcha and what felt like everything left in his wake – was leaving her now, too.

"Come on Bee," ChiChi reached towards her, cooing sympathetically. "You know moving in was temporary to help while things settled down and you worked things out. It's been a couple of months now and I need to get back focusing on my relationship with Goku before it's too late. We've been talking about it for a few weeks and we both think it's time. I'm always here for you but I need to take care of myself, too."

I need to take care of myself, too.

The sentence resonated deep in her chest. It was the last phrase Yamcha yelled at her as he was picking up the clothes she had chucked out of her bedroom window and onto the front lawn.

The something ugly inside of her that fed on the misfortunes she had faced, nurtured by her insecurities and doubt, started to roil. Hot anger started to rise rapidly. So as not to cause a scene at her parents' party, Bulma froze an icy smile on her face. "It's okay," she said a little too high pitched. Clearing her throat she continued, "I understand. You need to put your relationship with Goku first and I can't blame you for that. If you'll excuse me," Bulma swallowed the rest of her drink and stood, "I need to get a refill."

Ignoring ChiChi's protesting, Bulma escaped into the kitchen. Breathing rapidly and trying to ignore the walls closing in as the loud rumbling in her ears became almost deafening – was this what a panic attack felt like? – she opened her father's liquor cabinet and pulled out the first bottle she wrapped her hand around. Her chest constricted as she gasped for air. Twisting off the cap, she threw it aside and took a swig straight from the bottle. Her throat burned as she gulped, the nutty flavor of citrus-y Christmas filling her mouth. Slamming the bottle down, she leaned forward as she desperately clutched the counter holding her up.

She knew she was overreacting. The simmering ball of self-loathing in her stomach was beginning to release its grip. Feeding it liquor seemed to be the only thing that made it go away lately.

She was already starting to think a little clearer. She wasn't even that upset at ChiChi – she didn't do anything wrong. She had every right to move back in with Goku and continue her life where she abruptly left off so she could take care of Bulma. ChiChi didn't even know that her words was a ghost of Yamcha's.

It was just the culmination of events finally crumbling down around her.

She was being left behind.

Again.

The world was trudging forward silently and indifferently while Bulma was helplessly stuck watching it pass by.

With another swig of Gin, Bulma capped the bottle with a sad resolve. She would get through the evening then barricade herself in her room until she had to face the Board of Directors in Monday.

Only a few more hours she told herself as she shelved the liquor.

When she entered the living room, all conversation had stopped. A hushed excitement whispered through the gathering as everyone's attention was directed at the two figures in front of the Christmas tree.

Goku was on one knee holding the hand of a beaming, awestruck, teary-eyed ChiChi.

"…and I love you with all of my heart ChiChi," Goku continued his proclamation as Bulma stepped a little further into the room. "Will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

Throwing her arms around Goku's neck, ChiChi looked like she would float to the ceiling with elation. "Yes! Of course I will!"

They kissed each other as the room erupted in cheers. Everyone hooped and hollered with joy as Goku scooped ChiChi in his arms and spun her around. As soon as she was planted back on the ground, ChiChi made her way over to Bulma while Goku was clapped on the back and accepted handshakes in congratulations.

"Bulma!" ChiChi yelled over the hum of the room as she thanked those who stopped her to offer their best wishes. "Can you believe it?"

"No, no I can't." she replied honestly as ChiChi finally got close enough to hug. She forced a smile trying not to ruin her best friend's moment as the simmering of her self-loathing started to reignite. "I'm so happy for you Cheech. I'm glad Goku finally popped the question and I'm glad I was able to see it."

She meant every word she said but she knew her words sounded as empty as she felt. The sincerity of her words fell flat before they even left her lips.

ChiChi pulled away and studied Bulma with narrowed eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Everything's fine." Bulma took a step back waving a hand dismissively. "I'm just not feeling too well right now with the stress of everything. Plus I had some of my mom's eggnog and you know how that is. I shoulda known better then to have some but you know what a tradition it is around here." She lied with a shrug of her shoulders.

ChiChi's head tilted to the side still unconvinced. "Seriously Bulma, what's going on?"

