Disclaimers:  I do not own Gundam Wing or any of their characters.

Notes:  Smacznego is Polish for “Good Appetite”.  Duo tries to get Quatre to try something new.

Warning:  This fic is completely pointless and has NO PLOT.



Smacznego!



Quatre felt a little odd standing there in the middle of a Catholic School gymnasium.  For one . . . because he was Muslim . . .
and the other reason was because he was waiting in what had to be the longest line he had ever seen.  It was quite boring, and to
be honest, waiting in line for forty-five minutes seemed to be a bit much.

He couldn’t believe he had allowed Duo to drag him here.  The loudmouthed American had seemed shell-shocked to learn that
Quatre had never been to a Church Carnival . . . in fact, it was what had prompted this little trip.  Quatre truly didn’t see the
point.  The rides were geared toward children, not that Duo had tried to get Quatre to ride any . . . and the games were
simplistic, though again Duo had skillfully avoided any and all of them.  No . . . Duo had gone straight for the line that ran
through the center of the carnival . . . and Quatre had had no choice but to follow . . . especially since Duo had never released
his death grip on the blonde’s wrist.

“Duo . . . honestly, I could take you out to a very fine restaurant where we can sit right down and eat . . . no waiting.”  Quatre
pouted, trying ineffectually to pry his wrist loose.

Duo looked back at him with a horror-stricken expression.  “That’s not the point, Q-Man . . . the wait just makes it all the
better.  Believe me.  I’ve been waiting all year for this carnival to finally show up again.”

“A year?  Duo, that’s insane!”  Quatre exclaimed.

He was ignored though, because it was at that precise moment that Duo and Quatre finally reached the long fold-out tables lined
with covered serving dishes.  Duo practically squealed in delight as he picked up a plastic tray, placing two disposable plates on
it.  He was almost bouncing as he stood before the kind-looking nun with the serving spoon, a wide grin on his face as he
asked.  “What kind is it?”

“Potato.”  The nun replied with a warm smile of her own.

“All right!  Four please.  Two on each plate.”  He grinned, holding out his tray.

The nun pulled the lid off and Quatre got his first look at the contents.  “Duo . . . what IS that?”  He asked, his eyes widening
slightly.  To Quatre, it looked as if the nun was serving up old wrinkled pockets, smothered in grease.  This could NOT be good
. . . or healthy.

“Pierogi!”  Duo chimed, thanking the nun when she had dished out four of the strange pocket-things.

“What’s a progee?”  Quatre asked, eying the plate skeptically.  “That does not look very appetizing.”

“They’re a European dish . . . Polish, I believe.  It’s a pocket of dough, filled with vegetables or cheese . . . these ones happen
to have been cooked in butter.  And it’s Pierogi . . . not progee.”

“Well, sorry!”  Quatre said a little more sharply than he had meant to.  He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.  He didn’t
want to try these things . . . they looked weird.

Duo shrugged, moving along with the line and getting four more Pierogi from another nun . . . these ones filled with cheese.  
The line moved again, and again they followed it.  At the end of the table, Duo gathered together a couple of forks and some
napkins, then moved on over to the woman sitting at a table with a small lock box and a calculator.

“Eight Pierogi!”  Duo announced happily, eagerly paying for his food and then grabbing Quatre’s arm again to drag him over to
the nearest available seats.

“Really, Duo . . . I’m not all that hungry.”  Quatre said, even as Duo pushed him into a chair and set the tray on the table in front
of him.

“Come on, I swear you’ll like it once you try it.”  Duo whined, giving Quatre a set of puppy-dog eyes that could rival the ones
he used himself to get what he wanted from Trowa . . . the thought nearly brought a happy smile to his face.

“Duo . . . I don’t know.”  Quatre sighed, shaking his head.  “They don’t look very good.”

Duo shook his head.  He picked up a fork and used the side to cut a piece off one Pierogi.  Then he speared it and held it up to
Quatre’s lips.  “Just one little bite?  Please?”  Duo asked.

Quatre bit his lip, watching as the butter collected on the edge, looking ready to drop on his shirt.  It didn’t look very tasty . . .
and he had never liked trying new foods.  The last time he had, he had broken into a rash . . . damn Trowa and those Tempura
Fried Squash Blossoms.  Of course, Trowa really couldn’t be blamed, though Quatre was still a bit leery of the memory.  How
was Trowa supposed to know that Quatre was allergic to squash?  Quatre hadn’t even known himself before Trowa had served
it to him.

“Come on . . . open up, or I’ll tickle you.”  Duo smirked.

“You wouldn’t.”  Quatre hissed through clenched teeth, turning to look at Duo.

“You know I would.”  He said, his smile twisting . . . an evil glint in his eye.  “Right here . . . in front of all these people.”

Quatre audibly sighed, bowing his head a little.  Yes . . . Duo would tickle him just to get him to open his mouth.  Well, there
was no getting around it.  With another sigh, he lifted his head, obediently, yet unwillingly, opening his mouth.

Duo didn’t waste the opportunity.  He popped the fork in Quatre’s mouth, pulling the fork free when Quatre closed his mouth
around the piece of Pierogi.

With eyes tightly closed and expecting the worst, Quatre began to chew.  However, instead of a horrible doughy taste, as he had
expected, he found himself savoring the unique flavors tickling his taste buds.  He could most definitely taste the potato . . . and
the butter . . . Quatre’s eyes very nearly rolled back into his head.  This was delightful.

“Allah, Duo . . . This is wonderful!”  Quatre said after swallowing his mouthful.  He took the fork from Duo, deciding he
wanted to try more.

“See!  Now, aren’t you glad you waited in that line?”  Duo grinned, taking the other plate and fork.

Quatre nodded mindlessly, digging his fork into one of the remaining Pierogi.  These things were heavenly . . . he’d make a note
to come back here again next year.

“Guess what . . . the carnival’s open for three more days.  What say we bring the other guys here and show ‘em what real food
is like?  Not that fancy shmancy stuff Trowa’s always trying to serve us.”  Duo asked, between mouthfuls.

“I don’t know about bringing Trowa.”  Quatre found himself smiling.  “I still owe him one for that Tempura.”



The End



1.  Yes, I am Polish.
2.  I love Pierogi.
3.  I DO wait in line every year to get my hands on them at the local church carnival (I can’t make them myself, haven’t learned
how to yet.)