Dia

Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly. 

Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.

There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake. 

Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.

Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say. 

But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist? 

As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch. 

You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?” 

“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”

We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times. 

“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?” 

“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly. 

It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly. 

“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask. 

“Depends,” he hums. 

With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.

“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”

—

The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion. 

Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not. 

“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”

Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place. 

You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod. 

“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“

“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“

“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.” 

The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close. 

The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part. 

That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.

You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?” 

“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.

Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore. 

The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution. 

A humane one.

No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.

The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug. 

“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten. 

He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”

You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.

You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.” 

He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”

“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.” 

“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”

You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”

“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.” 

“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.

He smiles. “I figured.” 

They were your favorite after all. 

Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed. 

Again, he’s just bored.

In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?” 

At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place. 

“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”

You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.” 

“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you. 

“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes. 

This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit. 

Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect. 

So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.” 

You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.” 

—

Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall. 

Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.

Give him a fucking break.

As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect. 

So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.

This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.

You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense. 

Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.

In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.

As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.

Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it. 

“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”

So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that. 

“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”

“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s his airship. 

Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand. 

“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.” 

. . . . . .

The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival. 

Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin. 

They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education. 

Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies. 

All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”. 

You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate. 

Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part. 

If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together. 

Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight. 

Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it. 

But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes. 

You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives. 

The relatives you got along with, that is. 

You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table. 

Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup. 

You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place. 

This time around, it’s not Sokka.

“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once. 

Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state. 

“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops. 

The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol. 

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. 

You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”

“Yeah, you can.” 

Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”

“No.” 

“No.”

You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all. 

“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is

Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.” 

There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.” 

“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night. 

“What about Toph?”

“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.” 

“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”

You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself. 

Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face. 

If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself. 

You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return. 

Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax. 

Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.

“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in. 

Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet. 

You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?” 

You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now. 

“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now. 

You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”

“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”

“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”

He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”

“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties. 

But he just continues to argue with you. 

“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.” 

No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago. 

“You know what, just— forget it.”

The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.

“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”

Punishing him?

You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream. 

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”

It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it. 

“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back. 

What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath. 

“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum. 

More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.

He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary. 

There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around. 

His lips are on yours. 

You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle. 

Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.

“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward. 

“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”

“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say. 

And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own. 

This was going to be the longest work trip of your life. 

notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

TAGS ARE CLOSED

Zuko set aside much of his concerns for the time being and embraced the kindred fire of first light as they braved the clouds. He had not wanted to—he felt he did not deserve to—yet was unable to stop himself from succumbing to relief, for what a long arduous battle it had been.

"This marks another win for team Avatar!" Sokka exclaimed breathlessly as he landed unceremoniously beside Zuko. He threw his arm over the railed edge of Appa’s saddle and deflated from the aftershock of nearly free-falling to his death.

"And what exactly did you contribute?" Toph queried.

"O you know, brains and brawn. Saved yalls butts twice! Not forgetting how my spectacular no bending invention single-handedly restored peace and balance to the world"

"You think you could use that no bending skills to save me from the wrath of my wife?”

Silence.

Sokka's head whipped toward Zuko whose face had shifted in an instant from calm serenity to petrified realization.

“I didn’t tell her I was leaving,” he muttered under his breath, staring into the sun as if it might offer him mercy.

Toph chortled, “Goodluck with that”

Sokka furiously shook his head. “Don’t drag me into this”

Aang, perched atop Appa’s head, looked back, glad he had not been in Sokka’s—or, worse yet, Zuko’s—stead because he, like the rest, had known your fiery temperament and had been subjected to its terrifying nature before, close enough to understand it wasn’t just talk or a joke passed over lightly.

Even Katara who could silence a room with a glance had never made him feel quite like this: that uneasy awareness of having already chosen the wrong side of a coming conversation.

He swallowed, suddenly very aware of his torn clothes, and looked away from Zuko. He was taken back to that one time during a stealth mission when Sokka and Zuko’s simple bantering had turned a quiet mission into near disaster.

It was a few years after Firelord Ozai’s defeat, when the plans for Republic City were still ink on paper and the world was trying to stitch itself back together.

They ran on exhaustion more than certainty, moving between rebuilding efforts, negotiations, and the precarious work of keeping the nations—set in their ways of war—from tearing at each other again.

The group had split in two. Probably not the smartest of plans. Aang was to take Sokka and Zuko, stake out a camp, trace patrol patterns, count soldiers, gather whatever intel they could, and await the signal.

But with three hours gone and still no sign of movement, Zuko, who wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place, shifted from stillness into irritation. And with Zuko, irritation never stayed small for long.

Sokka noticed, of course. And Sokka—well, Sokka had never met a tense situation he couldn’t make worse on purpose.

“We’ll age out here before we see a single soldier. Look, Zuko’s already balding,” Sokka said, poking at a branch at Zuko’s feet with his boomerang.

“If you would stop talking, we might actually hear something useful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sokka shot back, louder, “I didn’t realize Fire lord grumpy here was conducting a listening ceremony.”

The air tightened.

Aang had glanced between them, already sensing the shift before either of them fully committed to it. “Guys... maybe—”

And just like that, their bickering grew harsher, loud enough to have alerted an unseen passing patrol. “It’s the Avatar!!”

“You guys did it again!” Aang snatched up his staff in one motion. Air lifted him upward as he rose above the bushes, frustration flashing across his face. “Every time you argue, someone shows up and I'm always the first one noticed!”

Troops had plunged from the canopy of trees, emerging one after the other from the dark crevices of the forest with no end in sight.

Aang landed to help Zuko and Sokka.

But they were steadily driven back into a position where the enemy had gained the upper hand.

Like fury incarnate, earth had suddenly surged up in twin walls from the ground, folding the attackers in and cutting off every escape, and then water followed—an erosion, swift and precise washed through the space, locking every step in place as it hardened around their feet.

Every threat was flattened in a single, controlled strike.

The chaos gone as quickly as it had escalated.

You stood there afterward with a flat, unreadable expression, sweat clad and breathing heavier from the strain of such coordinated yet strenuous bending, your disappointment settling over them like stone.

Aang visibly shivered, his body reacting as the memory surfaced.

He could still feel it: the pressure of your words pinning them in place more effectively than any Earth Kingdom soldier ever had.

Since then, he had avoided anything even remotely reckless within your orbit. If something looked like it might spiral, he was already halfway out of it.

If Sokka started arguing, Aang found air.

If Zuko started pacing, Aang found distance.

If a plan felt even slightly like it might become “that kind of situation again,” Aang was suddenly, urgently needed somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He let out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck as if it could ease the memory away.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, glancing off toward the horizon. “Not doing that again.”

Katara had heard the whole thing.

