Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ba Sing Se University had a pulse of its own—an old rhythm made of stone corridors and whispered revolutions. The campus clock tower ticked like a metronome for the privileged, the radical, the brilliant. And somewhere in that mix, two very different legacies collided.

Sokka hated 9AM seminars.

He hated them even more when they were led by Professor Long Feng, a man who could turn international law into a sedative. But today, Sokka wasn’t nodding off. His eyes were locked on the woman seated across from him in the crescent circle of desks, her black stiletto boots crossed beneath the table, her golden eyes unreadable, calculating.

Azula.

Of course she had returned. Of course it would be this class.

No last name. No title. Just “Azula,” like a warning or a brand. Her acceptance into the university’s elite Global Conflict & Reconstruction program had caused a silent uproar that only academia could manage—resentment in the footnotes, judgment in the syllabus. War criminal or reformed genius? No one knew.

Sokka had made it his business to find out.

She didn’t recognize him at first. That was the second insult.

The first was that she sat in the same chair Yue used to sit in.

When the seminar ended, Azula didn’t wait. She walked past him with the grace of someone who still believed the world revolved around her gravity. Sokka followed—he didn’t mean to, not consciously, but something in his blood moved like water pulled toward heat.

“Azula.”

She turned slowly, her expression unreadable. “You remembered my name. Should I feel flattered or threatened?”

“Depends. Are you here to study peace or manipulate it?”

She smiled, and it wasn’t kind. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Sokka blinked. It wasn’t the answer he expected. But that was the thing about Azula: she spoke like the world was a chessboard, and you were already five moves behind.

He watched as she left the building, cutting through the campus like she belonged there. Like she had the right to rewrite her history. But Sokka knew better. He remembered the Fire Nation ships. He remembered the screams.

And yet…

And yet she had scars too—he saw them when she tucked her hair behind her ear. Not visible ones. Not ones people whispered about. But the kind that made you wonder what broke first: her ambition or her soul.

Later that night, he found himself at the library, unable to focus. His thesis on post-war reparations had stalled—something about the hypocrisy of rebuilding with the same hands that once destroyed. The irony now sat across from him in lectures, sipping black tea like poison.

And then he saw her again.

In the restricted archives.

Alone.

Reading a file marked CLASSIFIED: AGNI KAI.

“What are you looking for?” he asked quietly.

She looked up, caught for once without a comeback. Her fingers froze on the parchment. “Redemption,” she said.

That was the first plot twist.

The second came three weeks later, when Professor Long Feng vanished without a trace.

And the only person who seemed unsurprised… was Azula.

Chapter Text

There was something eerier than silence—it was the absence of it. The way everyone avoided mentioning Professor Long Feng, like his disappearance had been part of the syllabus all along.

No police statements. No university memo. Not even a whispered rumor in the tea shops. Just… gone.

Sokka watched the empty seat in the seminar room. The one Long Feng had sat in, spine straight, voice always smooth like something dipped in varnish. Now, it stared back at them like an unfinished sentence.

“He left,” one student shrugged.
“Health issues,” another speculated.
“No one just leaves a tenure-track post at Ba Sing Se,” Sokka muttered.

Azula didn’t offer an opinion. She sat three seats away now—close enough to be a presence, far enough to be untouchable. She took notes in a slim black notebook that looked like it had survived fire. Her writing was methodical, slanted. Sokka had tried reading it upside-down once. It was written in Old Fire Script.

What the hell was she doing here?

And why did he kind of want to ask her?

That night, Sokka couldn’t sleep. He sat in his dorm with a half-eaten instant ramen cup and his laptop open to a document he hadn’t touched in days: “Reparations or Repeat: Can Empires Redeem Themselves?” He was beginning to realize he wasn’t writing a paper. He was writing a question he didn’t know how to answer.

A knock at his door.

He opened it expecting his roommate. It wasn’t.

Azula stood there, hair up, eyes sharp. She wore a dark crimson coat that made her look more royal than student.

“You have access to the Northern Archives,” she said flatly. Not a question.

“Do I?”

“You volunteered for inventory work last semester. You catalogued the classified war tribunal documents. I checked the sign-in logs.”

“Did you break into the registrar’s system?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

He blinked. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you care?”

Azula stepped inside without waiting. “Because Long Feng had a file he shouldn’t have had. About me. About you. About the war.”

“My file’s public,” he said, but it came out too defensive.
She looked at him—really looked at him. “No. Your file is edited. Mine too.”

“What?”

“I think Long Feng was compiling dossiers on people who had… inconvenient truths.”

Sokka laughed, but it cracked halfway through. “Are you saying he got disappeared? That someone took him?”

