Disclaimer: Neither Gundam Wing or The Christmas Carol are mine.

Yes, like this hasn't been done before, but we wanted to do it too.

Plotz and Ponder are ours, but I'm sure you'll notice a resemblance especially if you are a fan of the Muppets.

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Rashid was dead to begin with. I know that will upset some of you, but let's face it, this story has a TON of ghosts. Some characters, Rashid among them, have to be dead. That's just the way it is. If Dickens had used pink elephants instead of ghosts, then we would have to have some of the characters be pink elephants.

You see now that ghosts are not that bad. So-

Rashid was dead to begin with. I've said this several times now but you have to know this, before we begin, or nothing that follows will seem amazing to you. So, gentle readers, know that Rashid was as dead as one could get, which is very dead indeed. As dead as a doornail. As dead as disco. As dead as PeeWee's career after his infamous movie exposure. As dead as... well, we're sure you get the point.

But I get ahead of myself. It is always good to start with the introductions. I am your narrator, Plotz the Bunny. I'd doff my hat, but inside is my faithful but silent partner, Ponder the Hamster.

His top hat suddenly pops open and a small hamster appears waving a sign that reads 'Hiya!'

Hiya? We're doing Dickens you uncultured rodent! Not Disney!

The sign changes: 'Bite Me.'

If you don't behave, I'll toss you out and let that hawk that's always after you do just that.

The hamster vanishes and a small white flag appears waving briskly.

That's better. Now, where was I? Ah yes…

Rashid was dead. His partner, Quatre Winner, was still alive and still running the corporation the two of them had started many years ago. Still, Quatre was too cheap to have Rashid's name painted off the door. So sometimes new clients would call Quatre Quatre and sometimes they called Quatre Rashid, but he answered to both names and didn't care what they called him, so long as their money was good.

Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone Quatre! A squeezing, grabbing, wenching- uh- wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching…

An 'Enough with the ING words' sign appears out of the hat.

Fine, fine. He was a big, big meanie. Is that better?

'Won't get us in trouble for plagiarizing.'

Okay. So, no one liked Quatre and he liked no one. He had no friends, no lovers, no associates, no fan girls and even the dogs shunned him.

'So did the hamsters!'

Sigh. And no creatures liked him, not even a mouse.

'I'm a hamster!'

Mouse, hamster, lawyer- all vermin, what's the difference? Can we get on with it?

'Go ahead.'

Thank you. So, to get on with it, let's start with the best way to start a story.

'There once was a girl from Nantucket?'

I said story, not limerick. Good effort though. No, that traditional old hook:

Once upon a time- a Christmas Eve to be exact, Winner sat in his counting house, counting out his money.

'And the Queen was in the garden eating bread and honey?'

This is Dickens, not Mother Goose. Please, let me get out more than a sentence? On second thought, let's just do a quick fade….

'Ooooh! Special effects! I didn't know we had a budget for those!'

FADE

Quatre sat in his chilly office, counting out his money. "One thousand, two thousand…"

"Sir?"

"You broke my concentration Barton. I will have to start again!" Quatre snapped at the young man in the doorway. The young man cowered a bit, but persisted.

"Sorry sir, but your nephew is here to see you."

"That insufferably cheery fool! Tell him I'm dead." The young man in the doorway was replaced by… another young man. (C'mon guys, really, its GW! Most of the cast is young men.)

"Merry Christmas Uncle! You're looking remarkably spry for a dead man!" Quatre's nephew smiled cheerfully.

"And you look remarkably feminine for a straight man, nephew Zechs. Can't afford a haircut?" Quatre frowned.

"My wife likes it," Zechs retorted with a wider smile. Quatre snorted.

"That's a silly reason!" Quatre's frowned deepened. " To what to I owe the displeasure of your company?"

"Ah, let us start over, Uncle. Try not to such a drip this time." His nephew's smile turned patronizing. "Merry Christmas Uncle!"

"Ah, bugger off."

"With pleasure Uncle, but I didn't think you swung that way."

"I don't, but rumor has it my simple-minded eavesdropping assistant does! Barton! Quit cowering behind the door and get back to your desk! I'm not paying you to loiter!"

"Yes sir." Trowa slunk back to his desk, silently flipping his employer off underneath it once he took his seat.

"Useless man."

"That's not what I've heard. Rumor has it he's quite flexible." Zechs drawled.

"Shut it nephew. I'll ask you again: why are you here?"

"The same thing that brings me back this time every year, glutton for punishment that I am. I came to ask you over for Christmas dinner."

"Did I go last year?"

"No. You said that you'd rather be staked out with holly and baked in a pudding than have Christmas dinner at my house. Which reminds me," Zechs took the green holly wreath that he had slung over his arm and hung it up over Quatre's desk. "A little… reminder for you."

"I see." Quatre lifted his eyebrow. "Would this explain that beggar that tried to attack me with that green stake last year?"

"Yes, it would." His nephew's smile didn't waver as he adjusted the wreath.

"I was being purely facetious you know. It was a little spontaneous thing called wit. But I suppose a man of your means lacks the funds to afford such a thing." Quatre turned his back on his nephew.

"Not at all, that poor beggar did it for half a shilling and a bottle of cheap hooch. Personally I thought that a very witty comeback."

The sound of gentle applause came from the front office. Quatre whirled around in his seat.

"I do hope you are just trying to warm your hands up, Barton and not encouraging my nephew in his foolishness!" He snapped.

An embarrassed cough came from the front parlor, "Um, yes sir, of course sir. My hands were taking a bit of a chill so I was just restoring my circulation."

"Good, because if I thought otherwise, you would find yourself UNEMPLOYED!" Quatre turned back to his nephew. "You're still here?"

