A/N – this takes part a few years after the Cell Games, while Vegeta is still growing accustomed to his life on the totally insufferable planet Earth. So he's still a major grump :)

Gaudy decorations adorned the halls of the Capsule Corp mansion. Vegeta stalked through his home, turning his mouth up into a snarl at seeing the atrocious array of wreaths and ornaments throughout every room in his abode.

All the while as he trudged along, he was wrinkling his nose at the strong stench of pine emanating from the Briefs family's excessively large Christmas tree, which had been taking up nearly half the space of the living room since the first day of December. It was now Christmas Eve, and the overpowering smell of that inordinately fragrant plant had been allotted twenty four days to permeate the entire residence. The Saiyan prince had found himself sneezing ever so often for the past few weeks, thanks to the inescapable odor of that giant perfumed tree. This planet's yearly snowfall along with the cold sting of the winter season had helped attribute to Vegeta liking the holidays even less.

The concept of holidays was not lost on him. It was only that they were redundant and seemed to be forced that he wasn't thrilled to partake in these obligatory celebrations. Nevertheless he ended up joining his family in the festivities, though grudgingly and with the excuse that he only offered them his presence as long as he could gorge himself like a king. The grandiose feasts were his one favored part of these special occasions.

He had been heading for the kitchen, drawn to the scent of food in the air, but his trip was delayed when he picked up the nerve-racking sound of his four-year-old offspring's sniffling.

Vegeta cursed at where his fate had led him, but as he could sense that the boy's mother was not in the immediate vicinity to deal with the child's whining herself, Vegeta stormed over to the sound of his son's vocalized sadness, if only to reprimand the brat for his un-Saiyan like whimpering.

He spotted the boy sitting down on the cold linoleum floor of Bulma's laboratory, clutching one of his knees and biting down on his lip with his teeth. The young half-Saiyan struggled to fight back a wail when he saw his father marching over to him. Not at all expecting to hear any consoling words from his perpetually scowling parent, Trunks braced himself, awaiting the inevitable scolding that would be cast down upon him.

"And just what have you been up to in here?" Vegeta interrogated his son, eying his surroundings for signs that anything might be out of place or tampered with. "Your mother has instructed that you are not to prowl through her laboratory unsupervised, a safety precaution she has implemented for good reason, seeing as you have injured yourself as a consequence of your recklessness."

Trunks lowered his head, afraid to look his father in the eye as he answered, "I was gonna borrow the dragon radar."

"For what purpose?"

"To see if Santa's got all the dragon balls yet," the four-year-old admitted sheepishly.

Vegeta scrutinized his son, unable to spot any outward signs of deceit from the boy. He knew Trunks wouldn't lie to him, and yet he could not place a reason as to why the child would need the dragon radar to track the mythical 'Santa Claus' creature.

Finally, he had to ask, "And why would that taloned heathen need to gather the dragon balls?"

The pain of his injury forgotten, Trunks perked up, bold with certainty as he proclaimed, "Well, how does he leave presents for a bajillion people in one night every year? I think he's cheating and using the dragon balls to wish all the presents to everyone's houses at the same time, and then he uses the other wish to get all the milk and cookies we leave out for him!" He pouted, quietly muttering, "It's not fair, I want to eat those cookies mom makes!"

Vegeta had to admit that his son's suspicion was amusing. He concurred with a scoff, "I suspect you're right. I can't fathom how such a repulsive and hefty being can break into this house under my watch."

"I knew it!" Trunks beamed, glad he was not alone with his suspicions.

Vegeta said nothing, silently wishing he could simply tell his son that the Santa beast was merely an imaginary being, fabricated only to promote good behavior among the Earthling children. He frowned upon these humans for perpetuating the illusion that a fat mythical man breaks into homes for the sole purpose of delivering presents. But Bulma had strictly told Vegeta that he was in no way allowed to shatter the holiday spirit for Trunks. That meant he could not disprove Santa's existence to the boy.

Although it was clear to Vegeta that Trunks was clever enough to suspect something didn't add up as to how an obese man could intrude upon billions of homes in a single night. And from what the Saiyan prince knew of this planet's laws, breaking and entering was illegal, regardless of whether or not the perpetrator left gifts behind.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Vegeta's sight landed upon his young son's scraped-up knee. "It appears that in your excitement to uncover that oaf's whereabouts, you tripped and fell. Has your training taught you nothing? This is an injury that is easily avoided."

Trunks' bottom lip quivered, and Vegeta quickly drew back from scorning, lest the boy should begin sobbing. Grumbling curses, he combed the vicinity with his eyes until he spotted a medicinal cabinet at the far end of the room. It was a good thing the Briefs' kept one in each lab, as they contained emergency kits in the event that any lab accidents may occur.

