a burnt dollar yuan
Zuko, unfortunately, wakes up too early.
‘It was because of my dream,’ he tells himself. He had felt like he was falling and when he stopped falling, he woke up.
The sky’s darkness and the moonlight is enough proof that he should go back to sleep—or at least try to.
Sleep was never easy for Zuko, not even when it should’ve been.
After some deliberation—in his mind, he couldn’t tell if it was a good idea or not—Zuko decides to glance over at Katara’s sleeping figure, just to see if she’s sleeping alright.
Even from a distance, it seems like she has the chills—he blames it on the fact that she isn’t close to the fire tonight—so he gets up and adds some wood to the fire, for her sake.
He looks over at her, and when Zuko’s mostly sure that she’s warm and that she’s not having a nightmare at the moment, he lays down on his back. He yawns and closes his eyes, more than willing to fall asleep again—
“Stop! Stop—! Please, don’t—“
Zuko sits up quickly and walks over to her. He crouches down just as her body starts to thrash, as her cheeks become shiny with tears; he gently, quickly shakes her awake from a nightmare.
“Let it out; it’s alright,” he mumbles to her before he moves away. “It’s okay, Katara. It’s okay.”
‘You’re safe here,’ is something he almost says, but stops himself just in time.
Zuko knows that he can’t say that to her—she has no reason to believe she’s safe with him, even if he saved her and if they do have a temporary truce. And he can’t say, ‘I’m here,’ to her, either—how can he, when his presence doesn’t bring her comfort?
She gasps as she continues to sob and after a while, Zuko, hesitant and reluctant, tells her to listen to his breathing—to copy how he inhales, exhales.
He goes through a breathing exercise his Uncle drilled into him on the ship, wondering if Katara is listening to him at all. Nevertheless, he keeps doing the breathing exercise, keeps inhaling and exhaling slowly. Counts the seconds that he holds his breath, when he lets it go.
Her breathing, previously choked and broken, becomes quiet and even. She still cries, but at least she breathes easier. He likes to think that it’s a small step in the right direction.
(He hasn’t done this before—he hasn’t guided someone, much less his enemy, into copying one of his breathing exercises. Zuko hopes he’s doing it right, hopes it’ll help her.)
Zuko can see the top of her head and nothing else. Her short, dark hair is loose, and he frowns at how knotted it seems to look; when Uncle Iroh and June come for them, and they get to his ship, he’ll give her a comb for her hair.
If he squints, he might be able to see the outline of her fingertips near her hairline.
Moonlight and fire can only provide so much light, and Katara isn’t sitting that close to the fire, either.
Zuko fiddles with his hands as he sits across from her. Zuko has no idea what to say to her; he never knows what to say to her when she cries.
Slowly, he moves a few inches closer—not too much, and if she notices it, she doesn't show it or say anything about it.
Zuko fiddles with his fingers and speaks quietly, “Katara. The person who did this to you—he can’t hurt you right now, and he won’t get to hurt you again. I know what kind of things he says, too, and you need to know this wasn't your fault, Katara. You couldn't have stopped him.”
The last sentence gets her to react, which he didn’t expect.
But, then again, he isn't Azula; he doesn't know how to be one step ahead, how to plan for things when he doesn't know what’s going to happen, and how to turn mistakes into opportunities.
That wasn’t his forte; it never was.
Her reaction is a loud protest of, “I could have stopped him!”
He wants to open his mouth to give her a reply, but he keeps it closed, waits for her to speak again.
And she does speak again, with trembling hands, with pearls of sadness trailing down her cheeks, with her tangled hair moving as the wind blows. “If I just—if I just lied to him Zuko, none of this—I’d be okay—I could have...why didn't I—”
“Katara,” he says her name as softly and gently as he can, and it...her name—...her name sounds so strange when it comes out of his mouth like that.
Because when he says her name like that—it almost sounds like—
—...like he cares about her.
