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... uh, yeah. XD For those of you who remember this post, I am FINALLY getting around to posting the last batch of them, GO ME. [teetertottercrash]
Anyhoo, sooooo. Posting these, and calling quits to my current fanfic productivity run, woo. XD Hope people like these; please don't be afraid to drop me a note. I only bite out of love, I swear! XD
The Tangible [requested by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shukiai; Roy and Ed friendship]
**********
He remembers, once, telling Fullmetal that he preferred to keep his memories safely within his own head, rather than leave them openly on display, as Hughes does. In his house, there are only four photographs: parents, family at his sister's wedding, graduation, and the soldiers of his unit.
Fullmetal only nodded at that, and he remembers thinking that, yes, he would understand. Hughes did not, and sometimes Roy believes that the man's photo mania was, in some peculiar fashion, compensation for his own lack.
But Edward and Alphonse Elric burned their childhood home down without second thought, walked away without thinking -- and now that the Fullmetal Alchemist is truly famous, Roy thinks wryly, there are a thousand collectors across the country who mourn the loss of childhood artifacts, more than Edward Elric himself does.
There are times, Roy thinks, when the problem is not that Fullmetal doesn't understand him -- it's that Fullmetal understands him *too well*. When he finishes growing into his full potential, when he learns to temper his emotions and move entirely with the grace his body promises, he will be truly formidable.
"Sir," Hawkeye says in the doorway, and she has paperwork in the crook of one arm. "Your mail."
"Ah." He reaches out and takes what she gives him. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
She salutes once before she goes. He waits until the door closes behind her before he starts shuffling through the paper; most of it is simply from within the department itself; his evaluation is coming up soon, and there is the reminder of that in a long crisp white envelope with the Fuhrer's seal.
Under that is a small, brightly-colored square; it is a photograph of the mountains, tall and cool and graceful against the jewel-blue sky. Everything looks beautifully pristine, like a page lifted from some landscape artist's collection. He turns it over and sees it's a postcard; the handwriting scrawled there is quite familiar to him.
"Yo," it says. "The people here are crazy. Wish you were here, so I didn't have to be."
That is all, and there is no signature. Roy smiles. Fullmetal and his brother have taken a year-long sabbatical to travel, to let Alphonse become accustomed to his regained body -- and it definitely seems fame has followed them both. He remembers the week after Alphonse was restored, and the bemused humor Fullmetal gave to the entire situation.
"I don't really want to be famous," he'd said, peeling apples for his brother. "It seems like a pain in the ass."
"It is," Roy had replied. "You learn to get used to it."
Now, he's tempted to write back, some line about switching places -- so let *him* travel the countryside, and Fullmetal work the ten-hour desk job -- then laughs the idea off. It would be his luck for Fullmetal to actually take him up on that, and part of him cringes to consider Fullmetal with *that* much authoritative power.
He was fond of the boy, and still likes the young man the boy has become. But he knows better than to make offers like that.
With a shrug, he tucks the postcard away, in a safe place where he'll forget about it, so that he can find it months later.
Roy does not like to keep his memories out on display.
He does, however, like to occasionally be reminded of those important things he's left behind.
--end--
----------
Mythology [requested byimeandmyself; Gen, Ren, and Makubex]
**********
Sometimes, he looks at Ren and he thinks of Galatea, formed so perfectly from the illusion of a woman, exactly as her creator wanted. When she sleeps, he will look at her and touch her face, and know: this is not marble brought to warm life, to be her creator's companion in all things -- this is just a young girl, ones and zeroes and computer code, who keeps the silence from breaking an old man's heart.
On some level, he meant to tell her as soon as she was old enough to understand. Thirteen is not quite enough to weigh the situation and see the equation to its end. Makubex would know, but Makubex is a genius, and Gen knows he himself has been left behind. He meant to tell her, and then time slipped away from him, until she'd stepped over of her own accord, and learned the truth.
His statue was broken to pieces, and she wept tears of plaster and dust. The gods of Babylon City have only pity enough to grant her life for her creator, and not for any other.
And if Ren is Galatea, then Makubex is Icarus, who flew too high and was plunged into darkness as a result. Sheer luck, perhaps, kept his skull from being dashed to bits, or his body dissolving into gray dust.
Luck, or the will of the gods. Gen could, if he wished, reach through the networks and learn the secrets of Babylon City, as Makubex had. He could read of his own eventual fate, or of the prophecy that surrounds ties Raitei's fate to the Beastmaster's. Some well-placed keystrokes, and he could delve into the mathematical heart of the Archives, whirring to accommodate for the appearance of the Witch-Queen's grandson, and how the calculations have shifted to keep the end product the same.