The prince wordlessly marched over to the cabinet, crossing the room and returning with only a few strides, carrying antiseptic and bandaging supplies in hand. He stopped down to the young half-Saiyan's side, commanding, "Let's see how badly you've maimed yourself."

Trunks hesitantly removed his hands from his knee, revealing the full extent of the carnage—a large scrape spanning much of the flesh above his kneecap, the skin torn and matted with blood. While Vegeta studied the wound, expediently judging the severity of it, Trunks piped up, "Are you going to fix my boo-boo?"

"Flesh wound," Vegeta corrected with a snarl. He was not fond of his son using such an infantile nickname to lessen the gruesomeness of an injury. He suspected the boy's mother had taught him the term. "I can't very well let you walk around with a bloodied knee, can I? As much as it would amuse me to see your mother's reaction, the woman would holler with that shrill voice of hers. I'd prefer to avoid going deaf."

Trunks gulped in accordance with his father's words. The boy adored his mother, but she was downright terrifying whenever she shrieked.

While twisting off the cap of a bottle containing an antiseptic solution, Vegeta feigned another explanation for tending to the boy's wound. "As the son of an elite warrior, you must know how to address your injuries. Now pay attention—this will be the only example you're going to get."

He dabbed a washcloth with the liquid, then he pressed the dampened towel against Trunks' scraped knee. The little prince flinched at the sting, but he didn't whimper, only wincing as he bravely endured the pain. After cleaning the wound of blood, Vegeta slapped a cotton pad onto the injury. He fetched the bandage roll and tore off a portion, flattening the adhesive across the child's knee and securing the pad in place.

When Trunks looked down and saw the plain bandage covering his knee, he complained, "I wanted a band-aid with Rudolph on it!"

Pursing his lip, Vegeta had to fight to stifle his blood pressure. It was absurd—he was a Saiyan prince, he should never be caught kneeling and patching up anyone else's wounds, yet here he was. To top it off, he had been civil enough to bandage the boy's injury, yet the ungrateful little brat didn't appreciate his handiwork and his rare moment of showing sympathy.

Trunks prodded at his numb and bandaged knee, listening to his father lecturing, "Do not be so irresponsible. I don't want my royal blood spilled outside of battle."

"Oh. Okay."

"Consider this to be a gift; the knowledge of how to address the injuries you sustain on the battlefield. But in return for the kindness I've bestowed upon you, you had better clean that pig-sty you call a room the moment you recover from this petty injury." He'd heard Bulma nag about it enough as of late, and it seemed that perhaps only Vegeta's insistence could encourage the brat to tidy his quarters.

Frowning, Trunks gave a nod in compliance, though he was far from looking forward to the task he had been given. He usually waited to clean his room only once the carpet was covered in so much clutter and debris that it was impossible to walk across the floor, and he was forced to hover in the air to make it over to his equally messy bed. But he could not disobey his father's orders.

Trunks stood, briefly testing his injured knee by shifting his weight on one leg, deciding he was well enough to sprint around the house. But before leaving to carry out his misdeeds, he encroached upon his still-kneeling father. Without waiting for approval, the boy threw his arms around his father's shoulders to hug him, pronouncing, "Thanks, Dad!"

Vegeta gave an annoyed grunt, which Trunks misperceived as meaning 'You're welcome'. The boy released his father and scampered off.

After recovering from the unwanted physical affection he had received, Vegeta returned the medical supplies to their proper place, and then he strode from the lab, resuming his journey to the kitchen.

But his quest to satiate his appetite was once again derailed when he entered the living room; there he crossed paths with Dr. Briefs.

The old coot was hunched over in front of the fireplace, attempting in vain to strike a match. Vegeta watched his in-law's futile struggle with contempt, until he felt himself receiving waves of second-hand frustration. It was almost unbearable to witness such a pathetic display. The prince could stand it no longer.

"Consarnit…" Dr. Briefs was muttering absently to himself when Vegeta approached. The scientist looked up to see the Saiyan looming over him with a scowl on his face.

"Ah, I didn't see you there, son," the doctor said. "It's pretty chilly in here, so I thought I'd get a nice fire going to cozy the place up… but I suppose my arthritis is stopping me from striking a match. Shoot, I may be a genius, but I can't seem to get a fire started here."

Could this human not even harness the primitive power of fire? Vegeta scorned, "Stop your babbling. I can't stand to watch your struggling any longer." He motioned for the old man to move back. "Step aside, fool."

Once the scientist had been cleared from the path of destruction, Vegeta stood in front of the fireplace. With his arm outstretched he shot a scorching blast of energy at the log sitting in the heart of the fireplace, igniting it. Ashes and splintered pieces of wood flew from the mouth of the fireplace and landed on the carpet, but otherwise a perfect blaze had been kindled.

"Well. That was very kind of you. Thank you, Vegeta," Dr. Briefs hailed in praise.