And Zuko doesn’t care about her, not really, not at all—but still, he stubbornly insists: “It wasn't your fault, Katara.”
(Zuko wants to say, ‘It was mine, it was all my fault. You should hate me,’ but this isn’t about him—it’s about her.)
“Yes, it was. I know it was,” Katara insists, voice breaking. “Because if I just lied to him, this wouldn't have happened.”
(Zuko can hear the words she doesn’t have to say: ‘If I just lied to him, I wouldn't be with you right now.’)
“I don't know the whole situation—and you don’t have to tell me—but Zhao always burns his prisoners, even if they give him the information he wants. He's a bad person, Katara, and you don't deserve what happened to you,” he meets her eyes for a split second and she averts her eyes as if his gaze is burning her.
A sniffle, some soft, shaky breaths being taken, and what feels like an eternity later, she speaks again.
Confessions leave her lips like a flood breaking through a dam: she doesn’t want to go back to sleep, she doesn’t want to keep having nightmares, she misses having good dreams and sleeping through the night. She doesn’t want to keep having nightmares about what happened; she wants to be herself again.
She says all of this and more, and he listens, listens, listens.
She doesn’t look at him when she tells him any of this; Zuko thinks that he understands why.
(Sometimes, eye contact can feel too intimate, and the last thing someone wants to be with an enemy is intimate.)
The one phrase she repeats over and over again is: “I’m ruined.”
Zuko frowns at how she speaks of herself—she is the best person he has ever fought against (besides the flighty, energinic Avatar himself), and she is by far the most resilient person he’s ever known—so he could disagree more with that statement.
He waits for her to finish speaking; and when she stops speaking, he tries to assure her: “You’re not ruined, Katara. Not even a little bit.”
(He almost tells her, ‘You’re strong; you’re a great bender, a great fighter. When we fought before, it made me want to be a better bender. Our fights gave me motivation—made me want to work harder. I don’t think of you as ruined. I don’t think I could even if I tried. You’re so strong, Katara—stronger than I ever was or hope to be,’—but he can’t find the courage to do it.)
(Zuko can’t tell her too much about himself, he can’t give himself away to her. She is his enemy—an enemy who he currently has a temporary truce with, but still.)
“I am.” She turns her head and presses the side of her face against her knees; Zuko can’t see her face anymore, but he doesn’t have to see her face to know that she is crying. “I really, really am.”
“Katara. I’ll let you know that I disagree with that statement. Strongly.”
Katara seems to pause and think over his words. She looks up at him. “What do you mean by that—when you say you disagree?”
Zuko feels warmth crawl up his neck and ears and cheeks. “I...just disagree. With you being ruined. I think you’re pretty strong, Katara. I mean—I know you’re strong.” He swallows dryly and looks away. “I’ve always thought of you as a strong person. You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”
She sounds so tired. “I can’t help being ruined, Zuko—“
Zuko asks her, gently, “What do you mean by ‘ruined,’ Katara?”
She lifts her head from her knees and the warm orange light from the fire lets him see her face. Katara bites her lip, voice trembling. “Well. You know—ruined. As in, um, destroyed. Messed up.”
“But you’re in one piece. You aren't ruined—or destroyed; you aren’t messed up. I mean—you are here, you are alive. You’re still here,” he says the last sentence as if it’s surprising as he motions toward their little camp.
(In a way, maybe it is surprising. He always expects to wake up alone, to wake up to Katara getting on the air bison and leaving him alone in a forest.)
(And he wouldn't blame her if she ever did that—she has no reason to stay tethered to him, to their little camping spot in some random forest. He is the enemy, her enemy—she has every reason to leave, should the opportunity present itself.)
A beat, silence, and she doesn’t say anything.