"Really uncle, how you and my mother ever came out of the same test tube I will never know. I can't believe that someone like you is related to someone like me." Zechs sniffed. "You aren't a bit like anyone else in our family, uncle."

Just at this moment, the door to Marley & Winner swung open and in stepped two ladies. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for certain charitable institutions to send out representatives to collect donations in order to catch people feeling generous.

'Guilt can be a wonderful thing.'

Indeed it is my small furry friend. Indeed it is.

"Mr. Winner, I presume?" The blonder of the two ladies asked Zechs.

"Alas, no. But what business could two such beauties as yourselves have with such a miserable man?"

"I thought you were married, Zechs?" His uncle snapped.

"Married, yes. Dead, no." Zechs's smile increased in wattage. "I am Mr. Merquise, this good-looking, but unpleasant man is my uncle, Quatre Winner."

"I am Miss Po, and this is Miss Catalonia. We represent the Widows & Orphans Retirement Fund. We were hoping to get a small donation this year in honor of the season?" Miss Po rattled the can in her hand temptingly.

"Widows & Orphans Retirement Fund?" Quatre repeated. "I think not. They made up their minds to be widows and orphans. I don't have to support their lifestyle choice. Get out." He turned his back on the pair. "And that goes for you too, Nephew!"

"Very well, Uncle. And a Merry Christmas to you too." Zechs extended his arm to Miss Catalonia. "I will be more than happy to make a donation, if the two of you will just come home with me for a bit, so I can get my checkbook?"

Miss Catalonia took his arm and smiled back. "We'd love to." Miss Po nodded her agreement.

Zechs ushered them out of the office, giving Mr. Barton a pitying look. "Merry Christmas, Trowa."

"Merry Christmas, Zechs."

"Give my regards to your lovely sister." Zechs ushered the ladies out of the office saying, "I can't wait for you two to meet my wife, Lucrezia. She's a very flexible lady…"

Quatre heard the door slam behind his nephew and snarled. The wreath Zechs had hung over his desk was tilted to the side and filling the air with the aromatic scent of Christmas.

Quatre sneezed.

There was another stir outside and a knock at the door. "If that's one more person asking for money…" Quatre got to his feet and headed for the door before Barton managed to uncurl his freezing form from his seat.

Quatre flung open the door. Three ladies stood there, dark choir books in hand. They began to sing:

"Christmas, Christmas time is here, time for joy and time for cheer…"

Quatre slammed the door in their faces and strode back into his office.

And sneezed.

He scooped the wreath off the wall, charged back over to the door and flung it open. The three women were still there, blinking. He threw the wreath at them and slammed the door. The middle one caught it neatly.

"And you said he didn't like the song, Rhonda!" She said triumphantly.

"He threw a wreath at us, Kenzie," the other pointed out. "I still don't think he liked it."

"Ah, what does it matter," the third laughed. "It's getting late. Let's go home, hang it up over the bookcases and snuggle with the cats!"

"I hate this season!" Quatre fumed as he sat back down in his chair. "Barton!"

"Yes sir?"

"I'm going home. No point in sitting here and being assaulted by all these Christmas-obsessed idiots."

"You know sir," Barton said quietly, "it will be worse tomorrow."

"Is that a sneaky way of asking for a day off?"

"No one else will be open tomorrow sir. People will be going around, dancing in the streets, exchanging gifts, asking for money…"

"Fine. Take the damn day. And be here all the earlier the next!"

"Yes sir." Trowa hid his smile of triumph. Quatre swirled his cloak around his shoulders and prepared to slam his way out of the office. "Have a…"

"If the words 'Merry' and 'Christmas' cross your lips, you'll be spending tomorrow waiting for the unemployment office to open."

"Nice evening sir." Trowa finished. Quatre didn't reply, slamming the door behind him.

Quatre made his way home, managing to trip an old lady carrying a lot of packages, kick two dogs, and make a face at a baby.

Trowa also made his way home, after ascertaining that his boss was indeed gone. He got propositioned four times on his way home; by two women, one man and a group of art students that said that they wanted to sketch him.

A sign waved: Question?

"Yes?"

Why does Barton work for such a grump? Can't he find another job?

"Nope. Jobs are hard to come by in this time period."

'Sucks to be him.'

Quatre paused on his doorstep. The storm that had started on his way home had gotten worse. He'd go to bed early to save on heat. He stuck his key in the lock and suddenly a shiver of dread passed over him.

The knocker in the center of his door had winked at him.

Quatre wasn't used to being winked at, at least not by doorknockers, and definitely not by doorknockers that suddenly looked like his old partner.

He blinked, and the doorknocker was a doorknocker again.

"Bet Zechs sprayed that wreath with some kind of hallucinogen," he muttered to himself as he unlocked the door and made his way inside. "Next waif I see I'm going to give him 2 pence to tackle Zechs and shave his head."

A sign waved again.

"What now?"

Aren't there supposed to be ghosts in this story?

Yes. Four of them, to be exact.

Well, where the hell are they?

Did you miss the doorknocker thing?

That's it?! That's one of the ghosts? That was lame!

Hey! That was Dickens! The real ghosts are coming up shortly!

Well, can't we just skip ahead? I want some ghosts!

Fine. Fine. Have it your way.

Quatre changed his clothes into his comfy flannel pjs and sat down in front of the fireplace with his dinner of bread and cheese.

Cheese! Yum!!

You said you weren't a mouse! He ate quickly in his darkened room, his eyes on the dancing flames of his meager fire.

When the flames turned an eerie blue, he was quite surprised.

END PART ONE

End part one? Why are we ending there? We're finally getting to the good part!

We have to end there.

Who said?

Just something a little bird told me to do- always leave them hanging she said, makes them come back wanting more.

Birds are mean.