But Daedalus, genius inventor he was, dared not stir the waters, or challenge the will of the gods. He is a tired old man, with dreams that have flowered poisonously and withered away. The Labyrinth he helped create, with monsters at its core, runs on its own now, beyond his power to control.
Perhaps, then, Makubex is Icarus' potential realized; if there is any who will break open the secrets of Babylon City, it will be that young boy. Daedalus has let his path diverge from that of his son, and cannot reach him now.
In his chair, Gen leans back with a groan, feeling his muscles pop and creak. A moment later, his Galatea comes in, and there is a stained apron tied around her skinny waist and long neck.
"Gramps," she says, "dinner's ready." They have never discussed how a computer generated child can live with the true illusion of breathing, functioning life; Ren continues to make dinner for them, and he has watched her eat amounts appropriate for a growing girl her age.
"Ah," he says, watching her. "Thank you, Ren."
She shrugs and smiles, and the expression is tired. He thinks he can recall a similar weight in Makubex's shoulders, shortly before the boy took his place at Raitei's side. It pains him to see, but it's something that she must solve for herself. Daedalus has put aside his drawing board; Pygmalion has cast aside his artist's tools.
There is only himself, Gen the Pharmacist, and his granddaughter, who looks at him with such very real eyes.
"Coming?" she asks.
"Yes," he says, and gets to his feet.
--end--
----------
Equivalent Trade [requested bysiadea; FMA and the principle of equivalence. Sorta]
**********
You cannot gain anything without giving something of equal value in return. That is the principle of equivalent trade, by which so many alchemists live their lives.
However, nothing dictates the form of what must be sacrificed. He has poured over the strange book so many times, trying to make some kind of sense out of it. The language is stilted, strange, archaic; he often despairs of making a readable translation.
But he has read enough to understand, he thinks. If his research is meant to be passed on repeated, then it shall be: he is a scientist, of course, but he is also a religious man. Sometimes, he still weeps for memory of the angel's beauty, the untouchable serenity of its face.
Everything is ready. He has made the necessary preparations, in case things go wrong; his wife and their shop will be cared for. The last lines of his complete array are drawn, and he kneels in the center of the room -- the materials and the sacrifice.
Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he leans forward.
Under his hands, the lines are warm. Power shocks through him, and for a moment, he thinks the world is fragmenting around him; what starts as pain transmutes into something else, which burns on his tongue, in his throat, reaches past the flesh and blood of him down to his soul itself.
With effort, he cracks his eyes open, watching as energy gathers and crackles in the air. From his will, the initial spark forms in the array under his hands, is transferred out to the two immediately linked to it, splits further and amplifies as it goes. No man has ever drawn something this complex before, and unless the angel decrees, it shall never happen again. It his duty, then, to watch this unfold.
Energy crackles up the walls, along the ceiling, and soon it will be too bright to see anything; when he closes his eyes, the backs of his eyelids are bright red, lit from without. The air smells of pure ozone, and he thinks he can feel pieces of himself flaking away, pieces of his self and soul handed willingly over to the array.
For a moment, he wants to tear himself away, to reach for escape before too much of him is handed over. It's too much, and he thinks of his wife weeping at his funeral and fears.
And then, warmth, spreading through him in a slow thick wave, like the stroke of a mother's hand through his hair. He tilts his face upwards, or feels he does, and sees the angel smiling at him. The light that fills the room perfectly accents the angel's radiance, and his fears dissolve away so very easily.
The angel holds something out to him. It takes him a moment to realize he must reach out, and that means taking his hands from the array and suffering whatever rebound occurs. But without fear, he moves, cupping his palms and extending them. Without touching him, the angel places the object in his hands; he sees a brilliant scarlet flash, and feels its weight like a world dropped into his hands.
So much of him is gone now, he thinks; gaping brilliant holes have been left with his soul, filled up again by the light of the angel, of the reaction. He finds himself moved to tears.
Then -- nothing.
He comes to himself with a start, and finds himself lying face-down on the floor, his nose and chin pressed to the thick dark lines of one of his larger arrays. The room is cold and dark, and when he props himself up on his elbows, despair crowds thick in his throat. More than failure, this, and it tastes colder and more bitter than fear. When he moves, he can feel the missing pieces of himself: his body is intact, but oh, what he's given up for this mistake ...