Another sigh leaves his lips. Zuko rubs the side of his neck, feeling warmth rush to his face, ears and neck as he stammers, “You—um. A dollar yuan, right?—if you crumble it up, it’s still a dollar yuan. It...it’s—it’s still valuable, still a dollar yuan, even if you crumble it up, or paint on it, or whatever. Um—it—”
“What if someone burns a part of the dollar yuan, Zuko? What then?” Katara asks him in a small voice. Doesn't look at him, fists curled tightly. “A burnt dollar yuan isn’t a yuan anymore. A burnt dollar yuan—”
“It’ll still have value, Katara; it’ll still be important. Someone out there has to want it,” Zuko says, looking at the river. He glances at her once, then he gazes at the river, how it flows. “Someone has to want the burnt dollar yuan,” he clarifies awkwardly.
(Maybe—he is talking about her. Maybe he’s talking about himself. Maybe he’s talking about both of them.)
“Who? Who would want a burnt dollar yuan?”
“...Someone special, probably.”
“And? Where can they be found?”
“You ask as if I know.”
“Well...you answer my questions as if you do.”
“...”
“...”
“...There’s a game we played in the Fire Nation,” he begins, lightly tugs at the bottom of his shirt for no reason at all, except for the fact that it gives his hands something to do for a few seconds. “I can teach you how to play the game—um, if you want. I’m gonna have to touch your hand and you’ll have to touch mine, though.”
Katars lifts her head; stares at him like he might change his mind any second. “I’ll play,” she tells him.
He purses his lips. “Can I get closer to you, then?”
Katara gives him a single nod, and Zuko slowly inches over to her. He doesn't want to get too close to her, doesn't want to make any quick movements that might make her uneasy. Zuko stretches his right arm out in her direction, spaced out fingers pointed toward the sky as his palm faces her.
Katara watches him the whole time, almost as if she's looking for him to shift into a bending stance and hurt her.
When he stretches his arm out to her, her eyes linger on his hand.
“Zuko,” Katara looks at him and he just now notices how her voice is hoarse from the crying. “What's the name of the game?”
“It’s called ‘Five Fingers, Five Questions,’” Zuko answers. It was a game made up by a playwright and it made it into an Ember Island play, and word spread about it.
It was popular before he got banished. He doesn’t know if it’s still popular.
Maybe it is.
He wouldn’t know.
He wishes he’d be able to know.
“Okay.” A beat. “Can I touch your hand, Zuko?” Her eyes go to his face and she peeks at his hand.
“Please,” she adds.
“Okay,” he nods.
As tentative as ever, Katara turns her body so she faces him; she changes positions, so her legs are crossed. She raises her right arm, her hand curled into a loose fist, and opens it up as she reaches for his hand. Right before she touches his hand, she falters and her fingers twitch, and it really seems like she’ll pull away from him altogether—until, in a burst of bravery, she presses her hand flat against his.
Zuko notices, for the first time, that Katara has small hands.
Small compared to his, anyways.
“You’re really warm,” Katara comments.
“And your hands—they’re—you’re, uh, cold. Should I add more wood to the fire?”
‘For you,’ he mentally adds.
He certainly doesn’t need the fire to be any bigger than it is. He’s a firebender, he’s naturally warm. He’s fine.
“No, it’s okay.”
“...”
Zuko adds more wood to the fire, anyway.
He doesn’t want her to be cold.
(Why does he care?)
(He doesn’t.)
“Zuko?”
“Yes?”
“...I know, one day, we’re gonna go back to fighting each other, but I—” Her eyes drift to the crackling fire, avoiding his gaze.
Katara swallows dryly, feeling anxious as she continues, “But I just...I appreciate what you do for me. Everything. All of it. I need you to know that before we go back to the way we were before all of...this happened.” Her eyes flicker to make contact with his eyes as she speaks; Katara stares at him, searching for an answer to a question she didn’t ask.
“You’re welcome,” he replies quietly.
Zuko can’t—shouldn’t say more than that.
Because he’s never been good with words—not when it mattered.