It felt like the walls were starting to close in on her. Bulma tried to concentrate on breathing as the rumbling noise began to fill her head again. "Nothing at all." Bulma held her hands up and started to back away. "I'm just feeling sick from the eggnog. Enjoy the party and congratulations, again. We can grab dinner and start brainstorming wedding ideas after the holidays." Bulma gave her a weak smile.

"Oh!" ChiChi clasped her hands at the thought of planning her future nuptials. "Planning the wedding is going to be so much fun! Do you promise?"

"Yup, Girl Scout's honor." Bulma said as she held up three fingers with a wink. "Now go enjoy the party and let my parents know I wasn't feeling well. I'll see you later."

With a smile, ChiChi nodded and went to join her new fiancé's side. Relieved her distraction of wedding planning worked, Bulma grabbed her purse and jacket as she slipped out the back door.

Bulma was still undecided if she had resolved to going to a bar or if it was fated that she ended up there. Either way, there was a bottom to a glass that was drowning in liquor and she knew she had to save it.

As soon as the bartender topped off the shot glass in front of her, Bulma had emptied it and slammed it down for another. As she waited for her refill – she lost count somewhere after the fifth one – she sipped on her whisky as the ice clinked softly against the glass.

Bulma sat at the bar eyeing the crowd around her. The place was surprisingly full for a Friday evening. It was mostly an after work crowd long past winding down and well into friendly drinks and conversation. A few tables were decorated by ugly Christmas sweaters while others were dressed for a night on the town after a quick stop at the local watering hole for cheap drinks.

Feeling disgustingly sorry for herself, Bulma wasn't sure if she was more mad at herself or her recently unfortunate fate of loneliness. With every shot she downed, the distinct line of world versus herself began to blur. Her nose was already numb and her upper lip was quickly following suit. She didn't bother to eat anything after work and her dinner of an Old Fashioned with a side of straight Gin had already made her start to feel fuzzy before getting her drink on at the bar.

Now she was determined to drink until she couldn't feel anymore. Her numb nose was a good indicator that she was heading in the right direction.

A young man slid into the seat beside her and signaled to the bartender. He gave Bulma a wink as he ordered a drink.

Placing a wobbly elbow on the table, Bulma leaned her head into her hand and flashed him her most sultry smile. Maybe a distraction to prove to the world that she could still be desirable was just what the doctor ordered.

Her visitor inched closer to her and rested a hand on the back of her chair. She smiled when he glanced at her cleavage before meeting her eye.

"What's a beautiful thing like you doing in a place like this?" His words slid from his mouth as easily as any well-oiled pickup line.

She could instantly see through his words and see where he hoped the conversation would go.

Screw it, she thought as she feigned a shy smile in return. I deserve to feel sexy, don't I?

"Waiting for a guy like you to rescue me." Bulma smiled, leaning over and placing her hand on his thigh. She giggled at how stupid that sounded coming out of her mouth. Distractedly, she slid her hand towards his groin only to stop a few inches from his crotch.

Her visitor seemed to appreciate it as he licked his lips and glanced downwards again. He picked up his glass and gestured with it towards hers. "I'm glad I got here just in time." He said as Bulma followed suit.

"Me too." Bulma clinked her glass against his and they both took a drink. "So tell me," Bulma inched in closer to made sure he had an unobstructed view down her shirt. He licked his lips again and took another drink. In a husky voice she slurred, "What do you think Santa does with a girl who has been very, very naughty?"

His eyes widened as he coughed, choking on his drink. Grabbing for a napkin to wipe the drink he just spit all over himself and the bar, he cleared his throat as his face reddened. Bulma waited patiently, head resting on her hand, as he regained his composure.

Taking another sip, this time more successfully, he brushed her hair aside and ran his finger under the collar of her shirt. "Do you know what makes Santa so jolly?" When she shook her head no he whispered in her ear, "because he knows where all the bad girls live."

She felt a shiver run down her spine as his breath tickled her ear. She smiled at the face that was starting to blur.

It took less time then she thought for her horrible week – horrible year – to finally slide away quietly. The tendrils of her anger and hate had loosened her grip as the room around her faded away. All that was left was this warm body beside her wanting to be with her. Even if it was empty - a temporary distraction so they could use each other as a means to an end - it was something she could lose herself in for a little while.

A man who had taken notice of her.

