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Chapter Text

Katara cuddles Aang’s skinny frame in her arms, trying to get a deep breath.

Shit, she thinks. That was almost really bad.

It had been a fairly straightforward plan. Attack the Fire Nation prison ship, liberate the earth benders being held captive, talk to the elderly philosopher being held with them who the temple acolytes had said had critical war intel.

Best of all, it had actually worked — a lot of stealth, enough freed earthbenders who actually knew how to throw a punch, and they’d taken out the soldiers and gained control of the ship. An extremely hurried talk with the philosopher had given them exactly the break they’d been looking for — the date of a solar eclipse, the perfect invasion date.

After months of almost aimless roaming since they’d left the South Pole, with Katara trying to teach Aang waterbending while also keeping one step ahead of the Fire Nation, it was an incredible breakthrough. All they needed to do was get the ship to a safe harbor and then fly to Omashu with the info. Aang’s friendship with King Bumi would allow them to start putting together a plan and rally an army to finally end the war, on the darkest day of the Fire Nation. High fives all around.

Which was when everything had started going to shit.

Apparently a soldier had gotten a messenger hawk out before they’d subdued everyone. They’d figured that out when three reinforcement Fire Nation ships arrived, right at the head of a nasty storm. The only reason they make though the fight in one piece was because when their backs had been well and truly against the wall, Aang had gone into the Avatar state.

Fewer high fives this time. Just gulping breaths as they assess exactly how hurt everyone was, and how long before the ship they are currently standing on joins the other three at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe thirty minutes before it’s fully scuttled – probably closer to twenty, given the heavy winds from the storm.

There is the grim realization that they need to evacuate everyone on Appa. Tough, but still doable. Sokka starts rounding up the earthbenders, while Katara scoops up Aang’s limp form, running a hand over his arrow tattoos, checking his breathing. She can feel her shoulders relax when she feels it, strong and regular. Just unconscious for a while, not badly hurt.

Honestly, no matter how many times she has seen it happen, or the times it has saved their asses, Aang in the Avatar state still scares the crap out of her. It has the same uncontrolled violence as a winter storm at home, when the smartest thing to do is to tuck into a cozy igloo and wait it out.

Then.

Her body is dropping to the cold metal deck of the ship, crouching protectively over Aang, before her brain even fully processes what her ears are hearing. The attack cannon of a Fire Nation ship, the bone-rattling impact of a projectile ball of fire slamming into the side of the sinking ship they are currently trying to evacuate.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Sokka screams next to her. “Why do the spirits hate us?”

Katara looks over, and her heart sinks. She knows that ship. It’s followed them across half the world. She can’t see its demented captain, but she knows that Prince Zuko is somewhere on it, focused on nothing except capturing Aang – and Aang is about as dangerous right now as a newborn penguin-otter.

There’s no time, and no good options. Katara realizes grimly that she’s going to have to go with one of the bad options. The ship isn’t in boarding range – yet. She can see the row of dark shapes on its deck, the soldiers just waiting to grab them.

“Everyone on Appa!” she screams. Sokka is still cursing in a steady stream, but he’s already moving. They’re piling the rescued prisoners on Appa, and it’s too many people even for a ten-ton flying bison – he’s going to be low and slow, probably barely above the surface of the water. An easy target.

Sokka knows it too. “The storm will give us a little cover,” he says as they push the last of the freed prisoners aboard, barely hanging onto the back of the saddle. He knows as well as she does that it won’t be enough, but there’s no way to ask the prisoners to stay behind – not on a sinking ship, with the Fire Nation closing in.

Sokka climbs to the front. He’s not even on the saddle right now, it’s so packed. He’s kind of crouching right in front of it, almost on Appa’s neck. He leans down and Katara passes Aang to him – the airbender is still out for the count, his breathing not even changing as they pass him around like a particularly beloved sack of rice. Katara feels terrified – how can someone so powerful, so important, feel so insubstantial?

He’s just thirteen, she thinks. He’s still just a kid.

But he’s been hers to protect ever since she pulled him from an iceberg a year ago, right after her seventeenth birthday, and she will be damned if she gives up now. She looks up at her brother. “Get him out of here, Sokka.”

Her brother’s eyes narrow, and he looks pissed. “Get on the damn saddle, Katara. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no. I’m not leaving you.”

“You need to protect Aang. And you need to get the eclipse date to Omashu. You need to get an army.”

“No, just get on the—“

“We. Won’t. Make. It.” Katara looks over her shoulder. Zuko’s ship has gotten closer. Is she just imagining it, or can she see one tall figure with a stupid ponytail? She looks back up at her brother, whose hand is like a vise on her wrist. She yanks back, but he isn’t letting go. She forces a smile that she doesn’t feel. “Magic water, remember? I’ll slow them down, then meet you at the city.”

“Katara—” his face is agonized, but she feels his hand loosen. They grew up with this war, their mother died in this war, they watched their father and all the men of their tribe sail away to fight this damn war. His eyes harden. “I’ll see you in Omashu.”

“Don’t turn around. I’ll be okay,” she promises. Tui and La, she hopes this isn’t a lie.  

The freed earthbenders are holding onto Aang, and if there’s anything more stubborn than an earthbender, she has yet to see it. They’ll break their arms before they let him fall. She turns and starts running across the deck of the prison ship, hearing Sokka yell, “Yip yip!” behind her. She doesn’t turn around to watch Appa fly away – she can’t think about any of that now.

It’s just her. Her and that ship.

The skies are dark from the storm, but it’s still late afternoon. There’s no moon to help her now, and this is her third fight of the day. She’s sore everywhere, but she can’t even think about that. As she runs, she starts bending. The choppy waves answer her call immediately, seeming almost eager for a focus to their churning rage.

She pulls the first wave as high as she can get it – forty, fifty feet. The ship is close enough now that she can hear the soldiers yelling, and hear one voice that’s rougher than the others – the one yelling orders. That spirits-damned prince.

Her wave is giving visual cover for the getaway, and she holds it as long as she can, feeling the burn down her muscles as she keeps it. She hopes that everyone on that ship is pissing their pants right now, but she can’t hold it anymore and she sweeps it across their deck. She risks one look over her shoulder, and Appa is just the faintest glimmer of white just above the waveline, disappearing into the dark clouds of the storm. Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s having to stay so low – Zuko and his men will be looking high, where they’re usually flying. Maybe this can work.

But after the incredible fuck up of this day, Katara isn’t going to be trusting in luck.

She sweeps a second wave, and this one she jumps onto, freezing the water beneath her feet to give herself a platform, and rides it all the way over to the ship. A few of the soldiers are in the water, but most were able to brace themselves before the wave hit. None of them are looking too happy, mostly just groaning piles on the deck, some still holding onto pieces of metal or the sides of the mast.

Katara regrets that she hasn’t asked Sokka to explain the workings of these hideous coal-powered ships to her in more detail before – that’s always been more his area of interest than hers, and right now she really wishes she knew how to do something useful like wreck their navigation system, but she has a bad feeling that those controls are inside the ship, and she has another focus. That fire cannon needs to go, now.

She jumps off her wave as it crests over the railing and is running as soon as her feet hit the deck, flicking ice in little swipes at any soldiers who look like they’re ready to try doing something problematic like stand up, but mostly she’s building the ice as much as she can as she goes.

She sees Zuko, struggling to his feet, and he looks pissed, but she slides down, icing the water soaked deck to zip herself along, skimming under a fire blast that was aimed right at her head, but she doesn’t have time to engage with him right now, and for once today the spirits are actually on her side, because her slide takes her all the way to the cannon.

Katara slashes the base of the cannon as hard as she can with the scythe of ice that she’s built up, and it’s a good hit – it makes a deep mark in the steel, and she can hear the squeal as it strains to remain upright. Two more hits in quick succession, and the cannon falls sideways off of its base – the weight ripping a hole in the ship’s railing and deck as it goes. Good. She’s pretty sure that’s going to take a while to fix.

A hand grabs the back of her dress and she drops immediately, trying to use her weight to pull whoever has grabbed her off-balance. A familiar voice curses – of course it’s Zuko who would get to her first.

She knows he’s a lot better than she is in close quarters, when he has a size and fighting advantage. She rolls from her stomach to her back and tries to send some ice up into his face, but they’re too close and he kicks her hands, ruining her bend, and the ice drops harmlessly.

At least the deck is soaked, and she slaps a hand down and ices the metal under his feet, and he slips. She scrabbles backwards like a crab – she just needs to get over the edge, where she’ll be safe (safer?) in the water. Well, she hopes. After that she’ll just have to figure something out – maybe she can make an ice floe and float to shore. Possibilities – she’ll have lots of possibilities. She can hear her own panting breaths – she was ready to drop after the last fight, and she’s not even sure right now how she’s still standing, much less fighting. The rain is starting, and a huge wind catches her braid as she tries to scuttle.

Zuko is at least half cat, because he catches his balance with ridiculous ease, and he kicks a ball of fire her way, which she has to focus on blocking. She manages to avoid being burned, but he keeps moving while she has to stop, and his hand catches her wrist, feeling like a manacle.

That’s exactly what she’ll be wearing if she can’t get over the side. She still has one free hand, and she flings a wave at him. It’s not a strong one, but he has to brace against it, and she’s able to throw all her weight backwards and get her hand loose. She rolls, trying to get her feet under her so that she can run toward the railing that is barely five feet behind her now, but he gets a kick in before she can start running, and she takes the full force of it and it knocks her back, slamming into the deck.

The wind is completely knocked out of her, and she’s gasping to try to pull a breath in.

For a second, she is helpless. No bending, no running, not when she’s trying to pull air into her lungs, feeling the world spin nauseatingly around her.

That second is all he needs.

He pins her with a truly insulting ease, grabbing her wrists to hold both down, and she is well and truly caught. She glares up at him – he is soaked from the water she has been throwing at him, but his golden eyes are glaring right back at her, and there’s that sneering curl to his lip that makes her want to dump half the ocean on his head.

He leans down and she can feel the heat of his breath in her ear.

“Leaving so soon?” he hisses.

This is not going well.

Chapter Text

In the ship’s prison cell, Katara practices her water forms.

She’s been in this cell for four days. She can’t bend the water outside the ship through all this metal, and whenever her food or water arrives, Zuko is there to personally guard her, making sure that she doesn’t do anything with the water. Either he doesn’t trust this responsibility to any of his soldiers, or he’s maximizing interrogation opportunities.

Mealtimes generally end with her throwing her plate at his head. Which, since he is outside the bars and she is inside them, just ends up in a mess that she gets to clean up, but at this point throwing things at him is the recreational high point of her day, and the plate is her most satisfying option. The only other items she has in this cell are her clothes (not throwable), a sleeping mat (extremely thin, also not throwable), and the bucket for her personal needs (which she has not entirely ruled out throwing, but cleaning that mess up is not exactly something she wants to deal with).

Also, she really doesn’t want to imagine what she would do without the bucket.

It has become very clear that Zuko’s interrogation repertoire is limited to yelling at her, which they had already established during the pirate incident is not going to scare her into telling him jack shit. Mostly she just yells back at him, which is at least moderately entertaining. She’s pretty sure everyone else on this ship has gotten sick of hearing the range of insults they’ve been coming up with. Genocidal pyromaniac is her favorite. She came up with that one after he called her an ice harpy.

She knows enough to be grateful that he isn’t going for the worse options for interrogation. She knows he could.

She’s pretty sure that today he is trying to see if boredom will break her, because she hasn’t seen him since her breakfast ration, which was a quarter of its usual size. If he thinks that boredom, solitude, and hunger will make her talk, then he’s got a surprise coming to him, because those are the three primary exports of the Southern Water Tribe.

She’s been practicing her water forms since this morning. Every movement smooth, seeking perfection. If she can fully exhaust herself, then she’ll be able to take a nap, which is something to look forward to. If she’s asleep when Zuko comes in he bangs really loudly against her bars, which is an unpleasant wakeup, but she grew up sharing a hut with an older brother, and Zuko’s worst is still nothing compared to having soaking wet seaweed dropped on her face.

She focuses on her breathing as she works on her forms, and lets her mind drift back to home.

She remembers sitting at the tribal fire, surrounded by everyone she had known since infancy.

How do you survive the blizzard?

 That was the teaching question that the elders would ask.

Gran-Gran used to answer, endurance. Calm your body, wait for the storm to pass. Endure the suffering, letting it pass through you, allowing the howling wind to become the only sound that you heard until it passed and you remained.

Her mother used to answer, hope. No matter how bad the storm was, hold onto the inner knowledge that it would end, and the blue sky would return. Ignore the rage of the storm and plan for the day it would be over.

Hama had once said, by killing someone else and eating their flesh, and that’s when the adults all agreed that Hama would sit out the teaching questions.

**

When she was seven, Katara had asked, How did you survive the Fire Nation, Hama?

The old woman, bent and withered beyond her years, had turned to her and said, What makes you think that I did?

 Jet had reminded her of Hama. She’d seen that break in him. The damage that was too much. She’d known to watch him, be cautious even in the exhilarating rush of infatuation. It was like loving a polar bear dog. You had to understand that it had its own mind, and it could be dangerous. Even if it loved you, it could still kill others. Could even kill you.

Tell me the whole plan, she had whispered to Jet when they were lying on the floor of his treehouse, wrapped against each other, their pulses still wild as the pleasure slowly ebbing from their bodies. I know this isn’t all of it. It’s not going to change how I feel about you.

And he’d told her, and she’d held him all night, and the next morning she and Sokka and Aang had slipped away to warn the villagers. When the dam had blown, she had held Jet’s hand and walked him through the village, pointing to the wreckage. How long will it take the baker to rebuild? See the doll? Imagine a little girl’s body instead. Imagine a little boy watching his parents drown, Jet, just for the crime of not being strong enough to stop the Fire Nation.

Then they had left. He had asked her to stay, but she had left.

When Hama had trained her, another adult of the tribe had always been there, ready to say, Stop Hama. Too much. Not yet. She is a child. How many nights had the whole tribe sat around a gathering fire, speaking to her.

You are home, Hama.

You are changed.

What happened to you is a scar that you will always bear, but you are of our tribe.

You are always home on the ice.

Your return is a blessing.

 And Hama would cry, and when she would start to talk about what had been done to her, in the place where the Fire Nation had held her for decades, the children were sent away. But the adults all stayed, all listened.

 Gran-Gran told her that when Hama had first made it home, away from her prison and back to the tribe, some began to talk even louder about going to the sister tribe in the North, seeking safety. What Hama described was a horror — and anyone with bending could face the same fate without protection.

But they stayed. They were the Southern Water Tribe.

And then Katara had been born, and Hama hadn’t been the last of the Southern benders anymore. She’d been Katara’s teacher, on the days when she felt less broken. On the days that the memories were riding Hama hard, Katara knew to walk away and wait.

Hama hadn’t been a healer, but she’d seen others get that training in her youth, before the raiders had started destroying their tribe one dead body and one stolen bender at a time. She’d talked Katara through it, and luckily enough of healing was instinctual that Katara had been able to learn it. Hama had never been a master at waterbending, but she’d been a good enough fighter in her youth, and a good enough teacher that Katara had been able to match her by the time she was fourteen, and surpass her by the next winter.

In the bloodbending, though, Katara had known that the older woman was a true master, and had been more than willing to let her keep that title. She had hated the bloodbending, feeling like it made her dirty under her skin the night that they stood under the full moon together and practiced it on the otter-penguins. After the first lesson, Katara had refused more. It wasn’t like killing an animal for survival – that was done with honor, respect, and with purpose. Bloodbending felt only like cruelty.  

You need to know this, Hama had told her. You’ll need to know this when the Fire Nation comes for you, comes for the true last Southern waterbender.

Katara had refused those lessons for years.

On Katara’s sixteenth birthday the tribe had held her woman’s celebration – the day that all the tribe danced around a fire, and Gran-Gran told her about contraceptives and how to time a baby so that it was born in the springtime. But all the men were away fighting the war. There hadn’t been any boys to dance with, to flirt with, to eventually take back to her own hut and learn love with.

Not a single man in the whole South Pole except her brother and a few little boys? She heard one woman mutter. Almost enough of a reason to start packing for the North Pole right now.

 Instead, that night she had stayed at the circle around the fire and listened to Hama’s story about her captivity. Everything.

You need to know how to do this, Hama had told her, on the next full moon. Better to kill a part of yourself than to be trapped forever in a cage.

 I don’t want to make your choice, Katara had said, and then Hama had bent her blood and forced Katara’s hands to move in the motions, forced her to learn.

Hama had died that winter, her old, pained heart giving out at last. She’d whispered in the end that she’d never been warm since she’d left the Fire Nation, that she missed the flowers. But she had died surrounded by her people, at least. They had made snow flowers for her before they sent her body away on the ice, to nourish the creatures that had nourished her.

Then she and Sokka had found Aang in the ice a year later. She had been grateful that Hama had been dead already when they had found him. Tenderness had been so hard for the damaged woman — she would’ve tried to break Aang’s innocence when she taught him. Katara had been careful to leave it intact — if she and Sokka were willing to kill, it didn’t make Aang less than. She admired his strength and resolve, even when it caused them the most problems.

She had known that Aang was far short of mastering waterbending, but when he had declared that he wanted to start earthbending training, she had agreed. It had been so hard not to feel the pressure of the war, to know that they didn’t have years and years for him to learn each element – not when armies were marching and Earth Kingdom cities were falling. She’d wondered whether they’d made a mistake in not taking Aang to the North Pole to find a real master – maybe a real master would’ve been better at teaching Aang, at getting him to focus on the lessons – but she had let him make the decision, and he’d wanted to travel, to flit from one lovely spot to another.

After that night of feeling Hama bend her hands, feeling her force her through the movements, Katara couldn’t imagine taking a decision away from Aang.

**

Katara has been lost in her own thoughts, and she blinks, wondering how much time has passed. She doesn’t have a porthole down here, and when they close the door to the hallway the air gets smoky and stale. Other than her meals, there’s almost no way to mark the passage of time other than the rise and the fall of the moon, which Katara can feel in her blood.

She supposes she could ask Zuko when he comes down to interrogate her again, but if this is part of his new interrogation plan, she doubts that he would ruin it by telling her. Or would he try to fuck with her by telling her the wrong time? Probably. The ass.

She wishes that Zuko would show up. When he’s around she doesn’t have to drift and think – she can just focus on the immediate reality of what they’re yelling at each other. Yesterday he’d been down here the whole day, stalking in front of the bars as if he was the one imprisoned, and the hours had practically flown by.

She didn’t have to wonder once whether Sokka and Aang made it to Omashu, whether they’re okay.

When she’s left with just one of the soldiers (who always refuse to talk to her) she worries about how well the two of them are doing. Specifically with making meals. Sokka is a Water Tribe man through and through and knows how to cook, but he gets a little shaky when it doesn’t involve animal protein. She deeply hopes that Aang hasn’t been reduced to just chewing on leaves.

At least she has practiced long enough to feel exhausted, and her back is sticky from sweat. She sits down and focuses on her own breathing.

How do you survive the blizzard?

Deep breaths. Calm body. Endure.

She hears the scraping sound of the door opening, and her eyes open.

Zuko fills the doorway. His golden eyes are narrowed, there isn’t a hair out of place from his topknot, and she is fairly certain that his armor is freshly polished. Other than the scar, he’s the perfect embodiment of the Fire Nation. She wants nothing more than to send a jet of water into his face, and for a long moment she considers the bucket, but resists. That’s a last resort, and it’s important to keep him from really thinking about what exactly constitutes a liquid, just in case it gives her an opportunity later on, when she has a real opportunity to escape.

“Ready to talk?” he rasps. She has noticed that his voice is different when he talks to her than when he orders the guard around. She knows now what his voice sounds like when he’s trying to control his temper, and what it sounds like when she makes him lose it.

She’s noticed a lot of things about him over the last few days.

“Ready to follow my last suggestion and go drown in the ocean?” Zuko’s face fills with rage, the golden color of his eyes actually gets brighter, and a dark glee fills her at how fast she is able to piss him off.

How do you survive the blizzard?

Sokka used to say, Entertainment.

Chapter Text

Zuko pours himself a second cup of tea at lunch. After eight days of interrogating the waterbender the only result is a sore throat.

“Prince Zuko, a flower will not bloom if you yell at it all the time.”

Zuko looks slowly over to his uncle, who is frowning at him from across the table.

“Actually, Uncle, it will. A flower is a plant. It doesn’t even know that you’re yelling—“

Iroh looks annoyed. “It is a metaphor, Nephew.”

Zuko snorts and takes a long drink. Perhaps after seven years on this ship his uncle is finally running out of good metaphors.

Iroh gives a long sigh. “Yelling at the waterbender is clearly not having any effect. Insulting the waterbender is clearly not having any effect. Threatening the waterbender is clearly not having any effect. Nephew, you must find a new strategy.”

“I am employing a new strategy,” Zuko lies. Today he avoided her cell all morning, but he’s tried that on three other days, and she doesn’t seem even remotely impacted by solitude. Given that she’s been living with her brother and the Avatar on the back of a foul-smelling flying bison for almost a year, Zuko wonders if it’s possible that she’s actually enjoying the break.

Meanwhile Zuko’s ship is just sailing in circles to avoid giving the waterbender any opportunity for escape, and he is starting to wonder if the Avatar is even planning on mounting some kind of rescue attempt. She’s pretty annoying – maybe he plans to leave her with Zuko forever, which would be just so typical of his luck.  

“Nephew, you need a better strategy. Try being nice to her.”

Zuko stares. “Nice.” It sounds even more ridiculous when Zuko says it. Perhaps senility is starting to set in for Uncle Iroh after all these years at sea.

“Gain her trust. Find common ground.”

“I tried that during the pirate incident.”

Iroh pauses, the cup halfway to his mouth. “That was gaining her trust?”

**

Zuko walks down to the waterbender’s cell, stewing. He needs to know where the Avatar is going – they’ve lost their best chance of picking up the trail by staying here and assuming that the Avatar would come running back to get her. She has to know where he’s going.

He enters the room. Even with regular cleanouts of the bucket, it has gotten pretty unpleasant in here. At a nod, the soldier on duty leaves, trusting Zuko to watch the prisoner. The door closes quietly behind him, and they’re left alone.

Zuko lets himself make eye contact with her.

Like every time, it’s a shock to see her intense blue eyes looking back at him. She’s sitting on her thin mattress, legs crossed neatly. Her dark hair is as tightly braided as ever, and somehow she always looks tidy. He has no idea how. It’s not like he gave her a comb.

Neither of them says anything to the other.

He needs a new strategy. Something he hasn’t tried before. He remembers that night by the river, when she was tied to the tree, and how close the two of them were. She wasn’t looking so smug back then, when his hand had touched the skin of her throat.

He unlocks the door to the cell and goes inside. Her dark eyebrows fly upwards – this is new. She stands immediately and backs up as he walks in, keeping distance between them.

Good. She seems a little less sure of herself right now.

He walks closer, getting into her space. She keeps backing up, but it’s a small cell – it’s not long at all before her back is against a wall. He keeps getting closer, close enough that he can feel the heat of her body. They’ve fought each other for months, sometimes very physically, so they’ve been close to each other before, but this time it’s different. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut.

Slowly, deliberately, he puts one hand out and places it against the wall, next to her head. Then he does it with the other hand as well. She’s boxed in, surrounded by him.

Her lip curls. “Did you find a new interrogation manual to try?”

He can feel his temper spike. She’s good at getting him mad, making him forget any plan he had coming in, but not this time.

“Tell me where the Avatar is.”

“Fuck. You.”

Their faces are inches apart.

He grabs the end of her braid and starts wrapping it slowly around his right hand. The feel of it is silky, heavy. He’s been chasing this damn braid around the world for a year. For an intrusive second he wonders what her hair looks like when it’s down.

Her head is being tugged backwards – not hard, but firmly. She tips her head just a little, but she never breaks eye contact.

“Is this supposed to scare me?”

She’s trying to keep her voice cool, but there’s something different in it. Some tone that he hasn’t heard before in the eight days they’ve been battling each other in this fucking cell.

“Is it working?” he asks, and his voice is almost a rasp. It’s not from eight days of yelling, either.

Zuko realizes that this might be getting out of hand.

His eyes flicker down to her mouth for a second, then back up. There’s a look in in her eyes right now that tells him that she knows exactly where his mind is right now.

Of course he knows that she is pretty. He’s been hunting the Avatar relentlessly, and every time he closes in on that little pipsqueak, she’s been there.

The only time he has spent with a woman since he was thirteen has been when he was putting down gold coins for the privilege, and it is always obvious the whole time that they want nothing more than for him to finish his business and go. The last eight days yelling at her have been the longest he has spent with a woman since his banishment.

Now her hair is wrapped around his fist and they’re so close that he can actually feel her breathing.

He knows what he should do — get out of here. Right now. Because this doesn’t feel anything like an interrogation right now, and what it does feel like has his insides tightening.

She’s not scared. She’s never scared. Whatever he does, she comes back at him with equal force. Bending. Fighting. Yelling cultural insults.

He should leave, but he also knows that he isn’t going to. This is too much like the dreams he sometimes has, the ones he would deny to his dying breath, the ones that make him wake up grinding his hips against his bedsheets and spilling himself before he’s even fully awake, and those dreams used to be about just faceless women and warm bodies, but since that night with the pirates it’s been her face, her dark skin, her eyes that he’s dreaming about when his body betrays his control.

She moves one hand away from her side, and he freezes, watching her. There’s no water here for her to bend, but he has learned the hard way not to underestimate her.

She skims her hand up his chest, and he sucks in a breath. She ends up at his collar, resting on the edge of his armor, almost but not quite touching the skin of his throat.

He shifts the hand that’s wound with her braid so that it’s cupping the back of her neck. Her skin feels cool against his hand, but there’s an unmistakable flush to her dark cheeks. Maybe she’s just cool compared to him.

Because he feels like he’s on fire. She has to feel it, the amount of heat pouring out of his body. Her pupils are dilated now, the black almost wholly eating up the blue.

He leans closer. Any closer and they’re touching.

“Tell me what I want to know,” he hisses.

“Make me,” she whispers back.

Does he pull her to him with the hand at the back of her neck or does she yank at the collar of his armor — does one of them move first and the other too soon to be distinguished, or do they move at the same time? Is this the result of eight days of being stuck in the same room with each other, each frustrated and unwilling to give in, or has this been burning for longer than that, a smoldering, overlooked ember that suddenly explodes into devastating fire?

He doesn’t care.

All he cares about is her mouth under his, her tongue sliding against his, and it feels so good that he mutters a curse. Her thigh slips between his and rubs against the part of him that is hard and aching for her. He pulls his mouth off of hers for a second and just gulps air into his starved lungs, but her hands are sliding over his armor, yanking, but it’s armor, it doesn’t give up that easily, and she switches tactics, drops her hands down to his ass, yanks him closer, and he grinds right against her, and that must be a good spot, because she gives a sharp little gasp that goes absolutely straight to his dick.

His right hand is still holding her head still so he can kiss her, but he’s been using two swords for years and is functionally ambidextrous, and he is shoving her dress up to her waist and sliding his left hand down inside her leggings  before he can even fully consider any of this.

