Indiana Jones.
-
Dr. Henry Walton “Indiana” Jones stared at the two men in front of him, suspiciously. They didn’t seem too bad, a little bit tired, the taller one was blinking a bit drowsily, but the shorter one, hair long and golden, was pissed. Indiana understood how he felt.
“You guys aren’t Nazis, are you?” he questioned, already knowing they weren’t. The shorter one spoke German fluently, but he lacked a real German accent. He could have been British, Indy supposed, except that his accent was flatter. The taller one stumbled through German and English, even though he obviously understood both. His accent was distinct, a weird blend of German, English, and (if Indy wasn’t mistaking, which he usually wasn’t) Japanese. Well.
“Fuck no,” the shorter one hissed. “Like we’d be fucking stupid enough to join the fucking Nazis. We’re refugees.”
“Sort of refugees,” the taller one corrected. “More like part of the refugees. Leading them. Taking them across the borders.”
Indiana stared. “You two are the ones who are leading the refugees out of the concentration camps?”
“Yes?” the taller one said, and shrugged. “We kinda of just went down the line.”
“Fucking Nazis,” the shorter one growled. “Fuck this shit - if I wanted fucking racial prejudice and stupid ass decisions, I’d have fucking signed up for fuckin’ Ishval.”
Indy had no idea what Ishval was, but it didn’t sound good. Well. Not Nazis, so.
“Alright, come on then. I’m Dr. Henry Jones, but just call me Indiana. I’m with the American government.”
“American,” the shorter man sneered. “Fucking hell. Dr. Edward Elric. This is my brother, Dr. Alphonse Elric.”
Indiana Jones walked into a wall. “You’re-” They were? These two kids? They couldn’t have been older thirty, at the most. Edward and Alphonse Elric were supposed to be the leading names in sub-atomic particle research. Einstein consulted them. Tesla noted that they were two of the greatest minds in history. The Elric Brothers were - “You guys are kids?”
Edward Elric exploded. “Who the fuck are you calling so short he’d be mistaken for a five year old?!”
-
Inglorious Basterds.
-
Aldo twisted his toothpick in his mouth. “You all don’t look like Nazis.”
“That’s cause we’re not fucking Nazis, you fucking hick,” the short blond raged. “Fucking hell - why does everyone keep assuming we’re Nazis?”
“You from Germany?” Aldo pressed. They both looked remarkably calm about being captured, tied up, and surrounded by a group of armed men.
“London,” the taller blond chirped up, helpfully. “If you talk the embassy, they’ll confirm our identities. Edward and Alphonse Elric. Just mention our father, Hohenheim, you’ll get connected straight through.”
Thing was that the Basterds had no radio, which meant no communication, which meant that they were all stumped what to do. They didn’t act like Nazis, and they did get proper offended when assumed that they were Nazis.
“Alright, this here’s how we’re gonna do this,” Aldo said, pulled up his pants, and crouched down. “We’re the Basterds, and we have one job - killing Nazis. Now, if you don’t have a problem with that-”
“Of course I have a fucking problem with that, fucking hick,” the short one hissed. “If it’s not okay for the German’s to kill people, it’s not fucking okay for you to kill people.”
Peace-lover, what do you know. Aldo studied him, before shrugging. “Understandable. See how it goes against the Good Book.”
The short one seemed half way to another rant before the taller one nudged him.
“As I was saying, we kill Nazis. And right now we’re going to be pulling one of the biggest heists in our life, breaking into a Nazi Concentration Camp. You up to that?”
Suddenly, the short one grinned. The taller one smiled, pleased.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” the short one breathed. The taller one nodded.
“Yes, we’d be very interested in that.”
-
X-Men: First Class
-
“My mother,” Erik croaked as he awoke, and already knew the dream wasn’t real. His mother was dead, he knew that much. He had watched her die.
“Careful, kid,” someone murmured. “Don’t make too much noise.”
“What-”
He was in the infirmary and a shorter blond haired man was grinning at him. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m getting you the fuck out of here. You and everyone else, so just keep quiet for a bit more.”
Erik stared. “Is this a trick? Am I supposed to-”
“What?” the man said, furrowing his eyebrows together. “Hell no, it’s not a trick. Look, when the alarm sounds run for the front door. Don’t worry, there won’t be any guards.”
It had to be a trick.
“This is a trick,” Erik insisted, scrambling up the bed. “This is a trick. What do you want - I can’t do it again, don’t make me angry enough to do it, please. I don’t want it anymore, please-”
“Whoa, whoa,” the man said, eyes widening, and he carefully held both hands up in a gesture of peace. “Kid, calm down. The hell are you talking about?”
Erik wrapped his arms around his legs. “The - thing. That makes me special.” He buried his face into his knees. “That makes me different.”
