30-Jan-2006
Title: OxiClean: The Unexpected Downside of Gundam Ownership
Author: TB
Archive: GWA
Category: dark humour, largely at Quatre's expense
Pairing: 3x4
Rating: PG13
Warnings: OCC portrayal of Quatre, although in all honesty, if this
happened
to me, I'd freak out a little beyond my normal boundaries too.
Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of Gundam Wing are being used
without permission or profit.
'A successful ambush,' Wufei announced with approval. He released a final Alliance Leo from his dragon-jawed claw, watching it land- crunched throughly- amid the wreckage of their hour-long battle.
Trowa frowned at his primary screen and the analyses it had produced from his computations. 'I really thought it was enough ammunition,' he muttered.
Quatre, overhearing that remark on the frequency each pilot had shared during the mission, muffled a smile. 'Back to our safe house,' he told them both. 'We can discuss strategy for-' Distracted, he paused. 'I have a heat reading,' he reporting. 'Directly below-'
Over his speakers, he heard a hoarse, tinny voice scream that now-familiar tag-line, 'It's a Gundam! It's a-'
And then... a sound rather horribly like a... squish.
'Oh, no,' Quatre said.
Over the open frequency, Wufei suddenly snickered.
Trowa's face appeared on Quatre's secondary screen wearing a quizzical expression. 'Did you just-'
'Oh, no,' Quatre repeated.
'He *stepped* on someone,' Wufei said. 'You *stepped* on someone.'
Quatre closed his eyes. 'Oh... oh, no.'
'Calm down,' Trowa soothed. 'I'm sure it's not that bad.'
Fighting extreme reluctance, Quatre forced his eyes open. He reached for his keypad, and activated a ground-facing camera. Then he clapped a hand over his mouth. 'Oh,' he groaned.
'Just go back to base,' Wufei cut in. 'We'll take care of it there.'
'Try not to think about it,' Trowa advised.
'It's... it's everywhere.' He grabbed the gearshift for the left foot, and gingerly raised it. After a moment of hesitation, he carefully scraped Sandrock's heel on an untouched patch of nearby grass, cringing all the way.
'Come on, Zero-Four,' Trowa said. The rev of his Vernier engines purred over the line. Quatre nodded, swallowing hard, and followed with a sigh.
Duo reappeared from the supply closet with an extra tank. Quatre thanked him politely, attaching it to the frame of the pressure washer and adjusting the nozzle of the hose. He aimed it at Sandrock's waiting foot; but he didn't turn on the tank.
'What's wrong?' Duo asked.
'Soap,' Quatre decided. 'Industrial soap. A lot of it.'
Duo turned a grin into a little cough. 'It's really not so bad.'
'Don't mock me,' Quatre complained. 'I just can't- I can't- That's it. Forget it. I'm going to take off the foot.'
'You'll never get a replacement in time,' Trowa called down, finally leaving the cockpit of his Heavyarms and jumping lightly to the controls of his waiting lift. 'We're moving out in three days,' he added as he began his descent to the hangar floor. 'A replacement part that specific will be at least three weeks. You'll probably need your left foot before then.'
Quatre sighed. Duo took pity, and gently removed the pressure hose from Quatre's hand. 'I'll help you,' he offered kindly. 'You'll see. It'll be all clean.' He toggled the tank, and a forceful spray hit the Gundam's tread with an audible smack and hiss.
Trowa flipped off the light, and sat on the edge of Quatre's bunk. They were alone in the room, for once, as their chosen bunker had more than enough space for the three pilots currently occupying it. Duo preferred to sleep alone, and was handily holed up on the opposite side of the hangar hiding the Gundams Heavyarms, Deathscythe, and the suspiciously lemon-smelling Sandrock.
'So,' Trowa said. 'Long day.' He pulled at the hem of his turtleneck, and lifted it over his head. When he was free of the clingy cotton, he rubbed his static-shot hair out of his face. 'Quatre?'
The blond young man looked up from contemplating his pruny fingers. 'Hm?'
'I was thinking about moving on,' Trowa told him, reaching down to peel off his trainers and set them under the bunk. 'I've been gathering information about the Dubai Base. They're getting suspicious deliveries of outlawed explosives.'
'That's nice,' Quatre said.
Trowa paused, but decided to let that pass. 'So I'll probably leave tomorrow. Oh-nine-hundred.' He waited, and got no response. 'So... I was thinking it would be nice to- you know- before I leave? Quatre?'
'Oh,' Quatre said. 'Oh. Of course.' He pushed up on his elbows. 'Um. Do you want to be on- um-'
'Yeah.' Trowa popped the snap of his jeans, and lay on his side as Quatre budged sideways on the slender mattress. 'Belt?'
'No, I already took it off.' Quatre unbuttoned his shirt, but when Trowa tossed it to the floor, he slipped off the bed after it. Trowa managed to keep from commenting as the smaller boy carefully folded the shirt and put it away in the bureau, then did the same with his khakis. Trowa put out a hand to invite him back under the sheet, but Quatre, already started on his routine, couldn't just stop. Trowa sighed as Quatre began a litany of apology while combing his hair and crossing to the small metal sink to brush his teeth.
'I don't mind if you haven't washed your hands since supper,' Trowa said, hoping to curtail any further delay.
'Oh,' Quatre said, his hands halfway to the soap dispenser. 'Um.'
'Think of it as being spontaneous,' Trowa tried, inspired. That won him a tiny smile, and Quatre returned to the bunk, skinny legs and knobby elbows unusually awkward as he lay down, now dressed only in an undershirt and his shorts. Then suddenly he was up again, dashing back to the sink.
'It's only another moment,' he apologised, twisting on the faucet. 'Sorry, Trowa.'