She didn’t feel sorry for them. Not really. They made their choices, and choices had consequences, therefore they should own up to it. Simple as that. Still, there was something faintly amusing about the way they spoke of you, like your presence alone had rewritten the rules of survival.

Katara had seen real fury before. Water crashing, storms breaking, emotions spilling over in waves.

And you…you were rational. That was all.

You were control. And control when it turned toward them felt like standing still in deep water as the current decided where one would go.

You were calm, collected, even when you reprimanded them. Somehow, that was exactly what made it worse. Because you didn’t raise your voice. Like every situation wasn’t an emotional mess to be shouted through—but a problem to be solved, with consequences carefully considered.

She sighed, shaking her. “Deserved.”

Toph nodded in agreement. Boys were stupid. Brainless. Rash. They had tendency to ruin most of what they touched… and didn’t touch.

Sokka spoke first, very carefully. “She once looked at me like I had personally offended the concept of intelligence.”

“You did,” Toph and Zuko replied in unison.

Sokka glared.

“You’re all ridiculous.” Then, almost absently, Katara added, “She doesn’t scare me.”

“And me,” Toph raised her hand.

Aang blinked. “Really?”

Katara rested against Appa. “She’ll be angry—and it's within her right to be. You left without telling her.”

Zuko looked toward the horizon, where messengers and rumours always seemed to travel faster than wind.

“And after what just happened,” she added, quieter now, “news of the scale of the wreckage will reach her soon.”

Sokka patted Zuko’s shoulder with forced sympathy. “You're going to have to deal with this one yourself buddy”

Zuko’s expression didn’t change. “You’re coming with me.”

“Nope.” Sokka's leg hooked lazily over the other, letting the slight breeze catch him as if he had already emotionally checked out. “This is a royal problem. Fire Nation business. Husband wife stuff.”

Toph snorted, pointedly removed from the conversation in the exact way Sokka had hoped to be.

“Sokka”

“What Katara? I value my life.”

Aang shifted uncomfortably as Appa readied to land. “In her… condition. I don’t think she’s going to just—focus on one person.”

Zuko’s eye twitched. He clearly caught the implication, but swallowed it down with visible effort. “…You’re all coming,” he said flatly.

Sokka pointed at him. “That’s not how protection works!”

Appa touched down near the city center with a thud that rippled through the streets below.

“It's been a while. We could do with a visit” She smoothed a hand over Appa’s fur, a smile written across the corners of her mouth.

“Sweet.” Toph shrugged, entirely unbothered. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

With Katara and Toph in agreement, the decision was already made.

Zuko would be returning home regardless, so his vote counted for nothing.

As for Aang and Sokka…they weren’t given a choice.

With much still to be done in the wake of the destruction left behind, Sokka suggested they remain in Republic City for the day, where they would clean up, rest, and handle a few lingering matters before setting out for the Fire Nation the following morning.

This time, his opinion had been heard and agreed upon.

Zuko was grateful, albeit hesitant. He told himself it was better to return home fully rested and composed than to arrive in torn clothes, injuries half-healed, and every weakness laid bare for scrutiny.

•.‿︵˖⤿🐦‍🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•

Steam curled lazily along the stone walls.

Zuko submerged himself under the hot water longer than necessary. When he resurfaced, it ran over his shoulders, down his arms and chest as if it could rinse out more than just soot and sweat.

The day replayed itself in fragments. Then went further back to when his hope for redemption sparked and brought him to this point. Then even further back—deeper into the memories of his childhood when he'd been taught the history of his Nation, their climb to dominance and success…to the demise of the Air Nomad. Aang's people.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the tub, his arms resting along its curved edges.

His chest rose with the steam, then eased back down—steady as the flicker of candlelight in a still room.

“What troubles you, My Lord?”

A ghost of a touch brushed his shoulder where a deep incision had been healed to a dark bruise. Another sensation had followed shortly, a softer collision against his shoulder.

“Why? Do you plan on kissing my troubles away?”

He had found himself smiling.

“Oh, I can do a lot more than that…” you replied, voice warm with that familiar spark—the kind that didn’t burn outwards so much as it simply refused to go dim.

His hand had rested on your hip, fingers idly tugging at the absurd amount of layers in your dress as if grounding himself in something real.

“Thank you…”

“I haven’t even done anything yet,” you mused, tilting your head to capture his lips in a simple kiss before tucking his hair behind his ears.

But Zuko had meant it in all honesty. “For being here”

“Even when it got hard. Even when everything changed… when it was an upheaval and adjustment for you.”

You had become his calm, the push and pull of water, steadying him when everything else felt uncertain.

And yet, despite the water that flowed through your veins, making you strong, composed, and grounding, there was a fire breathed beneath it.

It was obvious in the way you moved through the world—quick to flare, quick to speak, quick to challenge anything that stirred too comfortably around you.

“Those eyes look as if they could do no wrong,” your finger traced the slope of his nose, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to map him out, to revitalize the memory of him.

It lingered there for just a moment too long—enough to blur the line between thought and touch—before drifting down, over the heat of his cheek, across his jaw to pinch his chin.

His breath caught, subtle but sharp.

He didn’t move at all, caught between the instinct to step back and the more dangerous urge to stay exactly where he was.

“But it’s not enough to get you out of trouble,”

His body jolted upright.

The bathwater around him swayed at the suddenness. The illusion broken instantly, like heat breaking through glass.

He dragged a hand down his face. Once. Firm.

Exhaustion. That was all it was. A tired mind pulling shapes out of absence just to fill the missing and overexertion and the hunger.

Nothing more.

He pushed up through the water, muscles tightening as cold air met damp skin. Heavy droplets clung to him, sliding slowly down his shoulders and legs, tracing paths to corners touched by your heat.

For a moment, he stood there letting the realization settle back into something he could control. Then he stepped out of the tub.

The towel came around his waist in practiced motion. Water hit tile in uneven rhythms behind him as he dried his hair, wringing it out before clipping it back and walking into the room he'd been given.

Soft bedding, muted light, walls too clean to feel familiar. Comfortable, but not home. Not anything that could anchor the feeling he’d just shaken off. He crossed it anyway.

He dressed in silence, awkwardly folding each movement into the next like he'd long forgotten how to do it himself.

By the time he lay down in bed, at last, the room was dark except for the faint spill of city light through the window.

Sleep didn’t come quickly, and so he stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant ensemble of Republic City—too alive to feel entirely restful. His mind drifted anyway: plans, routes, conversations yet to happen, versions of tomorrow that all ended in the same place.

Zuko closed his eyes. And eventually, after a long stretch of misery—sleep finally took him.

•.‿︵˖⤿🐦‍🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•

The sun wasn’t even up yet. Sokka stared into oblivion with a bag slung under his arm, blinking slowly like sleep itself was personally refusing him entry.

Toph flicked a pebble at him. It struck him square in the forehead.

