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There is not a Saiyago word for love. Depending on context, Vegeta’s subcutaneous translator chip will substitute synonyms and similar phrases for alien words. It seems confounded by this one in particular. Sentences come out garbled, full of pauses, and overlong in his head as his translator attempts to work around it. It doesn't even make grammatical sense half the time.
"I love you."
The more times Bulma says the phrase, the more aggravated Vegeta becomes. His translator experiences delays while sorting out the mess of three little words.
Mouth on his as she demonstrates an Earth custom called kissing, leaving herself vulnerable to attack when she shuts her eyes. "I love you."
"We... heart-racing battle... all-you."
Manicured fingernails scratching over his scars as if she has any hope of penetrating his tough Saiyan skin. "I love you."
“We… fight alongside… all-you.”
Determination belying the weakness of her race as she mounts him. "I love you."
"We... good-hurt... all-you."
There are no singular pronouns in Saiyago—I, me, you, all an impenetrable we and us and all-you in his native tongue. Tangled together like a troop of sleeping Saiyans. When Vegeta speaks for himself, he speaks for his people collectively. Not that there are many left to speak for. Kakarot and his whelp can't appreciate it. But he doesn't get the impression Bulma speaks for all human Earthlings with her words.
He could have had the chip set to translate alien words to Galactic Standard in his head. Maybe that would make things simpler. But that is the language of Frieza's subjects, his victims, his slaves. His own language is one of precious few things he has left of his long-gone home. Thus, even if it adds a layer of confusion to his understanding of Earth culture, with its many languages and dialects, Vegeta prefers that he hears Saiyago translations.
He prides himself on his articulation and extensive vocabulary. He isn't the brainless brute most expect.
Well. Mostly.
Vegeta stalks into Bulma’s bedroom like he owns it, shower-fresh, muscles still aching from his training. She grins at him and crooks a finger from where she lays on top of her bed covers, clad only in her underthings, see-through and fragile to the point of uselessness. He averts his gaze, then drags it right back. Squares his shoulders. Sneers at her. He will not be intimidated by her vulgarity. Her grin just gets bigger.
She insists on massaging his back before they fuck because she claims he's too tense. He hesitates—it isn’t what he came for—but…
Vegeta lays down. He reassures himself that being served like this is acceptable, no, expected, for royalty. Her hands, roughened by machinery, run over his back. His muscles flex and ripple as she works. It feels good. Really good.
Her manicured fingernails, short and painted, trace down the ridges of his spine, stopping short of the shameful nub that remains of his tail. Vegeta growls, low and deep, when he judges she gets too close.
"Calm down, drama queen," she reprimands with a playful slap on his right glute.
Vegeta doesn't need his translator to understand Earthling-brand mockery and sarcasm. He certainly doesn't need anything to interpret the disrespectful gesture she just performed.
Snarling, he turns to glare over his shoulder. She dares to laugh. Just a little thing, a hand-smothered chuckle, but laughter all the same. He has killed for so much less.
"Woman..."
The tiniest spark of fear dances in her eyes, but it doesn't satisfy him as much as it should. He much prefers her anger. After a prolonged staring contest, he turns back towards the pillows, crosses his arms in front of him, and sinks down so his chin rests on one forearm.
"Isn't the whole point of this to make me relax?" He grumbles. "Thanks to your nonsense I'm all wound up."
"Pretty sure it's just the stick up your ass that has you so bothered." She still digs her talented fingers into his back again.
He can't stay angry. It feels too good to have her fingertips sinking into his sore, broad lats. She works around the hard lines of his scapulars. His eyes droop half-shut and he nuzzles into the crook of his arm. He wants to command her to massage the rest of his body, too. His limbs take the majority of the stress from training in heightened gravity. But to tell her to do that would be to admit she was right to suggest this little exercise, so he doesn't.
Her hand brushes over a nasty lump of keloid scarring on his hip. Some part of him that allows for a shred of princely vanity wonders what she thinks of his battle scars. Is she impressed? Disgusted? She never says anything.
Then her thumbs dig into his external obliques and he doesn't care anymore.
Vegeta groans, "There... lower... yes, there."
She moves her hands inward, getting too close to his tail nub again, but by now relaxation renders him unbothered. “Does it hurt?"
"What?"
With care, Bulma strokes the center of his back and stops just short of the stump. "Your tail. Or what's left of it. Obviously."
Vegeta turns his head, trying to decipher her intent in asking. The phantom sensation of his tail flicks from side to side in thought.
“It doesn’t matter."
She pets up and down his spine. Work-roughened hands shouldn't be capable of so much tenderness.
“Sure, it does. If you’re in pain—"
“I said it doesn’t matter," he snaps.
"Fine," Bulma acquiesces, exasperated, rolling her eyes. "Sorry for pushing."
Vegeta grinds his teeth. Pah! 'Sorry!' What a thoroughly Earthling sentiment. Saiyans do not apologize. They brawl and smash and ruin and everyone else in the universe must live (or more likely die) with the consequences. Saiyans do not regret. Saiyans do not show penitence. 'Sorry' is as much nonsense as 'love' is, but at least he has some idea of what it means, even if he looks down on it.