A beat; she doesn’t speak in the hopes that he’ll continue talking, but all she is met with is silence. When it’s clear that Zuko doesn’t want to keep talking in response to what she said, she changes the topic: “So, how do we play the game, Zuko?”
Zuko glances at their hands and back at her. He moves his hand so his fingers are between the spaces of her fingers. He pretends to not acknowledge how she pauses at that motion, how she takes a prolonged second to glance at their hands.
He clears his throat, “So, you have to ask me a question. If I answer it, I put a finger down. If I don’t answer it, my finger stays up. Same rules apply to you. By the end of the game, whoever has the most fingers up—so. So, um, say I lose and you win, right?—say I lose and I have three fingers up. That means I have to do three things you want me to do. And we have to keep our hands pressed together until the game is over, too.”
“Is there a limit to what we have to make the other do? Like..” She purses her lips and her eyes look away from him. “...I can’t make you stop searching for Aang, can I?”
“No.” He rolls his shoulders and stops a yawn from leaving his lips. “You can...make me get you a bunch of mangoes. You...can make me owe you some favors. Uh—stuff like that. Nothing too crazy. Or extreme.”
A beat. “Okay. Let's play,” she straightens her back, her left arm unmoving at her side. “Do I go first and ask you the five questions?”
He shrugs. “That’s fine.”
Katara watches his face, his reaction to the first question. She asks slowly, “How did you stop Zhao? I mean, I know you broke into my cell, but Zhao was—“ she clears her throat, squirms under the weight of his gaze. “He was there, so I—how did you stop him? Did you knock him out?”
One.
Zuko tries not to frown at her; it’ll be better if she never knows what really happened, if she never finds out how Zhao’s blood colored one of his swords and how Zuko last saw him bleeding out on the floor and had thought nothing about leaving him to die.
He wonders if Uncle would approve of what he did to Zhao. He wonders if Katara would think less of him for it.
He wonders what his parents would think; his father would be shocked, for sure. He’d probably think that Zuko was too weak to kill someone. He’d probably never expect this from Zuko.
Would...would he be...proud of Zuko?—
—Is this something that Zuko wants Ozai to be proud of him for?
Would Ursa…be disappointed in him?
What would Azula—
No.
He can’t keep thinking about this—about what his family would think. That never did anything good for him.
He shakes his head.
He’s never been a good liar, and Zuko guesses that he doesn’t want to lie about what he did to Zhao; he can’t tell her about it, either, though. She might not be comfortable around him going forward—and who knows how long they’ll be stuck together?—and he can’t have her be distrustful and wary of him beyond what she already knows about him.
He’ll just have to be vague about it.
“We fought and I won,” Zuko tells her, but keeps his thumb up. It’s not a lie, and it’s not the truth, but his stomach churns uncomfortably in guilt anyway.
Katara deserves to know—of course she does—but he can’t risk ruining their fragile truce. He can’t risk her thinking of him as a murderer.
He’ll tell her one day, maybe in the future, if their truce isn’t broken by then.
She glances at his thumb in confusion, but he motions for her to move on, so she does.
“What’s your favorite color?” Katara asks him quietly. He catches her glance at the river before she looks back at him.
Two.
“Brown.”
He lowers his index finger.
“This question doesn’t count, but, why is that your favorite color?”
She’s just curious, and technically, it does count, but he lets it slide just this once.
“Because,” Zuko glances at her lips. Both her top lip and bottom lip are a rich, dark brown; the skin around her body is a deep but soft and warm brown—it reminds him of the feeling he’d get when he’d drink freshly brewed tea from Uncle Iroh: relaxation, serenity. Warmth.
Brown reminds him of the earth and how it creates life from nothing.
(How wonderful is that?—to be able to create life from nothing? How glorious it must be—for things to grow from the earth, from the dark brown soil? For flowers to grow from the earth, to be strong enough to break through concrete?)
Brown reminds him of a garden full of lively, blossoming flowers with buzzing butter-bee-flies, of sweet songs from plays that he’ll forget the plots of as he gets older, and a childhood that had fleeting moments of happiness.