“OW—hey!” Sokka yelped, stumbling sideways and nearly taking himself out on a crate. “What was that for?!”

“Keeping you awake,” Toph said. “You were starting to look peaceful. It was disturbing.”

Zuko stepped past them, passing Aang the last of the supplies before climbing up onto Appa with the efficiency of someone ready to get back home.

“I feel like I should’ve been consulted on this,” Sokka muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Katara didn’t even turn around. “You were.”

“I would remember being consulted.”

“You were informed,” she corrected. “Then you complained.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is exactly the same thing.”

Toph lifted herself onto Appa, joining Zuko and Katara. “You’re coming. Stop whining.”

“I am not whining—this is strategic concern for my continued existence.”

Katara was unimpressed.

“I hate when the group consensus is ‘we suffer together.’”

“Oh, don’t be such a dramatic shrimp fry. You’re the only one acting like this is a funeral march.” Toph laid down and pulled a blanket over herself and lay down.

With the long journey ahead, she might as well catch up on sleep

“I’m not being dra—” he yawned mid-word, staggering slightly, “matic.”

“Sure.”

Aang tightened his cloak against the early morning chill. “Everyone ready?”

Zuko nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Appa, yip yip”

Appa shifted beneath them with a low rumble, then launched into the air.

︵ঌ︵

The flight home filled with an anticipation Zuko had yet to process.

It was not the first time he'd been away from you this long.

Between diplomatic missions, routine territory checks, and military assessments, distance had become a familiar part of his life. But this time was different.

This was the only time he had left without telling you where he was going. And that sat with him miserably.

There was much to think about—beyond the worry for you and his children. It was what lingered beneath that, something he had long claimed to have moved past. And yet, still kept him awake.

Years had passed. He had healed. He had… He had tempered those stubborn irrational flames that drove him. Gained loyal allies, true friendship, married the love of his life, named his first born through strength and legacy.

Why couldn’t he forget the years shaped by hate and obsession?

He had once believed capturing the Avatar would prove his worth. That it would earn back his father’s love, his respect. But somewhere along that path, his ambition had twisted—and the that which he hunted had turned, and hunted him in back.

His honour had never known the golden glory of which existed so strongly today, at the same time, his heart sunk unbearably beneath the guilt such honour carried.

As a full day passed since they left Republic City, Appa flew as though time itself were pressing forward.

Aang could feel the anticipation build in the air surrounding Zuko, he and his bison shared the same understanding—faster was better. The sooner they arrived, the sooner everything could finally settle.

With the second sunrise creeping over the horizon, Sokka and Toph snored their way through the early hours in complete disregard for dignity or altitude.

Katara and Aang sat closer together, speaking in low voices, their conversation soft enough to fade into the wind. Zuko remained near the edge of Appa’s saddle. He looked away from them.

He traced the familiar shapes of mountains and rivers as they passed beneath him, each landmark drawing him closer to home—closer to you, and he counted the minutes.

Quite literally.

Though how accurate he was, he couldn't tell. Only that home was getting closer.

When they crossed into Fire Nation territory, the land was scarred by craters of old destruction, softened now by layers of green grass and scattered wildflowers.

Time had not erased them—only made them appear less frightening.

Sokka stirred at last.

He sat up, squinting at the light. He took in his surroundings, let out a long yawn, then moved closer to Zuko who watched as shapes began to form in the distance.

The roads grew more ordered. The settlements more structured. A different world unfolding as they neared the capital.

“Amazing,” Sokka breathed, genuine admiration softening his voice.

Things had changed since he was last there.

Zuko felt pride swell in his chest. It had taken all of them… but most of all, it had taken you. The Fire Nation was no longer something to fear. It was thriving.

By the time they arrived at the palace, the sun was high overhead, drawn near its peak.

They were all momentarily pulled from their grievances, awestruck by the bright banners stretched across the streets below, and the sound of voices rising in organized waves—chants, cheers, a welcome that rolled through the capital.

Their arrival had been expected, it seemed. Likely your doing.

They offered their waves in return, Sokka a little more enthusiastic once he realized this wasn’t a public execution.

Toph tilted her head. “What’s happening?”

“They’re cheering,” Aang said.

“Yeah, I got that. What does it look like?” she shot back dryly.

“Cheerful… alive,” Katara answered, an understatement to the welcome they received.

Appa stuck his landing with heavy force, wind rushing outward with a strong gust that sent he robes and banners snapping.

The members of court straightened immediately, then bowed in unison as their Fire lord stood to his full height.

And there he saw you. At the forefront, fury that rivalled his flames—no smile, no softness, nothing but your gaze focused squarely on him.

Zuko descended from Appa, his feet meeting cold concrete, his shoulders poised.

He approached.

Even with a scowl firm upon your face, you were—without question—the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"My love" his voice lowered, tone of command gone, replaced with reverence of worship.

Behind him, Katara felt her chest tighten just slightly, warmth blooming as she watched it unfold—this quiet, undeniable proof of how far he had come from the boy who once burned too quickly for his own good.

But all good things must meet reality eventually—or in this case, a wife reminding her husband he was still in trouble, and no victory or sweet tone would get him out of it.

“Welcome home, Fire lord Zuko”

His breath hitched for the smallest fraction of a second, not enough for anyone to call it out. Composure followed a half-beat late.

Behind you, his Advisor and Chamberlain stood rigid, guilt practically written into every wrinkle on their faces.

The court, usually so accustomed to political tension, held a bated breath for an entirely different reason now.

It wasn’t fear of their Fire Lord that alerted them, it was the controlled fury of their Lady that unleashed when she saw her husband.

"Do you care to explain yourself, or shall I have the divorce papers drafted?"

Zuko’s collar suddenly felt tighter than it had any right to be. The fabric pressed against his throat like it had shrunk in the heat of the moment. His posture stayed upright out of habit, but something in him had clearly faltered.

“Aang needed my help,”

The courtyard seemed to forget how to breathe.

The attendants stiffened altogether; one advisor’s scroll slipped slightly in his grip before he caught it too late, the rustle sounding far too loud.

Katara’s stifled her amusement while Sokka made a small, strangled noise like he was deciding whether to laugh or pray.

Toph smirked faintly, head tilted as if listening to the emotional damage in real time.

Even Aang, somewhere in the group, looked personally betrayed by his own name being used as justification.

And at the centre of it all, the air between you and Zuko sweltered.

"Is that an excuse I hear?”

“No—”

“Someone’s in trouble.” Sokka said with a grin that suggested he was enjoying this far too much.

It lasted exactly until Katara struck him lightly on the back of the head, silencing him mid-smirk.

“I was going to tell you—”

You side-stepped your husband mid-sentence. No hesitation.

They had all frozen, the Fire lord reduced not by battle, but by the displeasure of his wife.

“Katara”

Your voice noticeably changed first. The warmth returned like nothing had happened. Like it had all been folded away in an instant and replaced.