She is soaking wet against his hand and he groans. They haven’t said a word since this started, maybe neither of them is willing to risk having actual sanity intrude on whatever the hell is happening here, but whatever is going on, this is no lie.

She puts her hand over his, pressing, and he takes the hint and follows where she guides him, stroking as he goes, and he’s immediately rewarded with a series of very enthusiastic moans, and she hooks her left leg around his hip to give him better access. He slides one finger inside her and almost loses it right there at the feeling of it.

He’s not thinking, he’s pulling at his pants, he can hear the tear of fabric, but she’s helping him, pulling the pants down just enough that he can maneuver himself out, no easy feat because he is hard as a fucking rock. There’s a breathless tangle while he is shoving at her leggings and the wraps underneath, getting them about as far down as her knees before there’s another tangle that has him cursing in frustration, but apparently she decided good enough because her hand is on him, guiding him inside her.

The position is awkward, but both of them are hyperfocused on this, and he crouches a little and she pulls up onto her tiptoes and then he’s there, right at the entrance to her and all he feels is warmth and heat and her breath against his neck.

There’s no hesitation, zero finesse, and definitely no waiting — he shoves inside her hard, and she practically yowls like a cat, loud against his ear, but she presses her mouth against his neck, open and wet against his skin, and he yanks her higher, desperate to get a better angle. They’re still struggling with the fabric tangling at her knees, then he drops both of his hands to the back of her thighs to hoist her, and she tilts at enough of an angle that he can slide in the way he needs, and now she’s open to him, surrounding him, and he is drilling her against the wall of her cell.

They’re both sweating. He shifts just a little in one of his thrusts and she arches her back immediately and moans. He does it again and she grabs the back of his neck so hard that he knows that he’s going to have marks from this, but this is exactly what he needs and he does it over and over until she is writhing and moaning in his arms and then he feels her grab him inside her and start coming and that’s it, it’s all over for him as well, and he’s grinding himself in her, making easily as much noise as her, possibly even more, saying Agni only knows what stupid shit, most of it, he thinks, pretty complimentary, and his knees give out and they are sliding to the floor in an absolutely wrecked heap.

He presses his forehead against the curve of her neck. She drops her head back to lean against the wall behind her. They are both breathing like they ran for miles.

He’s still inside her. He can feel her fluttering around him in the aftershocks, and he’s almost too sensitized right now for it, but nothing in the world could possibly make him move right now.

A minute ticks by. They’re still wrapped into each other.

He can feel the moment that his actual brain turns on again, as opposed to what has been in the driver’s seat for the last few minutes.

“Shit.”

That’s him.

“Shiiiiiiit.”

It’s really sinking in right now what he just did. What they just did, because that was absolutely not just him. Which makes it feel like maybe he’s in his bed hallucinating from a high fever or something, because in what world would the waterbender grab his ass and pull him inside of her?

She gets off him quickly, awkwardly, more of a modified roll, really, because he never even took her leggings completely off, let alone the nightmare wrap of her underwear, and there’s a distinctly wet sound as he slides out of her that is somehow completely mortifying, even though they were just — yeah.

No, this is real. He wouldn’t be fantasizing about this level of deep embarrassment and awkwardness, no matter what kind of fever he had.

He pushes himself back into his pants, angling his body away from her. Except not only are the front of his pants absolutely soaked, and he is refusing to think about why exactly that is and what it means just happened here, but between the two of them and their impatience, these pants are never going to correctly fasten again. He holds them shut with one hand and gets up.

He is still wearing his armor. He actually did all of that in his armor. She has turned her back on him and is doing some kind of wrestling with her lower clothing. Her dress is still gathered around her waist while she tries to fix the mess of fabric at her knees. Her braid looks like they just fought a whole battle. Actually, he’s pretty sure that he has seen it look BETTER after battles. She definitely doesn’t look tidy right now.

He is not sure what is worse — what they just did, or the fact that he didn’t even get her shirt open. They’ve had sex and her breasts are still a complete mystery to him.

He’s such an idiot.

She glances back at him over her shoulder, and he looks away, like looking at her is somehow wrong right now.

“Do you mind?” She asks. She’s still working at her leggings.

“Um. Yeah.” He’s holding his damn pants, which makes locking the cell door a fucking nightmare.

He just had easily the best sex of his life, it was over embarrassingly fast, and now he is locking the door of her cell.

Not great. Definitely not great. A new low in a sexual history that had already had absolutely zero high points.

He’s sure there’s something he should say, but instead he just leaves.

**

Iroh is waiting for him outside of the prison room, with a dark expression on his face.

“That is not the common ground I was referring to,” he growls.

Zuko flushes. Neither he or Katara did a good job staying quiet. Not that either of them was even trying. At least he wasn’t. Maybe she was—though, in his admittedly limited experience, he has never heard anything even close to those kinds of noises before. They were definitely linked to the times when he was doing things she particularly liked, that he’s sure about.

It’s a metal ship. Everyone on board just heard those noises.

He knows that he just really, really screwed up. That, even by his standards, this is a whole new level of dishonor. Which makes him angry and defensive when he snaps, “She did just as much as I did.”

Iroh gives him a flat stare. “You are the one holding the key to her cell, Prince Zuko, so I highly doubt that.”

**

Katara is sitting in her cell. The guard has returned, but is very obviously avoiding looking anywhere near her, so she has a bad feeling that they might’ve been overheard.

What the hell did she just do? Why the hell did she just do it?

Her bones feel like jelly right now. Lacking any water to clean up with, she is still coated with what the two of them left behind, and the thought of it makes her flush.

She’s had a lover before. But nothing with Jet was like that. He was slow. He was gentle. Even when she came it was a sweet, glowing peak. If she ignores the attempted mass murder the next day, it was about as perfect a first time as she could’ve asked for.

She has no idea why this happened, or why she feels this damn good. It should not have felt so good that she can still feel it in every place he pressed against her.

Eight damn days in a prison cell and she had extremely enthusiastic sex with Zuko. Maybe she shouldn’t have made excuses all those times when Aang offered to teach her how to meditate.

When she gets out of here, she is definitely going to keep this one to herself.

She has no mirror, and the presence of the guard means that she is not going to check herself, but she has a feeling that there are bruises. And she probably isn’t the only one. His neck was looking red when he left, and not just from blushing.

Katara remembers a joke that the older women said sometimes, after the teaching questions were over.

How do you survive the blizzard?

Find yourself a strong man who will keep you warm until the snow stops falling, and then keep you warm until it starts again.

Chapter Text

Zuko walks on the deck the next morning and the waterbender is sitting next to Iroh at the breakfast table, calmly spreading butter on a roll.

He freezes, and looks from her to his uncle and back.

Iroh looks up at him – he’s at his most genial, practically exuding benevolent elderly energy. “Katara has been indulging me. I am fortunate to finally have a new audience for all of the stories that you have grown tired of.”

Zuko isn’t fooled – Iroh has clearly not forgiven what happened yesterday. He knew that Uncle was fuming when he skipped dinner. It takes a true level of rage to keep that man from a meal.

“It is a pleasure to hear stories from such an excellent teller,” the waterbender says, and makes full eye contact with him as she takes a bite of her roll. He has no idea how she did it, but her dress looks almost tidy again – how she has done that when she is closing in on two weeks in a prison cell defies all laws of nature, and is bordering on both witchcraft and deeply unfair.

“She is a prisoner, not a guest!” It is ridiculous to even be arguing this.

“None of us are forgetting that.” Iroh’s tone is extremely pointed, enough that Zuko feels his good cheek flush. Uncle’s subtext is practically text right now. “But I believe that I must insist that from now on, Katara will be treated as both a prisoner and my honored guest.”

Zuko storms back down into his room. He is not pouting, or hiding – he is regrouping.

He is absolutely not thinking about what happened yesterday, certainly not in enough detail that he has to pause and breathe deeply to calm down.

He spends half the morning meditating, forcing himself to focus only on the feeling of a single candle burning. He has spent seven years in this room, on this ship, doing this. Uncle taught him this meditation practice during their first weeks at sea, as soon as he was able to sit up again after the first stage of his recovery.

Once he feels more in control, more like himself, Zuko dresses himself carefully. His topknot is perfect, as is his armor. He threw the pants of yesterday out completely, and has a pair on that have definitely never been ripped in mutual eagerness to remove them. He looks at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, and sees only the reflection of a prince of the fire nation.

A prince with a scar that covers half of his face. And a trail of dark bruises down the side of his neck, courtesy of his prisoner’s mouth.

Shit.

He heads down to the prison cell, and when he enters he sees that Iroh has had a busy morning.

The cell has acquired new furnishings. The mat in the corner is definitely thicker, with suspiciously plush blankets and a pillow on top. The bucket has been augmented with a privacy screen. The waterbender herself is sitting on a small chair. She has a needle in her hand and is humming quietly to herself.

“Are you… mending my uncle’s pants?” Zuko stares. Of the many plans to acquire the Avatar that he has attempted over the last year, truly none have gone as epically sideways as this one.

The waterbender raises an eyebrow, glancing up at him, but her hands never slow or hesitate in their quick, able stitching. “I seem to have a lot of free time suddenly, and after such a nice breakfast, it seemed appropriate to offer.” She pauses and checks the seam. “I get the impression that somehow the sailors on this ship don’t know how to sew.”

Zuko’s mouth twists. For fuck’s sake. “We don’t need sails, so it’s a useless skill.”

She snips her thread. Oh, lovely, Uncle handed the prisoner scissors. Because sharp objects in prison cells were an amazing idea. “Your uncle’s mending pile would suggest otherwise.”

He has absolutely no idea how they are in this conversation. “He is a prince of the Fire Nation! He can just buy new pants!”

“Seems awfully wasteful.” She unrolls more thread, and makes a small, disappointed moue. “I don’t have red, but your uncle said that he didn’t mind brown thread.” She looks over at him, and, yes,  it’s clear that she’s doing all of this very deliberately. “And I imagine that you can’t find Fire Nation clothing in most of the places you are frequenting. Even earthbenders don’t wear a lot of fabrics this light.” That blue gaze eyes him up and down, and Zuko resolutely ignores the part of him that is very ready to return the favor. “I’m amazed you didn’t all die of pneumonia in the South Pole.”

“We had coats.” She snickers – clearly her opinion of Fire Nation cold weather gear is low. “And it’s warmer in the Fire Nation.”

She nods. Her hands never slow down. “Tropical. Lots of linen, lots of skin.”

Zuko tilts his head, narrows his eyes. “How would you know?”

“My teacher spent thirty years as a prisoner of the Fire Nation.” She locks eyes with him, and there’s an undertow in her eyes. Dangerous. “I don’t think you came down to talk about any of that.”

Zuko looks right back at her, refusing to blush or stutter. She wants that – wants to pull the upper hand from him, and he won’t let her. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

“I agree.”

“It was a mistake.” Understatement of the year, of the decade, achieved.

She never looks away. “Absolutely. Want to make it again?”

“…what?” The upper hand is gone. He’s never getting it back. Zuko is just staring at the waterbender, sitting on her chair, still sewing his Uncle’s pants’ seam, and this is not a dream or a hallucination because never, never, would he have come up with this insanity.

“You want me to give you Aang. I would rather die first. If you were going to physically torture me, you would have already started on that. This is, by the way, not a complaint. I would rather not be tortured. If yesterday had been another way of trying to get me to talk, then I don’t think your uncle would’ve been quite as remorseful for your actions this morning. Also, I enjoyed what we did,” she’s been ticking through this list very calmly, clearly having weaponized her thinking time in the damn cell, but there’s just the slightest huskiness in the way she says that last one that, fuck, makes Zuko’s breath catch and his heartrate double, “but even good sex is not going to make me betray my friends.”

If he was sixteen, Zuko would be a fucking puddle on the floor right now, but he’s twenty, damnit, and he’s actually been listening for context. His voice is grim as he regards the fucking ashes of his interrogation plan, and says, “I’ll make a note of that.” Grim and about two octaves lower than usual.

“So we’re stuck. All you can do now is use me as bait and hope that my friends come back to try to save me. All I can do is hope that they don’t even realize that you have me, and continue on without me. So that leaves me on this boat.”

“Ship,” he corrects, automatically.

“Right. So, with all of that said—” she ties off her thread, snips it, then shakes out the pants. The rip is so well sewn that it is almost invisible. Her eyes gleam. “Care to pass a little time?”

Zuko walks closer to the bars, watching her. There’s a flutter in the pulse at her throat, a flush high on her cheeks. She has been playing this extremely coolly, but she’s really not. When she folds Uncle’s pants, tucks her needle away, he sees the way her fingers shake, just a little. “This is a plan,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “You think that if we have sex enough, I might let you go.”

“And you’re wondering right now whether I’m wrong, and enough sex would make me betray my friends.”

She’s right. He is. He’s also thinking about how damn much he wants to try this plan. He’d spent the night thinking about all the places on her body that he hadn’t gotten to touch.

The waterbender walks to the bars, opposite him. It’s just long bars of steel between the two of them, and she slides her hands easily through the gaps, sliding around his neck, and up the bare skin of his scalp. She’s moving slowly, deliberately. Daring him to tell her to stop. She tugs him, very gently, and he bends his head down, following where she’s leading, and his mouth fits over hers, through the gap in the bars, like she was fucking made for him. This isn’t like last time at all, which was all instinct and speed. They’re both going slow, almost leisurely, like they’ve got all the time in the world and can do this as long as they damn want.

She makes a soft, pleased sound in her throat when he slides his tongue into her mouth, and when he presses one hand against her neck he can feel the raging wildness of her heartbeat. She presses her lips closer, opening eagerly for him.

All the women Zuko has been before her with were paid in advance, most of them double, and none of them were ever interested in kissing him.

They stand like that for long minutes, kissing through the bars of her cell. He traces his thumbs against the line of her jaw, lets his fingers rest against her skin, feeling its soft texture. His hands are heavy with callouses from years of sword work, and are probably rough, but she doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, she seems to be enjoying this at least as much as he is.

Finally, she pulls back just far enough to whisper, “Maybe we’re both wrong. Maybe one of us is right. Only one way to find out.”

This is a terrible plan. Even for Zuko. He hesitates, even while a very specific part of his body is urgently arguing that this is an amazing plan. His best ever. “Or we don’t do anything.”

“Your uncle did offer to teach me Pai Sho.” Her voice is light, but there’s a flicker of disappointment on her face. Actual fucking disappointment, and that’s it. Zuko could take a lot of things, but not that, and the key is out of his pocket and being shoved so hard in the lock that he’s amazed he doesn’t break it.

He yanks the door open. “No, this is a much better use of time.” He pulls her against him, and she follows willingly, kissing him again, but this time it isn’t slow or restrained at all. It feels quite a bit like last time, actually, now that he’s made a decision, and he is doing this.

Zuko pulls her up, getting a firm hand on her ass, and she wraps her legs around his hips. He rocks her against him, hard, and he groans at the friction. He feels the waterbender’s mouth curl into a smile against his lips, and he starts walking backwards, not willing to let her go for a second.

She pulls back, raises her eyebrows. “The bedroll is the other direction.”

“Fuck that.” If they are doing this, and they are definitely doing this, then he is not doing it against the wall of the prison cell. Or on the floor of the prison cell, for that matter.  He presses his mouth against her ear, feels her shiver when he says, “I’m going to fuck you in a real bed, with all our clothes off.” He kisses her neck, then continues. “If we’re actually doing this, then I want to see every part of you.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and she nods, and he promises himself that, first thing, he’s going to get her to undo that braid. He wants to see her dark hair spread across his pillow.

**

Their clothing ends up in a trail across his room, coming off even before he kicks the door shut behind them, but they do end up in his bed, and he does get to see the full glory of her hair, the dark curls that tumble down her back, thick and silky as he tangles his hands in it.

It started slow, but ends as frantically as the first time, as if both of them are disbelieving that the other isn’t calling a stop, demanding that they actually think about how crazy this is, and are rushing to make sure that they finish before a cooler head prevails.

The aftermath is a lot better this time. Both of them are completely naked, sprawled on top of the bed, and he’s running his hands over her breasts in a decidedly lazy manner, tracing and memorizing their curves.

Her arms are stretched over her head, and she’s watching him from half-closed eyes, looking halfway to a nap, and very pleased with the world in general.

“Zuko?”

“Yeah?”

She rolls onto her side and looks at him, very serious. He can feel his shoulders tense, knowing what’s coming. Clearly she is about to explain that this can’t happen again. Because – obviously. The first time was insane, but this time – there’s no defense for how it happened this time.

“Between this time and last time, I am going to need a rag and a basin of water.”

He has to blink a little, processing the difference between what he was expecting and what she actually said, then he considers. “Oh. Hm.” He took a bath after their first encounter, and definitely needs another after this one. She… was in her cell. He sits up, and leans over to snag his pants from the floor, tugging them up quickly. “I can probably improve on that a bit.”

Her eyebrows raise a little, but when he gestures for her to follow him, she does.

He leads her into the bathroom attached to his room, lighting the candles with an easy bend, and it is absolutely worth it for the expression on her face when she sees the tub. The waterbender is completely blown away by this – he can’t think of a single thing on this ship that has impressed her this much. Though, in fairness, at this point she has seen the cells, the deck, and his bedroom. And when they entered the bedroom they were fairly occupied, so it’s not like he gave her a tour or anything.

He pops in the plug and turns the faucet, and she is beside him immediately, her hand dipping into the water and her jaw dropping. “Fresh water? Really? Not salt? You’re wasting this on a bath?” She makes a thoroughly amazed sound, as if words fail to capture just how paradigm-shifting his bathroom setup is.

“Do Water Tribe people bathe in salt water?” There’s kind of a lot he doesn’t know about the Water Tribe. Okay, more than a lot. Before he hauled her onto his ship, he honestly didn’t care, either. They were just some weird, backwards peasants who roamed around in an area that frankly should’ve just been abandoned.

“No, we bathe in the hot springs, but we are on a boat!”

“Ship.”

“How many water barrels do you even have?”

“It’s actually a tank inside the ship. We fill it at ports.”

She actually laughs. “That is amazing.”

He’s not sure how he feels about this. A few minutes ago he was feeling pretty fucking fantastic, but this… they’re having an actual conversation right now. She’s naked, and he’s just wearing a pair of pants, but… this isn’t arguing, or an attempted interrogation, or the minimal and extremely task-based communication that has happened when they’re having sex.

He feels a vague disquiet, a worry that this might be an even worse idea than having sex with her was, but the tub has filled, and he turns off the faucet, then reaches over and bends to heat the water with his hand. She looks at the tub, warm and clean, with an expression of incredible longing, but hesitates.

“Go ahead.” Zuko says. “Get in.” He’s not exactly sure what she’s waiting for. She’s been in a prison cell for nine days, and what they’ve just finished wasn’t exactly getting her cleaner.

She looks at him, her blue eyes uncertain. “And you’ll be…”

He stares at her. Oh, for Agni’s sake, is she serious right now? “I am not leaving you alone with an entire tub, waterbender. Get in or stay out, but if you’re out of that cage, then I’m going to be right there with you. No exceptions.” He can hear the harshness in his voice, but he doesn’t give a shit. What does she think, that they can fuck twice and he’ll just set her up to escape?

Her forehead crinkles in a frown when he says waterbender, but then it smooths out again. Clearly she’s made a decision, because she gives a little shrug, and climbs in. Her breath catches as she sits in the warm water, and she exhales slowly, her eyes closing as she bends forward and dips in fully for a second.

Zuko stays where he is, just sitting on the side of the tub, not caring when a few stray droplets hit his pants. He watches her — she’s a waterbender in a tub of water. He knows that he really should’ve just handed her a rag and a basin, but he can’t bring himself to be regretful about how dumb he’s being. The expression on her face when she saw the damn fresh water was worth it. Besides, he’s right here to make sure she doesn’t make a run for it. Not that she’d have any place to go – they’re still in the middle of the ocean.

Of course, he’s also just watching her bathe, which is proving to be a whole new kind of fascination. They just had sex, he should be satiated. He’s just had more sex in the last two days then — yeah, he doesn’t even want to think about that. But if he’s being honest with himself, there’s absolutely no comparison at all between this, and what he’s had before.

She has finished soaping her shoulders. He doesn’t know why he does it, is moving before he fully even processes what he intends to do, but he leans over and takes the soap from her and silently starts rubbing suds across her back. She leans forward, pulling her hair to the front and letting him. When he finishes she dips down under the water. He is pretty sure that she is bending right now, but it doesn’t seem aggressive, so he just sits back. She comes up in a moment, her hair completely free of soap. She flips her hair back and looks at him — for a moment she seems very vulnerable, uncertain. It surprises him, and is also weirdly reassuring. At least he’s not the only one who has no idea what they’re doing right now, or what the hell the rules are in this new reality they’ve placed themselves into.

Zuko leans down, slowly, carefully, and kisses her shoulder. He looks up, checks. She tilts toward him, giving him permission, and he presses his mouth down again, tracing a line across her shoulder, her collarbone. He’s breathing heavily when he gets to her breasts, but he keeps going.

If they are doing this, then he is going to get as much of her as he possibly can before one of them comes to their senses.

She sits up higher in the tub, then shifts to her knees, and now the water is just to her hips. He’s running his hands and his mouth over her breasts, watching her nipples tighten, and then he slides his hands down her waist, to her ass. Zuko looks up to her again, and the expression on her face leaves no doubt that he’s not the only one who is into this. She runs her own hands across his shoulders, making a small, pleased sound. He feels the flush on the good side of his face — that’s definitely not the reaction he’s used to. She keeps moving her hands down his chest, her fingers tracing ropes of muscle and sliding eagerly even further, tracing the line of his abdomen, looking at him eagerly.

She likes his body. Possibly even as much as he likes hers, though Zuko personally doubts that that is even possible. When her hands go lower, then start tracing the edge of his waistband, he can’t take it anymore.

He scoops her out of the tub, not even caring about water going everywhere. She gives a low laugh, and he pulls her down with him, but she wiggles and stays on top.

The waterbender leans down, kisses him, and starts pushing at his pants. He is quick to assist her, and then she’s lowering herself down onto him, and he’s discovering just how deep he goes at this angle, almost out of his mind as she pushes herself, and he groans. She nips his neck.

“I like when you make those sounds,” she whispers. “I like knowing that I made you make them.”

His brain snaps and he yanks her hips down hard. He groans and she rocks her hips and kisses his throat.

“Say who you’re here with,” she whispers to him, her voice hypnotic, irresistible. “Say who is riding you. Say my name, Zuko.”

“Katara,” he says, for the first time, and as he tastes her name on his tongue, he knows it. Without a doubt.

This was a very, very bad idea.

Chapter Text

Two days slide by in a warm haze.

They spend every minute together. For purely security-based reasons, of course. He can’t trust anyone else on the ship to be able to contain a waterbender of her strength, and he doesn’t want to have to lock her back into her cell.

It’s all part of the new plan, of course.

So he fits Katara into the schedule that he has established over the last seven years on this ship. When he meditates, she sews or reads quietly. They eat their meals together, with Iroh’s exceptionally judgmental company, though he never says a word that acknowledges what is happening, sticking to amusing anecdotes and light social chatter instead.

They sleep together in his bed. He certainly hadn’t intended it, but on the first day that she’d been out of the cell they had both ended up falling asleep at one point, then what began as a quick post-coital nap stretching out into hours, and, by the time Zuko had woken up and realized exactly what was happening, it had seemed utterly petty to wake her up in the small hours of the morning to escort her back to a prison cell.

And when he’d woken up fully with the sunrise, he’d been tangled up with her, one of her thighs tucked between his legs, his arms wrapped around her, her breasts pressed against his chest. Zuko has slept alone since his earliest memory. Waking with Katara in the bed, feeling her skin against his, the soft sounds of her breathing — well, the whole thing is just temporary, so he is going to enjoy it.

They have a truly impressive amount of sex. It is, Zuko has to admit, a huge improvement to his former methods of filling the seemingly endless downtime he had on the ship.

On the afternoon of the third day, Zuko is sparring with one of his soldiers, and Katara is sitting with Iroh and watching. Zuko is pulling larger flames than usual, brighter ones, but he’s finding that it’s taking far less effort than normal. He can feel Katara’s eyes on him, and it makes his fire eager to kindle.

When he was young, and struggling to bend, his teachers would tell him that he lacked proper discipline. Other elements could be bent without the proper focus and discipline – air was wild and for the careless, everyone knew, and earth was just for the raw, untutored strength of the Earth Kingdom, and as for water, what could even be said about those shiftless barbarians. Fire was obviously the superior element – always present and ready for those who achieved mastery, powerful and perfectly formed for domination. It demanded the proper mindset, of course, the discipline of a perfect form. The user of fire had to be similarly honed – excesses in drink were incompatible with firebending, of course, but he remembered the stern lectures of his teachers against any kind of other excesses – particularly the sexual kind. It was part of the reason that he’d only succumbed a few times over the years to, very shamefully, seek a quick relief in purchased companionship. As for personal releases, most of his teachers had always emphasized seeking control and meditation rather than indulging in such weakness.

That he was exercising exactly zero restraint when it came to Katara, and his bending was actually improving made absolutely no sense, so Zuko decides to not think too hard about it. Clearly nothing about this was following normal rules, and it’s going to end soon anyway.

The spar ends, and he and his opponent bow. The soldier is very careful not to make eye contact with him – the entire crew has been avoiding looking at him since the first incident in Katara’s prison cell. He is letting it go, for now.

Zuko walks over to where Katara and Iroh are sitting, sharing a pot of tea, and he lifts the water pitcher and takes a long drink. Katara’s eyes are bright, amused, as she looks up at him — the expression on her face suggests that she knows he was showing off. Normally that probably would’ve set off his temper, but today it doesn’t bother him. There’s a lightness, an ease, in his chest, and his good mood isn’t going anywhere. 

Even so, there’s no reasonable explanation for what he does next.

He looks at her, the sun gleaming off of her dark hair, her face lifted to enjoy the ocean breeze, and asks “Want to go for a round?”

She’s his prisoner. She should be shackled in a cell — instead he is offering to spar with her. She tilts her head, considering. Uncle Iroh just looks straight up to the sky — his face speakingly blank.

Katara smiles, and he feels it in his gut. “Why not.” Her eyes gleam. “I just need to remember that we’re sparring.”

“Yes, the key difference to not  trying to kill each other.” That’s going to be a whole new experience for both of them, but Zuko walks back to his starting spot, and gives the traditional Fire Nation bow.

“You have a bit of an advantage, in the middle of the afternoon.” She makes an unfamiliar motion, flowing but somehow formal. He wonders if that’s how they start spars in the Water Tribe, then she’s sinking into her stance, and her voice is almost purring, “but I have a whole ocean to play with.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Zuko can see all the full crew coming onto the deck, spreading into a semi-circle. Apparently Uncle is making sure that she doesn’t make a break for it, even though they’re in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe he just wants to be sure he can shut this down if he has to. While Uncle has been nothing but charming to Katara, he has been almost taciturn with Zuko.

They start. They’ve tangled a dozen times before, and Zuko has always known enough to respect her as an opponent, but this time there’s no Avatar that she’s protecting and he’s trying to snatch, and it only takes a few passes before he realizes —

— what they’re doing is fun.