Then he sits up, and a bright red light fills the room. Instinctively, he shields his eyes with one hand, and looks down.
It is not a perfect circle, nor does it appear entirely solid. It looks like a chunk of ruby, like unpolished beryl, like every single precious stone he has seen in his life, and still *more*. Deep within its depths, its own inner light pulses gently, like a heartbeat.
Oh, he thinks, and takes it into his hands; it is hot, it is cold, it weighs nothing and everything. *Oh.*
Footsteps startle him, and instinctively he jerks away as the door opens.
Pernelle stands there, wrapped in her dressing gown, and her dark eyes are worried. She only has eyes for him, not the arrays that cover every inch of the room, or the glowing thing he holds in his hands. "Nicholas," she says, "it's late. Come to bed."
He blinks at her, takes in the familiar dear lines of her face, then nods slowly and gets to his feet. "Yes, dear," he says, still with his hands cupped over his prize; it continues to glow, a broad red circle through the backs of his hands. Pernelle covers them with her own, never looking down.
"Come on, now," she says, and leads him away.
--end--
---------
The Pen Is [requested bysockren; Roy/Ed, and a crossword puzzle]
**********
In hindsight, he thinks the challenge was a bad idea. The best way to get Edward Elric to *do* anything isn't to order him, but to *challenge* him, which is something Roy has used to his advantage in the past. Unfortunately, it has been known to backfire, too.
Like now. One offhand comment about Ed lacking eloquence in anything unrelated to alchemy has sparked this ridiculous habit, and while Roy is a patient man, there is a certain point where even Ed's amusing obessiveness gets irritating.
He rolls over and opens one eye, and isn't sure if he's more irritated at the fact that the lamp is still on, or that Ed has been so absorbed all evening.
"Ed," he says. "Put the paper *down* and go to sleep."
Ed uses the pen to push his glasses up his nose. "Eight-letter word for 'overindulgences'?" he asks, as though he heard nothing.
Roy props himself up onto one elbow, and considers trying to take the paper away. He knows better -- Ed doesn't have any reservations of punching with his metal fist when provoked.
"You've been working on that one for hours," Roy says. "If *you* don't need to sleep, I do."
"Mmhmm," says Ed. He scribbles in another word. "Hey, do you know a four-letter word for --"
"*Edward*," he says, with more irritation now, "there's a perfectly good desk downstairs you may use, so I would appreciate it if you --"
In a single smooth motion, Ed leans down and kisses him soundly; at first, he tries to continue talking, genuinely irritated, then gives up. Ed is not unlike a force of nature, sometimes, and it's often safer to let it go, to open and let him have his way. Roy curls a hand around one shoulder for balance, makes a pleased sound as Ed's hand rakes firmly down, chest to belly to lower still.
Ed pushes at Roy's shoulder with his free hand, and they go down with a thump and a bounce. Ed refuses to let the kiss break, and hums pleased as he strokes Roy through his pants with a strong, sure hand.
It's when Roy moves himself, reaching up and sliding his hands under Ed's tanktop and letting his fingers creep upwards, across warm skin, that Ed breaks the kiss.
"Four-letter word for sex?" Ed *grins* at him, glasses just barely hanging onto his face, flushed and breathless.
Roy pulls the glasses off, and tosses them haphazardly onto the bedside table.
"You know very well," he growls, and drags Ed down again.
--end--
Anyhoo, sooooo. Posting these, and calling quits to my current fanfic productivity run, woo. XD Hope people like these; please don't be afraid to drop me a note. I only bite out of love, I swear! XD
The Tangible [requested by
shukiai; Roy and Ed friendship]**********
He remembers, once, telling Fullmetal that he preferred to keep his memories safely within his own head, rather than leave them openly on display, as Hughes does. In his house, there are only four photographs: parents, family at his sister's wedding, graduation, and the soldiers of his unit.
Fullmetal only nodded at that, and he remembers thinking that, yes, he would understand. Hughes did not, and sometimes Roy believes that the man's photo mania was, in some peculiar fashion, compensation for his own lack.
But Edward and Alphonse Elric burned their childhood home down without second thought, walked away without thinking -- and now that the Fullmetal Alchemist is truly famous, Roy thinks wryly, there are a thousand collectors across the country who mourn the loss of childhood artifacts, more than Edward Elric himself does.
There are times, Roy thinks, when the problem is not that Fullmetal doesn't understand him -- it's that Fullmetal understands him *too well*. When he finishes growing into his full potential, when he learns to temper his emotions and move entirely with the grace his body promises, he will be truly formidable.
