post ALL the drabbles? @_@
Drabble roundup, part 2!
For oneechan19: Howl's Moving Castle/Young Wizards crossover: Howl as a YW!verse wizard
Mrs. Penstemmon blinked as an apparition appeared in the mirror behind her, and then calmly went back to powdering her face. “Howell Jenkins,” she said. “I thought I trained you better than to call up like that without notice. “
“Pendragon is what I’m using now,” said her most frustrating student, and gave her an airy smile.
“Pendragon?” Mrs. Pentstemmon sniffed. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. In the years I have spent as senior to this area, I have never encountered a wizard as vain as you - and what, dare I ask, have you done to your hair?”
“I find my astonishing good looks,” explained Howell, “act as a strong weapon against entropy.”
“Clearly,” said Mrs. Penstemmon. Every wizard in the area vividly recalled the time that thirteen-year-old Howell Jenkins had attempted to take care of his acne problem by rewriting his own description in the Speech during a working, and had almost erased his own face as a result. “What is it you wanted me to do for you?”
Howl’s green eyes grew wide, and he pressed a hand to his chest, nattily clad in a black silk shirt that set off his currently-blonde hair. He looked far too elegant for the small and extremely untidy kitchen she could see in the background behind him. “You wound me, Mrs. Pentstemmon,” he said sadly. “Can’t I just call up to say hello to my old teacher? Must I always have an ulterior motive?”
“I certainly hope you do,” says Mrs. Pentstemmon, “or this would be a terrible waste of wizardry.” Howell could have just called on the phone, of course, but he always did have to be flashy. She worried about young Howell. Proud as a peacock, and that was exactly the sort of fatal flaw a Certain Person (in Mrs. Pentstemmon’s mind, this phrase always had capital letters and a disdainful edge) was always looking to exploit. Her only reassurance was how slippery Howell was. It made his workings lovely, complex things, a privilege to witness, really - not that she’d ever tell him that - but moreover, she hoped, it would keep him from getting pinned down into any devil’s bargain. On the other hand, that stroke of cleverness could be dangerous in and of itself. From what little she knew of it, his Ordeal had been harrowing. “Besides,” she added, “whatever it is must be important, to get you up before noon.”
“I’ve changed, Mrs. Pentstemmon,” Howell protested. “You know I can’t rely on raw power anymore. I’ve become studious. Diligent. You wouldn’t recognize my work habits anymore.”
Mrs. Pentstemmon allowed her face to express that she did not believe a word of it, and started to pull on her gold-mesh mittens.
Silence stretched for a moment, and finally Howell broke. “I did have one question I wanted to ask,” he said, aiming at her a charming, coaxing smile.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Pentstemmon.
“Senior,” said Howell. “What do you know about doing workings on stars?”
For varadia: Milliwaysverse: That time Dave walked by when Mary and Galadan were discussing her future career path
“You are aware that I do not, in fact, wish to rule the world,” Mary says, flatly, and Galadan raises one eyebrow.
“Fortunate, as I am not, in fact, teaching you the skills to do so. You could perhaps become an adequate general -”
“But I don’t wish to be a general,” says Mary, and then reconsidered. “Well - I suppose if we were at war, and the one we had was very stupid, it would be better that someone did it who knew what they were talking about, so at least we could get out of it quicker. And you have taught me enough for that.”
“You are getting complacent, Mary,” Galadan says, “if you think that you have learned all you would need for such an endeavor.” His face is perfectly composed, but he’s not bothering to hide the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“You have taught me enough not to be very stupid,” Mary informs him, sure of her ground. “I do not know if you have taught me enough not to be stupid at all. But I am not likely to become a general in any case.”
Galadan does not deploy the eyebrow again, but it’s clearly only a matter of time. “Do you find your tactics lessons useless, then?”
“Of course not,” Mary says, with patent sincerity. “It is useful anyway, to be able to plot things that are likely to happen in all kinds of battles - and besides, though it is unlikely, if I were to have to lead an army one day, I should hate not to be prepared.”
“And that’s what she said,” Dave reports to Kim later, pacing restlessly through the limited space available in the apartment. “Tiny goddamn generals! What the hell does he want with them?”
“You could always just try asking her,” Kim suggests. She does not, as far as Dave is concerned, look anywhere near worried enough about Galadan’s Ominous Plans.
“Are you kidding?” Dave stops and stares at her. “That’s a fourteen-year-old girl who’s being trained by Galadan. Either she’d tear my head off, or she’d make me so mad I’d tear her head off, and either way it’s a lose-lose.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to resign yourself to not knowing,” Kim says, and looks up, her finger in the place of her book to keep it. There’s a glint of mischief, almost the twin to Galadan’s, lurking around the corners of her mouth. “Look on the bright side - at least you know that, unlike certain other persons of our acquaintance, she has no interest in ruling the world.”
And also for varadia because that was terrible: Homeward Bounders/Ouran crossover: Jamie stuck in Ouranverse. Don't ask how Jamie ended up attending an elite academy for wealthy students, because I have no idea.
It is unfortunate for Jamie that his hormones choose this time to start kicking in.
Unfortunate, because in any other world, Jamie thinks he might actually have a shot with the girl in question, even she would seem to be right out of his league. Jamie’s two hundred years old, after all. He’s seen plenty of flirting. He’s reasonably sure he could manage to pull it off all right. And Tadanobu Eriko is blessed with not only very pretty hair, but also a sense of humor; she likes to laugh. Making people laugh is meant to be Jamie’s strong point.
Unfortunately, it’s also one of the (many) strong points of the Hitachiin twins. And, like all the other girls at this bloody school - really! All of them! And how is that even possible, given the size of the music room, Jamie would like to know? - Tadanobu Eriko spends most of her afternoons with the host club, watching a pair of brothers make moon-eyes at each other. (Very good-looking moon-eyes, even Jamie has to admit. But all the same.)
“If I had a brother,” Jamie says to her one day, in a jokey way, “d’you think I’d have a chance?”
Tadanobu laughs. “Maybe. If you were willing to wear the super-cute Hawaiian outfits that the Host Club boys were wearing the other day.”
Jamie thinks about all the various things he’s worn over the course of his life - some of them quite a bit odder than anything he’s seen the Host Club put on - and says, “I don’t think that would be a problem.”
“Sorry, Hamitano-kun.” Tadanobu smoothes back her extremely shiny hair, and Jamie tries not to stare at it. “I do like you. But an afternoon at the Host Club is always much more entertaining than a date with anyone would be.” She pauses, and her eyes momentarily slip into dreaminess. “Unless it was a date with both Hitachiins, maybe . . .”
“Rejected!” exclaims Jamie, and falls into a dramatically woeful slump over his desk, which has the added benefit of preventing him from having to witness Eriko Inner Mind Theater. (He doesn’t like the way everyone’s Inner Mind Theaters appear to be visible in this universe. People ought to be allowed to have privacy for their fantasies; he’s turned a corner and walked into Suoh-senpai’s bizarre visions of Fujioka in a bunny outfit more than he can count.) Fujioka gives him a sympathetic pat on the back as he passes by, which, considering, rather lends insult to injury.
Nonetheless, he sits up and rearranges his woeful expression. He and Fujioka have a bond, based on a preference for cheap tea and a shared secret conviction that all wealthy people are idiots, and he intends to make use of it. “Fujioka,” he says. “Tell me. Those rich bastards you pal around with, d’you think they’d let me join up?”
Fujioka considers this question with clear-eyed thoughtfulness, as he does everything. “If you asked,” he says, “they’d probably say that they already have one foreigner and don’t need another one. Then they’d ask why you wanted to join. Then Suoh-senpai would start feeling sorry for you and recruit us all for Operation: Get the Weird Foreigner An Impossible Date.”
