You're a duchess, highly backed by a majority of Zuko's council, inheriting your title and wealth from your late father. Your family, going back generations, worked closely with the previous Fire Lords—until your father rebelled against the tyranny, being sentenced to death by Fire Lord Ozai.

Zuko remembers you and your father vaguely. What he remembers is deviant opinions against what he knows now is wrong. His Uncle Iroh would remind him that good people will always follow their morals, no matter the public ridicule. He didn't understand what his uncle meant back then.

 On the eve of your wedding, Zuko finds himself pacing outside of your room. He knows he should've greeted you on your arrival (earlier this day), but his meetings with the district councils ran late. Now, he's considering if your first conversation will have to wait until after the ceremony. 

His heart drops into his stomach like a rock when your door clicks open. 

Your hand servant steps out, jumping at the sight of Zuko awkwardly waiting outside. 

"Fire Lord Zuko, how long have you been waiting? I didn't hear you knock." Your hand servant bows her head. "The princess is getting ready for bed now."

Zuko has already failed before trying, nodding dejectedly. Until, your voice carries from inside your room, inviting him to enter. 

Zuko clears his throat, straightening his back before stepping past your hand servant. You're sitting on the lounge seats in the corner of your vast room. A tea cart rests beside you. 

"Can I pour you some tea?" You ask, already moving to fix him a cup. 

"That would be nice. Thank you." Zuko's actions feel robotic as he travels to the lounge chair across from you. 

You're wrapped up in a thin evening robe, exposing down to your collarbone, and Zuko can't tell if you're wearing a gown beneath–he doesn't want to linger on the dangerous thought for too long. 

"Thank you for visiting me," you say stiffly, almost sounding bored while handing Zuko his cup. 

"I meant to come sooner, but I lost track of time with the district councils," Zuko confesses. Before taking a sip of his tea, he adds, "I wanted to apologize if you at all felt disrespected."

"Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko," you bow your head. "I'm humbled to accept your apology."

Zuko expects you to follow up with more, but you quietly sip your tea instead. 

"I was thinking we could get to know each other more before the wedding," he manages to suggest. "It's been a long time."

"We were at a party, the last time," you say wistfully, smiling softly against the brim of your cup. "My father was still alive and you were without your scar."

The reminder is like ice water down Zuko's back, and he smiles staggardly trying to come up with an appropriate response. 

"How have you been since then?"

You laugh sardonically under your breath. "You don't really care about that, do you? I mean, while my home was put under lockdown, you were given free reign of the world."

"I was in exile," Zuko pointedly reminds you, and you roll your head to the side. 

"Out of respect for what you and the Avatar managed to achieve, I was willing to overlook what your father did to my family. I don't hold anything from your time in exile against you either."

"Then is there a different issue you'd like to address?" Zuko responds to the authority in your tone with a reframed mentality. You are not only his princess, but also a calculated duchess, who maintained your wealth and standing against all odds during wartime. 

You lean your cheek against your knuckle, lying back on your seat. 

"I've wondered if you ever thought about home while you were out there."

"There wasn't a day, during my exile, where I didn't think about my home."

"You spent three years away. What changed?"

"I found the Avatar."

Your elegant expressions twists into something nasty. "That's it? The Avatar shows up and convinces you that our people are killing the world? After three years, with that scar?"

"I missed my home," Zuko defends himself. "I was a hot-headed kid, and I wanted my father to look at me."

"And when did you realize your father was a monster?" 

From where Zuko sits, he can tell your shoulders and bottom lip are shaking, but you're doing well to conceal the rest of your expression. Your eyes stare at him hard with a glossy reflection. 

"I should have realized when he gave me this scar," he says looking down, brushing the pads of his fingers across his cheekbone. "But I knew after I came back from exile."

"After they said you killed the Avatar," he hears you murmur, like you're connecting a puzzle together. "And then, the Avatar turned out to be alive."

"The day the Avatar invaded the Fire Nation, during the eclipse—I faced against my father before joining the Avatar's team."

You sniffle, and Zuko can see the tears sliding down your cheeks despite the dim lighting. 

"My father…He always thought you were too good for the Fire Nation," you tell Zuko. "He would tell me that you were going to be the Fire Lord that was going to change it all."

"Am I?" Zuko asks, worried of overstepping. 

"I wasn't convinced." You smile, almost relieved, down at your lap. "He would have been happy to hear you visited me before our wedding. Would have called you brave."