"Sir," Hawkeye says in the doorway, and she has paperwork in the crook of one arm. "Your mail."
"Ah." He reaches out and takes what she gives him. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
She salutes once before she goes. He waits until the door closes behind her before he starts shuffling through the paper; most of it is simply from within the department itself; his evaluation is coming up soon, and there is the reminder of that in a long crisp white envelope with the Fuhrer's seal.
Under that is a small, brightly-colored square; it is a photograph of the mountains, tall and cool and graceful against the jewel-blue sky. Everything looks beautifully pristine, like a page lifted from some landscape artist's collection. He turns it over and sees it's a postcard; the handwriting scrawled there is quite familiar to him.
"Yo," it says. "The people here are crazy. Wish you were here, so I didn't have to be."
That is all, and there is no signature. Roy smiles. Fullmetal and his brother have taken a year-long sabbatical to travel, to let Alphonse become accustomed to his regained body -- and it definitely seems fame has followed them both. He remembers the week after Alphonse was restored, and the bemused humor Fullmetal gave to the entire situation.
"I don't really want to be famous," he'd said, peeling apples for his brother. "It seems like a pain in the ass."
"It is," Roy had replied. "You learn to get used to it."
Now, he's tempted to write back, some line about switching places -- so let *him* travel the countryside, and Fullmetal work the ten-hour desk job -- then laughs the idea off. It would be his luck for Fullmetal to actually take him up on that, and part of him cringes to consider Fullmetal with *that* much authoritative power.
He was fond of the boy, and still likes the young man the boy has become. But he knows better than to make offers like that.
With a shrug, he tucks the postcard away, in a safe place where he'll forget about it, so that he can find it months later.
Roy does not like to keep his memories out on display.
He does, however, like to occasionally be reminded of those important things he's left behind.
--end--
----------
Mythology [requested by
imeandmyself; Gen, Ren, and Makubex]**********
Sometimes, he looks at Ren and he thinks of Galatea, formed so perfectly from the illusion of a woman, exactly as her creator wanted. When she sleeps, he will look at her and touch her face, and know: this is not marble brought to warm life, to be her creator's companion in all things -- this is just a young girl, ones and zeroes and computer code, who keeps the silence from breaking an old man's heart.
On some level, he meant to tell her as soon as she was old enough to understand. Thirteen is not quite enough to weigh the situation and see the equation to its end. Makubex would know, but Makubex is a genius, and Gen knows he himself has been left behind. He meant to tell her, and then time slipped away from him, until she'd stepped over of her own accord, and learned the truth.
His statue was broken to pieces, and she wept tears of plaster and dust. The gods of Babylon City have only pity enough to grant her life for her creator, and not for any other.
And if Ren is Galatea, then Makubex is Icarus, who flew too high and was plunged into darkness as a result. Sheer luck, perhaps, kept his skull from being dashed to bits, or his body dissolving into gray dust.
Luck, or the will of the gods. Gen could, if he wished, reach through the networks and learn the secrets of Babylon City, as Makubex had. He could read of his own eventual fate, or of the prophecy that surrounds ties Raitei's fate to the Beastmaster's. Some well-placed keystrokes, and he could delve into the mathematical heart of the Archives, whirring to accommodate for the appearance of the Witch-Queen's grandson, and how the calculations have shifted to keep the end product the same.
But Daedalus, genius inventor he was, dared not stir the waters, or challenge the will of the gods. He is a tired old man, with dreams that have flowered poisonously and withered away. The Labyrinth he helped create, with monsters at its core, runs on its own now, beyond his power to control.
Perhaps, then, Makubex is Icarus' potential realized; if there is any who will break open the secrets of Babylon City, it will be that young boy. Daedalus has let his path diverge from that of his son, and cannot reach him now.
In his chair, Gen leans back with a groan, feeling his muscles pop and creak. A moment later, his Galatea comes in, and there is a stained apron tied around her skinny waist and long neck.
"Gramps," she says, "dinner's ready." They have never discussed how a computer generated child can live with the true illusion of breathing, functioning life; Ren continues to make dinner for them, and he has watched her eat amounts appropriate for a growing girl her age.
"Ah," he says, watching her. "Thank you, Ren."
She shrugs and smiles, and the expression is tired. He thinks he can recall a similar weight in Makubex's shoulders, shortly before the boy took his place at Raitei's side. It pains him to see, but it's something that she must solve for herself. Daedalus has put aside his drawing board; Pygmalion has cast aside his artist's tools.
