A/N: Xiaolin Showdown is an old childhood love of mine, and hearing about its reboot inspired me to rewatch the series. it's just as good as I remember :)
this was meant to be a collection of instances exploring Christy Hui's wonderful universe, but it seems that I've only the time and energy for one chapter each for the Xiaolin and Heylin sides. regardless, I hope you like them!
;no place like home
Kimiko had almost instantly claimed the room closest to the door. The boys had entered to find her belongings heaped in the first stall, towering so precariously that they feared it might topple the other dividing screens.
She'd spoken up before they could, coolly challenging their slack-jawed stares. "It's for your guys' own good," she started, "because I will take longest in the bathroom, because of feminine emergencies, because I might get fed up at times and have to incinerate something."
Such logic had effectively ended any other arguments. That and her tone of voice. The one that clearly stated "that is that."
The boys still made a silent pact to test how far they could push it.
Raimundo scored the second-closest stall through sheer cunning. At least, that was what he liked to say. He'd really only dumped one of Kimiko's fruity-smelling lotions in a gooey heap on the floor.
And so the pact was tested for the first and last time.
The sickly-sweet smell was enough to dissuade anyone else from calling dibs, and so a singed Raimundo was free to scrub the floor clean and think that maybe it hadn't been the smartest idea, after all.
Clay and Omi were left to arm-wrestle for the third room. That fight ended before it could even begin. Omi liked to pretend he conceded. Everyone knew better.
And so they settled in. It was anything but smooth, though. There was a lot of scrambling for the bathroom.
("Kimiko, GET OUT!"
"IF YOU KNOCK THE DOOR DOWN WHILE I'M STILL IN HERE-"
"This is gettin' longer than a polka-dancin' polecat party-"
"My fellow monks! Exhibit discipline!")
Sometimes, there was sabotage.
("Raimundo. Did you hide my hat?"
"I don't know. Did I? Ask Kimiko—she's got so much crap in her room that I think she's a hoarder."
"A what? You palmed my Goo Zombies game!"
"You scratched my surfboard!"
"What about my hat?"
"My fellow monks! Exhibit detachment!")
Mealtimes were always interesting.
("You're really packin' on the pounds there, Raimundo partner."
"That's rich, coming from you."
"…An' what's that supposed to mean?"
"J-just that you're really… ah… big? In a good way…"
"Boys! You'll flip the table-!"
"My fellow-"
"STAY OUT OF THIS, OMI!")
And it went on. And on, and on, as Dojo told Master Fung, who didn't seem particularly concerned.
Because children tend to bond in foreign places and foreign situations. And that's really all they were, underneath their power and strength: children.
("Hey. Somethin' up, lil' lady?"
"I'm alright, it's just… no, I'm not. I'm… kind of homesick."
"…Me too."
"We all are, Kim. Who wouldn't be with mats instead of beds…"
"You'll become accustomed to it. Never fear, Kimiko."
"…Thanks, Omi."
"Ho ho! How emotionally delicate women are- AUGH!")
None of them really remember when it happened. But it doesn't really matter, because when they realize it, it's simply right.
"We're home!" they chorus to Master Fung, jumping off of a shrinking Dojo.
"Welcome back," he smiles, watching them rush past.
And that's all it needs to be.