Jamie sighs. He has witnessed the outcomes of Suoh-senpai’s operations before. “Thanks,” he says, “but no thanks.”
Fujioka nods and slips off to his seat, looking slightly relieved. Jamie can’t blame him. A remarkable percentage of Suoh-senpai’s schemes involved putting Fujioka into strange costumes. It’s not that Jamie’s judging, because far be it from him, but you’ve got to consider it gets tiresome.
Anyway, Tadanobu Eriko appears to be a lost cause, which is a shame, because her laugh and her pretty hair are going to haunt Jamie’s daydreams for a long while. Nonetheless, Jamie is determined that this won’t keep him down. They’re supposed to be having a cultural exchange festival soon, after all, and people keep talking about the girls at Lobelia Girl’s Academy . . .
For shati: Avatar: Dangerous ladies! I did not plan to write such a depressing one for this. :(
When Mai turns around, she is not particularly surprised to see Ty Lee perched on her windowsill.
“Hi, Mai! It’s so good to see you!” As usual, Ty Lee manages the most enthusiastic whispers that Mai has ever heard. She bounds off the windowsill into the room. Mai catalogs: bright smile, anxious eyes, deep worry line between carefully shaped brows, Fire Nation guard’s uniform, and takes a step back, evading her outstretched arms.
It’s not that she would especially mind a hug from Ty Lee right now. She wouldn’t actually mind at all. And she doesn’t think Ty Lee would take advantage of the moment to block her chi, not yet - Ty Lee has certain priorities, and hugs are near the top of them - but they’ve all grown older and smarter now, and it’s a risk she doesn’t want to take.
She knows her face is composed. She says, “I figured you’d come when you heard about the rebellion. But you’re not going to stop me.”
Ty Lee does not say, you couldn’t or you wouldn’t. No one who had traveled with Azula would. Ty Lee is here because she knows exactly what Mai can and will do. “Um,” Ty Lee says. The chipmunk-fly smile fades from her face, leaving it thinner and older. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry.”
“She tried to kill me.” Ty Lee has a tendency to assume things are about emotion, because that’s how Ty Lee works. Mai doesn’t want Ty Lee to think this is about emotion - though that’s probably a lost cause -and so she keeps this statement very flat. “She tried to kill Zuko.”
“I know,” Ty Lee says.
“She probably tried to kill you when you snuck in to visit her, didn’t she?”
Ty Lee stares down, carefully placing one slippered foot on the inside of her opposite knee. Of course Azula isn’t allowed to have any visitors, but it’s not like those little details stop Ty Lee. “She’s just - really upset right now.”
Mai almost laughs. Instead, she says, “As long as she’s alive for people to form plans around, we’re not ever actually going to have peace. I mean, you know that, right? This is the Fire Nation.”
“I don’t care about that,” Ty Lee says, unabashed, and looks across at her. “And neither do you.”
“No,” Mai agrees. She doesn’t care about the Fire Nation. They have this much in common, Mai and Ty Lee: neither of them care about very much. What most people don’t understand is that when you’ve only got a very small set of things that you care about, you end up caring about those things kind of a lot.
Azula isn’t included in Mai’s set of things, not anymore.
Almost entirely not.
They stare at each other for a while. Mai is positive Ty Lee will be the one to break it, but finally, to her own surprise, she’s the one who speaks: “Zuko won’t do it. So I have to. I’m sorry.”
“Because Zuko’s not dead inside!” says Ty Lee, and abruptly bursts into tears - a weapon that only Ty Lee, of the three of them, ever really learned how to use.
It hurts more than it should. Bizarrely, Mai thinks: we’re not even on Ember Island. “Yeah, well,” she says. “That’s why he needs me around.”
She doesn’t need to check to make sure she’s got all her knives in her sleeves. She’s already made all her preparations, and there’s no more reason to tarry. She doesn’t turn around to look at Ty Lee, but she’s prepared to fend off one of her dancing chi-bending attacks, if one comes.
But it doesn’t come.
She should be more surprised when she gets there and finds herself having to step over unconscious guards. Once Ty Lee would have just immobilized them, but it seems she's being more cautious these days, too.
Mai has knives already in both of her hands, in case they are waiting for her together, but when she walks to the end of the hallway she sees it is only Ty Lee, alone, and lets them slip back into her wrist sheaths. The end of Ty Lee’s braid is singed, and so is one of her sleeves; it’s hard to see how badly she’s burned under it. The rational Azula, in such a position, would not have done this to someone who could be used as an ally. But Azula is not rational, not anymore.
“Zuko can’t do anything to me, because I’m an Earth Nation citizen now,” Ty Lee tells her.
Mai doesn’t say, how could you do this. No one who had traveled with Azula would have to ask. She feels very calm. She says, “You know lots of people are probably going to die now.”
“I know,” Ty Lee says. She’s still crying. The pink around her eyes clashes with the red of her stolen uniform.
Mai reaches into her left sleeve with her right hand. She sees Ty Lee tense, but all Mai does is offer her a black handkerchief. “Don’t be an idiot,” she says. “I won’t tell anyone.” Nobody will doubt that Azula could have escaped on her own. People are always escaping from Fire Nation prisons - which is, of course, one of the reasons that Mai is here to begin with. They’ll have to do something about the guards on duty, of course. But Mai thinks they can take care of that.
People are motivated by the subset of things that they care about. Mai and Ty Lee’s subsets don’t entirely overlap these days, but she knows Ty Lee too well to judge her for that.
“Oh,” Ty Lee says. She mops her eyes and then blows her nose, loudly, and then, still clinging to the handkerchief, throws herself at Mai.
This time, Mai doesn’t step back.
Mai’s not a very good hugger, but she has practice with Ty Lee, and anyway, hugs are another Ty Lee specialty; the force of her arms makes up for whatever Mai lacks.
And then I felt bad, so I wrote shati another: Avatar: Appa
His friends have places they need to go, which is all right. Appa doesn’t complain, but he knows where he would go if he got to pick the destination.
Appa doesn’t much like the heat. (If your coat was as shaggy as Appa’s, you wouldn’t like the heat either.) Flying in the cold can wear you out, but that’s okay; if it was Appa’s chance to pick the destination, they wouldn’t be in any kind of hurry. That’s where he’d take them, if they let him decide. There’s places around the North Pole without too many people, and that’s where he’d go; not that he doesn’t like people, but last time they went to that place in the north that was filled with people, and it had not worked out well. Sokka, especially, was sad for a while after. Appa tries, but he doesn’t really know how to fix people when they’re sad. He does okay with Momo, but then, Momo’s usually sad about things like “I am out of nuts,” which is easier to comprehend. People are complicated. And when they get sad, sometimes they do inexplicable things like dive you deep under the ice and keep you there for a hundred years (which, for the record, is why Appa does not like the South Pole best.)
If Appa got to pick - and his friends were with him, because otherwise he would go wherever his friends were, of course - he’d go somewhere he could stretch out when he slept, and where all his friends would burrow around him for warmth, like littermates. Very small littermates. They wouldn’t be very useful at conserving Appa’s warmth, but that’s what Appa has the fur coat for. It’s the principle of the thing, anyway.
The North, near the Pole. For Appa’s purposes, it’s just about perfect. Appa swishes his tail idly from side to side as they fly along, the sun’s heat beating down through the leather of the saddle, and dreams of snow.