"Don't mention it—and take my words literally. Speak of this generous act I have reluctantly extended to you and I will see to it you won't live to tell the tale again, got it?"

The scientist held his palms out toward the fire, warming his hands as he distractedly chuckled away, "Merry Christmas to you too, son."

Vegeta scoffed. He couldn't understand how these people could overlook his frightening demeanor, and his actions had in no way conveyed an acclimation of 'Merry Christmas' to the old man.

"Oh, I almost forgot, I'm supposed to finish wrapping the rest of Trunks' Christmas presents," the elderly genius stood and scurried off to attend to his neglected duty.

Quivering with suppressed rage, Vegeta stood by and watched the doting grandfather scuttling from the room. The crowned Prince of all Saiyans had just lit a fire for the old fool, and the man just gets up and strolls off. Wonderful.

Vegeta was about to leave the room to brood when he was intercepted. He nearly ran into Bulma's mother.

"Oops, pardon me!" the blonde excused herself as she stumbled over to the Christmas tree. Vegeta glared at her, shooting daggers at her with his eyes and wondering what the hell this madwoman was up to.

She was holding a plastic decorative star, which had fallen from the top of the tree when Trunks had attempted to climb its branches earlier that day. Bunny Briefs stood on her toes, but despite being taller than Vegeta, she could not reach the top of the tree. It had to be ten feet in height. The woman required either the assistance of a ladder, or—

"Oh, Vegeta, sweetie, could you be a dear and place this star on top of the tree for me?"

Bristling, Vegeta considered his available options: shove the woman into the fireplace so the blaze he had started wouldn't go to waste, or silently concede in the hopes that the ditz would return his kindness by leaving him alone.

Knowing it would not work in his favor in the long run if he disposed of this crone (suffice to say, he couldn't live without her wonderful cooking), he spat curses as he snatched the plastic star from Bunny before levitating up to the tree.

He shoved the decoration on the tip of the tree, but his first attempt at returning the star resulted in it being lopsided. He spent a minute angrily fussing and adjusting the ornament until it was perfectly positioned.

"Aren't you ever the gentleman!" Bunny cooed when Vegeta descended to the floor.

She tried to seal her gratitude with a kiss on his cheek, but he backed away from the senile woman, snarling, "If you'd really like to show your appreciation, grant me this—don't harass me with your irritating coddling!" As an afterthought, he warned her, "And if you impose any unwarranted gifts on me tomorrow morning, I can promise you, they will not be accepted. I haven't forgotten what you burdened me with last year."

Bunny pouted. "But Bulma told me you really liked the bath supplies I got for you!"

Bath supplies?! Was the woman dyslexic, or could she not even read the label that clearly said K-Y Intense Arousal Gel? Her stupidity was truly remarkable.

He had immediately discarded the lubricant upon receiving it, but Bulma had recovered it from the trash, and of course she made certain the mortifying gift had been put to use. The trysts that followed hadn't been awful. But still, Vegeta could not forgive the blonde cretin for interfering with his private matters, even if her vulgar meddling had been unintentional or simply a misunderstanding. Any excuse to avoid this wench was good enough for Vegeta. She was just downright bizarre and frightening.

As Bunny knelt in front of the fireplace to enjoy the warmth radiating forth from the blaze within, Vegeta chose to make his escape, retracing his steps back to his desired destination. He had faced incursions along the way, and now all he wanted was to satiate the hunger clawing at his stomach.

When at last he reached his journey's end, the prince marched into the kitchen with every intention of stuffing his face with whatever it was he had smelled cooking earlier. Upon entering the room, the sight that welcomed him was not in the least bit unpleasant—Bulma was huddled over the oven, shoving a tray of cookies into the searing depths, and the Saiyan shamelessly ogled her hindquarters.

Once the tray had been secured in the oven, Bulma went over to the counter to pick up where she had left off frosting an earlier batch of cookies that had cooled off. To his mild disappointment, Vegeta realized it was freshly baked cookies he had smelled earlier. He wasn't too partial to sweets. Regardless, he was always curious to sample all sorts of foods.

He strode over to Bulma's side and reached his hand out to help himself to a cookie, but the unwanted extremity was swatted away. "Hands off. These cookies are for Santa, remember?" the heiress said, giving Vegeta a reprimanding look.

"Spare me the excuses," Vegeta countered. "You and your parents are the ones who devour these each year, and you pit the blame on your fabled Santa Claus glutton."

Bulma smirked, digressing, "If you really want a cookie that badly, just ask."

She continued frosting the baked treats while Vegeta snorted indignantly, having lost interest in sampling cookies (especially if he was required to ask for one). "The boy seems to view that Santa creature as a rival for these baked goods. You may think the red demon's false existence attributes to Trunks' 'holiday cheer', but our son resents that clawed hedonist for pilfering cookies."