Katara didn’t hesitate as she crossed the space and pulled you into a tight embrace. Sisters through water, war, and everything that came after it.

Sokka, who had been raving in fear of your reaction was pulled into a hug too, which surprised him.

“Wow. Pregnancy has changed you" he said before he could stop himself.

Katara immediately pinched him.

“Battle wounds? No. More like survival wounds from you violent people.”

Sokka barely had time to finish before Katara pinched him again, harder this time.

“OW—okay, okay!” he yelped, recoiling and rubbing his arm. “I’m kidding! Mostly kidding!”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It’s fine. Pregnancy has been messing with me, but I’m in a good mood.”

“You're lying” Toph chuckled.

“I'm trying to be in a good mood,” you corrected. “I haven't seen you guys in a while… A visit must've fell from your list of priorities”

Toph gestured to Appa. “Not all of us have a flying bison or a fleet of airships, you know.”

“Mhm.” You looked sideways. “Zuko won't have an airship for a while either.”

That earned a quiet exhale from him.

He stepped closer toward you, but you moved away anyway.

A beat passed. Then Aang stepped forward last, a smile that hadn't truly reached his eyes.

You embraced him tightly.

“You look worse for wear" you said.

“Getting better” he breathed out.

That seemed to ease something in you.

You stepped back, one hand resting over your stomach as your eyes moved across them—taking in all of them at once.

The whole mess. The whole family. Back in one place, even if briefly.

Above you, Momo suddenly darted in a tight circle, chittering excitedly around your head.

“Hello to you too, Momo,” you said, amused. “And Appa as well.”

You motioned once, and your lady servants quietly withdrew. “I've had someone prepare your rooms. I'm sure you'll want to rest. The kitchen has prepared a light meal—we can meet for dinner tonight”

Zuko exhaled halfway then stopped when you turned to him, and the breath he’d started to release stalled completely in his chest.

“And you…”

“The Avatar needed my help. I didn't know things would—”

“You had the whole court lie for you!”

A beat.

The officials shifted first. Then the attendants. Then the guards.

Zuko raised a hand.

The courtyard moved. Footsteps scattered and scrambled. Armor clinked. Doors shut too quickly.

“He lets them run but tells me to face my death with honour.” Sokka whispered to Toph.

“That makes you less of a coward.”

Katara didn’t hesitate when she grabbed Sokka by the ear and Toph by the forearm.

“Aang!” she called sharply.

Aang blinked then hurriedly followed, leaving you and your husband alone in the courtyard.

“Are you really mad?” He asked softly, catching your face and tilting so your eyes met his.

“Oh rest assured, Honourable Fire Lord—” you swat his hand away, “I am furious!”

You walked first. And he shadowed your every step.

No argument. No pride. Just footsteps behind you, matching your pace through the palace halls, through archway and past carved pillars.

When you finally reached the bedroom, the door shut behind him with a firm click.

You pulled the headpiece from your hair—the one he had given you—and set it down onto the vanity harder than necessary.

“I am not some weak women who can't handle knowing her husband is needed for some greater purpose,” you said. “I do not need constant coddling for every matter you think might cause even the slightest negative reaction. I will not fall apart and I will not beg you to stay when Aang needs you…

But I am your wife!”

His arm came around you carefully, folding over your swollen stomach first, grounding himself there as if that was the most honest place to start. His hold was warm, steady, deliberate.

"You are..." he affirmed with pride—with certainty, submission and subservience that wasn’t defeat but devotion.

He leaned his forehead briefly against your shoulder. “You are my wife. And I know that.”

You slapped his hand. It stung, but he just refolded then into place again.

“Let go”

“No”

You looked one sentence away from losing patience entirely. For a brief second, you even looked like you might hit him again.

Zuko, infuriatingly calm, smiled like he could read the thought forming. Then he pressed a light kiss to your shoulder, unbothered.

“I’ll let go if you stop being angry.”

“Not a chance”

You elbowed him in the gut, easily manoeuvring out of his hold, slower but no less familiar with the way your body had been trained to move.

“Feisty woman,” he rasped, hunched over.

He said your name. No answer. Repeated it again.

You slammed your hands down on the table. “What were you thinking!?”

“I'm sorry”

“You hear that, little one? That’s what we call a half-hearted apology. A lie. Your father pulled that one straight from his ass.”

He was sincere—not just because he knew he’d upset you, or because you deserved an apology, but because he knew better. He knew better… and still doubted himself.

“I am sorry… but I—”

“Left. You left. With lies. With people keeping me in the dark because you thought it was best.

Where is your honour in that, Zuko?”

Your voice cracked.

The baby, as if sensing your distress, delivered a series of sharp kicks to your abdomen. You pressed your palm over your stomach, trying to soothe the movement, but the ache lingered.

“What if you died? You would’ve left without a proper goodbye. I would’ve known nothing. Nothing.”

Zuko finally moved—like he was forcing himself not to recoil from the hurt in your voice. “…I didn’t think further than what had happened last time”

The memory surfaced, uninvited. A civil war breaking out across the Nation. Smoke on the horizon. Orders lost in the collision. And you—pregnant, close to term, already carrying more weight than anyone should have had to.

There had been a complication then. One that had nearly forced him into a choice that still didn’t feel real even years later—he was on the ground mid-battle when they told him. A decision he had never forgiven the world for making him consider.

So when Aang’s summons came—impossible to ignore—he had hesitated.

He had told himself he was protecting you by not telling you. By leaving quickly. By avoiding panic, avoiding stress, avoiding anything that might tilt the balance again.

But standing there now, watching your hands press into the table, watching the anger that came from love rather than distance, he understood what he had actually done.

He hadn’t protected you.

He had repeated the mistake in a different way.

His throat tightened.

“I thought—” he started, then stopped. Because there was no version of that sentence that didn’t fall apart halfway through.

“…I was wrong,” he said instead. “I should have told you. I should have trusted you with it.”

A pause.

“It was foolish to leave. It was even more foolish to think I could have the entire court lie to you… keep you in the dark until things blew over… I was foolish.”

"You were."

"I was…"

No deflection. No attempt to soften it.

You hated him. But you couldn't deny him. He had tried, but he was still only human. Human in his mistakes, human in the way he carried them, and human in the way he sometimes let fear speak louder than trust.

Neither of you moved. But then you stepped forward.

Zuko raised his arm, and you walked into his embrace, your forehead pressing into his chest as your breath caught like you’d been holding it in for too long.

“I’m here,” he murmured, meant only for you.

His hand brushed along your jaw as he leaned in—slow enough to give you time, to let you pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

Your breath met his first. Then your lips.

Zuko left soft, lingering pecks along your bottom lip, unhurried, testing, like he was relearning something he had no right to rush.

Then, slowly, he deepened the kiss.

