This is pointless fluff. It's a challenge fic: now that the war has ended, what kinds of jobs would the GW boys look for? This was my answer.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and its characters are the property of Bandai and Sunrise. The lyrics to Angel of Music from Phantom of the Opera are the property of Andrew Lloyd Weber.
Heero glared at the trembling man in front of him, one hand clenching in an effort to keep from grabbing for the self-destruct button he no longer carried. "What did you say?"
The man took a step back, one arm raising involuntarily to shield himself for the homocidal maniac in front of him. "I'm...I'm sorry, sir, but I remember you from the tv. You're one of those gundam pilots, eh?"
Heero nodded curtly. "So?"
"So..." The manager gulped and took a deep breath of air to steady his nerves. "So I'm afraid that hiring you may not be in our companies best interests. We have enough airfreight accidents as it is..."
Heero growled deep in his throat. The poor manager eeped and dived into the safety of his office, slamming the door shut behind him. The clang of a lock sliding home rang through the still night air.
"K'so!" Heero cursed, balling up the help wanted ad and throwing it into the street. With one last glare, he strode away from the UPS office with his arms crossed tightly across his tank top-clad chest.
Duo stared at the woman in front of him, his violet eyes huge with disbelief. "You've got to be kidding."
"No sir, I'm very sorry. You just don't have any experience." The woman snapped her gum and shot Duo a falsely apologetic smile.
"But...but..." Duo gestured around the room at the photographs lining the cherry-paneled walls. This was ridiculous. If *anyone* had enough charisma to be a rock star, surely it was him. His eyes narrowed accusingly as they trailed across one of the photographs. "You gave them another chance." He gestured angrily at the photograph of the Backstreet Boys, now with walkers, arranged in obvious poses around the living room of a convalescent home.
"I know." The woman sighed in regret. "Cost my old boss his job, too. No, I don't think I'll be taking any chances this afternoon. Maybe you can try back tomorrow."
Duo sighed in defeat. Maybe he'd just look up Heero and see what he was up to. He hadn't annoyed his old partner for at least a week...
Quatre sighed happily to himself as he watered the flowers in the greenhouse. The beautiful colors and patterns filled him with undescribable happiness. One could so easily forget the war had ever existed in a place like this.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
Quatre turned towards the source of the voice with a happy smile.
The woman rushed forward, ripping the hose from Quatre's outstretched hand. "My flowers! My beautiful prize flowers! They're ruined!" She stared mournfully at the soil running in rivulets over the stone floor, washing her precious new seedlings straight down the drain. "Haven't you ever watered flowers before?"
"Well, no," Quatre answered, watching her closely. "There's no extra water in the desert for something like flowers. That's why I love them so much." A thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned to her with shimmery blue eyes. "I didn't hurt them, did I?"
The woman actually fared rather one for one faced with an upset Quatre. "No, it's all right. Just leave them to me. I think maybe Jim needs help over there." She gestured vaguely towards the cactus and other desert plants.
"Oh, okay." Humming happily to himself, Quatre hurried over to the other side of the greenhouse, leaving the woman to stare at the ruins of her prize flowers.
Heero stood in center ring, attempting in vain to juggle five large balls in his hands. It couldn't be that hard. If Trowa could do it...
"I don't think you're getting the hang of it."
Distracted by the voice, the balls tumbled from Heero's hands. Snatching one just before it hit the ground, he flung it towards the far wall with another curse and stalked out the tent flap. There had to be something he could do well.
Trowa, meanwhile, was staring in shock at the phone on the table in front of him. The smiling man stopped, realizing he had lost his audience. "What's the problem?"
Trowa gestured at the phone. "Let me see if I understand. You want me to talk to people I don't know?" His one visible green eye fixed on the man's face with disbelief.
The man blinked. "That is kind of the idea behind phone sales."
Trowa transferred his stare back to the phone. The man watched him for a moment longer, then plastered the smile back on his face and continued with his pitch as if nothing untoward had occurred. "Okay, now the first rule is to keep the vic...er, customer on the phone for as long as possible..."
Trowa dropped his head so that his hair hid his grimace. This had better pay well.
Wufei leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face. This was beyond perfect, as if his whole life thus far had existed solely in preparation for this one single shining moment. Everything was perfect, from the wood- paneled walls to the trench coat hanging from the hook on the back of the door. Now all he needed was a customer...
As if in answer to his thoughts, the phone begin to ring. Casting one quick worshipful glance at the photo of Nataku standing on the center of the desk, Wufei grabbed the phone.
"Chang WuFei, P.I. You're justice is my concern. How may I help you?"
Heero clutched the ad received in an anonymous envelope in the mail tightly in one hand. The job was perfect for him! It was about time, too. Duo had found him yesterday and was slowly driving him into a murderous rage. He needed OUT.
Raising the paper to his eyes, he scanned the qualifications one last time.
"Successful applicant must be suicidal with a high pain threshold. Being able to put body back together after accidents is a plus."
Oh, yes. This was perfect.
Zech Marquise took a deep breath from the wings, preparing himself for his big moment. This was what he'd been training for! The organ sounded his cue, and with one tug of adjustment to his shining white mask he launched himself out on to the stage, his voice already raised in song.
"Insolent fool, this slave of fashion,
Basking in your glory.
Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor,
Sharing in my triumph!"
Duo settled down on the couch after a long shift waiting table at the restaurant down the street, just like every other wannabe rock star in the universe. Sighing loudly into the silence, he grabbed the remote and flipped on the tv. A commercial blared loudly. Duo was just about to switch the channel when a familiar form in a green tank top and spandex caught his attention.
"Remember- don't be a dummy."
The commercial faded out with the announcer's message: "This safety message brought to you by the Association of Crash Test Dummies."
Cackling softly to himself, Duo slipped back off the couch to find the phone buried on the floor. This was just too good to pass up.