Author's Note: Continued thanks to those who have left such lovely reviews on this piece and my other DBZ work. They fill me with the resolve to keep writing and not abandon these projects as I have done in the past, not due to the lack of support, but time and inspiration. I have moved everything over to syropae (.wordpress).com but fanfics will continue to be updated on . The website above is a space for status updates on fics, fanart, discussions, fanfiction requests, so check it out when you can :)

Reviews & Constructive Criticism welcome, Flames not. I write to get it out of my system, I hope you enjoy.

Encounter

The ticking of the clock echoes throughout the dim space. Each jolt reverberating off of the steel walls that enclose the genius and her mechanical creations, the continuous sound a reminder of her impending humiliation. She watches the hand move, its stiff shutter bringing her closer to that which she is trying to avoid. She is seeking refuge in her laboratory, dreading the moment that her mother will guilt her into attending family dinner.

Half-finished projects lay scattered across the bench, an indication of her lack of focus. Her productivity has waned; she cannot find solace in her endeavours as she could before. The sense of isolation and desperation are no longer numbed by the long, lonely hours she would keep within her sanctuary. She is beginning to feel claustrophobic within the room, something that once made her feel secure. The chimes of her machines no longer a beautiful melody, but screeching sounds that rake their nails down the insides of her skull. The air feels stale, emitting a noxious scent that threatens to seep into her skin and burn her insides. A solitary light illuminates her workspace, leaving darkness and shadows lurking in the corners, their wiry fingers stretching across the walls, threatening to reach down and swathe around her slim neck.

She stares down at the mess of blueprints, trying to will life to their dulled lines, a hand held to her forehead. She cannot find the magic that would normally motivate her. She can only find aggravation and inactivity. She is distracted, her mind trying to decipher the strange encounter that has left her both shaken and intrigued. She cannot stop picturing the shards of glass, caked with blood, the tears in the knees.

A slight breeze shifts the air and the hum of the doors opening breaks her from her concentration. She is greeted with silence, common for her father when he interrupts her work, highly respectful of the process with research and creation, and so she assumes it his presence that has disrupted the space. When she was a child she would venture in quietly and watch him, sometimes for hours until he was ready to converse with her. Now he does the same, and she finds the reversal soothing.

"I can't seem to focus today." She sits back and closes her eyes, her fingers pressing against her temples. "I'll have to try again tomorrow; I just can't seem to get inspired." She can imagine him behind her, hands behind his back, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, nodding his head in agreement. Often they would have these one-sided conversations, him listening while she tried to work out the solutions. Her eyes are still closed when she turns to rise from her seat, so familiar with the exchange, of where he would be standing that she is startled when she slams into solid rock. "Oh-!" She looks up to see she has in fact, smashed into her houseguest, his deep scowl marring his features.

"You should be aware of your surroundings." The tone is condescending, but there is a hint of amusement gracing his eyes.

"Well maybe you should announce your arrival. This is the second time you've been skulking in the dark, what are you, an assassin in training?" She turns away from him, gathering up the old blueprints that litter her desk. He remains silent at her remark, but a smirk has replaced his scowl. "Anyways I thought you were my father." She rolls the prints up, snapping the elastic around and tossing them to the side of the bench.

"If I were an assassin, I would not need any training." His hand whips out to grip her left wrist, spinning her around and pressing her against the desk, his other hand clutching her right hip. He wedges his knee between her legs, holding her in place as he straddles one thigh. She is caught, his body pressed firmly against hers, entrapping her within his unyielding frame. She can clearly see the hard lines of his face, the dark depths of his eyes.

"You were in my room earlier." Her breath catches in her chest at his accusing proclamation.

"How did you-" He digs his fingers into her hips, interrupting her.

"The scent of your perfume lingers." The husky tone is thinly veiled beneath a layer of disgust.

"Yes I was in there. To get your laundry." She endeavours to keep the tremble from her voice, to remain firm against his assault.

"You left it." She allows a diminutive gulp, hoping it is indiscernible as she recalls the overlooked basket in her haste to vacate his room.

"The phone rang; I ran to answer it and forgot about the laundry." His eyes drill into hers, searching for something that will challenge the validity of her story. She is drawn to their piercing depths, their enigmatic character, ambiguous in their meaning. She cannot look away, intrigued by their intensity. She is startled when he shifts, breaking his gaze as his head moves down to the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. That is when she feels it, the solid bulk against her thigh. He is aroused, and when his eyes return to hers, she can see the briefest flicker of lust, hidden away within the black orbs. He leans forward, their lips brushing, her breasts swelling with the newly found desire that his savagery has enticed. She presses against him, her free hand reaching up to clasp his shoulder. A low growl emits as his clench on her hip and wrist tightens.

"The bots need repairing." He lets her go, swiftly, her frame tumbling against the desk, pencils and pens crashing onto the floor. His composure maintained, as if their little interlude had not just occurred, as if he did not just give something away. He turns and leaves the room quickly, the swoosh of the doors breaking the momentary silence. But she saw the tightly balled fists his hands made when he stalked out of the chamber, the flash of frustration and desperation barely contained on his face.