Zuko laughs gently, cruising with the slow progress. "I'm learning it will take a lot of bravery going forward."

At the mention of moving forward, your eyelids droop unethusiastically. A miniscule change in your expression that Zuko was starting to take note of.

"I suppose, all that was needed was to clear the air," you say, sniffling one last time before clearing your throat behind your hand. "Although, I wasn't expecting you to be so open to discussion."

"A quality I've attuned after traveling with the Avatar," Zuko explains, holding his palms out warmly. "My only hope is that we share a happy marriage, despite the circumstances."

"Despite the circumstances," you repeat quietly to yourself. "I hope that too."

Disassembling the clock was light work, but with all the little pieces and Jason’s massive fingers, reassembling the device took an extra minute too long. He didn’t get a chance to open your desk's top drawer when the lock on your front door clicked. 

What were you doing at home so early? You were supposed to be at work. 

Your strides outside were directly approaching your home office. Did you know he was here?

With no time to escape out the window without getting caught, Jason decided to play it cool, throwing himself in your chair and crossing his legs as the knob turned. 

“I’ve been wondering when you’d finally make your move,” is the first thing you say when you step inside. You haven’t even looked at him, glancing around the room and smiling at the plant that held his plant. “I hope you didn’t break my clock.”

You’re dressed for work with wide-bottom slacks and a padded blazer. Your hair was down, and you looked refreshed—not surprised or out of breath.  

“Christ, you’re annoying,” Jason sighed through his voicemod. “Do you know how long that took?”

“I imagine a frustrating length.” 

You were smooth. Jason had to restrain himself from reacting behind the mask at every intention you did. You took the seat by the window in the corner, eyes trailing from the bookcase to the rug before landing on him leisurely at the desk. 

“Did you find anything good?”

“How did you know?”

How did you know where the listening devices were? How did you know he would choose a Tuesday mid-morning at a random time? 

You imitated his lax posture, crossing your arms with a haughty look. 

“Because I know you, Jason.” You sound earnest as you say it, and Jason’s whole body tenses. There’s nothing on your desk for him to pretend to be interested in and give any indication that you’re wrong. But his training is lost on him. 

“But you don’t remember me,” you murmur, eyes never leaving his helmet. You’re giving everything away in your body language, your shoulders sagging, the downturn in your brows and lips: This must be a trap.

“Uh oh, didn’t realize I was dealing with a jealous ex,” Jason laughs. “Which one were you again?” Why was he provoking her?

He must’ve hit a nerve because you just frown with a tick in your jaw. 

“How much do you know?” This catches Jason’s attention. This could work out for him.

“You work at a club near Gotham Heights. Your boss has recently been dealing with Roman Sionis.” If he gave you a little nudge on the subject, you’re bound to give him more details. 

Your expression falls in disappointment, and you suddenly look tired of him. 

“If that’s all you’re here for, I’m sorry to disappoint.” You don’t look at all that sorry. “He doesn’t keep me in the loop often. I don’t know anything.”

“There’s a shipment next week, and I want to know what’s in those containers.”

You exaggerate a sigh, throwing your head back while rolling your eyes. “You’re so demanding. It’s amazing how you’ve become successful in your line of work. Do you even know what I do at the club?”

Jason kept quiet under the helmet, racking his brain for your role. You were only labeled as hired as an employee in the records, but it didn’t specify what. Another question on the long list he wanted answers to. 

“Burbank, my boss, runs an underground fighting ring alongside the club. It’s a front.”

“Yeah, I know.” What does that have to do with you?

“Come on, use your head,” you jeer, and an epiphany sparks when your eyes glow blue. You smile with an ominous aura and tell him, “I’m his security.”

Jason instinctively reaches for the strap on his hip, but you tsk at him. 

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Who are you?” Jason spits venomously, mildly panicking at this new development. Your home office was an average domestic room, so it was safe to say the rest of your apartment was also. You worked a 9 to 5, and yet you fought for an underground fight club. And, worst of all—

You knew exactly who he was.

“I’m not that surprised you don’t recognize me,” you muse. “I started dying my hair after your funeral.”

His funeral? Were you his classmate? Wait—

“Who are you?” Jason demanded this time. The image of a dark-haired girl in a Gotham Academy uniform flashed through his mind. She was the daughter of an elite, the youngest in a family of men. 

“I think you know who I am,” you answer, leaning against the chair armrest. “And it’s so good to see you again.”