Bulma doesn't say anything more. Vegeta frowns. She surrendered, but this is no victory. He likes it better when they verbally spar, the only sort of combat he can engage her in without fear of snapping her in half.
Vegeta's frown deepens. When did he start to care about that? Was it before or after she dared to touch him for the first time?
So simple, just a touch on the shoulder to get his attention, but being struck by lightning would have shocked him less. Neither Nappa nor Raditz had ever dared to touch him like that. This Earthling did it without a second thought. Now she touches him more than anyone else ever has, soothing his overworked muscles.
He presses his face to the pillow, exhales through his nose, and considers her question further. Is he in pain?
In Saiyago, there are several words for pain. A differentiation must be made between the sort of pain that comes from wounds, muscle soreness, and the sort brought about by sickness or infirmity. Her language doesn't have that nuance, not in a way that could be summed up in brief, descriptive terms.
He puts those thoughts aside when he fucks her. They don't need words for this, at least, just animal groans and raw, primal instinct and the slap of flesh on flesh. He used up most of his stamina training, but pure determination drives him past his shakiness. Bulma's moaning encouragements don't hurt, either. He marks her with his scent, then his teeth. He'll do everything short of mating with her in public to communicate to everyone that she's his, his, his.
Soon, too soon, she clamps down around him, trapping him. Vegeta closes his eyes and tries to put aside the fact that he's filling an alien from a worthless planet with his royal seed. Wasting it. No way will it ever take root. And even if it did, a child made from such a union would be an abomination.
Bulma distracts him with another one of those kisses; a wet, messy one. Her nails sink through his thick, stiff hair as she caresses it. Vegeta allows himself to indulge his curiosity and touch hers in turn. As expected, it's too soft.
Later, he's almost asleep, or at least trying, with his back to her. Usually he would just retreat to his own room, but exhaustion and soreness keeps him in Bulma's bed.
She whispers that accursed phrase again: "I love you."
He wants to turn around and scream himself hoarse—what does it mean, what does that mean?
Bulma falls unconscious right after she speaks, snoring and drooling, sprawled across half of the bed. Vegeta curls his arms tight around himself in a self-soothing gesture he used since childhood. He tosses and turns on the mattress.
Vegeta tries to sleep on the floor, flat on his back, but that, too, feels wrong. Then he finds a chair in front of Bulma's desk in the far corner of the room. Within minutes, he falls asleep sitting up, arms crossed, legs spread, in an echo of his sleeping position in an attack ball.
He wakes up to Bulma standing over him and stifles the instinct to lash out just in time.
“Morning, sunshine," she sing-songs. "Comfortable?”
Vegeta's head lolls to one side as he cracks his stiff neck. “No.”
She puts her hands on her hips and leans forward, exasperated, giving him an eyeful of cleavage. "You probably undid all of my hard work. You're going to need another massage to fix what you did to your back, sleeping like that."
That sounds wonderful, but there's no way he will tell her so.
Instead, Vegeta crosses his arms and sneers. "As if what you did made any difference."
She rolls her eyes. Vegeta doesn't fully understand that gesture, but based on context he's come to suspect that it's passive-aggressive. She did it last night, too. Disrespectful wench.
"Oh, bullshit, Vegeta. You loved it."
That word again. Love. She said it with so much weight before, such reverence, but now it rolls off of her tongue with no emphasis at all. He doesn't understand. It's maddening, maddening!
"I don't know what you mean," he grates out, reluctant to admit his ignorance, but his uncharacteristic sincerity is lost on her.
She just giggles, closes the distance between them, and presses her lips to his cheek. He cannot contain his flinch. Kisses like that aside, he isn't used to having anyone so close to his face outside of a battle. If his tail was still intact, the fur would stand on end in alarm, anticipating a headbutt.
"Geez, you act like I hit you. Are you okay, tough guy?" Immediately she follows it up with a wry look and a shrug. "I know you won't tell me if there's something wrong, but, you know, you can."
He does not, as she predicted. Later that morning, he makes an effort to ignore her and her parents. With breakfast in front of him, that isn't difficult. But his thoughts aren't so easily pulled away from her.
As he decimates his third serving of eggs, Vegeta wonders... did he 'love' having her touch him? Does he 'love' her? And if he does... what then?
Vegeta's chest aches and queasiness roils deep in his belly. He feels warm, almost hot, far more than his already high default temperature. He can't remember doing anything while training that would cause such sensations and he rarely takes ill. He tears his attention away from his food long enough to look at Bulma. She smiles at some nonsense her father said and gesticulates with her fork. The odd sensations increase in intensity.
"I hope you're enjoying it, Vegeta," Bulma's idiot mother chirps, nodding at his plate. "It was made with love!"
He nearly chokes. These Earthlings are poisoning him. Slowly killing him. That must be it. If this ache in his insides that persists despite no sickness and no battle damage is love..!
Bulma's foot presses to Vegeta's muscular calf under the table. He glares at her as she strokes up and down his lower leg with her socked foot. His expression doesn't soften. He's on to their trickery, now.
And yet, he wants to continue to indulge in the food. To let Bulma keep touching him. That strange heat isn't entirely unpleasant. Vegeta swallows. 'Good-hurt' is the closest his translator has come to interpreting that damn word.