The first few weeks after his abrupt release from the Fog, Zhao stays entirely within the confines of Air Temple Island, and for much of that he barely even leaves his room in the south dormitory. Tenzin and a host of White Lotus members attend him – vacillating between the need to reassure and reorientate him, or restrain him from acts of violence against himself or anyone else. Eventually he stabilizes enough to be incorporated into the island’s schedule of daily duties and meditations, and with that comes the new challenge of navigating Republic City.

The buildings are crowded to the point of discomfort for him, and though the Caldera of his past was no minor settlement, it pales in comparison to the sleepless haven of industry and innovation in which he finds himself. The noise and contraptions and newness of it all, the bewildering mixture of nations, is enough that on his first excursion he seizes in the middle of the street and must be coaxed through several breaths before he trusts the strength of his legs to continue.

Trips into the city are complicated by the attention he draws. Journalists and scholars and the relatives of all who may have crossed paths with him coalesce into a many-limbed howling monster, ravenous for his recollections, his penance. For a harrowing week after word spreads of his survival, Air Temple Island falls under siege. Courtesy of his newfound and utterly unwanted celebrity.

Beyond the obnoxious tenacity of the press and the threat that he will be made to stand trial as one of the Fire Nation’s last living relics of the Hundred Year War, part of what Zhao finds so overwhelming is the lack of control over his own narrative. He was quite accustomed to the chokehold that his nation held over the distribution – and fabrication – of truth, and that included the telling of his own tale. Worse yet, the revelation of his identity compounds the already insatiable hunger for word of the new Avatar.

The whole debacle comes to a head when a particularly determined newsie slips past the White Lotus attendants, falls through a window, and interrupts the airbender family and their unlikely guests during dinner. The flash from the young man’s camera, the sound of tearing paper, the clatter of upended dishware all come together in Zhao’s still-addled brain as a threat, and were it not for Pema’s gentle-yet-unyielding utterance of “Enough, Zhao,” he may well have killed the poor reporter.

Discrete dispatches are made, the steely-haired chief of police neutralizes any charges by reminding the reporter of just how many crimes he committed that night, and though all are rattled by the experience, they are able to resume normalcy within a few days.

For his less easily discounted wrongs, a court-martial is narrowly avoided. As part of his reparations in lieu of a proper trial Zhao agrees to make several appearances at Ba Sing Se University come winter.

The snow won’t fly for another two months, however, and so he must find ways to keep himself busy – and by extension, sane – in the meantime. ***

Korra has plenty of experience sneaking about. Being more-or-less raised under constant supervision has a way of bringing that out in a kid, she supposes. And, having three elements at her disposal has also made her really good at causing distractions. Sometimes whether she means to or not.

Tonight is not a time for diversions, however. She merely has to make it from her room in the west wing, out through the gardens and pavilion, and down towards the shore where a small raft waits to be taken across the bay. That she must do all of this almost silently, and without being seen by any acolytes or White Lotus members is hardly a deterrent.

It’s been almost three weeks since she last had anything that resembled Water Tribe food, and much as she loves Pema’s cooking, she misses meat.

Fortunately, she happens to know of a certain street-vendor who keeps very late hours.

Carefully, Korra slinks out her bedroom window and lands several feet below, the noise softened to little more than a rustle by her thick mukluks. She stays crouched for several heartbeats, listening for any sign of having been seen, and then creeps her way along the edge of the building. When an opening in the White Lotus patrol appears, she sprints for the forested garden, propelling herself with little pulses of earthbending in each step.

The path down to the shore is thick with shadow, and Korra is filled with the thrill of another escape, too keen on the singing strength of her muscles and swiftness to discern the vaguely human shape ahead until she plows headlong into it.  

The shape is unexpectedly warm and solid, and the force of Korra’s impact sends both her and it down into the dirt and leaf litter.

“What in the blistering hells – ”

Korra raises a hand to her throbbing head, trusting her ears only slightly more than her eyes as her vision clears.

“...Zhao?”

The affirmative – and pissed – grunt that follows is all the confirmation she needs.

“Shitshitshit – please don’t tell anyone!”

She should have known better. Despite it all, Zhao has maintained a ruthless tendency to wrestle any situation to his benefit. The air between them thickens with tension. When Zhao speaks, his voice is predatory and pleased.

“And what, exactly, am I not to be telling, Avatar?”

Korra throws a handful of dirt and leaves at him and scrambles for the shore.

She can see the outline of her raft, can hear the lapping of water against the sand when the older man collides with her waist in a surprisingly agile tackle.

A part of Korra is outraged. It’s the principle of the thing – doesn’t he know who she is?! – and with that comes the more complicated question of whether he remembers who she was. The threat he once posed to Aang might be enough to trigger her Avatar State, and yet here he is, grappling with her like a common brawler in the damp sand.

He is not gentle.

He knows her title and he does not care. Has never cared.

Korra’s not sure she can explain how the rough handling and resulting mouthful of sand feel like a greater sign of respect than all the mincing and awed reverence she has experienced.

It doesn’t stop her from wrapping her legs around him and – with a little help from her earthbending – pinning him beneath her. But still, as she draws in ragged, burning breaths and stares at him in the dusky gloom, Korra thinks it might be the first time they’ve really seen each other.  

“And what were you doing out so late, Admiral Grumpy?”

Victory has a way of making her cocky.

Zhao scowls up at her, jerking irritably against his sandy restraints. Korra preens in her conquest and nestles more comfortably where she sits upon his stomach.

“Aww, don’t be a sore loser. C’mon. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

“… fine. But get off of me, first.”

Korra offers an exaggeratedly reluctant sigh.  

“If I have to, I guess. On account of you being so ancient.”

She cackles at the thin jet of flame he spits at her, rearing back and releasing him in one fluid motion.

Freed from her weight, Zhao gets to his feet and begins brushing off the coating of sand he has accumulated.

“I’m tired of vegetables,” he admits, not looking at Korra, “thought I might get some proper Fire Nation food.”

Korra cannot help the laugh that she barks out.

*** 

When they return from their illicit journey to Republic City, it is well-passed midnight, and Korra's heart is as full as her belly. Much as she is happy to be free from the compound in the South Pole, she still misses her parents, and eating her culture's food is one way to ease that ache.

She can only imagine that Zhao feels similarly.

"Promise not to tell?" she asks as they hide her raft. Zhao snorts.

"I won't if you don't. Wouldn't want to give Pema the wrong idea about her cooking."

"Yeah, fair enough."

Just before they go their separate, sneaking ways back to their rooms, Korra holds out her hand.

"Same time next week?"