Azula didn’t laugh. “I’m saying Ba Sing Se has always buried things. People. Information. And I think we’re next.”

The silence hit like a concussion.

He wanted to tell her she was paranoid. He wanted to say she was making this about her, that not everything was a Fire Nation conspiracy. But there was something in her eyes. Not fear—Azula didn’t do fear—but conviction. Like she was finally telling the truth for the first time in years.

“Come with me,” she said.

“To where?”

“To dig.”

⸻

They met the next night in the lower level of the library. The air was damp, heavy with forgotten dust and quiet rebellion. Azula keyed in a passcode—how she got it, he didn’t ask—and the door to the restricted archive clicked open.

Inside: maps, case files, war correspondences… but one drawer was locked.

Azula slid a small hairpin from her bun. The lock gave in too easily.

Inside the drawer: three files. One marked with her name. One with his.

And a third labeled Zuko.

She didn’t touch it.

“I thought you hated your brother,” Sokka said.

Azula didn’t look at him. “I did. Then I didn’t. Then I hated myself for the time in between.”

She opened her own file. A photograph slid out.

A photo of her in a hospital room.

Tied down. Screaming.

Sokka froze. “They kept this?”

“Someone wanted to keep it.”

He opened his.

There was a letter. Not from a tribunal. Not from his commander. From Hakoda.

His father.

Only it was dated during the war—months after Sokka had been told his father was unreachable.

“Azula…” he said slowly. “This changes everything.”

She looked at him then, not with superiority, not even with suspicion.

With something like recognition.

“It’s not about redemption anymore,” she said. “It’s about truth. And the people who will kill to hide it.”

⸻

And from somewhere deep within the archives, a light flickered.

And went out.

Chapter Text

The light flickered once, then went off completely, plunging the room into darkness.

Sokka’s heart skipped a beat. He instinctively reached for his phone, flicking the flashlight on. The beam cut through the shadows, illuminating the scattered papers and overturned furniture, but it didn’t feel like enough. Not in the silence that followed.

Azula stood motionless in the center of the room, her breath shallow. The air was thick, oppressive, like something was pressing against them from all sides.

“Azula…” Sokka began, his voice quieter than he intended.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the darkness where the light had once been, and Sokka could see the faint tremble in her hands. He had never seen her like this—lost, uncertain.

“What happened?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice raw. “It’s… it’s like they erased it. Whatever they did to me. They didn’t just erase memories—they erased everything. The files. The recordings. The—” Her voice caught in her throat. “They erased me.”

Sokka’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t just about Long Feng or some lost document anymore. This was about something far deeper, far darker. Something that went back long before she set foot on this campus.

Before the war. Before everything.

“Azula…” he said again, this time with more urgency. “We need to get out of here.”

Azula didn’t move. She was still staring into the darkness, like waiting for something—or someone—to appear.

Then, a faint sound—a footstep, almost imperceptible.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide now, alert.

“They’re here,” she said, her voice low, like a command.

Sokka didn’t have time to react. A sudden crash from the hall made them both flinch. Someone was coming.

He grabbed her wrist. “Now.”

They moved fast, but not fast enough.

As they reached the door, the lights flickered back to life—too late. In the harsh fluorescent glow, two figures stepped into the doorway.

Zuko and another man, tall and broad, dressed in black tactical gear. Their eyes were cold, trained.

Azula’s breath caught in her throat.

“Zuko,” she said, the word almost sounding like a question.

Zuko’s gaze locked with hers, but there was something else in his expression—regret? Guilt?

“Azula…” Zuko’s voice was strained. “We need to talk.”

She didn’t let go of Sokka’s wrist. “Talk?” she scoffed, stepping back. “You’ve got some nerve.”

The man beside Zuko—someone Sokka didn’t recognize—took a step forward, his hand resting on the side of a gun holster.

“I think we’ve said enough already,” the man said, his voice like gravel.

Sokka tightened his grip on Azula’s wrist, instinctively pulling her behind him.

“Who are you?” Sokka demanded, his eyes never leaving the man.

“Someone who’s been trying to keep your friend safe,” the man replied. His eyes flicked to Azula. “Or at least, he was.”

Azula tensed. “What are you talking about?”

Zuko looked at her, his jaw clenched. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Azula’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Don’t test me, Zuko. Whatever this is, it’s your mess. I’m not part of it anymore.”

But Zuko didn’t flinch. He stepped into the room, closer to her.

“You were never meant to remember,” he said quietly. “That’s why we—”

A loud bang echoed down the hall, cutting him off.

The man beside Zuko immediately moved into a defensive stance, but Zuko didn’t flinch. He was too focused on Azula.