“Different,” the man repeated, flatly. “You’re scared of what makes you different.” He was suddenly in front of Erik. “Don’t you ever be scared of what makes you unique. Own it. Make it your own. That is part of you and it’s part of your life.”
Erik pulled back, just barely, and stared up at him. “Who are you?”
The man grinned. “Edward Elric, at your service. And-” The alarm sounded. The man frowned. “That’s my cue, then.” He turned to Erik, grinning. “Front doors, remember? British embassy will be waiting for you, I promise.”
“I-”
“Can’t talk!” Edward said, and grabbed an entire set of what had to be tranquilizers. He stopped by the door, and turned to Erik, eyes serious, right hand clenched in a tight fist. “Remember, kid. Be proud of what makes you different.”
Then he was gone.
Erik stared, and then climbed off the bed and moved for the exit.
-
Hetalia.
-
Alfred stared down at the man sleeping in his bunk. Which - how the hell did he even get in here? Didn’t he know who’s bunk this was? Didn’t his amazingness seep from the very pores of the bunk’s slightly dingy mattress?
“You’re staring,” the man on his bunk said, and Alfred realized suddenly he wasn’t sleeping. “This your bunk?”
“You betcha.”
“It’s a piece of shit.”
“Well,” Alfred said, hotly. “It’s not your bunk.”
The man considered him with golden eyes and ran a hand over the stubble growing on his jaw. “Guess not. But everyone says you’re the one who can find anyone.”
Alfred frowned. “You missing someone?”
“Yeah,” the man said, and swung his legs over the bed. One landed with a heavy clunk. “My brother’s missing.”
Then - suddenly. Alfred tilted his head to the side and considered the man, before ‘ah’ing. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
The man looked up sharply, leveling him with a ten-ton glare. Alfred returned it easily.
“No,” the man said. “Not really. You gonna help me out?”
“Sure!” Alfred agreed. “I am the hero, after all. Lieutenant Alfred Jones, at your service!”
“Captain Edward Elric,” the blond haired man said. “Nice to meet you.”
-
Harry Potter.
-
Tom Riddle carefully considered the two men he was leading up to the headmaster’s office. Both were older, well into their thirties, all though one seemed significantly younger than the other, except that the younger one was the taller one and the older one was shorter, but, well, genetics were only favorable to a certain few.
They had - a look about them. Their eyes absorbed everything and nothing; an odd color, that gold. Tom had never seen golden eyes before, but the man in front of them seemed anything but unnatural. He wore non-magical clothes; a brown suit, his hair pulled back into a long ponytail. Tom supposed they might have been travelers.
“Ah!” a voice suddenly called, and Tom resisted the urge to pull his lips up into a sneer. Ah, indeed. He stopped short as Professor Dumbledore looked up from the doorway. “You two must be the Elric Brothers, yes?”
“Yeah,” the shorter one called, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who’re you?”
“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Professor of Transfiguration,” the Professor inclined his head. “Please, call me Albus. Are you meeting with the headmaster?”
“Yes,” the taller one inclined his head. “We’re discussing energy sources.”
“What for? You two are well versed in the workings of alchemy, if I remember correctly. It was a bit vague, but your research notes were simply stunning. Tom, if you wouldn’t mind, you’d be doing me a big favor if you let me escort these two to the headmaster.”
Tom stared at him, weighing his dislike of Dumbledore against his dislike of the headmaster and doing remedial jobs. After a second he inclined his head. “If you wish, professor.”
He stayed for a second more, listened to the shorter blond tell the professor, “Well, it looks like we’ve finally found a way back home,” and decided it honestly wasn’t worth his time to keep listening. Tom inclined his head once more, and walked away.
.
+1
.
“I don’t believe you,” said Mustang. “I don’t believe a word you just said. I think you’re trying to be mean to me.”
“The fuck would I do that?” Edward hissed. “What the fuck - I come back home after twenty goddamn years and the first thing you say is ‘I don’t believe you’? You fucking bastard.”
“You expect me to believe you not only met an archeology professor who was also a treasure hunter, but a band of vigilantes, a kid with superpowers, the personification of what you’re pretty sure to be a country, and an entire slew of wizards. Ed, I’ll believe a lot, but that’s pushing it.”
“Fuck you!” Edward snarled. “Should have stayed on the fucking other side of the Gate if I was gonna get this treatment.”
“No,” Mustang said, immediately. “You should have never ever been on the other side of that damned thing. I’m glad you’re back, I’m sure you’ll never know how ecstatic I am at the fact you’re in front of me and you’re not an illusion, but there are certain things I’ll have to pass on.”
Edward stared at him. “So, when you get grey hair, you go senile? Is that it? The old age is getting to you.”
“You’re an insufferable brat,” Mustang growled, leant back, and smiled. “And I’m happy I get to tell you that.”
“You are so fucking weird, do you know that?”