Head lulling towards her drink, she giggled to herself as she brought it to her face. Taking the time to concentrate on getting the drink to her mouth she felt herself melting away. Her suitor whispered something about his place.

He made mention of what he'd like to do to a naughty girl on Santa's list and she laughed appropriately in response even though she had no idea what he had said.

He was standing now, gently pulling her from her chair as he reached for her jacket and purse.

Stumbling a bit before finding her feet, she squinted in confusion at the hand that wasn't hers holding on to her escort's shoulder.

The man's face scrunched in anger at the newcomer standing between her and him. They were exchanging heated words that were teetering on an escalation to a fight. Concentrating hard, she tried to make sense of what they were saying.

"Look buddy," a familiar voice said firmly, hand fisting in anger. "I already told you that she's not going home with you. I'm taking her home."

"Fine." Her new flirtatious friend spat in disgust. "I don't need that whore anyway. She's so easy, who knows who the hell's been between her legs."

His words sliced through the haze of her drunkenness. They would have been less painful if he slapped her across the face instead.

"What did you just say to me?!" She shrieked as she stumbled forward towards his retreating figure. Steady hands held her back as she attempted to loom towards her new-friend-turned-foe's direction. "What the FUCK did you just say to me?!"

Turning to push herself away from her oppressor, she was staring straight into Yamcha's face. "What the hell are you doing here?" She hissed angrily.

"I stopped in to meet up with some friends." Yamcha said matter-of-fact as held her at arm's length but not letting her go. "Now I'm going to take you home, instead."

She unsuccessfully tried to yank one of her arms away from him. "Let me goooooo." She whined. "I don't need you're help-" she poked him in the chest "-at aaaall." Another attempt at ripping herself away was partially successful as she skidded sideways knocking her bar stool over.

Releasing her as soon as the chair clattered in protest against the floor, Yamcha shook his head and sighed. The conversations around them lulled as nearby patrons nosily looked to see what the commotion was. Someone clapped in congratulations while another rudely yelled out Opa! as a few others snickered at her.

"Apparently." A red-faced Yamcha muttered as he righted the fallen casualty from Bulma's tantrum.

Still indignant that she didn't need or want anyone's help, she was reluctantly lead out of the bar.

"Will you please just –"

The front door swung open violently and Bulma stumbled onto her knees inside.

"Bulma I just need you to –"

Feeling Yamcha trying to help her up, she brushed him off angrily and staggered to her feet. Trying to take off her jacket, the floor decided to lurch under foot. She fell sideways into the open closet, dragging the coats off their hangers and piling on top of her.

"I swear to Kami..." Yamcha grumped in exasperation as he hauled her out of the closet.

"I'm fine Yamee." Bulma sarcastically cooed.

Yamcha's face scrunched in hurtful reminiscence of her old pet name for him. "Your definition and my definition of fine are completely different." He mumbled, watching her unsteadily kick off her shoes and zigzag into the kitchen.

She was a woman on a mission, squinty eyed and determined, as she threw open the freezer. Plunging her arm into the icy fog greeting her, she smiled to herself as her hand withdrew a bottle of Crown whiskey. The glass was a welcoming cold caress cradled by her hot skin.

As she was rummaging in the cabinet for a glass, Yamcha tsked in disapproval.

"I didn't ask you to bring me home." Bulma said simply as she filled half of her glass with the frosty amber nectar.

He stood in silent judgement as half of the liquid disappeared down her throat.

Stopping to catch her breath, Bulma turned to him with the sexiest look she could muster. "Why did you bring me home, Yamee?" Her flirtation had such a sharp edge of sarcasm to it that Yamcha flinched.

"Bulma, you're drunk." Yamcha stated flatly.

"Aaaaaaand?" Bulma asked as she closed the gap between them. She pulled at the top button of his shirt, fumbling to unbutton it. "You've seen me drunk before. I remember you used to like it."

She pouted as Yamcha stilled her hand. Bending over, his nose almost brushing against hers, he held the hand gripping at his collar. The other gently pried the glass she clutched out of her grip. "That was a long time ago, Bee." He said gently. "I think it's time for bed."

The words burned at the numbness that wrapped around her. Finally, finally, she had been in a place where the internal voice mocking her these past few months was finally drowning. It was the only effective way she knew how to shut it up. But Yamcha dragging her out of the bar and now his reminder of their failed romance gave the monstrous thing a life raft. It gulped at this new gift of fresh air as it spewed out what a failure she had become.