“Get her out of here,” the man said urgently, his voice sharp.

Sokka turned toward Azula, his heart racing. She looked like she was about to say something, but instead, her gaze fixed on Zuko, conflicted. Then, without warning, she jerked her wrist from his grasp and moved toward the window.

“Forget it,” Azula snapped, her voice like ice. “We leave now.”

She threw open the window and climbed through without looking back. Sokka hesitated, then followed.

Chapter Text

The rain had started again—of course it had.

It came in sudden, diagonal bursts, slicing through the air like it had something personal against them. Azula landed with a thud on the dewy grass, her hair already clinging to her face. Sokka crashed down beside her a second later, groaning as he clutched his side.

“Well,” he muttered, blinking up at the grey-stained sky. “That went great.”

Azula didn’t answer. She pulled herself up without a word, brushing the dirt off her dark blazer and fixing her eyes on the barely-visible path ahead. Her expression was unreadable, but her jaw was clenched tight. Like always.

Sokka watched her a moment longer, then pushed himself up and jogged to catch up. Their footsteps were uneven—hers crisp, controlled; his a half-beat behind, uncertain.

“Where are we even going?” he asked, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

“Somewhere not here,” Azula replied, without looking back. “Before my brother’s frat boy army shows up with torches.”

“I think you mean Zuko’s book club,” Sokka said dryly, but she didn’t laugh. He didn’t expect her to.

They slipped behind the mechanical engineering building, their shadows merging into the jagged silhouette of the university’s back campus. It was quieter here—just the wind howling through skeletal trees and the distant hum of security lights. The kind of quiet that made Sokka think too loudly.

“We can go to the greenhouse,” he said, rubbing his neck. “It’s not locked after hours. I used to… sneak in there. For stargazing. Sometimes.”

Azula raised an eyebrow. “Trespassing and botany? How deeply rebellious of you.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s dry. And I’m not trying to die of exposure.”

She didn’t argue.

They crossed the narrow stone path that led to the campus greenhouse—an old, vine-covered structure tucked behind the science wing like a forgotten secret. It was mostly glass and iron, dimly lit from inside with a faint green glow. Ivy crawled along the panes like veins, and condensation fogged up most of the view.

Sokka pushed the door open with a creak, holding it for her.

Azula stepped in cautiously, the warm humidity curling around them like breath. The smell hit her first—earthy, sharp, alive. A strange mix of damp soil, blooming jasmine, and something citrusy in the air. She scanned the space, taking in the rows of plants—some neatly labeled, others wild and untamed. Fiddle-leaf figs towered in the corners. A small fountain dripped in the middle of the room, its sound soft and rhythmic.

“I didn’t expect this,” she said under her breath.

“Expect what?”

She shook her head, stepping further inside. “This.”

They wandered to the back where the larger ferns shaded a little sitting area made of rusted metal chairs and a bench that had clearly seen better days. Azula sat without asking, crossing one leg over the other with a grace Sokka could never replicate.

He sat across from her, and for a while, the only sounds were the steady drip of the fountain and the wind whistling faintly outside.

“You’re shivering,” she said finally.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

She hesitated—just long enough for it to be noticeable—then stood and unbuttoned her coat. Wordlessly, she handed it to him.

Sokka blinked. “You sure?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s damp and smells like dirt now.”

Still, he took it, slipping it on. It was too small in the shoulders, and definitely too elegant for him, but warm.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Azula didn’t sit again. She moved toward one of the tall plants and ran her fingers over the broad, waxy leaves. Her eyes were distant, like they were somewhere else entirely.

Sokka watched her. Not the usual way—no biting commentary or teasing. Just watched. The way she stood so still, like movement was a betrayal. The way her fingers trembled slightly as she touched the leaf.

“You really didn’t have to help me back there,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. You did it because you don’t like people telling you what to do.”

She turned back to the plant. “Exactly.”

But her voice wavered. Just enough to catch his attention.

“You could’ve run,” he said. “Left me when Zuko showed up. But you didn’t.”

A pause.

“I’m not my brother,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”

The silence returned, but it felt different now—less sharp, more fragile. Like a thread being pulled slowly between them.

Azula sat again, this time beside him on the bench instead of across. Not close—there was still space—but it wasn’t nothing.

“Why do you care so much about the archives?” she asked suddenly.

Sokka looked at her, surprised by the question. “Why do you?”

“I asked first.”

He considered the answer, letting the moment stretch. “My dad used to teach here. Before he left. He had this theory—about how the university was hiding classified projects, military-grade tech, experimental programs. Thought the archives had something that could prove it. He died before he could find it.”