His hands came up to cradle your neck, warm. Always warm.

You swore he ran hotter than any fire bender alive. Not just heat, but presence.

Something constant, something that pressed into you without burning—unless you let it.

He was warmth in every sense of it. Like the thick summer air that clung to your skin, heavy and inescapable…

And like a fire in the dead of winter, steady, consuming, offering comfort the moment you stepped too close to the cold.

He stroked your earlobe while his other hand found the inner corner of your robe, easing it from your shoulder.

Zuko hummed, pleased by the way you inclined toward his touch.

But you sooner pulled away, telling him to go ahead to the bath chamber.

When you joined him, towel set aside, your fingers found his belt, undoing the knot with practiced ease.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His eyes traced your every move while you carefully avoided his gaze.

You pushed his robes from his shoulders, letting the fabric fall away and onto your forearm.

Zuko he stepped back to remove his boots then the rest of his clothing, until nothing remained between him and you.

“Could you…” you gestured toward the water.

“Of course,” he mused.

Zuko lifted his hand, and with an effortless breath, flame sparked to life in his palm. The water responded instantly, steam rising in soft curls with a gentle hiss, the surface rippling before it settled.

You sat on the low stone slated edge of the bath as he lowered himself into the water.

“…You’re not joining me?” he asked.

“Waters too hot for me," you replied, reaching for a cloth.

You dipped it, then dragged it gently over his chest, over the bruises no water could heal.

Zuko had eased almost instantly under your care, the tension in his neck and shoulders unwinding as he rested his head against the stone.

His eyes closed, letting you take care of him.

︵ঌ︵

His face sank into the plush mattress, inhaling the faint trace of your scent that lingered in every crease of the sheets.

A low groan escaped him as his body finally registered how tired it was. His arms stretched out loosely, then went still, like even moving felt optional now.

“Where’s Atsumi?”

“Asleep. She’s been running a terrible fever.”

Half-lidded eyes shot open. Halfway through getting up, you pressed a hand firmly to his chest and pushed him back down.

Zuko's breath hitched.

“She hasn't slept well in two days. She needs rest…”

“Then I should—”

You didn’t let him.

“Carry on,” you said flatly.

Zuko exhaled through his nose, tension easing in reluctant stages. His shoulders sank back into the mattress, the fight draining out of him.

“She’s going to hate that I didn’t check on her immediately,” he muttered.

“I spent two nights consoling her cries all while dealing with this little Firestarter in my stomach kicking and acting up. You’re not going to wake her.”

He cupped your thigh as you came to straddle him, thumb rubbing circles.

“I should’ve been here,” he said quietly.

“You are here now.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” you agreed. “It’s not. But because of you, we're still here”

“…Is she really alright?”

“As alright as any child with your temperament could be” you said.

That earned the smallest, tired curve at the corner of his mouth.

“She’s more like you…”

She was. But she looked exactly like him.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” you replied softly, running your fingers through his hair… a little insecure of it.

Zuko kissed your clothed inner-thigh before he smoothly flipped your positions.

He lifted your leg to wrap around his waist, lowering you into the position he was just in. Then, like he couldn't help himself, he face invaded your personal space—no such thing existed between you.

A kiss to your cheek, your forehead, then the bridge of your nose. His hand found yours, fingers threading tightly with yours against the sheets before he raised them above your head.

“You have nothing to fear,” he whispered.

“Beside my husband sneaking off on suicide missions.”

“Aside from that…”

Zuko caressed the back of your hand, his touch slow and deliberate, before lifting your joined hands to his mouth.

Your leg tightened around his waist. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, half a grunt and half pleading. He looked at your through his eyelashes—in worship… with unveiled devotion.

You skimmed your fingers up the column of his throat—over the thick pulsing vein—pausing at his scar.

He went still as you kissed it.

The heat flourished in his cheeks, not just embarrassment or shyness, but something far more vulnerable—enough to bring him to tears.

He kissed you before they ever fell—before he could retreat into his pain instead of his heart.

•.‿︵˖⤿🐦‍🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•

The last remnants of the day had begun to flee when you, flushed and exhausted, pulled yourself out from beneath the blanket and sank back onto your pillow. Zuko's insatiable hunger followed instinctively—too close, too heated.

You pushed at his shoulder before he could hover over you completely.

He laid a kiss onto you stomach, the gesture reverent. The baby kicked which warmed his heart.

Lowering himself until his ear rested against it, nuzzling his nose against the stretched skin.

Endearments whispered his love—the ache in your bones a testimony to it.

“We should get ready for dinner…” you mumbled weakly.

“Not obliged to attend,” Zuko replied, unmoving, still half-lounged against you like he had no intention of letting go.

“Courtesy…” You sat up.

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before sitting up properly, dragging a hand through his hair to reset himself into something resembling a Fire Lord again.

But the softness didn’t fully leave his face. Not when he stared at you.

You rolled your shoulder with a wince, working out the tension still lingering there.

Without a word, he crossed the space between you.

His silk robe draped over your shoulders, adjusted it gently, fingertips brushing briefly as he made sure it covered well.

“As you wish.”

And so he did.

From the bath to the cloth, from lifting you in and out and carrying you about, from laying out your dress and seeing you fit for the hall—Zuko had done it all.

By the time you entered the dining hall, the others were already seated.

Zuko led you in with your hand set light upon his forearm. His hair bound up neat and proud, the Fire Nation emblem set through it, gold catching the lamp-light and casting a warm gleam over the room’s high beams and carved stone.

You took the first step in. Then, just as you had almost reached the table, a small blur sprang from Aang’s lap and darted across the room in a flash of light and laughter.

Zuko dropped at once to one knee, swift as a striking hawk, and caught the child with ease before she could collide with his legs.

“Papa!” she cried, laughing so hard it came out like a squeal.

At the sound, Zuko’s heart was pried open with joy.

His arms closed around her small body without hesitation, his entire composure shifted in an instant to her father.

Katara’s face softened at once, and Aang watched her with a look that held both warmth and wonder. You saw it.

And you smiled just slightly as you took your seat.

Sokka, already halfway through pouring a drink, slid a glass toward you with exaggerated seriousness.

“For the Lady of the Fire Nation,” he said, trying—and failing—not to look smug about the chaos he was witnessing.

Zuko lifted her with ease as she tugged at his collar and pointed at nothing in particular with the absolute certainty of a child who believed everything belonged to her.

“I found him,” she announced proudly to no one and everyone.

“You always do,” Zuko said, almost amused, pressing a brief kiss to her hair.

Zuko sat beside you, his daughter in his lap. But she stayed no longer than a minute before she was up and dangling onto Sokka's shoulder.

With everyone seated and settled, though “settled” was a generous word for it. You began to eat.

Your daughter—who by all means should have been limp and fever stricken—had decided otherwise.