And then somehow that still did not quite work out to cheerful, so, also for shati: Avatar: Zuko attempting to write poetry for Mai, and Sokka's reaction
(I feel like I need to add a note for this one! I am aware that songs in the cultures that the various Avatarverse cultures are based on don't necessarily conform to the same rhyming conventions as Western songs. But we have canon for basic song-rhymes from the hippies, which Sokka has reason to remember with, so I ran with it. Actual Fire Nation songs and poetry probably both conform to quite different rules! ANYWAY NOW THAT I HAVE OVEREXPLAINED.)
"Suki looks cheerful today,” Zuko says, and Sokka, watching her, manages to look studiously casual and enormously smug both at once.
“Oh, yeah, I wrote her a poem last night. She liked it,” he adds, unnecessarily.
“. . . Girls like that stuff?”
Sokka turns his head to look at the Firelord. “Zuko,” he says, kindly, and assumes Lecturing Pose. Zuko may be a year older than Sokka, but Sokka’s always found it pretty easy to ignore this fact. More important is the fact that Zuko has been living basically under a rock for a significant portion of his life - well, okay, on a Fire Nation boat, but that’s basically the same thing; let’s face it, as far as Sokka is concerned, living in the Fire Nation is basically like living under a rock, and this is coming from the guy who grew up in the South Pole - and needs someone wiser to take him under his wing. “Zuko. First of all, poetry isn’t stuff. It’s an important cultural art form that allows us to celebrate our feelings and impressions of the beautiful world around us. Second, and more importantly, girls love that stuff.”
Zuko frowns. Zuko is sometimes a slow learner when it comes to romance, but things sink in eventually. “Mai doesn’t . . . always like stuff that most girls like.”
Sokka considers this. On the one hand: he has a point. On the other hand, Mai decided to date Zuko, He Of The Angsty and Tormented Soul. Sokka is pretty sure that this plus the all-black aesthetic indicates at least some secret sensitivity to poetic ideals. “If you make it kind of emo,” he says, “I think she might actually go for it.”
Sokka has cause to regret his helpful advice two days later, when Zuko knocks on his door in the middle of the night. (Fortunately, Sokka is prepared for this kind of thing happening these days. Sokka and Suki have already instituted a secret knock in self-defense. Because never again. Never again.)
Zuko looks haggard. There are huge dark circles under his eyes. “Sokka,” he says. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
“Calm down,” Sokka says. “And hang on.” He turns around and fishes under his bed for a moment. It is exactly for times like these that he keeps his false beard with him at all times. And Katara laughed and said he’d never use it again! It just goes to show.
“All right,” he says, turning back around and stroking the beard judiciously. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Nothing!” Zuko throws a pile of parchment onto Sokka’s bed. “The only thing I can rhyme with ‘shiny’ is ‘tiny’. The only thing that rhymes with ‘black’ is ‘shack.’ And nothing rhymes with beautiful, okay? Nothing rhymes with beautiful!”
Zuko does not even know how lucky he is that Sokka is here. Zuko should pay Sokka an advisor’s fee or something. “Zuko,” Sokka says, all gentle patience. “Why are you trying to rhyme?”
“. . . isn’t that how poetry works?” says Zuko.
“That’s how songs work,” says Sokka. “Poetry’s not about rhyming, buddy, it’s about syllables! Five-seven-five. You can talk about Mai’s freakishly shiny hair all you want and you don’t have to rhyme it with anything.”
Zuko takes a deep breath, calming down. Once again, the power of Sokka’s innate wisdom + the beard is proven. “I really love Mai’s shiny hair,” he says.
“I know, buddy,” Sokka says, and pats him on the shoulder. “I know.”
Sokka would not give any poetry prizes to Zuko’s final efforts, personally. But when Mai receives it, she smiles a tiny amused smile, to which Zuko responds with an enormously dorky grin. Sokka feels that his work here is done.
(The final poem:
Your hair is shiny
And your eyes are pretty too
And I like your face.
You’re so beautiful
When you hate the world and then
Also when you don’t.)
For elspeth_vimes: Monster/20th Century Boys crossover: post-series Tenma meets Kenji, with bonus baby Kanna
Tenma was trying very hard not to notice that the little girl’s guardian had come to the appointment in a large pink bunny suit.
This should not have been so difficult. In the past, Tenma had provided medical assistance to many people who had made far stranger lifestyle choices than taking to the streets disguised as enormous rabbits - and if Tenma had come to any single conclusion during the course of his medical career, it was that it was not a doctor’s job to judge. Still, while he had learned to ignore thieves, murderers, gang members, and henchmen of various stripes looking over his shoulder as he performed an examination, there was something about the bunny suit that was peculiarly distracting.
Or maybe it was just the way that the man was hovering.
Tenma finished the examination and straightened; the man in the bunny suit straightened with him, conveying generally anxious vibes. “All right, I can give her the vaccine if you’ll feel more comfortable,” he said, “but I’m about 99 percent sure that your niece is not infected with chicken pox.”
“Man! That’s a relief,” said the man in the bunny suit, and wiped imaginary sweat off his furry brow. Tenma would guess that he was sweating real sweat underneath; it was a hot day out there. “Hey, Kanna?”
“That’s a relief!” said Kanna, swinging her legs over the side of the examining table, and wiped imaginary sweat away from under her bangs.
“I dunno what kind of shots she’s supposed to have had, but it’s kinda hard keeping her up to date,” said the man in the bunny suit. “Given the, uh. You know.”
Tenma nodded. He didn’t know the specifics of Kanna’s uncle’s circumstances, only that a friend of a friend of a friend of his had somehow made the acquaintance of a certain Vietnamese doctor in Germany. There aren’t many doctors willing to treat those without paperwork. There are even fewer doctors willing to treat those without paperwork and also without money. Word spread somehow; arrangements were made. Often, as in this case, they involved no names.
“If you tell me when she last saw a doctor,” he offered, “I can tell you what she’s behind on. I don’t have the kit with me right now to do everything, but I’d be happy to set another appointment.”
“Really? That’d be great,” said the man, his smile invisible under the permanent grin of the costume. Tenma had no doubt that it was there, though, and offered a tentative smile back. “It’d take a load off my mind, seriously. I know kids are supposed to get regular checkups.”
“You don’t need to worry too much,” said Tenma. “Overall, she’s amazingly healthy. Wherever you’re living - I’m not asking - but wherever it is, it must agree with her.”
The rabbit scratched his nose. “Well,” he said, sounding sheepish. “I mean, we’re not exactly living in a house in the countryside. Any credit for health has all gotta go to Kanna and her kickass immune system.”
“Uh-huh!” said Kanna. “I’m kickass!” The girl’s tiny hand and the cotton rabbit’s-paw smacked together, and then gave each other a thumbs-up.
“Seriously, though?” said the man in the bunny suit, fuzzy ears tilting back towards Tenma. “Everything’s okay?”
If he asked three more times than the average parent, Tenma supposed he couldn't blame him. Tenma was a doctor; he didn’t judge. It was true that the life of a fugitive from the law, for whatever reason, was probably not ideal for a small girl. But by now Tenma thought he could count as something of an honorary expert-by-proxy on various ways of child-rearing, and as far as guardians went, Kanna could do a lot worse than a man who put his freedom at risk to find a doctor just because she’d been playing with some boys who’d come down with chicken pox.
Besides, Dieter seemed to be turning out all right.
“From a medical standpoint,” he said, “you’re doing fine.”
Also for elspeth_vimes: Sun Sword/20th Century Boys crossover: Kallandras gives Kenji singing lessons
Kallandras of Senniel College had the bardic gift: he could know the singer from their song and the speaker from their speech, hear all the emotions that a voice fought to disguise in presenting a stoic mask.