There is only himself, Gen the Pharmacist, and his granddaughter, who looks at him with such very real eyes.
"Coming?" she asks.
"Yes," he says, and gets to his feet.
--end--
----------
Equivalent Trade [requested by
siadea; FMA and the principle of equivalence. Sorta]**********
You cannot gain anything without giving something of equal value in return. That is the principle of equivalent trade, by which so many alchemists live their lives.
However, nothing dictates the form of what must be sacrificed. He has poured over the strange book so many times, trying to make some kind of sense out of it. The language is stilted, strange, archaic; he often despairs of making a readable translation.
But he has read enough to understand, he thinks. If his research is meant to be passed on repeated, then it shall be: he is a scientist, of course, but he is also a religious man. Sometimes, he still weeps for memory of the angel's beauty, the untouchable serenity of its face.
Everything is ready. He has made the necessary preparations, in case things go wrong; his wife and their shop will be cared for. The last lines of his complete array are drawn, and he kneels in the center of the room -- the materials and the sacrifice.
Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he leans forward.
Under his hands, the lines are warm. Power shocks through him, and for a moment, he thinks the world is fragmenting around him; what starts as pain transmutes into something else, which burns on his tongue, in his throat, reaches past the flesh and blood of him down to his soul itself.
With effort, he cracks his eyes open, watching as energy gathers and crackles in the air. From his will, the initial spark forms in the array under his hands, is transferred out to the two immediately linked to it, splits further and amplifies as it goes. No man has ever drawn something this complex before, and unless the angel decrees, it shall never happen again. It his duty, then, to watch this unfold.
Energy crackles up the walls, along the ceiling, and soon it will be too bright to see anything; when he closes his eyes, the backs of his eyelids are bright red, lit from without. The air smells of pure ozone, and he thinks he can feel pieces of himself flaking away, pieces of his self and soul handed willingly over to the array.
For a moment, he wants to tear himself away, to reach for escape before too much of him is handed over. It's too much, and he thinks of his wife weeping at his funeral and fears.
And then, warmth, spreading through him in a slow thick wave, like the stroke of a mother's hand through his hair. He tilts his face upwards, or feels he does, and sees the angel smiling at him. The light that fills the room perfectly accents the angel's radiance, and his fears dissolve away so very easily.
The angel holds something out to him. It takes him a moment to realize he must reach out, and that means taking his hands from the array and suffering whatever rebound occurs. But without fear, he moves, cupping his palms and extending them. Without touching him, the angel places the object in his hands; he sees a brilliant scarlet flash, and feels its weight like a world dropped into his hands.
So much of him is gone now, he thinks; gaping brilliant holes have been left with his soul, filled up again by the light of the angel, of the reaction. He finds himself moved to tears.
Then -- nothing.
He comes to himself with a start, and finds himself lying face-down on the floor, his nose and chin pressed to the thick dark lines of one of his larger arrays. The room is cold and dark, and when he props himself up on his elbows, despair crowds thick in his throat. More than failure, this, and it tastes colder and more bitter than fear. When he moves, he can feel the missing pieces of himself: his body is intact, but oh, what he's given up for this mistake ...
Then he sits up, and a bright red light fills the room. Instinctively, he shields his eyes with one hand, and looks down.
It is not a perfect circle, nor does it appear entirely solid. It looks like a chunk of ruby, like unpolished beryl, like every single precious stone he has seen in his life, and still *more*. Deep within its depths, its own inner light pulses gently, like a heartbeat.
Oh, he thinks, and takes it into his hands; it is hot, it is cold, it weighs nothing and everything. *Oh.*
Footsteps startle him, and instinctively he jerks away as the door opens.
Pernelle stands there, wrapped in her dressing gown, and her dark eyes are worried. She only has eyes for him, not the arrays that cover every inch of the room, or the glowing thing he holds in his hands. "Nicholas," she says, "it's late. Come to bed."
He blinks at her, takes in the familiar dear lines of her face, then nods slowly and gets to his feet. "Yes, dear," he says, still with his hands cupped over his prize; it continues to glow, a broad red circle through the backs of his hands. Pernelle covers them with her own, never looking down.
"Come on, now," she says, and leads him away.
--end--
---------
The Pen Is [requested by
sockren; Roy/Ed, and a crossword puzzle]**********
In hindsight, he thinks the challenge was a bad idea. The best way to get Edward Elric to *do* anything isn't to order him, but to *challenge* him, which is something Roy has used to his advantage in the past. Unfortunately, it has been known to backfire, too.