Brown reminds him of honey—sweet on the tongue, sticky on skin; it reminds him of old bookshelves he’d graze his fingers on as he walked by them, arm stretching. It reminds him of the first bite taken from freshly baked, golden brown blueberry muffins.
It reminds him of good things he wished he cherished more. It reminds him of things he loved, things he might get again.
Brown is wonderful—always has been.
But, what he tells her is, “Because brown is beautiful, Katara. That’s why I love it so much.”
It’s because of the fire and the moonlight that he can see her nodding. A beat and, “When did you lose your honor?”
Three.
“Four years ago,” he lowers his middle finger.
“I’m sixteen,” he adds, almost like an afterthought, as if his age explains anything.
Katara frowns deeply when she hears his age. “But...Aang wasn’t around four years ago,” she points out, as if he didn’t know, as if he didn’t spend years searching for the Avatar himself. “You—wait—you were twelve when you—“
Zuko clenches his jaw, not liking how she’s trying to put the pieces together; he needs to nip her suspicions in the bud, before they can form. “It’s none of your business. Next question,” he grumbles out.
“Why do you want your honor back?”
Four.
Zuko could laugh; he could cry.
There’s a million answers to that question. He could spend a day talking about or even just listing the answers to that question.
But—for time or transparency’s sake, he doesn’t know—he chooses the simplest answer he can think of, and Zuko says it with a dry, almost bitter, but honest tone: “I just want to go home, Katara.”
He puts his ring finger down—wonders if that answer made her curiosity heighten.
“...Zuko. Do you hate me?” She looks away. “I’m your enemy, so—I...I know that you’re supposed to...—”
Five.
Zuko sighs deeply. “I don't hate you, Katara.” The only finger that sticks out now is his thumb.
“But—”
“But that doesn't mean I like you,” he tells her bluntly. “Because I don’t like you at all.”
His stomach churns again.
It’s...guilt, again—
—from another lie.
Her shocked expression quickly turns into a sharp glare. “Good, ‘cause I don't like you either,” she snaps.
“That’s fine with me.”
“Whatever!”
He sighs, his head dully throbbing now. “My turn.” Zuko glances at the moon, at the river, then keeps his eyes on her. “Tui and La—they’re your Spirits, right?” He shifts, moves around, as she watches him. “You know...the ones you pray to.”
One.
Katara licks her lips, eyebrows furrowed. “Yes,” she replies and she parts her lips, probably to ask him a question, but he shakes his head at her.
Ah, good. He got her Spirits right.
‘My turn,’ he mouths and she scowls at him briefly. Katara motions for him to continue with a single, small nod, as she puts her thumb down.
Her small thumb awkwardly wraps around his bigger one.
“Why are you travelling North?”
Two.
Katara’s a very skilled waterbender—so they shouldn't have any reason to go to the North Pole. She can teach the Avatar waterbending herself—both healing waterbending and combative waterbending. In his eyes, they would be wasting their time there, really.
“To get Aang a waterbending master,” She puts her index finger down.
At that, he frowns at her, sincerely confused. When his ship was about to reach the ice near Katara’s home, she and an old woman sent his ship back with a powerful wave, and before he could process what happened to his ship, Katara flew by on Appa, and froze his ship in place.
“But...you're a skilled water—” He starts, but her eyes turn icy, and he tries not to let it annoy him as he closes his mouth.
“Next question.”
He rolls his eyes, ponders over questions to ask her. “Fine.” He glances at her throat, where a necklace used to be. “Hey, that’s necklace of yours, is it—“
Katara immediately tenses up, fingers twitching against his, and she glares at him. “The one that you stole from me? Oh, yeah, I remember that one—”
“Katara,” Zuko grinds his teeth together. “I already told you: I found it on a prison ship, I didn't steal it. I’m gonna give it back to you—”
“Oh? So you aren't gonna save me from the pirates this time?”