He realized two words into conversation with Endo Kenji that his gift would be utterly unnecessary here.
After their first meeting, Kallandras resolved two things: one, that despite his lack of vocal ability, Endo Kenji just might make a singer who had the power to move men’s hearts - and two, that Kallandras was never, ever taking the young man into the Dominion.
And, since that one was very short, also for elspeth_vimes: Sun Sword/Fullmetal Alchemist crossover: Serra Teresa and Hawkeye discuss political strategies
The Serra Teresa has invited the woman soldier into the harem, but in truth, she does not expect very much to come of the meeting. They are of different ages, of different social positions, above all of different cultures. The number of things that they cannot say to each other - or at least, in any way that would be understood - could fill a book.
They have this much: they are two women, and they are alone.
“I’m honored to be invited,” says the woman quietly - Lieutenant Hawkeye, it seems, is the correct way to address her. Her straight-backed posture is subtly different from a Serra’s equally upright carriage. Soldier-straight. “And I want to tell you that my superior understands that what we discuss here will not necessarily reach his ears. Unless you want it to.”
A younger Teresa might have been taken aback by this bluntness, behind her serene mask; the older, more experienced Serra barely blinks. “I would not expect a man of your superior’s importance to listen to harem talk, regardless.”
“That’s difficult to say,” says the lieutenant. “As you know, we don’t have harems in Amestris. But I’m reasonably sure that if we did, he would find the discussions that went on inside them fascinating.” She’s not smiling, but there’s a subtle glint of amusement in her face that might indicate a private joke. It disappears, as she adds, “If there is one thing that we both understand, Serra - and would like for you to understand as well - it’s that the talk no one else listens to that’s often the most worth hearing.”
‘We both.’ The phrase is not insignificant. Amestrian military society obviously doesn’t work along the same gender-political lines as the Dominion; the Serra understands that it has a strong hierarchical structure, all the same. The pairing of Hawkeye’s own opinion with her superior’s might be simple self-importance in someone else, but not, Serra Teresa suspects, from the clear-eyed, direct woman in front of her. Teresa is being offered a level of trust.
“I wouldn’t wish you to misunderstand,” says the Serra Teresa, slowly. “It would dishonor any man in the Dominion to be influenced by me. It would dishonor me to attempt to influence them. The spheres are separate.”
“Please pardon my rudeness.” The woman’s gaze is straight. She does not look apologetic. “But the alchemists of my country have a saying - one is all, and all is one. All things are connected.”
“A movement in one place sends out ripples to another,” the Serra says; it would seem a concession if her face and voice were anything less than perfectly serene. As it is, it might simply be a remark. “But it takes a great deal of skill and study to discern which ripples originated from which dropped stone.”
Nothing, in the Dominion, is offered on a silver platter. Nothing is given for free. Teresa appreciates what the lieutenant has already offered her, but she does not intend to change that habit now.
“I don’t expect instant understanding,” says Lieutenant Hawkeye. Blunt, again; the Serra Teresa spares a moment to regret the grace with which another southern woman could convey the same information, and in the same moment is grateful that - unlike the women of the Voyani, or of the North - the lieutenant at least does not seem to grudge the lack of the same bluntness in the Serra. “Nobody could. We’re too different. But please believe I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t willing to put in the time to try, and if we didn’t think it was important.”
‘We’ again, and also ‘I’.
The Serra Teresa has not yet decided her course of action. But they are two women alone in a room, and so she can, at least, raise her eyes to the stranger’s and say, with perfect calm, “I believe you.”
For lacewood: Fullmetal Alchemist: Mustang/Hawkeye
“Colonel? It’s Hawkeye.”
Mustang is already smirking when he hears the measured voice on the phone. He has been smirking, in fact, since the phone started ringing. “Afternoon, lieutenant. Isn’t it your day off?”
“I thought I should let you know that I received an unsigned package today, sir. It could be suspicious.”
“Good call. Thanks for letting me know. Did you take a look to check what’s in it?”
He can visualize the deadpan expression on her face perfectly clearly. “It appears to be a pair of vases, sir. Flower vases.”
“Maybe someone heard you don’t have any,” Mustang says. He knows his smirk is broadening, and he doesn’t much care.
“I’ve never really felt the lack. Only drunken idiots ever try to give me flowers.”
Mustang chokes back a laugh, with some difficulty. “It could be your local florist trying to drum up some business. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
“Well, it’s a little inconvenient, sir.”
“Oh?”
“I’m in the middle of packing up for our transfer next week. Vases don’t really travel well, and these were delivered in a flimsy bag. If someone was going to send me something delicate, it would be nice if they could provide me with better packing material.”
“It’s supposed to be the thought that counts, lieutenant,” Mustang informs her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Breda studiously making no expression at all.
“Not that it’s anything to do with you in any case, sir,” says the amused voice over the phone. “Anyway, you’d better get back to work, hadn’t you?”
“So that’s why you really called - to nag me about paperwork. All right, all right, I’m going back to the requisition orders. Enjoy your day off, lieutenant. Maybe your mystery florist will drop off a nice romantic packing crate.”
“It would be better if they’d stay to help me pack it up while they were at it. Please try not to slack off today, sir.”
Mustang waits until he hears the click to hang up the phone on his end. He takes a second to take a breath - this is new territory they are navigating, slowly and carefully, if couched in all the old forms and jokes - and then brings himself back down to the office, though he lets the smirk remain. He’s not sure he could entirely remove it if he tried. “Breda,” he says, “pass me that pile of papers on your left, will you?”
Breda is still emphatically Not Using His Eyebrows To Indicate Anything. “The ones you've been procrastinating on all day?”
Mustang’s already reaching for a pen and a stamp. “Come on, Second Lieutenant - I want to get out of here on time today.”
LAST ONE. Also for lacewood: Fullmetal Alchemist: Team Mustang and Briggs
Dear Colonel, 1st lieutenant, 2nd lieutenant, and Black Hayate
I hope all is well in East City. Falman was right - it is actually surprisingly beautiful up in Briggs. (He was also right that I should make sure to bring extra sweaters!) My trip up was very easy and everyone here has been very welcoming. They are doing some fascinating work with long-distance radio transmission up here - did you know that Major General Armstrong has a keen interest in communications technology? It’s very refreshing to find that kind of scientific attention among the upper staff!
At this point, Breda has to stop reading, because he is too busy laughing. “Oh, she’s got him, sir,” he wheezes. “She’s got him good.”
Mustang’s scowl has been intensifying with each new sentence read. It now is looking rather like he’s trying to set the postcard on fire with his eyes - which admittedly is not so far-fetched, given the givens. “Well? Keep reading!”
Breda valiantly attempts to stifle his guffaws, but apparently it is all too much for him. Finally he just waves his hand in a weak gesture of defeat and shoves the postcard towards Hawkeye.
Hawkeye takes the card serenely - it has a cheery photo of a snowman with a Briggs jacket and a mullet made of straw on the back - and reads out, “I will be sorry to leave my projects here when my vacation is over. I suppose I shouldn’t really call them my projects - they were all things that Major General Armstrong has been developing for some time - but I think I have been of at least a little help in moving some of them along, and Major General Armstrong has kindly said that -”
“Hawkeye!” Mustang interrupts, holding out his hand imperiously. “I need a picture of your dog.”
“What?” says Hawkeye, setting down Fuery’s note. (Breda looks like he wants to echo the question, but, as he is still wheezing faintly, decides it is not worth the effort.)
“A picture of your dog. The saddest, biggest-eyed picture of him you can find to turn into a postcard. I am not,” Mustang says, grim determination in his voice, “losing any more men to Briggs!”
