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It's a chilly mid-spring day, a normal Thursday with honking hovercars filling busy streets and people shrouding the sidewalk in a kaleidoscopic mess of colorful patterns.
Nary anybody else wears a smile as satisfied as the one standing proud at the entrance of the local museum. Manicured - even if there's still some nibbled nail masterfully concealed under layers of peach nail-polish - hands on round hips and chest thrusted out in the wind, Bulma today is radiant as she hasn't been in months. She inhales the fresh ozone-smelling air and her eyes shine. Why? Because today, after days of negotiations and sleepless nights she finally got her cranky husband on the streets, with her, on a real date.
"Isn't it a magnificent day?" She breathes out and steals a glance at her companion, who looks so uncomfortable that he could jump out of his skin at the minimum amount of external disturbance.
But still, the man dominates every inch of concrete he's standing on; five steps away from her, but lurking over her shadow like an intimidating loanshark. His response is a stiff grunt, that tenses those arms tightly forced against his chest even more, if possible; and suggestively - she'd dare add - makes the first collar button of his shirt ready to burst-pop at each breath. That's why she loves casually imposing shirts that are one size smaller on him, but Vegeta doesn't have to know that. And he will not.
As she crosses the threshold of the imposing building he's right behind her, retracing every step she takes like a predator on a hunt. But he does that with nonchalant dexterity, looking away and bothered - scanning the area as if some impending menace would jump on them from every corner - ready for battle, always.
But she doesn't mind, today she's wearing fucking heels and nothing can go wrong. Unless, Son decides to defy some foody God again, but she has made sure to take care of that beforehand by seducing Whis into keeping that foolhardy walking pandemic and his posse at bay.
Just a couple of hours, she doesn't need longer to feel normal in the abnormal chaos that's her life.
Seeing her strolling in the city must be like witnessing a miracle, because the curator of the museum just tossed at her two passes with the brightest smile on his face. She tried to put one around Vegeta's neck but he slipped away like angry soap. Oh well.
Once they're in, it still doesn't feel quite like a date. It's more like she's leading an expedition to some picturesque Inferno and Vegeta is her bodyguard. This won't do. Clicking her tongue, she makes sure to slow down enough to be side by side. That alien of a husband of her doesn't seem to notice, so she slips closer, so that their knuckles can casually brush from time to time. This is both thrilling and childish, because what fucking married couple doesn't even hold hands in public without having one of them freaking out? Them, apparently. To think that Vegeta isn't even the shy type, on the contrary, he's pretty proactive in the intimacy of their house… far away from… whatever form of life that's not them, even their kids. Again, she sighs with a smile. Gotta love the Saiyan for what he is. In the end, nobody asked her to stick with him; she did because he's got his awkward charms - and six packs of pure branding cattle testosterone under his clothes.
Suddenly, thought, their silent stroll among art she hasn't even glanced at stops abruptly, together with Vegeta. He seems attracted by one very quirky piece of work, which is basically an ugly, rotten fruit sitting on a little bed made of chopsticks.
"I know," she stalks next to him, tilting her head at the thing - "it's cruel to waste food that could be in your stomach."
Oh, she knows him, she knows him so well. "I should have destroyed this planet a long time ago." His comment is dry, disgusted even, "nothing good can come from a race that bargains rotten food for checks."
"Well, that might be actually true. But the concept of aesthetic is subjective. It's like our wedding, people couldn't believe I was marrying you, but you looked handsome to me."
Vegeta loses it all when she's this cheesy, it's like when a calm river finds rapids on its course and all the water spills everywhere. He's learned to be a bit more conspicuous about it, so this time his only reaction is the line of his shoulders jumping a bit and shrieking the moment later.
"I guess," she goes on, casually grabbing his hand and cushioning his arm between her breasts, "that the real charm of this stuff is in the names they come up with. I mean, who wouldn't buy a Moribund Banana?"
"Idiots who squander credits on futile shit like you," he spits, shouldering away from her attempted cuddle again and walking to the forefront. She lets him go, shrugging. "I would if I liked it. But I don't, so we're not bringing this home, you happy?"
Their lack of communication would have sent her bonkers just a few years ago. She doesn't quite pair well with reserved people, boisterous and lively is her trademark. However, silence is never empty with him. He fills it with glances and gestures, with suppressed sighs and all the will he's putting into doing this for her, for them. And she appreciates that. One step at a time, slowly, there's a whole life ahead… hopefully.
"Look, that looks like a painting we'd want to buy." This time she makes sure he can't flee, and runs by his side again, artfully sliding her arm under his and gripping his wrist as strongly as she can. "You," he points out, feigning he's not getting flustered and irked by her insistent skinship. "I'm not remotely interested in---"
"Tryst." She cuts him off, admiring the splashing colors of an oil painting. There aren't figures in it, again, just random fruits passionately quashing against each other at the center of the canvas, and that tells her that's why it's called Scrumptious Tryst.
"Aw, sounds like that period in which we secretly met in the gravity chamber to have sex. I'd sneak in it in my underwear, and you'd take me as soon as I got ins--"
"Give it a rest." He hisses through his teeth, and when she dares sneak a look at him, he pulls away, turning his beet red face to the other side. But she catches him again, and this time manages to miraculously keep his hand in hers. Even if he distances himself, making them look like two grade schoolers holding hands to cross the street. But whatever, it's fine. She can squeeze his strong palm and feel how sweaty he is. And it's a conquest to know she's the only one in twelve universes capable of turning him in such an inadequate, adorable mess.
It's more than enough for today.
"Vegeta, what do you say if I buy this ugly painting and we go home?"
He still won't look at her, but forces a stuttering and belligerent "whatever" out of his mouth. Which deserves a prize. But she'll give that to him later.
The museum will have the opera delivered at the Capsule Corporation, with the compliments of Doctor Whatchamacallit and the artistic community. Of course. She donated much more than she was supposed to, but that extra is a bribe for letting her have the museum all for them. Vegeta would have never set foot in a place chock-full of strangers without fleeing after ten seconds.
"Should we gift the canvas to Bulla?" She asks, while they're up in the air, her hairs are tickling her nose, while the feeling of Vegeta's arms holding her like a bride in the sky makes a funny feeling somersault in her belly.
"For shooting practice." He smirks, looking ahead of him.
"You're terrible," she hides her face in the crook of his neck and tightens her hold around it. "But I was thinking the same."