“Oh. You—you—” Zuko facepalms, pinching his nose, face scrunching up in irritation, which he knows (from experience) can turn into anger very quickly.
He mentally counts to ten very slowly, thinks of baby turtleducks; he even does a short breathing exercise.
“Look—are you betrothed?” He finally asks, when he’s calm.
Three.
Katara gapes at him, eyes almost comically wide. “What?” She nearly shouts at him. “What are you talking about? Of course not!”
“That’s what that necklace means,” he huffs.
Katara frowns at him. “...You know it belonged to my mom.”
“It’s not uncommon for people to propose with family heirlooms,” Zuko shrugs. “Whatever.”
Katara’s nose twitches as she puts her middle finger down, “What’s the next question?”
“How old are you?”
Four.
“Fourteen, almost fifteen.” She puts her ring finger down.
Zuko frowns. He has no idea what to ask her next. Maybe...something about...waterbending? Or how she met the Avatar? Or—
“Why aren't you going to teach the Avatar waterbending?”
Five.
Before she can answer, he quickly says, “I think you’re more than capable of teaching him.” Not that Zuko wants her to teach him, anyways. The less elements the Avatar can use against Zuko in combat, the better.
Mentally, he adds, ‘You’re really strong.’
He should know: he’s fought her himself.
“Then it’s good that what you think doesn’t matter,” Katara snaps as she lowers her pinky finger. “And he needs a master, okay? I’m not a—”
“So?”
“What do you mean ‘so?’”
“Who cares if you're not a master? You're still good at it, you can still teach—”
“Well, I’m not good at it anymore, so why don't you just shut up?” Katara yells, ducking her head away from him; all he can see now is her hair and the back of her head. “No one wants a teacher who can’t do what they're supposed to do, Zuko! What do you know? Shut up!”
Zuko hears soft pants leave her mouth and he pretends he didn't hear her voice break when she yelled. He gives her hand a ghost of squeeze before he pulls his hand away from hers.
Zuko waits patiently until her breathing is back to normal; the waiting is for both her and him. Her, to calm down and catch her breath; him, so he doesn’t lose his temper and yell at her. He knows if he yells at her right now, he’ll say things that will ruin whatever ‘truce’ they have right now (maybe calling whatever they have going on a ‘truce’ would be giving it a generous title—at least, that’s what Zuko thinks) and he can’t do that.
(Also—he’s too tired to yell, to fight.)
(Zuko doesn't want to be angry, either—being angry takes more energy than it gives. If the color of the sky is any indication, Zuko won’t be getting more energy—more fire—until later, so he figures he’ll just save the energy he has now.)
(And he guesses that...maybe Katara isn’t angry at him. Not currently, anyway. Not directly.)
(He knows what that’s like, he’s very familiar with that.)
—
“Can I tell you a story, Katara? Would that be okay with you?”
Katara’s eyes flicker to the fire, and then back to him. “...It’s okay with me,” she replies quietly. Her cheeks are tear-stained and she wipes them before he can say anything about it (not that he was planning on it). She sniffles once more and her eyes go from Zuko and to the dwindling fire several times.
Zuko blinks at her. Why does she keep looking at the fire and then at him?—
Oh.
Right.
The fire.
Zuko adds sticks to the fire and he flicks his wrist, and the fire burns bigger, brighter.
(She doesn’t flinch anymore when he does little firebending moves like that. He doesn’t tell her and he doesn't think he ever will, but he’s envious of her progress already. It doesn’t feel that long ago when he was scared of his element, when even trying to light a candle was tough for him.)
Zuko awkwardly folds his hands over his lap, and tells Katara about an ancient love; he tells her about Oma and Shu, the tunnels they built to be together, and the green crystals that were lit by Oma and Shu’s love. He tells her the story exactly how it was told to him; by the end, she’s almost in tears, and the sky is still a dark blue, with twinkling stars scattered across it.