AND OKAY THAT IS ALL.
For oneechan19: Howl's Moving Castle/Young Wizards crossover: Howl as a YW!verse wizard
Mrs. Penstemmon blinked as an apparition appeared in the mirror behind her, and then calmly went back to powdering her face. “Howell Jenkins,” she said. “I thought I trained you better than to call up like that without notice. “
“Pendragon is what I’m using now,” said her most frustrating student, and gave her an airy smile.
“Pendragon?” Mrs. Pentstemmon sniffed. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. In the years I have spent as senior to this area, I have never encountered a wizard as vain as you - and what, dare I ask, have you done to your hair?”
“I find my astonishing good looks,” explained Howell, “act as a strong weapon against entropy.”
“Clearly,” said Mrs. Penstemmon. Every wizard in the area vividly recalled the time that thirteen-year-old Howell Jenkins had attempted to take care of his acne problem by rewriting his own description in the Speech during a working, and had almost erased his own face as a result. “What is it you wanted me to do for you?”
Howl’s green eyes grew wide, and he pressed a hand to his chest, nattily clad in a black silk shirt that set off his currently-blonde hair. He looked far too elegant for the small and extremely untidy kitchen she could see in the background behind him. “You wound me, Mrs. Pentstemmon,” he said sadly. “Can’t I just call up to say hello to my old teacher? Must I always have an ulterior motive?”
“I certainly hope you do,” says Mrs. Pentstemmon, “or this would be a terrible waste of wizardry.” Howell could have just called on the phone, of course, but he always did have to be flashy. She worried about young Howell. Proud as a peacock, and that was exactly the sort of fatal flaw a Certain Person (in Mrs. Pentstemmon’s mind, this phrase always had capital letters and a disdainful edge) was always looking to exploit. Her only reassurance was how slippery Howell was. It made his workings lovely, complex things, a privilege to witness, really - not that she’d ever tell him that - but moreover, she hoped, it would keep him from getting pinned down into any devil’s bargain. On the other hand, that stroke of cleverness could be dangerous in and of itself. From what little she knew of it, his Ordeal had been harrowing. “Besides,” she added, “whatever it is must be important, to get you up before noon.”
“I’ve changed, Mrs. Pentstemmon,” Howell protested. “You know I can’t rely on raw power anymore. I’ve become studious. Diligent. You wouldn’t recognize my work habits anymore.”
Mrs. Pentstemmon allowed her face to express that she did not believe a word of it, and started to pull on her gold-mesh mittens.
Silence stretched for a moment, and finally Howell broke. “I did have one question I wanted to ask,” he said, aiming at her a charming, coaxing smile.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Pentstemmon.
“Senior,” said Howell. “What do you know about doing workings on stars?”
For varadia: Milliwaysverse: That time Dave walked by when Mary and Galadan were discussing her future career path
“You are aware that I do not, in fact, wish to rule the world,” Mary says, flatly, and Galadan raises one eyebrow.
“Fortunate, as I am not, in fact, teaching you the skills to do so. You could perhaps become an adequate general -”
“But I don’t wish to be a general,” says Mary, and then reconsidered. “Well - I suppose if we were at war, and the one we had was very stupid, it would be better that someone did it who knew what they were talking about, so at least we could get out of it quicker. And you have taught me enough for that.”
“You are getting complacent, Mary,” Galadan says, “if you think that you have learned all you would need for such an endeavor.” His face is perfectly composed, but he’s not bothering to hide the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“You have taught me enough not to be very stupid,” Mary informs him, sure of her ground. “I do not know if you have taught me enough not to be stupid at all. But I am not likely to become a general in any case.”
Galadan does not deploy the eyebrow again, but it’s clearly only a matter of time. “Do you find your tactics lessons useless, then?”
“Of course not,” Mary says, with patent sincerity. “It is useful anyway, to be able to plot things that are likely to happen in all kinds of battles - and besides, though it is unlikely, if I were to have to lead an army one day, I should hate not to be prepared.”
“And that’s what she said,” Dave reports to Kim later, pacing restlessly through the limited space available in the apartment. “Tiny goddamn generals! What the hell does he want with them?”
“You could always just try asking her,” Kim suggests. She does not, as far as Dave is concerned, look anywhere near worried enough about Galadan’s Ominous Plans.
“Are you kidding?” Dave stops and stares at her. “That’s a fourteen-year-old girl who’s being trained by Galadan. Either she’d tear my head off, or she’d make me so mad I’d tear her head off, and either way it’s a lose-lose.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to resign yourself to not knowing,” Kim says, and looks up, her finger in the place of her book to keep it. There’s a glint of mischief, almost the twin to Galadan’s, lurking around the corners of her mouth. “Look on the bright side - at least you know that, unlike certain other persons of our acquaintance, she has no interest in ruling the world.”
And also for varadia because that was terrible: Homeward Bounders/Ouran crossover: Jamie stuck in Ouranverse. Don't ask how Jamie ended up attending an elite academy for wealthy students, because I have no idea.
It is unfortunate for Jamie that his hormones choose this time to start kicking in.
Unfortunate, because in any other world, Jamie thinks he might actually have a shot with the girl in question, even she would seem to be right out of his league. Jamie’s two hundred years old, after all. He’s seen plenty of flirting. He’s reasonably sure he could manage to pull it off all right. And Tadanobu Eriko is blessed with not only very pretty hair, but also a sense of humor; she likes to laugh. Making people laugh is meant to be Jamie’s strong point.
Unfortunately, it’s also one of the (many) strong points of the Hitachiin twins. And, like all the other girls at this bloody school - really! All of them! And how is that even possible, given the size of the music room, Jamie would like to know? - Tadanobu Eriko spends most of her afternoons with the host club, watching a pair of brothers make moon-eyes at each other. (Very good-looking moon-eyes, even Jamie has to admit. But all the same.)
“If I had a brother,” Jamie says to her one day, in a jokey way, “d’you think I’d have a chance?”
Tadanobu laughs. “Maybe. If you were willing to wear the super-cute Hawaiian outfits that the Host Club boys were wearing the other day.”
Jamie thinks about all the various things he’s worn over the course of his life - some of them quite a bit odder than anything he’s seen the Host Club put on - and says, “I don’t think that would be a problem.”
“Sorry, Hamitano-kun.” Tadanobu smoothes back her extremely shiny hair, and Jamie tries not to stare at it. “I do like you. But an afternoon at the Host Club is always much more entertaining than a date with anyone would be.” She pauses, and her eyes momentarily slip into dreaminess. “Unless it was a date with both Hitachiins, maybe . . .”
“Rejected!” exclaims Jamie, and falls into a dramatically woeful slump over his desk, which has the added benefit of preventing him from having to witness Eriko Inner Mind Theater. (He doesn’t like the way everyone’s Inner Mind Theaters appear to be visible in this universe. People ought to be allowed to have privacy for their fantasies; he’s turned a corner and walked into Suoh-senpai’s bizarre visions of Fujioka in a bunny outfit more than he can count.) Fujioka gives him a sympathetic pat on the back as he passes by, which, considering, rather lends insult to injury.
Nonetheless, he sits up and rearranges his woeful expression. He and Fujioka have a bond, based on a preference for cheap tea and a shared secret conviction that all wealthy people are idiots, and he intends to make use of it. “Fujioka,” he says. “Tell me. Those rich bastards you pal around with, d’you think they’d let me join up?”
Fujioka considers this question with clear-eyed thoughtfulness, as he does everything. “If you asked,” he says, “they’d probably say that they already have one foreigner and don’t need another one. Then they’d ask why you wanted to join. Then Suoh-senpai would start feeling sorry for you and recruit us all for Operation: Get the Weird Foreigner An Impossible Date.”
