AtLA Mayday Rarepair Month

She stands upon the cliff’s edge, looking out over the churning water. Off to the left…a thundering waterfall with birds to circle it. She takes a breath, one deep one that gets caught in her throat as she looks down at the waterhole below. And the birds’ flight becomes dizzying. Vines and ivy droop down from the cliff, reaching for the pool, unconcerned with the going ons above them. 

“Go on. Prove that you love me.”

It has become their mantra.

A defining part of whatever relationship they have.

Jiang says it again. “Go on. Prove that you love me.”

Azula exhales and so does the land, a gust of wind rustles her clothes and whips her hair. It isn’t such a long way down…or so she tries to tell herself. She doesn’t know how this will prove that she loves Jiang.Granted, she doesn’t know how walking over hot coals was supposed to prove that Jiang loves her. But they both do it. Over and over again. When Azula say “go”, Jiang asks “how far?”

 When Jiang says “jump”,  Azula asks “from what height?” 

About 12 meters, she comes to find is the answer.

She exhales again and has a look over her shoulder, back at Jiang who stands with her arms crossed and a perfectly devious smile on her face. “Go ahead. You’re not scared, are you, princess?”

Azula crinkles her nose and Jiang laughs. She faces the other woman as she takes a step back. She’ll take the plunge but that doesn’t mean that she has to face her fate, although it would be the more respectable, honorable approach. She supposes that old habits and long standing traditions have a respectable pull because she finds herself looking towards the drop. Better, she decides, to actually see what she is doing.

“You better hope I don’t survive this.” Azula comments dryly as her toes reach the cliff’s edge. “Because you will have a lot to prove to me if I do.” They are as good as parting words as any. And with them she throws her arms back and then forward. Her feet leave the cliff and her body sails. Her heart leaps and her stomach drops faster than the rest of her. She isn’t a dreadful swimmer, she can do it if she must, but she is by no means a strong swimmer. What if she doesn’t resurface? What if she lands too close to the waterfall? What if she lands on a craggy boulder? Will Jiang regret having made her do this or will she just be another dead lover? How many lovers of hers have died proving their love—she had mentioned three lost lovers but never spoke of the manner of death. 

These are the things that occur to Azula as she plummets. 

Just a little too late she thinks to add a little fire to break her fall. 

And then there is cold. 

She hadn’t held her position as straight and stiff as she ought to have to complete a graceful arc—a controlled slice through the surface. So when her body strikes the water, it strikes her back. A solid slap to the face, chest, belly, and legs. She thinks of her Katara, of how it had felt to be slapped away by the water. 

This is worse. 

Oh, Agni, it’s worse. 

The water closes in around her and she sinks deeper. The roar of the waterfall fills her ears and steals away some of her precious rational thinking skills. Summounting panic threatens to take the rest of it. 

She had gone down head first, she reminds herself. And then she had flattened, midfall. She had landed on her stomach; she just needs to…

She lets her legs dip down and her head tilt up. She thinks that she is vertical now. Her stomach flutters at the possibility of actually having put herself facing the bottom of the waterhole instead of towards the surface. She is so terribly disoriented but she kicks her legs anyways. As hard as she can. Until she can feel her muscles burn as viciously as her lungs.

And just when she doesn't think that she will resurface before she runs out of air…

Arms.

They hook under her shoulders and she is drifting upwards much faster.

And then she is on the surface, on the bank of the river with pebbles and mud on her thighs and bloodied knees and hair plastered to her cheeks and forehead, breathing heavily and staring up at the waterfall and the shifting canopy as the wind rattles it. She exhales with the breeze and closes her eyes. The sunlight falls upon her face, warms it. The adrenaline leaves her and the fatigue settles in.

“I told you that you could trust me.” Jiang says. She cracks an eye open and gazes upon that trademark smug, mischievous smirk. “I’ll save you from anything.”

“Did you…? Did you jump too?” She has the energy for only something just above a whisper. 

“I jumped too, princess.” She replies. “And I’d do it again! Cliffdiving is a hobby.” 

“It’s a dreadful one.” Azula murmurs, rolling onto her side. Sand and mud kiss her downturned cheek. Jiang kisses her upturned cheek. Azula ought to shove her away, shove her right back into the waterhole.

“Do you trust me now?”

Truth be told she doesn’t know how to answer that. 

Truth be told, she trusts the woman more and less all at once.

“I guess.” She says.