They’re so close to matched when they fight, but their elements are totally different. Every harsh kick or punch from him is blocked with flowing movements. He whips fire at her and she channels a jet of water, leaving nothing but steam. She launches a dozen icicles at him, and he swats them aside with flash of fire. They’re not trying to hurt each other — mostly.

Each of them wants to win this.

As the fight continues he learns something pretty important about waterbenders — the longer they’re going, the bigger her water gets. She’s building like a tide — he starts faster, she goes longer.

He isn’t going to make that dirty. Until he makes eye contact, and she has that look that he recognizes immediately after the last days, the intense gleam that always gets him going.

He bends more fire — now he’s definitely showing off, because it’s like an explosion, a bonfire, and she pulls a tidal wave that might not have swamped the boat, but would’ve come close, except she’s channeling it just at his fire. He doesn’t even notice the ribbon of water that she sneaks under him until he feels it whip around his ankle and yank him right off his feet, and he’s on his ass on the deck.

But she’s too close — she always forgets this part, that it’s not just his bending she should be worried about — and he knocks her legs out from under her with a sweeping, rolling kick to the back of her knees, and he keeps rolling to pin her down, to the deck, and he snags one of her hands, but the other is free and her smile is promising that she’s going to make him pay for that trick and—

“That’s enough!” Iroh yells. “Excellent sparring, such a delight for all of us to witness—”

And the two of them are pressed completely against each other, chest to hip, and his whole crew is trying to look in different directions.

Well. Shit.

He’s on his feet and tugging her behind him, and the direction he’s taking them is straight to his bedroom, because everyone knows, he’s pretty sure there are fish in the ocean that know after that, but he just can’t care right now. Not about his crew, at least, or anything that doesn’t involve getting Katara out of her dress as fast as possible.

She’s snickering. She has her free hand against her mouth right now and is actually snickering, but he just mutters, “Thank you, Uncle, for officiating,” and they’re gone, and his fast walk goes to an open run as soon as they’re off the deck.

He slams the door behind them and has her up against it before the sound has even stopped echoing, but she’s moving just as fast — she pulls his face down to hers for a long, deep kiss.

“I like the outfit you wear to spar, Zuko.” Her voice is throaty, excited, when they come up for a breath. It’s just a loose set of pants, and, of course, no shirt, and he saw the way she looked at him when he got dressed.  

“Bet you’ll like it even more on the floor.” He’s yanking at Katara’s dress and she’s pulling down his pants, and they end up in the same position they were on the deck.

“Oh, good.” She runs her hands up his back. “Right where we left off.” Katara leans down and presses her mouth to his neck, giving it a teasing bite. He groans – he’s going to have another mark tomorrow morning, but he doesn’t even care. “What were you going to do next?”

Without warning or waiting he slides a finger into her — it goes right in, she’s already wet and dripping for him, so wet it makes him groan again. That happened during the fight. They were fighting and she was getting wet for him. Katara jerks and moans, her head falling back as he starts a fast rhythm, in and out, pushing her, adding a second finger. He’s panting as hard as she is, and he rubs the heel of his hand against her clit, in the angle he has perfected through substantial practice over the last few days, and she yells as she falls apart.

He doesn’t let her come down before he’s sliding down her body. His veins are still buzzing with the feeling of bending so much fire, so easily, and he’s high from their sparring and from everything that they’re doing. He looks up and meets her eyes deliberately. “I want the next time you come to be from my tongue.”

He drinks in the little, excited sound she makes, the way her hands stutter and drag on his shoulders.  

Zuko licks her, reveling in the taste of her, of every sound, every moan and half-muffled shriek. Her hands go from his shoulders to his neck, stroking and coaxing as he drives her, wanting every second to last, but it isn’t going to, and he sends her over the edge again. She’s loud, and then she’s grabbing desperately at him, nails scratching in her haste.

She wiggles down, pressing her mouth against his, and he knows that she is tasting herself on his tongue, and his cock jerks at the thought. Everything is fast, and she’s reaching down, her hand guiding him, and he pushes himself inside her, hearing her begging him to go faster even as he pushes in further, and they’re rocking together and he feels the sweat running down his back, the tightening in his balls, and he’s coming with a yell, and falling onto her, and she wraps her legs around his waist and holds him.

They lie together, panting, for long minutes.

Zuko’s face is against her neck, and he nuzzles closer. “That’s not usually how sparring ends for me.”

She laughs, still shaky and breathless. “Next time, let’s try sparring at night.” She drags her mouth against his cheek, leaving slow kisses as she heads toward his mouth. “Under the moon.” Her lips press against his again.

Zuko kisses her back. This is just a strange interlude in their lives, but he can enjoy the fantasy as well, just for a minute. “Without the audience.”

**

A few nights later. It’s been over a week, now, and neither of them is showing any signs of slowing down.

She’s lying on his bed, watching him with hooded eyes. His bones have a pleasantly liquid quality right now, courtesy of the last hour spent in the bed with her.

He has taken down his topknot, and he’s combing out his hair, when he feels her move behind him. For a second he tenses — wondering if this is the moment she’ll try to escape, but she rests one hand on his back and runs the other through his loose hair. He hesitates, then relaxes and lets her. Where he hasn’t shaved his head, his hair comes past his shoulders.

She has seen him shave his head in the morning. She has watched him get dressed. They eat every meal together, usually on the deck, since he knows that she likes that better than the interior dining room. He put an extra toothbrush in his bathroom for her.

He has been after her like a dying man finding an oasis in a desert, but it’s these moments where he feels the growing intimacy between them, and worry gnaws at him.

“Your hair is so silky,” she says quietly. He freezes. They say plenty of things to each other during the heat of sex, but this is possibly the first thing she has said to him outside of that that feels like a compliment.

He looks back at her. She’s still touching it, but now there’s a small frown on her face.

“Do a lot of Fire Nation men wear their hair like this?”

Zuko snorts. “Hardly. It’s reserved for the royal family.”

“Huh.” Her hand slides over, across the bare skin of his scalp. “Have you always worn it like this?”

“Not always. When I was younger, I had it long all over, then pulled into the phoenix plume.

Katara makes a small, muffled noise. Not exactly positive, either. She mouths the words phoenix plume, and he feels annoyed. The looseness of before is gone, and he pulls away from her, stalks across the room. She doesn’t seem bothered at all, and sits back on her heels. She is wearing one of his shirts, given that she lacks an actual nightdress and sleeping in her wraps just ends up in yards of tangled fabric when they inevitably get yanked around in the night by his hands. This gives her the coverage she seems to want, and the access that he desires. Still. He glares.

“That’s a really judgey look from someone whose brother also wears his hair in a ponytail.”

Usually he avoids mentioning her brother, or anything about her home in the South Pole. He tries not to think too hard about why he is avoiding those subjects. She gives him a sly smile, knowing that she’s getting under his skin. “So, your argument right now is that you’re wearing it better than my brother, and that’s meant to impress me?”

Irritation chokes him, and he feels his mouth twist into a sneer. “The last thing I need to do is impress my own prisoner.”

Katara’s smile is wiped away in an instant. He immediately feels like an asshole as she turns away, shifting so she is facing the other wall. “Of course.” Her voice is cool and even. “It’s not like I have the option to leave, after all. How you wear your hair doesn’t matter.”

Zuko drops the comb back on his dresser and is across the room, kneeling behind her on the bed, running his hands down her sides, his mouth over that spot on her neck that she always responds to. “Hey.” He kisses her neck again. He badly wants to say I’m sorry, but that is definitely not something that he should say to his prisoner. She’s not his girlfriend, no matter how many lines are getting blurred right now, but the knot in his chest is very real. He meant to hurt her, and he did, and now he feels like an ass. “Hey.”

He doesn’t know what to say, but he lightens his voice, forces himself to tease. “I know for a fact that there are parts of me that you like more than my hairstyle.” His mouth against her neck is coaxing. He tugs her hands, urges her silently to turn back to him. After a moment, a long, reluctant moment where he can almost feel the blood icing in his veins, she does. Her face is guarded again. He kisses her mouth, draws her hand down his chest. “I like how you look at me whenever I take off my shirt.” His voice is low, and he drags his teeth against her skin, just a little. Just enough to make her shiver.

She tips her head and starts tracing her hands over him. His shoulders, his chest, down his abs in a way that makes him catch his breath. A few minutes ago he thought he was done for the night, but the further her hand drifts down, the more he is reconsidering that. She leans forward, and starts giving small, lingering kisses to all the spots her hands were. She drifts down, almost to the edge of his pants, and for a moment he forgets to breathe, then she goes back up, laying a kiss on his left nipple — then giving it a sharp bite.

“Fuck.”

Zuko yelps, loudly, then shoves her backwards, down onto the bed, and there’s no question at all now – he is absolutely not done for the night. There’s no hurt in her eyes now, just a gleam of triumph and excitement, and he’s yanking the shirt over her head so fast that he hears the now-familiar tear of clothing. Guess she’ll be mending again tomorrow morning.

Afterwards, they’re both naked, sweaty, and panting. Zuko is lying on his stomach when he feels her hands sliding over his shoulders. He shifts, watches her through slitted eyes. She has a small smile on her face. “It’s true, I do,” she whispers.

“Do what?”

Katara kisses his shoulder blade gently. “I do like the way you look without your shirt.” She rolls over and shifts backwards so that she is cuddled against him. He adjusts automatically to settle against her — they have figured out how to sleep so that neither of them wakes up with a numb arm or leg.

A low, warm feeling fills him at her words. He shouldn’t be pleased that she said that. It should mean nothing. But he tucks it away instead, for that future time that he tries not to think about at all, but knows is inevitable, when she’ll be gone and he’ll be alone again in this bed.

“Good,” he whispers into her dark curtain of hair, and with a quick motion bends out all the candles.

Chapter Text

It’s the beginning of the third week since she moved into his room. He knows that they are barely coming up for air, but he doesn’t even care.

In the mornings, when he rises with the sun, she’s right there, pressed against him. Some mornings he wraps himself back around her and dozes next to her, waiting for when she wakes in another hour. Other mornings he kisses his way down her spine, listening as she slowly rouses, waiting for that moment when she is fully awake and humming with pleasure to slide inside her, hearing her breath catch and her hips press back against him.  

It doesn’t mean anything.

He’s getting worried that it means everything.

**

Their days have a routine, a familiarity. He’s a morning person, while she truly hits her stride after the sun dips beneath the horizon. He does his bending practice in the morning, right after he finishes his meditation, and she sits on the deck and watches him, talking with Iroh. She does her practice on the deck in the late afternoon, and he sits and reads reports.

One afternoon, he feels a sprinkling of water on the back of his neck. He swipes at it, and glances at the sky. Blue and cloudless, and he goes back to his reading. His quartermaster has started triple underlining the phrase port stop needed in his memos, but Zuko continues to ignore it.

Another sprinkle of water, this time along the bare skin of his scalp. His eyes snap up, this time focusing on Katara, who is innocently moving through her forms, every movement graceful and economical. But he looks at her face and sees the gleam of her eyes, the grin that she’s working hard to keep smothered.

Zuko drops the reports, not even bothering to put a paperweight on top. He’s been on this ship for seven fucking years, there’s nothing new that he’s going to see in these reports. He reaches over his shoulder and pulls his shirt off, pretending to ignore the way her smile widens, settles himself a comfortable distance from her, and begins a round of bending practice as well.

The next tickle of water is up the small of his back. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, but continues his form.

He hears her muffled laugh when the line of sparks scatter in front of her feet, right where she was going to step. He takes one quick, fast glance to gauge her location before he sends the next set of sparks near enough that she hops back quickly to keep her skirt from singeing. She laughs, but this time it isn’t just a sprinkling of water – it’s a wave, and it drenches him.

Zuko feels the unfamiliar grin pulling across his mouth when he turns fully – it’s not sparring that they’re doing, not really. She isn’t pulling ice and he’s keeping the flames showy but controlled. Mostly he is just enjoying the way she looks when she takes one of those little hops to keep a safe distance when he pops fire, and she is clearly trying to see exactly how many times she can thoroughly soak him, always sneaking in behind him so that every splash of water is a surprise.

Bending has always been serious work. He was late to start, slow to control his fire, and his sister was hopelessly outpacing him by the time she was four. And fire was not an element that was well matched with fun and games.

But that’s exactly what they’re doing right now – there’s no other word for it, the two of them are just playing.

It ends with the two of them back in his room, of course. Everything does. But even then there’s an atmosphere between them, and when he runs his hand up her ribs, she giggles, and he smiles again, the expression feeling much more comfortable than it should.

**

They both ignore the crew, who are clearly in a state of shock. Iroh is just watching, very pointedly not saying anything about what everyone knows is happening. About what isn’t burning out, like it was supposed to, but instead burning higher as the days keep passing.

He just orders the ship to keep circling far away from land. He doesn’t want her to have a chance to escape. He doesn’t want to have to stop her.

He doesn’t want anything to change.

He’s supposed to be interrogating her. He’s supposed to be pulling out all the information he can about the Avatar. But he finds himself avoiding the topic as much as possible — even changing the subject if she mentions the Avatar at all, even the most innocuous comments.

He doesn’t want to think about the life she fully intends to return to — riding around on a flying bison with her brother and the Avatar. He doesn’t want to think about how her version of saving the world involves basically the destruction of the goal that his nation has spent a century of resources and lives trying to attain.

He also doesn’t want to think about what happens when he uses her to capture the Avatar, which is, he realizes, also really not good. He has spent years lying in his bed and imagining his victorious homecoming, how proud Father will finally look.

When he tries to think about that now, he instead thinks about how lonely he has been on this ship for all these years. Even with Uncle, too often it just felt like him and his rage and dishonor, floating aimlessly around on this nightmare of a ship, crewed by soldiers who all knew they had drawn the worst assignment in the fleet.

He hasn’t been lonely since Katara has been on the ship.

And, since the day she came to his bed, he’s been happy.

Yeah. That’s bad.  

**

It’s late. The crew is in the galley, having a last drink or smoke before bed.

Echoing through the metal guts of the ship, an unmistakable sound begins. Soldiers shoot each other sidelong glances, cough.

Ji, the second officer, throws his cup across the room, shattering it against the wall. “HOW?” he yells. “How the fuck can that asshole have a single DROP of spunk left in his—“

“Ji.” Iroh’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts like a lash, and it’s the general of the siege of Ba Sing Se, the Dragon of the West, who locks eyes with the officer across the room. There’s a dangerous look on the old man’s face as he says, “Three weeks of night watches. Five weeks on the bilge.”

Ji freezes, then slowly nods. His jaw is almost fused, but he says, “Yes. Forgive me, General.”

“This time, Ji. This time.”

The noises are continuing, but everyone busies themselves carefully, avoiding Iroh’s gaze.

**

Katara wakes in the night. It happens sometimes, when she feels the moon under her skin. At home, she would usually take a walk, seeing the moonlight dance over the ice, feeling her power surge like the tide. When Hama was alive, they would sometimes walk together on those nights, the last two benders in the whole South Pole, and those were the nights when Hama would talk about the old days, when she’d been one bender among a community of benders, tell Katara the happy stories about a world long lost.

There’s light from a guttering candle — they are completely unconcerned with fire hazards on this metal beast of a ship — and Katara shifts, braces her head on one elbow, and looks at her bedmate.

Asleep, Zuko’s face is loose and peaceful, snuggled against his pillow. She sees the line of bruises left by her mouth along his shoulders. She has similar marks from him, but hers are on her waist, her chest, and a few on her thighs.

She could heal them, of course. It would barely even take a thought — a little surface abrasion like that, it would be just a touch of water and a pass of her hand.

But she has been careful never to heal in front of Zuko. She doesn’t know if that’s an edge she’ll need later, when the chance comes and she has to run.

Has to run. Gets to run. Makes her own opportunity to run.

What they’re doing has become a real problem for her brain, which has clearly gotten slow and lazy after weeks of several orgasms a day.

Yesterday Zuko had cut his hand on the corner of a metal door (metal everything — who would’ve possibly thought that everyone would constantly be getting cuts) — not a bad cut, but it had sluggishly oozed blood, and she’d reached out automatically, wanting to close it, to smooth it away with no hint of what had happened. She’d caught herself just in time, stopped herself, and had forced herself to be content with wiping it with some water, wrapping it in a cloth, while he had looked at her, curiously, at the fuss she was making.

Now, with him asleep and unseeing in front of her, she badly wants to trace her fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw, but keeps her hands to herself, curling them firmly under her chin to keep herself in check. It’s not that she’s afraid of waking him, it’s that she’s getting worried about her desire to touch him.

It was so easy at first — to chase her release, to fill the endless hours with the pleasure of his touch. Frankly, a huge improvement to her cell and the bucket.

But she’s all too aware of what is brewing here, of how often lately she’s been touching him not just to get him going, to make the sex hotter and better, but solely for the quiet enjoyment she is finding in running her hands over his skin, feeling the burn of his power, barely banked and always smoldering, like a fire resentfully held in check. Or touching him just because she likes it, likes knowing every inch of his body, likes the way he smells, likes the way he tastes.

Even worse is how much she likes how he looks at her when she’s touching him, that raw, greedy, hungry look on his face. And it’s not just for sex (obviously, yes, that’s plenty of it — they are both ridiculously easy for each other), but in all the other times, he’s so absolutely desperate just for those little moments of affection that she shouldn’t be allowing herself. And it’s obvious from his expressions that he knows what kind of deep waters they are wading into, but he’s as helpless as she is to resist.

He reminds her of an orphaned polar bear dog puppy sometimes, and she knows that she is in trouble, because, no matter the lessons she learned from Hama, from Jet, she is failing badly at holding herself back here.

If this had ended after the first time, or even the second, or even after one extremely satisfying day or two she would be fine. She’d walked away from Jet and been fine, after all.

But it’s not ending. The days keep passing, and it’s like a steady drip of water wearing down stone.

And these moments are the most dangerous, she knows. For both of them.

She’s supposed to be setting a trap for him, not herself.

He murmurs in his sleep, reaching out a seeking hand. He spends all night wrapped around her, and she doesn’t think that it’s a subconscious worry about her escaping over the side of the ship that makes him wake up each any time she has to take a bathroom run in the night, grumbling awake and fumbling across the bed to search for her.

She lies back down, letting him nestle her back against him, his hand snuggling up between her breasts, his strong arm around her side. She feels his breath at her neck, his soft mutter of satisfaction. He tries every day to keep his mask up, but it’s obvious when he is sleeping, his need for her company so painfully obvious.

Katara has always loved being needed. Too many people have left her behind — not because they wanted to, of course, not her father, certainly not her mother. But she is painfully aware of her own empty places and lonely heart. And Zuko’s deep, building need for her, so clear that his uncle spends every day looking like a man just forced to stand and watch a disaster unfold, and the crew is suffering contact humiliation whenever they walk by—

Katara wonders sometimes about whether throwing herself overboard would be smarter than staying on board, because she is becoming increasingly sure that she is going to drown either way.

**

One afternoon, they’re eating lunch with Uncle after Zuko’s morning practice, the three of them around the small table on deck. Iroh has made the tea, the blend that Katara likes the best. Katara teases the old man, putting the choicest cuts of the meal on his plate, listening to all his stories with a smile. Zuko relaxes into his seat, taking a long drink of water, enjoying the ocean breeze across his sweaty skin. His eyes drift shut for a moment, just listening to them chattering to each other, feeling a deep and rare sense of contentment, just sitting at the table with the two of them.

It’s so very tempting, to sink into the fantasy of staying like this always – the three of them at this little table, enjoying a meal together. No Avatar, no Fire Lord, nowhere to be except where they want to go. Just the three of them.

He’s not stupid. He knows that it’s not real. It’s just such a very, very nice little scrap of fantasy.

He hears the heavy clearing of Uncle’s throat, and looks up to see keen amber eyes taking him apart. “You were bending excellent fire today, Prince Zuko. Bright flames, strong form, good heat.” Iroh takes a bite of rice, never dropping his gaze. “It’s been much better for the last three weeks.”

Zuko’s eyes narrow a bit, looking back at his uncle.  He has noticed the same thing, but he’s very aware what else changed three weeks ago, and he has no intention of discussing this in front of Katara. “All the focus on my basics that you’ve insisted on for the last few years is finally having an effect, Uncle. You’re an excellent teacher.”

Iroh’s mouth pulls a little. “What fuels our fire can change as we ourselves change.”

“Rage fuels our fire, Uncle,” Zuko corrects automatically, the answer drilled into his head from a decade of tutors in the Fire Court. “Determination and focus allows mastery, but it always comes from rage and anger.”

“When I was young, the teachers wouldn’t have said that.” Iroh makes a low sound, a brief flash of emotion flitting across his face before his expression smooths out again. “Rage was a source, certainly. But also other things.” Another bite. “Passion, for instance.”

Zuko chokes on the fish in his mouth, and has to take a long drink of his water before he can breathe again. He absolutely does not look at Katara, who is sitting next to him, just listening.

As if this is somehow a normal conversation, Iroh turns to Katara. “Of course, that’s firebenders. Katara, what about a different discipline, such as waterbending?”

She’s looking on with polite interest, clearly unfamiliar with the intricacies and controversies of firebending instructional methods. “We draw from available water, so that doesn’t change, but the strength of our bend does change as we get older. The greatest masters have the power and experience of a lifetime, but of course everyone knows that waterbenders become much more dangerous in fights after they become parents for the first time.”

“Ah, of course that would make sense.” Iroh nods.

Zuko just stares at him. “How. How would that make sense?”

Katara smothers a laugh. “What’s the most dangerous creature on the ice, Zuko? A mother polar-bear dog with pups. It’s the same with any member of the Water Tribe.” Her nose crinkles a little as she smiles at him. “Our greatest power and strength is when we’re protecting those we love.”

Sometimes the knowledge of just how incredibly different their cultures are is just mind-numbingly stunning. He reaches for the platter, grumbling. “We’re opposite elements, plenty of things are different. And you’re being too modest, Uncle. It’s your teaching that has made a difference, that’s all.”

**

It’s storming, and they’ve been below deck all of yesterday and now all of today, and he can see how restless she’s getting, pacing around his room, unable to settle.

She looks at the bare metal of the walls. “You’re a prince, and you still don’t get a window?”

“It’s a war ship, not a pleasure boat.” He considers, very briefly, suggesting that they ask Uncle if they can borrow his Pai Sho board, but then shudders. No. They’re absolutely not that desperate yet.

“You could still have a porthole,” she says, glumly. “Water Tribe ships have them. Even our war ships.”

Zuko sighs. Somehow he doubts that she really wants to have a discussion on comparative naval design. “You want to take a walk on the deck?”

That gets an immediate reaction – she whips her head around to him, a wide, beatific smile pulling across her face that hits him like a kick to the head. “Really?”

If he’d wanted to pass on a walk on a rain-soaked deck, at night, that he offered for some totally inexplicable reason that is unfortunately very easily traced to just how pretty she is when she smiles, he certainly can’t back down now, so he just pulls on a coat. “We’re going to get soaked, but fine.” He pulls out his spare coat and holds it out to her, but she shakes her head.

When they walk down the hallway to the deck she's eager, walking faster than usual. He catches her hand, just intending to slow her down, but she tugs him and looks back at him over her shoulder with an expression that makes his breath catch. For one long, stupid second he is smiling back at her, quickening his own steps, hurrying with her, even though what they’re rushing up to is a storm, and this is ridiculous.

He likes it when she’s happy, and if that isn’t a massive red flag he doesn’t know what one would be.

But then he’s turning the locking wheel on the main door and they’re on the deck. Just as he expected, they are both immediately soaked – it’s not a dangerous storm, but the rain is whipping so hard that it’s going sideways.

She actually laughs, walking out further, stretching her arms up to the sky and throwing her head back, reveling in the power of the storm. He stares at her.

This has got to be a waterbender thing.

He puts out a palm and pulls a flame, fighting to keep it going in the absolutely ridiculous rain.

She looks back and him and actually makes a little spin, like she’s dancing.

 “This is almost like our springtime rains, but without the hail!” she calls to him.

A South Pole waterbender thing. He tries to imagine missing hail, but he was miserable for every single minute he was at the Pole.

He’s still her captor, which is why he stands there in the rain for the next twenty minutes until she finally feels ready to go back below. He’s definitely not there because he’s enjoying watching her.

When they walk back inside the ship and he locks the door behind them she casually bends the water off of both of them, leaving them completely dry. He has to admit that it’s pretty useful.

**

Zuko is touching Katara, watching her, drinking in every time she tumbles apart.

“Again,” he almost growls. “You can do it again.” His hand slides, presses, and she whimpers, then her hands dig into his shoulders, her back arching, her hips trying to twist against the arm that presses her down like an iron bar. He can’t get enough of watching her, of knowing that he’s making her feel like this, that she’s doing this for him. “Katara, give it to me.”

And she comes apart again, his name tumbling from her lips, over and over, and then she drops her hands, stroking down over him, urging him forward and into her at last, that soft, crooning, “now, Zuko, I want to feel you this time” and he’s sliding inside her, his breath still catching at how good she feels around him, at the look on her face when he settles all the way inside, the way her eyes shut slowly, her head tipping back, and that soft hum at the back of her throat.

No matter how long they go, eventually it always ends with the two of them sprawled on the bed, gasping, hands outflung against the other, as if still trying to hold on, keep this from ending.

Tonight, when they’re still collapsed and panting, she gets the giggles, pressing her hands against her mouth but unable to contain them. He lies back and just watches her, smiling.

“Something funny?”

Katara is still giggling, a bright, gleeful sound. “I lost count.”

There’s a pause, then he realizes what she means. “Of us?”

“Yeah.” She laughs again – at herself, at him, maybe both of them. “I didn’t realize that the number was going to get so high so fast, and I lost track sometime this morning.”

Zuko silently tries to count, thinking back over the days, making a tally. “We’re at.. no… okay…” he starts laughing as well, at the ridiculousness of this. “No, I lost track too.”

And then they’re laughing together, and it’s still a metal ship.

For everyone else on the ship, these sounds are the most worrying yet.

**

She pokes through the books in his room one afternoon.

“Are ALL of these about the Avatar?”

“Not all of them. I think I have an old firebending scroll stuffed in there.”

She tilts her head, looking at him curiously. “You’ve been on the ship years, though. Didn’t you want to, you know, read something else?”

Zuko stares at her. She really doesn’t get it. “I needed to stay focused, Katara.”

Her expression shifts, and he’s not sure what she’s thinking. She turns back to his bookshelf, flicking through the rough collection of bound tomes and loose scrolls. “Right.”

**

He’s a kid again, in the Agni Kai ring. He bows down low, as low as he can get, as his father stalks toward him.

Please, Father, forgive me. I am your loyal son.

Suffering will be your teacher.

The look in his father’s eyes. He wants to do this. Part of Zuko wonders if his father has spent years wanting to do this.

Then just fire and pain.

“Zuko, wake up!”

He lurches upright. He’s soaked with sweat, his heart is beating almost out of his chest, and he has one hand pressed against his face, like he remembers doing that day, after the burn. The room is completely dark, and normally he would bend some candles, but he can’t right now. Right now all he can do is feel the frenetic pace of his heart and remember the pain.

This has happened for years. He recognizes the dream, and its aftermath.