Jamie sighs. He has witnessed the outcomes of Suoh-senpai’s operations before. “Thanks,” he says, “but no thanks.”
Fujioka nods and slips off to his seat, looking slightly relieved. Jamie can’t blame him. A remarkable percentage of Suoh-senpai’s schemes involved putting Fujioka into strange costumes. It’s not that Jamie’s judging, because far be it from him, but you’ve got to consider it gets tiresome.
Anyway, Tadanobu Eriko appears to be a lost cause, which is a shame, because her laugh and her pretty hair are going to haunt Jamie’s daydreams for a long while. Nonetheless, Jamie is determined that this won’t keep him down. They’re supposed to be having a cultural exchange festival soon, after all, and people keep talking about the girls at Lobelia Girl’s Academy . . .
For shati: Avatar: Dangerous ladies! I did not plan to write such a depressing one for this. :(
When Mai turns around, she is not particularly surprised to see Ty Lee perched on her windowsill.
“Hi, Mai! It’s so good to see you!” As usual, Ty Lee manages the most enthusiastic whispers that Mai has ever heard. She bounds off the windowsill into the room. Mai catalogs: bright smile, anxious eyes, deep worry line between carefully shaped brows, Fire Nation guard’s uniform, and takes a step back, evading her outstretched arms.
It’s not that she would especially mind a hug from Ty Lee right now. She wouldn’t actually mind at all. And she doesn’t think Ty Lee would take advantage of the moment to block her chi, not yet - Ty Lee has certain priorities, and hugs are near the top of them - but they’ve all grown older and smarter now, and it’s a risk she doesn’t want to take.
She knows her face is composed. She says, “I figured you’d come when you heard about the rebellion. But you’re not going to stop me.”
Ty Lee does not say, you couldn’t or you wouldn’t. No one who had traveled with Azula would. Ty Lee is here because she knows exactly what Mai can and will do. “Um,” Ty Lee says. The chipmunk-fly smile fades from her face, leaving it thinner and older. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry.”
“She tried to kill me.” Ty Lee has a tendency to assume things are about emotion, because that’s how Ty Lee works. Mai doesn’t want Ty Lee to think this is about emotion - though that’s probably a lost cause -and so she keeps this statement very flat. “She tried to kill Zuko.”
“I know,” Ty Lee says.
“She probably tried to kill you when you snuck in to visit her, didn’t she?”
Ty Lee stares down, carefully placing one slippered foot on the inside of her opposite knee. Of course Azula isn’t allowed to have any visitors, but it’s not like those little details stop Ty Lee. “She’s just - really upset right now.”
Mai almost laughs. Instead, she says, “As long as she’s alive for people to form plans around, we’re not ever actually going to have peace. I mean, you know that, right? This is the Fire Nation.”
“I don’t care about that,” Ty Lee says, unabashed, and looks across at her. “And neither do you.”
“No,” Mai agrees. She doesn’t care about the Fire Nation. They have this much in common, Mai and Ty Lee: neither of them care about very much. What most people don’t understand is that when you’ve only got a very small set of things that you care about, you end up caring about those things kind of a lot.
Azula isn’t included in Mai’s set of things, not anymore.
Almost entirely not.
They stare at each other for a while. Mai is positive Ty Lee will be the one to break it, but finally, to her own surprise, she’s the one who speaks: “Zuko won’t do it. So I have to. I’m sorry.”
“Because Zuko’s not dead inside!” says Ty Lee, and abruptly bursts into tears - a weapon that only Ty Lee, of the three of them, ever really learned how to use.
It hurts more than it should. Bizarrely, Mai thinks: we’re not even on Ember Island. “Yeah, well,” she says. “That’s why he needs me around.”
She doesn’t need to check to make sure she’s got all her knives in her sleeves. She’s already made all her preparations, and there’s no more reason to tarry. She doesn’t turn around to look at Ty Lee, but she’s prepared to fend off one of her dancing chi-bending attacks, if one comes.
But it doesn’t come.
She should be more surprised when she gets there and finds herself having to step over unconscious guards. Once Ty Lee would have just immobilized them, but it seems she's being more cautious these days, too.
Mai has knives already in both of her hands, in case they are waiting for her together, but when she walks to the end of the hallway she sees it is only Ty Lee, alone, and lets them slip back into her wrist sheaths. The end of Ty Lee’s braid is singed, and so is one of her sleeves; it’s hard to see how badly she’s burned under it. The rational Azula, in such a position, would not have done this to someone who could be used as an ally. But Azula is not rational, not anymore.
“Zuko can’t do anything to me, because I’m an Earth Nation citizen now,” Ty Lee tells her.
Mai doesn’t say, how could you do this. No one who had traveled with Azula would have to ask. She feels very calm. She says, “You know lots of people are probably going to die now.”
“I know,” Ty Lee says. She’s still crying. The pink around her eyes clashes with the red of her stolen uniform.
Mai reaches into her left sleeve with her right hand. She sees Ty Lee tense, but all Mai does is offer her a black handkerchief. “Don’t be an idiot,” she says. “I won’t tell anyone.” Nobody will doubt that Azula could have escaped on her own. People are always escaping from Fire Nation prisons - which is, of course, one of the reasons that Mai is here to begin with. They’ll have to do something about the guards on duty, of course. But Mai thinks they can take care of that.
People are motivated by the subset of things that they care about. Mai and Ty Lee’s subsets don’t entirely overlap these days, but she knows Ty Lee too well to judge her for that.
“Oh,” Ty Lee says. She mops her eyes and then blows her nose, loudly, and then, still clinging to the handkerchief, throws herself at Mai.
This time, Mai doesn’t step back.
Mai’s not a very good hugger, but she has practice with Ty Lee, and anyway, hugs are another Ty Lee specialty; the force of her arms makes up for whatever Mai lacks.
And then I felt bad, so I wrote shati another: Avatar: Appa
His friends have places they need to go, which is all right. Appa doesn’t complain, but he knows where he would go if he got to pick the destination.
Appa doesn’t much like the heat. (If your coat was as shaggy as Appa’s, you wouldn’t like the heat either.) Flying in the cold can wear you out, but that’s okay; if it was Appa’s chance to pick the destination, they wouldn’t be in any kind of hurry. That’s where he’d take them, if they let him decide. There’s places around the North Pole without too many people, and that’s where he’d go; not that he doesn’t like people, but last time they went to that place in the north that was filled with people, and it had not worked out well. Sokka, especially, was sad for a while after. Appa tries, but he doesn’t really know how to fix people when they’re sad. He does okay with Momo, but then, Momo’s usually sad about things like “I am out of nuts,” which is easier to comprehend. People are complicated. And when they get sad, sometimes they do inexplicable things like dive you deep under the ice and keep you there for a hundred years (which, for the record, is why Appa does not like the South Pole best.)
If Appa got to pick - and his friends were with him, because otherwise he would go wherever his friends were, of course - he’d go somewhere he could stretch out when he slept, and where all his friends would burrow around him for warmth, like littermates. Very small littermates. They wouldn’t be very useful at conserving Appa’s warmth, but that’s what Appa has the fur coat for. It’s the principle of the thing, anyway.
The North, near the Pole. For Appa’s purposes, it’s just about perfect. Appa swishes his tail idly from side to side as they fly along, the sun’s heat beating down through the leather of the saddle, and dreams of snow.