She clung to Sokka’s shoulder one moment, nearly toppling over into his plate of food the next. He yelped, simultaneously catching her and his plate.

“Hey, hey… tiny tyrant, sit down!”

But she had slipped from him like water, already darting after Momo, who chittered in alarm and delight as he took flight just out of her reach.

Aang winced. “Momo, don’t encourage her—!”

Too late.

She spun again, quick as a spark, and made her way to Toph’s side. A small hand reached. A piece of food vanished.

Toph didn’t even move.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she said, chewing slowly, though the faintest smirk tugged at her mouth.

“I got it,” your daughter declared proudly, already halfway gone again.

Zuko watched her with a mix of disbelief and quiet awe, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to intervene or admire the sheer force of her will.

“She was sick?” he murmured under his breath.

You shrugged.

Atsumi, after several laps around the dining table, finally slowed and squeezed her way between Katara and Aang, picking up the little bison stuffed toy she had left in their care earlier.

Conversation had found its rhythm. Old friends catching up. Distant family telling tales.

You listened. You replied. You added where needed.

But eventually, almost without noticing, the conversation had deepened.

“…And the damage?” you asked.

Zuko’s hand stilled slightly beside yours.

Aang glanced up. Katara’s posture straightened just enough to be noticed. Even Sokka quieted, though he tried to hide it behind a bite of food.

“Later then,” you glanced at Zuko.

Sokka, ever the first to recover, leaned back on his hands. “Great. ‘Later.’”

Toph snorted. “You act like you’re the one in trouble.”

“I am in trouble,” Sokka shot back. “I was there. I participated. I enabled—”

“If anyone’s in trouble… it’s Zuko,”

Zuko shot her a look of warning immediately—but there was no real bite to it.

He was just grateful you were currently occupied with redirecting your daughter away from Momo’s tail before she discovered yet another way to test the limits of her mothers patience.

“…She shouldn’t have this much energy.”

You huffed, sitting down with her.

Aang smiled faintly at that. “I remember someone else who didn’t know when to stop.”

“…You chased me across the world.”

Zuko pursed his lips.

Sokka pointed between them. “Everyone here has a history of making questionable decisions but I’m always the liability?”

“You are the liability,” Toph said flatly.

“I am the glue of this group.”

“You’re the gum that gets stuck under my barefoot,” she shot back.

You and Katara shared a laugh.

“So what will happen now?” you asked, looking over your daughters head as she climbed into your lap without permission and then dove into her fathers lap when he sat.

He was breathing heavy.

Atsumi had made him chase her around the room, laughter echoing between the tables until even the guards had started pretending not to watch.

You argued it was dinner and he had already eaten half of his meal, but Zuko didn’t know how to say no to her—especially not when she looked at him like that.

Aang set his bowl down before answering, his tone thoughtful, already a step ahead in planning. “We’ll head back to Republic City. There’s still work to be done”

Sokka groaned softly. “Ah yes, more work. My favourite.”

“You don’t do the work,” Katara said.

“I supervise the work.”

“You eat during the work.”

“I fuel morale.”

Toph flicked a raisin at him.

Ignoring them, Aang concluded. “After that… I’ll be taking the new Acolytes to the place Sonan mentioned.”

Zuko glanced between them before speaking. “I can have airships prepared by morning, if you'd need it.”

Aang nodded in quiet appreciation. “That would help.”

Katara glanced at him. “You’re sure about this?”

“It’s time,” Aang said simply.

Zuko considered that. “Let me know what you need. Supplies. Support. Anything.”

Aang met his gaze and nodded once.

“I will.”

Eventually, you had the table cleared and replaced with light desserts and tea because no one seemed ready to head to bed yet. The atmosphere was warm. Unrushed. The company welcomed.

And in that small pocket of noise, you leaned slightly toward Zuko.

Your voice dropped—low enough that it belonged only to him.

“You should go with them.”

He stilled.

“You want me to leave again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, faint yet certain. “I want you to see there’s still hope.”

Your words sunk in—finding places within his soul that had learned to never complain again. The past was not something he spoke of often, but it lived in him all the same.

The Fire Nation had taken everything from Aang’s… and even now, it still kept him up at night—haunting thoughts that never went away no matter how much time had passed or how much he had tried to make right what could be made right.

It was part of the reason he had moved so quickly when Aang’s message arrived.

And though he had not been the one to begin it, he had once chased its ending for all the wrong reasons.

That guilt had never quite left.

Your hand brushed lightly against his beneath the table.

“That isn’t yours to carry alone, nor is it his” you added, looking across the table.

Aang laughed boisterously at something Sokka had said.

“You think I can help with that?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I know you can.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked toward him.

Toward the future being built in small, stubborn pieces.

“Uhm… guys— just letting you know… she's really hot," Sokka said, wide-eyed as she clung to him with alarming determination.

“Atsumi” Zuko called.

Her fever must be returning.

At once, she looked up. And just as quickly—faster than she ever listened to anyone else, faster than when you called—she broke away from Sokka and returned to her fathers side.

No hesitation. No protest.

“I’ll take her to get her medicine”

Zuko stood for the hundredth time that night.

He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. There was still too much left unspoken behind his eyes, too many thoughts he hadn’t yet sorted into words.

He lifted your daughter carefully into his arms as if she were the most natural extension of himself.

Then he turned—already halfway gone in his mind. Tethered only by habit, by love, by everything he had built and still didn’t quite believe he deserved.

And you watched him go.

Your incandescent.

⥁Copyright © 2026 by halahxze — I claim no ownership of any referenced materials beyond my original writing and ideas. No part of this publication may be reproduced, republished, translated, or transmitted into Ai nor onto any other platform.

Sukuna’s reputation was far from friendly, unlike most of the other teachers. He was exceptional at what he did, undeniably powerful— but also rigid, merciless when he deemed it necessary. Cruel, even, if it meant forcing growth out of a student.

But over time, that stopped mattering.

His students no longer saw him as a monster, just a hard-to-please teacher, but not an impossible one to deal with.

That’s why, when Sukuna crossed the school gates that morning, holding hands with a little girl and carrying a pink backpack full of decorations over his other arm, they immediately stood up.

“A kid?” Yuta blinked.

“You brought her!” Yuji ran over, opening his arms to hug Akari, who let go of her father’s hand without a second thought to jump into them.

Kugisaki’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Panda shut her mouth with his hand, but he looked just as shocked as she did.

Maki narrowed her eyes. “Is she your relative?”

Ryomen neither confirmed nor denied it.

Itadori was the one who started rambling. “She’s his daughter. Isn’t she the cutest thing ever? Say hi to my classmates, Akari!” The little girl laughed in his arms.

“Hi!” she waved excitedly.

“And you never told us he had a daughter!? What kind of friend are you!?” Nobara slapped Yuji’s shoulder, her expression changing as she leaned down to talk to the child. “Aww! You definitely didn’t take after him.”

