The shrill tones of Bulma's ranting assaulted his ears as he entered the house. Vegeta debated avoiding her altogether—no good could come of dealing with her when she was like this. However, several hours of training and a growling stomach convinced him to endure whatever fresh hell awaited him in the kitchen.

"Yes, Dad, all of them! Every single goddamned one came back as either rejected or revise and resubmit (R&R). How is that even possible?" Bulma stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at a stack of letters on the kitchen table.

Her mother spread her hands in a helpless gesture, her omnipresent smile somehow dimmed. Bulma's father was flipping through a couple other letters, making "hmmm" noises.

Vegeta said nothing, simply trying to get some food and get the hell out of there.

"Oh! Vegeta!" Bulma's mother exclaimed, her smile back to its 100-watt level. "Let me fix you something to eat."

He grunted his assent. Her food was exceptional.

Bulma pierced him with an angry glare, as if he were somehow to blame for whatever mess she'd found herself in, before turning back to her father.

Don't ask. Do not engage. Get your food and leave.

"I'm sorry, dear. This is disappointing. Both of us put in a lot of time and energy into the research, and I must say, I'm surprised. But I guess we'll have to do as they ask," Dr. Briefs said calmly.

"It's not even the content! The science is flawless—you know that. They even said that. 'The research is phenomenal, Dr. Briefs,'" she said mockingly.

"Mmm…" Her dad stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Then whatever could it be, sweetie?"

"The stupid grammar and style! One of them, when I called about a third R&R, had the audacity to tell me that he had never seen that level of utter disregard for the basic rules of grammar, mechanics, and punctuation, nor such blatant denial of the problem. To me. Me! Bulma Briefs!"

Vegeta massaged his ears, trying in vain to ignore the ice pick driving into his skull as she screeched her displeasure.

Mrs. Briefs handed him a plate laden with sandwiches, and he hastened to escape when Bulma's next words gave him pause.

"I mean, really. Who even cares about grammar or some old style manual if the research is sound?"

She said it flippantly, but underneath the cavalier attitude, Vegeta heard the faint trace of pain and frustration in her voice. Shit.

He wasn't one for overt displays of emotion or affection, and few would ever accuse him of being romantic. However, one thing was undeniable. Vegeta loved his wife, and he would do almost anything—preferably involving violence—to prevent her unhappiness.

He heaved a long-suffering sigh and sat down at the table, shoving papers aside to make room for his plate of sandwiches.

"Woman, what the hell are you going on about?" He affected a tone of annoyance. It wouldn't do for people to think he was getting soft, after all.

She looked slightly startled at his query. Then, hands clenching letters and flapping wildly, she explained.

"We've submitted research articles to several scholarly journals regarding some recent experiments and findings, especially those involving the gravity room. Yet for months now, they've all either been rejected entirely or sent back as 'revise and resubmit' because of grammar and style."

He chewed his sandwich and nodded, waving her his hand at her to continue.

"That's about the gist of it, Vegeta. What more is there to say?"

Vegeta washed down the last bite of his current sandwich with a gulp of iced tea. "Let me see it."

"Huh?" Her eyes widened.

"Did I stutter, woman? I said, let me see it."

At Vegeta's combative tone, Dr. and Mrs. Briefs excused themselves. Truth be told, they were happy to be free of Bulma's tirade.

Too surprised to do anything other than comply, Bulma retrieved a tablet, tapped on it a few times, and passed it to him.

Vegeta started scanning the document as he reached for another sandwich. Though it pained him to acknowledge that some—some!—of the science was above him, he had sufficient enough knowledge to comprehend the overall scope of their research and discussion. Besides, he took a significant amount of pride in being mated to such a highly respected genius. A prince deserved no less, after all.

That being said, the more he read, the more appalled he became, and at a couple points, Vegeta nearly chocked on his sandwich in horror.

"Gods, woman. Do you always write in such a fashion?"

While Vegeta had intended to sound harsh, condescending, instead it came out almost reverent, as though he were in awe of how truly terrible her grammar and mechanics were. And actually, he was. In all his years, he'd never seen an intelligent, educated person commit the atrocities she had with written discourse.

"What the hell does that mean, Vegeta?" she snapped, and he caught the barest shimmer of tears in her narrowed eyes.

Oh, fuck. No. No, no, no.

"It means your science is brilliant, but you need a fucking editor. Don't get pissy—I'll handle it." He knew he'd regret it, and he damned all those scholarly journals to hell for having standards, though he could hardly blame them for rejecting the article.

Bulma's jaw dropped, and her eyes sprang open, wide. It would've been comic, were he not irritated at how much time this was going to take out of his training schedule.

Then, Bulma's expression shifted to one of wariness and doubt. "Wait a minute… Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Tch. Woman, consider to whom you're speaking. I might seem like just another battle-crazed meathead to some ignorant fools, but I assure you, the prince of all Saiyans had the finest of tutors growing up. And I pride myself on maintaining superior skills in all facets of life, such as it is on this backwater planet, not the least of which is effective written communication."

Vegeta turned the tablet toward her and began pointing things out.

"First, that needs to be italicized. And this study is missing its publication date. Here, here, and here, you need to replace the semicolon with a comma. That pronoun doesn't agree with its antecedent…plural, not singular… You've innumerable homophone errors—I-T-apostrophe-S is not interchangeable with I-T-S. And there, an em dash would do nicely."

"Em…dash?" Bulma asked weakly, her eyes beginning to glaze over.

"Tch. And you doubt my abilities?" He snorted derisively. "Be glad I married you before I learned how atrocious your grammar is." The corners of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly, but it did not escape Bulma's notice.

"You… You're making fun of me!" she complained, though she smiled while doing so.

Vegeta shrugged. Then he grabbed her chin in one white-gloved hand, staring into her face intensely.

"Now, listen. Not a word of this to anyone. I'm serious. If you do, not only will I stop helping you, but I'll also be so pissed I might accidentally blow something up. Got it?" It was an idle threat, but he had a reputation to uphold, damnit.

She jerked her chin out of his hand and scowled, but nodded.

"Good." He leaned close and captured her lips in a quick kiss, leaving her stunned and utterly speechless. Mission accomplished.

Vegeta stood. "I prefer to edit on paper, so print out what I need, and I'll start tonight," he said over his shoulder on his way back to the gravity room.

And that is how Vegeta became Bulma's—and Dr. Brief's—personal and unexpected editor.

AN: This particular plot bunny has loitered around for a while, and since it refused to go away, I finally just got it down on paper (figuratively speaking…). It originated with a goofy headcanon idea I posted on tumblr (dbz-senji).
Thanks for reading!