Maybe now they can stop with their mantra. 

They've been circling each other for months—debate club ambushes, stolen library cubicles, hissing arguments in seminar hallways about privilege and praxis and whether the Dai Li endowment was blood money (it was). She calls him a bleeding heart hypocrite. He calls her a trust-fund tyrant. Neither backs down.

But this time it’s different.

It started with an argument about land reform a few days ago. But somewhere between Jet snarling about expropriation and Azula countering with razor-sharp statistics on agricultural output, their voices drop. Heads bent closer over the shared table. Her perfume—something expensive and smoky—slid into his space. When they were forced to collaborate on a project, his knee accidentally brushed hers under the table. She didn’t budge, their discussion faded into a reluctant, wordless partnership.

Now, the silence stretches.

"You talk a lot about tearing it all down," Azula murmurs, eyes flicking to his mouth, "but here you are using a laptop granted to you by the same corporation you loathe, sipping your oatmilk latte from the coffee conglomerate instead of buying one from the school cafeteria. Tell me, how does your hypocrisy taste?”

He smirks at her and looks her up and down. “Why are you here? Seriously. Why the need to slum it out with me at this very moment instead of, I dont know, yachting with daddy's board members kids? You told me more than once you don’t need this pathetic school, remember? Or maybe it’s easier for you to just pay your way through graduation?”Jet's voice comes out rougher than he meant.

She leans in until their faces were inches apart. "Maybe I just like… watching you squirm."

Maybe he likes it too.

"If you hate me that much why are you still here?” He adds with a knowing smile.

They don’t know who moved first—probably both, too proud to concede. Her hands tighten around the strings of his hoodie. His fingers slip around the nape of her neck. Mouths crashing together like a fuse finally catching fire.

The moment feels chaotic. Hungry. All teeth and swallowed arguments. Azula tastes like black coffee and spite; Jet kisses like he’s trying to prove a point. Her nails scrape lightly down his chest through cotton. He groans low in his throat, dragging her closer until she half-straddles his lap in the narrow library chair.

The table creaks. A book topples off the edge with a soft *thud*. Neither cared.

Jet's fingers slip under the hem of her silk blouse, finds warm skin, traces the dip of her spine. Azula arches into the touch, biting his lower lip hard enough to sting. "Careful, freedom fighter," she breathes against his mouth. "You might start liking the enemy."

"Shut up," he growls smirking, "and maybe I will." And he kissed her harder.

Her hand slides down, palming him through his jeans. Jet jerks, she laughs—soft and dangerous—then rocks forward, grinding slow and every deliberate inch of friction until his head tips back with a choked curse, his grip on her hips turns bruising.

“Still think you’re winning?” she breathes against his jaw, voice smug.

Jet’s laughs, dark and breathless. “I’m not the one shaking.”

Azula’s hand tightens in his hair, yanks his head back to crash her mouth on his neck. All tongue and teeth and breath now, desperate, tasting like the edge of something neither of them could name.

Jet breaks it first, holding her face against his, just enough to rasp against her lips, “Say it.”

Her gold eyes locks on his, pupils blown, lips swollen and red. “You’re mine to break,” she hisses at him smiling, then kissed him again like she means to prove it.

They’re losing it. Right there. Between dusty stacks and fluorescent lights. Jet doesn’t care. He wants more—wants to flip her onto the table, wants to hear her say his name like a curse, wants—

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. The unmistakable squeak of sensible orthopedic shoes against marble.

Azula freezes first, head snapping toward the sound even as Jet keeps kissing the side of her neck—relentless, oblivious, lips dragging hot and open over her pulse.

Madam librarian—Ms. Ping, terror of the third floor, enforcer of the two-book-limit and nemesis of anyone under twenty-five—rounds the end of the aisle, nose already already buried in her inventory tablet.

Azula yanks back so fast she nearly topples the chair. Jet’s hands shoot up like he’s been electrocuted, palms out in universal surrender. His hoodie rucks halfway up his stomach. Azula’s lipstick smears across his mouth, his chin, his neck. They look exactly like what they are: two idiots about to be banned for life.

Ms. Ping pauses ten feet away. Doesn’t look up yet.

Azula smoothes her blouse with calm fingers that betray nothing. Jet drags his fingers across his hair, and pulls his sweats down, heart slamming so loud he’s sure the librarian could hear it.

The older woman finally lifts her gaze. Eyes narrow behind thick glasses.