Like now. One offhand comment about Ed lacking eloquence in anything unrelated to alchemy has sparked this ridiculous habit, and while Roy is a patient man, there is a certain point where even Ed's amusing obessiveness gets irritating.
He rolls over and opens one eye, and isn't sure if he's more irritated at the fact that the lamp is still on, or that Ed has been so absorbed all evening.
"Ed," he says. "Put the paper *down* and go to sleep."
Ed uses the pen to push his glasses up his nose. "Eight-letter word for 'overindulgences'?" he asks, as though he heard nothing.
Roy props himself up onto one elbow, and considers trying to take the paper away. He knows better -- Ed doesn't have any reservations of punching with his metal fist when provoked.
"You've been working on that one for hours," Roy says. "If *you* don't need to sleep, I do."
"Mmhmm," says Ed. He scribbles in another word. "Hey, do you know a four-letter word for --"
"*Edward*," he says, with more irritation now, "there's a perfectly good desk downstairs you may use, so I would appreciate it if you --"
In a single smooth motion, Ed leans down and kisses him soundly; at first, he tries to continue talking, genuinely irritated, then gives up. Ed is not unlike a force of nature, sometimes, and it's often safer to let it go, to open and let him have his way. Roy curls a hand around one shoulder for balance, makes a pleased sound as Ed's hand rakes firmly down, chest to belly to lower still.
Ed pushes at Roy's shoulder with his free hand, and they go down with a thump and a bounce. Ed refuses to let the kiss break, and hums pleased as he strokes Roy through his pants with a strong, sure hand.
It's when Roy moves himself, reaching up and sliding his hands under Ed's tanktop and letting his fingers creep upwards, across warm skin, that Ed breaks the kiss.
"Four-letter word for sex?" Ed *grins* at him, glasses just barely hanging onto his face, flushed and breathless.
Roy pulls the glasses off, and tosses them haphazardly onto the bedside table.
"You know very well," he growls, and drags Ed down again.
--end--
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The other three were great as well! - especially the last one. ^_~ Excellent writing!
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AUGH. The postcard drabble is /great/ - it has that sense of familiarity and friendship and dude, Ed's line in the postcard KILLS. XD XD XD
And I already squawked at you about how utterly cute AND sexy the last drabble is, so. <3<3<3<3<3<3
LOFF YOU SO MUCH <3<3<3<3<3<3
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Thank you for reading and commenting~ it makes me happy you enjoyed them♥♥♥ :D
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1: ...I love this. Just. The subtle symbolism of it, and the quiet *value* of the things he keeps but doesn't show that he's keeping and... wow. WOW.
2: Man. I feel for Ren - my heart ACHED for her discovery in the anime and just. I think this deals with it WELL, seen from Gen's POV, and what he can't do and how life goes on even if it's not 'real' life.
3: OMG. Nicholas Flamel? COOL. Just. COOL. And of course, his name and symbol ARE so often paired with the Stone and ... NICE. Very, very nice.
4: [cackles] I love this. It's just - it's such a NICE, bright ending to this batch, because so many of them are thoughtful that this is... it's like how important it is to have a cool-down in exercise, I think. *g* And NAUGHTY Ed. I love it. XD
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2. I am still holding out for Gen and Ren to reappear in the manga -- dunno if they have yet, given I'm behind, but still waiting for it. >_> Especially since I heard the newest story is focused on Himiko as a Voodoo Child, and that, like everything else in the series, is tied to the Mugenjou and Babylon City. XD;
3. Yup, Nicholas Flamel! :D I actually remember reading about him long before he was even mentioned in the Harry Potter books, especially as the only man who supposedly DID create the Philosopher's Stone, so. It was the best I could do. XD
4. Heee, THANK you. XD I was actually rather proud of this one, though I dorked out enough to go look up online crossword puzzles to try myself. XD XD XD I'm glad you liked! ♥♥♥
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2: I hope they do. Though, frankly, not sure it could be done better than you did it here. Except for actual canon plot reasons. <3
3: I remember that too. NIFTY. I glee'd. :)
4: I think you deserve to be proud of this one. It's GOOD and light and FUN and still very THEM and whee. <33
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Glad you liked♥♥♥
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I loved the postcard one and the Getbackers one the most, although the crossword one also made me crack up. I particularly liked the Icarus imagery used in the GB fic. It was perfect for the setting.
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(And man, for all that it's a silly-fun mostly-happy series, GB has an intense amount of Greek mythology used as imagery. I'm glad the Icarus metaphor worked. :D :D :D)
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