Azula’s expression didn’t change. But her eyes did. A quiet flicker.

“I don’t know if I believe it,” Sokka continued. “But sometimes… I think maybe he was right. Or maybe I just need to know something was.”

She stared at the floor for a long time.

“My mother was like that,” she said finally. “Brilliant. Cold. Always searching for something. She thought the university held answers too—but not for science. For power. Influence. Legacy.”

“Did she find it?”

“She disappeared.”

Sokka didn’t say anything. He just sat with it. Let the weight of her words settle in the thick air between them.

Eventually, he looked over. “So… we’re both chasing ghosts.”

Azula almost smiled. Not quite. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

“I suppose we are.”

Rain tapped gently against the glass ceiling above them now—less violent, more rhythmic. The kind of rain that made things bloom. The kind that washed things clean.

Sokka leaned back against the bench, pulling her coat tighter around him.

“I never thought I’d say this, but… this has been kind of nice.”

Azula rolled her eyes. “Don’t ruin it.”

He chuckled, and to his surprise, she did too. Just a small, almost imperceptible laugh. But it was real.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “You’re not like Zuko. You’re smarter.”

Azula looked at him. Really looked.

“You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

Something shifted in her posture then. A quiet loosening of the shoulders. A moment of stillness that wasn’t armored or guarded—just tired. Just human.

When they left the greenhouse an hour later, the rain had stopped. The wind had calmed. And though neither of them said anything, they walked a little closer than before.

Not touching. But not strangers anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 – Part 1
Azula

The greenhouse doors creaked shut behind them with a weighted finality. The cold hit her immediately, but it wasn’t as harsh as it had been earlier. She didn’t know if that was because the night had softened or because her body was still catching up to itself—still dragging behind in a room filled with glowing spores and misplaced truths.

Sokka walked beside her in silence, the crunch of gravel under their shoes loud in the quiet. They’d said everything and nothing inside that greenhouse. Words had slipped out like steam from a cracked pipe, quick and too honest, then sealed away again with nervous smiles and untangled fingers. Now they had no idea what to do with each other.

Halfway down the path, he paused. She didn’t stop until she realized he wasn’t moving. When she turned, he was already shrugging off his coat. The gesture was automatic—too practiced, like he’d already decided not to ask if she wanted it.

She opened her mouth. Maybe to protest. Maybe to say thank you. Nothing came out.

He stepped forward and held it out to her—not with softness, but with that same stubborn practicality that made him infuriating in debates and unexpectedly endearing in crowded rooms.

“You’ll get sick.”

The coat brushed her fingers before she accepted it. Warm. Worn. It smelled like pine and fabric softener and something more human than she’d allowed herself to admit.

She slipped it on. It was far too big.

“Thanks,” she said finally. The word felt foreign in her mouth, like it belonged to someone else. He gave a small nod. No smirk. No clever quip.

And that was it.

They kept walking until the path forked near the old statue of some long-dead chancellor with a pigeon perched triumphantly on its head. There, they hesitated. Not in that dramatic, cinematic way where two characters look at each other like the world might end if they say goodbye—but in the kind of pause that says: I don’t know what this was. And I don’t know what it means yet. So I’m going to pretend it doesn’t mean anything at all.

“Later,” Sokka said.

Azula tilted her chin slightly, not quite a nod. “Later.”

They parted without looking back.

⸻

She made it to her dorm before her thoughts caught up with her. It was like her brain had set a delay—stalling everything until she was surrounded by her own space again, where she could pretend to be in control.

The room was dim, lit only by the desk lamp she’d left on. Neat. Predictable. Hers. She peeled off the coat slowly and hung it over her chair, not the hook, for reasons she didn’t want to think too hard about.

Then she stood in the middle of her room, frozen, like someone had hit pause.

She didn’t want to feel anything. But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. Her pulse was still doing strange things, fast and shallow like she’d run a mile. Her palms itched.

Everything had been fine. It had been nothing. Just a moment. A blip. Temporary chemical chaos inside a foggy greenhouse.

Except—

She closed her eyes.

Except she hadn’t wanted to leave. Not really.

She opened her eyes again and reached for her planner like it was a life raft. Class schedules. Committee notes. Research deadlines. Yes. This she could control. If she stuffed her evening between enough obligations, maybe it wouldn’t have room to breathe.

But even with her pen moving, her thoughts slipped. Traitors.

Sokka’s voice. His stupid metaphors. That ridiculous grin that didn’t show up tonight. The way he had looked at her when he wasn’t trying to be funny. Like he saw her.

She drew a hard line under “midterm prep,” pressing so hard the pen nearly tore the paper.