“Snack break is over,” she says flatly. Her eyes linger on Jet’s face, sees red lipstick streaks on his face and knows what’s up, then slides to Azula, then back again. A long, weary sigh escapes her. “And if I see one more crumpled energy bar wrapper—or any other… evidence—on my tables, you’re both writing apologies to the preservation committee. In triplicate!”

Neither Jet nor Azula move for a full ten seconds.

Miss Ping shakes her head once, muttering under her breath, “Irresponsible youth these days…” before turning sharply and walking away.

Then Azula exhales, slow and shaky. She looks at him and something flickers in her gold eyes that isn’t just heat. Confusion, maybe. Want. The same thing twisting hard in Jet's chest.

He licks his lower lip, tasting the last trace of her lipstick, voice a wreck. "We should... probably not do that again."

Azula arches one perfect brow. "Agreed." But her eyes twinkle, dark and suggestive.

She fixes her hair, gathers her expensive coat and satchel without breaking eye contact, composure snapping back into place like armor.

Jet’s head tips back against the wall, breathing hard, still tasting her—coffee, spite, and something dangerously sweet on his tongue. Wondering how the hell hating someone could start to feel so much like falling.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sees the smear of red lipstick across his knuckles, smiles—and leaves it there on purpose.

They stare at each other for a beat, then she turns and walks away, as if nothing happened at all.

“So…” His voice comes out rough, smug. “See you on the next snack break?”

Azula pauses mid-stride, halfway to the aisle. She turns just enough to look at him. Eyes dragging from his mussed hair down to the rumpled hoodie, then back to the blatant lipstick stains painting his mouth and chin like war paint he refuses to clean off.

She arches one perfect brow.

“You wish…”

“I’ll be at the—uh…” He clears his throat, voice dropping low. “The old periodicals section.” He nods vaguely toward the shadowed aisles. “Nobody goes there. Dusty as hell. Maybe convince me more about how trickle-down economy actually works?”

Azula’s golden eyes narrowing just a fraction—smirks, then turns without a word and continues walking, fancy boots clicking sharp against the marble until the heavy door clicks shut behind her.

@atlararepairmonth

***End Notes

Obviously for this prompt, Jet and Azula are each other’s ‘snacks’. 🤭✌🏽

For some reason Jet, even in canon reminds me of Han Solo. So I kinda channeled his persona to this modern atla jetzula oneshot (And the jetzula fic I’m currently working on, The Long Way Back)

Jet's finally got his in into the Forbidden City, but the more he learns about the leader of the Kyoshi Warriors the less adds up. He's looked into the mirror often enough to recognize a liar. Moreover, this "Suki" reminds Jet of someone else... Gaining the ear of the Earth King, or rather: the true power behind the throne, is slow-going. In the meantime, Azula's got her on a rebel from the Lower Ring. Resistance Leaders are quite pesky she knows going over occupation reports. Azula could have gotten rid of him a long time ago, but chances are a new head would simply replace his. Why not keep this much more handsome one, turn him into her inside man and destroy future resistance from the inside? Seducing the other to gain leverage or intel. Everyone knows that love is for fools.

She looks almost exactly the same: Dark hair swept into a loose braid, simple green tunic, that same soft, curious smile. The coupon in her hand is creased; it was the one he gave her that night. The guards vetted and cleared her.

She looks around the huge tea shop, and her eyes find him immediately.

"Hello, Lee," she says quietly. Then, after a beat, "Or should I say… Your Majesty?"

The tray trembles. Zuko sets it down on the nearest table with more force than intended. The porcelain clinks.

"Jin."

She tilts her head, studying him. "You look… different. But also the same."

He swallows. "I—I'm sorry. For… everything. Back then."

Jin gives a small shrug, the motion almost gentle. "You disappeared. I thought maybe I imagined the whole thing."

Zuko, speechless at the sight of her.

Here she is—The girl who once accepted him stripped of his titles, who looked past the scar that still makes most people flinch or stare, who laughed at his awkward attempts at normal conversation and kissed him like the war, the Fire Nation, and the Avatar were things that happened to other people.

She saw something in “Lee” worth liking: the quiet boy who poured tea with careful hands, who lit lanterns with secret fire just to make her smile, who listened when she talked about her family and her dreams without once interrupting to prove how important he was. In those stolen hours she chose him—not the prince, not the exile, not the weapon his father tried to forge. Just him. And that acceptance feels like the first real breath he has taken since coming to Ba Sing Se with his uncle.