“I did tell you!”

Megumi slipped his phone into his pocket. “It was kind of hard to believe. We thought you were messing with us.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

Sukuna clicked his tongue, clearly irritated by how close everyone had gotten.

“Enough.” The word came out low, but firm enough to make the group fall silent almost instantly.

He held out his hand to Akari. She went to him without hesitation, letting go of Yuji’s uniform and nestling against her father’s leg. Sukuna picked her up easily, holding her to his side, one arm firm around her small body.

“She’s not a mascot,” he said, his sharp gaze passing over each of them. “What are you all doing here? It’s class time like any other day. Move.”

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but gave up halfway. “We were just surprised.”

“Keep it to yourselves.”

The atmosphere was still strange when a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Sukuna!” Gojo smiled as he approached. “Bring your kid to work day?”

Akari was the first to react. “Gojo!”

“You’ve grown! Your hair is different.”

She touched her braid proudly. “Daddy did it.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes. “Distance, Gojo.”

Gojo straightened up, casually waving at the students. “Relax, relax. I’ve known this little celebrity for a long time.”

Nobara frowned. “What do you mean, you know her?”

“I even went to his wedding. Why wouldn’t I know his daughter?”

“…His what?” Panda asked.

“Wedding,” Gojo repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Great food, by the way.”

Maki blinked slowly. “He has… a wife?”

Yuta looked genuinely shocked. “You’re… married?”

Sukuna scowled. “That’s none of your business.” He glanced at Satoru, who chuckled softly and shrugged, choosing not to expose any more of his colleague’s personal life.

Nobara crossed her arms, offended. “We almost die together on missions and you never mentioned you had a wife?”

“You’re my students. Don’t confuse things,” he replied dryly.

“That’s so unfair,” she muttered.

All of which you choose to ignore.

An exhale pushes itself out of your lungs as you sat up, rubbing your eyes. Debating on what to do today, you mentally browsed your options. You’ve yet to explore the city, but have no friends—at least none that you’d like to ask and make plans with today. You’d love to lay in bed, but felt the need to be productive; you convince yourself you cannot just sit and do nothing until two in the afternoon. As if productivity and movement would make you feel like you belonged in this new city.

And so you decided to move.

Standing up, you shuffled to the kitchen. These days, you were only ever greeted by the mundane humming sound of your refrigerator. London mornings felt softer, grayer, than those back home. Opening the fridge, you blankly stared at its contents. The items were mostly groceries thrown in for the sake of filling the space. The egg carton. Strawberries you sworn you’d finished. An oat milk carton. Butter. Vegetables you’ve barely touched.

Making do, you settled on toast, coffee, and eggs. Just enough to boost the mood, but you suspect it would be insufficient until at least noon.

You sat on the window nook, the place you’ve been lounging in these past few days. You placed your plate and mug nearby. You finally open your phone, still dismissing the notifications, and open Google Maps. You’ve already mentally convinced yourself to go out, explore. It would be a shame if you didn’t; London was—is—a beautiful city, not adventuring in it would be a shame.

You chewed on your food, zooming in on your location pinpointed on the digital map. Your finger hovered on the search bar, before deciding to type the only words that felt like belonged to you in all of London’s geography.

Antique Shops near me.

Patiently, you waited for it to load. And when it did, you zoomed in—eagerly, giddily. The first surge of remote happiness you’ve felt since the initial move here.

There were many shops near you.

One was named “Time & Time Again.” It was fifteen to twenty minutes away. You could use the walk, you thought—you haven’t gone beyond the local bakery a few blocks down. But it didn’t look like the type of shop you want to visit. Reviews say it’s constantly crowded, lots of clutter—more than acceptable, more than you’d tolerate. That’s a pass, you decide.

You scrolled, then saw another named “Ware and Wander.” Your brows creased; this seemed like a trendy place. Scrolling down, the exterior seemed charming. Exposed brick, florals. A chalkboard with the words “VINTAGE FINDS” written on it. You hesitated. As trendy as it was, it felt performative in a way, curated even. Not quite what you were looking for.

The closest one was called “The Artist’s Ambrose Archive.” It was about seven minutes away, given that you weren’t about to be run over by a Lime bike. Damn those bikers. You click on the shop, browsing the pictures attached. A few reviews were there, most dated around a year or two ago, but it seemed well liked by the locals. Most of them praised the owner—which you learned was named Mister Ambrose. Weird name, you thought, but you assumed he was an elderly man, hence the name.

And you concluded that you would go there, to The Artist’s Ambrose Archive. Whatever that name meant, really.

You pulled together an outfit you deemed half decent. Enough that you seemed presentable. You grab your things, fumbling with your necessities: your phone, wallet, keys, and earphones. You considered an umbrella, reasoning that it might drizzle or even rain harshly, but ultimately decided that you’d be quick and come home before noon. Enough time for you to sprint home before it rained.

You walked down to the lobby, nodding to the doorman. You liked him. He was nice, polite enough to acknowledge your existence when barely anybody did in the apartment complex. As you made your walk to the shop, your fingers fiddled to untangle your earphones. Then gave up, promising yourself you would fix it someday, not today, but someday.

This was when you began to appreciate London. The noise, the gloom and shine, the city.

It was a brief, beautiful walk.

You arrived at the shop shortly after two and a half songs that had been blasting in your tangled, otherwise working, earphones. You looked up, the dark, polished oak sign hung above you. It was slightly crooked, the edges worn down from years of weathering.

You took a moment to admire the exterior before stepping inside.

A bell rang out in the shop—it was fairly sized for an antique store. You looked around, eyes beaming at the items displayed before you.

“Anything specific you’re looking for, dear?”

You jumped, just slightly, at the sudden sound that had disrupted your daze.

You looked ahead, and behind the counter was an elderly man, gray haired, glasses, mustache. His voice was soft, welcoming, despite the rasp that age had laid on him. A thick accent as well, which was likely from the years of remaining in London.

You smiled awkwardly, pressing your lips together. “Nothing specific, sir. Just looking,” you briefly gestured to your surroundings. That answer seemed to satisfy him as he nodded, going back to what you assumed was dusting things off behind the counter.

There were many things to be discovered, all of them decorated by the trace of time—rust, patina, faint scratches and dents. Your eyes graze over each item.

The first item you picked up was a teacup. It seemed to be made out of delicate porcelain, with floral designs on the sides. There was a chip on the rim, and the saucer had a slight crack. The paper price tag was tied on the handle, £20. “Pricey,” you muttered to yourself. “But pretty.”

You set it aside as a potential purchase. A ‘just incase’ if you find nothing else to buy from here.

You continued browsing the small aisles, finding a leather journal tucked between a jar and a book. You reached above, grabbing the spine of the journal. Successfully wiggling it out from between the items, you examined it. It was dusty, worn out. You gently blew on the cover, dust particles coming to life.