No. That wasn’t important. It wasn’t real. They were just two people who happened to share a moment in a strange setting. People hallucinate inside greenhouses all the time. Probably.

She would forget about it. She would see him on campus, and it would be like any other Thursday. He’d make some dumb joke, she’d roll her eyes, and they’d keep moving.

This wasn’t anything.

Except…

She looked at the coat again. Still warm. Still smelling faintly like someone else’s life.

Azula shut off the lamp.

Darkness helped.

Sort of.

Chapter 5 – Part 2
Sokka

The cold outside hit him like a slap, sharper now that they were free from the greenhouse. His fingers were still wrapped around Azula’s coat, the fabric warm against his palm, though he wasn’t sure why he still held it. Maybe it was just habit. Maybe it was because he didn’t know what to do next.

They walked in silence, the gravel crunching underfoot, each step dragging out longer than it should have. The greenhouse was fading behind them now, and with it, the moment they shared. Everything felt oddly final, like a door had closed with no one inside to hear it.

Sokka glanced down at the coat. It didn’t feel like something that belonged to him—not anymore. It was hers, and she had given it to him. Now it was time to give it back.

Sokka felt a strange knot in his stomach, but he pushed it down as she slid her arms back into the coat. She didn’t make a show of it. There were no words beyond the brief exchange, no lingering moment of connection. Just the coat, passed back, and nothing else.

They kept walking.

When they reached the fork in the path, the one near the statue of some long-dead chancellor, Sokka hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure what this was or what it had been. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it.

But Azula didn’t give him a chance. She didn’t stop. She didn’t look back. She just said, “Later,” and that was it.

Sokka exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Later,” he echoed, his voice barely a whisper as they parted ways. No looking back, no hesitation. Just the end of it.

And just like that, they were gone from each other’s sight.

⸻

He didn’t rush back to his dorm. There was no real reason to hurry. The night already felt longer than it should have, each step heavier than the last. He still had the coat in his hands, and it was beginning to feel like a weight he wasn’t sure how to carry. He’d told himself it was just a coat. Nothing more. He was probably overthinking things, but it didn’t help that the weight of it in his hands felt somehow… significant.

As he walked back to his room, the cold hit harder now, and he realized just how much warmth the coat had provided him in the greenhouse. It hadn’t been just about the temperature, though. There had been something in the way she’d given it to him—something different from all the times before.

By the time he reached his door, the normal hum of the campus had faded into the background, leaving him alone in his head. He fumbled with his keys, unlocking the door and stepping inside, the silence of his dorm greeting him like an old, familiar friend. The place was messy—clothes on the floor, a few empty food containers scattered around—but it was his space, his chaos. It grounded him, but only for a moment.

He kicked his shoes off, then dropped onto the bed with the coat still clutched in his hands. He stared at the ceiling, trying to shake the odd feeling gnawing at him. The coldness from outside had already started to settle in his bones, but it wasn’t that. It was the weird stillness from the greenhouse, the quiet that lingered after they’d left. It hadn’t felt like a typical exchange with Azula—no biting remarks, no sarcasm, no challenge. Just… something else. Something he wasn’t sure how to process.

Sokka sighed and sat up, draping the coat across the back of his chair. He could still smell it, faintly, pine and something else he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the scent of her. He told himself that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he needed to figure out why her coat felt like it was anchoring something deeper.

He grabbed his notebook from the desk, trying to distract himself with some homework. The scratching of his pen felt louder than usual, his thoughts racing ahead, trying to find something normal to focus on. But they kept slipping back to that moment. How it had felt when she gave him the coat. How there’d been no drama, no resistance, no words to fill the space. Just her and him, standing there for a second longer than they should have.

Sokka pressed his pen harder into the page, trying to push the thought away, but it wasn’t working. His hand faltered.

“Get it together, Sokka,” he muttered under his breath, but it didn’t help.

He stopped writing and looked over at the chair again. The coat was still there, draped over the back. The warmth was gone, but the weight of it… that was still there.

This wasn’t like him. He didn’t get caught up in moments like this. He wasn’t the type to linger on small things that didn’t matter. But for some reason, this moment felt different.

He rubbed his eyes, exhausted by trying to make sense of it. Maybe it had been nothing. Maybe it was just the cold, the greenhouse, the odd chemistry of it all. Tomorrow, they’d both pretend it hadn’t happened. He’d make a joke, she’d roll her eyes, and they’d keep moving like they always did.

But even as he tried to convince himself, he wasn’t sure. The coat was just a coat, right?

He looked at it again.

“Later,” he whispered to the empty room, but the words didn’t feel final. Not this time.

It wasn’t over. It wasn’t even close.