But this is the first time that he hasn’t been alone when he had the dream. Katara is kneeling in the bed next to him, wrapping her arms around him, running her hands over his shoulders, through his hair. “It was a nightmare, Zuko. You are okay. You are safe.” Her lips press against the skin of his shoulder in the darkness.  “You’re in your own bed. You aren’t alone.”

Zuko’s arms are around her waist, and even though it’s an old nightmare, he presses his face against her, listens to her voice like it’s a lifeline. Slowly, he calms down, the shaking slowing, his breathing coming under control. He feels something cool on his skin — she has pulled water from the pitcher on the table and is bending it over his skin, gently, cleaning away the sweat. She’s his prisoner, he shouldn’t allow her to do this, but he stays quiet. It’s comforting. She bends it away and he pulls her fully against him, so that she’s sitting sideways in his lap, pressing them together. They’re both naked, but he doesn’t, for once, want sex. He just wants to hold her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she whispers.

He could light the candles now, he’s calmed down enough, but he leaves it dark. He doesn’t want her to see his face right now. “Not really. It’s just... it’s just the day that I was burned. Sometimes I dream about it. About it happening. At first I dreamed about it every night. Now just sometimes.”

“I understand.” Her fingers trace his jaw, slowly. “For years I would dream about the day my mother was killed. I would wake up screaming for her. I was scared to go to sleep, because I didn’t want to see it again.” Her voice is very quiet, a whisper in the darkness, but he can hear the way it shakes. 

He rests his forehead against her. “I’m sorry.” And he means it.

“My father would take me for walks at night, until I was so tired that I couldn’t walk any more, then he would carry me home on his back. And my family took turns sharing a bedroll with me. It was almost two years until I felt like I could sleep alone. The night after I did it, the whole tribe celebrated.”

Zuko tries to imagine a family like that, growing up like that. He fundamentally cannot picture it. “How did your mother die?”

“She was killed by a Fire Nation soldier.” Zuko freezes. He should’ve known. He should never have asked. She keeps talking. “I was just a little girl, and I was supposed to hide my bending from outsiders. But one day a trader saw me bend, and he must have sold the information to the raiders, because the village was attacked a week later. They were looking for the waterbender. My mother told them that she was the bender, to protect me. So the soldier killed her.”

She tugs away from him, slides off his lap and across the bed, and he lets her go. He listens to her heavy breathing. He knows even in the dark that she is crying.

He doesn’t know what to do. But she just told him something that feels like she pulled out something messy and personal from herself, something bleeding and raw, and he finds himself talking.

“My dad was the one who burned me.” She gasps a little, but stays quiet. Listening. “He did it to punish my disobedience. Then he banished me, and said that I couldn’t come home again until I had found the avatar.”

There’s a long pause, then he hears her shifting, the sheets rustling. “Zuko… your scar is old… what age were you—”

“I was thirteen.” He remembers the bandages, the daily changing and the debriding of the injury, screaming as the knives came down to his face to slice away at the infected flesh. He remembers the doctors discussing whether the eye could be saved. He remembers the day that he was declared out of danger, and how he was carried onto this ship on a stretcher. His father never came to see him, not once. Iroh had a letter from him, with the conditions of his banishment.

Katara’s hand brushes against his side, reaching out to him, and he pulls her against him again without hesitation. “That’s not right, Zuko. I don’t care what you did. You were a little kid. Didn’t your mother—”

“She’s been gone a long time.” He takes a deep breath. He knows that he will hate himself for this later, but now that he has started talking it’s like he can’t stop. But that was always his problem, wasn’t it – he couldn’t just keep his damn mouth shut when he needed to. “I don’t know where she is, or if she’s alive or dead. I don’t know why she disappeared, but I think it had something to do with protecting me.” He runs his hand over Katara’s hair, tangling his fingers in the curls. “The Fire Court isn’t like your tribe.”

She wraps around him, their bodies fitting together with so much familiarity. After the last few weeks, it’s almost stranger not to be touching her than to be like this. “I’m sorry your father hurt you, Zuko. And I’m sorry that you lost your mom.”

Zuko closes his eyes, and feels her fingers on the bad side of his face – where she usually doesn’t touch him. It’s a light touch at his jaw, a slow slide up an inch, and then she hesitates, like she’s waiting for him to stop her. He doesn’t, and she moves her fingers higher, until she’s touching the ruin of his face. He can’t feel her fingertips – there was too much nerve damage. He gets the sense of pressure, though. No one has touched him here since the last doctor packed away his knives. He never imagined that he would allow it, let alone what he feels now – that he wants her to do this, to put her cool hand on the worst, most shameful part of him.

“Just stay with me, Katara.”

He shouldn’t say it. He definitely shouldn’t mean for anything more than tonight, should never have revealed what he just did. But she folds herself against him, tucking perfectly into him as they lie down again together. Eventually, he hears her breathing even out. She’s sleeping. At some point, as the sky starts to lighten, he sleeps as well.

**

She is combing her hair the next morning. He watches her. He doesn’t want to say anything about last night, and is trying very hard to pretend that it didn’t even happen. Instead he takes the comb from her and begins to run it through her dark hair, tugging gently, enjoying the feel of it in his hands.

“I like it when it’s down,” he says, very quietly. “I think about it all day — how long it will be until you undo your braid.”

She smiles at him, wide enough that her nose crinkles a little. “Do you want me to leave it down today?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

Katara is already pulling out her beads, making little adjustments. It impresses him that she never needs a mirror for this. “I’ll just pull the front back, so it doesn’t end up in my face all day. But the rest can stay down — it’s not like I have to skin a penguin otter or fly around on Appa.”

“That’s quite a range of activities.” He sits on the side of the bed and watches her. He’s making all of this worse, but he just can’t help himself. The sight of all that dark hair loose and tumbling down her back really gets him, every time.

She finishes, then gives a teasing shake of her hair, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Does it look good?”

His breath catches. “Gorgeous.” It’s even better because she did this for him. It’s like a present.

Abruptly, embarrassed, he grabs her hips and pushes her back, following her down. “Breakfast can wait.” She smiles at him, and her hands are just as eager as she tugs him down to join her, but there’s something in her eyes — something changed last night, and they both know it.

And neither is sure whether it was a good change.

**

After breakfast, she tells him that she needs black moss tea.

“Sure,” Zuko agrees easily. “I’ll go get some from Uncle.”

Katara gives a distinct snicker. “Right, I’m sure he has a whole stash.” Then she looks at him, really, and her expression shifts. “Oh, you don’t know what it is.”

“The tea—?” Uncle has spent last seven years treating their voyage to nowhere as an opportunity to sample every tea variety on the planet, so Zuko has long since given up trying to keep track of the number of tea canisters that are stuffed into one of the spare storage rooms, but Katara’s expression makes him turn and give her his full attention.

Her mouth tightens slightly. “It’s a tea that women drink when they want to avoid certain consequences.”

At first he doesn’t follow her, then what she’s really saying abruptly hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh.” He flushes. Shit. He hadn’t even been thinking about that, and now, with the way she’s looking at him, he feels extremely dumb. And very anxious. It’s been almost four weeks since the day in her cell – there’s been plenty of time for them to end up with serious consequences. Zuko walks in a small circle, thinking. He’ll ask, just to be certain, but he has a sinking certainty that there’s no way that Iroh just happens to be packing that tea. There’s no way that it’s packed in some storeroom on this all-male ship. They’re going to have to make port to get it.

Exactly what he’s been avoiding for weeks.

“Shit. Fine.” He feels the warmth and ease of the last days drain away, and reality sets back in. The ocean has kept Katara effectively penned on this ship, but in a port, he’ll need a cage again. He feels his face set, his jaw clench. This is what is the reality between them, not what they’ve been playing at and pretending. “While we’re in sight of land, you’re going to be back in your cell. And I’m sending someone else to get it. I won’t be off this ship for a second.”

She sits down on the bed, and looks at him. His voice was like a knife, but when she speaks, says, “I know,” it’s so soft, almost like she’s comforting someone. Him? Her? It doesn’t even matter.

Not really.

**

He leads her back into her cell when he sees the first coastal seabird, the sign that they’re getting close to land. The crew outdid themselves in their eagerness to make port, and they arrived in two days. He’d hoped it would take longer, but wasn’t stupid enough to make that an order.

Neither of them says anything when Zuko turns the key in the lock of Katara’s cell door.

She sits on her mat. He sits down in a chair.

Neither of them has anything to say.

A soldier comes back with the tea, looking ready to sink through the floor and die at what he was sent to procure. Zuko focuses on looking at the reports that the quartermaster put together. They’re loading up on supplies, and there are repairs to be made after the last battle. Everyone has spent weeks stepping around the temporary cover they threw over the holes that Katara ripped in the deck, and it will take a lot of work to repair the fire cannon that she trashed. If there aren’t any significant delays, the estimate is that they’ll cast off in a few days.

Zuko hands Katara a teapot, heating the water with his bending.  She opens the small paper packet that the soldier brought, sniffs it carefully, then measures it very precisely. He watches while she lets it steep, pours it into her cup, then starts to drink it.

They’ve had a few awkward times in this prison cell, but Zuko is sure that this is the worst.

“How is it?” he asks.

“Terrible.” She takes another long sip, and she’s definitely drinking it like something foul that she needs to get through as quickly as possible. Her blue eyes flick over to him. “You realize that I’m going to be on my cycle for the next few days, right?”

“…no, I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t thought of any of this.”

They are on separate sides of the bars, but at least they’re talking again. He feels his shoulders relax a little, watches as Katara drinks.

“You haven’t spent a lot of time around women, have you?” she’s looking at him again, curious.

Zuko laughs bitterly. “Honestly? Even before I captured you, you’re the woman I’ve spent the most time around since I was thirteen.”

She makes a small hum. “That’s not great.” She takes another sip, finishing the cup with a grimace. “So, even before — women’s cycles, contraceptives—”

The first time Zuko had even discovered that women had cycles was during his first month aboard the ship, when a soldier had made a particularly obscene reference to women bleeding, and Iroh had had to give him a very quick explanation. “Not something that was ever mentioned in the palace. Not something I even would’ve been dealing with, honestly.”

Katara’s eyebrows are nearly at her hairline as she stares at him. “Wow. The last time I needed this tea, my brother went and bought it for me.” She refills her cup.

“…is that normal?” Irritation crawls through him. He knows that she had someone before him, it was obvious during their first encounter, but thinking about it agitates him for reasons he doesn’t want to examine.

“Well, him getting it for me would have been a big deal at home. It would’ve been a statement that he didn’t have confidence in the man I was sleeping with to take care of me.” She fiddles with her teacup. It’s the set from Zuko’s room, finely crafted porcelain with dragons curling across in delicate brushstrokes of red and blue. “In the South, a contraceptive is usually a courting gift. The man is showing the woman that he is ready to care for her, and be a partner in lovemaking.” She taps the paper packet next to her.  “Teas like this have to be imported, though, and that’s pretty expensive.”

Zuko is not sure how he feels about any part of this conversation, but he can’t look away from her. “If we were at your home, and I was… some guy in your tribe. What would I have done to show that I wanted to be your lover?”

“Well, you hunt a tigerwalrus, offer the meat to my family, tan the hide to make a bedroll, then use the intestines to make condoms.”

He stares at her, truly stunned. Her words sinking into his brain. He starts to say something, can’t get the words out at first. He has to clear his throat and try again. “I sent a soldier to buy tea.”

He doesn’t care about her culture. He doesn’t give a shit about the collection of tattered huts that she crawled out of. He absolutely does not. But he is stunned at the feeling of inadequacy that is roiling through him right now.

Katara’s expression is mild, with a thread of amusement. “I’m not complaining. No one at home recommended the condoms over the tea.” Then her amusement is wiped away, and she looks right at him. “If you were home. A prince of the Fire Nation. How do you show a woman you want to be her lover?”

They haven’t talked like this before. They’ve both been avoiding these topics until now.

“It’s different. A betrothal involves half the court. There are negotiations, gifts. We wouldn’t do more than a few stolen kisses before the wedding night.” He clears his throat, thinking about home, about the smells and sounds of the court, remembering the excited buzz that had been present in the hallways, in the reception rooms, in the banquets, when his cousin Lu Ten had reached marital age, when the murmurs and speculations about possible betrothal candidates had begun. Then word had arrived that Lu Ten had been killed at Ba Sing Se, and the hopes of a whole generation of Fire Nation noble daughters had died with him. “What we’ve been doing — at home, the Fire Sages would demand that we marry. Right away.”

Would they, though, he wonders. Or would everyone just be turning the other way, not caring what he did with a Water Tribe woman who was imprisoned on his ship. Something seethes inside him, his blood coming to a boil.

Katara misses his expression entirely, leaning down and pouring herself a third cup. Sweet spirits, is she planning on drinking the entire pot? “Sounds a little like Gran-Gran’s stories about the Northern Water Tribe. Girls are betrothed early there, usually four or five years before the marriage. The families gather and discuss, and then the boy proposes and the girl accepts a betrothal necklace that he carved. My grandmother changed her mind after she got betrothed, came all the way to the south to leave him.” She takes another sip, looking thoughtful. “Cultural differences can be wild, right? I once visited an island where they spun a punishment wheel and tried to boil Aang in oil.”

Zuko blinks for a second. “I guess that’s one way to avoid recidivism.”

She drinks the whole pot.

**

Zuko asks Katara what she’ll need for her courses. She lifts an eyebrow, but writes out a list.

He hands it to Ji, the second officer, to buy. There’s a very long look that Zuko is pretty sure counts as insubordination, but he lets it go.

That evening, she looks tired, and goes to sleep early. He’s in his room, thinking about her. After hours of tossing around the bed that suddenly feels far too big, painfully cold and empty, he gets up, grabbing his pillow.

He’s still wearing his sleep pants and no shirt when he walks into the prison room and dismisses the guard, who scuttles away double-time, clearly wanting absolutely nothing to do with whatever insanity is happening.

Katara wakes up when he unlocks the cell, and raises an eyebrow.

“Zuko, maybe I need to give you a reminder about courses—”

“No, you were extremely detailed.” Extremely detailed. The revelation that Zuko’s information about a woman’s cycle was shaky at best had apparently been personally offensive to her Water Tribe soul, and she had taken the opportunity to rectify the situation, quite thoroughly. Zuko had started wondering at one point if she expected him to be taking notes.

Zuko tosses his pillow down next to her, and lies down, curling his body around her, burying his face in the back of her neck. He breathes deeply, and part of him relaxes. Beside him, he feels Katara resettling, nestling back against him.

“You’re really warm,” she whispers. She reaches back and pulls his hand over, resting it against her lower belly. “It feels nice. You’re better than a hot water bottle.”

“You were cold?” Zuko is already planning to put that soldier on the sanitation pump for a month. “Do you need another blanket—”

Katara laughs. “You really know nothing about women’s courses. No, I have a lot of cramps. Heat feels good because it relaxes the muscles.”

“Oh.” He concentrates for a second, pulling more heat into his hand.

 The sound she makes is exceptionally appreciative, and she puts one hand over his, pressing down. “Oh, that’s good. Thank you.”

They lie together for long minutes, the torch flickering in the corner sending long shadows through the room. There’s a privacy screen now, but the smell of the bucket is fairly intrusive. He decides to make a standing order tomorrow that emptying it is now going to be a major priority from now on.

“This mattress is terrible. I’ll get another pad for you in the morning.”

He feels more than hears her small chuckle. “This is a lot better than camping on the ground. You’re just spoiled from that soft bed of yours.”

Zuko grits his teeth. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Why would I?” she asks lazily. “Unlike you, I’ve slept in enough crappy camp sites to really appreciate that bed.” She shifts, cuddling, reaching over to adjust his arm so that it’s even tighter around her.

Time stretches again, and Zuko feels his body finally relaxing, feels the first brush of sleepiness.

Her voice is very quiet, but he hears her. “I’m glad you came here. I like sleeping with you.”

She shouldn’t have said that. He knows that. And he definitely shouldn’t say this. He knows he shouldn’t. But he does anyway.

“I like it, too.”

There’s no pretending right now that this has anything to do with sex. Instead, lying on the thin pad, he’s sure they can both hear the sounds of their own traps, springing shut around them.

Chapter Text

The few days for repairs quickly turns into a week, but finally the ship has been returned to a fully functional state – it might be the worst ship in the entire fleet, but now, at least, there are no more holes in the deck and the cannon has been fully remounted.

It has been a strange week for Zuko, spent almost entirely either in or beside Katara’s cell. The morning of the third day he realized that she was actually starting to embroider his spare pants just for something to do, and he sent a soldier to buy some books for her. The soldier returned with one book on basic Earth Kingdom botany, an anthology of political cartoons so niche and obscure that neither of them could figure any of them out, and one romance book set in the court of Ba Sing Se that apparently consisted of nothing more than loaded glances and detailed clothing descriptions.

They both end up learning a lot about local flowers.

Knowing that they are only a few hours away from leaving port is a huge relief for Zuko. Taking Katara anywhere, even a walk around the deck, would require tying up her hands to be sure that she can’t bend, and he has been avoiding that as much as possible. He hasn’t been able to let her use his bathroom or the tub – the first time she came out from behind the privacy screen with a rag and a bowl, he learned that she really had not been kidding when she’d told him about her courses. That had been… really bloody water. 

She’d laughed at him. Apparently Water Tribe boys, sharing huts with their families, learned about courses, and the subsequent clean-up, very early.

“This is nothing, Zuko,” she’d had the nerve to say. “You want to see a mess? Childbirth leaves a mess.” Then she’d paused, her eyes narrowing. “You know how that one works, right?”

Truthfully, he didn’t actually know more than some very hazy basics, but he hadn’t wanted to know what the Water Tribe considered necessary to know, and he’d immediately lied and told her that, of course he knew. She’d looked unconvinced, but had let it go.

The water in the basin had been clear that morning when she’d handed it to him, and she’d given him a very knowing look.

It would have been fine if he was looking forward to leaving port solely for the opportunity to resume having sex, but the disquieting truth was how much he has missed everything else as well. The reality of their relationship has been impossible to ignore this week, and he wants to get back to the illusion, the pretend space they’d existed in before.

The harbormaster arrives just as they are about to throw off the ropes and informs them that they need a final inspection before they can leave.

Zuko freezes when he sees the signature at the bottom of the order, and realizes exactly who is going to be conducting the inspection –

Admiral Zhao.

**

Zuko is pacing in front of the cell, and he feels sweat running down his spine. He should be on the deck right now, ready to greet Zhao, but he hasn’t been able to tear himself away from this room.

Katara is looking at him, and she’s anxiously twisting at her shackles, which he had to put on her, because of course regulations dictate that an enemy bender never be unshackled for any reason while in captivity.

“We ran into Zhao before. Zuko, you outrank him, right? As a prince?”

“It’s going to be fine. You’re my prisoner, I captured you. Tradition dictates that you are my captive unless I choose to give you up.” Zuko wishes that his voice was nearly as confident as his words, but he’s almost choked with anxiety. He ended up chained to a pillar in Roku’s temple the last time he and Zhao had a disagreement about exactly who had jurisdiction when chasing the Avatar. Looking at her, he can see that Katara is remembering that, too. She’d had a front-row seat – chained to the opposite pillar.

It’s almost impossible to remember that back then all he cared about was grabbing the Avatar – that his only impressions of her were a long braid, blue eyes, and the consistent ability to get in his way. Now he’s pacing, wracking his brain for any way to get out of this. He’d already given serious consideration to leaving port against orders, but Zhao’s ship is a lot faster than his. They would be caught within hours.

“Who are you trying to convince, Zuko? Me or you?” Her voice is very soft, and there’s an expression creeping over her face – stoic resignation. Like she’s getting ready for something very bad.

Zuko yanks at his armor, trying to make sure that everything is perfect. “You’re my captive. I’m the only one who gets to use you to capture the Avatar.”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t help you. I won’t help him. No matter what he does.”

Zuko can feel every muscle in his body tense, and he swings around, slips one hand through the bars, and buries it into her dark hair – still loose today, brushed and hanging down her back because she knows that he likes it. “No, no, listen, Katara. Just give me a lead – something small, something that won’t matter, just give me something. I can offer it to him as proof that I’m getting information out of you, and he’ll go, he’ll leave you with me—” It’s insane, what he’s saying right now. Zuko knows that, fully objectively, even as the words are tumbling out of his mouth so fast that he’s amazed she can even understand him, but he means every fucking thing. The last years, everything he has fixated and fought for, and he’s offering to give it up. For her.

She reaches her bound hands up so that she can press them against the back of his hand, and Katara turns slowly, brushes her mouth against his palm. He feels the soft heat of her breath, and for a second, just a second, he thinks she’ll agree.

Then she’s shaking her head, and there’s a world of sadness in her blue eyes, but not a single drop of hesitation. “I told you. I meant it. Death first.”

He shoves away from her, away from the bars, like she just burned him. “Don’t even say that,” he snaps. “Just think – the Avatar has slipped away from Zhao so many times, he’ll get away again! You need to focus on your own damn safety—”

“No.” Flat, unyielding. Like the ice of her home. “I won’t put my friends in danger to save myself, Zuko, not ever.” She leans forward, and he knows that her hands are shaking because of the sound her shackles make against the metal of the bars, a series of small, quick taps. “When the South was being attacked, our benders protected our tribe, and they fought to the last woman. I won’t sully that sacrifice now because I’m afraid.”

Zuko kicks the chair in the corner, the one he spent a whole week sitting in, viciously enough that it breaks. If she would just fucking listen—

The door swings open with a loud creak, and Uncle is there, looking rushed, and Zuko can see the worry beneath the court mask of his expression.

“Prince Zuko, Admiral Zhao is—”

And he doesn’t even finish before Zhao is pushing past, six soldiers filing in behind him, until the room is almost claustrophobically full. It’s been months since the last time Zuko saw the now-Admiral, but the smug, nasty sneer on the man’s face is the same, and it makes Zuko’s guts twist, because he thought he’d had something to lose all those times before, and now he knows just how wrong he was.

“There’s a rumor going around the port that you captured the Avatar’s waterbender,” Zhao says, and Zuko told the fucking crew to keep their mouths shut, but apparently someone talked.

Zhao walks right past Zuko, like he doesn’t exist, up to the bars and looks in at Katara, who stares back, cold and everything locked down, and the look on his face makes Zuko’s skin crawl. “We’re meeting under very different circumstances this time, aren’t we, girl?”

Katara doesn’t say anything, just watches him. Zuko feels a trickle of relief, while also realizing the truth – she never would’ve stayed quiet if he’d said that to her, she would’ve come right back at him. Even from the start, maybe she knew something about him that he was never ready to admit – he didn’t want to hurt her, not really.

He did hurt people. He hurt people, and burned kind of a lot of villages. But it was always secondary to catching the Avatar.

Zhao, they both know from experience, would very much like to hurt someone. Likes it too much.

Zuko shifts over, his shoulder checking Zhao’s, pushing him further back from the cell as he gets between Zhao and Katara. When he was sixteen, Zhao towered over him, but Zuko has hit his adult height, and his frame has been filling out over the last two years – now they’re eye to eye.  

Zhao sneers at him. “She looks in the peak of health. If you’re trying to interrogate her, clearly you don’t know how to do it.”

“My nephew knows the rules of how to treat a captured enemy, Admiral Zhao.” Iroh’s voice is sharp, and quite good at lying, actually, considering exactly what Zuko has been up to for over a month with his captured enemy. “I wonder if you know those rules yourself.”

Zhao laughs, never looking away from Katara. “Those laws died with Avatar Roku, General Iroh.” Zuko is still blocking him, but Zhao doesn’t seem to even care. He drops his voice, talking directly to her again. “Waterbenders are hard to break. Do you know the history of your kind, girl?” Zuko’s back is to her, and she doesn’t say anything, but whatever Zhao sees in her face, it makes his smile even wider. “You do.  Excellent. So you know what I’ll do to make you talk. I hope you hold out a while. I have a lot of ideas.”

Zuko can’t take it any longer, and breaks in. “I’m the one who captured her, Zhao, so that means that she isn’t moving off this ship unless I agree, and the sun will boil the sea before I—”

Zhao flicks one look at him, bored. “I thought you’d be like this. Fortunately, I had an audience with your father recently, about how you had been impeding me.”

One heavy hand slips into his pocket and withdraws with a sealed letter, passing it to Zuko.

Zuko stares at it – he hasn’t seen his father’s seal since the letter with his order of exile. Hasn’t seen his father’s handwriting in seven years.

He should be ripping it open, desperate to see what his father has written, but instead he’s crumpling the envelope in his hand, shoving it into his pocket, as he moves forward again, between Zhao and the cell. “This is my prisoner,” Zuko snarls. “And if you somehow think that my father would tolerate you interfering with what a royal has captured—”

“Whatever toleration your father had for your weakness and ineptitude is long gone, Prince. He stated before the whole court that it was a shame that you were born first, that you soil the royal line.” Zhao is openly gloating now, and he nods to his men. “Take the prisoner.” He gives a sly look back at Zuko. “And I believe I will need to commandeer a number of your soldiers, Prince Zuko. Your search for the Avatar has bumbled along far enough. You can have enough crew members to sail this ship, but that’s it.”

Zuko starts to lunge at the soldiers opening the cell door, but Iroh’s hand is at his shoulder, pulling him backwards. He can see from the expression on Zhao’s face that he’s disappointed – that he was hoping for a fight right now, and that’s why, even more than Iroh’s caution, Zuko manages to stop himself.

He needs to be smart about this. He needs to think. He’s outnumbered now, so he needs to make a plan.

Katara is being led away by the soldiers, and she looks at him, once, mouths goodbye, then they’re gone. He can hear their footsteps, echoing through the metal ship, getting further away.

Zuko pulls the letter out of his pocket, rips it open.

There is to be no more interference with Admiral Zhao’s search for the Avatar. I have made my wishes known to the Admiral, and he shall execute them.

Seven years. Seven fucking years, and his father didn’t even write his name on the paper.

Zuko crumples the paper in his hand, and it catches fire. Brighter flames, hotter, than before.

He has spent seven years frantically trying to follow his father’s impossible order, to find the Avatar who has been missing for a century. To earn his way back home, back to his father’s good graces.

Ozai didn’t even write his name. Rage is roaring through Zuko’s veins.

Fuck Father’s orders.

He’s going to get Katara back.

**

Zhao takes two-thirds of the crew. The ones who are left look profoundly grumpy at being passed over, but Zuko ignores them. He’s stalking around the deck, watching the sun. Iroh went back to the port, to send some messenger hawks to the few contacts the old man still has back in the Fire Court, promising to see if he can find a way to block Zhao, but they both know that it’s a futile errand.

Zuko has a set of black clothes in his dresser, a mask that his mother gave him as a child hidden in the lowest drawer of his desk, and his dual broadswords mounted on his wall. And if Zhao has hurt a hair on Katara’s head, Zuko is going to slice him open from his belly to his throat.

Because she is his captive, of course.

It doesn’t matter if he’s lying to himself. Just as long as he gets her back.

He’s pacing the deck, feeling every minute drag, sweat soaking his clothes as he tries to will the sun to set faster, to give him the covering darkness he needs, and hoping that Zhao has just put Katara in a cell, and hasn’t started in on his interrogation methods.