Excitedly, you opened it.

And was met with absolutely nothing.

Aside from the stained, almost brown pages, there was no traces of writing. None that showed wear or tear, unfortunately.

Frowning, you sighed and shoved it back to where you had taken it from. You liked when items had shown history. When it showed that there was a past, a previous owner, some sort of story that had existed way before you did.

You surrendered, walking up to the counter where the owner stood. “Sorry, Mister Ambrose, was it?” You asked, eyes flickering to anywhere but his eyes.

He nodded, returning a question. “Perhaps what you are looking for is in the section to your right? I reckon you’re one of the… artistic types.”

You weren’t, but since he so kindly redirected you, you decided to follow along. You walk to the aisles to your right, mainly filled with sketchbooks and portraits. None of them piqued your interest, partially because you wouldn’t like a potentially haunted painting of a person from the olden days lurking in the shadows of your already lonely apartment.

As you sift through the sketchbooks, one painting—framed, landscape, slightly bigger than the others—that hung on the wall caught your attention. Right below it, in script: Property of the Bridgertons, 1815. You stared at the painting, seeing the strokes of oil slightly faded from time, the wear of the canvas itself. You tell yourself you were just intrigued of the history, nothing more—despite the feeling of your stomach dropping and your gut instinct telling you something was amiss.

How could anything be possibly amiss when the only people in the shop were you and Mister Ambrose, who has shown no reason for you to doubt him?

You continue looking through piles of objects, before settling on a few items that you carried in your arms. Namely: a silver brass key you plan to make a keychain or necklace of sorts, a wooden trinket box with some letters written inside, a vintage ink bottle and quill set, and a miniature picture frame about the size of your palm.

Walking to the counter, it felt as though the air had shifted in a manner you were unsure how to describe. Nor have you had any proof that the air did change. You chalked it down to the combination of the lack of air conditioning and the outside weather.

“Good finds you have ‘ere,” Mister Ambrose praised shortly.

You nodded, placing the goods on the counter as he rounded the total. You stood there, shifting your weight from one foot to another. From where you were, you could still see a good bit of the antique shop.

You squint, noticing that the painting—the family one, the one that was named under the Bridgerton residence—wasn’t where you had initially seen it. Rationally, you assumed that Mister Ambrose had taken it down while you were in another section of the store. Although it would’ve made much more ruckus and noise, which you barely heard at all.

You brush it off, deciding that it was best not to question or speculate such things. It’s not like you wanted to buy it, it was tagged for £250, for Heaven’s sake.

Mister Ambrose finished ringing up your items, placing them in paper bags, stapling them shut. Your total came up to about £67.90. You pull out your wallet, fishing out your bills, then handing them over. He took them with no fuss, handing you back your exact change.

”Thank you, Mister Ambrose,” you nodded politely at the elderly man.

For a moment, he stared. You met his eyes, something knowing hiding behind them. But you scratch it off as some… old person thing. Something old people just do, as they claim to be all wise and know everything about life and beyond.

“Have a good day.” He said, nodding his head back and turning away.

Odd. You decided to move on about your day, clutching your goods in your arms. You shuffle between the aisles, careful not to break anything—God bless your bank account—to exit the building.

You watched your step as you pull the door, anticipating the breeze, the honking of vehicles, the buzzing of bikes, the chaos and loud of the city. You patted down your pockets, ensuring everything was there—phone, wallet, keys, earphones. You nodded to yourself when you felt all four, then looked up.

This certainly was not London.

Well, not the London you know. Clutching your paper bags, you look around. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and you suddenly feel the anxiety creeping in. The heat crawls through your neck, feeling as though you were wearing ten layers of clothing in the raging summer.

“What the fuck?” you murmured. This was not the city, nor did it even feel like the 21st century. Just when you moved to a city where you felt like you didn’t belong, the universe decides to stick you in a time where you really didn’t belong.

You did not dare take a step forward, as people busk and crowd the streets in their… absurdly thick dresses. And absurdly layered tops. And absurdly styled hair. At least some of them. The others just seemed like they had somewhere to be.

Your heart pounded, hammering at your ribs as you tried to figure out what was going on. Was this a sick joke that someone had played? Do you wait for the cameras to pop up from some corner of the street while everyone laughs at your demise? Is this perhaps a flash mob you didn’t know of? Some sort of London tradition you haven’t heard of at all?

As questions flood your head, a carriage trotted by in front of you, in the middle of the street. Your eyebrows furrowed. This was definitely not a prank, you realized. This was not a sick joke. You crane your head around the area, noticing that this was for sure not some sort of mind game—the buildings were structurally different, the lack of humming from vehicles replaced by the creaking of carts and carriages, horses neighing, the Church bells ringing, peoples raised voices.

Your first instinct was to turn back to the store. You turn on your heel, and shockingly, the store remained. The state of it was different—new, polished, and it didn’t stick out weirdly between buildings like it did in… the London you were just at moments ago.

You grab at the door handle, before realizing it was locked. You tugged and rattled at the handle to no luck. “Pardon me, madam. But what business do you have here?” A stranger approached, gesturing toward the door you had been pulling at in attempt to open. Well, you didn’t intend for it to look like attempted robbery, but what does one do when they’re thrown into a different era?

Your thoughts scrambled, “Uh,” you paused. “I’m… I was mistaken.” You awkwardly stepped back from the building, stumbling and catching yourself immediately. “I’m sorry.” You apologized, though you were unsure what you were apologizing for.

”Whose household do you belong to?” the stranger inquired, voice suddenly growing suspicious, aggressive in a way. That question makes you pause.

Because what were you supposed to say? “I’m from another timeline, please help me.” “I’m not from here.” “I don’t know.” Each possible answer sounds like lunacy.

An answer mustered up from your throat, “I’m waiting for someone.” You felt as though your voice was out of place.

The stranger raised an eyebrow, “And that someone would be?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You mentally braced yourself to be publicly executed for lying, or whatever unreasonable cause it is that these people exile others for.

And another voice cuts in—smooth, amused. “I believe she is with me.”

You, as well as the stranger, turned to the direction of the voice. The owner of the voice was tall, standing a few paces away. Chestnut hair, paired with dark brown eyes. And unfortunately handsome. His eyes held contact with yours, the wrinkle in his eyes implying he was more amused than concerned.

”Ah, Mister Bridgerton,” the stranger said, nodding his head at the man.

Bridgerton? You looked back at—what was meant to be—the antique shop, eyeing the section where you had found the family portrait. Dated 1815, approximately 211 years ago.

You paused, looking back at the stranger and the man. Connecting the dots, it had finally clicked. In an impossible, fantasy-adjacent, absurd way, it clicked. The reason why the painting had disappeared was because you were no longer looking at history, but standing inside it.