The moon is still shining.
“Love is brightest in the dark,” Katara repeats a line from the story and looks at him with a softened, amazed expression.
(He imagines that that’s how he must’ve looked when someone told him that story for the first time, too.)
“Yeah,” Zuko swallows and holds his hand out, his palm facing upwards so it faces the sky. A small flame appears in his hand, and it moves as he inhales and exhales. “Love is brightest in the dark, Katara.”
Katara’s eyes go from the fire in his outstretched hand to his face, almost warily, but she doesn’t say anything to him and doesn't bend the water so it wraps around her hand into a weapon the way he’s seen her do before. She moves her arm, though, so it’s in the river’s general direction—so if Zuko attacks her, she can be ready for it—not that he’ll attack her, or anything.
He recognizes her mistrust in him, and he’s fine with it, especially because he doesn’t trust her, either.
How could he trust her?
Just because they aren't fighting right now doesn't mean that they won’t be fighting later on. When Katara reunites with Aang and Sokka, they’ll go back to fighting, just like before.
And when he’s with Uncle Iroh again, he’ll feel normal. And Zuko never thought he would say it, but he wants to go back on his ship. He misses his bed and the smell of the ocean.
(He misses the Fire Nation more, of course, but he can’t go back yet. He needs to capture Aang before that happens. So, for now, he’ll miss the home he already has: an old ship filled with a crew of Fire Nation soldiers his Uncle got for him.)
(He recalls the stares he got when he tried to recruit crew members for his ship. Zuko remembers it all, even though he doesn't want to. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t want to remember.)
When Zuko closes his hand, fingers curled into his palm, thumb pressed against his index finger, and the fire in his hand is gone, Katara seems to be more at ease.
“I love that line,” she tells him. “Thank you for that story, Zuko. It was good.” Her eyes are no longer shiny with her tears, but they’re glassy, regardless.
(Zuko thinks it’s because of the pain from her burn. He understands.)
“You’re welcome, Katara.”
Anything so you stop crying, is what he doesn’t say to her. Because he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say, when she cries. Somehow, though, he always tries to make her feel better. He likes to think it works; he likes to think he can make things better.
For once, maybe he can not mess things up.
But he’ll mess something up soon.
He always does.
Zuko glances over at Katara’s hunched form. She moves into the position she was in earlier: legs pressed together, bent knees facing upwards. He takes note of her hands wrapped around her knees and of her chin on top of her hands. Her shoulders are slouched over and she almost seems to be leaning on her knees.
Her blue eyes—always shiny, but always watching—seem almost empty as they gaze at the fire, but he knows better, now, he thinks. She’s spaced out, thinking. He knows that. He remembers himself—angry, angsty, and fourteen—always thinking, always on the verge of exploding like a volcano.
Zuko’s eyes drift to the fire in front of him, jaw set and hands curled into tight fists. He remembers trying so hard not to think about Ozai and what he did, but then he just ended up thinking about it more.
It was...really tiresome for him.
Not only that, but it made him angry.
Angry that he couldn’t just get over it. Angry that he was always just...weak. Angry at his past self for being so—so pathetic, so cowardly. If he fought back against his father, he would still be at home. If he was even a sliver like Azula—then maybe, he could be...worth something.
But no.
He was just...himself, and that never did anyone any good, if he’s gonna be honest with himself. Back on the ship, Zuko always snapped at Uncle—and he always said harsh things he didn’t mean, but never apologized for. He always just...makes things worse.
What...is so wrong with him that nothing ever goes his way? What did he ever do to deserve this feeling? Why do the Spirits hate him?
Why—
Why does he always have to fight for everything when he always feels so—...tired?
“—Zuko?”
Zuko’s head snaps up at the sound of her voice, and he’s almost grateful for her presence. He was getting too into his head. That was never a good thing for him. Whenever he gets too into his head, he spirals and he swirls until he gets too dizzy and then he just falls, falls, falls.