Zuko knows that Zhao won’t stop at questions and yelling, the way that he did.

He needs the sun to set now, damnit.

He’s looking up again, trying to gauge how much longer he has to wait, when he catches the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Zuko looks up, and sees a green parrot-iguana settle onto a perch above him.

He’s seen that thing before. Months ago. It belonged to the—

To the pirates.

Then explosions are ripping through the ship, and everything is lost in fire and smoke.

**

Blood is dripping down Katara’s face, and she can taste it in her mouth. Her stomach and chest feel absolutely awful, and she’s pulled so hard at the ropes on her wrists that blood is running down to her fingers.

Her shackles were swapped for rope, and she’s kneeling on the floor, tied to the footboard of the bed in this room, which, judging from the fineness of the décor, is some kind of room for visiting dignitaries. She and Zhao have been in here since early this afternoon, when they arrived on the ship. Her knees are sore from hours in this position.

All things considered, things could definitely be worse.

“This is all very simple.” Zhao slaps her across the face, and she lets her head fall, not trying to fight the movement, and not making a sound. “You will tell me what I want to know. Then you will apologize for being so much trouble.” Another slap. “And then you will ask to make your penance to me.” Next is a fist to her stomach, leaving her gasping for air. “And then I will stop hurting you, and we can talk about what your future will be.”

She takes all the strikes, silently.

She will never give up Aang. She said it, and she meant it.

But the sounds of the ship exploding had echoed through the entire harbor, and she’d seen the fire. She’d been trying to run toward it before she even knew what she was doing, and Zhao had let the ropes attached to the bed catch her, yank her back, and his laughs had filled the room.

He’d been in an excellent mood as he’d watched the ship burn. And after a soldier had brought a report confirming that Zuko had the remaining crew were all lost, presumed dead, with Iroh surviving just by the fluke of being in the port at the time, Zhao had been in a particularly chatty mood.

Apparently he’d gotten his money’s worth from the pirates.

There’s been a howling in her head since it happened. And an absolute certainty —

Zhao killed Zuko, and she is going to murder him, and enjoy every second of it.

He won’t unbind her hands when they are at port. She knows this. She can feel the moonlight shining in through the window (apparently Zhao got windows, the fucker), filling her up with strength. She can feel the blood flowing through Zhao, and she’s making a promise to every fucking drop.

She’s going to wait until he feels safe, until a night when the moon is full, then she’ll cry, and promise to tell him where Aang went. And she’ll tell him something bullshit, and then beg to live, and he’ll untie her because he has already told and promised her what his future plans with her involve, and when he starts undoing his pants, she is going to bend his blood, and she is going to kill him.

And it will be so, so slow.

Zhao’s hand comes down, catches her chin, tilts her head back. His thumb rubs over her lower lip, and she has to work very, very hard to restrain herself from biting him. Because when she goes for him, she wants it to end with every drop of his blood on the floor, and she needs to be patient.

 “We’ll see what you say tomorrow. I have plenty of time, after all.” And he leaves.

As soon as he’s gone she starts pulling at the ropes, straining to get her hands free. She’s done this every time she’s been alone. Now, with Zhao apparently packing it in for the evening, she braces her feet against the base of the bed and pulls, but the ropes still hold.  

She doesn’t want to think about the fact that Zuko is dead, but tears are dripping off of her chin, mixing with the blood.

What would she have told him this morning if she’d known that he’d be dead in hours? She’d known when they’d led her away that it was going to be the last time she was going to see him – she knew that Zhao wasn’t going to let her go, not while she was still alive. And there had been that look from Zuko as she’d glanced at him that last time – his face had been expressionless, but his golden eyes had been absolutely frantic and wild.

She doesn’t want to think about him. She can’t. She has to focus on getting out of here, of killing Zhao. Then she can sit and absolutely wail, because it was dumb, and she knew better even while it was happening, but the truth of it is right in front of her and she can’t ignore it any more.

She’s in love with him.

The Prince of the fucking Fire Nation, and she’s in love with him.

And now he’s dead.

She hopes it was fast. She hopes it didn’t hurt.

It’s not going to be fast for Zhao. And it is definitely going to hurt.

The door opens, quietly. She rolls over to look. A soldier enters the door – no, he doesn’t enter. He is slipping in – sneakily –  and he looks down at her. She looks back, silently, the tears drying on her face while her adrenaline spikes.

This isn’t an improvement to the situation.

Then he takes the face mask off of the helmet, and she stares, blinks, stares again, because it’s impossible.

It’s Zuko.

Alive. Looking down at her.

Okay, and, point of order, he looks rough. Zhao’s plan looks like it nearly worked.

He’s alive.

The rushing feeling that fills Katara is all too clear.

Oh, no.

She admitted too many things to herself, in those hours when he was dead to her. But there’s no taking it back, no lying to herself anymore.

She loves him.

She loves him, and he came for her.

Now he’s alive, and she had one moment of pure joy and relief and now—

Well, now she’s going to have to just deal with this.

Best not to let him know right away. She has a feeling that actually hearing the words might freak him out. That’s okay. She can be patient. Zuko doesn’t have some kind of monopoly on hunting people. She grew up in the Southern Water Tribe – she knows all about hunting.

She wants to tell him that she loves him. Instead she whispers, “You look terrible.”

But she knows with every beat of her heart right now —

This boy is hers, and she is never letting him go.

**

After the explosion, Zuko spends about six hours bracing himself under the beams of the dock.

Which, to be clear, sucks a lot. It’s hard to say what hurts the most in his body right now, but he is a pretty even mix of burns, contusions, and cuts, with possibly a mild bit of head trauma thrown in as a garnish, and hiding for hours in the beams, water sloshing beneath him, while he listens to half the port garrison come down and agree that, yeah, that sure as fuck was an exploded ship, has not exactly helped things. At one point he hears Uncle calling his name, but there are too many other people around, and he has to keep quiet and stay put.

Besides, all of this is pretty secondary to his main issue, because he still needs to wait until darkness to sneak onto Zhao’s ship. 

He watches the shadows grow long, then he crawls out, watching carefully. He can’t risk bending, because fire is not exactly a stealthy element, but he has the knife in his belt that Uncle sent him from Ba Sing Se when he was a child, and he is always careful to keep it nice and sharp.

He can work with this.

**

When he opens the door and sees Katara – the bruises, how her dress is torn, the dried blood covering half her face, and, somehow worst of all, the fact that she is kneeling on the floor and crying, it is everything he can do to not turn around and murder Zhao.

Zuko needs to focus. He needs to be cold about this, absolutely disciplined.

He’ll definitely kill Zhao, of course. Just, later. Maybe, if he’s honest, after a good solid nap, because he is feeling rough. He needs to get Katara out now.

When he pulls down the mask of the helmet, Katara just stares at him, her eyes absolutely enormous. Emotions are passing over her face too fast for him to follow, but something in that first look she gave him has his brain twisting itself in a knot.

Katara’s expression abruptly locks down into something absolutely resolute and set.

“You look terrible,” she whispers.

Fair, maybe, but, still – rude. But it also helps Zuko get himself back under control and focus – anger has always had that effect on him, and he’s forgotten in the last few weeks just how good she can be at pushing his buttons. Clearly, she didn’t forget. “I doubt any worse than you,” he hisses. “Are you going to accept a rescue or not?”

“From the person who took me prisoner in the first place?” She wiggles to the side and awkwardly tries to hold out her arms, which are tied behind her, and, Agni, she wasn’t giving up on those ropes, because she is bloody to her elbows.

He starts cutting through the ropes, knowing that they are on a bit of a time crunch here, since at some point someone is going to realize that the guard posted at her door is missing, but also being careful not to cut her skin. Her wrists are just grisly right now, and, not to put too fine a point on it, but blood-soaked ropes are kind of a bitch to carve through with a blade that leans toward the decorative. “I bet you’d rather be with me than Zhao.”

“Try not to take that as too much of a compliment.” Zuko would make a comment about her level of saltiness right now, but the sass is all that’s holding him back from just wrapping her up in his arms, cataloguing every bruise and cut, maybe crying a little if he’s being fully honest, and then heading out to carve Zhao a whole new windpipe, and they need to get out of here. Now.

The last rope finally falls, and Katara hisses loudly, shaking out her hands. He grabs her wrists, wincing at their state, but starts rubbing them hard and fast, forcing out the numbness of being tied up for the last few hours. After a minute she gives him a sharp nod, letting him know that she’s good to go.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Start knotting the bedsheets, the curtains, and whatever else we can find. I have no idea who the fuck he paid to cut a window on a damn battleship, but it’s our lucky day. Once we have a rope, we’ll need to climb—”

Katara stands up, shakes her arms out, rolls her shoulders, then stretches long and pops her neck like a fighter. “Not with the moon out.”

He glares. “Are you seriously thinking that the two of us can take this whole ship?” He appreciates the energy, really he does, but it’s not exactly the moment.

“No. Just that I can improve on your exit plan. Arms around my waist.”

“Are you—” She glares, and makes an impatient gesture. He has put his hands on her body easily a million times over the last weeks, but this situation is feeling a bit weird, and when he complies, it is decidedly awkward.  

She gives a heavy sigh. “Like we’re spooning in a blizzard, Zuko, not like two twelve-year-olds at a dance.”

Zuko repositions, muttering, “This plan is stupid already—shit!”

As soon as he’s tight she rolls them out the window and down into a particularly breathless sixty-foot drop into the water, bending a plume of water that catches, controls, and slows their descent, then forms an air-tight bubble as soon as they break the surface. She controls the splash so well that there is no sound, and somehow she is holding them about five feet below the surface – close enough to get enough moonlight to see by, but not so high that the watchmen on the ship are likely to notice anything suspicious.

“Shit,” Zuko repeats, quietly. He has spent years getting smacked in the head by her waterbending, but this is a new level.

Katara is focusing entirely on what she is doing. It’s a lot of arm movements, and she’s making small huffs of pain, even as she keeps the movements perfect and smooth. She propels them slowly and smoothly away from the ship for about twenty minutes, then slowly raises them. At the surface she pops them up, forming a thick ice sheet under them.

She immediately flops backwards and is now lying on her back, breathing hard, but looking quite pleased with herself.

Okay, now he’s impressed, but it’s the principle of the thing. “Great, now we’re about a mile away from the dock, on a sheet of ice. So much better than me just carrying you down the side on a rope and running along the dock.”

Katara hisses softly. “Like that wasn’t going to be a problem with guards everywhere and a moonlit night? I’m shocked you got onto the boat without being spotted.”

He’d had to kill three guards on his way in, but he's not going to mention that. “The rest of your plan had better not be to just float to the South Pole.”

She makes another irritated sound, then yanks open the scraps of her dress and he sees just how bad her stomach looks — one huge mass of bruises, deep ones.

“Fuck!” Zuko absolutely should’ve taken the time to kill Zhao when he’d had the opportunity. Right now he’s running the numbers on how long it would take him to swim back to the ship and do it right now.

“Shh! Sound carries on the water.” She pulls over water, bends it around her hands until it glows a soft blue, and begins moving her hands on her stomach. He’s not sure what’s going on, but she lets out a big sigh of relief, and for a second he isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the moonlight, but then he realizes – the bruises are fading under her hands. His jaw drops and as he processes that she is actually healing herself.  For a moment Zuko is torn between warring emotions – hurt that she never told him that she could do this, and just immense gratitude that she can wipe away the physical harm that Zhao did to her.

Gratitude wins.

Katara looks up at him, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “So, you escaped the ship explosion, huh?”

Zuko shifts how he is sitting on the ice. It actually feels kind of good, given that he feels like one huge bruise and collection of burns right now. “Zhao mentioned that?”

“That is a man who likes to both brag and monologue.” She exhales deeply, probably for the first time since Zhao started in on her core muscles. “Okay, that’s taking the edge off. At the very least, lifting my arms is not going to be a problem, which will make bending easier.” She pulls more water from the ocean and holds her hands out to him. “Your turn.”

“...what?”

Apparently that is a statement, not a query, because Katara pins him with her knees around his hips and starts running those glowing hands over him. “How is it that your face is the LEAST busted part of you right now? Were you going to pipe up about the broken ribs?” Her voice sounds plenty grouchy, but he feels her hands shaking, and she’s looking all over him for where he’s hurt, tracing the edges of the cuts, burns, and bruises, and they’re knitting together under her hands.

“I thought they were just cracked,” Zuko admits. The healing is starting to really work, and he can’t help it — he’s a puddle right now, just groaning as she takes the pain away. “Okay, re-kidnapping you was my best decision ever.”

Katara makes an extremely derisive snort. “What a funny way of phrasing temporary allies until we both get somewhere safer.”

“I disagree. Still my prisoner.” That might’ve been more convincing if his head wasn’t partially pillowed in her lap while she heals his ribcage, but, fuck it. They’ve been sniping at each other since the start of this rescue, but he can feel the truth of everything in the way she’s touching him. Knowing that she was worried, no, scared for him is like a shot of good whiskey, warming a path through his chest.

“Nice try.” She stops healing for a moment, and touches his jaw, very gently. Her voice softens. “You realize that your dad okayed Zhao’s murder attempt, right? He talked about it. A lot.”

Zuko’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “Yeah.” Her actual holding location had been his third guess. First had been the prison cells – no luck. Then he’d checked Zhao’s room, which had been a real relief when she hadn’t been there – though there had been a rather illuminating pile of letters from his father on the desk. The order to dispose of Zuko had, thoughtfully, been right on top. And so near his birthday, too.

“Well, I assume that you realize that this is a good time to go on the run. And I happen to have a lot of experience in being on the run.” Katara leans down, stroking those healing hands up, making a quick pass along the good side of his face, and after a blink Zuko realizes that his vision is suddenly a whole lot clearer. Guess she took care of that black eye. Then she gives his cheek a small pat, and gives him a little nudge to move his head off of her lap. He grumbles, but shifts. “I can handle the rest later.” Katara stands up and starts moving her arms in a large bend again, and their ice sheet begins to move – surprisingly fast, like she stuck a motor on the back of it. “We need to get to shore, get some disguises, and get moving.”

Zuko is still lying down. Because he wants to, damnit, not because he still hasn’t mentioned to her just how painful the base of his spine is right now, and he’s taking advantage of what is basically a full-body ice pack. “Sounds like you have a plan.”

For the first time since she was taken from his ship, she smiles at him, her teeth bright against the blood that’s still dried on her face. “That’s right, I do.”

Well. Fuck. Apparently he’s going to do this.

It was easy not to stop and think about what he was doing when he burned Father’s letter, or when he was just focusing on getting Katara off of Zhao’s ship. But there’s no ignoring what is happening now, and what he’s choosing. And, yes, part of this is just survival – he barely escaped that explosion, and he doesn’t want to give his father a second chance to tidy up his line of succession – but Zuko knows that that’s not all of it.

Zuko sits up, and pulls his knife out. He leans forward, and, very carefully, cuts off his phoenix plume, slicing just barely above his scalp, and lets the ponytail – the one permitted only to the members of the royal family, the outward sign of his lineage and station to anyone who looked – slip into the dark ocean.

Katara slows the ice, letting it stop, and leans down to him. She runs her hand over the thin fuzz remaining, barely even a stubble, and he pulls back, anger bubbling up inside him. She looks back at him, her eyes unreadable.

The full implications of what he just did are starting to hit, and Zuko deliberately shifts away from her. “So what’s this plan?” he asks, voice rough.

She tilts her head, considering him. “We’re just a simple married couple, refugees from the Fire Nation.”

Well, that gets his fucking attention.

“Hold on… married?”

Chapter Text

They land at a small seaside town a few hours later, still under the cover of darkness. Both are exhausted, but there’s no slowing down – they need as much distance as possible between them and Zhao. Zuko is still wearing a Fire Nation uniform and Katara’s blue dress is basically in shreds, so the first priority is finding clothing to blend in.

They slip through the sleeping town until they find a house where someone forgot their laundry on the line overnight, and they’re able to grab enough to get by – a green dress for Katara and a brownish tunic and pants for Zuko, in sizes that might be a little off, but are at least baggy rather than tight. Katara tucks the soldier uniform, her blue pants, and the remnants of her dress into a sack that is Zuko’s next score, and then he uses a careful application of his knife to pick the lock on a small shop, where they grab a few basic supplies. Less than he wants, more than she is comfortable taking without payment, which they argue about in whispered hisses before slipping back out the door and heading for the road. 

They walk for another few hours, until the sky is just starting to turn a pearlescent grey with the approaching dawn, and Katara demands that they stop. He figures that she needs to rest, but it turns out that she’s more worried about healing him again than sleeping. He argues that she should really be focusing on healing herself, but she already has her hands on his back without even an are you okay with this, and, fine, it does feel a lot better.

“That was a herniated disc in your back, Zuko. You’ve been walking for hours on a herniated disc.”

“Better that than lying in Zhao’s prison hold! And since we’re both still free, and you’ve just taken care of it anyway, clearly I made a great decision.”

The bonus of being off the water, away from any towns, and on the side of a fairly dusty and empty road is that they can finally argue at full volume again, as opposed to the whisper-fight that they had to stick to for hours.

“Is there a reason we have to be married?” Zuko has finally gotten her to take care of her face, and as the water heals her bruises it also washes away the dried blood. Seeing her injuries wiped away loosens something inside Zuko.

“I assume so that we can get divorced later? But, seriously, we need for people to not notice us. That’s already going to be hard enough with me being Water Tribe. There is absolutely no way we can pass as siblings, I don’t have the materials to try to make you pass as my grandfather, so it’s going to have to be married.” Katara reaches into the sack of stuff they stole and pulls out a long bandage. “And if I put this over your eye, then they’ll remember an injured man, but not one with a scar.”

Zuko gives her a long glare. “And so much for my damn depth perception, I guess.” He snatches the bandage and wraps it around his face, feeling with his hands to make sure that the scar tissue is fully covered.  Meanwhile she’s taking out her beads, removing her necklace, tucking her hair back into an Earth Kingdom bun. She has hats for both of them, and she pulls hers forward to try to shadow her face. It’s still obvious enough for anyone who looks closely that she’s from the Water Tribe, there’s no hiding that skin and those eyes, but at a casual glance she won’t stand out anymore.

He puts his own hat on. Bending is off-limits right now, since they’re trying to keep their profile low, he has no vision out of one eye, his hat is blocking way too much of his peripheral that’s left, and all he has is one knife. Even with the small bonus of knowing that Katara isn’t wearing pants under her dress right now, this sucks.

An avian screech above them has both automatically ducking into the bushes, but there’s no mistaking the Fire Nation messenger hawk that drops from the sky and lands on Zuko’s back. It also takes a shit at the same time, which is just so damn typical.

It’s an open point of discussion in Fire Nation circles how the hawks can deliver messages to specific individuals who they’ve never met, in places they’ve never been, can clearly understand a whole lot of human speech, and yet remain utterly, stubbornly, un-toilet-trained.

Zuko unloads the message from its backpack while Katara eyes the bird cautiously. As soon as he opens it, a Pai Sho tile slides into his hand. He stares at it – Uncle Iroh’s fucking White Lotus tile, the one he was in such a tizzy about that time. Well, at least he can be sure that the message is authentic.

“It’s from Uncle,” Zuko says, scanning the paper quickly. Relief fills him. “Apparently he’s gone to ground with some people he knows – not sure who he knew in that port, but, sure. He says that everyone knows that you escaped, so that means that I must have survived the ship explosion.”

“That seems optimistic,” Katara notes.

“He loves melodrama. You would not believe the kind of novels he likes to read.” He flips the page and keeps reading. “It’s too dangerous to try to meet up on the road or send more messages, so he says to just send the bird back to its roost and meet him in Omashu.” Zuko squints for a second at the next sentence, his eyebrows raising. “He says he’ll be at the palace.”

“The palace? King Bumi’s palace?”

Zuko rereads. “Yeah. I don’t even know what’s going on. He says to show the Pai Sho tile at the gates, and they’ll escort us in. So… I guess we’re heading to Omashu.” That is so typically Uncle. Zuko loves the man, but sometimes he feels like Iroh is composed entirely of metaphors, tea, and secrets.

The side of Katara’s mouth twitches. “Well. I guess that’s pretty convenient, then.”

He looks up at her, very slowly, as it fully sinks in. “That’s where the Avatar went,” he says, flatly.

He knew the whole time that she knew, of course. But to have it come out now… well, they just had a very serious conversation about no firebending while they’re disguised as refugees, which is extremely frustrating, since he would really, really like to throw an absolute shit-ton of fire right now to properly express his feelings.

Unfortunately, he is limited to cursing — which he does, uninterrupted, and with great variety and detail, for the next ten minutes. He has spent seven years at sea – he’s got a lot of range in his cursing.

When he is finally done, tapering at last into enraged silence, Katara sighs, heavily. “It’ll be fine, Zuko. If you can stop trying to kidnap him, you’ll like Aang a lot.”

**

Zuko burns the letter, pockets the Pai Sho tile, and they’re back to traveling. Despite the disguises, they’re both feeling antsy, and they end up cutting through the woods rather than following the road. Right now they aren’t entirely sure where they’re heading, focusing on the away part, and hopefully they’ll get lucky and end up in mostly the direction of Omashu, but they can worry about that later. Preferably after they get their hands on a map they’ll get lucky and there will be a minimum amount of backtracking.

By the time it’s noon, their pace has slowed considerably, and they’re both completely wiped out. After a short conversation, they agree that it makes sense to travel by night until they get further, just to cut down the chances of being spotted. That means that they can finally get some sleep for the first time in almost a day and a half.

They make a small camp in the woods, well off the road. No fire, not risking the chance the smoke would be spotted. Zuko really misses his ship when they take turns making toilet breaks behind a tree.

He’s keeping his distance from her. They feel more like enemies than they did back on the ship, when they were enemies, rather than now, when they’re apparently allies. After a month in the cozy environs of the ship, with only Uncle and his scandalized crew around them, being out here is strangely raw and new.

They share some of the food they stole last night, just bread rolls, really. As soon as she has finished her last bite she’s pulling water from her canteen, wrapping it around her hands, and passing it over him – he sits and allows it, eyes drifting shut despite himself. He refuses to tell her where it hurts, so she’s hunting for it, her hands running under the hem of his shirt, shoving up the legs of his pants. At least right now, when she’s touching him like this, he can pretend that it isn’t because they want to touch, but because she’s just putting him back together so that they can keep running.

Because he does want to touch her – badly. So badly that he won’t let himself start, because then he knows he’s just going to fall apart again, like he did on the ship when he offered to turn his back on everything he had spent years pursuing, just for her, and he’s not exactly in the mood to show her his softest and most vulnerable parts again anytime soon, given how easily she turned him down last time.

When she’s done, they set up for sleep, Katara unpacking the two blankets that they swiped. He takes one, starts folding and setting it up — she watches him, then sets hers up next to him, but separate. Taking her cue from him.

He sits, feels the hot sun cutting through the leaves of the trees, and, finally, without anything else to distract himself with, the deep, clawing fear that has been at his throat ever since he saw the way that Zhao looked at her finds its way forward, and he has to ask.

His voice is very quiet. “Katara. Did Zhao—” He doesn’t know how to ask it, but he’s thinking about how ripped her dress was. Just thinking about it makes him want to choke Zhao— not fire, not steel, but just ending Zhao’s miserable existence with his bare hands.

Katara sits down on her blanket, folds her legs, and looks right at him, unflinching. “No, he didn’t. He was going to. He was planning on it. He told me exactly what he was going to do, but he wanted me broken first.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause, and she’s still looking at him, and Zuko lies down, rolling to face away from her. He hears a soft rustling as she settles on her own blanket, and they are separate, but he hears the familiarity of her breathing. He takes a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have let him take you, Katara. I’m sorry. I should never have let it happen.”

Her voice is behind him, and it’s like she’s choking under some heavy emotion. “If you had tried to stop him, he was going to kill you. That asshole cannot get enough of the sound of his own voice, and he talked about that. He had his best soldiers with him, and he would’ve killed you, killed Iroh, and created evidence to show that the two of you were conspiring against the Fire Lord. And he was going to get some kind of big reward from your dad from killing you, however it all went down.”

“Shit.” And even knowing that doesn’t help. “But I wish I’d stopped him.”

He feels her hand brush his back, tracing the line of his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t. I can heal myself, Zuko. I can’t bring you back to life.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, or at least nothing that won’t be handing her his entire heart and soul on a platter, so he just closes his eyes and lets exhaustion sweep him away.

**

He wakes up hours later, a bit before sundown — he must have rolled in his sleep, and is completely wrapped around Katara, his arms around her, his leg tucked between her thighs, his face buried against the curve of her neck. Shit. He starts to inch back — to creep away — but she brushes a finger against the back of his hand.

“I can feel your fire under your skin when you touch me, Zuko.” He freezes. Her voice is low, husky, and extremely deliberate. “Do you feel my bending, too?”

“Yes,” he answers, his voice rough, and it has nothing at all to do with just waking up. What she’s saying, the way she’s touching him, he’s almost shaking with how damn badly he wants her.

“Does it feel good? Because you feel good to me. Every time.”

Zuko’s breath catches, because clearly she has woken up and chosen violence. He scoots backwards quickly, and there’s no hiding that he’s just trying to get away right now. She lets him go, a thoughtful expression on her face. Patient, somehow. He has the distinct impression that this is not exactly boding well for him. “We need to get ready to leave.”

“Of course,” she agrees easily. And at least one of them is having an apparently easy time this morning, because Zuko is trying to count backwards from a thousand in an effort to get his body calmed down enough that he’ll be able to start walking without severe embarrassment. It’s a lucky thing that the clothing he grabbed was loose, but there’s only so much his tunic can hide.

Quick trips behind the tree, and there’s not that much to pack up, actually. Just two blankets to roll up and stuff back into the sack. Zuko starts tying the bandage over his scar again – just on the off chance they pass someone else, even in the darkness. They’ve both slept in their clothing and look completely trashed. He’s fairly impressed – it’s the first time he’s ever seen her clothing looking this wrinkled, and her hair has been half-pulled out of the bun. It’s possible his sleeping self was responsible for some of that.

There’s just one leftover roll, and he splits it. Turning, he starts to offer it to her, but stops – she is bending. The smallest bit of water from her canteen, pulled to her hand, then she’s smoothing it down her dress, and everywhere she touches, the wrinkles are flattening and disappearing, then she bends the water out again, and the fabric hangs perfectly. He just stares – then she reaches up and undoes her bun, fingercombing the thick curls of her hair out, and it’s the same with the little flicks of water, smoothing the wandering strands, then tugging the water away again. She begins tucking her hair up into the Earth Kingdom style again, and she looks tidy and completely fresh again.

“You’ve been doing that this whole time?” Zuko’s voice, loud and appalled, cuts through the silence of the sunset. He can actually hear birds scatter at his yell.

“Hm?” She just raises an eyebrow, which kicks his temper up even further.

“You’re—you’re—” it doesn’t make a lot of sense that he’s so upset, but he can’t help it – that whole time on the ship that he was wondering how the hell she was looking so tidy after days in the cell, and it turned out that she was bending the whole damn time. Zuko can barely even get the words out fully, that’s how irate he is right now. “This is what you’ve been doing?”

She gives him a slow, amused smile. “I’ve spent a year on the road, Zuko. What, you thought I was stopping in villages to borrow a clothing iron and get a quick blowout?”

