Disclaimer: I don't own GW, or any of the characters herein. And one of the one-liners was inspired (or pinched) from another fic about Endless Waltz outtakes. I don't remember what it's called. So don't sue me or flame me, because all you'll get is my trusty bit of driftwood. In the case of flamers, between the eyes at high speed. ^_^
A/N: I'd also like to introduce my new muse: the half-size clone of me strongest Angelic ACC. He's called ChibiMe.
CM: Hiya!
*CM: A chibi Angel. Brown hair with explosive-looking bangs at centre of forehead. Eight wings made of purple light, purple eyes without pupils & a tight-fitting grey jumpsuit.*
OK, now back in your box. On with the fic!
The World's In Your Eyes, by Kaoru Saotome
The dawn lanced through the half-closed curtains, transfixing the cut-glass windchime that glinted in its dazzling mix of colours. The patterned lights fell on the face of a young man, who shifted uneasily. After a few moments he mumbled something about toast and sat up slightly, opening Prussian blue eyes that seemed to draw one's gaze within, as if the wounds behind that clear gaze were so horrifying as to pull others into them. Chocolate-brown hair fell messily over his forehead, obscuring almost the whole top half of his face. No mater what was done to that hair, it tangled itself up again within an hour of being tamed. It was unstoppable.
Heero swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He'd been wearing his old combat outfit: a loose-fitting, camo-green tank top and black lycra cycling shorts. He always seemed comfortable when he wore that; it reminded him of the early days of the war, after the initiation of Operation Meteor. Everything had been much easier then; trust in the mission organiser's judgement. He'd been nothing more than a tool, and hadn't had to think about the consequences of his actions. He hadn't cared about his life.
So much simpler that way. Now, the war was over. He was living the life, if it could be called such, of a war hero and celebrity. Everything he'd done for a long time had been watched by the media, the press, otakus, fangirls…the list of eyes that'd stayed on him went on for a long time.
The others had had similar experiences. Duo lapped it up, adored it. Quatre had been used to it, and so had deftly avoided any prying questions as he'd allowed Trowa to move back into the rebuilt Winner family house with him. Wufei, in his own way, had simply ignored it and gone to start a dojo in his family's homeland of China. He'd heard the building incorporated a shrine to the goddess Nataku, after whom Wufei had named his mech and – posthumously – his wife.
Heero, on the other hand, had simply moved away from civilisation. He was living in a tiny village near Marseilles, in France. The food was better in France than anywhere else, and t had nicer countryside. He'd picked up the language fairly quickly, like he did with everything, but rarely had to use it. Most people spoke English these days, all over the world.
He'd only just moved there a few days ago. Already, the village children were gossiping excitedly in that way children did, of the lights that had been seen in the old house at night. They probably thought it was haunted or something.
Well. Today was his first day as an official resident of the village, because today he went out to seek work.
Here was another problem. Heero knew how to do many things, but he had little experience in most of them. So while he would probably be able to manage most things he was asked to do, he'd be working by the book, with little originality or initiative.
Enough contemplation. He cracked his neck with a sickening crunch of protesting vertebrae – a bad habit he'd picked up while in the cramped confines of a cockpit – and wandered into the bathroom.
When he emerged from the house half an hour later, he was looking infinitely better. He'd managed to get his hair to point in a sensible direction, and he'd dressed; a dark jacked, with white shirt and sky-blue jeans. Striding down the road into the village proper, he wondered where to start. Finally deciding to head for the local bar and see what was going on there, he checked his pockets. He had enough money to buy food for two weeks, and a little left over. But he should get a job anyway; the more normal he behaved here, the better.
Inside the Tavern, all was noise and laughter; the clink of mugs, the splash of ale spilled while its container was used as a conductor's baton for the singing, the acrid smell of things best left alone that always occurred in a serious drinking establishment.
The barman asked him what he wanted as he reached the bar proper. Shaking his head, he replied in rapid French that he was looking for a job in the village. He was new there, and intended to enter employment as soon as he could.
"Ah, oui," replied the tender cheerfully. "There's always someone looking for work around here, my friend. What can you do?"
"I can carve wood, mix dough, and lift surprisingly heavy objects, for a start," said Heero. "I know how to do a lot of things, but most of them I've never tried."
The barman scrutinised him for a moment, then leaned closer.
"You're living in the old house at the end of the Northern road out of the village, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yes," said Heero. "Why?" The tender grinned.
"I just wondered how one so young as you can inspire the children on the town to ghost stories. My daughter is convinced you're dead."
Heero said nothing to that. He didn't want to make things go bad straight away by saying that, officially, he was. Instead, he just asked who was looking for help.
"There's a list in the town hall," said the bartender. "How old are you, my friend, and what's your name?"
"Nineteen," replied Heero truthfully. "And my name is Heero Yuy." He was confident that no one here had heard of him, or read magazines or newspapers or even owned a television. That was why he chose it as a place to live.
"Well, Heero, you go and look in the town hall. There are notices up there. And if you still can't find anything, then there's always something to do behind this bar. You seem a trustworthy lad…"
Heero nodded. "Thanks." With that, he turned and strode out.
The town hall was almost empty. One old lady sat at a desk, writing things at painfully slow speed. Paying no attention to anyone else as usual, Heero walked over to what was obviously the town notice board and looked it over. There were a few notes up from various employers; craftsmen such as carpenters and bakers, postmen, deliverymen, even one from the bar. Finally he decided on three that he'd check. The first one was obvious; an engineer who lived in the village, and spent most of his time fixing farmers' equipment. The best part was that it was almost custom-built for him; since the farmers had little money, they often paid in food instead. Since Heero disliked his own cooking, this sounded pretty good to him. So, he set off for the machine shop at the given address.
The engineer was a tall man named Andre. He had dirty blonde hair down to his shoulders, and his overalls looked like they hadn't been replaced in years.
"So you're a prospective mechanic," smirked the big man. "All right. Here." He pulled a half-destroyed old engine toward him. "This needs to be fixed by next week. If you can do it by then, you can work for me."
Heero looked at the engine. This was nothing to him; he'd worked over entire six-ton war machines in less time than he had for this one measly engine. So he took it and sat down at a small workbench in the corner.
"Hey," said Andre, a little confused. "Don't you want to take it home with you?"
"I won't be long," said Heero airily. Here it comes, he thought.
"What?" asked Andre, now even more befuddled. "It'd take a couple of days for me to fix such an engine!"
"A couple of days for someone else," said Heero quietly. "But I can handle it." He paused contemplatively, thinking of when he'd last said those words. Duo was, by now, far away and a long time ago.
Andre almost swore at that apparent insult. Then he blinked as Heero's hands began taking apart the engine as if it were being done in a factory. He knew exactly how to remove every part, in which order, where each clip was…finally, after half an hour, he had all the parts in front of him on the table. He picked up a rusted-through pipe and looked at Andre. "Where can I replace this?" Wordlessly the man threw him a spare. Heero caught it in one hand and put the engine back together again. It took a little while, but sure enough when it was finished the engine gleamed like new. Somehow, while putting it back together, Heero had cleaned all the parts. They shone like the ocean on a spring morning as he lifted the sixty-pound engine and plonked it in the bonnet of the tractor between himself and Andre.
The mechanic was stunned.
"You," he grinned, "I can work with."