"Oh. I see," Bulma said with a frown. "Well, I suppose Trunks can have a few extra cookies this year now that the last of his front baby teeth have fallen out. Shouldn't hurt."

"What? Extra cookies?" Vegeta spat, quickly reduced to a sputtering grouch, "I was under the impression that your mythical Santa had robbed the boy, and not even one morsel of those contraband cookies had been spared for the brat!"

"I gave Trunks at least a quarter of the batch I whipped up last year," Bulma said.

The greedy, spoiled brat had played the part of a victim because he wanted to devour a few additional cookies? And to think he had actually pitied the boy for his plight! Vegeta trembled with rage. It took everything he had left of his slowly depleting reserves of self-control to restrain himself from hurling the cookies out onto the snow covered lawn outside.

Bulma watched with amusement as her husband's anger visibly escalated, evidenced by the quick saturation of red in his face and the vicious grinding of his teeth. Bulma giggled away. She thought her prince looked especially adorable when he was repressing his temper tantrums.

To tame (or possibly further enrage) the beast, Bulma leaned close to Vegeta and kissed one of his reddened cheeks. The color in his face only intensified, and he cringed away from her, muttering about how he had now lost his appetite.

"Don't be so grumpy about it," Bulma chuckled, watching Vegeta as he scowled at the wall, his glare pointed in the direction where he sensed his son's energy signal. "He's a little boy, he can't help that he wants to eat tons of sweets. And I can't say I blame him for liking my awesome cookies so much."

Her boast went ignored. Vegeta was deep in thought, plotting a variety of punishments he would need to deliver upon Trunks.

Not one who settled well with being overlooked, Bulma's eyes fell on her thumb; largely on a glob of frosting that had caught on the opposable extremity. Reaching her hand out to Vegeta, she wiped the digit across his cheek, smearing the frosting on his skin.

He choked out a startled gasp and recoiled, but his shock quickly turned to agitation once Bulma started laughing boisterously.

"You miscreant! Do not deface my royal flesh!" Vegeta sputtered, rubbing at his tarnished skin with the back of his hand.

"I bet you'd like it if I licked that off for you," Bulma huffed.

The prince faltered and the onslaught of red pigmentation spread from his face to his neck. He would have liked to relocate their little spat to their bedroom for a quick tussle in the sack in order to prove her wrong.

Unfortunately for him, Bulma had other plans. "Hey, do you think you could finish frosting the rest of these cookies for me? I forgot I was supposed to wrap up a few last minute gifts," she winked and added, "Including a few for you."

"Absolutely not. I won't smother your wretched cookies with cavity-encouraging icing, and I most certainly will not accept any gifts from you tomorrow!"

"C'mon. If you do this for me, I might just let you splatter your 'frosting' on any part of my body of your choosing later tonight."

Apart from being rendered astonished by her lewd implication, he was inclined to ask 'any part?' But he did not want to make it obvious that he was even remotely interested in her offer. However, he at least wanted to see if he couldn't barter until the offer worked mostly in his favor. "As long as you don't clamp down on my royal endowment, I may consider it," he insinuated with a sneer.

"Oh. Fellatio and a facial, huh?" Bulma stated bluntly.

He didn't plan to end their night's tryst with the work of her mouth alone. No, that would only count as the first round. Not wanting to spoil his intentions, he merely gave a curt nod.

"I hope you'll be a gentleman and clean up after yourself," the heiress remarked, drawing into a boorish joke, "After we make cookies, you should lick away the extra frosting! Hah! Get it?"

Vegeta didn't contribute, wishing the woman was not so explicit with her vile use of double entendres.

Squeezing his bicep in her hands and pulling herself close to him for a quick peck on the cheek (right where she had smeared the frosting on him), Bulma excused herself with one last vulgar comment, "I hope you'll have room for dessert later tonight!"

Vegeta reproachfully watched as the heiress left the room, snickering all the way. He cursed as he picked up where Bulma had left off, slathering icing on the rest of the cookies and trying not to think about how the woman had correlated frosting with reproductive bodily fluids.

He also attempted to avoid dwelling on the events of the evening where he had offered his unintentional kindness to his family members. But at least with helping the others out, he had put his prowess to use. Frosting cookies was such a menial task in comparison.

He came to conclude that it must be the infectious holiday cheer getting to him and influencing him to be charitable. Besides, winter was the cold-flu season, as these Earthlings called it… Vegeta reasoned that his faint and fleeting change of heart could be a symptom of him becoming ill.

Toiling away so shamefully would not be without profit, at least. Perhaps this Christmas evening hadn't entirely been insufferable, now that he had merited a promised reward.

He so eagerly looked forward to his assured gift that he failed to notice that the second batch of neglected cookies in the oven proceeded to burn.