There are no words. He makes a low, frustrated sound.

Katara reaches one hand out toward him. “If you want, I could—” 

“No. I am fine.”

She shrugs, but her smile widens. “Suit yourself, Wrinkles McGrouchy.”

**

Once the sun fully sets, they risk returning to the road. Even on a clear night with a heavy moon, they are just losing too much time picking their way through the dark underbrush. With their hats pulled low they walk together as quickly as possible. They pass one or two other travelers, but the disguises hold, and no one gives them a second glance. In the dark, Zuko doubts that anyone even realizes that Katara is Water Tribe.

When the sun rises, they move off the road again. Zuko is frankly ready to collapse back onto his blanket, but their stolen food is long gone and Katara starts foraging. He really wants to just sit down, but he sees her still cruising around, already pulling berries off of a bush. With a heavy sigh, he follows her.

Zuko has never gone foraging before in his life – even during his exile on the ship, meals were something that he yelled at someone for, and they arrived with steady precision. He looks at the forest and the extent of his woods knowledge is not to wipe his ass with poison ivy.

Katara, meanwhile, is already digging up some wild onion and a bit of dandelion leaf. When there’s a small rustling sound she’s already throwing a rock with a lifetime of speed and precision, and there’s the squawk of a small rabbit-pheasant. She snaps its neck quickly and efficiently, and hands it back to Zuko, looking very pleased. Another hour passes this way – some more berries, one nut tree, and a second rabbit-pheasant on their way back to the campsite.

When they make it back she doesn’t even pause, just pulls out their purloined cutting board, which he now realizes exactly why she was so insistent on when she was giving him grief for most of the supplies he wanted to grab. She borrows his knife, cuts the vegetables quickly, then starts breaking down the first rabbit, her hands practiced and easy as she skins it, guts it, debones, and then chops it into stew-sized bits.

Zuko watches her the whole time. When she finishes, she reaches for the second rabbit-pheasant, but he puts out his hand for the knife. She raises an eyebrow, but hands it to him, and he starts on the task himself. It’s not nearly as easy as she made it look, but she crouches down, and explains him through it. When she’s getting the parts ready, he fills the pot and heats the water for her, controls the temperature as she makes the stew, carefully adding the bones to add marrow. When it’s done he lifts it off, the bending here so easy that this barely even counts, and no one is here to see him do this anyway other than her, and he pours the stew into the two bowls that she gets out.

It is surprisingly good, especially after almost nothing for the last two days. There’s a relief in going to bed with full stomachs.

In the morning sun, Zuko puts his blanket further away from Katara’s. And, when the sun sets, he wakes up – wrapped right up around her again, with the added benefit that his sleeping self thought that it would be an amazing idea to stuff his hand inside the collar of her dress, so he has to disentangle himself from half her upper sarashis, which she finds absolutely hysterical.

**

Zuko learns very quickly that foraging is extremely hit or miss, and the success of their first day is followed by two days of just a few handfuls of berries. They’re both stoic about it, but on the third night he suggests a detour when they pass by a small village, to stock up on supplies.

“We’re still broke,” Katara says.

“Right. That’s why I was going to steal them.”

She huffs, loudly. “Knock it off, Zuko. The first time we didn’t have a lot of choice, but this is different. People have little enough as it is without us grabbing from them.”

“So just steal from rich people?”

She glares. They’re keeping it quiet, so it’s their old standby of a whisper-fight. “Stealing is wrong.”

Zuko snorts. “Says the woman who stole a water scroll.”

“From pirates. Stealing from pirates doesn’t count.”

“That’s awfully convenient. So if we can’t steal, what exactly are you planning to do? We can’t pick berries all the way to Omashu.” If they’re even heading in the right direction at this point, which at this point is just even odds.

Katara laughs. “What do you think I was doing before I met you?”

“Riding around on a bison, watching while patsies showered the Avatar with food and money,” Zuko says without hesitation.

“That was only about twenty percent of the time.” Katara sits down on a rock and looks up. It’s still night, but there’s that subtle shift to the sky that means that the sun will be up in another hour. “Listen,  we’ve made some distance, and that village is big enough that travelers won’t stick out badly. We can get a few hours of sleep if we camp here, then I’ll look for a job tomorrow, and we can save some money before we keep moving. And, preferably, find a map.”

Zuko narrows his eyes and glares. Honestly, he feels like she’s dismissing his stealing plan way too easily. “What kind of job?”

**

There are no wanted posters for him in this area (several for the Avatar, though fortunately none with descriptions of his companions – which Zuko realizes now might’ve been a bit of an oversight on his part for the last year), so Zuko drops the face bandages. Full vision again – bliss. He does make sure that his hat is pulled low. It rubs annoyingly against his scalp – after over a week on the move and away from his razer, he now has a dark stubble of hair completely across his head again. It has been driving him nuts, but he leaves it alone – clearly a full head of hair would help him blend in.

They head into the village with their cover as a married couple – fortunately, the fact that they aren’t making any overt signs of affection seems to cement their cover, as everyone just nods and accepts it when Katara runs through their bullshit story and introduces him as her husband.

This is Lee – don’t worry, he just doesn’t talk a lot. He says that I talk enough for us both.

Everyone finds that line hilarious – he knows that Katara can be charming as all hell, but he’s never seen her absolutely weaponize that before now. She smiles, charms, chats, and before he knows it everyone they are talking with is absolutely bending over backwards to answer all her questions, one street vender even walking with them to talk to another about whether or not they know anywhere that such a nice young woman in a tough situation can find a few days work. Zuko just listens as Katara builds up their cover.

Oh, we got married just a month ago. We’d known each other for a year before that.  

We’re heading to Omashu – my husband’s uncle lives there.  

Our village was burned out by the Fire Nation a few weeks ago – we weren’t able to salvage much, but at least we made it out okay.  

Everyone tsks, shakes their heads sadly at the state of the world, and buys it, hook, line, and sinker. Zuko is directly benefitting from the credulity of all of these rubes, but he can’t help but seethe a bit at all of this – the prince of the Fire Nation, and he’s having to nod and thank these peasants when someone suggests that the owner of the restaurant two streets over might have an opening for a waitress.

Sure enough, Katara is hired on the spot, and is serving rice bowls in as much time as it takes her to wash her hands and put on an apron. Zuko gives her a long stare, and she smiles at him, a very sweet smile as long as no one except him knows to look for that distinct Told you so glitter in her blue eyes.

Grumpily, Zuko asks the restaurant owner if there are any other jobs that he could do around the place for a bit more money – anything to get out of this fucking town as fast as possible, since it turns out that they did manage to travel in the exact opposite direction they needed to – which is how he ends up on the roof with a pile of replacement shingles and a hammer, and makes the quick discovery that, just like breaking down a rabbit-pheasant, this is not nearly as easy to do as everyone always made it look.

Horribly, Katara joins him on the roof during her break and shows him how to do it in a way where he doesn’t hit his hand three times out of four. She also does a quick healing of his hand, carefully making sure that no one sees what she’s doing. Zuko grinds his teeth and doesn’t thank her.

He knows he’s being an asshole, but he’s never been so entirely out of his element before in his life, and she is so decidedly in hers – making plans for how to get around with no ship and zero resources, figuring out what to do, and wrapping every occupant of this village around her little finger.

Zuko finally finishes on the roof and comes down. A few people greet him – somehow Katara is already the most popular waitress in the restaurant, and it’s like they’ve been here a few weeks rather than one morning, with the amount of people who say, “Oh, Katara’s husband, right? Gosh, the spirits must’ve smiled on you, boy.”

The very clear implication being, of course, that he just married well out of his league. This should be extremely funny, given that a week ago he was in line to inherit the greatest kingdom on the planet, but is, at this particularly difficult juncture of his life, distinctly not funny at all, and he is, even by his own low standard, extremely crabby and snappy.

Judging by people’s expressions, he is also really reinforcing that “got lucky” first impression. Which is deeply ironic, since Zuko knows that he’s never been lucky a day in his life.

Zuko spends the rest of the day moving a series of very heavy, deeply filthy boxes from one storage room to another. Both them work until closing, then he helps Katara with the cleanup, and she has to teach him how to use a mop and bucket. In a small mercy, their jobs came with the use of a small room on the second floor, and the extremely rudimentary bathroom across the hall that is shared with a few other boarders. It’s nothing more than a toilet and a basin sink, but after over a week taking care of his business in the woods and attempting to keep clean with a few handfuls of cold river water, Zuko is more than willing to appreciate the change.

With water still dripping down the back of his neck, Zuko goes into the room. It’s a room in the most basic sense of the thing – there one tiny, very thin sleep mat on the dusty floor, a small window, and a door that locks. Again – a noticeable improvement from the last week. Zuko gives a careful look out the window, and makes sure he’s out of the eyeline of any potential watchers when he lights the nub of a candle they’ve been provided with. It’s just a tiny little bend, but outing himself as a firebender on their first night in town would be pretty fucking dumb.

Two weeks ago he was the commander of a ship in the Fire Nation fleet, and, exiled or not, everyone who saw him saw a prince.

A soft knock, and then Katara arrives, looking freshly washed and carrying a tray with their dinners. She gives him a bright smile. “The nice thing about this job is definitely the free food. I got you extra, since I figured you’d be hungry.”

He gives her a long look, irritation riding him hard. “You look pretty pleased with yourself.”

“I am. I got good tip money.”

Zuko’s temper whips higher. “Yeah, I heard some of that. And how many men were suggesting that you dump your ugly husband while they slipped you those tips?”

Her smile is gone now, but she isn’t looking pissed, the way he was expecting. Instead she just raises one eyebrow, very coolly. “I hope you kept count, because I didn’t. And if you want a fight, I’m not going to be involved in one this dumb.” She’s still holding their tray, and she just looks at him. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re really mad, Zuko?”

They’ve been running for a week now, and while that was happening it was easy to stay distracted, but now he’s sitting in something approximating a real room, and it all starts bubbling out, like magma out of a volcano. “I need a reason? Other than my ship being blown up, my father wanting me dead, having to go on the run as a peasant, and on top of all of it, now you went from my prisoner to my fake wife? Is that enough or should I keep going?” Zuko is on his feet, pacing, and this fucking room is too small for a real pace, and it’s more like he’s just circling, like an animal in a cage. If he was still on his ship, he would absolutely be bending fire right now just to get some of this rage out, but he can’t even fucking do that, since someone in this dumb town would definitely get suspicious about scorch marks on the wall.

Fuck.

Katara puts the food tray on the floor, to the side of the door, very calmly and precisely, and then crosses so that she’s standing in front of him, blocking him from continuing his circuit around the room. Her expression is calm, thoughtful, and it is almost maddening. “You don’t know where things stand with us now, do you,” she asks, every word measured. “Now that you aren’t holding the keys to my shackles, you don’t know how we work.”

He glares down at her, so angry and penned in that he feels like he’s going to spit fire. “Fine. No. None of this makes sense.”

Her deep blue eyes meet his gold ones, and there’s an intensity there that distracts him for just a moment, and she nods. “Let me see if I can help you understand,” Katara says, and then—

Then she kneels down on the floor and starts to open his pants.

Nothing could ever have prepared Zuko for this, and he freezes. “What—”

“Hush,” she says, still unlacing and tugging.

They’ve done a lot together. A lot. She has undressed him many, many times before, but never in this position, and in all their times she never, never—

She has his pants open, and he’s already hard for her. She slips her hand in, guides him out, and, without any hesitation, slides her mouth down over his dick, warm and wet, and he can actually feel her tongue licking against him and he makes a noise that is some cross between fully disbelieving and just pure amazement—

Katara looks up at him, making eye contact, and she holds his gaze as she takes him further into her mouth, one hand resting on his hip and gently urging him forward, while the other slides down into his pants to trace across his balls.

Zuko realizes, in that moment, that maybe all the fucking rubes in this town might be onto something – maybe he is lucky. Because there is absolutely no reasonable explanation for what led up to this moment, and the sight of her, on her knees, and the fact that she is now, with those little stroking movements actually encouraging him to start making careful, shallow, thrusts in her mouth, and sweet Agni, then she makes a small hum in the back of her throat that he can actually feel—

He knows immediately that he isn’t going to last very long, but Zuko is well aware that every damn second is going to be carved into his brain until he dies. He tangles his hands into her dark hair, tugging until a dozen hairpins start dropping to the floor around her with a small pattering sound, and then her hair is falling down her shoulders and he’s tangling his fingers in the soft waves of it. His thumb traces along her cheek, and he just can’t get over the sight of her lips closed around him, the gleam of her saliva on the skin of his dick when he slides out, just the smallest bit, before she urges him back in.

Sweat is dripping down his back, and he feels how close he is.

“Katara,” he rasps, desperate, “please, please will you—”

And she just presses closer, nuzzling in, and when he comes she takes it all.

“Shit, Katara,” Zuko says, his brain feeling almost numb at what happened as he slowly slips out from between her lips. He doesn’t pitch completely over, not exactly, but it’s definitely a slightly less-controlled move than he’d like as he joins her on the floor, pulling her into his arms, kissing her desperately and tasting his own spend still coating her tongue.

They are, incredibly, both fully clothed. He starts yanking at the green dress, wrestling it over her head and throwing it so hard that it smacks into the wall, and now she’s just in her sarashis – which is an improvement, but still not enough, but he doesn’t have time to fuss with those right now, and so he just flattens his hand and shoves it down her bottom wraps, until he feels just how dripping wet she is, and they both groan.

Her eyes are gleaming in the candlelight as she presses her hand against his, urging him on, whispering, “Go on, Zuko. You know what I like.”

And it’s true, he does, and she doesn’t last any longer than he did, breaking hard and fast as he fingers her with frantic speed, and, really, it’s only fair that he then starts driving her up again immediately, because after what she just did, he needs to see the expression she makes when she comes, needs that proof that she is just as desperate for him as he is for her.

The second time she comes she also completely soaks his hand, her sarashis, and, thanks to the position they’ve found themselves in, also his pants. When she finally comes down from her high Katara surveys the mess they’ve made, and gives a small, very satisfied sound, before dropping her head down to rest, comfortably on his chest.

For long minutes they are just panting together, a mess of sweaty, very well-satisfied limbs, and clothing in dire need of laundering.

Finally, the post-coital languor sinking into his bones, Zuko looks down at her. “I still don’t get it,” he says.

She twists a little so that she’s looking up at him, hip resting against his, their legs tangled. “You are my fake husband. I’m pretty sure you are my real boyfriend.” She leans up and kisses him, just a tender brush of their lips, then she pulls back and looks at him. “Is that enough, Zuko?”

He wants it to be. Very badly. The words definitely send his heartbeat right back up to a pace that is suggesting that he’s near a cardiac event, but caution drags him, and he has to ask, even if it ruins this utterly perfect moment. “And when we run into your friends again? Your brother? The Avatar? What will I be, then?”

Katara props her head up on one elbow. “Still my boyfriend, though, not going to lie, that might not be a fun conversation with Sokka. But you’re not my captor.” She reaches out and traces his face, gently. “You know I could leave you if I chose to. I am staying with you because I want to.”

He narrows his eyes. “It would be dumb for either of us to travel alone.”

She smirks, just a little, her eyes dancing. “Do you think I just went down on you because I was afraid to travel by myself?”

Fair point. Zuko shakes his head.

“Exactly.” She slithers up him, until they’re eye to eye, and gives a small wiggle, her hip sliding across him, a teasing motion that she has definitely done many times before, and it’s just as effective as ever. “Had enough time yet, Zuko? I’ve missed you.”

He can’t help it, he smiles, slow and pleased. “You can’t miss me, I’ve been right here with you.”

She reaches down, palms him, and, yeah, that last orgasm is in the rearview mirror now, and he’s ready to go again. “I’ve missed you inside me.”

“Oh, well. That I can certainly do something about.”

There’s a breathless flurry as the rest of their clothes are discarded, and when they’re finally completely stripped he rolls her over, her front pressed against the sleeping mat, and he grabs his discarded shirt, balls it up roughly, and shoves it under her hips to give her just the right angle that he wants. She makes a little, excited wiggle, glancing over her shoulder at him with bright eyes and a very anticipatory smile, and he settles his hands on her hips, pinning her, and starts pushing in, keeping deliberately slow, working her up, and this time it’s not quick at all.

They eat afterwards, unclothed and sitting beside each other on the floor. The food is pretty good, even cold. And, best of all, she did get him a double portion.

Afterwards they lie on the mat together, naked, snuggled, and very pleased with the world in general.

Zuko runs his hand slowly down her side. “What a very good little fake wife you are,” he teases.

Katara gives him a lazy smile. “And what a very sweet real boyfriend you are.”

He feels that one right in his chest, and he reaches over to where they had set their bowls next to the mat, and moves them further away. Then he looks at her and whispers, “Say it again.”

Her smile widens as he nudges her back, starts kissing a line right down between her breasts, down the sweet line of her stomach, and even lower until he’s spreading her open and just waiting, his mouth just inches away from her, seeing how wet she still is from what they did before. “My boyfriend,” she repeats, her cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming, dragging the word out, just for him.

And then they don’t say much of anything for the rest of the night, and when they go downstairs the next morning, the expression on the face of the restaurant owner is very clear – Zuko and Katara are nailing this fake marriage cover.

**

They leave after three days — the restaurant owner is apparently a bit of a gossip, and town is filled with a great deal of speculation about how “Lee” not only landed a woman as sweet and nice as Katara, but apparently also got spirits-blessed enough to then have a sex life that disturbing the neighbors half the night. Hilariously, Katara’s tip money actually improves.

They buy equipment and some rations, say goodbye to all of Katara’s utterly heartbroken regulars, and hit the road. Now that they are actually heading in the right direction they try to make up some time.

The atmosphere between them has settled into something warm and deeply comfortable. When they set up their new bedding the first night out, it’s one bedroll, no discussion needed, and Zuko starts the night wrapped up against her.

He misses their ridiculously tiny room back above the restaurant, but after a bit of experimentation they’re able to make the bedroll situation work just fine.

**

After a week of travel they’re walking along the road in late afternoon when a group of men on ostrich-horses comes toward them from the opposite direction. They both press to the far side of the road, giving the group plenty of room to pass, just like they’ve done for dozens of other travelers over the last days.

This time, though, as the group pulls even with them, Zuko sees the tallest rider give Katara a sharp look, and he pulls up his ostrich-horse with a sharp whistle to the rest of his group. Zuko tenses, and Katara steps closer to him.

It’s an all-male group, Earth Kingdom, and they’re all openly armed, with a scattering of basic leather armor among them. They don’t look like soldiers – more like mercenaries. Either way, it’s the expressions on their faces that have Zuko carefully shifting his weight, loosening the straps of his backpack just in case he needs to drop it in a hurry, eyeing each man in turn to decide on a first target.

The men spread around them in a semi-circle. The woods are behind them, but out of the corner of his eye Zuko can already see two of them moving to cut off that escape route. Whatever this group is thinking about doing, this isn’t their first time. Not with how practiced their movements are.

The tall rider who whistled leans over his saddle and leers down at Katara. “What do we have here?”

Her face is carefully expressionless. “The Fire Nation destroyed our village. My husband and I are just trying to get to Omashu.”

He laughs. “This is your husband?” He glances at Zuko, then sneers. “Did you lose a bet or something?”

Zuko notes the dual broadswords the man is carrying. Well, he knows who his first target is going to be. He focuses on deep breaths, reaching for an icy focus.

Katara reaches over, and puts her hand on Zuko’s wrist – not trying to hold him back, just a silent request to let her try and get them out of this. He feels the way she’s shifting, though – she’s making sure that she’s not blocking him, and she’s also loosening her own backpack.

“We don’t want any trouble. You go on your way, and we’ll go on ours.” Her voice is calm, and just a bit coaxing. But Zuko can see the way she flexes her hands, the subtle way she’s shaking out her wrists, making sure that she can start bending quickly if she has to.

The rider gives her a nasty smile. “Oh, there won’t be any trouble at all. Just a little delay while we get to know you better, then you can keep going with your,” he laughs, then spits on the ground, “husband.”

Katara looks at him, coldly, and there’s a clear threat now in her voice and eyes. “I’d stay right where you are. I married a man with a temper.”

The rider laughs, and jerks his head to the others. “Kill him. I get first run at the woman.”

Zuko locks eyes with him. “Nice swords,” he says, and then he’s moving, and the group expected him to run, to try to get away – they weren’t even remotely prepared for him to move forward, fast, and he has his knife out of his belt and is slamming the blade up and into the leader’s chest before he can even draw, a plume of blood coming out of his mouth when Zuko gives one vicious little twist of the blade, and then Zuko is snatching the swords and really getting to work, killing every man he can get to, as fast as he can. Ice whips are flying as Katara pulls the water from her canteen and gets slashing, and she has the reach that he doesn’t right now, so she’s focusing making sure that no one slips up behind either of them, keeping the men exactly where she wants them.

The group is in shock, but they’re experienced enough to recover quickly – but not experienced enough to realize that they are deeply outmatched, and that it would’ve been smarter to run. By the time over half of them are dead, a few start realizing that it’s time to get away, but by then Katara is warmed up, and she starts freezing the feet of the ostrich-horses to the ground, then the boots of the men who try to escape by foot. And Zuko continues his work, killing them almost at his leisure, knowing that she’s watching his back and that none of them are leaving this span of road.

When they’re done, there are seven bodies on the ground and blood everywhere. Zuko takes a moment to clean his new swords on one of the corpse’s cloaks, then retrieves his knife, cleans that, and starts cutting the purses off of all of them. He tosses them to Katara, who catches them easily.

“Going to complain about this money?”

She looks back at him, still completely calm and cool, and he knows that he’s seeing her at her most purely Water Tribe right now, the values of a people who roam the ice and scrape a living on the edge of the world, not the version of her that has been traveling with a pacifist Air Nomad Avatar. “Seems like you earned it fair and square.” She looks at his new swords, raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you could use swords. That was impressive. I don’t think I ever saw you fight without bending before.”

Zuko looks away from her, sharply, embarrassed, and starts checking their bags for food.

He hears the scrape of her boots as she comes closer. “You were great, Zuko,” and now she sounds confused.

“Knock it off,” he says, gruffly.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Zuko feels her hand on his back, a gentle, inquiring touch, and he snaps, shame almost choking his chest, and coming out as anger, just like it has for half his life. “Yeah, fine, so I learned swords when I was a kid. My bending sucked, it took me years to do more than light a candle, my mom wanted me to have anything to be proud of, and after watercolors didn’t pan out it was this.”

He turns, faces her, and she’s just staring at him, her blue eyes enormous. “Wait… are you telling me that you are actually… ashamed about being an amazing swordsman?”

Zuko looks away. In his head, all he’s hearing are the echoes of a thousand sneering comments from his father, from his bending instructors, from Azula.

His personal shame is interrupted when Katara shrieks, loudly, “What the fuck?”

He jerks and stares at her – Katara has both of her hands buried in her own hair, yanking at the dark strands in frustration. “How the shit has a country as fucking weird as the Fire Nation been terrorizing the rest of the world for a hundred years?”

Okay, this is a little—“Katara—” he starts.

“No, I am absolutely serious!” She looks almost incandescently furious.  “Anywhere else and you’d be called a fucking double threat! All the rest of us bust our asses to be good at one thing — do you think the Kyoshi warriors are earthbending in their spare time? Can I throw a boomerang? Is Aang able to use a spear? No! And you do both and want to be embarrassed? This is stupid!” She leans forward, suddenly, and grabs his face, one hand on either cheek. “You stopped a band of rapist assholes, Zuko, and didn’t even break cover! I was icing everyone I could find!” She leans in and kisses him, but it’s hard, and there definitely isn’t a whole lot of affection to it, just sheer temper. Then she pulls back and shrieks, “Idiot!”  

She stalks away from him, grabbing the bags that they dropped at the start of the fight, and shoves the money he collected into a few different pockets. Then she starts wrestling back into her backpack.

Zuko just stares at her, still feeling very turned around by this entire—well, conversation is probably the wrong word for what just happened. “Katara—”

“No. I am too pissed off to talk to you right now. I need to walk for about ten miles before I calm down enough to have a conversation with your dumb Fire Nation Face.”

She starts walking, not even looking at him. He looks around, picks up his backpack, then grabs two of the ostrich-horses by their reins, and catches up. She glances back, still seething.

“You should get a third to carry baggage and switch out.”

Zuko complies, and they load gear onto their new ostrich-horses up in a very charged silence. Katara is adjusting the stirrups on her mount, then pauses, walks back to the bodies, and gives one vicious kick to the corpse of the leader. Then they ride out.

They don’t say anything for the rest of the afternoon.

That night they set up camp, still in silence. Finally, Zuko has an applicable skill, and shows Katara how to put the ostrich-horses on a loose lead so that they can graze while not wandering away, something that he learned with komodo-rhinos. 

Dinner is in silence, as is cleanup.

Katara puts away the last bowl and spoon, then shoves Zuko onto his ass and straddles him.

“Thought you weren’t talking to me,” he says, roughly, his hands already at her hips.

“Who says I need to talk to you,” she hisses, the expression in her eyes absolutely cutting. She leans in and kisses him, sliding her hand down to his lap. He is embarrassingly ready for her, and he shoves her dress up.

The sex is fast, a bit grouchy, but ends decently, with them wrapped around each other and a fair amount of aggression burned away.

Long minutes pass, then Katara presses her cheek against his, not seeming to even care about the scar tissue scraping against her skin, maybe not even noticing, even though Zuko is utterly aware of all of it.

“If we’d been who we were pretending to be, those guys would’ve killed you, Zuko. And they would’ve raped me, probably a few times, before they killed me too.” Her voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the rage still boiling through her.

Zuko’s hands tighten on her, almost too tightly. “I know.”

“So don’t you dare be ashamed for being able to keep us both safe. And don’t you dare be ashamed of skills you worked so hard to master, or for your mom being smart enough to break stupid traditions to try to help you.”

Zuko lies against her and just breathes, as she forces him to take something that has been so fundamental to his perception of himself and turns it on its side.

There is a long, quiet pause, just the crackle of the fire. He feels the tension slowly ease out of her.

Finally, very softly, she asks, “But, how bad were you at watercolors?”

“Bad. Really. Really. Bad.”

**

Their pace improves significantly with the ostrich-horses, and after another week they’re looking at the walls of Omashu.

As they ride slowly forward, Katara turns and looks at him. “So, what are you going to do now, Zuko?”

“At Omashu? I don’t know. Probably depends on what Uncle is involved in. Think I could get a job as a waiter?”

“You’d be terrible. No. Your dad is trying to kill you.”

“Rude,” he notes, but there isn’t any heat to his voice.

Katara reaches over and tugs at his reins, stopping them both. “Any thoughts at all about helping us?”

Zuko makes a small, derisive sound. “You think you can actually defeat the Fire Nation?”

 “I believe that Aang can save the world.”

Chapter Text

When Zuko shows the Pai Sho piece to the guards at the gates, he’s honestly expecting for them to be kicked out of the city immediately. He feels pretty dumb as he does it – holding out a game tile, and both guards leaning over to scrutinize it while he stands there, Katara giving him a profoundly encouraging look while he just presents it like a fucking idiot.