He finds his voice. “Yes, Katara?” He stretches his arms and cracks his knuckles. “What were you saying?”
“Are you going to go back to sleep soon?” She asks him, her eyes never leaving his face. Her face looks warm with the orange light from the fire and Zuko notices, now, that she’s closer to the fire than she was before.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go back to sleep,” he tells her and looks up at the moon. He glances at her then keeps his eyes on the moon; Zuko can’t feel the sun yet, so if he goes back to sleep successfully, he’ll get a few hours in. Probably. He’ll need it.
“Oh, okay,” is Katara’s subdued response. She's still looking at him, but she comes off as almost displeased by his response. Zuko doesn't understand why, though.
Shouldn't she try to sleep, too?
Doesn’t she need to sleep more than he does?
Isn’t she exhausted?
Why is she disappointed about him going back to sleep?
“...Um, why were you asking?” Zuko inquires slowly, feeling as if he's treading on thin ice for asking her a question like that.
“...It’s nothing, Zuko.”
“Um. Okay.”
She said it was nothing, so he should just drop it.
Right?
But Uncle Iroh never gave up on him, always checked on Zuko more than once—shouldn’t he do that? Shouldn’t he try more for someone who is going through what he’s gone through before? Isn’t that the honorable thing to do?
Zuko shakes his head; he’ll ask her. When Zuko recalls how, earlier, Katara admitted she doesn’t want to go back to sleep, it gives him that extra boost of courage to ask her: “Are you sure, Katara?”
“Yeah—I mean, it was silly. I was just going to ask you if we could play that game again,” Katara chuckles awkwardly, her cheeks getting tinted with embarrassment. She lifts her head completely and looks over at him. She rubs the right side of her neck, glancing away from him. “But you're going to go back to sleep, so—”
He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s too tired to function properly, but—“We can play it again, Katara. It's fine.”
He wasn’t that tired, anyway, and he doubted he would fall asleep anytime soon. He would’ve tried to sleep, sure, but it wouldn’t have worked.
“Really?” Katara’s lips curl upwards slightly, surprised that he agreed to play ‘Five Fingers, Five Questions’ with her again.
He clears his throat and holds his hand out for her, and she smiles—a shy, small thing that doesn’t last—as she presses her hand to his; Zuko silently adds wood to the fire for the second time that night.
—
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Ocean kumquats...and fire flakes.”
“Oh! Those sound kinda similar to sea prunes. Have you had sea prunes before?”
“I’ve had both, and ocean kumquats can taste like sea prunes if they’re stewed properly. I really like both, though.”
“Hm—if you like sea prunes, then I think you’d really like Water Tribe food.”
“Yeah, probably. I don’t know if you’d like Fire Nation food, though. A lot of it is spicy, like fire flakes. Not all of it, but—yeah.”
“Can you tell me about it?—Fire Nation food.”
“Only if you tell me about Water Tribe food.”
“Alright, you’ve got a deal. My favorite soup is five flavored soup…”
—
“Katara.”
“Mhmm?”
“Your hair—it looks good short.”
“Oh, um—thank you, Zuko.”
“Um. Yeah. You’re, uh—welcome.”
“...I think it’ll look good when your hair grows back.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
—
“Zuko. Why did you save me?”
“You already know why—“
“Then tell me again.”
“Why?”
“...Just do it. Please.”
“Well…I couldn’t leave you. Not when you needed someone to help you. How could I do that to you?—how could I leave you alone?”
“Thank you, Zuko.”
“...of course.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
—
“Katara?”
“...Yeah?”
“We’ll go try and find a town tomorrow, see if they have a healer and food. And, uh, other stuff. Okay? Does that sound okay to you?”
“Well, what about your Uncle? And that bounty hunter lady, Ju—“
“—I can't keep waiting for them to come when you still need help, Katara. Who knows how long it’s gonna take?”
“Oh. Thank you, Zuko.”
“...Night.”
“Night.”