Despite the rejection, she was in no mood for her evening to abruptly end. She had to shut it up. Making Yamcha uncomfortable in his own skin the way he made her feel in hers? That sounded like a fun idea.

"Is that a proposition?" Bulma batted her eyes innocently as she turned her face up to his. "Are you implying that you want to take me to bed?"

A look of shocked disbelief crossed Yamcha's face as he took a protective step away from her. He held his hands up cautiously. "Hey now," he stammered. "You know that's not what I meant."

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Bulma snatched her glass from the counter. "Oh, I'm pretty sure I know what you meant." Tipping back another sip, she swayed her hips back and forth as she walked into the living room. Calling over her shoulder, "Coming Yamee?" she sauntered over to the radio.

Missing Yamcha's cursing under his breath as the beats of the newest music hits filled the room, Bulma's hips began to sway. Feeling the music pulse through her as she stroked at the embers of her buzz, she met Yamcha at the couch.

Somewhere between a protest and her answering laughter, she pushed Yamcha on the couch through her renewed haze. Concentrating on the music, she stood between his legs with hips gyrating seductively. Pulling her shirt off, only a slight hiccup when her shirt became stuck causing her to almost fall on top of Yamcha, she bent over her frozen guest. With one hand on the couch to steady herself, Bulma tugged at the buttons on his shirt with the other until they popped open.

"Bulma," Yamcha protested weakly, "You seriously need to stop."

"Mmmmm?" she answered distractedly. She could tell he still wanted her. Even though he threw their relationship aside for some air-headed star-struck bimbo, she could tell he still yearned to touch her.

Almost predictably, his hands began to raise. He gently rested his hands against her shoulders. His fingers held her firmly as…

…as he stopped her advances…

…as he pushed her off of him…

…as he cleared his throat as uncomfortable silence filled the growing crevice between them…

"Yamcha," Bulma whined with stinging tears rimming her vision. "Yamcha…I...I think…" She hung her head in shame as the cold rejection settled somewhere between her swimming haze and numb indifference.

She could feel it in the pit of her stomach. It twisted her insides and burned at her throat. It was something familiar that she knew no good could come from.

"…I think I'm going to be sick…"

Her observation was little warning for the helpless man under her. There was no time to throw herself towards the bathroom as her horrible decisions of coping came racing back up in unwelcome reminder. There was no controlling the smelly concoction of alcohol and bile that was emptied onto the horrified person who was trapped in digested disbelief at his unfortunate situation.

"Bulma!" He screeched between her taking a breath and retching a second time all over his front. "Goddammit Bulma!"

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed, too drunk to stand up straight and too horrified at what she had just done to collapse onto the couch. "Yamcha, I'm so sorry."

Needing to get closer to the ground as the room spun around her, Bulma sank to her knees. Covering her face in horrified embarrassment, her entire body shook as she cried over what she had just done.

"Fuck!" Yamcha yelled as he held his arms away from the wet mass of stink that covered his shirt and pants. A string of obscenities followed him as he stomped towards the laundry room. Mortified, Bulma stayed rooted to her spot until Yamcha lumbered angrily back wearing only his boxers.

"Yamcha…" Bulma mumbled weakly as she looked up at the man towering over her.

"It's time for you to go to sleep." He grabbed her wrist and firmly pulled her to her feet. "Can you walk?"

She nodded weakly as she allowed herself to be led to her bedroom. Yamcha carefully undressed her, despite his irritation, as she whimpered in childlike helplessness. The foul taste in her mouth mixed with the churning of the room around her was making her sick again. Closing her eyes to try and stop the spinning, her vertigo intensified as her stomach lurched in confused protest.

Cold metal was shoved into her hands. Thankful for her bathroom garbage can, she emptied her stomach into it as her caregiver looked down his nose with arms crossed in disapproval.

"I'm sorry," she weakly apologized again, sobs shaking her.

Yamcha took the can away and helped her slip under the sheets. He drew the blankets to her chin.

"I'll be downstairs on the couch." He said flatly. "The garbage can is next to your bed if you need to throw up again." It felt like an eternity before he flicked her lights off and shut her door leaving her alone in the darkness.