Then, unbelievably, the guards give very serious nods, and one of them leads Zuko and Katara around the wall, then earthbends a tiny side door, which leads to a particularly steep and zip-zagging staircase, which leads to a hallway, which leads to another staircase, this one circular, and, just as Zuko is harboring distinctly nasty thoughts about earthbender architectural practices, they stop in front of a small, unassuming door.

The guard knocks briskly, then nods. “The Grandmaster is inside.”

Zuko stares, and stays where he is. Iroh has been the rock beneath his feet for so many years, the last reliable thing when everything else was swept away, and part of him knows that opening this door is going to lead to knowledge that he doesn’t really want.

Katara’s hand rests on his elbow, very gently. “I’ll wait for you right here,” she says. Then she squeezes. “It’ll be okay.”

Zuko’s mouth tightens. “You can’t know that.”

“No. But you can know that I’ll still be right here when you come out.”

It does help, enough that Zuko nods, takes a deep breath, and goes inside.

Uncle is sitting at a small desk, wearing long, finely embroidered robes in Earth Kingdom greens and golds. He has taken down his topknot, and his hair hangs simply around his shoulders. Seeing him like this is almost like a physical shock.

But the look of relief and sheer joy on his face, the wetness in his eyes when he sees Zuko, that is still just the same, and when Iroh throws his arms around Zuko, he hugs his uncle back, hard. And, for just a few minutes, nothing else really matters except they are both still alive, and together again.

**

Iroh pours tea for them both.

It ends up going cold in the cups as Zuko listens to what his uncle has to say. All of it, until Iroh finally runs out of things to say.

Zuko feels almost hollowed out inside at what he has been told. He’s beyond surprise, beyond shock, just in a place of numb acceptance. “So, you’re part of a secret organization.” Called, of all things, the White Lotus. As if Zuko didn’t already hate Pai Sho.

Zuko wishes that he was able to slap his arm down and yell This explains so much! But, really, it doesn’t. It just adds a confusing wash to the last decade of Zuko’s life, and makes him think back and have to reassess everything in light of this new information, to rethink everything that his uncle has ever done or said around him.

Iroh brushes a finger along the edge of his cup, and the tea is steaming again. He takes a long sip, and looks down into the brown depths. “For many years, after your cousin was killed, I was lost in grief and focused only on you. You were all I had left. But the years kept passing, and my brother’s abuses of power continued. I had hoped that you might begin to turn away from the propaganda of your youth, but—”

“But I didn’t,” Zuko replies, flatly. He has spent seven years almost exclusively with his uncle, and this definitely isn’t saying good things about his powers of observation, that’s for sure. Or it is saying amazing things about his uncle’s ability to compartmentalize.

“There will always be two sides to your nature. I will always honor your choices. But in the last year, with the return of the Avatar, there was an opportunity for a rallying point that the White Lotus recognized, and began to capitalize on.”

“And if I’d captured the Avatar?”

“An Avatar imprisoned by Ozai also offered a rallying point.” So quiet, so cool, and so absolutely focused. This, Zuko understands, was how Iroh had been as a general, why he had commanded so much respect and loyalty among the troops, so much adulation from the Fire Court. That Ozai had snatched the throne so easily, Zuko knows, had depended so much on this version of his uncle being destroyed by the death of Lu Ten.

Or, Zuko corrects himself, not destroyed. Just buried, for a time.

“And now?” Zuko’s thoughts are chasing each other so badly that he almost feels feverish, but the truth of it is that he has to know more than anything else. How much has been bubbling beneath his feet like magma about to explode while he was fixated only on the prize in sight – thinking of nothing beyond capturing the Avatar and earning his father’s forgiveness and love. Meanwhile his uncle has been one of the primary puppetmasters in a cross-national shadow organization and his father has apparently just been waiting for the opportunity to order his death.

Iroh makes a low, thoughtful hum. “King Bumi is willing to commit his army, to be transported on the Water Tribe fleet ships commanded by Chief Hakoda. My counterpart in the North, Master Pakku, will be arriving in days with more ships, soldiers, and waterbenders. Piandao—”

“The swordmaster?” Every listed ally has been increasing the pit in Zuko’s stomach, the realization that this isn’t some rag-tag organization consisting of a dozen Water Tribe fighters and whatever plucky friends Katara and the Avatar have collected along their travels – these are armies, fleets, and now, apparently, fifth-column legendary swordmasters in the Fire Nation.

“Yes. Ozai is far from universally adored. Piandao has been most useful in organizing nobles and small cells of rebels who are interested in seeing a regime change, and are willing to fight for that goal.”

Zuko flinches. “Regime change. I assume that means that we are putting you on the throne, Uncle.”

To his shock, Uncle shakes his head. “I have no wish to rule. I buried those ambitions with Lu Ten. And there is a concern that this could be seen as merely a conflict between brothers, with—”

The numbness inside Zuko is swept away in a profound, instinctual, and utterly pure feeling of oh for fuck’s sake, and the noise he makes is deeply rude, but he simply cannot help it. He loves Iroh, would walk over broken glass for this man, but there’s a limit to the amount of bullshit that Zuko is willing to stomach. “And a son overthrowing his father somehow looks better? Uncle. Seriously. If this is happening, then one is about the same as the other, with the exception that you are older, experienced, have allies at court, and are a decorated military leader. And I have… remind me again?”

Iroh’s picturesque moment of wise humility is ruined, and now he just looks grouchy. “You are immensely capable and honorable, Zuko.”

Sweet spirits. The man actually thinks that that is some kind of argument. “Right. So let’s file that under ‘potential.’ Which to me suggests at least three coup attempts in the first year. We’re putting you on the throne, Uncle. The real problem will be figuring out how to handle Azula.”

Now it’s Iroh who makes a rude sound. “Oh, we’ll buy her off.”

“Excuse me?” Senile. The poor man has gone senile, it’s so clear.

Iroh waves a dismissive hand. “Your father has sidelined her for the last three years. She has been isolated and spiraling. Her friend Mai got married, her other friend Ty Lee joined a circus. Azula has always been vicious and dangerous, but in the last few years those traits have become difficult for your father to manage, and she has been away from court for many months now. There is no indication that she will be near Caldera City when we arrive, and it seems quite likely that, given certain incentives, she could be convinced to work within a new regime.”

“…that’s probably a big ask, Uncle.” Zuko feels profoundly rocked, as hard as he is trying to keep it hidden. As much as listening to the description of the White Lotus as an organization, and Iroh’s list of allies for his invasion plan, have been shocking him, this is truly the moment that Zuko feels, deep to his bones, that this is all very real, definitely happening, and the extent to which he was just a child playing pretend on his ship for the last seven years. Because he has assumed that Iroh has been focusing on nothing other than finding new tea varieties to sample, but apparently he has been keeping his thumb very much on the pulse of the court – to the extent that he knows much more about what is going on with Azula than Zuko does.

Admittedly, not that Zuko and Azula have been exchanging letters.

Iroh gives him that cool, Dragon of the West expression again. “It is that or we have to execute your sister alongside Ozai.”

And there is the cold reality. He knew it, has known since he saw the letter on Zhao’s desk that he either could spend the rest of his life in exile, hiding from his father’s agents, or that he would have to be involved in his father’s death. But, hearing Uncle say it, it’s all real.

They’re going to overthrow his father and execute him, or die trying.

**

Iroh offers to talk with Katara as well, but Zuko just shakes his head and says that he’ll explain it all to her. Right now he just needs a break from this room, and the extent to which everything he knows has been turned onto its head.

He opens the door and feels his heart give a hard thump, relief flowing through him, because Katara wasn’t lying – she’s still there, sitting on the other side of the hall, her back propped against the wall and waiting patiently. Actually she’s… he’s pretty sure she’s sewing. Incredible. He’s still amazed that eight days of enforced idleness in the prison cell didn’t send her around the bend, now that he’s seen the extent to which she fights against any hint of inactivity.

Her face lights up at the sight of him, and she’s shoving her sewing back into the pouch that hangs from her belt and starts to stand up, but he’s already sliding down beside her. The wall is cool against his back, and it feels good, just sitting his ass on the floor. She cuddles in next to him, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, tugging her against him, and pressing his face down against the crown of her head, inhaling just to catch the smell of her hair.

“Are you okay?” She reaches a hand up and twines their fingers together. As always, he can feel that sense of her as a water bender, his perfect opposite, the push and pull of her against him. And she was right – it does feel good. Every time he touches her skin, he feels that intoxicating pulse, and he’s starting to wonder if that initial shock of it will ever go away, or ever be something he doesn’t want to chase relentlessly.

He shakes his head, feeling her hair catch against his chin. “No. Not at all.” It’s too much to think about, to reassess, too much ground cracking beneath him, like how it feels to fight an earthbender on their home turf. He tightens his arm around her, needing her even closer. “Just promise you’ll stay with me, Katara,” he whispers. He said that before, but it was in the darkness, when he could pretend that he was just talking about the night. There’s no pretending anymore.

Katara tilts her head back, and the look on her face makes him catch his breath – the truth of it almost makes him want to creep away, but even more it makes him want to hold on and never let her go, to take everything she is offering him and drink it down like rich water into the abandoned and dusty waste of his heart. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, the dual and ever-warring sides of his nature like two dragons sinking their teeth into each other.

He’s too much at war with himself, and she seems to know that. She traces one thumb slowly along his mouth, his cheek, and then tugs his face down firmly, so that they are sitting in the middle of a hallway in the palace of Omashu, and she is kissing him, her mouth opening beneath his and her tongue gently teasing the seam of his lips, offering to give him everything he wants, and it doesn’t matter how confused he is about so many things, he doesn’t think he’s even capable of refusing her. Maybe not anything, but definitely not this.

They’re still in their Earth Kingdom disguises, so it’s not incredibly obvious that a Water Tribe woman is making out with the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, but the hallway is moderately well-trafficked and there are definitely some uncomfortable coughs and throats being cleared from people passing by around them. She doesn’t seem to care at all, and pulls back, looking at him with the undertow in her blue eyes that he had already lost himself in long before he would admit it. “Yes.”

He smiles, and tugs her until she is sitting in his lap, so that he can bury his hands in her hair and just keep kissing her, scandalized staff members, guards, and innocent bystanders be damned.

Which is right when her brother comes running down the hallway.

Sokka’s face fills with pure, unadulterated horror.

“No, Katara,” he chokes out, and the two of them break away from each other and stare at him. “How did you find someone worse than Jet?”

**

As far as introducing Sokka to her relationship with Zuko, Katara is slightly torn. On the one hand, seeing her snuggled in Zuko’s lap and the two of them in a full make-out session was not exactly how she had planned to break the news to him, and was distinctly lacking in subtlety, however it definitely got the point across with a certain level of brevity and clarity.

Did Sokka punch Zuko – yes, which wasn’t entirely ideal, but, in fairness, all he’d been told was that his sister had arrived in the city and had been taken to see Grandmaster Iroh, so seeing Zuko had in itself been a surprise, let alone seeing Katara kissing Zuko as if her very life depended on getting her tongue in his mouth.

Had Zuko punched Sokka – also yes, but she was willing to cut him some slack, given that he’d just had a few shocks in a very short period of time.

Had her brother and her boyfriend ended up rolling around on the floor, attempting to either punch or choke each other, while she stared at them and wondered whether they realized how closely they resembled a pair of angry fire ferrets? Also yes. The fight had only broken up when Iroh had heard all the racket, opened the door, stared at what was happening, and thrown the contents of his teapot (fortunately now very cooled) over them. That had finally broken things up (as well as given them both a distinctly jasmine-laced aroma), and amidst much grumbling and glaring Zuko had been left with his uncle, and Katara and Sokka had headed off together.

All things considered, Katara was going to take that as a resounding success, since there hadn’t been either stab wounds or substantial burns for her to heal.

**

Sokka clearly isn’t very thrilled with her at the moment, but apparently a month of worrying about whether or not she was dead is enough to buy her a bit of slack, and he begrudgingly fills her in on what happened during their separation.

After dropping off the extra Earthbenders, they’d gone straight to Omashu to deliver the eclipse information to King Bumi, who had started putting together an invasion force. Given that he ruled a landlocked city, however, the job of providing a transportation fleet had fallen to Sokka and Aang, who had been forced to leave almost immediately to track down their father’s fleet. When they had finally found Hakoda and sent him to wait at the rendezvous point, they had rushed back to Omashu, expecting to find her waiting – which she hadn’t been. That had been two weeks ago, and Sokka claimed that he’d found three grey hairs in the ensuing weeks that they’d had absolutely no idea where she was. Katara had obediently combed her hands through her brother’s dark hair, and then flatly told him that he was crazy, and there were no gray hairs at all.

They do finally stop and hug, though, and the arguing about who is bullshitting about hair color and who has starting dating the crown prince of an enemy nation falls away, and it’s just the two of them, arms around each other and breathing in the familiarity and safety of the other, united again after the longest absence of their entire lives.

Softly, Sokka whispers, “So, exactly how serious—”

“Better be nice to him,” she murmurs back. “He doesn’t quite realize it yet, but that plump little otter-penguin is heading for the stew pot.”

“Shit. I mean it, Katara. Jet would’ve been a better brother-in-law than him.”

“Psh. You’re just grouchy.”

“Remember when he burned down Suki’s whole—”

“Psh. He hasn't burned a village down in months.”

They arrive at the newly refurbished chamber, where Aang has once again been installed, and she is pleased that his reaction to the news that Zuko is with her, and officially on their side now, is a very straightforward – “Great! I knew he was really an okay guy after the whole thing in the swamp!”

Sokka just shakes his head. Katara lets it slide, knowing that getting Sokka and her father on board with her relationship is definitely an action item on her list that will take a few steps.

For now, Katara focuses on giving another relieved hug to Aang, who is noticeably skinnier than she’d left him, and she shoots Sokka a nasty look – she’d been right to have concerns about the cooking situation.

She looks back at Aang. “So, you’ve been back at the city for two weeks. Did you start learning earthbending from King Bumi like you were hoping?”

Aang flushes all the way up to his arrow tattoo. “Um. Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?” Come on, she’d found the time to get into an entire committed relationship, and he’d managed to make zero progress on his Avatar journey? Katara doesn’t want to be overly critical, but this feels distinctly like bullshit to her.

“Well…” Aang’s face has that distinctly weaselly look that she remembers from the time that he’d used their food rations as fire kindling.

Sokka gives a very loud snort. “Yeah. So, first he asked Aang if he’d fully mastered waterbending, and Aang says, mostly. And Bumi says, great, now defeat me using only waterbending.”

Katara winces. “…so, it went—”

Aang gives her a flat look. “It went bad, Katara. Real bad.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He sighs. “So, anyway, the brace on my fracture came off yesterday, so—”

“What??” Katara immediately pulls water from her canteen and starts checking her friend over. Yup – left leg. Oh, and that was definitely about three torn muscles around his right hip. And she really hopes that someone realized that Aang has been walking around with a healing concussion. She immediately starts healing, and Aang makes a little sound, about halfway between relief and deep preteen humiliation.

Sokka just looks at her, correctly interpreting her expression as boding very poorly for the King of Omashu. “Bumi doesn’t come to play, Katara.”

“Anyway,” Aang says, with as much dignity as a thirteen-year-old can muster when Katara has his pants partially shoved down so that she can get at the torn muscles, “Bumi told me that I could either learn the real way, and head up to the North, find a trained master, and spend the next five years waterbending before I start working on earthbending, or I could be… how did he put it…”

“The honorary doctorate version of an Avatar,” Sokka supplies, helpfully.

Katara raises her eyebrows. “Ouch.” Clearly Bumi had gone for some really radical honesty that day. She might disagree with his delivery methods, but not his message. After a year, the hope of the world still can’t beat her at a spar unless he’s allowed to use both of his elements, so she certainly can’t say that he’s anywhere close to mastering water, given that she herself still sometimes feels the gaps in her training.

Aang gives her that sweet, sunny smile that she loves the most about him.  Relentless optimism hadn’t exactly been a common character trait down in the South Pole – particularly with Hama anywhere within five square miles. “Yeah. So, once we finish with the invasion, it’s up to the North Pole.”

“Well, that will be pretty neat, though, right?” She’s glad he’s looking at the bright side of this, especially given his commitment over the last year of finding as many exotic animals as possible and riding them, sometimes with hilariously poor outcomes.

“True. And we’ll at least be able to learn from a master! And I bet the Northern style is a lot different from the Southern! So we’ll be learning so much!”

Katara chokes, slightly, on that extremely confident use of we. “Oh, well—”

Sokka gives her a particularly sharp look. “Any reason why you wouldn’t be packing your bags for the North, Katara?”

She nudges her brother with her elbow, hard. “Let’s just get though the invasion, okay? We have lots of time after it’s over to make plans.” After all, no need to break tough news to Aang if they all die in the invasion attempt (and who says that Aang has the market cornered on finding the bright side to things!). Also, conversations about future plans and locations should probably wait until she’s at least had something approaching that conversation with Zuko, who, in her estimation, is pretty far from any kind of serious cohabitation discussion, despite the fact that they have just spent an entire month doing exactly that on board his recently-exploded ship.

Finally, if she does finally get to a point where she can have conversations about being too occupied to go to the North Pole, she’d rather have that conversation with Sokka and Hakoda at the same time. Just let them get all their objections out of their systems at once.

Really, though, this is still going much smoother than she’d been worried about.

**

She and Zuko are assigned separate rooms. It’s a very optimistic thought on the part of some palace functionary, and not one that Katara is inclined to give even the most minor consideration to, and as soon as Sokka hands over her travel bags, she carries them over to Zuko’s room and leaves it at that.

Zuko is clearly relieved to see her, and is not exactly thinking through the full ramifications of what she’s done, even when Sokka slinks by with a reddened face and grumbles a real greeting. Sokka, at least, is Water Tribe enough to pick up on what is going on and accept that the commentary period on this relationship came and went without him.

Aang, bless his little Air Nomad heart, just strolls in and assumes that Katara is keeping Zuko company because of all the camping they’ve done lately. He offers for both of them to move into the newly refurbished chamber with them, but Sokka snags him by the shirt collar, mutters something about there not being enough beds, and hauls him out even as the pubescent yelp of, “But there’s only one bed here” rings through the room.

Zuko is staring after them, clearly having some variety of existential crisis. “I’ve been trying to grab the Avatar for seven years, and now we’re… supposed to be buddies or something? And he wants us to be roommates? This is the fucking worst day of my life.”

Katara pats his shoulder soothingly, and tries to give him a little perspective on things. “Zuko, your dad got Zhao to try to blow you up.”

His pale skin flushes darkly. “This is the second-worst day of my life.”

“You’re doing really well.” Katara kisses his cheek, then opens her bag. Thank Tui and La and all the spirits – finally she has her spare sarashi wraps again.

**

Two days later they’re at the head of an army column, and three days after that she is in her father’s arms for the first time since she was twelve years old and the warriors were sailing away, and all she wants to do is just hold onto him and sob.

The reunion is only slightly spoiled when Sokka leans over her head and mutters to her father, “Dad, Katara is having sex with the prince of the Fire Nation.”

Her dad’s arms are suddenly gripping a lot tighter, and she sees his head come up, his eyes narrow dangerously, and he’s scanning everyone around them. Katara can tell the moment he focuses in on Zuko, currently standing a few feet behind her and hovering slightly awkwardly, clearly totally unsure about what he is supposed to be doing at this moment.

“Short dark hair, scar, pale skin?” Hakoda is clearly making sure that he is about to take a machete to the right man. She appreciates his attention to detail, and also plans to make sure that Sokka suffers for this later. Again, not the worst way that Hakoda could’ve received the news, but not exactly how she was planning for it to come out.

“Dad, I’m dating him, and it’s serious.”

Her father makes a low, irate sound that reminds her a little bit of a tiger-walrus when the hunters start circling. He finally breaks his death glare at Zuko and looks down at her. “I don’t see a courtship band on his arm, Katara.”

She’s her father’s daughter, she’s a fully grown adult now, and she matches him glare for glare. “Just wait a day, Dad.”

And now both Hakoda and Sokka make groans of misery.

**

The Earth Kingdom armies are loaded onto the Water Tribe ships – it’s a tight fit, but they’re able to make it work. If all goes according to plan, they won’t have to sail this badly overloaded for long. The Northern ships cut away quickly, taking a different path to their rendezvous point.

After seven years on his metal ship, powered by engines, Zuko has both pleasant and several deeply unpleasant surprises. On the bright side, the wooden ships conduct sound far less effectively, which not only means that sleeping is easier, but the stolen moment that Zuko and Katara are able to snatch a few hours after the fleet hits open ocean is a lot easier to hide than anything that they did on his ship. Every cabin is packed beyond capacity, which, given the realities of the far more rudimentary bathroom situation on the Water Tribe ships (he understands now why Katara was so excited over his bathroom – here, “the bathroom” is either a bucket in the corner that has very strict rules about the cleaning rotation, or a curtained-off area to the back of the deck with a bucket full of seawater, a rag, and a line of other people waiting outside the curtain), so they make a discreet trip down to a supply storeroom.  He now has a whole new association with salted fish.

By the end of the first day at sea, Zuko has also learned that the Water Tribe is super tactile. Everyone is hugging Katara, touching her shoulders, or pressing cheeks with her. It’s annoying to Zuko to constantly turn around and see someone practically nuzzling his girlfriend, but whatever. He’s the only one who puts his hands up her skirts – a fact that, he’s extremely aware, makes both her dad and her brother do a lot of very targeted weapon sharpening around him, but Zuko has decided that he can worry about his girlfriend’s family after his finishes overthrowing his own.

It’s about choosing priorities right now, and he is really sure that he can’t deal with both at once.

Hilariously, Katara was right – Aang is easy to get along with. He’s almost constantly in a good mood, since he gets to fly around on his glider and whip up air to keep the Southern fleet moving along at a fast clip, since the Northern fleet has a whole squad of waterbenders keeping them chugging along, and it’s important for the fleets to stay fairly coordinated so that they hit their meet-up point at close to the same time.

When Zuko does find himself interacting with Aang at dinner, the kid seems absolutely delighted to see him, dropping down between Zuko and Katara in a bench space that frankly did not exist before he started wedging himself in like a particularly determined lap dog. Zuko gets a facefull of lemur, and Katara is clearly finding the whole thing extremely funny.

“It’s like the swamp, Zuko. I told you that we could be friends.” Then Aang leans in, his grey eyes wide, and whispers, “Are you and Katara, like, dating?”

Zuko stares at him, really processing, for the first time, that the Avatar really is just a kid.

He is thirteen.

He is clearly shit at picking up on romantic subtexts.

Oh sweet spirits, Zuko has been chasing a literal child for a year.

This might be kind of a low point of all the realizations that Zuko has experienced since Uncle broke the news about the White Lotus and completely flipped the script on Zuko’s entire life plans.

**

Mid-morning on their second day at sea, Katara grabs Zuko by the elbow and hustles him down to her cabin, which has apparently just finally emptied of its last additional resident, and they are, at least momentarily, alone.

She hands him a small bundle, wrapped in blue cloth. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, and, at her eager nod, he tugs at the knots and unwraps what is inside.

It’s an armband – the fabric is blue, with a lot of embroidery, the stitches fine and carefully applied. Beautifully rendered are two circling fish – one in black thread, one in white, and around them both is a coiled dragon in red. For a long minute he just stares at what is in his hand – over the last week, he’s seen a lot of men in the Water Tribe wearing bands like these. Most soft with age and wear, and a few still sharp and stiff and new, like his.

There’s an expression on Katara’s face as he looks at it, tracing a finger over the embroidery, feeling the hundreds of individual stitches that went into this, noticing how many different shades of colors she used to make a deceptively simple set of two fish and a dragon. She looks – some combination of nervous, proud, excited, and hopeful. It’s a lot. He realizes that there is a lot going on right now.

His brain, meanwhile, is getting extremely stuck on the logistics of what he’s holding in his hand. “We’ve only been on the ship a day! How did you do it that fast?” He has seen her do plenty of sewing before, but this is very well beyond the basic mending she did on the ship. Does this woman know some secret kind of fifth bending? Is embroiderybending a thing?

Katara makes a little, squelched sound of amusement, and her eyes are dancing as she looks at him. “Oh, I got the materials back in the village where I was waitressing, and I’ve been doing it a bit in the evenings after you were asleep.”

“After I was asleep?” There’s no way – he’s not even remotely that deep a sleeper.

“I rise with the moon, remember?”

Hm. Apparently he needs to reassess how hard he sleeps beside Katara. Still. He squints at the band. “So… you’ve been working on this for how long now?”

“A few days in the village, two weeks on the road, a couple days in Omashu, then the whole trip down to the fleet, then however many hours we’ve been at sea. So, it took a minute, yeah. Do you like it? The dragon isn’t traditional, but it seemed kind of like a dick move to just slap all of my culture on you without acknowledging yours.”

“No, no, it’s really nice.” Honestly, and maybe a little of this is favoritism for Katara, but he’s pretty sure that this makes the armbands on almost all the other guys look like crap. He continues to stare at the band, processing. Zuko is a smart enough guy — he can recognize a fully implemented and sprung trap when he sees one. And there’s a surface level of him that is realizing, uh oh.

But there’s a deeper, very male part of him that is seeing this trap that he just happily strolled into, and the level of ownership she is putting on him, and thinking, Fuck. Yeah.

Maybe he should think about this, but a lot has happened in this relationship, it is easily the best thing he’s had going for the last decade, and fuck it if he’s going to slow down and start thinking now. “Okay. Which arm do I put it on?”

Katara’s smile is enormous, like a sunbeam breaking from behind a cloud. “Here, let me do it.” She’s so casual, as if it isn’t as clear as day that she’s doing something very meaningful in her tribe as she ties it onto his right arm, above the elbow, the strings neatly and firmly tied so that this thing is not coming off without some serious effort, knot lore, and possibly even a knife in desperation, because he has spent a lot of time familiarizing himself with the knots she uses on her sarashis, and when Katara ties something it stays tied, and there it is — crisp and new, tied above the fabric of his shirt so everyone can see it.

Zuko looks at it, cocking his head. Then he nods. “Yeah. Looks good.” He leans down and drops a kiss across that very smug mouth of hers.  “So, is there some kind of corresponding thing for you?” Because if this is where they’re heading, and it sure looks like it is, then fuck all if he isn’t making sure that she’s going to be walking around with an equally visible sign for everyone else to keep their hands to themselves, because she is taken.

Her smile gets a bit coy. “Different hair beads, usually, but we can talk about that later. Does the Fire Nation do something during a courtship that gets serious?”

Zuko hums softly. “Well, we exchange rings when we marry. Until then, it’s just the families talking.”

“Hm.” He can see the wheels turning in her head, and he figures that within an hour Iroh is going to find himself plunked down at a table with her father and told to have a nice chat. Zuko would feel a bit bad for his uncle, but given that the man has spent the last few years working covertly with a secret society at the same time they were sailing around together, he figures that being yoked along as Katara marches through relationship milestones is really a bit of justice.

He really shouldn’t be as cheerful as he is, but, honestly, it feels like his birthday right now. Perhaps it’s some kind of coping mechanism for agreeing to invade his country and violently overthrow his own father (though, that part actually might be the most stereotypically Fire Nation royal thing he’s ever done in his life), but the knowledge that Katara is serious about him, and that she wants everyone else to see how serious she is about him, too, well, it just feeds something deep and smothered inside of Zuko.

