#maybe he melted down the pot he used to wear and asked the blacksmith to use it for his new helmet

[andromedasummer]

you know what would be sick? the fire emblem awakening remaster giving its characters timeskip designs reflective of the passing of like, 2 years between chroms coronation and the conflict with walhart. nothing drastic cos its only 2 years, but reflective of some of their changed positions/roles in life. chrom having to appear a bit more regal now hes king and not at war. robin changing out of those old clothes they found them passed out in the mud in PLEASE. maybe some haircuts. at the very least lissa, ricken, donnel etc should look like theyre about to be adults and not like. 15/16 year olds anymore.

[quandongcrumble]

Tea Witch Tony

So here’s a little thing that I started writing forever ago and never finished or posted -- a magic tea shop AU based loosely on the gorgeous witch Tony art @hello-shellhead has posted in the past, and the Miss Marni’s Teahouse stories by reddit user sleepyhollow_101 on r/nosleep.

The cafe's called "Maria's", and from the outside it looks like the kind of overly homey, commercially southern joint that Rhodey would normally avoid at all costs. But the rain's starting to trickle down the back of his neck in icy fingers, and the shop looks warm and dry at least, and best of all, open at this late hour.

A bell tinkles when he opens the door, and again when it closes, and he stands dripping on the doormat for a moment, just soaking in the wholesome firelit warmth of the place. It smells like cinnamon and apple and tea and beeswax, and the whole shop just glows a kind of warm amber that whips the chill away from Rhodey's cheeks and ears like they were never cold.

"Can I get you something?"

The man behind the counter is a stark contrast to the shop's interior. Rhodey would have expected a plaid-clad teen or an older woman in a gingham apron, but the man is about his age. He has wild, artfully styled hair, an immaculate goatee, and is wearing a black t-shirt, grease-stained jeans, and the kind of smirk that could cause traffic accidents.

"Maybe a towel?"

The man's electric blue eyes sparkle invitingly and Rhodey suppresses the urge to smile for no reason. "Yes, please. And something warm to drink."

"Hang your jacket on the fireguard and I'll see what I can do." The man disappears into the kitchen and Rhodey tries to stamp the street grime off of his boots before picking his way past mismatched tables to the fire cheerily crackling at the back. He's only just finished hanging his jacket over the fireguard and leaning the wet side of his pack against the black iron rails when the waiter reappears with an enormous fluffy towel in one hand and a soot-marked kettle in the other.

"Here," he hands Rhodey the towel and hangs the kettle on a hook that swings in over the fire. "Sorry, the electric kettle's in pieces in the kitchen. This shouldn't take long though."

His hands have black stains around the nails, Rhodey notices, and rough callouses that look like they belong on a mechanic or a blacksmith more than they do on a cafe waiter. In fact, the man looks almost more out of place in this cozy feminine cafe than Rhodey feels. 

Rhodey dries himself as best he can without taking off any more clothes, while the man bustles around behind the counter.

"So," the man says, "what brings you out in the rain at nine at night?"

"A cancelled flight," Rhodey tells him. "After a very long string of flights."

"Ah." The man ducks down behind the counter. His voice continues, a little muffled. "And they didn't put you up in a  hotel for the night?"

"They did. I needed to stretch my legs. I got a little lost. It's been a long time since I was last in New York."

The man brings tray over bearing a small teapot, a heavy mug, and a plate with two slightly burnt cookies. He sets it on the table nearest the fire and—moving with a fluid grace that Rhodey can only admire without a trace of envy—retrieves the steaming kettle from the fire and pours water into the teapot. 

"Let that steep for five minutes and then drink it."

"What is it?"

"Just a little something that should warm you up and ease those tired muscles." He smiles disarmingly and Rhodey smiles back. "If you don't like it, I have a selection of other teas you can choose. I'll be in the kitchen."

Rhodey sits in the sturdiest of the mismatched chairs and watches the man walk away. 

"Oh," the man calls back to him. "Sorry about the burnt biscuits. My assistant isn't the greatest cook, but I promise they taste just fine."

Rhodey picks one up and takes a cautious nibble. They don't measure up to Mama Rhodes' cinnamon cookies—nothing ever does—but they're certainly edible. He basks in the warmth of the fire until the time comes to pour the tea and take a cautious sip.