And then somehow that still did not quite work out to cheerful, so, also for shati: Avatar: Zuko attempting to write poetry for Mai, and Sokka's reaction
(I feel like I need to add a note for this one! I am aware that songs in the cultures that the various Avatarverse cultures are based on don't necessarily conform to the same rhyming conventions as Western songs. But we have canon for basic song-rhymes from the hippies, which Sokka has reason to remember with, so I ran with it. Actual Fire Nation songs and poetry probably both conform to quite different rules! ANYWAY NOW THAT I HAVE OVEREXPLAINED.)
"Suki looks cheerful today,” Zuko says, and Sokka, watching her, manages to look studiously casual and enormously smug both at once.
“Oh, yeah, I wrote her a poem last night. She liked it,” he adds, unnecessarily.
“. . . Girls like that stuff?”
Sokka turns his head to look at the Firelord. “Zuko,” he says, kindly, and assumes Lecturing Pose. Zuko may be a year older than Sokka, but Sokka’s always found it pretty easy to ignore this fact. More important is the fact that Zuko has been living basically under a rock for a significant portion of his life - well, okay, on a Fire Nation boat, but that’s basically the same thing; let’s face it, as far as Sokka is concerned, living in the Fire Nation is basically like living under a rock, and this is coming from the guy who grew up in the South Pole - and needs someone wiser to take him under his wing. “Zuko. First of all, poetry isn’t stuff. It’s an important cultural art form that allows us to celebrate our feelings and impressions of the beautiful world around us. Second, and more importantly, girls love that stuff.”
Zuko frowns. Zuko is sometimes a slow learner when it comes to romance, but things sink in eventually. “Mai doesn’t . . . always like stuff that most girls like.”
Sokka considers this. On the one hand: he has a point. On the other hand, Mai decided to date Zuko, He Of The Angsty and Tormented Soul. Sokka is pretty sure that this plus the all-black aesthetic indicates at least some secret sensitivity to poetic ideals. “If you make it kind of emo,” he says, “I think she might actually go for it.”
Sokka has cause to regret his helpful advice two days later, when Zuko knocks on his door in the middle of the night. (Fortunately, Sokka is prepared for this kind of thing happening these days. Sokka and Suki have already instituted a secret knock in self-defense. Because never again. Never again.)
Zuko looks haggard. There are huge dark circles under his eyes. “Sokka,” he says. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
“Calm down,” Sokka says. “And hang on.” He turns around and fishes under his bed for a moment. It is exactly for times like these that he keeps his false beard with him at all times. And Katara laughed and said he’d never use it again! It just goes to show.
“All right,” he says, turning back around and stroking the beard judiciously. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Nothing!” Zuko throws a pile of parchment onto Sokka’s bed. “The only thing I can rhyme with ‘shiny’ is ‘tiny’. The only thing that rhymes with ‘black’ is ‘shack.’ And nothing rhymes with beautiful, okay? Nothing rhymes with beautiful!”
Zuko does not even know how lucky he is that Sokka is here. Zuko should pay Sokka an advisor’s fee or something. “Zuko,” Sokka says, all gentle patience. “Why are you trying to rhyme?”
“. . . isn’t that how poetry works?” says Zuko.
“That’s how songs work,” says Sokka. “Poetry’s not about rhyming, buddy, it’s about syllables! Five-seven-five. You can talk about Mai’s freakishly shiny hair all you want and you don’t have to rhyme it with anything.”
Zuko takes a deep breath, calming down. Once again, the power of Sokka’s innate wisdom + the beard is proven. “I really love Mai’s shiny hair,” he says.
“I know, buddy,” Sokka says, and pats him on the shoulder. “I know.”
Sokka would not give any poetry prizes to Zuko’s final efforts, personally. But when Mai receives it, she smiles a tiny amused smile, to which Zuko responds with an enormously dorky grin. Sokka feels that his work here is done.
(The final poem:
Your hair is shiny
And your eyes are pretty too
And I like your face.
You’re so beautiful
When you hate the world and then
Also when you don’t.)
For elspeth_vimes: Monster/20th Century Boys crossover: post-series Tenma meets Kenji, with bonus baby Kanna
Tenma was trying very hard not to notice that the little girl’s guardian had come to the appointment in a large pink bunny suit.
This should not have been so difficult. In the past, Tenma had provided medical assistance to many people who had made far stranger lifestyle choices than taking to the streets disguised as enormous rabbits - and if Tenma had come to any single conclusion during the course of his medical career, it was that it was not a doctor’s job to judge. Still, while he had learned to ignore thieves, murderers, gang members, and henchmen of various stripes looking over his shoulder as he performed an examination, there was something about the bunny suit that was peculiarly distracting.
Or maybe it was just the way that the man was hovering.
Tenma finished the examination and straightened; the man in the bunny suit straightened with him, conveying generally anxious vibes. “All right, I can give her the vaccine if you’ll feel more comfortable,” he said, “but I’m about 99 percent sure that your niece is not infected with chicken pox.”
“Man! That’s a relief,” said the man in the bunny suit, and wiped imaginary sweat off his furry brow. Tenma would guess that he was sweating real sweat underneath; it was a hot day out there. “Hey, Kanna?”
“That’s a relief!” said Kanna, swinging her legs over the side of the examining table, and wiped imaginary sweat away from under her bangs.
“I dunno what kind of shots she’s supposed to have had, but it’s kinda hard keeping her up to date,” said the man in the bunny suit. “Given the, uh. You know.”
Tenma nodded. He didn’t know the specifics of Kanna’s uncle’s circumstances, only that a friend of a friend of a friend of his had somehow made the acquaintance of a certain Vietnamese doctor in Germany. There aren’t many doctors willing to treat those without paperwork. There are even fewer doctors willing to treat those without paperwork and also without money. Word spread somehow; arrangements were made. Often, as in this case, they involved no names.
“If you tell me when she last saw a doctor,” he offered, “I can tell you what she’s behind on. I don’t have the kit with me right now to do everything, but I’d be happy to set another appointment.”
“Really? That’d be great,” said the man, his smile invisible under the permanent grin of the costume. Tenma had no doubt that it was there, though, and offered a tentative smile back. “It’d take a load off my mind, seriously. I know kids are supposed to get regular checkups.”
“You don’t need to worry too much,” said Tenma. “Overall, she’s amazingly healthy. Wherever you’re living - I’m not asking - but wherever it is, it must agree with her.”
The rabbit scratched his nose. “Well,” he said, sounding sheepish. “I mean, we’re not exactly living in a house in the countryside. Any credit for health has all gotta go to Kanna and her kickass immune system.”
“Uh-huh!” said Kanna. “I’m kickass!” The girl’s tiny hand and the cotton rabbit’s-paw smacked together, and then gave each other a thumbs-up.
“Seriously, though?” said the man in the bunny suit, fuzzy ears tilting back towards Tenma. “Everything’s okay?”
If he asked three more times than the average parent, Tenma supposed he couldn't blame him. Tenma was a doctor; he didn’t judge. It was true that the life of a fugitive from the law, for whatever reason, was probably not ideal for a small girl. But by now Tenma thought he could count as something of an honorary expert-by-proxy on various ways of child-rearing, and as far as guardians went, Kanna could do a lot worse than a man who put his freedom at risk to find a doctor just because she’d been playing with some boys who’d come down with chicken pox.
Besides, Dieter seemed to be turning out all right.
“From a medical standpoint,” he said, “you’re doing fine.”
Also for elspeth_vimes: Sun Sword/20th Century Boys crossover: Kallandras gives Kenji singing lessons
Kallandras of Senniel College had the bardic gift: he could know the singer from their song and the speaker from their speech, hear all the emotions that a voice fought to disguise in presenting a stoic mask.
He realized two words into conversation with Endo Kenji that his gift would be utterly unnecessary here.