'Look,' Trowa said, sitting up. 'We don't have to do this. Not if you're not in the mood.'
'No, no. It's fine.' Quatre dried his hands on the rag, then quickly wiped his face. 'All done.' He came back to the bed. 'So- where were we?'
Trowa offered a kiss, and followed it with a firm hand pushing Quatre back onto the mattress. Finally. 'Pillow,' Quatre reminded him. 'And- you know.'
'Right.' Trowa was the one who left the bed this time, though he made it from the bunk to the cabinet over the sink in something less than a stride and a leap. Quatre had- predictably- removed the box of condoms when it was less than half-full, and he found the rest of them in the bandaid box. He shucked the foil packaging straight into the garbage pail, just to avoid any comment from Quatre, and hurried back, stripping out of his jeans as he went.
Quatre was sitting against the wall, one leg crossed beneath him, and he was chewing on his knuckle. He did not look even remotely ready for sex. Trowa halted at the bed, dismayed.
Quatre looked up, and did two things that Trowa was beginning to really hate. 'I'm sorry,' he said, and then he sighed.
Trowa very carefully kept his mouth shut as he dropped the condom to the sheet. When he finally asked, 'What is it?' he was proud of his level tone.
'I just can't stop thinking about it!' Quatre burst out. He threw his hands into the air. 'I know it's still in the tread, I just knew the pressure wash wouldn't be enough!'
'Look, this is a little much,' Trowa said flatly. 'It's been eighteen hours. You cleaned Sandrock. Twice.'
'I was thinking I could use the internal scan. If I recalibrate the sensors to search for biological material-'
'There is *nothing* *there*,' Trowa said, slowly and distinctly, just in case Quatre's new obsession was the result of an unreported blow to the head.
'You're not being very supportive,' Quatre accused. He climbed to his feet and pushed past Trowa to the bureau, pulling out his clothes. 'It shouldn't take more than a few hours. Don't wait up.' He glanced up, and bit his lip. 'Um- put that on ice, or something.'
Duo emerged from the kitchenette with a tray of mugs and a streaming french press advertising the presence of strong coffee. He poured, and gave one mug to Trowa, joining the Heavyarms pilot where he sat on a pile of crates. 'Weren't you leaving this morning?' he asked.
Trowa tried not to grind his teeth. 'I'm being supportive,' he muttered.
Quatre finally finished filling his buckets, and turned off the hose. 'Good morning, Duo,' he said absently.
'Morning,' Duo replied cheerfully. 'Coffee before you start the floorshow?'
Quatre turned a flat look on their friend. 'Ha,' he said. He slipped his goggles down over his eyes, and picked up a clear plastic slicker, donning it and then a shower cap. Then pink rubber gloves.
'What did you do, raid the bathrooms?' Duo asked, curious.
'All four,' Trowa confirmed sourly.
'Brush,' Quatre demanded, thrusting out a fuscia hand. Trowa rose from his crate and obediently extended the first weapon- a large toilet scrubber. Quatre gripped it tightly, and climbed his step ladder to reach high into the deep rubber treads of Sandrock's massive left foot. His shoulders bunched under the slicker, and then he grimly began to scrub.
'Man,' Duo said. He covered his mouth with his and leaned toward Trowa. 'Poooooncy,' he sang under his breath.
Watching Quatre clean was not one of Trowa's favourite past-times, and when Duo shortly suggested a game of hearts, they settled into their cards with only a few glances toward the spectacle of a multi-billionaire playing car-wash. They had played uninterrupted for perhaps an hour before they heard a shocked gasp from Sandrock's direction, followed by a horrified groan.
Trowa was on his feet within seconds and standing at Quatre's side. 'What is it?' he demanded. 'Quatre?'
Wide, tragic eyes turned down to him. 'I was right,' Quatre whispered. 'This is... is... beyond gross.'
'Show me,' Trowa ordered him. Quatre lowered his arms, then turned his face away as he held out one soapy, gloved fist. Trowa turned it palm-side up, and toward the light.
'It's a *fingernail*,' Quatre choked.
'Dude, really?' Duo jumped up to Trowa's side, peering closely at Quatre's hand. 'Aw,' he added, sounding disappointed. 'That's nothing.'
Quatre looked back, gaping now. 'You're kidding me,' he said in disbelief.
'Man, I found a whole finger once.'
'I got an ear,' Trowa contributed, trying to be helpful. Quatre's expressive face registered his deepening disgust with them both. Duo clapped him on the shoulder. 'Stay right here,' he said quickly, and sprinted off toward the kitchen.
Quatre's hand spasmed in Trowa's. 'Make it go away,' he begged. Trowa patted Quatre's arm sympathetically, and plucked the fingernail- a thumb, he thought- from Quatre's palm. Duo returned a moment later with a plastic bag and a roll of tape.
'Here,' he said, unzipping the bag and holding it open. 'Drop it in.'
Trowa glanced at Quatre, goggles and flowered shower cap and all, and then looked at Duo, who wore a face-splitting grin. Trowa shrugged, and dropped the nail into the bag. Duo sealed it, and held both bag and tape toward Quatre.
'What?' Quatre asked. Understanding dawned. '*Why*?'
'It's your souvenir,' Duo explained innocently. 'You can tape it up in your cockpit. S'what I did with my finger.'
Quatre went pale; then he went faintly green. 'Trowa,' he whimpered.
Trowa did the appropriate thing, and sighed. 'Thanks, Duo, but I think we're going to say 'no' to that idea.'
Duo's mouth turned down in a pout. But he brightened almost instantly. 'Cool,' he decided. 'We can start a trophy room instead. Reckon you can find that ear, Trowa?'
The End
(:./erin/oxiclean)