But it was all a lie.

It was part of him, yet never truly him.

The gentleness she remembers, the shy smiles, the way he let himself be vulnerable for one fragile evening—those things were real in the moment, yes, but they were built on sand. Every word he spoke to her was filtered through a false name and a fabricated past. Every glance he gave her carried the weight of secrets he could never share. He let her fall for a version of himself that could never survive the daylight of truth. The scar she hadn’t minded back then? It’s the brand of his failure, his shame, his father’s rage—and it marks the exact line where “Lee” ended and Prince Zuko began.

The boy who kissed her goodnight under lantern light vanished the second he remembered who he really was. A fugitive with blood on his conscience, a young man hunted by his own nation, a soul still burning with questions he cannot answer. What she loved, what she almost believed in, was a ghost he wears like a borrowed coat. Warm for a night, but never his to keep.

He stands there, teapot forgotten in his hand, and feels the old familiar ache rise behind his ribs. The knowledge that the person she wants never truly existed, and the person he becomes might never be worthy of anyone looking at him the way she once did.

Her gaze flicks past him, toward the back of the shop where Iroh laughs with a departing patron.

"Your uncle's tea really is the best in the city. I keep coming back, hoping to see you here again. Then the war ends, and the rumors start. The Fire Prince was the tea server all along." She laughs under her breath. "I thought people were making it up. Looking at you now…"

A beat of silence stretches between them.

Then the door at the back opens—louder this time. Aang bounds in first, glider staff over his shoulder, followed by Sokka complaining about the walk, Toph stomping dramatically, Suki keeping pace with her, Katara carrying a small satchel, and Ty Lee twirling in last.

They freeze when they see Zuko standing stock-still, staring at the girl in green.

Aang’s eyes dart between them. A slow, knowing smile curves. "Do… you two know each other?"

They both answer at the same time;

Zuko "Yes."

Jin "No."

Jin recovers first. She glances at the group of heroes, clearly in awe of them but keeps her composure. Something flickers in her expression: resignation, maybe a little sadness perhaps, but mostly quiet acceptance.

"He used to be a guy who served me tea," she says softly. "Best server in Ba Sing Se." She meets Zuko's eyes one last time.

"Goodbye, Lee."

She turns and walks out, the bell chiming softly behind her.

Katara watches her go, "She called you Lee. Maybe mistook you for someone else?"

Zuko doesn’t answer right away.

She shrugs, giving him the space he needs, turns to a nearby table and begins gathering empty cups. Suki tugs her aside with a conspiratorial grin. The two slip away toward the far corner of the room, where Katara gently reminds Toph not to prop her bare feet up on the table again—especially not while people are still eating.

Sokka slides up, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "So… Who was that?"

Zuko exhales. "She asked me out once. Uncle basically forced me to go. But… I had a good time."

Zuko rubs the back of his neck. "It didn’t work out." He says instead. "I wasn’t ready. And she didn’t know who I really am—what she was getting into…"

Sokka studies him for a second, then claps on Zuko's shoulder. Solid. Understanding. "I'm telling you, man—it's that scar of yours. Total heartbreaker material."

Zuko rolls his eyes, gives Sokka an exasperated sigh.

But as he turns back to the counter to pour fresh tea for his friends, the words linger.

What could have been.

He thinks of Jin walking away down the street—alone again, carrying the same unanswered questions she had the night he ran. He thinks of the fountain lights he lit with forbidden fire, the way she smiled like the world was simple and kind.

He thinks of how much has changed since then. How much he’s changed.

Maybe it’s better this way. Clean. No lies between them anymore.

Still.

Zuko sets the teapot down a little harder than necessary.

Iroh appears at his side, two fresh cups in hand. "Some paths cross only once, nephew," he says quietly.

"Others… circle back when you're ready."

Zuko glances toward the door. "I wasn’t ready then."

"And now?"

Zuko says nothing. Instead, he looks across the table at his friends. His eyes locking on that one person he wants to be ready for.

He steadies the kettle, letting the tea spill out in a thin, swirling plume that rises like a promise of second chances.

With the tray balanced in his hands, he walks to the table where his friends sit, eyes bright with anticipation, ready to savor whatever moments remain before life’s growing duties pull them away.

Notice I wrote, that one person he wants to be ready for. I kept it open for those who want to ship Zuko with whoever 😄

@atlararepairmonth

jinko