After their first meeting, Kallandras resolved two things: one, that despite his lack of vocal ability, Endo Kenji just might make a singer who had the power to move men’s hearts - and two, that Kallandras was never, ever taking the young man into the Dominion.
And, since that one was very short, also for elspeth_vimes: Sun Sword/Fullmetal Alchemist crossover: Serra Teresa and Hawkeye discuss political strategies
The Serra Teresa has invited the woman soldier into the harem, but in truth, she does not expect very much to come of the meeting. They are of different ages, of different social positions, above all of different cultures. The number of things that they cannot say to each other - or at least, in any way that would be understood - could fill a book.
They have this much: they are two women, and they are alone.
“I’m honored to be invited,” says the woman quietly - Lieutenant Hawkeye, it seems, is the correct way to address her. Her straight-backed posture is subtly different from a Serra’s equally upright carriage. Soldier-straight. “And I want to tell you that my superior understands that what we discuss here will not necessarily reach his ears. Unless you want it to.”
A younger Teresa might have been taken aback by this bluntness, behind her serene mask; the older, more experienced Serra barely blinks. “I would not expect a man of your superior’s importance to listen to harem talk, regardless.”
“That’s difficult to say,” says the lieutenant. “As you know, we don’t have harems in Amestris. But I’m reasonably sure that if we did, he would find the discussions that went on inside them fascinating.” She’s not smiling, but there’s a subtle glint of amusement in her face that might indicate a private joke. It disappears, as she adds, “If there is one thing that we both understand, Serra - and would like for you to understand as well - it’s that the talk no one else listens to that’s often the most worth hearing.”
‘We both.’ The phrase is not insignificant. Amestrian military society obviously doesn’t work along the same gender-political lines as the Dominion; the Serra understands that it has a strong hierarchical structure, all the same. The pairing of Hawkeye’s own opinion with her superior’s might be simple self-importance in someone else, but not, Serra Teresa suspects, from the clear-eyed, direct woman in front of her. Teresa is being offered a level of trust.
“I wouldn’t wish you to misunderstand,” says the Serra Teresa, slowly. “It would dishonor any man in the Dominion to be influenced by me. It would dishonor me to attempt to influence them. The spheres are separate.”
“Please pardon my rudeness.” The woman’s gaze is straight. She does not look apologetic. “But the alchemists of my country have a saying - one is all, and all is one. All things are connected.”
“A movement in one place sends out ripples to another,” the Serra says; it would seem a concession if her face and voice were anything less than perfectly serene. As it is, it might simply be a remark. “But it takes a great deal of skill and study to discern which ripples originated from which dropped stone.”
Nothing, in the Dominion, is offered on a silver platter. Nothing is given for free. Teresa appreciates what the lieutenant has already offered her, but she does not intend to change that habit now.
“I don’t expect instant understanding,” says Lieutenant Hawkeye. Blunt, again; the Serra Teresa spares a moment to regret the grace with which another southern woman could convey the same information, and in the same moment is grateful that - unlike the women of the Voyani, or of the North - the lieutenant at least does not seem to grudge the lack of the same bluntness in the Serra. “Nobody could. We’re too different. But please believe I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t willing to put in the time to try, and if we didn’t think it was important.”
‘We’ again, and also ‘I’.
The Serra Teresa has not yet decided her course of action. But they are two women alone in a room, and so she can, at least, raise her eyes to the stranger’s and say, with perfect calm, “I believe you.”
For lacewood: Fullmetal Alchemist: Mustang/Hawkeye
“Colonel? It’s Hawkeye.”
Mustang is already smirking when he hears the measured voice on the phone. He has been smirking, in fact, since the phone started ringing. “Afternoon, lieutenant. Isn’t it your day off?”
“I thought I should let you know that I received an unsigned package today, sir. It could be suspicious.”
“Good call. Thanks for letting me know. Did you take a look to check what’s in it?”
He can visualize the deadpan expression on her face perfectly clearly. “It appears to be a pair of vases, sir. Flower vases.”
“Maybe someone heard you don’t have any,” Mustang says. He knows his smirk is broadening, and he doesn’t much care.
“I’ve never really felt the lack. Only drunken idiots ever try to give me flowers.”
Mustang chokes back a laugh, with some difficulty. “It could be your local florist trying to drum up some business. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
“Well, it’s a little inconvenient, sir.”
“Oh?”
“I’m in the middle of packing up for our transfer next week. Vases don’t really travel well, and these were delivered in a flimsy bag. If someone was going to send me something delicate, it would be nice if they could provide me with better packing material.”
“It’s supposed to be the thought that counts, lieutenant,” Mustang informs her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Breda studiously making no expression at all.
“Not that it’s anything to do with you in any case, sir,” says the amused voice over the phone. “Anyway, you’d better get back to work, hadn’t you?”
“So that’s why you really called - to nag me about paperwork. All right, all right, I’m going back to the requisition orders. Enjoy your day off, lieutenant. Maybe your mystery florist will drop off a nice romantic packing crate.”
“It would be better if they’d stay to help me pack it up while they were at it. Please try not to slack off today, sir.”
Mustang waits until he hears the click to hang up the phone on his end. He takes a second to take a breath - this is new territory they are navigating, slowly and carefully, if couched in all the old forms and jokes - and then brings himself back down to the office, though he lets the smirk remain. He’s not sure he could entirely remove it if he tried. “Breda,” he says, “pass me that pile of papers on your left, will you?”
Breda is still emphatically Not Using His Eyebrows To Indicate Anything. “The ones you've been procrastinating on all day?”
Mustang’s already reaching for a pen and a stamp. “Come on, Second Lieutenant - I want to get out of here on time today.”
LAST ONE. Also for lacewood: Fullmetal Alchemist: Team Mustang and Briggs
Dear Colonel, 1st lieutenant, 2nd lieutenant, and Black Hayate
I hope all is well in East City. Falman was right - it is actually surprisingly beautiful up in Briggs. (He was also right that I should make sure to bring extra sweaters!) My trip up was very easy and everyone here has been very welcoming. They are doing some fascinating work with long-distance radio transmission up here - did you know that Major General Armstrong has a keen interest in communications technology? It’s very refreshing to find that kind of scientific attention among the upper staff!
At this point, Breda has to stop reading, because he is too busy laughing. “Oh, she’s got him, sir,” he wheezes. “She’s got him good.”
Mustang’s scowl has been intensifying with each new sentence read. It now is looking rather like he’s trying to set the postcard on fire with his eyes - which admittedly is not so far-fetched, given the givens. “Well? Keep reading!”
Breda valiantly attempts to stifle his guffaws, but apparently it is all too much for him. Finally he just waves his hand in a weak gesture of defeat and shoves the postcard towards Hawkeye.
Hawkeye takes the card serenely - it has a cheery photo of a snowman with a Briggs jacket and a mullet made of straw on the back - and reads out, “I will be sorry to leave my projects here when my vacation is over. I suppose I shouldn’t really call them my projects - they were all things that Major General Armstrong has been developing for some time - but I think I have been of at least a little help in moving some of them along, and Major General Armstrong has kindly said that -”
“Hawkeye!” Mustang interrupts, holding out his hand imperiously. “I need a picture of your dog.”
“What?” says Hawkeye, setting down Fuery’s note. (Breda looks like he wants to echo the question, but, as he is still wheezing faintly, decides it is not worth the effort.)
“A picture of your dog. The saddest, biggest-eyed picture of him you can find to turn into a postcard. I am not,” Mustang says, grim determination in his voice, “losing any more men to Briggs!”
AND OKAY THAT IS ALL.