It's delicious—herbal and not overly sweet, with a hint of aniseed that tickles the back of his nose—and warms him from the inside immediately. The stiffness in his legs and back melts away by the time he's drunk half the mug, and by the time he's finished the mug even the tension headache he's been nursing for two days has vanished. He pours the remainder of the small pot into the mug and tries not to practically inhale it. He doesn't remember ever feeling this relaxed, especially not after three days of hopping from flight to flight and sleeping on airport chairs. A feeling he can only think of as wellbeing suffuses him. When he closes his eyes he can almost imagine that he's at home in his Mama's kitchen, full of her amazing home cooking and the joy of being with family.

"Here I found a street map in back."

Rhodey opens his eyes and realises more time has passed than he'd noticed. The fire has burned lower, and the mug in his hands is now chilly, the dregs quite cold. 

"Sorry," he says. "I must have dozed." But his back doesn't hurt like it should after falling asleep in a chair. 

The man grins. "It's fine. But I do need to close up."

He hands Rhodey the street map. There's a little sharpie'd teacup drawn on exactly where Rhodey suspects Maria's sits. He can see the hotel only a handful of blocks away.

"Thank you," he says.

He gathers his jacket and bag and heads to the till, the man meeting him from the other side of the counter. He pays for the tea and biscuits, and impulsively grabs a small box of Ceylon displayed next to the till. His Mama always liked Ceylon.

"See you next time," the man says as he  holds the door for Rhodey.

Rhodey grins back at him. "Next time."

He hears he snick of the lock when the door closes behind him and starts the long trudge through the drizzle back to his hotel. Somehow, despite the rain and the late hour and the chilly rain, he feels warm and content. He glances over his shoulder at the little cafe, still glowing warmly amongst the dark shopfronts, and vows to himself to visit it again the next time he's in New York.

---

He doesn't get a chance to visit Maria's before his next deployment—thankfully on US soil at Edwards, he's had enough of foreign sand for the moment—but he tells his Mama all about the shop and to his surprise the first parcel he receives from her contains four little paper bags of tea, and a note written in a neat draftsman's hand. 

To James,

I hope you don't mind the familiarity. Your lovely mother asked me to write down some instructions for the blends I sent you. Three you can drink anytime, the other is a night time blend only. Please let me know how you find them.

Rhodey checks the packets to find them labelled in the same hand. "Soothe" and "sleep" smell similar to the pot he had at Maria's. "Focus" and "energy" smell like black tea, but with different spicy smells. Rhodey grins. They all smell delicious. 

He reads the neatly listed instructions for brewing each blend, and then flips the page to find still more written. 

I hope you'll come in again next time you're in New York. Your mom said you're an MIT graduate. Maybe we could share notes on Professor Carmichael?

Tony

Proprietor, Maria's Tea House

What exactly is an MIT graduate who'd taken Carmichael's advanced mathematics class doing running a cafe, Rhodey wonders. At least I finally have a name for the tea shop guy. He puts the letter aside and unpacks the rest of his Mama's parcel. Under the requisite new socks she always sends he finds what he'd been hoping for—a Tupperware full of cinnamon cookies. 

He takes the cookies and the paper bag of "focus" tea with him to do his reports. He's got enough paperwork backed up to wallpaper the mess with. If the coffee doesn't work at keeping him on track, maybe Tony's tea will. 

The tea is smoky, strong, and has just the slightest hint of vanilla to it. Rhodey brews it in a coffee plunger he finds at the back of the cupboard under the coffee machine—left by some serviceman who prefers French press to freshly perked. It works in a pinch to brew tea and Rhodey settles in with the pot at his elbow and his paperwork spread over his desk and knuckles down. The tea works a kind of magic that even a double espresso doesn't seem to manage anymore and Rhodey finds himself burning through forms without hesitation or distraction. He doesn't finish all his paperwork—he's not some kind of miracle worker—but by the time he has to move on to his next task for the day he has cut the mountain down to a manageable size to tackle tomorrow. He stretches the crick out of his neck and hides the tea away in his footlocker, smiling to himself as he remembers the letter and the invitation to visit Maria's next time he's in New York.