She’s sharing this room with a dozen other people, so they lock the door and celebrate very, very quickly.

**

When Zuko walks out on deck half an hour later, relaxed and in a particularly buoyantly post-coital mood, he realizes that Katara didn’t quite explain all the particulars of the armband to him.

He’d already figured that that the armband in some way makes their relationship very official to the Water Tribe. What he hadn’t realized, though, is that, through his relationship with Katara, Zuko has suddenly become an extended member of the tribe.

This, very horribly, means that he is now suffering through endless back slaps, warrior arm clasps, and, worst of all, bro hugs, with about forty emotionally needy Water Tribe members, all eager to welcome him to the tribe, congratulate him about dating Katara, and then tell him every fucking genealogical detail about how each of them is related to her, and, now, apparently, to him. Zuko is from a goddamn royal family that is obsessed with its own lineage, but until this moment has never heard the phrase “seventh cousin twice removed through her mother’s side.”

He really, really loves Katara.

Which is why Zuko is still standing on the deck three hours later, politely nodding, instead of throwing himself overboard and swimming for shore.

He’s also still listening to Water Tribe warriors blather on (the current guy used to have snowball fights with Katara – it’s so cute, and Zuko is also about ninety percent certain, from the look this guy is giving him, that he kind of expected to end up married to her and is harboring some really big feelings right now) because the moment Sokka and Hakoda had gotten a look at the armband they’d grabbed Katara and hustled her to the other end of the boat, and while Zuko can’t see them right now, he can definitely hear a lot of shouting. He has considered going back and seeing if Katara needs some backup, but most of the shouting is very recognizably from her, so he decides to let her handle it.

Also, then Iroh comes on deck, and it turns out that being Zuko’s uncle is enough of a tie to make Iroh an extended member of the Water Tribe as well, and the expression on his uncle’s face as he is swarmed with well-wishers is just too delightful for Zuko to pass up.

Finally, Katara walks back over, followed by a distinctly grouchy-looking Hakoda and Sokka. The warriors abruptly stop talking, and the crowd parts. At the railing, the seasick Earth Kingdom soldiers are clearly, between retching, considering that everyone here is totally insane, which, Zuko must admit, is quite possible.

Sokka and Hakoda look at him. Zuko is aware that they really, really want to stab him.

Instead… they, very slowly and reluctantly, ask if he’s having a nice morning.

Because the weather is really nice today.

Really. So nice.

Sunny.

Yet breezy.

Zuko’s eyes drift over to Katara, who just smiles angelically, and decides that, on the whole, being in this trap is really not so bad at all, as long as she’s in it with him.

**

Three days after the armband, Zuko and Katara are sitting together on the deck, just leaning against each other and chatting. The level of overloaded that the ship is right now is definitely effecting the smell level below decks, and the deck is filled with Earth Kingdom soldiers fighting seasickness and Water Tribe members who are playing some kind of gambling game that involves small rocks, targets on the ocean, and a complicated handicapping system that Zuko has been unable to fully wrap his head around, no matter how many times Katara has explained it to him.

Sokka walks over to them, and between his posture and the distinctly eat shit, asshole expression on his face, Zuko knows that something is apparently about to go down, and straightens his back sharply. Katara blinks and looks over, just as her older brother arrives, leans down, and puts a paper packet in her hands.

Zuko looks over, squinting at the packet. It looks familiar – and, abruptly, Zuko realizes that Sokka has just handed his sister black moss tea. And, in the rippling silence around them, the rest of the Water Tribe warriors are also clocking that this is happening. Thinking back, Zuko remembers what Katara told him – that a brother getting contraceptives for his sister was a big thing in the tribe, that he was indicating that he didn’t have confidence in the man to take care of her.

Zuko immediately feels rage pooling through his veins. Oh, fuck this.

He snatches the tea packet out of Katara’s hands, is on his feet immediately, and shoves it right back at her brother, with, admittedly, enough emphasis that the other man is rocked back on his heels.

“The only person giving that to her is me,” Zuko growls. Okay, this isn’t even his fucking culture, but it’s the damn principle of the matter.

There are a lot of raised eyebrows and sidelong looks. Apparently that’s big talk in this group. Sokka is clearly itching for a fight, though, and he shoves Zuko right back. Zuko is going right back at him, then Hakoda is there, pushing both of them back, and Zuko clearly would like to know exactly what the hell Katara’s dad’s exercise regime is, because the man shoves with roughly the same force as a pissed-off komodo-rhino.

Hakoda’s mouth is a tense line, but he shakes his head at Sokka. Ha! “If he’s providing, then it’s his right,” the man rumbles. Then he looks over at Katara, who is still sitting on the deck and just watching all of this going down. “Katara? What’s your choice?”

Katara gives the smallest, most satisfied smile possible. She was surprised when Sokka tossed the tea at her, Zuko is sure about that, but clearly she is very pleased about the current outcome. “Zuko can get it for me,” she says, and if anyone buys that prim little lilt to her voice, then Zuko can make them a hell of a deal on the Gates of Azulon.

Hakoda gives a slow nod to his daughter, a death glare to Zuko, then a short jerk of his chin to Sokka, who is looking extremely mutinous. “All right.”

Sokka follows his father, slowly, still glaring at Zuko. The rest of the men filter away, talking to each other quietly. Zuko has now spent almost two weeks around the full Water Tribe, and knows that they are the worst gossips, so he’s very confident that this incident is going to be the main topic of discussion on the entire ship, and probably communicated to the rest of the Water Tribe ships by semaphore.

Zuko sits down next to Katara, who just gives him a sweet smile. Then her face gets serious, and she leans in closely. “But, actually, Zuko, I really am going to need that tea in another week.”

“I’ll get it from him in a day or two,” Zuko hisses back. Fuck, he knew he forgot to buy something before they left the city.

**

They keep sailing toward the Fire Nation. After another two weeks, the temperature begins rising and two things become extremely clear:

Firstly, Water Tribe members are not equipped for this kind of climate. On any level. Not constitutionally, not emotionally, and not even physically, since all of them are wearing clothing made for significantly colder climates. The only one managing the transition even remotely well on the ship is Katara, and Zuko has seen her breathe out frost enough to guess that she’s using her bending to cheat a bit.

And, secondly and more concerningly, the Water Tribe does not have the same nudity taboos as the other nations.

After some intense discussions, it is finally agreed that the Water Tribe members will at least keep basic wraps on, though there is a lot of grumbling. Katara spends a lot of time cooling wet rags for her tribesmen to drape over their heads.

At one point she stops next to Zuko and says, “Hama described this to me, but I really did not fully grasp what a tropical climate meant.”

Zuko gives her a long look. “Katara, we’re only halfway there. It’s going to get a LOT hotter than this.”

She stares at him for almost a full minute, and he can see the thoughts spinning in her head. “Hold on, I need to talk to my dad,” and she runs off.

A minute later, Zuko hears Hakoda bellowing from the other side of the ship. “What do you mean, it’s going to get HOTTER?”

**

In the seemingly endless downtime on the ship, Iroh teaches Zuko how to redirect lightning, which, considering exactly who they are traveling down to depose, seems like a very sensible precaution.

Iroh explains the technique. Catch the lightning in the fingertips, then conduct the energy up the arm, to the shoulder, then down to the stomach, then up to the other shoulder, down the arm, and then directed safely out through the opposite fingertips. Always with the root of his bending centered and unbreakable, but his upper body fluid.

“Remember, Zuko, it mustn’t go anywhere near your heart.” Iroh gives Zuko’s chest a fond pat, and a ghost of a smile flickers over his mouth.  “That belongs to someone else now, anyway.”

Zuko thinks about all those times on the ship when Uncle Iroh looked like a man watching two carts collide and unable to do anything to stop it. “Yes, it does,” and there’s zero doubt left in him at this point.

“A hothouse bloom does not always survive transplantation to the garden.” Then Iroh is blinking quickly, there’s a hint of moisture in his eyes, and his voice chokes up. “It has made me very, very happy, Nephew, to see that this bloom is of surprisingly hardy stock, and has grown even stronger under the open sun.”

Zuko smiles, fondly, glad that this metaphor is at least better than the last one he tried using, back when Katara and Zuko were screaming insults at each other all day. “You could just say what you mean, Uncle.”

He laughs, and then Iroh pulls him into a rough hug. “Sometimes it’s easier to say what I mean in a metaphor. But I am happy. For you both, but Katara has many people worried about her happiness, so you are my main concern.” He clears his throat, and both of them step back. It’s the Water Tribe that can’t get enough of hugging, after all. “And now, my concern is that you survive to your wedding day, so show me the stance again.”

Zuko adjusts back into his lightning redirection position, but snorts a little. “We haven’t talked about marriage.”

Iroh just laughs – right in Zuko’s face. “Oh, really? Well, I’m sure one morning you will wake up, eat breakfast, and find that Katara has arranged the whole thing for you.”

That probably should sound more like a threat or an insult, but instead it just makes Zuko grin, and Iroh shakes his head with a deep sigh. “And you’ll be walking to the Fire Sages with exactly that look on your face, too. Well, back to practice.”

They practice for almost three days, until Iroh is convinced Zuko is ready.

**

The Water Tribe fleet hasn’t just been sailing for the last few weeks – they’ve been hunting like a pack of wolf-bats, ranging carefully as they follow the information that the White Lotus members in the Fire Nation navy have slipped to them, and one glorious morning, surrounded by a heavy and deeply localized fog that Katara has been bending around them for almost an hour, and Aang whipping a steady wind into purple sails to make the ships almost skim the waves, they find exactly what they’ve been looking for.

A fleet of Fire Nation ships, gathering strength and numbers before they plan to turn their prows northwards, toward the pole.

Why exactly Admiral Zhao has decided that this was a particularly auspicious moment to add another front to the current war, despite the fact that the Northern Water Tribe has stayed crouched behind their icy walls for the last eighty years in a very conveniently isolationist frame of mind, who can say. Given the fact that he recently tried to blow Zuko up with Ozai’s full approval, Zuko would make a sizable bet that his father knows whatever this particular plan is, but it doesn’t really matter at the moment.

Because this fleet is not going to be sailing to the North Pole.

The Southern Water Tribe ships slip into formation, skimming fast toward their targets, emerging from the dense fog too closely for the fire cannons to be fully effective, since navy protocol is for the cannons to always be set to the furthest range when there are no direct threats in sight, and recalibrating them can be a bit tricky and has a tendency to start on-deck fires when rushed. And, while the Southern ships have the fleet’s attention, they miss the arrival of the Northern fleet behind them, and Master Pakku might have fewer ships than the South, but he does have quite a few more waterbenders, and the Fire Nation is about to be reminded about exactly how lucky they’ve been for so long that the North decided to stay behind its walls.

Because these ships are what are going to carry the Earth Kingdom army right to the Gates of Azulon without raising any concerns at all before the gangplanks drop and soldiers come roaring out.

But at the moment, Zuko is not really focusing on the plan, no matter how many hours lately it has consumed of his thoughts, attention, and not-inconsiderable amounts of drafting paper. Because at the head of the fleet is Admiral Zhao’s ship.

Zuko is at the prow of the ship, and beside him is Sokka, probably tutting because the near perfect coordination of the Southern and Northern fleets to this spot, despite diverging hugely to minimize the likelihood of being spotted by scouts at an inconvenient moment, is five minutes off his freakishly detailed plan.

Not that Zuko cares at the moment. Really, it’s just an opportunity to say out loud what he is feeling the moment he looks across the waves and spots a figure in a long commander’s cloak, with a telltale height and a heavy set of side-whiskers.

Zuko feels his focus narrow to just that one figure. “That’s the fucker who hurt Katara,” he says. “I’m going to kill him.”

Beside him, Sokka gives him an extremely thoughtful look – this is definitely the least combative exchange they’ve managed to have since the day Sokka ran around a corner and found Zuko kissing his sister, which is a milestone Zuko might be marking a bit more if he wasn’t feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins and really visualizing exactly how he is going to kill Zhao.

“Isn’t that also the guy who blew up your ship and tried to kill you?” Sokka asks, very mildly.

Irritated, Zuko flicks him a look. “Well, I can’t exactly kill him twice.”

Though, honestly, that would be kind of great. Twice would honestly just be getting started for what Zhao did to Katara, and, bonus, Zuko would be able to use fire then swords. Damn, he really wishes this could be a twice-kill situation.

Sokka makes a small hrm. “Actually, I don’t think you’re going to get to kill him once.”

“What the fuck—” Girlfriend’s brother or not, Sokka is not helping, and Zuko starts to turn, but then there is a massive, bone-crushing crunch, and a huge javelin of ice is slamming up from the waves and straight into Zhao’s ship, punching straight through the metal and out the other side. It’s joined by a second, then a third, and then that ship is heading right down into the depths, incredibly fast. Almost like it’s being actively pulled.

Zuko looks around, and there’s Katara, arms moving, still fresh, full of energy, and making an utterly, epically huge bend. She’s not even looking at him – her blue eyes are absolutely fixated on the lead ship.

The soldiers on the ship are hauling out over the sides – with that level of lethal damage, there isn’t even time for the life boats to launch, and the soldiers are just operating on the base instinct of off the ship being a marginally less certain death than on the ship.

Katara keeps moving her arms, and a moment later ice sheets are popping up under the ones who made it over the side in time, and a few others who apparently didn’t also are leveraged to the top on their own personal buoys. Zuko feels a small rush of appreciation for her – admittedly, he’s technically involved in a civil war right now, fueled by outside forces, but he would really rather keep the casualties among the rank and file at a minimum, if at all possible.

She’s still scanning the water, and he sees the moment that she spots Zhao on ice, and, rather fortuitously, the man has ended up close enough to their ship that Zuko knows that Zhao has recognized him when the Admiral starts screaming almost incoherently from rage, and Zuko leans down, props his elbows on the railing, and just gives a nasty smile as he settles in to enjoy what is going to happen next.

The ice that Zhao is riding begins to curl upwards, until it is closing around Ozai’s favorite admiral like a fist, and it’s not rage anymore that is making Zhao scream when she pulls him down, down into the ocean.

And he doesn’t come up again.

Hakoda joins Zuko and Sokka at the rail, and looks down at his daughter’s handiwork, an expression of deep parental approval across his face. “So, that’s the guy who tried to kill Zuko, huh?” He glances over at him. “She does hold a grudge, that girl.”

The rest of the ships in the Fire Nation fleet are being slammed by the Northern waterbenders – literally. Targeted waves are crashing into the ships to fully capsize them, dropping most of their crew compliments into the ocean, then the waterbenders are flipping them back up like children’s toys, and the boarding parties of Water Tribe warriors are sliding on board, taking prisoners of whatever waterlogged Fire Nation soldiers somehow managed to avoid the initial dip.

It’s actually almost a bit concerning how quickly the combined Southern and Northern fleets take control of what remains of Zhao’s fleet, with quite a few ships deciding to actively surrender rather than suffer the fate of their neighbors, and Zuko can already see the Water Tribe boarding boats start filling up with Earth Kingdom troops – both groups more than happy to see the backs of each other after several very overcrowded weeks.

As for Zuko, who realizes that somehow this entire highly coordinated action is going to require absolutely nothing from him, he walks back over to Katara and slides his arm around her waist.

“I mean, I would’ve done it, too,” he notes.

She tilts her head up and smiles, her nose crinkling just a little. “I know, Zuko,” and she presses a soft kiss against his chin, then looks back at the spot where Zhao disappeared beneath the waves. “But I had to listen to him brag about killing you for hours. So, yeah, this one was all mine.”

Zuko tightens his arm, just a bit, and whispers in her ear, “The fleet has the rest of this, and no one’s paying attention. I bet that my cabin is actually empty for once.”

Katara gives him a slow, sidelong look. A few feet away, Sokka and Hakoda are intently studying a map, and above them Aang is still circling around, directing the boarding parties toward surviving Fire Nation soldiers, who the board parties are, rather reluctantly, rescuing and making into prisoners of war. “Zuko, did me killing Zhao… just do it for you?”

“You have no idea,” he breathes into her ear.

She rocks back against him, then makes a small, smothered giggle. “Oh… I might be able to make a guess.”

**

It quickly becomes clear that, somehow, seeing Zuko’s absolute focus and desire to murder Zhao for hurting Katara has thawed Hakoda and Sokka rather significantly.

Zuko also realizes, as they begin an almost aggressive level of getting to know him, that he kind of preferred when they wanted to murder him to when they wanted to bond with him.

**

The darkest day of the Fire Nation was a bit of an oversell, in all honesty. The darkest eight minutes, true, and generally a little on the uncomfortably vulnerable side for firebenders, but not generally anything to get too worried about.

Most times, at least.

This time, with that eight minute window, plus a detailed schematic of the defenses in Caldera City, courtesy of Piandao’s contacts, plus all the detailed planning and schedule-making Sokka could bring to bear on the project, plus Master Pakku, Katara, and twenty-eight other powerful waterbenders with full oceanfront access — well, it turns out that a lot can actually get accomplished in eight minutes.

The main defenses of Caldera City are demolished quite thoroughly within that timespan, with the Earth Kingdom forces pouring off of the ships and charging toward their targets before the eclipse has even fully ended, and by the time the firebenders have their powers back, the earthbenders are already tearing chunks out of walls to hurl.

By the time Zuko is running down the hallways toward his father’s defensive bunker, navigating around the magma traps and hatches by memory, Katara, Sokka, and a full squad of dissident Fire Nation rebels at his heels, the city is already functionally under new management.

**

Ozai is sitting on a throne, surrounded by guards, when Zuko and his group enter the bunker.

Somehow, his father doesn’t even look surprised. Or remotely interested to see his son after a gap of seven years. But, at this point, Zuko is pretty past expecting either of those things. The murder attempt has really allowed him to reframe their relationship.

Ozai looks at him, that cold, familiar little half smile playing at his mouth. “So. Zuko. Correct me if I’m wrong, is this actually a coup attempt you’re leading?”

The man has always known how to play to an audience. But Zuko is done playing his games, and everything inside of him is ice when he meet his father’s gaze – those eyes and features the template for his own. “You tried to have me killed, Father. You’re damn right this is a coup.” He pulls out the letter that he found in Zhao’s ship, holds it up, then crumples it and throws it at his father’s feet.

His father sighs. “Oh, Zhao. So very bad at burning incriminating evidence. And, yes, Zuko. After years of watching you fumble your way toward basic ineptitude, I decided that enough was enough. Really, I should’ve done it years ago, when your grandfather wanted me to. Instead I was stupid enough to hope that you weren’t a complete waste of time and resources. More fool me.”

Zuko can feel his hands shaking, sparks flicking from his fingers. All around the room, guards and fighters are waiting, listening, the violence in the room held back by the slimmest of threads.

There’s one thing left from this man that Zuko wants, so he goes straight for it. “Tell me what you did to my mother,” Zuko rasps.

Ozai actually laughs at him. “Typical, Zuko, so typical. I killed her, of course. It was supposed to be you, but she offered herself instead, and my father was so shocked that it gave me the opening I’d been waiting for for years, and I finally killed him. Foolish of me, really. I could’ve gotten another baby or two out of her, and instead all I had was you, more disappointing with every year that passed, and now even your sister is useless as well.” He laughs again, that almost reptilian chuckle. “Perhaps it’s better that you never have to experience the disappointment of being a father, Zuko.”

Zuko brings up his hands and within his cupped palms, fire erupts, powerful and bright, the way it’s been since the first day he found a better kindling for his flame than the frustrated rage of his childhood had ever provided. “I suppose that patricide is just a family tradition, then.” He looks up, eyes narrowed.  “And I’ve always believed so much in our traditions.”

“Goodness, my very own son, somehow finding the wherewithal to attempt my overthrow. I wonder if this is what parental pride actually feels like?” Ozai pauses, then, very slowly, rises to his feet. “Well, I’ll consider it after you’re verifiably dead this time. Guards.”

And with one word, everything slams into motion, and it turns out that Ozai has a lot of chi-blockers on his payroll. It’s a crowded room, but Zuko immediately throws fire at Ozai, and the two of them are locked in a fight. Part of Zuko is aware that the whole room is a chaotic blur of combat, but all he sees right now is his father.

Zuko always remembered his father as so tall – but they’re the same height now.

He remembered his father as incredibly strong – but now he realizes that his father is just all sleekness, not the muscle that Zuko has built over years of swordfighting and hours of daily bending practice.

He remembered his father as a bender terrifying in his ability and brutality – but now he’s blocking everything his father throws at him, and returning fire with a force that actually shoves his father back, and he sees the sweat tracing down his father’s face, and he realizes –

Somewhere along the line, Zuko became an adult. And his father is just the asshole who terrorized and burned a child.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zuko sees one of the chi-blockers come for him – then there’s an explosion of ice, and the chi-blocker is against the wall. He glances – there’s Katara, and she’s watching his back, making sure no one interferes in this moment.

Zuko refocuses on his dad, that steady knowledge beating inside him that Katara won’t let anything happen, even if (and there’s another flurry of icicles) she has to kill every damn person in this palace to make certain of it.

But that break in his concentration was just enough of a window of opportunity for his father to take advantage of, and Zuko can see the blue crackling in Ozai’s hands, building and targeting, and that expression on his father’s face is the same one that has haunted his dreams for years – Ozai wants to do this, and he is going to enjoy it.

The lightning burns outward, white hot, and Zuko can feel his uncle’s voice in his ear.

Stay grounded, with a strong root.

Catch the lightning in the fingertips.

Up the arm.

To the shoulder.

D own to the stomach, avoiding the heart, which belongs to Katara.

Up to the other shoulder.

Down the arm.

And Zuko looks directly at his father, and very deliberately points his fingertips and releases the energy, bent, redirected, refined through his own body and chi, and slams it directly into whatever organ has been pumping blood through Ozai’s body for the last forty-some years, because it sure as fuck wasn’t a heart.

**

The room reeks of burned ozone, blood, and a particular cooked smell that Zuko is not going to think about too closely.

His hands are burned from the lightning redirection, agonizing to move, and the first thing Zuko is aware of is the soft blue glow from Katara as she reaches down, curls her hands around his, and heals him.

Somehow he ended up kneeling on the ground, and she’s right next to him, leaning against him. The glow fades, she drops his hands, and then she’s wrapping her arms around him, and his hair has grown out just long enough that her fingers can tangle in it.

“Zuko,” she whispers, her voice strained. “I have to admit it. Your dad was actually more of an asshole than I really was prepared for.”

He gives a short, barking laugh, and drops his head onto her shoulder. Fuck, is he tired. “Right?”

**

It’s not, of course, the end of the day. A steady stream of people heads down to his father’s bunker to get a good enough look at what remains of the corpse that many, many individuals of note will be able to swear to the fact that Ozai is extremely dead.

Once the palace and the city itself are secured, the Fire Sages are hauled down from the temple and, with only minor duress, begin the coronation ceremony for Iroh. The crown, its ancient metal now significantly scorched from the recent departure of its prior wearer, is slid into Uncle’s topknot with great solemnity and ceremony, and Uncle then stands, bows politely, and orders the Fire Sages arrested for dereliction of duties regarding their service to the Avatar, which is both deserved and hilarious.

The one Fire Sage who helped him is not only released from prison, but gets a big promotion.

A lot of people are being freed from prison, which conveniently opens up the prison cells for large sections of Ozai’s bureaucracy who are filed in. Uncle, the White Lotus, and the Fire Nation rebels (now heroes of the glorious and totally legal-now-that-they-won regime change) have a number of lists that they are working off of regarding who did war crimes, who is sort of okay, and who was just was an opportunistic asshole who deserves prison time anyway.

Zuko, who has not been in this palace since he was thirteen and has absolutely zero sense of court politics, focuses on using his authority as Crown Prince where appropriate to support his uncle, and primarily just is extremely grateful that he didn’t end up being the one stuck in charge of this nightmarish mess.

**

Azula isn’t in Caldera City at all, it turns out.

When she is finally tracked down after a few hours, it turns out that she has been living on a private beachfront estate for months, with a (reportedly, extremely) hot girlfriend and a truly epic level of prodigy burnout.

The news of recent events, which are delivered via Uncle’s best soldiers, along with a cautiously friendly letter, are met with a written response.

Dear Uncle and Zuzu,

Fuck off, I don’t give a shit what you do.

Fondly,

Azula

It’s generally agreed that this might warrant some careful monitoring, but is about as good as things are going to get for the moment.

**

In the very late hours of the first night, technically in that rather spongey and unpleasant area when late at night starts to bridge into very early in the morning, Zuko takes Katara by the hand and leads her to his bedroom.

It is clean. By some miracle of excellent housekeeping, the bed is freshly made. It is, according to Katara, roughly the size of half her village, which is insane, and is severely overdoing the red motif.

Zuko is halfway through dropping his clothing, and just nods, then walks into the attached bathroom, which boasts a tub that makes the one that he had on his ship look like a foot bath. As he expected, Katara immediately rescinds all prior objections, and the two of them climb inside, scrubbing off the combination of soot, other people’s blood, their own blood, and general grime that they have both managed to acquire over their extremely long, not-quite-concluded day.

“So,” he says, once they are both passably clean and snuggled against each other in the warm, scented water. “Room not so bad, really?”

Her eyes are closed, and she just smiles. “I suppose I can be adaptable.”

He considers. “You could always redecorate.” He coughs a little. “I mean, I’m Crown Prince again, pretty officially. There’s literally years of work to do here just to stabilize everything. We have to stop the rest of the war, make peace treaties, start demobilizing an entire army, shift to a peacetime economy, there’s kind of a whole issue with food production once we stop just forcibly seizing stuff from the Earth Kingdom, I don’t know what is going to even happen with the colonies, but—”

“Zuko.” She shifts in the water, tugging his chin gently until they’re just looking at each other, foreheads pressed together. “You’re still my real boyfriend. Would you like some company for all of that?”

He exhales a long, very overstressed breath. “With you? Forever.”

**

Much later, snuggled together in silken bedsheets, with the sun just peeking over the horizon, he clarifies – “That wasn’t a proposal, by the way.”

“I figured it wasn’t.”

“Because I need a ring to propose to you.”

“Aw, that’s such a cute custom.”

“No, really. There has to be a ring, and I have to have it made, so I’m just telling you right now, we’re not engaged yet—”

“Yet—”

“But it’s going to take a few days to get the ring made, okay, so if Aang starts bugging you to go train with him in the North Pole again, or if your dad and Sokka are asking you to go back to the South Pole, or if that one asshole guy from your tribe starts up with how you guys used to go penguin sledding or whatever—”

“Wait, who—”

“Doesn’t matter. Anyone starts trying to make plans, just tell them that we’re getting married. In, like, a month, maybe. I don't know how long these things take to set up, but I'm sure we can make it happen pretty fast.”

There’s a small snicker from Katara. “This is the most you proposal I could’ve imagined, Zuko.”

“I don’t have the ring yet, Katara, this isn’t a proposal.”

 **

Three days later, when Zuko gets the ring, proposes, and the engagement is formally announced, it is a sign of just how much he loves him that Iroh pretends to be surprised.